Cowgirl Thrillers

by Barbara Neville

“That branch strong enough to hold?” I ask, looking up at it.

  “Wolf think so,” says Wolf.

  “Spud got a plan?”

  “Wolf hope.”

  “You know what it is?”

  Wolf looks over at me and says, “No.”

  “Okay, I say, and glance around searching for a good spot. “I’ll be over there.”

  Wolf and I set up in high perches in the trees on different sides of the hanging tree itself. Not directly opposite, as we don’t want to shoot each other. But close enough to it that we each have a good line of sight to the action and far enough away that we won’t be spotted.

  We sit still and wait. Note to self, crotch of tree, not so comfy. People start trickling in as the appointed time approaches.

  Eventually, I can see a crowd coming around the corner from Main Street. I look through my scope and can just make out Painter. He has a guy on each side holding his arms. His hands are tied behind his back. Painter is struggling and stumbling along, keeping guys with him too busy to do much other than keep hold.

  As they get closer, I can see Spud and Soames walking together and talking.

  That’s three bad guys. I start scanning rooftops. I see one on the roof of the bank, another on the mercantile. Shit, are there six or seven total? Did Charley’s count include the guy that Wolf saw? Do they have more friends? I look over at Wolf who is totally at ease in his tree. Not a worry in the world. Watchful though. I could learn a thing or two from him.

  A little crowd is forming near the tree. Lynch heads. Noose heads? Maybe just vultures waiting to dine on carrion. Are any of them Soames people? Dang. It seemed easy in theory. Good guys and bad guys all look alike.

  Sir Jacob and Buzz show up next. They go through the crowd, relaxed, Sir Jacob smiling at friends, just walking. Jacob says a word now and then to folks. Then they stand between the crowd and the tree and look official. Michael walks up with a horse for Painter. Oh, it’s Bogey.

  “Dang, don’t nobody shoot that horse,” I whisper to myself. I say a quick prayer to the spirits.

  Bogey is a good choice though. Calm, collected, not gun shy.

  The two guys holdin’, actually, they are draggin’ Painter now. They pull him over to Bogey who, uncharacteristically, is dancing away from them. Bogey don’t like strangers, I guess. Michael, looking macho in a red wig and bushy red beard, is holding Bogey’s head and speaking soothingly to him.

  Spud is still deep in conversation with Soames, keeping his attention. They walk over toward Bogey. Michael’s bearing and makeup are not at all like Don Miguel, who Soames knows intimately. He consults with Soames while Spud puts the noose and then a feedbag over Painter’s head.

  The two dragger's boost Painter up into the saddle. Painter quits struggling. He sure as hell doesn’t want Bogey to take off out from under him.

  One guy holds onto Painter’s leg while the other ties off the hanging rope at the appropriate length.

  Spud and Soames walk over and inspect the knot and tension. Spud pulls and double checks it.

  Buzz and Jacob are now standing by Soames’ two guys.

  I lay down my scope and settle in. Michael raises a hand ready to slap the horse and set him off running. He looks at Spud who, after a moment, nods.

  Instead of a slap, Michael jumps onto Bogey’s ass, just after Wolf’s arrow cuts the rope. Michael kicks and Bogey takes off at a dead run. My arrow takes Soames just as Wolf shoots the guy on the bank roof. I quickly pull another from my quiver and nock it into place. I turn slightly, aim, and loose the bowstring. The mercantile guy drops his rifle and falls over.

  I turn to shoot the two draggers, but they are dead, twitching on the ground as are two spectators. Buzz is surreptitiously wiping a knife blade on his pants. Sir Jacob is checking for blink response to be sure that one is dead.

  Spud walks around inspecting bodies and finally looks up at me in my tree and mouths, “Okay.”

  Wolf and I climb down and walk over to check on Painter. Michael is just reining Bogey back to the cottonwood.

  “Slick as shit,” Michael says and smiles.

  We catch Painter as he slides off of Bogey, still blindfolded.

  Painter slides down to the ground, played out from the tension. I untie his hands and Wolf takes the bag off his head and then the noose. There is a clamp on the noose just below the knot.

  “So it can’t tighten?” I ask Wolf.

