Cowboy Junkie: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Lyndy Life Observation: Has this ever happened to you? You’re watching a TV weather report and trying to see the forecast for your home town in the sticks, but the weatherman just stands there with their butt blocking the view. And so you’re yelling at the television for the bonehead to move, but they act like everyone in California lives on the left coast of the state, chiefly either LA or San Francisco.

The urgent cries for help continued—a female voice—but rather than full-fledge panic it was more-or-less someone sounding an alarm for all hands on deck.

Wade Evans was clambering to set the e-brake and scramble out swift as possible while Nash, feet already on the turf, turned to engage him. “It sounds like Annabel!” they both exclaimed. The cries were accompanied by the barking of a dog.

Of course she too wanted to know what all this excitement was about, so in a snap Lyndy bolted out, running along behind Nash—assuming he knew where he was going—and doing her best not to stumble in heels. One pretty much can’t avoid looking like an idiot when running in cowboy boots, and randomly spaced gopher holes added to the thrill.

Cool mountain air filled her lungs.

Young and agile, Nash skirted halfway round the largest structure, the lodge, then plowed directly through a dry meadow for the corrals.

At distance she could see commotion, dust stirring up, and coming into view two horses plus a young woman wielding a lasso. The brunette, hair braided and extending to her waist, was attempting to capture a bucking, panicky colt. At her side a husky-mix dog could be seen charging with both feet, snarling and yipping—and huskies rarely were vocal—but not at the horse. He was barking at something down low, ground level.

One thing Miss Lovelace had taught her, horses despised anything which threatened their vulnerable ankles: rattlesnakes and loose barbwire in particular. And snakes didn’t respond well to barking canines or bucking horses trying to trample them.

In the adjacent corral an adult horse—gorgeous black mare and presumably the mother—was literally kicking down fence boards to save her baby. A cowboy working desperately to calm her grabbed at the halter, hoping to prevent her from further injuring herself.

The timing was impeccable.

As Lyndy arrived, digging in her feet and waving away dust, she could see the fat snake plainly. Its scales exhibited a diamond pattern, familiar, yet tinted in shades of charcoal and silver quite unlike its lowland brethren. No mistaking, it had to be a timber rattler, this variety known to possess a nasty neurotoxic venom. The eight foot long serpent’s behavior was agitated and active; probably spent morning basking in sunshine, primed for business.

Now with all the disturbance it had become so provoked it kept striking near the dog, each time the husky pulling away and avoiding fangs at the last possible instant.

“Ruby leave it! Stop it girl! Stop!” the woman scolded her dog.

The snake was in a tightly coiled posture but the head was elevated. Diving down in a bold move Nash grabbed the husky by one hind leg, pulling it back fighting with him out of the pen.

Someone needs to take charge of this train wreck.

Pulling the Beretta seemed like an ill-advised move. Eyes darting about the scene for anything remotely useful, Lyndy spotted an item out of place: a polished silver bucket with bottle of wine sticking out—one of those ice buckets for rich people lounging on yachts and such. Beads of condensed water clung to the sides. Her field of vision narrowed. Curiously, this bucket had been placed in shade, alone on the porch of a utilitarian tack building, clearly meant for someone special. But who? Probably they would complain should it be disturbed.

On the other hand, this was a time of critical need.

Stomping up to the porch she removed the half-submerged bottle of white Napa Valley something, label soaked and peeling off, setting it gently aside. And this reminded The Spitfire why she preferred reposado, no chilling action required. Drink it warm. Drink it cold, or whatever.

Swinging her purse behind her back so arms could be unencumbered, she lifted the bucket; packed with ice the thing felt surprisingly beefy, like real silver. Swaying as she ran, a bit off balance, she hustled to the nearest body of water, a trough.

Meantime Wade had arrived too, wielding a flat sided shovel.

At the horse trough she dunked the bucket until water filled within a half-inch of the brim, occupying the space between ice cubes like a gatorade mix. Then swishing the bucket in a circular pattern she stirred it, her purpose to equalize temperatures with that of ice. She wanted the liquid as near freezing point as practical.

Holding the bucket in one arm and using her free hand, she ascended three of the four fence slats. From there she could hover over the pen; it had higher sides than most western corrals. Her heart was pounding. Beneath her the big snake lurked still coiled, rattle shaking and with the wedge-shaped head level to ground. Its creepy black tongue kept flicking out to sample the air.

On the opposite side the farm girl they called Annabel had snagged the neck and mane of the frightened colt, securing it by hugging with both arms.

Lyndy scanned the corral grounds for something to serve as an improvised container. “Empty that corn sack,” she commanded Annabel.

Folks reacted in disbelief, as though no one barked orders at this young lady, even in a dire situation.

“Well hurry,” added Lyndy.

