Cowgirl Thrillers

by Barbara Neville

Charley lights a candle. There is a bed and a night stand.

  A weak voice says, “Reports of my death are premature.”

  “Holy cow, yore alive!” I rush forward.

  Charley puts an arm out and stops me. “Whoa there girl, he is fragile.”

  “Damn, boy,” says Spud. “Guess we gotta take back the farewell toasts. Not that we could even admit we knew ya in public. ‘Bob’ here near spilt the beans.”

  I sit down gingerly on the bed and give Michael a buss on the cheek. We hold hands. “Yeah, never thought I cared about yore sorry ass, guess I do.”

  “Sorry if I worried you Annie. Thinkin’ it’s best if they believe I am dead.”

  “But how?”

  Wolf steps in. “Ho, brother!”

  He comes over and does a tricky Injin handclasp. “We wrote you off the books.”

  Michael says, “Good to be here seeing you all. As I was saying, Soames come over after the shot and saw the blood spurting out, said ‘You’re done’. He just turned and left. So much for true love. Guess he just wanted to pump me for local knowledge. Or just plain pump me.

  “It was a pretty serious bleeder, femoral artery, fortunately Charley showed up with crazy glue, saved me. Never thought glue would stop an arterial pump like that. Woman’s amazing. Glue is, too.”

  “And the trip with Soames?” asks Spud.

  “Didn’t go so well. Maybe he got a new boyfriend in my absence.

  “We got to the line shack, found the body, he got quiet, worrying ‘bout his treasure I imagine.

  “Then he shot off lickety split to the root cellar. Soames ignored the bodies there too and rushed into the root cellar, told me to wait outside. When he come out, oooh, dogies, he was pissed. He ran around throwing things, searching bodies. Went back inside, threw some more stuff, cussed a blue streak for such a tight ass holier than thou motherfucker. No concern for his people being dead. I began to wonder if he was human or one of them gay automatons we hear about. Pretty much did turn out to be a motherfuckin’ Centrist robot.

  “Anyhow we ran off, hell, he didn’t know what to do. We come back here fast, ‘bout run his rented horse to death, out of shape stable nag. After we got here, he talked to someone, or just thought it over. I don’t know, but something changed his tune, maybe just paranoid. He walked into the bar, real serious like, asked me to come out and see something. Old line, should have been suspicious. Especially when he led me out the back door into the alley.

  “He had a helper, shot me as I came out the door, never saw who it was.”

  “How do you know they were working together?”

  “Didn’t shoot Soames. So it seemed that way.”

  Charley says, “Times up, the man’s tired, too much talking,” and ushers us out.

  I stop in the doorway and turn back. “You rest now partner, we’ll leave ya to sleep.”

  “One more thing,” says Michael. “Saw his rifle, a .50 caliber.”

  “Aha,” says Spud.

  We head out.

  “So, no constables, marshalls?” I ask.

  “Nope, solved it,” Wolf says.

  “How?”

  Wolf gestures toward his brother.

  “Spud?”

  “Yep.”

  I’m baffled. But Wolf says no more.

  We leave Charley’s and head back to the main street. Spud leads us down to the Sheriff’s Office which is empty. As we walk in Spud swings around behind the desk, opens a drawer, gets out a badge, pins it on his shirt and says, “May I help you fine citizens?”

  “You?”

  Sir Jacob covers his smile with a hand, Wolf laughs outright.

  “We are experiencing a shortage of officials.” Spud leans back in the chair looking smug.

  “But the sheriff arrested us last visit. What happened to him?”

  “That were Deputy Dave. He ain’t bad.”

  “Doesn’t Center send law dogs?”

  “Word gets around, new transfers usually defect to our side or leave once they hear the stories of their predecessor’s ends. Nowadays word has been whispered back to the Proxima Pi Outpost, they never come at all. Defect onto a more hospitable planet. Hell, not many are suited to live in our god forsaken wilderness, thank the gods,” says Spud.

  “So now we elect from our own. Still, seems the last guy was playin’ it loose and easy with the rules. Caught shootin’ at our lady cowpuncher. He was the guy you shot dead the other day,” says Wolf. “Spud has been appointed an interim official ‘til we get a new election organized.”

  “Oh, great, I shot the sheriff,” I say.

  “Not to worry, Wolf witness, self-defense. Sheriff Spud believe Wolf.”

