Hell of a Horse

by Barbara Neville

  Then, he starts. Sitting up abruptly.

  A rooster crows out in the barnyard.

  There’s a yell. His yell. He’s shouting her name.

  He looks around the room. Disoriented. The dream is gone. The prairie, Thor, the Comanche. And so is Cha’a. Her side of the bed is empty.

  He calls for her. Nothing. He closes his eyes and lays back down.

  He needs to go back into the dream to find them. To blaze the trail through to its end. To find Cha’a. And little Góshé.

  “By the time we reached Virginia City I was considered a remarkable good shot and a fearless rider for a girl of my age.”-Calamity Jane

  2 Cha’a: Eagle

  Many days later.

  “Ten Spot?” I ask.

  I can’t see the little gelding anywhere. I lay back, tired.

  “It’s just a scratch,” I say, holding pressure on the wound. Looking over at my unmoving assailants. “I may be hurt, but you fuckers are dead.”

  I raise my head to inspect the damage. I can see my tits, rising and falling as I breathe. Fast. Too fast.

  I can’t see the wound in my right side. I’m too tired to sit up.

  I inhale deeply, and exhale through my lips. Slowing my metabolism. Chasing the fear away.

  My hand looks disembodied, still aiming the .41 caliber Double Ace at them. They could be unconscious, faking; I can’t let down my guard. Will my trigger finger still take orders?

  I think back and realize I used both bullets. All the tiny gun holds. It’s shock. I always reload my weapons right away.

  I reach into my hideaway holster and get replacements loaded in.

  I feel around in case the bullet’s deep. That would be bad.

  “Oh,” I say, finding the hole and laying my head back. “It’s a through and through. What a relief.”

  I pocket the little derringer and put pressure on the exit wound, too.

  “I’m okay,” I say, laying back on the grass, hands tight on the wound. “Down home pressure bandage.”

  I breathe a while. Breathing a little of the pain out with each breath.

  “I need shock.”

  I close my eyes for a while.

  “No, rest. I need rest.” I tell the void.

  I hear a whoosh and open them.

  Not Ten Spot. It’s above me. A passing eagle flapping its wings as it enters an updraft. I watch it soar. And see the background. Really see it, like never before.

  The sky’s beautiful. Huge thunderheads are screaming at each other. Their deep voices thundering, calling me home. I feel at peace.

  I close my eyes as the first big raindrops hit.

  I gather my slicker around me to ward off the rain for a while. Until it soaks through.

  And think.

  Hold the pressure I tell myself. All is well.

  I startle awake. It’s half dark.

  “Wait,” I say. “I’m in shock.”

  I wiggle my half numb fingers. They’re wet and sticky and warm. Pressure.

  “Why do I need pressure?” I ask the air.

  I look around, my wet hair is draped across my face, obscuring the view. I’m wet all over, chilly. Frozen pin pricks dance across my skin.

  Hail. I shiver.

  I remember. Blood. I lift my head to look. The ground’s turning white. The pin pricks on my face have become bee stings.

  “Pressure,” I repeat, looking at the pool of blood slithering out from below my hand. “Coagulate, you bastard.”

  I look around. Who am I talking to? Someone. Gone. They were a shadow. Who was it?

  Both bodies are gone. Did the shadow take them, too?

  Someone was here. I’m sure. I remember that I screamed at them. And pulled the trigger. It was loud in the silence.

  A few flies buzz around.

  “Someone shot me,” I tell the clouds.

  3 Cha’a: Night

  Untold days earlier.

  Hoss is curled up next to us, sound asleep. She’s an independent cuss, a Pyrenean Mountain Dog. One of many varieties that have been bred for thousands of years all across the Old World, from the Pyrenees Mountains of the Iberian Peninsula to the Himalayas of Asia.

  Their job is to protect livestock from predators. Anything from pond fish to poultry, sheep, goats, cows. Even horses. Heck, probably camels and elephants. Human families, too.

  “Ready for the real honeymoon, Cha’a?” he asks, his Viking eyes flashing like blue neon lights.

