Cowgirl Thrillers by Barbara Neville
We are a hardy trio, with our pack string trailing out in a long line ahead of us. We are headed cross country. All is going well, the weather is warm and sunny. They leaves are dazzling us with their autumn colors. We are living our most awesome dreams.
“Wow, it's like I died and went to Heaven.”
“You been dere?” asks Mose.
“No, but that planet gets great reviews.”
“Yeah, I heered dat too. Never met no one dat's been dere.”
“They say it's over in the Archenon Galaxy.”
“I heered it's got harps and fairies.”
“Hmm, maybe Michael knows about it, he's gay,” I say.
“Not dat kinda fairy, da kind wit’ wings and a wand,” says Mose.
“Michael would look nice in wings and a wand. I can picture it,” I say and smile at the mental image. Not a lot to do on a long day’s ride but chat and daydream. And share lies, of course.
Mose is resplendent in a crusty old trapper way. He is wearing new buckskins to start the fall season. They are already getting greasy and worn. The fringes, the antler buttons, the newly beaded pouch on his shoulder and his white striped skunk fur hat all bespeak his love of ancient ways. His soft elk leather moccasin boots look perfect for walking the cricks and hollows.
“You make all your kit?” I ask.
“Yes’m, I did. Hooves to hat, only thangs I dint make was the horse and guns.”
“The saddle also?”
“Oh yeah. It oak with pine bars. Ah cut the trees, axed, carved and dried, covered it wit’ rawhide. Carved the leather. Steam bent the stirrups, too. Heck yeah. Lotsa fun. Beaded dis heah horn too and dese heah saddlebags. And dis fine hog sticker.” He pulls a honkin’ big knife with an elk antler handle out of its beaded and fringed sheath. “Yep, traded fer the steel blank, but ground and shaped her blade myse’f.
His entire self-made wardrobe is a testament to his choice of a primitive life on the Rock.
“Oh, hey. Damn loose packs,” says Mose. He shakes his reins and trots up to fix a lopsided load on one of the packhorses, before it rolls under the gelding’s belly. He dismounts and adjusts the balance of the load. Next, he tightens the cinch and redoes the diamond hitch.
We are riding across a wide grassy park with conifers around the edge and willow brush by the stream that runs down the middle. It is fall, so the grass and wildflowers have gone to seed and turned brown. The seed stalks stick up high above the leaves. Lots of nutritious biomass here. In fact, like I mentioned earlier, think paradise.
Oh, guess you might confuse that with the planet called Paradise. This paradise is on the Rock, a wilderness paradise. No cities at all. Just the one town. Pardon my braggin’.
“Huzzah!” hails a distant voice.
We look back to see a rider approaching at a ground covering lope. He is too far away to identify.
“Stew,” says Wolf.
Okay. Too far away for me to identify.
He pulls Mose’ looking glass, which he has borrowed for scouting, out of his possibles bag and looks at the magnified view. I look at a closer view.
Wolf is bare chested, as he is in most weather, and sleekly muscular. He has a nice straight nose, a strong chin, good cheekbones, awesome dimples and eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles. His hog sticker is in a belt scabbard. His rifle is a .243 lever action, just like mine. His .32-20 revolver is out of sight under his fringed deerskin loincloth. The loincloth shows off his personal equipment in great style. The yellow of the hide is a fine contrast to his bronze skin, which glistens in the sunlight. He has feathers entwined in long black hair, which flows loose around his shoulders. The thick locks reach almost to his elbows.
“Stew? For supper?” I ask.
Wolf smiles, chuckles and says, “Yep, eyes not need glass. Horse, Stew.”
“Really?” I ask and squint at the dot. He does look like a sorrel. But damn! He is not too much more than a speck.
“Good eyes,” I say.
“Great eyes,” counters Wolf with a grin and hands me the looking glass.
“Smarty pants,” I say.
