Hell of a Horse

by Barbara Neville

“You got me,” I say. “Seems like he should be home in bed.”

  “Too bloody right,” she says.

  “I wanna have an adventure,” he says. “So does Hoss.”

  I can hear the faint sound of the big dog panting as she approaches. She’s Góshé’s new best friend.

  “I think you just got yore wish,” I say, standing back up, painfully.

  “Hooray.”

  “You may not be so excited soon,” I say.

  “I like adventure,” he says, bouncing up and down. “And this won’t be my first.”

  “Are you sure he’s not a bloody dwarf?” asks Zastee, sounding like she has indignant hands on her hips.

  “Not sure at all,” I say.

  I strike a match and eye the little scamp. Zastee is already walking away.

  Góshé grins up at me. “We’ll have fun,” he says.

  “Sure. Nothin’ we can do about it now. Come on.” I shrug and step slowly after her.

  Góshé has hold of my jeans.

  “Okay, Dog boy, yore in the mix now. Our pickle just got worse.” I say, and speed up to catch Zastee.

  “I like pickles, yay.”

  I trip over a rock and land on my hands and knees. I stand back up, newly scraped. So much for speed.

  “Here, Ma, hold my hand. I’ll help you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking his tiny hand in mine.

  “Hey, wait up,” I say.

  “What?” She stops, I catch up.

  “Are you sure you didn’t know that Góshé was with us?”

  “Where we going?” asks Góshé.

  “Why the bloody hell would I?” she asks. I hear her start walking again. “He’s your son.”

  “Of a few weeks,” I say.

  She’s silent.

  “Wait, what are we gonna do?” I ask.

  Zastee isn’t listening. I hear a slight swoosh with each step as her bare feet strike the ground.

  Footfalls. They’re my guiding sound.

  I touch the rock wall as I go, confident that if there are any shafts sunk along the way, Zastee will find them first.

  Maybe fall to her death. Her screams on the way down will alert me. Helpful. And rid us of the annoying teenage girl at the same time.

  Kind of a two birds, one stone deal.

  We walk and walk. Guessing when we come to intersections. I use matches now and then to help decide which is the main route. Miserly though, I don’t have many.

  We’re following an old set of bear tracks backwards. Huge pads and really long claws. The big grizzly is like to be asleep back here somewhere. Hopefully our scent won’t wake him. This time of year, he must be starved.

  I try not to dwell on that.

  Góshé’s quiet. Probably rethinking the reality of adventure.

  “Wow, Ma. Walkin’ in the dark is cool,” he says. “Where we goin’?”

  I shake my head and mumble, “Six-year-olds, go figure.”

  He boasts, “Six going on sixteen.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say.

  We walk quietly a while.

  I stop. “Listen.”

  Something’s trickling and splashing.

  “Wow. An underground stream,” he says. “I’m thirsty.”

  “Good timing, then,” I say, walking closer.

  “Tenner,” Góshé chirps.

  The gelding nickers. I light another match.

  Sure enough, Ten Spot is there. Leg cocked, relaxed. Ears cocked toward the match light.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “I hope not, Ma.”

  I chuckle.

  Góshé walks over and hugs the gelding.

  The match burns down to my fingers. I drop it and shake them.

  “Damn, Tenner, you're a soft touch fer sore fingers,” I say, patting his neck. “There’s a bonus, Lil Dog, I have trail food here in my saddlebags.”

  I unbuckle the flaps and feel around inside.

  “Alright,” he chirps.

  We water ourselves, fill the canteens, and share a snack. Don’t have much to say while we chew.

  “I don’t know about you two; but I’m sore, scratched, bruised and generally beat to shit,” I say, as I stow the leftovers.

  “Way to keep our bloody morale up,” says Zastee.

  I shrug, invisibly. Painfully. Won’t try that again.

  We go back to walking. Hours seem to pass.

  “You got a watch?” I ask.

  A ‘nope’ drifts back to me.

  “Am I crazy or is there some light now?” I ask.

  “Yeah, Ma, it’s gettin’ lighter,” the boy chirps.

  “Thank you, Mr. Enthusiasm.”

