Cowboy Junkie: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5

Lyndy Life Observation: I have a question about Star Trek. Did they have janitors on the Enterprise? Place was spotless, yet in all the hundreds of episodes, I can’t recall ever seeing a person with a vacuum cleaner or a mop. And what a job it would have been to be janitor on a starship, no?

Touching with his fingertip Jared traced along the perimeter of the Circle-Bar-Circle. One could practically feel the contours despite the map being printed on flat paper. It was a land spanning diverse environs, nurturing clusters of plant communities like secret gardens, little tributes to them all. Here a bit of the lush western Sierras. There a joshua tree patch, cottonwood lined ravine, forest of golden cup oaks and a hint of the Great Basin too.

The existing log cabins, having stood in place over fifty years, were shown on USGS quad maps. Atop this he squared a set of transparencies mailed to him by Holly’s company. These showed many proposed buildings and new roads overlaid on existing infrastructure.

Perched on the rock strewn east ridge, where ponderosa pines now towered, swaying mightily against the wind, were little black rectangles indicating rows of condominiums. One-hundred units in all. Where presently deer and occasional elk grazed in dry meadows, the shallows would be filled with a ten acre manmade lake. Good for fishing, except that was the majority of the prime pastureland.

But this plan allowed them to keep the historic main lodge. As a focal point of the resort it would be receiving fresh coats of paint, a decorative rock skirting, re-designed interior and more upscale furnishings. To the northeast, the highest point would be leveled and a steel-sided water tank installed. There was a natural granite dome there now, adorned with a dozen scraggly pines. Those stunted trees clung to life in impressive ways, their fortified root systems reaching down the sides of boulders, into caves, some specimens hundreds of years old. He played Lone Ranger there as a kid.

Historical fact revealed the Circle-Bar-Circle always had a checkered past. The lodge had been constructed not to introduce city slickers to the cowboy way of life, but as a speakeasy, isolated from the reach of law enforcement or the bureau. One had to know it existed, receive coordinates and a secret map; the perfect combo of maze-like backroads and day’s proximity to LA. Movie stars dined here. Opera singers performed here. The bar hosted many a notable Californian. The cover story: it was a working cattle ranch. But it wasn’t really. It was a mountaintop distillery disguised as a cattle ranch.

They had plenty of other dusty places to run cows.

Despite the free-wheeling history, Granddad would’ve hated this business plan. On the bookshelf near his maps, he could see an Edward Abbey book, the spine of Fool’s Progress peeking out. Abbey would’ve hated this plan too. But he didn’t have a payroll or all these bills stacking up. Hell, Abbey couldn’t even keep up with his own bills.

Jared lowered himself down, the maps glued in place by the force of static. Slumping into a chair beneath the stuffed head of a buffalo, he rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t concentrate on business or anything to do with numbers. The vision of Siberia danced in his brain, like a mythical Pegasus. He felt silly. This obsession was something he could not explain.

His mind kept returning to the continental divide, six hundred miles distant from this ranch. He remembered the numbing, frigid stream and the slippery rocks. The way cold air lingered in the gullies at daybreak, inducing goosebumps. The thundering river, crashing through boulders and echoing across the valley. The way snow patches glinted on the peaks for what seemed like half a summer. The yellow daffodils. The way that place made you feel.

The divide was no excuse to have a party. It was a serious working ranch; everything there seemed massive. When he dreamed big dreams, he was dreaming of Warner Ranch. The land did not suffer fools. Cowboys died there. A man drowned in the Rio Bonito, crossing with horses. Another froze to death in a snowstorm. He was with his dad when they found that one. Jared could still picture the iced up beard, the all-white eyes.

He and Nash were fearful of those stern giants who resided at the divide, including the beasts. On a chilly morning the pack horse’s nostrils flared, fogging the air. These weren’t the placid, lazy ponies at a state fair petting zoo; these western steed were lean and muscular—much tougher than a fragile racehorse. He’d seen them take a hard tumble, get back up and look at you as if to say “I’m good. Saddle me up.”

The battle-worn horses thought highly of themselves. With a bellow and stamp of their metal shoes, they could scare off a wolf pack or a rampaging bull. They sized men up in the same way human’s did to their kind.

Yet the boys couldn’t have been older than fifth grade, yanked out of school on a Friday with a job to do. He and Nash were at the makeshift corrals, off a muddy track, in a valley where men visited but a handful of times in a year. Indian tribes used to hunt here. Perhaps a real mountain man holed up in there a hundred years ago.

His dad lectured the pair, his lips hardly moving, looking like the original Marlboro man in a trapper jacket and rugged hat. Jared saddled up for a long day. Had a bedroll, matches, a pocket knife, wool sweater in case they had to spend the night. One cattle company staffer, Nash Spotted Wolf, provided to assist him. Dad called him “Mister Spotted Wolf” despite his young age.

They didn’t have child labor laws back in those days apparently, or else, nobody was made aware of them. He and Nash were picked to do a grownup’s task: recover three horses from a cabin where the occupant had been evacuated via airlift due to a health emergency. No roads in there. Eight miles up and back from the nearest staging area.

Everything out there was big, including the storms.

Jared owned a comfy western saddle given to him by his grandfather. Nash used a wool blanket only on his horse, said he preferred riding this way. Kid had one tough ass. He carried a well-loved 1894 Winchester on permanent loan to him by the cattle company. When he slept outdoors Nash simply pulled a second blanket over top of himself. Nash was into minimalism before minimalist camping was a thing.

The day started out with fair weather and blue skies, but this meant nothing.

They navigated with barely any semblance of trail, just following the main creek, bushwhacking. His fingers always felt frozen in the morning, moving through each gully shaded with pines. Gripping the reins was all he could do to stay in the saddle. Being trailless, the pace was slow. Willow thickets along the creek threatened to pull you right off. One had to practically lie down across the back to avoid it. If one wasn’t careful, thorny wild raspberry patches sliced up your forearms.

