“Next time you have some aces and royalty up your sleeve, you’re liable to run into somebody who’s not nearly as tolerant and understanding as me.” Somebody who’ll slit your throat and pocket your poke.
7
Dining with Daisy
Having managed to lure the lawyer into her home, Daisy Perika pointed at a chair by the kitchen table. “Sit down.”
Though Spencer Trottman was not in the habit of taking orders, he was far too civilized to invite a confrontation with this old savage. So he sat. And looked around. “Well, well.” Rather a tiny place. “Have you lived out here very long?”
“All my life,” she muttered as she puttered around the propane stove. “And don’t ask how long that’s been. I just had a birthday and I don’t like to think about it.” Daisy raised the top of the range, used a kitchen match to touch a flame to each of the pilot lights. There was a satisfying pop, then another. Looks like Charlie got that gas line fixed. She turned to her visitor, gave him a jerk of her head. “Come over here.”
The lawyer got up from his chair. “What for?”
“I want you to get down on your knees in front of this stove, stick your head in the oven.”
He paled. “I beg your pardon?”
She gave him a box of matches. “You got a young back and long arms; see if you can light the pilot. It’s in the broiler, way near the back. I’m too old and stiff to try it—if I get down there, I might get all stove up.” Stove up—that’s a good one. “And if I did, I might not be able to stand up straight for a month.”
The white-collar worker frowned at the grease-spotted linoleum in front of the stove, considered his razor-creased trousers.
Daisy pitched a newspaper onto the floor. “You can use that.”
Trottman knelt on the obituaries, flicked a wooden match to life, stuck his arm into the broiler, closed his eyes in the hope that the subsequent explosion would not blind him for life—and by some good fortune managed to ignite the pilot flame. It was the first useful manual labor the attorney had performed in ages. It felt good. He got to his feet, brushed nothing in particular off his knees.
Daisy pointed at the floor. “Pick up the newspaper.”
Now accustomed to being the Ute woman’s house servant, he performed this task without protest.
She snatched the Ute Drum from his hands, stuffed it in a plastic wastebasket. “I don’t get many visitors out here, so I’m not set up for entertaining people.” She pointed at the ancient television set. “I’d turn on a baseball game for you, but that worthless box of tubes and wires is on the blink. The picture’s all slanted, so when I want to watch Oprah, I have to tilt my head like this.” She demonstrated. “And it makes my neck hurt.”
His stiff face almost smiled. “Don’t give it a second thought. I rarely watch TV.”
“Then I’ll make a fresh batch of coffee and heat up some Indian stew.”
It would be impolite to refuse her hospitality. “Well—I suppose just a little coffee.”
A few minutes later, Daisy Perika plopped a mug of black liquid in front of her guest. “You want any milk or sugar with that?”
Spencer Trottman shook his head. There was a rainbow sheen floating on the tarlike liquid. It has a film of grease on it. She has not properly cleaned the cup.
The old woman slammed a bowl down by his hand.
“Ah—excuse me, madam—”
“I’m no madam,” she snapped. “And there ain’t no young floozies in this house.”
“Well of course not, but what I mean to say is that I really didn’t want any—”
This feeble protest was interrupted. “It’s an old Apache recipe. You’ll like it.”
“Dr. Blinkoe and I had breakfast only a short while ago. I really have no appetite for…” for whatever this is.
She stirred the stew, raised the spoon to his lips. “Open your mouth, so I don’t spill it on your pretty blue tie.”
Seeing no viable alternative but to obey, he opened his mouth.
Daisy shoveled the food inside.
He chewed. Swallowed.
“Now, isn’t that good?”
His eyes were wide with surprise. “It is delicious.”
“Then finish it up.” She seated herself across the table, started in on her bowl.
Spencer Trottman considered himself a chef of sorts. Halfway through his helping, he had to ask. “May I inquire about the recipe?”
“You start with some onions cooked in butter. Then you add some sweet corn and sliced summer squash.”
He nodded. “And there’s a pinch of paprika.”
“I used a cup and a half.”
Her guest looked as if he doubted this.
