Stone Butterfly (29 page)

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.

His pajama sleeve.

Suddenly aware of the now-familiar presence, Father Raes blinked at the semidarkness surrounding his bed, caught a glimpse of the shadowy form. “What is it?”

With admirable patience, he listened to excited whispers.
The bad men were coming.
She had seen it all through the
little window.
This had already happened two nights in a row, but tonight she was sure they were coming.
Really
sure.

The sleep-deprived man sighed.
Poor little thing.
He planted his bare feet onto the cold floor.
I'll make a pot coffee, and do some reading.
His left foot found his right slipper.
But shortly after sunrise, I shall make another call to Daisy. If she does not answer her telephone, I'll drive down to the reservation and knock on her door. And I won't leave until we have sorted this business out.
In response to additional urgent whispers, the Jesuit assumed an authoritarian tone: “I will sit up and keep watch—but I insist that you calm down.”
God willing, you will be able to rest.

After enjoying a late supper of broiled steak, boiled potatoes, and pinto beans, Charlie Moon was washing the dishes. When he heard an authoritative knock on the door, the rancher strode down a darkened hall, across a large parlor illuminated by flickering firelight. Passing under a cast-iron chandelier, he pulled a brass chain to switch on the lights, then opened the door onto the west porch.

The gaunt man in the bulky black raincoat grinned under the handlebar mustache, raised two fingers to touch the brim of his matching black hat. “I was just passing by, Charlie—thought I'd stop and say howdy.”

“Howdy yourself.” Moon made a gesture to invite Ned Popper in. “I'm surprised you got through the locked gate.” There was a telephone at the Columbine entrance that was wired to the foreman's house, but after dark strangers had trouble finding the thing. And even if they made the call, there was no guarantee Pete Bushman would push the button to unlatch the gate. The mercurial foreman's hospitality depended on the particular mood he was in, which generally ranged somewhere between grumpy and downright nasty.

Sheriff Popper removed his raincoat and off-duty hat, which was a fine Golden Gate lid he'd laid down two hundred and ten dollars for, and that was during the annual half-price sale at Tonapah Flats Western Wear. “Well, your gate wasn't locked tonight.”

Moon made a mental note to inform his foreman about this oversight. “If you're the least bit hungry, I'll fix you up a spot of supper.”

“Thank you kindly, Charlie—but I had me a big hamburger sandwich just an hour ago.”

He looks worn out.
“How about a dose of caffeine?”

“I don't normally have any this late in the day, but something from the coffeepot would sure hit the spot.”

“Then I'll make us a fresh batch. And while I'm tending to that, make yourself at home.”

After the Ute had gone back to the kitchen, the Utah lawman wandered around the headquarters parlor. He stopped to admire a case of rifles and carbines.
Some of those are really fine pieces.
His aimless amblings continued until he came to a three-by-five-foot frame hung between a pair of north-facing windows. Under the glass was a meticulously made, hand-crafted map of the Columbine Ranch.

When Moon returned with a blue enamel pot and two cups, his guest was still studying the cartographer's product. “This is a really big spread you got.”

“Columbine's been a working ranch since the early 1870s. I got that map last year, from the Granite Creek Historical Society.” He couldn't help mentioning that he also owned the Big Hat, which was on the far side of the Buckhorn Range. “You want some milk or sugar?”

“No, black and bitter will suit me just fine.” The guest took a long drink of the hot liquid, pointed at a blue oval on the map. “Charlie, I kinda got turned around in the dark—whichaway is this good-sized lake from your house?”

“Almost due south.”

“Oh, yeah. Now I'm squared away.” Popper half-smiled. “I swear—older I get, the harder time I have findin' my way home after dark. But either one of my deputies—” He paused at the thought that one of his sidekicks was almost certainly dead. “Bearcat could find a black beetle in a barrel of tar.”

“You got Bearcat watching the shop for you?”

“Nah.” He finished off the cup, poured another from the pot. “That big plug-ugly didn't show up for work this morning.” His face flushed red. “But when I have to take off for a day or two, the state police cover for me.” Popper tapped a blunt finger on the map, where the artist had drawn a tiny box with a pitched roof. “This little house ain't too far from the lake. Looks like it was put there for a fisherman.”

Moon grinned at this kindred spirit. “You like to wet a hook now and then?”

“Oh, sure. Ever chance I get, I feed the trout some salmon eggs.” A hesitation, then Popper did a bit of fishing. “If you'd be willing to rent that little place, I might want to take a week or two vacation there.”

