The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  There were two good reasons that Charlie Moon did not respond to this remark. First and foremost, the owner of the outfit was burdened with the duty of setting a good example for his uncouth cowhands; even a nod or smile might encourage a coarse fellow like Smith to make an unseemly observation about the lady. Second, the Ute had not yet met the dandy piece of eye candy so referred to, which omission raised a relevant issue. Any boss worth his salt made it his business to know everything worth knowing about his employees. Mr. Moon was not one to shirk his obligations. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll drop by the foreman’s residence to see how Dolly’s getting along. And if I don’t forget, I’ll ask Dolly to introduce me to her nurse.

  All the way back to the ranch headquarters, Moon and Smith gabbed about this and that, but not once did the subject of Wallace Montoya come up.

  The tribal investigator was the very soul of patience. When Smith’s ready to talk to me, he will.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  MOON’S AFTERNOON

  FOLLOWING HIS LIVELY MORNING, CHARLIE MOON HAD EVERY RIGHT to expect the P.M. hours to be relatively quiet. Even peaceful. To ensure this happy outcome, the footsore man treated himself to a hot shower. This blessing was enhanced by a long soak in a tub of even hotter water, which he enjoyed while pondering a particular Greek who had spent a lot of his time pondering one thing and another. Archimedes, so the story went, had experienced a significant eureka! moment while submerged in his bath. Something to do with how the displacement of a liquid by any object that a student of natural philosophy cared to immerse in it (no matter how complex the shape) would instantly reveal said object’s volume.

  Mr. Moon had no such epiphany, or for that matter any thought worth reporting. His muscles and mind were completely relaxed as the sensible man napped in his bath.

  And after he had awakened, scrubbed himself briskly with a coarse towel, put on clean everything, and gone outside to sit on the porch—the rancher was convinced that on his best day, any big-brained Greek fellow you could name had never felt any better than he did right this minute.

  After easing himself into the light embrace of a cushioned redwood chair, he closed his eyes and sighed. Now, if everybody will just let me be . . .

  His ears picked up the patter of petite feminine slippers inside the parlor.

  The creak of the screen-door hinges.

  Those same slippers pat-pattering across the porch floor.

  I’ll make like I’m asleep. He let his chin fall closer to his chest, allowed his lips to part just enough for a phony snore to pass between them.

  Good try, Charlie.

  A throat cleared. A voice whispered, “Charlie—are you asleep?”

  Despite his best efforts, Moon’s lips grinned. Dang! He opened one eye. “Yes I am.”

  Sarah Frank, who had put on her prettiest blue dress for this difficult occasion, could not meet his gaze. She looked down at the redwood planks, also at her shiny black slippers. “I just wanted to say that . . . I mean . . .” Her voice cracked. “I’m so awfully sorry—”

  Moon’s long arm reached out to pat the repentant girl on the back. “I don’t know of anything you’ve got to be sorry for.”

  Oh, he’s so sweet! This undeserved kindness caused tears to flow down her burning cheeks.

  His grin widened to expose some of the finest teeth Sarah had ever seen in a man’s mouth. “Except that you came all the way out here and didn’t bring me a cup of coffee.”

  “Oh, I’ll go make a fresh pot right now. And soon as it’s done, I’ll bring you a big mug.” She added (sweetly), “With honey, just the way you like it.”

  “That’s mighty nice of you, but there’s no hurry.” Moon took a closer look at the girl’s face, which looked much older than her seventeen years. Poor kid—she seems awfully tense and worried. “Before you run off to perk a pot of coffee, set yourself down and relax for a while.” Moon shook his head. “No, not way over there on the swing.” He pointed his chin at a nearby chair and watched her slip into it. What she needs is a few hours away from here. “Tell you what. How about we take a drive into town.”

  Her mouth gaped. Just us two? “You mean . . . me and you?”

  “That’s what I had in mind.” He assumed a deadly serious expression. “Unless you’d like to invite Aunt Daisy along.”

  The poor girl’s face sagged. “Well . . . I guess I could ask her.”

  “I hope you won’t.” Moon laughed. “Now do you want to go to town or not?”

