The Night Visitor (31 page)

“Sure. A good officer always informs himself about the situation.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, what'n hell are we doin' out here, Charlie?”

The Ute bit into a greasy drumstick. “Watchin'.”

Bignight blinked at the barren landscape. “Watchin' what?”

Moon pointed a chicken bone.

“You mean old Nathan McFain's spread?”

The dark form nodded.

“But Charlie—that ain't Ute land.”

Moon was silent.

“What I mean is—it ain't in our jurisdiction.”

“Well,” Moon said reasonably, “there's been a boundary dispute. For all we know, old Nathan may be squattin' on a little bit of the People's land. And Nathan's not a Ute. Matter of fact, he's one-quarter Navajo. So you see my point.”

Bignight didn't. “Neither am I, Charlie. Not a Ute, I mean.”

Moon nodded thoughtfully. “Nope, but most of the People figure bein' a Taos Pueblo man is almost as good as bein' a Ute.”

Bignight thought about this. Charlie Moon was putting him on again. “So what exactly do we watch for?”

“Whatever.” Moon wadded wrappers from several small cakes and stuffed them into the paper bag. “I'm done watching for the night.” If anything was going to happen it would've happened already. “But you can keep your eyes peeled over thataway.” He nodded in the general direction of the sprawling barn. “You see anything unusual, you wake me up pronto.”

“Unusual?” The Taos Pueblo man did not care for the unusual. “Like what?”

“Like somethin' that shouldn't be out in the middle of the night.”

“You mean like sensible folks?” Bignight said sullenly.

“Right,” Moon said. “But don't you wake me up for any ordinary goings-on.” The big Ute rolled up in his blanket.

Bignight squinted into the darkness. “Whatta you mean, ordinary goings-on?”

“Oh,” Moon said sleepily, “you know. Things a man'd
expect
to see in the middle of the night. Mountain lions. Ghosts. Stuff like that.” That'd keep the Pueblo man awake.

Bignight seated himself on a cold basalt outcropping. Charlie Moon was kidding him again. Hadn't been no mountain lions seen around here for… well, for months. But ghosts… that wasn't funny. Every civilized man knew that ghosts came out at midnight. And walked the earth till the first hint of dawn.

“Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“What with old Nathan bein'… oh, never mind.”

“What's on your mind, Daniel?”

“Well—him bein' part Navajo… I was thinkin' of… well…
skin-walkers.”

“Don't worry yourself about skin-walkers,” Moon said. “McFain's three-quarters Irish. Skin-walkers don't hang around with Irishmen. It'd be more likely a banshee came here with the McFain clan.”

There was a long, pregnant silence, while Moon waited for Bignight's response.

“Charlie… what's a bant-shee?”

“Some kinda spirit. Comes out at night, they say. And screams.”

The Taos Pueblo man felt a coldness stir in his belly. “Screams?”

“Real loud. At least that's what they say.” “Why does it scream, Charlie?”

Moon's smile was hidden in the darkness. “Oh, different reasons. Sometimes it calls for somebody. Hollers out their name.”

Bignight knew he shouldn't ask. “Why does it do that?”

“Because that's a banshee's main job. To call for the one who's gonna die that night. If you hear one callin' my name,
I guess you'd best wake me up. But if it hollers
Daaannnnielll… Daaannnnielll …
why, you can just let me sleep.”

“Oh shit,” Daniel Bignight muttered.

Nathan McFain—though weary as only old men can be—could find no rest on this night. Sleep eluded him. So he lay awake and listened to the silence. The dark world outside was occasionally disturbed by the nocturnal rustling of hunter or prey—and the wind hummed sonorously under the eaves. But the innards of the ranch house seemed unnaturally quiet. He strained to hear a reassuring sound from his daughter's room. The creak of a spring as Vannie moved in her bed.

The old man turned over on his lumpy mattress for the tenth time in as many minutes. Now he lay on his back, looking toward the ceiling. Toward where a ceiling was. Or should be. Into the blackness.

His bones were ready for rest. But his imagination was working overtime.

Charlie Moon, rolled up in his blanket, had slipped into a deep sleep.

Daniel Bignight was more than a little annoyed. Nothing kept Charlie from getting his rest. The big Ute, he imagined, could lay down on a big pile of sharp rocks and sleep through a howling blizzard.

