The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  Asok aimed his weed burner in the general direction of the diesel generator, where they expected the Indian would be.

  Garfield and Herman raised their carbines.

  At a whispered command from Asok, Marmaduke switched on his flashlight.

  Four sets of eyes goggled at the empty space.

  There was no sign of their intended victim.

  CHARLIE MOON, who had not entered the machine shop, closed the door, latched it, and for good measure jammed a hefty two-by-six under the doorknob.

  Herman had a tendency to state the obvious. “The sneaky tommy-hawk tosser has locked us in!”

  Not realizing that their intended victim was outside, Marmaduke instinctively switched off his flashlight. He yelped when Herman turned and accidentally nuzzled the carbine muzzle into his groin.

  Startled by this unseemly commotion, Garfield fired three quick shots. The first round struck Herman in the left temple, the second and third drilled neat little holes through a two-gallon gasoline can.

  Presumably in the hope of casting some much-needed illumination on a murky situation (but this is mere speculation), Asok thumbed the button on his weed burner. Whatever the team leader’s intent might have been, it was surely not for the three-meter-long dagger of flame to ignite the spilled gasoline. But it did.

  While the aforesaid sneaky tomahawk tosser (who had taken note of the carbine shots) was putting some comforting distance between himself and the machine shop, the gasoline fire ignited other fuels stored in the shed. The surging pressure of the overheated atmosphere blasted the door off its hinges as the roof was likewise blown asunder, with flaming fragments hurled upward until gravity would summon them back to earth.

  The Ute was (as they say in these parts) “a good fifty yards” from the fiery explosion. One hundred mediocre yards would have been better than a good fifty. The sprinter barely escaped serious injury by falling facedown and rolling under a flatbed truck.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  PRAYER

  AS BURNING DEBRIS RAINED DOWN AROUND HIM, CHARLIE MOON LAY flat on his back under the flatbed. The Catholic Christian closed his eyes and addressed his Best Friend.

  “I’d appreciate it if you don’t let my house burn down.” He thanked the Almighty for the steel roof on the headquarters, which would help prevent such a calamity. “And we sure do need the new horse barn.” That structure, still under construction and surrounded by wood chips and sawdust, was an iffy proposition, and even the faithful are sometimes fearful of asking too much of the One whose Word called the limitless universe into being. The new barn would survive. Moon heard his stock milling around in the corral, where glowing coals of fire were falling like hail from hell. “And even if the old barn burns to the ground, I’d be much obliged if you’d look after my horses.”

  Piece of cake. The animals would not be harmed. Even as Moon was making his heartfelt request, a big dappled stallion panicked and jumped the corral fence, knocking off the top rail. The other horses immediately followed and headed for the river.

  Encouraged by these hopeful developments, Moon offered an observation. “We’ve had lots of thunder and lightning this evening.” He followed this with a suggestion. “A little rain would help put out the fire.”

  No sooner said than done.

  Plop. Plop-plop. Ploppity-plop-plop.

  A little rain was what he got.

  Big, fat drops, falling about one or two to a square foot.

  Well, that’s better than none. “Thank you, sir.”

  Moon’s momma had taught her bright-eyed little boy that it always helps to say “thank you.” The plump raindrops began to fall more frequently.

  Within a few minutes, the dusty headquarters yard was transformed into mud. But, as local weatherman Pete Bushman had prognosticated, this was only the preliminary sprinkle. When an earsplitting bolt of lightning busted a big hole in the bottom of the sky, the deluge began. Hunkered under the truck, Moon whispered, “This is mighty helpful.” But I hope you’re not thinking forty days and forty nights.

  Despite the cloudburst, gasoline- and diesel-fueled flames continued to roar in the machine shop’s blackened cinder-block shell, but all of the secondary fires had been put out.

  Hellish cinders ceased to fall from the sky.

  Moreover, there was a lull in the rainfall.

  I might as well head back to the house.