  We all have our favorite things. I’m with a front runner right now. My absolute favorite? Maybe.

  Táági is the big guy’s name. Six-six. A lean, muscular two-twenty-five. Not many people choose to mess with my big pussycat. A laid-back guy in general; a raging tiger in a pinch.

  I push his long, wavy blonde locks back over his shoulders.

  “Honeymoon?” I ask.

  He grins. “Rather. For the both of us, my lovely Mrs. Branahan.”

  I chuckle at his jest. Branahan is his last name. Mine is Many Horses. It’s an open marriage that craves frivolity.

  Why get married at all? It’s the Apache way.

  Not forever. A promise for right now. The no promise promise. We, all the marriage partners, wander at will.

  We’re also joined in a sacred bond; to love, care for and defend each other. And all of our collective progeny, of which Góshé is the first.

  Necessary. Especially should any one of us, warriors all, be killed. Like our Viking and Injin ancestors; we, women and men both, are seasoned fighters.

  “Did you hear that?” I ask. The sound is muffled by distance.

  “Quite,” he says, cocking his head. “Thunder, I think. Can’t be sure.”

  “Something.”

  “Let’s bloody well check.”

  Táági and I get up and head for the mouth of the cave, guns at the ready.

  We stop just inside, leaning in tight against the stone walls to peek out. Ready for danger. Our gun barrels are cold-hearted, seeking a target. Eager to kill.

  Or is that my trigger finger? A honed reflex. A necessity. Hesitate in this world and you’re flat damn dead.

  Peering around, all I can see are scores of raindrops seeking the embrace of the ground. Delivering liquid sustenance to the burgeoning green shoots of spring.

  “Damn. It’s a long ride home,” I say. “Maybe I oughta start packin’ an umbrella.”

  Táági chuckles. “That would be a sight.”

  “This fuckin’ drizzle gonna end?” I ask, heartless in the face of the lives and deaths of tender plants. Plants that we all depend on for our own lives.

  “Water, after all, along with sun, is the source of all life. And life, the source of all food.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, I’m in a philosophizing mood.”

  “Ah. Nothing wrong with philosophy.”

  I rub my way up his long arm, fingering the scar at the base of his neck.

  “It’s almost gone,” I say.

  “We were both almost gone that day,” he says.

  “Yep.” I swat at a mosquito. And her boyfriend.

  “Relax, Cha’a, twill stop in a bit,” he says, calm, as always. Running long, slender fingers through my hair.

  The weather’s fickle tonight. We sit together in the shelter of the tunnel and watch as scattered clouds march overhead.

  Táági has an arm loosely slung around my waist.

  We chat a bit, but are mostly quiet. Content in each other’s company. Waiting for more sounds.

  It’s quiet, peaceful. Just the hiss of the drizzle.

  I hear light footsteps. Leaves ripping.

  He stands up, to look.

  “It’s merely a few deer browsing by,” he says. “All is well.”

  We have our eyes on the sky as the clouds clear away.

  “Are you ready for the adventure, love?” he asks, looking deep into my soul.

  “You bet I am,” I say, holstering my weapon, tilting my head to look up into h
is eyes: black in the dark, a deep glacier blue in the light. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I, love, want to share something bloody amazing with you,” he says, glancing out the entrance once more.

  We’ve started meeting at the Hummingbird Cave for our trysts. It’s convenient. The halfway point between our separate domains.

  We always see evidence that our newest pioneer, Zastee, is staying here. I haven’t encountered the indecipherable eighteen-year-old in person since she recovered from her injuries enough to move out of the castle.

  “Have you seen Zastee lately?” I ask.

  “Zastee?” he asks.

  “Apache for kill,” I say. “The perfect name for the teenage terror.”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “You know, Jet.”

  “Of course. But, kill?”

  “I’m thinkin’ she’s bound and determined to kill you,” I say. “The betrothal story sounds like bullshit. She’s bein’ duplicitous. I think her real job is to end you, big guy, not marry you. Hence, Zastee. Assassin.”

