Hell of a Horse

by Barbara Neville

  After just a few minutes of hiking, I’m there. My arms and legs are a bit tired. My battered joint flexibility improved by the exercise.

  Zastee is already up, stoking the fire. I waken little Góshé.

  “Sorry buddy, I need the saddle blankets.”

  “It’s okay, Ma,” he says, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

  Zastee feeds him and herself while I saddle Tenner.

  “Damn,” I say. “I miss coffee.”

  “Pussy,” says Zastee.

  We head off; me in front leading Ten Spot and chewing on a mid-morning snack. The other two behind. Since each one that steps weakens the crust a bit, we have to favor our only horse.

  When we pass by the cave entrance, I can see tracks crossing the trail. Boots. The left one has a pointy arrowhead shaped notch cut out of the back of the heel.

  Another Injin? That would be cool.

  In any case, a human. A sign we’re not lost. I wonder what they’re doing out here.

  Shit. Hopefully, they aren’t with the guys who beat on us. I didn’t see an arrowhead print in the mine, but there were so many tracks all muddled into each other. And I only had the few matches.

  Maybe it’s a good sign. Like the road, that we’re near civilization.

  Good. We’re getting low on grub. And, we need to find the guys.

  Now, just who is it I miss the most? That question provides food for thought for many a mile.

  The results? Inconclusive.

  34 Zastee: Bloody Snow

  Zastee trips and falls, face first, into a drift.

  “Shit.”

  She wipes the icy stuff off quickly.

  “Bloody stick bastards,” she says.

  “You have to keep your feet spread apart so you don’t step on your snowshoes and trip ass over teakettle like that,” says Cha'a.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she says, indignant, as she pulls herself up and carefully dusts the snow off her clothes and skin.

  “Not orders, cold weather survival advice,” says Cha'a. “I’ll shut up and laugh if you prefer.”

  “Sorry, smart mouth syndrome, my dad used to call it,” says Zastee. “I’ve a need to learn some bloody patience.”

  “Hey,” says Cha'a. “I can smart mouth with the best of ‘em, once someone becomes a friend. I’m only nice to people I don’t like.”

  “Quite so,” says Zastee. “I’ve overheard a bit of the pepper between you and your mates.”

  “We could use those ‘mates’ about now,” Cha'a replies. “I feel like a stranger in a strange land when I’m not with my fellow warriors.”

  “Rather than me,” says Zastee.

  “Okay, yore a warrior, too,” says the blonde. “I just mean my four partners. Been together a couple of years. We work well as a unit. The five musketeers.”

  They stride along quietly a while.

  “Heck, necessity is the mother of invention. The five of us here are workin’ on gettin’ coordinated. Ten Spot and Hoss already got it down. We’ll do okay.”

  “Good, we need to,” says Zastee.

  “Me, too,” says Góshé.

  “Yeah, Lil Dog, yore assistant chief,” says the blonde.

  “Who’s the big chief?” he asks.

  Zastee looks at Cha’a, who returns a hard glare.

  “That remains to be seen,” says Cha’a, lowering her hand from her pistol grips.

  “It’s Hoss,” says Góshé, pointing at her.

  She wags.

  “There we go,” says the bombshell, grinning at Zastee.

  She nods back. Leadership undecided.

  It’s been snowing again. They had a fairly good night in the overhang. Not a lot of sleep because of the lumpy bed and their battered bodies.

  A lumpy, prickly bed, in fact.

  “Hey, these snowshoes are working a treat,” says Cha’a. “We need to pat ourselves on the back.”

  Zastee nods, tired. Snowshoes use muscles she never knew she had.

  She took her time falling asleep. She was dry, warm, comfy at last. Confident that they would survive.

  Amazed by the falling snow, she laid with eyes open. Watching the silent flakes sift down from the sky. She’d wondered what snow was like ever since her mum had read her an Eskimo book as a child. Maybe about Góshé’s age. Igloos sounded cool. Their world though? Too damned cold.

  A miracle of nature was snow. Each flake was an individual, as was each human; her mother had said.

