Hell of a Horse

by Barbara Neville

“It is bloody not. He read the message that accompanied the bullet to us himself, it’s a betrothal,” she says. “And, I never wanted to kill you. It was you who bloody well wanted to kill me.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, my mistake. Zastee.”

  The hood moves as she shakes her head.

  “This bloody sucks,” she says, hunched over for warmth. “Let’s go back down the cave, it’s much warmer.”

  “You really wanna sleep with the bear?” I ask, pointing at the months old tracks heading inward. Barely visible in the scattered light of the cave entrance. “Here’s where he walked in. Must not be bear spring yet. He hasn’t come back out.”

  “No bloody way,” she says.

  “We can stay here inside the entrance. As long as we keep the fire built up, we’re half safe. He ain’t likely to want to venture past it to come out into this last snowfall of spring shit.”

  “Bears,” she says, “aren’t predictable.”

  “True,” I say. “I wonder how many months he’s gone without food? Or maybe, he’s a she and will kill us to protect her cubs.”

  “What is this?” she asks, pointing her chin toward Góshé. “A round the campfire horror story?”

  “Why we’re armed,” I say, unperturbed about letting my son learn about life’s realities.

  He really is six going on sixteen as far as life experience goes. In the short time I’ve known him, the little guy has accomplished feats well beyond his years.

  “At least I am. We aren't equipped to go anywhere in snow this deep. I don’t have a lot of bullets for the rifle. We gotta be stingy. Also, I don’t see any sign of a campfire.”

  “Rather, you’re right. We need to get after it. Don’t mind me. I’m just venting,” she says.

  “Damn, I’m beat,” I say, scratching my sore, swollen jaw. Trying to regroup.

  “Beat like a recalcitrant child,” says Zastee, watching the dog boy.

  I’m not sure what she means.

  He’s playing in the snow. I go out and lift the boy back onto Ten Spot’s saddle. “Sit up here, Góshé, it’s warmer. Scrub the snow off yore gloves and clothes. If we stay dry, we’ll be fine.”

  He’s giggling. “I like to ride Tenner,” he says, grabbing the horn and bouncing up and down.

  I’m not sure who I’m reassuring. Góshé seems to be unflappable. And I sound like Alexa, my freaking overprotective mother.

  A distant sound comes from inside the cave, thrashing, a grunt. Groaning.

  “Shit. Sounds like he’s up and about. And, he’s bloody well smelled us,” says Zastee, peering back down the black tunnel. “We can’t stay here. We need a new plan.”

  “We need to build snowshoes before we can go far. Hold on, I’ll look around,” I say, heading out to our left to reconnoiter.

  I’m back in a flash.

  “The overhang continues right here just a ways behind this boulder, we can tuck in there, with solid rock at our backs. And leave the way clear for Mr. Grouchy to get out of his den. We’ll just have to sleep with one eye open. Come on.”

  I lead Tenner around the rock wall and in under the high roof of the overhang.

  The meteor is still in the saddlebags, pulling them off center. Heavy little bastard. I straighten the saddle, boy and all, check the cinch and look in at the celestial rock. Blacker than night.

  This damn rock and the impulsive Brit teenager are the source of our dilemma. If only I hadn’t seen it falling out of the sky, I’d be home snug in bed with a warm, toasty man.

  I pick it up and glare at it. “You ugly space bastard, you damn well better save our lives in return fer getting us into this mess.” I look up, Zastee is watching me. “Okay, I talk to rocks. So, shoot me.”

  She grins and looks away.

  “Either we really fucked up here or we had no choice. Which is it?”

  “What?”

  “Táági believes our lives are predetermined,” I say.

  “How could they bloody well not be?” she asks.

  “Come on,” I say, holding a gloved palm over my icy nose, using my warm breath to thaw it. “Fate? Seriously? No freedom of choice?”

  “I know,” she says. “I hate it.”

  “Free choice can be a rush,” I say, wobbling on my boots as I double check my pockets for survival supplies. “There’s times, though, when the weight of making life alterin’ decisions dampens my enthusiasm for it.”