Wade put aside his shovel and undid the gate latch, letting Annabel pass the small horse to his custody so he could lead it away. Adjacent but on the other side of the fence, Nash was continuing to restrain the unruly dog and helping calm the mare at the same time.

Despite the indignity, Annabel lifted the nearby feed sack. Then she unraveled a length of twine sewn into burlap for securing the top, ripping it wide open to empty all contents.

With eyes focusing on the angry snake Lyndy held out her wrists, positioning the bucket directly overhead. Even in a short timespan nearly half the ice had melted. In a twist of her arms she inverted the bucket, dumping all the water onto the snake, some of it pooling in its coiled body.

Being cold blooded has some disadvantages.

The stunned snake reacted by flipping up like a dislodged bedspring, elongating and rising fifteen inches from the dirt. Within seconds it became lethargic and complacent, eventually ceasing to move. Looked like a busted radiator hose.

Kicking out her feet and turning sideways The Spitfire pivoted across the fence top, careful not to snag her shorts. She then descended the other side, hopping down from the final two planks. She was now in the same pen with the snake.

Crouching low she scrutinized the opponent. It was no longer rattling, now simply stretched out; the golden-colored eyes were open but far less alert.

Lyndy stepped up gingerly, stabbing with her hand at the tail and gripping onto the end like pulling up a big garden carrot.

“Ewww, eww, eww,” voiced The Spitfire, as Annabel came running over with the empty sack.

Arms extended to the absolute limit, Annabel kept the burlap sack away from her body, angling her head back as much as possible and grimacing. “Put it in. Put it in,” pleaded Annabel, shuffling her feet in place.

“I’m trying,” replied Lyndy as the snake was swaying somewhat in air, just enough to make it difficult to aim.

But despite the slow twisting on itself, Lyndy managed to position the snake over top of the sack, releasing her grip to let gravity do remaining work. In a defeated ball the snake sank to the bottom; hastily Annabel used the excess corners to tie the top.

Both girls backed away to opposing sides, leaving the sack in the middle of the pen. But ironically now the snake was very calm, just an unmoving lump. If one didn’t know beforehand what creature was in there it might be mistaken for leftover feed.

Lyndy set her hands on her bare hips as she caught her breath. No one else said a word; it might be a proper moment for cheers or a well-timed round of applause, but folks had so much surging adrenaline they were too frazzled. Annabel just stared at her, also recharging. Wade, coming in from the side with the shovel, bobbed his head.

Glancing up to the main lodge Lyndy saw a man had been spying on the action, but from the shade of the porch. He was wearing a big black cowboy hat.

“Is that how it is here?” she wondered.

Nash had let go of the dog which came loping back to Annabel’s side, tongue dangling out. Seeing the coast was clear, he took a seat.

Wade scooped up the sack with the flat shovel and started walking it far away from the corrals. Gesturing to where the wine bottle was set, he murmured, “Holly’s not gonna be too happy.”

“Who’s Holly?” Lyndy inquired. Ted had made no mentions of a person by that name.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Annabel, petting her dog. Nash was frowning again, leading the colt to the other pen to be closer to its mother.

For the moment Lyndy had a chance to size up the other girl, without seeming too interested in any one thing. They were close in age, Annabelle having thick Chesnutt brown hair, strands of dishwater blonde mixing in, done up fabulously in a long braid running to her beltline. She had an attractive face and decent figure, as much as one could tell through a buttoned wool waistcoat—the kind typically worn by more mature women. But what came through most of all was a sparkle in her eyes, a pioneer spirit and sure sign of intelligence.

“Whew!” Annabel stepped forward, extending her arm. “I’m doctor Annabel Stork,” she announced.

Wasn’t expecting that.

Lyndy came up to meet her. Gripping Annabel’s palm and smiling broadly, she replied, “Lyndy E. Martinez. Pleased to meet.”

“I thought it was you,” said Annabel. “I’ve heard so much from Ted.”

Her hand was warm.Sometimes you can just tell when a person has a kind heart.

“So uh, what are you a doctor of?” Lyndy inquired.

“Veterinary medicine.”

Lyndy nodded, pushing hair from her own face. Made total sense.

A narrow footpath curved back toward the main lodge and the dog was running out ahead. “Oh sorry, I almost forgot. Ted asked me to give you this.” From her back pocket Annabel retrieved a folded letter, addressed to Lyndy in cursive. She passed it over.

Lyndy stared down, squeezing the letter at the sides. It was beefy and stiff, appearing to be many pages in length. This felt like bad news; her heart sank. She considered whether Ted was breaking up, found someone else, a younger girl perhaps.

“Ted says you’re hilarious by the way, and always the life of the party.”

