by Rod Miller
RAWHIDE ROBINSON RIDES A DROMEDARY
RAWHIDE ROBINSON RIDES A DROMEDARY
THE TRUE TALE OF A WILD WEST CAMEL CABALLERO
ROD MILLER
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
* * *
Copyright © 2018 by Rod Miller.
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Gale, a Cengage Company.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Miller, Rod, 1952– author.
Title: Rawhide Robinson rides a dromedary : the true tale of a Wild West camel caballero / Rod Miller.
Description: First edition. | Waterville, Maine : Five Star Publishing, a part of Gale, Cengage Learning, [2018]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017039435 | ISBN 9781432837297 (hardcover) | ISBN 143283729X (hardcover) | ISBN 9781432837211 (Ebook) | ISBN 1432837214 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781432837204 (Ebook) | ISBN 1432837206 (Ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Cowboys—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Humorous. | FICTION / Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology. | FICTION / Westerns. | GSAFD: Humorous fiction. | Adventure fiction. | Western stories.
Classification: LCC PS3613.I55264 R38 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017039435
First Edition. First Printing: February 2018
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Printed in the United States of America
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RAWHIDE ROBINSON RIDES A DROMEDARY
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
Rawhide Robinson heard raindrops pattering the crown and brim of his thirteen-gallon hat. He found that odd, locked as he was in a fierce battle with a salty bronc set on tossing him from the saddle. But instead of hearing the accustomed clamor of the horse bawling and bellering, saddle leather screaming, stirrup leathers slapping, hoofs pounding, bones cracking, grunts and groans, there was only the soft plop of raindrops up top.
He felt the horse’s front feet land to stop a drop that compressed his entire frame, which instantly stretched to its very seams as the bronc again took to the air, propelled by a violent thrust of its hind legs. As the leap reached its apex, the animal’s spine bent at an untenable angle, launching Rawhide Robinson straight into the air. He felt his high-top Texas-star boots slide out of the stirrups and the bridle reins slip through his fingers as he lifted out of the now-empty saddle, rising and rising into the air as raindrops plinked his hat brim.
Soon, the noon sky darkened as he rose and rose, and stars became visible. But, before dark enveloped him, the cowboy’s ascent slowed, stopped, and switched directions to become a descent. Still, the raindrops tapped their soft rhythm on his hat.
Rawhide Robinson—although an altogether ordinary cowboy—was brave and adventurous and no stranger to danger, so he felt no fear. Still, there was relief when his ankle-length India-rubber slicker ballooned, slowing his fall. The eternal night at the edge of outer space faded and the gray sky brightened as he descended, floating aimlessly with the raindrops through the atmosphere.
Broad swatches of color below gained focus and definition as he drifted ever lower. But it was not the faded dun colors of south Texas rising to meet him; rather, brilliant forests spread to the horizons—splashes of emerald, chartreuse, olive, jade, lime, laurel, moss, myrtle, mint, shamrock, sage, and countless other shades of green.
Tree branches and limbs and leaves parted with his passing and the cowboy settled gently onto the deep duff of a forest floor. He might have noticed a change in the rhythm of raindrops hitting his hat brim, now interrupted as they were by the thick forest canopy. His attention, however, was riveted on the person—creature—thing—standing before him.
Colored to match the surrounding forest, the otherwise ordinary-looking skin of the creature was a variegated pattern of green and greenish blotches and splotches, rendering its outline indistinct. Rawhide Robinson blinked repeatedly and scoured his eye sockets with his fists, attempting to keep the critter—or person—in focus.
The green thing looked almost human. More like two humans, the cowboy thought, as it towered over him, nearly twice his size. A skirt, or wrap, fashioned from braided and plaited strands of grass, covered the creature’s legs from waist to knees, maintaining the color scheme and contributing to the camouflage. And it was definitely of the female species, evident owing to the lack of clothing above. Flowing waves of lime and olive locks of luxuriant hair fell from the head, loosely gathered and bound with thin lengths of vine to hang in twin hanks over each shoulder, offering some—but not much—semblance of what humans would call modesty.
A sharp intake of breath marked Rawhide Robinson’s arrival at the face of the creature. It was green. And altogether beautiful. The perfectly formed physiognomy reminded the astonished cowboy of a photographic likeness he had once seen of the lovely Lillie Langtry. Only, if such a thing were possible, lovelier still than the celebrated actress.
But Rawhide Robinson’s rapt attention was soon distracted by the spear in the woman’s—creature’s—hand, and his heart, swelling with infatuation, deflated when she—it—aimed the lance in a threatening manner at the fluttering organ.
He felt the bite of the spear’s point against his ribs, repeatedly, as the critter—person—poked and prodded. To his relief, the thrusts seemed prompted by curiosity rather than violence. Still, the persistent jabbing and stabbing grew tiresome. The cowboy brushed the spear aside time and again, only to again feel its sting soon after.
