Cowboy & Injin Mystery: Two Cowgirl Adventure Novels

By Barbara Neville

Two revisionist western books in one.
Cowgirls Rock: Laws are meant to save mankind from itself.
The problem? Outlaws are beyond the law.
Our cowgirl hero gets help from a livestock guardian dog this time out.
Life should be idyllic, instead, she ends up in a fight for her life. Her canine friend is an independent cuss, a big white livestock guardian dog, who is duty bound to save the day.
An action packed, humorous western.
Off Grid Planet: Will the hit & miss snipers win out? Will the Amish settlers find reach their goal? The dog gets in a mess of her own.
Our intrepid adventurers take a camel caravan across the desert. Proving that cowhands are adaptable. Our favorite gal finds a new guy to play with. Her motto:
"Men are for fun, not for keeps."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Neville
• Release date: Sep 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370743513

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

Introduction

This book is written in cowboy vernacular. To assist those who may not have watched enough western movies, I have included a Cowboy Dictionary at the back of the book.

***

"I wrote this book series, in part, to dispel the image of cowgirls as mere girlfriends and wives of cowboys. The kind who wear western shirts, dresses, boots, concho belts with shiny buckles, and all. They got all the shiny western bling and they call theirselves cowgirls. These gals are the ones who, while their cowboys are out cousin’ cows, shoein’ the rough string and, (everyone’s favorite) fixin’ fence; are home fixin’ their makeup and chattin’ with their gal friends. Now, true, they are a breed of cowgirls, and more power to ‘em.

But some of us are a different breed.

"We are not just cow ‘girls’ but true female cow ‘boys’. We do the dirty work, from fixin’ fence to cuttin’ sacks and squeezin’ out the oysters. By golly, we can do it all day ever’day, just like the boys.

So, saddle yore bronc and suck it up. We’re gonna open the gate and let ‘er rip!

Watch yore ass boys, ‘cause we just might kick it.

- Annie Talks To Horses.

Description

Warning: this book contains humor, sex, cussin’ and enough sarcasm to choke a horse.

***

Saddle up your cowpony and come ride along with our plucky heroes.

It's after the apocalypse. Humanity gets a do-over on a pristine planet.

Annie, her cowboy compadres and the new Amish settlers are exploring parts unknown. They have part of an old map & a lot of spunk.

The cowboys & Injins are hot & sexy. Michael has a new friend. For our cover model, it's a dog's life.

This is Spirit Animal series book three, featuring Annie Talks To Horses.

Readers of Craig Johnson, Tony Hillerman, Dick Francis, Michael Crichton, Robert B. Parker, Ace Atkins, Robert Knott, Michael Bunker, Janet Evanovich should like this book.

***

Barbara Neville's Spirit Animal series is not what you would expect. It’s all about Cowboys and Injins. It’s told by a tough cowgirl. It takes place in the twenty-sixth century. It may be the future, but our cowboys ride horses.

You see, five hundred years ago were the Troubles. Earth was blown to smithereens. The lucky people got out just before. Pioneered new planets. War moved out into space. Things got blown back to primitive. Humankind clawed their way back out, ruled by the Federals.

Progress made them nervous, so the Feds passed a law declaring all the newly explored planets as wilderness. No internal combustion engines or electronics are allowed beyond the spaceport on planet Rock.

The law is meant to save mankind from itself.

The problem? Outlaws are beyond the law.

***

Rustic western visionary Barbara Neville takes us on another humorous action-packed adventure into the cowboy future. This Native American thriller features a strong woman protagonist and a little help from man's best friend. This is book three of the Spirit Animal series.

Reviews

Broken Warrior Large Print: A new Western July 16, 2016

good book.-Grizzlyone.

***

 Off Grid Planet by Barbara Neville:  I enjoyed this book very much. It was like being dropped into a crazy dream in a good way. I loved the quirky characters and the cowboy dictionary. It was interesting to read from perspectives of the different characters as well as the mix of ships and horses. I will definitely look up other books by this author. A good read. -- Pam Mooney. From Goodreads.com

***               

On the Rocks' by Barbara Neville: I'm really loving this book. It's funny and thought-provoking and I'm excited to read the next in her series. There is a touch of Tom Robbins, Mad Max, & Dusk till Dawn goodness, with horses, Cowboys, spaceships and dinosaurs... What's not to love?" -- Laura. From Goodreads.com.

