Cowgirl Thrillers

by Barbara Neville

When we get to the downwind side of the MadDog stock pens that evening the smell ignites memories of my stockyard job on Terrania. It was a good place to get a bunch of pen sorting experience and make a few bucks to climb the starway to a better planet.

  As we close in, we see that the aptly named redhead, Ginger and crew are waiting and my handlebar ‘stache is perfect.

  “I believe I’m the best lookin’ cowhand in the whole shaggy bunch,” I say.

  “What?” asks Lone Wolf, incredulously.

  “Did I say that out loud?”

  “Yep. Only second best.”

  “Why?”

  “Lone Wolf here.”

  “Sheeeit.”

  Spud and Ginger count the cattle as Wolf, Sir Jacob and I work with Ginger’s three cowhands to keep them together and push them single file into the pens. We all dismount and Ginger gets out his money. A laser dot appears on his forehead as he steps over to hand Spud the money.

  “Shit!” Spud sees it, knocks Ginger and me both over as he dives to the ground. I look up carefully and see the cowhand behind Ginger collapse like a rag doll.

  Then we hear the shot.

  Shooting starts in earnest. We have all hit the dirt but Wolf, who I see crab off behind the horses into the brush and disappear out of sight.

  I dive over behind a rock and say, “Shit! Why are they shootin’ at us?”

  “It’s likely the Centrists,” says Sir Jacob, hopping off his horse and laying him over. His sorrel horse, Stew, will provide cover and be a smaller target himself layin’ down.

  “Okay, but my question is, why are they shootin’ at us?”

  Spud looks over at me from behind his rock and says, “It’s a sign we must be doin’ something right.”

  “Oh fuck yeah!” says Sir Jacob, laying on his back and reloading.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If we’re pissing them off, it is. Can’t be helped. They only aren’t pissed off if we toe their line. We do what we believe in, we draw hot lead, simple.”

  “Aha.”

  I turn and see the Wolf’s feathered hat through the brush. I am about to shout a warning when a bullet rips through it.

  “Fuck,” I whisper. “Wolf’s hit!”

  Spud whispers, “Shh, play dead.”

  A minute or two passes.

  “Drop ‘em!” Wolf’s voice.

  We hear the sound of the shooters dropping their weapons.

  Spud looks at me and says, “Just his hat.”

  The buyer’s not dead, but his entire crew is, so the deal goes through.

  “It don’t make us outlaws in my book. We are just defending what is ours. ‘Course, Federals may disagree,” Spud says.

  “May? Bloody hell, you are still inhabiting Fantasyland,” says Sir Jacob.

  Spud looks over at Ginger and says, “Got lucky, Ginger. We’ll help you load.”

  “We all have our days,” says Ginger. He gestures at his dead cowboys. “Wasn’t theirs.”

  Ginger and Spud shake on the deal.

  Wolf brings the shooters over, hands tied behind their backs. He has retrieved his hat. He has a finger stuck through yet another hole.

  I walk over and take a look. “Through and through, glad yore head weren’t in it.”

  “Spirits watch over us today,” Wolf says solemnly.

  “You know them?” he asks Ginger.

  “No, never seen them before.”

  Wolf trusses up the two shooters, mounts up and leads off with them tied by a long rope to the saddle horn.

  “What’s the Injin gonna do with them?”

  “My brother will take them to the pokey. Prisoners build roads and bridges hereabouts unless they confess. Keep them out of trouble while we figure out what they are up to. They break the rules bad enough, we export them off planet.”

  “Yore brother? Oh, sorry, no offense, he’s just awful tan.”

  “Yeah, Ginger, ‘cause he is a’ Injin.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “It’s okay, he knows he’s a’ Injin. I imagine the feathers mighta gave it away for you.”

  Ginger’s skin is as red as his hair by now. He says, “Ahem, I’ll just get these cattle lined out.”

  “It’s okay Ginger, Bob and I will help. Which way is yore ship?”

  After we get the cattle loaded I ask, “None of my business, but I never saw a bill of sale?”

  “Nope, handshake is best. Don’t want anyone to be able to trace Ginger’s cattle back to us.”

  “But they’re branded.”

