Hell of a Horse

by Barbara Neville

  “O-ring or take the stage,” he says. “If yore that worried, yore welcome to ride in the nigger car with her.”

  I take her back and run the chain through the ring. She has long enough arms to sit. But, looks miserable. Her hands are held above her head by the O-ring. She’ll have to stand up now and then to get the blood flowing.

  “You’ll be okay,” I tell her.

  She frowns.

  I’m stuck, though. Can’t turn her loose after all that build up. I slip the key in Góshé’s pocket, just in case something happens.

  He sits by her, getting out the cards already.

  “You come get me if she needs to pee, okay? I’ll go see if I can scare up a length of chain.”

  “I can do that, all righty,” he says.

  I go back to white eyes country. In charge of food service. A slave to my mock prisoner. And her mock child.

  No one of the railroad crew has chain to loan me. Or so they say.

  Now I’m getting paranoid.

  As I slide into a booth in the dining car, ready for beer, I’m thinking we should join the theater. Been doing more than our fair share of acting of late.

  80 Kabó: Message in a Bullet

  Kabó spots his sister, the little boy and Cha’a from behind and turns away quickly.

  He steals an unattended hat from the hat rack in the station to aide his disguise.

  And boards the train well after they do. Walking down the aisle, searching for their faces.

  They aren’t there. Maybe in the colored car. He’s whiter even that the blonde, so is stuck. If he peeks in the colored car door, his sister is bound to spot him.

  And who knows how she’ll react. Or the blonde. Maybe with bullets, damn it.

  He sits in the furthest back empty seat that faces forward, pulls the hat down low over his eyes and tilts his head down onto his chest, feigning sleep.

  In a few minutes, the blonde walks by, headed forward. She must have taken the boy and Jet back there and left them.

  The blonde could recognize him. She’s a hostile bitch if ever there was one.

  Fortunately, he thought to snag the hat and is bearded now. Hasn’t shaved for weeks.

  There’s no thrill quite like stalking your bloodthirsty enemy in plain sight.

  He lowers his hat brim even more and settles down for some planning and a much-needed nap.

  The train chugs away, seemingly headed for oblivion, and back.

  He jolts awake, looking around. They’re pulling into the station. The train is almost stopped.

  He ducks his head as the blonde walks past carrying her kit. She goes out the door onto the back platform. Ready, it seems, to disembark.

  He pens a quick note on the front of the wanted poster. Careful about what he says.

  ‘Tall dark, black hair.’ He writes below the print. ‘silver toe, croc, arrow heel. Kabó.’

  “What else?” he taps his teeth.

  The train jolts to a stop. He risks a quick glance.

  There is only one woman left in front of Cha’a. She’s fussing with her purse, blocking the stairs.

  He hasn’t long. He rolls the note up. And ties it with the piece of string he found in the trash can in the mens room.

  He flags down a porter, and describes the tall woman to him. Handing the man a nickel to deliver the rolled-up message to her.

  “The deputy there?” the porter asks, nodding toward the woman who is visible through the window in the door.

  Kabó’s surprised, but doesn’t let it show. He nods, reaches in his pocket and hands the man another two bits.

  “The lovely blonde deputy,” he says.

  “A striking woman,” says the porter.

  “The very one. You’ll do it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Deliver it just before she alights. Don’t tell her I’m on board. I want to surprise her.”

  Pocketing the fat tip and probably imagining a forbidden assignation, the porter does as he asks.

  81 Zastee: Bull vs. Bear

  “That’s gotta feel better,” says Cha’a, as Zastee rubs her wrists.

  They got off to stretch their legs and wet their whistles.

  They’re out of sight of the train station in an alley in yet another town. Albuquerque, in New Mexico Territory. An old Spanish town.

  There are cool adobe buildings everywhere. And an intriguing street market with a lot of Mexican, Navajo and Hopi handicrafts.

  They move to a secluded corner. Cha’a pulls the rolled-up message out of her shirt and opens it.

  “Porter give me this,” she says.

  “Cripes, a wanted poster. Fer us.”

  She shows it to Zastee. “This note fer you?”