***

On the Rocks- ...The greatest strength of this book is its narrator, Roxanne Rockefeller, a profane, feisty cowgirl. Neville has created a genuinely fresh and well-developed character in Roxanne, a young woman who rides out in her best riding finery, complete with guns, a knife... and grenades.-Online Book Club

***

 On the Rocks-I love the cowboy, dinosaurs, spaceships. There was love involved too. To me it was mystery romance. The plus in this book was Annie and Lone Wolf. -- Lorraine Anton. From Goodreads.com

Reviews of Cowgirls Just Wanna Have Fun (Spirit Animal #2):

There oughta be a very good category of writing. 'cause that's where this one is. I thoroughly enjoyed this book and will buy the next one too. Y'all do the same.

Smartass, fun and fast moving.

***

Reviews of On the Rocks (Spirit Animal #1):

A VERY ENJOYABLE READ!!! Captivating, mentally stimulating, & entertaining with a STRONG female character.

Actually my favorite summer read! I can just picture this gal ridin', shootin', and livin' it up on the range with quite a cast of characters!! Fun, lighthearted and gritty . I was born too late ! But On the Rocks puts me there!

laugh out loud funny.

On the Rocks has an intriguing story line with some definite surprises you don't expect in a Western. The characters are interesting, I look forward to learning more about them.

Interesting. Definitely not my usual book. I enjoyed it though.

Get on that Pony & Ride!

FREE DOWNLOAD

COWGIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN

Spirit Animal Book 2

The adventure continues.

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Plus, download a chapter from the upcoming fourth book in the Spirit Animal Series.

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"It’s our fuckin’ planet.

If you don’t like it,

go find your own."

-Anonymous

Chapter 1 Ships of the Desert

Crack.

Sons a bitches, I say. I lean forward to reduce my windage, close the top of the burlap bag, shake up my reins and tap with my spurs.

Midnight hops up into a gallop. Flat out. Once I get the rhythm, I scrunch even further down over the saddlehorn, hoping against hope, to reduce my target area. Midnight’s long wavy mane is blowing back, caressing my face. We sprint across the clearing, heading for the trees. I look over my shoulder, as another round zings by.

What the fuck?

We finally get into cover, a thick stand of alligator junipers, and slow to a pace. The blue-green trees smell like turpentine. They are heavy with berries. Coyote feed. The layer of needles is thick under Midnight’s hooves. We proceed quietly. Except for the kittens, who meow. They don’t appreciate me closing their skylight. I open the top of the burlap bag enough that they can see out but not escape.

I was careful to get a male and a female. So the pilgrims can raise mousers. Trixie told me how much they miss their cats. They had to leave them on Terrania. They’ll love these new kittens.

The shots didn't sound like the ‘boom’ of a .50 cal. It sounded like a varmint round. One of them old .22 caliber ones; .220 Swift, .223, .22-250, .243. There's a bunch of them around. Don’t know of anyone that has a varmint rifle who’d also have a desire to end me.

Midnight is blowing a bit, but recovering fast. I still smell the burnt gunpowder of the bullets’ passage. We have a few miles to go.

When I get into MadDog, I head straight for the Sheriff’s Office. I untie the kitten bag from my saddle, trot up the steps, cross the boardwalk and carry my tiny charges in the door.

You hear about the guy sharp shooting out by the old Good’nough place? I ask.

Spud is resting his cheek on a fist. His blonde locks are flowing down across the yoke on the turquoise cowboy shirt he is wearing today. Same turquoise as his eyes. His elbow is on the wooden arm of the black leather sheriff’s chair. It’s a classic chair, white oak arms and undercarriage, swivels and leans back. Uptown. The office smells of dust and lassitude. MadDog is not a busy place.

He looks lazily up at me and asks, You git hit?

I set the bag inside a pen that he has set up for the kittens to stay until we can get them out to camp. When I open the top, the orange male and silver tabby female peer out suspiciously. I close the wire door.

As many times as you tried to escape on the way here? Now, in a safe warm room, you get shy?

The kittens ignore me. I look over at my blonde buddy. No hits.

He shrugs and flips palm up, in a dismissive gesture.

