Hey, Cowgirl, Need a Ride?

by Baxter Black

  F. Rank, accompanied by T.A., responded to the VIP invitation. They were treated to a luxurious buffet of exotic foods and addressed by the host himself. Ponce was dressed like an English army colonel serving in India during the 1857 uprising, complete with white helmet, knee-high boots, jodhpurs, and a riding crop. He spoke with a crusty English accent, calling everybody “old chap” and “Corporal.”

  Ponce spoke like Moses from the Mount, like Kennedy from the presidential pulpit, like Billy Joe McAllister from the Tallahachee Bridge! He was capable of cutting through the glitz, the chrome and caviar, to the humanity that exists inside most human hearts, though not necessarily the cynical, rhetoric-proof, stainless-steel tickers that beat within the breasts of the Las Vegas elite. However, he did reach our heroine, whose heart happened to be empty at the time.

  “During the Boer War,” he was saying, “and my campaign in Inja, we shot tigers and elephants, lions, zebra, and termite mounds with a blasé disregard for the fragility of their place in the ecosystem. Serving on Her Majesty’s ship the Prince Reggie during those heady days after our furious naval battle with Peru, we torpedoed sperm whales and took turns harpooning penguins. We would rope cute little dolphins and ski behind them.

  “I shudder at the damage we’ve done, but”—his voice lowered— “times have changed. We now must act responsibly if we are to maintain and restore nature’s balance. It is what I, in my own humble way, am trying to do here at Ponce Park.

  “You may ask yourself what you can do. You may think to yourself, ‘I don’t have time to feed and water elephants, pick ticks out of rhino ears, take care of orphaned koalas, or care for condor chicklets. All I have is money. If there was only some way I could make a significant contribution to this monumental effort to save the planet, I would, just so I could sleep better at night knowing I made a difference.’

  “Fear not, brave souls, you wonderful, compassionate, generous, anthropomorphic, zoophiles! By contributing to Ponce Park’s Wildlife Outreach and Panda Fund, you can assure these magnificent animals their rightful place in the tapestry of life. Where they may exist in harmony with nature and outlive every man, woman, and child of you on this old mudball we call Earth, which, as we all agree, belongs to them as well as you and me and, yes, even the Royal Family.

  “Pass the plate,” Ponce spoke off microphone. “God save the Queen!” he boomed, and raised his wineglass in salute.

  Ponce de Crayon had enchanted Teddie Arizona. She’d sat in rapt attention. His words were a 24-carat oasis in a desert of rhinestone materialism. She’d just begun to adjust to the dazzle of being part of the Lifestyles of the Las Vegas Rich and Famous. Her lack of faith in mankind was causing her to wonder if it was all as shallow as it seemed. It was the first time in many moons she’d experienced a moment of wrenching introspection. Like a quick shot to the heart, a kick in the solar plexus, it made her gasp out loud! Years of practice allowed her to slam the emotional door shut quickly, but not before one slippery tear escaped down her cheek.

  After Ponce’s altar-call conclusion and thank-yous to all who ponied up twenty-five hundred dollars per ticket to attend the fund-raiser, T.A. took a stroll through the Big Cat House. F. Rank remained at the bar with friends.

  The Big Cat House held several of the jungle beasts that performed with Ponce in his spectacular magic act at Pharaoh’s Casino. His act was the premier show in Las Vegas. Unlike zoos where a lifelike habitat was built to show off wild animals in their “natural” surroundings, Ponce Park kept the beasts in large, clean, airy cages. The climate-controlled buildings smelled of disinfectant and, faintly, of cat pee.

  T.A. took particular interest in a large tiger. She watched the magnificent creature as he circled the perimeter. He plodded methodically, his massive paws padding silently on the cement floor. He never looked at her.

  Watching the caged beast, T.A. whiffed an unpleasant analogy to her devil’s bargain with F. Rank. She curled her nose.

  “He thinks it’s suppertime,” said a voice behind her.

  T.A. whirled around and found a guard in uniform watching her. “Does he do this all the time?” she asked, referring to the tiger’s pacing.

  “No,” replied the guard. “Sometimes he forgets.”

  Me, too, she thought. Me, too.

