The Adventures of Slim & Howdy

by Kix Brooks; Ronnie Dunn; Bill Fitzhugh

  The walls and floor of the room were rough-hewn planks. Old. There was a window and a door but both were nailed shut. No amount of kicking helped. She could tell the door led to another room but there didn’t seem to be anything beyond that, other than outside.

  It wasn’t long before Jodie could see light coming though the space between some of the planks. She pressed her face to the wall to see what she could in the pre-dawn light. Small hills. Mesquite, fourwing saltbush, acacia. A mule deer in the distance. That narrowed her location down to four states in the southwestern U.S. and most of northern Mexico. Great, she thought. She was in a shack in a desert. She felt her pockets and wondered what had happened to her cell phone.

  She called out, “Hello? Anybody there?” Nada. Silence. “Guess not.” She picked up a bottle of water and took a drink. Figured if she was going to bust out of jail and cross a desert, she better get hydrated.

  55

  THEY BROKE CAMP AN HOUR AFTER SUNRISE. THEY DIDN’T talk much as they saddled up. Everybody moved with a sort of grim determination like they all knew there was the possibility today could be a bad one but nobody was gonna dare say it.

  Roy swung up onto his mustang, checked his weapon, then holstered it with a leathery slap. He snugged his hat on tight, looked at Slim and Howdy and said, “Let’s go.”

  They rode to the southwest for a couple of hours, Roy checking his GPS against the coordinates in the kidnapper’s instructions. It was another hour before they came to a low ridge overlooking a long valley with the Serranías del Burro bordering the far side. Roy scanned the basin with his binoculars, then handed them to Howdy. “Down there somewhere,” he said, pointing generally toward the middle of the valley.

  Howdy could see large rock outcroppings and a couple dozen small wooden structures here and there on the valley floor and a few more on the slopes of the foothills. All of them stood alone, half a mile or more from the next. “What are those?”

  “Dog houses,” Roy said. “Old miners’ shacks. A hundred years ago, this area was mined for silver, copper, gold, and turquoise. Lots of one- and two-man operations working these claims that were too small for open-pit mining, so they’d dig straight down until they hit a vein of something, then they’d burrow horizontal to follow it, sometimes for three, four hundred yards or more. They built the shacks next to, or on top of, the mine shafts so they could guard their claims. Smugglers use ’em now for storage or a place to rest or hide or whatever.”

  “So,” Howdy said, “how’re we gonna work this?”

  They talked it over and agreed that somebody was probably watching the shack, so they didn’t want to go riding down there as a trio, revealing their numbers. Slim volunteered to ride down and deliver the ransom. If it turned out to be a trap, Roy and Howdy would be close enough to get there quick to help. If the directions to Jodie’s location were there, Slim would leave the money and head for Jodie while Howdy and Roy watched for whoever was collecting the dough. Roy and Howdy would then follow whoever collected the money until Slim radioed to say that he had Jodie, at which point Roy and Howdy would swoop in and try to catch the bad guy and retrieve the cash.

  Roy handed radios and GPS receivers to Slim and Howdy so they could stay in contact and, if they all got separated, they’d have a way to get back together. “Be careful,” Roy said, as Slim spurred his bay. “Son of a bitch might just be sitting in there waiting to shoot whoever shows up with the money.”

  “Thanks,” Slim said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  It took him fifteen minutes to ride down into the valley. Following the GPS and the coordinates he zeroed in on one of the shacks. Stopping about fifty feet away, Slim tied his horse off on a scrubby little hackberry. He took the saddlebag, pulled his gun, and approached the door at an angle that cast his shadow behind him. As he got closer, he crouched and shouted, “Don’t shoot! I’ve got the money.” Not that he expected any cooperation from someone planning an ambush, but he would have felt stupid not saying something.

  In a minute he was close enough to peek inside, didn’t see anybody. So he opened the door and went in. The shack was empty except for a couple of old crates and some rusted tin cans. On top of one of the crates was a sheet of paper held down by a chunk of copper ore.

