Cowgirl Thrillers

by Barbara Neville

I’m crawling up a steep incline in the pitch dark, dragging a heavy weight. The ground under me starts to shake wildly. I hear Shaz scream. Something licks my face…

  Claustrophobic nightmares dog me through the night. I’d rather dream of sexy men ravishing me. The scary horrific scenes though, aren’t enough to keep me warm under my thirty-inch wide saddle blanket when the fires die down. It is a cold one and a blanket that wide just don’t quite reach the ground on either side. There are lotta spots where the freezing air seeps under. In the end, the cold wakes me fully and I reach to grab another log and throw it on the coals. Not a terrible night’s sleep I tell myself, considering the alternative.

  Hours later, I sit up to the sound of Spud dropping more firewood into the fire. The sun is just coming up.

  “Damn, is that freakin’ snow?” I ask, looking around at the white ground. I am my usual cheerful morning self.

  “Heavy hoarfrost,” Spud says, rubbing his hands together over the fire. “Thick, ain’t it?”

  I can see the horses grazing nearby. They have frost on their manes, backs and tail docks.

  “Not a warm mornin’,” I say. “Is that coffee?”

  “Mormon tea,” says Wolf.

  Wolf has filled the two cups we have with water and twigs and set them by the coals. He pulls them out of the fire with his gloves, which survived the swim also. Fortunately, Wolf and I had our winter gear and some snack food tied and stowed around our saddles and in our saddlebags. And, luckily, our rifles stayed in their scabbards.

  All Spud has is his coat and gloves which he had tied onto Scout when he shed them midmorning. That is it, besides his hat, pistol and the clothes on his back. And maybe a knife or two. We had planned to return to the cache camp for the night, not go swimming.

  We eat some of this and that. Then, we roust out to look around and assess our situation.

  We meet in a few minutes, back at the fire.

  “Okay,” says Spud. “The girl is still conked out. The good news is her heart’s still beatin’.

  The fires have heated the ground up between them, but the air is icy, so I examine her quickly.

  “I can’t feel any fractures or nothin’ obvious. Found a cut on her head. Could have broke ribs, or fractures or cracked bones but they are still in alignment. She ain’t coughin’ blood. All her other contusions are not doin’ much bleedin’. Hell of a bunch of bruisin’. She’s blue ‘bout ever’where.”

  “That current sure beat the shit out of her. The rocks, logs, branches were all bouncin’ off of her and each other,” says Spud.

  “River down some this mornin’,” says Wolf. “All other gear and food on far side.”

  He has walked in with three already cleaned and skinned grouse dangling from his belt. He sets about poking a stick through them and then hangs the kabob of birds over the fire. We watch them cook. When they are brown, we chow down hungrily.

  Spud finishes his share and says, “Maybe I’ll head over to them hills. See if I kin get a bird’s eye gander of what’s around us. If it warms up again, we may not be able to get back across to retrieve the rest of our possibles.”

  “Horses need a rest if they can get it. They need to fill their bellies a few times,” I say. “We can get a travois together for our friend here. We walk, she gets dragged in bumpy luxury behind a horse’s rump. If she don’t get kicked in the head by him.”

  “Should we build raft, go for food at last camp?” asks Wolf.

  “With a raft, we could take the girl across, swim the two horses while they tow the raft. Less debris now, at least until the river rises above where it’s been,” says Spud.

  “You wanna try now?” I ask.

  “Takes time to build a raft. With the sun, the water will be rising again by the time it is built. Better we reconnoiter some, give the girl here some time to recover. We could build a high bed on the raft to keep her dry and try it during high water today. But, if anything goes wrong with the raft and she gets wet and chilled again, could be the death of her,” says Spud. “I say we go early tomorrow, if it is a cold morning, the water will be the lowest. We might be able to wade, make things easier. Annie, you okay stayin’ here with her? You seem to know about doctorin’.”

  “Some, not much,” I say.

  “More’n me, I expect. Wolf will go scout a bit whilst I climb the hill. Then we’ll gather wood fer a raft and travois.”

  While the boys are off afoot scouting and the horses are filling their bellies, I make sure that the girl stays warm. I check her pockets for food or anything else that might prove useful. Her pockets prove to be empty. No knives, no papers. No pistol or belt either. Anyone unarmed in this country gotta be a dude. Of course, she could have lost them in the river.

  I gather firewood. Then take a closer look at Wolf’s saddle. I see the wily redskin has a hatchet in a nice leather holder attached to the billets under the saddlebags. Armed with it, I walk around, find a good log or two and chop them to length for our wood projects.

