La Fierabrosa: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-21

Link to Part-1: La Fierabrosa Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #175: The odds of a microwave actually cooking oatmeal, versus causing the oatmeal to explode into sticky food lava coating the interior, are about 50/50.

Granville Jackson wasn’t one for engaging in small talk; all at once it became clear what the sheriff was trying to tell her.

“Are you saying Matt Wallach checked out of the hospital?” asked The Spitfire.

“Nobody can find him,” Granville confirmed with a nod.

“Crapola,” mouthed Lyndy. She instinctively lowered her right arm, reaching to squeeze the fold of her leather purse. “Then he’s coming to kill me.”

“What makes you sure of that?”

“He believes I sent Dale Keynes to do my dirty work—which I didn’t. Last night I  ran into some wannabe bikers talkin’ trash at The Vanishing Point, and we had you know, an exchange of words. Thing is, Wallach used to have this window sign he was fond of,” Lyndy held up her fingers in the shape a rectangle. “It was like a racist-mantique; Dale stole it from the saloon and gave it to me. I threw it away though.”

You know how sometimes you give someone too much information at once.

Sheriff Jackson squinted, rubbing his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “Oh,” was all he said.

“Sheriff, I’m telling you right now, there’s no reasoning with that asshole. If we cross paths I’m going to defend myself.”

“Miss Martinez, in my experience you are perfectly capable of defending yourself. Of all the people in this town, you are one of those I worry about the least,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “And if you’d seen the condition he was in, I don’t think you’d be quite as worried.”

God I need a cigarette.

“What are your plans for apprehending Evan Stone?”

“I talked to somebody I know at the Marshall service. They can send a team. Their first available agent should arrive here later today. In the meantime, we’re putting in checkpoints on the roads…”

“Let me stop you there,” Lyndy interrupted. “I have a much better idea; we can do this faster together. We don’t need them.”

Gradually turning to face her way again, Granville folded his arms and raised one eyebrow. It was difficult to tell whether he was amused, or truly willing to hear out her plan.

“Think of the benefit if you handled this internally,” Lyndy continued. “You can take all the credit when it’s over. Just say you stormed up there and apprehended him. I don’t care what goes in an official report, or for that matter the newspaper.”

Granville took his time in answering. He’d been around the desert a long time, watched the town grow from a simple railroad depot with a few dirt streets, when county sheriffs were as likely to ride a horse as drive. He was already a deputy when Lyndy Martinez was in kindergarten, and had all the lines on his face to prove it. Then at last he pinched along the brim of his hat to adjust it, and replied, “this had better impress me.”

 

Brother Matt had warned of this very situation: whenever the police were engaged in a manhunt, there came many unorthodox negotiation tactics. Mother was known for her loyalty and stubbornness, but perhaps the law had somehow put the screws to her. It would have taken over-the-top threats, like the gas chamber for one of her sons. He expected at some point, she would want to see him—begging him to turn himself in. And now she was hiking up the dirt mining trail, struggling along with her arthritic hip. He had instructed her never to do this. But it would not be out of character for mother to disobey.

In her time, mother had been some kind of popular ballroom dancer, often blaming dance for ruining her joints; with mother, anything was possible. Now she despised all young women with what she deemed “athletic” bodies.

Matt had also warned of something far worse than a police manhunt. It was the treacherous bounty hunter they called La Fierabrosa; she’d been hired by The Lovelace Corporation to find him. Matt said he would take care of that problem personally, but so far Evan had not heard of her being dispatched. Only her foolish cop partner was down. Stopping this tenacious woman may require the same level of brutality.

It was a cool morning, with a smell of pine tar filling the air. Evan took a swig of cheap vodka from a metal flask, holding it out to his buddy the raven. The raven tilted its head and made a clicking sound, but didn’t take to wing. It was perched comfortably on a pine tree bough, several yards away, observing his activities. They’d spent many afternoons together, admiring this view.

Here’s a fun fact: as soon as they bend their knee joints, bird talons are naturally in a clenched position, meaning it takes physical effort to release their grip on a branch. That explains how they can fall asleep while gripping a tree limb.

If only that coal black bird could speak, the interesting stories it would reveal; certainly he had known every traveler in this section of the desert. Ravens were like a spectator of humankind, always trying to conjure a new way to profit from human wastefulness.