  I think on that.

  “On the other hand, predestination has perks of its own. If you can ignore that feelin’ of utter hopelessness.”

  She grunts. “There’s two sunny outlooks. You’re saying that we’re fucked either way.”

  “Sounds that way, don’t it? Maybe life is just Father Time’s tortuous practical joke.”

  “Not exactly glass half full.”

  “That’s fer sure. Anyhow, good thing I put the meteor in here,” I say, searching through my possibles bag. “I can’t find any more matches. Nor my flint, the magnesium. Fuck, not even the steel wool. Someone musta borrowed ‘em and forgot to restock. Be damn hard to find sparkin’ rocks in the snow.”

  “What the bloody hell do we do now?” asks Zastee.

  22 Kabó: Down

  Kabó wakens slowly and reaches up to feel his head. It’s okay, just stunned. Unconscious? He doesn’t think so.

  How long? He remembers the struggle. A big guy jumped him.

  The guy tripped him, knocked him in the head, rifled through his pockets, took his gun and ran off.

  Joke was on him, Kabó didn’t pass out completely until after he left. A lucky delay. And the guy completely missed the new sheath knife which he had hidden at the small of his back.

  The bastard would probably have killed him. Kind of funny he didn’t.

  Fortunately, some folks have scruples about that sort of thing.

  He had to wait a bit for the dizziness to pass. Then, he got to his feet and ran the guy down. A big guy. He jumped the guy from behind.

  Kabó got a good lick in with his new knife. Not fatal, but a good slash, cut the bloody bastard’s clothes and tore a jagged hole in the flesh of his forearm. And maybe his side. Grabbed the man’s six shooter, too. Fumbled it though, which gave the guy a head start.

  It’s a nice revolver, has a bighorn ram carving on the ivory grips.

  He double checks the tracks. Same boots as before. The left one has a pointed notch going into the back of the heel. Pointing forward. Headed after the women, it seems. Damn it.

  Another bounty hunter.

  He drinks some water out of his gourd canteen, gathers his legs up under him and starts walking again.

  After while, he spots something white where a crack in the ceiling lets in a stray sunbeam.

  It seems to have been left where he’d be sure to find it.

  He picks up the paper. It says, ‘You and yore bunch ain’t got a chance, prick. I’m ahead of ya.’

  It’s signed, ‘Hunter.’ Yep, bounty hunter. There’s a line drawing of the two women on the other side.

  “What’s the bloody point?” he says, then thinks maybe there’s more to the message other than the man’s obvious intention to instill fear.

  It doesn’t really make any sense at all.

  Does he plan to kill Kabó, or the woman he drew, or what? All three? Three is a bunch. So, most likely.

  Maybe it would instill fear in the average man. Or maybe the man has mistaken Kabó for someone else.

  The rest of the paper’s torn away. He lights a match and searches the dark edges. Feels around on the floor of the tunnel, but can’t find the rest of the page.

  “Blast,” he tells the air. “Intelligence be damned. I should’ve killed the wanker.”

  He wanted the guy alive, so he could interrogate him.

  Why were they beating on the two girls? Why tie them up?

  Restraining them makes sense for a bounty hunter. Brutality definitely doesn’t.

  Of course, if the girls fought back or i
nsulted their manhood. His sister certainly could of if she got her back up. And he would bet the other gal would, too. They were both kinda crazy. Youngsters, hadn’t learnt restraint.

  Well, at least he got there in time to put an end to that.

  If only he’d slashed to kill.

  “Buggering hell,” he holds his sore side and limps onward.

  23 Táági: Search

  Ma’cho straightens up. He’s already afoot, searching for sign. His horse waiting patiently alongside.

  He sticks two knuckles in his mouth and whistles. Everyone is still close enough to hear. They trot right back.

  He points at the tracks, “Ten Spot go up hill here.”

  “’Tween them trees? Ain’t no kinda trail that way,” says Güero. “Maybe she just went off to take a leak. You follow it, I’ll look fu’ther up. See if she come out up there. We cut her trail, might save us some time.”