Poke and prod. Push away.
Bite and sting. Slap aside.
And again.
Rawhide Robinson thought he heard a voice.
“Hey, cowboy!”
The sound wrinkled his brow, as it did not fit the picture.
He felt another poke and again heard the voice.
“Wake up!”
Again, the sound furrowed his forehead.
And another prod to the ribs.
In the brief silence, Rawhide Robinson heard once more the now familiar pitter and patter of raindrops hitting the crown and brim of his hat, which was, he realized, propped over his face in the ordinary cowboy fashion when napping.
He batted aside another bite of the spear at his ribs and lifted the thirteen-gallon lid. Rather than being greeted by the extraordinarily beautiful (albeit green) jungle girl, his eyes filled with the extraordinarily ugly image of a red-headed, red-bearded, red-mustachioed, red-faced United States Army sergeant dressed in dusty blue. Rather than a spear, the annoyance at his ribs was the bayonet at the end of the soldier’s military-issue carbine.
The soldier gave the cowboy another poke. “Wake up, you eejit,” he said. “Ain’t you got the sense to get out of the rain?”
/> Rawhide Robinson looked around to renew his familiarity with his campsite on the outskirts of Brownsville, not far from Fort Brown.
Another prod.
“Your name Rawhide Robinson?”
“Quit pokin’ me with that thing, or you’ll get to know who I am a heap better than you want. I’ll rise from my recumbent pose and be all over you like ugly on an ape if you don’t leave off.”
“Answer me, you insubordinate fool!”
“Who wants to know?”
“I be Sergeant Donald O’Donnell of the United States Army. But that is neither here nor there. It is the commander back at the post as wants to see you. Sent me to fetch you—if you be Rawhide Robinson, that is.”
“He is me,” the cowboy said as he rose to a sitting position then stood, flexing his back and arms and shoulders to work out the kinks caused by the erstwhile bronc ride in his dream. “Or is it ‘me is he’?”
“Let’s go,” O’Donnell said, waving the bayonet in the direction of Fort Brown.
Rawhide Robinson lifted his hat, resettled it, and tugged it down tight by the brim as if readying himself for action.
“You see any blue on me?” he snarled.
“No.”
“Any other trace of a uniform?”
“No.”
“Then it ought to be clear that I ain’t in your army. Right?”
“Right.”
“Then it ought to be clear I don’t take orders from you nor any other fool with stripes on his sleeves and a nasty attitude stuck in his craw. Right?”
“Right,” the sergeant said, his complexion more rubicund than before.
“Good. Now that we got that cleared up, what is it you want?”
“Are your ears painted on, boyo? Like I said, you’re wanted at the Fort.”
“Why?”
“Can’t say. Don’t know. Only that the major sent me to fetch you.”
Rawhide Robinson mulled it over for a moment then hitched up his britches. “Give me a minute to saddle my horse.”
“Horse? #$%&* man, the Fort is right there!” O’Donnell said, emphasizing his point with a thrust of the bayonet in the direction of the military post. “Can’t be more than forty rods away!”
“I ain’t blind, you know. But I ain’t walking, neither. Ain’t no cowboy in the whole of the West would walk when he can ride.”
Within minutes, the cowboy swung into the saddle, with feet in the stirrups and reins in hand.
“You ready yet?” the soldier said.
“Quit jackin’ your jaws and rattle your hocks,” Rawhide Robinson said. “Let’s go see this colonel of yours and find out what he wants.”
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
The polished wood surface of the desk spread before Rawhide Robinson was as clean as a billiard table. Not a single sheet of paper, or even a writing instrument, interrupted its expanse.
The rest of the office was likewise severe. The books in their case were carefully arranged, with not a volume out of alignment. Items on shelves along the walls stood at attention as if soldiers lined up for review. A credenza displayed a saber in its glistening sheath, a row of glittering medals in velvet-lined boxes, and a framed tintype of an army officer in dress uniform standing before a painted backdrop of Corinthian columns entwined with ivy.
The full-length portrait of the man revealed gleaming boots into which were tucked rigid trousers with a sharp crease, layered beneath a starched tunic with a double row of glowing brass buttons, shoulders topped with boards and epaulets. The officer, bareheaded and boasting a well-trimmed set of Burnside whiskers, stood as straight as if stiffened by an iron rod, with a gloved and gauntleted hand propped atop the grip of a saber—likely, Rawhide Robinson thought, the very weapon lying next to the framed likeness.
The cowboy sat alone in the room in a spindle-back chair placed precisely before the desk as if a team of surveyors had located it with transit, chain, and plumb bob. A spit-and-polished young officer had ushered Rawhide Robinson into the room with word that the major would be along soon.
