Hey, Cowgirl, Need a Ride?

by Baxter Black

  “What?” he said defensively.

  “I don’t think she’s your sister. But if that’s the way you want to play it, it’s fine with me.”

  “What do you mean, she’s not my sister!”

  “Is she?” Sherrill asked.

  “Dang right. Of course!” exclaimed Lick, true to the end.

  “Well, okay, that suits me fine,” she said, squeezing him tighter.

  “You’ve got her a ride to Elko, right?” he asked.

  “Yep. Olivia’s not here yet, but she said she’d take her back when, uh, she left the dance tonight.”

  “So, there you have it,” said Lick.

  That’s her story and he’s stickin’ to it, and that’s the name of that tune. He had reached the point of fluffy comfort. He was warm on the inside and Sherrill was warm on the outside. It had the makin’s of a “no tomorrow” night.

  Lick’s gaze eventually settled on a ruckus at the bar. He squinted enough to focus on the old man, who was standing at the bar challenging anybody within shouting distance that he could stick his head up through the ceiling fan without getting hit. Bets were being taken. A crowd had gathered. The old man was waving a handful of five-dollar bills. Shouts for a demonstration welled up from the crowd. The old man signaled for Lick to join him. Lick stood shakily and walked to the bar.

  The old man spread his arms and proclaimed, “I have invited one of America’s greatest Almost-World-Champeen Lovers, Fighters, and Wild Bull Riders to be my assistant in this daring feat of Cowboy Head Bobbing. All the way from Pandora’s Thumb, our own, the one and only, the gorilla in our midst, known only to us as Lick the Magnificent!”

  The crowd cheered. Lick smiled.

  “Now if you will, Señor Lick,” said the old man, “climb up on the bar and switch the speed setting to slow.”

  Lick put one leg up on a swiveling bar stool and stepped up. The seat spun like a lazy Susan. Lick whirled out and away. His undextrous pirouette sent him flying horizontally into the outstretched arms of two lady miners from North Fork. They clutched him like the answer to their prayers. He had fallen as manna from Heaven. All their preparation in anticipation of the dance tonight was worth it, including the hour they spent over the makeup counter at the drugstore in Elko trying on lipstick, each selecting a fluorescent flamecolored smooch paste. They had practiced planting lip prints on their arms, the glass countertop, and the attached mirror so they could admire and evaluate their labial signatures.

  Knowing how precious and passing was their gift, the lady miners attacked Lick like paramedics administering CPR to a drowning man. When the cowboys finally grabbed Lick’s hind legs and pulled him out of the sirens’ grip, his face, neck, and exposed chest were covered with kisses. He wore a crooked grin. The crowd heaved him back up on the bar and helped him get to his knees. Lick crawled down the bar and stopped in front of the old man.

  “The informed of you,” the old man intoned, “know that I can stick my head up through this ceiling fan as it revolves round and round and never touch a hair on my head. My reflexes are so quick, so catlike—as many of you know who have seen me cheat at cards— that it would not be fair for me to take your money.”

  Lick had a mental picture of the old man’s bald head.

  “But—and I do mean but—we have one in our presence, in this very bar, one who has tried time and time again to beat me in private competition. One you have seen on TV, and in Western Horseman, Outdoor Life, and Good Housekeeping, the vice-champion fan-dodger of all time, standing before you as we speak! Lick, take a bow!” shouted the old man.

  The crowd cheered enthusiastically.

  “Who in here believes that Lick can successfully stick his head up through the fan five consecutive times and not get hit?” the old man asked.

  Nobody responded.

  “Three consecutive times?” he asked.

  No one spoke.

  “Wait a minute!” preached the old man. “I have told you that he is the vice-world-champion fan dodger of all time. Is no one willing to bet that the vice-champion could do it once? Even once? And to sweeten the pot, I will give you odds of a hundred to one!”

  Even in a sober crowd, it’s hard to pass up hundred-to-one odds. But in a herd now functioning at the mentality of a turkey barn, the odds were irresistible.

  Thirty-two people put up $5 each, betting that Lick would be able to make at least one head insertion without getting hit. The old man had $153 in his fist. Someone was light.