Evan was crouched on his favorite rock, using his knees to steady the rifle, while he ran the pipe cleaner up and down in the barrel. Dust particles coated everything. The gun would perform better, shoot straighter, if the inside rifling were kept clean. It was these spiral grooves created in the machining process, that helped the bullet stay true.

After another ten minutes had elapsed. Evan checked to see how much progress mother had made. She was now within a hundred yards of his rock, but she’d stopped hiking. She was standing still as a statue, maybe catching her breath. Her behavior was baffling. Refusing to speak, she kept her head shielded by the hood, like a veil, never glancing up. Out of reflex Evan pushed himself to an upright position, leaving the gun laying flat.

Then all at once, Evan Stone realized he’d made a fatal mistake. There was a pit in his stomach, as his chest muscles tightened.

The answer was obvious why mother had been acting so strangely, and he cursed his own stupidity. Quickly, he bent down to grab the rifle. He knew it wasn’t worth firing. Still, he was curious. What did this young woman actually look like? The way Matt described made her sound hard-looking, with a damaged masculine face.

Moving deliberately, Evan rested the stock against his shoulder, raising the sight to his eyeball. With the added magnification he could see her head clearly, and watch as she pushed aside the knitted hood. Studying her a moment, he was expecting her to draw the pistol, but her arms remained still. The look on her face was serious, even grim. When she blinked there was something familiar in her appearance—it was a surprise.

A shot rang out. The raven flew off in such a hurry, he lost two of his wing feathers. The black feathers twirled in the air, landing softly near to Evan. He felt a sharp pain in the center of his chest, causing him to drop his gun. Continuing to stand became unbearable, so he went down on his side.

As Evan lay dying, he thought about the face. He had seen a woman who looked like that girl once before, but where? Then he remembered; it was Ensenada. He was recovering from a wicked hangover that day, seated across from an ancient church. Someone had painted a mural on the otherwise white-washed adobe walls. The twenty-foot long scene depicted Jesus on the cross, both Marys to one side and winged angels all above. The angels were weeping. Instead of being generic white blonde figures like you’d see in the states, these angels had ethnic looking faces. One of the angels had the prettiest and kindest face he’d ever seen. Matt was a big liar, cause that angel looked very much like The Spitfire.

Unbeknownst to Evan, Sheriff Jackson had made a circuitous hike to an adjacent summit on the ridge. Through a spotting scope he watched Lyndy’s plan unfold. He saw Evan raise his gun. Knowing the sights were set on her, he was impressed by the bravery Lyndy showed while he took time to compose his own shot. The restraint was admirable.

Peeling off the scratchy, thrift-store wool sweater, Lyndy couldn’t help but feel sorry for Evan; he had a kid after all. By the same measure Dale Keynes had two kids. Evan’s biggest misfortune had been being born into the Wallach family tree.

Her sadness was short lived, because playing out in her mind were ten different grizzly scenarios describing how Matt Wallach might exact revenge.

 

Later that day …

A Reader’s Digest article she’d sampled in a grocery checkout line claimed lack of sleep was tied to short term memory loss. Right. Then it was a wonder Lyndy Martinez still knew her own damn name. Precious few ZZZ’s were now coming in ten minute spurts, and that was unfortunate. Passing through the land of clinically fatigued, she’d entered into walking zombie territory, with nervous breakdown not too far away.

Restlessly, The Spitfire kicked at the sheets and fluffed both her dime-store pillows, using unnecessary amounts of force. Her trailer was warm, but she refused to crack a window; someone might use that as an entry point. She’d chain-smoked so many menthol lights that it smelled like an old ladies bingo parlor. The stupid out of date calendar hung over her like a reminder of her rocky past.

She had the Beretta resting on the nightstand. When she needed to go pee, she took the gun with her to the toilet. She kept imagining non-existent car engines or armed ex-cons pushing through the weeds, sneaking up on the trailer. The only sounds making their way from the highway were typical, with the occasional stutter of a truck or the airhorn of a Santa Fe locomotive.

Maybe there was some truth in what Kyle Ellis said about this trailer. It was a sitting duck. Who didn’t know where she lived? After what must have been the hundredth repetition, she forced herself to quit staring out the windows.

As she went to open the fridge, she noticed the party invitation was still magneted in place; not that she was in a party kinda mood, but it could be an entertaining diversion. She still had no date and wasn’t keen on going alone—especially now. If luck was on her side, then Ted Crawford might not have a date yet either. She decided to swing by the ranch.

