Free That Dog Won't Hunt by Lou Allin

CHAPTER ONE
    T his mirage was made to order. A cherry-red Mustang Mach 1 sat by the side of the road in the Mojave Desert. Its hood was up. Waves of heat rolled off the asphalt like X-rays.
    My eyes were sore from squinting. One side of my throat was tickling the other. I took the last swig from a plastic gallon of water I’d bought at Twentynine Palms. Scored a three-pointer against a saguaro. The jug rolled like a tumbleweed. I had been hitching on I-10 east from LA. They might be looking for me on the Interstate, so I took this back road through the Sheephole Mountains toward Vegas. Hadn’t seen one damn car in an hour.
    Cowboy boots hate asphalt and sand. Fact is, they’re not big on walking, period. I hoisted my duffel over my shoulder and headed for the car. The sun beat down like honey. Too dry in the desert for sweat to even bead. Thank god it was April, not July.
    “Damn it to hell!” a rough voice yelled. The rear plate read Ontario . My mirage was near perfect. Canucks are helpful, and they’ll swallow hard-luck stories. Then the hood slammed down.
    A wiry woman, barely five feet, with a wide straw hat and sunglasses, puffed on a cigarillo. Female. Three for three. Leading with my “trust me” grin, I approached.
    “Where did you come from, cowboy?” she asked, tapping the ash and smiling with a plump red mouth. My boyish look makes women want to mother me.
    “A lady in distress?” I took a mock bow, sweeping off my hat. It was battered and stained from a beating I’d rather forget.
    Why was she out here alone? Where was she heading? Surely as far as Utah. Canada was way past that.
    “You look like a man who knows horses. How about Mustangs?”
    Smiling, I trailed a finger over the dust on the door. Hand-buffed and detailed. Someone loved it.
    “Let’s take a look.” Raising the matte black hood with that sexy scoop, I fixed the safety rod.
    She took off the hat and fanned herself. The cat’s-eye sunglasses made her look like Cher. Throaty laughter said hard years of liquor and tobacco.
    “It’s fate. Looks like we both took the wrong road. Nothing’s come along but a couple of vultures ready to pick my bones.” She pointed to a circling bird.
    “Shame to waste such pretty bones. Anyways, it’s a red hawk. You can tell by the whistle.” I reached in and turned the key to watch the gauges. “Not outta gas. Oil’s good. Not overheating. What happened to her?”
    She shrugged and flipped the plastic tip of the cigarillo toward the sagebrush. “Got herky-jerky at first. Nearly slowed to a stop.” She wore a white linen skirt and a floral blouse. Silk scarf around her neck. Like she’d come from a business meeting. Not many women could keep their cool alone in the desert.
    I tossed an appreciative glance just to let her know I noticed.
    “One thing’s sure, we gotta get out of here. Start her up.” I moved to the front.
    The engine caught right off. But instead of a purr, she sounded like she had the hiccups. Not in the starter then. No backfiring or pinging either. Dirty fuel line? I signaled to turn off the ignition. Sparkplug connections were good, carburetor flap moved easy. When I removed the distributor cap, I knew what was wrong.
    “More gas. But nice and easy. She’s talking.”
    Give Daddy a paper clip, a screwdriver, duct tape and a hose and he’d get anything with wheels moving. From my jeans pocket, I pulled a penknife with a bone handle. Then I exposed the points and scraped.
    “Try her now.” Listening, I held up a hand, and she read me loud and clear. The engine stopped. I scraped again. “She’s hurting but back in business.”
    The Mustang had enough life to get us to a town. The woman revved the motor.
    “You’re one damn miracle worker. I’d like to shake your hand, kind sir.”
    I took out my last handkerchief and cleaned my fingers. “Glad to help.”
    “I’m Gladys Ryan.” She had a firm grip, like she knew what she was doing. It’s a western thing.