  T.A. furrowed her brow as she watched from the table. She slipped through the crowd up to the old man and asked in his ear, “You’re not gonna hurt him, are ya?”

  “No, no,” said the old man, “I’ve done it a million times. It dudn’t hurt much . . . ’specially if yer drunk.”

  T.A. put a hand out to Lick, who stood stooped on the bar beneath the fan, watching it revolve. “Lick, you don’t need to do this,” she said.

  He looked down and gave her a foxy grin and a large theatrical wink. She couldn’t tell if he was in control or uncomprehending.

  The injury wasn’t serious. The fan wasn’t broken. The gauze bandage around Lick’s head looked dashing and the blood melded beautifully into the collage of lipstick. The only downside was that after he came to, he was nearly sober.

  37

  DECEMBER 6: T.A. IS KIDNAPPED

  “There she is,” said Valter.

  He and Pike sat in a delivery van they’d stolen from the parking lot behind a plumbers’ wholesale store in Mountain Home, Idaho. It was now idling in the parking lot outside the Miner’s Club. Green lights shone on the dash and the heater hummed comfortingly as snow fell heavily on the windshield.

  “Drive up closer,” instructed Valter.

  T.A. stood hugging herself in the cold crisp Nevada night. She’d stepped outside into the parking lot for a breath of fresh air. It was 11:30 p.m. and Olivia, her ride to Elko, hadn’t shown up. No big deal, T.A. told herself, she’d buy a car or hitch a ride tomorrow.

  She looked up at the stars and shivered; the knit top didn’t offer much protection from the cold. Her resolve had strengthened as the evening had worn on. Any doubt she had about herself and what she must do had vanished. She looked back in through the open door and caught a glimpse of Lick waltzing across the dance floor with Sherrill. It looked to her like an old photograph: the snow, the light shining through the open door, the starry sky. She sighed and relaxed her shoulders. It will work, she thought to herself. I’ll worry about him another day.

  Lick had noticed T.A. standing outside as he two-stepped by. After the song ended, he excused himself and went in search of her. She was standing at the edge of the bright porch light, on the snow-covered gravel. She seemed lost in her thoughts.

  “Howdy,” he said, as he stepped up behind her.

  She glanced over her shoulder and grimaced at his looks. He was wearing his hat over the bandage but the bruises were coloring like burnt crust on a hot roll. “How you feelin’?” she asked.

  “Okay,” he answered. “This ain’t nuthin’. I been hurt worse than this takin’ a shower.”

  She laughed. Snow frosted her hair. She looked like an angel.

  “How ’bout you? Still gonna save the world?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Yep. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

  “I hope you’re doin’ the right thing,” said Lick.

  “I’m doing what I have to.” She paused. “Although I admit, meeting you hasn’t made it any easier.”

  Lick wasn’t sure what she meant, which was nothing new. He often didn’t have a clue what women were saying between the lines. He touched her neck with the back of his hand, let the touch linger a long moment, then turned and walked back inside.

  T.A. felt his touch, then felt it disappear. She heard his footsteps fade. Then she felt his hands on her biceps. She started to look back at him but he pushed her forward, roughly.

  At once, a big arm wrapped around her body, pinning her arms to her
sides. A hand was clapped over her mouth and she was lifted off the ground. She couldn’t scream, the hand was too tight. She kicked both feet out forward, trying to shake loose. Then she saw Valter in front of her, grabbing at her legs. She connected with a kick to his knee. Valter groaned, then actually smiled.

  “Keep it up, sweetie—I like it!” he said.

  Pike was squeezing her tightly. She kept thrashing but he managed to drag her to the back of the van and get the door open.

  Once he was inside the bar, Lick turned for one last look. Pike and Valter were trying to push T.A. into the back of a van!

  He wheeled and raced through the door! He hit the step on a dead run, his heel shot out from under him, and he sailed, feet first, into the parking lot. He lit on his back and elbows in the heavy gravel and slush.

  He heard the van door slam, looked up in time to see Valter one step away, mid-kick. The lights went out.

  Five miles down the road headed south, T.A. finally quit fighting. Pike was still sitting on her chest, pinning her arms to the floor. He, too, was breathing heavily.