Most places the rocks were scree, larger than railroad ballast size and coated in slippery moss. The horses stumbled in these regions, their shoes and hooves unable to find sturdy enough footing. They hated trails like this and were eager to get up onto the higher slopes where less water flowed and they could stand on grass, even if the angles were slanting. One had to be vigilant the horses didn’t get too much bruising on their ankles.  

With a gain in elevation they eventually reached the incline, where the flowing creek became a trickle and they entered a dense forest. Here, there wasn’t enough headroom to ride, so they had to get off their horses and lead them by hand, up what felt like a 35 degree slope. At this stop, he and Nash had one of their only serious disagreements. Nash wanted to ditch the horses, tie them to a tree and come back for them, knowing they would move quicker on two feet. Jared believed they would need these reliable pack horses to convince the remaining trio to return with them. The three horses had been stranded near the pass for upwards of two weeks and may be reluctant to follow humans. Nash didn’t think it would be an issue. Jared used his authority, as a Warner—probably didn’t phrase things as maturely as he could have—to convince Nash to climb on. For a time the going got worse.

And then a hard rain came. Afternoon storms swept in with astonishing swiftness. Lightning came crashing around them. They climbed to a rock overhang, ruins of a mine adit which didn’t extend very deep. In the shelter of the mine entrance, they consumed deer jerky and shared some apple slices and cashews Jared’s mother had packed him. Together they calmed the horses, spoke of comics, girls, and baseball teams they preferred.

After their lunch, the going got even tougher. The incline became steeper, wet turf and soil together causing the boys and horses to slide. Riding was still impossible, and they had to coax the animals higher for every ten feet of gain. A swirling mist formed, obscuring their view and making navigation a challenge.

They picked their way through a maze-like patch of buckthorn, dipping in and out of a gully, crossing a mine tailing. His muddy jeans, flannel shirt were soaked to the bone. Both boys were shivering.

He was relieved as they pressed open the doorway to a humble cabin, its untreated boards rotting, turned grey and moldy by the elements. In his mind he could smell that earthy dwelling, every inch in crisp detail like a photograph preserved in his mind. One oil lamp. A coffee can, so clear now he could read the label. The mix of colors, orange and blue. A set of dominoes stacked on the table. A man’s pocket watch, with Sears & Roebuck imprinted on the dial side. Not having been wound, it had ceased running. He reached for this, checking the time it had stopped.

Meanwhile Nash moved uphill, to the makeshift corral, a barrier of tree limbs, piled stone and barb wire.

Seconds later Nash burst through the doorway. “One is missing!” he announced.

“What do you mean?” asked Jared, setting down the watch.

“There are only two horses here.”

“How could that be?” Jared wondered. As a kid, your brain always assumed the worst case: perhaps a hungry bear had been here. He followed Nash outside.

Several light taps at the office door—a person having long fingernails—snapped Jared back into the present. That place couldn’t get him; he was a Californian now. Yet his skin was tingling with the chill of the Rocky Mountains.

And so, in private moments he often wondered, “what exactly was the most remarkable thing about Siberia?” The only man who understood was there that day, but he wasn’t much of a talker.

---

Meanwhile, five minutes away …

In Hermosillo the industrious residents would take their traditional siesta every weekday afternoon. If you happened to be away from home, say on a jobsite, you threw down a towel or an old corn sack and dozed off under the nearest tree limb, sometimes adding a sip of tequila or other spirits to calm the nerves. This lasted from roughly one o’clock to three o’clock, often the warmest period of the day and she always wondered why they didn’t adopt this same practice in the US. It made sense. One could learn a lot from Mexico.

But by the grace of god she’d managed to coax the Ford back to the Circle-Bar-Circle, nosing in a little too close to the red Mercedes. Now The Spitfire was looking forward to a leisurely unpacking of her things in the guest bunkhouse, a clean change of outfits and perhaps a welcome dip in the hot tub. Except while viewing Annabel go about the afternoon chores, it was clear Dr. Stork had become impaired, needing to be supervised. Turns out the girl was a lightweight. Even Ruby appeared anxious.

Near to the pinewood sided barns she attempted to heave a 50-pound haybale onto an empty wheelbarrow. But the unwieldly mass threw Annabel off balance, knocking her from her feet and nearly causing her to tumble headfirst into the muddy paddock. Uninjured and undiscouraged, she reached down, curling her fingers and hooking it by both wires.

Exhaling and making a grunting sound, Dr. Stork continued her grumbles. “Oh believe me, after college I had plenty of opportunities other than this. I could have taken a job anywhere.” Annabel spoke loudly, with wide eyes and irregular speech. “In Santa Barbara county there was a family farm who wanted to hire me. Place is stunning—you can see the Pacific ocean from the corrals and they raise thoroughbreds.”

With Annabel starting to list like an ocean liner in a choppy sea, Lyndy rushed to steady her by gripping the back of her coat, preventing another fall.

“I’ve fantasized about quitting my job, thumbing it down the interstate like some country song. Somehow I just haven’t been able to commit. Could you imagine how this place would go to hell in a handcart if I weren’t around for a week?” Using gardening cutters she snapped apart the wires and the hay bulged out, filling up the wheelbarrow to overflowing. Then grabbing the handles, Dr. Stork zoomed off, zig-zagging through a gap in the fence with the front wheel squeaking the entire way.

Choosing her footpath more prudently The Spitfire maneuvered around mounds of horse dung, while Annabel plowed through them, shouting back: “Of course the Warner’s think they know everything—believing their kind of folklore is good enough and college education is a tax on suckers. What do they need me for?”