After many minutes, Stew arrives with his owner, Sir Jacob in the saddle. He has auburn hair, clean cut features and an aristocratic nose. The man that is, not the horse. Handsome, one might say. He is a Brit lord of some sort, usually nattily dressed in fancy, frilly Brit duds. Today, however, he is sporting a cowboy theme. He has a wide brimmed tan hat with a feather hatband, a tan neck scarf, a piped royal blue shirt, russet shotgun chaps, fine black boots and awesome Californio style big rowel spurs. His .44-40 revolver is somewhere out of sight, my guess is in an SOB, a small of the back holster. He has a large bore rifle, a .45-70, in his saddle scabbard. Good buffalo gun.
“Ho, Sir Jacob, how is it you come?” asks Wolf.
“By horse,” says Sir Jacob, then he chuckles. “I say Wolf, have you spotted your spirit animals?”
“None yet,” Wolf replies.
“What about Coati and the kids? Aren’t you helping them?” I ask.
“Not anymore. Coati said, ‘Injin not need English White Eyes’. Said it with a straight face too,” says his Lordship with a fond smile. “So, I went to town to visit friends. Sky found me there and showed me an envelope. We decided it must be for Wolf. It is a message. I have, in fact, brought word from Proxima Pi.”
“Across space?” I ask. Not sure how that works. Maybe a spaceship brought it in? Oh, yeah, he said Sky. The spaceship pilot. I led a sheltered life on Triassic, just hicks, not in the space traveling class. Started traveling as an adult, first two flights didn’t go so well. Almost died, both times. Been spooked about the whole space travel deal ever since.
Not a lot of traveling happens in and out of the Rock either. It is sparsely populated, 300 souls more or less. Many consider it an empty, impoverished, generally desolate planet. Suits me. Proxima Pi, on the other hand is a demon filled city. Yikes!
“Yes. It seems that our dear Spud has found a spot of trouble.” Says Sir Jacob. “He might need help, hard to say. The message is cryptic.”
“Cryptic?” I ask.
“Him mean short, Annie,” says Wolf.
“I know what it means, I was tryin’ to get him to reiterate.”
“Mm,” says Wolf.
“It also appears to be coded,” says Sir Jacob.
At this point, I see that Mose has spotted his Lordship and circled back. He lopes up, skids to a stop, and hops off his horse.
“Greetin’s, your Lordship! Y’awls a sight fer sore eyes,” says Mose looking up at Sir Jacob and gripping his leg, “Been with these heathens for what seems like weeks. Ah could use some dignified company.”
“Greetings, Sir Steven, a true pleasure to convene with a man of gravid thoughts and nobly acquired wisdom,” says Sir Jacob, jumping down for a bear hug and numerous hearty pats on the back.
Wolf looks at me and says, “They mean old guys.”
“Yeah, like we ain’t full growed adults. Yeesh.”
Mose, is always addressed as Sir Steven by Sir Jacob. The Sir Club, I guess it is. Mose squints over at me and says, “Okay, missy adult, how old you is?”
“Twenty-one.”
Mose and Sir Jacob seem to find this funny.
“Quite.” says Sir Jacob. “And Wolf is just an instant or two older.”
“Childrens, they is,” agrees Mose.
Will no one ever take us seriously as adults? I wonder why. I look over at Wolf thinking he will protest, but he has that mysterious Injin look goin’ for him. Lord knows what he is thinking.
“How the heck old are you guys?” I ask, curious.
“Old as dem stars,” says Mose, pointing theatrically at the sky with his buffalo rifle.
“You say so.”
I ponder on that ‘un too. They don’t look that old. Just not young no more. Maybe fiftyish? Who can tell? Old folks all look pretty much alike to me.
Soon I forget what it is I was thinking. Other than what great mus
cles Wolf has, that is. I love a bare chested man. I am also still enjoying the loincloth deal he has going on today, covering those other important parts. Uh huh. Did I mention this earlier? Bears repeating.
Actually, I don’t look too bad myself today. In honor of the Spirit Quest and also due to the fact that my old duds were down to the more holes than cloth point in life, I have new duds. I am resplendent in new blue jeans, underneath my angora goat chaps, and my piped shirt is bright red. I love snap shirts, they are easy to scramble out of in moments of intense passion.
