The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  As a grim-faced Moon exited the headquarters, Bushman had to sprint to stay at the tall man’s heels. “The cowboy that found the carcass figgers it was a bear that done it. Probably a big black, maybe even a griz.” Perversely enjoying this opportunity to ruin the boss’s day, Bushman was determined to have his say. “If you’d a listened to me four or five years ago, and started killin’ off all these beef-eatin’ bears and cougars, we wouldn’t still be losing two or three prime beeves every month.”

  FOLLOWING A good night’s sleep, Daisy Perika was enjoying one of those rare mornings when she fairly bubbled with excess energy. She displayed this happy state by cleaning off the dining-room table, all the while singing in a crackly voice, “You’re not behind the plow, Joe—you’re in the Navy now, Joe.” Though there were no fixed rules about such matters, the table-cleaning chore was normally attended to by Sarah Frank, who was absent from the dining room. Where was the Ute-Papago teenager?

  She was positioned at a parlor window, watching Charlie Moon’s back as the object of her passionate affections (rifle in hand) made yard-long strides toward the seventy-year-old horse barn, which would soon be replaced with a new one. I wish Charlie would ask me to go with him sometimes. From her narrow perspective, which was focused on a single objective, this was an eminently reasonable aspiration. When we’re married, I’ll need to know everything I can about running a big cattle ranch. She punctuated this wishful thinking with a wistful sigh, and continued to reason her way toward becoming Mrs. Moon. I can already ride a horse as good as most of these cowboys. And not only that . . . I can shoot a rifle and hit a soup can at fifty yards. A worried frown squenched her coal-black eyebrows. I hope the bear or mountain lion or whatever’s out there don’t hurt him. Sarah closed her eyes and prayed for her future husband’s protection.

  Bless her sweet, innocent heart.

  CHARLIE MOONRIDES

  And at a brisk, frisky trot. But not on his favorite mount.

  Trusty old Paducah was in his stall—lame and awaiting a visit from the veterinarian. What was so special about this particular member of the equine clan? For one thing, Paducah did not shy at rattlesnakes coiled in his path or bolt at thunderous bolts of lightning, and Moon could fire a .50 caliber rifle from the saddle without the stolid animal as much as flicking an ear. Which behavior some folks might say (and some cowboys did) was clear evidence that the animal was “deef as a stone” and lacking the least measure of common horse sense. Didn’t matter.

  On that subject, Charlie Moon had the only opinion that counted, and he appreciated having an even-tempered, unflappable horse tucked between his knees. Whatever his alleged shortcomings, Paducah was a steady-as-you-go sort of mount who would always bring a rider home again, dead or alive. That said, the rancher was satisfied to be astraddle Midnight, a spirited, shiny black gelding whose muscles rippled in the slant of the morning sun. It took a tight rein to prevent the energetic animal from breaking into a headlong run toward the junction of Dry Creek and Sunrise Arroyo, which was where the forested lower slopes of the Buckhorns blended into the boulder-dotted glacial plain known on the Columbine as the East Range. The rider was in no hurry. Moon had much to think about, and he figured that being in the saddle for a while would help him sort a few things out.

  Such as:

  College is awfully expensive. I hope Sarah’ll be satisfied with an in-state school. Fort Lewis College in Durango was tuition-free for Indians. That’d be a good place for the girl to find herself a fine young man. One with a good prospects. Moon thought maybe he would take Sarah on a tour of the campus, which happened to be his alma mater.

  And:

  Pete Bushman is getting too old for running a place the size of the Columbine. I need a younger man who knows about stuff like modern ranch-management techniques and computers and whatnot. The Wyoming Kyd was the obvious candidate. But Bushman was one of those stubborn, old-fashioned stockmen who would work until Death laid a cold hand on his shoulder. Maybe I can ease him into some easier job. A possible solution came to mind: I could move Pete and Dolly into the headquarters on the Big Hat spread, and move a few head of cattle over there for him to look after. Congratulating himself for coming up with this devilishly clever notion, Moon resolved to speak to the foreman’s sensible wife about a move to the Big Hat.