A smaller mare, tan but dappled in black and brown splotches came trotting up to the fence line as Annabel began scooping armfuls of hay into a feeding trough. “This family is so old fashioned. Give Mr. Warner a corncob pipe and rocking chair—he’ll feel at home.”

The mare’s tail twisted and swished away flies as she rubbed her muzzle on the metal trough. Without warning Annabel wilted against the sideboards, wrapping an arm around a vertical post. Lyndy tried to help support her but Dr. Stork seemed defiant, pushing her away.

“What’s this one called?” asked Lyndy, pointing to the tan horse, desperate to change subjects from Annabel’s spiral of personal despair.

“This pony?” Annabel eyed the horse, as if not recognizing where she was or how she’d ended up here. “This girl … is named Chipeta. She’s one of my absolute favorites. You can ride her tomorrow.”

“Yeah, maybe we ought to head back and lie down a while,” suggested Lyndy, pointing enthusiastically to the lodge. “At least get out of this sun and drink some cold tea.” The Spitfire wasn’t much of a tea drinker; she had selfish motivations. For one thing the outfit she was wearing, including the sexy underwear, had outlasted its comfort zone by several hours. In fact the underwire was making her itch and she wanted to change.

“Here’s something very important to know,” lectured Annabel, springing to her feet again. “You can’t just go off and buy whatever saddle looks the fanciest. You gotta match the saddle to your animal. Look at Chipeta here. She has a lesser distance between the shoulders and croup. So I have a saddle just right for a pony.”

“Hey, what’s the official difference between a horse and a pony anyway?”

Annabel grinned, as though prepared to dispense great wisdom. “Simply put, a pony is a vertically challenged horse.”

Lyndy nodded, admiring the strong horse. “We share in the struggle.”

“Look at it this way. Chipeta might be considered a pony, but she’s a mustang at heart.”

Lyndy pushed back her hair, then folded her arms. Maybe it was time to embrace her cowgirl side and agree to the ride. “I think I like her.”

“Hand me that groomer,” said Dr. Stork, gesturing to a heavy brush laying face up.

Reaching down, Lyndy passed off the heavy object, looking like a bathtub scrubber with fibers stiff as a broom. Annabel then began to vigorously stroke the back of Chipeta, as a cloud of dust rose skyward above the horse’s body. Lyndy backed away, not wanting an allergy attack. Chipeta snorted, seeming to enjoy the back scratch aspect of the cleaning.

They were both interrupted by repeated nudging from Ruby, who was signaling the approach of a visitor. Lyndy recognized the young cowboy Ben, who was out of breath. He smiled and tilted his hat at The Spitfire. “Hey Annabel, the mail truck left a big package in the office and it’s got yer name on it.”

“I have a package,” voiced Annabel in disbelief. “Serious?” She turned to Lyndy with a quizzical expression, as though The Spitfire had something to do with the unexpected event.

Ben nodded. “I would have brought it with me, but it’s too heavy.” He studied Annabel with one eyebrow raised. “Are you alright? Your skin is all red.”

“I’m fine,” said Annabel confidently. “I’ll check it out. Can you finish up here?”

Ben agreed to take over the afternoon feeding duties.

“Well this is sounding interesting,” said Lyndy. “I had almost written today off!”

“Yeah, I never get packages. Long time ago when I was in school my parents used to send me stuff. But now, never.”

“Maybe it’s a gift from an admirer,” said Lyndy, voicing a tone of intrigue.

Annabel chuckled, turning to face Lyndy with a look of incredulity.

---

Moments later …

“Watch it ladies. That box weighs a ton,” remarked Wade, who was busy checking a man in at the front desk.

The package was partially clad in faded shipping paper, bound with plentiful scotch tape. But otherwise looked to have endured serious abuse, as if weathering months out of doors and used as someone’s impromptu footrest. The top had once been emblazoned with numerous colorful customs stamps, indicating it must have come across the ocean. The dimensions were irregular, roughly four-and-a-half feet long and over a foot wide.

“You got a relative who’s an Aussie?” queried Lyndy, already on hands and knees examining the stickers and ink stamps. She passed her fingers over them as she tried to read the dates and work backwards.

“Nope,” replied Annabel. “None that I know of.”

Cowboy Junkie: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Lyndy Life Observation: The backroom area behind the shoe display at REI seems like a narrow corridor, perhaps seven or eight feet wide. So why do REI employees disappear for 45 minutes in a stretch when all you want is to try on sneakers.

“Siberia is a feral horse. Her coat is cream in color, hence the name,” Annabel corrected, a bit irritated with her companions for having a chuckle at Lyndy’s expense. “Hasn’t been a wolf in the Mojave since the early nineteen thirties.”

In a whisper Wade explained, “Siberia is kinda the Loch Ness Monster of our local area.”

Jared turned, bracing palms flat on the dinner table—its natural woodgrain top hewn of trees having had sequoia-like proportions—and looking to Lyndy. “Some people think it’s fun to tell spooky stories around a campfire about Siberia. But we’re talking about a horse, living in the wild, which would be 25 or 30 years old by now. Think about it.” He tapped his finger on the table.

“Certainly rare, but scientifically possible under the right circumstance,” argued Dr. Stork. “Horses have been known to live a lot longer.”

Clutching her mug with both hands, enjoying the entertaining discourse, Lyndy finally eased back in her chair. “I should pen a book: Lyndy’s Guide to Freeloading,” she thought.

Jared continued presenting the case to Lyndy. “So the sheep ranch is twelve miles away in a straight line. Between here and there is all Circle-Bar-Circle range. The cattle guzzler he’s talking about is more than fifteen miles away. Plenty of unconfirmed sightings, but like Sasquatch, this white mare hasn’t been photographed in at least a decade. You’d think somebody would’ve got a picture by now.”

