Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  He rolled this revelation over in his mind. Jesse James. That’s not so bad. It coulda been Frank.

  “Oh, I just knew you’d do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Grin like an ape.”

  He managed a melancholy expression. “How’s this?”

  “Much better.” She giggled. “Now keep your side of the bargain.”

  “Well, I might as well tell you the truth. The lake’s never had an actual name—”

  “Charlie, that’s not fair!”

  “—but from now on and forever and then some, it’s Lake Jesse.”

  Her eyes were luminous in the twilight. “You should not tease me.”

  “Before the dark of the moon, I will plant a big sign by the water’s edge.” If I’m still alive.

  “Very well, I believe you. Now I think…perhaps you should put me down.”

  She doesn’t sound like she really means it. “I’ll have to think on it.”

  “My goodness, what else do you want?”

  “I’m altogether too shy to say.” He looked away. “So I’m hoping you already know.”

  She did. And kissed him. And kissed him again.

  Miss Jesse James’s feet did not touch the ground. Not until the sun blushed crimson, dipped its face in darkness…and an apricot moon peeked over the mountains.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  ON PINE KNOB

  FROM DAWN TO DUSK, CHARLIE MOON WENT ABOUT HIS SOLITARY business. When darkness came, he slept. And dreamed. Day and night, the women were always on his mind.

  Mostly, he thought about the pretty lady who had kissed him, the black-haired beauty whose blood ran warm. This one invited him to live—to share her life.

  And then there was…the other. That pale, redheaded phantom who trespassed the boundaries of his dreams. And danced with the dreamer. This one lay in her grave, waiting for that companion who was destined to join her. She was not to be denied.

  The man with the troubled mind had made his choice. And having made it, there were preparations to be made. Moon lifted a scoop of rocky soil from the deep slot, set the long-handled shovel aside. The hole looked deep enough.

  Satisfied with his work, the rancher went to check on his mount. On each visit, he tied the horse to a different aspen sapling. By this means, the animal was assured of a fresh patch of grass to graze upon. On this day, the horse had had time enough to nip away every sprig. Paducah lifted his head, snorted at the man who had been working without pause since shortly after sunrise.

  WITH ALL the patience and cunning of his kind, the predator approached. Slowly. Silently.

  The rancher surveyed his domain. Two ranges of granite mountains rose up on the boundaries of the Columbine, the Buckhorns to frame the sun’s rising, the Miserys to conceal its setting. Toward that place where the snows are made, rolling gray-green hills were dotted with spruce and pine. He gazed to the south, admiring the ribbon of river. Even at this distance, he could hear the hushed whisper of icy waters rushing over moss-sheened basalt boulders. It was a fine, muscular stream, rolling on to a distant appointment with the briny deep.

  On the far bank, there was a scattering of buildings around the Columbine headquarters. His home was perched on a bulge above the flood plain. A mile past the massive log dwelling, shining in the sun, Lake Jesse. Before long, a thin glazing of ice would begin forming along its willowed banks.

  Autumn was a sweet time.

  Winter was not.

  Some fine day, spring would come again. The Ute had always been grateful to see tender new leaves, the blossoming of prairie flowers. But the Moon of New Grass was far over the horizon, and a man never knew when he might wake up to his last day in Middle World. This being so, time must not be frittered away as if it was merely an empty space between then and now, birth and the grave. Again, the pretty woman came to mind. The Columbine was an awesomely silent and empty space, where even summer nights were touched by coldness. Under normal circumstances, he would be ready to take on a full-time partner.

  But these were the worst of days. The shadow of death walked along behind him.

  His digging done, the gaunt man turned toward the redheaded woman’s lonesome grave, removed the dusty black Stetson. He bowed his head, closed his eyes. Prayed for the repose of the dancing woman’s soul. He could not have estimated how long he stood before the pair of silent graves, one occupied, another waiting for a tenant. Shadows leaned to the east, grew long and diffuse. He did not move from his desolate post.

  FROM A clump of scrub oak, a pair of alert eyes was focused on the Ute.