  He giggles.

  18 Táági: Hello the Cabin

  The four men search around a while, circling the country for sign. Checking all the cattle and game trails, too.

  They meet back at the cabin for lunch and a change of horses.

  After another big meal, they’re settled in over coffee, discussing strategies.

  Someone outside yells, “Hello, the cabin.”

  “Pa,” says Ma'cho.

  Güero nods and goes to the door. “Come on in, Pa.”

  “Anybody naked?” asks Two Bears, peering in the door, swiveling his head, eyes wide. Big grin on his face.

  “Only Bigan,” says Güero.

  Two Bears scoffs and walks in, checking around, just in case.

  He nods to the boys in greeting, and says, “I used ta just walk on in, but since y’awl got Cha’a in here; I’m afraid I’ll get flashed.”

  “Pfft. You wish you would,” says Güero, grinning.

  Two Bears grins back and wiggles his eyebrows.

  Bigan scoffs. “I thought old guys lost interest in pussy.”

  Two Bears snorts.

  “I got that stock tank line all fixed. Little Góshé, he never showed. He sleep in?” asks Two Bears.

  “What? asks Bigan.

  “He ain’t over to yore teepee?” asks Güero.

  “Why, no. Not since yesterday,” says Two Bears. He looks at Táági. “He up with Jake and them?”

  Táági says, “He’s not. I was there for the night.”

  “Cha'a ain’t around, neither,” says Güero. “Don’t know where she is.”

  “Shit,” says Two Bears. “Well. Maybe they went off someplace together.”

  “I bloody well saw her last,” says Táági. “Up at the Hummingbird Cave last night. When we split up, she was headed this way. Góshé wasn’t with her.”

  “Huh.”

  “We went up there just now and searched,” says Táági. “We didn’t find a single bloody useful track outside of the cave. That buggering rain wiped them all out.”

  “No sign of Zastee, either,” says Güero. “Jet, I mean.”

  “Y’all call her Zastee now?” asks Two Bears.

  “Cha’a pick name,” says Ma’cho. “After she threaten to kill us on train.”

  “They don’t get along,” says Bigan.

  Two Bears rolls his eyes. “Womenfolk.”

  “But, little Góshé, he likes ‘em both,” says Güero. “He saved Zastee out on the beach.”

  Two Bears says, “You got a plan?” Looking at Güero.

  “I don’t,” his oldest replies, looking up from his cup. “Got any ideas?”

  Two Bears grunts and heads into the kitchen for coffee.

  When he comes out, he says, “You boys see that meteor last night?”

  The men shake their heads.

  “Easy livin’ made you soft?” he asks, looking pointedly at Güero and Bigan. “Cabin livin’ will do that, you know. Ceilin’ over yore head will plumb turn you into useless white eyes.”

  The two look at each other and grin.

  “Ain’t you about the whitest guy we know, Pa?” Güero asks, looking at his blonde, Viking father.

  “It ain’t the color of yore skin,” says Two Bears, tapping his skull. “It’s the set of yore head.”

  “So, y
ore saying that yore sons have sold out?” asks Bigan.

  “White on the outside is okay, inside not so much.” Two Bears grins. “You four, anyway. Even the white ones of you used to be Apache. Maybe you done sold out to the easy life of the white eyes, eh?”

  His eyes crinkle.

  “It’s okay, though, I’m still Injin clear through. And I got high hopes fer the five younger kids. After all, us Vikings was the European version of Injins.”

  “So,” says Güero, tilting his head toward his younger twin. “Yore sayin’ that ole Ma’cho here, yore number two son and our clan sorcerer, wizard, shaman, whatever you wanna call it. He’s white eyes on the inside?”

  Ma’cho’s dark brown face looks stoic for a few seconds, then breaks into a grin.

  “Wizard,” he says, testing the word.

  Sending a challenging look to his three genetic and adopted brothers, he says, “Palefaces all.”

  Shaking a finger, Táági says, “Come to think of it, I saw a bloody light above the ridgeline out of the corner of my eye, riding home from the Hummingbird Cave last night. It was behind me. I turned, but not fast enough. Didn’t get a good look at it. That must have been what it was.”

