Cowgirl Thrillers

By Barbara Neville

Love a sheriff who has his own way of doing things? Outlaws aren’t all bad. Or are they? Action and humor. Cowgirls, Indians & lawdogs.
Two revisionist western books in one.
On the Rocks: Wanted, dead or alive. Can she hide? A young cowgirl, falsely accused, searches for a new life. There’s a big reward. And not much hope.
Cowgirls Just Wanna Have Fun: Can even the toughest cowgirl survive? First it’s the shooters on horseback, then the bartender, then a lawdog goes missing.
There’s a hanging. And a lot of snarky dialogue. The outlaws have their reasons. We just have to figure out what they are. Or don’t we?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Neville
• Release date: Sep 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310587450

Barbara Neville

Sadly Barbara Neville past away in her own house on 3-14-2019 of a heart attack. Proceeds from any books sold will go to her loving family.Below is all her own writing and we will leave it as it is..2015 & 2016 NaNoWriMo winner and rustic western visionary Barbara Neville is a rancher, homesteader, cowgirl, artist and mother of two kick ass children. She lives at the arse end of nowhere with her horses, cattle, goats, chickens, guineas, peacocks and Great Pyrenees livestock guardian dogs. She has led an unusual life of adventure, much of it off-grid.Barb is descended from a long line of adventurous folk. Cowboys, ranchers, prospectors, inventors, settlers, homesteaders and more. She carries on the long tradition of taking the road less traveled. Her fictional world draws heavily on her own life and the people, places and experiences of previous generations.

Book preview

by

Barbara

Neville

Copyright ©2014 Barbara Neville

Cover Photo Copyright ©2007 Fox Johnson

Cover design by Barbara Neville

This book is a work of fiction. Any mention of real people, places or historic events is used fictitiously. Names, characters, events and places are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people, places or events is coincidence.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book all or in part.

Published by

Barbara Neville

Rancho Dos Osos

185 El Camino Real

Nogales, AZ 85621

Dedicated to

Nancy

for asking the question.

Thank you

to my brave editors

Nancy Neville Cordell

&

Anonymous Accomplice

for the English lessons.

Any remaining errors are my fault entirely.

Description

Roxanne Rockefeller is a straight shooter who kicks butt, admires tight jeans, and loves life. On The Rocks introduces her as a young cowhand working the last of the fall roundup on a new range, gathering cattle and enjoying the quiet country. Just as the job is about to wind down, things get maybe a bit too exciting.

Annie and her equine companions trot us through a rollicking character driven western action adventure with an intriguing plot twist. Her story is for lovers of all things western and cowboy life in particular as she explores a vast and beautiful land.

On The Rocks is a thrilling ride through wildlife filled mountains and prairies with an assortment of boon and not so boon human and animal companions. Soaring vistas and grandiose themes draw the reader into a nostalgic and surprising world.

Introduction

I am Roxanne Rockefeller on the Rock.

I can explain that. Well, I can’t explain what my parents were thinking. But I can explain the 5R star brand.

I am not actually from the Rock, just a rider on a new range. Here, in fact, for the Fall Roundup. I’ve rode roundup on many a range including: the Biscuit, the Onion, Chesterfield, Fossil Draw, and Mink Creek.

The Rock? Same job, new range.

Which makes me Roxanne Rockefeller, a Rookie on the Rock for Roundup.

Classic: The 5R Star.

Maybe I did inherit my parents’ penchant for alliterative nonsense.

Folks call me Annie and as I tell my story remember: everything will be alright in the end.

If it is not alright, it is not yet the end.

Anyhoo, this here is my story and I am, by gods, stickin’ to it.

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1 Bogey Down

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! I whisper as I beat my hand quietly on the saddle horn. Son of a bitch! Cocksucker! Motherfucking sonsabitches! I wiggle and squirm and pull and push. Damn, damn, damn, damn.

But I just can’t get out.

Damn it to hell, I murmur.

I am also runnin’ out of cuss words. Excuse my French but this is a situation that pretty much has no more appropriate response.

I’ll tell you what happened. As in so many stories of wrecks, it all started out with a borrowed horse. Sometimes things go okay on a borrowed horse, sometimes they don’t. Horses are like people, no two are alike and people willing to loan you a horse are, well, human, so they may not be totally truthful about their horse’s tiny or mighty quirks. And cowboys, well, they just like to have fun. A minor wreck? Good for a laugh around the campfire for years to come.

