Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  “Looks like Henry Buford has taken charge of the situation.” The Ute rancher held a bead on the biker with the sidecar, who was muttering something to Pie Eye. “If this goes bad, Pete, take cover till our men get here. Don’t get yourself shot.”

  Half-Ton, still on his knees, shook his bloody head as if attempting to reconnect jumbled circuits in a scrambled-egg brain. He looked up, tried to focus bleary eyes on the man who had poleaxed him.

  Henry Buford smiled down at his victim. “Hey, maggot, know what I think?”

  Again, Half-Ton shook the massive head.

  The BoxCar manager smiled. “I think you’re too stupid to live.”

  The behemoth biker grinned blankly at the standing man. But while he was on his knees, Half-Ton had removed the automatic pistol from his belt holster. This stealthy action had been concealed by his massive belly.

  In the sidecar, a blank-faced Pie Eye was fumbling with something wrapped in a red cloth. A charcoal-gray submachine gun.

  The Ute squeezed one off from the Winchester carbine. A small hole appeared in Pie Eye’s forehead; he slumped. The biker at his side made a grab for the Uzi. Moon put a lump of lead through his chest, another through his neck. The thug tumbled off the machine, sprawling over Pie Eye.

  While the BoxCar manager was momentarily distracted by Moon’s gunfire, Half-Ton raised his pistol to aim point-blank at Buford’s belt buckle.

  Buford poked the rifle barrel into Half-Ton’s right eye; the top half of the biker’s head exploded.

  As Pete Bushman would say later, that was when all hell broke loose.

  Motorcycle engines roared to life.

  Henry Buford dropped to one knee, calmly emptied the rifle into the nearest bikers. A screaming hoodlum fell off his bike; the riderless Harley went head-on into a large cottonwood at the stream’s edge. Another motorcycle sailed into Too Late Creek, the ice-cold water turned crimson with the rider’s blood. Discarding the 30.06 rifle, Buford drew his pistol, began picking off the remainders, one by one.

  Moon wounded another thug, who was attempting to ride his big machine into the BoxCar ranch manager.

  Pete Bushman—yowling like an ecstatic savage—fired grape-size shotgun slugs into the leather-clad crowd. The Columbine foreman crippled one fear-crazed biker, sent another lead sphere through a motorcycle gas tank, which exploded in a sphere of searing fire.

  As Bushman had promised his boss, a flatbed truck arrived with a dozen Columbine cowboys—all loaded for bear and oozing adrenaline from every pore. There was not much left to shoot at. Of the bikers who had invaded the Columbine, three made it to the front gate. These were picked up by Colorado State Police, converging from two directions in five cruisers at speeds up to one hundred and twenty miles an hour.

  Another thug, whose club name was Poppa Weasel, was lying flat on his back, blood oozing from a wound in his abdomen. He thought things just couldn’t get worse. He thought wrong. The unfortunate thug looked up to see the small, thin man standing over him.

  Griego Santanna had a shiny revolver in one hand, a gigantic knife in the other. The bloodthirsty Mexican grinned to expose a scattering of steel incisors, canines, and bicuspids. “Don’t be afraid, señor. It is I, Griego, here to end your terrible suffering. So what do you want—a bullet between your eyes, or the blade across your throat?”

  The gut-shot biker gurgled something incoherent. Blood bubbled up between blue lips.

  Santanna slipped the bowie knife into its leather holster. “I cannot understand your words, gringo. I think I will shoot you in the heart—so your pretty face will be preserved for the funerales.” The Mexican cocked the pistol.

  Charlie Moon clamped a heavy hand on Santanna’s shoulder. “Hey—what do think you’re doing?”

  “Find yourself another one—this hombre is mine.” He closed his left eye, sighted down the barrel. “He will be the twelfth man I have killed.” Twelve was a lucky number.

  “No he won’t,” the Ute said.

  Annoyed and hurt by this rude intervention, the Mexican hesitated.

  Charlie Moon spoke softly. “Here’s the deal, Santanna—you pull the trigger, I’ll pull your head off. And feed it to the coyotes.”

  The bewildered man turned to look up at the Indian’s face. “You would do that to me, who is about to kill your enemy?”