  “Yep,” says Two Bears. “It looked to have landed just out there east of that cave yore jawin’ about.”

  “A sign,” says Ma’cho, standing up and reaching for his hat. “We go.”

  “Hey, brother,” says Bigan, getting up and grabbing his own. “White eyes don’t see signs.”

  Ma’cho glances at him and grins.

  The four men all head out to look. Two Bears watches them mount up and ride off.

  “A man cain’t ask fer better sons than them four,” he tells his red Pyrenean dog as the two head back to his wife’s teepee.

  19 Cha’a: Wood

  My fingers can feel wood. Right quick, my eyes can see. Some. There are big rough-cut timbers in this section supporting the roof. Another clue that we’re nearing the surface. Once you’re out of the bedrock and into the overburden, good solid timbering is necessary to hold back the loose rock and soil.

  It’s cooling off, too. The incalculable expanse of the outdoor world is near. Finally.

  “What the bloody hell…” Zastee says.

  She’s a ways ahead of me.

  “What?” I walk out of the tunnel, under some tree branches and into a very cool breeze.

  “Hooray,” I say. “The surface.”

  Góshé runs out ahead of me. “Wow, look.”

  “I never realized just how bloody goddamn cold this dastardly shit would be,” she says.

  I push the branches aside and peer out.

  “Fuck me,” I say.

  She’s standing thigh deep in fresh snow. The reflective white blanket’s all around us. Glowing through the silhouetted trees.

  “Cool,” chirps Góshé, in his squeaky little boy voice, picking up a handful and tossing it at Hoss.

  It’s a dark grey world. Heavily overcast.

  I’m cold already. Ill prepared for this May storm. I reach into the saddle bags and pull out my buckskin jacket.

  Zastee, standing sunk over knee deep into the snow, doffs her pack and reaches in. She pulls out her long, regrettably thin cloak.

  She shrugs it on, gets gloves out of the pockets and slips them on, too. Pulls the hood up over her long dreadlocks. Stuffing the ends down inside the back.

  “Funny they didn’t take yore pack,” I say.

  “Must have been in a hurry,” she says.

  “Or didn’t like yore taste in clothes,” I say.

  She chuckles.

  Maybe she does know about humor.

  “Most likely they didn’t plan to let us go,” I say. ‘Góshé, come here. You bring a coat?”

  “Yep.”

  I get it out of his pack and slide it up his skinny little boy arms. He works at fastening the leather buttons himself. Tongue between his teeth in concentration. Still learning how.

  “You packed for this adventure?” I ask him.

  “Uh huh.”

  “How did you know we were going on one?”

  “Hoss and I decided to go on one together, just the two of us,” he says. “Then we ran into you.”

  “I see,” I say. “So, you and Hoss talked.”

  “Yeah.”

  Yikes.

  Hoss nuzzles my hand, which still has Ten Spot’s reins in it.

  “You agreed, huh?”

  She looks up at me with mournful eyes and wags her tail.

  “Aha, a conspiracy of silence,” I say, patting her giant head. She wags faster.

  I reach into the pockets of my coat and slip on my buckskin gloves.

  “Got yore gloves?” I ask the boy.

  “You bet,” he chirps, slapping his pockets and pulling them out. “Right here.”

  They match his coat. His grandma sewed coat and gloves both. Mine, too. Not intended for weather this cold, though. We need fur linings, scarves, overpants….

  I look jealously at the big Pyrenees, born with a built-in coat. Always has her shelter with her.

  “Ten Spot.” I lean in between the branches and pat his neck. “More feed out here than underground. Just a matter of diggin’ it out.” I run my fingers over a branch. Prickly. “Here’s some oak brush, too. Hope you ain’t picky.”

  He snuffs at it, opens his big jaws with an audible smack, and tears off a mouthful. Horses are never happier than when they’re chewing.

  “Where’s the bloody petroglyph rock?” asks Zastee, showing her gloved palms.

  “Snow’s too fucking deep to be able to travel far. Or find much of anythin’,” I say, peering around. “And, the light’s flat. A petroglyph might not even show up.”