  I can’t wander too far in case the girl wakes up. She’s bound to be dehydrated as all get out.

  I drag the logs back to camp and say a “Hallo” as I walk up in case either of the boys is back or the girl is awake. But, no boys.

  As I walk in, the girl groans. I go over and pillow her head. Her eyes roll around a bit inside her swollen eyelids. I prop her up and offer a drink. By golly, a bit of it goes down. She groans more. Her bruised swollen mouth likely don’t care fer my putting the cup up against it.

  She mumbles, “Took our maps.”

  “Maps?” I ask.

  “Newzona,” she says.

  Then she conks back out.

  I do know of some maps. Huh. Seems like too much of a coincidence. Dang. Could this be about the map and paper cache we found in the root cellar? Naw.

  Well, maybe.

  I go chop down and limb a few more dead trees for raft logs. I find some really nice standing dead lodgepole pine to use for the long travois poles. Dry wood floats better and weighs less. For quick and dirty, it is just the ticket.

  Next tour through camp, the girl wakes up long enough for a gastric aspiration.

  “That’s fancy doctor talk fer pukin’,” I tell the quickly losing consciousness girl, as I lay her back down. “Michael’s learnin’ is a rubbin’ off on me.”

  He’s taught me enough that I have also been keeping the patient on her side. So that a gastric aspiration won’t roll down her windpipe and drown her.

  She don’t care. She was a damn sight colder than I was after we got her out of the river yesterday. I wonder just how much longer she could’ve been in and still survived it. Some kind of body mass and temperature versus water speed and temperature type math. I guess.

  The horses are happily chewing away on the high fall grass, relishing the ripe seed heads. Once danger is over and a horse gets his head down and rips off that first mouthful of food, his life is perfect. They truly live in the now.

  Unlike us poor naked apes, horses live outdoors and have an all-weather coat. Plus their favorite food grows in giant prairies, no preparation needed. Maybe I’d best come back as a horse in the next life. I sure do worship the handsome suckers.

  Lunch is not much to brag about. The pemmican is welcome nourishment. I keep an eye peeled for critters, but see nothing. I hope Wolf has luck with the snares he made and set last night. Rabbit ain’t got much meat, but a mouthful would be nice. The boys each took a rifle in case they spotted any big game. The grouse Wolf caught this morning sure went down easy. And I am boiling the bones, with some salt I found in a pouch, for broth. Should go down slick as a whistle once our patient is ready for it.

  I am wondering what to use to make a lash rope for the raft, as we will need our cow ropes fer pullin it across. I always hate to cut up a good broke in roping rope. Likely the cowboy and Injin brothers will have a way, this being their planet and all.

  Wolf walks in, toting a load over his shoulders, as I am limbing mor
e logs.

  He says, “Nice logs. Work good. How is girl?”

  He drops a deer carcass on the woodpile. Then he squats down and starts cutting thin strips of venison for fast cooking. I go over and help.

  “She barely opened her eyes, then they rolled up into her head. She has a hell of a bump there where that big cut is on her skull. I shaved her hair kinda crudely with my knife. I washed it a bit and put butterfly bandages on it. She hardly noticed, rolled her head about but mostly slept right through. Bad concussion, I think. When she did open her eyes it didn’t seem like she could even focus. I was able to pour a swallow of water in that she gulped down. Threw up after. Been sleepin’ the rest of the day.

  “She did say a few words. About maps, someone stole her maps, Newzona she said.”

  “Maps. Maybe the ones we got?” Wolf asks.

  “Could be. We need to get her to Sir Jacob and Michael in any case. They got the doctor skills. Think we can do that?”

  “Only fail, if fail to try,” says Wolf. “Must tackle hardship head on.”

  “Okay, guess we’d best follow yore advice.”

  Wolf nods and says, “Best advice possible.”

  I don’t bother to tease him about boasting, figuring he is likely to be right. Instead, I ask, “What was yore scout trip like?”

  “Wolf see spirit deer. Him all alone. After many hours think maybe have to shoot spirit deer. Not want to, but we hungry, cold river swim burn up reserves.”

  “And?”

  “Brown deer show up. Save white friend.”

  “Oh. An allegory of sorts.”

  “Mm.”

  “Glad it worked out,” I say, shoving a piece of fresh barbecued, medium rare deer meat in my mouth and chewing gratefully.

  Wolf swallows a chunk of meat and says. “Wolf also find wheel track going down trail.”

  “Wheel?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  36 The Rub