“I thought four colors was enough.”
Parris snorted. “A real red-white-and-blue American consumer don’t settle for enough.”
Unable to resist, Moon kicked the toe of his boot against a massive all-terrain tire.
“And don’t forget the all-wheel ABS. A remote starter for those below-zero mornings—while you’re sitting in your warm kitchen eating flapjacks and bacon, you press the button, fire up your supertruck. It’ll be warm as toast before you finish your first cup of coffee. And the windows’ll be defrosted.”
“Bacon is okay, but I’d rather have pork sausage with my flapjacks.”
“Then go ahead, that’ll work just as well.” Having been infected by the Ute’s bad example, Parris also kicked a tire. “This baby is snowplow ready. It’s completely set up for towing a ninety-foot trailer. And it’s got plenty of gawr. Not to mention—”
“Wait a minute—what the heck’s gawr?”
“Dang it all, Charlie, I don’t know—but it’s important.” He had lost his place in the list of truckly virtues. “Did I mention heavy-duty air conditioning for those sizzling summer days?”
“I don’t think you did. But here at the Columbine we only have about six days of summer, so—”
“And a tilt steering wheel with speed control. Six-point-eight-liter Triton engine with three hundred and ten horsepower, four hundred and twenty-five pound-feet of torque at thirty-two hundred and fifty RPMs.”
“Impressive numbers.”
“You better believe it. Do you want me to tell you more about creature comforts?”
“Could I stop you?”
“Not unless you stuff a rag in my mouth. You got leather everywhere, heated front-seat cushions. You not only got standard AM-FM, you got high-tech satellite radio with one hundred and sixty-two channels. A ten-deck CD with wraparound sound like you never heard in a work truck before. Just imagine Johnny Cash rattling the windshield.”
The Ute imagined it, and it was good.
“And on top of all that, an under-the-dash scanner that’ll pick up police chatter a hundred miles away, even on a rainy day.”
Moon nodded his approval.
“And besides all that, Betty Lou is—” Parris clamped his mouth shut.
“Betty who?”
The white man blushed to his ears.
Moon’s face split in a grin. “You named the truck after your latest girlfriend.”
“I did not,” Parris snapped.
“Childhood sweetheart?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Bet she was a high-school cheerleader.”
The white man chewed on his lip.
“I am not going to let this go. You might as well tell me and get it over with.”
“It was in the sixth grade. Betty Lou McWhorter was my first girlfriend.” He mumbled, “Sort of.”
Moon laughed. “Didn’t much care for you, did she?”
Parris glared at the Indian. “Let’s just drop the subject.”
“Okay. But it occurs to me that a man does not name a horse unless he owns it.” Moon looked in the cab. “This is your truck, ain’t it?”
Parris shrugged. “Sort of.”
“How long’ve you had it?”
“It was delivered last week.”
“Worried that you can’t make the payments, huh?”
The chief of Granite Creek PD pulled the brim of his felt hat down to shade his blue eyes. “The mayor of our unfair city promised me an eight-percent raise. Sad to say, the town council didn’t come through. Claimed they needed every spare cent for sewer repairs and new schoolbooks.” Those morons have got their priorities all wrong.
“Why not let the dealer take it back?”
“Charlie, I am a well-known public figure—I cannot be seen to welch on a deal with a local businessman. I got my image to think about. Besides, I’ve already named her.” He patted the F-350 hood, “Giving Betty Lou back to Happy Dan now—why, it’d be like giving him my favorite dog.”
“You don’t have a dog.”
Parris responded somewhat curtly, “I was speaking figuratively.”
“So, figuratively speaking, you want me to take over the payments.”
“I was kinda hoping…”
“I don’t know if I could drive a truck that went by the name of Betty Lou.” Moon frowned at the he-man machine. “I have to call it somethin’ like Columbine Locomotive or Buffalo Hog or Big Red Chief or—”
“No!”
Moon stared at the white man.
“Once a man has named a dog or a horse or a pickup—the name sticks.”
