15
There was a plan from the stars down…. They planned that the rainbow should be used for a path whenever there was a deep canyon to cross; and it was to be thrown over a river and used for a bridge.
—Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee
EXPERT OPINION
WHILE HIS VISITOR watched, Charlie Moon squatted in front of the massive fireplace. The rancher nestled a fat pine log into a bed of amber embers. The damp wood hissed. Popped. Sizzled.
Fizzled.
“Some Indian,” his guest smirked. “Can’t even get a fire started.”
The Ute took iron rod in hand, spurred on the mulish fuel with an urgent prodding. “Go,” he muttered.
The wood would not.
Moon aimed his pointed weapon, made a vicious thrust into barkish skin. The pine whined, weeped resinous blood. Flames came to lick the wound.
Having had his way with the log, the Ute seated himself on a couch. Poker in hand, he waited for his guest to say what was on his mind.
Dr. Walter Simpson, snuggled in a cushioned rocking chair, had removed his ankle-high suede boots. The medical examiner stretched his short legs, the better to toast a pair of size-five feet in the hospitable warmth of Charlie Moon’s hearth. He wriggled chilly toes under monogrammed silk socks. “So, my land-rich friend, how’s the ranching business?”
“It’d better get better,” Moon said, “or I’ll have to take up another trade.”
Simpson shifted his rump in the chair, and treated himself to an old man’s rheumatic groan. “It’s a helluva long way here from Granite Creek. And it’ll be twice as far back.”
“I would’ve been glad to come to your place.”
Simpson’s mouth curled into an elfin grin that was almost hidden by the underbrush of a silvery-white mustache. “I realize how much you enjoy encountering the bloody, mangled cadavers in my quaint basement morgue. But I thought I should have a look at your famous ranch.” He reached for a ceramic mug, inhaled a sip of hot apple cider. “I’ll need some serious coffee before I hit the road. It’s hard driving after dark since my cataract surgery.”
Moon took the hint. “You could stay at the ranch tonight.”
“I would not want to impose on your hospitality.”
“Sure you would.”
“What’s for breakfast?”
“Eggs fried in pig grease. Slab of honey-cured ham. Redeye gravy. And my special homemade green-chili biscuits.”
Simpson’s mouth watered. “Real biscuits—made from scratch?”
“I grind the wheat on a vermiculite metate. Just like Grandpa used to do.”
“You talked me into it.”
They heard the melancholy call of a lonely coyote. The soft whisper of night wind in the eaves. Then, the heavy sound of silence.
Moon seemed mesmerized by the flames flickering in the fireplace.
The physician gave the Ute a sideways glance. “You doing okay, Charlie?”
“Sure.”
“Suffering any symptoms from your head injury?”
“Nothing I can’t live with.”
The medical examiner cleared his throat to make way for the professional voice. “Tell me what you remember.”
Moon tapped the poker on the pointed toe of his boot. “About what?”
“Start with how you got your injury.”
“There’s not much I recall.” And nothing at all I want to talk about.
“Then you don’t know anything about Amanda Silk’s death?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me how she died.”
Simpson stirred a cinnamon stick in the cider. “I’ll give you three guesses.”
“How about a hint?”
A sly mask slipped over Simpson’s face. “Okay. It’s one word.”
“Heartfailure.”
“That’s two words.”
“Not if you say it fast.”
“Try saying…catecholamines.”
“That would’ve been my second guess.”
The medical examiner’s voice took on a pedantic tone. “Catecholamines are primarily comprised of adrenaline and noradrenaline.”
“Any half-wit knows that.”
“Not just any half-wit. But evidently, that blow on the skull has improved your mind.” Simpson licked the cinnamon stick. “But in my attempt to flatter you, I have digressed. Where was I?”
“Showing off.”
“Well, of course.” The medical examiner smiled amiably. “But please be more specific.”
“Something about adrenaline. And catching coal mines.”
