Cowgirl Thrillers

by Barbara Neville

Lord Jacob cranes his neck to look back at me from the right front seat.

  “You see, Anna? I am an excellent driver,” boasts Lord Jacob.

  “You are so clever, your Lordship. How is it that you are steering this thing? I still can’t see neither steering wheel nor pedals.”

  “Mind over matter, my dear.”

  “Wolf told you that Lord Jacob is magic,” says Michael.

  I had learned on Terrania, whilst almost killing Michael and myself, that the old unmotivated vehicles had a steering wheel and pedals and levers and shit. I only drove the one time. Fucked up, them things. Me and the internal combustion engine just don’t get along. Even tractors, I’d just as soon let the other guys drive ‘em.

  Back at the estate, we all pry ourselves out of the car.

  “These land boats are definitely designed for smaller folks than us,” I say.

  “Yeah,” says Kit, “you big guys were smooshing me.”

  “Dang, I shore am glad you got my message, sisters,” Spud says, as he gives Kit a hug. “Now let’s get outta these gruesome girl duds.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “You boys look sexy in drag.”

  That brings out the smiles. Spud blushes.

  Michelle notices and asks, “First time in drag, Walter?”

  Spud turns redder and gazes at the ground.

  We go inside the mansion and change back into our own selves. Not nearly as fancy as Lady Beverly had made us out to be. Just plain old folks, in fact.

  Spud and I take advantage of the chance to get reacquainted. I have missed them tight buns and some of them other things, too.

  Yore imagination will suffice fer that scene.

  Later, we reassemble downstairs in the nick of time for a fine and much appreciated feast. After our meal, we lounge about the fabulously furnished room in great luxury.

  “Lawsy me, I never saw such fine fittin’s in all my born days,” says I.

  “It’s somethin’, ain’t it darlin’,” Spud agrees.

  Kit comes around with a nice bottle of wine. Yes, cowboys, and Injins too can appreciate a glass of wine now and again. A beer or two to start things out is best.

  “Lord Jacob, you are no slouch in the wine making department,” says Spud.

  “Lord Jacob on this planet,” Lady Beverly reminds us.

  “Okay. Your lordship,” Spud agrees.

  “Yes, thank you, Spud,” says Lord Jacob. “I say, how is it that Painter was taken?”

  “I never did get but a moment alone with him on the trip over on the Shitkicker. They kept him heavily guarded at all times. What he was able to say is that there was a girl at the root of it all. What he did was be a teenager, I imagine,” says Walt. “Being fifteen, he couldn’t wait to visit this girl. And, of course, he had no idee there was a roadblock. Got no papers. He rode around that last corner daydreamin’ about gettin’ him some. Hell, they scooped him up easy, he said.

  “I imagine Kit told you some of the rest. What I know is that when Soames, the roadblock crew and I all got to the Shitkicker, there was Paint, cuffed to the hatch handle. I asked, ‘Who is this?’

  “Soames says, ‘This is who killed our Superintendent. We have him dead to rights.’

  “During the Trip to Pi here I made some tries to get him freed. Talked about him bein’ just a kid and all, but as you all likely guessed they needed any warm body they could find to divert attention off of theirselves fer killin’ ol’ Headless Jones. Claimed they watched Paint do it. Witnessed it with their own eyeballs, they said. Liars. Dayum.

  “Too many of them fuckers to deal with ‘em onboard the ship. And too many questions on this end, if I killed the whole bunch. They was mighty edgy and watchful, too. So when we arrived here on Pi, I set about gettin’ you the message and tried to keep track of where they took Painter.

  “Just after I got the message out to you, I got took too. Which as you know from my note I kinda expected, so I had ditched my wallet, passcard and such. I had heard them say during the flight over here that since they didn’t know who Painter was, they would appoint him a lawyer. They planned to tell the lawyer that I was a witness. No idee why. Maybe to get me out of circulation. Hell, I’d been close-mouthed ‘bout the whole thing. Maybe they were just suspicious ‘cause I am from the Rock. We Rockers do all stick together. But. Heck. I’m the Sheriff, ain’t the sheriff supposed to be the good guy?”

  “They wanted you, as an outsider and a law dog, to verify their story. Your words would give it credence, an unbiased witness, one would imagine,” says Lord Jacob. “They must not realize that you and Painter are related.”

