Annie reveled in the cold clear water that she gulped down.  She was as dry as a dead river bed.  Once her strength was restored she would set out again into the wood and find and deal with Baby Face.  Her mare swayed hotly beside her, intent herself in quaffing the sparkling, welcoming fresh water.  Neither noticed the shadowy shape that crept behind Annie.  Small and fast moving it was on her before she had a chance to turn.  A cloth was clamped across her mouth and nose.  She stiffened, ready to retaliate but then to her total horror she relaxed and collapsed backwards into the arms of her assailant.  Her nostrils full of a pungent rotten foul substance.  Her hearing felt impaired and she could feel her heart racing until at last, despite her body’s protestations, she fell into a faint.  Mockingly her mare moved several steps away before plunging her nose again into the cool welcoming water.

Annie woke to a sense that someone with large boots and an entire bagpipe band was dancing inside her skull.  Her eyes were bleary and she struggled to focus.  She was inside that was for sure.  Probably in some kind of barn.  Broken cladding allowed tiny shaft of light to penetrate her prison and she felt light winds blow across her face.  Her legs were tied around the ankle and knees and her wrists were bound together in front of her.  She tried to wipe her eyes.  But a string tied her wrists to her ankles and she could only move them less than an inch.  As is always the case in such predicaments, she needed to both attend to her eyes and wipe the dew drop that was fast appearing on the end of her nose.  A desire to go to the toilet also beset her.  Her breathing was laboured, she’d not felt like this for many years.  Swallowing was difficult and she could get little air.  Desperately trying to suppress a desire to scream she tried to sit upright.  She shuffled backwards until she hit the wall of the barn and then using her shoulders as levers, she worked her way slowly, painfully upwards.  Her mouth tasted like biscuit crumbs and she realised that she was gagged.  Whatever it was had been pushed completely into her mouth.  Like a contestant at a gurning or face pulling competition she contorted her mouth into a thousand different grimaces.  Pushing her tongue under the blockage she licked and chewed until at length, and to her utmost terror, her mouth seemed to explode into a thousand dry, crunchy, biscuity pieces.

Baby Face watched his captive struggle.  A thin, cruel smile broke briefly across his tired, pock-marked features.  His nose, beet root red from over indulging in his favourite whisky twitched as he considered what he might do with her.  His dark uniform of a chocolate brown shirt and jeans, tucked in extravagant, hand tooled cowboy boots loomed over Annie.  Her alarm filled eyes gazed up at him as he ran a single, biscuit dirty hand through her auburn curly hair.  “What am I going to do with my lovely” he hissed through broken, ruined battlement teeth stained dark and rotten from decades of sugar abuse from the millions of cookies and biscuits he’d consumed over the years.  Dirty, alcohol and biscuit laden breath caused her to wretch.  The dryness of her throat resisting her urge to spit what little bile she had at him.  “Leth me go” she croaked at him.  “Lesth me go”.  He smiled back.  “So that you can go back to Dullsville and tell them our little secret.  Our hidey hole.  Our”....., he paused, .....”biscuit heaven”.  He leaned back, pulling her hair as he did so.  Annie let out a little squeal of pain and indignation.  “No” he said.  “I think that you should stay here.  At least until I have found somewhere...” he paused for emphasis, “a little more permanent”.  Annie fought the confusion in her brain.  Surely he didn’t mean to keep her forever.  She had obligations.  Sheep, chickens, her horses!  Then, like a dead weight, the full, awful meaning of his words came home.  He wanted to kill her.  Do her in.  Silence her.  “Thnnnoo” she tried to shout.  But her dry biscuit dusty throat mocked her as the sounds formed in her throat and emerged as a choking, burbling noise.  Incomprehensible to all, save herself.

Baby Face let go of her hair and she slumped back.  He smiled at her again.  Malice and mischief etched across his thin face.  His dark brown greasy hair hung in a small quiff.  “Like Hitler” Annie thought.  “and just as unpleasant”.  He reached for a bottle.  Knocking the top off he drank deep.  “I bet you’d like a drink wouldn’t you?”.  He stopped and smiled.  She followed his gaze towards the wall.  Corrugated tin, she thought, or asbestos perhaps.    “Out there is all the water that you would ever want.  My little cowgirl”.  he hissed the words at her.  “A whole lake of water.  Not too deep, but deep enough.   Drink enough of that and you’d never be thirsty - again”.  He took another draw on the bottle.  The dreadful significance of his meaning dawned on Annie.  He meant to drown her.  Never!  She’d not give him that satisfaction.  He upturned the bottle and made a small puddle of beer beside her.  “Drink if you want”, he whispered.  “Just don’t get too drunk now”.  With that he left her.  Wiping the his mouth with the greasy sleeve of his denim shirt.  A shirt that had ridden many miles, rustled tons of biscuits, and had witnessed more devilish deeds than is good for any garment.