  “Still, yikes.” I’m mulling it over. A fed. I have mental pictures of orange coveralls and leg irons. Breaking rocks on an asteroid. No men.

  “Yep, Sheriff Spud. Got a ring to it. We figured out that if we elected our own sheriff and informed the regional Chief that he would be happy to leave us alone,” says Wolf.

  “Marshall Mullens to you, boy.”

  “I thought you was the Sheriff.”

  “I is, but Tindall painted my official sign wrong.” he pulls a name placard out of a drawer, it says ‘Marshall Mullens’.

  “Nice promotion,” says Wolf.

  I look at Spud and ask, “Job involve a lot of paperwork?”

  “Shore, Proxima Pi asks for reports. I told them I don’t trust the mails, airwaves or underlings, but they are welcome to come pick it up in person.” Spud jerks his head. “Maybe that roadblock is them. Searching for paperwork.”

  I smile. “Uh huh.”

  “‘Yes sir’ will suffice. And if yore nice, I’ll show you my star.”

  “Lord have mercy.” I laugh.

  I look closer. “Badge says sheriff, not marshall.”

  “Careful. We arrest people for readin’.”

  Spud spins his chair around, takes off the badge, and says, “I’m undercover.”

  “Um, in civies?”

  “No.” Spud holds his arms wide and says, “I’m me,” then he holds badge to chest. “Now I’m undercover.”

  “He is infiltrating the Centrists, or thinks he is,” says Sir Jacob.

  “I am the titular man in authority here.”

  “Here in MadDog?” I ask.

  “Here on the Rock, I am the ‘Big Kahuna’, as they say on Hawaiia.”

  “Which explains why when people disappear, no one investigates.”

  “Indeed,” agrees Sir Jacob. “While titularly Sheriff Spud or Marshall Mullens, I should say, is law enforcement, he chooses to not, in fact, enforce.”

  “But there is a higher authority who oversees his position?”

  “Ah. yes, that would be myself; 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, descended from the Neanderthal. Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to The Planet Rock. No one else wanted to be. Your servant, Madam.” He bows and sweeps an arm. “Very much at your service.”

  “I had to ask.”

  Sir Jacob says, “I, however, have never seen a need to investigate. Our eminent Sheriff, or Marshall as the sign says, is a fine, trustworthy and dedicated man. A credit to his planet.”

  “Ah, I see. I think.”

  “I believe that government can be a place where the people can get together and no one gets left behind. If I arrest people and jail them they come out and repeat their offenses. I leave folks be. If they have differences they settle them. It ain’t perfect, but it costs nothing, and some of them what gets killed deserve it. Them that don’t get killed, they get a second chance. Sometimes a third,” says Spud.

  Sir Jacob takes up the narrative, “Fourth chance or first, if the offense is capital, we give them a 24 hour head start or whatever is appropriate.

  “In fact,
what we have is a volunteer Sheriff. No taxes, thus no public monies. So crime control like volunteer fire control is voluntary. Similar to the miners committees of the Gold Rush Era on Old Earth, people get together and vote on laws, elect representatives to the Committee. The Council is commanded to keep the laws for the people. Should a crime need investigating or a criminal need caught, anyone can pick up the badge, raise a volunteer posse. Then they go out and do the job. Criminals are exiled to punitive planets. The most definitive solution is to publicize that if they leave this planet, we won’t go after them. Easy peasy.

  “Galaxies of space, outer space that is, for everyone. Let murderers move to the planet of murderers, their own people, so to speak.

  “All else fails we place them on a ship ourselves, to a new colony, like they did on Earth in the good ole Hollywood days. Ship ‘em off, give them a new start. They cease to be our problem. Maybe they are tough enough and raw enough to take a new world and all its inherent problems. Colonizing an empty planet is hard work. Persons who are busy staying alive haven’t time to get in trouble.

  “In fact, I believe troublemakers have the perfect temperament for danger. They thrive on it. New worlds full of giant predators and disastrous weather bring out the best in them. Why, some write back and thank us after. For them, hell beats prison.

  “Frontier justice works best when folks are few and far between. We can only hope that this policy makes us an instrument of good.”

  “‘Course if we cain’t scare ‘em away,” adds Spud, “or drug and throw them on a ship headed off planet, and they manage to get word to Proxima Pi for help, we got to ‘deal with’ the Centrist guys who come to check on things. First law of survival.”

