Cowgirl Thrillers

by Barbara Neville

Billy’s horse, Dutch, has turned out to be a pretty well behaved spare mount. When we get back to MadDog we will see if there is next of kin to deliver him to. Until then he’s gotta pull his share.

  We’re hoping to reach Mose’ camp, get a quick rideabout done, then return to warmer climes. Specifically, Wolf and his brother Spud’s seaside hot springs heaven, the Bar None Ranch. We need to get back before the weather sets in hard. We don’t have enough supplies to spend the winter snowed in out here. But first we are helping Mose get his winter gear out to his trap camp. Wolf and I have three packhorses carrying our camping gear. Mose has six horses loaded up with his possibles for the trapping season, everything from traps and a crosscut saw to beans and bacon. Mose decided this year that an ax wasn’t enough. He is moving up big time, technology wise, to a one-man crosscut. I admire it as we ride along.

  “Fine lookin’ cuttin’ tool,” I say.

  “Be a lot faster fer cutting rounds,” he says. “Bought a maul and wedges for splittin’, too.”

  “Skookum,” I say.

  We travel on down the trail, under the fall sun. I can feel the heat of it soaking through the cowboy shirt on my back.

  “Mose,” I turn around and ask, resting my hand on my horse’s ample behind, “how you gonna feed all these hay burners if the snow settles in fer a long spell?”

  “Yes’m, you right, hard to find enough feed fer hosses of a bad winter. In actual fact, they jest rented.”

  Wolf looks over at me and says, “Part of MadDog Clan service. We trail extra stock back with us, once Mose unload.”

  “Very kind of you.”

  “Mm-hm. Make money during Spirit Quest. Take horses home, rent again.”

  “Yowza, Wolf, y’awl one of our great financial minds,” laughs Mose.

  “Hmph. Black White Eyes not funny.”

  “Yeah, I know, ‘twere yore ma’s idee, huh?” asks Mose. He and I giggle.

  “’T’were,” Wolf admits with a smile. “Coati ranch boss. Wolf, simple savage. Follow orders.”

  Mose looks at Wolf and says, “Real know-how lies in knowin’ how dumb you is. Wolf may be smarter than we thinks.”

  I laugh and scratch my head. All these Rockers seem to have complicated brains. Fortunately, me myself, just a plain ol’ cowgirl.

  We pull up near the crick under huge sycamore trees. We then dismount and start the evening routine. Horses are relieved of panniers, sawbucks and saddles. Just another beautiful camp in paradise.

  I walk under the beautiful trees to take a leak. Have you ever looked at the bark on a sycamore? Like a jigsaw puzzle. All them colors. Maybe it’s the joint that Wolf passed around earlier or maybe it is the effect of reduced sunlight as winter approaches. Anyhow, the sycamores seem extra colorful tonight. Camping can be fun and educational.

  Meanwhile Mose and Wolf are over by the fire conversing. They have their heads together deep in a story, I’ll bet. Mose is leaning over a pannier doing something. I walk over close enough to see that he has his hands in the flour sack. He adds a handful of cornmeal from a smaller sack, then the salt. He stirs up what he wants, then trickles in the water. He folds it in, right there in the flour bag, until the consistency is just right for bannock. He pulls the ball of dough out and spreads it in the hot skillet, wetting the back of the spoon if it starts to stick during the spreading. The remaining flour is dry and clean, all set for next time. He ties the bag shut and settles in to cooking.

  I wander over to the crick, and hunker down to get a drink. Fine water, clean and pure as rain. I could wash my face, or more. Why the hell not?

  After a quick cold bath, I run back over to the fire.

  “How was yore bath?” asks Mose.

  “Brrr,” I say, holding my hands out and leaning toward the flames. “Couple’a buffalo pies are floatin’ here and there, adds a nice scent.

  “Cold water are good for the soul,” says Mose nodding.

  “You bathe lately?” I tease.

  “Jes’ last year, I believe,” says Mose, with a smile. “Unless I disremember.”

  “You might,” I say, theatrically holding my nose. “I smell sage brush fires.”

  “Them is sagebrush in the fire, gal.”

  “Ah.”

  I sit down on a saddle blanket by the fire, wiggling a bit in the loose sandy soil to get the ground scooped out to match the roundness of my finely shaped behind. Soon I will be dry enough to put my clothes on.

  Mose pulls the bannock off the flames and the boys move over to a rock and start talking again.

  “What are you two conversatin’ about?” I ask.

  Wolf nods at something in front of them, either ignoring or not hearing me. I walk over to look.

  The fellas have what we hope is a Spirit Cave map. One of the things that we found in Soames antique paper and map cache at the root cellar. They have arranged lanterns on each side and are poring over it. I think of it as the zone map as the letters z-o-n are written large across the middle of it. What zone? It doesn’t say.

  “Spot here on map,” says Wolf.

  “Yeah, mos’ likely,” says Mose nodding.

  They scrutinize the mountains and marks on the old map, conferring quietly. Finally, Wolf stands up and the two of them carefully, reverently roll the map together along with its newly added preservative backing sheet. Next they slide it into a tube with a waterproof gut cover.

  “This heah map is old, way older even den me. We gots to be careful wit’ it,” Mose tells me.

  “We get new copy made over the winter. Not bring original next trip,” says Wolf. He carries the tube over to the possibles stack and carefully stows it in a pannier.

  “Well boys,” I ask, “any bright idees?”

  “We be theah in two days,” says Mose.

  “Be where?”

  “Out past edge. Mose camp,” says Wolf. “Spirit buffalo not far beyond. If luck good, we find him by that mark on map.”

  Now don't judge me because I don't ask a lot of questions. I was raised in a world where we keep our own counsel. Folks has a right to the privacy of their own thoughts. If'n they wanna share, they will. That's how it worked in the Old West. Remember the Duke? Strong and silent. But this? I just have to ask.

  “Past the edge? Why does man even feel the need to go out past the edge?” I ask. Not a phrase we used on my home world, Triassic.

  “Because we crawl out the ocean and find a warm cave. We look o’er the hill and see fire. We decide being warm might be nice. We work hard, an’ we experiment ‘til we conquer them flames. We build boats. We cross a’ ocean. We pioneer the north, the south, the east and the west. Then we take to the sky. The history of man is explorin’ and what’s next is all dem lands past the edge of the map and then them galaxies out deah past da edge o’ known space,” says Mose opening his arms to the sky.

  “Spirits first. This planet, then other worlds,” says Wolf, putting in his two cents worth.

  “Now that there is one big mouthful o’ thoughts,” adds Mose, slightly embarrassed at himself.

  “Good gawd, philosophizers,” I say and shudder theatrically. “I’ll shut up now.”

  See what I mean ‘bout keepin’ yore own counsel? Easier on the brain.

  “Thet were exhaustin’,” I say and smile. “Time fer this mixed up cowgirl to turn in. Nighty night.”

  “See y’awl mañany,” says Mose and laughs.

  Wolf looks over at me. He looks hungry. No, horny. Definitely horny.

   

  6 Time for Pi