“Do you carry a camera everywhere you ride?” jabbed Annabel.

“Chase is pretty sure of what he saw,” said Ben. “You can’t mistake a palomino horse.”

“Where’d it come from?” asked Lyndy, her curiosity piqued.

“Glad you asked. We were getting to that,” replied Jared, his body now animated. “Two rival cowhands were feuding. Summer of fifty-seven. Well, between fifty-seven and fifty-nine,” he corrected. “A dry series of years.”

“Legend is they were brawlin over a beautiful young lady,” Wade chimed in. “She was a waitress serving miners in a bar at Rearden Gulch. Much like yourself.” He grinned to Lyndy. While the comment could have gone the wrong direction, somehow Wade dignified it and it came out g-rated.

“Don’t believe it. They were fighting over water rights,” professed Annabel. “Like you just said, it was a record drought.”

“Not quite.” Jared shook his head, raising a finger to silence Wade who’d been preparing to argue. “Actually, it did involve a bar at Rearden Gulch, but they were fighting over a card game and a lost bet that wasn’t paid. One of them pulls his Colt, a distance of twenty-five yards, as the other cowboy was leading Siberia. He in turn pulls his own six-shooter, but not fast enough. A shot from the hip is fired. In the confusion Siberia bucks, yanks away the reins and races off. The other cowboy is knocked from his horse too. His bolts off, but they found it. Siberia on the other hand, disappears and never returns. That is a very bad omen.”

“Wait, it’s a bad omen if your horse runs away?” questioned Lyndy.

“Very bad,” said Jared. She couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.

Rolling her eyes Annabel added, “Some of us have real work to do.” Annabel whispered in Lyndy’s ear as she pushed in her chair. “You’re gonna fit in fine here.”

Minutes later …

Her boots were clicking as she paced the plank porch, dabbing on purple lipstick. The floors were uneven, a bit weathered and in need of a good sanding. But with this end facing south, the afternoon sun was warm to her skin, making Lyndy happy she’d worn shorts. At the corner a hummingbird buzzed around the rain chains. She poked at a dangling wind chime, the kind sounding like a kid’s xylophone.  

Meantime Annabel was still inside the lodge, purportedly retrieving spare keys to the Harvester truck. Her simple mission was taking a long time. Following lunch the other staff had returned to their various chores, dispersing throughout the property.

Across the lawn she watched a car arriving in the parking lot, kicking up puffs of dust as it bounced over ruts. It was one of the only guests, the first new one she’d spotted, and they’d managed to tackle that difficult road in a Mercedes-Benz. A coupe version no less.

At first the driver set their bumper almost touching the trunk of a mature sugar pine, its pliable branches sagging under weight of too many pine cones and yet still providing shade. But here the newcomer lingered only half a minute. Then restarting the engine, the driver backed halfway out across the clearing—quickly turning their wheels—while they lurched forward to situate themselves on the same row, but over thirty feet away from the big pine, into a sunnier span.

After a brief pause, out stepped a blonde wearing designer jeans and a performance vest bought from one of those luxury outdoor stores Lyndy couldn’t afford to shop. She seemed slender, youthful, perhaps younger even than she and Annabel, but at this distance it was hard to tell.  Murphy’s Law would dictate this had to be the same visitor whose fancy wine bucket she’d overturned, the one called Holly.

You know the feeling when you should probably give someone a chance and not be too judgy, but you can’t help yourself? This was one of those times.

“Oh great, just what we needed, a Catherine Cookson,” she muttered to herself. It would seem she’d grossly underestimated the female competition this ranch would have to offer, and that included Dr. Stork.

Zipping up her snow bunny coat and pushing her way back into the lodge, Lyndy went searching for Annabel or Jared. Drinking a liter of coffee at lunch was beginning to take its toll and now she needed to pee like Secretariat preceding a big race; she couldn’t imagine bouncing along in that worn out truck in her present condition. She kept an eye out for signs, but the fifty-year-old log building was byzantine, with meandering hallways and meeting rooms she’d not been introduced to.

Did they use outhouses here? “Annabel? Or uh, Doctor Stork?” she called, tempering her voice so as not to seem like a crazy person.

She meandered down one corridor beyond a bank of cramped offices, not seeing another person. Should I call out their names again? Unable to locate anyone she resorted to testing a few doors at random in the hallway off the public dining area. The first she tried was storage. None having windows, they couldn’t be used as guest rooms.

Above the next door, someone had nailed an upside-down horseshoe. She twisted the brass knob, hinges creaking as it opened inward on its own mass. The  room was lit with one yellow bulb. In stunned silence, her eyes absorbed the scene. The space contained no commodes, but did have a stack of extra chairs and some portable cots; that wasn’t the shocking part. What made her dizzy and unsure how to react, was the sight of Annabel Stork and Jared Warner in passionate embrace—Annabel’s coat and shirt were unbuttoned, and Jared’s hands were wrapped around her torso. For an instant, the three stood frozen under a curious spell. Her next urge, one she suppressed, was to burst into laughter.

“Dios mio!” Lyndy put up her hand, twisting back around to leave. “I saw nothing. Wrong door. I saw nothing.” She began rubbing her eyes with her palms, shuddering at the same time, as though trying to erase a mental image. “Of course, I should have guessed. You two were arguing like a married couple,” Lyndy added. She reached for the door to pull it shut.

“You cannot tell anyone about this,” pleaded Annabel in desperation. “Nobody else on staff knows.”

Jared bent down, ducking under Lyndy’s arm and stopping her from closing the door. “Please wait,” he demanded.

“This isn’t what you think,” added Annabel. She was blushing, in a very obvious manner due to her skin type.

“Please let me shut the dang door,” argued Lyndy, trying to muscle it away from Jared, except he was too powerful. “Can this day get any weirder?”

