“As for the bulk of his estate, I am not authorized to reveal that information at this time.” The attorney removed a black plastic folder from his briefcase. “But I am instructed to inform you about the deceased’s wishes concerning the disposition of a particular item of personal property.” Turning to page two of the document, Staples cleared his throat, read Paragraph VI, lines sixteen through twenty-four.
Popper’s jaw dropped, hung on its hinges.
Probably because the attorney owned a quarter-share in a prosperous Caterpillar dealership, the sheriff’s gaped mouth suggested a 966D Cat front-end loader about to scoop up a few cubic yards of rubble. Smiling at the high-horsepower metaphor, Mr. Staples snapped the briefcase shut, vaulted up from the chair, glanced at his wristwatch. “I’d like to stay and chat, but I have urgent business back in the city.” On the way out of Popper’s office, he rotated the lumberjack shoulders, looked back at the mute lawman. “I almost forgot. You are authorized—encouraged, in fact—to communicate the information about Ben’s personal-property bequest to his half brother Raymond Oates.” With that, he closed the door behind him.
For a long interval, Popper stared at the oak door. I just don’t believe it. Why on earth would Ben—
The telephone on his desk jangled the lawman back to reality.
He heard himself say: “Hello.”
“Who’s this?”
“Uh—Sheriff Pokker.” Dammit, now she’s got me doing it! “I mean Popper.”
“Well, I wanted to speak to Deputy Packard, but I guess it’s better to talk to the top dog.” Even if the dimwit ain’t sure what his name is.
“Who’s calling?”
“This is Hank Bigbee, from Cut Bank, Colorado. But you can call me Buddy.”
Sheriff Popper propped his elbows on his desk. “What can I do for you, Buddy?”
“Well, you can let me know if you was able to use that tip I passed on to Deputy Packard about the Indian girl.”
Popper barely suppressed a groan, found a ballpoint pen. “What tip was that?” We only had about a thousand.
“Why me and Tillie—Tillie’s my wife—we saw that kid in Cortez. Cat and all.”
The sheriff doodled a stick-legged cat on his desk pad. “You did, huh?”
“Sure as July follows June.” Bigbee repeated the story he’d told the deputy. “And if you pick her up at her Aunt Daisy’s place on the Southern Ute res, me and Tillie damn well expect to get that big re-ward.”
Aunt Daisy? Popper paused in mid-doodle. There hadn’t been anything in the news releases about Charlie Moon’s aunt. “Would you please repeat that, Mr. Bigbee?”
“Hey, no need to Mister me—I’m just plain Buddy.” But Just Plain Buddy repeated what he had said. About Aunt Daisy and the big re-ward.
“And the first time you called, you told Deputy Packard exactly what you just told me?”
“Sure did. Practically word for word.”
And Packard made a beeline straight for the Southern Ute reservation.
“And your deputy said he’d put my name on the list.” A rasping smoker’s cough. “And we oughta be first in line for that big re-ward, ’cause I didn’t fiddle-faddle around—I called on the same day we saw that Indian girl, which was on the morning after she murdered that old fella in Tonapah Flats.” Buddy listened to a shouted reminder from his wife. “Will you check to see that our name’s on the re-ward list—mine and Tillie’s?”
“You can count on it.” Popper made a note of the caller’s telephone number. “If this information turns out to be useful in helping us locate this girl, I’ll make certain you get whatever’s coming to you.”
“Thanks.” Another yell from the wife. “Oh, one last thing—Tillie said to tell you the kid called her cat Zig-Zag.”
Like any capable small-town politician, the sheriff knew the names of all of his constituents, and 90 percent of their pets. Well, that puts the butter on the biscuit. The Utah lawman thanked the helpful Colorado citizen and hung up. Tate Packard withheld critical information related to a homicide investigation, which means if he ain’t stone-cold dead when I find him, I’ll make him wish he was. The furious man was jamming his hat on his head when the dispatcher elbowed her way past him, plopped her massive self into an armchair. “Shurf Pokker, I gotta talk to you.”
This happened about once every month. Bertha’s worry-motor generally cranked up with a sputtering of rumors and complaints, finally chugged to a stop with a threat to quit and find a better job somewheres else. He eyeballed the clock on the wall. “I’m kinda busy right now. Could it keep for a little while?”