We watch the kittens until they venture out and find the water bowl. They lap it up, thirsty from their first ambush.

Good kitties, he says. Then looks at me and says, Time for rounds.

He stands up and we head out to search for crime.

As we stroll down the boardwalk, spurs a jingling, I ask, You don’t think me gettin’ shot at is important?

He turns his head and squints down at me. Yours is the second report this morning. Tindall went out to sneak in behind him.

And?

Finger crossed, our luck will change.

The sniper’s a squirrelly bastard. No one’s been able to catch him yet.

Hoss comes walking up from the other end of town. We sit on the bench in front of the saloon. Spud reaches out and scratches her ear. She smiles and pants.

He looks at me and says, "You know when this big girl was a puppy, maybe three months old, she almost drowned in a gully washer.

"It was pouring rain that day. I was snug inside workin’ on some project, when Wolf came over. He said we needed to go. Right away. So, I followed him out and up that big creek out past his teepee. There, in the pouring rain we found this big white pup, standing on a rock, surrounded by the raging waters. The current was running to beat the band.

"As we waded in to save her the current rolled the rock. She was thrown into the water. Wolf had to swim to get her. The current started to sweep him off, too. He paddled and struggled against the waves. But with one arm holding the pup, he was losing the battle.

Luckily, I found a long branch. I cut it and waded out about chest deep myself. Just before he washed around that big sweeping bend, there above the big rapids in the boulder patch, he got a hold and with a fair bit of scramblin’, we got ‘em both to shore. Never did figure out how he knew she was there. When I asked, he just shrugged.

Spud shakes his head and says, Man, was this puppy muddy.

He moves his hands onto her back and gives her a deep spinal massage.

***

An hour later, Spud is behind the desk once again. He’s leaning back in his sheriff’s chair, legs crossed. His boots resting carelessly on the blotter. He’s twirling his wide brimmed hat on an index finger.

We have just come back from rounds. This, as you likely know, means we walked around town looking for lawbreakers. Being a small and happy town with almost no laws, we found the usual number. Which is none. So, to entertain ourselves, we slipped into an alley and found a quiet alcove to pull off a quickie. We strolled hand in hand back to the Sheriff’s Office.

Amazingly, Spud has yet to fall asleep. I predict that, being a man, he will soon be in the throes of the traditional post-orgasmic nap.

I am fiddling around at the rifle rack, looking at this and that. I spot something new. A nice looking stainless steel .308 lever action rifle with a nice long twenty-six inch octagonal barrel.

Got a ten power scope, remarks Spud from his chair.

Be nice fer snipin’, I say as I pull it down. I check that the chamber and magazine are empty. Safety first. I sight down the tunnel under the scope through the iron sights.

I swing it around and heft it a bit, careful to never point it toward Spud. Safety second, too. Nice balance.

Yep, he says. Just need a bad guy to shoot at.

Sharp shooter’ll do, I say.

I put it back on the rack and settle into one of the overstuffed red guest chairs. I pull my hat over my eyes, thinking that maybe females need naps after, also. The sound of boots on the wooden boardwalk breaks the spell.

Spud stops spinning his hat. He puts it on and tilts it down over his eyes. He rests his right hand on his pistol butt. I get ready too, just in case today is the day that MadDog ain’t as peaceable as we like to think.

Zebulon Pike strides into the office with a big smile on his face. He sees me and doffs his hat. Boy has manners. Zeb is wearing a hat which looks a lot like a cowboy hat, but isn’t. It does have the important part, a wide brim for shade.

Good morning Annie, Sheriff Mullens, he says, looking between us and then settling his hat back on his head. I have come to pick up my charges.

Charges? says Spud in an inquiring tone from under his hat brim.

Zeb takes his flat brimmed hat completely off and worries it with his hands, wringing the brim and fiddling with the hatband, clearly nervous. He is wearing blue jeans and a tan shirt. His work boots have seen a few miles.

Well, yes, Zeb says. You said that those, er, hoodlums were given community service jobs working for our expedition. Did I misunderstand?

Yes and no, says Spud, pulling his feet off the old oak desk and sitting up. He tilts his hat back up so he can look Zeb in the eye. Mitch and Crystal are to be workin’ out there. But not exactly for you. They’ll be teachin’ you what you need to know to survive the winter. And how to feed, care for and handle the animals you buy for yore trip. They won’t haul yore water or shovel shit. And, they won’t be available until tomorrow. You see?

