Author's notes: As my command of the Navajo language is rather limited and the online dictionary is a small one, it will be assumed for this chapter that John Quail and Kathy Mustang Talker are conversing in a mixture of Navajo and hand sign. Her responses to Walker are in English.

"Big Bad John" as a song is based on an American folk tale popular among miners in the West. The version I have used here is sung by Johnny Cash and can be found at http/ about the Navajo people and their beliefs is partially based upon information I found here: A small portion comes from personal experience gotten growing up in the area. The remainder is artistic license with no offense intended.

A note on the layout of the home: it's a ranch style log house with a verandah out front leading to a mud room (a place for jackets, shoes, outdoor tools, etc.). The living, dining, and kitchen areas are essentially the same room with a breakfast bar dividing the kitchen from the living and dining areas. A single hall off the kitchen leads to living quarters.

Kathy Mustang Talker and John Quail are my intellectual property. Both are loose composites of several real-life friends with similar disabilities. All other characters belong to the creators of Walker, Texas Ranger and I am just borrowing them for my personal entertainment. This is my first fan-fic and I've never managed to view the entire series so I hope I can be forgiven any inconsistencies.

Chapter 3 - Big Bad John

o/ "Nobody seemed to know where John called home

He just drifted into town and stayed all alone.

He didn't say much, kind of quiet and shy

And if you spoke at all, you'd just said hi to Big John.

Somebody said he came from New Orleans,

Where he got into a fight over a Cajun Queen.

And a crash and a blow from a huge right hand,

sent a Louisiana fella to the promise land." o/

-----"Big Bad John" sung by Johnny Cash

The cows were, as Kathy suspected they would be, standing at the corral gate waiting to be let into the paddock. She counted each as it came through the gate and came up to feed. One, two, three…seventeen, eighteen, nine--- no, I counted that one twice… They seemed in no more gentle a mood than the horses had been since they pushed and shoved trying to beat one another to the troughs. Their bellicose bawling rang out through the icy air and the constant milling made them difficult to count accurately. Of course, the one time I need to get back to the house quickly, the damned things won't hold still…. forty-eight, forty-nine... Crap! Three missing, including a yearling calf. No time to chase them down and no way to call the sheriff. She doubted, considering which ones were missing, that they'd been separated from the herd or holed up in the foothills. Thieves, it's always thieves.

She finished her assessment of the herd: they'd obviously traveled quite a distance either in or barely ahead of the storm; their shaggy coats were layered with snow and melting ice. Kathy made certain none of them had frozen their muzzles to the ground and then barred the corral gate. They'll be safe in the paddock. No point in turning them back out in this storm. It's a bad one. She sighed wearily and trudged through ankle-deep snow to the barn where she hung up the feed buckets. Time to deal with whatever I find up at the ranch house…

She could hear someone muttering incoherently and smelled the scent of illness the moment she stepped inside. After she had hung up her jacket in the mud room, she limped into the living room of the home. "Ut-zah-ha-dez-bin?" she called softly. All is well?

The prisoner shot up from where he'd been sitting on the floor It looked as though he'd been in a skirmish and gotten the worst of it. She would have sworn the coverall hadn't been torn when she left. "Do-ya-sho-da," he responded, "Ni-dah-than-zie hanot-dzied bilh-has-ahn. Da-ah-hi-jih-gahn." Not good. He does not know where he is and he's fighting something. "I got in the way," he added sheepishly. "He was trying to leave."

Kathy sat down in her favorite chair and began tugging at her boots. The only thing harder than getting them on was getting them off afterwards. A large brown hand, still encircled by hand cuffs, reached forward. "I can see you are having difficulty. Let me help."

"I don't need your help! I'm perfectly capable of removing my own boots!"

She expected the big man to respond any way --- to yell back, to argue, to force her to accept his assistance --- except for how he did. Instead he merely blinked as if mildly startled, withdrew his hand, and responded, "I know. However, if the Great Spirit allows our paths to cross, should we not help one another?"

Kathy stopped struggling with her boots and sighed. "You know what? You're absolutely right. It's a bad situation and neither of us asked for this." She allowed him help her remove her boots. "I didn't ask your name."

"I'm John Quail."