I am also wearing a well broke in wide brimmed, dark brown hat. My red boots have a colorful swirly stitch. My silver spurs are Californio’s similar to Sir Jacob’s, but a different pattern and well work worn. Mine have jingle bobs, because I personally like spurs that jingle jangle jingle. Though, if I have to sneak around, I must remember to take them off. I am clumsy enough that I trip over my own spurs whist walking fairly often, anyway. So taking them off after I dismount is always prudent. The spurs also match my high port, long shank, copper roller bit. I prefer this bit because I ride with a light hand and have a responsive horse. My antler handled .45 Long Colt revolver rides low on my hip. I like the 8” barrel for its accuracy. The 12” would be better, but is just too unwieldy for a quick draw hip gun. My rifle, just like Wolf’s, has a 20” barrel and shoots the .243, a great varmint shell. It does a very accurate job and covers the longer distances. It should be just fine for this trip.
While I am busy admiring myself and Wolf, Mose and Sir Jacob are gabbing.
“Isn’t that right Annie?”
“Um…uh.” I stutter.
“Yep, adult,” says Mose. They all three laugh, while I turn red enough to just about match my shirt.
Mose and his Lordship remount their horses. We all shake up the reins and our horses start walking once again across the prairie. It is late in the day. The sky is too dark to signal Sky, so we head to the nearest water to make camp.
“‘Bout that message from Spud?” I ask.
“Well, it is a bit confounding, you see. The envelope has no…a moment,” says Sir Jacob as he looks down and reaches into his horn bag.
“Ah, here we are,” he says, as he passes an envelope to Wolf. “As you can see there is only a drawing of a wolf on the envelope, nothing else.”
“Aren’t envelopes usually addressed with words and letters?” I ask.
Wolf looks at the drawing, nods, then carefully opens the flap and pulls out something. He unwraps it to reveal a thin slab of slate.
Wolf scrutinizes the rock, turning it over to look closely at both sides.
“Well?” I ask.
“Hmm,” says Wolf.
Figures, Wolf is a secretive sucker.
He uncrumples the paper, It is wrapped around a rock.
He reads, “Here is a rock from Proxima Pi for your all planets collection. Love, Mack.”
“Mack?” asks Sir Jacob.
“Brother Spud enigma sometimes,” says Wolf. “Use code, in case message is seized by Centrists.
“What?” I ask leaning over to look more closely.
Wolf playfully moves the rock out of my reach. He smiles and says, “Maybe not lady cowgirl business.”
“Oh, I thought Spud was my honey. In any case, he is our pardner so o’ course I care about him.” I say. “‘Sides, Sir Jacob said code, don’t sound okay to me.”
“Mm-hm, okay, you read,” says Wolf and passes it over.
There is a carving in the surface of the rock.
“What the hell?” I ask. “Who sends a fuckin’ rock when they’re in trouble?”
Oh, golly, did I say fuck?
That bothers some folks. Especially when a girl says it. We must remember that the words themselves are innocent, it is the context that makes them good or bad.
You may say that you don’t cuss. I gotta pal who runs in a crowd that ain’t allowed to cuss. So she says ‘Crap!’ instead of all the stronger words. Still a relief valve fer the civilized soul.
If you think you don’t cuss, though, just rake through the debris in yore brain and see what mild mannered, but used when frustrated, words you got saved up. Dang, doggone it, yeesh. There’s likely something hid down in there. Or maybe not.
If not? Well, then I was just funnin’ ya.
Wolf smiles and says, “Injin.”
“Injin?” I ask, “Spud? He’s all blonde and blue eyed. You say Injin ways are not white ways Wolf, but Spud is white. Why would he have Injin ways? He’s a cowboy’s cowboy, not a’ Injin cowboy.”
“Annie make common mistake, judge from color of skin and hair. Spud is Wolf brother, him look white, but just as Injin as Wolf. Same blood in both brothers, difference outside not inside. Inside same,” says Wolf. “Spud is Wolf brother. If Wolf Injin, Spud Injin too.”
“Pale Injin,” I say and think on it a minute.
Wolf waits patiently.
“You always call him White Eyes and Paleface,” I say.
“Hmm. True, we play at cowboy and Injins, but we more alike than different. Brothers kid around a lot. Brothers, show love with jokes. Genetics funny. Throw curve. Make for many laughs.”