  Of the many things that drove T.A. to finally pull the plug on her circumstances, the crushing disappointment of Ponce’s betrayal had been the last straw. She’d never expected much from F. Rank, but Ponce had lifted her up. When he pooped in the buckwheat she fell hard. In the style of The Flight of the Phoenix, Walking Tall, and Rocky III, she picked herself up, picked up the five million, and set out to trash their party.

  “Do you still think you can stop this big-game hunt?” Lick asked, breaking her reverie.

  “Shoot, Lick, I don’t know. It just seems like somebody ought to do something. After all, these bottom-feeders are going to kill endangered species. But I don’t have any idea where to begin.”

  “I don’t see why you can’t just hold the money and call the police. ’Specially if all you want is to stop the hunt. Tell ’em everything. Give the money back,” suggested Lick. “I think the law would understand.”

  “I can’t go to the police,” she said, almost whispering.

  “What?” he said, not hearing.

  “I can’t go to the police,” she said again, looking up at his face.

  He studied her a moment. “If it’s the money—”

  “It’s not,” she interrupted. “It’s more than that. There’s a warrant out for my arrest.” T.A. summed up the complicated details of the warrant and F. Rank’s hold on her.

  “Oh,” he said as the confession sank in. “Well, how ’bout you just offer to give the money back to your husband, maybe in return for cancelling the hunt? You think they’d go for that?”

  “No,” she said dejectedly. “He made that perfectly clear on the phone back at Scotland. The hunt is going on, money or not.”

  “Yeah, but as long as you have it, you have some bargaining power, right?”

  “I don’t think they’re in any mood to bargain. Right now I think he’d probably have me killed. I mean, I think he’s capable of that. And I’m real certain Ponce de Crayon is.”

  “Why did you take the money? To spend it, to hoard it?” asked Lick.

  “No, not really. It was more personal. I wanted to hurt F. Rank for treating me like a . . . well, you know, like what I was, a kept woman. And Ponce—I wanted to inflict some revenge on him for sucking all of us gullible animal lovers into his game. I guess I justified it in my mind by saying that it was to stop that horrible hunt. But it didn’t work.”

  She stared out the kitchen window at the gray sky of northern Nevada and shivered.

  “This is a mess,” said Lick. He put some more milk into his coffee and stirred it. “Speakin’ of messes, I should apologize for the . . . the bathroom deal. I just barged in—”

  She held her hand up, shushing him.

  “Last night, two nights ago, I mean, out there on the trail in the dark, it was just a spontaneous— I needed . . .” She hesitated.

  “Me?” he asked. “Or just—”

  She raised her hand again. “Don’t say that. Don’t go there. I didn’t need ‘just anybody.’ But it was more than I’m prepared to deal with today. You and Al trusted me when all I’ve done is not tell you the whole truth, lead you on, use you. You’ve put yourselves in danger. Most normal people would have called the police, or a mental institution. If it hadn’t been for y’all, I might be . . . I don’t even want to think about what might have happened. The only feeling I should be allowed to have for you is gratitude. I’m not deserving of your kindness. Just know that I am truly grateful and I feel as rotten as . . . as . . . Ponce’s shriveled-up heart.”

  Again, Lick was at a loss for words. “Wuddn’t nuthin’,” he said.

  “And,” she said, standing up as if to make a speech, “before you get in any deeper, I’d l
ike to get Mr. Roanhorse to take me to the next town where I can get a car and you and Al can head back to the ranch. That’s my plan.” She looked at him.

  “Then you go to Las Vegas and try to stop the hunt by yourself,” Lick stated flatly.

  “That wouldn’t be any concern of yours,” she said.

  “And I never see you again,” he said.

  She shrugged.

  He stood up, took her hand, and led her into the living room. T.A. watched as he took a blanket and two throw pillows off the couch and spread them on the rug in the sunny spot. He pulled her down.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “A picnic,” he replied.

  She lay facedown.

  Resting on his knees beside her, Lick started rubbing her shoulders. She closed her eyes. He slid her sleeves down and stroked and massaged her neck and arms. Then he turned her over. T.A. went limp.

