Cowgirl Thrillers

by Barbara Neville

“That bitch gonna be a good enough guard if we all go inside?” wonders Michael.

  “Maybe,” I say, “maybe not. I can go up.”

  “Naw, you should go in and see, if Wolf lets you. I’ll go help the bitch, we ain’t known her long, and four eyes are better than two,” Michael volunteers. “I seen some of the stuff, anyhow you can fill me in later. Fijate, this vaquero can guard your gringo scalps.” Michael heads up to join the bitch on watch.

  Wolf takes the rest of us down into the root cellar. There are two small dirt floored rooms, with shelves for canned goods and bins for veggies. It smells of smoke grenades, dirt and mold. Wolf leads Sir Jacob into the second room where I can see a large table under a kerosene lamp. They are looking at something on the table. In a bit, they confer in low voices, then I hear Sir Jacob say, “Empirical evidence suggests, but it is difficult to say, maybe...”

  While I intellectually respect their right to privacy, curiosity overcomes reason so I strain my ears to eavesdrop.

  Spud says, “We can likely all crawl in there and look as soon as Wolf or Sir Jacob gives us the say so. It ain’t a secret, well, maybe it is. Hell, I don’t know. I just found out myself. Damned if I know what to think.”

  Wolf looks up and motions us in with his chin. “Wolf need Sir Jacob’s intuitive reaction first. Come, my brothers, look. You too girl.” He smiles.

  We all crowd in around the table.

  Wolf raises a hand and says, “Many delicate papers here, better use careful touch.”

  “Burnt, half burnt. The smoke grenade?”

  “No, it only emits smoke, no fire,” says Sir Jacob.

  Amongst the papers I see snatches of things I recognize. I run my eyes slowly around the table, seeing patches and pieces of words and names, some sentences.

  “What is all this?”

  “Look here, John Wayne, treasure?”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Is this the Hollywood history?”

  “Or just more clues.”

  “...bits and pieces of...”

  Spud is over looking at things on some oak shelves against the walls. He says, “Look. Over here.” He picks up a stack of papers and carries them over to a bare spot on the table.

  We see scraps of sentences on the papers. Many are damaged by fire and time. They talk of: Seven cities of Tzibola, artifacts found in Spirit Cave cached by the Tzibolan Medicine Men. Moccasin telegraph presaged Estevanicos arrival. Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca, Fray Marcos de Niza, Francisco Vasquez de Coronado.”

  “What are these talking about? A Spirit Cave on Old Earth, conquistadores, what does that have to do with here?” asks Wolf.

  “There is also a map,” says Spud. He carefully moves a few papers to reveal a detailed map.

  “Earth?” I ask.

  “No, here. See, we are here,” says Spud.

  “And the bloody Spirit Cave, just over here,” says Sir Jacob. He points at a symbol on the map.

  “Hells bells! So you suppose someone brought Spirit Cave contents out from Earth?” I wonder aloud.

  Sir Jacob has found a magnifying glass. “Unless the map is a hoax.”

  “Whoa.”

  “It would seem unlikely, but maybe there were escape flights before Earth was destroyed, refugees.”

  “Saving their history, their essence,” Wolf says.

  “I mean, I was present for the terraforming. Indeed there were ruins of cities. Possible, unlikely but possible.”

  “Sounds like hooey to me. Hell, Earth was blown all to hell and gone in the Troubles. They say no one escaped. As we all know ‘they’ say we can always believe everything ‘they’ tell us,” Spud says and scratches his head. “I’ll be a son of a bitch.”

  “A mistake generally made by almost everyone, my dear skeptical Mr. Mullens,” mutters Sir Jacob, “believing what ‘they’ say.”

  “Wait, there is another Spirit Cave here. See? Just on the south side of this hill.” I point.

  “Two?” We all start examining the map more closely.

  “Dang, here is another, Spud.” I point it out.

  “Here also,” says Wolf.

  “Red herrings? Or a code?” asks Spud.

  “Let us gather all the evidence and anything looking even remotely like it might matter. We go to my teepee, safer,” says Wolf. “No one sneak up to surprise us.”

  “You up to a ride Sir Jacob?” asks Spud.

  “If all the difficulties were known at the outset of a long journey, few of us would ever embark,” says Sir Jake. “In other words, indeed I am.”

  We start gathering the papers carefully and placing them in the hard sided folders the bandits have conveniently left us. We pack the folders in the panniers, load them on the interlopers pack horse, tarp them over, and throw a diamond hitch to lash it all down.

  Suddenly, a pebble hits the ground near me. It’s our signal, I look up at the hill at Michael and he signs that someone is coming. Not friendly. We should go now. We throw saddles on horses without cinching up tight and lead them out of sight into the trees.

  Michael comes down the hill and tells us, “It’s Soames, about 10 minutes out.”

  “Maybe time for that second date, if you don’t mind?” says Sir Jacob.

  I say, “Soames? Gross, is there anyone you won’t sleep with?”

  Michael shrugs and says, “There’s an entire gender I won’t sleep with.”

  We are all cinching up as he speaks again. “Basta, you all go. ‘Don Miguel’ will circle back so that Soames and he arrive here together. He will be shocked that the papers are missing and may even care that these guys are dead, if they are his guys. Maybe he will spill the frijoles.”

  “Be careful, compadre.”

  “Seguro que si. Voy a ver, I will see what I can find out.” Already getting into character, Don Miguel lopes off.

  We cinch up tight and skedaddle at a high trot before Soames is in earshot, relieved that the papers are secure in the hard cases.

  “Not a moment too soon. You are psychic, Wolf,” I say.

  “Unh unh, Injin prescient, not psychic,” explains Wolf.

  26 Don Miguel