Hey, Cowgirl, Need a Ride?

by Baxter Black

  “Mornin’ ma’am,” said the old man.

  The woman stopped, then turned her head slowly in their direction. She stared but didn’t seem to comprehend. Lick dismounted and slowly walked toward her. As he closed the distance, he could see she was in a daze. Her sweater was torn, the right sleeve darkened. Her jeans were also torn in places. There was dried blood on the side of her face and her hair was matted above it.

  When they got within touching distance, he could see that her eyes were glazed, almost metallic, like she had dimes in them. They were pale blue. Lick was put to mind of a sled dog.

  He reached out to her like she was a spooky horse. The instant he felt the rough wool of the sweater on the tips of his fingers, she screamed! And connected with a wild roundhouse right that caught him square on the temple!

  Lick’s eyelids fluttered and light filtered onto the Technicolor screen of his retinas. A cold gray sky unfolded into his view. His body began checking in with his brain. Flat on my back. A rock beside my left ear. Hands underneath my hip pockets. Cap’s chin strap uncomfortably under my nose. Spurs splaying my feet. Blood pounding in my head. Bucked off again, was his first thought. He lay still as the numbed neurons began to crackle to life.

  He raised himself on one elbow with difficulty and looked around. A paper sack, which he recognized as lunch, lay nearby. There was silence except for the errant wisps of breeze that fell off the canyon rim high above. Within moments he was standing shakily and assessing his situation. The girl was gone. His horse was gone. His down coat was gone. A pretty selective mugging. They took what they needed, laid me out like a corpse, and left me for dead. Who would do that? Of course . . . the old man.

  He studied the trail up the canyon. No sound or movement. He’d been unconscious for quite a while. With the dogged determination of a salaried posthole digger, he started up Slippery Canyon.

  It was past the lunch hour when Lick finally saw their camp snuggled amongst the rocks and sagebrush like a machine-gun bunker. Walking into the wind hadn’t improved his disposition. He’d worked up a pretty good sweat despite the cold. The old man’s two dogs came out barkin’ like hounds of the Baskervilles till he spoke to them, none too gently.

  Approaching the trailer, he could see the old man peekin’ out the window, alerted by the dogs. When Lick returned his gaze, the old man ducked out of sight. Lick strode resolutely to the door, pushed it open, slipped on the chunk of railroad tie that served as a step, and cracked his shin against the aluminum doorjamb. He fell halfway in, cursing and writhing.

  “This had better be good, you old boar, or yer never gonna see Social Security! Leavin’ me in the bottom of the canyon, stealin’ my horse, stealin’ my coat . . .” Lick was yelling. “What if I’d froze to death, or a cat come up or a boulder fell down, a landslide or an avalanche . . . maybe even an earthquake! I’d been swallowed up without a trace, sucked into the bowels of the earth . . . and without a horse! Did you lose yer mind, or what?”

  The old man looked at Lick sprawled on the floor and said, “I left you lunch.”

  Lick gave him a long cold stare and reached down to touch his aching shin.

  “Kid,” the old man said with a hint of sympathy, “would you mind unsaddlin’ the horses?”

  Lick glared up at him.

  “Yer already halfway out,” the old man finished.

  When Lick returned from putting up the horses, he had himself under control.

  “She’s in my bed,” said the old man. “ She’s in pretty tough shape, I figger. Kinda zombie-like. Sure didn’t fight much and once she lay there for a minute, she went plumb to sleep. Hasn’t moved or made a sound.”

  Lick tiptoed down the narrow hall and peered in the door. The old man’s room was orderly and picked up, as usual. The covers were up to the woman’s chin, only her face visible on the pillow. She still had the dried blood on her face and in her hair. She was asleep but she didn’t look peaceful. Her sweater and jeans were neatly draped over the old kitchen chair beside the bed. Boots and socks stood below.

  Lick walked into the bathroom, washed his face, and came back to the kitchen.

  “Coffee?” offered the old man. He’d already poured a cup and Lick could smell whiskey fumes coming off it. A special gesture from the old man, since they rarely drank liquor in camp, although they did keep a bottle of Jim Beam on hand for guests.