  Lone sets us back on course saying, “So, about that roadblock.”

  “Yeah and why are we gettin’ shot at ever’where we go?” I ask, then think on it.

  “I remember,” I continue, a mite confused. “Michael told me he thought it was the sheriff who shot him.”

  “No, Spud’s the sheriff. He can’t have been the…” says Sir Jacob.

  Spud grunts, “Hold on.” he ponders a bit, scratching his head. Finally he looks at me and gets a wide eyed expression on his face, like a light bulb just turned on. Crap, he remembers.

  “Hey, Bob, you said something early this morning that I just realized was maybe not just a smartass remark and might be important. How ‘bout you tell us all, then we can decide if it has some relation to all the bullets that seem to just miss you.”

  I gulp and straighten my gun belt. “Which thing?”

  “That thrice accused, twice falsely deal?”

  “Oh, I said that out loud?” Oops.

  “Yep.”

  I think back. Crap, I did. “Damn it.”

  “That’s it.”

  “That was long ago and far away.”

  “I say, Miss Annie, the universe gets smaller every day. May be best if you unload, we are all friends here, none above a transgression if warranted.”

  “Yeah, but.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  Wolf raises a hand.

  “Company.” Sir Jacob, who is nearest the door, holds a finger to his lips then pulls his hat down over his eyes.

  Spud pins on the Marshall’s badge and sits up. Wolf grabs my arm and says, “Out the back.”

  He and I head through a doorway into the cells. We can hear someone opening the front door, so we move over against the wall, next to the cell door. Even in my Bob disguise, no sense takin’ chances. And Wolf? Oh hell, all Injuns might look alike to Soames, bein’ a city dude, but you never know. Wolf points at a spyhole behind us. I take advantage and spy.

  As Soames steps into the sheriff’s office, he looks around, spots the star on Spud’s chest.

  “Ah, Marshall may be you can assist me. I am…” Soames looks around at Sir Jacob.

  “We were just finishing up here. Thank you, citizen,” says Spud dismissively to Sir Jacob.

  Sir Jacob mumbles something unintelligible and leaves.

  “I am Superintendent Soames from Proxima Pi. I need to send a report of my activities to the nearest Centrist Outpost.”

  Spud says, “I can carry the message for you. I am headed to the Intergalactic Frontier Planet Law Enforcement Convention there at Proxima Pi tomorrow.”

  “Actually,” Soames says, “if you have the room, could I ride along? Have you noticed, there does seem to be a bit of desperado activity hereabouts?”

  “Oh?” asks Spud. “Anything the Marshall’s Office can help with?”

  “No. Thank you. I have things under control now. Just need a ride.”

  “We leave tomorrow an hour after first light. Dock A on the S.S. Shitkicker.”

  “Quite the name.”

  “Call me sentimental.”

  Soames looks confused. “Thank you, sir. See you in the morning.”

  After a few minutes I walk back in, appalled. “You let him walk out? That’s the guy. As far as he knows, he killed Michael. Well, had him killed or at least abandoned him to die. Why the fuck didn’t you arrest him? It was at the very least attempted homicide. He was an accomplice.”

  “He isn’t the guy. His accomplice is the guy. We arrest him, he likely won’t talk. We need to get them both, get one to testify against the other. Trust me, I’m the experienced lawman here,” says Spud.

  I am trembling with adrenaline. “Shit, fuck, okay, we also need to find out what the treasure is that they are searching for so vigorously.” My blood is up. “Michael is my compadre, partner, hell, my brother, through thick and thin.”

  Sir Jacob, who has also returned, grips my shoulder.

  “We understand your kinship, but we must remain calm Annie, er, Bob. We need at least one of them to spill their guts, at least figuratively, before we spill their actual guts.”

  “He leaves tomorrow, we’re nowhere.”

  “We can’t be nowhere, because to be, we have to be somewhere. Not possible to be nowhere,” says Wolf as he grips my other shoulder in empathy. “Not worry, Spud smart for white man. Almost as smart as his brother, Wolf.”

  Sir Jacob, Wolf and I head toward the Short Branch.

  I stop before we get to the door of the cantina and say, “You guys go ahead. I got a thing.”

  “I will reconnoiter,” says Sir Jacob. He heads into the bar. Wolf stands just outside the door. Sir Jacob looks around and waves to Wolf. “Come in friend, I shall treat you to a finely aged libation, a tribute to the Spirits.”