“What about the other two kids, Leaping Panther and Kiwaku, er, Kit Fox? They are your brother and sister too, yes?”
“Uh huh, Panther have blue eyes, brown hair; Kiwaku have blue eyes, black hair. Everyone hit blue eye jackpot but Wolf. Wolf only true brown eye Injin, all rest bastards,” Wolf says with a big grin, still scrutinizing the rock.
“Sheeit! Yore the racist,” I say, laughing. “So, Mr. Injin, what does the carving mean?”
“Not good. Injin petroglyph. It say Painter in jail.”
“Painter?”
“Leaping Panther, birth name. Painter is old mountain man name for panther. Mose start calling him Painter, him like. Leaping Panther also paint spirit symbols on horses, fine artist, so nickname Painter is a good fit. Double duty,” explains Wolf.
“Double entendre?” asks Sir Jacob, then after pondering a bit adds, “No, maybe not.”
“Ay yi yi, Painter is just like me, got a new Injin name. Sometimes I miss ole Roxy Rocks. ‘Course there’s a planet or two where I dasn’t be called that.” I flashback to my encounter with Mitch and that evil bitch on Terrania, which I have been trying to forget. A nightmare. I shudder at the thought.
Wolf looks at me quizzically, eyebrows raised.
“Long story.”
Wolf shrugs and says, “Annie keep own counsel.”
“Yep. Do we need to go help Spud get Painter out of jail? I mean Proxima Pi has the real deal, a city type jail, right?”
“Hmm. Wolf not sure if Spud want help. Must consult spirits.”
I look around to his Lordship and ask, “Sir Jacob, what did Coati say?”
“I did not see her. I had gone into MadDog for supplies intending to head out to my fortress. Sky delivered the envelope from Spud to me there in town. He found it on the flight deck of his ship.”
Sir Jacob shrugs his shoulders and adds, “He saw the drawing of the wolf on the envelope in which it arrived and so delivered it to me to pass on to you. Sky sends apologies that he only had time to fly Stew and I partway out. He had a job in the opposite direction. Stew carried me the last few miles.” He shrugs. “Here I am.”
“Okay, the drawin’ of the wolf meant Wolf. If you sent somethin’ to Spud would you draw a tater?” I ask.
“Mm-hm,” says Wolf, with a straight face.
“Well, we’awl best git a camp set up heah. Once we get the fire up and runnin’ and some victuals in the pan, I will peruse y’awls slab and tell y’awl what it says. I has the powah, y’awl obviously don’t,” says Mose, smiling. “Hey, mebbe I is the spirits, eh Wolf?”
Wolf looks at him, raises a skeptical eyebrow, and shakes his head no.
After a delicious meal of meat, taters, and pan biscuits, Sir Jacob get out Spud’s petroglyph, graph?…whatever. He lays it on a flat rock.
Wolf picks it up and once again scrutinizes both sides.
Wolf says, “Envelope?”
Sir Jacob pulls the envelope from a pocket and hands it to Wolf.
We all look at the envelope in the light from the kerosene lamp.
“I see a wolf, that’s all,” I say.
“Steganography?” asks Mose.
“I believe so,” says Sir Jacob. “On its face, there is the etching which is in itself a concealed message, or steganography as you say. Also, methinks there could be invisible content.”
Wolf inspects the slate closely. “Spud drawing say Painter in jail. Spud in trouble too. Man drawn here hold cock in hand. Ah!”
Wolf walks over to the campfire and comes back with a glowing firebrand.
“Here,” he says. “Spud and Wolf play at spies as kids. We crazy for invisible messages, keep secrets from little siblings. Evil elder brothers, we are.
“Spud loved writing message with piss.”
We all wait more or less patiently for the envelope to warm enough for the, um, piss message to show. Finally, it starts to appear and stink to high heaven.
Wolf reads it to us, “I am about to be arrested, too. Hurry.”
“Shit. There is,” I say.
“Huh?” asks Wolf.
“A potato. Right there, warts and all, huh.”
“We had best send a smoke signal. It is too dark now, first thing in the morning we shall ride up that hill and get the word out to Sky. I told him to watch for our smoke,” says Sir Jacob.