  And most of all:

  I need me a wife. The lonely bachelor considered a few possibilities and was startled to find the singing librarian right there at the top of his short list. Patsy is about as pretty as a woman can get without making a man’s eyes pop right out of their sockets. And she’s sweet as honey in the comb. He could imagine the delight of spending all his days with this outstanding lady as his wife. He tried hard to think of a negative. Came up with nothing worth mentioning. Tried harder. There was this one thing—Patsy was a town girl. I wonder if she’d take to ranch life?

  Which brought him down a notch to consider Possibility Number Two.

  Beatrice Spencer is plenty smart, and good-looking. And she owns the Yellow Pines Ranch. Which was not a working spread, but nine sections of Yellow Pines joined the Big Hat, which bordered the Columbine, and wouldn’t that make a world-class operation. Bea, of course, was a headstrong woman who was likely to be bossy, and would be more like a general partner than a loving wife. He tried to find a bright side and did: The cleverest of the three Spencer sisters was capable of running a big ranch all by herself. That would come in real handy if I broke a leg. Or got stomped to death by a crazed horse or shot between the eyes by a drunken cowboy or chewed up by a—Whoa!

  As Midnight topped a low, rocky ridge, Moon reined the horse to an abrupt halt.

  He had spotted the carcass.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  TROUBLE

  WHEN SOMEONE TAPPED LIGHTLY ON THE HEADQUARTERS WEST-PORCH door, Sarah Frank was sitting by the parlor fireplace, watching the flames and mooning over you-know-who. When she opened the door, Annie Rose’s pretty face smiled at her.

  “Good morning.” The slender woman who had been hired to act as Dolly Bushman’s companion looked hopefully over Sarah’s left shoulder. “May I speak to Mr. Moon?”

  Though Sarah tried ever so hard to smile back, her thin little lips would not cooperate. “He’s not here.”

  As if she doubted this report, Annie cocked her head to glance over the girl’s right shoulder. “Oh—he’s gone so early in the morning?”

  Sarah’s head bobbed in a nod. “He went to look at a dead cow.” She appended an explanation for the presumably city-bred woman: “Ranch work starts really early.”

  Annie’s smile morphed from friendly to amused. So does competition for desirable men. “When do you expect his return?”

  “Hard to say.” The seventeen-year-old shrugged. “Charlie could be gone all day.” She made an effort to be polite: “I could give him a message when he gets back.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” The mature young woman cocked her head. “You may tell Mr. Moon that I called.”

  “Uh . . . what for?”

  The poor little thing is so charming. And so deeply in love. Annie responded to a wicked impulse. “Tell him that he can take me to dinner tomorrow evening.”

  Both of Sarah’s eyebrows arched—like drawn bows. “Dinner?”

  Annie’s dark eyes sparkled. “At the Silver Mountain Hotel.” With this parting shot, she turned and crossed the thick-planked porch.

  Sarah’s mouth gaped guppy-fashion. Tell him yourself, you sneaky man-hunter—I won’t set up your dates for you!

  Down the steps Annie Rose went, and across the yard. Her mischievous suggestion had been one of those spur-of-the moment inspirations that—in hindsight—might look more like a stroke of genius. I wonder if he might take me up on it? As she considered the advantages that might be gained from an evening out with Mr. Moon, the clever lady felt rather proud of her impromptu performance. Sufficiently so that she was inspired to begin whistling “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’.”

&
nbsp; Sarah fumed. Oh—just look at how she walks, all twisty-twisty like her hips are out of joint. Some of these older women were without a trace of shame. A thoughtful expression furrowed the girl’s smooth forehead. If I wanted to, I bet I could learn to walk like that.

  Not that she ever would.

  MORE TROUBLE

  Annie was barely out of sight and Sarah was about to close the west-porch door when a white Toyota pickup rattled across the Too Late Creek bridge. Down the graveled lane it came, tugging a small cloud of brownish yellow dust. The familiar motor vehicle belonged to the Columbine Grass’s pretty girl singer, who was also a librarian. An unmarried librarian. An astonishingly pretty unmarried librarian.

  The pickup charged into the headquarters yard and parked with a lurching jerk under a tall cottonwood.

  Right between Charlie Moon’s Expedition and Sarah’s red F-150 pickup.

  Well.

  Patsy Poynter, who was about nine times better-looking than Annie Rose, got out with all the pent-up energy of an excited teenager, which Sarah thought inappropriate in a woman who must be pushing thirty.

