“We?”
Bushman picked at an inch of loose thread sprouting from the knee of his patched khakis. “I know I always let on that I don’t want no interference from the owner. But that’s just my way. From time to time, a foreman has to have a talk with the boss.”
“Okay,” the boss said. “Let’s talk.”
“We got some decisions to make. About what to do with the winter pasture over by Crystal Springs. Like how many cows to put on it.”
“You can make that decision.”
Bushman grimaced, yanked at the string on his trouser leg. Now it was six inches long. “And there’s that big he-cat up in the Notch.”
The Ute leaned forward in the rocker until he felt the warmth of the fire on his dark face. “That mountain lion been causing us more trouble?”
The foreman nodded. “Old Two-Toes pulled down two heifers just in the past week.”
The owner of the ranch got up. Began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace. “You sure it’s Two-Toes?”
“Sure I’m sure. Last kill was yesterday, down by the river. Alf Marquez found his tracks in the wet sand.”
Charlie Moon stooped, put a powder-dry cottonwood log on the fire. “I’ll look into it.” He turned to the foreman. “Anything else?”
“Well, Dolly wants you to come by and have some peach cobbler.”
His back to the popping flames, the Ute stood like a post. “That’s kind of her. Tell your wife I appreciate the invitation.”
Bushman knew he was being dismissed. He got up, turned to go—then stopped. “Charlie, you won’t want to hear this, but I don’t give a squeaky fart. So here’s what I got to say—it ain’t healthy to sit around in the dark.”
There was a smile in the Ute’s voice. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Chapter Forty-One
DEAD MULE NOTCH
THE HOUND’S MOURNFUL NIGHT SONG HAD BEEN SUNG; SIDE-WINDER had slunk off to the barn to find his rest in a bed of straw. Charlie Moon lay on his bed. The weary man stared at the ceiling. He wanted to be finished with this business for good. But more immediately, he wanted sleep. Sleep without dreams.
As is so often the case in this world, he did not get that which he so desired.
THE UTE rancher spent a week on horseback. Before dawn, he would saddle Paducah. Swaybacked, heavy-footed, the color of dirty dishwater, the big animal was nothing to look at. He was, in fact, a sight to make a stockman’s eyes ache—a sorry piece of horseflesh. On top of that, the brute was not the most intelligent animal in the Columbine corrals. But Paducah had this outstanding characteristic—he was totally unafraid of anything God had put upon the earth. The horse did not rear at the sight of a rattlesnake coiled at his feet. The discharge of a rifle within an inch of his ear was but a slight annoyance. Most importantly for the Ute’s purposes, Paducah did not even flinch at the scent or sight of a mountain lion. In the opinion of those Columbine cowhands most familiar with the equine mind, this latter trait was proof of the horse’s complete lack of common sense.
Charlie Moon spent long, tiresome hours riding along the foot of the great slot in the Misery Range. On the evening of the second day, just inside the fence line, the rancher discovered the remains of a white-faced heifer. Near the carcass, he found the two-toed paw print.
On the third day, the hunter began a systematic search of the Notch that would eventually take him up to the crest of that rocky pass through the mountains. It was hard work and no paycheck, but there were excellent fringe benefits. The autumn air carried a life-renewing crispness. The pale green, gold, and orange of aspens was intermixed with the dark cones of perfectly formed spruce. At the crest of the wide gap in the mountain range, the Misery cliffs were honeycombed with natural caves and horizontal hard-rock mines where tempting veins of silver had played out well before Mr. Wright flew his flimsy contraption over the sands of Kitty Hawk. The caverns were suitable homes for black bear. Hibernating rattlesnakes. And far more dangerous predators. The Ute did find the odd cougar track here and there, though the pad marks were rarely less than a week old.
