The Old Gray Wolf

by James D. Doss

  Which wasn’t very hard to do, because these were uncomplicated men who enjoyed ordinary pleasures, like paying a call on Fat Jack’s Tack and Leather, where one of the westerners (the paleface) bought himself a fancy pair of Moroccan ostrich-hide boots and the other one treated himself to a Made in America leather gun belt. About the time stomachs had begun to growl, the hungry men drove over to that dandy Cracker Barrel on the north end of town to enjoy fried chicken (Parris) and a double order of fried catfish (Señor Luna). For the benefit of those on strict diets, we will not describe either the side dishes or their outrageously scrumptious desserts, which Parris and Moon walked off on Twelfth, Seventeenth, and Elizabeth Streets before dropping in at dusty old Polecat Joe’s 1950s Pawnshop, an establishment that specialized in previously owned bone-handled pocket knives, sooty old Mexican silver, miscellaneous and sundry hand tools, vintage musical instruments, and, for those who don’t want to buy somebody else’s old junk—a selection of brand-new items. Scott Parris bought himself a pocket-worn Case stockman’s folding knife just like one he’d lost on Pigeon Creek some fifty-odd years ago. The Columbine Grass’s dexterous banjo player purchased a set of Nashville Special finger-picks for his nimble fingers.

  After the most fun they’d had in quite some time, the lawmen said a heartfelt adios to Pueblo and—

  But wait a minute. An honorable mention must be made of an incident (the most fun they’d had in quite some time) that, though of no great importance, did serve to add some spice and vinegar to their already dandy day.

  HELL-CAT HARLEY, SNAKE-EYE, AND SWEET MAURICE

  Right up front, it should be noted that the three scruffy thugs thudding along on matching black Harley-Davidson motorcycles were what you’d call new boys in town, and like so many of their ilk—they figured they were about to have their way in Pueblo. (Not all insane folk are in lunatic asylums.)

  These entrepreneurs had parked their pulsating bikes outside Polecat Joe’s profitable establishment with the intent of conducting some customary business—i.e., beating Joe’s head to a bloody pulp, emptying the semifamous pawnshop’s cash register, and roaring away with raucous wa-hoos! and shouts of “the Bad Black Wolf Pack has struck again!”

  With this stimulating adventure in mind, the uncouth youth were pleased to find only one vehicle parked out front. Charlie Moon’s wheels. (Polecat Joe, a U.S. marine Iraqi war vet who topped out at about five-seven in his GI boots, kept his black Hummer parked out back and a matched pair of loaded-for-bad-asses .44 Colt six-shooters holstered on his hips.)

  H-C Harley, self-appointed leader of the pack, eyed the Expedition’s Columbine Ranch logo and spat. “Anybody who’d paint a purple flower on his SUV is a damn sissy who drinks his beer through a straw!”

  Snake-Eye signified his agreement with a demented snicker.

  A slope-browed ape-man of few words, Sweet Maurice replied with 10 percent of his vocabulary: a heartfelt grunt.

  Cutting his Harley-Davidson’s ignition, Harley said, “Let’s go in and get it, brother Wolves.”

  As they entered the dimly lighted pawnshop, the pupils in the doped-up bikers’ eyes did not dilate appreciably behind their dark sunglasses, which may be one reason why the thugs made the potentially fatal error of picking a fight with an overweight, late-middle-aged white man, his skinny Indian friend—and the extremely dangerous proprietor behind the counter, whose round, little-boy face barely showed over the top of a glass case that was filled with antique carpenter’s tools.

  As it happened, Scott Parris, Charlie Moon, and Polecat Joe had noticed the sinister-looking trio the instant they pulled up in front of the pawnshop, where robberies were attempted by ignorant out-of-towners two or three times every year—most of whose carcasses were removed by unsympathetic emergency medical technicians, pronounced seriously deceased at the ER, then transferred to the morgue.

  The boss biker swaggered up to the counter to sneer at the proprietor. “I’m Hell-Cat Harley.” He jerked a thumb to draw attention to his sidekicks. “This here is Snake-Eye and that’s Sweet Maurice. We’re here to kick ass and take what we want.” He punctuated this announcement by spitting. On the counter.

