Hell of a Horse

by Barbara Neville

  Bob leads the horse inside the big dark barn. No one is around. Heading into a dark corner, he has Doug slide down.

  He unsaddles and feels around in the space between the saddle skirts. After a bit of fiddling, he pulls out two flat bags. Opening them, he gets out some dollars and counts.

  “We got this here, too,” he says, holding out a wad of bills.

  “Oh.”

  “You stickin’?” he asks, glaring at her.

  Jet says, “I suppose I’ll need your pasty white ass to save me from servitude.”

  “In that case, I’ll trust ya.” Bob relaxes and passes her a thin bundle. “It ain’t much. We’d best be frugal.”

  “Yes, sir,” she says.

  “Hey,” says Bob. “I ain’t yore master.”

  Jet points her chin. A man has just come in the door.

  “Of course you are, sir,” murmurs Jet. “And this child I care for, for you, is your ward. You were very kind to take the poor orphan into your home.”

  “That’s our story?” asks Bob.

  “Unless you have a better one,” says Jet. “If we stick as close as we can to the original story, we’re less likely to contradict ourselves.”

  “I got a great idea,” he says, “Let’s find our way the fuck outta here and go home. And not talk to no one we don’t have to in the meantime.”

  “Well-bred young men like yourself, sir,” says Jet. “They don’t use expletives.”

  “Calamity Jane does,” says Bob. “She’s my fuckin’ idol.”

  Jet gets a kick out of that. “A woman not likely to be overly well-bred.”

  “Yeah. Anyhow, since I am a man, I can damn well cuss all I like. ‘Cause you damn sure ain’t no lady.”

  Jet makes a face as Bob grins.

  Bob turns Ten Spot into a box stall and tosses in two forks of hay. And a half can of grain.

  “You earned the extry, boy,” he says patting the gelding’s neck. “Please do me the favor of not eatin’ so much that you founder yoreself.”

  He puts money for the stall and the extra feed in the marked payment jar. And they hit the boardwalk.

  There’s a mercantile down the way, where Bob picks out men’s cowboy clothes for her, since women’s will be too short. Blue jeans, a red and blue snap shirt, a tooled leather belt and an absurd looking cowboy hat for her. This one’s tan and even sillier looking than the one Lord Jacob gave her.

  She tries not to grumble too much as she changes into them. She twists her hair into a bun and pushes the hat down over it.

  The mirror reflects a way too dark stranger. She hates mirrors.

  Turning quickly away, she manufactures a smile for Doug, who saw her grimace. He looks concerned.

  When she smiles, he says, “You look beautiful. Just like my Ma.”

  Bob chuckles. No one else is around to hear.

  Bob passes her a loose vest. She slips it on; and voila, she’s a man, too. Mostly. Her tits are bigger than Bobs.

  She pays out of her bundle of bills and the now male looking trio heads on outside.

  “We could have got you a dress, Dougie,” says Bob. “Completed the transformation.”

  Góshé looks up, realizing that Bob is talking to him. His eyes get big.

  “No way,” says Doug, hiding his face in his hands.

  He skips down the wide boardwalk between them. And soon spots a restaurant. He points in the door.

  “Something smells good. I’m still hungry.”

  “Yore always hungry,” says Bob.

  “You bet.”

  “He is a child, after all,” says Jet.

  “I never had one before,” says Cha’a.

  Doug wants pancakes, so they order some with their steaks.

  The proprietor eyes Jet, opens his mouth and says. “Could you consider the alley? Please?”

  Bob reaches for his weapon as he stands, saying, “We’re spendin’ good Yankee dollars here.”

  “Please, sir,” the small mousy man says quietly, looking up at Bob then around at the other customers. “Understand my position. I can move a table outside. Otherwise, all my custom will evaporate.”

  So, they do.

  “Fucking bastards,” says Bob, as he sits down at the table in the dusty alley.

  “The man was nice enough to bring out a table,” says Jet. “To serve us at all.”

  “God damn it.”

  Jet shrugs and starts to speak.

  “Don’t you dare apologize,” says Bob, steely-eyed.

