The Old Gray Wolf

by James D. Doss

  Expecting a vile expletive or at least a throaty oath, the bearer of bad news backed away from the Expedition. “I’m sorry, Daisy—you know I don’t think you’re mean, but I felt like it was my bounden duty to come out here and tell you exactly what Toad—what Hester had to say.”

  The old woman waved off this apology as if it were a black housefly buzzing about her wrinkled ear. “Don’t worry about it, Danny—Toadie always was a big windbag, and one who had to get the last word in.”

  Oh, I hope she didn’t hear that! After glancing right and left, Bignight shifted nervously from one booted foot to the other. “So … are you gonna go to Mrs. Tillman’s funeral?”

  “Maybe. If I have the time.” Charlie Moon’s aunt shrugged. “I might go to her burial too, and hang around till after both of the hired mourners are gone and the workmen have shoved dirt over the six-foot-deep hole in the ground and made a nice, smooth mound.”

  The worried cop sighed with relief. “That’d be awfully nice of you.”

  “Yes it would.” Daisy grinned wickedly. “And it’d be fun.”

  Officer Bignight knew that he shouldn’t ask. She’ll say something awful. Without a doubt. But, like a hungry trout presented with a plump cricket, Danny Bignight could not resist the clever old angler’s bait. “Fun?”

  “Sure.” Daisy Perika’s black eyes sparkled wickedly at the cop. “It’d be great fun to spit on Toadie’s grave.”

  * * *

  An optimistic citizen might assume that the irascible old soul was merely making a tasteless jest. (The same optimist might also draw an inside straight.) But whether Daisy’s vulgar threat is to be taken literally—or is merely an attempt to tweak an already nervous Officer Bignight—only time and opportunity will tell.

  In the meantime, more-urgent matters demand our attention. Indeed, the malignant seed of the oncoming calamity is about to be planted in one of those salt-of-the-earth Rocky Mountain municipalities where the thin air is so wonderfully exhilarating and downright nutritious that a hardworking man who breathes it can live on nine hundred calories of beef and beans per day, and a lean longhorn can get along on about two dozen mouthfuls of alfalfa hay. (Or so they say.) Yes, we’d all like to go there and stay. Directions? Well, this particular all-American high-altitude community is positioned along the final fifty-mile lap of the drive from Aunt Daisy’s wilderness home on the Southern Ute reservation to Charlie Moon’s vast cattle ranch.

  If you’re not sure that you can navigate your way there, do not fret—we’ll take you to this fine example of a wholesome western cow town, and show up just as the unseemly hostilities are about to commence.

  CHAPTER THREE

  1322 COPPER STREET GRANITE CREEK, COLORADO

  Which is where personal correspondence to Bertha’s Saloon & Pool Room should be addressed. But no junk mail, please; be advised that this is a strictly first-class joint.

  First of all, there is the matter of firearms restrictions—pistols with sissy mother-of-pearl handles may not be brought onto the premises, and permissible (manufactured in the USA) sidearms must be holstered and in plain view. Carbines and shotguns are to be checked at the door.

  Violence which might lead to destruction of Bertha’s property is looked upon with disfavor. The use of pool cues, billiard balls, or heavy beer mugs as weapons is forbidden and a large sign suspended over the bar advises customers that FISTFIGHTS MUST TAKE PLACE IN THE ALLEY. Even outside, there are unwritten rules of decorum: eye-gouging and groin-kneeing are discouraged unless a combatant is severely provoked.

  Moreover, Bertha’s Saloon & Pool Room enforces strict rules to ensure proper hygiene. Customers are not permitted to spit on the barroom floor, and the brass spittoons are emptied once every month or more frequently if they’re full.

  Impressed? Of course you are.

  And you will be pleased to know that the establishment caters to uppity professors from Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University, armed-and-ready GCPD police officers, cheerful county-government officials, clear-eyed cowboys, honest truck drivers, and local entrepreneurs of all stripes. The proprietor does not welcome shifty-eyed grifters, high-plains drifters, whining panhandlers, slithery pickpockets, loudmouthed louts, or any other sort of disreputable riffraff you can think of. (Take careful note of this management bias, which is relevant to what is about to transpire.)