  Parris rolled his eyes and whispered, “Here we go again.”

  The Ute neither moved nor said a word.

  His concealed hands itching on the ivory-handled butts of his silver-plated six-shooters, Polecat Joe smiled. “Don’t stand there all day—make your play.”

  Not before Charlie Moon had his say. “Hold on just a minute, Joe—me and Scott can handle this.”

  Before the eager-for-action proprietor could voice a righteous protest, Parris chimed in. “Which of these scum-bums do you want, Charlie?”

  Moon took an appraising look at the momentarily speechless opposition. “I’m still a little full from lunch, pardner. You feel up to taking the two big ones?”

  “Piece of cake.” Eyeing the available weapons, Parris selected a old ash ax handle. “I’ll have a go at Hell-Cat and Snake.”

  “Good choice,” Moon said. “While you knock their ears off, I’ll grab a hold of Sweet and stuff his pointy little head into that twenty-gallon brass spittoon which ain’t been emptied in thirty-nine years.” Which he commenced to do straightaway.

  As they used to say about Major League home-run hitters, Scott Parris “laid the wood” into the other two before the startled sidekicks quite realized what was happening.

  It would be gratifying to report that the fight was over in six seconds flat and that was that, but in real life things don’t generally work out so nice and clean. While Hell-Cat was felled by Parris’s first blow and would not regain the least glimmer of consciousness until three days of dreamless sleep had passed, Parris’s attempt to poleax Thug Number Two was a glancing blow that served merely to arouse Snake-Eye’s understandable ire. The big bruiser threw a roundhouse punch that caught the Granite Creek chief of police square in the jaw. This made the cop wielding the ax handle plenty angry.

  Mr. Moon also had his hands full. Sweet Maurice (already a slippery character) objected to being drowned in several gallons of aged-in-brass spittle. The miscreant managed to wriggle his way out of the gigantic spittoon and bite Charlie Moon on his leftmost cowboy boot, which (thankfully) Sweet’s yellowish canines did not penetrate—elsewise the Indian might have expired from the infectious effect.

  The rest of the brawl wasn’t quite so pretty as the outset, and neither the delightfully gratuitous violence nor its official aftermath need be amplified upon herein. It is sufficient to stipulate that four worthy representatives of the Pueblo PD arrived to cuff and haul away the injured, and that Polecat Joe would complain about being unduly deprived (by Moon and Parris) of his inalienable constitutional right to shoot the three lowlifes stone-cold dead and then jump up and down on their corpses with his combat boots whilst bellowing that soul-stirring U.S. Marine anthem about the Gates of Tripoli, etc. One can sympathize with the feisty fellow’s point of view, but do not feel overly sorry for the pawnshop proprietor. Before the year is over, P-Joe will be all alone when several other thuggish tourists drop by to commit a misdeed, and he will release all his pent-up fury upon those unwary felons. Feel sorry for them who won’t live to tell the tale, and (if you like) for Hell-Cat Harley, Snake-Eye, and Sweet Maurice—it’ll be a long time and then some before the Big Bad Black Wolf Pack is back on the road again.

  What about the two off-duty cops who took care of business with considerable enthusiasm? Despite some bruised knuckles (Moon) and a loosened molar (you know who), the one-minute scrap really capped off a fine day in a fun town for Charlie and Scott.

  But where were we when the pawnshop fight broke out?

  Oh, right. The Colorado cops credited with brutally killing a purse snatcher were leaving town.

  * * *

  After the most enjoyment they’d had in quite some time, the lawmen said a heartfelt adios to Pueblo and headed back to Granite Creek in Charlie Moon’s Expedition. Mr. Banjo-Plucker wa
s (despite his sore knuckles) in the mood to pick two or three upbeat breakdowns (“Foggy Mountain,” “Hamilton County,” and “Fifty-seven Chevy Pickup”—the latter selection a fast-moving piece composed by Mr. Moon himself). Its being against local ordinances to operate a motor vehicle whilst picking a banjo, Parris agreed to serve as designated driver.

