Ride, Cowboy, Ride!

by Baxter Black

  The unicycle was in constant motion as Oui Oui kept her balance. She swiveled to her left as Pica was coming out of her roll holding onto the tail of the left whip. Pica rolled to Oui Oui’s left one more time, but the unicycle was too quick. Oui Oui’s right arm snapped and followed through again. The popper cracked just above Pica’s hip! It sounded like a gunshot!

  Oui Oui cycled backward and ripped the left whip out of Pica’s hand! Even though Pica’s hands were tough from doing physical work, the friction caused her hand to bleed.

  Pica rose and charged her. Oui Oui backpedaled, flailing her whips like she was doing the backstroke.

  Pica dove under the lashing, tucked her head, and rolled forward in the direction of the unicycle. She slid across the stage, her head actually bumping into the tire. Oui Oui leaned out over Pica’s prone body and drove her unicycle up over Pica’s left shoulder, down her back, over her bottom, and down one leg, swerving off the right ankle!

  A pain shot up Pica’s right leg. She stood, wincing, and faced off against Oui Oui Reese, smuggler, attempted framer, and all-around self-promoter.

  Oui Oui laid into her: “You common, white-trash, backwoods bimbo! You have no place in the glamorous world of glitz and style . . . and beauty and nice nails and plucked brows . . . of caviar, diamonds, or even a chauffeur! I knew that the first time I saw you, you were so, so scruffy.

  “Trying to show you elegance and class was like teaching good grooming to a Woodstock groupie. You had no clue. Yeah, it was me in Caldwell! I set you up to dazzle them at the Rodeo Queen luncheon . . . you blew it! Couldn’t even carry off a chance to stop the show.

  “And these simpering wimps who are worried about that magnificent endangered feather halter top. Who do they think is qualified to wear it? And deserving of such a priceless wrap . . . Not them, not you. You don’t even appreciate that beauty is made for beautiful things, precious things. You don’t hang a diamond around a mongrel’s neck!

  “What those LIP LASTERS saw in you I can’t imagine. When they had me! Right there! All along! Me! Look at me . . . I’m the perfect LIP LASTER girl! I’m gonna be in the movies, on magazine covers . . . Turk just said I’m an ascending star! You’re not good enough to do my cuticles!”

  Pica jumped so quickly that Oui Oui never had a chance to draw back a whip. Pica was in the air when she hit Oui Oui at the midline. Oui Oui was backpedaling and into a spin as Pica climbed her back and wrapped her legs around her waist.

  Oui Oui was tipping forward to catch her balance as Pica wrapped her arms around Oui Oui’s head. The cat’s-eye mask flew off! The unicycle careened around the stage, Oui Oui skillfully and desperately trying to keep it upright. At one point Oui Oui was at a 45-degree angle, the whips long since dropped, her tresses come loose, and Pica, with her left hand in Oui Oui’s hair, her legs still wrapped around her waist, and her right hand thrown back like a saddle bronc rider at full throttle!

  As you might guess, dear reader, this cannot go on much longer. As the author, I could add complications like crowd intervention, a banana peel, or someone calling 9-1-1, but this is the part where the good guy or gal—in this case our heroine—gets even.

  But we did want to give Oui Oui her day, to make her a worthy foe. And she is. And now that the tablecloth has been pulled out from under her, she can be quickly dispensed with, but with this caveat: people like Oui Oui never give up. Pride and vanity will keep them egotistical until they are old and gray.

  But maybe one good thing might come out of this disaster. Oui Oui’s not going to have many friends after this, except her loyal, subservient File Blitzer. If she has any heart at all, any unselfish gene tucked away somewhere, she has a chance to make his dream come true. Let’s wish him luck.

  The double-barreled, overloaded, smoking, screaming unicycle flew off the stage and bounced onto the table front and center, which tipped forward under the weight and allowed the whole unit—wheel, operator, and passenger—to hit the carpet and crash into a photographer from Western Horseman magazine!

