He takes that in stride; it being his just due.
I mount back up, wobbly.
After that, I damn sure trust Ten Spot’s night vision and superior judgment. In this environment, he’s smarter than I am. Heck, maybe he always is. Horses are pretty well inscrutable.
You ever notice their superior looks? Sometimes, out of the corner of your eye…
He walks around the cliff, and finds a fairly slick scree slide. He leans back on his hocks and down we go. Sure enough, we bottom out in one piece.
The moon comes out again in the meantime, shining its spotty light through the trees onto the cliff face.
From below, my cliff looks to be maybe thirty feet high. Just high enough for me to have reached terminal velocity. As in dead, on or soon after impact. Or worse, alive, facing a broken, crushed, lingering death. All alone.
Would Ten Spot have come down to see me off? I don’t think so, but I really didn’t expect him to pull me back up the cliff either.
We walk across the dry wash. It’s a steep uphill climb from there.
We find the landing site about five minutes later. I get off and ground tie Tenner. He lowers his head to graze, nuzzling at last fall’s oak leaves.
There’s some wispy smoke coming out of a recently disturbed pile of dried pine needles. A few tiny orange sparks rise along with it.
There’s a fresh downed, dead sapling nearby. It’s roots rife with the smell of the miniature life that teems in the freshly disturbed earth.
We’re in a high stream bed, shallow, exposed. I look around. The rock is…
“I bloody well saw it first, Cha'a.”
6 Cha’a: Armed & Dangerous
I already have Nelly in hand as I turn toward her voice. Stopping once I have a solid bead on her.
“Jet,” I say it hard. She’s no friend of mine.
Even in the bright moonlight, her face is a black shadow under her new white hat. Heck, she’s a blacker than black shadow in full daylight, too. A fact, not judgment.
She wears long black robes, not jeans or a snap shirt like the rest of us. And has long black, red bead ornamented, dreadlocks. And bare feet, not cowboy boots. A pure on foreigner in our western world.
And then, there’s the accent. Brit, no less. Since when do the Tarahumara of Mexico speak English? Much less, with a British accent.
“Too bloody right it’s me,” she says, pulling at the hat. “I thought you’d land on my head when you stepped off the top. If I hadn’t heard you slip and jumped aside, you’d have landed square on my head.”
Her hat brim wiggles toward the cliff top above us.
“Watching you struggle to save yourself, I wanted to laugh aloud.”
“Fuck you, bitch,” I say.
We stand quietly a minute. Eyes locked. Burbling adversaries.
My heart is racing. It’s kill in my mind. But, she saved little Góshé recently. my six-year-old son, while she was sick and wounded herself.
She was crazy with fever for weeks. The boys said I should cut her some slack. Still, crazy with fever don’t mean she’s a good person. Or a reliable one. Or sane. I just don’t know yet.
But, I promised Ma'cho and Táági that I’d leave her be. Damn it.
“You see the big flash and the fireworks before?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says, pointing her chin toward the still smoldering duff. “I dibs the bastard.”
“Holy cripes,” I say. “Dibs?”
“Or are you going to shoot me to get it?” she asks.
“Might,” I say, realizing that Nelly is still pointing dead center.
I should put Nelly away, but my back’s up. It’s hard to back down now. To admit to my error. I like to think of myself as perfect.
Delusional, right? No one is. But, hey, I could be a top contender. If I cleaned up my act.
I take a mental breath and try to wind down.
“What’ll it bloody be?” she says. “You’ve got the bloody drop on me. Fuck it, I say, shoot if you must.”
“No. Listen. I saw it fall, wanted to see a heavenly rock up close is all,” I say, shrugging and holstering Nelly. “You surprised me. I’m a gunsel. Pullin’ leather’s reflex. No offense meant.”
“Hand to hand,” she says, dropping the hat and holding up hers.
“What? Why?” I ask, dumbfounded. “You know I’m an accomplished warrior.”
