The Old Gray Wolf (12 page)

It did, and hit bottom. His brow furrowing into a worry frown, Ray Smithson seated his lanky frame on an uncomfortable straight-backed oak kitchen chair that he kept by the telephone for long conversations. “I'm listening.”

“Here's the thing—Francine has a history of getting even with cops who kill her kinfolk—and LeRoy was her only son. So I had a hunch that she'd call in some heavy heat. The
heaviest
. And somebody that she's contracted before.” Dramatic pause. “I'm talking about the same executioner who's rumored to have killed a Chicago police detective for Francine—the one the FBI calls ‘the Cowboy Assassin.'”

“The
what
?”

“Oh, Granddaddy—you are so
out
of it!”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you.” The retired lawman grinned at his image of an exasperated granddaughter. “I've never heard of no cowboy—”

“He's not necessarily an
actual
cowboy—the FBI hung that tag on the assassin after a witness saw someone wearing a cowboy hat leaving the scene of a gangland execution in Newark.”

“All hat, no cattle.” The old Texan chuckled.

Pointedly ignoring the gibe, Louella continued, “And the feds found what looked like cowboy-boot impressions at the scene of two other mob-related killings—one in Gary, Indiana, the other near Detroit. This Have Gun—Will Travel is a deadly Mr. Get-Even who's paid big bucks to rub out mob enemies.”

“You seem to know a lot about this particular outlaw.”

“Sure I do—and that's what'll help me track him down and collect over
two hundred thousand
bucks in reward money when he's arrested, charged, indicted, and found guilty by a jury of his peers.” Louella smiled at the thought of a panel of twelve citizen-assassins hearing the case against Cowboy. “Not to mention finding a major publisher for my red-hot book about how I tracked down and identified a legendary killer for hire that the FBI couldn't lay a finger on.”

Despite an understandable pride in his gutsy granddaughter's ambitions, Ray Smithson felt obliged to offer a snort of the derisive sort. “You've been watching too many back-East cops-and-robber shows on the TV.”

“You think so?” Louella's voice was slightly shrill. “Well, think about this: while I'm wasting time begging you for a teensy-weensy little favor, Cowboy is probably already on his way to Granite Creek to pull off a couple of cop killings. And I not only know that he's driving a Ford sedan with Oklahoma plates—
I got a look at the assassin's face
.” She blushed at the exaggeration.
Well, sort of.

This reference to some thug in a western hat murdering brother lawmen made Ray Smithson's stomach churn. “Did you get a good enough look to pick the suspect out of a police lineup?”

“Well … maybe.”
And maybe pigs can fly.

Ray Smithson closed his gray eyes.
With a little bit of luck, Mr. Cowboy is headed back to Oklahoma to work on his memoirs.
“I hope you're wrong, Ellie—because if you're right, you're likely to get yourself into some seriously bad trouble.”

“You worry too much.”

“You don't worry enough. I've got a bad feeling about this, Little Miss Smart-Britches—now you be extra careful.”

This sage warning was met with the expected girlish laugh and the assurance that she knew how to take care of herself. To this confident assertion, Louella Smithson appended a ten-year-old girl's “please please
please
” request: would her favorite granddaddy in the whole wide world place a call to the chief of police in Granite Creek and portray his favorite granddaughter as an up-and-coming true-crime author? “But don't mention anything about Cowboy—I'll take care of that part myself.”

“Okay.” As he sometimes did when flustered, Ray Smithson reverted to his West Texas lingo: “But if this Okie cowpuncher is comin' a-gunnin' for those two Colorado cops, they oughta be told right away—”

“No! Don't you dare say a word. I need your help, not your interference.” A pause. “I'm sorry, Granddaddy. I didn't mean to yell at you—but this is really, really important to me.”

“I know.”

“Besides, Cowboy'll need a few days to set up the hits and I'll show up about the same time he does. And I promise you—if for any reason I'm running late, I'll call the chief of police and tell him all about the killer who's coming to town. But if you spill the beans before I show up, there's always the chance they might arrest Cowboy without any help from me—and take all the credit.”