So when riding a loaner horse, bear all this in mind, because you may get a surprise. Like my first ride on Bogey.

It had been drizzling off and on for days. Cool, damp, overcast. A spot of sun was feeling good as Bogey and I mosey down the trail bringing the last of the cows home. Bogey and me are trailin’ the cattle along towards camp, day dreamin’ about hay and oats. I’m whistling a hopeful On Top of old Bogey.

Hope the sun comes out soon, Bogey. We wanna stay dry. Not looking like we will though. Good thing yore waterproof. Ain’t fair that people don’t have fur.

Bogey snorts, Bbbbbbh.

Nice that you agree.

Suddenly we hear shooting, way too close. Bogey and I get damn nervous…borrowed horse, like I said…so I have no idea how gun shy he is. First rule of horses: never let your mount know you are nervous, he’ll get nervous too. Then he might panic. He depends on you, as the boss, to reassure him. If he doesn’t know you are the boss, you just as well kiss your pretty ass goodbye. No tellin’ what he’ll do but, in my experience, it’ll likely be bad.

So when I say Bogey and I get nervous, I’m kinda lyin’. You see, I may be nervous as all get out, pumped full of adrenaline, but if I ain’t ready to rodeo, my entire being is relaxed. Every muscle, even my brain muscle, projects total calmness. It’s pretty much like a Mexican standoff. I blink first and it could be head down, heels up, ‘Adios, motherfucker.’

‘Course, on the way inside of my being, I am not so relaxed. Not relaxed at all. I’m thinking: ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ but saying, easy, Bogey, just a few firecrackers way off there. No problem, we’ll just continue to mosey along quietly.

Don’t help that the cows are also lifting their heads and looking nervous.

Them cow critters are just sniffin’ the air. Pay them no never mind. We’ll be back to the feed bag in a bit here. I’m scanning the hills for the source of the shots.

The next several shots truly spook my cattle, which commence to hightail it out of the country.

Easy, boy. Bogey is prancin’ around some, but mostly keepin’ his head.

Then a bullet whistles past my ear, a sound you never ever want to hear. I instantly have no problem gettin’ spooked all to hell. Not that I let Bogey feel it. I calmly, quickly, lean forward, shake the reins and tap with my spurs.

Hyaw, Bogey, I whisper, let’s get the hell out of here! Bogey jumps into a full tilt boogey and we sprint off after the cattle.

We are runnin’ flat out down the trail feelin’ bullets, real or imaginary, hot on our ass. As we pass under a tree branch a shadow suddenly looms over us and…

Sheeit, the shadow jumps down and lands behind my cantle, on Bogey’s ass. Shadow reaches around me, grabs the reins and pulls Bogey up in a sliding stop.

Then the ballsy bastard pulls a gun on me and says, Git down, quick, I got this.

I jump off, mostly pushed, before the horse stops completely. I hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of me. Bogey and the horsejacker speed up toward the bandits. One shoots from cover and Shadow slides off to the side of Bogey, hanging on to the horn and a stirrup for a few strides like a’ Injin. Then, he hops with one foot on the ground and, using the horse’s momentum, vaults back into the saddle.

He and Bogey run on out of sight. I am left behind, stunned, laying in the muddy trail. Gooey, but mud’s softer to land in than dirt, so I shouldn’t complain. I do anyway, once I get some air back in my lungs.

Son of a bitch! I grumble.

Oh, hell. I can hear another horse coming down the trail lickety split. I scramble under the nearest bush and curl up as small as possible, which ain’t very small, just as another rider and horse shoot past my hiding place. As this dude passes he shoots at me.

‘Bang, bang, bang.’

Hell, a bush ain’t much cover. Geez.

So I roll around and get organized. Damn, my knee is wrenched all to hell. My back hurts, my shoulder probably ain’t broke...maybe.

I finally get untangled from myself enough to draw my pistol.

The dude has already run on down to where Shadow on Bogey and another guy are shooting it out. The dude is coming up fast behind Bogey and leaning over as if to jump aboard. I draw a bead just at the last second before he is too close to Bogey. Don’t want to hurt a good mount. Hell, Bogey’s rider is wearing feathers and buckskin leggings, and no shirt...oooh...muscles. Is he, mayhaps, a’ Injin?

