Cowgirl Thrillers

by Barbara Neville

It is Indian summer. The sky is blue, with fluffy clouds floating whimsically in the high altitude breezes. The late green grass sprouts are emerging through the dead thatch of the fall frosts. The deer are browsing peacefully on the edge of the trees up ahead. The birds are singing of everlasting beauty or whatever it is birds tweet about. Musical in any case.

  Then, things change.

  ‘Bang.’

  The sound is behind me and too close. I lean forward and squeeze with my knees and calves. Deuce jumps both forelegs ahead into a lope. I look over my shoulder. Riders. Two of them. Rifles aimed towards me.

  “Son of a bitch,” I say as I spur my mount, hoping he has a bit more speed for me. I look back again. They are catching up.

  ‘Bang. Bang. Bang.’

  “Run you lazy bastard, they’re shootin’.”

  Teaching a horse to ignore the sound of gunfire so he don’t spook and throw you off when you shoot yore personal piece is a good thing. But, when someone else is shooting, this might be the thanks you get. He thinks it’s okay. Of course, short of true monsters, running in general goes against the grain for Deuce. He is known for his easygoing disposition. I twist around again to look back at the shooters.

  “Who the hell are those guys?”

  Deuce doesn’t answer. He almost never does. His nonjudgmental libertarian nature leaves me the freedom to figure out my own life. It’d be nice if humans were more like horses.

  Right now he is busy running his little horse heart out. Problem is, he is running out of wind.

  I spot a brushy oak thicket up ahead, it is an opportunity to change my strategy.

  Deuce and I run around the thicket to the right, putting us out of sight of our pursuers. I lay down tight against the saddle horn and move my rein hand a bit more to the right. Deuce turns in under some low branches which brush hard across my spine as we speed through. We then proceed to do some quick world-class zig zag work, avoiding brush, limbs and tree trunks as we whiz through the thicket. We work our way through the clump of oak, manzanita and granite boulders.

  I pull my rein hand just a tad back toward my body, and relax my butt. Deuce slides in among a clump of taller oak trees and big granite rocks. This light mouthed horse not only has a great rein on him, he also has an awesome stop.

  “Good job, son,” I say quietly, as I pat his neck and bail off.

  I drop the reins, cut a leafy branch with my pocket knife and run out to brush over his hoofprints. I grab some loose sand and leaves and sprinkle them over the brush marks. Then I walk on rocks, careful to leave no boot prints, back to my little bay horse. He is about 15 hands, a nice little horse, with an offset blaze and two white socks behind.

  I pull his head around tight against his side and give a push. He is quick to take the cue and lay down flat for me. I lie down across his neck to be sure he doesn’t change his mind.

  “Just need to get your breathing slowed to something quieter than a steam engine before them riders get in close,” I say in a quiet, calming voice. His nostrils are flared full circle from the workout. His chest is pumping in all the air it can. His legs stick straight out to the side, still tense from the run. His eyes are big and round. The whites are showing with excitement. I pat his neck and scratch around his ears.

  True, my heart is pounding a tad bit, too. Ka-thump, ka-thump like.

  “There now, easy boy, easy,” I say to calm both me and him.

  We have worked together long enough that he trusts my judgment. My calming words work their magic and he slowly relaxes. His breath slows, his eyes return to normal. His legs relax down onto the ground. Deuce quiets even more and lays still. You are supposed to walk a horse and cool him out after hard exercise. This once, though, staying hidden is first priority. We just lie there and wait.

  As I hear hoofbeats approaching and getting louder, I put my hand across Deuce’s nostrils hoping to forestall a nicker to the bad guy’s horses. I realize too that I have been holding my breath and let it slowly out. We lie quietly for what seems like forever. Finally though, the sound of the shooters hoofbeats fades as they pass us by.

  “Maybe we fooled ‘em, partner,” I say to Deuce. I wait another long five minutes. Then, sliding off his neck, I let Deuce up. I tie him to a tree, just to be sure he doesn’t get antsy and decide to run out and join his equine brothers.

  Climbing up into a cleft between the boulders, I doff my hat and set it atop a stick which poke up above the skyline. Nothing happens, so I pull it down and slowly poke my head up into the notch. I see a plume of dust that disappears out to the south in the distance and heave a sigh of relief.

  I check my cinch and mount up. My cowpony and I continue our march, moving along just below the ridgetop. About an hour further on, Deuce stops suddenly and pricks up his ears. I hold my breath and listen as hard as I can.

  Deuce is right. Voices. I can barely hear them. I slide off, tie Deuce to a tree and slowly stealth walk forward. As I come to the edge of the hill, I can hear them well enough to make out ta few words. I can’t see anything for the trees.

  “I tell you crystal …rock. I’m sure,” says a male voice.

  “No way, we…Terrania. No fucking way we could…galaxy… Can you be sure?” asks a female voice.

  “That little horse, bay…sure…crystal?” he says.

  “We got bigger fish to fry,” says she. “Find the… rock…crystal. We gotta…two faced friend. Selfish fucker, sayin’ he’d share…ditchin’ us. How could…that? We was honest…”

  The man says, “Mostly honest…hit the trail. He must be further ahead… Let’s get moving…lose him…”

  The voices sound familiar. I rack my memory cells. Did I hear them at the Short Branch? As their voices fade, I stick my head up for a peek. As they emerge from the trees, they are already too far away to identify.