“You have to promise not to tell anyone first,” Jared demanded. Using his other elbow he hastily rubbed the area around his mouth, attempting to remove Annabel’s lip gloss.

“Who the heck would I tell?” Lyndy replied.

He reached out a hand for part of Lyndy’s coat, but just as he grabbed hold she swatted it away. “Hands off,” she stated, backing further out of reach.

Restraining hot emotions, Jared tried explaining. “Look, Miss Martinez. It’s not that we’re doing anything wrong. It’s just a delicate time for us. Things are complicated at the ranch right now, for our whole business.” 

“He’s engaged,” Annabel blurted out, in the process of buttoning her shirt.

“Ay caramba!”

Jared glanced back at Annabel. “That’s one reason we don’t want this getting out.”

Lyndy sighed. “I can keep a secret,” she assured. No I can’t. She pointed a finger in the direction she assumed was the parking lot. “By the way, there’s a babe, some Colorado mountain town version of Barbie who just arrived out front. I’m assuming that’s Holly.”

Jared inhaled uneasily. Still looking to Annabel he said, “See you tonight then?”

Annabel nodded in agreement.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he emphasized sternly.

“I was just searching for the little girl’s room,” declared Lyndy.

“I’ll show you on the way out,” said Annabel gruffly.

---

20 minutes later …

Lyndy Life Tip #203: Here’s a tip you can really put to good use. When apartment hunting, always visit the potential complex in question on a weeknight, after the office closes, say ten or eleven PM. There are two reasons for this: 1. You’ll have a sense how bad crime is. i.e. you may see some stuff that you wouldn’t during daytime. 2. You’ll get a good idea of how rented out they are. If the parking lot is all full up, then you know demand is high.

Back at the stranded Mustang, the mood had changed from lighthearted, budding new friendship, to thorny and glum. Even the skies were overcast now, the atmosphere threatening a cold front. Still for the time being it was relatively temperate. Enough that a red-tailed hawk circled in constant orbit above the ridge, on a hunt for tiny prey.

When she wasn’t staring up at the hawk, Ruby busied herself snapping at all the bees. Totally absent in the morning, honey bees had somehow invaded the roadside, seeking water or possibly attracted by the smell of spilled coolant.

The Spitfire was concentrating. She had the side of an old paint can in the vice, which mounted sturdily to the bumper of the Harvester. Her plan was straightforward. In order to limp the Ford home, she needed to temporarily patch the leak without ruining the whole radiator. Thus if she matched this square piece of tin to the cracked section of radiator, she could solder around it with a butane torch. As long as this kludge held coolant for a day or two, it would be enough to get to a Barstow radiator shop.

“I have another confession,” voiced Annabel, who’d taken to leaning on the rear quarter panel of the iron lady. Her braid was in front now, and notably reached below her belt.

“What’s that?”

Annabel opened the lower half of her coat, revealing a clear bottle with a red and white candy stripe label. “I stole the peppermint schnapps from the bar.” She yanked the cork out of the bottle and set it to her lips. “I’ve never done that before.”

“Oh groovy. Pass it on over,” said Lyndy, cupping her hand towards herself.

Squeezing the metal, she went to work with shears, trimming it down to a square that would match the size of the dent. Then all she needed to do was hammer it to a 90 degree V.

Annabel passed her the bottle and Lyndy sipped a capful. She squinted hard as she swallowed, passing it back. “Yeesh. It’s like cramming a fistful of crushed peppermint sticks in your mouth and pouring on booze.” She stared at Annabel, jealous of her long hair. “Hey just curious. Don’t take this the wrong way, but when was the last time you had a haircut?”

Casually, Annabel flicked her long braid over top of her shoulder, as one would getting an errant purse strap out of their way. “I dunno, spring of 1966,” she said with a smile. “I’m from Chicago. I haven’t been back there in two years either.”

Lyndy chuckled, as she returned to sizing her metal patch.

“They’re obviously not right for each other,” declared Annabel, perhaps preaching to herself.

“You won’t hear any argument from me,” Lyndy chimed in.

“I know everything about what it takes to run this place. How to take care of every animal. Holly knows what … how to run a ski lift so it doesn’t seize up and strand people. Big deal. I can do anything Holly can do for Jared, and that includes making babies. He doesn’t need her.”

Lyndy inhaled. She felt torn between holding her tongue, not wanting to get involved, but also needing something to occupy her for the next several days at a resort, without Ted. “Did he give her a ring?” She put a hand across her forehead as if checking for a fever. I can’t believe I’m asking.

Wordlessly, Annabel nodded. After a brief silence she exclaimed, “Oh god I’m a disgrace. Every last shred of dignity, wiped out! Sorry to completely shatter your image of me. You probably thought I was so smart and gifted, one of those good girls.” Annabel took another sip.

“I’ve been in your shoes before,” Lyndy replied. “Couple times actually.” Her mind immediately skipped to her roller-coaster relationship with deputy Keynes. The sneaking around. The shame in the grocery store, feeling like you needed to leave town. Having to lie to Miranda on the telephone, saying she didn’t know where Dale was and hadn’t seen him that night. Miranda thinking he was dead. Saying he must be in one of those radio dead zones—cause he had a radio system in his goddamn patrol Bronco. Lying to Miranda: that had to be the absolute worst.

Lyndy looked to Annabel with pity. “I have to be honest though, it didn’t end well.”

Annabel was silent.

“In fact it was bad-ugly.” Lyndy sniffed. “So what does Holly do for a living anyway? She drives an expensive car.”

“She’s a business consultant for Vail Resorts. She’s supposed to be helping us, the Circle-Bar-Circle, return to a semblance of profitability. Her pitch is that she can revitalize this place. Which in her eyes, probably means turning every last hillside into a ski run.”