“Well … I suppose they might.”
And I sure hope they do.

She read the old lawman's mind. “Promise me.”

“I promise I'll call the Granite Creek PD—and not tell them any more than is absolutely necessary.”

“Thank you, Granddaddy.” This was not quite the ironclad promise she wanted, but Louella realized that she had pushed her formidable grandfather about as far as he would go. “Now will you please please
please
make the telephone call
right this minute
—before you wander off to your favorite fishing hole and forget all about it?”

“I'm not quite as senile as you think I am.” The world-weary old man shook his head at the image of his impudent, imprudent, adorably lovable granddaughter.
One way or another, I know I'm going to regret getting mixed up in this nonsense.
“I'll make the call to Granite Creek PD right after I dial up Information and get a number for the police station.”

Another laugh. She informed him that there was no need for that.

After the old man had found the stub of a yellow number-2 lead pencil and the back of an AARP Insurance envelope to scribble on, Miss Louella Smithson recited the GCPD telephone number for her favorite granddaddy—and the names of the lawmen (“Parris with two
r
s”) who were responsible for the death of the purse snatcher.

“I've never heard of this Parris cop.” A hint of his former smile returned. “But I've sure heard tell of Mr. Charlie Moon.”

“Wonderful. Now please call Chief Parris right away.”

“Consider it done.”

“Love you, Granddaddy.” Kiss-kiss sounds. “Talk to you later.”

The sudden silence aching in his ear, the old man blinked twice at the plastered wall before he rehung the telephone.
She's the last family I've got in the world—I'd sure hate to wake up some morning to hear the phone ringing—and some stranger's voice telling me my little Ellie has been shot dead by some Okie outlaw.

Ex-Ranger Ray Smithson pulled a sealed pack of unfiltered cigarettes from his shirt pocket and stared at it.
I've been carrying this around for almost a month.
Defeated, he opened the pack, removed a white cylinder, put it between his lips, and touched a butane lighter to the tip. Inhaling deeply of his drug of choice, he immediately coughed up a lungful of carcinogenic smoke.
If something else don't put me six feet under first, these damn cancer sticks are going to be the death of me.
The nicotine addict tossed the offending cigarette into the fireplace, and then the pack from his pocket. The smoker's melancholy sigh might have been a dry, West Texas breeze drifting over the parched prairie.
This ain't no way for a man to live. Aside from a cigarette now and again, about the only enjoyment I get out of life is from going fishing
. The retiree took a long, hopeful look at his open tackle box.
And from talking with Ellie every few months.
But there had been little pleasure in today's conversation.
Now my granddaughter has asked me to withhold important information from a brother lawman.

Every once in a while a man has a critical choice to make, but Smithson had spent a lifetime
doing the right thing
and he was not about to change. The old-timer made up his mind to just do what came naturally. Like telling that Colorado chief of police what he needed to know about a cop killer who might already be on his way to Granite Creek. Which would be a pleasure unadulterated by the least regret. Smithson grinned.
Any hombre behind a tin star who kills a purse snatcher and then laughs about it is my kind of lawman.

After he made the phone call to Scott Parris, the ardent angler would have another easy decision to make.
I can either go fishing, or … go fishing.

And so he would, bless his honest soul.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

PARRIS AND MOON GO ROLLING HOME

Their fun in Pueblo concluded but still relished like the sweet aftertaste of a favorite dessert, the off-duty lawmen were a mere six miles shy of the Granite Creek city-limits sign and motoring along about as happily as a pair of best friends can. How happily is that?

Chief Parris (the beefy fellow behind the Columbine Expedition's steering wheel) was bellowing at the top of his lung power, and Deputy Moon (the skinny Indian in the passenger seat) was booming out about as loud in a range somewhere between bass and baritone, all the while plucking like a pro (which he is) at his Stelling Golden Cross twanging five-string banjo. (“The Yellow Rose of Texas.”)