  Cooney leaped into the fray. He was actually sitting on Oui Oui’s legs, behind Pica, trying to hold her arms to stop her from pounding Oui Oui’s head face down into the carpet. Pica was struggling to get free of his grasp. She couldn’t. Finally she quit and sagged in his arms.

  Oui Oui was having a minor fit. She slowly slid her hands up to cover her face. She was snuffling and cursing. A hand touched her head gently. She shook it off. Then two hands took her head between them and stayed there against some half-hearted resistance. Oui Oui quit shaking and moved one of her hands up to cover the hand that held her face.

  “It’s all right, Baby.”

  She recognized his voice. “Oh, Filey, oh, oh, oh. Was it okay?”

  “It was okay, Baby. They’ll remember it a long time.”

  CHAPTER 74

  December 10, Saturday Night

  Party Aftermath

  The police had finally exited with Oui Oui in tow and File Blitzer close behind. The mayhem that occurred when Pica and Oui Oui took the fight into the crowd had simmered down. Nova Skosha and Turk Manniquin were in a deep discussion with security officers and the hotel night manager. Straight was surrounded by reporters, who were lauding him for his selfless sacrifice, loyalty, and uncommon grace for relinquishing his chance to win the NFR average.

  Cooney stood with Pica off to the side, out of the spotlight, by the stage where a curtain hung down. No one had recognized her. Straight had outdrawn Cooney for attention. The police had questioned Pica. She didn’t have much to say. Turk had smoothed everything over, diminishing Pica’s culpability, so in the end she appeared to have been just an innocent bystander. No one was pressing charges; he didn’t want any more bad publicity.

  One of the officers saw Pica and went to her. “I just need to get your name,” he said.

  Pica froze momentarily. She was quite aware that she was still a fugitive, a suspected felon.

  “Suzie Bedlam,” said Cooney. “Buffalo, South Dakota.”

  She glanced up at Cooney just as KroAsha LaTourre arrived and spoke up: “Da real story here is dat woman on da stage that y’all done took away. There’s been undercover federal agents that’s been stakin’ her out fo’ smugglin’ contraband. This little lady just happened to get in da middle of a fight ’tween the agents and dat woman.”

  “Nobody said anything about federal agents,” said the officer.

  “Dat man what walked out wit’ her, you’d see’d him!” she charged on, “he’s wit’ the FBI-SA . . .”

  The officer flipped back a page in his notebook. “Blitzer? Mr. File Blitzer?”

  “Yes, suh, dat be him,” she said. “Federal Bureau Incorporated of Special Agents.”

  “And who are you, sir?” he asked Cooney.

  “Her husband,” Cooney said, pointing to “Suzie.”

  “Dey’s innocent bystanders, basically, who got caught in the crossfire,” intervened KroAsha.

  “Well, thanks for your time. You okay?” the officer asked Pica. “That’s a nasty scratch on your neck.”

  “I’m fine,” said Pica. “I can take care of it.”

  The officer walked back toward the group where Turk was holding court, recounting his basketball career and signing autographs.

  “My, oh, my,” said KroAsha. “You come from outta nowhere, Honey. I seen what you throwed on our table. Dem feathers and dem pictures. It takes you off da hook, I bet. Well, I don’t know how you did, o’ if you ’sposed to be here o’ wot. I think I don’t wanna ax too many question, but when you get where you can call me, we’ll work it out.”

  Pica stood unmoving and did not smile.

  KroAsha backed off a little. “I guess you gotta right not to think too kindly of us, but we’ll git to da bottom of dis, and if you in da clear, you come out all right. I’ll personally
make sure.”

  As soon as KroAsha turned her back, Cooney slipped his arm through Pica’s and ducked behind the curtain. He worked their way through the kitchen and back ways until they came out into the parking lot in back of the hotel. It was 11:15 p.m. and cold. Pica stumbled. Cooney kept her from falling. She was spent.

  “Look,” he said, “we can’t go ’round front for a cab. Too many people would recognize me . . . or you . . . I think we can catch one of these cabs before it pulls on around front . . . like that one!”

  A cab was coming around the parking area headed for the casino entrance. Cooney waved it down. “Take us to the Innercom Hotel. Around back, please, in the parking lot. My truck’s back there.”