Lyndy was beginning to appreciate the packrat-like nature of Wade Evans. This rusty old truck had everything under the sun, just in small quantities. That included flux and solder.

“She’s also training for the Winter Olympics or something.”

Newly minted patch in hand, Lyndy set aside her pretty coat, then scooted on her butt at the front of the Mustang for the second time. Testing the fit, she matched the V-shaped metal so it covered around the dent, crack included.

“Ugh, where are the boys when it’s time to do crap like this,” lamented The Spitfire.

“They’re cowboys but they hate getting dirty more than we do,” quipped Annabel.

Ruby came by to lick her hair and face, but Lyndy pushed her snout away. She heated up the metal with a butane torch, keeping it moving in circular strokes, while Annabel had taken a seat in the dirt beside her. She was giving Ruby a brushing.

“What’s the story with that Nash guy?” voiced Lyndy.

“What do you mean?”

“Seems like he hates me.”

“He and Jared grew up together. He works anywhere Jared does. The ranch they grew up on bordered an Indian reservation.” Annabel took a sip from the striped bottle.

“Seriously?” The patch was starting to draw the solder in like a magnet; the heat was working.

“They met when they were five, same age. Nash is the only child from the reservation who visited the cattle ranch. I believe he was the only kid from his clan who was allowed. Most were forbidden from interacting with the Warners. Jared doesn’t generally talk about his childhood. But if you manage to coax some details out of him it can be fascinating. He had some crazy stuff happen, experiences only he and Nash know about.”

Cowboy Junkie: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

Not far away …

Lyndy Life Observation: Listening to the opening theme song for Patty Duke and I think to myself—while stroking fictional beard hairs on my chin—are identical cousins really a thing or was that made up?

A faded decal on the gas pumps read “High Test”, clearly some goober’s idea of a knee slapper. But with a fuel needle teetering on the bold red E, this clapped out, tin-roof shack was the only game in town.

Holly Folsom beeped her horn twice, attempting to rouse the lazy station attendant. Precious seconds elapsed with no activity or acknowledgement, save a barking dog or two. With a twist of the chrome knob she switched off her AM radio, then glanced to a tiny analog clock on her dash. Where was he?

In the breeze, a smell of pine log campfires tickled her nose.

“I can feel myself aging”, she muttered, shielding her eyes with one hand and checking rearward. Still nobody.

Vocalizing a frustrated groan she started buttoning up her fuzzy, wool-lined hiking vest. From the seat pocket she recovered two folded over sections of the day’s news—business and funny pages. Then she elbowed open her door and stepped out. Her legs were stiff from hours of steady driving. She paused a moment, tilting her neck to one side then the other. Early autumn leaves were coating the moist asphalt, a kind prone to sticking on the lugs of her top-dollar trekking boots. She breathed deep, taking in the setting.

In Colorado, Holly never had problems getting service. But Rearden Gulch was the biggest armpit this side of Leadville. Judging by the condition of their saggy screen door and a 7-UP banner from about year 1942, this place wasn’t big on freshness; probably had a winning trout mounted on the wall.

Making her way to the trunk, where the license plate was mounted beneath the tri-star, Holly untwisted her gas cap. Then cupping the newspaper so as not to dirty her fingers, she reached for the gritty pump handle. Holding the nozzle several inches beneath her crinkled nose to obtain a whiff, she judged it smelled reasonably like gasoline, not putrid varnish. She hated putting gunk in her European sports coupe, but at least it wouldn’t murder the engine. Watchful to avoid damaging her nails, she inserted the tip and squeezed.

While the low octane fuel was pumping Holly dug in her purse. Smaller items sunk to the bottom, she located a lone hair tie and tube of ruby red lipstick. Leaning hand-on-hip, she touched up her mouth using a weak reflection which showed in the clear-coat paint. Then she hastily brushed her honey-blonde hair a half-dozen times before securing it in a ponytail.

“Well, howdy there Miss Folsom,” bellowed a man. Her head shot up.

He was a plump older gentleman, clothed in an oil-stained hunting shirt and hip waders. Duck boots capped off the ensemble. He’d been approaching from the direction of the outhouses; here at last was the missing attendant.

“Who are you and how do you know me?” demanded Holly.

“Oh, I recognized you from a distance.” He hadn’t been expecting her to be so hostile or impatient, and a sheepish grin formed on his face. “I’m Mr. Grey. Sorry to startle you. I do that sometimes.” Clearing his throat and wiping his paws on the front of his shirt, he continued, mainly to lessen the awkwardness. “Yer daddy was a hell of a gambler. We used to play cards with him back in the old days, losing mostly. I pumped his gas many a time too.” Mr. Grey gestured toward the high mountains with a played out snap of the wrist. “That was before all them silver mines closed up.”

Holly sniffed. “Whatever,” she answered. “How much do I owe you?”

Seeming to have misheard her, Mr. Grey’s retelling of history rambled on: “I remember you must have been about three or four years, sitting on a blanket on the floor, pink rattle in hand, right there next to the card tables. We were all enamored; you were the cutest kiddo. Now yer all grown up. Yer pop wasn’t much of a looker, but …”

“How much do I owe you?” she questioned again, much louder this time.

Noticing she was struggling to return the leaky nozzle to a catch on the pump, Mr. Grey bounded forward. He snatched it from her grip—moving with surprising agility—helping to secure the handle in place without ruining Holly’s splendid outfit. He then lowered to a squat and tightened the fuel cap on her petite Mercedes.

“I seen you on TV a few times. You’re becoming quite the marksman in those winter games,” he complemented. “And a damn fine skier I might add.”

Ordinarily Holly Folsom had little interest in carrying on conversations with scruffy old men. But shooting sports, biathlons in particular, were the one thing bridging the divide. Her expression immediately softened. “So you saw me in the nationals?”

