Cowgirl Thrillers

by Barbara Neville

“I must digress,” says Buzz. “That night on the Spirit Quest when the four of us were camped, I was awakened by sounds. On investigation, it proved to be a group of riders passing at a distance. I saddled quickly, rode out and found their sign. I followed them at a respectable distance. They were heading toward…” Buzz stops and holds the shush finger to his mouth. Rolling his eyes back and forth, as he listens intently.

  He whispers, “Company.” And puts his hands under the edge of the table, miming lifting it up and looking suggestively at the rest of us. We nod.

  “Hands up!”

  We drop out of our chairs, heave the table up onto its side and pull our revolvers before it hits the ground. Not necessarily a smart move, but it works. The thick slab tabletop gives us bullet absorbing cover. The clatter of dishes, glasses and food hitting the floor helps provide a distraction. Sure surprises our attackers, who no doubt planned to catch us flatfooted.

  Buzz and Spud are already shooting at random to provide cover, but not peeking over the edge. Sir Jacob and I have each scrambled down to opposite ends of the big slab. I peek around and see three guys. The commotion I heard was partly made by the intruders, scrambling for cover themselves. One is behind the doorframe, I can see the barrel of his revolver. I see a shotgun barrel barely sticking out from behind the big walnut desk. And I hear a scuffle off to my right. Then a shot. This one has only an overstuffed chair for cover. Bullets penetrate overstuffed chairs in my experience, so I shoot the chair dead center. He yelps. Then...

  ‘Bang.’

  “Ahhh...”

  The guy in the hallway keels over into the room, dead.

  “Got ‘em. Don’t shoot me,” Michael’s shotgun barrel appears in the doorway. Then Michael himself edges around the door frame, glancing everywhere. He looks right and says, “Shotgun is dead.”

  “Watch out for the guy behind that chair,” I say. “He may not be dead.”

  “I can hit him from here if he moves,” says Michael.

  I see movement off to the left in my peripheral vision. Sir Jacob fires and the guy behind the desk falls out into my view. And goes limp.

  Spud is crawling over from the opposite side, while Michael and I stay ready.

  He checks and says, “Good shooting Annie, he’s kilt.”

  Michael continues, “Sorry it took me so long, I heard the bell and went looking to see who was at the door.”

  “The bell?” asks Sir Jacob. “We heard nothing in here. What the bloody hell.”

  “Where is Wolf?” asks Spud.

  Michael says, “He was in the clinic when I injected the saline into Mitch.”

  “Okay, let’s spread out.”

  “I shall head for the front entry,” says Sir Jacob. “Spud, check the greenhouse area. Michael the horses.”

  “I’ll check on Wolf and the prisoners,” I say, heading down the tunnel, revolver in hand.

  Crystal is where we left her, head down, asleep. I walk on down the hall to find Mitch, the bleached blonde impostor. I don’t see him. Thinking that someone moved him, I walk closer. He is there, lying behind the log anvil base, on the floor. His wrists are still held up to the anvil by the cuffs. Unconscious, but still breathing.

  I go back toward the clinic thinking if someone was here and attacked Mitch, Crystal’s sleep could be permanent. I am disgusted that I didn’t check her pulse the first time. I head back that way.

  I hear a noise and detour into the workshop, where we left Drops. He is alive. I walk in. He stands up, still cuffed to the workbench.

  He says, “You are Annie, yes?”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” I say, rattled but tough.

  “Drop it,” says a voice behind me. “And raise your hands.”

  I slowly set my revolver on the table and raise my hands.

  “That isn’t dropping,” he says.

  “Are you kidding me?” I gasp and say, “It’s an antique. No safeties, Hair trigger. Dropping might break it. Or it might go off when it hits the floor and shoot one of us. How about if I promise not to touch it?”

  This seems to piss him off, but it’s true, mostly.

  “Step away from the table, bitch,” he says. “Walk around the other side and uncuff my friend.”

  “Look, I am not tryin’ to cause trouble,” I say, shrugging. “I actually don’t have the keys.”

  “The fuck. Are you kidding me?” he says, wagging his pistol. “I’ll be happy to kill you.”

  “Look, I have information you need,” I say. “We should talk.”

  I wonder what info he needs. Fortunately, I am experienced at faking it.

  “We need to get our asses out of here,” says Drops. “Find a saw or chisel. Cut the damned chain, Jonny.”

  I want to see this Jonny, thinking of Soames. Maybe it’s him. Voice sounds the same. I start to slowly turn my head.

  “Bitch! Don’t turn around. Grab something sharp and cut, saw, nippers, whatever. Get Fred the fuck out.”

  “Fred? I like Dropsy better. I suppose Drops isn’t your last name either. Too bad, I really like…”

  ‘Bam.’

  “Uh,” I say. I just fall.