The woman shook her head in a defiant gesture, suggesting an innate stubbornness an Arkansas mule would have admired.
Popper pushed the hat back on his head, seated himself on the corner of his desk. “Okay, but don’t take too long.”
Looking over his shoulder, she frowned at a wall calendar that featured a color print of a lovable beagle puppy licking the face of an equally lovable kitten. “Shurf, we got troubles.”
He watched the ceiling fan, which—like the second hand on the wall clock—seemed to be slowing. “What is it this time—somebody been pilfering nickels and dimes from the petty-cash jar?”
Another shake of her head. “It’s lots worser’n that—we got big troubles.”
Drop by drop, his reservoir of patience was leaking away. “Please don’t keep me in suspense.”
Katcher the Dispatcher turned her beady-eyed stare on the boss. “Bearcat didn’t show up for work this mornin’.”
He stared at the enigmatic woman. “Bertha, that happens at least a couple times a month. If that’s all you’re worried about—”
“Bearcat ain’t just not here—he’s dista-peered!”
“Come again?”
“I did some checkin’.” She counted off one finger. “He didn’t show up at his apartment last night.” Another finger. “And the manager says his bed ain’t been slept in.”
“Well that just proves BC was out on an all-night toot. He’ll probably wake up in a ditch somewhere with his head hurtin’ so bad he’ll wish he was dead and—”
“Shurf—Bearcat is dead!”
Despite her comical manner, this assertion jarred Popper. He assumed a gentler tone. “Why do you say that?”
“’Cause I know Bearcat’s dead—I feel it in my bones.” Bertha hugged her considerable self, evidently confirming the message originating deep in her marrow. “And Tate Packard’s dead too. Somebody drown-ded him in the river!” She closed her eyes, her massive body shook in a hideous shudder that threatened to wrench joint from limb.
“Now, now, Bertha.” He patted her on the shoulder.
When she had recovered from the shakes, the dispatcher looked Popper straight in the eye. “Shurf, somebody is killin’ off our depitties. And they ain’t done with their killin’.” She leaned toward the boss. “I figger I’m gonna be next!”
The sheriff recalled his late wife, and how the unfortunate woman had suffered every day of her life. Poor Bertha must be having one of those peculiar problems women have with their innards. He had no reliable knowledge of such matters and did not wish to be educated on the subject. “You worry too much.” Another pat. “Tell you what, you take the rest of the day off. Get yourself some rest.”
Another shake of the head. “That’s what caused all this trouble in the first place.” The dispatcher gave the sheriff a guilty look. “That day that ol’ Ben Silver was killed, I wasn’t tendin’ to my duties like I should’ve been. If I hadn’t been runnin’ back and forth to the toilet, why Mr. Silver would be alive today.”
“Bertha, we can all think of things we might’ve done that would have made a difference.” He put on a smile that lifted the tips of the handlebar mustache. “Take me, for instance. If I’d got to Ben’s place a couple of minutes sooner than I did, I might’ve been able to prevent the killing. And then there’s the hand of Fate—if that big accident out on the interstate hadn’t h
appened that morning, Ben would’ve been able to see his doctor at the clinic, and he wouldn’t have come home early and surprised the girl.” He waited for this to sink through his dispatcher’s inch-thick skull, but it was apparent that she was not listening to a word he’d said. Popper’s eyes narrowed. “Bertha, I’m going to ask you a simple question, and I want you to tell me the unvarnished truth.”
To avoid the lawman’s steely glaze, the dispatcher hung her head.
Popper was not deterred. “Have you been reading more of them crime-fiction books they sell down at the newsstand?”
“No.” A shrug. “Well, maybe.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“Okay.” A sniff. “Ever once in a while I might read one.” She jutted her chin. “Maybe two or three a week. But that don’t have nothin’ to do with—”
“Yes it does, Bertha. The people that write that trash don’t know a thing about actual crimes, or real police work. I’ve warned you before—you keep reading that awful stuff, it’ll turn your brain to mush!”
The aficionado of excellent literary fiction was not to be intimidated. “This don’t have a thing to do with what I read, Shurf Pokker.” The obstinate woman’s head continued to shake, as if some internal motor would not shut off. “Mr. Silver’s killin’ and our murdered depitties—that’s all my fault. Why I might as well done it with my own hands!” She glared at her employer. “And you might as well take off that silly hat and sit your skinny butt down behind your desk, ’cause you’re goin’ to hear me out.”
