Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  Moon hitched his thumbs in his vest pockets. “I aim to go see a lady.”

  “A white woman, I’ll bet.”

  “You would win the wager.” He gave her a sly look. “You and Louise-Marie have a good time yesterday?”

  “Good enough.” Just you say one smart-aleck thing about what me and her was up to, and I’ll pick up this chair and break it over your head.

  Moon pulled the intended weapon away from the table, helped her settle into it. “I’m glad you got to spend some time with your friend. Going for a nice ride must’ve been just the thing to cheer you up.” He patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry there was trouble with the car. Lucky thing Scott happened by, and brought you back home.”

  “Hmmph,” she said. He’s just softening me up.

  He seated himself across the table. “Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

  Hah—now the questions start. Well, I’ll just ignore him. She sipped at the coffee, made a face. “This is weak as Sister Sarah’s mint tea.”

  Moon stared at the tar-black brew. “I’ll make another pot, just for you.” He was getting up from his chair when she waved him back.

  “Never mind. I’ll eat and drink whatever’s put in front of me.” She tried a forkful of scrambled eggs, was highly annoyed that she could find nothing to complain about. “After all, it’s not like I’m family or nothing—I’m just a guest in your fine big ranch house. Who’m I, to expect things should be made to suit me?”

  He grinned over a plate of eggs and chili. “I guess you didn’t sleep all that well.”

  “I slept just fine.” I’ll ask him before he asks me. “So what did you do yesterday?”

  He shrugged the broad shoulders. “Had a confab with my foreman about the fence repairs along the north pasture. Stopped over at the Big Hat to check on my new hands. Then I spent the rest of the day down at your place, cleaning things up some.”

  She shot him a look. “I didn’t know there was anything left to clean up.”

  “There’s still quite a bit of odds and ends scattered around. I thought I’d gather some of it up for you.”

  This aroused the old woman’s curiosity. “Well where is it?”

  “There’s a couple of cardboard boxes out in the pickup.”

  “You could’ve brought ’em inside.”

  “I’ll do that later. But I did bring you in a sample.” He got up, went to an oak cabinet, found what he was looking for. He placed the blackened coffee can on the table by her coffee cup. “I put some of the smaller things in this.”

  She glared at the thing. “Where did you get that?”

  She must not be quite awake yet. “These are some things that I picked up around your yard—”

  “No. I mean that.” She pointed at the container.

  “The coffee can?” He seated himself. “The blast had blown it into a tree, so I picked it off a branch, and—”

  “Then you can put it back.”

  Moon arched an eyebrow. “Beg your pardon?”

  “That ain’t mine.”

  “What ain’t yours?”

  She turned the can so he could see a small patch of paint that remained. “What color is that?”

  I bet this is a trick question. “Well, I’d say…green.”

  “What color can does Folgers regular coffee come in?”

  “Oh, right. Red. I guess you don’t buy much decaf—”

  “During my whole life, I never bought nothing but good old red-can regular coffee. I wouldn’t have no other kind in my kitchen.” She gave her cup a suspicious look. “You surely wouldn’t—”

  “No,” Moon said quickly. “That’s not decaf.”

  She sniffed. “What’s wrong with your well-water? This smells like kerosene.”

  “I’ll be glad to make another pot—”

  “Ah, don’t bother. I’ve drunk worse stuff than this and liked it.” She peered into the can. “Looks like a pile of burnt-up junk to me.”

  “That’s not far from the truth. But before we toss it, you might want to scratch around some. There might be a pretty pinto pony in there somewhere.”

  “A pony?” That is just about the dumbest thing I ever heard. She turned the can upside down to dump the junk on the table, proceeded to sort through the odds and ends. “Except for this old silver dime, I don’t see anything here that’s worth a thimble of monkey spit.” It hit her hard. Tears began to well in her eyes. “After all these years, I don’t have nothing left. Nothing.”

  He watched her across the table, not knowing what to say. “You still have that nice telephone I bought you.”

  She lifted the bulky pendant in her hand, blinked at it. “This ain’t worth the kindling wood it’d take to burn it up.”

  Moon buttered a biscuit. “What’s wrong with it?”

  I’ve been really hateful this morning. I shouldn’t complain about this silly little telephone. But remembering a particular grudge against her nephew, she could not help herself. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it—when you call a person on it and leave ’em a message, they don’t ever call you back.”

  The grin found his face again. “That might not be the phone’s fault.”

  Her scowl trumped his grin. “And what do you mean by that?”

  Moon realized he’d gone a wisecrack too far. “Well…uh…I…”

  Daisy knew she had him by the neck. “Ask me who it was I called that didn’t call me back.”

  “Okay. Who it was?”

  “I’ll tell you who—it was a big smart aleck that goes by the name of Charlie Moon.”

  I might’ve known. “When did you call me?”

  She had to stop and think back. “The day before that night my trailer burnt down.”

  “Was the message about something important?”

  “It might’ve been.”

  “Want to tell me what?”

  “No I don’t. I left you a phone message. If you wasn’t interested enough to call me back then, you wouldn’t care to hear about it again.”

  “Try me.”

  She shook her head.