Annie’s throat screamed at her for moisture.  But she could not bring herself to touch a single drop of the spittle encrusted pool that was even as she thought about it, soaking into the earth floor of her gaol.  She looked around her again.  In the half gloom she could make out boxes stacked floor to ceiling.  All were marked: “Bourbon Biscuits”.  She could also see address labels made out to “Ruby, Our Lot Pub”.  She had found what she had set on her quest for.  Here lay the treasure that Sparky had wanted her to return and that even now, Ruby would be expecting to appear over the hill.  Liberated and ready to grace the smart new shelving that Myklj had installed for them.  Unexpected tears slowly oozed their way into her eyes.  Moistening them and betraying her to anyone that might have caught a glimpse of our trussed up heroine.  But these were not tears of self pity.  Annie was made of sterner stuff.  No.  She would get these biscuits back somehow.  How dare that sneaky, ferrety faced ne’er do well dare to call Sparky’s town, Dullsville.  There was nothing dull about that place.  But for all her hotheaded anger; she could not, as yet, see a solution to her present predicament.  She needed to be untied.  Only then could she plan her escape, the return of the biscuits and the downfall of Baby Face Bourbon.

OurLot Pub

The mare stumbled down the rocky, sandy track towards the lake.  Annie’s guard was up.  Baby Face had to be around here someplace; she didn’t want to be hijacked, not now when she was so close.  Her Tee shirt stuck to her back.  She had not noticed her nervousness before, but she was now feeling clammy, her heart beating loud enough to hear.  Closer to the glittering water they went, mare and mistress united in their uncertainty.  Whatever was down here needed to be challenged and she was, despite her nerves, the woman for the job.

The horse dropped her head and began to drink long, noisy draughts of cool water.  Annie was envious.  She had water in her bottle but it was warm now.  She slowly dismounted, watching all around for the tell tale signs of the errant mule train and Ruby’s biscuits.  Far away in the trees she spied a hawk launching itself out to forage.  Ground squirrels dropped silently down into their holes to inform family of what danger lurked overhead.  But the hawk was no threat to Annie.  For her, something darker and more terrifying was lurking.  No sign visible to the horror awaiting her in the dark tree lined edge of the lake just up the bank from her.  Not for her the flash of wings and merciful quick end as talons brought the little animal’s life to an end.  For her the way ahead spelled entrapment, torture and who knows what?

Ruby was angry, very angry.  She had busied herself back in the pub.  If truth be told, she was a little cross that Sparky had sent Annie out on the hunt for the missing Bourbons, and had not thought to send her too.  Admittedly Ruby hadn’t actually ridden a horse since that fateful day in 1967 when she had accepted her Dad’s dare to climb up on one on the beach at their holiday at Blackpool.  She hadn’t wanted to go.  Most years they had a caravan at Minehead where the tide went out over a mile and by the time that they had walked to the water’s edge it was time to come back or be drowned by the incoming tide.  It was there that Ruby had had her first kiss with the son of a pickled onion seller from Cleethorpes.  He had wooed her with fish and chips, mushy peas and free onions.  How could she resist.  His kisses had been vinegary and not a little salty too.  But she put this down to his living in close proximity to the pickle factory and his undeniable love of Britain’s favourite fast food.  He had been fascinated by this pale Wiltshire girl.  His futile fumblings with her wire reinforced underthings had caused them both annoyance.  her mother had told her that boys would take every opportunity to get at her “bits” and that, as a nice girl, she should resist any untoward advances by wearing a line of not very fashionable, but undeniably fortress tight foundation garments.  The Blackpool horse, well pony really, had been made of the same type of reinforced obstinance as Ruby’s underwear.  A gaudy red saddle embellished with steel rivets forming the word “Blackpool Fun” waited for Ruby, along with matching reins.  An elderly, sour looking man had responded to Ruby’s dad’s jocular “ I bet you’ve been here a long time” with a laconic look and a drawn out “No.  Only since 9 o’clock”.  Dad handed over the 1/6d and Ruby started her first, and only equine adventure until now.  About a quarter mile down the beach the man let go of the halter and said “Bring him back in 45 minutes or you’ll pay extra”.  With that he turned and started to trudge back to where they had come from.  Ruby was alone.  For a moment she allowed the momentous realisation that she now had sole command over this pony to sink in.  Then she panicked.  Without thinking she dug her heels into the sides of her mount.  This hadn’t happened in a long time.  Deep in the recesses of the pony’s mind he remembered his days a a riding school mount.  Endless circuits of the indoor school with little girls all dreaming that they were at The Horse of the Year Show and had just made a clear round.  The thump in the ribcage meant only one thing to her sturdy steed.  Speed!