Nathan McFain had left his bed. The old rancher was downstairs, in the parlor. He had slipped on a warm plaid shirt, a pair of brown canvas overalls, a sock hat. Then, with a nervous glance out the window, he buttoned a lined denim jacket. He thought of pulling on a pair of socks and his comfortable old leather boots, then decided that the wool-lined moccasins would be sufficient. Such a small matter this seemed. Certainly not a decision that would seal a man's fate.

Nathan turned the doorknob. It squeaked. Made enough noise to raise the dead.

Raise the dead.

Not a healthy thought, the Navajo part of his soul whispered.

Vanessa McFain sat on the edge of the bed; she stared out her bedroom window. And saw nothing. She leaned back against the headboard and closed her eyes. And listened to the old clock on the wall.

The tarnished brass pendulum swung.

Back and forth.

Tic.

Clac.

Tic.

Clac.

Like a skeleton's heartbeat.

Ever so gradually… running down.

Why had Daddy gone outside? What on earth was he
doing
out there?

Nathan McFain stood by the half-finished pond, and surveyed his earthly realm.

The breeze was still now. No deer grazed in the pasture. There were no foxes slipping about. No distant call of coyote or owl. The quiet was tangible… almost oppressive.

The Taos Pueblo man had—despite Charlie Moon's talk about ghosts and “bant-shees”—gradually managed to relax. Moreover, the Ute's rhythmic snoring was making his comrade sleepy. Gradually, Daniel Bignight leaned forward. The SUPD officer blinked. And yawned. And yawned again. Within moments, Bignight's eyes closed. Almost immediately, he began to walk through his dreams. There were many nice things there. Fat beagle-hounds. Candy canes. And Christmas …

And then… as if at the edge of a nightmare… he heard something.

Daniel Bignight sat up with a sudden jerk that popped the bad vertebrae in his neck.

“What'n hell was
that?”
he whispered. Must've been dreaming.
That damn Charlie Moon and his ghost stories …
he's got me hearing things.
He squinted. No. It was not his imagination. Something had moved. Down there in Nathan's pasture. Close to the barn. Might just be one of Nathan's horses. Might not …

And then Daniel Bignight heard it again. The low, moaning wail… calling to him.

The old rancher felt eyes staring at him.

But that was foolishness. Childish foolishness. And he was no child.

And then he felt it… a hand. Icy-cold fingers. Grasping his bare ankle.

Vanessa was certain she'd heard something. Something outside.

She pulled a robe over her shoulders and headed downstairs.

Nathan McFain stumbled across the pasture like a wild man. He tripped, fell to his knees. In a moment he was back on his feet, pumping his old legs as fast as limbs and lungs would permit. Every breath was a stab of cold steel in his heaving chest; spittle ran down his chin and froze on his white beard—the sound of his heavy boots echoed across the frozen earth. The rancher had no idea which way he was running… until he fell headlong into the canvas wall of the tent. He felt his way along the coarse fabric until he found the door, fumbled desperately with the latch, and fairly threw his body inside this shelter. Like a rabbit evading a hungry coyote.

He sat there in the darkness, quaking like a small child.

Daniel Bignight was on his feet. He'd completely forgotten about Charlie Moon. He was not thinking about his duty as an officer. The policeman was not thinking at all.

He was operating on instinct alone.

The panicked Taos Pueblo man was focused on a single, overriding goal, which occupied his whole mind. Getting far away from here.

*  *  *

Charlie Moon—who had been enjoying a dreamless slumber—was rudely awakened. Something heavy had fallen across him. He looked up and saw the familiar profile of Bignight's round head. The Ute policeman pushed himself up on one elbow. “Daniel?”

The Taos Pueblo man's eyes were wild white spots in his dark face. He was breathing in short gasps, attempting to get to his feet.

“Daniel, what's got into you?”

This question—with its hint of reproach—calmed Bignight slightly. Enough that he found his voice.

“It's that damn bant-shee, Charlie… screamin' at me!”

Nathan McFain had managed to calm himself somewhat. But he was a divided man. The sensible, Irish portion of his soul knew he'd been a fool to let his imagination run away with him like that. Could've fallen and broke a leg.
Then where would I've been? In a damn bad fix, that's where.
But the quarter of Nathan that was Navajo could still feel the cold fingers on his ankle.