  A CRISP northwesterly breeze swept across the crest of Pine Knob, hummed a brittle hymn in the dry juniper spines, rattled brassy leaves in a clone of aspens. Having played its piece, the wind slipped away to ripple the surface of the glacial lake beyond the river. Moon’s tiny corner of the vast universe fell silent.

  The man standing at the edge of the pit was in another place. He dreamed the dreams of his ancestors. Somewhere far beyond yesterday, he saw great oceans of buffalo flowing over the high plains in a black flood. He heard the excited shouts of mounted hunters, the snorting of horses. Something drifted past the Ute’s nostrils—the sweet aroma of animal flesh roasting over small campfires. He heard the jubilant songs of chanting women, the laughter of children.

  Slowly, slowly, all these yesterdays melted away.

  The painted warriors were gone with the spirit of the buffalo. The deer remained, and the elk. And the big cougar who had been taking fat young cattle from the Columbine pastures. Moon had returned to the eternal present—the Now.

  The Ute sensed the pitiless predator, stepping over a fallen log. Pausing to sniff the scent-tinged air. Strong tendons stretched, taut muscles rippled.

  He’s coming. The haunted man wondered whether he would live or die. It seemed to matter little. Father Raes Delfino had once told him that a man does not truly live until he is willing to cast his life away.

  Somewhere behind him, Charlie Moon heard sharp wings cut the air as a startled raven took to the sky with a croaking call of warning.

  He’s here. The Ute did not raise his head or open his eyes. He was completely at peace. That which had not yet begun was already finished. What was preordained would come to pass.

  There was the barest hint of rustling dry grass underfoot.

  Hat in hand, Charlie Moon kept his vigil between the open pit and the young woman’s grave.

  The predator paused. Gazed at the back of the tall, bareheaded man.

  Paducah snorted, stamped a heavy hoof.

  The Ute uttered his first words in three days. “Hello, Henry.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  CAVE MAN

  “WELL, YOU DO AMAZE ME.” THIS DECLARATION WAS FOLLOWED by a raspy chuckle that trailed off into a cough.

  Charlie Moon opened his eyes, turned to see his visitor. Camouflage deer hunter’s coveralls hung like a tattered tent on Henry Buford’s gaunt frame. The man’s face was concealed under a bristly growth of new whiskers, a woolen sock hat was pulled down to ears and eyebrows. By the smell of him, he had not bathed for quite some time. The sight of the uninvited guest might have been comical—except for the Winchester carbine resting in the crook of his left arm.

  Buford’s finger was tucked inside the trigger guard. He bared a few teeth in a foxy, yellow-tinted grin. “You don’t seem overly surprised to see me.”

  The Ute stared without blinking. “I’m surprised to see you looking so poorly.”

  “Charlie, I am bone-tired from all my labors. After I’m done with this business, I aim to sit myself down in an old rockin’ chair.” And rock myself far away from here.

  “I wouldn’t think hard work would bother a tough old boot like you.”

  “I haven’t been getting enough sleep.” The bad dreams won’t go away. Buford gave the open grave a sideways glance. “You been acting awfully peculiar, cowboy. Days on end, out here all by yourself.” And unarmed.

&nbs
p; “You concerned about my health?”

  Buford nodded. “Concerned—and curious. Thought I should come check on you.” He raised an eyebrow. “You must’ve known all along I was up yonder in the Notch.”

  And I knew you’d be coming down to the Knob. The Ute looked toward the rift in the Misery Range. It was not nearly so deep as the dark divide that cleaved his soul.

  The assassin rubbed a callused thumb across the carbine hammer. “What beats me is—how’d you know?”

  The man who was cut asunder did not respond.

  “You still got a minute or two, Charlie. So don’t be so damn modest—satisfy my curiosity.”

  “In a scrap with a hardcase like Henry Buford, it was hard to believe the senator’s nephew came out on top.”

  “I appreciate your confidence in me, cowboy. Really I do. But you must’ve had more’n that to go on.”

  “The young man was a vegetarian.”

  The puzzled man cocked his head at the Ute. “And you don’t think carrot-chompers ever commit violent acts?”