  “Kabó,” she says. “He needn’t have signed, I know his hand.”

  “Arrow point heel?”

  “Arrowhead,” says Cha’a, rubbing her forehead. “I seen a track like that. Is this that Harley? As in Kittridge? He’s dark and black haired.”

  Zastee considers the note a minute, looking at their likenesses, and shrugs. “Maybe. Dunno.”

  “Yeah, too cryptic,” says Cha’a. “I do remember that the boots that was kickin’ me in the mine was croc with silver toe tips.”

  “I couldn’t see past the blindfold,” says Zastee. “Kittridge or not, the bloody bastard planned to kill us. We need to avoid the bloke whoever he is.”

  “Yeah, maybe I’m bein’ shortsighted here,” she says. “Death is the solution for riddin’ ourselves of the bastards, whomsoever they might be.”

  “The cuffs were too bloody tight,” she says.

  “Sorry, but yore sour look helped with the authenticity,” the blonde says.

  “Damn you,” says Zastee.

  “Really?”

  “Blast. They were okay, I suppose, just hard and unyielding, no matter how loose. Having my hands hanging in the bloody air from that ring was the fucking worst.”

  “Sorry, we had to stay true to our story,” says Cha’a. “I’ve had the experience a time or two myself.”

  “So you’ve said. Or bitched, more like.”

  “Yeah?” says the blonde, squinting at her. “Well, fuck you.”

  “Look here,” says Góshé, excited.

  “What?” she asks.

  “See?” He points at a poster on the wall outside of a saloon. “A bull and a bear. They’re fighting.”

  “A monstrous longhorn bull, it says, fights a huge cinnamon bear,” says Cha’a. “In the plaza. Hey, it starts in twenty minutes.”

  “Let’s go see,” says the boy.

  “Sure,” says Cha’a. “No need to hurry since we got no idea where we’re goin’. Keep yore eyes peeled fer the guys. Heck, fer any MadDogs, okay? I’ll find some refreshments.”

  Zastee gets directions and they go to watch the fight.

  She and the boy have to stand on the colored side of the arena, which has no stands or seats of any kind. Fortunately, she can easily see over the heads of the crowd. She lifts Góshé onto her shoulders.

  “Birds eye view, little one,” she says.

  “I like it,” he says, boots rat-a-tat-tatting on her chest.

  “Easy, love,” she says, grabbing the errant limbs.

  While Cha’a is off getting beer, they turn the bull loose. Then the bear, who immediately heads for the big, brindle longhorn.

  The tiger-striped bull, seeing the grizzly, sprints the other way across the arena, full tilt, head low.

  He crashes right through the fence. The bear almost catches him with a swipe of his paw, but his claws catch under a section of falling fence.

  The bull keeps going.

  The bear tears the fence to pieces getting loose. Sending sharp, splintered boards flying into the scattering crowd.

  Once finished with his tantrum, the bear stands on his hind legs, sniffs the air and galumphs off after the bull.

  Zastee sees the grizzly coming. She flees behind the holding pen before he gets close. And climbs t
he fence to watch. Góshé still clinging to her shoulders.

  Just as Zastee gets her balance, she sees Cha’a running out of the saloon, three beer mugs in hand. Hopefully, Góshé’s is full of water.

  With the bombshell, you never know. All that bloody drinking and cursing.

  Mad and on the loose; the bull runs in circles through the colored crowd, tossing people in the air with his horns. Likely injuring, maybe even killing, several of them. Their blood curdling screams tell the tale.

  The longhorned monster tires of his game, straightens out and heads on down Main Street. He swerves off down a side street, and reappears a block later back on Main.

  The crowd is screaming and running in every direction as the bull thunders by; snagging anything that catches his interest with his long horns. Women’s’ voluminous skirts seem to be a favorite.

  “Ma,” yells Góshé, waving his arms.

  She’s looking the other way. Zastee jumps down and tries to get to her, but the panicky crowd won’t let her through.

  “Shit,” Cha’a is yelling, still looking over where they’d been standing. There are a number of severely injured people in that area. “Zastee, Góshé.”