  He got up from his chair, came to her side. “Let me have a look at your pendant phone.”

  “You can keep it for all I care.” She took the loop from around her neck, returned the birthday present to her nephew. “A broken telephone is worse than not having one at all.”

  “I’m going into town today, I’ll drop it off where I bought it, see that they get it fixed.” He inspected the small instrument. There was no obvious sign of damage. “Now show me exactly what you did.”

  He thinks I’m too dumb to call him on the phone. “I don’t care to be cross-examined this early in the morning. Not before I’ve finished this fine cup of kerosene.”

  “If you don’t show me what you did, I won’t know what to tell the technician.”

  “Oh, all right.” She snatched the miniature marvel of modern technology away from him. “First, I pushed this button to dial your cell phone, but all I got was a recording. So I pushed the other button, for the phone here at the ranch house. Dolly Bushman answered and told me you’d gone to see that lawyer fella. The one with the beady eyes that’re too close together.”

  “I”m guessing you mean Trottman.”

  “That’s the one. Dolly gave me his number, and after I punched it in with a toothpick, all I got was another stupid recording. So then I pushed that other button to get your cell phone again.”

  “Which other button?”

  “This button right here,” she snapped. “Can’t you remember nothing?”

  There was a merry sparkle in his eye. “What happened then?”

  “Just like the time before, you didn’t pick up—all I got was that dumb recording. But this time, I left you a message.”

  He nodded. “Oh, sure, that message—the one about how you wanted a new TV set and—”

  “It wasn’t about no TV! I told you I knew exactly where that Pansy Blinkoe woman was hiding and—” She caught herself
. “That wasn’t fair—you know I didn’t mean to tell you that. You tricked me.”

  “Did I?”

  Her high-temperature glare fairly sizzled his skin.

  Moon thought he’d try again. “So where is Mrs. Blinkoe hiding?”

  “After you get this dumb thing fixed, I’ll tell you.” She slapped the pendant telephone into his hand. “I’ll call you, and leave you another message.”

  He got the message.

  Charlie Moon strode across the yard with a brown paper bag in his hand, got into the Columbine Expedition, sniffed at the paper bag, put it on the passenger seat. He rummaged around in the glove compartment for his cell phone, turned it on, dialed a very smart lady he had not seen for years. Her answering machine responded with a recording of the familiar voice.

  If you’re wanting to sell me something, forget it. I don’t want it, and even if I did, I couldn’t afford it. The ringer on my telephone is turned off. If you’re someone I know, and you want to talk to me in person, come to my house and knock on the door. Anytime between ten A.M. and six P.M.

  Guess I’ll just have to go knock on her door. He called the FBI office in Durango, listened to an automated response which informed him that no one was in, but to leave a message and “…if your business is urgent, please dial the Denver Field Office.” Moon shook his head. Don’t anybody answer their phone anymore? The tribal investigator left Special Agent McTeague a message to the effect that at three P.M. today, he would be at Big Tony’s, desperately lonely, and hoped she could find time to join him. “And if you do, I’ll have something for you—not to mention a free lunch.” With this double-barreled incentive, he disconnected.

  The tribal investigator started the engine, was about to pull away when he remembered the “important message” Aunt Daisy claimed to have left him. He dialed his cell phone answering service. There were no messages. Maybe the phone company has messed up. He removed his aunt’s pendant telephone from his shirt pocket, pressed the button Daisy said she had used to call and leave him a message. His cell phone did not ring. Maybe it’s on the blink. When was the last time I got a call on it? Unable to remember, he pressed Daisy’s pendant telephone to his ear, listened to a few final rings, then the computer-generated voice.

  The number you have dialed is not responding. If you wish to leave a message, please press one and wait for the tone.

  After inspecting each tiny label on each tiny button, squinting at the telephone number on LCD screen, Moon concluded that his aunt’s miniature telephone was working just fine. The problem was on the other end.

  He dialed the foreman’s residence, heard Bushman’s gruff hello.

  “G’morning, Pete. Listen close, because I’m a little pressed for time. First, I’m on my way to town and I’m going to lock the Columbine’s front gate. I want it kept locked till I say otherwise, so make sure all the cowboys know that. Second, I want you to post three men in eight-hour shifts to ride herd on my aunt. I don’t want her leaving the ranch without my say-so, and if she goes for a walk, the man on duty will have to keep a close eye on her.” A pause. “Yeah, I know how we’re already shorthanded, but that’s how it’s gonna be. And one more thing—issue the man on guard a rifle and a sidearm.” Another pause. “Because if a cowboy is assigned to guard duty, he expects to be armed. Now see to it, Pete. I’ll listen to all eleven dozen of your complaints when I get back.” And they’ll go in one ear and right out the other.

  37

  Paying a Call on Miss Atherton

  Charlie Moon pulled the Expedition up to a crumbling curb, parked under the shade of a mulberry tree. The property was concealed by a hedge of rosebushes that had not been trimmed since Mr. Reagan was president. Three particularly fine butter-colored blossoms were hanging over the sidewalk, well within the public domain. The lawman recognized the clear hazard to public health—some innocent child might come zipping by on a skateboard and get a thorn in the eye. Seeing his duty, Moon did not hesitate. He unfolded his pocketknife, removed the prickly stems.