  Lick sat back and stripped himself to the waist. His forehead was damp from the exertion. He moved from her shoulders to her neck, forehead, and the bridge of her nose, then touched her lips with his fingertips. She moaned with pleasure but kept her eyes closed. He straddled her and lowered his lips to hers. When they touched it was electric. Very lightly he ran his tongue along her lower lip, then he delicately slid it in and explored the edge of her teeth.

  Her tongue tentatively touched his, backed off, returned. Their lips pressed together gently. He lowered himself till their bodies just touched. He swayed over her, then slowly dropped down to his elbows, palms flat on the floor. She wiggled her chest into his. They kissed for several minutes . . . no hands.

  Lick lifted himself back up to a kneeling position. T.A. opened her eyes and looked into his. He held her gaze for a moment, then hungrily let his eyes devour her body. Those steel gray eyes, malamute silver dollars under the partially closed eyelids. Creamy chest, blushing pink. The left shoulder strap of her black tank top had slid down, exposing the rise of a breast like a porcelain moon peaking out from behind a cloud.

  Her belly showed between her tank top and jeans. As she breathed, the skin of her stomach rose and fell against the waistband of her jeans, opening and closing the entrance to paradise. Her left leg lay straight, her right leg slightly cocked. She smelled like cookie dough in a warm kitchen. It took his breath away.

  Whew! Stop the world and let me off! Does life get any better than this? Anticipation is half the joy, so said Captain Ahab. Lick has just eaten half a truffle, ridden the first four seconds, it’s Christmas Eve, July Third, the day before Election Day, it’s your first at bat, a new deal in gin, and that moment in time when you think all things are possible. It is true that most do not even have time to watch the moon rise, much less savor that split second between “And the winneris . . .” and “somebody else!” Lick was no different.

  He gently ran a finger up under her tank top. On its own, it slowly inched its way north to Kilimanjaro. Just as it took its first step up the incline, her hand covered his and stopped the ascent.

  Lick looked at her.

  She shook her head.

  Son of a scrofulous, wool-slippin’, miscreant sludge scraper! May the magma of the Titanic bury me in six foot of Styrofoam peanuts up to my throbbing temples and put me out of my misery! My rocket has burst into a thousand pieces and lit the sky like a prison riot on “Just Say No” day! Shoot, chute, shute, ship, shap, sugar shack, shoop, stoop, and droop and jam it all to hail!

  Aw, fudge.

  Lick backed his hand out of the wishing well and she took it in hers. From her vulnerable position, that is, mouth-watering as barbecued ribs on a paper plate, she said, “Lick, for reasons that are too complicated for me to understand, I am no longer going to, uh . . . I have decided to, uh . . . Until I marry, I’m going to abstain from, you know, going all the way . . . so to speak.”

  Her composure receded like hot caramel sliding down the sides of a pecan praline sundae. It left her naked. She squeezed hot tears out of her eyes, looked up at him, and said with real anguish, “I am so sick of myself.” She sobbed and covered her face with her hands.

  Her emotional outburst was too much for Lick’s simple testosterone-soaked brain to absorb. He felt like he’d showed up at a sword fight with a spatula.

  His expectations deflated. They were not alone.

  30

  DECEMBER 5: SHERRILL AND T.A. TALK

  When Sherrill came home from work at 5:15 p.m., Lick was asleep on the couch and Teddie Arizona was browsing through the limited magazine collection: American Hunter, Range magazine, Cosmo, and the Native American Political Journal.

  Sherrill unloaded her jacket and scarf and brought the groceries into the kitchen: potatoes, canned corn, and bread. “Hi, Teddie Arizona,” she said. “I’ve still got some deer meat from that big doe my uncle killed down by the, uh, lake drainage last week. It should still be good. I’ve had it in the freezer. Do you like deer meat?”

  “I ate a lot of it when I was a kid,” T.A. answered. “It was okay.”

  “Did you come from deer country?” Sherrill asked.

  “Eastern Oklahoma. Lots of whitetail.”

  “Oklahoma,” mused Sherrill. “There are many Native Americans living in Oklahoma. I, uh, have been there for an Indian Police Training course. They seem like very rich Indians in Oklahoma.”

  “It’s the oil,” observed T.A.

  The two of them began fixing supper.

  “Your brother is a handsome man,” Sherrill said. “He seems to be part Mexican, yet you have hair the color of dry grass, I mean with shadows and streaks that pick up the sunlight. Did you have the same father?”