She stands ready. Hands cocked at odd angles.
“Are you crazy?”
“You bloody well hate me. We need to have it out,” she says, shuffling her feet. “A bloody scrag fight will settle all this.”
“A what?”
“Scrag. A fight between women.”
“Oh, a bitch slappin’ contest,” I say. “So, why would I hate you?”
Okay, maybe I do. She’s definitely holding a position in my negative column. Dislike? Dismember? Color me undecided.
“I’m betrothed to Táági,” she says. “You two have been using my bloody cave for your assignations. Rubbing my face in it.”
“No, you aren’t,” I say. “The big guy was mine already. An actual Apache marriage, no less. Also, I lived in that damned cave before you ever did. I’m feelin’ territorial all ‘round.”
“The authorities say so,” she says.
“Maybe where you come from it does,” I say. “That there betrothal of yours has no actual force of authority in this here country.”
“I plan to contact the governor and see about that,” she says.
“That should be interestin’,” I say. “Since we got no governor.”
“Blimey,” she says, new to these parts. “You know what I mean. Whatever your bloody local authority is called.”
“Güero,” I say, my first husband. Concurrent.
“What?”
“He’s the sheriff. The sheriff’s the top dog here,” I say. “Guess they never saw a need to appoint no one else. And Lord Jacob, who give you that white hat yore wearin’, is the Brit ambassador. He’s the rest of the government. There’s not so many folk hereabouts that we need a bunch of lyin’-assed politicians to steal our money.”
“Bloody hell,” she says, lowering her hands just a mite. “I’ve won then.”
“How do ya figure?” I ask.
“It’s Güero’s chance to blast away his competition,” she says. “And bloody Jake will back me, he saved my life.”
“So? Jake’s the doctor, he’s saved my life a time or two, also. And Güero knows about Táági. They’re co-husbands. We all got married together. He needs others to share the load,” I say. “I’m a hell of a lot of woman to handle.”
Okay, maybe I’m the delusional one here. There’s no doubt that each of my husbands is one hell of a lot of man.
“Rather. You're a bloody bitch,” she says, reaching out and pushing my shoulder. “Put down the bloody gun and we’ll see who’s toughest.”
Why the hell not? Gals are easy to take. I’ll soon put Zastee in her place.
“Yore funeral,” I say.
I shrug, unbuckle my gunbelt and lower it carefully to the ground.
I step up to her. It’s shocking. We’re of a height. Six-two. A contrasting pair of freakishly tall women.
“Salt and Pepper,” I say, looking her over.
“Blasted bitch,” she says.
I shrug and say, “I don’t like bein’ salt any more’n you like bein’ pepper. Ebony and ivory sounds better, you think?”
Her stance is fierce, determined. Bitch has no sense of humor at all. As usual, I’m only entertaining myself.
“Okay,” I say, rolling my shoulders to loosen them. “Let’s fuckin’ do it.”
“Too bloody right,” she says.
“Rules?” I ask.
“Okay,” she says, lowering her fists. “Name them.”
I hold out a hand as if to shake and, as she raises hers, lift a lightning fast knee straight into her groin.
She grunts and falls to the ground, balling up
in pain.
“Guess we don’t need any,” I say, waiting politely for her to recover.
“Bloody hell.”
She looks miserable.
She takes a couple of breaths and pushes herself up, as if on springs. Arriving suddenly right in my face.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the heel of her right hand coming up hard below my chin.
I twist my neck and feint, but not fast enough to avoid it entirely.
The glancing blow still cracks my head back. Hard.
I fall back a few steps, shake my head and lash out with the toe of a boot.
She jumps back, barely spinning out of reach.
I jump in and try to trip her.
She’s fast; pulls away easily.
Soon, we have an out-and-out two-woman cat fight in full swing. The feisty scrag pugilists from hell.
We fight and clench and slap and punch. And pirouette kicks in. Until we’re both breathing hard.