  “Not with any brand registered to me. Brands around here are a matter of local knowledge. None of Central’s business.”

  “So, they will be beeflegged?”

  “Didn’t ask. Belong to Ginger now. Not my business.”

  “Loose lips?”

  “Sink their owners. Fortunately, it’s a big Galaxy.”

  As we ride into town, Wolf catches up with us having dispensed with his prisoners somehow. Might be better not to ask, I think.

  I say to Lone, “You know how it is when you’ve been out killing and you come into a party and everyone else just finished a day of pushing papers across a desk?”

  “Your experience is so different, it’s hard to fit in, eh?”

  “Naw, I just feel way superior to those worker ants. I’m the frickin’ Queen.”

  “Off with their heads,” says Wolf. “Queen is right, Bob.”

  “Oh, yeah, Bob, I plumb forgot.” We laugh as we ride around the last big boulder into town. “Shit!”

  Whole squad of federales have set up a roadblock on Main Street. We ride up quietly.

  “State your business.”

  “Just come in fer supplies, your Honor,” says Spud. He doffs his hat.

  “Officer.”

  “Yes sir, Officer, your Honor.”

  “You know anything about a shooting earlier?”

  “Whereabouts? What happened?”

  “Where have you been?”

  “We just come from my ranch, like I said, need supplies. The boys,” he gestures at us, “are thirsty.”

  They look us each over carefully; I realize that Lone Wolf Hole in Hat isn’t with us. He just was, we were talking about ants. Them Injins truly are smart, slick and silent.

  The troops eyeball us all for a bit, apparently waiting for us to melt under their superior gaze. Then they pose a few more pointless questions.

  Sir Jacob finally offers, “Beg pardon, gentleman. While we are happy to answer whatever queries you may have, we are but local ranchers. We just want to live out in the country, mind our own p’s and q’s, pints and quarts as it were, and not be bothered. It has been quite successful until now. What do you wish that we do?”

  The little guy with the most spaghetti on his hat puffs hisself up at this. He walks over to Sir Jacob, looks him up and down with obvious contempt and says, “Papers. We will need them from everyone, now!”

  “Of course, at your service, Captain,” says Sir Jacob. He bows, stuffs a hand in his pocket and hands over his passcard.

  The Captain looks it over with a scowl, then his expression changes. “My apologies, your Lordship,” and hands it back.

  “These are my minions,” says Sir Jacob. He sweeps an arm to encompass us all.

  “Of course, your Lordship, you and your party may go.”

  Amazingly, we are released forthwith and without a body cavity search. A good thing, too. Bob is without papers, how would we explain that?

  We head on around the next turn and there sits Wolf. Looking as usual smart, slick, silent and superior.

  His eyes sparkle in the evening sun. “Why you go through roadblock, White Eyes?”

  Spud takes the bait. “Distract those suckers, Injin, so you can sneak around.”

  “Likely saved yore skinny ass,” I add, thinking how truly fine his skinny ass is.

  “Least they didn’t take our armaments.”

  As we ride the last few blocks to the saloon I see
a kid playing with toy cars. I look around at my compañeros. “Any of you ever been to Gearhead?”

  “Not I,” says Sir Jacob. “What is it like?”

  “Well, up on Gearhead they got them old timey unmotivated vehicles ain’t got room for even one horse in ‘em. Whole time I was there I couldn’t figure out what the heck good they were.”

  “Hm.”

  “Shit, the motivated vehicles are gross enough, but at least you just set and watch the scenery. The old timey vehicles don’t drive theirselves. You have to steer with both hands, push pedals with your feet, and watch forward, aft, port and starboard constantly fer critters, other vehicles, walkers, trees, bushes, holes, hills. Crazy amount of work. It’s downright exhaustin’. They are like magnetically drawn to trees. They hold two people and go so fast that when I had my turn I ‘bout killed myself and Michael both.

  “They can’t fit down a trail either, too fat. Actually they do best with wide roads built especially for ‘em, like eight feet wide. Won’t just go cross country like a Green River cart. Then you still gotta pull off the road to let other vehicles pass. Crazy.

  “At least a horse can watch and think and motivate theirselves. Although of occasion they do get devious. Are you guys laughin’ at me?”