Moon gave his best friend a doubtful look. “Well, I don’t know. Betty Lou is kind of a sissy name for a muscle truck.”
A hurt expression hung on Parris’s face. “Do you want her or don’t you?”
“I’ll have to think about it.” Moon thought about it.
“Well?”
“Maybe.” Moon studied his warped image in the waxed sheen of a glistening fender. “Maybe not.”
“Charlie, I know how to settle the issue.” Parris smirked. “Without thinking about it, tell me this right away—what’s her name?”
“Whose name?”
“Aha—you see? Just ten minutes with Betty Lou and you can’t even remember her.”
“Her name,” the Ute said evenly, “is Miss James.”
“What’s the color of her eyes?”
“They’re—”
“Don’t bother making wild guesses. Admit I’m right.”
The Ute assumed a pained expression. “Betty Lou.” He sighed. “Every time I got behind the wheel, I’d be thinking about that pretty little McWhorter girl in the sixth grade. The one who detested you. And on top of that, you wouldn’t even have your fine red pickup to take your mind off all the other women that’ve left you. That’d make me awfully sad.”
Parris avoided the Indian’s gaze. “There is one thing.”
The Ute nodded. “You don’t have to say a word. I know exactly what you want.”
He eyed the unpredictable Indian. “You do?”
“Sure.” Moon patted the pickup fender. “From time to time, you’d want to take Betty Lou out for a spin. Listen to some sad old songs on the CD about how My Sweet Baby’s Left Me and All Kathy Gives Me Are Candy Kisses. Then you’ll have to check the truck’s coordinates on the GPS. Use that remote-control box to crank Betty Lou’s winch back and forth a few times.”
Scott Parris rubbed at his eye. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
LATE THAT evening, shortly after Charlie Moon had returned from driving Scott Parris home in the magnificent red pickup truck, the rancher was seated by the fire. His eyes were closed as he listened to Mozart on the FM radio. Despite the fact that Miss James was gone, life was tolerable. No, it was better than that. For this moment, at least, life was good.
Too good to last.
The telephone rang.
It’ll be Pete Bushman. The foreman called at all hours with reports of sick cattle, marauding cougars, cowboys that needed bailing out of jail, miscellaneous other calamities and a multitude of minor gripes and complaints. The owner of the ranch had decided to ignore the summons when it occurred to him—it might be herself calling. Without opening his eyes, Moon fumbled around on an oak stand by his rocking chair, found the offending instrument, said softly into it, “Columbine.”
The voice of the tribal chairman barked in his ear. Oscar Sweetwater was in a highly agitated state.
Moon let the torrent of words sweep past him. “Okay. I’ll be in your office tomorrow morning.” The tribal investigator hung up the phone.
The complex strains of Mozart had been interrupted. A male announcer was reading a special weather alert.
A storm was moving in.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SHIRLEY
Charlie Moon decided to drive his “on approval” pickup to the Southern Ute reservation
. Not that he had any serious intention of spending scarce dollars on such a fancy machine. What a working ranch needs is a rough-and-tough pickup. I’d be crazy to pick up the payments on something like this—what do I need with a nine-color GPS map and a ten-CD deck and all that other fancy stuff? As he was passing through Granite Creek, Moon saw the neon sign at the drive-in where he habitually stopped for a tall cup of coffee, and instantly felt the need for caffeine. He pulled into the Chuckwagon Drive Up, found a vacancy at station 6. He pushed a button on the intercom, heard a garbled inquiry, requested a large coffee. Black with six packs of sugar.
The incoherent response might have been an urgent warning of an imminent invasion from the planet Zorp.
“Okay by me,” Moon said. “Bring ’em on.” He was a man who lived on the edge.
A long-legged, gum-chewing blonde emerged from the drive-in restaurant. A tray was balanced precariously on her palm; in the precise center of it was a super-size Styrofoam cup. She wore a crisp white blouse and a short red skirt. Though acutely missing Miss James, the Ute could not help but notice that this young lady was quite good-looking and then some.