“I made the original batch outside, over a piñon fire—in my big copper pot. Took all day and half the night to cook it up.”
“Oh.”
“It was way too much for my freezer, so I canned it up in gallon jars.”
He chewed at a piece of stringy meat. It did not taste like beef. “You must have used an entire lamb.”
Daisy shook her head. “That ain’t lamb.”
The finicky man grimaced at his bowl. “Goat?”
The old woman snorted. “Lots better than that.”
“Of course. I should have known. Pork.”
“You’re getting warm.”
“Please—you really must tell me.”
She leaned over the table, lowered her voice to a whisper that he could barely hear. “I guess you bein’ a lawyer, you know how to keep a secret.”
“Certainly.” He crossed his heart. “I promise never to reveal the ingredients of your recipe.”
“If you want to brew up a mess of Old Apache stew, first you got to catch yourself an old Apache.”
Trottman was startled by this tasteless remark.
“Of course,” Daisy continued in a thoughtful manner, “I prefer Young Apache stew myself, because the meat is lots more tender. But way out here off the beaten path, a person has to be satisfied with whatever happens by.” She shot him a look. “You ever hear of Albert Stone Foot?”
He shook his head.
“Well, he was an old Apache who happened by one day.” Daisy stopped chewing, put a finger in her mouth. “What’s that?” The Ute elder removed the offending morsel, examined it, made a horrible face. “Ugh—I hate it when I get a ’Pache toenail in my mouth!”
The Mercedes SUV was a mile from Daisy Perika’s trailer when Spencer Trottman finally spoke to his passenger. “So what did you think of Mr. Moon?”
“Honest to a fault,” Blinkoe said. “A bit too ethical for my tastes. But considerably more intelligent than I had expected. I have no doubt he will live up to his reputation as a highly competent investigator.” He grimaced as the automobile chugged over a pothole. “On the whole, I like him. And by the by, he will be looking into this threat on my life. You shall provide him with every cooperation.”
“Of course.”
Blinkoe turned his face toward the driver. “Did you enjoy your visit with Mr. Moon’s aunt?”
The lawyer snorted. “The woman is a lunatic.”
“Hah—did she play another trick on you?”
“She is a very coarse, crude person. It would not be going too far to describe her as a malicious old witch.”
The orthodontist clapped his hands. “Oh please—tell me what she did!”
Trottman set his jaw. “I absolutely refuse to discuss it.”
“Oh, very well then.” Spoilsport. He turned away to stare at Chimney Rock.
Trottman was well aware that while Manfred Blinkoe had difficulty recalling his Social Security number or zip code, he seemed to have almost total recall of what he read in a half-dozen newspapers or watched on the television news. Not that I believe one word that came out of the old woman’s mouth. But it won’t hurt to ask. “Manfred, do you recall any news reports about an Indian by the name of Albert Stone Foot?”
“Certainly,” the news junkie replied
. “Mr. Stone Foot was reported missing last autumn on the Southern Ute reservation. There was quite an extensive search by tribal police and volunteers.”
Trottman grasped for a straw. “Then he was a Ute.”
Blinkoe shook his head. “Mr. Stone Foot was married to a Ute woman, but he was a member of the Jicarilla Apache tribe. He is presumed dead, but the body was never recovered.”
The lawyer felt the bile rising in his throat. He braked the automobile to a sudden stop, opened the door, leaned out, gagged. But not one morsel of the Old Apache did he manage to regurgitate.
Charlie Moon finished his bowl of stew. “That was good enough to eat.”
Daisy Perika got the pot, ladled him out another helping. “You’d naturally think so; you brought me the pig all the way from the Columbine.”
“I can’t take any credit for the pig. That was a gift from Dolly Bushman.” For some reason, the Columbine foreman’s wife was quite fond of his aunt. The full-time rancher, part-time tribal investigator, occasional handyman reached for a Saltine Cracker and remembered there was one last chore to do before he headed home. “Didn’t you tell me your TV was acting up?”
“It needs some tweaking. But there’s no big hurry.” The crafty old woman smiled. I have lots of ways of entertaining myself.