  Valter, in the driver’s seat literally and figuratively, sighed. “Whew. I’m glad you stopped to take a breath, little lady. How ya doin’, Pike?” he asked. “I’ll bet your ears are ringing!”

  “Just holdin’ my own,” Pike panted.

  “Stay where you are,” Valter said. “We should overtake Busby soon. We’ll tie her up then.”

  It didn’t take long for someone to find Lick in the parking lot. They helped him inside. The band even took a break so everyone could get a good look. Sherrill was wiping the blood off his face. The kick had split his lip and rattled a couple teeth, but no broken bones. His eye was puffy.

  The old man was leaning over him. “What happened, Lick? What were you doin’ layin’ down in the driveway? Makin’ snow angels, and somebody drove over you? I’ve told you time and time again not to be playin’ in the street. You’re worse’n a car-chasin’ dog.”

  Lick’s brain was still foggy. He managed to form the word “Por . . . um.”

  “Por Um?” repeated Sherrill.

  “I think he’s tryin’ to say something in Spanish,” volunteered an onlooker.

  “He does speak Spanish, that boy. I heard him talkin’ to some of them backcountry exchange students on their way north,” confirmed the old man. “Or maybe he’s havin’ a dream.”

  “Let’s get him to the clinic,” said Sherrill.

  Luckily, the tribal ambulance had just arrived in the parking lot, making its routine Saturday-night rounds. Even though Mountain City wasn’t on the reservation, the ambulance and medical facilities were made available on dance nights. They slid the unconscious Lick in the back and slammed the door.

  “We’ll follow you in a minute,” said Sherrill to the paramedic, guiding the old man to her car. She laid her hand on the door handle and paused. “Where is T.A.?”

  “I reckon Lick would know,” answered the old man as he looked at the thickening snow.

  Sherrill set the old man in the front seat of her Buick. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and ran back into the bar.

  38

  DECEMBER 7: GOOSE VALLEY RESERVATION MEDICAL CLINIC

  Lick regained consciousness on the gurney as the paramedic rolled him into the small Goose Valley Reservation Medical Clinic. The paramedic parked the gurney in the hall and went to inform the night nurse who was assisting the Physician’s Assistant, who was the head of the clinic.

  The old man and Sherrill arrived at the clinic ten minutes after the ambulance. They found Lick still strapped to the gurney in the hall. Lick opened his eyes and looked up at them.

  “Whee-ooo!” said the old man. “Bad lip.”

  “Are you okay, Lick?” asked Sherrill, concerned.

  “Bine,” answered Lick.

  “Where’s T.A.?” she asked.

  Lick looked at her. In his moment of lucidity, he had concocted the beginnings of a byzantine explanation to protect T.A.’s secret— to assure Sherrill that T.A. was all right so that Sherrill wouldn’t mobilize tribal, state, and federal law enforcement officers to pursue her. Because if they did, the police would surely find out there was a warrant for T.A.’s arrest. Ad-libbing, he feigned unconsciousness. He fluttered his eyelids and rolled his head.

  “He’s passed out again,” said the old man. “Just when we need him.”

  “Let me check what the PA’s up to,” said Sherrill, heading down the hall.

  “Al,” whispered Lick urgently. “Al, lissen to be!”

  “Why, glory be, you’re alive! You were just playing posthumously!” said the old man, mangling his marsupials.

  “Right! Lissen, dey got her. But we candt tell Sherrill pecause if de police catch her she will go to chail pecause she’s got a warrant for her arrest so jus’ do wot I say. Let me esplane it to Sherrill and you jus’ agree. Okay?”

  “T.A. will go to jail? You mean she’s a criminal? We’ve been aiding and abetting a serial killer or ax murder or horse thief?” said the old man with mock horror.

  “No, no, it ain’t dat bad, but it’s bad enouph. It has to do wit’ drugs, she was framed but . . .” He could hear footsteps coming back down the hall. “Jus’ trus’ me, Al. Lemme do d’ talkin’.”

  “It will be a while,” said Sherrill returning. She looked at Lick. His head was clearing and he could look her in the eye. “Lick, can you talk? Your sister is missing. I made a quick pass through the bar to find her when they discovered you in the parking lot. Nobody had seen her.”