I take a breath, drawing a bead on the dude on the runnin’ horse just as he leans over to slide onto Bogey behind Shadow.

‘Bam.’

The dude falls limp onto Bogey, slides off his ass and drops to the ground.

Truth is I’m a fair hand with a gun.

The action goes on out of sight. I hear shots still, but getting fainter.

Wait, the shots are getting louder again, they’re coming back. They appear around the bend heading back towards me. Shadow is now hanging off the other side of Bogey, and he’s reloading. How is that even possible? Crazy glue?

Bogey stumbles and Shadow finally comes off and rolls behind a tree. Bogey slows down. I run out and catch the reins, hop on, and head off down the way to look for the other assassin. Bogey and I go hell bent for leather around the bend, forgetting about the mud.

‘Blam.’

Bogey’s legs slide right out from under him.

***

I wake up in a daze. There I am, all alone, just me and Bogey, a motionless ton of horseflesh. Well, half a ton. They say a dead horse is cover. A live horse won’t lay still. Not so with a good horse. Bogey is lying still as a statue. Only problem, he’s lying on my leg.

Is it broke? Hard to say. Can’t feel a thing. Leg totally numb. Might not be broke, if I’m lucky. Bogey ain’t movin’. Shit. The thought occurs in my frazzled brain that maybe the horse is dead.

***

I had done this trick before in the mud, without the whistling bullet, as a raw 14 year old horse breaker. I had the same numb leg and my horse Joe was stunned by the fall then, too. But after a bit he stood up, kinda three leggedly. Definitely shaky. His near foreleg numbed too. After he perked up I reached over, pulled myself up by the stirrup and worked my way to the saddle horn. Wow, was my leg asleep. Joe and I had matching numbness. Fortunately, feeling slowly returned with circulation. Joe and I were no more than bruised up and right near the barn. So, no long ride home.

This was just about two years before I started my adult specialty of rounding up these damn cow critters out of the wildest country imaginable. Even though the weather can be good, bad, or worse, the country can be easy or hard, and like as not, no two days are alike, most days it’s the best job in the world.

***

Riding the wild country is a fantastic escape from all the hustle and bustle of our modern world. No traffic, no worries, just you and your mount a’moseyin’ down the trail.

A cow horse requires just enough concentration to keep you from getting bogged down in all the Troubles you left at home this morning. A good horse runs on autopilot, but Murphy and his inescapable Law are always waiting right around the bend with a surprise, just like the gunshots. There’s no guessing which way your mount will jump if things go haywire.

Bogey and I could be just loafing along, minding our own business, keepin’ a sharp eye on those cattle. Even if they had walked enough miles they had decided pretty much to stay together and stay ahead of us and we hadn’t had a herd quitter for an hour or so, you dasn’t fall asleep. Tired cows can get spooked even easier, bein’ half asleep on the job theirselves. Late in the day this makes for a sleepy naptime combination ‘specially after a long hard morning of runnin’ those quitters in out of the brush.

Even if I was alert to the unexpected, as any horseman must, and Bogey was maybe idling along with eyes barely open, don’t let it fool you. A top notch cow horse like Bogey? When he has a job to do like moving cows, he don’t shirk it. One ear is always cocked toward his bovine charges, even when he’s loafin’.

The unexpected, that’s what gets you killed. A flock of quail flushing from under a bush at your horse’s feet, a sudden sound, a snake, a runnin’ animal; any of those and a thousand things you never thought of can set a horse to buckin’ or runnin’. Now a seasoned mountain horse like Bogey or Spike is pretty used to birds flushing and wild game, but a paper blowing across their trail or a flash of white, the spookiest color, and ‘Woo Hoo,’ it might be a rodeo. Which he will pick to spook at depends on the horse and the instance. Horses hate the unexpected. Flight kicks in first. Thoughts of fight? Not so much. The Chaos Theory is in full effect in the world of horses.

I was lucky Bogie had been so steady in the face of bullets that were loud, scary, and lethal all rolled into one. Hell of a horse.

***

I have been forced into idleness by circumstance. Moving or making noise may shorten my lifespan and my concussed brain? Damn fuzzy.

Thank the gods that some words have been declared expletives. They are but innocent words. Their synonyms are allowed. Funny, really, how one word which means exactly what another means is not allowed in ‘mixed’ company and, in some circles, not allowed at all if there is any other person present.