8
The Pleasures of a Rancher’s Life
Having enjoyed a breakfast of fried eggs and broiled beefsteak, the owner of the Columbine took his third cup of heavily sugared coffee onto the west porch of the headquarters building. Before the start of the day’s work, it was Charlie Moon’s practice to take a few minutes to enjoy this remote patch of paradise. The sun was just showing a blushing face over the Buckhorn range, the mist-shrouded river laughed its uproarious way along a road cobbled with glistening black stones. A fresh breeze carried the honeyed scent of purple clover. The Ute raised his cup to salute the morning, and its Maker. The descendant of Adam forgot about his steaming coffee, drank deeply of unadulterated joy. For this eternal instant, his life was filled with perfect peace. Time hung still, as if the ponderous rotation of a trillion-trillion galaxies had ceased.
Dogs are not romantics. The hound made his creaky way up the steps. Sidewinder regarded the human being he had adopted with a yellowed eye and cavernous yawn.
The man was away in some distant land.
To assert his presence, the dog bumped against the rancher’s knee.
Moon looked down at the beast. “Howdy-do.”
The animal responded with something that was either a rude belch or a canine expletive.
The Indian cowboy seated himself on a sturdy redwood bench.
The big dog plopped down at his feet, expelling a satisfied whuff from his lungs.
Quiet tiptoed back, settled down with man and beast.
Charlie Moon knew that he was blessed to have the loan of this wide river valley. Sunlight sparkled over the sweet waters, shimmered in the aspen leaves. There was so much beauty dancing about that it threatened to overwhelm him. He closed his eyes.
Peace is a precious and ephemeral commodity.
His coffee was cold when he heard the hoarse voice.
“Hey—boss!”
Moon watched his foreman approach in a stiff-legged walk. This determined gait suggested some urgent business. Trouble was what the cantankerous old man usually brought to the headquarters. Unless he had a serving of disaster or calamity to spare. “Morning, Pete.”
The dog got up, raised its nose to sniff at the wonderfully odorous man.
Pete Bushman stopped at the bottom porch step, tugged at his scruffy beard. “We got us some problems.”
Imagine that. Moon prepared himself to receive the daily ration of bad news.
The foreman dished it out. “I just got a call from Slope-Eye Piper, who got bailed outta the Granite Creek jail yesterday afternoon. Seems Slope’d spent the night carousin’ around in town, and this morning when he was drivin’ back to the Columbine, he passes the lane to that spread we bought over t’other side a the Buckhorns, he notices the gate is busted up some, so Slope makes the turn and drives down the lane to have a look-see and—”
“Pete, give me the short version.”
Bushman took a deep breath. “Well—from the sign, Slope says it looks like some rustlers broke through the Big Hat main gate sometime last night, drove right up to the headquarters with a big truck, made off with maybe twenty head of our best Herefords.” Bushman turned to squint at the eastern horizon. “I imagine they’re in Wyomin’ or Kansas by now.”
The Ute got up from the bench, frowned at his foreman. “What about the men we’ve got stationed at the Big Hat—are they okay?” There was not a man on his payroll who would not fight it out toe-to-toe with cattle thieves. The fact that the cattle were missing suggested that the three cowboys must be hurt bad. Or worse.
Bushman’s bushy face wilted under the boss’s searing gaze. “Uh—none a our boys wasn’t exactly there at the time.” To clarify this confusing assertion, he pointed toward a distant place across the river. “I’d brought ’em back to this side a the Buckhorns, moved ’em over onto the north section, on the bank of the Little Brandywine. They was mending some a that old bob-war fence that’s been there since Moses was tendin’ sheep.”
Moon was enormously relieved to know that none of his men was injured or dead. But leaving the Big Hat unguarded was inexcusable and Bushman knew it. The boss waited for an explanation. It was not long in coming.