At midday, he would find a spot that was protected from the brisk west winds. When they were not near one of the tiny streams that trickled from clefts in the blue granite, Paducah would get a fair share from the rider’s canteens of well water. While the Ute ate a piece of dark bread, the gentle beast would enjoy a portion of corn or barley from the saddlebags. Having finished the grain, the horse would pull on those few sprigs of grass that could be found between fractured stones and weathered boulders that littered the saddle of the Notch. What may have occupied the horse’s brain during these pleasant hours must remain a matter of conjecture. But all day long, the man’s mind was filled with many things. Charlie Moon thought about reliable horses. Fat Herefords. Faithful hounds. Hard winters. Old friends. Unpaid bills. And of course—the woman. From time to time, he also thought about the mountain lion, a big cat whose foot had been mutilated by the jaws of a steel trap. The aging, gimpy predator was unable to run down elk or deer. Two-Toes had nothing left to hunt but domestic animals. Or, just possibly, human beings. The Ute had developed a sympathy for the beast. But the cougar was a potential danger to the Columbine cowboys. And the rancher was responsible for the safety of his employees.
On the sixth day, Charlie Moon knew what he had to do.
THE MARKSMAN
PETE BUSHMAN was sitting by the fire, warming his feet. Having heard no one approach his door, the Columbine foreman was startled by the heavy knock.
Dolly hurried to the window. “It’s him.”
He pulled on his boots. “Him who?”
“Charlie Moon.”
Bushman found the Ute standing by the front porch. The rider had looped the horse’s reins around a post. Paducah looked fitter than normal, dopey as usual, and highly pleased with himself. “It’s good to see you, boss.” But it was not. Charlie Moon was hollow-eyed and pitifully thin. “Why doncha come inside?”
Moon seemed not to have heard the invitation. He looked off toward the Notch. “Pete, who’s our best shot?”
The foreman rubbed at bushy whiskers. Studied about it. “With a pistol or a long gun?”
“Long gun.”
“From a horse, or on foot?”
Moon considered the question. “On foot.”
“Well, that’d be the Wyomin’ Kyd.”
The Ute was mildly surprised. “Jerome Kydmann’s that good?”
The foreman grinned under the unkempt beard. “Imagine a grasshopper at fifty paces. Now that ’hopper, he’s got a flea sittin’ on his left eyebrow. And that flea has got a eensy-teensy red chigger bug squattin’ on his kneecap.”
With some effort, Moon managed to capture this image.
“That young dandy can shoot the chigger off’n the flea’s knee without doin’ the least harm to the flea. And it’s such a clean shot, why the grasshopper, he won’t bat an eyelash.”
Moon shook his head. “The Kyd’s too green. I need a man with more experience.”
Bushman’s eyes twinkled. “You want somebody to shoot that big cat for you, I’m your man.”
The rancher gave his employee a long, appreciative look. “You could get the job done, all right. But I don’t think Dolly would ever let me hear the last of it if something bad happened to her husband.”
“Hmmph,” Bushman snorted. “She’d find herself another man ten minutes after the funeral.”
Moon smiled. “How about Santanna?”
“That mean-assed Mexican?” The foreman shrugged. “I guess he can shoot well enough. And he’s probably killed about as many mountain lions and bears as he has men—at least to hear him tell it. But he don’t have a rifle; you’d have to loan him one.”
Moon loosed the reins from the post, mounted the homely horse. “Send Santanna around to the house first thing tomorrow.” The Ute wheeled the animal, calling back, “And don’t give him any work to do—I’ll be keeping him busy for a while.” He reigned the
horse to a stop, looked back at his foreman. “Tell all the hands—and this goes for you, too—I don’t want anyone going near the Notch. And that includes Pine Knob.”
Pete Bushman nodded. Dead Mule Notch was the big cat’s territory. And ever since the redheaded woman’s body had been buried on the Knob, that lonesome place had been off-limits. Nobody but the boss ever went up there. Or wanted to. Some of the cowhands believed the hilltop was haunted by the young woman. Alf Marquez swore he had seen her spirit floating around the crest of the Knob. The Arapaho claimed that at twilight and dawn the ghost showed itself as a curling wisp of yellowish smoke. In dark of night, the disembodied spirit took on the appearance of a forked flame, split like the tongue of a viper.
The foreman watched the big Indian ride off on the ugly horse, turned to see Dolly’s round, rosy face in the doorway.