  Cold, sure. But, also surprising. Snow was quieter than anything she’d ever experienced. It muffled every noise. Underwater in the ocean there was the clicking. In snow, only the silence.

  At one point during the night, just at the crest of the full moon’s path, the six-year-old woke.

  She saw his eyes pop open and swivel over to hers. She held a finger to her lips.

  He grinned and held his finger up to his lips, too.

  They listened together.

  A group of deer was there, plunging silently from tree to tree. Just the quiet crunch of the snow compacting as they stepped and hopped around in the light of the full moon. And the occasional huff of breath as they sniffed the strange human smells.

  Going into the tree trunk wells, where the snow was shallower, and snatching at brush or something. The sound of leaves tearing off the plants was comforting.

  Survival for them was hard work just now.

  She figured that the horse standing leg cocked, fast asleep just outside their overhang made the deer brave.

  The overladen branches, cracked and whooshed as they shed their heavy loads. The snow gave off muffled thumps as it landed.

  The occasional night bird song was muffled too, serene.

  A cougar’s screech was distant, romantic. As long, she thought, as the cat stayed far away.

  The catamount it was. Cat of the mountain. A good sign. They called it panther, painter, puma, mountain lion and more.

  It was said that there were more names for this one animal than any other on the planet. Probably an exaggeration, but romantic.

  A truly magical animal, the magnificent cat. Cougars killed for the fun of it, though. More than they needed. Just like a house cat.

  In the morning, they’d gotten an early start on the crusted snow.

  They’d had a snowball fight at first. Snow was new for little Góshé, too. They were just kids, gamboling about. Mostly missing each other, so as not to get too wet. Having good bloody fun.

  They’ve been walking for hours now. Zastee is following Hoss and Góshé. Ten Spot is just in front, with the bombshell leading him.

  One always wonders if a girl among men is helpless; dependent on their macho leadership.

  Because Cha'a is surrounded by competent warriors, Zastee would have bet that this one was a fragile flower.

  But, their brawl, the Mexican standoff, the wealth of snow knowledge. Blimey, her mad fighting skills. A woman warrior.

  Trigger happy. Quick to kill, they say. A bit bonkers, she thinks.

  Still, this might well be a woman to respect, as one should respect a crafty enemy. Even fear.

  Not that Zastee will fear her. She’s coming into her own of late. The long weeks alone in the Arizona Territory wilderness tracking down Cha’a and her friends, people she believed were her enemies, have done her good.

  Her escape from those other Apache, a different clan who captured her, further fueled her self-confidence.

  She still has doubts and fears, damn it. Especially of men. The lecherous bloody bastards.

  And Cha'a? Can’t trust her. Why she kept the pistol a secret. If the blonde should turn on her, she’ll be ready.

  Of course, the bombshell might remember her pistol from the bloody train. Cha'a damn well had Zastee’s death in her eyes that night.

  She has always hated blondes. They teased her no end as a child. Called her a bloody golliwog. Bitches.

  She’d punched out a few in the schoolyard, pulled out clumps of their bloody yellow hair
while she was at it.

  “Hey, look, what’s that?” asks Góshé, bringing her out of her reverie.

  She turns to look.

  “That is bloody good luck, child. A cardinal,” she says, admiring the bright red bird as it flits from tree to tree.

  35 Harley: Snow

  Harley doesn’t have snowshoes. Maybe he should buy a pair in town.

  He walked in their tracks until the crust melted.

  Now he’s wading deep behind them. The tread their snowshoes made hasn’t hardened enough yet to bear his weight. It’s a long slow struggle.

  Eventually, the snow is crusted. And thinning as he moves to lower elevations. He starts to cruise, cutting across the switchbacks through the woods, as the snow gets shallower. And more patches of bare, muddy ground appear. Headed for the rendezvous.

  He spots Angus, heading towards him up the girls’ snowshoe trail.

  “Hey, Harley. You meet them nice gals?” he says, aiming a thumb over his shoulder. “They was damn pretty and right friendly.”

  “Are you kidding? You talked to them bitches?”

  “Naw, I took heed of what you said,” says Angus. “I hid, watched ‘em pass.”

  “Good, they’re bad news.”

