Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

  The old teakettle was approaching a boil; she hissed at him: “You took my new ax—and it was on my woodpile!”

  Dixon stared at the neat stack of split piñon. “Hmmm.” He nodded as if the light was beginning to dawn. “An ax, you say. Well if I should find such an implement among my meager belongings, I shall bring it to you directly.”

  “Well I won’t hold my breath.” Daisy exhaled. “And there’s another thing.” Inhaled. “You’ve got no right to be squatting on the Southern Ute reservation.” She pointed at her house. “My nephew’s inside, and he’s a tribal policeman and—”

  “Is that a fact?” Dixon’s poor memory had made a remarkable recovery. “I was under the impression that Mr. Moon had retired from the Ute police department several years ago, to manage his cattle ranch.”

  “Charlie is a tribal investigator, and if I just snap my fingers—” she displayed a finger and thumb, all cocked to snap, “—he’ll trot out here and arrest you right on the spot and—”

  “You called?”

  Following Dixon’s gaze, Daisy turned to see her nephew’s lanky form in the doorway. Moon had brought with him a platter of scrambled eggs and pork sausage. These victuals were tastefully accompanied by a pair oven-hot biscuits.

  Yadkin Dixon fixed a hopeful gaze on the food. “It is good to see you, sir. I have continued to follow your career for some time now—and if I may say so, I am to be counted among your many admirers.”

  Moon chuckled at the blatant flattery, offered the plate to his ardent fan.

  The gift was gratefully accepted by the famished man.

  Daisy shook her head, turned to mutter misgivings to her overly generous relative: “Now that good-for-nothing bum’ll be back every day, begging food, stealing anything that ain’t nailed down.” Knowing her words were wasted, she elbowed him aside, huffed and grumbled her way back into the kitchen.

  Charlie Moon waited patiently while the enthusiastic diner devoured the hearty breakfast. After Dixon had wiped his mouth on his sleeve and burped, the tribal investigator gave him a look that would have shaken a more sensible man. This was accompanied by an order. “You bring that ax back today.” As the sly fellow was opening his mouth to protest, the Ute cut him off: “And if you so much as steal a look at any of my aunt’s property, I’ll give Chief of Police Whitehorse a call. The very least he’ll do is run you off the res. More likely, he’ll put you up in the tribe’s modern correctional facility for ninety days.”

  Normally such a threat would have caused Dixon to protest, or at least raise an eyebrow, but a full stomach has a calming effect on a man. He picked a pointy juniper needle off a convenient branch, thoughtfully picked his teeth, pondered the offer of a free room and three meals a day. Concluded that it would place too many restrictions on his cherished freedom of movement. “I will certainly return the lady’s ax.” He tossed the toothpick aside. “And henceforth, I promise not to—uh—borrow any property that belongs to your charming aunt.” He raised his right hand to show Moon a soiled palm. “You have my word of honor, sir.”

  Great. With that and six bits I could buy me a seventy-five-cent cup of coffee. Moon looked up to watch a golden eagle float by. By the time he lowered his gaze, the scruffy-looking white man had ambled over to the Columbine Expedition.

  The visitor caressed the Ford Motor Company product. “This is quite a spiffy motorcar.”

  Moon winced at the greasy streaks Dixon’s grubby fingers were tracing on the glistening fender. “I just waxed it.”

  “And you did a fairly decent job.” Mr. Dixon got that faraway look in his eye, also cleared his throat. Which is a double warning that whether the unwary listener likes it or not, he is about to share a favorite memory. “Back in Michigan, when I was just a young lad, my daddy owned a cherry-red 1963 Jaguar XKE 3.8 coupe. Pop kept it garaged, except on Sundays, when he’d roll it out and take me for a ride into Lansing.” His sigh was scented with nostalgia-blossom perfume. “Talk about your fine automobiles—there is absolutely nothing like a Jag.”