  “You’re very kind,” says Jet.

  “Hmph.”

  “And acting very manly.”

  Bob grins.

  After a satisfying meal. they head to the train station, only to discover that they missed the last one for the day.

  They gather up Ten Spot, belly now full, and head out by the nearest creek to set up a fire camp while it’s still light.

  A rider follows, keeping his distance. Bootheels don’t leave prints when you’re ahorseback.

  57 Táági: Cave

  “Who do you suppose killed those men?” asks Táági.

  Ma’cho shrugs. “Maybe find boot tracks again.”

  When Ma’cho and Táági come out of the cave they follow the most beaten path.

  “Snowshoes,” says Ma’cho.

  “How the bloody hell did they all three end up together?” asks Táági.

  “We find and ask,” says Ma’cho.

  They walk down the trail for two quiet hours.

  “Don’t talk my ear off, brother,” says Táági.

  Ma’cho glances over and punches him lightly on the shoulder.

  Táági chuckles and says. “The snow has melted a lot, eh?”

  “Tracks will be gone soon,” says Ma’cho. “You walk to end. Ma’cho climb hill. Here. Where Cha’a did, to look out.”

  Táági treads on doggedly, ready to be out of the bloody snow. He’s not dressed for it.

  When he gets to the end of it, blasted Ma’cho is already there.

  “Faster over hill,” he says.

  “Smartass. I’m too much of a factotum, been desk-bound lately and riding a bloody horse when I’m not,” says Táági, feeling the burn in his aching thigh muscles. “Need to hike more. Jog like the rest of you do. I’ve fallen out of the bloody habit.”

  “Bare ground ahead,” says Ma’cho.

  58 Cha’a: Oh Joy

  After dark, we head back into Trinidad. There, we find a newspaper that’s blown into the street and discover that it’s Thursday, May 13th, 1887. And, more importantly, we aren’t featured in it.

  “Nigger.”

  We keep walking. I don’t bother to stare down whoever mumbled it. Or let my instincts take over. Last thing I need is a murder conviction.

  Killing a white man over a racial slur, even one directed toward a teenage woman, ain’t likely to be justifiable.

  Once we’re out of earshot, Zastee, staring at the ground, says, “I’m a liability.”

  “Fuck you and yore liability shit. I stand by my friends.”

  She shoots me a look.

  “And you, too, you evil bitch, okay?”

  She raises a corner of her mouth before she turns back to her examination of the boards beneath our feet.

  “It’s fucking bullshit,” I mutter.

  She’s concentrating on looking small and ineffectual. As if either of us could.

  “Duck and shuffle, huh?” I murmur.

  “Leave me alone,” she says.

  “No,” I say, “I’m not criticizing you. I’m disgusted at the world around us.”

  “Can’t change it,” she says.

  “True,” I say, patting my thigh holster. “There’s only one of me and I’m almost unarmed.”

  A tiny laugh escapes her lips.

  Góshé, who’s riding on my back, giggles.

  59 Zastee: Coon’s Age

  Jet pulls her new hat down close, shading most of her face.

  “Doug, Bob and Jet Black,” s
ays Bob, lingering on the boardwalk, eying the passersby. “Okay, fellas, we gotta man up.”

  ‘He’ adjusts his imaginary package.

  Doug mimics him.

  “Black still, is it?” Jet asks.

  “Them fightin’ words?” asks Bob. “It just fits with them jet stone beads you had in yore hair.”

  Jet shakes his head and pushes through the batwing doors.

  “No nigrahs,” says the barkeep.

  After six rejections, they try a warm, friendly looking, slightly seedy saloon. The Shiny Copper Bottom.

  “Go set at that table in the back,” says Bob. “See them two there off by theirselves? I’ll bring refreshments.”

  “I knew that,” says Jet. “It’s always shut up and get to the back.”

  Bob shows her a lopsided grin.

  “Blast.”

  Jet goes to the table, sits with Dougie and keeps his eyes on the table top.

