Stone Butterfly (32 page)

Moon seemed to be somewhere else.

The compulsive conversationalist is not discouraged by such minor issues as a disinterested audience. “Well, I can tell you.” A slight frown. “Or at least how Ben Silver described it in his will.”

This got the Ute's attention. “Will?”

Pleased at having a live audience, Popper nodded. “That's right.” Another twist on the mustache tip. “Funny thing—you'd never guess what it was, not in ten thousand years.”

Moon made a run of it. “A gold nugget big as your fist.”

“Good try, but you're not even close.” The sheriff described the treasure.

Moon said: “A small thing, to be the cause of so much trouble.”

The Utah sheriff nodded. “Now, guess who he left it to.”

“I'm all out of guesses.”

Popper told him.

The Ute felt his head start spinning again. “Why would he do that?”

The sheriff shrugged. “Why not?”

Moon was all out of answers. And questions.

A clock on the wall swept up precious seconds, dustpanned them into the past.

The taciturn Indian was a strain on the sheriff's compelling urge to finish his tale. “Aren't you going to ask me how I come to find out what my employees was up to?”

Moon sighed. “Consider yourself asked.”

Sheriff Popper needed no further encouragement. “Bertha didn't know Bearcat had hightailed it off to Colorado to find Sarah Frank—she thought he'd been murdered, along with Deputy Packard. Way she saw it, Ray Oates had hired some thug to kill off everybody that could tie him to the burglary, and the unplanned murder of his half brother. With Packard drowned and Bearcat vanished, my dispatcher figured she was number three on the hit list. So hoping I would protect her, Bertha confessed.” Recalling an unresolved suspicion, he scowled at the tribal investigator. “So I thought I ought to pay you a call. See how deep the mud was at the Columbine.” Seeing the puzzled expression on Moon's face, he explained: “That late-night call to Marilee Attatochee came from your ranch.”

The Ute blinked at the Utah sheriff. “There are six phone lines on the Columbine. Which one—”

The Tonapah Flats sheriff was pointing at Father Raes's telephone.

Moon considered this news for a few heartbeats. “If Sarah Frank was anywhere on the Columbine, I'd know it.”

Popper's eyes spoke for him.
Maybe you
do
know it.

As Charlie Moon's strength returned, his senses sharpened. Catching the scent of Bearcat's blood, he fought off a surge of nausea, pushed himself up from the chair.

The Tonapah Flats sheriff followed the owner of the Columbine through the cabin's front door, into the chilly night.

The storm had broken up and dispersed to distant neighborhoods. Lagging behind were a few disorderly toughs who flexed puffy muscles, threatened thunderous mayhem and cataclysmic disaster—but these were merely the noisy bluffs of boisterous bullies. But yonder, pooled like molten glass on the grassy prairie, was a quiescent presence that deserved serious attention. Aloofly silent, supremely serene, Lake Jesse concealed her dark secret beneath a surface of shimmering moonshine.

At peace in his ignorance, the Ute helped himself to a deep breath of mountain air that had never been so charged with invigorating energy.
It's a lucky thing Father Raes wasn't here when Bearcat showed up.
He wondered where the priest might have gone off to this time, hoped it was someplace far away from the Columbine. It would take a while to clean up the mess.

On the Shore of Lake Jesse

A masked shrew darts to and fro along a fallen piñon, pausing here and there to sniff for victuals, occasionally inserting a long, pointed snout under the wrinkled bark. Though the tiny creature's diet includes a variety of tasty items, this particular
Sorex cinereus
prefers fatty, high-calorie treats like the plump pine beetle larvae, and her clever nose knows this favorite delicacy is close at hand.

As a few last-breath bubbles percolate to the lake's surface, the perpetually famished diner is distracted from her task—but only momentarily. After a blink of beady eyes, the hyperactive rodent gets back to the urgent business of finding a late-night snack—but she is startled to see a bright
something
take flight from the watery interface with night; soar upward toward some unseen destination.

What was this?

A snowy-winged night-fowl on the prowl?

A flash of moonshine reflecting off the water?

Or…something altogether
other
?

An Exercise of the Intellect

As Knuckle-Dragger Number Two trudged along betwixt lake and cabin, his mind had time to generate a few thoughts, some lacking in clarity:

Hah—that's one blackbird priest that won't be preachin' no more sermons.