"Kathy Mustang Talker. This is my ranch. Do you know his?"

"It's Walker. He's a Texas Ranger."

They're a long way from home. Someone has got to be looking for them. State agencies don't just misplace their officers and prisoners…do they? Kathy scrubbed a hand across her face. "We seem to be stuck with each other for the moment. Look, I have a pot of coffee started. Can you finish it while I attend to him?" she asked hopefully.

John actually smiled. "That much I can do."

"You can tell me what happened when the coffee is done."

The man on the couch tossed his head restlessly as though searching for something. He quieted when she laid her hand against his forehead and brushed the sweat matted hair out of his eyes. "Ah-hos-teend," she whispered soothingly. "Ye-dzhe-al-tsisi." Be calm and rest. You are safe.

Walker's eyes opened and he stared at her with hazy blue-grey eyes. He reached a shaky hand up and caught a tendril of red-brown hair which had fallen over her shoulders. Her small nieces and nephews would sometimes finger her hair like that when they were trying to figure out the words to go with the object. "Alex?" he mumbled, "what've you done to your hair? No…it's not the right color." For an instant he seemed completely lucid and then the clarity was replaced by a feral intensity. "I…I don't know you…"

If Kathy hadn't remembered her nieces and nephews were prone to yanking her hair, Walker probably would have succeeded in throwing her across the room. She'd tossed it back over her shoulder out of the way just as he tried to get a firmer hold on it. He'd only been able to knock her off balance. What kind of man is this Walker? I've seen men half as sick who couldn't even stand and he's coming at me like a bull during rutting season. Kathy scuttled backwards and grabbed the walking stick she kept handy for use on days when she couldn't depend on her legs to function properly.

Whatever Walker was seeing, it wasn't present in this room. He assumed an aggressive fighting posture and yelled, "Trivette, make sure you've got my back!" If he hadn't been so worn down and incapacitated by his illness, Kathy wouldn't have had a chance to avoid the blows. She clumsily warded them off with the walking stick but he did manage to knock her to the floor.

"John Quail, never mind the damned coffee and get over here!"

The big Navajo seemed to cross the room in two strides. He put himself between Walker and Kathy. Walker swung wildly, missed his target, and wavered. "Trivette? Trivette, where are you?" John caught him as he collapsed and laid him back on the couch.

"You all right?" John asked, extending a hand to Kathy. She didn't refuse his help this time.

"Yeah," she panted, "no damage done except for a skinned knee. Has he been like that the whole time?"

John shook his head. "I think maybe he was tired when we headed out, but he didn't seem sick. At least, I don't think so. Walker missed a public notice at one of the rest stops. He doesn't speak Diné or understand our hand sign so I couldn't tell him. My English isn't the best."

"Coyote save me from idiots!" Kathy exclaimed in exasperation. "You didn't let him drink, did you?"

"Since when does a lawman listen to a prisoner? I tried and Walker knocked me flat on my ass!"

"All right." He does have a point. "What's done is done. I'll just have to make certain the mistake doesn't kill him before I can notify his people and get him some help. Forget the coffee for now. Stay with me and restrain him if he attacks again."

Walker had curled up on the couch in a fetal position, moaning softly. He didn't open his eyes or show any awareness of her presence when Kathy again placed her hand on his forehead. He's not reacting any more and that's bad. I'd almost prefer another fight. She snatched it back quickly and involuntarily examined the palm, for it felt as though she'd plunged it into a pot of boiling water. Better take care of that first. Anything else can wait. "He spent what little strength he had going after me like that," she mused. "I don't think he'll try it again. There's a linen closet in the hallway. Could you get me a couple of wash cloths, John, and soak them in water? No, better yet…get me a basin of snow from outside. You can empty those winter apples out onto the counter and use that."

"Aren't you afraid I'll run?"

John had no idea from where Kathy had pulled the pistol but it suddenly appeared in her hand. "Somehow I don't think so." She grinned, and it wasn't a pleasant one. "I'd be willing to bet even with my limp I could catch you. You're cuffed, that's a bad storm outside, and I'd be on horseback. I'm a good tracker." She pocketed the pistol and her expression softened. "Look…I'm not sure what your story is, but I think I like you. Don't try anything, please."