“Hey,” I gasp, on hands and knees, vying for breathing time. One knee throbbing already from a sideways kick. “Shouldn’t we look at the damned rock; see if it’s worth permanent damage?”
“Blimey, you’re strong,” she says, leaning over, hands on her knees. Huffing, too.
“You must be feelin’ better these days. Yore way fast,” I say, oxygen-starved, recovering too slowly. I really need to up my workout. “Truce?”
She nods, panting a yes.
I stand up and hold out a hand, hoping she doesn’t pull some shit. Hell, I deserve it; I started it out dirty.
She takes it. Shaking it with a firm grip and a wide white-toothed grin.
“I’m bloody impressed,” she says.
“Me, too,” I say, showing her my teeth in return. “I’m used to shorter female rivals. Once I straighten an arm, regular-sized bitches can’t even reach me.”
She chuckles. “I expected that you would be crippled by your dependence on that bloody gun.”
“Hey. I’m a brawler, too,” I say. “Prefer a knife, though. Get it over with quick.”
I don’t mention that the guys and I practice sparring as part of our regular workouts. I should be better at this.
“Where is it?” she asks, looking me over. Not much to see in the moonlit dark.
“I’m not tellin’,” I say.
She shows me teeth again, and nods. “Best.”
“You bet. Only family knows. And recently deceased adversaries,” I say, trying to sound killer. “And they ain’t talkin’.”
She says, “Yeah. Sure.”
Unbelieving.
She looks around, retrieves her hat and settles it back on.
I buckle Nelly on and walk toward the destruction. Glancing back to be sure she doesn’t jump me.
She sees my look and says, “I agreed to a bloody truce. I’ll honor it as long as you do.”
“My word is good with good guys and worthless with bad,” I say, “As soon as I figure out yore true colors, you’ll have somethin’ to depend on.”
She’s quiet, already searching the ground.
Like to be bad, I’m thinking. Like Táági would want this angry bitch. But, it’s an open relationship, he’s free to do as he likes.
He and Ma'cho both argued to save her life on the train, after I offered to end her. Something about extreme beauty. Which she has. Striking she is. A dusky princess.
They also talked about tall, beautiful women being too scarce to kill. Shit. Bastards tricked me with that argument. I’m more comfortable among the tall.
She’s proving to be a full-on bitch, though.
The half-burnt debris is cooling now. The meteor wasn’t hot enough to start much in this wet weather.
I find a stick and push the leafy duff away, watching for flare-ups. Zastee does the same.
“It should be right bloody here,” she says.
“Yep.” I toe at something hard. And pick it up. Just a rock. Local, not cosmic. I toss it.
The leaf cover is thick, obscuring the lay of the ground. I rifle through it with my stick.
“Wait. It drops off here between these two trees. There’s a space under this log. All this leaf debris hides it, maybe it rolled through,” I say, pushing it out of the way with the stick. “See here?”
We walk back down the hill, following the trail of disturbed vegetation.
Right back to the bottom of the cliff.
“Aha,” she says, stopping beside me.
“What?”
“It’s right there.” Her hat brim moves.
“Where?”
She walks over and points at a rock about ten feet in front of me. “There.”
“Night vision,” I say. “Mine is shitty. Yore eyes are better.”
Not sure why I admitted it. But, she’s bound to notice.
“Rather,” she says, white teeth showing in her shadow of a face.
She tests for residual heat with a tentative finger; then picks up the meteor, examines it and holds it out to me.
I take it. It’s smooth, rounded. My fingertips pick out a smattering of maybe half inch diameter, popped bubble kind of holes. Like holey lava.
It’s about the size of a wagon weight. Heavy as one, too. I walk over and stick it in the sleeping Ten Spot’s saddlebags.
“We can fight over it later,” I say.
“Look there,” she says.
“I’m gonna have to say where again,” I say, seeing only a gray and black area. Shadows within deeper shadows.