I wonder if Sarah What's-her-name has still got Mr. Oates's thing-amajig.

I wonder if Bearcat ever found that skinny little Papago brat.

I wonder where I should shoot Bearcat at.
(The thinker may refer either to an anatomical or a geographic location.)

Maybe just this side of the Utah line.
(The issue is clarified.)

I'm hungry.

I could eat a porky-pine, hide and all.

I wonder how far it is to a Burger King.

The Sheriff's Concern

“Call me a worrier,” Ned Popper murmured to Charlie Moon, “but I am plagued by a nagging spot of botheration.” He cast a furtive glance at the cabin, where his deputy's semi-headless body was sprawled on the kitchen floor. “I know how Raymond Oates's mind works, and I can't see him sending one man here to find Sarah Frank. I'd be surprised if Bearcat came all the way to Colorado without any backup.”

Except for a clicking of aspen leaves in the breeze, the silence was perfect.

In this world, Perfection does not tarry long.

The Ute heard a slight rustling in the tall grasses. An animal, he thought.
But not the four-legged kind.
Moon wished he'd brought a weapon.

Popper heard it a moment later; his hand instinctively moved toward the holstered .45.

“Huh-uh.” The hoarse voice rattled in the darkness. “Don't put a finger on that hand-cannon, Sheriff. And don't neither a you move a inch or I'll let you have both barrels.”

“Groundhog,” Popper muttered. “One of Ray Oates's hired boot-lickers.” The surviving Tonapah Flats lawman called out: “What brings a greasy, pea-brained hash slinger like you so far from home?”

“Business, Popper—
that's
what.” The barrel-like form appeared at the ragged edge of the gloom. Groundhog had a sawed-off 12-gauge cradled in his arm. The weapon was pointed in the general direction of his intended victims, and he was coming nearer, one deliberate step at a time. Enjoying his meaty role as Hard Case with Deadly Weapon, Groundhog directed his next line to the Ute. “Tell me where you got that little Injun gal stashed—an' I promise not to gut-shoot you.”

The walk-on was upstaged by a blinding flash of white-hot fire that tap-danced along the Buckhorn peaks. This performance was followed by a thunderous applause.

Knuckle-Dragger Number Two paused, looked around, yelled for Knuckle-Dragger Number One: “Hey, Bearcat—where you at, Hoss?”
I'll kill the Choctaw later, but right now I wouldn't mind havin' me some backup.

Popper and Moon comprehended the situation with a terrible clarity:

Groundhog would take down the armed man first. But he was at the margin of the scatter-gun's effective range; the shotgun toter had to come closer.

Popper drew in a deep breath. “Your call, Charlie.”

“Count off six more paces, shoot him dead.”

“You figure I can pop off a shot before he unloads?”
One.

“Nope.”

Groundhog advanced another step.

Two.
“Well thank you for the vote of confidence, Charlie.”

“Don't mention it, Ned.”

Groundhog was walking faster now.

Three.
Popper flexed the fingers on his right hand.
Ah, what the hell—I never expected to live this long. Four. And I always prayed I wouldn't end up in one of them nursing homes.

Moon noted with some pleasure that Sheriff Popper's
BUY YOUR TROUBLE HERE
shop was open and ready to commence with business.

Five.
The old lawman's grin arched under the dandy handlebar.
Thank you, God—for letting me be here, doing this. Six.
His right hand went for the revolver.

Things got hectic.

Groundhog's finger tightened on the trigger—

Popper's heavy pistol cleared leather—

The Ute let out a heart-stopping war whoop—

For a fraction of a second, Groundhog couldn't decide which one to shoot—

Popper boomed off a slug that snipped a nip off the fat man's ear—

The left shotgun barrel belched pellets and flame—

The sheriff caught a spray of red-hot buckshot, stumbled backward, tumbled to his knees—

Moon was making a dead-on run at the shooter—

Groundhog swung the shotgun, fired the right barrel—

A pestilent swarm of BB's stung the Ute's flesh—

As he broke the shotgun, ejected the still-smoking empties, Oates's hireling was astonished to see the Ute still coming…
a dead man running
? Hands trembling, he fumbled in his pocket for fresh loads—

Charlie Moon was nine strides away—

Groundhog thumbed in the new ammo, deftly snapped the barrel shut—

Popper blinked away blood streaming down from his forehead—

Knuckle-Dragger Number Two aimed point-blank at the Indian—
Adios, blanket-ass!