  “Yes, but fall could still break neck.”

  Painter blanches at that.

  Wolf looks at him and says, “Not likely falling from horse. From scaffold, yes.”

  Spud says, “Michael had two jobs. Guide the horse if Wolf’s arrow cut the rope. Catch Painter, if the arrow missed. Keep his neck from gettin’ stretched.”

  “Phew.” I say, my hands are still shaking. “How did Buzz and Sir Jacob know who was who in the crowd?”

  “Most of the crowd was friends of ours that Charley recruited. So that narrowed it down,” says Spud. “Sir Jacob said we had Buzz for backup. So maybe he knew something. He an’ Jacob knifed them guys right slick.”

  “Hey,” says Wolf straightening up from examining another dead body. “These the two guys who ambush us and Ginger when we deliver cows.”

  “Centrist spies?” asks Spud.

  “Mm-hm,” says Wolf.

  Michael says, “Good riddance to bad blood.”

  Then Spud turns to Wolf and I. He says, “Good shootin’, you two Injins.”

  Wolf nods, with a why would he shoot any less than the best expression. Modest, eh? Naw, proud of doing a good job.

  “Hell, I learned it in 4H. Planet champion one year. Not a lot of kids there, but still,” I admit. “Now, explain to me, why couldn’t we use bullets?”

  “Noise. Not all the townfolk who stayed in their houses, would agree with killin’ off the Centrist fuzz. They fear reprisals. We need to get the bodies out quietly and Painter,” he looks meaningfully at his little brother, “needs to stay out of town fer a long, long time.”

  Painter, at least, looks embarrassed.

  Sir Jacob appears round the corner with the Periwinkle, his specialized laboratory on wheels, and they start loading bodies.

  “You reckon he’ll want to chop into them for examination?” I ask.

  Spud nods and agrees, “You bet.”

  Wolf and I head to the rooftops to toss those two bodies down. Then we clamber back down and the bunch of us quickly get the last of the dead bodies loaded.

  “Hey, sometimes I think I've gone crazy and just don't know it yet. Or maybe my eyes deceive me. Why do I count only six?” I ask.

  Wolf looks at me, counting in his head, then says, “Was seven.”

  “Son of a bitch,” I say.

  Sir Jacob is checking over the harness in preparation for departure.

  He looks at us, concerned, and asks. “Bloody hell, is Soames in there?”

  Wolf and I are already up in the wagon moving bodies, so we can identify them all.

  “Bank roof, merc roof, crowd, dragger, other dragger, crowd and no Soames,” I say.

  Wolf grunts and agrees, “No Soames.”

  “Didn’t no one check his pulse?” I look around at the crew.

  We all look at each other and shrug.

  “Shit. So much fer my arrow. Must of missed the kill shot,” I say. “Damn it, there’s days when if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.

  “He was bleedin’ good right away,” says Spud. “Dayum. Hell, it weren’t a’ easy shot darlin’.”

  He throws a comforting arm around my shoulders.

  We throw a tarp over the six kilt guys for good luck. Also, to hide the cargo from prying eyes. We are still shaking our heads over missing Soames escape.

  I echo the sentiment of all when I say, ”How did we all turn our heads and miss that bastard sneakin’ off? Son of a bitch!”

  We walk up to the front of the team to say goodbye to Sir Jacob.

 
He looks up from tightening a breeching and says, “I have a bit of work ahead of me here. Anyone care to join?”

  “Gladly,” says Michael, stepping over. “Might learn some anatomy.”

  The rest of us shudder at the thought of chopping up dead bodies.

  “Painter need ride home. You take him?” asks Wolf.

  “Certainly,” says Sir Jacob.

  Painter climbs up into the wagon seat next to Michael and his Lordship.

  “Keep an eye out fer Soames, maybe he got lucky and my arrow missed any important organs. Fuck. All he had to do was lay still and look dead until we all turned our backs. Cocksucker,” I say.

  “Shit happens. We will be careful, sweetie,” says Michael.