  “The bomb-making evidence in Pearson’s cabin was in a box. A box that come from the grocery store packed with twenty-four cans of stew. Beef stew.”

  Buford rolled this over, looked at all sides of it. “That don’t prove nothin’. Allan coulda picked up that empty box in an alley.”

  Moon nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Until an FBI agent showed me some pictures of your burned-out house. I looked for something that should’ve been on your mantelpiece. It wasn’t there.”

  Henry Buford stared past the tribal investigator. “The old Indian axe head Daddy gave me. I tried, but I just couldn’t leave it behind.”

  “But you left your dog.” Left him dead.

  The assassin wiped the back of a hand across his eyes. “I couldn’t take Grape-Eye with me. Soon as somebody come within a hundred yards of my hideout, that floppy-eared idiot would’ve barked and gave me away. And I couldn’t leave him behind. Damn old mutt would’ve sniffed out my trail, followed me into the Notch. Probably brought a dozen cops with him.”

  “All the same, it takes a pretty cold hand to shoot his own dog.”

  “Had to be done.” He added hoarsely, “Grape-Eye understood. Right before I…puthimto sleep, he licked my hand.”

  The Ute wondered what it would be like to drift off into that final sleep. He lifted his gaze to the mountains. “When I was up there looking for the cougar, I found a couple of boot prints. Figured you were holed up in one of the caves. But it didn’t seem sensible to go looking too close. Didn’t want to tempt you to take a potshot at me.”

  “I appreciate that. But why didn’t you send the feds up there after me?”

  “Way I see it, Henry, finishing this sorry business is between you and me.”

  “Then we see things eye to eye.” Buford pointed his chin at the headstone over the young woman’s grave. “Why’d you plant her here?” To torment me?

  Moon watched the two-legged predator. “Why did you kill her?”

  “Wasn’t like you think, Charlie.” You couldn’t even imagine…

  “Tell me what it was like.”

  Henry Buford’s eyes glazed over. “She happened along one night when I didn’t want any company. So I did what was necessary.”

  “What’d she see that made her so dangerous?”

  “It wasn’t what she saw.” Turn the word around. “It’s what she was….”

  “A campus police officer.”

  “Nah, that didn’t bother me.” Buford’s voice dropped to a low mutter. “She was something…something I can’t tell you about.” The dancing woman. From my nightmares.

  He’s not making any sense. “What were you doing when she happened along?”

  The murderer’s lips cracked a mischievous grin. “That’s for me to know—and you to find out.”

  “I already found out.”

  “The hell you did.”

  “She saw you stuffing sand in a sock.”

  Buford stared wide-eyed at the tribal investigator. “Now who told you about that?”

  Charlie Moon almost smiled. “My aunt Daisy.”

  He’s bullshitting me. “Your aunt?”

  “That old woman tells me all kinds of things.” Crazy, impossible things.

  “How’n hell would your aunt know what happened that night—was she there, too?”

  The Ute shook his head.

  “Then how—”

  “A young, redheaded woman told her.” Moon turned his face toward Wilma Brewster’s grave.

  Buford glanced at the mound of earth, quickly averted his eyes. “When was this?”

  “Few weeks ago.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Charlie. Never thought you’d lie to me.”

  “I don’t lie.”

  “That gal’s been stone cold dead since last December.” Buford’s face had gone a shade more pale. “So it’s not possible she talked to your aunt anytime recently.”

  “I know.” The Ute squinted at the pale blue infinity floating above the Columbine.

  “So what’re you sayin’ to me?”

  “Henry, there was a time when I thought I had things pretty much figured out. But as the years pass by…” It was hard to put into words.

  Buford attempted a smirk. “You telling me you believe in ghosts?”

  Moon shook his head. “But they don’t seem to care whether I believe in ’em or not.” When the shadows fall, they come calling.

  Clearly unnerved by such talk, the visitor pointed the carbine at the open pit beside Wilma Brewster’s resting place. “Who’s that for—you?”

  “Beginning to look that way.”

  This response produced an odd expression on Buford’s grimy face. “You got class, Charlie. From the first minute I laid eyes on you, I says to myself, ‘There is a man worthy of respect.’”

