Hey, Cowgirl, Need a Ride?

by Baxter Black

“Lewis will be here on Wednesday,” said Lick. “What’s she gonna tell him? What are we gonna tell him? And if she’s runnin’ from the law, that makes us accessories.”

  “Kid, you worry too much,” said the old man. He was laid back, soakin’ up the sun like a lizard on a flat rock, his hat pulled down over his face. “Wednesday’s a long ways off.”

  The old man drifted into slumber.

  It was close to 6:00 p.m. when Lick and the old man hit camp. They unsaddled and fed the horses. Lick was mentally planning supper as they walked toward the trailer. Supper was on the old man’s mind, too. “Sure be nice if we had a cook like the Basquos do,” he said. “That Santiago can sure cook. An artiste with them sheep dishes. He can make mutton taste like prime rib. I’ve ate many a meal with them Basquos—in summer camp, anyways.” They stomped through the door and were both hit with the mouthwatering aroma of fried meat.

  “Well, strap on the feathers and take my pulse! This might be Heaven!” exclaimed the old man. “And yonder stands the angel in Gabriel’s galley!”

  T.A. turned at the stove and gave the old man a pained little smile. “I thought maybe I could cook y’all some supper. Hope it’s okay.”

  “Okay?” answered the old man. “Okay? It’s the kid’s week to cook and he don’t know how to make nuthin’ but Hamburger Helper and that took him a month to learn. You ever eat macaroni that chipped your teeth? No sir, darlin’, we don’t mind one bit.”

  “I found these steaks in the freezer and thawed them out,” she said.

  “That’s what they’re for, little lady. That’s what they’re for,” responded the old man. “We’ll git washed up and be ready.”

  Lick was left standing in the middle of the room after the old man clanked into the bathroom and shut the door. T.A. slid the steaks around in the big frying pan with a wooden spoon. There was no spatula. She felt eyes boring into her and realized Lick was still there.

  T.A. looked back at him over her left shoulder. He was unselfconsciously posed. He looked like a movie star, or maybe what movie stars wished they looked like: big black cowboy hat, deep blue wool shirt, tan scarf, belt buckle, chinks, pointy high-top boots, blue steel spurs with silver rowels and a concho on each side of the spur strap.

  Teddie Arizona didn’t swoon, but a sudden weakness traveled the length of her body. The inside of her knees tingled.

  Lick had been staring. Even as she turned toward him, his deep brown Latino eyes were unable to look away from her body. The long-sleeved shirt she wore was shapeless but the jeans fit oh-so-nice. His primal sense was pleased as she turned sideways, modeling for him, watching the left hip swivel in slow motion.

  She waited a moment, expecting him to look up at her, maybe show some embarrassment at being caught. But he continued to drink her in. She realized he was in a trance.

  “Lick,” she said tentatively. It took him three or four seconds to raise his eyes. He seemed to be coming out of a coma. Finally he focused on her face.

  “Lick?”

  “What?”

  “Are you . . .” She paused, trying to decide what to ask. Okay? Under hypnosis? On drugs? Having gas pains? She finally said, “Hungry?”

  “Well, if he ain’t, I am!” announced the old man jovially as he clanked back into the kitchen drying his hands on a threadbare wash-cloth. Needless to say, the spell was broken.

  9

  DECEMBER 2: F. RANK DISCOVERS MONEY MISSING

  By Tuesday morning at ten-fifteen, F. Rank was strolling down the hallway of his private wing on the thirtieth floor of Pharaoh’s Hotel & Casino, still wearing his flannel pajamas, monogrammed corduroy robe, and wool-lined slippers. Five days had elapsed since his wife had disappeared. He was beginning to worry about her safety, but he couldn’t get rid of that gnawing feeling that she’d left him. Maybe not for good, but just enough to pay him back. He’d wait one more day. If he hadn’t heard from her by then, he’d call the police.

  The hallway outside his penthouse office was adorned with paintings he’d chosen personally. F. Rank paused to look at his favorite, an enamel of Howard Cosell, “Dandy Don” Meredith, and Walt Garrison in the broadcast booth at the Astrodome. It had been a gift from his parents on his twelfth birthday. They had commissioned Marlin Oatly to paint it from a promo photo complete with autographs. The likenesses were very good despite the fact that Marlin made a living doing dog portraits.