  Lick sat down at the table and took a sip. “So what happened?”

  “After she cold-cocked you, she sorta fainted-like. I got her up. She was shiverin’, so I borryed yer jacket and helped her up on yer horse. I had to change the stirrups. I was gonna borry yer hat, too, but I didn’t know how you’d take it, so I just borryed yer scarf and made her a bonnet. Oh, and we borryed yer gloves.

  “We had to come outta the canyon pretty slow. I was leadin’ her horse and she was hangin’ on to the horn. Out on the flat she jis’ leaned into the wind in a trance. When we got back I had to prise her hands offen the horn. She slid outta the saddle and I carried her in the camp here and put her to bed.

  “She ain’t said a word,” he concluded.

  “How bad you reckon she’s hurt?” asked Lick.

  “I didn’t try to do no doctorin’, but she’s beat up pretty bad.”

  “Yeah,” said Lick with a sideways glance, “ I guess you got a pretty good look.”

  “Kid, there’s not much in this ol’ world I ain’t seen. I drove an ambulance in the war for a time. Hurt bodies all look the same.”

  “So whatta we do now?” asked Lick, chastened somewhat.

  “Wait. Maybe she’ll have somethin’ to say about it.” Al shambled over to the sprung couch and lay down.

  3

  NOVEMBER 29: T.A. WAKES UP

  The next morning they drew straws to determine who stayed in camp. Lick won and stayed behind. The old man rode out at 8:00 a.m. toward Slippery Canyon. Every thirty minutes, Lick checked on the woman still sleeping in the old man’s bed. She rolled or shifted a couple times but never mussed the covers.

  Lick was on his fourth cup of coffee and fixin’ to heat up some SpaghettiOs when he heard a loud thump. He trotted to the bedroom.

  She lay crumpled facedown on the floor beside the bed, the cover pulled partway off the bed over her head and still clenched in her right fist. She had on a black sleeveless tank top and white bikini underpants. On her left shoulder blade was a dark brown four-cornered spot about the size of a playing card. Lick leaned forward for a closer look. It was a familiar shape, but just what it was he couldn’t quite recall.

  She stirred and Lick stepped back.

  “You awake, m’am?” he asked, and knelt at her feet. “We found ya down in the canyon and brought you here. Me and Al.” He stopped, thinking he was babbling.

  Slowly she began to pull the cover off her head, revealing a startling bluish-white eye, its black pupil a pinhole at its center. The left side of her face was swollen and scraped. She blinked, adjusting to the light, then shrugged the cover down around her shoulders. She looked toward the sound of Lick’s voice.

  “Me and Al brought you here. You were in shock, jis’ wanderin’ around like you were lost or somethin’.”

  The woman shifted position until she could see Lick with both eyes. There might have been fear in them, interest maybe, but not curiosity. Without dropping her gaze, she struggled onto one elbow.

  “Yeah,” continued Lick, “you were jis’ wanderin’ around. We brought you here to camp. You’ve been sleepin’ quite a while. You looked purty beat up, but we didn’t try no doctorin’, jis’ let you sleep.”

  She stared at him.

  “So,” added Lick. “Here you are.”

  She studied him for another moment, concentrating. “Who are you?” she croaked, rasping out the words.

  “Lick.”

  “What kind of name is Lick?”

  “Don’t know exactly. Jis’ what they call me.”

  She lay back down, exhausted. Within seconds, he could
hear her steady, sonorous breathing. He eased up to see her face. She was fast asleep. Lick, still on one knee, picked her up and laid her back on the bed. Not light, not heavy, he noted. He unwound the covers with no protest from her, tucked her in, and returned to the kitchen table.

  After SpaghettiOs and a chapter of Elmer Kelton’s latest book, he went down the hall to check on her. He found her sitting on the edge of the bed, the covers rumpled behind her. She was staring at the curtainless window.

  Lick watched her a few seconds till she realized he was there. She jerked slightly and reached back to pull the cover over herself. She gave him a suspicious sideways look.

  “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to spook ya. Can I get you somethin’? You hungry? Somethin’ to drink? Strikes me you might be needin’ a shower. Oh . . . I don’t mean ya need a shower, that you, uh . . . just that yer hair and all . . .” He shut himself up.

