Cowgirl Thrillers

by Barbara Neville

As you will remember from my earlier journal, the Rock is a planet on the ragged edge of the Cosmos. After the Troubles, Earthkind ended up spread clear to hell and gone. The Troubles was some sort of big old ‘conflict’, we ain’t allowed to call it a war, that blew Old Earth itself to smithereens.

  It pretty much set us back into the Stone Age. Well, us on the edge at least. Lotta places more central to the big government planets have all kind of fancy thingamajigs again. Yaquin, Chilt and Talu are today’s superpower planets. They generally run things. It is, however, an uneasy truce with each planet jockeying for the prime position.

  Me, though, I like stuff less complicated. The simple life of the Rock pleases me no end. Just ariding my horse and seeing the country. Damn good fer the soul.

  Before Sir Jacob’s arrival we had a couple of very pleasant days on the trail.

  “Welcome back.”

  “Huh?” I shake the wool outa my head.

  “Annie lost, not hear Wolf,” says Wolf.

  “Oh, sorry, daydreamin’,” I reply as I reach down to pat my favorite buckskin gelding, Eldorado Joe, on the neck. We are riding across a wide prairie, threading our way between scattered bunches of buffalo.

  “Wolf answering Annie question.”

  I ponder, um, then I have to ask, “What was my question?”

  “Passcards. No matter, the answer is Injin’s names change with time, mark new events, revelations,” explains the sage, and sexy, Wolf.

  “Oh, yeah. Passcards, it was. How’s that work? If you don’t have papers in this galaxy, big trouble. I’d bet money they won’t let you change no names on passcards. How can you travel? Everyone is required to have their passcard ready at all times fer snap inspections, roadblocks and all.”

  “Fuck those guys. Wolf have passcard, not say Lone Wolf, but I ignore passcards. It is white man obsession. On the Rock, spirit rules, Injin names fluid.”

  “But Annie Talks To Horses, hell, I don’t even look Injin.”

  “Mm. You say so, but Wolf see Injin.”

  “You tryin’ to say there ain’t no look? Hell, I’m always sayin’ it my own self, we’s all ever’thing. Sure, go back a couple old forefathers. Yeah, you maybe know they was this or that. Unless they was civilized, back then if yore granny had a sweetie on the side that knocked her up, she would never admit it. And back further? Humankind all started as one dark skinned tribe from that Africa place. But over time populations moved and changed as they split into new tribes. Eventually, people in different places Earth looked very different from those original black folks.

  “Those who venture out, cross the mountains to the greener grass on the other side, they spread out, change, mutate, travel, remix…sexually. It’s a big ole mixin’ bowl, a stew pot,” say I. “But, you think I look Injin? My ma had tan skin, dark eyes and hair. Pa was a true blue eyed, yeller haired, paleface devil. Both was long and tall like me.”

  “My parents different, too. Coati Injin, Pa paleface cowboy. But Injin is like appaloosa horse,” Wolf continues. “Good for Injin to breed with other kind of human. Like appaloosa, who must breed with solid color horse sometimes, or spots disappear, mane and tail get thin. New blood keep breed strong and smart. appaloosa spots, original Injin blood, come back in the end. Powerful strong.”

  “True, hybrid vigor, they call it,” I say. “So we all are mixed up, some look like this, some that. Me, you, we are what we feel. Only reason to even talk about looks, skin, eyes, tits, peckers is fer kicks. The things we share, whether looks, careers or hobbies, are what make us friends. The things that differ are what give friends comedy material. You go to them politely correct places, no humor, ‘cause you ain’t allowed to notice differences. Sucks.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I got that, or saw it on that one planet,” I say. “Michael and I used to call it ‘Deadpan’. Whole planet didn’t get our jokes. Bit the big one. Eventually, they run us off at gunpoint. Last spaceship outta town. No sense of humor at all.”

  Wolf laughs and says, “Annie Kioway and Osage. Many others in woodpile, not matter.”

  “Yep, antepasados,” I say, thinking about them great grannies and such that went before.

  Wolf looks puzzled.

  “Oh. Pardon my Spanglish. It means ancestors. You Injins call ‘em forefathers. And foremothers, I reckon, also,” I add, being a cowgirl feminist.

  “Um-hm,” says Wolf.

  Mose who is just ahead of us looks back and smiles.

  “Okay, I’ll bite, what’s so funny?” I ask.

  “Y’all,” he says. “Reinventin’ the worlds. Cute as bunnies.”

  5 Pack Out