  There’s a rummy old drunk at the one next to it, dealing out cards. Concentrating on his solitaire game and mumbling to himself. Seems too sloshed to pay them any mind.

  Bob is at the bar and visiting with the barkeep.

  After a while, the blonde returns. Swaying her hips as he/she walks, still the bombshell.

  She’s carrying a tray with a pitcher of beer and three shots of whiskey; plus some bread, butter and cheese. They all dig in.

  Around a mouthful, Bob says, “I ordered two big steaks.”

  “I thought we we’re being bloody frugal,” says Jet. “And I don’t drink whiskey.”

  “I didn’t get you any,” says Bob. “And I’m payin’ big to keep us together. Already shared the story. Like you said. Yore the help. Doug’s my foundlin’.”

  “Foundlin’?” she asks. “Oh, foundling. Right. You bloody cowboys can’t pronounce the Queen’s English.”

  “Could if I bloody well wanted to, mate,” he says in pretty good Brit.

  Bob carefully aligns the shot glasses on the tabletop and tosses them back, one right after the other.

  “Ah, nectar of the gods,” he says.

  “Blimey. No wonder Calamity Jane is your hero,” says Jet.

  “What do you think of her?” says Bob, grinning. “I hear she dresses like a man, rides like a man, and sleeps with the soldiers. But also carries a dildo for the lady’s pleasure. And, she’s very much her own woman. I like that.”

  “Too bloody right,” says Jet.

  “And I, not so good buddy, am my own man, too,” says Bob, elbowing Doug. Who grins.

  “Which makes all the bloody talk of Calamity Jane sound rather odd.”

  After their meal, they head out to camp.

  60 Cha’a: Surprise

  The next morning I’m tired of the man ruse. And anticipating our need to use the lady’s facilities on board at some point during the train ride. In case you haven’t tried both, lady's rooms are generally cleaner and more pleasant.

  We take off our vests and let down our hair. Different look, once again. I feel smart to have thought to switch it up again.

  “Injin,” I say.

  “What?” asks Zastee.

  “You,” I say. “Without the dreadlocks and them foreign robes, you look to be a sun lovin’ Injin. Might even be able to pass as a cowhand, once them clothes start to show some wear.”

  Zastee looks undecided.

  The noise of the coming train sings its discordant melody in my ears. It must be miles away yet. The sound builds to a crescendo as it approaches. And the brakes start hissing like giant snakes.

  The huge, clattering monster gets Ten Spot’s attention. He rears, ready to swivel and hit the road. I maintain a firm hold and pull him down, rubbing his neck to calm him.

  “What the bloody hell is he on about?” asks Zastee.

  “He don’t like it,” I say.

  “What?”

  She really doesn’t know horses.

  “The train. It’s loud, noisy, stinky, and cantankerous as airy a mule. I’d bet he ain’t never seen one before. Horses survive by runnin’ before trouble arrives. He’s only stayin’ because I got a hard hold on him and he trusts my leadership. I dasn’t let it show, but I tend to agree with Ten Spot.”

  The hulking monster stops just before it seems about to hit us. Set on sending us all to Injin oblivion, the land of the most fearsome of spirits.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Our goats were that way. too. Sure. I should have thought it through.”

  “Goats, eh? You make cheese?”

  “Rather.”

  “Damn good stuff,” I say. “’Specially if you age it til it’s stinky. We keep big rounds in the root cellar. We’ll have to break some out when we get home.”

  “Too right,” she says.

  We decided to do a flag stop to keep the folks in Trinidad from witnessing our departure. Another simple way to muddy the waters, breaking the trail of passage.

  Like wading for a mile up a creek, then exiting on solid rock. Once the water dries, there’s no tracks to follow. In fact, we did cross some rock and wade the creek between our fire camp and here, too. Can’t be too careful.

  “We can buy tickets onboard from the conductor,” I explained to Jet and Doug over our camp breakfast.

  We load Tenner in the livestock car and walk forward to climb aboard the passenger coach, heading for an empty seat up front.

  “Hold it, midnight.”

  I turn around. The conductor is at the other end of the car, glaring our way.