  It’s not just cloudy; it’s a heavy blanket overcast. And still snowing. A bleak, wintry spring day.

  “Come summer there’ll be a damn good water supply hereabouts,” I say.

  Zastee’s has her arms wrapped tightly around herself. And is stomping her feet in place, breaking up the drift.

  She says, “Where the bloody fucking hell are we?”

  “Lost,” I say.

  “I bloody well know that already,” she grouses. “We can’t be anywhere near where we started.”

  “So it seems. But, why the fuck would someone capture us in one cave and transport us to another?” I ask. “I’m thinkin’ we just climbed a mountain from the inside out. My legs are sore enough.”

  “Blasted mess, it is.”

  “You know,” I say. “Táági is Brit, too. But he has a much brighter outlook when we’re in a dismal situation.”

  I can hear her hood rustling as she shakes her head and groans.

  20 Táági: Rain

  “That cloudburst in the middle of the night fucked us,” says Güero, standing up from examining what could've been a partial hoofprint, so obscured now it could even be the outer wall of a cow’s toe. “Ain’t no way to read this damned ground.”

  “Let’s go see if Zastee's back,” says Táági.

  He turns his horse down the trail to the Hummingbird Cave. “Nothing new on the trail here since we rode it.”

  “She lives in cave now?” asks Ma'cho.

  “Of late,” says Táági.

  They trot up, not too fast, the clayey ground is slick with the wet.

  The cave is still empty. Ma'cho, Bigan and Güero spread out and look things over carefully. The fire ring and blanket bedroll, the tiny stack of personal belongings. Someone checks further down the tunnel. No fresh sign.

  “No one,” says Güero, as they consult outside the entrance. “Just us, since you and Cha'a walked out the adit last night.”

  “You can tell all that?” Táági asks.

  They nod.

  Güero says, “At eleven forty-two p. m.”

  Táági chuckles, then sobers, “Really?”

  Güero looks deadpan. Ma'cho and Bigan scoff.

  “We need to go out on a circle. Maybe she saw a deer and went
after it,” says Güero. “Or something. The meteor?”

  “In the dark?” asks Bigan. “Zastee, too?”

  Ma'cho shakes his head. “Don’t like each other.”

  “Yep,” says Güero.

  “Quite so,” says Táági. “All we know for sure is that they bloody well won’t be together unless one is a corpse.”

  Ma’cho says, “East.” Pointing with his chin.

  Güero says, “Yep, follow the meteor. Could be she did just that.”

  Ma’cho nods.

  “I’ll go west,” says Güero. “Bigan head south, off to the side of the road, in case she went down that old deer trail. Táági, you head toward the castle. Watch for sign that anyone or anything of note crossed the road. There’s three of ‘em. They have to have left tracks somewheres.”

  21 Cha’a: Honest Injin

  “Okay, it was dark when we found the meteor,” I say. “Right?”

  She nods.

  “We was beat up, tied up, knocked out, maybe slept, too. We got loose, walked for what seemed like hours and hours,” I say. “Now it’s gettin’ onto afternoon from the look of that light spot in the clouds.”

  “Lost most of a day?” she says.

  “I’m bettin,” I say, hands on hips. “Hell, must a done.”

  “Rather.”

  We nod our heads at each other.

  “It was a long time,” says Góshé. “Hoss and I fell asleep.”

  “Uh huh.” I pat his black hair. “Yore a good dog, Góshé.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I can pant like a dog, too.” He does, loudly.

  Yeesh.

  “This is a good shelter, Zastee,” I say, realizing too late that it must be the first time I’ve said the name aloud in her presence. Should have called her Jet. “We’ll stay here til daylight.”

  “What’s a Zastee?”

  “You,” I say. “Yore Apache name.”

  “I’m Rarámuri, not Apache,” she says.

  “Tough shit,” I say. “We all got Injin names, so I gave you an appropriate one.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Kill,” I say.

  “Bloody hell. Why?”

  “You obviously want to kill me. And it’s yore job to kill the big guy.”

  “Kill the big guy?”

  “Táági.”