  They yell at her and wave their arms.

  She finally turns, spots them and waves.

  She chugs one beer, abandons the other mugs and runs for the stables.

  In a few minutes, Ten Spot comes running out. Cha’a is aboard, playing out her lasso into a huge longhorn size loop.

  She turns Tenner toward the bull’s route and kicks him up into a lope, screaming at the pedestrians to part ways.

  Once clear of the crowd, she gives chase, leaning low over the saddlehorn. The horse seems eager to do her will.

  Góshé is cheering at his mother, egging her on.

  A number of other riders are out there now, too, hoping to round up their afternoon’s entertainment.

  Zastee finds a staircase and trots up to the safety of a second story balcony. She can see the riders as they come back around the block, led by the bull who is frothing at the mouth now.

  The bear appears off to the left, headed for some gawkers. He’s running up behind, bound to catch them unawares.

  Some of the pedestrians hear his claws clattering on the boards, glance over their shoulders and start screaming and scampering. It’s a panicked mob now.

  Just as the bear reaches out to grab a screaming lady with a baby; Cha’a, who is racing by, pulls her gun.

  She slips Ten Spot sideways, slides him almost to a stop, and shoots the bear dead, point blank.

  She touches Tenner with her spurs. He leaps ahead, never skipping a beat.

  After rounding a few more blocks, the ropers get the bull into the pens near the train depot. And head back to help the men who are rebuilding the arena for the show.

  The doctor’s working on victims now. Bandaging some. His nurse is closing the eyes of others. The undertaker is out there with his stick, measuring bodies. Looking for next of kin to make funeral arrangements. Survivors are crying over them.

  Word filters in that the fight will resume as soon as they can find another bear.

  “Like there’s a bloody herd of them hanging out nearby,” says Zastee.

  A scruffy man next to her says, “They’s the ones that hang out by the dump. Ever’ town round here has ‘em. Probably sleepin’ in the shade just about now. They’s bound to have one caught soon. Just need a fresh bull from the stockyards and we’re ready. That first one got run plum out. Be no good to fight til tomorrah.”

  “I see,” says Zastee.

  “What’s yore boy’s name?” he asks.

  “No, my, er, companion’s son,” she says, looking him over. The old timer looks familiar. “He’s called Góshé.”

  “My ma shot that bear,” says Góshé, pointing.

  “Well, well. She’s quite the marksman,” says the man. “Dog, huh? Apache.”

  “Yep, I’m Apache,” says Góshé, beating his chest with little fists.

  Heads turn in consternation.

  Zastee says, “Boys will be boys, what?”

  Another man, dressed like a bank teller, starts talking of his own goring, showing off a nasty cut on his leg through torn pants. People turn to listen to him and forget about Apaches and Góshé.

  “Yeah, she is,” says Góshé. “A dead-on killer.”

  About that time, Cha’a spots them and comes riding over. She stops Ten Spot just below them, pulls out her pistol and reloads.

  “Tenner’s all wet,” says Góshé. “Can I cool him out?”

  “You bet,” says Cha’a, sliding off.

  Góshé sprints down the stairs and takes the reins, leading the sweaty horse down the street.

  He circles out toward the crowd surrounding the bear carcass. The carcass itself is no longer visible through the crush of curiosity seekers.

  Cha’a heads up the stairs to join Zastee.

  Góshé comes running back; Ten Spot jogging obediently behind.

  “Hoss is over there growlin’ at everyone,” he says, pointing. “They’re mad at her. There’s a guy with a gun who says he’s gonna shoot her.”

  82 Zastee: Growl

  “Holy shit,” says the bombshell. “Damn it, she usually stays clear of crowds.”

  “I’ll go,” says Zastee, tripping quickly down the stairs.

  “But…” says Cha’a, behind her.

  “I need a word with you,” says the scruffy man. “I have news.”

  “Talk to the man,” says Zastee. “I’ve bloody got it.”

  Góshé and Zastee get over to the crowd, which is backing away from the dog.

  Hoss’ growls are building into barks. The Dog boy runs in through people’s legs before she can grab him. People are shying back as Ten Spot trots through behind him.