  “Yes,” said Lick. “I can esplane. You don’ haf to worry. She caught a ride with a truck drifer goin sout’. She tol’ me to tell you. She had to make a quick decishion and since your friend hadn’t come because of the bat wedder she said she would take a chance. She said to say t’anks for effert’ing.”

  Sherrill gave Lick a long look under furrowed brows.

  “How did you get hurt?” she asked.

  “Slipped on de step,” he replied.

  She held his gaze.

  “Dat’s wot happened,” said Lick weakly.

  Sherrill looked over at the old man.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Lick knows his sister better’n I do.”

  “We can take him now,” said the nurse from down the hall. “Sherrill, could you wheel the patient in, please.”

  39

  DECEMBER 7: SOUTH FROM GOOSE VALLEY

  “There he is,” said Valter, almost gleefully.

  A white Chevy Suburban with tinted windows sat with the motor running in a large pull-off ten miles south of Mountain City near the Wild Horse Reservoir. Snow was falling.

  Valter pulled in beside the Suburban. Then he climbed between the two bucket seats into the back of the van. Pike was still sitting on Teddie Arizona’s chest, pinning her arms to the floor. His back was aching.

  Valter brandished a roll of duct tape. “What’s good for the gander is good for the goose,” he said, looking down at her.

  She gave him a fierce look.

  “A word of advice, my dear,” said Valter menacingly. “Just cooperate and you can make this trip in relative comfort. Easy or hard, it’s up to you.” He grasped her right arm. She jerked it away, grabbed his jacket collar, pulled him over on his knees, and banged his head against Pike’s.

  Pike grabbed her wrist and slammed it to the floor. His left eyebrow was bleeding.

  Valter drew a hand back, saw the look of challenge in her eyes, then relaxed. “I told you I like pain, didn’t I? Thanks.” He smiled.

  “Yeah, I noticed how satisfied you looked after walkin’ all night in two right boots. That kinda pain musta made you laugh out loud,” she spat.

  “Mr. Pike,” Valter said, “I believe our journey will be a lot more pleasant if I put the first piece of tape over her big fat mouth.” With that, he slapped the sticky gag over her foaming lips. “Turn her over, kind sir, and I will secure her hands behind her back.”

  It took them a few
minutes to truss her ankles and wrists. Pike sat her up and leaned her against the bank of drawers that formed the wall of the van.

  Valter went to speak with Busby, who was waiting in the Suburban. Then he opened the back door of the van and addressed T.A. “Now, Mrs. Pantaker—” She interrupted with muffled cursing and puffing of her cheeks. “Sorry,” Valter continued, “I didn’t understand you, but we are in a bit of a hurry here, so . . . here’s the plan. We’re going to transfer you to the back of the car next to us. It should be comfortable, although you will be sitting on the floor. So let’s move it!”

  Pike was behind her holding the back of her pullover with one hand. Valter stood aside as she slid feetfirst out onto the snowy ground. Just as her feet hit the ground, Pike released his grip. She braced the back of her legs against the bumper and rammed her shoulder into Valter. Valter staggered, recovered, then kicked her feet out from under her. She fell forward, face-first into the snowy roadside.

  “Feisty little vixen,” said Valter, none too pleasantly.

  Pike reached down to pick her up.

  “Hold it, Pike. Let her rest there for a moment. You clean out the van. Make sure we didn’t leave anything. Keep wearin’ those gloves and that stocking cap. I’ll keep an eye on our passenger.”

  Valter squatted down next to T.A.’s head. He could see a little blood on the snow. He said, “I’m trying not to take this personally. But it has been a frustrating—no, a challenging last two days. Your companions did a valiant job, but alas, I’ve got the benefit of professional training, a motive, and”—he leaned closer to her face—“I never give up. You have a choice. If you continue to resist, I will wrap you like a mummy, put you in a duffel bag, and tie you on the luggage rack. Or . . . you can act like a lady.

  “I will pull over every couple hours for a ‘comfort stop.’ It won’t be in town, just along the road somewhere so that you can . . . well, do your business. There is no way you can change the course of events, so you might as well make it easy on yourself.”