  It was to be a fine, scenic drive and worthy of description, but we shall skip the breathtaking travelogue and skip ahead and over to the so-called Show Me State (MO), where something even more interesting than skull bashing with ax handles, head stuffing into disgustingly filthy spittoons, and knuckle-bruising fisticuffs is about to occur.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE CONVERSATION

  While rolling westward on I-70 in Missouri, and only a few dozen miles short of Kansas City, Miss Louella Smithson pulled off the congested thoroughfare and into a busy truck stop. After filling the thirsty Bronco’s big tank, she parked by one of those huge, noisy dispensers of tasty-as-cardboard burgers, greasy red chili, gristly chicken-fried steaks, and mighty fine apple, cherry, and meringue pies “Like Your Mom Used to Bake”—and coffee strong enough to make your bloodshot eyes pop. It was the sort of eatery that hungry, sleepy, long-haul truckers fondly refer to as “a first-class choke-and-puke.” Reason enough for a chronically dyspeptic diner not to enter therein, but the hopeful bounty hunter/author had additional reasons for remaining in her aged SUV. Desperately needing someone to discuss her plans and problems with, Miss Smithson initiated a conversation with her clever twin sister, Stella—who was Ella’s very image. (The one that looked back from the Bronco’s cracked rearview mirror.)

  Miss Smithson did not kick the chat off right off the bat with an ice-breaker greeting like, “Hi, Stella—how’ve you been?” She got right to the point with: “I’m going to Granite Creek to talk to Chief of Police Parris.”

  Sis-in-the-Looking Glass: Okay, so you go chew the fat with the Colorado cop that dropped LeRoy Hooten with a can of peas—what, exactly, are you going to tell him?

  “Well, I intend to—”

  A customer exiting the restaurant with a red toothpick dangling from his lips and a blue Ford cap on his head grinned and winked at the young woman who was talking to herself.

  Mildly embarrassed at conversing with her reflection, Miss Smithson glanced left and right before whispering a response from the corner of her mouth: “After I’ve told him who I am and why I’m in town—which is to do some background research for my true-crime book with Chief Parris and Deputy Moon as the heroes and—”

  Hah! That’s a flat-out lie.

  “No it’s not!” It’s a teensy-weensy little lily-white fib. “I have dozens of pages of confidential notes on the Hooten family’s criminal activities that the FBI would just die for, and soon as this job’s done, I plan to get started on a manuscript that I’ve been outlining for months—”

  You’re also planning on losing six pounds of ugly belly and butt fat, and have been since year before last.

  “Okay, Skinny Saint Stella Smithson—I’ll tell Chief Parris the whole, unvarnished truth.”

  Her mirror image had assumed a luminous halo. And what’s that, pray tell?

  “Well … that I’m tailing a notorious, anonymous assassin who’s probably on his way to Granite Creek and—”

  You aren’t tailing anybody, kid—you lost Cowboy back in Illinois and you couldn’t find him again with both hands if he were sitting in your lap. The image looked past Louella at the Bronco’s dirty rear window. For all you know, he could be following you.

  “No, he’s not, and please don’t interrupt! I’ll be completely up front with Chief Parris and suggest how we can pool our resources to identify and arrest the assassin and—”

  What a crock of you know what! Sis rolled her eyes. What resources? You wouldn’t recognize Cowboy if you tripped over his boot toe at high noon in front of the Dead Dog Saloon. And on the off chance you did happen to figure out who he is—it’ll be the cops who’d do any arresting.

  “Those are minor details.” The flesh-and-blood sister sniffed. “Chief Parris is bound to be interested in a criminal who’s been sent by Francine Hooten to murder him and his Indian friend.”

  This is really feeble, Sis. D’you actually think a hard-nosed small-town cop who kills a thief with whatever canned goods are handy would buy a dopey story like that?

  “I guess not.” Stella is always right. Long, melancholy sigh. “He’ll figure me for a weirdo who oughta be strapped into a straitjacket.”

  At the very least. But I’m here to help, not criticize—so read my lips: what you need is a plausible story and impressive credentials.

  “Which I don’t have. I’m a run-of-the-mill missing-person tracker who’s trying to work my way up to first-class bounty hunter and then write a book about it … someday.”

