The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  Such experiences can make a man wonder whether having a modern telecommunications device installed in his home is such a great notion. Oftentimes, in the evenings, Charlie Moon would disconnect the descendant of Mr. Bell’s remarkable invention.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  EPISODE THREE

  The Lawman’s Funeral

  AS THE GUEST OF HONOR, RECENTLY DECEASED U.S. MARSHAL SCOTT PARris was prepared to enjoy his send-off. Poor fellow. Less than a dozen mourners showed up—and not one of them bothered to grieve, lament, or bewail his passing in any way whatsoever. The Methodist preacher did say a few comforting words over the cold-as-a-carp corpse, which was laid out on an unpainted pine door supported by a pair of straight-back chairs courtesy of the Tennessee Saloon, which was where the funeral was held.

  Sheriff Eddie “Rocks” Knox showed up to snort at the pale cadaver before tap-tapping his oak peg leg over to the bar, where the owner of the establishment was complaining that he’d had more customers back in ’77, during that big spring blizzard that had heaped up eight-foot drifts on Copper Street.

  Deputy “Pig” Slocum passed by to smirk at the dead man, then joined the sheriff at the bar, where he tucked away a half-dozen boiled eggs while drinking two mugs of beer.

  Worst of all, Parris’s sweetheart showed up.

  Why was this so unpleasant?

  Because Miss Willow Skye, who had been the local schoolmarm right up to the day of the hanging, had turned over a new leaf or two.

  First, the prim little lady had abandoned her noble avocation to pursue a new career. No, she had no aspiration to become president of the Ladies Temperance League. Her new title was Bar Room Floozy, and Miss Skye had (with her usual enthusiasm for new projects) gone for the whole nine yards. Loud, bawdy speech. Garish, low-cut dress. More makeup than would adorn a respectable circus clown’s face. She was pushing watered-down whiskey across Copper Street at the Kentucky Saloon. Willow’s byline was, “Hi, cowboy—new in town?”

  Her second leaf?

  Willow showed up with her new boyfriend—Judge “Pug” Bullet.

  It was almost too much for the corpse to bear. It wouldn’t have taken much more for Parris’s remains to get up and walk right out of there.

  The dead man was greatly relieved when Charlie Moon arrived. Parris’s Ute friend wrapped his cold body in a red-and-black Indian trade blanket and tied it on the back of a fine, frisky pinto pony, which he led away toward the Columbine Ranch. On the way, Moon’s cell phone jangled.

  No. That is absurd. There were no such instruments in 1877, and the dreamer is a stickler for historical accuracy and fictional authenticity. There must be a plausible explanation for the anomaly. . . . Hold on—stand by for a timely correction.

  Here it is: the thing responsible for the infernal jangling was the cordless telephone by Scott Parris’s bed.

  THE CHIEF of police rolled over, grabbed the instrument, and pressed it to the side of his head. “H’lo?”

  The voice was very faint and faraway and Parris was getting danged tired of being awakened by the telephone.

  “Speak up—I can’t hear a damned thing you’re saying!”

  When the caller shouted for him to talk louder, the bleary-eyed man realized that she was yelling into his mouth. He turned the phone around and spoke in that manner which is widely described as sheepish. “Who’s calling?”

  She told him.

  Before the bedside clock could say tick-tock, the chief of police was wide awake and had his big, bare feet on the floor. He nodded at the invisible person. “Sure. I can do that.”

  After hanging up, Parris proceeded with the usual rituals of shaving, showering, and coffee. And planning the next several hours. A commendable, if futile effort—as if a man could see what lay in wait for him. As it happened, this would be the third-worst day of his life. Moreover, things would not get better right away. His second-worst day would begin with tomorrow’s dawn.

  The worst day of them all?

  That was years ago. When Scott Parris lost his wife.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MR. MOON RECEIVES

  AN UNEXPECTED INVITATION

  IT WAS MIDMORNING WHEN THE CELL PHONE IN CHARLIE MOON’S jacket pocket vibrated. The rancher, who had been inspecting progress of construction at the Columbine’s new horse barn, checked the caller ID to make sure this was someone he wanted to talk to. It was. “Good morning, pardner.”