  The owner, general manager, and chief bartender is (as you would expect) Bertha herself—and this teetotaler runs her profitable establishment with all the keen attention to detail of a certified public accountant. To flesh out this 240-pound character (who lifts weights on her coffee breaks), we shall specify that she is known as Big Bad Bertha Bronkowski, or “B-to-the-Fourth-Power” to her mathematically inclined customers from the university, who generally abbreviate that imposing appellation as B4 or simply The Power. You begin to get the picture.

  One final brushstroke: the lady is not entirely dedicated to making a buck—all work and no play tends to make Bertha lethargic and moody. For the benefit of occasional amusement, B4 pinch-hits as bouncer. Sadly, her rep being widely known hereabouts, the lady has few opportunities to demonstrate her efficient technique. Which is why the artiste secretly pines for the appearance of an offensive out-of-towner.

  As it happens, the pined-for subject is about to appear—the fun about to begin.

  Enter one LeRoy Hooten.

  Literally. He has just passed through the same sort of swinging doors that adorned Miss Kitty’s world-famous Dodge City saloon. (Recollect Matt Dillon, who shot the same gunslinger dead at the beginning of every episode. Also recall his limping deputy, Chester, and ol’ Doc what’s-his-name.) But we must return our attention to Mr. Hooten, who is about to initiate a small disturbance. B4 has spotted the fellow right away and decided that the scruffy-looking citizen is definitely a member of that class of seedy entrepreneurs who are not welcome in her place of business. She has a remedy in mind, but such enjoyments are to be savored. The proprietor bides her time.

  * * *

  LeRoy Hooten ambled along the bar, eyeing Bertha’s worthy customers as a weasel appraises plump chickens who look ready for plucking. Almost immediately, he spied a likely specimen who was sipping mincingly at a Coors Lite as if he hoped to make it last all night—or at least until closing time. Hooten, whose presence exuded a noxious blend of odors, eased himself onto the stool beside an amiable gent and (conveniently shedding the weasel metaphor for another) presented a possum’s toothy grin and a friendly greeting. Hooten’s “Hiya, buddy” and burp were delivered with a rancid breath that might have staggered (if not felled) a privileged-class ox who was accustomed to grazing in vast meadows of fragrant wildflowers.

  Grimacing, the gassed victim tottered on the stool as if he might topple off and fall dead to the floor. (This reaction was somewhat overdone. To date, no one in Bertha’s respectable establishment has ever expired from sudden exposure to a combination of exuded gastric odors and extreme halitosis.)

  Unfazed by this less-than-gracious reception, Mr. Hooten observed that his throat was “dry as Mojave sand” and observed that a beer would do him no end of good. Sadly, he did not have “two dimes to jingle in my pockets.”

  The honest citizen was trying to decide whether to (1) buy the odorous, odious fellow a brew and make the best of the situation or (2) to advise the smelly bum to take a hike to the Salvation Army HQ and get a shower, when the aforementioned Bertha—who had been wiping a table with a wet dishrag—materialized behind LeRoy Hooten and inquired what the matter was.

  What Hooten did next exhibited poor judgment, but in his defense it shall be stipulated that he had just arrived in town on the back of a flatbed truck that was used to haul cattle to market. That convenient conveyance smelled of livestock dung, urine, and other unidentifiable secretions. The effects of this means of transport had not served to enhance his admittedly meager intellectual powers.

  Turning, the vagrant glanced at the large woman, and said with a super
cilious sneer, “Get lost, fatso—me’n the gentleman are talking about beer.”

  Bertha was almost overcome with gratitude. Her bouncer’s skills had not been exercised much of late, and now Fate had provided fresh material of the choicest kind. In the interest of not pandering to the unsavory cravings of those who enjoy gratuitous violence, the gory details shall not be dwelt upon. Suffice it to say that B4 grabbed Hooten by his grimy shirt collar with her left hand, the equally grimy seat of his trousers with her right paw, and before you could say “Look at ’er go!” had given the malodorous pestilence the old heave-ho through the swinging doors, which continued to swing for some seconds after LeRoy Hooten’s startled expression had encountered the cement sidewalk and (following a yard-long skid on hard-frozen snow) his thick skull had impacted with a red fire hydrant that did not budge.

