Snake Dreams
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Praise for James D. Doss and his
CHARLIE MOON MYSTERIES
Three Sisters
“One of his best yet!”
—Booklist
“Wild, authentic…and highly satisfying.”
—Detroit Free Press
“A finely cut gem.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“James D. Doss’ novels about Charlie Moon…feel as if the author is sitting around a campfire, spinning a tall tale that engulfs a circle of listeners…Doss’ tale is evocative of the area and of Indian lore, and his chatty, down-home style shines in Three Sisters.”
—Florida Sun-Sentinel
“Doss’s trademark humor keeps Charlie and Scott wisecracking as the plot spins smartly along to an unpredictable ending…Moon mysteries still charm us with Western voices and ways.”
—Rocky Mountain News
Stone Butterfly
“Style, pathos, enthusiasm, and humor to spare.”
—Mystery Scene
“A clever plot…will keep readers turning the pages.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Moon series deftly blends traditional mystery elements with Native American mythology—a surefire read-alike for Hillerman fans.”
—Booklist
“Droll, crafty, upper-echelon reading.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
Shadow Man
“Doss likes to toss a little Native American spiritualism and a lot of local color into his mysteries. Fans of the series will be well pleased.”
—Booklist
“Fans of Daisy Perika, the 80-something shaman who brings much of the charm and supernatural thrill to James D. Doss’ mystery series, should like Shadow Man…nice reading.”
—Rocky Mountain News
The Witch’s Tongue
“With all the skill and timing of a master magician, Doss unfolds a meticulous plot laced with a delicious sense of humor and set against a vivid southern Colorado.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Doss’s ear for Western voices is remarkable, his tone whimsical.... If you don’t have time for the seven-hour drive from Denver to Pagosa, try The Witch’s Tongue for a taste of southern Colorado.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“A classy bit of storytelling that combines myth, dreams, and plot complications so wily they’ll rattle your synapses and tweak your sense of humor.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Dead Soul
“Hillerman gets the most press, but Doss mixes an equally potent brew of crime and Native American spirituality.”
—Booklist
“Lyrical and he gets the sardonic, macho patter between men down cold. The finale is heartfelt and unexpected, and a final confrontation stuns with its violent and confessional precision.”
—Providence Journal Bulletin
The Shaman Laughs
“A mystery that combines the ancient and the modern, the sacred and the profane, with grace and suspense.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Shaman Sings
“Stunning.”
—Publishers Weekly
(starred review; named Best Book of the Year)
“Doss mixes an equally potent brew of crime and Native American spirituality.”
—Booklist
Also by James D. Doss
Three Sisters
Stone Butterfly
Shadow Man
The Witch’s Tongue
Dead Soul
White Shell Woman
Grandmother Spider
The Night Visitor
The Shaman’s Game
The Shaman’s Bones
The Shaman Laughs
The Shaman Sings
Snake
Dreams
James D. Doss
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SNAKE DREAMS
Copyright © 2008 by James D. Doss.
Excerpt from The Widow’s Revenge copyright © 2009 by James D. Doss.
Cover photo © Getty Images.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2008025099
EAN: 978-0-312-94505-3
Printed in the United States of America
Minotaur hardcover edition / November 2008
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / October 2009
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Gerald Plain
La Grange, Kentucky
Prologue
Nightmare
Yours? Not tonight.
This particular horror is reserved for two souls already deep in sleep—and a third who burns with a perverse appetite.
You have nothing to fear from this nasty business.
Unless . . .
Unless you should assume too intimate an interest, allow yourself to become unduly absorbed—irretrievably entangled.
Not a chance?
Very well.
But there are invariably some who do. A few. Perhaps one or two.
For those reckless souls, the following cautions are hereby provided.
First, a suggestion: Refrain from focusing too closely on the stark desert dreamscape—such intense concentration is likely to unduly excite the fertile imagination, which will conjure up all manner of poisonous viper, rabid rodent, and other vile nocturnal characters that slither and scuttle about in the darkness.
Second, a recommendation: Do not incline your ear to the unwary pair’s sighs and groans and snores and moans, and firmly refuse to hear the lurid murmurings of the third wretched creature, who—in frantic anticipation of the atrocity—giggles.
Last, this warning: Remain where you are. Resist any temptation to drift off into the shadowlands, and beware any glib stranger who might invite you to witness the unsavory event. Yielding to such an enticement could prove dangerous.
WHILE NO guarantee of absolute safety is made or implied, paying close heed to the aforementioned counsel should keep you reasonably—
What—you have already crossed that beckoning boundary, are even now entering into the dismal regions?
