The Old Gray Wolf (13 page)

“Don't answer it!” the chief of police snapped.

Deputy Moon assumed a virtuous expression. “I feel obliged to.”

Parris shot a hateful glare at his fun-loving buddy. “Why?”

“Well, for one thing—me'n Clara Tavishuts are members of the same tribe. And for another—”

“Oh, go ahead then. But tell your fellow spear chucker that I'm not here. If she don't believe that, tell her that I'm stone-cold dead.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” The deputy pressed the button. “Hello, Clara.”

Miss Tavishuts helloed Charlie Moon back, and asked to speak to the chief of police if he was close at hand.

“Sorry I can't help you, ma'am—Scott said to tell you he's not here and if you don't believe that fabrication—that he's ‘stone-cold dead.'”

Granite Creek's top cop groaned.

The dispatcher laughed, and proceeded to give Charlie Moon the general lowdown.

“Sure, I know who he is.”
That tough old lawman's famous in Texas and has a big rep all over the Rocky Mountain west.

“He's holding on long distance, Charlie—would you mind giving your phone to Chief Parris?”

“I'll be more than happy to.” Moon passed the instrument to his companion. “It's for you, pardner.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, the driver pressed the infernal machine against his ear. “I'm driving Charlie Moon's big gas hog, so it ain't legal for me to be talking on a mobile telephone— Goodbye!”

“I promise not to tell a cop,” Clara Tavishuts said. She added in a no-nonsense tone, “But just to set a good example, you ought to pull over and come to a complete stop.”

Muttering a curse, Parris pulled over to the curb. (A yellow-painted curb, beside a shiny red fireplug and a prominent No Parking sign.) “What's up, Clara?”

Miss Tavishuts responded in her professional monotone, “You've got a phone call from a Mr. Ray Smithson in Texas.”

“Ray Smithson, huh?” Parris's brow wrinkled into a frown.
I'm sure I've heard that name before; maybe he's somebody I know.

“Mr. Smithson says it's urgent that he speak to you, and he sounds like a solid citizen— Uh-oh, I've got a 911 call flashing on line three. May I patch him through to Charlie's cell phone?”

“Sure—put 'im on.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE EX-TEXAS RANGER'S REQUEST

The old man's voice that crackled in Scott Parris's ear was not familiar. “Chief Parris—this is Ray Smithson. I'm calling from my place out west of Plainview, Texas.… I'm a retired lawman.”

Parris was stunned.
Of course—the legendary Texas Ranger!

Louella Smithson's granddaddy waited for a response. “Say—can you hear me okay?”

“Yes
sir
—copy you loud and clear.”
Wow—this is like getting a call from Wyatt Earp!
Not quite, but Parris's hyperbole was understandable.

“I expect you're a busy man, so I'll try to keep this short.”

“Take as long as you like, sir.”

“Thank you kindly, but I don't have a lot of wind left these days. I guess I still smoke too many cigarettes”—the caller paused for a raspy cough—“so I'll just tell you that my granddaughter Ellie—her given name is
Louella
Smithson, and years ago when she left Plainview for Kansas City, she started calling herself ‘Ella.' Sorry, I guess I've already gotten off the track. Point is, even as we speak, Ellie's on her way to Granite Creek. She should show up in a day or two.”

I wonder what this is all about.
“I hope she enjoys her visit.”

“I hope so too, but Ellie has some business to tend to.”

Parris didn't like the sound of that. “What kind of business?”

“A law-enforcement issue that she's interested in. Since I used to wear a badge, my granddaughter figured it might help some if I called and introduced her to you.” Smithson's croaky chuckle betrayed a mild embarrassment. “She figures that an intro from a brother lawman might help her get started off on the right foot—if you know what I mean.”

“Uh, yes sir.” Parris thought he knew exactly what his “brother lawman” meant.
He wants me to entertain his granddaughter while she's in town. Show her around. Take her out to dinner. The whole ball of beeswax.
A mild frown found its way to his brow.
What a bummer.
But he couldn't say no. “Can you tell me where Miss Smithson will be staying?”

“No. But I expect she'll be calling you soon as she gets there—to set up a meeting.”

“Not a problem, sir.” Parris blushed at this half-truth.