  It was midnight when they walked into a room at the Palms A-GO-GO on Maryland Avenue. It was a Best Western, $69 per night, one king-size bed.

  Cooney sat Pica on the bed, clicked on the TV, and said he’d be right back. He was going to a Walgreens that they had passed on the way to the motel. “Anything you need?” he asked.

  She shook her head wearily. He left.

  CHAPTER 75

  December 11, Sunday, 12:13 a.m.

  Palms A GO-GO Motel

  Pica was in a daze. It was hard for her to fathom what had happened since she had fallen asleep in Cooney’s arms twenty-four hours ago: burglarizing Oui Oui’s room, being made a prisoner by Feliz, modeling for Pilo Tatoon, escaping like Tarzan, witnessing the fight at the wedding chapel, physically assaulting Oui Oui, and proving herself innocent of the smuggling charges.

  Cooney kept appearing in the kaleidoscopic memories, but where and when were not clear. Now she was lying back in a motel bed, waiting. Waiting for him but too tired to let her imagination go any further.

  It took Cooney nearly an hour to pick up items he thought might be useful at the drugstore and supermarket. When he returned Pica was asleep on top of the bed, boots and all. The light was still on in the bathroom, and the TV hummed in the background. The room was quite warm.

  Cooney looked down at this woman who had captured his heart in Tucson last February when he had been getting down onto a bronc in a match ride against Lionel Trane. Here she lay in deep slumber, no worry lines on her face, those gorgeous full lips parted slightly like she was blowing fluff off a dandelion.

  The first time he actually had met her had been at that matched ride afterparty in Tucson. That night she had figuratively driven a stake into his brain! The dazzling smile, her gaze, her eye contact that felt like a physical connection, something wireless; maybe she sent out neural waves, like feelers on a jellyfish or whiskers on a star-nosed mole!

  A star-nosed mole? Where did that come from! Can’t everyone see he has been enchanted with her since the day he met her? Now she is lying on his bed, completely vulnerable. A twenty-four-year-old strawberry blonde with a sumptuous figure, who might actually feel beholden to him. What is he waiting for?!

  The black motorcycle jacket had fallen open. He could see her chest rising and falling slowly. The welt on her neck ran from behind her right ear and down across her left breast and disappeared under the low-cut T-shirt that Trisket Thistle had swapped her. He presumed it was a whip lash. She had several other lesions, scrapes, and bruises from what he could see. Her hair was pulled back but tangled, yet she looked peaceful.

  Cooney slid a chair up beside the bed, sat down, and watched her. She looked hurt, but he knew how tough she was. He’d never really seen a soft side; she’d always been guarded around him. Of course, he admitted, he’d given her good reason not to trust him.

  The night before, he’d seen another side of her when she’d hit bottom: exhausted, suffering, sobbing, depleted, and defenseless.

  Tonight Cooney’s heart is filling with compassion, affection, admiration, empathy, lust, and shame. His chest is tight. He thinks about pulling off her boots and jacket but . . . with too many thoughts circling inside his skull, he finally dozes off in the chair.

  Pica’s mind is finally letting her dream. She is lying in a tent. The flaps are closed. She is in a bedroll, Cooney on top of her. He is resting on his elbows with her face in his hands. He lets a finger roll over the rim of her ear, then slide lightly to her lower lip. He opens it slightly and runs his tongue under her upper lip.

  She feels him swelling inside her. Her arms closed around his waist, her fingers interlaced. She squeezes him. Her mouth engulfs his face; her lips and her tongue press into him. She feels his hand slide off her face and trail lightly down across her chin, linger in the Angle of Lewis, then across her sternum, shushing this way and that like a skier sluicing left and right on the glistening, snowy slopes on either side; then the fingers drop down into the chute, lazily circling the curvature of her navel. She arches her neck and hears the voice of Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter: “The man left the door open, and the wrong dogs came home . . .”

