Her Winning Ways by J.M. Bronston (28)

 

“That girl” was crouching in a doorway, trying to be as invisible Tas possible.

It was damp in the shadowy doorway, damp from the recent rain with an acrid smell of wet concrete. She tried not to think of rats. She tried not to think of spiders, and of the more urban vermin, of which she’d read but not yet encountered. She tried to concentrate on the two men lounging at the truck, the gathering of men upstairs, and the wish that Bart would get there soon! She also concentrated on the back of the truck, only about fifteen feet away, to work out at this distance its opening mechanism so that when the time came she’d be able to get Lindy out of there quickly. She checked the rope halter, still draped around her neck, and made sure it would come to her hand as quickly as she’d need it. Between being scared and being ready to jump into action, her heart was pounding so hard it seemed to be in her ears.

And then she saw the squad car come around the far corner. Very slowly, it cruised up the street, passing her, passing the two men—who turned away from it and tried to make themselves unobtrusive—and continuing on almost to the next corner.

She watched as Bart got out of the car. He had some papers in his hand. She watched him walk slowly down the street, pausing at each vehicle, as though to examine it, looking at license plates, looking at taillights, and referring always to the papers in his hand, as though comparing numbers. Till he arrived at the white truck. The two men stopped talking and watched him. He looked the truck over. He shuffled the papers, removed one, placed it on top of the others as though he’d found what he wanted. Then he turned to the two men.

“Is this your vehicle?”

“Is problem, officer, sir?” The taller man definitely looked nervous. His companion, the shorter, fatter one, clearly wanted to disappear. He glanced up at the lighted windows above, as though hoping for help.

“No. No problem. I just need to verify some information. If you gentlemen could come with me up the street, where the light is better, I have some questions.” He indicated the paper in his hand, a very innocent-looking paper.

The men looked at each other. Again, there was a glance up at the window to see if the watchman who had been posted to keep an eye on them and on the truck was seeing what was happening on the street below.

“Of course, officer, sir. We come. Of course.” The taller one gave the other a look, and they both went with Bart up the street.

Annie waited till they were far enough away. She ran to the little drop step that trailed off below the tailgate. She was on it in a minute and was lifting the rusty old side latches, scraping her fingers and ruining the fancy Lady Fair manicure that was only three days old. She jumped down from the truck and pulled the gate after her. And there, big and bold and presenting his big rear end, was Lindy. She clucked at him a couple of time, a universal signal to a well-trained horse, especially a horse who was accustomed to being transported, that he was to back up out of the vehicle.

But in that moment, as Lindy was stepping down the lowered gate onto the street—oh, God!—the door to the house opened, light flooded the steps and sidewalk, and seven men scattered toward her. They were an uncoordinated mass, as though none of them was sure where he was to go, but she was close to panic herself.

“Bart!” she shouted up the street, but she needn’t have. Bart was already on his way, at top running speed, his hand to his holster. And God bless the horse, Lindy was shielding her with his big body, keeping everyone away from her.

In the chaos, short-and-fat and tall-and-skinny had jumped into the truck’s cab. She heard the aged engine trying to get started. The men were scattering in all directions. Police backup was arriving behind them, sirens blaring, lights flashing. The truck was in bumpy motion. Bart had the driver’s door open and was wrestling for the wheel as the truck weaved down the street caroming off cars, tailgate flapping.

Annie saw the tall bald man with the big mustache, the one Captain Simon thought was the leader. He was running fast, almost up to the corner by the time she spotted him. She slipped the halter from her neck and slid it up over Lindy’s muzzle and fitted it quickly onto his head.

In a moment, she was on his back and was yee-hawing down the street at a high-speed gallop. Her quarry got to the corner and turned up the avenue, going as fast as he could, pushing people aside, knocking over trash bins and little old ladies. But he wasn’t a young man and he wasn’t going to outrun Lindy. Only a couple of blocks away, Lindy had caught up with him and blocked him with a solid wall of horseflesh. The man wasn’t going anywhere.

