Stone Butterfly (6 page)

It was almost noon when Charlie moon stepped off the Columbine headquarters west porch, onto the hard-packed earth. The owner and boss of the outfit was trailed by Sidewinder, who had simultaneously emerged from underneath the porch. The man and the hound approached the rancher's favorite mount. Paducah was nothing much to look at—which is such an exaggerated understatement as to pay the horse a huge compliment—but Moon knew the animal to be reliable; the very soul of good temper and sobriety.
Not like somebody else I could mention.
Though he had her in mind, the Ute stubbornly refused to acknowledge the presence of the small brown mare that had followed him from the porch (where she had been waiting patiently for his appearance) and now stood with her head over his shoulder, eyeing his every move with intense equine concentration—as if she was a first-year medical student viewing of the magical hands of Dr. Moon, world-famous brain surgeon.

What the Indian cowboy was doing was packing Paducah's saddlebags, which does not require quite so much dexterity as the art of splicing subminiature cerebral arteries after having removed a clot the size of something a flea might cough up.

Nevertheless, having the right stuff in the saddlebags is no small matter, and Moon was focused on his work.

The horse who went by the name of Paducah also paid no attention to Sweet Alice, but there was no particular significance in this. Mr. P treated pretty much every creature and effect of nature with equal disregard, be it a rattler coiled at his feet, a snarling cougar crouched on a shoulder-high boulder, the roaring approach of a flash flood, lightning striking a pine snag a few paces away—to name just four. Most of the Columbine cowboys allowed as how this was because Paducah was stupid, which (they claimed) was on account of the fact that his head was solid bone except for a walnut-sized cavity which contained his so-called brain which was actually a peach pit. Charlie Moon did not accept this view; he had no doubt that Paducah was both highly intelligent and completely fearless. Being an uncomplicated man, he saw no need to reconcile these apparently conflicting personality traits.

Whatever the case, the impassive beast stood motionless under a drooping cottonwood, and in the company of the two other horses Moon had saddled earlier that morning. Paducah would occasionally condescend to whisk his brushy tail in a futile attempt to swat the one creature even the most standoffish gelding cannot ignore—a pesky horsefly.

Though her nose occasionally nudged the brim of his black hat, the Ute studiously ignored this equine alien who dared trespass on Columbine territory. For a moment, the ploy seemed to be working—the curious little mare turned away from the human being, fixed a benign gaze upon the Columbine hound.

Apparently unaware of the boss's foreign policy, Sidewinder exchanged friendly nose-sniffs with the pariah horse.

Apparently unaware of the dog's unseemly behavior, Moon tended to his business, which was making sure nothing of importance was left behind. As he placed an item into a saddlebag, he would make a mental note.
Port bag—two pounds of coffee. Percolator. Three tin cups. Pound of sugar. Three Idaho potatoes. Two yellow onions. Bottle of olive oil. Salt and pepper shakers. Cornbread makings. Two cans of baked beans. Can opener. Forks and spoons.
With the bad little mare matching him stride-for-stride, he sidled around to the opposite side, where the inventory began again.
Starboard bag—knife for filleting the fish. Cast-iron skillet. Chives. Garlic powder. Can of red worms. Velveeta cheese for bait in case the worms don't work. Chunk of beef liver in case the cheese don't do the job. Box of fishing gear.
The rods and reels were already packed in saddle holsters designed to carry rifles.
I don't think I left a thing out. Now all we need is the fish.
Lake Jesse would provide.

These happy thoughts were interrupted by the scuff-scuff of the Columbine foreman's boots coming down the lane from Too Late Bridge, which (as might be expected) spanned Too Late Creek, on the far side of which was the foreman's house. To Moon's dismay, the foreman (as might be expected) was in his boots. Not in the mood for any of the cranky old stockman's grim forecasts or whining complaints, the Ute cinched up his saddle. What he had in mind was placing Pete Bushman in the same category of nonentity as Sweet Alice.

The newcomer stopped a yard away from the boss. Waited for the Ute's customary greeting.

Sidewinder regarded the bushy-faced Bushman with the kind of gaze that did not invite a “hello-old-dog” greeting from the uppermost member of the hired-hand food chain.

