The Picture Ranch 59

'You, Sir, are not Rogers.' She kept the barrel still, I liked that in a dame pointing a pistol in my direction.

'He went on a trip to the beach, had his mind set on a swim. I came instead.'

'Who's he?'

The muzzle still didn't move: she pointed the index-finger of her left-hand at Moose. He went down like his hunter-shot namesake, when a guy we hadn't seen behind us cold-cocked him with a sap.

'Hitcher. Just a bum on the road.'

'No-one will miss him, in that case.'

'He doesn't know what's in the cab. He never will, if he's out for longer than a few minutes. I can drive out and drop him off.'

I heard her say 'Who says you're leaving, Mr Not-Rogers?', before I saw the lights of Chinese New Year firecrackers and then everything went black.

Moose's bulk had mashed into me, pinning me to the side of a better truck than the one we'd arrived in. I had lost my jacket between those firecrackers and waking up in the arms of Moose. A trail of blood had dried on my arm, just below the sleeve that someone had kindly rolled up for me. Probably after my hands had been tied. In front, that was a sophomore mistake, or maybe they'd miscalculated the dose. Moose was still out colder than a priest-brained fish. I rolled him off me. His chest was moving, but not much. I hope they had enough dope left for the next injured horse, back at the ranch. I played possum, keeping a slitted eye on the rear window of the truck's cab. There was only the driver. The dame Caruso, or one of the heavies in a wig. She turned right the way around leaving only one hand on the wheel. I guessed there was no other traffic on the dirt road to nowhere. It seemed a long time before she was satisfied we were both still out and she turned to peer through the windscreen at nothing very much.

I shuffled a little, to get my back to the driver's cab. Then I went at the rope with my teeth, but not for long. It wasn't that the knots were tight, just that my teeth were loose. Besides, the dirt road wouldn't cooperate.