  “Zastee is a bit too pretty of a word for kill,” he says. “And she’s too bloody beautiful to be a killer.”

  I snort. “As if. In her case pretty and deadly are a team.”

  “But not in yours?” He grins.

  I tilt my head, considering. “Okay, me too. But, you’ll like my plan better. I plan to fuck you to death.”

  “Ah, well.” He wiggles an eyebrow. “I’ll not complain.”

  I nudge him.

  “The honeymoon I have in mind involves a bit of travel, some adventure. I’d like to show you something entirely new. It should be worthwhile. Are you game?” he asks, dashing warm lips across my forehead.

  “You prefer to travel with a handy piece of tail on yore arm?” I preen.

  He pats my ass and chuckles. “Rather. A bloody sexy one as well.”

  “Heck yeah, I’m game,” I say wiggling my eyebrows. I know how to be silly.

  “Pack up, then, we leave on the morrow,” he says. “I’ll swing by the ranch for you, first thing.”

  “You bet, big guy,” I say, standing on tippy-toes for one last kiss, which gets us hot again.

  The big guy has stamina.

  We have a pleasant cuddle after we do the deed. And an evening nap.

  “Cha’a?” It’s an extra deep voice that I know intimately.

  “Ma’cho?” I sit up, looking around.

  “Only me love.” Táági reaches up and brushes the hair out of my eyes.

  “Oh, I…” I rub an eye, dizzy.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I just…I can’t remember what happened. He was just here whisperin’ in my ear.”

  “You’d best get home to him, then,” he says.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I say, scratching my head. “Soon as this stops.”

  I turn over for a last warm snuggle, listening to the renewed rain.

  When the shower ends, we drag ourselves vertical to enjoy yet another last kiss.

  “Aha, I survived the evening,” he says, grinning down at me mischievously.

  “Just warmin’ up,” I say. “Workin’ on my stamina. Next round, I’ll vanquish. Do you completely in.”

  He scoffs and pecks the tip of my nose. “Do your damnedest, love.”

  Once outside, we race to our horses; trying to stay ahead of the evening chill.

  We split up when we hit the road. The big guy heading for his wing of the castle at the Ass End of Nowhere Ranch. I ride towards home, the Bar None. Pleasantly satisfied.

  “I love me a midnight ride after a tryst,” I tell Hoss and Ten Spot, as we wend our way along the heavily wooded road.

  They’re silent.

  It’s okay. The stars care; they’re twinkling at me. Partners to conspiracy.

  I’m so high it feels like the entire cosmos is dancing along to the regular beat of my heart.

  “Life is just too damn good,” I say, not thinking about the consequences of unbridled optimism.

  I pull my buckskin jacket tight, button up, and lay back onto Ten Spot’s ass to enjoy the cosmic show.

  He’s a spotted sorrel, a red-orange color, with flaxen mane and tail. A real beauty.

  He’s happy to be in charge; head bobbing in time as he paces down the road toward home.

  Hoss is just off his hindquarters; my guardian angel. She’s a fuzzy, bouncing white spot in the darkness.

  The trees on each side of the trail, mostly lodgepole pine, oak and a few spruce used to snake their branches in tight overhead.

  Yesterday, Güero, Bigan and I cleared this stretch. We trimmed the trees back eight feet on each side to reopen the roadway for loaded freight wagons to pass through.

  Part and parcel of man’s never-ending struggle against the life force of plants. Hence, I have a wide open, front row view of the cosmos.

  The stars above twinkle at me, in all their mysterious glory.

  A sudden splash of brilliant cosmic dust brightens our sky.

  “Look. A meteor shower.”

  They don’t look.

  What the heck do other animals think of the moon and stars? Or is it only we humans who pay them any mind?

  “I was born ready.” I say, I’m holding Nelly again, my sawed-off lever action. Chambered in .45 Long Colt. She has a custom built round finger lever for lightning fast one-handed cocking.

  Funny. She must have jumped out of the holster right into my hand. My favorite firearm, she’s always alert for any chance at a kill shot.