In my younger years, I resented the fact that some words were considered by polite society to be, well, bad. Bad words! It’s like reprimanding a recalcitrant dog. Bad, bad words! Stop entering my mind. Why were these innocent combinations of letters so irredeemably scorned? Plus as all kids know, there is the double standard of Adult Language. Adults can say it, you second class child citizens better not.

I have finally matured enough to realize that these expletives, however innocent, serve as a relief valve for both the explosive personality and the not so explosive, which I believe includes the most of us. And you can also shock the socks off of well-bred town folks. What, me? Would I do that?

I certainly do love my expletives. Were they not to exist I would have killed many a man, woman, dog, cow, horse...you know what I mean, for you, after all, are only human too.

Let us honor the prophet George Carlin and his famous seven sacred words. Funny, them are seven of my favorites!

All hail the men who invented such a fabulous relief valve! Where would we be without them? And who among ye would throw the first stone?

***

I wake up. Damn, was I dreamin’ again? Dizzy, head hurts. Damn, don’t say ‘ow’ out loud, girl.

Things stay quiet. Seems like forever. Did I say that before? I have no recall of exactly what has happened to get me in this situation. Did Bogey trip, or get shot? Not sure if it’s been seconds, minutes or hours. It is muddy and a mite cold. Where did that adrenaline go?

Bogey is passed out now for sure. Hopefully not almost dead. Many a skeleton has been found trapped under their fallen horse. There’s a long slow way to die. I dasn’t move my hand down to even check for a pulse in his neck, what with the fear of outlaws laying up and watching for any movement in my vicinity. My heart is apoundin’ to beat the band. It is hard to separate that from any heartbeat that may be emanatin’ from Old Boge.

As the sun sets, I begin to hear wolves howling. Oh great, good news.

Bogey and me are the perfect bait. Quite a large tasty meal for a pack of wolves. Yes it is true I am very sweet and tasty, not to mention hot and sexy. In retrospect, a strange train of thought for someone with only five .45 caliber bullets left in my weapon. It might turn into hand to tooth combat if the wolf pack is more than five.

Shit. I suddenly remember. Armed enemies are lurking nearby, so I dare not start working on getting Bogey off my numb leg. I am also pretty concerned about the leg. Is the circulation cut off? Will I live to care? I am truly caught between a rock and a crazy place.

Seems like I really am a mite depressed. I am usually in perfect spirits, ready to rock and roll as they say. Oh lord won’t you buy me a magnificent young stud...what the?

Suddenly a large hand covers my mouth. Caught totally unawares, I shit a big fucking brick. The hand keeps me from yellin’ out. So I bite it. Defensive reflex.

Unhh, a quiet groan.

Another hand appears with three fingers held in front of my face. Then some pointing with the index finger, which I figure means that there are three enemies about. Then the pointing hand levers me up and goes down to my holster to relieve me of my sidearm. Shit! What the hell is this? Double crossin’ bastard.

He moves behind me and out of the corner of my eye I can see him toss the sawbuck off my pack horse, Jake, onto the ground. Then I hear Jake jump into a run and move across my vision with the now gun and horsejacker miraculously glommed onto his back. He has fashioned a hank of rope Injin style through Jake’s mouth and under his chin, giving him just one rein for steerin’.

I see a gallopin’ blur as Jake and his new rider head back up the trail hell bent for election. The rider is bent over the saddle. It looks like that Shadow fella from earlier with long black hair waving in the wind. There is a lot of waiting, enough that I begin to wonder if it is a ruse. Has he stolen my pistol, joined his outlaw compadres and left the country?

I am left with only the five shot derringer in my boot holster and my pocket knife still pinned down under my side. I normally carry two pocket knives: one for skinning and other precision work, like surgery, in my left front pocket. The other knife is a coarse utility blade, part toothed, part smooth and sharp, that I carry in my right rear pocket. Unfortunately, I had forgot and left the utility blade on a rock by the campfire this morning. Works great fer whittlin’ bacon.

I hear two shots.

I am still stayin’ still on the ground in hopes no one will notice me. Bogey’s body kinda dictates that. Seems like maybe three enemies are about.

Bogey takes a deep breath and shifts a bit. The ensuing pain brings back my reality. Fuckin’ A it does. Oh, doggies, it hurts. Maybe it’s good news. Pain is a reminder I might live another day. But I truly have stepped in the deep shit and got stuck hard.