Defeated, Ned Popper hung up his hat, seated himself as directed. “Okay, Bertha. Get it off your chest.”
“I’ll do just that.” In preparation for the task, she drew in a deep breath. “And after I tell you what I got to say, you’ll understand why I can’t work here anymore.”
The weary man leaned back in his chair, clasped hands behind his head, closed his eyes. I oughta make a recording, so next time Bertha gets ants in her pants I could just play it back and we both could listen to it and save her the trouble of talking a blue streak ’til the cows come home.
Bertha Katcher made a slow start, gradually picked up the pace, finally got rolling under a full head of steam. The dispatcher didn’t put on the brakes until she’d gotten to the end of the line.
The sheriff watched a brown beetle scuttling up the wall. Compared to being a sworn officer of the law, I imagine them little bugs must live a fairly simple, peaceful life.
“Shurf Pokker, I’m really awfully sorry about—”
He groaned. “Bertha, Bertha—what am I gonna do with you?” I could draw my .45-caliber revolver right here and now, shoot you between the eyes. But that’d be sure to stir up a lot of fuss. He sighed. And there’d be no end to the paperwork.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Incident at the Columbine Gate
Standing straight as a post, she raised her nose, prickling bristly whiskers. Sniffed.
By nature and of necessity, prairie dogs are remarkably inquisitive creatures. Anything that approaches the boundary of their underground compound is considered a potential threat. This particular rodent’s thriving little community was situated on prime real estate just across the highway from the entrance to the Columbine Ranch, and she was on lookout duty. The focus of her attention was a pickup truck concealed in a cluster of junipers.
Without a soul noticing, Time slipped by. Twilight crept ever closer.
Four miles overhead, a spray of waning sunlight inflamed a slice of icy cloud to opalescent incandescence. Much nearer to earth, a dusky hawk circled in search of his supper. Far enough away to mute a thundercloud’s ominous mumble, a gray spray of rain washed the dusty prairie. In the passing storm’s wake, a breeze ruffled and rippled a pea-green sea of tender grasses, stirred up fragrant scents of damp sage.
No one emerged from the pickup.
As a thickish gloom oozed down mountain slopes to fill the vast grassy basin between the Misery Range and the Buckhorns, the prairie dog lost interest in the wheeled vehicle, darted into a burrow to pursue whatever nighttime pastimes may occupy these spirited creatures, be it dreamless sleep or sleepless dreams…or wordless memories of former worlds.
Others—like the nervous millipedes, poisonous centipedes, hairy hook-tail scorpions, and various other categories of nasty night crawlers—were different kinds of animals altogether. They did not retreat from the onset of darkness; their sinister business was just beginning.
One of them started the pickup engine.
The Approaching Flatbed Truck
Rudolpho Lopez eased up on the gas, stomped his left boot onto the clutch pedal, shifted the gear down by one grinding notch.
The half-asleep cowboy on the passenger side opened a pair of bloodshot eyes, belched beer fumes. “What—we there yet?”
Lopez grinned. He sounds like my four-year-old granddaughter.
The Pickup
Knuckle-Dragger Number One watched the big truck slow. “Here comes our chance to get through the gate.”
Knuckle-Dragger Number Two, who was seated on the passenger side, cleared his throat and voiced a concern: “From what I hear, these Utes are seriously dangerous people. If that big spear-chucker catches us messin’ around on his property—”
“Don’t fret about the Ute.” Number One cast a scornful glance at this unwanted accomplice. “If push comes to shove, I’ll take care of Charlie Moon.”
Number Two grunted. Before I head back to Utah, I’ll take care of you.
Number One experienced a sudden, cold premonition—like ice was freezing in his spine. I don’t trust this rattlesnake. Soon as the job’s done, I’ll put a bullet in his head.
Meanwhile, Back in the Flatbed
The driver eased the big truck off the paved highway, onto the Columbine Ranch lane. “We’re at the gate, Six.” Six was short for Six-Toes, which was exactly how many the Anglo cowhand had on each of his feet. Lopez braked the vehicle to a rocking, creaking stop. “Take the padlock key outta the ashtray and go open the gate.”
Six mumbled his customary grumble about “…always bein’ the one who has to open the damn gate” but dutifully fumbled around until he found the designated key, stumbled out of the big truck, and got the job done within a minute, which was not bad for a congenitally clumsy bumbler who had recently drained seven longneck bottles of Milwaukee brew.