“Ah, yes. Catecholamines.” Dr. Simpson’s bespectacled eyes took on a dreamy look. “Dr. Silk must have suffered an incredibly stressful experience. This results in a multitude of physiological responses. The whole point is to make the fight-or-flight mechanism kick in. The one of particular interest in Dr. Silk’s case involves the hypothalamus. That organ signals the adrenal glands to start squirting catecholamines into the bloodstream—which increases the ability of the blood to coagulate. This same chemical also makes blood vessels constrict. All of which helps prevent excessive bleeding.” The medical examiner enjoyed the sweet sound of his own voice far more than the ethereal song of violin or harp. “This response is very handy if you are running from a hungry grizzly who is right behind you biting big chunks outta your ass.” Simpson paused to chuckle.
The Ute was engrossed by the second act on that small stage where dancing flames were impersonating something. Or other. It was a dark, lurid performance. Charlie Moon forced himself to look away from the fireplace.
The medical examiner frowned at his host. “Charlie—you listening to what I’m telling you?”
“Sure.”
“Good.” The ME tapped a cinnamon stick on his ear. “As mandated by God’s grand evolutionary plan, mammalian heart cells are provided with marvelous channels that enable calcium to flow in. These channels are controlled—among other means—by the release of catecholamines. Which is a highly useful response. Unless you get too much calcium in the heart muscles.”
Moon heard the hall clock chime the half hour. “You telling me Dr. Silk died of a calcium overdose?”
Simpson nodded at the fireplace. “It is a fairly rare physiological phenomena, but in instances of extreme stress, massive amounts of catecholamines are released. This can cause excessive levels of calcium to flood the heart-muscle fibers.” He swirled the lukewarm cider residue, then downed it in one gulp. “Dr. Silk’s heart fibers seized up completely. The heart muscles became rigid—almost like stone.” To demonstrate, he gripped the empty mug until his knuckles turned pearly white.
There was a lengthy silence while firelight flickered on their faces.
“She have a weak heart?”
Simpson stared unblinkingly into the flames. “The woman had coronary arteries an Olympic athlete would be proud of.”
“So what’s the bottom line?”
“Charlie, I cannot even imagine the extreme nature of the external stimulus that led to the archaeologist’s demise.” The ME closed his tired eyes, rocked himself gently in the cradle of the leather-backed chair. “But the internal evidence is beyond dispute. The unfortunate woman was frightened to death.”
16
He traveled southward…he found a ragged old man. The Elder Brother was about to kill him when he said: “No, my Grandson, you must not kill me, even though I am Tie en, Poverty…” The Elder Brother…let him live.
—Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee
PIE THIEF
CHARLIE MOON’S AUNT had telephoned several times, insisting that she come and “look after him” until he was better. Assuring Daisy Perika that he was doing quite well did nothing to dissuade the elderly woman. And though he needed some solitary time, maybe a visit to the Columbine would be good for her. Might even help her realize that she could spend some time away from her little home at the mouth of Cañon del Espíritu. Which was all to the good. So he decided to drive south to the res
ervation and get her.
A light wind was moving in from the northwest, pleasantly rippling its way through the willows along the river. Moon pulled on a wool-lined denim jacket, pressed the familiar black hat down to his ears. The novice rancher stood on the west porch. He had a long, satisfying look at this sweet land that was his. Pete Bushman had trucked in sixty head of purebred Herefords. They were dotted along a thousand-acre pasture on the far side of the river, where the fresh breeze made rolling waves in the blue-green sea of grass. A day’s walk away, blue granite mountains raised craggy heads heavenward, to be crowned with an iridescent wreath of swirling ice crystals. The Ute felt very close to Paradise.
But the sun was high; there was work to be done.
Shaking off the mesmerizing spell of the land, Moon headed toward where his pickup was parked. The F150 waited under a pair of ancient cottonwoods that leaned against each other like friendly drunks. As he opened the cab door, the Ute thought he sensed something behind him. He turned to see Sidewinder. The lanky dog looked half starved and was moving slowly, as if all his muscles ached. Though not particularly fond of the eccentric animal, Moon was in a generous mood. He opened the cab door. “Want a ride?”