  The directions said to ride west to another set of coordinates. Slim pulled his map and found, roughly, the location. He raised Howdy on the radio and said it looked like about a half hour’s ride. “It says to look for the shack with a longhorn skull over the door.”

  “Call us when you find it,” Howdy said. “We’ll be waiting on the bad guys.”

  “Roger that,” Slim replied. He got back on his horse and headed west.

  Howdy and Roy watched the shack from a quarter mile away, hidden in some Texas mountain laurel. About ten minutes later, Howdy noticed a cloud of dust approaching from the south. He pointed and said, “Here we go.”

  It was an old El Camino, bouncing through the desert, heading straight for the shack.

  56

  THE BIG GOON WAS AT THE WHEEL, WIDE-EYED AND GIDDY at the prospect of his impending wealth. This was it, he thought. His chance to break the cycle of poverty and crime that had been his entire life. His chance to escape the shackles of privation. His chance—finally—to get ahead.

  The Big Goon, as it turned out, was born poor and had a bad setback. In his entire life, he’d never had more than four hundred dollars to his name. Even his best armed robbery had netted only two hundred and seventy bucks. Sure, he’d tried car jacking and burglary in fancy neighborhoods, stealing jewels and rare coins. But fences—at least the ones he found—never offered more than a dime on the dollar, and usually less. And, after paying off security guards and partners and so forth, the Big Goon was always right back in the same hole where he started.

  About the only thing he found less profitable than the crimes he committed was getting arrested for committing them. Of course the Big Goon knew that legal council was one of the costs of doing business, but the price seemed to be going up with each incarceration. All the hearings and motions and trials added up to a lot of billable hours. And the Big Goon had learned early in life never to go with the public defender. If his mama had said it once, she’d said it a thousand times, “Court-appointed lawyers are for suckers.”

  And so it was that the Big Goon had his very own attorney. And he seemed to be a pretty good one. He got the Goon off scot-free now and then, and got his sentences reduced on other occasions, but no matter what the verdict, he always sent a bill. And after five years of this the Big Goon was so deep in debt to his legal representative that he had no realistic expectations of being able to pay him off.

  Until now.

  When all was said and done, the Big Goon figured to take care of the Boss Man and walk away with a hundred grand in his pocket and Carmelita in his arms. Livin’ la vida loca.

  He parked the El Camino right next to the shack. When the dust settled he got out, looked around, then lumbered inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. And when they did, it took his brain another moment to process what they saw.

  It was his morally flexible attorney sitting on one of the crates with a saddlebag in his lap.

  Grady smiled and said, “Surprise!”

  The Big Goon blinked a couple of times, slow and dim like a spadefoot toad trying to reason. Then he said, “What the hell’re you doin’ here?”

  “Waitin’ on you,” Grady said, like it was part of the plan.

  “You’re supposed to be in court.” He pointed toward Texas. “For your alibi.”

  “I know,” Grady said. “But things change.”

  The Goon didn’t like the setup. If the Boss Man was deviating so wildly from his carefully devised plan, maybe there was a whole different plan to worry about, one that didn’t involve the Big Goon breaking even, let alone coming out a hundred thousand ahead and riding off into the sunset with a big-breasted Mexican girl. This eventuality led the Big Goon to
think about the gun stuck in his pants.

  Grady said, “The strangest thing happened.” He hefted the saddlebag. “We asked for fifty thousand, right? But there’s a hundred and fifty grand in here.” He dropped his jaw in mock surprise. “Can you believe it? I mean, what do you think happened? You think they can’t count? Or maybe they just like us.” Grady tilted his head like the RCA dog.

  The Big Goon stammered for a second, before he said, “Shit, I don’t know, uh—”

  Grady held up his free hand to silence his partner. “No, I’m impressed,” he said. “I mean if we were following the original plan, this would be brilliant.”

  “What do you mean, if we were following the original plan?”