  Aunt Daisy’s Very Bad Dream

  Daisy was busy at the propane range, putting the final touches on her nephew’s breakfast. This amounted to one skillet filled with sizzling sausage and fried potatoes, another of fluffy scrambled eggs, plus a simmering pot of green chili stew. Work, work, work—that’s all I ever do. As a gray mist slipped out of Spirit Canyon and settled over her mind, the cook sighed. I bet that thieving white man’ll be back here tomorrow, licking his lips and asking for any prime rib and baked potatoes that’s left over from my lunch. Recalling his whining request for an apple core, her wrinkled face crinkled into a crooked little smile. I ought to give him a big, shiny red apple with enough pickleweed poison in it to kill a dozen smelly moochers—that’d teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget! In Daisy’s version of the heartwarming tale, this was how Snow White had dispensed with the witch, who should have known better than to trust a silly white girl who had run away from home to hang out with a truckload of dwarves. From the shaman’s experience, one pitukupf in the neighborhood was sufficient.

  Fortunately for Mr. Dixon, the cook had dismissed him from her malevolent thoughts. But Charlie Moon was not so lucky. As the broth began to froth and bubble, Daisy sensed the time was ripe to make some trouble—and commenced to stir the pot. “Charlie, there’s something that’s been bothering me.”

  Moon turned another page of the Southern Ute Drum. No sham this time.

  “I’ve been having this same bad dream, over and over.” No response. She turned up the volume. “Last night, I had it again. It was so scary I woke up with the sweats.”

  He frowned at a full-page listing of Upcoming Events, had a great notion. I should take Lila Mae McTeague to the dance. No two ways about it—the long-legged FBI agent would be the best-looking woman there.

  The Ute elder turned to scowl at her nephew. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Sure.” I wonder if Lila Mae’s ever been to a Bear Dance. Probably not.

  “Plop, plop, plop.”

  Moon shook a wrinkle out of the newspaper. “What?”

  “That was the sound it made.”

  He stared at her hunched back. “The sound what made?”

  “The blood.”

  “What blood?”

  She brought him a man-sized platter of eggs, sausage, and potatoes. “The blood dropping onto that dead man’s face!”

  “Oh. Right.” He reached for a paper napkin, considered tucking it over his new white linen shirt with the mother-of-pearl buttons, decided to put it in his lap.

  She hurried back to the stove. “You don’t have the least idea what I’ve been talking about.”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “The blood. It was going…uh…drip-drip.”

  “It was going plop-plop-plop.” She turned down the ring of blue flame under the pot, tossed him another challenge. “And how was it that I happened to hear that blood going plop-plop-plop?”

  With Aunt Daisy it was nine-to-one for a nightmare, so he played the odds. “You was having one of them weird dreams.”

  “I knew you wasn’t paying no attention.” She banged the wooden spoon on the stove. “What I said was—I’ve been having the same bad dream, over and over.”

  Might as well get this over with. “Tell me all about it.”

  She sniffed. “Oh, you don’t really want to know.”

  “Yes I do. And if you keep me in suspense, I won’t be able to eat a bite of breakfast.”

  That’ll be a day to remember. Daisy brought the stew pot to the table. “I dreamed about a skinny little girl.”

  He watched her ladle a generous helping of green chili stew onto the mound of scrambled eggs. That looks good enough to eat. He took a taste. It could use some salt.

  She reached out to tweak his ear. “You’re supposed to ask me: ‘Who was this skinny little girl?’”

  “Consider yourself asked.” He reached for the shaker.<
br />
  She slapped his hand. “Don’t do that—I’ve got it seasoned just right. I don’t know who she is.”

  Momentarily deprived of salt, the Ute warrior raised his fork, expertly speared a sausage. “Then why should I have asked?”

  “To show proper respect to a tribal elder.”

  “Right.” He opened a steaming biscuit, inserted a generous helping of butter.

  “I don’t know who the girl is, because in these dreams, I don’t ever see her face.” She hobbled over to the stove. Back and forth, back and forth—it’s a wonder I don’t wear a path ankle-deep into the floor. “But I know she’s in trouble. Serious trouble.”

  Behind her back, Moon snatched the shaker, added several dashes of sodium chloride, tasted the result. That’s some better.

  While preparing a plate for herself, Daisy paused to stare through the window at a diaphanous fluff of cloud floating over the big mesa. She watched it snag itself on the tallest of the Three Sisters. “In these dreams, the girl is standing over the dead man.”

  He took a sip of black coffee. I forgot to put sugar in it. He remedied this error with six heaping spoonfuls.

  Daisy was silent for a long moment, watching the cloud that had become a misty wisp of gray hair on the petrified Pueblo woman’s head. “And what makes it so awful is that her little hands is soaked in blood.”

