Ravenwood
member
Registered: 11/11/08
Posts: 170
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Cyrano! Mrs. R here again. Have you seen Raven? I received a message from a Jimmy Fast-as-Horse. Do you know Jimmy? Here is the gist of the tale:
Bound by Greyhound bus to Albuquerque, at Santa Rosa, the wait at the Greyhound station was to be thirty minutes, and Raven wouldn’t sit still that long – too anxious to drive the red Mustang Gt before you lend it back to the Museum. There was a competing carrier across the street, appearing to have old Greyhound buses from the fifties, remnants of the dog still on the sides. And remnants of painted–on ads for Camel cigarettes. And a shredded movie poster of Casa Blanca, Bogart sneering from beneath his hat.
Raven looked both ways before crossing. And both ways, mirages from the blistering sun had the pavement disappear into nothingness.
“Bus Seventeen will be leaving for Alba in three minutes,” answered the busty ticket agent to Raven's inquiry. Gold hair. Thick-voiced for a woman. Did she still sample some of those Camels?
“Be right back.” Raven sprinted for the Greyhound building for a refund, but they declined.
Back to Blondie, Raven stripped off his Rolex look-a-like and pendulumed it before her, questioning, good for the fare? She tore a ticket from a faded roll that hardly still blared Walcott vs Marciano m Municipal Stadium, Philadelphia. A ticket and a half, actually. Raven stared at the ticket, but Blondie just pulled at the neck of her blouse and waved air that was heavy with cigarette smoke inside the blouse. The bus engine hammered to rotating, and Raven turned to its open doorway.
Climbing aboard—literally—stepping around the rusted-through steps, Raven pocketed the full ticket (they bring hundreds on eBay) and gave the half-ticket to the driver. The driver took it with a grunt and dropped it into the spittoon at his feet. No one else entered, and Raven seated himself next to a window, the other three passengers paying no mind. The bus lurched backwards, and Raven’s head whipped to the side. Just in time to see Blondie’s blouse loosen and long, black, chest hair wave like fields of wheat when she—he—waved more air inside the bra.
Raven assessed his fellow travelers. Two of them may be locals: sombrero’s tilted forward as light snoring escaped the forms. The third was an alert-looking gentleman. Well groomed. Perhaps a mix of white and Spanish. He was busy with a device in his hands. I-Pod? Blackberry? Miniature PC? Raven didn’t know one from the other. Raven would try for a nap, himself.
Later—how much later, Raven didn’t know—he was awakened by the sensation of leaving good highway for something less. Why? Wasn’t Albuquerque straight on out I-40?
Raven posed the question to the others. The sombreros didn’t answer. One seemed to not understand, keeping his head ducked. The second grinned knowingly. The movie must be a repeat of one he had seen before. Just as Raven saw the 3 on the roadside marker, the well-groomed traveler stood at his side.
“May I?” the gentleman asked, waving to the seat adjacent.
“Er… yes.”
He seated himself. “Perhaps I can answer your question. To where did the ticket agent indicate this bus goes?”
“Alba. But I thought she… he… was saying Albuquerque in local speech.”
“I’m afraid not. Alba is a roadside filling station near one of the smaller reservations.” He paused at Raven's look of surprise. ”There are a number of reservations in New Mexico. Most of them Navajo. I am one-half Navajo. I have relatives who live on this one. I am visiting because I am near.”
He offered a hand, and Raven grasped it. “I’m Raven.”
The stranger nodded—almost a bow. “I am Jimmy Fast-as-Horse. But my white name is Jimmy Colt.” He made a pistol with his hand and finger, and his lips whispered a shushing, as blowing smoke away from the gun barrel.
“I gave the name to myself when I started to university,” he continued. He handed a card; he was in government service.
“We convened a meeting at Tucumcari—I was recording my notes when you boarded.” He looked to the lighted screen in his hand. “The Navajo-Churro sheep are centuries-long residents of the area, and they are most hardy. But some thought if we crossed a sample of them with out-of-country sheep, them too, hardy and adapted to arid places. Perhaps a super strain may result?”
“Sounds like science fiction,” Raven interjected.
Jimmy disagreed. “Anything but… we had the most experienced people from both ends at the symposium. From both countries.”
Sombrero number one ambled to the front. When the driver lifted his head as though questioning, number one drew something from his waistband and struck him. The driver slumped from the seat and number one took his place behind the wheel.
Jimmy Fast-as-horse was true to his name, but Sombrero number two intercepted him halfway, none-the-less. Intercepted him and hammered him to the floor, unconscious for now. Lacking Jimmy's courage and reflexes, Raven sat motionless like a dummy—probably looking the same.
Number two sat at the front of the bus and held a revolver pointed toward them.
The bus slowed and turned onto a trail more fit for donkey carts than anything newer. Tracks meandered between boulders of what looked like lava rock. Then straightened and began a slight descent. Where were they headed? And Why?
Raven dared a look to the front. The driver was looking into the mirror. Ye gads! Haboob! Raven hadn't seen that horror in years, but he knew why they were there. He was going to die!
Was there an emergency exit on back? If he exited, what then? He would be left to die of dehydration, and his death wouldn’t have their fingerprints. It didn’t matter. He was going… but there was no exit on back. Nothing out back except dust rolling lazily and settling like snow onto the back glass. It was almost impenetrable.
There was just enough vision to see a greater cloud coming. Coming fast. Haboob saw it too, but his effort to accelerate didn’t hold off the ‘50s era Reo Speed Wagon—not to be confused with the singing group.
The old farm truck, cattle sideboards jerking side-to-side like a beer being shaken to explode onto the face of an unsuspecting consumer, came up beside them. Jimmy Fast-as-horse—for some reason Raven couldn’t remember the white name—began to push up from the floor. He assessed the situation and, beckoning Raven to follow his lead, pulled himself almost erect in the careening behemoth by embracing a seatback.
Sombrero number two fired. And again. But the violent movement of the bus saved them for now. Jimmy pushed a side window further open and boosted Raven out. Out and onto the Reo’s sideboards. Raven climbed, like on a ladder, over the top and dropped to the truck’s floor. Jimmy dropped beside him.
The truck slowed and the bus tore on; Haboob didn’t know that the escapees and their rescuer were unarmed. The truck stopped, and a pleasant face showed above the boards. Errol Flynn-like handsome. Maybe from the planet Krypton.
Or did Raven just think that because of his too-close brush with death?
“Hello, Jimmy Fasy-as-Horse.” The man said, holding a hand to his shoulder as though in some discomfort.
“Hello, Herth,” answered Jimmy.
“Something didn’t look right when you left Tucumcari,” said the rescuer. “So I borrowed a taxi and tagged along. I was wanting an SUV or something, but those sideboards worked out pretty well, didn’t they?”
Raven sat motionless like a dummy—probably looking the same.
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