“Ned, you're welcome to cast a line in Lake Jesse whenever you want, and I'll put you up here in the headquarters. But that cabin is occupied by a friend of mine.”

Popper managed to look envious. “Must be a real
good
friend.”

The Ute nodded. “Ever since he retired, that's been Father Raes's place.” This seemed to require an explanation. “For almost twenty years, he was the priest at St. Ignatius, down in Ignacio.”

“Well, if I live to retire, I may just show up here with a fishin' pole in one hand and a can of worms in the other.” At Moon's invitation, he took a seat in front of the massive stone fireplace.

Two and a half cups of black coffee later, Sheriff Popper stretched out his feet to the warmth of the flames. “You got a really nice place.”
And I bet you're wondering why I'm taking up space in it.

“Thanks.”
I wonder when he'll tell me what he's doing here.
“It's quiet and peaceful.” The Ute added: “Most of the time.”

“I don't s'pose there's any news about my missing deputy.”

“Not that I've heard of.” Light from the prancing flames danced in the tribal investigator's dark eyes. “But SUPD and the Archuleta County Sheriff's Office are keeping a close eye on the river. Once the water drops a couple of feet, I expect he'll turn up.”

Popper swirled his cup to make a small, dark whirlpool. “Poor fella's probably wrapped around a snag.” He turned to frown at the Ute. “I'd rather find almost any kind of corpse than one that's been drowned.”

Moon had encountered more than his share of soulless bodies. He nodded.

The sheriff turned his gaze on the fireplace.
I wonder how much this Indian knows that he ain't telling me.
“Were you surprised that Tate Packard showed up on the Southern Ute reservation?”

The tribal investigator deflected the question: “I was surprised your deputy came without telling you.”

“Me too.” Popper coughed up a throaty chuckle.

“With a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for inspiration, I guess Mr. Packard figured it was worth a shot.” The Ute pitched a chunk of juniper onto the fire. “Sarah's father was a Southern Ute. Your deputy must've figured she'd be as likely to head for our res as seek shelter with her mother's Papago folks in Arizona.”

“And you don't see it that way?”

Moon took a sip of syrupy-sweet coffee. “Provo Frank's parents died ages ago, and Sarah doesn't have any close kin left among us Utes. But she has about a dozen cousins on the Papago res. Plus some aunts and uncles.”
And you know that as well as I do.

For a pleasant interlude, they enjoyed the warmth of the fire.

Popper broke the silence. “What about Sarah's aunt Daisy?”

Moon told the Utah sheriff what Popper already knew: “Daisy's
my
aunt. Not Sarah's.”

“Oh.” A sheepish grin. “I have trouble keepin' my own kinfolk straight.”

“But,” the Ute admitted, “Sarah is pretty close to my aunt. If that little gal headed for our territory, Daisy's door is where she'd knock. And almost anybody in Ignacio could've told Packard about that connection. But I asked my aunt about your deputy on the same day he drove his Bronco into the Piedra. She hadn't seen the man.”

Popper nodded slowly.
So she says
…“Since the last time we talked, I've found out a thing or two.”

The tribal investigator waited to hear what.

The white lawman cleared his throat. “Day before Deputy Packard left for Colorado—and the Southern Ute reservation—he took calls from about eleven-dozen people who thought they'd spotted Sarah Frank.” Popper paused. “Turns out one of 'em actually had. Seen Sarah, that is. I had a phone conversation with the fella yesterday. He told me how him and his wife had a talk with the girl.”

“Where and when?”

“At a truck stop in Cortez. It was early in the morning—on the day after Ben Silver was murdered.”

Charlie Moon watched hungry flames lick bark off the juniper log. “I stopped by my aunt's house that afternoon. If Sarah had been there, I'm sure I'd have known it.”
Maybe she showed up later.
This thought was punctuated by a gunshot-like pop from the resinous wood. He turned toward his guest. “What makes you so sure this was a genuine sighting?”

“This particular girl mentioned she was on her way to see Aunt Daisy.” Firelight danced in the Utah lawman's eyes. “And her cat's name was Mr. Zig-Zag.”

The tribal investigator nodded slowly.
So Sarah did come to Colorado.

Popper took a long drink of coffee, grimaced as the brew seared a dime-size ulcer in his stomach. “Way I figure it, my deputy knew he had a hot lead on the kid, and a good chance to collect the reward money. So to eliminate any chance of competition—like from me or Bearcat—he erased the message off of our new telephone system. If this Mr. Bigbee from Colorado hadn't called a second time and got me on the line, I'd still be in the dark.”