  F. Rank let himself into his office and locked the door behind him. Setting his coffee down on his desk, he sat, swiveled, and opened the false front of the bookshelf on the wall behind him, exposing a 2½ × 3 foot safe. He spun the combination, heard the comforting clicks, and swung the heavy door open.

  He carefully lifted a large black box from the back of the safe and ran his hands over the smooth steel surface—a caress, almost. Then he spun the five-digit combination lock. The safe held his ticket to earning his family’s respect. It contained five million dollars in cash. He’d placed the last down payment of five hundred thousand in the safe last Wednesday, before he’d left for Houston. In less than a month, he anticipated, the amount would double. His plan was in motion.

  With a slight tingling sensation climbing up his back, F. Rank opened the box gently, then rolled back the blue velvet cover. Inside he found only the complete works of Tom Clancy in hardcover. Heavy reading, approximately equal to the weight of fifty thousand hundred-dollar bills.

  F. Rank F. Ainted.

  10

  DECEMBER 2: LICK, AL, AND T.A. TAKE THE AFTERNOON OFF

  Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the old man and Lick spent all Tuesday morning checking the water holes and were back to the camp by noon.

  Teddie Arizona had fixed a marinated steak with white rice and meat sauce. Canned vegetables and Bisquick biscuits rounded out the fare. The boys cleaned up, shaved, and got ready to eat like civilized persons for a change. Dinner conversation, though not at the level of the Yalta Conference, was stimulating.

  “Do you guys ever take the day off?” Teddie smiled at Al as she put a plate in front of him. She was looking better, though her bruises, now the color of vanilla pudding, would still stop passersby. She reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and winced as her fingers brushed her scalp wound, which was still tender to the touch.

  “This is it,” answered the old man, daintily wiping his mouth with the dishrag. “Half day Sunday.”

  “Today’s not Sunday,” said T.A., furrowing her brow.

  “Well, we can make it Sunday just for you. Cows don’t know the difference,” said the old man.

  “Well, thanks. I’m honored. It’s pretty nice outside, considering,” she said. “Maybe I’ll take a walk. Is it too far to go see the Bruneau Canyon you told me about?”

  Lick piped up, “Think you could stand bein’ ahorseback? We could ride to the rim easier than walk. Be two miles one way. Can you ride?”

  “Matter of fact, I can,” she answered. “That’d be a great idea. Not much of a chance of running into anybody, is there?”

  “None,” replied Lick. “If they came by car, they’d have to follow that so-called road and it leads right here. If they were ahorseback, well, I’ve never seen anyone here but us. We’re on kind of a peninsula. Like a giant thumb. There’s deep canyons on the east and west sides that come to a point at the north end. They don’t even need to fence it. It’d be a major ride to cross the river and come up the canyon side. Access to Pandora’s Thumb is from the southwest end. But I’ve only been here since this fall, Al would know more. Ever see anyone up here, Al?”

  “Not in the winter. Too far and too hard,” the old man said. He was chewing methodically. He only had about half the normal complement of teeth, though those he had were good. He’d started brushing regularly twenty-five years ago and thought it helped.

  “Good, then, we’ll do it.” She smiled.

  “You kids go on,” said the old man. “I allus take a nap on Sunday afternoon.”

  11

  D
ECEMBER 2: F. RANK PANICS

  F. Rank was F. Urious!

  The coincidence of Teddie Arizona’s disappearance and the missing five million dollars struck him like a kick in the stomach. Money and wife gone simultaneously. To his knowledge, no one who worked for him knew about that money. But T.A. knew.

  He hadn’t explained the details of his grand scheme to her but he couldn’t hide his excitement as it all came together. It buoyed his spirits. She noticed and was pleased for him. He didn’t try and hide the phone calls and conversations with Ponce de Crayon from her. It wasn’t that he trusted her, so much as that he had taken her presence for granted. And she’d seen him put money in the safe on several occasions. But did she know the combination? He wasn’t sure. He was sure of one thing, though. He wanted to talk to her, and right now.

  Paul Valter, head of security, could feel the edge of the wet bar scraping his spine. “Mr. Unshakable,” as he thought of himself, was getting his exhaust pipe reamed while Pike stood against the opposite wall blending in with the decor.

  “Find her!” screamed F. Rank, inches from Valter’s face. “That snipin’ little snow bunny has robbed me! That ungrateful gold diggin’, help-your-self hyena takin’ money and splittin’ like a thief in the dark of the dawn. That’s why she’s gone!