With an unexpected increase in his gait he broke into a trot and then a canter, and finally, a moment of glory to him, his first gallop in years.  Ruby had hung on for her life.  She found the trot interesting as her mount appeared to turn into a jack hammer, and then settled down low in the saddle as he strode out speeding down the beach scattering corpulent, sun burnt, lobster pink holiday makers in his wake, their windbreaks and picnics flying about the beach.  On they went until at last the pony ran into the edge of one of the little known spots of quicksand that lurk at the far end of the beach.  At this point, the pony, being sensitive to such things stopped dead still.  Ruby, being less aware kept on going.  Soon she was sprawled about two feet in front of the horse’s nose.  She could hear his snorting behind her.  Although slightly disorientated she felt fine.  Nothing appeared to be broken, but she was experiencing a floating and slightly sinking sensation.  “Don’t move”.  She heard a shout from the dunes.  “We’ll have you out in a jiffy”.  She had no idea what this deranged person meant.  All she had to do was stand up.  Ah Ha.  Easier said than done.  Then she screamed....

“Sparky.  I want to go after Annie”.  Ruby had entered the Mayor’s office without ceremony.  “They are my biscuits she’s risking her life for and I need to help get them back”.  Sparky was becoming used to unscheduled arrivals in her office.  Since the folk at the pub had arrived she had had to put up with a lot of unexpected interruptions.  Rosekitty had been in demanding black paint for the dungeon room and Nova, the fiery red headed sex kitten had stood on the little rug that lay in front of Sparky’s desk and announced that she wanted to open a chicken ranch.  The village was awash with chickens.  Why on earth would they want yet another intensive chicken breeding facility?  “Never been to Nevada huh?” Nova had said.  Sparky had to concede that she hadn’t but that one time that she went to Las Vegas and; well somethings you just don’t tell.  But when Nova told her what she really wanted and meant by chicken ranch Sparky was frankly quite shocked.  She meant to say “Ah yes.  I know what you mean.  No way Nova”.  Instead she just got the “Ah yes...” out when they were interrupted by the sight of Mad Meg chased by yet another farmer whose livestock she had stolen.  She rushed to her door and as she did so she heard Nova saying as she departed in a little ball of dust “Gee thanks babydoll.  I knew you would see it as a benefit.  We’ll pull the boys in from all around.  You see if we don’t”.  “Nova.  Wait” she called aftyer her.  But too late.  Mad Meg was climbing her step, a lamb under each arm.  “Hi Mayor she wheezed through whisky sodden teeth.  Meet Baa and Saloon Baa”.  Sparky had temporarily given up and collapsed into her chair.

OurLot Pub

OurLot Pub

a modern Pioneer story

Annie slowed her horse and pushed the brim of her hat up off her eyes.  Beads of perspiration lay like condensation on a cold beer glass on her forehead.  The ride up from town had been slow.  The trail across the Prairie often fading from her as the warm, harsh wind that blew all before it camouflaged the hoof prints of Baby Face Bourbon’s horse.  Squinting into the sun she saw before her a shallow valley filled with a shimmering lake, cool and inviting in the early Summer sun.  She knew though that this was an illusion.  The lake was real enough, but the hidden rivers that flowed within it, swollen by the torrents of rain that has fallen and run off the surrounding, surprisingly green and lush land, rendered it treacherous and unforgiving to the casual swimmer.  But her horse could drink at least.

