Cowgirl Thrillers by Barbara Neville
23 Meanwhile Back at Camp
After a quick saddle bag lunch of hard tack, cold biscuits, and agua, we have a little powwow. Then Wolf and Sir Jacob take off fast to scout the line shack.
“Get a feel for what we are up against,” says Wolf, spiritual sucker.
As dark approaches we come down into a beautiful meandering stream with big cottonwood tree coverage in the bosque. Rocks, flowers, trees, trout in the shallows, all that good shit.
“Just another fucking dinosaur free day in paradise,” I say.
Spud laughs and Michael and I count our blessings. We both had had way too many close scrapes before we escaped the dino worlds.
We ride in to see Wolf and Sir Jacob lolling in the grass at stream side. As we walk over a dog stands up and growls.
“Your dog bite, Wolf?” Michael asks.
“Bitch not mine, hers,” says Mr. Laconic.
“Annie’s? I know that ain’t true,” says Michael.
“Naw, bitch belong herself, free like Injin, not runnin’ dog of government like white man,” says Wolf. “You white folk move slow, British Lord and Wolf been here hours. We got four fish, need more.”
We get down just as it starts to drizzle. We pull on our ponchos and unsaddle, then loose the horses to graze. We throw our hand lines in the water. Soon we’ll have plenty fish fer dinner. Maybe.
The bitch watches us all from under a dry tree.
“We are near enough, time to make camp,” says Wolf. “Across creek in edge of trees, nice cove, good firewood.”
“I see it over there,” says Spud. “Water and good shelter from the wind. Fire camp, be frost by morning.”
“Singin’ to the choir Spud. Annie and I been campin’ fer a month, winter’s movin’ in,” says Michael. “We been forced to cuddle to save wood.”
Spud cocks an eye at me. “Y’all sure he’s gay?”
“Damn sure. Not for my lack of tryin’ though,” I say. “He won’t even switch hit.”
“I am pure in my heart,” says Michael.
“Cain’t argey that,” I agree.
We all split up for separate chores. Collecting firewood for heat and soft pine boughs to cushion our soogans, and balance rocks for the cook pot. Wolf unpacks the food and pots from the camp pack horses.
Michael and I drag in limbs and brush and build a quick fire heated lean-to. Sir Jacob looks up from thatching the roof, watches for a bit then asks, “What’s better, brush lean-to, teepee or a wall tent?”
“It’s an age old controversy,” says Michael, “but I feel they each have their place.”
“Then there is the Whelan lean-to, champion of the fire camp,” says Spud, as he pulls a long bag out of the panniers.
“The main consideration in the wet is the fire. Since we had to pack it all in here on horses, a fire with a lean-to on each side is the perfect dry out and warm back up solution,” agrees Michael.
“Yep, snug in our bedrolls.”
Every piece of dead wood in the country is wet from the last few hours of rain and drizzle, so Sir Jacob and Spud fan out in search of sheltered spots where they might find some dry sticks to get a quick cook blaze started. Michael wanders off and returns up in an armload of pitch wood.
“Nothin’ but the finest fer my brave compañeros,” says Michael.
Michael stacks the wisps and kindling. I take the damp twigs and whittle into them to get to the dry interior, slivering the edges to make more kindling. A dry sliver stick can make yore day in this weather. The pitch wood don’t take too much help to light.
Soon we are settin’ in our lean-tos, food on the fire. Wolf is feelin’ in his war bag for fixins’.
Spud pours the coffee and we all commence drying our backsides.
Wolf stuffs his pipe, which is a marvel of carvin’ and decoratin’, and lights up our evening med’cine.
“Don’t forget to share,” says Sir Jacob.
Wolf smiles and passes the pipe around.
“Finest kind,” says Spud passing it on to me. “Wolf always has the best weed.”
“Injin Spirit blend, make us happy, not sleepy. Long ride and first class meal make us sleepy. Annie Talks To Horses say Michael first class chef.”
“Ah,” I say. “Yes. It is so.”
“Nice tender pup meat on the hoof right there,” Michael says and points at the stray. “Dog tacos, hombres?”
“’Nother month or two be more meat, still tender,” says Wolf and winks.
“Hell, she won’t stick around. Wild already, look at her eyes, Michael,” I say.
“We must address him as Don Miguel tonight as he cooks from the recipes of his Mexican heritage,” says Sir Jacob.
“Sir Jakey spotted them tortillers,” says Spud.
A bit later Michael says, “Grits on.”