She stopped chewing to gawk at the flashy F-350, flashed a saucy smile at the driver. “Wow—this is a real tomcat truck.”
He grinned back at her. “You like it?”
“I just adore it.”
“Then let me introduce you to Betty Lou.”
Blondie did not see another passenger. “Who’s that—your girlfriend?”
Moon shook his head, explained that Betty Lou was the truck’s start-up name. And that a girlfriend was something he was minus.
The carhop was obviously relieved to hear this latter testimony. “Really?” She stroked the gleaming chrome side-view mirror, gave the gum an enthusiastic chew. “I’d just die for a bad set of wheels like this. Red is my favorite color.”
It had not escaped Moon’s attention that the truck’s paint was a close match to her miniskirt.
She pointed a long crimson fingernail at the front bumper. “And that is just a killer winch.”
“It’s got remote control.” His mouth was running on autopilot.
“No kidding!”
The driver felt a mind-numbing surge of foolish pride, then remembered that the vehicle was not his property. Not quite. Not yet.
She batted enormous glued-on eyelashes at him. “Uh—I almost forgot where I’m supposed to take this order. You are the coffee with extra sugar, aren’t you?”
“That is what they call me.”
The eyes blinked again, got bigger. “Just how much sugar do you like, sugar?”
He mumbled something, wondered what he’d said.
She gave the inside of the cab a once-over, passed him the cup. “Fancy truck like this must’ve set you back…” she paused to make a computation, “a good forty-five thousand, six hundred bucks.”
She was within twelve dollars of Happy Dan’s price. “You must know a lot about trucks.”
“You must be rich.” A sly smile. “That’ll be a dollar twenty-five.”
The land-poor rancher gave her a crisp new five-dollar bill, felt a sudden impulse to show off. “Keep the change.”
“Wow—thanks!” Blondie stuck her head inside the window to peer at the dashboard, then locked eyes with the Ute. He could smell bubble gum on her breath. “I don’t believe it—you actually got the nine-color GPS navigation unit.”
“Sure I did. This is a serious pickup.”
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “What’s the GAWR rating?”
Ohmigosh. That must be the gawr Scott was muttering about. He put on a virtuous look. “That’s the sort of thing a real truck-driving man don’t go around bragging about.”
The carhop smirked. “You don’t know, do you?”
This stung. “Well, I don’t have it right on the tip of my tongue.”
She assumed a superior, know-it-all look designed to annoy the lesser informed. “GAWR is the gross axle-weight rating—which is the maximum load for a single axle.”
“Everybody knows that.” Smart Aleck.
“The GAWR number is on your truck’s SCCL.” The gum-chewing lass blew a small pink bubble that popped. “That’s the Safety Compliance Certification Label, which is usually on the driver’s door. If you’ll open it, I’ll show you where to look.”
“I guess some fellas who pull in here like to look at labels and such.” In an attempt to affect a rakish look, he pushed the Stetson back on his head. “But me, I’d rather look at you.”
“I get off at two.” She pulled his hat brim down over his eyebrows. “Why don’t you drop by and take me for a ride.”
“Uh…”
“What is it, honey pie—am I too forward?” She pouted prettily.
He adjusted the hat, shook his head. “It ain’t exactly that.”
“What then?”
Moon gave her a puzzled frown. “Well, I don’t know whether it’s me you like—or my red pickup truck, which is loaded with every accessory the laws of economics allow.”
The pretty girl laughed. “It’s mainly your killer truck, sweetums.” She looked him over. Kinda skinny. “But I think I could learn to like you too. If you was to be nice to me.”
Moon was at a loss for words.
“Bobcat got your tongue?” She batted the synthetic lashes again. “My name’s Shirley. Shirley Spoletto.” She reached in to touch the leather-wrapped steering wheel. “What’s yours?”
He grinned like an idiot. “Charlie.”
