Billie
Billie woke up to find Carter shaking her roughly. He'd already put on his t-shirt and vest, and his saddlebag was slung over his shoulder.
“Come on,” he said. “We need to get the fuck out of here right now.”
She rubbed her eyes. She'd never been good at waking up quickly, and the bizarre nightmare had left her mind feeling fuzzy. “Why? What's going on?”
“The people who left all this stuff in the shack grow and sell pot.” He pointed to an area in the corner. “Look.”
Billie peered across the room and immediately saw the pried-up boards and stacked blocks of weed.
“Holy shit,” she said.
“We're probably right at the edge of their fields,” Carter hissed urgently. “It looks like this is where they package and store the stuff, probably daily. Which means they could show up anytime. We can't be here when they do.”
Billie hopped up from the bed, and Carter opened the door. But before they could leave, they heard the sound of two loud engines growing closer. The noises startled the horses, who whinnied and reared up.
“Fuck,” Carter growled. “Too late. We'll never outrun them on those horses.”
“How many bullets do you have in those guns?” Billie asked.
Carter produced both guns, checking them. “My gun's got one left, but I have an extra clip for it. The revolver I grabbed from the bank guard is down to two rounds, though, with nothing to reload it.”
“Maybe it's still more than they've got,” Billie suggested hopefully.
“Fingers crossed,” Carter said. He replaced the clip in his own gun and handed the revolver to her. “Let's get inside.”
They slammed the door behind them just as the engines approached the shack. Billie knelt down and snuck a peek through one of the broken windows. She saw three young Native American men pull up on ATVs.
As they dismounted their vehicles, Billie saw that each of them had a pump-action shotgun strapped to his back.
“Looks like we're probably not going to win this one with bullets,” Carter commented from behind her. He'd been looking out over her shoulder.
“Whoever you assholes are,” one of the Native Americans called out, “you're trespassing on a Taysha Indian reservation.” As he said this, he gestured to one of his companions, who went around to the back of the shack.
Goddamn it, Carter thought. So much for slipping out that way. Not that we'd have gotten far anyway.
“Bullshit!” Billie blurted out. “The reservation border's almost a mile from here.”
“Well, maybe it is and maybe it isn't,” the man said. “But either way, you've got about ten seconds to come out the front door with your hands up. You do that, we can call up the local cops to settle this little territorial misunderstanding for us peacefully. You don't, we'll be within our legal rights to come in there shooting. Either suits me fine, but I hope you'll go with the first option. I borrowed that fridge in there from my uncle, and I'd rather not put holes in it if I can help it.”
“We both know what you've got stashed in here,” Carter said. “Which means we both know that if my friend and I come out there, you won't be calling up any cops to deal with us. In fact, I'm betting you'll shoot us both in the head and bury us out here so we won't call the cops on you. Am I right?”
“Five seconds,” the man replied.
“Look, no one needs to die here today, okay?” Carter insisted. “I robbed a bunch of banks between here and Alabama. Maybe you saw it on the news? We're on the run from the cops too, so believe me, the last thing we'd want to do is get them involved. Just let us take our horses and go, and I promise no one will hear about your operation from us. All right? Do we have a deal?”
There was a long pause. For a moment, Billie thought it might work.
Then the man said, “Sure. Of course. Because that's what we do, you know? We believe white people when they come onto our land and make promises, and we make deals with them. That's always worked out so well for us in the past.
“Your time is up, by the way,” he added, “so here's my deal for you: Come out of there now so we can end this quickly, or we'll come in there and make it last.”