“Say what?” asks Spud.
Michael laughs and says, “Grits for the gritters.”
“Come on Wolf,” I say. “Grit down.”
“Mmm, good vittles,” says Wolf. “Grit down, I like it. Maybe I learn Mexican, too.”
As we eat, I look up and see an extra set of eyes across the fire. The bitch has joined us. She is sitting quietly. After we finish, I gather the leftovers and head over to share. The bitch backs off, so I set them near where she had been sitting and retreat. She takes her time, but eventually hunger overcomes her reticence and she sniffs in slowly, eyeing us. We sit still, talking and appearing to ignore her, while watching her out the corners of our eyes.
Spud looks at Wolf and asks, “What did y’all find at the line shack?”
“Wolf take big circle, Sir Jacob him go close.”
Sir Jacob says, “I settled in on that ridge top behind the cabin. What I saw, I cannot explain, maybe drugs?
“There were two men runnin’ through the woods. They were starkers. It was like they were children playing tag. One was chasing the other, skipping and laughing.”
A light bulb comes on over Sir Jacob’s head. “Oh, of course, they were frolicking. Oh my.
“I’ve been in the company of rough tough cowboys for too long. One forgets.”
“Good thing Michael didn’t hear that, he’d skin ya.” I laugh. Michael is off gathering more wood.
“Of course, how thoughtless of me. My sincere apologies all round. One thinks of ruffians as being rough.”
“Just joking, Sir Jacob. Michael has a planet class sense of humor, even toward his own self.”
“Starkers, what the hell is a Starker?” asks Spud.
We all laugh at that.
“Oh, Spud, not to worry,” says Sir Jacob. “They were naked!”
“Naked Starkers?”
“Yes, no, yes, naked means starkers.”
“Oh.”
After a fine meal and another pipe we open our tarps and crawl into our bedrolls, with a nice bed of coals and a few big logs at hand to keep us warm ‘til morning.
A last word of wisdom comes from Sir Jacob. “Stories are the 20th century myth, passed down to us. They are still the campfires we gather around to pass along legends. Only a very fortunate few of us still create and share the real experience. I thank you, my boon companions, for sharing this with my humble self.”
“Humble, Jakey? You crack me up, pard,” says Spud.
We fall off to sleep smiling, the stars twinkling above. The hours pass in comfortable beauty filled dreams.
Outside the lean-to the rising sun is melting the frost. The shadows are still white, sparkling with the tiny crystals. A beautiful sight. The brook is babbling, could life get much better?
We stir up the coals, scramble up some eggs and warm last night’s biscuits with our coffee.
Sir Jacob sips his joe, admiring the sunrise. “For centuries we have been searching for a unifying theory of everything, a zero point energy field containing all knowledge and experience from the beginning of time.”
“Oh, come on, you aren’t physicists,” I say.
“Better yet, we’re cowboys,?
“You know anything about that chaos theory they talk about?” I ask.
“It has to do with there being order, and even great beauty in what looks like total chaos. And if we look closely enough at the randomness around us, patterns will start to emerge.”
“In that case, explain weather,” says Spud.
We laugh.
As I walk across the clearing to catch up Spike, I notice that our makeshift horse corral is empty, gate open.
“Someone has stole the whole remuda. Damn it,” I say, “looks like civilization has done caught up with us. Cain’t be helped. What’s done is done.”
Wolf looks around and says, “No, what’s done is never done. And it maybe never happened.”
Sir Jacob offers, “What we see, what we hear. All that our senses present to us is fabrication, no more real than a dream. We can only know that which we believe. That which we believe, that is all we have.”
Spud says, “Jake’s right, Wolf too, in this case of deception. I went out before dark, turned ‘em out. You just didn’t see me. They’re trained camp horses, won’t stray far.”
Wolf points and says, “See here? Only boot tracks by the gate latch are Spuds.”
Everyone laughs.
Red faced, I whistle and after a bit Spike and Boots come trotting in alone. Michael and I saddle up and climb on board.
“Guess you fellas are walkin’.”
About then the rest of the remuda comes sauntering around the corner looking for a handful of grain. The rest of the boys saddle up while Michael and I dismount to load the pack string. The bitch is still around, but keeps her distance.
“I do believe that bitch is a cattle guardian dog from the look of her. She might tame down and work, she is just a big pup,” says Michael. “We could damn sure use a good dog fer runnin’ predators off the calves.”
“You bet,” say I.
24 Line Shack