Free The Wild Girl by Jim Fergus Page B

dumbest
fuckin’
human beings on the planet.”
     
    Mayor A. G. Cargill was a cheerful-looking, roly-poly fellow with a round pink face like a baby’s. He had a small mouth that seemed to be permanently pursed into an ingratiating smile. Now he worked the speakers’ table, laughing and conferring confidentially with the men seated there, patting them on the back, whispering intimately in their ears, making a show of oily sympathy to Señor Huerta. The mayor was the consummate politician. Finally he took his place at the podium in the center of the table, rapped the gavel smartly, and waited for the crowd to settle.
     
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “This is an historic occasion for the great city of Douglas and for our great nation.” It was warm in the packed hall, and the mayor dabbed his upper lip with a handkerchief. “Most of you know the story of poor little Geraldo Huerta,” he continued, “so rudely torn at the tender age of three years from the bosom of his family by bloodthirsty Apache Indians, his mother murdered in the course of the abduction.” He paused, pursed his lips tightly together.
    “Seated behind me,” the mayor continued, “is little Geraldo’s father, Señor Fernando Huerta”—he turned and indicated the man—“who comes before us tonight to ask the brave citizens of Douglas to help him recover his beloved son.” The mayor lowered his head for a moment as if in silent prayer. “Many of our older residents still remember the Apache wars in this country,” he continued in a lower voice. “It wasn’t really that long ago, and they remember all too well the unspeakable atrocities the godless savages committed against our fine, God-fearing citizens. But we routed them out, finally, didn’t we? We whupped them good, and those who surrendered we sent to prison and to live on reservations where they belong.” Now the mayor turned back toward Señor Huerta. “And so, sir, I think I speak for all of us when I say that the great city of Douglas will not stand idly by for another moment while your little boy is still held captive. We will not rest until the last bronco Apache in the Sierra Madre is dead, and your son is safe again in your arms. Isn’t that right, ladies and gentlemen?” The audience began to applaud and whistle enthusiastically.
    “Yes, that’s right,” said the mayor, pumping his hand, “that’s right! The people of Douglas have spoken. Thank you very much!”
    The mayor waited for the crowd to settle. Then he continued. “Tonight it is my great honor to formally announce a heroic joint Mexican-American expedition into old Mexico to rescue little Geraldo,” he said. “And I predict that one day your grandchildren and great-grandchildren will read about the glories of the Great Apache Expedition in their American history books!” The mayor paused again and looked up with an expectant smile to cue the audience that it was time to applaud once more, which they dutifully did.
    “Thank you, thank you all very much,” he said. “Now, before I tell you more details about this exciting venture, let me first introduce to you the supreme commander of our forces, Colonel Hermenegildo Carrillo!” The mayor turned beaming to the colonel, who sat directly to his right.
    Colonel Carrillo stood up to cheers from the audience and took an elaborate bow, raising his arm in a wave and sweeping it grandly across his body. He was a slender, elegant man, resplendently attired in a closely tailored dress uniform laden with medals and ribbons and gold-fringed epaulets. He wore a closely trimmed mustache and pomaded black hair, and in fact, he did look a bit like the silent film star Rudolph Valentino.
    “Thank you, Colonel, thank you,” said the mayor, his face flushed and perspiring. He made a little soundless clapping motion with the fingers of one hand against the palm of the other. “God be with you and your brave men.
    “Now, many of you have seen our flyers