The sheriff tried to steady the wavering .45—

And then—

Time began to s l o o o w… . .

Abruptly, the clock stopped.

See the still picture
—

A levitated Moon, frozen in mid-stride—

Popper petrified, an oath lodged in his throat—

Groundhog, teeth clenched, finger tight on the trigger—

Then, the chronometer started up again, with a frenzy of gears-a-clicking, hands-a-whirling—Tickety-tock, tickety-tock, tickety-tock—

A heavy thumpity-thump of unshod hooves, a guttural growling—

Sidewinder hit the shotgun-toter low, took him down hard—wolfishly went for the throat.

Snorting and pawing, Sweet Alice moved in for her fair share of the kill.

Transfixed by this pair of practically paralyzing surprises, Popper and Moon watched the victim's arms and legs flopping and flailing, the Columbine hound ripping and gnawing—the outlaw horse kicking and stomping her portion into a bloody pulp.

The brutish assassination took perhaps a half-dozen heartbeats.

When the grisly deed was done, silence returned.

The Ute stood mute.

But it was one of those occasions when something
had
to be said.

The Tonapah Flats sheriff said it. “I don't mean to complain, Charlie—but this peaceful ranch of yours is a mite too lively for a man of my disposition.” He cleared his throat and elaborated: “I could sure do with a few minutes of peace and quiet.” Still on his knees, but with revolver at the ready and blood in his eye, he squinted suspiciously at the darkness. “So I sure hope there ain't nobody else hidin' yonder in the woods.”

A man is entitled to his hopes. But not the fulfillment of his every wish.

The Buick-coffin would not be discovered until the sun was high over the Buckhorns.

Stand with your back to three sisters Mesa, your heels on the hem of the Pueblo women's tattered talus skirt, your toes pointing at the unmarked grave Daisy Perika made. Now raise your face, cast your gaze toward the opposite wall of the canyon. Look closely—almost concealed behind the cluster of white-limbed aspen is a dark horizontal slot. This cleft in the wall is called, in the Ute tongue—Supáy Aváa-gani—Quiet Shade House.

This lonely dwelling has only a single room, but that chamber commands a singular view. From this vantage point, a keen-eyed sentry can see anything that moves along the canyon floor. And the watcher can see without being seen; the inner sanctum is a place of perpetual shadows, where etched stick-figure wizards stand entranced on fire-blackened walls and fantastic animal pictographs dance and prance across a dozen millennia. And quiet it is. Whether the silence is the result of some ancient sorcerer's spell or merely an acoustic delusion, neither strident raven-call nor mournful wind-hymn will disturb those who enter in.

At this moment, Quiet Shade House shelters a pair of recent arrivals. They are not strangers in the Canyon of the Spirits; this is a return visit. A homecoming, one might say.

Though it is difficult to make out their forms, this much can be said: The cat is spotted black and white, the girl is small and frail, and for a product of her twofold tribes—remarkably pale.

There is a sudden, chilling breeze; she trembles with the aspen leaves. This being the place it has always been, she being what she has become, Sarah has learned the virtue and value of silence. But if mute, she is not blind—her gaze is hypnotically fixed on that terrible place across the canyon. What she sees there—almost a hundred yards away—are three persons. One of them, Sarah dearly loves—another she is jealous of. The third is an ancient, hunched-over woman whose leathery skin has been varnished by many summers of scorching sun. Burdened with a lifetime of trials and troubles, the tribal elder leans on an oak staff—stares at a barely discernible mound of rocks and rubble.

The woman at Daisy Perika's side was slim and willowy-graceful, neither spot nor wrinkle blemished her ivory skin.

Standing behind the women was a tall, slender man.

All three were gazing at the slightest of bulges in a helter-skelter landscape of ice-fractured rocks and monumental blocks of stone that had tumbled down from the heights. The disturbance in the disorder appeared ever so slightly
unnatural
among the random jumble of boulders.

During these past few days, Daisy had thanked God a thousand times that she had not lost her nephew. Charlie—whose lean body had been probed, sutured, and bandaged from heel to crown—still carried a few pellets of buckshot. She groaned inwardly at the memory of Father Raes Delfino's funeral, which had been attended by hundreds of his flock, at least two dozen priests, and three bishops. Moreover, the Ute elder had also seen holy angels there.
Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.
Daisy could not imagine life without the little priest who had loved her soul so very much. “I am tired to death of standing by graves.” Blinking tears away, she pointed the walking stick. “Especially one I put together myself.”

Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague looked up the slope. Here and there among the sandstone rubble, a forlorn little dwarf oak or a plucky tumbleweed had taken opportunistic root and enjoyed such temporary residence as nature allows. The strikingly handsome woman shaded her violet eyes from the midafternoon sun. “The place where Sarah Frank was hiding—it's up there?”

Daisy nodded. “After you have a look at what's under these rocks, I'll show you that little cave.”

“The forensics team will examine the grave.” The federal law enforcement officer glanced at her wristwatch. “The helicopter should be here shortly.”

Charlie Moon turned, painfully walked a dozen paces away, paused—stared off into empty space.

As if unaware of his silent departure, Lila Mae McTeague continued her conversation with Daisy. “I'll want to examine the site where Sarah encountered the deputy, but you needn't take the trouble to make the climb. I'm sure I can find the place—”

“Oh, I'll take you up there.” Daisy gripped her staff with both hands, took a squinty-eyed look at the high shelf. “I'll have to stop from time to time to get my wind, but I can make it all right.”

The white woman knew that the Ute elder had never liked her.
She always thought I was going to steal her nephew away from her.
“While we're waiting for the forensics team, perhaps you would like to tell me about that morning.”

Daisy looked blankly at the white woman. “What morning?”

Her mind certainly does wander.
“The morning when you entered the canyon to find Sarah Frank, and make certain that she was—”

“And what I found was what's under this.” The Ute elder rapped her walking stick on the cairn of rocks, sharp clicks bounced off Dog Leg Mesa's mottled wall, returned to ricochet off the Three Sisters cliff. “I'll tell you all about it.” Her black eyes sparkled at the young woman who carried a Glock 9-mm automatic in her black leather purse. “But first, you tell me something.”

Not accustomed to being interrogated by mere civilians, the FBI agent hesitated. “Like what?”

“That feud between those two white men in Utah—what's the story on that?”

McTeague chanced a sideways glance at Charlie Moon, who had meandered even farther away. “Your nephew hasn't told you?”

Daisy shook her head. “Lately, he's been awfully close-mouthed.”
Even when Charlie's in the same room with me, its like he's someplace else. I guess Father Raes's murder is as hard on Charlie as it is on me.
But Daisy suspected that was not the entire story.
Something's gone sour between Charlie and this
matukach
woman.
The tribal elder watched a mountain bluebird flutter by, land on a spindly juniper limb. The impudent little bird stared back at Daisy with tiny black-bead eyes. The feathered creature seemed almost ready to speak, but what Daisy heard was the FBI agent's voice.

“Being in poor health, Ben Silver believed himself unlikely to survive another year. He was determined that his half brother Raymond Oates should not inherit any of his property, particularly the object which had originally belonged to their mother. I refer, of course, to the remarkable Native American artifact—a quartz effigy of a butterfly. Since the death of his stepfather, Mr. Silver had kept the family treasure concealed under his shirt, in a canvas wallet suspended from his neck. His intent was to will the family heirloom to the University of Alabama, but before he visited his attorney, Sarah Frank did something that upset all his plans.”

With an expression of overwhelming sadness, the tribal elder nodded. “She snitched it.”

“Certainly not.”
So Charlie really hasn't told her.
“What Sarah did was confess.”

Daisy's expression reflected her confusion. “Confess what?”

“The girl revealed the sordid truth to Mr. Silver—that Raymond Oates had urged her to steal the quartz butterfly, and that she was sorely tempted. Sarah not only apologized for even considering such a wretched act, she also gave Mr. Silver the cash that Mr. Oates had paid her to commit the theft, and asked him to return it to his half brother. Mr. Silver was not surprised that his sibling would stoop to corrupting a child, but he was astonished to hear Sarah's confession—and immensely impressed with the poverty-stricken girl's integrity. He insisted that she keep Oates's cash, and made quite a bold decision—he gave her the artifact right on the spot, along with the canvas neck wallet.”

Not sure she had heard right, Daisy cocked her head. “He
gave
it to Sarah?”