  She tuned him out, trying to make some sense of her condition. The side of her head was sore to the touch. She had a splitting headache. Her neck and shoulders were tender and painful. Her hands were cut and scraped. That much she knew already. She hadn’t tried to stand yet.

  “I could run a shower,” he tried again. “I mean, we turn the water heater down every morning to save propane so I could turn it up and you could take a shower in half an hour if I turned it on now. I would’ve turned it on already ’cept I didn’t know when you were gonna wake up so . . .” He studied her. She had a blank look on her face. “I’ll just go do it now,” he said, and turned back into the hall.

  He returned a few minutes later. “Done. It’ll be hot in about thirty minutes. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No,” she rasped, then paused for a ten count. “A glass of water.”

  “Great!” Lick said. He disappeared and was back momentarily with an old plastic glass nearly full. As she reached out to take it, the cover slipped off her shoulder.

  “Whoa,” he said, looking at her arm. “That’s a pretty mean bruise. Listen,” he went on, concern in his voice, “I’ll holler when the water’s hot. Then you can clean up and we’ll git you somethin’ to eat. It’ll be a few minutes. You want another glass of water?”

  She shook her head no. He left.

  In a short while she heard water running. Then he reappeared in the doorway.

  “It’s hot now,” he reported.

  “You haven’t got a robe or a towel, do you?” she asked.

  “A robe?” His mind flashed back to Charlton Heston in a toga. “A towel, sure. Let me check.”

  He and the old man had two towels each. Bachelor towels. Hand-me-downs at least five years old. Thick as a co-op receipt and fluffy as a canvas tarp. They were closer to dishrags than bath towels. Neither man had ever bought a towel in his life. It would be as alien a thought to them as the gas mileage of a Lincoln Town Car would be to a Zulu tribesman.

  Lick located the cleanest dirty towel and presented it like an offering to Cleopatra. She draped it over her shoulders. It barely covered her rib cage. She stood slowly, dropping the covers, and swayed precariously. Lick started to assist her but she caught her balance and he stepped back quickly.

  “This way,” he said. She followed him shakily to the bathroom and he quietly shut the door behind her.

  He sat back down at the kitchen table, gripping the edge, and tried to stop his rapid breathing. Something inside told him that she was badly hurt and in need of compassion and comfort. Or at least somewhere in the back of his brain those thoughts occurred, but they lasted no longer than the glide of a shooting star. His last look into the bathroom as he closed the door had drilled a stealth shot into his chest. The escaping steam from the bathroom had smothered him like a bear hug from King Kong.

  He squeezed his eyes tight. The lingering impression of long legs, silky smoothness, curvaceous circumscription, the grazing, galloping, sliding, sidling, fragile, fragrant flower of feminosity had floated within flaunting distance, and there, in that single-wide trailer hallway, momentarily disturbed the mutual molecules in the universe they shared.

  A feeling as innocent as a snowflake and as complicated.

  It reminded Lick of the time a no-good sorry feedlot horse named Scrap Iron had kicked him between the lungs.

  Teddie Arizona was in the bathroom for an hour. Lick could hear the water being turned on occasionally. Adding more hot, he supposed. Finally he heard the tub draining and sounds at the little sink. He heard the bathroom door open and the bedroom door close.

  After a few minutes, she walked tentatively into the kitchen, wincing with each step. She’d put her sweater and jeans back on and was barefoot.

  “Ma’am, you . . . would you like somethin’ to eat?” Lick stammered. “We’ve got SpaghettiOs, pork and beans, canned stew, peas, rice, canned pudding, some Snickers. There’s some steaks but they’re frozen, wait . . . and some . . . some, uh, I guess that’s about it.”

  “You have any bread and peanut butter?” she asked.

  “We do. We do have that!” He opened the refrigerator and took out both. “You want me to make you a sandwich?”

  “I can do it.”

  He set the makin’s on the table, fished a knife out of the sink, and put a giant economy-size jar of generic Concord grape jelly on the table.

  She made her sandwich clumsily, ignoring the jelly.

  “So, what’s yer name?” he asked as she gnawed her way through the refrigerator-hard bread and stiff peanut butter.