“Charming as ever,” he replied. “But you’re getting to be one dangerous lady.” Mr. Grey wiped a soft rag over her bumper, soaking up any errant fuel. Then he rose to full height, his grimace telling of discomfort in the aging knees.

Holly grinned proudly. She’d come in second place that time, behind a woman who was ten years her senior, and having loads more experience than she. Her mood lightened as she rested a hip on the car door. “You really knew my dad?”

“Of course. We all did in those days.”

Holly sniffed, reaching down to brush a few yellow and green aspen leaves, shaped like spades, clinging to her jeans. “I can’t remember much from those days. I was too young; it’s all like a fuzzy out-of-focus picture. Sometimes I wish I could relive it, retain more. Was there a guy—a mining engineer—he had a funny name, Big-Block Henderson?”

Chuckling with thumbs in his wader straps Mr. Grey nodded in affirmation. “Yes, yes. Semi-famous. Used to swing you around doing what they called indoor-airplane rides.”

“Was that his real name?” she queried.

“No, I don’t believe Big-Block is the name his mother gave him.”

Holly retrieved a leather clutch wallet from her handbag. “Got any Salems in there?”

Mr. Grey tilted his forehead northward, to a woody area behind the service station. His eyes narrowed, forming a more serious guise. “Listen Sparkplug, what say you and me cut us a deal?”

Lowering her wallet, arms at her sides, she glared back at him. “Better be clean.”

“It is. Got us a practice range behind the old shop. There’s a decoy pond too, where me and my buddies been duck huntin.” He tapped lightly on the lid of her trunk. “I’m assuming you brought somethin precious in here.”

Holly cut swiftly in front of him, positioning her body between Mr. Grey and the Mercedes. He was a good guesser. Inside the trunk resided a pricey German sporting rifle. She placed her fingers on her hips, unconsciously batting her fake eyelashes.

“Take it easy Sparkplug. Nothin to be protective about. Couple buddies of mine would love to see what you can do with that thing. Gas and anything else you need is on me. How bout it?”

Holly smiled to herself as she considered the offer of free gas, pops and smokes. She checked her watch, then looked back at Mr. Grey. “Okay, I’ll do it. I’m ahead of schedule.”

Mr. Grey seemed quite pleased with himself.

Holly slipped a key in the lock mechanism and raised the lid, revealing a professional style hard plastic case fastened with steel buckles. “Mister, you wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get my hands on one of these.”

---

Lyndy Life Tip #202: Passing a lower tier fast food joint and I notice their Help Wanted sign promotes that pay is allotted daily. You know it has to be a shitty place to work when they have to start paying folks by the day. Obviously people aren’t coming back.

Sounds of forks clinking on porcelain tableware filled her ears. The spread at lunch was nothing short of marvelous. With every bite, Lyndy was grateful to Annabel for twisting her arm to stay. One didn’t have to get up; a pair of maids circled the table, serving the meal.

Unexpectedly The Spitfire found herself in the spotlight too, making her giddy. It was a warm feeling, like instantly being adopted into a large boisterous family—the kind of gathering to fog up dining room windows. Sensory overload for introverts.

Wasn’t I just wishing for alone time?

Opposite her presided the handsome landowner, a Mr. Jared Warner. Occasionally their eyes met, and his, like the others were captivated with The Spitfire. Even the way the young man carried himself indicated his family owned a guest ranch, and others like it. Measuring broad in the shoulder, tall in stature, it only enhanced his attractiveness. Although projecting confidence verging on brashness, his mildly hayseed persona came off charming rather than threatening.

On the paneled wall within arm’s reach, Jared had slung his black Stetson. In between bites of food she was trying to make sense of that oversize hat, with its decorative braided leather cord in place of a traditional band, and dime-size star pendants glued to the brim.

On the floor next to Annabel’s chair, Ruby the dog was snoring peacefully.

Lyndy noted a new quiet cowboy had joined the group. From bits of conversation she learned his name was Ben. Judging by his look, he was close in years to Nash, but in comparison exuded a more pleasant and approachable disposition. Intermittently, Ben and Nash were whispering confidences back and forth. And in the midst of everything, she’d gleaned one more interesting detail: Nash’s family name was Spotted Wolf, this having been sewn to a tag on the underside of his hat.

Of course the real delight was hot food. The eggs were just to her liking, moderately salty and with a fluffy texture crumbling on her tongue. Pacing herself became mission impossible, as each time Lyndy consumed three quarters of a plate the maids came back around and served her again. She began craving water, downing a full glass, pausing only for a breath or two.

Annabel noticed Lyndy stuffing herself like an orphan at their first real Thanksgiving. She pointed to her plate. “I collected those eggs from our coops just this morning.” Annabel passed her hand over the table. “Loads of stuff we’re eating comes from the ranch. Fresh as can be.”

Lyndy bobbed her head. “Wonderful,” she managed, mouth full of half-chewed potato wedges.

From a white carafe Jared dispensed a cup of steaming coffee. Gesturing to Lyndy, he offered to top off her mug as well and she obliged. Taking a first sip—not having added any cream or sugar—he then spoke up, cadence a beat slower than most coastal Californians would talk. “Miss Martinez, I’m told you’re in an unusual line of work. Employed by a business called … Chan’s Bail Bonds.” He squinted his eyes, snapping together finger and thumb to shake loose a thought. “Is it what they call a bail enforcement agent?”

A bit of a smirk formed on his face. The room quieted, attention focusing on her answer. It was a delicate one. Foremost she needed to finish chewing and swallow. Feeling increasing pressure on her abdomen, The Spitfire wished she could undo her belt and let it out a notch. But obviously she couldn’t now, it would be noticeable and impolite. She laid down her fork, then inched back from the table, wiping around her lips.