  Wolf gives me an adios nod and heads in. I head to the Granite Grand Hotel. It has a ways to go to live up to its grandiose name but it does have a back stairway. The back door is easy to find, I head up the maids’ route. Charley has done the spy work; Soames is staying in the only suite.

  I go into his room to look for clues to unravel the code to the maps. “Crap. Motherfucker.” I reach up and pull off the fake mustache, which is itchy and annoying as hell and stuff it in my shirt pocket. Pretty soon I take off my coat and vest too. Someone has stoked the heater stove way up into the stratosphere. Or maybe I am just nervous.

  “Balls.”

  My search is interrupted by Soames’ arrival. I hear his footsteps in the hall, so I grab my shed clothing and tiptoe for the window but, damn, some sucker is walking across the portico roof. I turn and slip into the closet. Shit. It is dark. I peek out between the hanging clothes.

  Soames comes in and crosses to the window and whispers, “All clear, Brady. Come.”

  From the scraping and grunting sounds I’d say it’s a tight squeeze. Sure enough, a dumpy potbellied fellow clambers in.

  “We wanted him alive,” says Soames.

  “Ah, he didn’t know nothing, better off without the greaser bastard,” answers Brady.

  “You dumbass. He likely had money hid somewhere. You think we don’t need money?”

  “Shit, he weren’t nothin’ but a con artist. I could smell it. Anyhow no matter, he’s kilt.”

  “Yeah,
great. The Super is out of our hair too, Jones was a pain in the ass. ‘The book, the book, do it by the book.’ Never get rich that way. They should promote me now.”

  “Yep, Jonny, you sure kilt him dead.”

  Soames nods. “Yes, good riddance, I say.”

  “Good news. I went to the sheriff’s this afternoon and he is totally unaware, never batted an eye. Dumb bastard is giving me a ride to Pi tomorrow. I can find out anything he knows. Stupid bumpkin, he is.”

  “Yeah, this planet, buncha hicks in Hicksville.”

  “You lay low while I’m gone, Brady.”

  “Nobody saw us, we got away with it. Scot free. Relax Jonny.”

  “I mean it, stay in your crib, best if no one sees you.”

  “Sure, see on the turnaround, Soames.”

  “You keep your head down tonight, too. Stay out of trouble. I’ll leave first, you go out the window in five.”

  Soames heads out the door.

  “Superior asshole,” mumbles Brady to his departing back. He sticks his head out the window to leave.

  “Grrr.”

  “Hey, what’s that? Crazy dog. What the fuck?”

  He pulls his head back in and draws his gun as Bitch jumps in the window and grabs his wrist. His hand relaxes reflexively from the pressure and he drops the revolver.

  Brady struggles and grabs for the cane leaning against the night stand. He hits Bitch hard across the ear with it. She staggers and loses her grip.

  Brady pulls away, grunts and reaches for the gun with his left hand. “Bullet will fix you, mutt,” he says.

  “Wait.” I step out of the closet.

  He turns the gun on me. His eyes widen.

  He growls, “The niece? I really don’t need you, bitch.”

  “She’s the Bitch.”

  “What? Hey, quit fuckin’ with me.” Brady gestures me back with the little pistol.

  I raise my hands. “Don’t shoot, I don’t have a gun.”

  “That makes it easy, stand still,” says Brady. “Soames will have a tie in here, stinking Centrist cunt think he’s superior. Once you’re trussed up we will both go visit the sheriff.”

  “Bastard.”

  He backs over to the side of the bed and fumbles into Soames’ suitcase, keeping a weather eye on me.

  I fidget.

  “Hold still, damn it.”

  Not feeling what he needs in the suitcase, he glances down.

  ‘Thwack.’

  Brady clasps his ribcage and falls to the floor.

  “Oh, forgot to mention, I did have a knife.” I carefully nudge him with the toe of my boot. Nothing.

  “‘Never bring a knife to a gunfight? Idiots.”

  I grab Soames’ cane and poke at Brady’s eyeball, no reaction.

  “Think we’re good here,” I say to Bitch.

  Bitch and I head out the window. With luck, no one has seen us. I actually remember to retrieve and wipe my knife, too. Genius.

  Revenge? Sweet.

  34 Shinin’ Times