  We arrive at the saloon, dismount and tie our steeds, and stomp straight in to slake our aforementioned thirst.

  “Fix us up kind sir, your finest black label,” says Sir Jacob, as he slides coins across the bar.

  “Why the roadblock? What’s this about a shooting?” Spud asks the bartender.

  The barkeep sets up glasses, opens a dark bottle and says, “Some guy killed in the alley last night, big shootout. Soames says they were bushwhacked. He set up the roadblock. That Spanish Don friend of his got it.”

  “In the alley?” asks Spud.

  “Yep, right outside the back door. Charley was tending bar, said she heard it all. Guess she went out and tried to save the Don.”

  I can feel the blood leaving my face. “Dead?” I ask, too shocked to remember to lower my voice.

  “Robert is a gentle soul, no fan of gunplay,” Sir Jacob says to cover for me, holding out his glass.

  The bartender refills our glasses.

  Sir Jacob raises his glass and says, “Bottoms up boys. A toast to life everlasting.”

  I raise my glass and throw it back. Jesus, Michael.

  “Another. Leave the bottle,” I say and toss coins on the bar.

  “Corner table’s open boys, let’s set,” says Spud. “Never easy to hear of a shooting. Life on the frontier provides too many reminders of our mortality.”

  We head back to the table and sit.

  Sir Jacob raises his glass for another toast. “To death, may we not meet it soon.”

  I am having trouble controlling my tear ducts. A fourth shot is bound to help. Damn.

  Before I can pour, Spud puts a hand over my glass and says, “Enough Bob, there are supplies to buy. Business to attend to. What with bushwhackers about, we must stay sharp. Bring the bottle. Time’s a wastin’.”

  “But,” I start.

  “Now, son. Listen to your elders,” says Sir Jacob.

  Spud grabs my arm. “Now, Bob. You’ve had enough.”

  We head out into the alley.

  “Don’t mess up the tracks.”

  Lone, Spud and Sir Jacob look over the sign.

  “Too damn many people have trampled though here. Let’s go talk to Charley.”

  We head on out of the alley and down the block to Charley’s house. Sir Jacob knocks a special pattern. “Charley, it’s your knight in shining armor.”

  Charley opens the door, looks out, spots me, says, “Sorry, no barflies at my residence, go back to the bar and have a round on me.”

  “Wait,” says Spud. “Bob is okay.”

  “You sure? I ain’t,” says Charley. She starts closing the door.

  “You all wait out here,” says Sir Jacob and turns back to the door. “Let me in for one quick smooch, love. Then I will leave too.”

  “Just you, here in the mudroom. I don’t want no drunkards in my house,” says Charley. “I see too many in the bar every fucking day.”

  “No problem, Charley, we’ll leave,” says Spud as he bows. “Meet you at the Short Branch, Jakey.”

  We start walking back. Spud says, “That’s good actually.”

  “Good?”

  “Yeah, she didn’t recognize you. Sir Jacob will get the skinny.”

  We get back to the boardwalk and I sit down on the edge. All I can think of is my partner. I take another swig of the bottle. Spud holds his hand out and I hand it to him. He caps it and takes it over to his horse, shoves it into the saddlebags.

  He comes back and says, “Just wait, we don’t know what the play is. Give Sir Jake and Wolf a chance to investigate.”

  Sir Jacob appears around the corner just then. “Charley says she is sorry, she just didn’t know you. She’s real nervous about this whole thing. Wants us to go back. She would not tell me any more. Said she’ll explain and feed us lunch.”

  He looks me in the eye and says, “Bob, she said to tell you to be patient, it’s a virtue.”

  We troop back to Charley’s. I wipe my cheeks, which are dripping with tears.

  She lets us in, gives me a hug and says, “I’m sorry.”

  Oh crap, water works, I start bawling like a baby.

  “Here, come back here, you’ll feel better with some privacy.”

  “N’No, I...”

  Spud throws an arm around my shoulders. “Come on darlin’, he was a good man. It’ll take a while. I’ll go with you.” He hugs me and we walk down the hall toward the back of the house. Charley opens a door and gestures us into a dark room.

  33 Spaced Out