Oh, no. As I explained before, we learned all that we need to know before we ever left Terrania, says Zeb.

You did, says Spud, flatly unimpressed. He has seen Zeb's horseback skills, which are close to none.

Yes, and we brought our draft animals with us, says Zeb. True, we need to buy some other livestock, but we can handle that.

Okay… starts Spud.

Hey, you know what? says Zeb brightly, taking his hat off again in his excitement. Let’s go out there. If you have the time, I mean. I can show you. We had a meeting last night and a sign came to us. We are heading out the trail today. The others are getting ready out there at camp now. This way I can assure you that, we are prepared. No need to worry about us.

Actually, we were thinkin’ along the same lines, I say. Go out fer a look-see.

After the nap? I’m sleepy now. But, I am trying to learn how to be dead polite. Not an easy job at all. So, I say nothing more aloud.

Wonderful, says Zeb, settling his hat back atop his curls. I just need to pick up a few things at the store. Should be about a half hour.

Okay, says Spud. We’ll meet you at the corrals.

We abandon our nap plans; maybe that was just me, and head down the boardwalk. I walk behind Spud, ‘cause I like to watch him from this particular angle. He has a muscular ass and a sassy swagger. Both are nicely displayed in his tight blue jeans.

He can also read minds, it seems. He swivels his head and catches me ogling. He breaks out a bright smile, which is wide enough to melt my resolve, dissolve my resistance, evaporate my panties and unzip my blue jeans.

We arrive at the big barn. The tack room inside smells like home. Horse sweat, old leather and hay. Spud decides that another quickie is in order. Oh, baby.

We straighten our outfits, pick up what tack we’ll need and head out the door. There is a dust devil blowing through, so we settle our hats against the breeze and walk toward the corrals.

Zeb is just walking up.

Hey, Zeb, where’s yore cayuse? I ask.

Zeb looks confused.

Yore horse?

Oh, well, we haven’t any horses yet.

Here, I got a spare, says Spud.

He sets down his gear, walks back into the tack room and comes out with another saddle, blankets and bridle. He hands them to Zeb and we walk over and sling the saddles onto the top rail of the fence.

Spud points his chin out toward the horses and says, Catch yoreself that bay there.

Why, that’s very kind of you, says Zeb.

I am thinking that no time is the wrong time for a novice to get some riding experience.

It takes considerable advice from me for Zeb to get from loose horse, to caught and haltered, and on to saddled and bridled. Then, there is the left side lesson and, well, you know the rest. Around thirty minutes later, we are on the trail. I am offering further advice in order to keep Zeb up on top of his horse.

The old human on top, horse underneath dilemma. Not always an easy one. Things like; heels down, toes pointed straight ahead. Reins too loose, too tight, different lengths. Sit up straight, heels down. Check them reins again.

There are just too many things you gotta do at once the first few rides. But they all sink in with time. Just about anyone, no matter how dense, has a chance of learning the skill. Toughest ones are the ones who know it all, but you kin usually cut down ‘em to size, if the horse don’t do it first.

As we work our, slowed by the novice, way out of town, Buzz comes riding in from a side street. Long, tall and blonde, Buzz comes from the planet Bãngh. Some say he’s an alien. Looks pretty much like us, other than being taller. He speaks with that Brit formality and the accent.

What ho, chums, he says.

Hey Buzz, we are headin’ out to look over Zeb’s outfit, I say. Join us?

Why, thank you, says Buzz, tipping his head in a nod. That sounds like a capital method for whiling away a sunny morning.

And, we are four. Plus, kittens. I got them back in the bag. They were no doubt itching for another horseback ride. They’re veterans now, settling down to sleep with the sway of the horse’s walk.

We eventually get the pace up to a slow jog, which provokes some tittering on my part, watching Zeb bounce around in the saddle. Even his grip of death on the saddlehorn seems to do no good. It never does, but it helps keep the bouncer on board. Once he gets some balance and leg muscle built up, we will tell him about getting his weight out of the stirrups and onto his butt.