  She can see the boy closing in on Hoss, who is extremely agitated. Growling, barking and snapping at everyone with her huge mouth.

  “Góshé,” she yells. “Come back.”

  She can see a portly man pulling a gun, saying, “I’ll put a stop to that damned dog.”

  “No,” yelps Góshé. “She’s my dog. I’ll get her.”

  “Bitch must be rabid,” says the man, raising his six shooter.

  “No,” says Góshé, running in between the gun and the dog, Tenner still trailing obediently behind.

  Zastee is pushing her way in, she grabs his gun barrel, raising it so the bullet goes off into the air. Hopefully it won’t kill anyone on its return to Earth.

  “That’s my mistress’ dog,” she says. “She’s a highly trained bear dog, please don’t shoot her.”

  The crowd is loud, everyone seems to have a piece of urgent advice for the fat man. Most of it voting for him to pull the trigger.

  “And the boy is her son,” she screams, thinking hard about how to divert their attention.

  She ups the decibels and adds, “Annie Oakley’s dog.”

  Luck is with her, her yell hits just at a low point in the volume. Everyone turns to look at her.

  “Annie Oakley?” they’re saying.

  She nods and says, “Her boy and her trained dog. Please. She’s just protecting us all from the bear.”

  Góshé says, “Hoss, come.”

  The dog turns, hackles up. Seeing Góshé, she relaxes and wags her tail. Then turns back to growl again.

  He leans toward her, holding out a palm and says, “Come, Hoss. That bear’s dead.”

  Hoss walks over to him. He pets her head, talking softly.

  Zastee turns to the fat man.

  “Please, kind sir,” she says, “We’ll take control of the dog. She won’t be a problem. Please, sir, holster your weapon.”

  The man does.

  “Look,” says Góshé, over next to the carcass, pointing at the bear’s exposed neck. “See the arrowhead? It’s the same bear.”

  Hoss is sniffing at the carcass, anger replaced by curiosity.

  Zastee walks over and moves the head ba
ck for a better view. There’s a patch of white neck hair shaped like a triangular arrowhead.

  “It is the same bear. Bloody hell.”

  They meet Cha’a as she’s coming around the corner.

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Who?” asks Cha’a. “The trapper? No.”

  “We need to go back and speak with him,” says Zastee.

  “Why?” asks the bombshell.

  “He was at the table next to us in the Shiny Copper Bottom that night. He says he has news for us.”

  They troop back and head up the stairs to the balcony.

  “You wanted to speak to me?” asks Cha’a.

  “Yes’m. Ah surely did. Mah name is Billy Red Bone, miss,” says the man, taking off his skunk skin hat. “And yore name is Cha’a, yes?”

  “How do you know?”

  “I spoke to yore men the other night. They be lookin’ fer you.”

  “My men?” says Cha’a, wide-eyed.

  “Big tall fellas. Went by the names of Ma’cho and Táági,” says Billy. “Plumb anxious they was.”

  “Oh, my gawds. Yes, yes, we need to find them. Do you know where they are now?” asks Cha’a.

  “No, but they…”

  Zastee grips her arm and says, “Look. Over there by the carcass.”

  “Shit, it’s them. Fuck,” Cha’a runs down the stairs, hoists Góshé onto the saddle and climbs on behind.

  “They can’t do anything,” Zastee says. “This is New Mexico Territory.”

  “Them Raton fellers don’t foller no rules,” says Billy, recognizing them, too. “And, Raton may be by the boundary, but it’s damn sure here in New Mexico Territory.”

  “Hurry,” says Cha’a. “Remember the rope, Zastee?”

  She stays there as Cha’a turns to leave.

  The blonde looks back at her and says, “Ain’t you comin’?”

  “In a bit. I’ll talk to Billy. You go.”

  “Train yard,” says the bombshell. Pulling her hat down tight and leaning over the saddlehorn as best she can with Góshé in front of her.

  She kicks the horse into a lope and heads east, away from Scraggly and the would-be sheriff of Raton.

  Billy has Zastee by the arm.

  “I tole them that you was on the train,” says Billy.