Her dark eyes were fairly popping out of the sockets. “What was that all about?”
Dolly’s husband puffed up his chest. “I told you I’d get the boss outta the house. After I told him about how ol’ Two-Toes had brought down them heifers, he’s been out checkin’ for sign every day. He wouldn’t say, but I betcha six bits to a nickel, that Injun’s found the hole where that big cat sleeps—and he’s plannin’ to put ’im outta business.”
“Well, he mustn’t try to do it by himself.”
“He’s borrowed Santanna. That Mexican’s a professional hunter—he’s killed himself a dozen cougars.” Leastways, that’s what he claims.
Dolly shook her head. “I’m glad Charlie’s getting outside again. But I sure hope that mountain lion don’t sink his teeth into him.” Or even that awful Mexican.
THE ASSIGNMENT
GRIEGO SANTANNA showed up at the Columbine headquarters fifteen minutes after the sun popped over the eastern range. Having guessed what the jefe had in mind, the Mexican set about telling him how to go about getting the job done. “First, we’ll borrow some redbones or bloodhounds that—”
“No dogs,” the Ute said.
Santanna stared at the boss. “But dogs is the best way to—”
Charlie Moon pointed at a chair. “Have a seat. We’ll talk while we have some breakfast.” The Ute fried pork chops and eggs for the feisty man from Zacatecas. The Ute ate half a pone of cold cornbread with a cup of black, unsweetened coffee. In addition to sharing his table, the rancher shared his idea about how Santanna might bag a dangerous predator.
The Mexican listened in rapt silence, occasionally nodding.
Finally, Moon bowed his head, stared at clenched fists. “This thing has to be done, and by rights it’s my job. But I can’t bring myself to pull the trigger. That’s why I was hoping you might be willing to….” He hesitated. It was far too much to ask of a hired hand. Even a hard man like this one.
Griego Santanna smiled, exposing the glistening stainless steel teeth. “When do I get started?”
Moon looked toward a west-facing window. Dead Mule Notch was glowing in golden sunlight. “Early tomorrow morning, a good hour before first light. And you’ll have to stay out there alone, till well after dark. I don’t know how many days this’ll take, but you’ll have to stay at it till you get a bead on him.” After a long, heavy silence, the Ute spoke. “I don’t want him wounded. If you pull the trigger, he has to be shot dead.”
“Si, Jefe. I understand.” And he did. Perfectly.
A HOLE IN THE GROUND
PETE BUSHMAN stomped into his house, plopped into the comfortable embrace of a creaky reclining chair. He mumbled to himself, knowing this would attract his wife’s attention.
Dolly, who had been listening to the local news, switched off the fifty-eight-year-old General Electric vacuum tube radio. “What is it?”
Her husband shook his head. “I just can’t figger it out.”
Busy cleaning a mixing bowl, she waited for the next installment.
“Every morning, soon’s the sun comes up, the boss rides that ugly ol’ hoss up to the top of Pine Knob.”
She frowned. “What is he doing up there?”
He pulled at his whiskers. “He’s diggin’.”
Dolly turned to stare at her husband. “Digging what?”
“Woman, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
Her eyes became large. “Charlie’s digging up that Brewster woman’s grave?”
Annoyed, Bushman shook his head. “Hell no, he’s diggin’ another hole—right next to where she’s buried. After he lays his shovel down, he stands by that redheaded gal’s grave with his hat off. Like he was goin’ to her funeral, over and over.”
This made the woman shudder. “What on earth would he do that for?”
Her husband stared at the beamed ceiling, sighed. “Who knows why these Injuns does the peculiar things they do?” In a knowing tone, the foreman added: “They ain’t like us.”
Dolly sat down near her man, gave him a suspicious look. “How do you know what Charlie’s doing up there?” The boss had ordered everyone to stay away from Pine Knob.
Pete Bushman reached into his jacket pocket, produced a dusty pair of binoculars. With a smug expression, he waved the optical instrument under his wife’s nose.
“Shame on you, spying on Charlie Moon.”
