“How so?” said Arvel. He was intrigued now. Chica never stopped surprising him.
“He had two gold teeth and I pulled one, but the other I could not pull. Go ahead and look.” She began to reach into the blood tinged alcohol to retrieve the head.
Yakovlevich waved her away gently, “Madam, please, you will soil your dress.” He nodded to Vladimir who unwillingly carried out the morbid task, peeling back the bloated lips to reveal the interior of the miscreant’s mouth.
“See, see, I told you.” She looked at the men, satisfied. “I sent this one to hell. Look, pull his hair up; you will see the bullet hole. I shot him in this side.” She pointed at the left side of the skull. “A little hole, I used a little gun, two-shot I had in my sleeve. I cut his head off and carried it in a bag for three days, then sold it to a prospector. This was at leas’, let’s see, four years ago.”
“What did he do to you?” Vladimir asked, intrigued.
“This excremento did nothing to me. He hurt a child I knew. He did not kill her but he hurt her. And that is all I will say. He is in hell now, where he belongs, but he has no head, so he cannot see where he is going. He cannot hurt little children anymore.” The Mule Tamer