Cowgirl Thrillers by Barbara Neville
***
Breakfast is bacon, eggs, and biscuits with great coffee. All are as delicious as advertised. We eat with the gusto of those who have lived to see another day, no time to talk between mouthfuls. Just savor.
We admire the creek, the forest and our tidy camp. After a rest to digest we start thinking on our future.
Curiosity gets the better of me. “Hey Wolf, who were those guys you run off or was it just plain offed yesterday? Why were you fightin’ them?”
“Hell no. I wasn’t fightin’ them. They were shootin’ at each other and everything else they saw. As far as this Injin could tell, none of them could hit the side of a barn. I just run in to help y...uh, Bogey. Damn good horse, he stayed right down to my whistle in all that commotion. I got you to lay still, then I got shed of them.”
“Any idea what they were shootin’ over?”
“Injin business.”
“I finally get a paragraph out of you then you clam up.”
“I can handle it, don’t need no help.”
“Hey, if you do need help, remember, I like danger. I live for danger.”
‘Bang. Bang. Bang.’
“Shit, duck, this sounds dangerous.” Okay, maybe I don’t live for danger.
“Yeah, you should know,” says Wolf.
“Again,” I say.
“This is getting old,” says Wolf. Then he sneaks a peek.
‘Bang.’ Another shot.
“Shit! Fuckin’ bushwhackers, still out there.”
After we hit the dirt, run for cover and all that, it quiets down and we eventually decide that the potshotter has hit the road.
“I’ll go check for sign,” Wolf offers.
We reconnoiter and all we discover is that Wolf’s hat has a nice clean hole, clear through just above his skull. The bullet actually clipped off a few black head hairs. It seems that we are in the fight whether any of us like it or not. It has become our business, too, as far as the bad guys figure, for certain sure.
“You sure there is no story here, Wolf?”
“You white folks will think I am a crazy Injin.”
I laugh.
“Seriously, Annie. You might think I’m mad. I’d of questioned your judgment if you didn’t.”
“Hell Lone, I already suspected it. When I saw you hanging off a horse and firing my six shooter under his neck, twice.”
“Yesterday was a sure ‘nough venture into the stinky black swamp of life,” replies Wolf.
“You fit right in with the rest of us crazies. We’re all here ‘cause we don’t really fit in in town. Don’t actually want to either,” says Michael. “I had a heck of a time trying to get out of the closet back in the city. I never did, too many scary gay bashers. But as soon as I figured out I really didn’t want to be a straight man and a law dog no less, I went over the edge. According to my ‘friends’ at least. I ditched that life, followed my childhood dream and become a cowhand.
“Cowboys, I found, don’t care whether I am brown or white, straight or gay, wearing a kilt or cowboy boots. All they care about is that I pull my weight. And supply a few laughs along the way. For a cowhand the only virtues are patience, tolerance and humility. Thank the gods my momma got me horse riding lessons as a kid. Saved my bacon. Woman was a saint.”
“Mother worship. Yep, yore gay,” I say. A girl’s gotta see the humor in life.
6 The Rock