  The Ute fell silent.

  The winds returned to moan over the Knob. Tree limbs rattled like dry bones.

  Buford shivered from an inner coldness. Why doesn’t he say something? “What’re you thinking about, Charlie?”

  “About how you went into town that night. Waited behind the Blue Light for Billy Smoke to show up with Patch Davidson’s Lincoln. After you beat him to death with the rebar, you waited for the senator to come out of the restaurant. You tapped Patch on the head with the sock just hard enough to addle him—then used the iron bar on his knees. Fixed him so he’d never walk again.”

  “I’m sorry about your Indian friend.”

  “Billy Smoke wasn’t a friend of mine. But I’m glad to know you’re sorry about something.” Moon’s brow furrowed. “You help the senator select his motorized wheelchair?”

  “Nah. Ol’ Patch, he picked out the Electric GroundHog all by himself.” Buford scratched at his belly. “He’s always been a lazy old bastard, so I knew he’d want something that did all the work for him. But it didn’t matter all that much whether the chair had a battery or not. I could’ve hid the explosive in a seat cushion. Even inside a wheel.”

  “How’d you get Allan Pearson to install the battery in the senator’s GroundHog?”

  “Easy as eating a hot buttered biscuit. Dumb-ass kid followed me around like a puppy, did anything I told him to. Day the senator was leaving for D.C., I told Allan my back was acting up, asked him to replace the backup storage battery with a freshly charged unit.” Buford snickered. “And charged it was, my man.” He was looking past Charlie Moon, as if the Ute was an insignificant bystander in this small drama. “You should thank me for removing the senator’s nephew from this vale of toil and tears.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “That crack-sniffing misfit was worried you were going to expose his illegal business activities. Allan paid his drug-running motorcycle freaks to put you outta business. After you whipped a couple of ’em, and that big rattlesnake didn’t bite you, Allan sent the whole bunch of ’em over to the Columbine, knowingly putting the senator’s life at risk. That really
pissed me off, Charlie. I had to keep the old man alive and healthy till he’d served my purpose. Patch was the centerpiece of my plan.” Lovingly, the assassin stroked the cold carbine barrel. “Day before the main event, I set an explosive charge in the ranch headquarters. And a little firebomb in my house. Then I invited Allan over to my place for a drink. Told the little pissant I knew how he’d sent his motorcycle-freak buddies to the Columbine. He pleaded with me not to tell his uncle. I slapped his face so hard he slobbered.”

  “And then you shot him—like you shot your dog.”

  Buford squinted at the Ute. “Charlie, please don’t take this as a mean-spirited criticism, but you do have an annoying tendency to think the very worst of me.”

  “Sorry if I hurt your feelings. I suppose Pearson must’ve shot himself. Three or four times.”

  Buford spat tobacco juice into the dust. “The scrap between me’n the punk was a fair deal. Hell, it was more’n fair. I gave him a loaded revolver, told him we was gonna have us a reg’lar Old West shoot-out.”

  “Why would you want to do a reckless thing like that?”

  The storyteller ignored the question. “It was quite a moment, Charlie. There we are, eyeball to eyeball. The kid’s piece is in his hand, my old Colt’s on the kitchen table.”

  “Sounds like you had a death wish.”

  He glowered at the Ute. “It’s bad manners to interrupt a man’s story with pointless commentary.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. So what happened next?”

  “The pathetic little coward started whining, begged me to call it off. ‘Nuts,’ I says, ‘Don’t shame yourself, kid.’ Allan, he commences to beg some more. Tells me he ‘really don’t want to do this.’ It was enough to make a grown man throw up his breakfast. But when I reached for my pistola, he sure took a pop at me.” Buford threw his head back, a laugh rattled deep in the broad chest. “Damn near got me, too—slug popped through the armpit of my best wool shirt. But one shot was all he got off—I nailed the little pissant right good.” He sighted down a crooked finger. “Bam-bam-bam. It was a nice, tight pattern—three times through the pump. I slipped my fireproof folding knife into his pocket, left him right there on the floor.”