No one had ever given him the benefit of the doubt. He was used to being judged by his brutish looks and the fact that he didn't use a means of communication many would understand. Wordlessly, he did as she asked.

Kathy turned her attention to Walker. "Let's get you out of these wet things." She tossed aside the horse blanket, which was far from clean anyhow, and unzipped the fleece jacket. It seemed to ease his breathing a bit, and expertly supported his shoulders so she could slip it off. Ice fell to the hardwood floor with a sound like breaking glass. How long were they out there? Why did John walk so far with this Ranger when he could have left him out there and could have been free? He has to know that an out of state lawman would have no jurisdiction on Diné lands. This just keeps getting stranger and stranger. The clothing beneath wasn't dry either but a fire in the fireplace would take care of that. For now, she'd keep him wrapped in blankets until she could ask John to split more logs. No point in hoping McAllister will come by this afternoon. He'll be waiting out the storm as well. She decided to leave his boots on and found herself smiling. He's a cowboy. Never known one who would willingly part with his boots. They'd rather die in them. She cut that last thought short as Walker began to cough. Kathy recognized the harsh, rattling sound all too well. The man belongs in a hospital, not my living room, but there's nothing I can do about it until the storm passes.

The Ranger was growing restless, muttering and moaning as he called "Alex, Alex" over and over again as he shivered uncontrollably. Kathy didn't know if she could hear him but she spoke to him anyway. "Try to sleep, Walker," she said in English. "You'll feel better if you do." She covered him with the quilt on the back of the couch. That seemed to settle him and he quieted again. John seems to be taking his own sweet time. "John?"

"Here." He set the basin down beside her and kicked a stool in her direction. He must have been back inside longer than she realized because the basin also contained the wash cloths she needed.

Kathy allowed them to sit for a minute in the snowmelt and then took one and sponged Walker's face with it. He sighed in apparent relief and relaxed even more. Good. He's not as badly off as I thought, but he's not going to keep fighting me either. "That's right, Walker," she crooned soothingly. "Sleep and heal. I promise I'll try to find your Alex and this Trivette."

It had been a mistake to mention their names. Walker struggled toward consciousness. Kathy watched the battle in his eyes as force of will overrode his body's demand for sleep and healing. "I ... I don't know you…" he repeated.

"No, you don't," she affirmed as she continued to gently sponge his face, "but I'm a friend and I'm here to help."

"The prisoner ----"

"Secured," she said with a shrug. She didn't mention that she thought something was seriously wrong with a legal system which considered John Quail a dangerous criminal simply because he couldn't speak English. It wasn't the time to bring that up. "He'll stay that way until you can take charge of him again, Ranger."

That information seemed to release the tenuous hold on lucidity Walker possessed. This one still wasn't one of the faces he'd been searching for but the voice and presence had some of the same qualities which had endeared the other two to him. Trivette would have called it his "Cherokee thing", but he had a strong feeling he could trust her. He let go.

"Out again," she sighed. He'd stay that way unless she could get the fever down. She left the cold compress on his forehead and stood up slowly. Her back was yelling at her for being in a cramped position and one of her feet had gone to sleep. She stretched, wincing when she heard the tendons popping. Much more of this and I will be the one needing put to bed. Outside, the sullen grey skies were finally tinted with the fainthearted pink of a rising sun. "Time for some coffee. I believe you owe me some answers, John."

Something cold connected with her stocking covered feet. With an exclamation of annoyance, thinking she'd stepped in melted snow, Kathy started to wipe it up. It wasn't a puddle, it was a set of keys. "Presumably one of these unlocks your handcuffs." She walked over to the big Navajo, inserted the key she thought would fit into the lock, and turned.

It snapped open and the cuffs fell open. John set them aside and rubbed his wrists to restore circulation. "Thank you," he signed. "I believe that may have been one of the reasons complicating my arrest." He gave her another wry smile. "It's difficult to sign when your hands are cuffed."

The coffee pot had been whistling angrily for some time now and Kathy became aware of the rich aroma of good trail coffee, thick and black the way she liked it. She looked down at Walker one more time; he had stopped muttering and tossing and she thought he might be truly asleep. "He's as comfortable as I can make him; I'll tend to his hands later. There's mugs in the cupboard," Kathy told him, gesturing and crossed the room to the breakfast bar. She pulled herself up onto one of the stools and waited while John got them down and poured them each a steaming cup. "Now, talk," she ordered. "I want the full story and I want to know what kind of "criminal" you are. You don't act like one."

