In a bit the door opens and we enter. Sir Jacob is there in a fine and fancy suit. He has it all, frilly shirt, vest, suit coat, pants, jacket, shiny boots too. I am sure if I was high toned I would find him quite dashing. On second thought, I do.
Sir Jacob speaks up, “One must remember, Mr. Wolf, that the knock pattern changes on a biweekly basis. You seem to always be a fortnight behind the times.”
“So you’ll know it’s me, English White Eyes.”
“Ah, clever.”
Sir Jacob then turns to me and says, “Excuse my manners Miss Annie, welcome, come, join us. Would tea be acceptable? No doubt we have a crumpet to accompany and perhaps a small tankard of home brew for the primitives? Or perhaps an early vintage of my vino? I have stemware. I say, I feel that you, madam, are cut of a finer cloth than the savage Wolf and oddly named Spud.”
“You’ll have to forgive Sir Jake, he gets a bit nervous in the presence of comely young ladies,” says Spud.
“In fact, none of us see comely young ladies often enough,” says Sir Jacob.
“By early vintage he means a decade or so before last. This place ain’t been around too very long, but his brew is tasty,” says Spud. “Come on in, pilgrims. Welcome to Sir Jacob’s humble abode.”
“Hello. Sir Jacob, you remember my partner, Michael Santa Cruz.”
“Ah, we were not formally introduced at the time due to the merriment. Spud is still reeling, I believe,” says Sir Jacob clasping his hand. “Sir Jacob Bridbury, Duke of Barkingham, Earl of Boyd, Heir to the Flemish fortune and to Quimby Castle at Bridbury, first cousin to His Royal Majesty King Arthur II, Counsel to the Duke of Beltingham, Brother to the Pontiff of Laxham, Friend to the Court of Palanca, and descended from the Neanderthal. Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to The Planet Rock. No one else wanted to be, you see. At your service, kind sir.”
“Pleasure is all mine, Sir Jacob,” says Michael.
“You are working on the cattle roundup also?”
“Yep, I’m an old gay cowhand from somewhere a few planets away from the Rio Grande.”
“Come on in, we shall exchange lies over a glass of homemade wine. I in fact have a few vintage bottles brought from an earlier life on another world.”
“Homemade wine? Who would have thought civilization would have penetrated way out here into the Cosmos campo,” says Michael.
We all head out of the entryway and into a huge area with walls hung with racks of every weapon I ever heard of and many more. The décor is most certainly scholarly survivalist. Cowhide furniture, obviously hand crafted. What a palace. And back against the far wall, I walk closer, and holy shit!
It is a cabinet of old books. Actual books! Holy guacamole. Bunches of ‘em. Shelves of books. Wow, I rush over and just gawk at ‘em. Scared to touch. Damn.
“The ‘Peace Room’, dedicated to the signatories of the Rock Declaration of Independence,” Sir Jacob announces as we walk through.
“The secret Declaration of Independence, mind you. If the Centrists knew of it they’d blow us right out of the Cosmos.”
Sir Jacob continues, “The ‘Moonshine Room’,” as we walk in, gawking.
Sir Jacob takes us over to a rack of wine barrels and threading a clear hose in through a bunghole, siphons out glasses of wine all around.
Sir Jacob raises his glass and says, “Here’s to us, the men who are doing what is legislated as wrong in order to accomplish what we believe is right. Revolutionaries.”
We raise our glasses and partake, mumbling in agreement.
“Now to business,” interjects Spud.
“Allow me, Miss Talks To Horses and Mr. Santa Cruz, to offer the convenience of my baths should you care to wash off the trail dust. We can start our business without you,” says Sir Jacob.
“Oh yes, that would be fabulous,” says Michael.
“I see my new Injin name has already been popularized by, as you call him, Mr. Wolf,” I say.
“We have all heard you talking to said beasts, hard for you to deny.”
“Proud of it, actually. I like to brag that I ride some of the best behaved horses in the country. They appreciate the consideration of a pleasant word or two.”
“Best horses?” says Spud. “Naw, you ain’t seen mine.”
“Injin horse more better than both. Injin make good horse medicine,” Wolf interjects.
We adjourn to the baths. Sir Jacob has more than one! And luxurious, Michael and I wash and swim our cares away in true Roman fashion. On our return to the very warlike Peace Room, we find everyone standing around a table.
