January 21, 2026

La Loca
by Robert Walton

La Loca is a mythic supernatural story of betrayal, hypocrisy, and feral justice.
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​Sparks whirled like a dancer's skirts and then leaped toward
December stars. The fire—manzanita below, oak on top—burned blue at
its heart. Joaquin Murrieta extended his hands gratefully toward its fierce
heat. His sixty-two years gave him an appreciation for a good fire.
"Señor Murrieta, supper is ready."
Joaquin turned.
"Will you join me?" The speaker, a trim, bearded man in his middle
years, gestured toward the portico of Dutton's Hotel. A long table was
laden with barbecued slabs of beef, roasted chickens, tortillas, preserves of
apricots and plums, dishes of steamed squash and corn, jalapeños, cut
lemons, pies, and cakes. A black iron pot of beans squatted at the table's far
end.
Joaquin smiled, "I would be honored, Captain Dutton."
                                                                     *
"Cigar?" Captain Dutton inclined his head.
Joaquin chuckled. "Thank you, no."
"You enjoyed our modest feast?
"Very much so. I cannot resist roasted corn with butter and chilé."
Dutton waved expansively. "There is more!"
Now Joaquin laughed, "No! My horse must be able to carry me
tomorrow!"
Dutton shrugged, plucked a cigar from his vest pocket, cut off its
tip with his penknife, and lit it with a match. Once its end was glowing, he
said, "I would very much like you to extend your visit, sir. Jolón will be
calmer once the fiesta ends." He gestured to the star-filled sky with his
cigar. "And before the rains come, I promise you more California evenings
such as this one."
A woman's scream, sharp as broken glass, suddenly rent the air.
Figures struggled in darkness beyond the fire. The woman screamed again.
Joaquin and Dutton rose from their seats. Dutton lifted a lantern
from the table's end, and they strode swiftly toward the disturbance. The
lantern in Dutton's left hand made a swaying circle of yellow light on dry
grass. He raised it and revealed a woman slumped on the ground. Acompact, work-hardened man stood above her. Dutton asked, "What's the
matter here?"
The man looked up. "This is none of your business, Captain."
Dutton's eyes glinted. "Michelson, isn't it?"
"What's it to you?"
Dutton continued in an even tone. "This is my property. Everything
that happens here is my business."
"This woman gave me guff. I don't take guff from Mexicans. Or
women." The man gripped a fistful of the woman's long, grey-streaked
hair and pulled her face toward the light. The face was round, middle-aged
and tear-stained. A bruise was already swelling beneath her left eye.
She sobbed, "Help me, Captain!"
"Shut up, bitch!" Michelson slapped her with his open right hand.
Her head snapped to the side and she whimpered.
Dutton shouted, "Unhand that woman!"
Michelson balled his hand into a fist and drew it back to punch her
in earnest. Swifter than a stooping hawk, Joaquin stepped forward and
gripped the fist with his left hand. Michelson's muscles bulged beneath his
shirt as he strained against the old man's grip, but his hand didn't move.
Anger replaced surprise on his face, and then fear froze his features into a
snarl.
Joaquin nodded. "You had best do as Captain Dutton says."
Michelson released the woman's hair. Lantern light gleamed from
Joaquin's neatly trimmed silver beard and from the silver blade he pressed
into Michelson's armpit. A coin-sized patch of blood stained the man's shirt
around the knife's tip.
Dutton stepped closer. "I want you off my property. Now."
Joaquin released Michelson's fist, but kept his knife leveled.
Michelson glared at them, whirled and stalked into the darkness.
Dutton patted the crying woman's shoulder and offered her his
other hand. "You are Mrs. Morales, no?"
"Yes, Señor Dutton." She took his hand and struggled to her feet.
"May we help you?"
Señora Morales smoothed her black skirt. "That man is after my
niece, Rosinda." She looked down. "Perhaps Rosinda flirted with him, but
she is only sixteen. She knows no better."
Dutton smiled grimly. "Do not fear, Señora Morales. Both you and
your niece will be guarded tonight."
Joaquin asked, "Your niece is beautiful, Señora?"
Señora Morales looked at Joaquin. "As a flame, Señor."