Time to go full Sadie Hawkins on this guy.

Even if he had a date, not like it was possible to embarrass oneself any further in the dating arena.

After taking a hot shower, Lyndy curled her hair, then pulled on tight-fitting cutoffs and a clean cowgirl shirt; as a final touch she added small silver earrings set with solitaire diamonds. Hopping in the C-J, she headed north to I-40, taking the east ramp to the turnoff for the JBR. Hopefully her attempt at a girl next door look would translate to winning him over.

 

Lyndy rolled to a stop alongside the main corrals. The hour was just prior to dinnertime. Most of the ranch hands were already filing in after a long day of work. The JBR owned one of those cast iron dinner bells roped to a post, but they only clanged it for kids and tourists.

A sweet aroma of beans and some variety of ham dish emanated from the cook tent. White smoke came pumping out the tin stack chimney, as a group of men were busy stuffing themselves, eating off paper plates on the picnic tables. In contrast to her normally voracious appetite, heavy chow was low on her list of desires. Feeling like a hunted animal took a lot of the pep out of you.

Trying to blend in here was impossible—her jeep, her big hair, her outfits and the purple lipstick. Lyndy killed time fidgeting in the driver’s seat, touching up her curls, pondering her next moves.

All these old cow pokes with grey mustaches and beards kept glancing up, pretending not to stare, but probably thinking, “there’s that Spitfire again, lookin for Mr. Crawford, the densest cowboy in the world who can’t tell when a girl is chasing him.”

Wonder how long before I get banned from this place too?

Lyndy scratched her cheek using the back of her nails. She didn’t yet see Ted or his green jalopy truck around. He was not among those at the tables, or in a line that extended out the entry of the mess tent. Maybe he decided not to go to the party. Or maybe Ted didn’t even like her, and that’s why their meetings were so awkward. In a moment or two, she would have asked one of the mustached cowboys standing in line for his whereabouts, but something else caught her eye. From her vantage, she could see the door to the single men’s bunkhouse had been left partially open by about 10 inches. The bunkhouse appeared empty.

Someone should really close that, in case a Mojave green tries to slither in.

Lyndy left the keys dangling in the column and jumped to ground level. Retrieving a pair of heels from behind the seat, she shoved one on each of her feet. After checking both directions for straggler boys, she proceeded briskly upslope to where the bunkhouse cabins were situated, then slipped in sideways through the door gap. As she guessed, the place was unoccupied. The interior smelled like a whiff of sweaty gym clothes covered over by aftershave; your typical bachelor abode. Yellow lightbulbs illuminated the spare décor. Its windows had only summer screens to keep out bugs, but no glass. To close them you unfurled a canvas flap. Distantly, the banter of young men laughing let her know dinner was in full swing.

She was able to locate Ted’s bunk by a sketch of Gilda pinned to the rail, and a stack of his mail sitting on an adjacent table, unread. Pinching at the corner of the mattress, she lifted it eight inches, supporting it with her left hand. After a quick glance over one shoulder, she started feeling around underneath. She was prepared to discover almost anything—cash and porno most likely—but instead found another sketchpad.

Jackpot.

Lyndy tugged the spiral-bound book free of the mattress’s grip. The paper was thick, having a raised bumpy texture you could feel. Setting it atop the unmade bed, she began to thumb through the pages.

Ted’s technique with a soft pencil was free form and splendid. The first page she paused at was a study of various cactus blooms, four to the sheet. Turning to the next she found sketches of stock horses, raised to work on cattle ranches and be herders. The horses were in action, hooves in air, muscles tense. One was being ridden by an authentic looking old cowboy.

Sheesh. I can hardly do a credible stick figure.

The next page showed a sketch of an old Colt pistol. Any one of these drawings Lyndy would have happily framed and displayed on her wall.

Flipping the page once more, Lyndy covered her mouth and gasped. The scene unmistakably portrayed herself, everything right down to the freckles across her nose, which she detested. She was riding atop a lovely paint horse, bareback through a prairie. But the most interesting part of the sketch was how he chose to depict her outfit: he dressed her as a sort of Latina princess, wearing a frilly outfit distinctive of northern Mexico—copper canyon perhaps. The way he’d drawn the shape of her figure was flattering, her thigh muscles tense, and her nose was pointed slightly aloof; perhaps that was a fair assessment. Around her hip and to the side was a gun hostler, decorated ornately with hammered silver. Overall she had no complaints about the sketch.