“This way.” She leads the way toward an overhung section of the high rock face. It’s quite some taller than we are. High enough to hold a horse with rider astride.
“There’s a cave here at the back,” she says. “I was about to explore it when you stepped off the edge.”
While she fucking laughed. The bitch.
I can see the lighter rock edges surrounding the entrance.
“Wow.”
She says, “See the pattern? It’s to the right of the adit.”
“I see the rock.” I reach out and run my finger over the rough surface. “Oh, yeah, there is a pattern,” I say. “Must be a…”
“What’s that?” I ask quietly, pulling my hand away. It’s a faint sound, distant. A twig breaking. Can’t tell where it’s coming from. Inside the cave or out.
“Wait. Listen,” I mumble. “I hear someone coming.”
She finishes my abandoned sentence, saying, “…petroglyph.” And reaches out.
Nervous about the noise, and thinking she must not have heard me, I reach out with a hand and touch her shoulder. “Come on,” I whisper, ear cocked. “We need to get hid.”
“…rush…,” she says.
The rest is garbled.
7 Kabósari: The Owl
Kabó’s eyes are extra strong in the dark.
His sister nicknamed him Kabósari, the owl, as a child.
The mysterious owl, a bird with excellent night vision. They didn’t know at their tender young ages that owl is also a harbinger of death.
It turned out to be prophetic.
When he grew up, he got a job in the clandestine intelligence sector. A spy of sorts.
Over time, as he worked more and more in the field, the owl influence became apparent. They took his stone-cold skills and honed them.
He became a top assassin. The owl of death incarnate.
He needs to find his sister now. His ends are not as stone cold as usual. This time, he has an emotional stake in the outcome.
His fear? That one or both of the violence prone girls will end him before he can deliver the news. And, if not, he can only hope they won’t kill the messenger.
8 Cha’a: Pinched
“What the hell? Hold it.” It’s a gruff voice.
Have I heard it before? Not sure.
I hear a hammer click back.
“Hands up,” says someone else. “Don’t turn around. Stay right there.”
“Steady now,” says a third voice. “Get their guns, Jig.”<
br />
Someone pulls Nelly out of my holster.
More voices approach from behind us. There’s a whispered conference.
“What are you doin’ here?” says one.
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask, trying to peek over my shoulder.
“Stay still, damn it.” He’s struggling to hold my arms.
I’m not the cooperative type. I start to turn my head.
He pushes my hat down over my eyes.
“Who knows you’re here?”
“Angus, look here. This one.”
A hand pushes the hat up, another covers my eyes before I can see his face. He turns my face to and fro.
“I seen her somewhere. Shit. We gotta talk. Come on.”
He pulls the hat back down, and backs away. I hear his boots retreating.
I can’t see a damn thing but boots now. All I know from the sound is there seem to be several, three? Four? And the squeal of leather. They’ve pulled their weapons.
Someone behind me tilts my hat back again and applies a blindfold. I struggle, but my hands are tied tight.
“Settle down.” I kick out.
A fist hits me hard in the belly. Someone trips me. I fall.
They tie my ankles together. I keep trying to kick them as they do.
Something hits my head.
I wait for the stars to leave and struggle against the bonds.
Someone else says, “Shut up and hold still, bitch.”
He kicks me, yelling something unintelligible.
I go fetal; curl up as tight as I can be with my wrists and ankles bound.
I hear Zastee protesting, and groaning, too.
She yelps with pain.
I grit my teeth against the force of the blows. And try to wiggle away, to dodge them.
I don’t recognize any of the voices now. Who the fuck are they?
“What the hell are you doin’ here?” asks one.
“We was just lookin’ around,” I say, slurping in the salt of blood and saliva from a hard blow.
“Hey,” says another one, pushing me over with his boot.
I roll and cringe.
“Bloody bastards.” Zastee’s voice. She grunts and growls, too.
I shuffle around enough that I can see a slit of light.
Hell of a Horse Page 3