Shirley Spoletto gave him a soul-searching look. “You might as well know—I got a weakness for tough-lookin’ men who drive big, expensive pickup trucks. But I got to know something, Charlie-babe. And you tell me the honest truth—are you attracted to trashy women?”
He stared back into the big, green eyes, wondered how to avoid the trap. There was nothing to do but take a run at it. “No I don’t—I prefer classy ladies like yourself.”
She giggled.
That was a close call.
TWENTY MINUTES later, Charlie Moon was heading out of Granite Creek. South toward Durango and Ignacio.
He concluded that driving a brand-new truck had a way of encouraging a man to think brand-new thoughts. A remote-control winch would come in handy when a cow falls into one of them deep arroyos. And if I ever got lost in a blizzard, that nine-color GPS gadget would come in real handy. Scott might be right—this truck could turn out to be a sensible investment. And I could write it off.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE POLITICIAN
Seated across the oversized desk from the tribal chairman, Charlie Moon noted that Oscar Sweetwater appeared somewhat uneasy. The tribal investigator waited for the supreme elected representative of the Southern Ute tribe to speak.
Oscar cleared his throat. “I guess you’re wondering why I asked you to drive all the way down here.”
“Nope.”
This response seemed to throw the old man off. He scowled at Moon. “You must be in a hurry to get back to that big ranch.”
Moon shook his head, glanced at his wristwatch. “You’ve been paying me almost fifty cents a minute ever since I left the Columbine. Plus expenses. The longer this takes, the bigger the paycheck.”
The chairman grunted. “Tribe’s not made of money.”
The contract employee grinned at the grumpy politician.
Oscar toyed with a handsome reproduction of an ancient Mesa Verde black-on-white mug. It was filled with pencils, ballpoint pens, paper clips, other odds and ends. “We got some things to talk about.” He projected a dark look at Moon. “All highly confidential.”
Moon’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Don’t worry about me blabbing. By the time I hit the street, I won’t remember a thing you said.”
Someday you’ll make one crack too many and I’ll fire you on the spot. The chairman removed a silver-plated mechanical pencil from the Anasazi-style mug. “This thing about Jacob Gourd Rattle leaving his wife in Cañon del Espiritu
. What do you think? I mean, why would the man do a thing like that?”
“Maybe Jacob and his wife had a fuss. He got mad, drove off.”
Oscar nodded slowly. “But why was Jake in the canyon in the first place?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“That’s a question that wants an answer.”
Moon dodged by posing his own question: “Does the SUPD have any leads on where Jacob is hiding out?”
The tribal chairman hesitated. “I’ve told the chief of police not to go looking for Mr. Gourd Rattle. His wife hasn’t filed a complaint about his unexplained absence.”
Moon understood. Jacob Gourd Rattle was an influential man in the tribe. There had even been talk that he might run against Oscar Sweetwater in the next election, and some of the oddsmakers thought Jacob had a fair chance of unseating the older man. Oscar was a highly cautious politician. He didn’t intend to open himself up to charges that he had used the tribal police to smear Gourd Rattle’s reputation—such as it was—by fueling rumors that the man had abandoned his wife in the snowy wilderness.
Oscar pointed the expensive mechanical pencil at Charlie Moon. “Did you know that back in the eighties, Gourd Rattle served three years of a seven-year sentence at Folsom?”
“I heard something about that.” The whole tribe knew the story.
“Word is, he was involved in some kinda robbery.” Oscar shook his head. “Him and some Colombian thug knocked over a liquor store or gas station or something. And that ain’t all.” Oscar put on an outraged expression. “From what I hear, he’s knocked his matukach wife around some.”
“Maybe Kicks Dogs is glad he’s gone.”
The chairman nodded. “If she’s got half a brain.” He drew a childish stick-figure man on a yellow pad, penciled in a six-sided star on its skinny torso. “I figure Jacob’ll show up sooner or later.”
“Yeah. I suppose he will.” But you didn’t bring me a hundred miles to talk about Jacob Gourd Rattle’s family problems.
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