  “G’morning Charlie. How’re you doing?”

  “Tolerable and then some.” Scott Parris’s voice, which normally boomed in his ear, was subdued. Artificially so, Moon thought. Something’s up. “What’s on your so-called mind?”

  Even the white man’s edgy chuckle betrayed an inner tension. “Oh, nothing much.” The chief of police licked his lips. “I was wondering if you had time for an early lunch.”

  The Ute consulted a burnished-gold sun that was hanging at about ten o’clock high in the mists over the Buckhorn Range. “How early?”

  “Oh, say about eleven thirty?”

  “I might be able to fit that into my busy schedule. But I’m particular about where I eat my beans and biscuits. Where’ll we be chowing down—some greasy spoon?”

  “Not this time. I’ve got a private dining room reserved at the Silver Mountain Hotel—the small one they call the Mayflower.”

  What’s this is all about? Moon grinned at his invisible comrade. “That’s a mighty pricey place—you buying?”

  Relaxed by this conversation with his friend, the town cop reverted to his boisterous voice. “Don’t fret about parting with any precious greenbacks—I got the tab covered right down to the eighteen-percent gratuity.” Parris inhaled a deep breath that swelled his barrel chest. “So can I look forward to the highly overrated pleasure of your company?”

  The Ute’s laugh thundered in his ear. “Hard as I try, I can’t recall the last time I refused a free meal.”

  ALMOST AN hour later, Charlie Moon pushed through the heavy door at the Silver Mountain Hotel. The rancher had barely gotten inside when his progress was impeded by a motley collection of retired businessmen, has-been politicians, and other old-timers who inhabited the lobby to sip free hotel coffee and swap outrageous lies. These enthusiastic natives insisted on shaking the local hero’s hand and congratulating Moon on the service he had provided the community by his summary execution of that pair of outlaws who were holding Mrs. Jeppson at gunpoint. Only one among them had the poor taste to bring up the subject of the survivors of the ABC Hardware robbery, and the hard-eyed water-well driller did so with a frank expression of dismay that Moon had not “. . . finished the job you’d got started.”

  This combination of heartfelt compliments and stern upbraiding was painfully embarrassing. Regretting that he’d not had the foresight to enter the hotel by the service entrance on Burro Alley, Moon mumbled something about having an appointment and hurried down a paneled hallway to the hotel’s cluster of private dining rooms. I’m glad to have that behind me.

  His ordeal was not quite over. The tribal investigator was recognized by one of several dozen hotel guests who had seen his performance replayed on television. Despite Moon’s effort to bypass another humiliating encounter, a smallish woman in a purple velour pantsuit blocked his path with the stubborn expression of a lady who is used to getting her way.

  Unsure of what to do, he stared at this obstacle.

  She returned his stare with her right eye. Her left orb appeared to be looking over his shoulder. “Well—this is certainly a fortuitous encounter.” The cross-eyed woman reached out to grab Moon’s hand. “It is such an honor to meet the local gunslinger!” She worked the rancher’s hand like a pitcher-pump handle. “I’m Daphne Donner.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Moon tipped the Stetson with his free hand. “But at the moment I’m on my way to—”

  “This is a special treat for me, I can tell you that.” Her cherry-tinted lips curled into an impish smile. “It’ll be somet
hing special to tell my friends back in Alder Creek about how on my vacation, I actually met the famous Indian gunfighter in the flesh. Not that you’ve got all that much meat on your bones!” After cackling at her little joke, she released the man’s hand. “I am just so thrilled—would you mind too awfully much if I asked for your autograph?” Apparently interpreting Moon’s embarrassed silence as an assent, she reached into her voluminous purse, presumably for a pen and something to write on.

  Just when there seemed to be no escape, the potential victim was saved by the appearance of a crusty old rancher, who bellowed out, “Hey, that’s either a seven-foot cedar fence post with a hat on, or it’s ol’ Charlie Moon.” This pithy witticism was punctuated with a braying “haw-haw.” “Howdy, you cold-blooded man-killer!”