  As chance would have it, he had just poured tomato ketchup onto a heap of fried potatoes.

  The shaman shuddered. “And that blood just keeps dripping off the tips of her fingers—onto the dead man’s face.”

  Charlie Moon was not a squeamish diner, but food was meant to be savored. He eyed the bloody chunk of spud on his fork. I wish she would wait until after I’ve had my breakfast to tell me about her nightmares.

  Daisy Perika brought her plate to the table, thoughtfully watched her nephew frown at a slice of ketchup-painted potato. “All night I could hear it, even when I was wide-awake—all that blood dripping off her hands, onto that dead man’s face.” She saw the indecision on Charlie Moon’s face. “There was so much that it puddled up in his eye sockets.”

  Knowing she would finally tire of the subject, he decided the fried potatoes could wait. In the meantime, he would fortify himself with eggs and sausage and buttered biscuits.

  The old woman settled herself into a chair. For a while, she picked at her scrambled eggs. After a few tentative bites, she lost interest in her meal. Fixed her gaze on a Wildflower of the Month wall calendar. Began to hum her favorite Ute ballad, which she claimed had been stolen from her tribe by the British. Then, in a scratchy-creaky voice that would have set a deaf man’s teeth on edge, she sang thusly:

  In Sweet Grass Town, where I was born,

  There was a fair lass dwellin’…

  And so on. Until she got to the good part:

  O grandmo-ther, make my bed!

  O make it hard and narrow—

  My sweetheart died for me today,

  I’ll be with him to-morrow.

  After the next and semifinal verse, and following his aunt’s long, melancholy sigh, Charlie Moon concluded that he had won the waiting game. He could almost taste his starchy, ketchup-tinctured victory.

  From the corner of her eye, the tribal elder spotted the home fry that was newly impaled on the tines of her nephew’s fork. She mumbled a hastily devised and highly discordant epilogue:

  And knowin’ I’ll be no man’s wife,

  I’ll slit my throat with a butcher knife…

  The crimson-dripping morsel was rising toward Moon’s lips. Her mumble rose to a mutter:

  And my blood drips down,

  Down in the dust in Sweet Grass Town…

  She watched the fork slowing—possibly coming to a stop…“Plop,” Daisy said. “Plop-plop.”

  Chapter Two

  Tonapah Flats, Utah

  On the Lonely Side of Big Lizard Ridge

  Having no Idea that he had a soul mate in an adjoining state (he would have greatly admired Daisy Perika’s pepper and spunk), Ben Silver muttered under his bushy white mustache: “I hate Mr. Alexander Graham Bell. Also Ma Bell and all the little baby Bells. Plus all the Bell family’s mangy dogs and flea-bitten cats.” He glared at the offending instrument. “But most of all, I hate Bell Senior’s infernal invention!”

  And he did. Except for the thin little Indian girl who trudged through Hatchet Gap now and then to do some light housework for him, Ben Silver assured himself that he hated virtually everyone, living and dead, including persons he had never met or heard of. This was a slight exaggeration; there were a few historical figures that he admired. Mr. Silver was, in fact, not an entirely unreasonable man—there was a particular reason that he particularly despised Mr. Bell and his family and livestock and the fruit of Mr. Bell’s inventive mind.

  Why? Because when the telephone rang at his elbow, Ben Silver was seated comfortably in his favorite chair by his favorite window, with his favorite book. On top of that, he was rereading his favorite short story. Mr. Silver was enjoying this yarn for what he figured was maybe the hundred and eleventh time. The volume was a 1934 edition of Guys and Dolls, and Ben’s favorite story happened to be “A Very Honorable Guy.” His other favorite was “The Lily of St. Pierre,” but that is another story. The phone kept right on jangling. Ben turned a yellowed page. It’s probably Doc Stump’s nurse checking to see if I took my new blood-pressure pills. If I don’t pick up, maybe she’ll figure I’m dead and go bother somebody who’s still warm. This stratagem was not effective—whoever it was did not give up—the blasted thing kept right on ringing. For what he figured was maybe the hundred and eleventh time that month, Ben began to get somewhat scorched under the collar. Who’s so damned determined to annoy me? He placed a two-dollar bill between pages seventy-eight and seventy-nine, set the venerable volume aside, snatched up the offensive instrument. “Why don’t you go drink a bucket of lye—or stick a sharp stick in your eye!”

