The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  The grizzled old white man—who might have been crouched under a covered wagon, aiming his .50 caliber buffalo rifle at a war-painted redskin astride an unshod pony—eyed the sly Indian through slitted lids. “Charlie, I ain’t got no time for foolishness. Is this another one a your jokes?”

  The Ute assured him that he was as serious as a plague of giant range worms come to dine on prime Columbine pasture. Having had his say, Moon picked up again on “Soldier’s Joy.”

  This time, he’s got the brain fever for sure. Not that it mattered. Once the boss had made up his mind, there was nothing for a long-suffering foreman to do but go along—no matter that he had forgotten more about running a cattle operation than this upstart Indian would ever learn if he lived for a thousand years, which wasn’t likely. But that didn’t mean a fellow had to give in without a fight. Over the merry banjo picking, Pete Bushman (who’s arthritic right knee was aching) gloomily predicted that there would be a rip-roaring storm not long after sundown. The self-appointed forecaster advised Moon to plan for two or three inches of rain on any outdoor picnic he had in mind and to make sure the Big Hat headquarters was rigged to handle not only the eats—but the music and dancing too.

  The boss stilled his fingers long enough to direct his hairy-faced subordinate to make it so. Almost as an afterthought, the owner of the outfit mentioned that he would be running a little late on account of “. . . some last-minute business that can’t wait till tomorrow. But don’t wait for me. I want everybody to have a grand old time, and I’ll get there soon as I can.”

  Bushman, who knew his men pretty well, thought the boss’s smile looked a little strained.

  By the time he got back to the foreman’s residence, Dolly was busy filling a bushel basket with three loaves of baked-last-week sourdough bread, two sugar-cured hams, and the pies and cobblers she always kept on hand for such emergencies. The foreman’s wife, who was feeling better than she had in a month, didn’t look up from her therapeutic work. “Don’t forget to bring along all four of the hand-crank ice cream freezers, Pete. And plenty of ice and rock salt.”

  “Okay.” Hoping to recruit some help, Pete looked around. “Where’s what’s-her-name?”

  “Annie’s in her bedroom—getting ready for the party, I expect.” Eyeing the pantry, Dolly decided she would take along an extra pound of coffee beans.

  AS WAS so often the case, Pete Bushman’s weather forecast would prove to be right on the mark. Shortly after sundown, there would be a gully-washing rain the likes of which had not been seen in these parts for a coon’s age, nor would be for some years to come.

  Accompanying the deluge, lusty gusts of wind would lay tall pines on the ground and earthshaking thunder would play rhythm for long, spindly legs of lightning that danced insanely across the granite peaks.

  A splendid display, for so few human observers to appreciate.

  Not that the Columbine would be entirely lacking in human souls.

  Charlie Moon would be present.

  A few others would also remain behind. Why?

  Each had his (or her) reason.

  A case in point—

  DOLLY BUSHMAN’S NURSE

  As it happened, Charlie Moon was not the only workaholic on the ranch.

  Whether by coincidence or deliberate plan, it turned out that Annie Rose also had “some last-minute business” that could not be put off. She convinced Pete and Dolly Bushman to leave for the Big Hat party without her. Dolly’s nurse-companion promised to show up after her work was done.

  The Bushmans were barely out of sight when Ms. Rose legged it from the foreman’s residence to the ranch headquarters, practically danced up the porch steps, and banged her delicate fist on the west-facing door until Charlie Moon opened it to get an eyeful of this new hire for the first time.

  Well. She is good-looking. Making no secret of the fact that he was not pleased to see her attractive face at this particular time and place, the boss responded to Miss Rose’s cheerful “Hello” with: “You ought to be headed for the Big Hat, with Dolly.”

  Now, pretty women know they’re pretty, and this was not exactly the reception that Annie Rose had hoped for. Talking faster than was her habit and all in one breath, the lady explained that Dolly was doing just fine now and didn’t need much looking-after and she had some urgent things to get done that would take at least all afternoon and probably into the evening and it had occurred to her that she’d never been to the Big Hat before and she simply hated to drive after dark in unfamiliar places almost as much as she detested the thought of wasting expensive gasoline. “So can I ride with you to the party?”