                                                                     *
Joaquin awoke suddenly. He felt for his boots with his left hand,
found them. Sometimes, though with secret guilt, he slept with them on,
even in a warm room, adobe walls awash in amber candlelight. Years of
hunting and being hunted made his sleep a fragile cup, always less than
half full. Footsteps approached. They'd awakened him. A knock rattled his
door.
"Mr. Murrieta?" Dutton's voice was hoarse.
"I'm here."
"There's trouble in the fiesta camp."
"I'm coming."
                                                                     *
They walked beneath early winter stars, points of frozen blue fire,
Dutton slightly ahead of Joaquin. A boy carrying a lantern walked ahead of
him. Dutton spoke over his shoulder. "I posted two sentries tonight.
Manuel here is only fourteen, but he's responsible. He woke me."
Manuel stopped abruptly and held the lantern low. Dutton and
Joaquin stepped to either side of him. A dead man lay at their feet. His
eyes were wide with surprise, and his mouth was open. Blood seeped into
dust from a wound in the back of his head.
Joaquin studied the dead face. "Who is this man?"
"Clinton Burke, the other sentry." Dutton paused. "He served with
me in the war."
"Michelson did this?"
Dutton nodded, "Michelson."
"The girl?"
Dutton nodded again. "He has her."
"We ride?"
Dutton straightened, looked at the sky. "It is several hours until
dawn. We can gather men and follow him then."
Manuel dropped the lantern. It shattered on a rock and went out.
"Señor!" he gasped, "Look!" The boy's shaking finger pointed into the
darkness.
A tall woman approached from the river. Her face was pale,
luminous. Her blue gown and shawl shone like moonlit ice. Her hair was
midnight black. Dutton whispered, "La Loca."
Joaquin glanced at him. "La Loca?"
Manuel uttered a strangled cry and ran.
Dutton took a deep breath. "Do you fear ghosts, Mr. Murrieta?"
"I fear the evil which spawns them."
"Much evil created La Loca."
Joaquin remained silent.
Dutton continued, "She lived near Mission San Antonio when I
first arrived in this territory. She was a beauty. All of the men in this valley,
young and old, were drawn to her. She dallied with some of them. Her
husband caught her with a young man. Though he had many lovers
himself, he was jealous. When he accused her, she laughed at him. He
squeezed her throat so hard that the prints of his fingers were branded into
her flesh. Then he cut off her head."
"Why?"
"He buried it in a hidden place so that her spirit could not rest."
"And?"
"Her spirit did not rest. She appeared first on the night after her
Mass of burial. We found her husband's body the next day in front of his
cabin." Dutton paused.
Joaquin waited for him to finish.
"His body was torn to pieces. The Indians say that monsters do her
bidding." Dutton looked at Joaquin. "When La Loca appears, someone
dies.”
La Loca stopped and looked directly at them. Her eyes were black
pits in which embers gleamed. She raised her right hand and pointed
toward the northwest.
Dutton's voice quavered. "We have a guide, it seems. Will you ride
with me, sir?"
"Let us get our horses."
                                                                     *
They rode up the old cattle trail toward Reliz Canyon, Joaquin
slightly ahead of Dutton. La Loca drifted far ahead like a distant wisp of
fog, but neither man sat easily in his saddle. An hour before dawn, the
ghost vanished. Joaquin smelled wood smoke and held up his hand.
Dutton reined his horse in and leaned close to Joaquin. "What is
it?"
"A campfire. You said Michelson has a gang. How many?"
"Six, perhaps seven."
Joaquin nodded. "We'll tie our horses here and approach them from
below. The air is cold and flows downhill. Their horses will not smell us.
The darkness will help us, too."
Dutton whispered, "Will there be a sentry?"
Joaquin pulled out his knife. "Always."