  Glancing over his shoulder at the grinning stockman, Moon returned Hobart Watkins’s howdy, then addressed Mrs. Purple Pantsuit. “I need to get to a meeting right now and—”

  “Oh, shoo—away with you then!” Dismissing the shy fellow with a flick of her wrist, the snappish little woman snapped her purse shut. “But if I’m lucky enough to see you again, I will absolutely insist that you to inscribe your name in my little book.”

  Making his escape from tourist and neighbor alike, Moon heard the lady calling out behind him, “I’ve got lots of famous people’s autographs, like Woody Allen and President Nixon and Dolly Parton and . . .”

  Her shrill voice faded as he turned a corner.

  MR. MOON IS ASTONISHED

  No, that is insufficient. When the tribal investigator opened the door to enter the Mayflower Room, which Scott Parris had (so he’d said) reserved for a private luncheon, Charlie Moon was more like flabbergasted. Also stunned. Stupefied. And quite taken aback.

  This was not so much because the single occupant of the bijou dining room bore not the slightest resemblance to the Granite Creek chief of police, nor even because she was a strikingly handsome woman who (even on her days off) carried a concealed automatic pistol. The reason for Moon’s astonishment was that FBI Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague was an old flame, of sorts. Of the sort that had dumped him about a year ago, and whose lovely hide and hair he’d never expected to see again. Which was no doubt why his brain could not provide any words for him to say.

  Not a problem.

  Having a reliable instinct on how to react to unexpected situations, Moon’s right hand reached up and removed his brand-new John B. Stetson hat. “Well—hello.”

  “Hello yourself, Charlie.” The tall, slender woman smiled at the befuddled man and reached out—and this really hurt—to shake his hand.

  He used the hand holding the wide-brimmed hat to point at the door, which had closed in his wake. “I was expecting Scott.” Moon’s face burned. A man with his mouth stapled shut could’ve come up with something better than that.

  The attractive lady smiled. “I hope you’re not too terribly disappointed.”

  The tongue-tied fellow managed a weak grin. “If I am, ma’am—I expect I’ll get over it.”

  “The chief of police will return in a few minutes.” Lila Mae pulled her hand from his firm grip. “Please sit down.”

  The man allowed as how he preferred to stand.

  In that case, so did the former sweetheart.

  Moon placed his Stetson on the cherry dining table and waited to see what the woman had to say.

  Lila Mae fixed her gaze on his black hat and frowned, as if she were attempting to extract the cube root of 17,576 without aid of pencil, paper, abacus, or electronic calculating machine. What she was actually contemplating was how best to clear the atmosphere of the murky history hanging between them. Before forging ahead, she cleared her throat. “I wish there was time to talk about other things, Charlie.” That sounded rather lame. “But . . .”

  “But you’re a very busy lady.”

  Whether it was real or imagined, Lila Mae detected a hint of flint in his tone. “As a matter of fact, I am.” She looked Moon straight in the eye. “This is strictly business.” She added, with an edge that cut right to the bone, “Official business.”

  “Works for me.” Hearing the hotel’s hundred-year-old hall floorboards squeak under his hefty friend’s weight, Moon called over his shoulder, “It’s okay, Scott—you can come in now.”

  After a tense interlude wherein the embarrassed friend’s blood pressure climbed by about twenty points, the antique porcelain knob rotated. There was a creak of brass hinges as the blushing face of GCPD’s top cop appeared in the doorway. “You two about ready for some lunch?”

  Lila Mae McTeague addressed the county’s highest-ranking law-enforcement official as if he were a junior waiter: “I’ll have a small fruit salad.”

  Moon had lost his appetite. “I’ll pass.”

  “You sure?” Parris frowned at the Ute. “The Prospector’s Sourdough Ham Sandwich is on special today.”

  Moon assured his friend that he’d get a bite to eat when he was hungry.

  “All right then. I’ll go place the order.” By the time the dining-room door closed behind him, the heavy clomp-clomp of Scott Parris’s scuffed Roper boots was—as some of the old-timer cowboys still say—“a fur piece away.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  LILA MAE GOES FISHING

  THE FBI EMPLOYEE SEATED HERSELF AT ONE END OF THE POLISHED TAble for eight and began to pick at an array of grapes, strawberries, melon, and pineapple that was tastefully arranged on a crystal plate.