Wolf says, “Painter not supposed to be on Proxima. Him and Kiwaku in charge of sheep. Supposed to be watching them full time. Painter go off reservation. Ugh, teenagers!”
4 Paradise
“Wow, it's like I died and went to Heaven.”
“You been dere?” asks Mose.
“No, but that planet gets great reviews.”
“Yeah, I heered dat too. Never met no one dat's been dere.”
“They say it's over in the Archenon Galaxy.”
“I heered it's got harps and fairies.”
“Hmm, maybe Michael knows about it, he's gay,” I say.
“Not dat kinda fairy, da kind wit’ wings and a wand,” says Mose.
“Michael would look nice in wings and a wand. I can picture it,” I say and smile at the mental image. Not a lot to do on a long day’s ride but chat and daydream. And share lies, of course.
Mose is resplendent in a crusty old trapper way. He is wearing new buckskins to start the fall season. They are already getting greasy and worn. The fringes, the antler buttons, the newly beaded pouch on his shoulder and his white striped skunk fur hat all bespeak his love of ancient ways. His soft elk leather moccasin boots look perfect for walking the cricks and hollows.
“You make all your kit?” I ask.
“Yes’m, I did. Hooves to hat, only thangs I dint make was the horse and guns.”
“The saddle also?”
“Oh yeah. It oak with pine bars. Ah cut the trees, axed, carved and dried, covered it wit’ rawhide. Carved the leather. Steam bent the stirrups, too. Heck yeah. Lotsa fun. Beaded dis heah horn too and dese heah saddlebags. And dis fine hog sticker.” He pulls a honkin’ big knife with an elk antler handle out of its beaded and fringed sheath. “Yep, traded fer the steel blank, but ground and shaped her blade myse’f.
His entire self-made wardrobe is a testament to his choice of a primitive life on the Rock.
“Oh, hey. Damn loose packs,” says Mose. He shakes his reins and trots up to fix a lopsided load on one of the packhorses, before it rolls under the gelding’s belly. He dismounts and adjusts the balance of the load. Next, he tightens the cinch and redoes the diamond hitch.
We are riding across a wide grassy park with conifers around the edge and willow brush by the stream that runs down the middle. It is fall, so the grass and wildflowers have gone to seed and turned brown. The seed stalks stick up high above the leaves. Lots of nutritious biomass here. In fact, like I mentioned earlier, think paradise.
Oh, guess you might confuse that with the planet called Paradise. This paradise is on the Rock, a wilderness paradise. No cities at all. Just the one town. Pardon my braggin’.
“Huzzah!” hails a distant voice.
We look back to see a rider approaching at a ground covering lope. He is too far away to identify.
“Stew,” says Wolf.
Okay. Too far away for me to identify.
He pulls Mose’ looking glass, which he has borrowed for scouting, out of his possibles bag and looks at the magnified view. I look at a closer view.
Wolf is bare chested, as he is in most weather, and sleekly muscular. He has a nice straight nose, a strong chin, good cheekbones, awesome dimples and eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles. His hog sticker is in a belt scabbard. His rifle is a .243 lever action, just like mine. His .32-20 revolver is out of sight under his fringed deerskin loincloth. The loincloth shows off his personal equipment in great style. The yellow of the hide is a fine contrast to his bronze skin, which glistens in the sunlight. He has feathers entwined in long black hair, which flows loose around his shoulders. The thick locks reach almost to his elbows.
“Stew? For supper?” I ask.
Wolf smiles, chuckles and says, “Yep, eyes not need glass. Horse, Stew.”
“Really?” I ask and squint at the dot. He does look like a sorrel. But damn! He is not too much more than a speck.
“Good eyes,” I say.
“Great eyes,” counters Wolf with a grin and hands me the looking glass.
“Smarty pants,” I say.