  The blue-eyed blonde was carrying a canvas grocery bag. As she hurried across the yard, Patsy used her free hand to wave at the shy Indian girl. “Hey, sweetie!”

  This enthusiasm, at the same time infectious and magnetic, pulled Sarah through the door and onto the west porch. Waving back, she murmured a tepid “Hi.”

  The bluegrass band’s girl singer looked this way and that. “Where’s Charlie?”

  First that kissy-kissy FBI lady, then twisty Annie Rose, now pretty-face Patsy—why don’t they just move in with him? Sarah resisted the temptation to roll her eyes and heave a heavy sigh. “He’s not here.”

  Because this information did not precisely respond to her question, Patsy rephrased and repeated it: “Well where is he?”

  Sarah jutted her chin to indicate an easterly direction. “Over at Sunrise Arroyo.” She won’t know where that is.

  The innocent librarian stared toward the Buckhorns. “Where’s that at?”

  “Near the foot of the mountains.”

  “Well what’s he doing over there?”

  “Looking at a dead cow.”

  Patsy P. cringed. “Ick.”

  Sarah could not help smiling. Anticipating the lady’s next question, she provided the answer: “Charlie probably won’t be back for hours and hours. Maybe not till after dark.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment fairly dripped from Patsy’s doll-like face.

  Which pleased Sarah immensely. “Would you like to come inside and wait?”

  “That’s not an option, honey. I’ve got to get back to town.” She frowned. “But I’d like to get together with Charlie sometime soon, so we can practice some songs.”

  Now the seventeen-year-old rolled her eyes and sighed. But it was a slight roll and a light sigh—not so much that Patsy would notice. “I’ll tell Charlie when he gets back.” She inquired whether Miss Poynter had a particular day and time in mind.

  “I’m not working tomorrow evening, so if he’s available—”

  “I don’t think he can make it then.”

  Patsy’s wide eyes said: Oh? And why not?

  This highly expressive query called for a response.

  “I think,” Sarah said, “that he may have a date.”

  A date? The pretty face drooped. “Well then . . . Oh, I almost forgot what I came for.” She offered the canvas bag to Sarah. “I brought him this.”

  As the girl accepted the offering, a delicious aroma wafted up to her nostrils. “What is it—cookies?”

  Patsy Poynter shook her head and the Goldilocks mop. “Brownies. I made ’em myself, and they’re almost still warm.”

  “They smell really good.”

  “Help yourself to some, sweetie.”

  “Well, thank you. I’ll tell Charlie—”

  This exchange was interrupted by another arrival. A big, brown, boxy UPS truck. The driver parked in the yard and hopped out with two armloads of parcels, which she—

  Yes, still another she. But not another cover girl.

  The hardworking UPS employee unloaded her burden on the Columbine headquarters porch, pointed at a long, slender parcel. “That one’s for Charlie Moon.”

  “Oh,” Patsy shrieked, “he’ll be so happy!”

  The strictly business driver was already headed back to her van.

  Sarah squinted suspiciously at the package. “What is it?”

  “A banjo Charlie ordered two or three weeks ago.”

  “Charlie bought himself a new banjo?”

  “It’s not exactly what you’d call new, honey. That five-stringer is a real old-timer, and very expensive—probably cost Charlie two arms and a leg.” She clapped her hands. “Hey—why don’t we saddle up a couple of horses and take the banjo to Charlie and surprise him?” Patsy’s big, sky-blue eyes glowed and seemed to grow even larger as she expanded upon the plan. “We could take the brownies and some coffee—and have a nice little picnic.”

  “Charlie’s miles away and we might not be able to find him.” Sarah picked up the parcel in both arms, cradled it close to her chest like a precious baby. “But soon as he gets back, I’ll tell him about the banjo. And the nice brownies you brought.”

  And that was precisely what she intended to do.

  But the dust behind the Patsy Poynter’s departing Toyota pickup had barely settled when Sarah decided that the stunning blonde’s notion was worth considering. Why wait until Charlie returned to present him with the treasured musical instrument? With every beat of her youthful heart, the plan (no doubt enhanced by the conspicuous absence of its pretty author) became increasingly appealing.