  This summary ejection from the premises (though merely an average performance for Miss Bertha) was welcomed with enthusiastic approval from her audience, including a heartfelt “Bravo!” Also a “Way to go!” and a “Bertha’s number one!” to which high praise the performer responded with a grateful, girlishly shy smile. She felt immensely blessed to have an upper-class clientele that was capable of appreciating the finer nuances of her art. The lady’s charming modesty served only to encourage her admirers, who began stomping their cowboy boots and hooting earthy salutes to their heroine. There were also shrill whistles, boisterous howls, and raucous laughter that could be heard half a block away.

  But not by Mr. Hooten, who was unconscious on account of a concussion, which is no laughing matter. Despite the blood leaking slowly from a tiny artery in his brain, the injured man returned to his so-called senses within about a minute. No one noticed when, with the support of the helpful fireplug—beside which vagrants and loiterers were not allowed to park—the dazed man managed to push himself to his feet and stumble away in a state of confusion, which he summed up succinctly: Where am I and what’s going on? His first guess was, I musta fell out of an airplane and landed in this little burg. Being an analytic sort, Hooten took into account the fact that he was chilly. I bet I’m in Maine—or maybe Minnesota. He was not so disoriented as to totally misunderstand his predicament: I’ll freeze to death if I don’t get something to eat and find me a warm place to sleep. This was a reasonably accurate estimate of his predicament, and one that is bound to arouse at least a tad of sympathy. But not to worry; the plucky ne’er-do-well knew just the remedy: I need some hard cash. As he staggered past a greasy-spoon diner and glanced at a DISHWASHER WANTED sign in the window, his course of action was a no-brainer: I’ll bump into some rich sucker and pick his pocket.

  The unfortunate malefactor did not know where he had landed. Though there were perhaps a dozen citizens in Granite Creek, Colorado, who could be categorized as rich, not one of them was a sucker, and poking your fingers into any of these bad hombres’ pockets was a good way to lose them. But, as it happened, not one of Mr. Hooten’s dexterous digits was in the least danger of being lopped off by a bone-handled Bowie knife. Within minutes, he would select a victim from that supposedly less-dangerous gender and commit a felony that was related (first cousin) to that venerable craft of picking prosperous gentlemen’s pockets.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A SUITABLE SENTIMENT FOR AN EPITAPH

  As they motored down Copper Street in Moon’s Expedition, neither the lean, keen-eyed Indian behind the steering wheel nor Scott Parris (in the passenger seat), nor sweet little Sarah Frank (in the backseat), nor Charlie’s aunt Daisy Perika (seated beside Sarah) took any notice of Mr. LeRoy Hooten, who—in search of a promising pocket to pick—was headed in the same direction as they were, though not at the posted speed limit of twenty-five miles per.

  Accustomed to his role as chief of police, Parris barked an instruction to his part-time deputy and pointed. “Pull in at the Smith’s parking lot.” Suddenly remembering that he was a guest in Moon’s car, he added quickly, “If it’s no trouble.”

  “Not a bit.” Wanting some elbow room, the amiable rancher selected a space about fifty yards from the few dozen vehicles that were clustered near the supermarket’s entrance.

  As if she had intended to pick up a few things herself, Daisy snorted. “Why didn’t you park in the next county?”

  Ignoring his relative’s caustic remark, Moon addressed his buddy: “You intend to do some last-minute shopping?”

  “Yes I do.” Parris was unbuckling his seat belt. “I was just adding up all the times you’ve fed me at the Columbine, and all I’ve ever brought with me was a big appetite.” Free of physical restraint, he opened the car door. “Tonight, I’m providing the dessert.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” Moon said.

  “And it’s about time,” Daisy snapped. “I’ve baked you enough pies to keep a big family of hogs fed and fat for a year.”

  Parris leaned to gaze at the feisty old woman. “I was thinking about some ice cream.”

  “In this weather?” She feigned a shiver. “Just thinking about ice cream is enough to freeze my gizzard.”

  “Then I’ll get a couple of pies that we can warm up in the oven—”

  “Store-bought pies taste like warmed-over cardboard,” she muttered. “I wouldn’t feed one to a starving coyote that came scratching at my door.”

  Parris was determined to please. “So what would you like?”