“That like an old west bounty hunter?” questioned Wade.

Jared glanced to Wade and Ben, one eyebrow raised. Then after propping his elbows on the table, he meshed his fingers.

Breathing deep, Lyndy observed even Annabel was awaiting a response, staring her direction with a touch of admiration. Having finished eating, she’d folded up her dirty napkin and deposited it on the table. Her plate was virtually spotless. Perhaps this was the secret to getting the maids to stop.

“Well you see,” Lyndy began, shrugging  shoulders and gazing up at a skillfully coffered ceiling. “I’ve always had a knack for finding people who … people who for one reason or another don’t wanna be found.” Hopefully none in present company were escapees—but come to think of it, this would be a darn good place to start a new life. “Technically speaking, I’m a contractor for Chan’s. I work mainly as a private investigator. I don’t bring anybody in, to be sure. I only find people.” She emphasized the point with her palms spread flat.

“That’s peculiar. How did you get started in this business?”

She’d been hoping Jared would leave it alone, but no luck. Whenever someone pressed on this, events she didn’t wish to relive all came rushing back at once—these feelings were hard to channel—like an impending flash flood.

“A decade ago me, my brother and Chan lived in the same trailer park. When I started the county Sheriff, a man named Granville Jackson, came to meet Mr. Chan, knowing he had a hard earned reputation for getting things done. Outlaws feared him. The Sheriff was having trouble with a particular biker gang; these dudes were all bad, and white supremacists. See that was the other thing, Chan isn’t white. Chan wasn’t even born here. The Wallach’s believed they were above the law. Granville couldn’t control em because they had people working inside the sheriff’s department and the jails. So even if they hauled one of their boys in, got him booked, most likely he’d be out on bail the next day. If one of em managed to get caught in jail a week or two, somehow a prison guard would make a bonehead mistake, leave a gate unlocked in the night, miss a signal, and the guy would escape. Didn’t matter if they were on parole, two-thirds were fugitives, owning guns, riding free and raising hell.”

“Sheriff Jackson made a simple deal with Chan. The first Wallach captured he’d pay five-hundred dollars. Each additional who got locked up, the reward would increase by five hundred a head. And so on.”

“So what happened?” asked Jared, a touch of skepticism evident in his voice.

“Eventually I got twenty-five locked away in a state prison, some in federal too. What was left of the Wallach gang scattered, vacated the state. Some went down into Mexico I hear. Sheriff Jackson was pleased with us. But then Matt Wallach senior came for me personally. They kidnapped me, tried to murder me and well … he failed on that mission.”

“This Chan fellar, he writes regular bonds too?” asked Wade.

“He does. But those people don’t run. At least, not in the numbers they used to. If any of the CBB … shall we say …. treasured clientele go AWOL, then it’s also my duty to track those folks down.” Lyndy reached for a glass of orange juice and took a sip.

“What are they afraid of?” inquired Nash, who’d had his head down up until this point.

“I dunno,” she replied. “Maybe Mr. Chan.” With a tiny silver dessert fork she stabbed a hunk of Canadian bacon—drink coaster sized—cramming it partly in her mouth.

“How long you been in this abnormal career?” asked Jared.

Lyndy used the fingers on one hand, counting up from the year of her brother’s passing. Her mouth was full of chewy bacon.

“Oh for goodness sake!” interrupted Dr. Stork. “Can you please stop interrogating her.” Though all had been taking turns asking questions, it was clear Annabel’s scolding had been directed foremost to Jared. “She’s only just arrived. You don’t do this to every new guest. Why her?”

Meekly Jared, and everybody else, bowed their heads. “Sorry,” he said.

It was downright impressive how easily Dr. Stork could shut down a man like Jared. Bending her neck to meet Annabel eye-to-eye, Lyndy nodded to indicate she was okay with all the questioning. She grinned to Jared Warner. “Will you pour me more coffee?” He obliged, sending the carafe wrapped in linen The Spitfire’s direction. “Mr. Chan used to sum things up this way. On a quiet afternoon he was sweeping the floors, listening to a playoff game on the radio, and the front door bursts open. An angry ex-con wielding an axe starts busting up the place, cuts the desk nearly in half, and Mr. Chan has to fend him off with the push broom. True story.”

Wade and Ben smiled. Jared had taken to intermittently chucking table scraps into the open mouth of Ruby. Seated with a cross-eyed gaze fixed upon him, Ruby drooled in anticipation of the next morsel, tail pounding on the floor. Annabel clearly didn’t approve of Jared feeding her dog this way, but was giving him a pass on the matter.

The young Ben, who’d been largely mute to this point, cleared his throat. He pointed north, the direction of the highest elevation, speaking mainly to the boss. “I was talking to Chase at Danny Carson’s place this morning. He lost three of his lambs, thinks it’s coyotes or poachers maybe. But he also told me he witnessed Siberia drinking at a cattle guzzler couple nights back. No doubt in his mind, even from a distance.” At the mention of the name the air in the room became hushed and somber again. “You hear anything about that?” Mr. Evans seemed interested, waiting to see Jared’s reaction.

Lyndy sipped her coffee, listening, fly-on-the-wall style.

Almost defiantly, Jared Warner scooted his chair back. Snatching up his hat rising quickly, he moved to the picture windows. Staring out at his mountaintop kingdom he appeared to be hiding his face. Folks round the table remained silent, Annabel included.

Lyndy continued stabbing at fried potatoes with her fork, though her stomach had long since run out of capacity. Jared sniffed, twisting the hat into position. “Danny Carson ought to purchase himself a pair of donkeys. Them suckers fight dirty.”

“Is Siberia … a wolf?” Lyndy inquired. The way they were speaking made it seem the only logical explanation. Yet everyone at the table laughed.