At least this guy has left me alive though, whoever he is.

Suddenly I hear a volley of shots and the brush a poppin’. Three horses emerge from the trees and head up the trail toward me. Jake is in the middle gaining ground fast on the lead rider. Shots are flying from both directions, but the horsejacker has slid over onto Jake’s side and is riding on the far right side of the road, shooting at the other two from under Jake’s neck.

Hid in the brush more or less and lookin’ out from under, I hope to not be spotted and rubbed out. My derringer is too short barreled to shoot with any long range accuracy. If anyone comes close, however, I’ll have ‘em dead to rights. Oh, not so much, it’s stuck in my boot under Bogey. I have at least learned that Jake’s rider is no friend of the guys who shot at me. He is the same guy who was shootin’ at them before, ain’t he?

As they approach, Jake is catching up fast on the lead rider. The horsejacker hops over onto the lead bad guy’s horse and I can see a big ass bowie knife being proffered. The knife flashes and slashes around with both hombres having a hold on it.

Then the third rider catches up and jumps on, too. The poor overloaded horse staggers once, then humps up and lets ‘er blow: still runnin’, also buckin’ and sunfishin’. How he stays head over feet I’ll never know. The struggle is on as they arm wrestle atop the crazed, buckin’ mustang who was likely never broke to ride triple. My horsejacker seems to have a hold, but it’s tough to tell who’s winning. I can see as they disappear a big streak of red blood headed back along the horse’s flank. Just as the horse rounds the bend to go out of sight, they tumble off and roll across the trail, yelling to beat the band.

A big brawl ensues and since they are still in sight I stay quiet and try to rub the pain in my hip away.

Finally the bout of knife and fisticuffs sends them totally out of sight. Maybe I will luck out and be able to get this big stupid horse off of me now and find one of the other guys horses who ran off and catch him so I can get back to my camp. I don’t want to have to sit here all night with no food or bedding. Definitely need fire before it gets too cold. Yep, a warm fire would hit the spot about now, although Bogey is still putting out heat. Once I get out from under him, brrr. I wrap my arms around his neck to catch all the heat I can while I await resolution.

2 Lone

Today being my special day, I am dressed to kill in my finest work duds. Hair on sheep skin chaparejos over my blue jeans, my best leather vest over my snap shirt. Fancy stitched boots in the Paul Bond tradition. Fox Johnson style big ass rowels on my spurs, her handsmithed German silver conchos on her hand tooled spur straps. And my big brown five gallon (yes, I am shitting you) hat. Hell, where do they get those gallon measurements? When it comes to watering a horse, mine actually only holds a quart and some. I am all duded up as the party is set for tonight over the campfire if and when I get there. It is so far turning out to be a heck of a 21st birthday for me.

In any case, I’m slicked up and lookin’ mighty purty. Armament wise, before Shadow stole it, I had my .45 Colt on my hip. I still have my backup .25mm derringer in my boot top holster, under Bogey. My skinnin’ knife, where else? In my pocket. My matching .45 Colt rifle is in the saddle scabbard. I have, however, left my grenades at camp.

A girl generally wants to be prepared. But I didn’t feel the need for grenades whilst a chousin’ cows through the brush. Not that I haven’t considered the need a time or two. When those really wild suckers escape and brush up on me, a grenade would sure light a little fire under their tails! But mebbe also start a real range fire, not to mention barbeque their asses. My employer mightn’t nought ‘preciate me burning up their grass.

Of course, now I was questioning my no grenades while cowboyin’ policy. What with the shooting I had just encountered, and the shooters just a long lob away, I had been feelin’ mighty grenade poor then, and hell, who knew where they were now. They could be layin’ up anywhere. Lobbin’ a few firecrackers might roust ‘em out. Yee Haw!

Back in the early 1800s the Mountain Men used to always carry their long rifle across their lap when they were in hostile territory. I, being a stranger hereabouts, just follered ever’one else as to state of alert. I thought we had nothin’ to rustle up but cows. Hence the rifle rode in my saddle scabbard leaving my hands free for steerin’ and ropin’ if need be. Shit, did I pass out?

***

At this point up pops a wild Injin, feathers, war paint and all. Damn, but it does explain the howling.

And the wolf, with a capitol W, enters the picture.