The hound turned up his nose at the offer. Sneered.
Moon shook his head at the peculiar creature, then got into the pickup. The machine had not been driven since it was returned from Ghost Wolf Mesa. He twisted the ignition key. The engine turned over slowly at first, then picked up speed as a film of oil lubricated the cylinder rings. But it didn’t start. He turned the ignition off, tapped the accelerator pedal several times, then tried again. Six cranks and the gasoline fumes ignited. “Right,” he said. It would be good to be on the road again. He did not realize that this small delay in starting the truck had allowed something to happen. Something trivial. Something that would change his life forever.
Moon headed down the graveled lane, over a fast-running creek that fed the river. From force of habit, he pulled over at the foreman’s house. By the time he was halfway across the dusty yard, Pete Bushman had emerged, on the porch. Moon waved. “Good morning.”
“It’d be good,” the grizzled foreman said, “if we could get some rain. The south pastures ain’t growing nothin’ but black rocks and spiny-cactus and blood-suckin’ ticks.”
“You sure know how to cheer a man up.”
“I forgot to mention a fine crop of locoweed.”
Moon looked toward the clouds hanging over the mountains. “The rain’ll come.”
“If you’re goin’ into town,” Bushman said, “maybe you could pick up some supplies we’re needin’.”
“You got a list?”
“I’ll make you one.” The foreman turned to open the screen door.
Moon removed his hat and followed his employee inside.
Dolly Bushman was already pouring coffee. She invited the boss to have a chair.
The Ute expressed his appreciation and seated himself at the kitchen table, where all business was conducted.
Pete Bushman licked the tip of a stubby lead pencil before laboriously scribbling a column of necessaries that included salt blocks and veterinary supplies for the stock. For the human population of the Columbine, one hundred pounds of flour, fifteen pounds of coffee beans, a bucket of lard, ten pounds of bacon, twenty pounds of sugar, a fifty-pound sack of pinto beans, and miscellaneous canned fruit. He added cookies to the list, specifying gingersnaps, which were the foreman’s favorite. For the ranch itself, two hundred feet of Manila rope, fifteen pounds of two-inch roofing nails, a bundle of welding rods. And a bucket of tar.
“Well,” Dolly said to their employer, “it sure is good to have you back on the Columbine.”
“Thank you.” Moon stirred a generous portion of sugar into his coffee. “Glad to be back. If it wasn’t for you and Pete, I might not—”
“Shush,” Dolly said sternly. “We won’t hear another word about it.”
“There is one thing,” the Ute said. “After you found my pickup on Ghost Wolf Mesa, I understand you heard a dog.”
Dolly nodded. “Awfulest howling I ever heard. That’s what led Pete to where you was. It was like that animal was drawing us…” A tear trickled down her cheek.
“You didn’t actually see the dog?”
Pete Bushman shook his head. “I don’t think it was no dog. I think maybe it was—” He checked himself at a look from his wife. “Maybe it was just the wind—whistlin’ in a holler tree.”
Dolly wiped the tear away, then patted Moon’s shoulder. “So where are you headed?”
“To pick up my aunt. She’s been calling every day. Wants to come take care of me.”
“Well, I expect that’ll be nice for you.” She said this with no hint of enthusiasm.
“No,” the Ute responded, “it’ll be like hugging an armload of prickly pears. But I doubt she’ll want to stay all that long.”
The expression on Dolly’s face betrayed her relief.
Moon looked to his foreman. “How’re things going with the new stock?”
Pete Bushman didn’t look up from his list. “Them beeves is doin’ just fine, thank you.”
Moon got the point. Foremen were indispensable. Ranch owners were a damned nuisance.
Dolly held a jar of apricots up to a dust-streaked shaft of light from the south window. “Well, there is one thing.”
Her husband shot her a warning look. And for good measure, he growled.
Dolly ignored him. “Somebody’s been prowling around at night. Has to be one of them cutthroats Pete hired. A couple of ’em ain’t worth the powder it’d take to blow ’em to Kingdom Come.” She smiled. “But that young man from Rhode Island is very nice. So I’m sure it wasn’t him that stole the pie.”
