Chris Blake - Cowboy Showdown

Tom and Zuma tumbled out of the cyclone and found themselves in the middle of a wood. Green pine trees towered above them. Here and there, beams of sunlight trickled through the branches.

Zuma scrambled to her feet. “Did that really happen?” Her voice was filled with panic.

“It certainly did,” Tom said. He hardly recognised Zuma. She was no longer covered in blue paint and feathers, and the only thing that remained of her Aztec costume was the black, mirror-like pendant that hung round her neck. Zuma’s long hair was almost as black and shiny as the mirror, and her skin was the colour of caramel. Right now, her dark brown eyes were darting nervously about the woods.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Tom. “But I’m pretty sure we aren’t in England any more.”

Zuma tilted her head, confused. “Where’s England?”

“That’s where I live,” said Tom. “Thousands of miles from Mexico, where you live. I mean, lived.”

The little dog scurried over and pawed at Zuma’s feet until she picked him up.

“He’s got a lot of energy for such a little thing,” Tom remarked. “What’s he called?”

“I don’t know,” said Zuma. “We’ve only just met. He was going to be sacrificed, like me. I saved him.”

“You should give him a name,” said Tom, and the dog let out a woof of agreement.

Zuma laughed. “OK. Well, let’s see … he’s pretty lively. Maybe we should call him after something that has a lot of zing. Like … Chilli!”

“Perfect!” said Tom.

The dog wagged his tail and licked Zuma’s cheek. He seemed to like his new name.

“It’s as if he understands,” said Zuma.

“Speaking of understanding … the two of us speak different languages, so we shouldn’t be able to understand each other, but we do. If it’s like the last time I went time travelling, we’ll understand everyone we meet too.”

“But how’s that possible?” asked Zuma.

Tom shrugged. “It must be part of Tlaloc’s magic.”

Now Zuma noticed Tom’s clothing and giggled. “What are you wearing?” She looked down at her own outfit. “What am I wearing?”

“They’re dungarees,” said Tom, brushing off the knees of his sturdy denim trousers. “And I think these checked shirts are made of cotton.”

“What about these strange sandals?” Zuma lifted one foot, then the other.

“Not sandals …” Tom corrected her with a grin. “Boots. Cowboy boots!” He reached up and tipped the hat on his head. “And cowboy hats.”

Zuma looked up at the wide brim on her own hat. “Well, it beats feathers!”

Now Chilli began pawing the dirt at Zuma’s feet.

“Good idea, Chilli,” said Zuma. “Let’s start looking for that first coin. The sooner we find it, the sooner I can be free!” While Chilli dug, Zuma began searching under rocks and round tree roots.

“You’re not going to find it like that,” said Tom. “We need a clue.”

“Where do we get one of those?” said Zuma.

Tom frowned and thought back to his adventures with Isis. She’d had a scarab ring that had given them help in the form of riddles …

Tom looked Zuma up and down. His eyes stopped on her necklace. “Your pendant!”

Zuma touched the black disc. “The high priest made me wear it for the sacrifice because black mirrors are good for communicating with spirits and predicting the future.”

“Perfect!” cried Tom. “Ask it for help.”

Zuma held the pendant with both hands. “Er … what should I say?”

“Well, you can always be like Snow White and start with, ‘Mirror, Mirror …’” Tom burst out laughing when he saw the strange look Zuma was giving him. “Oh, right. I guess you didn’t have fairy tales in Aztec times.” Tom quickly explained how Snow White had summoned the voice of her magic mirror.

“OK, here goes,” said Zuma.

“ Mirror, Mirror, on a chain,

Can you help us? Please explain!

We are lost and must be told

How to find the coins of gold .”

Tom smiled. “Nice.”

The next instant, silvery sparks appeared on the smooth surface of the mirror, followed by words rising up from the dark stone:

In a town that has no law,

The hero must always be first to draw;

Where rivers and coaches rush with gold

Fortunes are won but souls can be sold.

The sharpest of shooters you’ll meet on this trip;

One is a marshal who’s smart as a whip.

The West can be wild, it’s not for the meek,

So be brave in the cave when you roll out of Spring Creek!

“Now I know where we are,” cried Tom. “We’ve landed in the Wild West.”

“Hmm,” said Zuma, looking worried. “Exactly how wild is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Tom admitted. “All I know is that in the late 1800s, gold was discovered in America’s West. Thousands of people hurried there to try and get rich. That’s why they called it the Gold Rush—”

“Babbling!” Zuma cupped her hand to her ear. “I hear babbling.”

Tom looked hurt. “Well you did ask …”

“No,” said Zuma, patting his shoulder. “I didn’t mean you were babbling. I meant I hear running water.”

“Let’s follow it,” said Tom, feeling hopeful. “Maybe it will lead us to a river that rushes with gold, like the riddle says.”

With Chilli trotting along beside them, Tom and Zuma found their way to a creek. Then they followed its winding bank through the trees and scrub.

The further they walked, the more the woods thinned. Soon they arrived at the edge of a clearing, where the creek broadened into a wide pool. Standing knee-deep in the rippling water were two boys. The taller one looked like he was in his late teens while the smaller boy was only a bit older than Tom and Zuma.

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