Hey, now, don’t judge me here; folks tittered at me when I was a young sprout, too. What goes around comes around. I don’t let Zeb know, so’s he won’t feel bad. And the tittering is partly to dispel the worry of all the things that can go wrong when a novice rider piles up onto a cagey horse. Horses are pretty much all cagey; riding one is just a matter of staying one-step ahead.

After, judging from his expression, all that bouncing has given Zeb a terrible side-ache, Spud slows us to a walk. The miles pass quickly beneath our horse’s hooves.

We stop to water our horses in the creek partway out.

Buzz asks, My understanding was that plain persons such as your group eschew machinery in favor of animals. Using horse drawn buggies and the like. Am I misinformed?

No, you are correct, says Zeb. "Our group has suffered through some hard times in generations past. Our great grandparents had horses, cows and fine farms. They lost their homes and livestock when a war overran the farms. Their land was confiscated by the government. They were forcibly moved, penniless, to Terrania.

They had to start over from scratch. They hadn’t enough money to purchase land to farm. Our grandparents worked at jobs, they scraped and saved. Our parents fared better. We were just beginning to get settled on new, when the prejudice problem overcame us there. We were forced to emigrate to the Rock. The promise of cheap land helped buoy our spirits for this move.

You should prosper here. Work is the key to success on the Rock. Along with a large dose of luck, says Buzz. I understand that your people thrive on hard work.

That we do.

You’ll find plenty of work here, says Spud. More than plenty.

Zeb smiles. We are ready for a challenge.

You’ll get one. Spud turns and slips his toe into the stirrup and pulls himself up.

We mount up too. After another couple of hours, we are climbing a small hill.

Zeb is already looking not too shabby, for a beginner, by the time we come up on the ridge overlooking the pilgrim’s camp. Makes me proud to pass on an honored tradition. Horsemanship. Gotta love it. A brotherhood in fact, to all the people on all the worlds who make their living off a cayuse.

Here we are, says Zeb, pulling his horse to a halt, all by himself, and sweeping an arm across the view.

Spud, Buzz and I pull up our horses, also, and look down on the camp. After a few seconds, I realize my jaw has dropped. Just like Spud’s.

Do you see what I see? I ask him.

Spud ignores me. He continues staring, open-mouthed.

He turns slowly to me, and asks, How in the hell did I not hear about this?

I break into laughter. After I recover, I say, Sheriff Know-it-all.

Spud makes a face. He likes to think that he is totally up to date on all the planet gossip. Guess he’s been out of touch for a while.

I can see Buzz behind him, chortling.

Ships of the desert, says Zeb, proudly. You see, we have done our research. Spoke to the finest experts. They sold us the best they had.

Now, I ain’t a much of a judge of ruminant flesh, I say. But them there animals look like the poorliest batch of ill-conceived bastards that ever was. No offense.

Zeb looks seriously hurt.

Now, Annie, before you judge, let’s go have us a closer look, says Spud. I believe they will look fine, up close.

He’s being polite. I’d bet money on that. One piaster, mebbe two.

I just nod disconsolately. I know that nothing looks better up close. But, I manage to hold my tongue, out of deference for Zeb’s feelings.

It ain’t easy.

Spud looks over at the downcast Zeb, and says. Annie is just joshin’ ya. She is known for her kiddin’ ways. Smart mouthed, some say. Don’t pay her no mind.

Zeb looks slightly mollified.

I stare at the ground, holding in my laughter. Against its will.

Spud has put his hand over mine in warning. He has a ‘shut the fuck up’ look in his eye.

Wow, Spud is both a diplomat and a mind reader. Good thing, ‘cause I was about to spew out a few more friendly insults. They were lined up on the tip of my tongue. On his advice, I decide to be polite. And save them for later.

I look over at Buzz, who appears to be biting his own tongue.

He opens his mouth eventually and says, Zeb, dromedaries, what? Good show.

Spud says, Close yore mouth, Annie.

You see, Buzz is right. The pilgrims have camels. Horses and ungulates, meaning cattle, goats, sheep, and all, have hard hoofs. Camels, okay they are ungulates, too. But, like dogs or extremely tough humans, they have leathery feet. Tough, and big, they are great for sand.

The camels are already going lame on them. Or they was fool enough to buy lame animals. I mean inexperienced, dang being polite is a tough one.