  “Well, yes.” She primly smoothed her skirt “That would be very nice.” This response was more ladylike than whooping out big wa-hoos! whilst doing cartwheels from one end of the porch to the other. Realizing that her tearstained face could use a touch-up, Sarah jumped up from the chair. “I’ll go in and get ready.”

  “Take your time.”

  “Oh, I’ll be done in a minute or two.”

  He smiled at the young lady’s rash promise. That’ll be the day.

  After the screen door closed behind her, Moon closed his eyes again. Well, there goes my restful afternoon. But it would be good to spend a few hours with the girl. I’ll take her to that old-fashioned drugstore on Copper Street and buy us a couple of ice cream sundaes. After that, maybe there’s a G-rated Disney movie we could see at that new seven-screen picture show. He figured that while she was getting ready, he would have time for a genuine nap. Within a minute, or perhaps it was two—the fellow was just beginning drift off to dreamland—the screen door slammed and a seventeen-year-old girl’s voice said, “Okay, let’s go!”

  And so they did. And had a fine afternoon and evening, which was spiced with ice cream, interesting conversation, happy laughter, a so-so movie, and a slow, pleasant drive back to the Columbine.

  The girl went to bed happier than she had been in years. Wait. We have a correction directly from the source: Oh—I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my whole life!

  Charlie Moon’s long day was not over.

  At around about that time of night when the hours drop from the dozen mark to zero and get started all over again, the rancher (who had been sitting in his upstairs bedroom rereading his favorite Will James novel) decided to go outside and enjoy another spell of sitting on the porch. But not to nap. Mr. Moon was wide awake, and hankering for an hour or so in the swing.

  Setting his sixty-eight-year-old copy of My Life as a Cowboy aside, he switched off the lamp, stepped softly along the hallway, down the stairway, across the parlor, and onto the west porch, where the swing waited in the moonlight.

  But, as so often happens, there was an obstacle between the man and his destination.

  He murmured to the animal, “What’re you doin’ up so late?”

  The hound did not respond.

  Zigging right, Moon made a move to pass the dog.

  Sidewinder zigged left to block his path.

  What’s wrong with him? He attempted to get around the hound’s left side.

  Sidewinder sidestepped right.

  This was just the sort of nonsense that takes all the fun out of a man’s plan to enjoy some downtime on his porch swing. Moon aimed his pointing finger at the dog’s head. “I’m not in the mood for playing games. You get outta my way or I’ll—”

  Sidewinder bared an impressive set of pointy teeth. Muttered a low growl.

  Sensing something elemental in this display, the Ute froze. What the hell has got into this peculiar animal? He spoke softly. “What’s wrong, ol’ fella?”

  The descendant of wolves turned his head to stare at the comfortable seat that was suspended from the porch roof by a pair of rusty iron chains.

  He’s telling me to stay away from the swing. That could signify almost anything, including an old dog that was mentally unbalanced, but the descendant of a tribe who had survived by paying attention to intuitions, omens, and other anomalies considered the implications of the situation. There could be a rattlesnake underneath it, coiled and ready to fang my ankle. He squatted a
nd had a look under the swing. All clear. No snake there.

  Possibility Number Two: Maybe the chain is ready to break. Moon didn’t strain his brain trying to figure out how a dog could possibly know a thing like that. Sometimes they just do.

  Then, there was Possibility Number Three. There might be something under the folded blanket that Aunt Daisy had draped over the wooden swing to protect herself and Sarah from splinters. These two ladies in his life liked to sit there together and chat about this and that. This was Charlie Moon; so was that.

  He patted the old dog’s head. “Thanks, fella. I understand there’s some reason you don’t want me to sit on the swing, so I won’t.”

  Sidewinder relaxed.

  “But I need to find out what it is. So instead of blocking my path, why don’t you help me.”

  The eccentric dog sidled up to the porch swing, pushed his nose against the blanket, then turned to gaze at the human being.

  “Okay, pardner—I get the message loud and clear. Let’s have a look.” Moon picked up a broom that Daisy used to sweep the porch. He pushed the broom handle under the blanket, lifted it—gawked at what he saw.