“Right … I uh … I’m pretty sure he’s describing somebody else when he mentions that.” She looked up at Annabel who was grinning ear to ear, but genuinely. Beyond on the porch the mystery man was still observing their interaction.

“I like your earrings,” Annabel remarked cheerily.

“Thanks.” Tapping the letter on her open palm, Lyndy added, “hey listen Annabel, have you by any chance already skimmed this?”

Annabel’s expression morphed to one of seriousness. She nodded guiltily.

“Fine. It’s okay. Then could you give me a cliff notes summary? It’s bad news isn’t it?” Twisting her purse to the front, Lyndy slipped the letter in one of the exterior pockets.

“See Mr. Owen Warner, father of our current owner Jared, heard about a last minute cattle auction four hours north of here. He also wants to check on some parcels of range land they’re hoping to lease. He trusts Ted, and asked him to come with.”

Lyndy’s shoulders sunk. Her face must have shown the disappointment.

“Listen, he feels really bad. I know he was looking forward to seeing you,” Annabel urged. “It was just a last minute thing. He says he won’t be back until tomorrow night at the earliest, but probably the day after.”

Lyndy shook her head and exhaled, staring up at the sky in exasperation. “This is typical Ted behavior, never in one place more than a three day stretch. We make plans to meet and he can’t keep em.”

“He’s an amazing guy though,” argued Annabel. “I know he’s sorry.”

Lyndy reached in her pocket, twirling the Ford keys. “If only the dang mustang weren’t broke again. I could head off for the nearest bar, one with an acceptable tequila selection.”

As if in gratitude, the black mare rested its head over top of the railing and whinnied. In response Annabel stuck a hand through the fence, stroking the muzzle. “Ted asked if I wouldn’t mind showing you around. He says you’re always up for a new adventure or … a long trail ride perhaps. Says you’re a natural.”

“A natural? Annabel, that isn’t true. In case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Crawford has a tendency to embellish and exaggerate when it comes to me.”

Annabel appeared unfazed. “Plus we aren’t busy these next couple days. So I have extra time. And I know it will be fun for us both. Seems like we aren’t busy at all anymore at the Circle Bar Circle.”

It occurred to Lyndy doctor Stork may be a little lonely up here. Something in her voice made her seem hopeful for a new friend.

“I dunno. Maybe I should patch up my ride and limp to the nearest motel—wherever town that is. I’ll call back to let Ted know where I’m stayin,” voiced Lyndy, facing to the tall pines. “Balls in his court now.”

From her coat pocket Annabel withdrew a round horse treat, size of a walnut. Smiling, she offered it to the pretty black mare, which sniffed and then greedily accepted. “Well are you hungry at least? Can you stay for lunch? We can talk it over then.”

Lyndy frowned. The prospect of a hot meal not coming from a foil-wrapped TV dinner was tempting, weakening her resolve. “I mean, what are ya’ll having?”

“Eggs benedict.” Annabel pointed to the lodge, where a puff of white smoke could be seen exiting from a rock-lined stovepipe at the back; the kitchen presumably hard at work.

“Eggs benedict?” Sounded a lot better than beans.

“With fried potato wedges. Coffee. Bacon. Fresh biscuits. Salsa. Homemade jams. We always hire great cooks at the Circle Bar Circle.” Glancing to her watch she added, “an most of us been up since before five this morning, or earlier. So even the staff get to taste the good food.”

Lyndy squeezed her chin. Leaning in she lowered her voice, “Are any of the other guys cute?” It was supposed to be a simple joke, but Annabel didn’t seem to get it. Instead she nodded back, answering in earnest.

A few minutes later …

Lyndy Life Tip #201: Kicking off a brand new diet, I went in to a “healthy food store” and purchased a box of good-for-you—and expensive—cookies made with gluten free flour, and sweetened with a combination of maple syrup and concentrated grape juice. Arriving home around noon, I managed to finish off the entire box by seven, snatching defeat basically on the first day of the new diet.

There’s a certain kind of old-timey window glass, not actually stained glass, but uneven, being thicker on the bottom and giving a distorted view of the outside. This fifty year old building had those in droves. They lined both sides of the dining room and her eyes were drawn to the way they interacted with the noonday sunlight. It cast a fanciful kaleidoscope pattern across the white linen table runner.

Somebody once treasured this place, spent a fortune on construction.

Folks up here didn’t get much in the way of entertainment, so the sudden presence of anyone or anything exotic was cause for celebration. The Spitfire fit neatly in this category.

“I’d say, after the performance we just witnessed, I’m about ready to offer you a job Miss Martinez,” he declared loudly, spreading butter on half a biscuit. Everyone gathered at the table had a hearty chuckle session, perhaps because it was funny, but mostly because Jared Warner was the head honcho in charge. He wore the biggest hat too.