  The rancher got a grip on the truck’s rear bumper, pulled himself from under the GMC vehicle, and got to his feet. On the off chance that a rifleman had the crosshairs of a night-vision sniper scope centered on his back, Moon made a run for the headquarters, zigging and zagging as he went. The instant his boots hit the porch steps, the rainstorm revved up again. As he entered the headquarters by the kitchen entrance, Charlie Moon’s nostrils picked up alluring scents.

  He followed his nose to a half pot of cold coffee. While he was gulping the brackish brew directly from the percolator, Moon searched the dark space for a suitable snack. What he came up with were two pieces of leftover pie. An appreciative sniff identified one slab as apple, the other as cherry. Which confronted Moon with something he did not need at the moment—a decision to be made. His taste buds expressed a definite leaning toward the apple, but that wedge was a smaller portion than the cherry, which was a full quarter section.

  Irritated by the delay, his stomach suggested a sensible solution.

  Between swallows of stale coffee, Moon chomped his way through both chunks of pie. This combination of high-calorie pastry and high-octane beverage was stimulating. Intensely so. Indeed, describing the net effect as inspiring would not to be going too far. Which is undoubtedly why the sleep-deprived diner came up with a couple of ideas that (at the time) seemed pretty doggoned clever.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  COLUMBINE HOSPITALITY

  EARLIER IN THE DAY, THE RANCHER HAD WATCHED HIS HIRED HANDS leave the columbine for the Big Hat. When the exodus appeared to be complete, he had telephoned Jerome Kydmann at the ranch on the far side of the Buckhorns to verify his list of partygoers. Charlie Moon was certain that six persons had remained behind on the Columbine.

  All new hires.

  Moon figured that the four greenhorns Bushman had hired on could be safely presumed dead in the charred remains of the machine-shop shed. That left Bill Smith, the admitted felon who claimed to have been a buddy of Loyola Montoya’s grandson—and Miss Annie Rose, who had expertly nursed Dolly Bushman back to health. If these two had remained in the vicinity, one might reasonably expect them to show up at the headquarters and inquire about the cause of all the excitement.

  When company (invited or otherwise) shows up on the doorstep, western hospitality obliges the host to attend to such preparations as are necessary for their comfort, and despite those recent events that had momentarily distracted his attention, Mr. Moon was not one to ignore his obligations. And so he attended to a few essential domestic duties.

  Such as:

  Making sure all the downstairs curtains were tightly closed.

  Striking a kitchen match under a double handful of pine splinters in the parlor fireplace and, after the tinder was aflame, adding several resinous chunks of split piñon.

  Placing the most comfortable armchair in the parlor in front the hearth. Close enough so a chilled guest could singe his knees if he pleased.

  Lighting a ninety-year-old kerosene lamp in the kitchen, and its twin in the dining room.

  Loading the blue enamel percolator with fresh grounds and cold well-water, putting it on the propane range, turning on a blue ring of flame.

  Clearing the dining table of breakfast dishes and making sure the chairs were dusted of crumbs and otherwise ready for guests.

  Checking the .357 Magnum holstered on his belt.

  Thus prepared, all he had to do was step outside and wait for his guests to arrive.

  Which he did.

  JOB ONE

  Still outfitted head-to-toe in black, Moon was one
of a thousand shadows.

  Not so the pale fellow crossing the yard.

  The heel of the Ute’s right hand rested on the butt of his sidearm. Smith, he figured, would either be straightforward or subtle. Moon hoped for straightforward. I’d as soon finish our business here and now.

  He was to be disappointed.

  Bill Smith stopped at the west porch steps, called out in a booming baritone, “Hey, boss—you in there?”

  The man shrouded in blackness waited.

  The hired hand yelled again, “Anybody home?”

  “I’m here,” Moon said.

  Smith squinted at the spot on the porch where the voice had originated. “Mr. Moon—is that you?”

  The disembodied voice spoke again: “The parlor door’s unlocked, Smith. Go on in.”

  “Okay.” The middle-aged male employee stepped onto the porch and entered the headquarters.

  Moon followed, closing the door behind them.