"I'm not a criminal, I'm property!" John signed angrily, "and I have been ever since the Elders agreed to send me to that stupid "school" for children with disabilities."

Kathy set her coffee mug down more forcefully than she'd intended, sloshing onto the counter, and stared at him. No. It's just not possible. This day cannot get any weirder. "You're talking about the Cottonwood facility, aren't you." It was a statement, not a question. "You're one of the unlucky ones. I had family who rescued me."

"I didn't have any family left," John admitted. "My mother and father were killed in a car accident when I was five years old. Neither her people nor my father's cared to take me in because the marriage wasn't sanctioned."

"It's almost easier to be halfblooded than intertribal," Kathy mused. "With so many of these tribes marched off of their own lands and then placed on reservations out here next to one another, old rivalries are difficult to conquer."

John finished his coffee. "Especially when one tribe managed to negotiate a better treaty than the others and there are ongoing disputes regarding land use."

"Did you tell Ranger Walker about any of this?" Kathy ventured. "About what went on at Cottonwood, I mean?"

"I can't tell a man anything when he doesn't understand me!" John protested.

"Well, your hands are free now," she countered tartly, "and you'll have me to translate if you prefer. He certainly needs to know. It could affect your sentencing. You still haven't told me how he gained custody of you or why the two of you came to be in my driveway."

"Cottonwood was never completely shut down," John said reluctantly, "and they've expanded their 'product line' to include human labor. Those who get sent there are trained to process product or in other specialized skills such as prostitution or counterfeiting and then sold to the highest bidder. Walker and the others knew they were moving in on a major drug operation but I don't think any of the law enforcement officials knew about the human trafficking.

"We'd been transported to one of the abandoned properties serving as warehouses in order to process a large shipment. When those law enforcement officials raided the place, everyone took off running of course. My handler dragged me after him but I purposely refused to keep up. He beat it and Walker took me down. Walker had some sort of argument with the guy in charge regarding me, I think, but the Ranger seemed to have won because he cuffed me in the bed of his truck and took off for Texas.

"The rest you know about. The heat in Ranger Walker's truck doesn't seem to work well and I got so cold I dozed off. Next thing I know, Walker's out of it and the Dodge is headed up a tree."

Well, that answers quite a few questions. I just don't know what I can do about it. And where's the damned truck? She needed time to think. Kathy got off the stool, gathered both mugs, and took them to the sink. The water from the pump flowed more easily this time. She rinsed the dishes and placed them in the drainer to dry. "You said you were headed to Texas. Do you remember what route you took away from the bust or can you recall the last town you passed through?"

John shook his head. "We traveled miles of unmarked county roads before getting on a highway or interstate. I do recall passing through a small place called Broken Springs. Ranger Walker stopped to refuel the truck there and to get me something to eat. I think he was already sick and confused by then because he refused to eat anything himself."

Kathy gave a low whistle. "That's a lot of territory to cover. Broken Springs is half way between Raton and Clayton. You've traveled over one hundred and fifty miles in the opposite direction you intended. Do you know how long you had been walking before you came up my driveway?"

"I dunno…three, maybe four hours? It seemed like an eternity."

"I'd imagine," Kathy replied absently. She pulled a cast iron from one of the cupboards, grabbed a stick of butter and some eggs from the refrigerator, and then set everything on the wood stove. "I'm going to make us some breakfast. Could you help me out with the chores? Walker really shouldn't be left alone and I'm afraid the cold really gets to me," she explained apologetically.

"What needs done?"

"Get the generator started if you can; it's old and it might not work. If you'd split more firewood, I can lay a fire in the fireplace and stoke the wood stove."

"I think I can find the wood pile." He'd seen the wood stockpiled against one wall of the ranch house. "Where's the generator?"

"In the barn. Look in on the horses while you're there and make sure the watering troughs stayed unfrozen. I'll have breakfast ready by the time you get back."

What on earth have I gotten myself involved with? Kathy wondered and broke open the first egg.