  We both know that, and it’s truly pathetic. Now use your so-called brain—how does Little Miss Nobody impress a cop who’s met up with more nuts than Mr. Planter ever put into cans?

  Her uppity twin was beginning to wear a bit thin. “I don’t have a clue—please give me a big, fat hint.”

  I’ll give you two. First—go for the teensy-weensy little lily-white fib about doing research for your bestseller book. It’s lame as a three-legged llama, but a hick cop might just fall for it. Now listen close—here’s number two: wrangle an introduction to Chief Parris from an upstanding citizen who commands respect in the law-enforcement community.

  “Okay. Like who—the U.S. attorney general?”

  The annoying reflection rolled her eyes again. If you don’t know, I’m not about to tell you.

  Louella glared at her insolent sibling. “One more hint wouldn’t kill you.”

  All right, here goes: it’s been a long time since you telephoned our favorite granddaddy.

  The hopeful bounty hunter clapped her hands. “Of course— ex-Texas Ranger Ray Smithson!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  TWENTY-NINE MILES WEST OF PLAINVIEW, TEXAS, MORE OR LESS

  Which is about halfway from Plainview to Muleshoe and a good seventeen miles on the yonder side of Halfway. If you make it to Earth you’ve gone a tad too far, pardner—which is not the thing to do in the Lone Star State. If these directions are confusing, maybe you were headed to Floydada, which is in the other direction entirely.

  But never mind. Ray Smithson is a crusty old retired Texas Ranger who’d rather be left alone with his two fat beagles, four gaunt longhorns, and one worn-out old saddle horse who answers to the name of Colt .45—which is why Ray does not encourage visitors except for his granddaughter Ellie, who drops by when she’s so lonely she could just die—or doesn’t have enough hard cash to pay the rent, which happens more often with every year that goes by. Times are hard for quite a few young folk and for some old ones, too—but ol’ Ray’s tough as seventy-nine-year-old buffalo jerky and his granddaughter is also pretty gristly.

  THE CALL FOR HELP

  Ray Smithson was in his living room when the old-fashioned wall-mounted telephone rang. Having just mended a saddle that was twice as old as his horse, the silver-haired senior citizen was going through his fishing-tackle box—checking the inventory of barbed hooks, lead sinkers, cork bobbers, nine-pound test line, and the like. He greeted the jangling intrusion with a salty curse, grunted himself up from a painful squat on the hardwood floor, and strode sorely to the telephone. It’ll be some fast-talking clown trying to sell me a magazine subscription. “Hello!”

  “Hi, Granddaddy—it’s me.”

  “Well…” He arched a bristly eyebrow. “It’s been a long while since I’ve heard your voice.”

  “Uh … I’ve been kinda busy.” His mild rebuke had stung. “So what’re you up to?”

  “I’m fixing to go fishing,” he said through a smile. “What’s keeping you so danged busy?”

  “Oh, you know the drill—same old same old.”

  “No, I don’t know.” The old straight shooter detested meaningl
ess double-talk. I wonder what Ellie wants this time. “Where’re you calling from?”

  “Western Missouri. I’m pulled over at a truck stop on I-70.”

  Mr. Smithson smiled; it helped some to have a fix on his unpredictable granddaughter. “That’s not far from Kansas City—you homeward bound, or headed east?”

  “Coming home. I’ll stop tonight for a few hours’ sleep.” Her voice took on a proud, professional tone. “I’m on a job.”

  Ray Smithson posed the expected query: “Doing what?”

  “Gathering material for my book.”

  “Which book is that?” Last time, it was a damn silly romance about vampires and whatnot.

  She read the old man’s mind. “This one’s nonfiction. It’s about a hired killer and a rich old woman with Chicago mob connections. And … I need a little favor.”

  “Sure you do.” The over-the-hill lawman paused for a dry chuckle. “You never call me up to say, ‘How’re you, Granddaddy Smithson—I miss you so much that I just had to find out if you’re still alive or buried out behind the horse barn after you got stomped to death by a snorty longhorn who did you in just for the fun of it.’”

  “I’m sorry.” She was. “I’ll stop by after my work is finished.” She wouldn’t.