McTeague nodded. “As a reward for her honesty, and on the firm condition that she must
never
let the family heirloom fall into Mr. Oates's hands. Subsequently, Mr. Silver visited his attorney in Salt Lake and had a will prepared, which stipulated that the stone butterfly was bequeathed to Sarah Frank, and already in her possession.” She recalled an important detail. “The wallet also contained several hundred dollars in cash.”

The elderly Ute took a deep breath. “That's a pile of money—especially for a little girl who hardly ever had two dimes to rub together.”

The fed watched a hawk circle, rise gracefully in a thermal. “Sarah had always dreamed of moving back to Colorado, and the Southern Ute reservation. Now, thanks to conniving Mr. Oates and generous Mr. Silver, she finally had sufficient travel money.”

The shaman turned her head, aimed her eye at Dog Leg Mesa, and the shadowy sanctum of Quiet Shade House. “So she was all set to come and move in with me.”
And I guess she still is.

“That was her immediate objective.”
But I believe Sarah's ultimate goal was to move in with Charlie Moon. As if he didn't have troubles enough.
A sigh.
Poor, dear Charlie.

Daisy shook her head. “It's hard to imagine them two white men fighting like cats and dogs over a piece of rock.”

Having done her homework, McTeague felt compelled to share her recently acquired knowledge: “The butterfly effigy—not to be confused with the so-called ‘butterfly bannerstone'—was crafted from what is commonly called rose quartz because of the color, which varies from a delicate pink to deep crimson. Technically, the mineral is known as ferruginous quartzite.”

Daisy muttered something in her native tongue. Something rude.

“According to explanatory text in Mr. Silver's will, when his mother was a small child, she found the prehistoric artifact in Alabama, on what was probably a riverside Indian campsite. Archaeologists, who examined the object while his mother was still alive, estimated the pink butterfly to be between five and seven thousand years old.”

She talks like one of them uppity professors at Fort Lewis College.
Daisy's voice fairly dripped with sarcasm: “Thank you for explaining that.”

“You are quite welcome.” The fed recalled a pithy proverb that warned of the folly of casting one's pearls before the swine.

The swine in question had an avaricious glint in her eye. “Is this stone butterfly worth anything?”

McTeague pretended to misunderstand. “Such out-of-context surface finds have virtually no archaeological value.”

The frugal old woman clarified her question. “I was talking about cash money.”

The erudite young lady suppressed a smile. “A wealthy collector of antiquities might pay quite a large sum for the ferruginous quartzite butterfly effigy—which is probably a unique specimen.” McTeague was determined to get back on track. “Now perhaps you would like to tell me about your discovery of the corpse—”

Daisy cut her short: “What's going on between you and my nephew?”

Lila Mae caught her breath, paled. “Why—what do you mean?”

The tribal elder shook a crooked finger in the white woman's face. “Listen—I'm older'n these piñon trees and I could die before I draw another breath! So don't you waste what little time I got left asking silly questions like”—she pursed her lips and mimicked the white woman's innocent tone—“‘What d'you mean?'” Daisy snorted. “I may be a little slow, but I ain't mole-blind or stone-deaf. For the last hour, you two ain't hardly said a word to one another.” She cocked an iron-gray eyebrow. “So what's up—you and him had a spat?”

Miss McTeague jutted her chin. “I really don't see how that's any business of—”

“Well it
is
my business!” Daisy banged her walking stick on the ground. “I'm Charlie's closest living kin, and it's my job to look after him.” She pointed the stick at McTeague's knee. “You two been hanging around together for a long time, and most likely doin' a lot more than just holding hands and the way I see things—”

“Well,
really
!” The pale face was blushing pink.

“Don't interrupt me—it's bad manners!” Daisy's brow wrinkles deepened into perplexed furrows. “What was I saying when you made me forget?”

McTeague rolled her pretty eyes. “Something about ‘the way you see things.'”

“Oh, right. Thank you.” Daisy reached out to pat the
matukach
woman's arm. “The way I see things, it's high time you and Charlie Moon got married. Settled down. Had yourselves some children. Two girls and a boy.”

It was McTeague's turn to arch a brow.

Sensing that she was making some headway, Daisy pressed on: “You ain't been a teenager for quite a few summers, and take it from somebody who knows—the more years you put on, the harder it'll be to find yourself a halfway decent man.” She stared at the woman's neck, added darkly: “You already got some skin hangin' loose under your chin.”