  “Without batting an eye. Now put the pistola away.”

  Santanna grunted, stuck the heavy gun under his belt. “Si. You’re the jefe.” To express his disgust, he spat in the dust.

  The biker gurgled at his dark, towering savior; tears of gratitude puddled in his bloodshot eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  THE LAKE

  UPON RECEIVING WORD THAT COLORADO’S SENIOR UNITED STATES senator was under siege at the Columbine, the National Guard dispatched a military helicopter carrying six grim-faced members of a Ranger contingent that had been training in hostage rescue procedures at an Air Force base thirty miles north of Granite Creek. These heavily armed men—much like Moon’s knife-wielding Mexican cowhand—were extremely disappointed to have no one to kill. “All dressed up and the party’s already over,” one of the dejected commandos mumbled. Along with the helicopter pilot, they were tasked by the governor of Colorado to provide air cover for a state police convoy that would escort Senator Davidson back to the security of his BoxCar Ranch.

  The Columbine was the scene of carefully orchestrated chaos. Ambulances and state police units blocked the narrow ranch lane. Wounded bikers moaned, pleaded pitifully for help from the medics. The deathly silent were zippered into body bags. After the wild shoot-out, it seemed almost miraculous that only four of the intruders were dead.

  In deference to the senator, the authorities agreed to take only brief, preliminary statements from the survivors of the shoot-out who had defended the ranch headquarters. Despite howling protests from those few bikers able to speak coherently, it was abundantly clear to the detail commander that Charles Moon, Henry Buford, and Pete Bushman had acted in self-defense while repelling an unprovoked invasion by a gang of armed, vicious thugs. But shootings are shootings, and there were procedures to be followed to the letter. The “incident area” was laced with yellow plastic ribbon, thus blocking all traffic between the Too Late Bridge and the Columbine headquarters. Officers wearing latex gloves gathered evidence from the scene of the shooting, placed said evidence in plastic bags, carefully labeled said bags, laser-scanned said labels to enter the graphics into a ruggedized laptop computer. A uniformed officer snapped almost three hundred shots of bodies, wreckage of expensive motorcycles, bullet holes in Moon’s F-150 pickup. As a backup, another trooper made videotapes of the scene. Other officers made precise reference measurements with steel tapes. “I make it seventeen feet, four inches from the right pickup headlight to Motorcycle Number One.” All firearms used in the shoot-out were collected, labeled, bagged. The process of sorting out who had shot who—and in what order—would take some time.

  Finally, the curtain fell on Act One of the drama. The yellow tape was removed to allow the ill-humored senator to depart. As Henry Buford had not yet been interviewed, a state police officer was assigned to drive the powerful politician back to the BoxCar.

  After Senator Davidson was seated in the black Lincoln, Henry Buford jammed the folding wheelchair into the trunk and said good-bye to his employer. He promised to get back to the ranch as soon as the cops turned him loose. The senator shook his loyal friend’s hand, thanked him for defending his person.

  Responding to a nod from the politician, Moon approached the low-slung vehicle, leaned on the roof. The senator smiled up at the tribal investigator’s dark face. “Well, Charlie, this much must be said—you do know how to keep a luncheon guest from getting bored.”

  The rancher shook his head. “Patch, I’m sorry about all this. It never occurred to me that those knot-heads would trespass on Columbine property, armed to the teeth. Especially in broad daylight.”

  Davidson reac
hed out to pat his friend’s arm. “Don’t give it a thought. And proceed with the business we discussed on the way over.”

  The big car pulled away.

  Henry Buford was seated on a cottonwood stump. As if nothing of note had interrupted his day, the BoxCar manager was paring his nails with a short-bladed folding knife.

  Charlie Moon wondered whether his guest was as calm as appearances suggested. “How’re you doing, Henry?”

  “Okay.” Buford wiped the glistening black blade on the cuff of his shirt. “But I need to be getting back to the BoxCar.” He squinted at a lemon-colored sun that was casting long shadows. “When d’you think these cops will get around to questioning me?”

  Moon shrugged. “I don’t know. Want me to lean on ’em?”