  Selecting a spot at her left, Scott Parris got right to work on a hot ham sandwich and potato chips.

  The tall tribal investigator towered over the diners like a lone pine.

  McTeague used a silver fork to spear a red-ripe strawberry. “You’re making me nervous, Charlie.” She pointed her fork at the chair at her right elbow. “Please sit.” She popped the strawberry between crimson lips.

  Moon preferred to stand, was of half a mind to leave—but it is hard to resist a lady’s request, and her “sit” had been preceded by “please.” He seated himself across from his best friend, who promptly offered the Ute half of his ham sandwich and a fair share of the potato chips.

  “Thanks, I’ll pass.” Mr. Moon gave neither sandwich nor chip the merest glance; his gaze was fixed on Lila Mae’s face. Every time I see her, she’s prettier than the last time.

  Without looking up from her plate, she said, “Please don’t stare at me, Charlie.”

  “Makes you uncomfortable?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Sorry.” The discarded boyfriend stared harder. “Can’t help myself.”

  The attractive lady struggled to conceal a smile. “You are absolutely incorrigible.”

  “If I knew what incorrigible meant, I might take offense.”

  “I trust that you will consult a dictionary at the first opportunity.” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “In the meantime, would you mind telling me about your experience at the hardware store?”

  “No.” He jutted his chin. “And yes.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “This response does not illuminate.”

  “No, I won’t consult Mr. Webster. And yes, I would mind.”

  Her expressive brow arched an additional millimeter. “As to the ‘yes,’ I request the courtesy of an explanation.”

  “Well, since you put it that way—” Moon leaned back in the straight-back chair and cocked his head a tad to the left, which was his habit when preparing to explain something. “That business at ABC Hardware was an unpleasant experience. If I was to start talking about it, I’d likely get to feeling sorrowful. And whenever I feel sorrowful, I tend to spoil any kind of social occasion you might want to mention—like this one.”

  “Oh, please don’t concern yourself on my account.” She flashed a pearly smile. “You have my permission to feel as sorrowful as you want. I promise not to care in the least.”

  Moon’s mouth opened; he snapped it shut before it said something he would regret. The tribal investigator countered wi
th a question of his own: “Has the Bureau got a line yet on Mrs. Montoya’s grandson?”

  “We are pursuing that issue with due diligence, but so far all the leads on Wallace Montoya’s whereabouts have been dead ends. Never mind; sooner or later, we’ll find him.” Special Agent McTeague glanced at her wristwatch. “The Denver Field Office is expecting a call from me in nine minutes flat. Certain persons there will be anxious to hear my verbal report on our conversation.” She raised her gaze to mesh it with Moon’s. “So please tell me about your unpleasant experience at the hardware store.”

  Moon decided to get this business over with. “There’s nothing much to tell, Agent McTeague.” He watched her eyes glaze at the deliberately impersonal reference. “I spotted the beat-up old Ford van, thought it looked suspicious. I checked things out, ran into some trouble, dealt with it best as I could.”

  She stared at the remarkable man. And he’s not playing the modest “aw shucks ma’am it warn’t nothin” grade-B movie cowboy. That’s really the way Charlie Moon sees life. You encounter a problem, you fix it. Simple as that. The woman felt an odd tingle along her spine. Leaving him may turn out to be the worst mistake I ever made. Hoary old metaphors of spilled milk and water under the bridge did little to console the lady. “Please tell me about the encounter with each of the four men. Starting with the one in the van.”

  “The driver had a pistol in his hand. I had to take it away from him, and I couldn’t very well do that without hurting him.” Feeling a sudden hunger pang, Moon glanced at the untouched half sandwich on Parris’s platter. “The lookout at the rear entrance was armed, so it was necessary to deal with that situation too. Bad guys Three and Four were threatening to murder Mrs. Jeppson and they pointed revolvers at me . . . so I had to shoot both of ’em.”