  The gravely voice on the other end of the line was an echo of his own. “Hello yourself.”

  “I should’ve known.” Ben groaned. “Why won’t you let me be?”

  “Just wanted to see how you’re getting along. After all, I am your younger brother.”

  “You’re my younger half brother, you two-bit ambulance-chasing twerp.” Ben shook his head. “I cannot imagine why my sainted mother ever consented to marry your father.” He paused to wonder what she could have seen in the mule-faced old crook. “But I will say this—Raymond Oates Senior—low-down, egg-sucking, cattle-stealing varmint that he was—was a lot more man than you’ll ever be.”

  Knowing how his daddy would have appreciated this bare-knuckled compliment, Raymond chuckled. “I’m glad I caught you in a good mood.”

  “You don’t fool me, Ray—I know why you’re calling. Same reason you always do. So don’t bother to waste my valuable time and your sour breath asking—the answer is still N-O, which spells get lost!”

  “Look, Ben—neither one of us is getting any younger. I just thought—”

  “You thought wrong, pudding-brain—you’ll never get your grubby hands on it! Not tomorrow. Not next month.” There was a sudden shortness of breath. “Not ever—” Ben Silver gasped, waited until his wind returned, then smiled cruelly. “And as long as we’re talking about your father, I think the old thief liked me better than you.”

  Aside from a sinister whisper of electronic hiss, the line was deathly silent.

  When he did speak, Raymond’s voice had taken on a flinty edge. “You’re the thief, Ben. The day Daddy died—before his body was even cold—you broke the lock on his trunk and…and you took it.”

  Ben grinned. “Damn right I did—so rat-face Raymond wouldn’t get his sweaty paws on it.” He felt a blunt pain in his chest, grimaced. “And if I had it to do over, I’d take it again. But it wasn’t stealing—what I took was my mother’s property. And she always meant for me to have it.”

  Another silence.

  “Ben,
be reasonable. You’ve had it for all these years. And you’re in poor health.” The attorney had assumed his highly civilized, professional tone, which generally earned him two hundred and fifty dollars an hour plus expenses. “I know you’re not exactly living hand-to-mouth, but if you had a big wad of tax-free cash I’m sure you’d find something useful to do with it. I’d be willing to pay you—”

  “Stuff your money, Raymond Oates!” The pain was throbbing now. Ben ground his teeth until the ache under his breastbone subsided. “Now listen to this—I’m only gonna say it once. Just for spite, I plan to outlive you. But even if I don’t, after I’m dead and buried, I’ll still see you don’t get it. I might go to Salt Lake and give it to a museum—or to some stranger I happen to meet on the street. Or maybe I’ll bury it where nobody will ever find it!” With a fine sense of drama, Ben Silver hung up on his half brother, smiled at his image of Oates the Lesser chewing on his tongue and foaming at the mouth. It’s always such a wonderful blessing to have a heart-to-heart chat with the closest kin you got left on earth. His round face assumed a puzzled look. Now what was I doing when my sweet little half brother called? Remembering, he reached for the Damon Runyon volume, found the marked page, picked up again with “A Very Honorable Guy.” The feisty old man tried to read but did not comprehend the strings of words; he completely lost track of the serious business being transacted between Feet Samuels and the Brain. Finally, he laid the book aside, sighed. I may not live another year. He placed a hand on his chest, felt the comforting thickness of the canvas neck wallet concealed under his shirt. If I was to drop dead right this minute, somebody would find it on my corpse and nine chances out of ten, my half brother would end up gloating over it. That simply would not do. Before I’m gone, I’ve got to do something with Momma’s keepsake so Raymond won’t be able to get his mitts on it. He turned in his chair, watched a lemon-tinted sun fade to a blushing pink, fall toward Big Lizard Ridge, flush a bloody crimson before slipping into Hatchet Gap. By the time the sky over Tonapah Flats had turned dark purple, and just as the hoot-owl hooted, Ben Silver knew exactly what he’d do. He found a neat stack of business cards in a desk drawer, removed the rubber band, thumbed through the rectangles until he found the one he was looking for.