  “What a helluva night!” Smith removed his wide-brimmed hat and slapped it on his thigh, wetting the oak floor with a spray of water. “First, the electricity craps out, then I hear gunshots, then there’s a big explosion and a hell-for-breakfast fire. What’s going on around here, boss?”

  “I’ll be glad to tell you what little I know.” Moon pointed at the snap-crackling piñon. “Let’s go over to the fireplace.”

  “Don’t mind if I do—that cold rain has given me a case of the shivers.”

  Moon followed his employee across the parlor.

  At the hearth, Smith turned to address the Indian. “What in hell caused that concrete block building to blow sky-high?”

  “Wasn’t a lightning strike.”

  “What was it, then?”

  “Some outlaws touched off a fire.”

  Smith stared at the Ute’s dark face, now semivisible in the flickering firelight. “You mean on purpose—like arson?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.” Moon watched the man stiffen. “Sometime during the last day or two, one of those guys planted a couple of booby traps on my porch swing.”

  Smith’s mouth gaped. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life.” Moon pointed at the chair by the hearth. “Take a load off, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Gunshots, biggest explosion I ever saw blows the roof off the machine shop—and now booby traps.” Smith was easing his bulk into the armchair. “This has been one of the damnedest nights I can ever remem—” Oh, Lordy.

  Moon cocked his head. “What is it, Bill?”

  Smith’s hard, gray face resembled chiseled limestone. He stared at the flickering fire. Without blinking.

  His employer persisted. “You feeling all right?”

  The stone man opened his mouth. Shut it.

  “Well, I guess you just need to sit a spell.” Moon continued in a monotone: “But one of the rules of the house is that none of my employees brings loaded firearms inside, so I’ll relieve you of that iron.” The enforcer of rules reached under Smith’s faded denim jacket and pulled a snub-nosed, ivory-gripped .44 Magnum revolver from a fringed leather holster.

  There was no protest from the owner of the weapon, but beads of perspiration were forming on Bill Smith’s forehead. His heart hammered hard under his ribs.

  As Moon got a closer look at the pistol, flickering firelight danced on the stainless steel. “Your friends in ABC Hardware carried fancy side-arms exactly like this.” He aimed the lethal weapon at Smith’s left ear. “You might’ve had this cannon when you showed up on the Columbine, but I don’t think so. And I’m dead certain you didn’t bring those explosive contraptions I found under the blanket on my porch swing. So somebody brought ’em to you. Who was it?” He tapped the pistol barrel on Smith’s head. “One of those fellas who planned to bushwhack me tonight?” Or was it someone else?

  “Okay—you got me cold.” Bill Smith turned his head just enough to blink at the Indian’s dark profile. “Let’s make a deal.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I know how to safe the detonator on this gadget.”

  “After I back off a few paces, go right ahead.”

  “I can’t. Not without the right kind of tool.” Smith tried to smile. Couldn’t quite pull it off. “I’ll need some help.”

  “Tell me why I’d want to do a thing like that.”

  “Help me get me off a this damned thing and I’ll answer your questions. All of ’em!”

  “That’s not the way the game is played, Mr. Smith. You tell me what I want to know right up front. If I’m satisfied that you’re not lying through your teeth—I might help you get off the hot seat.”

  Smith set his jaw, turned to glare at the fireplace.

  “Okay. But I wouldn’t want you to get too comfortable, maybe drift off to sleep and fall off the cushion and onto the floor.” Moon pressed the pistol barrel against the spiny ridge on Smith’s neck. “Slow and easy, now—put your hands behind the chair, about waist-high.” The seated man followed these instructions. “Now clasp your fingers around your forearms.” Stuffing Smith’s .44 Magnum revolver into his pocket, Moon used a pair of nylon tie-wraps to strap the assassin’s wrists together, then to the back of the chair. “Normally, I’d hang around and shoot the breeze with you, but under the circumstances I’ll feel better when I put a little bit of distance between me and what you’re sitting on.”

  “Listen, Moon—this is crazy. You leave me here like this, we both lose. You help me, I’ll show you where there’s more cash money than you ever dreamed—”

  “If there’s anything you need, don’t expect me to bring it to you. Get up off your butt and go get it yourself.” With this, the tribal investigator departed.