  The Ute admired a woman who spoke her mind, even when it took so many words to get the job done. “I’ll be running late. And you can’t miss the turnoff to the Big Hat.” As if it would help, he pointed east. “Take the first left after you leave the Columbine gate, which is only about fifteen miles down the highway. You can’t miss it—there’s a big sign shaped like a cowboy hat.” Sensing that he was not convincing the attractive lady, Moon managed a genial smile. “Why don’t you let your work wait till tomorrow, and head on over there with the others and have a good time.”

  She cocked her head. “Why don’t you?”

  It was one thing to admire a woman who spoke her mind, but Moon figured he wouldn’t care to spend overly much time with one. “Tell you what—if you’re on the foreman’s front porch when I pass by, I’ll slow down enough so you can open the door and jump in.”

  “Such a charming offer—I am absolutely bowled over.” With this, Annie Rose turned on her heel and departed.

  Moon watched her cross the headquarters yard, then the Too Late bridge. He didn’t stop watching until the shapely little lady had turned into the Bushmans’ front yard. Now that’s a remarkable woman.

  And she was.

  TWILIGHT

  For perhaps the hundredth time since she had returned to the foreman’s residence, Annie Rose began with Step One of the Procedure. Watching the sixty-watt bulbs in the copper chandelier, she flicked the light switch up. Then down. As on the previous occasions, they winked on, then off.

  Following this electrifying response, she proceeded to Step Two, which involved picking up the Bushmans’ telephone as if to make a call. Annie didn’t dial. All she did was listen, expecting to hear the usual drone—

  But this time—no dial tone.

  Aha! The game was afoot.

  THE SIGNAL

  Annie Rose walked through the Bushmans’ kitchen and stepped onto the back porch, where she placed a satellite-telephone call that would be relayed to several colleagues. Her message was brief, and cryptic.

  “This is Orphan with confirmation. It is Showtime. I say again—Showtime.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  TIDYING UP

  AS CHARLIE MOON SEATED HIMSELF BEHIND HIS DESK AND SWITCHED on the gooseneck lamp, he remembered how his attorney had been nagging him for years to get this unpleasant task behind him. The rancher could almost hear the lawyer’s stern voice—“If you keep putting this off, some fine day you’ll wake up and find out it’s too late.” A bitter smile creased the tribal investigator’s face. Some fine day had come, and he might not see the sun rise on another one.

  He took a single sheet of white paper from a drawer, selected an old-fashioned fountain pen from an assortment of writing instruments in a black-on-white Chaco cup, and got to work. When he was finished, he read the document carefully to make sure he had not omitted anything of importance.

  CHARLES MOON

  LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

  I wish I had time to do this right, but things seem to be coming to a head. If anything happens to me, like I end up dead, this is what I want done with what money is in the Columbine account and whatever can be raised by selling off stock and equipment—

  1. All my debts should be paid off, with my employees getting their pay first. After that’s done, whoever else I owe can fight over what’s left.

  2.
Any income from the round house I own down by Ignacio, which is leased to the schoolteacher—I can’t remember her name right now—all of that should go to my aunt Daisy Perika, and after she dies it should go to my best friend, Scott Parris. Scott also gets all of my guns and fishing gear. And my Expedition if he wants it.

  3. All of my so-called real property, including the Columbine and the Big Hat spreads, is for Sarah Frank, who’s the daughter of my other best friend, the late Provo Frank. Provo and his wife died years ago. That’s all I can think of, but if I’ve forgotten anything important, I expect my attorney Mr. Wilbur Price will take care of it. Sorry, Wilber—I should’ve done this a long time ago, like you said.

  4. Almost slipped my mind. Scott Parris gets the four sections that include Lake Jesse and the priest’s log cabin. Sarah inherits that property when Scott dies.