                                                                     *
The sentry's fingers quivered, but he no longer breathed. Joaquin
wiped his knife upon the man's wool jacket and sheathed it.
Dutton asked, "What now?"
"We find the girl and take her." Joaquin smiled. "If we can."
A rifle shot crashed from the left. Dutton cried out and fell to the
ground. More shots sounded, and small flashes of gunpowder lightning lit
the campground. A bullet sizzled past Joaquin's right ear. He fired his
pistol at the flashes and dove to the ground near Dutton. The firing ceased.
Dutton gripped his leg and writhed in pain. Joaquin hissed, "Hold
still!"
Dutton took a shuddering breath and froze.
Michelson shouted from above. "Garcia, around to the left!
Thompson, hold where you are!"
Joaquin asked, "Are you badly hurt?"
Dutton snarled, "Yes, damn it!"
Joaquin grinned. "But not dying, I think. There was a second
sentry."
"Obviously." Dutton wadded up a kerchief and bound it to his thigh
with his belt.
"Can you shoot?"
Dutton grimaced. "I can shoot."
"Good. I'll move. When they fire at me, take them."
Dutton gripped his pistol. "Right."
Joaquin scrambled six steps to his left and dove into the shadow of
a chamisa bush. Rifles crashed and bullets nipped at his heels. Dutton
fired. One of Michelson's men cried out in agony.
Michelson rose and shouted, "Rush them now! Get them!"
Strands of white light suddenly flared next to him. La Loca wove
herself into being, her face adorned with an angelic smile, her fingers like
thin, white wires. She reached for him. He gasped and emptied his gun into
her face, the heavy crashes rolling down the valley.
She caressed his cheek once. Then she seized him, held him fast
and bent down until her lips nearly touched his.
Michelson screamed as he looked into her eyes. His long scream
tore his vocal chords to bloody rags, but he tried to scream again. La Loca
released him. He fell to the ground, curled up, covered his eyes with both
hands, and rolled from side to side, frothing and gurgling.
Rosinda moaned. She lay wrapped in blankets close to the fire. La
Loca walked to her, bent down and caressed the girl's hair, whispered into
her ear. Finally, she rose and gestured with her right hand. Snarls ripped the night. Great cats -- cats from a different age --
stepped from between boulders and approached the camp. Fangs longer
than daggers distended their upper jaws, curved wickedly below their
muzzles and shone with a silvery light of their own.
Joaquin murmured, "What are they?
"Tigers—they lived here long ago."
La Loca pointed toward Michelson's men. Eyes bulging, the gang
members turned and ran. The tigers leapt after them. Howls of terror and
pain sounded in the near darkness.
After a few moments, the tigers appeared again, heads swaying and
fangs dripping. The ghost then turned toward Dutton and Joaquin. Joaquin
held his breath.
She smiled at them, gestured again, and the tigers paced away. Still
smiling, La Loca became a fountain of silver light and disappeared.
Joaquin rose and walked warily to Rosinda. He reached the girl and
stopped. "Are you all right?"
She nodded.
Joaquin knelt beside her. "La Loca spoke to you. What did she
say?"
Rosinda whispered, "Justicia."
Joaquin leaned forward. "Justice?"
"All women hope for justice." Rosinda looked up and smiled. "La
Loca requires it."
Joaquin stared down the frosted vale. The saber-toothed tigers
paced toward distant trees. Moonlight silvered rippling muscles. The last
and greatest tiger looked back at Joaquin and then stepped beneath oak shadows.

                                                                        💀💀💀
​
Robert Walton is a retired middle school teacher, rock climber and mountaineer with ascents in Yosemite and Pinnacles National Park. Walton is an experienced writer. His novel Dawn Drums won the 2014 New Mexico Book Awards Tony Hillerman Prize for best fiction. His novella “Vienna Station” won the Galaxy contest in 2011and was subsequently published by Rosetta Books. Most recently, his story “Suka Blat” was included in Alternative Truths, an anthology of protest literature.