  FIVE DOWN, ONE TO GO

  Charlie Moon had barely gotten outside when he saw Number Six high-stepping it across the Too Late Creek bridge.

  Annie Rose was almost to the headquarters porch when she felt a man’s big hand on her right shoulder. Suppressing the instinctive scream, the lady bit her tongue. Very painful.

  “It’s me.”

  “Oh—Mr. Moon?” She ignored the salty taste of blood in her mouth.

  “The very same.” Now ask me what’s been going on.

  “What on earth has been happening here tonight?”

  “I expect you refer to the shooting. And the explosion and fire.”

  Resisting the urge to make a sarcastic reply, Annie satisfied herself with a simple, “Yes.”

  “Some unsavory characters have created considerable mischief here tonight.”

  “I’m sorry—I don’t understand. Are you telling me that someone deliberately—”

  “Several of ’em are dead, but there might be more where they come from.” Moon’s grip on her shoulder tightened. “Let’s go inside, where we’ll be safer.”

  Annie’s back stiffened. “But—”

  “Shhhh.” Gently but firmly, the unseen hand moved her to the south side of the headquarters. Up the porch steps. Inside the kitchen door.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  JOB TWO

  AS CHARLIE MOON CLOSED AND LATCHED THE KITCHEN DOOR, HE GOT a good look at new hire Number Six in the yellowish light from the kerosene lamp. Like himself, Annie was dressed for night work. Gray woolen jacket with deep pockets. Matching knee-length woolen skirt. Her outfit was topped off with a gray felt fedora, underpinned with gray cowgirl boots.

  The little gray lady turned to shoot a look at the Ute. “Okay, we’re behind the log walls. So tell me what’s—”

  “Looks like the coffee’s ready.” The percolator on the propane range was popping merrily.

  “I’ll pour.” She twisted a knob to turn off the flame. “From what Dolly Bushman tells me, you take yours black. With honey.”

  “That I do.” This one don’t miss a trick.

  An accurate appraisal. The lady was a pro.

  Annie’s gaze scanned a dozen cabinets mounted on three walls.


  Moon pointed his chin. “Cups are over the sink.”

  She opened a maple door, selected a china cup for herself and a sturdy crockery mug for the man. “Tell me about the gunshots.” She poured the coffee. “And the explosion.”

  “That’d take a lot of telling.”

  She found a small pitcher of cream in the refrigerator. “So give me a thumbnail sketch.”

  “It started a while back, when I had a run-in with some bad guys.”

  “If you refer to those robbers at the hardware store, you needn’t fill me in.” Annie dribbled cream into her cup. “I watch the evening news on the tube.” The cool-as-ice lady stirred honey into his steaming coffee. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  That might be a tall order. “About a day or so ago, somebody planted a couple of IEDs under the blanket Aunt Daisy put on my porch swing.”

  Annie presented a puzzled expression that was patently phony. “Planted what?”

  She’d never make a poker player. “Improvised explosive devices.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Moon’s smile reflected a deep weariness with deception. “That’s what Bill Smith said.”

  “Well don’t keep me in suspense—tell me all about it.”

  “Not till I’ve enjoyed some liquid refreshment.”

  Moon took the cup and the mug into the dining room and placed them on the table. The gentleman pulled out a chair for the lady.

  “Thank you, sir.” Annie gathered her skirt and seated herself on the cushioned chair. Froze. Oh my God.

  “I figured you’d know right away what you’d sat down on.” Moon, who had remained behind her, removed a couple of interesting items from her coat pockets. “Well—look at that—a 9-millimeter Glock.” He aimed it at his coffee mug. “Guess those big pistols the bad boys carry are a mite too heavy for a dainty little lady like yourself.” He slipped the automatic into his hip pocket and placed her satellite telephone on the table. “And that’s a nice touch, Annie. After your buddies take out the phone lines and the cell tower, you folks are able to communicate. Who had the other sat phone? One of the back shooters that figured they had me cornered in the machine shop?”