Squad cars reached the truck. Police were racing in all directions, chasing the fleeing men into basements and stairways, dragging them out of their hiding places. Bart brought the truck to a stop and had the two men under control. He’d seen Lindy go by with Annie up top, and he signaled a couple of cars to follow her. When they reached her, Lindy still had the leader of the plotters pinned against the brick wall of a tall apartment building. A few locals, coming out of a bar, stopped to watch. Lindy was blocking the man’s efforts to run, with Annie using him like the good quarter horse she knew he was, effectively cutting the targeted one out of the herd.

The police took over and had the man cuffed and into a squad car in a matter of moments. And Annie rode Lindy back to where they’d started. Lights were going on in windows up and down the street. The sound of hoofbeats on pavement was most unusual, and residents all along the way ran to windows to watch.

By the time Annie reached the truck, her excitement had settled down to pure pleasure. She’d been right all along and no one could discount her any longer. She’d found Lindy, she’d led the police to the bad guys, and she’d captured their leader. Bart would be proud of her. Liz would be proud of her. She was proud of herself.

There was a knot of uniforms gathered in the middle of the street, surrounded by an excited horde of arriving media people. News teams from the local TV stations, newspaper reporters, and neighbors with their cell cameras, including a scrum of curious kids. Squad cars in all directions, their headlights lighting up the street, with light bars making the whole scene brilliantly colorful. And there was Bart in the middle, talking on his radio, reporting to Captain Simon back at headquarters.

Annie clip-clopped up to him with people falling back to give her room. She dismounted, grasped her handmade halter by the fiador knot and, with a big Wyoming smile, led Lindy back to his owner.

“I’ve brought you your horse,” she said to Bart.

She waited for Bart’s big, grateful smile, maybe a handshake, and a hearty thank you. The warm kiss of gratitude could come later.

But they didn’t come. Bart’s expression was ice-cold. He signed off his report and turned to her. Silent for a moment. Then he pointed to the halter.

“Where’d you get that thing?”

“I made it.”

The air was going out of her elation. What could be wrong? Why is he being like this?

“You made it?”

“Yes. I made it. And I found your horse. And I brought him back to you. I thought you’d be glad.”

He nodded slightly. He looked at her thoughtfully and there was something painful in his expression, something Annie couldn’t understand.

“I am glad. Of course. Thank you.”

Lindy bent his head toward Bart and Bart took the halter from Annie.

“I am glad,” he whispered, to the horse, not to her. He rested his forehead on Lindy’s and had a moment of thankful reunion with the animal. Once more, he whispered, “I am glad.”

Then he turned and gave Annie one more inscrutable look.

“That was a terrific performance,” he said to Annie, ice-cold. “You look terrific riding bareback, so very wild west. But I don’t get to play cowboys and Indians and I don’t have his saddle with me, so I’m just going to call headquarters for a trailer to come and take him back to the stable.”

And he walked Lindy off to the side with a noisy trail of media people running after them.

Annie stared after him. The freeze in his remark was stuck like an icicle in her chest.

But reporters with mics and cameras were gathering around her and she had no chance to figure it out.

Someone from Extra put a mic in her face and as soon as she got Annie’s name, it clicked in her reporter’s brain and she connected it to the Lady Fair contest winner who, she remembered, was from a ranch somewhere out west. She’d seen Annie’s bareback ride up the street on Lindy, she put two and three together and came up with a whole new human interest and entertainment dimension to the story. Pray God, she thought, I hope our camera guy got a shot of that ride.

Other reporters were catching on, too, and they were trying to crowd each other out. Annie was feeling suffocated and almost blinded by the camera flashes. She made no effort to answer their questions and was looking frantically for someone to get her out of this crush of bodies. When Max Wozinski pushed his way through the crowd to reach her, it was as though the cavalry had arrived.

“Sergeant! Max! Can you get me out of here?”

“That’s what I’m here for.” He got a protective arm around her and used the other to clear away the reporters.

“Okay, folks,” he was saying. “A little air, if you don’t mind. Let’s get this lady out of here. We need her back at headquarters. You’ll all get your story. Press conference at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

The media mass followed her right up to the squad car and kept the mics in her face till she was in the rear seat and the door was closed. As Max turned the car around and headed back up the street, she looked back and saw the blue-and-white police trailer arrive, and Bart waiting with Lindy to go back to the stable.