Being in practice from shunning Sweet Alice, Moon pretended not to see the man.
I know what I forgot—something sweet for dessert. What should I take?

The foreman cleared his throat.

Two cans of peaches and a jar of fried apples.
The Ute nodded to agree with himself.
That'll be just the thing after pan-fried trout.
Tasteful anticipation made his mouth water.

Upping the ante, Pete Bushman coughed.

The taciturn Ute was deaf to this throaty remark.

“Nice mornin',” Bushman observed. A yellow-toothed smirk split the hairy place at the bottom of his face. “Thought I'd drop by and cheer you up.”

Moon muttered. “That'll be the day.”

“Well, as a matter a fact—”

“Stuff a sock in it, Pete.”

The foreman's eyes bulged. “Do
what
?”

“It's a colloquial expression—means I don't want to hear no bad news.” The boss sang in a resonant bass voice: “No-time, from no-body!”

“Well I just wanted to—”

“If we've been invaded from the north and the government of the United States of America is attempting to beat back a swarm of armed-to-the-teeth Canadians, just keep it to yourself. If there's a rip-snortin' tornado twistin' up the lane, I don't want to know about it 'til sometime next week. If the price of beef has dropped fifty percent, you can write me a letter. If the Columbine's entire herd of twelve hundred and forty-one head of Herefords is dead or dyin' from some mysterious ailment, that is a matter for you to deal with.” In case his foreman might not have gotten the drift of this, he added: “Don't you bring up
nothing
that might ruin this fine day.”

“Okay. Whatever you say.” Pete Bushman bit off a plug of Red Man chewing tobacco, tongued it into the hollow of his jaw. “But just to keep the record straight, only eight hundred and ten a them white-faced cattle are on the Columbine.” The hairy-faced old troublemaker chewed with gusto. “The other four hundred and twenty-eight are over yonder on the Big Hat.” He spat onto a flat rock.

Charlie Moon counted up his stock. The foreman's numbers added up to twelve hundred and thirty-eight. Which suggested that three bovine citizens were missing since the Columbine's last census. He was about to demand an account of those that were unaccounted for when he realized Bushman was up to no good.
He's given me a short count just to get me to ask. Well he can stand there waiting until doomsday before I do-die-do!
He winked at his hound, threw back his head, and belted out a line of “Old Blue.”

Sidewinder—who was a good dog too—joined in. On the chorus, of course.

Bushman yelled over the racket: “If you're interested in what happened to them three steers that come down with a bad case a the—”

Without taking the bait or missing a beat, Moon shook his head.

The foreman was not discouraged. If Bushman's middle name had not been Clarence, it might well have been Persistence. And though his wrinkled forehead did not protrude from the pressure of excess frontal lobe tissue, Pete C. Bushman always had another trick up his sleeve. He smiled at the sight of the outlaw horse, who was close enough to Charlie Moon to nibble at his ear. Sweet Alice had crippled up a half-dozen good men before the Ute had tried to ride her last year, and the final big Hoo-Ha had occurred over at the Big Hat—and on a bet of course. Mr. Moon had come within a gnat's whisker of getting himself killed dead. He'd taken that in good humor, like any real cowboy would—but something had happened
after
that to turn him sour on the animal. There were rumors that Moon had tried to ride Sweet Alice a second time, and she'd done something
really
bad that made him plenty mad—but if any of the hired hands knew what it was, they weren't talking, which meant that none of those cowboy gossips had the straight scoop. And of course, the Indian wouldn't say a word about it, but it was a known fact that the soft-hearted fellow had decided to turn the animal loose rather than send her to the dog-food factory over at Pueblo. At first, it had looked like things would work out fine for all concerned. The mare had fallen in with a herd of wild mustangs that wintered on the Big Hat's north pastures. A Mexican fence-rider claimed she'd taken up with a pie-eyed pinto stallion. Maybe the pinto got more than he'd bargained for, or maybe the mean-eyed little outlaw mare decided she didn't like spotted horses. Whatever it was, come spring, Sweet Alice had crossed the Buckhorn Range onto Columbine land, and started socializing with the work horses, passing the time of day in happy horseplay, plus helping herself to several bales of unearned hay.