“Thing is,” the foreman half-whined, “we been kinda shorthanded since three of our top hands got jailed in Granite Creek for wrecking the Silver Belle Saloon and Portuguese Tom got sick with the bloody flux and little Butch went over to Denver City to get that tattoo took off his scalp and got a nasty infection that turned his eyes pink and yeller.” The foreman kicked his dusty boot at a kidney-shaped pebble, missed it. “I figgered if ’n the gate to the Big Hat was locked up tight, well, it didn’t seem likely that nobody would cut the chain and go in there to steal nothin’—I mean, they’d likely have thought we’d be bound to have somebody on the place lookin’ after our stock—” Realizing he had stumbled into a grievous tactical blunder, Bushman stopped in midsentence, stared at the ground. Wished he could sink into it.
The slender Ute nodded his head slowly, like a buzzard pecking flesh off the foreman’s bones. “But it was me that was fooled—I was the one that thought we had some men over there.” He looked toward the Buckhorns, blinked into the face of a blazing yellow sun. “But maybe the thieves had a grain of sense, and figured that if the gate was locked there must not be anybody on the Big Hat. Columbine cowboys don’t have a reputation of being so scared of rustlers that they lock themselves in at night.”
The foreman got the message. “Uh—right. Tell you what, I’ll put off mendin’ them fences out past Pine Knob. I’ll tell Slope-Eye to stay at the Big Hat and I’ll send a half-dozen more boys over there with carbines and orders to make it hotter’n a west-Texas cookstove in August for any rustler who so much as—”
“I’ll take care of the Big Hat.” Moon’s tone was flat, hard. “You look after the Columbine.” To avoid saying something he would regret till his dying day, he turned away, disappeared into the headquarters.
The owner of the Columbine had not raised his voice or said an unkind word, but in all the years he had worked for Charlie Moon, Pete Bushman had never seen the Ute so flat-out angry. It was understandable that the boss was riled—nothing makes a stockman madder than getting his beeves rustled. It was the foreman’s habit to argue about every decision Moon made, but this time Bushman shrugged at the empty space where the tall man had been standing. I s’pose it could’ve been worse.
Sidewinder descended the porch steps, paused long enough to growl at the bearded man.
The foreman hardly noticed.
The hound raised a hind leg, emptied his bladder in Bushman’s boot.
Pete Bushman noticed. He also danced, shrieked a curse that would have ma
de an inebriated longshoreman blush.
His duty duly done, the hound sauntered away toward the horse barn, where he would curl up and nap in the straw.
Charlie Moon stood in the cool darkness of the massive parlor, feeling extremely hot under the collar. Big fists clenched, he stared at a heap of piñon embers smoldering in the fireplace. I shouldn’t have been so hard on Bushman. He’s as good a foreman as any from Montana to New Mexico, and everybody who walks on God’s earth makes mistakes. But twenty head of purebred beef stolen—that’ll amount to a good chunk of our profit for the whole year! The rancher removed an old horseshoe that had hung on a brass hook below the mantelpiece for nine decades. It was the Columbine’s “lucky shoe.” He took hold of the thing with both hands, straightened it out. It was not perfectly straight, but in this world perfection is a hard commodity to come by. Feeling marginally better, Moon bent it into a U again. Not a perfect U, but it would have to do. He hung the good-luck piece back on the hook, glared at it. See you do a better job from now on.
There was a banging on the door. It was not Bushman’s knock.
Moon ignored it.
The second rapping was louder.
Charlie’s old F-150 pickup and his Expedition are parked side by side. So he must be around here somewhere. The logician was County Agent Forrest Wakefield. He knocked on the seasoned oak a third time.
The door was jerked open. The Ute rancher’s rangy frame filled the space.
“Hi, Charlie.” He looks like he could chew up a railroad spike and spit out carpet tacks. Wakefield took off his brand-new cowboy hat, held it over his heart like a shield. “How you doin’ today?”
“Peachy.” Moon gestured him inside with a nod. “What’s up, Forrest?”
“Oh, somma this and somma that.” The county agent came inside, blinked in the low light. “That coffee I smell?”
Moon led him across the parlor, down the hall, into the spacious kitchen. “I can’t remember—you like it black?”
Shadow Man Page 6