  “You hear me, Paul! Gone, right under my nose! Actually”— F. Rank’s voice turned menacing—“right under your nose!” F. Rank put his fat thumb against the tip of Valter’s nose and pushed it like an elevator button. Valter made an ugly face.

  F. Rank was shaking, spittle flecking his lips. “Get back to that airport and turn those slackers inside out. Somebody out there must know which direction she went, helped her gas the plane, fold her maps. Surely she didn’t go alone.”

  “She was workin’ on her IFR rating, boss,” said Pike cautiously from the wall. “Could be she finished it. She’s been flyin’ solo for over a year. She took the Piper Cherokee. It’s a twin-engine.”

  “Just track her down,” said F. Rank. “And no Rescue Squad. It’s important that we find her . . . by ourselves. I don’t want anyone else knowing about this.”

  Valter started to speak and F. Rank cut him off. “Do what you have to, but I want an answer tonight! And Pike, you find out what happened to that dealer she hung out with. Now, go!”

  F. Rank poured himself a quart of brandy and sank to the couch after he’d slammed the door on the two men. That no-good, pennypinchin’, purple-eyed bingo bimbo. Then he flashed on T.A. dressed in a fireman’s helmet, body pinstriped red and white with yellow flames licking her chest and shoulders. “Come on baby, light my fire,” she was saying.

  I’ll light your fire, you little pyromaniac, when I catch you. You’re one arsonist that’s flammable. Then he had a sudden sinking sensation in his chest. That five million was the down payment on his dream. I’ll get it back, he told himself, I’ve got to. Ponce will never know it’s gone.

  Ponce de Crayon was a self-made force. Born in Wauchula, Florida, of a pliant Austrian-immigrant trapeze artist and a smooth-talking slick-back carnival charmer, he was christened Heimlich Milhaus Tracker. The marriage had started and stopped like an old car with condensation in the fuel line.

  Ponce, or Heimlich, as he was known then, had taken up with the circus at fifteen and assisted with the lion and tiger acts until he was thirty-two. He was a natural and became a skilled animal trainer. With an act involving smoke and mirrors and wild beasts, he’d been the highest-paid entertainer in Las Vegas for fifteen years, performing under the stage name “Ponce de Crayon.” He was a magician of majestic breadth. He made elephants disappear, tigers sing, and leopards hold lighted cigarettes between their teeth while he extinguished them with a bullwhip.

  At age forty-two, Ponce was tall and muscular, with a mane of black hair flashing one white streak just off center from his widow’s peak. His right eye was a milky blue, the result of a tiger swipe, and his left was dark brown. He kept a trimmed goatee and moustache on his handsome face to obscure an asymmetrical smile pulled askew by more scar tissue. A cross between the Sheriff of Nottingham and a striking snake, he would have been utterly mesmerizing if it hadn’t been for a single inconsistency: his accent.

  Ponce’s normal voice was sort of an Austrian drawl, a combination of his parents’ clashing voice patterns. Although he was unable to speak any language but English, he could imitate many foreign tongues. When in the company of Australians, he found himself speaking Down Under. Russian, Scottish, Irish, Pakistani, French, Italian, Chinese, and German inflections would pop from his mouth unintentionally. Even rare regional accents imprinted on his brain.

  Within one conversation, he might assume the intonation of a Mormon from Tremonton, a Cajun from Cypremort Point, or a Lutheran from Luverne. And to his everlasting misfortune, the accents imposed themselves on his daily conversations at their whim, often distracting the listener’s attention. They became his Achilles’ lip.

  Nonetheless, he meant what he said, no matter how he said it, and F. Rank Pantaker was a believer. And like F. Rank, Ponce had a greedy streak in him, even though he was already filthy rich. So when F. Rank had approached him with a grand scheme, Ponce had pounced.

  Ponce had used his vast wealth to pursue his favorite hobby: exotic animals. His twenty-section ranch, Ponce Park, an hour from downtown Las Vegas, was home to an amazing assortment of wild species. But his pride and joy was his private collection of endangered species, including Sumatran rhinos, Indian tigers, Himalayan snow leopards, California condor chicks, spotted owls, pandas, koalas, bald eagles, Madagascar radiated tortoises, musk deer, a Tasmanian tiger, wood bison, mountain zebra, lowland gorilla, Mexican grizzly bear, Mongolian antelope, Chinese sika deer, ocelot, and orangutans.