Then it is too late.
You have purchased your share of the nightmare.
Be advised that all such transactions are final.
There are no refunds.
And no returns.
One
When and Where
All these big brouhahas have to get started sometime and someplace and this one commenced two summers back, about midway between Pecos and El Paso.
It was a few owl-hoots past sundown when a brand-new moon floated up to shine a fine, silvery sheen on the favored side of the mountains. Very nice. And it should’ve stopped right then and there, but no—like some folks you know, that two-faced satellite has a dark side, and just as it was brightening up the eastern slopes, it flooded that big dusty trough between the Delaware peaks and the Sierra Diablos with shadows, and we’re not talking about a widow’s veil of night shade that wouldn’t keep you from seeing what o’clock it was on your granddaddy’s dollar pocket watch. Nosiree, this was sure-enough mucky stuff, black as Texas Tea, too thick to churn and firm enough to slice with Mr. Bowie’s knife.
If we were to wait around until that pockmarked face gets about four hours high, the murky lake would start to drain and dry and any poor soul who happened to happen by and got blinded and drowned in it would be able to see and breathe again. But this is right now and that’ll be then and it’s not night-meandering pilgrims we’re interested in, so let’s mosey on over to where the trouble’s about to begin.
Watch your step, now. Don’t put your foot on them prickly pears. Or that feisty little sidewinder.
See that tattered old tent over yonder?
Aim your eyeball a tad more to the left.
They’re camped right beside the rusted-out pickup that’s hitched to the horse trailer that’s empty because just this morning the rider swapped his piebald pony for a shiny Mexican trumpet and three bottles of Patrón Reposado tequila. The feller still has the brass horn, but he’s too high to toot on it and too far under to have the least notion of the serious Bad News that’s about to bite him in the neck.
THE FORTY-FOUR-YEAR-OLD woman (married, mother of one) is entwined in the arms of a broken-down old rodeo cowboy who never asked her name. Oblivious to his indifferent embrace, Chiquita Yazzi has drifted away into a twilight place. While she watches a splendid black swan glide upon a mirrored pond, a bright-eyed little girl runs along the grassy bank to hug Momma’s neck. How do mother and daughter while away these blissful hours? They laugh at fluttering butterflies, sing happy songs, pick pretty flowers. In even this feeble facsimile of paradise, only the sublime should be called to mind—ugly memories should not be permitted entry. Sadly, it is not to be. The bright vision takes a dark turn into a vermin-infested alley. The mother—as only mothers can—senses danger close at hand. She instinctively reaches out to pull her child close. The little girl, a moment ago so warm—is cold to Momma’s embrace.
An unhappy turn of events. But it is merely a dream, which will quickly fade from memory. What we desire is a change of scenery, so let us return to the world of flesh and blood and see what is afoot there.
For the most part, ordinary events common to the nighttime desert.
In a shallow arroyo, a scaly something glides silently by.
A melancholy breeze heaves a wistful sigh.
Inside the tent?
Already stinking of beer and sweat, the has-been bull rider adds urine to the pungent brew. Thus relieved, he sinks ever deeper in his drunken stupor.
And the woman is . . . But what is this?
No. Don’t look.
A tarantula strides oh-so-deliberately along the lady’s forehead. Before moving on to explore other parts of her anatomy, the fascinated arachnid pauses—extends a bristly foreleg . . . strokes her dark eyebrow.
Altogether too dreadful? Then let us depart from the canvas shelter.
On the way out, we shall encounter the third member of this ill-fated trio.
Snake Dreams
But do they, really?
This is a highly controversial subject, hotly debated among distinguished zoologists and eminent herpetologists—which shall be settled here and now. The answer is:
Yes.
They most certainly do.
The more fascinating, and not quite settled, issue is—what do slithery-slimy serpents dream about?
We are about to find out.
The Serpent’s Nightmare
Underneath a shadowy sea, unseen by the rusty red moon-face hanging high in the dusty West Texas sky, the night crawler watches. Waits.
Is this entity a human being? By the most generous definition—yes.
A he or a she? Moonlight has not yet illuminated the subject sufficiently. We must wait and see. What do we know with certainty?
That the assassin is cold sober, wide awake, recently bathed—and near enough to hear the woman’s raspy breaths, the boyfriend’s intermittent snores.
The time has come to settle scores.
Inching along on its belly, the sinister pseudoviper wriggles into the tent, rises above the intended victims. A crooked grin splits the hate-twisted face—a silvery straight razor glistens in a pale hand.