Lone Wolf’s the name, Paleface. He hands me my revolver. I used up all your bullets. You might want to reload, but them three hombres ain’t around no more.

The wild man returns my.45, which I awkwardly try and finally manage to holster behind and kind of under my right hip. Uncomfortable, too.

Now, you are my lovely lady prisoner.

I shit another brick, but nothing to lose, I brazen it out.

I think you might need to help me shift this horse, if you plan to haul me away to your teepee. How can I remain a smart ass when I are about to be kidnapped? Am I really this stupid?

Sure, let’s get this horse up.

Up? How strong are you, that you can move a comatose horse?

If you weren’t in shock you would have noticed he is still breathing and that eyeball is open. While you were passed out I taught him to play dead.

You’re shittin’ me. No one can pull that off that quick. And I know damn well he is still breathin’!

Haw haw, I have the Injin touch.

If you can raise the dead, red man, now would be the time to show me.

A pinned down white person hadn’t oughta be callin’ me a red man.

So kill me already, I was just follerin’ your ‘Paleface’ lead.

Okay, smart ass, I’ll take the horse and leave your sorry white ass here.

What is this, the land of racial insult? But at least with Bogey off me I would be freed up. I am not sure I want to be a prisoner. But a handsomer kidnapper I cannot imagine. Oh, lordy.

Okay lady, let’s start over. I am Lone Wolf, pleased to meet you.

Roxanne is my name, pleasure. Maybe we could get to work on getting this half ton of wolf bait off my leg.

"I’m not in any rush. It is entertaining to see the master race in a tough position. Mighty fine redskin revenge.

And you are mighty cute like that, I need a photo.

Cripes. Oh lord, what have I done to imagine up such a smartass?

Then Lone Wolf jumps up onto Jake and lopes away. What the hell?

Shit!

After Lone Wolf gets out of sight I hear a piercing ‘wolf’ whistle and damned if Bogey doesn’t shake his head and stand right up!

That dang Injin has pulled off his magic, just exactly as promised.

A few minutes later horsejacker and Jake return leading a fabulously decorated paint horse who is lame on the off fore. The mural on this horse puts my art work in the primitive category. The paint has hand prints, hoof prints, all seeing-eye circles, buffalo heads, deer, antelope, what must be Spirit symbols and more.

He must see me staring at the horse and asks, Pretty horse, uh?

Mighty fine work, I say.

Then I swallow, having trouble concentrating on the horse art as I remember who the prisoner is here.

If he only knew how little I am worth for ransom, he wouldn’t have bothered saving me. Most folks seem to consider a girl cowhand to be a royal pain in the ass. Actually, I am not sure I know anyone who wouldn’t be relieved to let Wolf have me, let alone be willing to actually pay money to get me back. Probably line up for a chance to pay him to take me.

I will end up a’ Injin slave. I am too damn ornery for any brave to want to marry me, which is the only way I know of to escape Injin slavery.

How did you do that, Injin?

You might wanna call me Wolf, Paleface.

Okay Wolf, how did you do it?

Injin magic, White Eyes.

Have you memorized every western story ever told?

Pretty much, Kemo Sabe.

Ha, Lone Stranger too, Injin.

Honest Injin to you, White Eyes.

Seriously, man, how did you teach him the dead horse trick so quick?

Wolf says, Bogey used to be my horse before the white man stole him. He knows all kinds of smart Injin pony tricks.

If you are such a hot shot redskin, how could they have stole him?

I loaned him to a white man. White men not being as smart and savvy as us Injins, Bogey was swiped from him.

I am still down and hurtin’ but not inclined to let my new acquaintance know. So I suck in a bale of air and get up. Hop a few steps trying to find balance on my one working leg. I really start to lose my balance, swinging my arms and hopping like crazy to stay up and then fall back down.

SonofaBitch!

Wolf does a quiet Injin laugh, Hah.

Comical?

Dignity gone before fall, says Wolf. Then he sobers. Hurt much? Here, lay still, Wolf fix.

After quite a few minutes of first class Injin massage, Wolf gets the circulation going in my leg and hip and I am a sore ass version of almost as good as new.

I can finally stand up only to discover that Lone is a big tall Injin, taller even than me. Not a common thing for anyone to be taller than me.

How come you so big and tall no how, Lady? asks Wolf.