  Off to the stables Sarah went with Patsy’s brownies and the mail-order banjo. In less time than it takes to eat a tasty chocolate pastry and pick a few licks of “Muleskinner Blues,” the seventeen-year-old had saddled up her pinto pony and was off like the wind.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHARLIE MOON’S ERROR

  CORRECTION—MAKE THAT PLURAL.

  And not merely two errors. What the rancher’s folly added up to was a trio of mistakes—those sorts of blunders that even an experienced stockman makes when his blood runs hot about slaughtered purebred stock and he’s in too big a hurry to stop and think about the hungry creature he’s dealing with, and how those bloody teeth and slashing claws are liable to end up ripping his flesh.

  It was not as if the fellow had galloped off half-cocked, without a sensible thought in his head. Before mounting up, Moon had checked his Winchester rifle and made sure a round was in the cylinder. Now, as horse and rider approached the mangled steer, both the human and the equine eyes scanned the sparse, boulder-strewn forest for any sign of a predator.

  The keen-eyed man saw nothing.

  Neither did the horse, but the mount’s muscles were as tense as twisted coils of tempered steel, his nostrils flared for a danger scent, and his ears flicked this way and that. The animal might have bolted at the sudden jump of a grasshopper.

  Within a few yards of the kill, Moon dismounted and looped the reins loosely around a spindly little aspen.

  Error Number One: Loosely.

  Number Two was leaving his rifle in the fringed leather scabbard on his mount.

  Blunder Number Three? Not strapping on his .357 Magnum sidearm before leaving the Columbine headquarters.

  Though a warning simmered somewhere in the depths of his mind, and there was a cold tingling rippling up (and down) his spine, 99 percent of the rancher’s attention was focused on the dead animal. The Hereford had been pulled down at the edge of the East Range pasture, on the fringes of a forest of white-trunk aspens and blackish-blue spruce.

  From time to time, a sizable black bear would attack a young or sickly animal that had wandered away from the herd, and a griz would kill anything on four legs—or two, for that matter. This looked more like a mountain lion’s work. But before giving the crack shots among his cowb
oys permission to hunt down the likely suspect, the rancher had to be certain. Moon circled the carcass. There were several deep bite marks on the unfortunate bovine’s neck. Its belly had been ripped open and one of the hindquarters shredded. He paused to take a long look at two barely discernible pad prints. This wasn’t done by a bear. Sure as I’m standing here, this was—

  Moon’s nervous horse bolted and hit the breeze like a pack of red-eyed timber wolves were nipping at his knees. No, a grasshopper was not to blame. Put it down to that bloodcurdling sound from the aspens—the female feline’s throaty growl.

  The stranded man had no option but to stand his ground.

  How dangerous was this predator? Of all the large cats, the cougar is the only one that purrs like the kitty nestled in your lap. Yes, purrs. Isn’t that sweet? Not when you’re about to become dead meat.

  To go along with her purr, m’lady also had big, sharp teeth, and an array of pointy vesicles on her tongue. So does your ordinary tabby cat, which is what makes her delicate little tongue feel like sandpaper when she licks your hand. Why mention this detail? Because the equivalent apparatus on the larger relative’s tongue enables the mountain lion to lick the flesh off your bones.

  Or, in the case at hand, off Charlie Moon’s bones.

  The situation was serious.

  CLIPPITY-CLOP, CLIPPITY-CLOP

  This is not a radio-studio sound effect—rather the audible result produced by an actual pinto pony’s hooves saying “Goodbye, dirt!” to those meters, rods, and furlongs slipping rapidly behind. Sarah Frank is mounted on the spotted equine; mount and rider are headed toward that location where Mr. Moon hopes to face down a fearfully dangerous predator. The girl could not have imagined the drama that she and her pony were clippity-clopping into, which is not to suggest that Sarah had been shortchanged when imagination was being doled out. The teenager had her fair share, and more. Which was a good thing. Most of the time. An unbridled ability to imagine fantasy into reality can prove to be hazardous, especially to a seventeen-year-old girl who is passionately in love with a Brown-Eyed-Handsome-Man. Particularly when said BEHM, for whatever reason, does not respond in like manner. Even more so when he seems to be an irresistible magnet for the seventeen-year-old’s competition. It does not help that these mature women are endowed with superficial good looks and know how to walk in such a way as to make men lust after them. Which more or less sums up what was nagging at Sarah as her pinto galloped its merry way across the high plains.