I can see two limping now. Half a dozen pilgrims are chasing them around, waving their arms and cussing in a ‘we never cuss’ sort of way. Like ‘gosh golly’ and ‘darn it’. Loud enough to float right up to our ears, though.

Hey, Zeb, why are they chasing them camels? I ask.

They are catching them to put the saddles on, he replies.

But, I say. With all the running and yelling, aren’t they are just scaring them more?

When we bought them they were tame and friendly. I can’t imagine what has gotten into them today, says Zeb.

Pilgrims is what has gotten into them, I say out of the side of my mouth to Buzz.

He smiles and laughter starts to escape. He covers his mouth with a gloved hand and coughs to hide it. Then he sobers, straightens up, lowers his hand and shoots a friendly smile over at Zeb.

All shall be well, Zeb, says Buzz, eyeballing the chaos below us. Perhaps I can be of assistance.

I spot five pilgrims who have captured one of the humpy behemoths. They have a rope half on, half off of his head. And have encircled him. The camel is backing around, the rope slowly coming off. Soon, three pilgrims are grabbing fur and the dragging commences. Not for long, though. One by one, they lose their grips and collapse to the ground. The camel paces off triumphantly, with a snotty look on his mug. He emits a weird braying sound.

High hilarity.

Are they really trying to get him saddled? I ask, in disbelieve. I haven’t seen such a funny wreck in a long time.

Yes, they are, says Zeb, serious as a judge.

Even from a distance, we can see that the camels are poor and tired.

These camels will slow yore progress, I say. You may not know enough about camels to realize that they have soft feet which don't do well in the rocky ground. This is a boondoggle. Horses are the animal for this planet.

Er, says Buzz.

I look over. The alien is looking nervous. Maybe he worries that I will end him. Food fer thought.

I look at Buzz; raise my eyebrows and say, I don’t bite too often.

Of course, Annie, he says. I just had a thought, but perhaps you have more experience with camels than I.

Heck no, this here is the first time I ever laid eyes on one in person.

You sure know a lot ‘bout somethin’ you never set eyes on, says Spud.

I read all about ‘em in a book, I protest.

Armchair learnin’ ain’t the same as hard experience, says Spud.

Well, yeah, I say. Yore right. Many's the time I have said the same myself. Sorry, Zeb. They are just so, um, foreign. Buzz you know anything about these creatures?

Buzz, who is also foreign, nods politely. Buzz is dead polite. He starts to open his mouth.

But, look at the goofy suckers, I interrupt, not having been taught proper etiquette. Or just not listened. They ain’t even shaped right fer saddlin’. How the hell you gonna set any kind of saddle on that hump? It’ll slide right off. It’s a wreck waitin’ to happen.

Most likely, I interrupted my teachers, ma and pa, during the etiquette lessons. It’s a bad habit that I still got. My brain is just too damn quick fer my own good.

Oh no, says Zeb. The experts provided a solid hour of instruction before they sold us these camels. They sold us top-notch tack and saddles, too. We will be fine.

Yeah, I say, soberly. Like yore buddies down there just were."

Zeb’s buddies are picking themselves up off the ground, and limping around.

They look like they might have all kinda broke bones and sprains, I say. We watch as they shake their heads in exasperation, panting from their efforts.

I’ve a bit of camel knowledge. Shall we head down and look them over? offers Buzz.

Zeb nods. Great. He heads down the hill.

Camel or carnal? I ask, after Zeb is out of earshot.

You fell into that one Buzz, says Spud. He laughs.

Buzz blushes. He is but an innocent alien. Actually, he’s not really an alien. Buzz’ viking ancestors left Earth during the twentieth century. Long before most folks thought it was possible. They was survivalists, thinking the Commies and them other crazies was gonna blow the planet all to hell. Turns out, they got the jump on the rest of humankind. Everyone else’s ancestors jumped ship, er, planet much later on.

Anyways, Buzz’ people proved to be not so far from right. They missed the big war times on Earth, which lead to the planet’s total destruction. They settled a planet named Bãngh and thrived there, it seems. They did very well there until the Centrists showed up. The Centrists, being grumpy and greedy, ruint things.

As we ride into camp, a terrible stench arises.

I ask Buzz, You suppose the pilgrims ain’t had a bath fer a year or two?

That, my dear, is the smell of camel, he informs me, with a smile.