After many minutes, Stew arrives with his owner, Sir Jacob in the saddle. He has auburn hair, clean cut features and an aristocratic nose. The man that is, not the horse. Handsome, one might say. He is a Brit lord of some sort, usually nattily dressed in fancy, frilly Brit duds. Today, however, he is sporting a cowboy theme. He has a wide brimmed tan hat with a feather hatband, a tan neck scarf, a piped royal blue shirt, russet shotgun chaps, fine black boots and awesome Californio style big rowel spurs. His .44-40 revolver is somewhere out of sight, my guess is in an SOB, a small of the back holster. He has a large bore rifle, a .45-70, in his saddle scabbard. Good buffalo gun.
“Ho, Sir Jacob, how is it you come?” asks Wolf.
“By horse,” says Sir Jacob, then he chuckles. “I say Wolf, have you spotted your spirit animals?”
“None yet,” Wolf replies.
“What about Coati and the kids? Aren’t you helping them?” I ask.
“Not anymore. Coati said, ‘Injin not need English White Eyes’. Said it with a straight face too,” says his Lordship with a fond smile. “So, I went to town to visit friends. Sky found me there and showed me an envelope. We decided it must be for Wolf. It is a message. I have, in fact, brought word from Proxima Pi.”
“Across space?” I ask. Not sure how that works. Maybe a spaceship brought it in? Oh, yeah, he said Sky. The spaceship pilot. I led a sheltered life on Triassic, just hicks, not in the space traveling class. Started traveling as an adult, first two flights didn’t go so well. Almost died, both times. Been spooked about the whole space travel deal ever since.
Not a lot of traveling happens in and out of the Rock either. It is sparsely populated, 300 souls more or less. Many consider it an empty, impoverished, generally desolate planet. Suits me. Proxima Pi, on the other hand is a demon filled city. Yikes!
“Yes. It seems that our dear Spud has found a spot of trouble.” Says Sir Jacob. “He might need help, hard to say. The message is cryptic.”
“Cryptic?” I ask.
“Him mean short, Annie,” says Wolf.
“I know what it means, I was tryin’ to get him to reiterate.”
“Mm,” says Wolf.
“It also appears to be coded,” says Sir Jacob.
At this point, I see that Mose has spotted his Lordship and circled back. He lopes up, skids to a stop, and hops off his horse.
“Greetin’s, your Lordship! Y’awls a sight fer sore eyes,” says Mose looking up at Sir Jacob and gripping his leg, “Been with these heathens for what seems like weeks. Ah could use some dignified company.”
“Greetings, Sir Steven, a true pleasure to convene with a man of gravid thoughts and nobly acquired wisdom,” says Sir Jacob, jumping down for a bear hug and numerous hearty pats on the back.
Wolf looks at me and says, “They mean old guys.”
“Yeah, like we ain’t full growed adults. Yeesh.”
Mose, is always addressed as Sir Steven by Sir Jacob. The Sir Club, I guess it is. Mose squints over at me and says, “Okay, missy adult, how old you is?”
“Twenty-one.”
Mose and Sir Jacob seem to find this funny.
“Quite.” says Sir Jacob. “And Wolf is just an instant or two older.”
“Childrens, they is,” agrees Mose.
Will no one ever take us seriously as adults? I wonder why. I look over at Wolf thinking he will protest, but he has that mysterious Injin look goin’ for him. Lord knows what he is thinking.
“How the heck old are you guys?” I ask, curious.
“Old as dem stars,” says Mose, pointing theatrically at the sky with his buffalo rifle.
“You say so.”
I ponder on that ‘un too. They don’t look that old. Just not young no more. Maybe fiftyish? Who can tell? Old folks all look pretty much alike to me.
Soon I forget what it is I was thinking. Other than what great mus
Actually, I don’t look too bad myself today. In honor of the Spirit Quest and also due to the fact that my old duds were down to the more holes than cloth point in life, I have new duds. I am resplendent in new blue jeans, underneath my angora goat chaps, and my piped shirt is bright red. I love snap shirts, they are easy to scramble out of in moments of intense passion.