  It’s so quiet and peaceful out here, I feel silly.

  But, lingering in the dim, distant reaches of my mind is a little wiggle. Whatever the ethereal Ma’cho may have whispered to me, I’m sure that something’s not right.

  4 Hoss: All Dog

  Hoss wags her fluffy white tail as she turns, leaving her woman behind so she can trot after the new pup. He’s young and small. He needs her to watch over him.

  He’s fun, too. He likes to run and jump and roll around in the mud with her. They often splash through the water together. Joyous. And swim in the creek.

  Wild abandon for him. Watchful play for her.

  Plus, he knows where all her itchy spots are.

  It’s exciting to have the new young’un around.

  He’s family. Her family. Even in the deepest depths of slumber, she never lets down her guard. Cha’a depends on her. They all do. It’s a full-time job.

  They’re trotting down the dark road now. Toward some of her people, but away from others. She has a large herd of humans to protect. True, the rest of her dog family helps with them and the livestock. But, they are many and scattered.

  Her share of the MadDog clan, Cha’a and her bunch, travel a lot. They aren’t always together.

  It’s hard to be everywhere at once.

  She pauses to sniff a bush. Human piss. Fresh. She circles around, checking for a trail to follow, but finds nothing concrete.

  She moves on. Catching up to Góshé, he gives her a welcoming scratch while she tastes the air.

  There’s something going on tonight. Something wrong.

  5 Cha’a: Firecrackers

  The shooting stars fade slowly away.

  “Where did Hoss go?”

  Ten Spot doesn’t answer. I sit up and look around. She’s not in sight. I rub my sore back where it was bent over the cantle.

  “Dog business, I guess.”

  Another glow appears. I look up to see a huge ball of blue flame, orange and yellow tinged, streaking towards us.

  “Holy cow, a meteor.”

  I follow it with my pointy finger as it passes overhead and beyond; seeming to almost touch the tree tops as it does. Its path slants toward the hills to the east.

  “Whoosh.”

  “Crack.” A tree gives up the ghost as it hits.

  “Thump.”

  “Dayum,” I say. “That was close.”

  I hear a muffled shout over where it landed. Amazement, I thi
nk, not alarm.

  “Big guy must have seen it, too,” I say, as I turn Ten Spot toward where my finger plotted its course. “Ain’t no one else out here.”

  I kick him up into a trot.

  It takes a while. The woods are thick. The terrain arduous. The night, once again, pitch black.

  Suddenly, Ten Spot jerks to a stop.

  I kick and smack my lips, but the usually obedient horse stands like a statue. Refusing to move even a single leg.

  “Damn it, if the fire goes out we won’t be able to find it,” I say, rat a tat tatting my heels on his sides. “I’ve never seen a meteor in person. Giddy up.”

  He’s a brick, immobile.

  “Come on. Damn it.” I shake the reins and push with my butt.

  Nothing.

  “Fuck.” I slide off, indignant at his disobedience.

  I gather both reins in one hand and take a solid stride, pulling his head forward.

  “Let’s go.”

  Nothing. His hooves are anchored, as if by cement.

  My next steps land on air. Gravity drags me down.

  “Shit.”

  I’m hanging at the end of the reins, feet dangling.

  I don’t look down. It’s likely too dark to see how far I could fall and I really, really don’t want to know.

  I look up.

  Ten Spot’s head is hanging out over the edge above me, eyes showing a bit of white, concerned. Ears outlined by the stars. If the leather reins or the headstall break, I’m a goner.

  I keep my eyes on the horse. “Back up, boy.”

  I swear he doesn’t know the words, but by golly he does it. He pulls and slowly drags me right back up toward the edge.

  Horses, the good ones, don’t get near enough credit for smarts.

  I get a grip on some brush and pull until my feet find something that takes my weight. Scrambling a bit for purchase, reins still held tight, I harness all my energy and soon, I’m saved.

  Ten Spot blows, clearing his nose, and shakes his head; while I hug his neck tight. Shaken to the core by my idiocy.

  “I never loved anyone as much as I love you, Tenner.”