  “You know better,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder. “Nigger car is back that a way.”

  Zastee looks at me, face neutral, then lowers her head into a subservient posture and turns toward him.

  “Yore pickaninny, too,” he adds.

  “It’s okay. She’s my nanny,” I say, moving my right hand to my gun grip. Since I lost Ma’cho’s gun, I had to get the spare pistol out of my saddlebags. Only a .44-40. I’m lucky they missed it, hidden under some feminine items. Generally my top choice for a hiding place. Something about those particular items scares the hell outta men.

  The .44-40’s fine. I’m a dead shot. A small caliber, light load don’t keep a well-placed shot from being deadly at this close a range.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, unhand that weapon.” he says. “There’s a porter right behind you.”

  He looks pointedly at Jet. “And you, Missy, git,” he says. “No backtalk. I got me a cure fer uppity.” He reaches toward the wooden truncheon on his belt.

  Zastee glances back toward me.

  “Losing battle, could get us kicked off, drop it,” she murmurs. “I’ll take the boy for you.”

  The conductor is walking toward us now, scowling.

  “But…”

  “I’ll take care of him,” she says. “If you say he’s yours, they’ll run you out, too. He needs lunch.”

  She leans down and holds out her arms. Doug steps close. She lifts him up.

  I open my mouth to protest, but the hard-faced conductor arrives next to us.

  “We need to go to the dinin’ car first, get us some food,” I say.

  “No niggers in the dinin’ car,” he says.

  “Where the hell do niggers eat?” I ask, hands moving automatically to my hips. Close to the butt of my little revolver.

  “Ta home,” he says.

  Zastee is staring at the floor now, extra submissive.

  “Fuck,” I murmur.

  “Did you say somethin’?” he asks.

  I say, “It’s just that we been out in the wilderness. Lost. Ain’t hardly eaten fer days. This boy is hungry. Needs food to grow. He’s only six.”

  His glare intensifies. “He’ll be fine. Pickaninnies is tough.”

  “That porter is black; he’s in here.”

  “Waitin’ on white folk,” says the conductor, “is his job.”

  “Oh.”

  “Take this damned giant dog with you,” says the conductor, looking at Zastee.

  “Dog’s white,” I s
ay.

  “Dog’s a dog,” he says. “White don’t count fer dogs. She takes up too much space. She got a choice, livestock car or niggers.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I say, working hard to not make it sound snarky.

  He could take his wrath out on them and never hear a word of compliant from anyone else here.

  The other passenger’s looks plainly say that they agree with his assessment. One pasty faced bitch is even holding her nose.

  I look hard at her and say, “She smells fine to me.”

  The conductor is turned away, watching Jet and Doug head back.

  “Okay if I eat out on the platform?” I ask, loud.

  “It’s a free world,” he says.

  How’s that for irony?

  Zastee, hearing it too, looks back at me and flashes some teeth. She turns and continues aft, patting little Góshé’s back and leaning over to whisper in his ear.

  I go to the dining car and order food for three.

  “Can you fit it on two plates?” I ask. “I like to eat out in the open air. I’m starved, been out prospectin’. Found so many nuggets, I worked myself plumb out of a food supply. Been six days without nothin’ but a bit of hardtack.”

  Sad, but true, I can lie at the drop of a hat. Okay, not really sad. In practice, it’s useful as all get out.

  61 Angus: Push Comes to Shove

  Angus, exhausted from a long push through the snow with two fifty-pound bags of nuggets strapped to his pack frame, stumbles down a steep slope. His toe catches. He trips on the rock and rolls the rest of the way down between two wide stands of juniper brush.

  He sits up, stunned, and gathers his wits. Shrugging it off, he finds the pack to be unbroken, the burlap bags intact. He tightens the ropes, stands and, leaning over, levers the pack back on.

  As he straightens up, a smell assaults his nose.

  Recognizing it, he settles the pack and sets out to find the body.

  “Fuck,” he says under his breath.

  It’s Harley. His knees give out. He lands on the ground next to his brother’s ravaged body and sobs awhile.