  He pushed a rusty wrought-iron gate open, followed the remnants of a bricked walk through a weedy lawn. Smothered with purple lilacs, choked with Virginia creepers, the little brick house seemed to be gasping for a final breath. The painted-concrete front porch was bordered by clusters of forlorn four-o’clocks and pots of sickly geraniums. He stepped on a horsehair welcome mat, wiped each boot toe on the back of his trousers, tapped lightly on the door. He pretended not to notice the small, roundish face that appeared in a window, behind a filmy net of lace curtain.

  The eighty-year-old woman blinked at the seven-foot-tall man. My goodness, what is Charlie Moon doing here—and all dressed up like he was going to the senior prom? The lady paused momentarily by a mirror, blinked through trifocals at a mop of white hair, patted a bit of silver fluff into place.

  As the door opened, the Ute removed his dove-gray John B. Stetson hat.

  The five-foot-two woman looked up at him. “Well knock me over with a canary feather, if it isn’t Beanstalk Charlie.”

  That had been his high school nickname from the time he’d gotten his fourteen-year-old growth spurt. “It’s me all right.” He had been afraid of her way back then, and Miss Atherton looked just as tough as she’d ever been. “Uh—I’m sorry to just drop in, but when I called you on the phone this morning—”

  She laughed, shushed him with a flutter of a blue-veined hand. “Oh, I’ve got where I detest these modern so-called conveniences. If a person won’t come here and see me, why, I’d rather they just leave me be.” She noticed what he had in his hand. Arched an eyebrow.

  “This is for you.” He presented the offering.

  She accepted the freshly harvested blossoms. “Oh—I absolutely love any kind of flower. And yellow roses are my very favorite.” The teacher smiled at her former high-school pupil. “How did you know, Charlie?”

  “Trade secret,” the lawman said.

  “No, really.”

  “I asked around in the local bars and pool halls. Talked to a couple of your scruffy boyfriends. Both of ’em said yellow roses was just the thing.”

  “Oh, foo—I haven’t had a boyfriend since the big war. And come to think of it, I guess I don’t have any manners.” She stepped aside, made an inviting gesture with the bouquet. “Please come inside.”

  The immaculate inner sanctum was the antithesis of the seedy lawn. There were lace doilies on every chair arm, a faint scent of peach blossoms in the air, not a molecule of dust from one flower-papered wall to another. He hoped he wasn’t tracking dirt on the spotless blue carpet.

  Miss Atherton ushered her unexpected guest to an over-stuffed couch, put the roses in a crystal vase, vanished into the kitchen to make some green tea, reappeared shortly with this healthy beverage. She also brought an offering of salted cashews, tiny cookies, and candied fruit—all arranged in perfect symmetry on a lacquered Japanese tray.

  Moon enjoyed the cookies and nuts, tried a sugared plum, pretended to like the tea—which was about as good as any sample of hot water a man might happen to find in a translucent china cup. But after taking a taste or two, he concluded that heated H2O had a distinct edge on this grass-tinted brew. Having been a well-brought-up boy, he drank it just the same.

  They talked for an hour or more. About old times, old friends, how it was way back then when everything was better.

  Finally, she said: “I know very well you haven’t come here for idle conversation.” She eyed the crisply pressed suit. “In fact, it appears that you have merely stopped by on your way.”

  “On my way where?”

  “To see some nice young lady.” Her eyes sparkled. “Am I right?”

  A grin split Moon’s dark face. “You’re a long way from being wrong.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Lila Mae McTeague’s her name.”

  “I knew a McTeague once, in Indianapolis. I believe he sold men’s shoes.” Or was it ladies’ hats?

  “Sounds like a boyfriend.
”

  “Almost.” Her eyes began to glaze over at the memory. “I think he had a crush on me.” Perhaps I should have stayed in Indiana….

  He held his silence while the old woman dreamed her dreams.

  Presently, she returned to the present. “We’ve just about used up the small talk, Charles. Is there anything in particular you have on your mind?”

  “Oh, this and that. Denver politics. Major League baseball. The price of beef.” He gave her a peculiar look. “Or we could talk about your particular specialty.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean the stuff you tried to teach me when I was a junior at Ignacio High.”

  “English or biology?” He could certainly do with a refresher in the former.

  “Oh, I don’t have a problem with English. It’s the science of living things that’s lately raised some questions in my mind.” He turned a frosted cookie in his hands. “When I was a young fellow, there was lots of things I didn’t pay nearly enough attention to. But lately, some of these issues have begun to pique my interest. Even keep me awake at night.”

  Charlie had always been an unusual, unpredictable boy. “Biology is a rather broad field, especially nowadays, but I do try to keep up. What are you interested in?”

  “When it comes to breeding cattle,” the rancher said, “I guess I know my business about as well as the next stockman—I mean about reproduction and such.” He frowned with intense concentration. “If I was to cross a Hereford with a Brahma, or an Angus with a buffalo, I’d know what kind of calf to expect. But there’s some other things I’m not so sure about.”