  “Nah.” He folded the blade into the handle, dropped the knife into his pocket. “But if they don’t get started soon, I may get belligerent.”

  The rancher grinned. “I sure do appreciate you backing me up today. I had no idea what I was getting into with that wild bunch and—”

  Buford raised a hand in protest. “Don’t mention it.” His leathery face crinkled into a smile. “Most fun I’ve had in years.”

  “Well, I’d rather have been fishing.” Moon turned to survey the crowd. Miss James was on the headquarters porch, talking to a handsome young state police officer. The pretty woman was repeating her story for the third time while the dashing trooper made copious notes. When he saw the tall rancher approaching—and the look on Moon’s face—the young officer dismissed himself with a gallant tip of his hat.

  The tall Ute smiled apologetically at his attractive guest. “I’ll drive you home.”

  “Will they let you leave?”

  “Sure. I’ve already been grilled.”

  The senator’s personal assistant pulled a borrowed cotton shawl tightly around her shoulders. “I’m not ready to go back to the BoxCar just yet.” She looked south, toward a shallow basin in the valley between the mountain ranges. The pool of water could have been molten blue glass; the surface shimmered in the glow of a promised sunset. “That lake—does it have a name?”

  Moon seemed not to have heard the question.

  A smile played at the edge of her lips. “Aren’t you going to tell me?”

  “Sure. Soon as you tell me your name.”

  She ignored this small impertinence. “Is it a very long walk to the lake?”

  “About a mile.”

  She looked wistfully toward the waters. “Someday, when you have the time, I hope you’ll take me out there.”

  “I’ll take you now.” Someday might never come.

  AS THEY watched the waters glimmer and shimmer in the warm sunlight, a fragrant breeze moved across the surface to the shore, played with the lovely woman’s black hair.

  Miss James seated herself on the white bark of a fallen aspen trunk, and began to work her long locks into a thick braid.

  Charlie Moon sat down beside her. “That looks like an all-day job.”

  “Not if you help me.”

  And so he did. Until moonlight danced on the waters.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE DANCE

  THE AUTHORITIES HAD DEPARTED, TAKING WITH THEM THE wounded and the dead. Except for a pair of night riders, the cowboys were in the bunkhouse. Charlie Moon pulled off his socks, stretched out on the oversized bed.

  A lonesome wind whispered in dry cottonwood branches, moaned under the eaves.

  Down at the riverside barn, a nervous mare whinnied, kicked at her stall.

  The Ute waited expectantly for the good-night from his dog.

  By some mysterious means, the hound was always aware of the precise moment when his favorite human being was about to fall asleep. Right on schedule, the canine musician bugled a long, melancholy howl.

  Taps…now eight sweet hours till reveille. Charlie Moon closed his eyes. Yawned. Good night, old dog. Good night, world.

  The sleepy man had a few more words to say—to The Other. Names were mentioned. Thanks given. Finally, a hopeful petition—a couple of inches of rain would be most welcome. If you’ve got some to spare…

  For some weary souls, prayer is the perfect soporific. And sleep cools troubles percolating in the mind. Thus it was for Charlie Moon. The memory of day slipped away, a thick mist of not-knowing settled over him.

  Within minutes, the sleeper’s eyes began to shift under his lids. Fragments of a much-spliced film slipped over sprockets with missing teeth. Surreal scenes flashed intermittently on the grainy undersurface of his subconscious.

  HIS INITIAL dreams were troubled. The dozen bikers converging on Too Late Creek were multiplied by hundreds, all brandishing bloody swords. The sleek Harleys were transformed into black panthers, slathering mouths hungry for flesh. No matter how many he shot down, the wild savages multiplied. But like the day that had spawned it, this violent panorama also had an end.

  He was standing by the placid lake, her warm hand in his. Miss James looked up. “Do you really want to know…my secret?”

  He did. Very much.

  She smiled. “Come closer.”

  The dreamer leaned.

  She whispered her name in his ear.

  He could not hear.

  Miss James’s smile faded. Then her face was gone. The vanishing woman took the lake with her.