  “You found out what they’re up to? My orders was clear. How come you let ‘em loose?”

  “I went back to question ‘em more, like you said,” says Harley.

  “I tole you to kill ‘em. What the hell?”

  “I was too late. Someone showed up, spoilt all our plans. ‘Specially the help. He kilt Jig, Joe and Bill.”

  “Dead? A shooter? Dayum. Who?”

  “Didn’t recognize the man. Found the corpses is all. Them gals got away.”

  “No shit.”

  “Hey, at least Jigger had on these nice new boots he’s been bragging’ so much on.”

  He lifts a foot to show them off. The silver toe tips are shiny with water droplets from the snow.

  Angus nods, distracted. “Shit, maybe I should a stopped em. But, two to one, you know? I just figured y’all had worked somethin’ out.”

  “Funny thing though,” says Harley. “He shot our crew, then camped in the tunnel, close enough to keep an eye on ‘em gals, rather than goin’ into their camp. Never did actually meet up with ‘em far as I could make out. Seems like he’s after them, too.”

  “Hey, who cares?” says Angus. “I’ll fix his wagon and them gals.”

  “You can’t be runnin’ all over the country. You gotta lay low,” says Harley. “Someone might recognize you from them ole wanted posters.”

  “Nah,” says Angus, waving a dismissive hand. “That’s ancient history.”

  “We already had this discussion, you cain’t be goin’ in where there’s folk. I’ll handle them gals.”

  “Sure, fine by me,” says Angus. “Sal is just down the road a piece. At the usual meetin’ place. Well below the snowline. You go get with her.”

  “Okay,” says Harley.

  “They ain’t no way to get a wagon up there, and I couldn’t find no sleds to use. I’ll go up to the mine fer the gold. I can pack a couple of bags out on this pack frame to tide us over til the snow melts. We’ll lay low fer a few days. Then we can take the wagon up fer the rest.”

  “Yore the boss,” says Harley.

  “Anyhow, if you think about it,” says Angus, rubbing his chin. “Timin’s good. Them three finished the hard work. Gold’s all mined, sorted and bagged up.”

  “Truth,” says Harley. “Hey. You watch yoreself, the killer was ahead of me, but he might still be around.”

  “Yeah, no doubt,” says Angus, peering around. “Meet you at the usual spot. We only gotta split the take two ways now.”

  “Yep. The upside,” says Harley, grinning. “Fifty-fifty. Mighty fine.”

  “Yep. That ditzy Sally, she’ll never know the difference.”

  “Time you got home to the wife, anyhow.”

  “Yep, I kinda miss the ole gal. ‘Specially her cookin’,” says Angus. “Though, that Sally? Damned if she ain’t the best piece of ass ever. “

  “Heck, all that gold,” says Harley. “We can retire fer a long damn while. Buy all the fancy pussy we could ever want back home.”

  “You betcha.”

  “Hell,” says Harley. “Our wives should thank us.”

  Angus laughs.

  Harley heads back uphill to find the gals. They’re on a north slope, where the snow is deepest.

  36 Zastee: Barely There

  They’ve been traveling down the road through the evergreen forest for hours.

  “They’re working well,” says Zastee, finally having the wide stride down. “Quite a change from the freedom of bare feet. Heavy, too.”

  “I told you,” says Cha'a. “We got lucky, the crust held us up quite a while.”

  They made about two hours, maybe six miles, without the snowshoes. Even Ten Spot could walk on the hard crust. The boy walked til he ran out of steam, then rode.

  As the sun rose, heating it, it softened. Rotten snow, Cha’a called it.

  Once Tenner started breaking through, they strapped on the shoes and walked in front of him.

  The compacted snow was shallower, so Tenner could walk, but even in their snowshoe tracks, he sunk in six inches or more with each step.

  “Rough on him,” says Cha'a. “Good thing he’s tough.”

  She eyes the horse. Is he tired? He looks like a horse. What does a tired one look Iike?

  “You’ll be sore, too, by day’s end,” says Cha'a.

  “You guys look funny,” says little Góshé, tall in the saddle.

  “Be nice or I’ll make you walk again,” chides Cha'a, with a bright smile.