  Well what the hell is that?

  Almost as soon as the question had formed in his mind, Moon knew the answer. He also recalled how, just a few hours ago, Sarah had come this close to sitting on the swing.

  The lean Indian stood as still as the long-dead ponderosa on top of Pine Knob. He remained immobile while the satellite that shared his name moved three diameters across a silky-black sky. It took that long for him to consider the implications of his discovery. And decide what to do about it.

  And once he did, his mind was made up. Now, anyone who knows him will tell you that the owner of the Columbine is not a mean-spirited man, and he has never been one to hold a grudge. But the Ute was determined that somebody was going to be sorry for this.

  Damned sorry.

  WHILE CHARLIE Moon was making his unsettling discovery on the Columbine headquarters west porch, Scott Parris was in his king-size bed, enjoying the benefits of a deep, restful sleep. Until the GCPD chief of police began to slip backward in imaginary time . . .

  Episode Five

  Pine Knob—Six Feet Under

  The thick quilt of a cloud that covered the silver moon sliver had grown even darker, and US Marshal Scott Parris was still unable to read the epitaph that Charlie Moon had burned on his wooden grave marker. This did not dampen the freed spirit of the recently deceased lawman; the wraith watched with satisfaction as the Ute Indian wrapped and tied a heavy cotton cord around the blanket that covered his corpse. That’s the way, Charlie—make it good and snug so I won’t get overly chilled when winter comes.

  His parcel ready for depositing in the earthy vault, Moon straddled the narrow pit and lowered the white man’s body into its final resting place.

  Parris leaned over the grave to observe these solemn proceedings with a critical eye. Easy does it, now. Don’t drop me. I wouldn’t want to get any bones broken—

  Zzzsssst!

  That was the sound the spirit heard as it was pulled into the corpse.

  Aaaghhh!

  This was Parris’s muffled scream as he found himself inside the blanket.

  Trussed up like a mummy. Unable to move. Facedown.

  Suffocating!

  The dreamer awakened, flailing his arms, gasping for breath—to find his face buried in a fluffy pillow. Parris rolled over, tossed the offending pillow across his bedroom, where it knocked a framed photograph of his mother off the wall. He lay flat on this back, stared at the ceiling, and inhaled several lungfuls of fresh air. Wow. That was a bummer of a nightmare.

  There was this consolation: When you’re dead and buried, that’s The End. This nightmare was the final installment of the episodic dreams. Or so he thought.

  IN THE COLUMBINE ATTIC

  At about the time Scott Parris was awakening from his horrific dream, Charlie Moon was wide awake and entirely focused on the task of placing two extremely dangerous items into his massive attic safe. When the job was done, he closed the door and twirled the dial.

  There. That’ll do for now. This was not a perfect storage place, but he couldn’t think of a better one for the short run. I’m the only one who knows the combination. In a few hours I’ll have Daisy and Sarah out of the house, and I’ll make sure these things are disposed of before they get back. He frowned. But if something goes sour and I’m not around day after tomorrow, somebody could eventually get hurt. How might such a calamity come to pass? A half-dozen hair-raising scenarios occurred to him. The most likely of these: A locksmith with a court order might open the safe door so lawyers could go through my personal effects.

  A man’s responsibilities do not end with his death.

  Charlie Moon searched several cardboard storage boxes until he found a yellow pad and a roll of masking tape. He printed instructions on a sheet of paper and taped it onto the safe door.

  DANGER!

  DON’T OPEN THIS SAFE

  Call Special Agent McTeague

  She’ll know what to do

  C Moon

  CHAPTER FORTY

  START WITHOUT ME

  DURING A LONG NIGHT OF SITTING ON THE SHADOWY FRONT PORCH with a heavy pistol strapped to his hip and a Winchester carbine in his lap, Charlie Moon mulled over his problem. Ignoring the perfect illusion that planets and stars were passing ever so slowly overhead, he considered a number of potential solutions, each with flaws that could prove disastrous. Moon was acutely aware that he wasn’t holding any face cards or aces, but life was a chancy game at best, and any course of action was better than waiting for the black-hearted villain across the table to make his play and ruin your day.