“Soon” had long since passed, by the cowboy’s reckoning. Waiting in the wooden chair, elbows propped on knees, hands slowly rotating his thirteen-gallon hat by the brim, had lost its charm. A split second before he decided to write the visit off as a loss and leave, the door opened and the man in the portrait—who by now seemed a long-time acquaintance, for the cowboy had studied his image for so long—walked through the door.
“Rawhide Robinson, I presume,” the officer said as he stopped at near attention beside the padded, wheeled chair behind the desk.
“Yessir,” the cowboy said, standing and offering his hand across the desk.
Without acknowledging the proffered handshake, the major seated himself and, with a dismissive wave of his hand, indicated his guest do the same.
“I am told you are something of cowboy. A good hand with livestock, they say.”
“Oh, I ain’t nothin’ extra. An ordinary cowpuncher is all. I get by, but that’s about it.”
The major looked askance at the cowboy. “Have I been misinformed as to your capabilities, Mister Robinson?”
“Can’t rightly say, sir. Don’t know what you’ve been told.”
The officer propped his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepled his fingers, and studied the cowboy. “I have been told you are a cowboy of long experience. Veteran of many a trail drive. Well versed in the ways of cattle. Experienced breaker of horses. And an inveterate liar.”
Rawhide Robinson propped a boot atop the opposite knee and idly jingled the spur rowel as he contemplated a response.
Then, “I reckon all that’s so. Except the part about lying, if that’s what you were accusing me of with that fifty-cent word, whatever it means. I tell only the truth.”
The officer laughed.
“Does that include, Mister Robinson, the story you are said to tell about riding horseback to the Sandwich Islands?”
A slight grin twisted the corners of the cowboy’s mouth. “Well, I might be prone to a touch of exaggeration from time to time,” he said. “But spinnin’ a campfire tale can’t be counted as telling a lie.”
A pause. A smile. Then, “Besides, every one of them stories is true.”
A pause. A frown. Then, “Be that as it may, Mister Robinson, the United States Army has a job for you. Your experience at sea—assuming there is even a kernel of truth in said story—will serve you well.”
Rawhide Robinson wrinkled his brow. “I don’t recollect enlisting or joining up or any other such thing as would put me in the employ of the army.”
“Your service will be strictly voluntary—albeit under terms of a well-compensated contract—I assure you. But, should you refuse, Mister Robinson, things will not go well for you. I needn’t tell you that the tentacles of the army are expansive, the reach of the government extensive, and the arm of the law long. All of which can be brought to bear to encourage your cooperation.”
Rawhide Robinson rose to his feet, pulled his thirteen-gallon hat firmly onto his head, and said, “Can’t say it has been a pleasure meetin’ you, Major. I’ll be taking my leave now. Unless of course, you intend to call out your troops to prevent my going.”
The major snorted. “Sit down, cowboy. Hear me out. It may well be that what the army has in mind will be of interest to a man like you.”
As the cowboy lowered himself slowly back to his seat, the major opened a desk drawer and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded the page and looked it over, shaking his head in disgust and disbelief at its contents.
After a time he said, “I cannot fill you in on the details, Mister Robinson, as much of what is in the document before me is classified by order of the War Department. But I can tell you this. The Army is embarking on a new initiative related to locomotion of troo—”
“—Loco what? You mean like Mexican for crazy?”
The major laughed. “You are more correct than you realize concerning th
is cockamamie scheme, but, no. Locomotion. It means movement. As, in the present instance, troops and supplies throughout the Southwest. As you are aware from your travels, roads and trails here are rough, the terrain rugged, and wheeled vehicles restricted in their ability to reach remote areas.”
“So it’s pack trains you’re talking about.”
“In a word, yes.”
Again, Rawhide Robinson rose to his feet. “Sorry, but I am a cowboy. And while I know a thing or two about packing camp equipment and trail supplies and draggin’ a packhorse along at the end of a lead rope, I will have no truck with mules.”
“Mules?” the major said. “Who said anything about mules? Sit down, please, and let me finish.”
Again, Rawhide Robinson took his seat.
“I assure you, Mister Robinson, this document does not mention mules. But you discern correctly that it has to do with pack animals. Again, we are not referring to mules—which, by the way, to my mind, have served this man’s army well and honorably and will continue to do so far into the future despite this . . .” he rattled the paper in Rawhide Robinson’s direction, “. . . this hare-brained, half-baked . . .” The major trailed off, his face scarlet and the paper still shaking—albeit now involuntarily—in his hand.
He collected himself, then continued.
“What the War Department proposes is importing animals for the purpose of forming experimental pack trains to determine their suitability to our Western climates and landscapes. Given your purported experience and expertise with livestock, you have been selected to take a hand in acquiring and training the necessary animals to implement the trial.”
“And where are these critters to come from?” Rawhide Robinson asked, his curiosity now piqued.
“The Levant. The arid deserts bordering the eastern Mediterranean.”
“What, you mean Egypt and Arabia and such like?”