  “I’m ready to walk now, Mommy,” says little Góshé.

  “Ma, remember?”

  “Ma.”

  “He’s tougher than the both of us put together,” says Zastee.

  Cha'a turns a hard glare on her.

  Zastee shrugs and thinks, bitch.

  “Yore right, you should walk while the crust still holds you, come on,” says Cha'a, stopping the horse. “You've rested enough.”

  Little Góshé slides down and walks, too light to break through.

  He sprints ahead, headed around the corner of a hill.

  Zastee sees an odd boot print, off in the ditch to the right of the road, she turns to check it out. There’s a ridge of snow in the heel print.

  As she leans over to examine it, the boy says, “Look, there.”

  She straightens up to look at him.

  He’s stopped, pointing.

  “Who’s that?” he says it quietly now, guarded. “Down there. Just coming out of the trees.”

  Zastee gets there first and sees.

  She turns back to the blonde.

  “Your grouchy old bear is just there in the road,” she says. “Standing on his hind legs, staring at us.”

  Cha'a pulls the rifle out of the scabbard and sprints as fast as the snowshoes and the horse’s reins will let her.

  She slows to a walk as she passes into sight of the bear. Heads past little Góshé and stops, rifle aimed.

  “Get, bear,” she yells, eyes dead on the beast.

  The bear hesitates, dropping back onto all four paws. Looking left and right.

  Without turning away, she says, “You two get out of sight, look for a big tree, one that’s easy to climb. And do it.”

  “What about you, Ma?” asks Góshé.

  “I’ll hold Tenner. You two don’t know horses yet.”

  She says all of it loud and coarse as though she’s lecturing the furry beast, eyes still focused, trying to intimidate him.

  The bear turns sideways in his tracks, making himself bigger. He growls, weaving his head around, trying to focus on them. To figure out what they are.

  Zastee has seen many bears before, played with cubs. Never had a serious confrontation.

  Bears usually back down. Or run, if they’ve met humans with
guns before.

  Often, if they see or smell you first, all you see are their south ends headed north. Or is it the north ends that head bloody south?

  In any case, this bear isn’t quitting.

  “Do it now, Zastee, get that boy up a tree. And yoreself.”

  Zastee takes Góshé’s hand.

  “Hope you ain’t bear shy, Tenner,” says Cha'a, still loud and gruff. “We damn sure don’t want to lose you.”

  The bear sidles closer, grunting as he does. He roars.

  The horse is watching the bear now. Head raised. Ears flicking back and forth. He’s trembly, nervous. Maybe thinking about quitting the country.

  Zastee lifts the boy in her arms and heads toward a climbable tree. Not that bears don’t climb trees. But where else is there to go?

  “Hey. You rush me, Mr. Bear, we’ll gnaw on yore bones fer supper. Now, git!”

  Zastee raises little Góshé as high as she can reach into the branches.

  “Climb, boy, climb carefully,” she tells him. “Most bears leave. We should be fine.”

  Góshé climbs deliberately, branch to branch. He’s both agile and calm.

  Zastee goes back to help Cha'a.

  As she steps up beside her with her arms raised, making them look a bigger and more formidable foe, a white streak appears out of nowhere; between them and the bear. She barks. The bear takes off after her.

  “Hoss, no,” yells Cha'a. Then, louder, “Hoss! Get out!”

  Dog and bear disappear out of sight.

  “Damn it. I hope she uses the crust to her advantage,” says Cha'a, lowering the rifle. “Or we got a dead dog. Damn her.”

  “Is she bloody crazy?” asks Zastee.

  “She’s a livestock guardian dog,” says Cha'a. “She’ll die to save her herd.”

  “What herd, this bloody horse?”

  “No, damn it. Me,” says Cha'a, shouldering the rifle and heading toward the boy’s tree. “And the rest of you by extension. The crazy bitch adopted me as her herd. She’s saved my life more than once. That bear though, he was gonna give, damn it. I had bullets ready if he didn’t.

  “Not bear sized, these twenty caliber fuckers need a well-placed shot. Hard to do when they’re runnin’ up on you. But, possible. Better than losin’ the damn dog.”