Someday I may need to kick your ass, so I gotta be big enough to do it. Call me Annie.

Okay. Annie. But no chance of you whuppin’ me, Injin kick your ass hogtied.

We’ll see on that ‘un. Who am I kidding, his muscles have muscles. Wolf outweighs me an easy 50 pounds of purely beautiful muscle.

Thanks for the loan of the horse, mine pulled up lame, says Wolf.

So I see. Rock bruise maybe?

I’m thinkin’.

I figured you was just a redskin horse and pistol thief. I didn’t mention that I hadn’t realized he was an actual Injin ‘til he told me.

Pretty well describes me. If I was a’ Honest Injin, I’d be pandering to the White Eyes.

Wolf whistles in his mount. Bogey obviously remembers the sound. He walks the six steps over to Wolf for a hug. Wolf’s painted mount limps over and we are set to go. Good looking brown and white Paint horse, talk about stereotyped.

Is his name Scout?

Haw haw, this Injin should have thought of that when I named him. Be confusing though, my other paint horse is Scout.

I reset Jake’s pack saddle and panniers, throw a diamond hitch. We mount up and off we set. Wolf walks beside me leading his lame paint.

So you’re taking me prisoner? For ransom or slavery?

Sheeit girl, I don’t want you anymore. Come to think, yore like to be mean as a snake, and who the hell would pay money to ransom a’ ugly girl like you anyway?

Dang, he saw the uglies too. Hey, Wolf, thanks for the left handed compliment, and also for the save. You definitely saved my bacon.

"The horse would have got himself up eventually, he don’t play dead forever. He would get hungry or thirsty and bail. Though it would be somethin’ if he played dead until he died. Hmm.

Waste of a damn good horse though.

Yeah, but I would have started making a ruckus sooner if you hadn’t warned me they were still around. I have no idea how long I was passed out. And they weren’t making a whisper of noise. I had just about figured they had left. So, thank you.

Not a problem, white girl.

I suppose you’ll want Bogey back. But will you loan him to me to ride home? Else it’s a long walk afoot for me leading Jake. I need to get these victuals to camp. Where do you live? I can bring him over tomorrow.

My camp hard to find, white man never see it. I come get Bogey when I need him.

Maybe white woman can find what white man never see, you think?

Hmph. How have you ever lived this long with that mouth, woman?

Good looks, darlin’. My camp is over towards...

Wolf lifts the sore hoof, pries out a rock and jumps up on Scout’s bare back. Scout takes a few tentative steps, limp cured.

Wolf says, Uh huh. Good. Long walk to teepee.

He turns to me and says, Injin been watching you all month, me know.

Shit.

Hey, saved your ass, says Wolf.

I reckon. Who were those guys?

Trouble. And they got friends too, Kemo Sabe. Take care.

And off Wolf rode, you guessed it, into the sunset.

3 Backtrackin’

In retrospect, maybe a job in this particular country hadn’t been the best idea. Probably why the pay is so pure damn good.

Sure is pretty country though, the finest kind of country. Big mountains, steep enough to pucker up your ass cheeks whilst riding across steep seemingly bottomless slopes on frozen ice slick ground, sidehilling on tiny tilted cow trails gathering cows. Country with beautiful pine, spruce and aspen forests on the high flanks; and sagebrush in the valleys. Country that grows fat calves on plentiful grass. Country I was thinkin’ I could peacefully settle down in afore it had got fractious a few moments back. So much for peace and quiet.

We had started out a force of 25 cowhands hired to round up a couple thousand head of ornery longhorn cattle. Their summer range encompasses round about 40,000 acres of pure damn wild country. We had searched for cows, calves and bulls. Well over 2000, in fact, as a cow and her new calf are counted as one pair rather than two animals. And most of the cows hopefully have a calf by their side. The lease is for 2000 cows. Calves being born into that year are not counted, and the calves are the money end of the operation. Fifty bulls fall on top of that too, as their job is creating those money making calves. No plan of the prime purebred bulls becoming meat.

Anyhow we had made a bunch of figurative circles through the numerous canyons, filled with sage brush in the dry bottoms and willow brush, thick and tough to ride through, in the creek bottoms. Up high, lodgepole pine and Doug fir for forest, speckled with quakies, our name for quaking aspen, in thickets. Beautiful on the outside but dark, nasty, twisted pecker pole mazes on the inside. We had rode over and looked at each square foot of the whole country in the course of about a month. A lot of it twice or thrice.