This unadulterated cheerfulness continued for about three miles more and about as many minutes, before the boisterous singing and red-hot banjo plucking ceased.

WILL
HE
REALLY
DO
IT
?

Homeward bound and close to town, the celebration of Charlie Moon's big decision was about to wind down. It is worth mentioning that while the rancher's joy was unconditional, for Scott Parris the festivities were more than a little bittersweet

The man who was driving Moon's SUV sighed. “Charlie, can I ask you a really personal question that'll probably annoy you no end?”

“Nope. Don't even think about it.”

“Okay, here it is: are you
really
gonna go through with it?”

“Sure I am.”
I should've done it years ago.
The musician rested the stringed musical instrument on his knee. “It's high time I made a big change in my life, and this is the right decision.”

“Well … maybe so.” To emphasize his doubts, Scott Parris shook his head. “You know that old saying: ‘If it ain't broke, don't fix it.' And the way I see it, you've already got yourself a mighty good setup. You own maybe the finest ranch in the state, and—”

“There's no
maybe
about it, pardner. No other cattle operation in Colorado can hold a candle to the Columbine.”

“Which just goes to prove my point.” Parris crossed over the center line to pass an old, rusty pickup loaded with split piñon firewood. “The main point I was going to make is that you're a free man—you're your own boss.”

“And I still will be when I settle down on that nice little horse ranch on the Gunnison. And since I don't intend to make any serious money by raising a little string of rodeo stock, that outfit will be even better than the Columbine. I won't have any hardheaded employees to give me the miseries.” The Indian grinned at his best friend. “No man who has a cranky foreman, an unpredictable blacksmith, and about four dozen wild-eyed cowboys on the payroll is his own boss—he only
thinks
he is.”

Parris snorted. “You know what I mean.”

“Sure I do,” Moon said with a boyish grin. “But I'm going to be a happier man than I've ever been.”

“For a few weeks, maybe.” The chief of police looked in the rearview mirror at the firewood truck.
I don't think that old Chevy pickup had a license plate.
But it didn't matter.
I'm off duty and aim to stay that way until tomorrow morning.
He gave Moon a sly sideways glance. “I'm afraid you'll wake up some fine morning and say, ‘I should have listened to ol' Scott when he tried to talk some sense into my head—what was I
thinking
? I had a life of perfect freedom—not to mention considerable stature as owner of the finest ranch in Colorado. But what did I do when things was just peachy? Why, I sold my ranch to a bunch of Reno hotshots and got myself all wrapped up in this dinky little horse ranch that don't make a thin dime, not to mention that I went and got me a—'”

“Don't mention it.”

“Whatever you say.” Parris suppressed a mischievous grin that was trying hard to twist his lips. “But I bet you'll be having second thoughts.” He counted off three heartbeats. “Within three months of closing the deal.”

Though his buddy's strategy was entirely transparent, the least hint of a wager was irresistible to the compulsive gambler. “Don't keep me in suspense, Mr. High-Roller—how much do you want to lose?”

“Two bucks?”

“Hah! Is that the best you can do?”

“Okay.” Parris jutted his chin. “Twenty.”

“Now that's more like it.” The Ute twanged a banjo string. “You're on.”

As the instigator of the wager eased the Expedition into light Granite Creek traffic, a comfortable silence settled between the good friends.

This peaceful interlude would not persist, and all because (wouldn't you just know it) someone's mobile telephone had been signaled to warble a familiar tone and alert the chief of police that his dispatcher had something of importance to tell him. Did Scott Parris respond? Not a chance. When the boss was on vacation, so was his mobile telephone, which was turned off. This sensible precaution was to prove futile. No matter how hard he tries to hide on his day off, an experienced dispatcher knows where to find the chief, and how to get his ear.

Deputy Moon's phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Charlie's day off, too, so Scott Parris's trusty sidekick checked the caller ID before taking the call. “It's Clara.”