  Grady gave an apologetic shrug. “Like I said, things change.” He flashed a barracuda smile and continued, “But the good news is that when we’re done here, you won’t owe me a thing.” His smile turned to a frown. “The bad news, however, is that the cops will get an anonymous phone tip that leads them to your apartment where they’re going to find some incriminating evidence. Magazines with the letters cut out, some of Jodie’s personal effects, that kind of thing. Odds are against them ever finding your body out here, of course, so they’ll figure you escaped, and they’ll issue a warrant for your arrest. Hell, you’ll be considered an international fugitive. Won’t your mama be proud?”

  “That ain’t right.”

  “So little is these days,” Grady said as he pulled the gun from under the saddlebag and shot the Big Goon. Sent him staggering backwards into the wall with a thud and a surprised expression. Or maybe it was disappointment. Either way, he slid down the wall, looking at the blood spreading on his shirt. He ended up a big heap on the floor, his head lolled to one side.

  Grady kicked the crate he’d been sitting on, revealing the trap door beneath. He bent over and opened it. He dropped the saddlebag down the shaft and prepared to step onto the ladder, turning his back to do so.

  That’s when the Big Goon pulled his gun and shot Grady.

  “Son of a bitch!” It shattered a rib under Grady’s right arm, spun him around, and hurt like the aforementioned son of a bitch. He barely kept his feet on the ladder. Struggling against the pain, Grady managed to squeeze off a couple more shots in the Goon’s general direction. The Goon tipped himself sideways and stayed down, giving Grady enough time to drop into the mine shaft, closing the door after himself.

  57

  WHEN HE HEARD THE FIRST SHOT, HOWDY LOOKED AT ROY and said, “The hell was that?”

  “Sounded like a gun.”

  “Well I know that,” Howdy said. “What did he do, go in there and commit suicide?”

  After the second shot, Roy said, “If so, he ain’t very good at it.”

  When they heard the number of shots that followed, they took off for the shack, riding like they’d been struck by lightning. They brought their horses in behind the El Camino, then ducked behind it for cover, waiting to see what would happen next. But nothing did. Everything was still and quiet until Roy called out, “Policia!” There was no response. Roy raised up over the El Camino and fired a shot high at the shack, figuring if someone was in there, they’d shoot back. But there was no response.

  They waited a moment before making their move. Then, guns drawn, they came from behind the El Camino, Roy in front, Howdy around the tailgate. They reached the shack, opened the door, and eased inside. Beams of sunlight cut through the smoke and dust, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder. The Big Goon was slumped to one side, the bloody patch on his shirt still spreading, and a gun in his limp hand. Roy kicked it away.

  Howdy said, “Recognize him?”

  Roy shook his head and lit a cigarette.

  Howdy looked around, trying to make sense of the scene. “Where’s the saddlebag?”

  “Don’t see it.” Roy checked the back wall for another way out, but there was none.

  “So”—Howdy pointed at the Big Goon—“the one guy we saw come in here is dead. The saddlebag is gone, even though nobody came back out.” He looked at Roy. “It’s a regular magic trick.”

  “It’s a trick, all right,” Roy said. “But ain’t magic.” He walked to the middle of the shack and thumped his heel on the floor a couple of times. Sounded hollow underneath. He bent over and found the notch in the wood that served as a handle. He threw it open and they stood back, ready for more bullets. But none came.

  The two of them leaned over and looked down the black hole. An old wooden ladder dropped into the darkness. With a flick of his boot, Roy knocked a rock into the mine shaft. It landed a second later. “Not too deep,” Roy said. “Must’ve been mining turquoise.”

  Howdy went out to the horses and came back with a flashlight, started down the ladder. He reached the bottom where the shaft turned ninety degrees. He called up to Roy, “I’ll go this way. You take the horses and head west. Meet me at the other end.”

  58

  SLIM LET THE GPS GUIDE HIM UNTIL HE NOTICED SOMETHING about ten yards off to his right, merging with the path he was taking. He rode over and looked down. Tire tracks. Other than mule deer, these were the only tracks of any kind that Slim had seen in the last two days. You didn’t need to be an Eagle Scout to figure who had laid these down or where they went.

  “Yah!” He spurred the bay to a gallop. Chulo charging along behind them, tethered by his reins.