As if that wasn't more than enough, she'd started hanging around Charlie Moon. In fact, she followed the Ute around like a lost puppy. It was a running joke amongst the four dozen cowboys plus the foreman, who had a forty-nine-dollar pool on how many days it would be before the Ute completely lost his temper and shot the annoying animal right between the eyes with his .357 Magnum revolver. Bushman had reached in the bucket, drawn the scrap of paper that Little Butch had penciled “6 Days” on, and as four days had already passed by with the horse's skull still intact, he had decided to agitate the waters.

While Moon crooned and Sidewinder howled, the foreman chewed on the wad of Red Man, polished up his plan of attack, spat a second time, barely missing a scuttling black beetle who was working hard with all eight legs to get to some urgent appointment. After the final verse, he made an observation: “Looks like you've got some serious ridin' in mind.”

Relieved at this change of subject, Moon nodded his fine John B. Stetson hat.

Bushman's face was as innocent-looking as a face such as his could possibly be, which was somewhere between Gabby Hayes and Fidel Castro. “Expecting some company?”

“Yes I am.” Moon stared at the saddlebag.
Still seems like I've forgot something.

Though he had been fully informed of the upcoming event by his wife, the foreman pretended ignorance. “Well, let me see if I can guess who.” He chewed with thoughtful enthusiasm. “I'd expect one of 'em must be that pretty FBI lady. What's her name now—Molly Fay?”

“Lila Mae.” Moon could not contain the smitten-idiot grin. “Miss McTeague to you.”

“Oh, right.” The foreman effected spit number three, hit a knobby root on the cottonwood tree. “Now let me see. Who's the second guest? Hmmm.” Rapid chewing seemed to vitalize the gray matter. “I bet it'll be that tough copper from Granite Creek—Scotch Parrish.”

“Scott Parris,” Moon said.
I know what I forgot—tartar sauce. I'll bring along a king-size jar.
All fishermen are optimists.

Bushman pulled at his scruffy beard. “But I can't figger who your
third
guest might be. Guess I'll just have to be satisfied with guessin' two of 'em.”

Moon looked over Paducah's saddle at his peculiar foreman. “There's just the two of 'em and me, which adds up to exactly three.” He nodded to indicate the other saddled horses. “Count the mounts, Pete.”

Ha—he walked right into it!
Pointing his finger at each equine in turn, Pete Bushman counted the saddled horses. “One. Two. Three.” He aimed an impertinent digit at the nag's head that was hanging over Moon's shoulder. “Four.”

The Ute's dark face might have been chiseled from stone. “There ain't but
three
horses here.”

Bushman managed to look startled—like a foreman who has just discovered that his employer has lost his senses. “Excuse me, boss—but maybe you ain't noticed that Sweet Alice has been follerin' you around like you had your pockets fulla apples—”

Charlie Moon cranked up the glare to nine hundred watts. His words came out in that no-nonsense monotone the Ute reserved for very serious business. “Pete, if I say that there ain't but three horses here, that's the way it is.”

The crusty foreman shrugged. “All right. I'm just the old, feeble-minded straw-boss a this here outfit. You're the Man. Hey, if you say two-plus-two is three, that's fine by me.”

Moon buckled the straps on the saddlebag. “I'm glad we got that straight.”

Affecting a hurt expression, the foreman turned on his boot heel and stomped away. With his back to the Indian, Pete Bushman felt free to let a smile warm his face.
That outlaw hoss has the boss right on the hairy edge. I wish I'd a drawed
five
days instead a six!

The Call

On his way back from the pantry, Moon was passing through the enormous parlor with two cans of peaches in his left jacket pocket, a jar of fried apples in the right, a sixteen-ounce bottle of tartar sauce in his left hand, a couple of extra Idaho potatoes in the right. On the list of the Ute's Top Ten Culinary Proverbs was—and he lived by such sage sayings—You Can Never Have Too Many Spuds. He heard a pickup door slam outside.
That'll be them.
The telephone rang as he was passing it. Having two too many spuds, Moon paused, secured the pair of root vegetables snugly under his left arm, picked up the receiver. “Columbine Ranch.”

“You don't have to say that every time I call—I
know
which ranch it is.”