Back in the small and sparsely populated town on whose behalf Annie was on her quest, Mayor Sparky was nervous.  She didn’t mind the odd visitor.  In fact the town welcomed tourists with their hungry eyes and hungrier bellies.  The newly reopened pub was always happy to see them and tried hard to met their every gastronomic desire.  Since Pat, or Gollywog as she liked to be called, their English Executive Chef had arrived, she had even managed to achieve a regular seafood delivery from far away St John’s.  Three thousand hard miles were driven every week just to bring the freshest prawns, lobster and crab as well as a myriad selection of other fish and shellfish.  People came up from Regina and Saskatoon just to sample her fresh seafood salad.  Rich plump shrimp, a whole lobster, king crab decorated by mussels, tender squid and a dozen oysters laid on a mountain of ice with a crisp salad and plenty of French bread alongside.  The Pub’s signature dish.  One worth a fifty or even hundred mile journey in these gas starved days.

But Sparky’s concern wasn’t about the Pub.  Though she had more than enough of those. But something that had happened there earlier.    Everyday, folk from around the World arrived to stay at the Pub.  Canada’s largest cooperative catering venue.  They had wondrous names - Ruby, Myklj, Pumpkinjam, Katesmamma, Agfarm, P1kef1sh.  They all had their part to play in the future of this town.  But for now, her main concern was Ruby’s upset.  Placid Ruby.  An English import.  Quiet but a vixen when riled.  She it was that had introduced the town to the delights of the English biscuit.  For too long the US cookie had reigned supreme, but now it was the hour of the Custard Cream. Nice, Viennese and that king of biscuits, the Bourbon.  That’s when the trouble had started.  Sparky had welcomed this invasion of biscuits.  She ran a tight town, nothing happened that she didn’t sanction, but biscuits seemed so, well, civilised.  Her own notions of Englishness, fair play, bracing walks, pukka chaps and  sound, sensible, no nonsense womenfolk would all stop and consume a biscuit or two at the appropriate times.  Indeed Sparky had received a complete mandate by the Village Council to compel all businesses to stop work for fifteen minutes at eleven in the morning and three in the afternoon for “tea”.  The pub had started late afternoon cream teas that had been such a hit that Sparky had started to import cream from farms in neighbouring villages.

That morning the village had been unusually quiet.  Many of the pub people had gone down to Moose Jaw to see Captain Jack’s River Tour.  They wanted to see if they could start something similar in their town, although on horseback.  Funny how, even after such a short time, these immigrants regarded their new home as “their” town.  Sparky was happy with that, provided that they did not forget where the real power base lay.  She had served this community diligently and was rightfully their Mayor.  She knew though, that there would be no threats to her.  She was loved by all these new folk.  They had come to see her and help her in her quest to get the village thriving again.  No, today was quiet.  Ruby was outside the pub, drinking her coffee and waiting for her latest delivery of English biscuits.  A whole consignment of those gloriously chocolate  Bourbons that she was so partial too.  She loved to see people experiencing their first taste.  If they bought a packet she always gave them a coffee in a  real ceramic mug bearing the slogan “I’d sooner be drinking Brandy - but this will do” in which to dunk their biscuit.  She now stood impatiently waiting for the truck.  She peered into the distance willing it to appear, like an excited child waiting for a loved one to appear.  Normally patient and unhurried,  nothing excited Ruby like a biscuit delivery.  Brown cardboard boxes protectively cradling their precious cargo would be ripped open by her eager hands.  A private packet always went into her old cake tin that contained her private stock.  Biscuits that she would sneak away and devout quietly, away from prying eyes as she communicated with Mr Ruby back in England as he tended his allotment.

But today though, Ruby was to be disappointed.  The truck arrived alright.  Dusty and marked by the miles that it had journeyed with it’s special, precious cargo.  Pulling up in a  cacophony of air brakes and shrieking rubber the truck eased itself to a halt.  The driver, sad and frightened, fell from his cab and stood before Ruby.  Remembering his manners, he snatched his old battered baseball cap from his head to reveal a white patch untroubled by the weather beaten skin that was his main physical characteristic and started to gabble his explanation.  “Baby Face Bourbon sprung me ten miles back”  came the hurried words.  Baby Face Bourbon was a notorious biscuit rustler.  Whole trucks of biscuits and before that cookies had disappeared into his vast biscuit filled lair.  Nobody had ever seen his hidey hole, but it has to be capacious to store all the sweet comestibles that he has stolen over the years.  A hand held over her mouth Ruby went pale with shock.  “I’m sorry ma’am, I couldn’t do anything.  He came out of the sun at me.  Suddenly he was there, on his black horse.  They call it Chocolate Cream I think”.  The mere mention of the word “chocolate” brought a sudden gasp to Ruby’s throat.  She was angry now.  “Go get Sparky” she told the hapless man.  “Why were men so useless” she asked herself.  They had their good points of course, but losing a whole shipment of biscuits was too much.