Moon was busy talking to himself.
If Sarah showed up at my aunt's place, Daisy's been hiding her. I'll go down there tomorrow morning and have a long, hard talk with that conniving old woman and
—His thoughts were interrupted by Popper's drawl.

“Charlie, I'd appreciate it if you'd introduce me to Mrs. Perika.”

Moon turned to blink at the Utah lawman. “You figure she'll tell an out-of-state cop what she won't tell me?”

“Some women like to talk to me.”
Some women like Bertha.
The older man grinned. “Anyway, it can't hurt to ask.”

Daisy's nephew grunted.
You don't know her like I do.

“Well?”

“Tomorrow morning, I'll take you down to Aunt Daisy's place. You can explain to her how it's in Sarah's best interest to turn herself in.” Moon managed to keep a straight face. “And if that don't do the trick, you'll have to get tough—tell her it's against the law to harbor a fugitive from justice.”
That'll be fun to watch.
He pushed himself up from the chair. “In the meantime, I'll fix you up with a room.”

“Thank you kindly. These old bones don't travel as well as they used to.”

“Upstairs or down?”

“Bottom floor will suit me just fine.” Popper picked up his cup, tossed the last of the coffee down, grounds and all. “But all that caffeine I soaked up has got me wide awake.”

“I could find you a good book.” Moon nodded to indicate the well-stocked shelves: “I've got first editions of everything Will James ever wrote.”

“Mr. James is a favorite of mine, and that would normally be just the ticket.” Popper glanced at a feathered lance mounted above the mantelpiece. “But I'm kinda in the mood for some excitement.”

“Well, we could go into town and pick a fight.” Moon turned some possibilities over in his mind. “There's a gang of thugs that hang out at Tubby's Cantina. The least one of 'em tips the scales at two-forty-six, and the sissy of the bunch bites off rattlesnake heads for breakfast, has rattle soup for lunch, and boils the rest for supper—with okra.”

Popper shuddered. “I
hate
boiled okra.”

“And in between meals, he snacks on black widows.”

“Well, I have to tell you—”

Moon raised a hand to silence his guest. “I know what you're about to say, and you're dead right. It wouldn't be an altogether fair fight—the two of us taking on a dozen of them. But I say let those roughnecks look out for themselves.”

“Thanks anyway, Charlie.” Popper sighed. “I'm not in the mood to injure anybody.”

“Okay. But aside from a wholesome bar fight or sittin' down with a good book, I'm fresh out of suggestions.”

Popper gave the Ute a sly look. “I've heard some tales about you—there's folks that say you're a man who likes to play poker.”

The gambler grinned. “Those folks might be right.”

The Sheriff's Game

Elbows on the kitchen table, the men got down to the serious business of having some fun.

Charlie Moon removed the seal from a brand-new deck. “Let's make it low stakes.”

The Utah player cocked an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Well, seeing as how you're my guest, I wouldn't want to bleed you dry.”

Popper snorted. “If you want to play it safe, that's all right by me.”

The first few hands went about fifty-fifty, with Moon ahead by about two bits. After that, it was the sheriff's game—Popper began to get the better of his host. Wistful tales of times gone by were exchanged, olden days and cowboy ways were duly praised. Stale chocolate donuts were consumed, also salty peanuts and pretzels. After taking an eighty-cent pot, the happy sheriff bawled out all he could recall of “Cotton-Eyed Joe.” The Ute responded with “Prairie Lullaby” Moon's yodeling coyote-call couldn't hold a candle to Don Edwards, but the performance brought a tear to the older man's eye. The Utah lawman put a cap on it with “Take Me Back to Tulsa.”

By mutual agreement, the out-of-stater dealt that evening's final hand.

Moon eyed his cards.
Imagine that.

“How many you want?”

“Uh—I'll just need one.”
Wouldn't it be something if it was the five of diamonds.

“Hah—you won't bluff me as easy as that!” Popper dealt Moon the Card.

The Ute's famous poker face was sorely tested.
I wonder if he's dealing from the bottom of the deck.

The Utah man scowled at his hand. “Dealer takes three.” Which he did. “Your bet.”

Moon tossed a dime onto the table.

After it had wobbled to a stop, Popper laid out a shiny Jefferson nickel and five Lincoln cents. “I'll see you.”