  It wasn’t long before Slim could see the shack in the distance, the sun-bleached longhorn skull hanging over the door. As he approached, Slim figured there were only three possibilities. One, the shack was empty and he’d been on a wild goose chase. Two, booby trap or an ambush. Or three, Jodie was inside.

  Maybe alive, maybe not.

  Hoping for the best, Slim yelled, “Jodie!” to let her know help was on the way, but he was riding so hard he couldn’t hear if she responded.

  In fact, Jodie had replied by muttering, “Oh, damn,” after which she had fallen over sideways, dropping the last of the quilted toilet paper before she began struggling to pull up her jeans, her underwear now slightly wet thanks to Slim’s brilliant display of bad timing. That, plus she was woozy from the ether.

  Slim brought the bay up just short of the shack, using the energy of the sudden stop to dismount in one fluid motion, essentially launching him forward. “Jodie! It’s Slim!”

  Jodie scrambled to her feet, careful not to kick the bucket she’d been straddling a moment earlier. She shouted, “Slim! In here!” Tucking her shirt in with one hand and banging on the wall with the other.

  The moment he heard Jodie’s voice, Slim realized he was two-out-of-four in finding things that had gone missing from Del Rio. He was on a roll. Maybe he’d take Howdy up on his offer to go searching for his dad after this was all over.

  Slim crashed through the outer door and into the first room of the shack. Ahead was a second door, padlocked. There was a table by that door, on top was a crumpled white cloth and a bottle of ether. But no key to the lock. Slim put his hand on the door and said, “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” Jodie replied. “Sure glad you’re here.”

  “Sorry it took so long,” Slim said. “How much room you got in there?”

  “Not much. Why?”

  “I’ve got to shoot the lock off. Stand back and cover your ears.”

  The padlock was no match for the .45. Slim kicked the door open and before he knew what happened, he was enveloped by Jodie’s arms. Tightly. He hugged her back. “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re all right.”

  “Thanks to you.” Jodie reached up all the sudden, put her hands on Slim’s cheeks and pulled him to her. She gave him a big, wet lingering kiss, which took him by surprise.

  When it was over, Slim stood there, pleasantly stupefied and gently smacking his lips, as if tasting the kiss.

  Still in his arms, Jodie swayed as her knees grew weak.

  Slim congratulated himself, figuring the swoon had resulted from his mad smooching skills. Wouldn’t be the first time. He tilted
his head back, smiling as he looked down at her. “You okay?”

  Jodie closed her eyes and shook her head while saying, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  Took the air right out of Slim’s balloon. “What?”

  Jodie pushed away from him, holding her hands out for balance. “It’s not you,” she said. “Whatever they’ve been drugging me with, makes me nauseous and kinda woozy. I’ll be all right.” She took a couple of deep breaths.

  Slim looked around the shack, taking some comfort in the fact that he wasn’t the cause of the nausea. He saw the culprit on the table and, thinking you just never know how something might come in handy, he grabbed the ether and the cloth and said, “Whaddya say we get out of here?”

  Jodie gathered herself and headed for the sunlight. Outside, she stopped cold in her tracks, looking at the horses. She did a double take. Then she threw open her arms. “Chulo!” He began to whinny and throw his head up and down. She went over and hugged his neck, then looked back at Slim as if it had just dawned on her. “Is Uncle Roy with you?”

  “He’s with Howdy, lookin’ for the kidnapper,” Slim said as he put the ether in his saddlebag and pulled out a sandwich. “You hungry?” He tossed it to her and said, “There’s a pistol in your saddlebag.” While Jodie ate, Slim went back to the shack and pulled the longhorn skull off the wall.

  Jodie said, “What’re you doing?”

  “Getting a souvenir,” Slim replied. “For the bar.” He held the skull in the air. “It’s symbolic.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of being Lost . . . and Found,” Slim said with a wink.

  She laughed. “I’ll hang it over the stage and think of you and Howdy every time I see it.”

  “I’ll be hurt if you don’t.” He tied the skull onto the back of his saddle, then grabbed the radio and called Roy. “I got her,” Slim said. “Safe and sound.”