“You are in the fray now, Annie. We have continued the equine discussion and it seems each of us owns the perfect steeds,” says Sir Jacob. “Now to work. Come join us at the big table. We can lay out a map and share intelligence.”
We all head in and settle ourselves around a huge slab of Douglas fir. A table fit for a king.
I, of course, speak up. “This place is truly amazing, an underground castle. Soaking in the bath, I felt like royalty.”
Sir Jacob smiles and Spud laughs out loud.
“Along with being His Lordship, Sir Jacob claims descendance from some god awful King or other. Don’t egg him on.”
“His majesty, the King of Andorra, a few and more generations back. I am Basque by way of England, a descendant of shepherds,” says Sir Jacob. “My formal introduction is already lengthy enough without adding the dear Basquos.”
“Your Highness,” I say as I mock a bow and scrape.
“Har har,” says Spud. Kind of a jackass, this guy.
Sir Jacob says, “Don’t mind Spud. A mere commoner, he understands not the privilege and superior intellect of the Royals.”
“Sheeeit. Wanna have a brain pissin’ contest?” says Spud.
“Seriously, Spud, Jake, we got interlopers to get shed of, quit screwin’ around,” says Wolf.
“Now,” says Sir Jacob, “for a report from our faithful Injin companion.”
Lone Wolf tries unsuccessfully not to grin. “I rode the north section following their tracks, then backtracked them the other way. I suppose they come in from MadDog. There seem to just be the three of them headed back toward town. Then coming back this way, it is harder to tell. It seems that when they ran into Annie here, they got spooked and never made it to wherever they were planning on going. In other words, I got nothing but guesses.”
“I don’t know about them being spooked by me, but I was sure spooked by them.”
“You killed or grievously wounded the one, from what Wolf tells me.”
“Didn’t find anything on the trail but off the trail I found blood at last light, too dark to track it,” says Wolf.
“What did you and Michael find?” Sir Jacob asks.
“Whole lot of nothing. Maybe it was their first day in the country. We need to lay up and watch them,” I report.
“We-ell.” Michael flips his wrist. “If we can locate their camp, maybe I should go undercover.”
“What makes you think they want a flaming queen in their camp?” I ask.
“You forget I am a classically trained actor. And, in fact, any gay learns in his short pants to play straight if needed. I have fabulous gaydar, not a problem.”
“A vote?” asks Sir Jacob.
“Maybe shape changer have good idea. I find outlaw camp tonight, Injin smell smoke, find fire. Little Mike go in for kill.”
“No kill, just info, we don’t know who or what yet. Let’s not jump the figurative gun, troops,” says Spud, taking the reins. “With a small dedicated group there is nearly nothing that cannot be accomplished. We will reconvene as needed.”
“We can only accomplish if we keep our scalps.”
I am still in awe of Sir Jacob’s lair.
“This is amazing, all these black as night tunnels, but in the living area sky lights, windows, courtyard gardens, wow!”
Spud tells us, “Sir Jacob has him an actual fortress with firewalls, battlements, armaments, and no arraignm
ents.”
“Why no arraignments?”
“That falls under my ‘hit the bastards in the head with a shovel, then bury ‘em with a backhoe’ policy. No need for lawyers,” says Sir Jacob.
“Aha.”
It turns out, that however the wilderness rules were written, Sir Jacob does have a backhoe hidden in his underground fortress. Although it was said jocularly, I wonder if he really has used the backhoe to bury dead bodies. Why the hell not? Less shoveling for us peons. He takes us down another tunnel and shows it off to us before we take our leave.
Michael and I saddle back up and head for camp.
“That was some castle, enjoyed the hell out of that huge rock bath.” Plenty of room for me and a good lookin’ cowboy, I wish. “Company not too shabby either,” I say.
“That Sir Jacob, though. He’s a mite quirky,” observes Michael.
“Please, that charming bastard’s looking at quirky in the rearview mirror. Sorta intriguing, actually. He gay or straight, Mr. Gaydar?”
“Yep.”
“Keeping yore own counsel?”
“Yep.”
“Mm,” I nod.
10 Mystory not History
Cowgirl Thrillers Page 20