He pushed himself to his feet, but was disoriented in the total blackness inside the tent. Wondering where that damn light switch was. He had to get out of here. The rancher stood very still in the darkness. And thought his thoughts. Everything had started going bad when that whirlwind showed up in the pasture. And uncovered that cursed elephant's tusk. He could see it clearly now. Those damn old elephant bones—they'd been the beginning of all his bad luck. The dream of a museum—like all his earlier notions—had been foolishness. There would be no hordes of well-heeled tourists flocking way out here and paying hard cash to see some crumbling old bones. Not with a big-time attraction like Mesa Verde just a couple of hours down the road. Yes, he'd been a fool. But there was a way to fix things. Nathan said it out loud.

“I'll run these damn eggheaded professors offa my land. Tear down this plug-ugly tent. Get the 'dozer over here and cover up these old bones once and for all.”

It seemed that a cold presence drifted near to him. Imagination, perhaps.

Nathan clenched his fists… didn't dare to breathe. There was no sound. Not a thing to see in the darkness. No whiff of the scent of man or animal.

But he sensed the icy presence… just like he'd felt it up by the barn.

His old heart began to thump under his ribs. He could actually hear its ragged beat. But he would not panic again. No sir. He was Nathan McFain, half grizzly bear, half buffalo, and three-quarters rattlesnake. He'd killed three men in his time, two of 'em with his bare hands. “No,” he said aloud. “I won't be skeered. Not of any damned spook.” He reached into his pocket and found a cigarette lighter. His hand trembled. He had to make enough light to find the confounded electric switch. With light, the thing that wasn't actually there anyhow would go away.

He raised the lighter.

Flicked the wheel.

Tiny sparks flew to the wetted wick.

A small flame burst to life, and illuminated his craggy face.

The fire also illuminated another face… not a yard from his own.

The old man tried to call out, but managed only a dry, croaking gasp. One hand went to his chest. Unconsciously, he took a faltering step backward.

The pale, bewhiskered face seemed to float in front of him.

He backed away another step.

Another.

Nathan's heel slipped over a crumbling precipice. He felt himself falling backward. He felt a single, thudding blow to his back… a very brief pain.

And then… nothing.

Daniel Bignight—though embarrassed by his unseemly panic and clumsy attempt at flight—was also annoyed with Charlie Moon's questions. The Taos Pueblo man became morose and sullen; he refused to say another word about the “bant-shee.” He did tell his superior officer that somebody had run hell-for-leather
across the pasture. Whoever it was, he thought, had gone into the big tent.

Charlie Moon advised his subordinate that he would go to the tent to check it out. Much to Bignight's relief, he was instructed by Moon to remain on the low bluff.

The Ute policeman made his way down the jumble of basalt boulders and crossed Nathan McFain's barbed-wire fence. But he did not hurry. No telling who might be in the tent. Man'd have to be a fool to go busting right in the door. In a broad path across the pasture, there were dozens of footprints in the snow. Many headed away from the tent, as many toward it. No way—at least in the darkness—to tell whether someone had recently passed this way.

Moon squatted. To make a smaller target in case the somebody in there was armed.

“Hello inside,” he called. “This is Officer Moon. Southern Ute Police.”

His answer was a dead, unnerving silence.

He moved a dozen paces away, removed a small radio transmitter from a belt holster. He clicked the transmit button three times.

Bignight's voice crackled in the tiny speaker. “Charlie?”

He spoke softly into the microphone. “I'm goin' inside the tent. You hear any commotion, first you call Ignacio for help. Then you get down here and back me up.”

“Charlie, I don't think you should—”

Moon switched the transmitter off. He moved to the rear of the tent, which was a scant yard from the barbed-wire fence. He slid—as quietly as possible—under the edge of the canvas structure. With no light from moon or stars, the darkness was complete. It was like being inside a coal mine. The policeman kneeled with his back to the canvas and tried to remember every detail of the layout. The major excavation trench would be directly in front of him. Some smaller exploratory trenches off to his left, mostly refilled with dirt. But still deep enough for a man to hide in. Or for a policeman to fall and break a leg in. He found a small flashlight in his coat pocket and held it in his left hand. He used his right to ease the heavy .357 magnum from its leather holster.