Flickity-flash!
Snickety-slash!
Two
Central Colorado
When the high prairie stretched between the Misery and Buck-horn Ranges transforms from snowy white to bright green, and wildflowers start sprouting up like this was a sweet little girl’s happy dream, you know for sure it’s Springtime in the Rockies.
But is it time to start picking a bouquet of posies for the favorite lady, perhaps making plans for an alpine picnic? Let’s put it this way: Don’t put your long underwear in the cedar chest just yet. The weather at these altitudes doesn’t care a whit about hardware-store calendars or showy spring blossoms. And genuine, gold-plated summer (if it doesn’t pass by altogether) might tarry for a week or two.
At this very minute, huge, rumbling thunderheads are boiling up over the blue granite peaks and you can hear that icy wind come a-roaring down the mountain like ten thousand runaway freight trains. It’s been huffing and puffing all night, whipping spruce and cottonwoods left and right.
Pete Bushman, a crusty old stockman who’s been with the outfit since way back then when men were men and women were mighty glad of it, has seen all kinds of weather, so when he chomps down on a big chaw of Red Man and spits and declares, “That wasn’t nothin’ but a cool little breeze,” not one of the hired hands will argue with him. Not to his face. That might be partly because the old-timer’s the foreman of the Columbine Ranch.
As might be expected, your regular cowboy who rides the wide-open spaces and mends fences tends to experience Pete’s “little breezes” from a different perspective. Here’s a f’r instance: “When that there wind came awhistlin’ over Pine Knob, it had a edge like a brand-new butcher knife and it was whacking off stalks of buffalo grass and when it took a slice at the bunkhouse, it shaved the frost right off the winda glass!” Now that’s what Six-Toes claims, and ol’ Six never tells a bare-faced lie unless he has his mouth open. And even if he is touching the weather report up just a mite, that norther did rip a few shingles off the bunkhouse roof and almost shook the door off its hinges. The cold winds also kept most of the day-shift cowboys hunkered down in their bunks with the blankets pulled up to their bloodshot eyeballs.
Shameful behavior for fellows who pack six-guns, strut around like bowlegged peacocks, and generally act like they’re just itching to strap a saddle on the worst Texas tornado you ever saw, and spur Mr. Twister all the way from here to Laredo.
Pete Bushman has something to say on any subject and will be glad to inform you that “today’s cowhands ain’t what they used to be.” To hear the foreman tell it, there’s only two sure-enough cowboys in this outfit—himself (naturally) and that Ute Indian by the name of Charlie Moon, who happens to be the owner of the Columbine Ranch, which makes him the big chief hereabouts.
Fact is, there are at least a dozen top hands on the Columbine who can perform any chore from shoeing a fractious quarter horse to overhauling a sixty-year-old Farmall tractor. But there is a reason for the foreman’s confidence in the boss: Charlie Moon can outwork and outfight the best of his employees. And there is al
so this: The hardy fellow is not bothered by any kind of weather. He likes mornings that’re brisk, don’t you know—and brisk for Mr. Moon is ten below.
Which is most likely why the Ute came out onto the ranch-headquarters porch while the wind was still whipping up a fuss, sat down on a redwood bench with an old banjo, and began to pluck all five strings. Is he good? Honest reporting compels one to admit that Charlie Moon is no Earl Scruggs, but he has been working at it for months, and if practice does not always make one perfect, it generally leads to marked improvement. And as Grandpa Jones or Stringbean (bless their souls) might have observed: That long tall drink a water sure does make that banjer ring!
Moon could also sing. Loudly.
Which did not please everyone.
The porch where he picks taut banjo strings and croons lively bluegrass ballads is only about two stone throws from the bunkhouse down by the river, which is where a bunkhouse should be, because water rolling over rocks has a fine way of lullabying a tired man off to sleep. On the contrary, Moon’s instrumental and vocal efforts have a way of waking that same fellow up. Him and all his bunkhouse buddies did not appreciate it.
Didn’t matter. The sun was about to explode over the Buck-horns and it was by-gosh time to be up and at ’em.
Among those residents who did not share the Indian cowboy’s brand of sunrise enthusiasm, the twanging and singing particularly annoyed Sidewinder, who, in case you two have not been properly introduced, is the official Columbine hound. At the beginning of the impromptu recital, the long-eared, sad-eyed canine was stretched out under the porch, dreaming about a mighty fine lady hound who was following him around, licking at his face. Now the dog was awake, and mightily ticked off. The Ute’s booming baritone also startled a skittish little mare, who kicked a board loose in her stall.