  The author shook his head. That walks like a three-legged dog, but it’s the best I can do right now. After signing and dating the document, he slipped it into an envelope, upon which he printed this instruction:

  TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH

  C MOON

  C Moon put his will into a desk drawer.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  DAISY STEPS INTO DARKNESS

  WHAT WITH HEART-STOPPING, NECK-AND-NECK HORSE RACES WHERE weeks of hard-earned wages changed hands, not to mention lively bluegrass music that had set maybe sixty pairs of cowboy boots a-stomping, and enough tasty food to feed the entire population of Fishtail, Montana, for a month, everybody at the Big Hat Breaking in the New Banjo party was having a fine and dandy time. With one notable exception. It was not that the Ute elder didn’t enjoy the occasional festive gathering. Daisy Perika had been known (as recently as the previous year) to kick up her heels at a dance and let out a lusty whoop or two.

  Not tonight. Daisy felt distinctly uneasy. Something she could not quite put a name to was pulling on her.

  When the Ute woman slipped outside, her stealthy departure onto the back porch went unnoticed except by the Columbine hound, who had settled down into a comfortable spot he’d found between a rusty old hand pump and a leaky horse trough. Unaware of the canine spy, Daisy leaned on her walking stick for quite some time. She entertained herself by watching a motley collection of puffed-up clouds gather over the craggy mountain range that served as a formidable boundary between the Big Hat and the Columbine. She also listened to a few faraway rumbles of thunder, and sniffed a faint hint of rain in the air. Her senses thus fortified, she decided to remove herself farther from the boisterous crowd. Being unfamiliar with her nephew’s smaller ranch, Daisy had no particular destination in mind. Fine adventures and deplorable follies often begin in just such circumstances.

  Whether to protect the Ute woman or because he also hankered for a dose of solitude, Sidewinder tagged along behind. As Daisy plodded ever so slowly, her four-legged companion zigzagged this way and that in doggish fashion, sniffing at such fascinating items as sprigs of dry buffalo grass, wickedly armored prickly-pear cactus, and, best of all—prairie-dog holes where prudent sentries darted into subterranean chambers to warn their rodent relatives of impudent trespassers passing by overhead.

  After some more or less aimless meandering, the odd couple found themselves in a lonely spot where the heavy silence created a convincing illusion that the barely audible, almost dreamlike sounds from the cowboy festivities were unreal—an ethereal echo from some long-ago hoedown where no one could have dreamed of such marvels as automobiles, electric lights, and telephones. This solitary spot, barely a half mile from the Big Hat headquarters, was situated on the twisted spine of a long, rocky ridge.

  Here, Daisy and Sidewinder were dwarfed by earth and sky, and everything worth singing or dreaming about—pale moon and dark mountains, sparkling stars and streams—had been named by dozens of wanderers from centuries past, whose ghostly presences the shaman sensed gathering about her. It was as if these lonely souls had risen from their graves for the privilege of witnessing some dramatic event.

  The spell of Place can be immensely powerful.

  Whether it was the soul-stirring isolation, the unexpected pressure of the hound suddenly leaning against her leg like a frightened puppy, or the lady’s fertile imagination—Daisy Perika experienced a dreadful premonition that her world was about to be shaken. She turned her wrinkled face toward the east, where night was rolling in like a vast, relentless tide. Not a problem. That happened every evening about this time. What prickled the skin on her neck was the certainty that—something is coming.

  Something was.

  Far away down the ridge, the old woman caught a glimpse of it. Something small, and bright—a tiny point of light? She squinted. No. Three tiny points of light, which were getting bigger, brighter with each of her thumping heartbeats. Daisy believed she knew what was coming. She had expected this encounter for almost twenty years.

  The weary old soul was more than ready.

  She was eager.

  As the apparition got close enough to identify, she raised her staff in welcome salute to the three ponies that ran shoulder-to-shoulder. Though the muscular animals were running about waist-high on an invisible path above the ridge, the shaman could hear their unshod hooves striking flinty stones, kicking red-hot sparks into empty space. Flanked by two pintos, the snow-white horse in the center had no rider. That’ll be for me. A pair of handsome, bronzed figures rode the spotted ponies. Their dark locks whipped in the wind. Those must be my angels.