  “Drop it,” hisses a voice right behind me.

  Fuck. I turn my head to see who it is.

  “Hold still, let loose that rifle and raise them hands,” he says. “Now.”

  “Now look here,” I start to say.

  “I said now!” he hisses impatiently.

  “My piece is a’ antique, belonged to my grand pappy, I’m gonna lean over and set it carefully down. Okay?” I ask.

  “Hurry up about it,” he says. I slowly lean over and lovingly lay the rifle down.

  I can hear the gunhand edging around me.

  “You just back up now so I can see what yore looking at,” he says.

  I take a step back and manage to get my boot tangled on a bush. I fall down on my butt.

  “Damn,” I murmur, rubbing my ankle.

  “Get up. Quit screwing around, Annie,” he says. He is now standing in the spot where I had been.

  I sneak a look at him under my hat brim. He is a little guy wearing a vest and pocket watch. His pants are slick city fabric, not made for the wear and tear of riding. His sleeves are puffy. He has garters around his biceps. His shoes aren’t boots. He looks familiar. But I can’t place him.

  He looks over his shoulder down the hill, quickly turning back to me.

  “You know me?” I ask.

  “Shit. You don’t recognize me?” he asks. He is edgy, looking quickly down again toward the voices, then back at me.

  “No.” I say. “They friends of yours?”

  “Seriously? Man, what a stuck up bitch,” he says shaking his head in disbelieve. “All the time I waited on you, all the free drinks. Nothing?”

  “Oh, on Hawaiia? Maybe?” I ask.

  “Are you shitting me? I flirted with you. Chatted you up. You smiled, and was polite, but you looked right through me. I oughta kill ya just fer that alone,” he says.

  “I am sorry. Um, what is yore name?”

  “You know it. Billy, damn it, Billy Darby.”

  “Billy? Hm.” I still draw a blank.

  “Fuckin’ A. From the Short Branch.”

  “Oh, um, are you the…”

  “The bartender,” he says,
clearly disgruntled.

  “Oh, yeah, yore the bartender,” I say. “I’m purely sorry, I got a bad memory fer faces.”

  Billy is still glancing over his shoulder, down the hill.

  “You got no problem remembering Spud.”

  “Well, yeah, he and I…”

  “Shut it,” Billy Darby says, then his voice turns whiny. “That bastard takes everything from me. I run for sheriff, name on the ballot, all legal like. Spud is writ in. Fucker won by a landslide. I see you first, chat you up. He gets you. You never pay me no mind. All smiles, no action. Fucking cock-teaser.”

  “Those your friends down there?” I ask again.

  “They’ll be gone in a minute,” he says.

  He glances back again.

  “And Charley. She don’t do no more than order me around. She never, ever puts out. And even without that, I deserve a damn pay raise. Hell, I been loyal. I work my ass off for Charley. I should own half that place. But, hey, I got it all worked out now. I heard that fancy pants Lord and that floozy Michael talking about them maps. I know you are all up to something. And that Injin. You’re all in on it. Damn it, I want my cut, too.”

  He looks back. He is sweating and looking like he is tired of being a nobody loser. His trigger finger has started to twitch.

  He waves his revolver toward the talkers down the hill, “Bartenders hear what everyone is up to. I know that those two will pay me plenty for what I know.”

  He glances down toward them again.

  It occurs to me that he might be waiting for the riders to get far enough away so they don’t hear the shot when he kills me. In an abundance of caution, I pull my arm back and let fly.

  My boot shiv chunks right in between his ribs. Billy drops and lays jerking on the ground.

  I rush over. “Billy. Billy. Hang on, Billy.”

  He jerks once more and is gone.

  Do you know how hard it is to make a fatal throw with a damn boot shiv? Damn my throwing arm’s killer instincts. Shit, I had questions.

  Billy got no answers now.

  “Damn it Billy, wasn’t in the cards, sorry. You could’ve at least lived long enough to tell me yore horse’s name. Poor sucker gotta learn a new one now.”

  I take his holster belt and gun. A few piasters in his pocket. Nothing else is worth saving. Damn little short people clothes. Hell with it, they are city duds anyway. Useless.

  I look down the hill and see no sign of the riders.

  I head over to Joe, grabbing his reins and the reins on Billy’s bay. I hang Billy's gunbelt over the horn and strap it down with the saddle strings. We sneak quietly down the hill away from the talkers. Were they chasing Billy? Was he chasing them? Was it all a trap to catch me? Shit.

  The horses and I move slowly. I am listening. Don’t want to be surprised by any more jeezly cocksuckers today.

  Three motherfuckers in one morning trying to harsh my buzz. Shit.

  I goose Deuce up into a nice comfy trot. We are now running late for our meeting with Wolf and Mose. I’ll have to hurry to make it to the spike camp at Rio Rojo.

  “Rock’s a big planet. Let’s hope we never hear those two sharp shootin’ assholes butt ugly voices again,” I tell Deuce. He flicks an ear and nods his head in agreement.

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