I am also wearing a well broke in wide brimmed, dark brown hat. My red boots have a colorful swirly stitch. My silver spurs are Californio’s similar to Sir Jacob’s, but a different pattern and well work worn. Mine have jingle bobs, because I personally like spurs that jingle jangle jingle. Though, if I have to sneak around, I must remember to take them off. I am clumsy enough that I trip over my own spurs whist walking fairly often, anyway. So taking them off after I dismount is always prudent. The spurs also match my high port, long shank, copper roller bit. I prefer this bit because I ride with a light hand and have a responsive horse. My antler handled .45 Long Colt revolver rides low on my hip. I like the 8” barrel for its accuracy. The 12” would be better, but is just too unwieldy for a quick draw hip gun. My rifle, just like Wolf’s, has a 20” barrel and shoots the .243, a great varmint shell. It does a very accurate job and covers the longer distances. It should be just fine for this trip.
While I am busy admiring myself and Wolf, Mose and Sir Jacob are gabbing.
“Isn’t that right Annie?”
“Um…uh.” I stutter.
“Yep, adult,” says Mose. They all three laugh, while I turn red enough to just about match my shirt.
Mose and his Lordship remount their horses. We all shake up the reins and our horses start walking once again across the prairie. It is late in the day. The sky is too dark to signal Sky, so we head to the nearest water to make camp.
“‘Bout that message from Spud?” I ask.
“Well, it is a bit confounding, you see. The envelope has no…a moment,” says Sir Jacob as he looks down and reaches into his horn bag.
“Ah, here we are,” he says, as he passes an envelope to Wolf. “As you can see there is only a drawing of a wolf on the envelope, nothing else.”
“Aren’t envelopes usually addressed with words and letters?” I ask.
Wolf looks at the drawing, nods, then carefully opens the flap and pulls out something. He unwraps it to reveal a thin slab of slate.
Wolf scrutinizes the rock, turning it over to look closely at both sides.
“Well?” I ask.
“Hmm,” says Wolf.
Figures, Wolf is a secretive sucker.
He uncrumples the paper, It is wrapped around a rock.
He reads, “Here is a rock from Proxima Pi for your all planets collection. Love, Mack.”
“Mack?” asks Sir Jacob.
“Brother Spud enigma sometimes,” says Wolf. “Use code, in case message is seized by Centrists.
“What?” I ask leaning over to look more closely.
Wolf playfully moves the rock out of my reach. He smiles and says, “Maybe not lady cowgirl business.”
“Oh, I thought Spud was my honey. In any case, he is our pardner so o’ course I care about him.” I say. “‘Sides, Sir Jacob said code, don’t sound okay to me.”
“Mm-hm, okay, you read,” says Wolf and passes it over.
There is a carving in the surface of the rock.
“What the hell?” I ask. “Who sends a fuckin’ rock when they’re in trouble?”
Oh, golly, did I say fuck?
That bothers some folks. Especially when a girl says it. We must remember that the words themselves are innocent, it is the context that makes them good or bad.
You may say that you don’t cuss. I gotta pal who runs in a crowd that ain’t allowed to cuss. So she says ‘Crap!’ instead of all the stronger words. Still a relief valve fer the civilized soul.
If you think you don’t cuss, though, just rake through the debris in yore brain and see what mild mannered, but used when frustrated, words you got saved up. Dang, doggone it, yeesh. There’s likely something hid down in there. Or maybe not.
If not? Well, then I was just funnin’ ya.
Wolf smiles and says, “Injin.”
“Injin?” I ask, “Spud? He’s all blonde and blue eyed. You say Injin ways are not white ways Wolf, but Spud is white. Why would he have Injin ways? He’s a cowboy’s cowboy, not a’ Injin cowboy.”
“Annie make common mistake, judge from color of skin and hair. Spud is Wolf brother, him look white, but just as Injin as Wolf. Same blood in both brothers, difference outside not inside. Inside same,” says Wolf. “Spud is Wolf brother. If Wolf Injin, Spud Injin too.”
“Pale Injin,” I say and think on it a minute.
Wolf waits patiently.
“You always call him White Eyes and Paleface,” I say.
“Hmm. True, we play at cowboy and Injins, but we more alike than different. Brothers kid around a lot. Brothers, show love with jokes. Genetics funny. Throw curve. Make for many laughs.”
“What about the other two kids, Leaping Panther and Kiwaku, er, Kit Fox? They are your brother and sister too, yes?”