  “Here I am,” Daisy whispered. She raised her oak staff higher and shouted in a voice that cracked with age, “Swing low, sweet chariot!” And slow down—so I can get on and ride all the way home. She couldn’t wait to go.

  Alas, there was to be no Swinging Low.

  No slowing.

  No going home.

  Seeing the joyful wildness in the horses’ eyes and smelling their sour sweat, Daisy realized her error. Plumed and painted for war, these mounts and riders had not come for her. Moreover, the phantom animals seemed to be bent on running the Ute elder down.

  Daisy stood her ground.

  Clippity-clop.

  Nostrils flared, teeth bared—eyes afire!

  Clippity-clop.

  The tribal elder closed her eyes. God help me!

  The apparition passed directly through the terrified woman, chilling her to the very marrow.

  Daisy did not bother to turn her face to the west, where the departing horses and riders had been swallowed up by night. It was as if they had never been; the vision had ended.

  Seemingly paralyzed by this unparalleled experience, the hound regained his mobility—and his voice. Sidewinder’s bony old frame rattled in a sudden, uncontrollable shudder; the traumatized creature began to whimper and whine.

  Daisy patted the dog’s head and offered a few consoling words. “Shut up, you old bucket of [expletive deleted], or I’ll yank your tongue out by the roots.” Following this act of charity, the kindly old soul commenced to consider the ghastly sight that had visited her on this night. Not many heartbeats thumpity-thumped before she reached a few preliminary conclusions.

  This business didn’t have nothing to do with my death.

  On the contrary, the omen pointed to some other person who was destined to make that final ride. The visionary knew from long experience that such dramatic premonitions were rarely about distant relatives or casual acquaintances. It’ll be somebody close to me.

  But who?

  Charlie Moon’s aunt thought she knew.

  If the war pony’s missing rider was not already dead, his spirit would certainly be cleaved from flesh before the sun came up again. Daisy Perika hoped (and prayed) that it wasn’t already too late to prevent a dreadful calamity. Barely aware of the nervous dog who was staying so close by her side, the worried woman set her face toward the bright lights and lively music.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  COMMUNICATIONS DIFFICULTIES

  JABBING HER WALKING STICK AT THE HARD EAR
TH LIKE A MADWOMAN bent on slaying invisible fire ants and imaginary scorpions, Daisy Perika returned to the Big Hat headquarters in half the time it had taken her to make the journey to the lonely ridge above Piddlin’ Creek. Bypassing the partying on the front porch and in the parlor, the agitated woman entered the kitchen by the back door, where she found a battered old telephone mounted on the knotty-pine wall.

  Daisy’s hands shook as she punched in the number for the Columbine landline. After trying three times to connect and suffering through the same computer-voice response (“We are sorry, but the number you are calling is either disconnected or temporarily out of service . . .”), she dialed 911. The instant she heard the Granite Creek Police Department dispatcher’s familiar voice, Daisy demanded to speak to Scott Parris. Being acquainted with Charlie Moon’s irritable relative, Clara Tavishuts knew better than to ask, “What about?” She promptly patched the call through to the chief of police’s black-and-white.

  Forewarned that Charlie Moon’s irascible old auntie was on the line and apparently angry about something or other, GCPD’s top cop steeled himself and grinned. “What’s up, Daisy?”

  “My temper, that’s what—and I ain’t got no time for any stupid small talk. The Columbine phone ain’t working.”

  Parris blinked at the dark road ribbon of road that was slipping under his automobile at a mile a minute. So who am I, the telephone company?

  Daisy might have read his mind. “Something’s wrong with Charlie and you’re the police, so don’t even think about passing the buck—do something about it!”

  “I’m on the way to the ranch now.” Parris rolled his eyes at the night sky. “I’ll check things out and call you when I know something worth telling. Are you back at your home on the res?”