  “I will ensure that Painter and Kit are armed and watchful,” says Sir Jacob. “I expect Coati will go out to help them as much as she can. And surely, Painter will stay by the flocks where the guardian dogs can warn and protect him. Yes?” He looks at Painter.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you all for savin’ my bacon. I truly have learnt my lesson this time,” says Painter, looking around at us all sheepishly.

  We all remain skeptical, being young enough to remember the raging hormones of a fifteen year old. Alas, what can we do?

  “All in a day’s work, little brother,” says Spud.

  “I must disagree,” says Buzz. He walks over and reaches up to lay a hand on Painter’s knee. “Your family and friends here, young man, have gone to extraordinary measures to save you, twice. It is imperative that you refrain from this careless behavior in future.”

  “Yes, sir,” Painter says, chagrined. He looks around at all of us. “Buzz is right. Thank you all again.”

  “You are welcome, brother. Stay with flock. Wolf got horses to get from T’ree Forks.”

  “Me, too,” I say.

  “I wonder, as I have not been on this planet before, would there be any possibility of my being able to assist with said retrieval?” asks Buzz.

  “No place for greenhorn,” says Wolf.

  “Buzz is no greenhorn, Wolf, he can ride and shoot with the best,” says Sir Jacob.

  “Then, Buzz, join us,” says Wolf. “Welcome.”

  We all look at Spud.

  “Secret sheriff business needs doin’,” he says, smiling. “Just take a mite of time over at the office.”

  “Wolf track Soames now,” Wolf says and walks off.

  “I shall assist,” says Buzz heading off in the other direction.

  Sir Jacob, Michael and Painter wave as they head out toward Spud’s place.

  “Long day,” I say as Spud and I walk together toward the Sheriff’s office.

  We go in and he looks around the office. I go in the cellblock and out the back to check the alley and general area for blood or tracks. When I get back, skunked, Spud is busy. He straightens a few things, looks through some papers and such and, eventually, looks relieved.

  “Take a chair, we’ll wait here fer our scouts,” he says sitting himself down. He pushes some stuff aside to rest his elbows on the desk, knocking over a stack of papers in the process. He looks at them as them spill out on the floor and makes a face.

  “Gawds, I hate paperwork,” he says as he leans back and put his boots up on the blotter.

  We sit idly, winding down from the action, letting the adrenaline slowly drain from our bloodstreams. Spud looks mighty official leaning back in the chair with his boots up on the corner of the desk. Got his hat pulled down and has that shit eating grin on his face while he looks directly at me. Oh my.

  Buzz shows up. Then Wolf right after. Both look downcast.

  “No luck?” asks Spud.

  Wolf reports, “Wolf see crawl marks where him fall, a little blood but blood stop. Footprints for a bit, him must have jumped on horse, too many horse tracks to tell where he went.”

  “We saved Painter, got rid of six bad guys, not a bad days work,” says Spud from the sheriff’s chair.

  “Soames slip through fingers,” says Wolf disconsolately.

  “Other than that small detail, everything looks shipshape here,” Spud says. “Let’s go get our steeds and git home.”

  He stands up and steps over the spilled papers, ignoring them.

  “Yay, hot spring baths. We can wash off the trail dirt,” I say.

  “Tomorrow, go back to T’ree Forks, get our string,” says Wolf.

  “Then do we come back or go to that spirit rock place?” I ask.

  “Weather, ma nature, decide,” says Wolf.

  “Maybe Spud should go along to keep you two out of trouble,” says, er, Spud with a smile.

  I groan and say, “Good gawds, now yore talkin’ about yore own self in third person, just like Wolf.”

  “Get used to it,” says Spud. “If I go on the Spirit Quest, I might turn Injin, too.”

  We laugh at that.

  Buzz appears to be having second thoughts.

  “Buzz,” I ask. “You ever been to a hot springs?”

  “Never had any desire to be boiled alive,” he replies.

  “You just might like mine, it’s not boilin’,” says Spud. “Hells bells, do you folks bathe or swim? If you’ll pardon my askin’.”

  Buzz laughs and says cryptically, “Rather.”

  Okay, is that yes or no? Where do folks come up with this murky fuckin’ lingo? I reckon I’ll find out when we get there. Do aliens bathe or not? Another of the great unsolved mysteries of the Universe seems about to unfold.

  22 Quench