  “I’d like for you to close that door before I get a bad case of frostbite!”

  Scott Parris had known the tribal elder for too many years to take offense. Tipping his felt hat with a boyish smile, the beefy cop shut the car door and began his downhill stroll to the supermarket.

  Realizing that there was nothing to be gained by upbraiding his irascible auntie, Charlie Moon held his tongue. I’ll get some ice cream and pie, too.

  Twenty-year-old Sarah Frank could not resist lodging an oblique protest. “I think Mr. Parris is very nice to buy ice cream for—”

  “Hah!” Daisy shot back. “You’d think rabid foxes was nice until one of ’em put the bite on you.” This off-the-wall assertion was an effective conversation stopper.

  Pleased with her witty self, the aged combatant settled back into the cushioned seat and sighed with unconcealed satisfaction. She was promptly rewarded with a slight twitch in her lower back, which part of Daisy’s anatomy was wont to gave birth to excruciating muscle spasms. Sure enough, the twitch sharpened to an agonizing pain. Was this the just reward for her misbehavior? Perhaps. Daisy Perika grimaced. Before this happened, I was having a good time.

  That was it (a Suitable Sentiment for an Epitaph):

  BEFORE THIS HAPPENED

  I WAS HAVING A GOOD TIME

  But these words were not suitable for Daisy’s gravestone.

  Then for whose polished granite slab?

  A pertinent question, and one whose answer eludes us. But only for the moment.

  Of this much we may be assured: before the first gray glow of dawn, one pretty tough customer will be in the market for an inscription on her (or his) tombstone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A CAUTIONARY TALE

  The caution referred to is directed particularly to those young folk who aspire to a satisfying career in law enforcement. (Bless their innocent hearts.) But who among us has not occasionally daydreamed about wearing the spiffy uniform, toting a deadly weapon, and tearing around town on a government-provided motorcycle? Not to mention the intellectual stimulation of detecting a sly crime-in-progress, the visceral thrill of the subsequent chase, and the soul-filling gratification of arresting a dastardly criminal—thus saving some upstanding citizen from suffering an act of mindless violence and/or the loss of valuable personal property. And add to those rewards the heartfelt appreciation of said upstanding citizen who has been served and protected by the courageous, clear-eyed constable on patrol.

  Ninety-nine percent of the aforementioned youths will, of course, yawn at the forthcoming lesson (provided free of charge) and return their slac
k-jawed attention to the latest computerized diversion wherein the cherished goal is to maim or kill the maximum number of digitally simulated fellow creatures. But for that one-in-a-hundred young whippersnapper who will pay close attention—the Granite Creek chief of police is about to demonstrate the folly of youth’s vain ambitions.

  HIS UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER WITH THE CRIMINAL ELEMENT

  As Scott Parris slogged his way slowly across the snowy supermarket parking lot, the off-duty policeman’s mind was occupied with thoughts about this evening’s dessert. Mrs. Parris’s little boy had never met a pie he didn’t like, and he could not make up his mind about what kind. I’ll just close my eyes and grab a couple off the shelf. Which left the matter of ice cream. Two half gallons will be more than enough for the four of us. The uncomplicated fellow would have been happy to settle for chocolate and vanilla, but there were about two dozen flavors to chose from, and that plentitude obliged him to make a carefully considered decision. Nearing the Smith’s entrance, he was mulling over the relative merits of strawberry, butter pecan, and peach. Not an easy choice: each of these flavors was a taste-bud-titillating treat. Parris’s pleasant mullings were interrupted by the muffled patter of hurried footsteps somewhere behind him. Instinctively, the cop glanced over his shoulder—to spot a slender figure dressed in black who was high-stepping it along the slippery parking lot. Where’s that Gomer goin’ in such a hurry? He turned to get a better look, just in time to see the sprinter snatch something from a grocery cart parked by the left rear fender of a sleek Cadillac. Something white. It’s a purse! The woman whose handbag had been pinched was occupied with a fidgety little girl and several bulging plastic bags that she was stuffing into the Caddy’s trunk—which was why she had not noticed the brazen theft.

  Write this maxim down in blood and commit it to memory:

  On or Off Duty, a Gritty Ex-Chicago Cop

  Does Not Hesitate to do His Bounden Duty.