Then came a thump of boots on the wood stairs; someone was at the landing. Hastily she folded the book shut, flinging it back in place under the mattress.

A young cowboy pushed open the door, no older than 18, looking fresh out of his parent’s home. “Oh, scuse me. Sorry to startle you,” he said softly. “Can I  help you ma’m?” Rather than being suspicious of her activities, he sounded downright embarrassed to have intruded.

Lyndy cleared her throat. “I uh … was just checking to see if Ted was here.”

The boy tipped his hat down. “Not here. But I believe you’ll find him over at the auto shop, workin on his truck. Least that’s where I seen him about an hour ago.”

“Ah, thanks a bunch,” said Lyndy, heading for the exit.

 

Five minutes later …

A copper fan was whirring on the high-speed setting, pointed roughly in the direction of Ted’s work area. Two hanging bulbs shown from above. The auto shop was a simple wood barn walled in corrugated metal, with a non-running model-A pickup truck taking up about a third the space. The remaining portion was used to service whatever ranch vehicles were in need of a tune-up—most of them were.

Having strolled her way from the corrals, Lyndy kept her fingers shoved deep in her back pockets. Her heart felt suddenly recharged, as if she could have floated here. An urge to cause mischief was also on high, and needed to be suppressed.

Only Ted’s legs were visible, sticking out from underneath the front bumper of his truck, but one could tell he was sporting blue coveralls over his clothing.

The Spitfire snuck her way into the shop, tip-toeing. The floor was coated in pebbles, but her arrival was disguised by the noisy fan. Once she was near to his feet, she crouched down and said in a loud but seductive voice: “Howdy Ted, whatcha workin on?”

At first there was only crickets.

But in a few seconds he’d collected his thoughts. “Replacing an oil pan gasket,” replied Ted. “I’ve grown tired of pouring a new quart of oil in the engine every time I need to drive anywhere. It’s gettin expensive.” He scooted out from under the truck, holding a box-end wrench. There were grease marks on his cheeks and arms. All-in-all though, he looked pretty darn good in Lyndy’s eyes.

“You made up yer mind yet about that party?” asked Lyndy, still crouched at his level.

“About that,” said Ted with a grin. “Whole event got postponed cause the Parker’s are in trouble for the illegal street race.”

“I see,” said Lyndy, relieved and somewhat delighted by the turn of events.

“I hear deputy Keynes got shot by a fugitive, and you rescued him all by yourself. That true?”

“It is,” said Lyndy proudly, wiping her forearm across her head. “He couldn’t move, so I had to drag him like a mile-and-a-half to his car. Took most of the night.”

“I think he owes you one.”

Lyndy chuckled. “That jerk owes me like ten by now.”

Ted inhaled deeply. “Speaking of which. I believe I owe you for finding the cattle thieves. I’ve been given my old job back. Maybe we can work out a payment deal?”

Lyndy gestured with her hands. “Oh please, I forgot all about it. Worry not Mr. Crawford. Chan will hound Rob Albright for the money, if anything is owed.”

“I dunno how I feel about that,” said Ted, worming his way back under the truck.

Lyndy stood up, running her hand over the rough patinaed fenders as she paced between the truck and a work bench; she was hoping he noticed her shoes and ankles. “Ya know somethin Ted. I was thinking about our long-running friendship all day. There’s a reason I came over here…” Lyndy paused. She hadn’t rehearsed what exactly to say at this point, not expecting to make it this far.

Wait. How do you ask someone out again?

“Oh really,” said Ted, speaking from under the car.

“I guess I was wonderin if we should give this another chance—maybe we go more traditional this time. Take it slow.”

She could hear Ted straining to adjust something, a stuck bolt perhaps.

“Lyn, would you pass me that big flathead screwdriver?” he asked. Without needing to look, he pointed an index finger to a location on the workbench. Lyndy snatched up the tool for him and set it down in his waiting hand.

“Say do you need me to hold a flashlight?” asked Lyndy. “I can help.”

“No, I got this,” said Ted.

“Hey, is there something I did or said?” Lyndy inquired. “Or somebody else that interests you? Like uh, … you know how Catherine is totally gorgeous? She’s definitely prettier than I am.”