by Robert Ward
Yes, I stood there in Grace’s old backyard, watching and waiting, until I got so cold that it seemed to freeze my very bones. But he was gone … for now, though I felt that surely we would meet again sometime.
Then, as a cloud passed over the moon, I went inside to the kitchen to tend to Grace.
About the Author
Robert Ward grew up in Baltimore, Maryland. A novelist, scriptwriter, and television producer, he has written six acclaimed books, including Cattle Annie and Little Britches, which was made into a movie in 1981, and Red Baker, which won the PEN West Award for best novel of the year in 1985. He served first as a scriptwriter and later as story editor and producer for “Hill Street Blues,” and then worked as executive producer for “Miami Vice.” He has also written articles and stories for numerous newspapers and magazines. He lives with his wife and son in Los Angeles, California.
If you liked Grace check out:
Cattle Annie and Little Britches
CHAPTER
I
THE RACE, OKLAHOMA, 1895
THE DAMNED DUST WAS FLYING IN GREAT SWIRLS UP IN MY FACE, causing me to choke and gag, but I kept right on after Annie. I was trying powerful hard to feel all excited and tingly about meeting them, but the truth of the matter was I was getting pretty wore out. Chasing Annie (as I was prone to do, me not being the ideal horsewoman) is a tiring proposition. First off, she gets hunched real low, and second off, she knows how to make her bones just flow with the horse … something any good rider can do…. They say you can learn it, but here’s one cowgirl who never could. I still bounce around like a dude even to this day.
I’ll say one thing though; she was beautiful up there in front of you, all flowing away, her black hair streaming in the night wind, and her red scarf trailing behind her. She looked like some kind of magical fairy princess swooping out of the clouds (though in this case the clouds was horsedust). Not that I’d have ever told her that. She didn’t like fairy tales, considered them sissyfied. Her idea of a good girl’s yarn was Bat Masterson Meets Dead Eye Dick. She was always reading that stuff.
But first things first. Like I say, I was trying to catch up with her, and she finally slows down a bit, turns her sassy head, gives me that cockbrowed look, and says: “Are you coming along, girl, or do I leave you here in the dust?”
“I’m coming,” I say, my voice sounding like a frog with the whoop.
Annie smiled then, and I had to laugh myself (though jes once I woulda loved to beat her somewheres).
“It’s right over yonder,” she said, pointing across the field of blue flowers, toward the barn, which was lit up like some great big surprise.
“Jes like it always is,” I said in my cynical voice, though I didn’t feel all that hard inside.
“But tonight is different,” Annie said.
Her eyes got big as moons then, and she bit her lower lip. Sometimes when she was real excited she looked jes like the little girl of fifteen she was. It always surprised me, because I thought of her as older. How old I couldn’t say, but the way she talked and held herself made you forget she was jesta kid.
“Every night is gonna be different,” I said, sounding like a mortician (though my heart was thumping).
“No, Jennie. Tonight they’re gonna be there. Come on. I can hear the fiddles playing.”
She looked down at her big six-gun strapped to her leg. The truth is the gun came almost down to her knee, but there wasn’t no doubt she could use it. Target practice was Annie’s big passion.
“Let’s go, girl,” she said.
With that she turned and left me standing there coughing, gagging and eating her dust.
“I’ll catch you, Annie. Look out, cause I’m a-coming.”
I dug my heels into Jake’s sides, and he sprung across the blue field toward her. Even though I knew she was gonna beat me, I couldn’t help but get caught up in it all. I mean what if they were there? The Doolin-Dalton Gang! Annie had been reading me stories about that bunch for a month and a half, all those good novels by Ned Buntline. Whenever we had a break at Morgan’s Hash House, she would get out the books, and start in acting out the Gang’s latest adventures. God she was a great reader, and now here I was cutting through the night, the wind blowing my hair back, my horse snorting and heading toward the square dance (the fiddles and guitars were soaring all around). Even though I like to think I’m kind of level-headed, I have to admit it was damn intoxicatin. The Doolin-Dalton Gang, right here in our own little barn dance! And Annie sailing across the lake of flowers ahead of me … she looked so beautiful there in the saddle … why it just had to be so … we would meet them, and we would dance with them … with Bill Doolin, Bill Dalton, Bittercreek Newcomb, that big handsome half-breed I’d half fallen for just from the pictures in Ned Buntline’s books …
Oh, how I wanted it to happen. By the time we got to the barn, I guess I was as excited as Annie. My flesh was tingling and even the sweat on my forehead felt good.
Annie dismounted from her horse, Rex, in one quick swoop. Then as we tied up the nags, she tapped me on the back and pressed the cold gun barrel into my back.
“Stick ‘em up, pardner,” she said. “This here’s a robbery!”
“Annie,” I said. “Put that thing back in your saddle bag.”
She smiled and pushed her dark hair back from her face. Her teeth shone in the night, and she held herself tensed, like a cocky little rooster.
“If guns is good enough for the Doolin-Dalton Gang, they’re good enough for me.”
“There’s just one problem,” I said. “What’s that?” “You ain’t them.” “Hell, girl …”
But she saw I was right.
“Oh, all right,” she said. “I’ll put it back. I wouldn’t want to terrify the good citizens.”
“Thata girl,” I said, sounding just like her mother, though she was a year older than me.
She turned and just before sticking the gun in her bag, she got the drop on Rex.
“Gotcha,” she said, aiming the gun at Rex’s bloodshot eye. He was real unimpressed though, just snorted a bit, and nuzzled against the barrel. I guess with all the sweat dropping off of him, the cold steel felt kinda nice.
“Come on,” I said, rolling my eyes and trying to act as unexcited as Rex. “Wouldn’t want to miss the Gang! Though I don’t see no horses, or hear no commotion.”
“They’re not here yet,” Annie said, turning and taking my arm in her strong little grip.
“But they’re gonna be here, Jennie. Oh yes. Tonight is the night.”
“Sure, sure,” I said, hoping like hell I was wrong in my doubting.
We walked around the side of the barn and stared inside at the dancers, the bright party lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and the band. “Turkey in the Straw” was whirling away, and in spite of everything I felt my heart soar, and my breath got taken away.
Annie turned and smiled at me.
“Shall we dance, my dear?” she said.
“By all means, my lady,” I replied.
And so we strolled inside.
Read more of Cattle Annie and Little Britches
Tyrus Books, a division of F+W Media, publishes crime and dark literary fiction—offering books from exciting new voices and established, well-loved authors. Centering on deeply provocative and universal human experiences, Tyrus Books is a leader in its genre.
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Copyright © 1998 by Robert Ward
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eISBN 10: 1-4405-3383-0
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3383-9
This work has been previously published in print format by:
Golden Books Publishing Company, Inc.
Print ISBN: 0-307-44007-9
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