  Only a select few were aware of Ponce’s treasure. As soon as F. Rank learned of the exotic collection, he thought, Wouldn’t that be a kick, to shoot one of those endangered rhinos? Just like bird-doggin’ a covey of bald eagles, then blastin’ them outta the sky. The more he thought about it, the better it sounded. Imagine inviting his friends to hunt endangered species, or, even better, selling the hunting rights, like Texas ranchers do in Texas for quail and whitetail. Offer an exclusive high-dollar catered hunt only to those who could afford it. He dreamed about it for several days, came up with a guest list of amoral wealthy invitees, and got up the nerve to approach Ponce with his grand scheme. He was surprised and pleased to find Ponce receptive to the idea.

  “You know, Vrank, I zometimes get an over-zupply,” Ponce answered in the accent of his Austrian mother. “And, because of ze, shall I zay, ‘informal’ method of acquisition, I am unable to zell dem to ze public zooz, and ze like. It is not uncommon dat I vill have the occasional breast of spotted owl or condor egg omelet, but a hunt . . . yes, a hunt—”

  F. Rank interrupted excitedly, “I’ll betcha we could sell private hunts for a million dollars each! Five hundred thousand down to get your space reserved, maybe even make it a contest. Say the winner— the guy who bags the most—gets his million back. We could sell ten hunts at a time. They all come at once, no publicity, that goes without saying, and you and I split the remaining nine million. That would be . . . that would be, two into nine, no, two into eight goes, ah, I don’t have my calculator, but it’s almost five million each!”

  “Vat, exactly, do you do for your half?” asked Ponce pointedly.

  “Well,” F. Rank said, somewhat hurt, “it was my idea. And I know the kind of people who would be interested. I know the whales at the casinos. I know the ones that love to hunt and know how to keep their mouths shut. I’d invite them, take care of all the details, that would be my job. I get the guests. You fill their limit. I’ll be handing you four or five million dollars on a silver spoon in your mouth,” he finished, mixing metaphors.

  Ponce’s eyes narrowed. “And you vould never try and doublecrozz your partner? Becauze, my young scoundrel, if you did, you should remember I can make more zan elephants disappear.” Then he
broke into song: “The hills are alive with the sound of gunfire”—a mutant version that set F. Rank’s thoracic vertebrae rattling against one another. It was apparent that Ponce had a ragged edge.

  But now it wasn’t Ponce who’d been double-crossed. Yes, thought F. Rank, as he swirled the brandy in its giant crystal goblet and looked into the empty safe, I’ll find you, T.A., and you’ll be sorry you messed with me.

  12

  DECEMBER 2: LICK AND T.A. TAKE A HORSEBACK RIDE

  An hour after they’d finished lunch, Lick and Teddie Arizona were mounted and headed northeasterly on a well-used trail. It had warmed up to fifty-five degrees and the wind was taking a break.

  Lick had been pointing out the odd plant, a mountain range, or a cow track for T.A.’s edification. She didn’t have much to say. He told her about Bruneau, a town at the head of the canyon, and Elko, the other direction.

  “Where do you live? When you’re not here, I mean,” she asked.

  “Nowhere, I guess. I just live here,” he answered.

  “Where do you go shopping?”

  “We go into town for a few days once a month,”

  “Which town?”

  “Elko. South of here three or four hours. The Wednesday before we go, Lewis will charge the car battery, make sure we have a spare, and, most important, give us our checks.”

  “That old car doesn’t even look like it runs. What if you get stranded?” she asked.

  “Don’t make any difference if we’re late. Nobody’s expecting us. Even the cows wouldn’t miss us unless one of ’em got sick or upside down in a gully. You’re only stranded if you’re goin’ someplace.”

  She pondered that observation, then asked, “How come you’re a cowboy?”

  “My dad’s a cowboy. He’s a pen rider in a feedlot in the panhandle. I did that summers in high school and college. Worked in the feedlots. Then I rodeoed, rode bulls mostly. I fell in with Al, met him in a bar, actually. I’d quit the rodeo by then, this was last year, and was kinda ramblin’. He told me they was lookin’ for help on this outfit, so I says, what the heck. I hired on and here I am.”