“I’m the foreman of this here outfit—it’s my job to know what’s goin’ on.”
Dolly grudgingly admitted that he had a point. But the report gnawed at her. “There must be a reason he’s up there digging a hole in the ground.”
Her husband shook his head. “There ain’t but one reason—he has finally gone crazy as a spotted coot.” He reached across the table, removed the lid from a century-old crockery milk pot. He found a long plug of chewing tobacco inside, began unwrapping the foil cover.
Very slowly, the woman twisted her white apron into a knot. “I thought Charlie and Santanna were hunting that mountain lion.”
“That Mexican goes out before daylight, comes back after dark. And he keeps to himself—don’t say a word to nobody about what he’s up to. I figger Santanna’s scrounging around up yonder in the Notch, lookin’ for a sign. Once he finds the big cat’s den, I expect the boss will help him kill it.”
“I thought Charlie Moon had already found the den.”
Bushman shrugged.
Dolly looked blankly at the faded wallpaper. “They should bring in some trained dogs.”
Her husband shook his head. “The boss, he don’t believe in usin’ dogs to run down what he’s huntin’.”
“Well, that’s just plain silly, and dangerous. He’s still not thinking right.”
The foreman shrugged. “I think it’s some kind of Injun thing. Mixin’ dogs and cougars is bad medicine.”
“After you talked to him about Two-Toes, I thought Charlie would get better.” Dolly shook her head. “But I shouldn’t be surprised. That’s what happens when you give a woman’s job to a man.”
Old fusspot. “Then why don’t you do somethin’ yourself.”
“I think I will.”
He did not like the sound of this. “Like what?”
“I’ll call in some serious help.” Dolly was staring at the telephone.
Chapter Forty-Two
THE WOMAN
AS HE RODE PADUCAH BACK TO THE COLUMBINE HEADQUARTERS, the rancher was lost in his solitary thoughts. Drawing near, he saw the white Dodge van parked between the F-150 and the Expedition. It looked like one of the BoxCar fleet. What’s going on? I told Pete Bushman No Visitors. And then he saw her.
Miss James’s trim form was concealed under a fashionable trench coat.
This must be Dolly’s doing. As the Ute dismounted, he tried hard to maintain a solemn expression. Did not quite manage it.
The pretty woman returned the smile. “Hello.”
“Hello yourself. Is Patch back in Colorado?”
She shook her head. “The senator will be staying at his home in Georgetown until the new headquarters is completed on the BoxCar. He instructed me to convey his warmest regards—he i
s extremely grateful for what you’ve done.”
“I don’t expect you came all the way to Colorado to tell me that.”
“I hope you don’t mind my showing up unannounced. I realize that you need your solitude right now, but…” The carefully rehearsed words faded away. He is so terribly thin. “I do hope you’re well—I mean…”
“Some of my hired help hold the opinion that I am not altogether healthy.” He tapped his temple. “Up here.”
Miss James found herself at a loss for words.
He approached so close she could smell him. “What do you think?”
Her already enormous eyes grew larger. “Well, I really don’t—”
The seven-foot man enfolded the little woman in a bear hug, lifted her off the ground. A slipper dropped from her foot.
“Charlie—what are you doing?”
“Being my natural self.”
The other shoe fell to earth. She relaxed in the unexpected embrace. “And I had thought you were such a shy man.”
“You thought wrong, Abigail.”
“That is not my name.”
“Then tell me.”
Her nose was almost touching his. She smiled. “Why should I?”
“’Cause I’m not putting you down till I know.”
“Oh, all right then. It’s Jane.”
“Missy, bald-face lies won’t get you nowhere.”
“Well I’m not telling you—so there.”
“Then we’ll stay right here till the sun goes down and the moon comes up. And the sun comes up again.”
Miss James put her arms around his neck. “Perhaps some sort of compromise is in order.”
“I’m listening.”
“Tell me the name of your lovely lake.”
“And you’ll do likewise?”
She nodded.
“I don’t completely trust you. You go first.”
She looked at his jacket collar. “It’s…Jesse.”
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