Lopez watched his tipsy partner swing the gate aside. I’d better take him straight to the bunkhouse. Charlie Moon sees ol’ Six drunk, he’ll fire him right on the spot. Somewhere under the moan of the wind, the driver thought he heard the low growl of a second engine, the squeak of worn brakes. He glanced at the rearview mirror, saw something back there in the moonlight. Something with no headlights. Now that don’t smell right. He pulled the flatbed halfway through the open gate, stuck his head out the window. “Hey, Six—somebody’s pulled in back a me. Go see who it is and what he wants.”
Pleased to have something brand-new to complain about, Six-Toes staggered off muttering: “I hope Señor Lopez don’t get a sudden appetite for one a them red-hot jalapeño peppers, ’cause I expect he’d want me to chew it for ’im before he swallered it and them Messican vittles gives me heartburn.” He approached the unfamiliar vehicle, got a glimpse of the Utah plates in the moonlight, vainly strained to see inside the dark interior. “Howdy!”
Silence.
Six-Toes tried again. “Hey—whacha doin’ here at the Columbine gate?”
The voice that responded, though gruff, was friendly enough. “Need to talk to Charlie Moon. Thought I’d follow you in.”
“Well, I don’t know ’bout that.” Six-Toes scratched at a curly tuft of hair that was rooted in his ear. “The boss expectin’ you?”
“Uh…no.” A clearing of the throat. “Thought I’d surprise him.”
Six-Toes hated to make the least decision, such as whether to put mustard or ketchup on his cheeseburger, or a dab of both. He shuffled his well-endowed feet. “Uh—just a
minute whilst I go check with Lopez.”
A coyote sitting at the edge of a deep arroyo performed a passable tenor solo.
Somewhere in the dark theater, an owl-critic hooted.
Rudolpho Lopez drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. What’s taking Six so long back there? There could only be one answer to that. I bet whoever it is has given him a drink. Which is just about the last thing he needs right now. Leaving the engine running, he got out of the big truck, stomped along the lane toward the vehicle behind him. Lopez stopped to stare at the pickup. Both doors were open, the dome light on—but there was no one inside. To make the situation even more interesting, there was also no Six-Toes. “Hey—Six! Where you at?”
A yip-yippee from the coyote tenor.
A hoo-hoo-ti-hoo from the big-eyed mouse eater.
Well if this ain’t just the damnedest thing. Lopez paced off an increasing spiral around the trucks, until he found what he was looking for. Which is to say, Six-Toes, who was not forked-end down, but flat on his back in a clump of rabbit bush. Hah. I bet some yahoo with a fifth of Jim Beam gave Six a shot or two and he passed out.
Someone had given Six-Toes a shot, but whisky was not what. That same someone tapped the flatbed driver on the shoulder.
Having been startled enough to bite his tongue, Lopez cursed, turned to see who had snuck up on him. He caught the iron-hard fist full on his chin.
At The Priest’s Cabin
Exhausted by two almost-sleepless nights and long days of catching up with such work as was necessary to maintain even a small household, Father Raes Delfino had gone to bed early. While saying his prayers, the old man had fallen into the deepest of sleeps, was now drifting through the loveliest of dreams.
Perfectly at peace, he strolled along a narrow path. Aside from a few splashes of sunlight, his way was shaded by branches clothed in leaves of burnished gold. On his left, heavy gray mists partially concealed a dense forest, where chatter of wren and sparrow cloaked the conversations of such other creatures as dwelt in its depths. To his right, just beyond a meandering honeysuckle hedge, grassy, flower-dappled hills rolled away to a distant horizon. Over his head, the darkening sky was larkspur-blue, ahead of him, it was aglow with rainbow fire and other glistening hues he could never have imagined. Singing softly to himself, the dreamer topped a knoll, and behold—in the valley below, a river rushed riotously over a jumble of glistening boulders. His long trail terminated at a stone bridge, and as the priest approached, he was dismayed to see a closed iron gate on the near side—and a large, muscular man standing guard. Assuming this formidable fellow to be the toll collector, the pilgrim began to search his pockets, could not find a solitary dime. He was wondering who might loan him the cost of safe passage—when someone tugged at his sleeve.
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