  T.A. had a nimble mind. She changed the subject. “Did you go to college to become a police officer?”

  “No,” answered Sherrill, aware that her inquiry about Lick had been averted. “I went to, uh, the University of Nevada at Reno. I wanted to become a lawyer. I studied for three years but it is very hard. Then my mother fell and broke her hip so I, uh, came home.”

  “You have such beautiful eyes,” said T.A. admiringly, “and your hair just shines.”

  “Like a crow’s wing,” said Sherrill, smiling. “It is what my mother calls me, Crow’s Wing.”

  In fact, Sherrill was quite attractive. She was five foot five, with a round face, long, jet-black hair, deep dark brown eyes, and skin the color of peanut butter. At twenty-eight years old, she worked very hard to keep from getting overweight.

  “So, you are visiting your father?”

  “What?” asked T.A.

  “Your father. Al,” said Sherrill.

  “Oh, yes. For just a while. I, uh, Dad and me, and Lick, . . . my brother, we, us, I mean, the family had some trouble—car trouble, I mean!” she blurted. “It was good of Mr. Roanhorse to give us a lift and of you to let us stop over. We’ll be moving on soon.”

  Sherrill listened. White people are no different than Indians when they lie, she thought. And it is not my business.

  “Wake your brother,” she said, “and we can eat.”

  31

  DECEMBER 5: THREE STRANDED BANDITS ON HIGHWAY 51, SIX MILES NORTH OF SCOTLAND

  Meanwhile, back at the corner of the Road to Nowhere and Highway 51, in the land of the star-nosed mole, the one-eyed man is king.

  “Try to look casual,” instructed Busby.

  Hollywood Cratchet was returning home from her bimonthly visit to the Goose Valley Reservation Medical Clinic. She was sipping a diet pop and smoking a Kool filter. The Scotland store flashed by on her right at 72 mph. At the dirt road turnoff to Wickahoney, Juniper Mountain, and points west, she noticed a crowd beside the road. She slowed to 20 mph and passed them.

  The crowd turned out to be small. Three, to be exact. Standing side by side like soldiers, but more shiny, like tinfoil statues. Was it some kind of practical joke? Nobody waved, but she had the feeling they’d been beseeching her. Although she didn’t hear anything because the window was up and she was listening to Charlie Daniels at the top of his lu
ngs, the feeling was strong enough to make her turn around, point south, and go back.

  They were a strange-looking group. She slipped the compact .32 revolver out of her purse and rolled down the driver’s side window of her Oldsmobile sedan.

  The figure on the right was babbling. She couldn’t understand him, he was talking so fast. Now he was trying to drag his trussed companions toward her car.

  “No farther, Tin Man,” she said, and cocked the hammer on the .32.

  “This isn’t the way it looks, miss,” said Busby, the only one who could see, hear, and speak simultaneously. “We’re respectable businessmen. I’m a pilot and these gentlemen are in the employ of a large corporation that does a lot of work with the poor. Our plane crashed and we’ve been walking for several hours and we’d like a ride to someplace where we can rent a car. Or at least I would.”

  “I see,” said Hollywood. “Are you seriously injured? It’s hard to tell the way you’re taped. I can take you to the Goose Valley clinic. It’s on the rez, back down the road here. It’s not far.”

  “No, nobody’s hurt, not seriously,” answered Busby. “But we’d really—”

  “Were your companions blinded in the crash?” she asked in growing wonder. “Do you have multiple skin grafts on your legs and arms? Why does the big one have no shoes? Are they hearing impaired? You appear to be in need of some help but I’m not sure what I can do.”

  “A ride. Like I said, just a ride where we can call home and be on our way,” Busby said. “And cut us loose, of course. This tape is killin’ me.”

  ”Boys,” said Hollywood, still sitting in her car, “I can see you’re in a bind and even though I’m a kindhearted soul, I fear that from your appearance there is more to your story than you’re telling me. But I can’t leave you here by the roadside in this condition. So I’ll make you this offer: I’ll give you all a ride to Mountain Home. I think the three of you will fit snugly in my backseat. But . . . for my own safety I must leave you tied as you are.”