So thick are the groves of quakies that the sun seems to almost not penetrate. However, a more beautiful sight you will not see than the fall color of the aspen leaf. Yeller, orange, bright pure red, even a lovely mauve, every tree having its own varying and unique shades of beauty, and the super hardy trees still showing quite a bit of bright green, even after the early frosts, though not for long. Truly a pure color mosaic for my hungry eyes. We would even find cattle clear up in the high mountaintops above the tree line, aforagin’ for the alpine feed.

Each pair or so of us cowhands did a half day or day long circle of our allotted share of this range, follerin’ the orders of the Ramrod. We brought our cattle bunches together day by day in a larger and larger gather. Generally we could get them into a big canyon where they would settle and graze and loaf overnight until our morning return. If they didn’t settle we would leave a couple of hands to ride nighthawk and serenade.

After we had the most of them found, we circled them loosely up and sorted out each rancher’s stock in order to get them to their respective home ranches. We split up and delivered each cattleman’s bunch or several ranches’ brands together, if their ranches were in the same direction. All through the gather we had a continuing loss of a few mavericks who would quit the herd and head for the brush. They would hightail it when they thought no one was looking, and by golly if we weren’t lookin’ or our mount hesitated a half a step, they were gone! No brush, however thick or prickly, would stop them. They just knew that there was some grass they needed to get et up before shippin’ out. Also, they figured hiding in the brush would save them from us boogedy bears. They surely had no liking for losin’ their freedom to roam.

Just the pure love of being wild and free up in that open country, few fences and hardly ever a human to bother their pastoral lifestyle, who wouldn’t warm up to that idea? I sure was thinkin’ hard on it. My kind of lonesome land. No one to tell you what to do, just the whisper of the aspen leaves in the breeze. This was my first trip to the Rock and it was more than pleasing to my eyes. Better than I could have even imagined. Hell, peopled with good lookin’ cowboys to boot.

After all the cattle we had gathered and range cut were delivered to be sorted between being shipped to market or moved to winter range, we back rode for the laggards for another 14 days. Some days it is the thankless job of the cowboy: low wages, nasty weather, worse weather, rough terrain, ornery critters, and occasionally contrary horses.

Main gather done, the Ramrod sent most all of the hands home. I was alone, crossing the range for one last ride on my spare horse, Bogey. My partner, Michael, had split out the other direction this morning doing a circle of his own. Michael was a seasoned hand. I grew up in ranchin’, but both he and myself were rookies on this range.

My main equine partner was Spike. A cowhand generally had two or three steady mounts and a couple half broke cayuses for a job like this. Dependin’ on their age and physical condition, each one had a half or full days rest on a regular basis, this being long hours of work in rough terrain.

Life doesn’t always go according to plan. Seriously, does it ever go according to plan?

I seem to be too cold to think straight.

I pull into camp after too long a ride over hill and canyon in the pitch dark, what with the clouds and pouring rain obscuring the full moon I had hoped to use to see. I am cold, wet, shiverin’, and hypothermic. Horses have fur and live outside, so Bogey is warm, comfy and in his element, as he is in most any weather. And like all horses, he always knows the way home. Which is good, ‘cause he’s been in the driver’s seat. I am just a’ hangin’ on.

Damn, a hot fire’s gonna feel good, old horse.

Bogey just nods. Nice thing about talkin’ to your animals, they never talk back. Don’t know if you ever noticed; when a horse walks, his head nods continually up and down. It’s him sayin’, ‘Yes, ma’am, I agree, whatever you say.’ He’s the best.

Fortunately, Bogey has been sending some much appreciated horse heat up my way on the ride. Getting off and leaving that horse heat with no fire built and chores to do was gonna be tough. Usually we had banked up coals left in the pit, but the rain had snuck in on us and fixed that.

I slide off old Bogey and...Shit!...crash all the way down to the dirt. My bruised and beaten body has stiffened up considerable during the long ride. By the time I unsaddle, grain and turn Bogey loose, I have regained not my pride but at least my composure. I limp and gimp over to the fire pit intent on heat, shelter from the rain and a warm meal.

I am getting out my matches with numb fingers when I hear hoof beats.

4 Compadres

Fortunately I have a hot, dry buddy to warm