  The tribal investigator’s sole advantage was that he knew he was in deep trouble, and—they don’t know I know. The issue was how best to use that edge. Moon was leaning toward a strategy that would force the other player to show his hand before he’d intended to. Which called for a tactic that would unnerve the enemy; do something that he could not possibly anticipate. But whatever the plan, it was essential to protect Daisy, Sarah, and all those hardworking folks on the Columbine who depended on the boss to make the right decisions. One way or another, I’ll have to isolate the bad guys. Separate the goats from the sheep.

  A cold white glow of first light just was beginning to show over the Buckhorns when the man finally settled on a plan. The first step was to have a little powwow with Jerome Kydmann. I can always depend on the Kyd to do what needs doing. And he never asks a lot of questions—just gets the job done.

  His decision made, Charlie Moon began to feel tolerably better. Not all that short of optimistic. Perhaps having something to do was just the medicine he needed.

  THE MORNING had dawned bright and cloudless, but with a lingering redness in the west and also in Moon’s eyes, when (at breakfast) he announced his intention to Daisy and Sarah. The elder and the younger lady were equally surprised, but did not question his instructions. Daisy had noticed that no-nonsense glint in her nephew’s eyes that made it clear that neither queries nor complaints would be tolerated. Sarah did not sense that anything was amiss.

  Immediately after the morning meal, Daisy and Sarah, accompanied by Mr. Zig-Zag and the official Columbine hound, departed in the girl’s pickup. Sarah’s Ford truck was followed by the Wyoming Kyd and a pair of cowhands in another, less spiffy-looking F-150. All three of these sharp-eyed Columbine employees were armed and—presumably in light of the recent crime wave—advised to keep a close eye on the womenfolk.

  The Kyd and his companions figured something more was up than Moon had let on, but, aside from the foreman, nobody on the Columbine was in the habit of questioning the boss. When Mr. Moon had that grim, flinty look, you just tipped your hat, said, “Yes, sir,” and did what the man said.

  WHEN FOREMAN Pete Bushman heard the small caravan rumbling over the Too Late Creek bridge, he hurried over to a living-room window and watched as they pas
sed by his residence. Now what is this all about? Preferring face-to-face exchanges to telephone conversations, he headed to the headquarters to find out.

  Charlie Moon informed his crusty straw boss that Mr. Kydmann and the assigned cowboys were accompanying Daisy and Sarah over to the Big Hat. And that all labor on the Columbine would cease by noon.

  Stunned by this unanticipated news, Bushman barely got the “Why?” past his lips and through his unkempt beard.

  “Because an hour after noon is one o’clock,” Moon explained. “Which is when the big shebang at the Big Hat begins to commence.”

  Pete Bushman stared blankly at the inscrutable Ute. “What’n hell big shebang are you talking about?”

  Moon managed to look surprised at this shameless display of ignorance. “You haven’t heard?”

  Bushman allowed as how he had not heard a single, solitary word.

  “Then you’re probably the only soul on the Columbine that doesn’t know about the big Breaking in the New Banjo celebration.” Moon picked up his Stelling’s Golden Cross and expertly claw-hammered a sprightly little introduction to “Soldier’s Joy” before continuing his narrative: “At one o’clock there’ll be a light lunch of beef burgers, home-fried potatoes, and baked beans. The horseshoe pitch is scheduled for two o’clock, an old-fashioned square dance at three—at which you’ll be doing the calling and fiddling—and at four o’clock there’ll be a quarter-mile horse race where wagering with cash money will not be discouraged. From five o’clock sharp to sundown is suppertime, and soon as folks have had their fill—why, that’s when the big hoedown kicks in.”

  Bushman eyed the Columbine Grass’s lead musician. That sounds just dumb enough to be true. “And like always, your foreman is the last person you bother to tell what’s going on.”

  Moon assured his highest-ranking employee that the omission was a mere oversight. “Now you and Dolly better head for the Big Hat.” He added, with a twang from the highest-pitched string, “And don’t forget to take your granddaddy’s fine old Bavarian fiddle.”