  He stood alone in a vast, crystalline ballroom. From an invisible ceiling, countless chandeliers were suspended on golden chains over a floor of polished rose quartz. Charlie Moon saw his image on the mirrored surface. From a brand-new black Stetson to the collar of the black tuxedo, and all the way down to the spit-shined cowboy boots, he approved of what he saw. Yes, sir—fine-looking man. His image smiled back at him. To achieve perfection, he adjusted the loops on the string tie. Wish she was here with me.

  From some unknown dimension, a someone entered the vast space.

  The dreamer’s vision was telescopic. While the woman was still very far away, he could make out every detail. The long, clinging white gown. Curled, crimson locks. A single snow-white rose over the left ear. The hot eyes burning with a pale blue flame, the face that was paler still.

  Moon watched the feminine vision glide toward him.

  Within arm’s reach, she paused. The pallid coquette raised a miniature silk fan to partially conceal a narrow, freckled face.

  He had been expecting someone else. Miss Brewster?

  She smiled.

  So—you ready to talk to me?

  Her lips moved. I would rather dance.

  The well-dressed man felt a surge of panic. I never learned how.

  I’ll show you. She raised graceful, gloved arms, exposed the tip of a red slipper at the hem of her snowy gown.

  There must be some way out. There’s no music.

  She folded the fan, pointed with it.

  He turned to see a woman who was a perfect reflection of the first. Illuminated by a diffuse pillar of blue light, the look-alike was seated at a massive piano. This second redhead fussily adjusted her sheet music, then began to tease a waltz from ivory keys.

  They were gliding along the ballroom floor, then above it.

  You are so warm. She laid her head on his chest. Hold me now. Hold me close.

  Moon felt the fragile form collapse in his arms. The woman’s body was not soft. Friable bones rippled under the white gown. Plucked tendons twanged a sad, sonorous hymn. And she was very, very cold.

  THE SLEEPER awoke with a start, his muscles tensed. For a long, dark minute—dreading the return of the eerie dream—Charlie Moon kept his eyes open. Stared into darkness. Finally, he got of bed, trudged downstairs, boiled a pot of strong coffee. For almost an hour, he paced around the spacious lower floor of the Columbine headquarters. Despite what Aunt Daisy believed, dreams were not to be taken seriously. They were nothing more than a lot of jumbled thoughts knocking about in a man’s mind. Troubling images coalesced into absurd stories, disturbing his sleep. Long before the first hint of a pale yell
ow glow broke in the east, the Ute rancher decided it was time for breakfast. He scrambled an iron skillet full of scrambled eggs and pork sausage. Charlie Moon was certain that he’d feel better after a solid meal.

  He did not.

  SCOTT PARRIS was sleeping peacefully. Dreaming his own dreams. There were no shoot-outs, no phantom women in formal gowns, no waltzes over infinite ballroom floors. Only the river…and Anne, lovely Anne. His fiancée was still with him. They were walking along a shaded forest path that paralleled the rocky banks of a small stream. In the stream were arm-long trout, flashing iridescent hues of neon orange and blue. Anne had gathered a bouquet of wild lupines; he pulled a red wagon filled with small, sweet children in ruffled bonnets. A swarm of bulldog puppies skittered about his feet. It was all so very pleasant.

  Suddenly, Anne stopped, turned her face to him, frowned. “Scotty, what’s that noise?”

  “The telephone,” he mumbled. The chief of police groaned, rolled over in his bed. I will not answer it. No matter how long it rings…

  The infernal instrument kept right on making the rude noise.

  He made a grab, knocked the telephone onto the floor, snatched the handset on a second grab. “Who the hell is calling me before daylight?”

  He heard Ute’s familiar bass voice. “Testy this morning, aren’t we?”

  Parris groaned, fell back on his pillow. “Dammit, Charlie—d’you have any idea what time it is?”

  The tribal investigator had anticipated this question. “It’s time all good men were up and at it. Early bird gets the bug.”

  “Worm. Why didn’t you call me when the biker-thugs showed up?”

  “Pete did all the calling. After that, we were pretty busy.”

  “Well, I’m kinda hurt not to have got a chance at those hoods.”

  “Sorry. Next time we have serious trouble, your number’ll be the first one that gets dialed. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”