She had been traveling. In the maddening way of dreams, she did not know where from or where to, but the trip was long and hot. She had arrived; this location was the right spot, the end of the trail; she was sure only that she was "there".
She read, "Ye Olde Watering Hole". I'll bet! Everything inside is probably highly polluted, she thought, unduly pleased by the image of a cow's head lying beside a rheumy pool of stagnant water lined with dead animal carcasses.
She entered, tired, hot, and extremely thirsty. This was the only building of any kind with the essential "air conditioned" sign on the door. A dusty door, with a reassuring patrol car stationed in front.
An Indian entered, scowling, primordial, in conventional dress, but obviously no cigar store Indian. Hollywood style good looks. Oblivious to it.
She stared impolitely, aware that the sheriff was amused by her obvious reaction, her fascination with his rampant maleness.
What a disgusting phrase!
You're in pretty sorry shape when you feel the need to edit your dreams, her subconscious added as the dream continued.
His black eyes scanned the tables, finally coming to rest on hers. A flicker of acknowledgment, and he headed her way.
"Now, that's enough brave to make one wish one were of Indian descent," she ruefully remarked, shocked when her ears registered her words.
The sheriff burst out laughing.
"Coming?" the Indian asked, still locked in intense gaze with her.
She raised her eyebrows in inquiry.
"The very man you were just inquiring about," the sheriff added helpfully, smiling even more broadly. "Juan Quantico, John, Cu, 'El Pichon Azul'. Second son of an alcoholic chief and a very powerful medicine woman."
"I can't work for him," she said softly, again amazed when her voice disturbed the air.
Last updated 1/20/02.