The horses catch a whiff or get a look, who knows which, and a rodeo ensues. Holy shit.

Might take a mite of time to get the horses used to camels, I say, as we pick our various selves up off the dirt and brush off the prairie dust. I have a few painful scratches on my hands; apparently, the kittens don’t think a bucking session is fun. Don’t tell anyone, but neither do I.

A crowd of funny dressed pilgrims has gathered around to stare. The womenfolk have on bonnets and long dresses with aprons atop. They have all got on what look like home sewn clothes. Men and boys have button pants and what look like homespun shirts. They look pretty cool, actually. Homespun, the old way. Gotta give them credit. Lotta work. They all match, too.

One of their number is out in front. He’s leaning on a pitchfork. Man looks like he might be in charge. I push my hair back out of the way and walk over to him.

Howdy, my name is Annie Talks To Horses. How do you do? I say, looking him in the eye.

Tuf Yoder, he says, extending a hand. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

Pleasure is all mine, I say.

Tuf is wearing a broad flat-brimmed hat, like all the men seem to be, over his bright red hair and isn’t real tall. He has a good, firm handshake.

I add, This here is Buzz. I gesture toward him. And the ugly one yonder is Spud.

Tuf shakes Buzz’ hand. Spud walks over and gives Tuf a nod and a handshake.

Say, Tuf, would you mind if I take a gander at yore implement there? I ask. Oh cripes, implement has two meanings. Oops.

He passes it over. I inspect it, never having seen such a pitchfork before.

This here is made from one solid piece of wood, I say.

Tuf nods.

Ain’t that a butt load of work cuttin’ her out and steamin’ the curves? I ask.

Oh, no, we grow them, Tuf says.

Grow ‘em?

Yes, we shape the limbs as they grow, Tuf explains. We prune and train anywhere from two to six branches, all forking at the same place, to make the tines, then we tie them to a jig to make the bend. If the jig slips, we can steam them after harvest. Makes a first class pitchfork. And a small grove of trees gives you an unending supply. Sometimes simple ways are best.

Heck, I thought I come from simple beginnings, but this bunch may just have me beat.

Chapter 2 Perhaps I Should Explain

It is early morning. The rising sun is barely breaking through the clouds. A single ray of goodness slants down on a hilltop, and another onto our heads. The sun is charming and teasing us with it's warm effervescence.

What on the gods’ green Rock is that? exclaims the studly Spud as he reins his mount to a halt.

Spud is in the lead. The packhorses are strung out behind him with the loose remuda mixed in among them. I am behind them.

What? I yell.

He looks back and realizes that I haven’t reached the pass yet.

You’ll see, he says, louder.

I crest the rise and pull my horse up beside his.

What? I repeat.

He points east with his chin, which is now cloaked in about a week’s worth of beard.

Yonder.

I scan the wide-open plain below us.

Wolf is riding up to us from the south. Desert, he says.

Spud asks Wolf, raising his chin toward the far horizon, You see that?

Mm, says the wily redskin.

What is it? asks Spud.

Wait, I say. I don’t see what yore talkin’ about.

Wolf arrives beside me. He leans over and stretches his arm out, pointing his trigger finger toward the top of a rocky hill. The sun is illuminating that particular hill now. All else is shaded by the murky clouds.

I see rocks, bushes, grass. Wait, what’s that tall skinny thing? I ask.

We’d best go see, says Spud and clucks his tongue.

This gets the whole bunch moving. Horses, pack horses, riding horses, me and the two brothers. Twin brothers, fraternal, not identical. Just brothers who happened to share a womb, they claim. Hot and sexy brothers.

Here we all are. Adventurin’, again.

We are several miles ahead of the pilgrims. We had tried to get them to let us, or us and a couple of them, do a reconnaissance mission before they got the whole shebang packed up and moving. We are exploring country that no man has seen up close before.

You see, until we discovered the seed, the neutrino, from which all of Old Earth's life was spawned. The atmosphere, the water, flora, fauna, terraforming was just a dream. Back then, it was dome living, with artificially generated atmo, and soil. Everything was made at a high cost. Therefore, spaces were small. Sure, they grew, but slowly. The neutrino seed was the key that unlocked the cosmos to colonization on a planet-sized scale. It was the biggest stride forward since we broke the light barrier.