  “I’ll check the woods down the way we came, in case she came out back there,” says Bigan, turning his horse around.

  Táági flips a mental coin and decides to help Ma’cho. They walk side by side, eying the leaf littered ground for sign.

  Ten Spot’s hooves disturbed the leaves, leaving a fair to middling trail now that they’ve found the turnoff.

  “Cliff,” says Ma’cho.

  Táági steps up beside him and looks over, scanning the wash below.

  There’s a thin stream of water now, but the signs of a much larger flood during and after the downpour last night are evident. He spots something and leans down, then squats for a closer look.

  After a bit of examination, he points at some brush hanging over the edge of the drop off and asks, “Aren’t these bloody branches disturbed?”

  Ma’cho kneels and examines a few between his fingers. “Mm. Someone fall, break tips. Knock dirt loose also, there and here.” He points.

  “Shit,” says Táági, looking over the edge. “That’s got to be thirty bloody feet.”

  “No one below,” says Ma’cho, peering down. He gets up and walks right, then left.

  “Maybe when the creek was up?”

  Macho grunts noncommittally.

  “Damn rain,” the Injin says, searching the ground near the mishap.

  He grunts, mounts his horse and walks him left, following the edge of the drop-off.

  They find the deep marks where Ten Spot slid down the hill and follow.

  The bottom’s open. It’s a dry wash most of the year. A minor side drainage that flows into the creek valley that the road follows. A thin, muddy stream is flowing today. The debris along the banks shows that it was ten feet wide and a several feet deep sometime during the night.

  They dismount and cast around.

  “The rain destroyed the tracks here, too,” says Táági, kicking at the mud.

  Ma’cho is moving slow, eying every inch of the rain stippled ground.

  “No one,” says Ma’cho, climbing the hill opposite.

  They find a few charred remains of the meteor’s landing. The leaves here are mud covered and strewn madly about. But, enough hard rain fell that there’s no making sense of it.

  “Okay, the meteor went through here, but what the bloody hell caused this larger disturbance?”

  Ma’cho shakes his head.

  They walk through the disturbed leaves back down to the base of the cliff.

  “Wait, here, under the overhang,” says Táági. “Bloody hell, a cave and a petroglyph.”

  Ma’cho walks over, intent on finding tracks. “Meteor roll here. Gone now.”

  There’s a small dent in the ground from the space rock.

  He heads into the cave and grunts, squatting for a closer look.

  “Big bare feet and big boots. Proved me wrong, didn’t they?” says Táági, looking too. “They bloody well were here together.”

  Ma’cho nods, eying the petroglyph. “Explains leaves, girl fight above.”

  “Ah,” says Táági. “Of course. We must have missed the pillows.”

  Moving away, Ma’cho chuckles, then squats suddenly, examining the dirt.

  “Find something else?” asks Táági.

  The Apache grunts.

  The big guy steps over, moving out of the way of the light penetrating into the overhang.

  Ma’cho points a finger. Tracing what he sees in the air above it.

  Táági squats beside him and peers at the dirt, moving his head to catch the faint shadowing of the partial indentation.

  “Bloody hell, a tiny boot,” he exclaims. “It’s the child.”

  Ma’cho moves away.

  “Góshé and Hoss both over here,” says Ma’cho, pointing at another small boot print and a giant paw print off to the right.

  “Here,” says Táági, seeing a blotched partial. He leans closer. “No, never you mind, can’t tell. Not enough to guess either size or shape.”

  24 Cha’a: Snow

  I look over at her. Still standing in the snow.

  I’m under the thick branches in the well around the tree trunk that’s just outside the little overhang. They act as a shed roof. It’s about six feet in radius and snow free. The overhang just behind it is deep enough that Ten Spot, Hoss and the three of us humans will fit in. Just right.

  I start breaking off dead branches and chucking them into a pile.

  She’s looking around, befuddled.

  “Why are you standing there? Aren’t yore feet froze?” I ask.

  Her eyes are big and round. She looks like a giant twelve-year-old.

  “Oh, holy cow,” I say. “Is this yore first snow?”