Sparky, as was to be expected grilled the driver until he could be grilled no more.  Where, when, what did he look like.  In which direction had he gone.  Did he have a truck too?  She had been surprised to be told that baby Face appeared to have a whole train of pack horses and had spent over an hour loading them with his favourite biscuits.  She was less astonished that this useless driver had just sat there and let him do it.  But nothing really surprised her now.  Not in respect of people like this.  Anything for an easy life.  Just pay me the money and don’t expect any responsibility in return.  She told him to park his truck where it was less unsightly, round the back of the pub would do and then go and beg Pat for a meal.  Keep out of Ruby’s way as she would not want to see him for a while.  Sparky was angry now.  How dare this Baby Face Bourbon come onto her patch.  She would hunt him down and make him pay.  But who to choose to go and find him?  With most of the likely suspects out of town this was not going to be an easy choice.  The she remembered the Sheep Fair.

The Sheep Fair was anew institution that Sparky had initiated to try to draw some more business into town.  She had of course called up her old friend Annie to help her out.  Annie knew about life.  She worked hard and played harder.  She has livestock, principally sheep and would know what to do to organise a grand event.  She lived close enough, but not too close. She always had feedstuff in her pockets and could be guaranteed to start a rip roaring party where the booze and Mary Jane flowed and where men had better look out.  Annie was fond of her men, and worked them hard.  The thought of all this work to bring her pleasure didn’t put them off, still they came, begging for her attentions.  She would be just the person to help Sparky track down Baby Face Bourbon.  She called Annie over to her “office” at her newly refurbished house.  The act of the last loser that Sparky had tangled with.  His was the Truck parked up with the sign painted on it’s side “Notice to Fire Dept:  If this is ablaze.  Do Not Extinguish!”  He knew his place now and Sparky was pleased to have been the one to teach him.

She quickly outlined the size of the dilemma to Annie.  The latter, always game for adventure said that she’d get right on it.  Sparky was nervous.  Annie was her closest friend, should she let her go alone.  But nobody else could ride or trail a spoor like her.  She beged her to take care and not to take any chances.  All that she needed to do was find the villain and report back.  She knew that Annie wouldn’t leave it there.  But she had to take the chance that the wicked perpetrator of this heinous crime could be apprehended before he had a chance to hide the evidence.  A woman with a horse was the only possible solution.

Leaving town East, Annie quickly picked up the tell tale trail of hoof prints.  Here and there she found small piles of biscuity crumbs.  Clearly Baby Face liked to stop for his tea breaks.  The warm sun was frequently replaced by light showers that blew in across the Prairie.  Heralded by a change of wind tempo she could see black clouds scudding towards her like some crazy, suicidal insect hell bent on adding itself to the pile of siblings all ready on the windscreen.  But Annie had no screen, just her sun glasses and the brim of her hat. Wet and dry in equal measure, she toiled across the savannah, frustrated when the trail ran cold, and elated when she picked it up again.  Her bay horse indefatigable, occasionally bending her neck to pull at a tuft of spiky prairie grass, but always marching onwards.  Until, at length they arrived at the neck of the valley where we met them first.

Now she sat astride her patient mare and contemplated the vista.  Baby Face had to have stopped here.  His horses would be thirsty, as she was.  Smelling water, they would have been bound to pull him to the lakeside to slake their parched throats.

I'm a free Man

Hooray.  I have come back from my trip and discovered that I am able to post again.  Thank you Blogger for releasing me.  I have had some good ideas for first lines for the story inspired by the hotel and other guests.  So  watch this space.  Well, the one below/above I mean! 

What am I doing Now

A friend asked me why I don't think about writing professionally.  I don't think that I am good enough.  However, over the next few days and weeks a story will slowly unfold.  I shall stop when I reach the end, or if any friend says STOP NOW.  The call is theirs.