  “Teddie,” she replied, and tried to swallow.

  “More water . . . or somethin’ else?” he offered.

  “A gin and tonic,” she answered.

  He glanced at her in surprise, then slowly looked into her eyes.

  Holding his gaze, she lifted her palms and gave an imperceptible shrug. “Just thought I’d ask,” she said, with the tiniest sparkle.

  For the first time, Lick relaxed a little. His relationship with women had always been frivolous and had soured after his last semi-serious intimacy. This past year he’d been almost celibate and, though not content, was resigned. This woman, Teddie, had made him most uncomfortable. But now she had just cut him some slack.

  “Sorry, water, coffee, or Milnot . . . canned milk,” he explained after her inquisitive look. “We do have a little Jim Beam for medicinal purposes.”

  He got her another glass of water, served in a plastic cup that read, faintly, STOCKMEN’S HOTEL & CASINO. She finished eating and sat silently at the Formica table.

  “Teddie what?” asked Lick finally.

  “Teddie Arizona.”

  “Arizona? You sound like you’re from Oklahoma, to me.”

  She stared at him a second. He knew he’d guessed right.

  “Where am I?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “On a cow camp in the wilds of southern Idaho.”

  “Y’all have a phone?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I remember an old man.”

  “That would be Al.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “He’s checkin’ cows in that canyon where we found you. Me and him been here last few months with four hundred cows.”

  “Y’all are cowboys?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, cowboy, any chance you could get me to an airport or at least to a phone?”

  “Nearest phone is fifteen miles—hour and a half of bad road from here. Nearest airport would be Elko or Boise. Four- or five-hour drive if we had a car, but Al’s ain’t runnin’. Lewis will be here on Wednesday with supplies. He could haul you out.”

  “Who’s Lewis?”

  “Lewis Ola. Ranch foreman. Actually, I think he’s the regional supervisor over all the ranches this company owns in this part of the country. He checks on us every week. Brings the groceries. Are you in a hurry?”

  “There’s gonna be people looking for me.”

  “They’re not gonna find you here. I guess one of us could ride outta here ahorseback and call your folks.”r />
  “No,” she said firmly. “There’s no one to call. These people lookin’ for me . . . I’d just as soon they didn’t find me.”

  4

  NOVEMBER 29: THEY GET ACQUAINTED

  Teddie Arizona was still resting in Al’s bedroom when the old man got back to the trailer late that afternoon.

  “How’s our little gal?” he asked Lick after peeling off his jean jacket, vest, two shirts, and the classified section from the Elko Free Press.

  “Up and ate. She’s restin’ now. Her name’s Teddie Arizona.”

  “Lemme tellya, kid, I found a wrecked plane half mile up the canyon from where we found her. Wing broke off and belly up. It slid into a draw beneath the lip of that big red rock, you know the one I mean. Hard to see.”

  “You reckon she was in the wreck?” asked Lick.

  “I reckon we oughta ask’er anyways,” answered the old man.

  Neither Lick nor the old man was a gourmet cook. Lick was frying potatoes and planned on canned peas and bacon for supper. It was his week to cook. He was peeling the bacon when Teddie Arizona reappeared, rumpled, in the same dirty jeans and shapeless sweater. This time she was wearing her socks.

  “Yer up,” said Lick.

  The old man had been sitting in the living room on the three-legged couch. When he heard voices, he came into the kitchen. “Say, little girl, how’s yer head?” he asked.

  “Pretty sore,” she answered. “And you can call me Teddie Arizona.” Lick mentally kicked himself for not inquiring about her health.

  “Mine’s Al Bean. Ya better let ol’ Doc Bean have a look. Set down here in the light.” The old man led Teddie into the living room and laid her on the couch with her head propped up on the arm. He raised the wick in the propane light on the wall above her head.

  She had a laceration two inches long and nearly bone deep. It gapped in the center the width of a tenpenny nail.

  “Whooey! This sure needs some stitches. It was in ’78 when a mountain lion took me outta the saddle. Sittin’ in a tree, he was. Down in Arizona. I rode under him.” Suddenly the old man stood, did a spin, and fell to the floor, thrashing.