  “Tis,” she says.

  “You need to get out of it,” I say.

  “Blimey, I never thought it could be like this. It’s like a bloody Swiss cheese and I fell in the holes,” she says, reaching out and scooping up a handful. She balls it up in her fist, then grimaces and drops it, shaking the remains off her glove. “It’s bloody fucking cold.”

  “Well, yeah. Snow is crystalline ice. Come under here,” I say. “It’s dry. We need to get organized.”

  “What the hell was I thinking?” she asks, fighting her way out of the drift.

  “Me, too.”

  “What?”

  “If I hadn’t seen the meteor and tried to track it down, I wouldn’t be here,” I say. “You’d be alone. And, you’d die.”

  “We need to go bloody back,” she says, stepping under the tree next to me. “And I would bloody well not die. I’m an expert at wilderness.”

  I just look at her. I don’t say it, but bitch is the word. Maybe cunt. I sigh instead. Teenagers and kids.

  This pair make me feel like a crotchety old woman. And I’m only fucking twenty-two. But, so much more mature.

  “Okay, somewhat warmer wilderness,” she says, arms wrapped tight around her chest, still shivering. “Mediterranean, more like. This is bloody alpine.”

  “No shit,” I say.

  “Bugger,” she says, stomping her feet some more. “We need firewood.”

  “Great,” I say, because she’s just standing there. “Go find us some.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Okay,” I say. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “Go find some firewood.”

  See what I mean about teenagers?

  “Yep,” I say, letting it slide. “And dry tinder. I can use the meteor, just like flint, to spark up a blaze.”

  “Quite,” she says. “I already bloody well know that.”

  I scoff under my breath.

  I start searching the ground under the tree. We’ll have to wade through the snow to get to any other trees. The thickest ones will have exposed ground underneath. Our only source for downed, dry wood.

  And, hopefully, more horse feed. Three feet of snow covers and hides most everything.

  I break off smaller dead branches and detach the twigs, sorting it all into piles by size.

  “Just like in the rain, you need to stay as dry as you can. W
e got lucky ending up here.”

  “Lucky? With a bear hogging the warm cave?”

  “Since we’ve only got the two saddle blankets, we gotta have the heat of a fire. With this overhang, we’re all set to fire camp. It’s a good, dry heat reflecting shelter.”

  “I’ve lived in more than one cave, just not in this frigid blast of an ass biting hell,” she says, shivering visibly. “I can’t believe how cold it is.”

  “So you said,” I say, glancing at the sky. “And tomorrow’s another challenge. We need to build snowshoes. This fresh snow isn’t crusted enough yet to hold our weight. If we get lucky and the sky clears off before morning, it’ll freeze hard. We’ll have a crust to walk on until the high spring sun softens it again. Then, snowshoes. If not, it’ll be snowshoes all day long or until we reach the end of the snow. We gotta get down off this mountain.”

  “You’ve got a bloody horse to ride,” she says, filling her arms with sticks. “You can head right out.”

  “You ever look at a horse’s hooves?” I ask, kicking the snow out of the way for the firepit. “Much smaller than our feet. He sinks in way before we do. And he has just as much work getting through it. We normally strap on horse snowshoes to travel in high elevation places like this.”

  “Blimey,” she says, looking at Ten Spot like he might bite her. She has zero horse experience.

  “Tinder,” I remind her.

  “Right,” she says, dropping her armload of sticks by me and kicking her way back out into the snow and on over under another big tree.

  She finds some Spanish moss on the other side of the tree, hanging from the branches, and brings me a double handful.

  “Alright,” I say. “Good start.”

  “I got more over here,” says little Góshé, leaning over with one hand still on the saddle horn and picking some off a high branch. He holds it up for us to see.

  “Good job, Góshé.”

  “Here, Zastee,” I say, leaving my work. “I’ll stomp the snow into a tread, so you don’t get so wet. It’s tiring, but steppin’ in up to yore crotch every step wears you out even faster, plus you’ll get hypothermia. This warm, wet snow will soak our clothes right quick.”