  “Yeah. So they come and rounded me up to give a statement or deposition or such. I got a mite upset and put up some resistance. Especially when they went to put on the cuffs. Actually, I mighta sideswiped a’ officer or two in the cuffin’ process. Anyhow, you come just in time. I was gettin’ tired of the whole deal.

  “Also a bit worried that Painter might not make it to trial. Soames is nervous as hell. And having no idee who the kid is, him not bein’ in the passcard system, makes ‘em all jumpy as hell.”

  “So,” asks Kit, “brother, you have a plan?”

  “I do.”

  “Pray tell, Walter,” says his Lordship.

  “Seems they took him out to some island. Got a prison out there.”

  “Ah, yes, Zartacla, I know of it,” says Lord Jacob.

  “You know the layout?” asks Michael.

  “Oh, I've a unique knowledge of this particular prison facility. I was formerly a guest there, but not for a sufficient length of time to acquire an intimate knowledge,” says Jacob looking pensive. “However, I do know of a man who might.”

  Lord Jacob strands and straightens his vest. “And I believe I know where to find him. I’m off.”

  “Need help?” asks Spud.

  “Best not, he is a shy sort. I shall return,” says Lord Jacob as he exits.

  Spud looks at the rest of us and says, “We ready to go soon‘s he gets back?”

  “‘Cept fer knowin’ what we’re doin’? Sure,” I say.

  “Vamanos, mas pronto osea mejor. That is, the sooner the better,” says Michael. “I forget that the Rock has not much Spanish. Here on Pi, my ears rejoice when I hear folks speak the mother tongue, even whne it is a bastard mix with English.”

  “¡Pues claro que sí, compadre!” I say. “of course! ¿Osea mejor sí hablamos ingles con eses, no lo crees?”

  “Yes, we will confine ourselves to Ingles here, sorry. English. One misses one’s first language at times,” says Michael.

  “Ah,” says Spud. “I hear the voice of Don Miguel, come to life.”

  Michael reddens, then smiles and says, “Seguro que sí.”

  We all laugh.

  Old Earth had more Chinese than any other tribe, so one would think Chinese would have become the dominant lingo and taken over the world. Thing was, however, the pilots, airports, all such spoke English, an ancient trade language. Pilots and airports spanned the world. Didn't matter your nationality or birth language, to be a pilot, or air traffic controller, you had to learn English. Included everyone in the sky. So it was. The ‘English only’ air travel industry rules and those Catholic Hispanics who had a couple and some more kids, in the end they ruled. Now we mostly speak Spanglish. It is the official language of the triumvirate of superpower planets: Yaquin, Chilt and Talu. No doubt about it, amigo.

  ‘Cept, as Michael mentioned, fer a few back alley planets like the Rock. True primitives and lovin’ it. A few other planets have different languages, too. Spanglish, like the old Swahili of Africa is the common trade language that will get you by in most places, not all.

  Lord Jacob returns from his jaunt accompanied by a tall slim gentleman.

  “May I present my old friend Buzz,” he says. “My compañeros.”

  He sweeps an arm to encompass us all and then makes introductions.

  Buzz can only be described as larger than life. I
’d have to say Viking god large. Plus, he is strikingly handsome in a chiseled features kind of way. Nice firm jawline. Me likey.

  He is blonde, with sapphire blue eyes and light tan skin. He is slender, but powerful, like he does resistance work and covers miles.

  Oh yeah. A runner who works out. Long, lean and strong.

  I stand up casually to see just how tall he is. This is the universal freakishly tall woman’s man measuring stick. Go stand close behind the man. We use it for assessing potential boyfriend material on the spot. Sometimes, we look back at a friend and hold a flat hand on the top of our head so they can tell us if he really is taller. Seriously, I have taken a poll, tall girls must do it instinctively.

  I glide over as if my only goal is to shake hands. I have to look up. Nice. Buzz is much taller than me. No second opinion needed. I almost never meet any people that I have to look up to. Much less young good looking ones. But lately my life seems to be full of them. So awesome. I must be dancing to the right rhythm.

  As you will remember, Spud and Wolf are taller. And this new guy, wow, he has a good four inches on me. Hot dayum, more than one potential mate to choose from. Tall girl nirvana. Short girls have no idea how thin the ranks are for us. Those fucking undersize bitches steal our tall guys all the damn time.

  I hold my hand out. He delivers a warm, firm handshake and looks down into my eyes with a direct friendly gaze.

  Oh baby.

  10 Buzz