Moon looked up from his coffee. “Somebody stole a pie?”
“Bernanner cream.” Pete Bushman said this with a hollow-eyed expression of deep loss.
Dolly pointed to the scene of the crime. “Scoundrel took it right off my windowsill.”
The Columbine foreman scowled. “I expect that jumble-headed chowhound snatched it.”
“Window’s too high,” his wife said. “And besides, Sidewinder never takes any food from my kitchen.”
Moon grinned. “Why’s that, Dolly?”
Her eyes sparked fire. “’Cause that old mongrel knows better than to mess with me.” She suggested that the boss help himself to a freshly baked brownie.
He helped himself to three.
The good woman happened to look over Charlie Moon’s shoulder. And out the window to where his Ford F150 was parked. “Oh, my goodness—speak of the Devil.”
Moon was turning to see which devil.
“No,” she whispered urgently, “don’t look.”
He didn’t. “What is it?”
She laughed. “It’s old Sidewinder, bless his ornery heart.”
“He must’ve followed me.”
She refilled his cup with coffee. “I expect he got in the back when you wasn’t looking.”
“He’s in the truck?”
She nodded. “But don’t let on you know he’s there. It’d hurt his feelings.”
“Well, I offered him a ride and he turned me down cold.” Damned annoying dog.
“It’s just his way,” the kindly woman said.
“That old dog,” Pete Bushman said, “is fond of pickups. ’Specially Fords. He’ll hitch a ride ev’ry chance he gets.”
“Well, he won’t be stealing no more rides in my truck,” Moon grumped.
Pete Bushman looked up from his ciphering. “Dogs is like chillern.”
“Like what?”
The man’s hearing must have been buggered up by that whack on the head. “Chillern,” Bushman said. Loudly. “You let chillern or dogs do something one time, they figger they can do it again whenever they wants to.”
Moon turned to look out the window. The hound’s massive head, which had been hanging over the edge of the truck bed, immediately popped out of
sight. “Excuse me,” he said. And headed for the door.
Moon leaned on the tailgate. The pickup bed contained the ordinary items one would expect to find in a cow-ranch pickup. A bale of alfalfa hay. Tool box. Coil of rope. Tattered horse blanket. Under the blanket was a large, hound-shaped lump. Sidewinder had made a dogged effort to conceal himself. And was fairly successful. Except for the ropelike tail protruding from under the blanket.
“Sneaky mutt. You get outta there.”
The form did not move.
The Ute tried again. “Hey—Sidewinder.”
Hearing the sweet sound of his name was too much. The tail, which had a sentimental mind of its own, did a half wag before it was stilled by an urgent command from the hound’s canny brain.
The Ute grinned. And gave the tail a yank.
The animal squirmed around under the blanket, then poked his long muzzle out to give his supposed master an embarrassed look.
Moon eyed the dog. “Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”
Sidewinder grinned.
Charlie Moon pulled the blanket away, and discovered that the F150 was more than transportation for the animal. The pickup bed was apparently a favorite spot for the hound to relax. Gather his canine thoughts. Chew on things. There were, in fact, several chewable items the hound had collected. Fractured ham bone. Battered tomato soup can. Mangled cowboy boot. And something else.
Under the hound’s watchful eye, Moon reached to get it.
A low growl began to rattle in the animal’s innards.
“Show me just one tooth,” the Ute said evenly, “and I’ll tie your tail in a knot.”
The growl persisted.
“Then,” Moon growled back, “I’ll drop you off the ledge into Burro Canyon. That’s a good two hundred feet,” he added. “A long, long way to fall.”
Sidewinder seemed to appreciate the gravity of the situation. The growl was transformed into a pleading whine; the so-far, knotless tail thumped against the truck bed.
Charlie Moon turned the remains of the shapeless blob over in his hand. It was mostly plastic, but a small metal tube dangled from the wreckage. “What was this before you tried to eat it?”
White Shell Woman Page 25