  Through habit of waking without movement or noise from countless wildlife stakeouts, Pica slowly opened her eyes. Dreaming, she realized. Scanning the scene, she saw Cooney sitting in a chair next to the bed. His head bent in slumber. The reflection of the television flickered across his upper body.

  Taking inventory she realized she was still wearing the leather jacket and motorcycle boots Trisket had supplied her. She moved her eyes back to Cooney. Her focus widened until he became the center point of a motel room landscape: open bathroom door with light on, television playing, plastic shopping bags on the TV cabinet, Cooney’s hat lying upside down by the shopping bags.

  “Oh, my,” she said in a breathy exhalation.

  Cooney stirred, looked up, and blinked.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling pleasantly.

  He took a deep breath and straightened in the chair. He hesitated. “About the marriage . . .”

  She lifted her left hand. A gold band was on her ring finger.

  He continued: “If you want to get an annulment . . . I mean, we were in the thick of it, and if . . . uh . . . does it fit?”

  Pica realized that her answer would be taken as an answer to a much bigger question. No man had ever asked her to marry him. But that in itself was no reason to say yes. Did she love him? She didn’t know how to describe her feelings. Her head started to swim.

  Cooney watched as confusion clouded her brow. He raised his eyebrows and smiled quizzically.

  She wished she could talk to her father right now. She envisioned his face. His words came back to her: “You’ve got good sense, Girl. Trust your intuition.”

  She felt the golden band and turned it around on her finger. “It fits just fine,” she said.

  CHAPTER 76

  December 11, Sunday Morning, 3:44 a.m.

  Consummation

  Cooney rose, turned off the television, and closed the bathroom door ’til just a sliver of light fell into the bedroom. He let his eyes adjust to the near-darkness, then sat down on the bed beside her. He leaned toward her, held her face in his hands, and kissed her lips. It was such a gentle movement that Pica wasn’t sure he had really kissed her. She pursed her lips and felt the contact. He was just that close, a pucker away.

  He delicately traced a line completely around her lips with his tongue, moistening them. He backed off enough to see that her eyes were closed. He kissed her again but with increasing firmness. Pica responded. Slowly they became engaged in a silky, slinky, slow, deliberate, delovely, connubial confection that was candy sweet, marshmallow soft, and seductively sensuous . . . and it was only a kiss!

  He backed off. She opened her eyes. He slid the sleeves of the motorcycle jacket over her arms and, placing his palm in the small of her back, slid the jacket off the field of love.

  Between kisses and touches he slipped off her shirt, pants, and boots as tenderly as a geisha would peel a peach. Then he pulled the sheets up over her, turned and disrobed himself. She watched. She could see
only his silhouette against the backlight. He had muscular arms and shoulders and a narrow waist. Her heart flipped. As if an air bubble in her veins had popped inside her chest. Her skin began to tingle; she felt flush. He lifted the covers and crawled in next to her. They were touching the length of her body. Her lips were on his, his hands were on her, and then . . . as easily as Zorro holstering his pistola, they became one.

  They came together like blueberries stirred into vanilla yogurt. She was as sleek as velvet. Smooth as a baby bunny. He glided along her skin, held tight by some bodily Bernoulli force.

  He was as tender as he could be, letting her come to him, not pushing, just catching. He was so aware of her physical injuries. Once his hand ran across a rough abrasion on the back of her leg. He expected her to wince, but if she felt it, she was somewhere else.

  She was indeed somewhere else! She was on new ground in a place that she had imagined so many times yet had never experienced. It was like the first time she had tasted a dark chocolate truffle or heard Ian Tyson sing or flown over the mountains she loved!

  Pica could feel herself rising to meet him, up and up, then the breath-taking sensation of falling over a brilliant, silvery waterfall!

  They could have been locked together in a paint-shaker! They could have been rising off Cape Canaveral at daybreak! Two electrons colliding at the speed of light, spiraling off into that indefinable galaxy of exquisite pleasure! Suddenly she was floating, featherlight, dreamy, and diaphanous on a translucent blanket of butterfly wings. She closed her eyes, laid her head back, and escaped the tenuous bonds of Earth.

  It was as good as it could get!