“Uh huh, Panther have blue eyes, brown hair; Kiwaku have blue eyes, black hair. Everyone hit blue eye jackpot but Wolf. Wolf only true brown eye Injin, all rest bastards,” Wolf says with a big grin, still scrutinizing the rock.
“Sheeit! Yore the racist,” I say, laughing. “So, Mr. Injin, what does the carving mean?”
“Not good. Injin petroglyph. It say Painter in jail.”
“Painter?”
“Leaping Panther, birth name. Painter is old mountain man name for panther. Mose start calling him Painter, him like. Leaping Panther also paint spirit symbols on horses, fine artist, so nickname Painter is a good fit. Double duty,” explains Wolf.
“Double entendre?” asks Sir Jacob, then after pondering a bit adds, “No, maybe not.”
“Ay yi yi, Painter is just like me, got a new Injin name. Sometimes I miss ole Roxy Rocks. ‘Course there’s a planet or two where I dasn’t be called that.” I flashback to my encounter with Mitch and that evil bitch on Terrania, which I have been trying to forget. A nightmare. I shudder at the thought.
Wolf looks at me quizzically, eyebrows raised.
“Long story.”
Wolf shrugs and says, “Annie keep own counsel.”
“Yep. Do we need to go help Spud get Painter out of jail? I mean Proxima Pi has the real deal, a city type jail, right?”
“Hmm. Wolf not sure if Spud want help. Must consult spirits.”
I look around to his Lordship and ask, “Sir Jacob, what did Coati say?”
“I did not see her. I had gone into MadDog for supplies intending to head out to my fortress. Sky delivered the envelope from Spud to me there in town. He found it on the flight deck of his ship.”
Sir Jacob shrugs his shoulders and adds, “He saw the drawing of the wolf on the envelope in which it arrived and so delivered it to me to pass on to you. Sky sends apologies that he only had time to fly Stew and I partway out. He had a job in the opposite direction. Stew carried me the last few miles.” He shrugs. “Here I am.”
“Okay, the drawin’ of the wolf meant Wolf. If you sent somethin’ to Spud would you draw a tater?” I ask.
“Mm-hm,” says Wolf, with a straight face.
“Well, we’awl best git a camp set up heah. Once we get the fire up and runnin’ and some victuals in the pan, I will peruse y’awls slab and tell y’awl what it says. I has the powah, y’awl obviously don’t,” says Mose, smiling. “Hey, mebbe I is the spirits, eh Wolf?”
Wolf looks at him, raises a skeptical eyebrow, and shakes his head no.
After a delicious meal of meat, taters, and pan biscuits, Sir Jacob get out Spud’s petroglyph, graph?…whatever. He lays it on a flat rock.
Wolf says, “Envelope?”
Sir Jacob pulls the envelope from a pocket and hands it to Wolf.
We all look at the envelope in the light from the kerosene lamp.
“I see a wolf, that’s all,” I say.
“Steganography?” asks Mose.
“I believe so,” says Sir Jacob. “On its face, there is the etching which is in itself a concealed message, or steganography as you say. Also, methinks there could be invisible content.”
Wolf inspects the slate closely. “Spud drawing say Painter in jail. Spud in trouble too. Man drawn here hold cock in hand. Ah!”
Wolf walks over to the campfire and comes back with a glowing firebrand.
“Here,” he says. “Spud and Wolf play at spies as kids. We crazy for invisible messages, keep secrets from little siblings. Evil elder brothers, we are.
“Spud loved writing message with piss.”
We all wait more or less patiently for the envelope to warm enough for the, um, piss message to show. Finally, it starts to appear and stink to high heaven.
Wolf reads it to us, “I am about to be arrested, too. Hurry.”
“Shit. There is,” I say.
“Huh?” asks Wolf.
“A potato. Right there, warts and all, huh.”
“We had best send a smoke signal. It is too dark now, first thing in the morning we shall ride up that hill and get the word out to Sky. I told him to watch for our smoke,” says Sir Jacob.
Wolf says, “Painter not supposed to be on Proxima. Him and Kiwaku in charge of sheep. Supposed to be watching them full time. Painter go off reservation. Ugh, teenagers!”
4 Paradise