“I sure appreciate it. Ellie is awfully anxious to talk to you.”

Parris's frown furrowed deeper. “About what in particular?”

After an embarrassed pause, Smithson said, “My granddaughter's writing a true-crime book and she figures you might be able to help her.”

I might've known: folks who don't have anything better to do write dopey books or call radio talk shows ten times a day—or find some other way to make a general nuisance of themselves
. “Uh—help her how?”

“Oh, I expect she'll want a few pointers about modern police procedure—that kind of thing. But Ellie doesn't want me to discuss her
personal
business.”

“She prefers to tell me about it herself?”

“Well … let's say
up to a point
.” Ray Smithson's wry smile could be heard in his voice. “But that gal knows how to keep her secrets. And me, I've promised to keep mum … more or less … if you understand what I'm gettin' at.”

Parris did. “Would it help if I pressed you a little?”

“Nope—my lips are stapled shut.” The old man's grin was as loud as a jumbo firecracker at 2:00
A.M.
“But if it'll make you feel any better, go ahead and give it your best shot.”

“All right.” Parris cleared his throat and repeated Smithson's earlier question to his granddaughter. “What's she really up to?”

“Oh, I couldn't tell you
that
—but I will go so far as to say that I'm a little bit worried.” There was a brief silence while he tried to think of the best way to put it. “Ellie's smart as a whip, but she tends to be headstrong and overconfident—a combination that's likely to get her into some trouble. I'd sure appreciate it if you'd kinda keep an eye on her.”

“I'll do my best.” Parris glanced sideways at Moon's dark profile. “Without any direct reference to her personal business in Granite Creek, might I ask what line of work your granddaughter's involved in—besides writing books?”

“You might at that, and I'm glad you did.” The sly old Texan's voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “Ellie pays the rent by tracing missing persons. But what she really wants to do is become a big-time bounty hunter.”

“You telling me she's tracking some seriously bad actor?”

“No, I'm not tellin' you anything of the sort—and I'm also not telling you that Ellie figures this bad actor is headed directly for your fair city—and that he'll probably show up in a couple of days.”

Uh-oh.
“I hope she's wrong about that.”

“You and me both. And I'd never think of telling you that tracking the rascal down and writing about her experience in a book ain't enough for Ellie, or that she's hoping to help you arrest this criminal and then collect a big reward when he's put in the lockup for good.”

Big uh-oh.
“Bounty hunting is a dangerous profession.”

“Yes it is.” A discreet pause. “I sure hope you won't ask me
who
Ellie thinks she's following to Granite Creek and
why
she figures he's gonna show up in your jurisdiction.”

“I wouldn't even think of inquiring, sir. But if you happen to drop a small hint, I'd be a danged fool to ignore it.”

“Oh, I'm not likely to do a thing like that. My high-strung granddaughter would throw a hissy fit if I happened to mention that this fella she's hoping to make a big rep on is a sure-enough bad outlaw who's already murdered a Chicago police officer in cold blood.”

The ex-Chicago cop grimaced. “I can see why you wouldn't want to bring up a thing like that.”

“Then you'll appreciate why I can't say a word about how Ellie thinks that he's comin' a-gunnin' for you and your buddy.”

More than a little taken aback, Parris blinked at the Expedition windshield where plump, plopping snowflakes were beginning to make wet spots. “Uh … which buddy is that?”

“Why, Mr. Moon, your deputy—who else? And I'd appreciate you not asking me any more questions, Chief Parris. I've already said too much.”

“Yes sir.”

“And there's no need to ‘sir' me every time you open your mouth, young feller—I'm just a wobbly old cowboy with one boot at the edge of an open grave and the other on a nanner peel. Call me Ray.”

“Understood.”
Sir.
“And you can call me Scott.”

“Agreed.”

“Just one last thing, sir—uh, Ray—could you describe the vehicle Miss Smithson is driving?”

“I can, unless she's traded that gas hog in. The last time she stopped by my place, Ellie was in her rusty old Bronco. And I'm not talking about one of those lightweights that Ford rolled off the assembly line; Ellie rolls around in one of them big brutes, an '88 or '89. Blue and white. Spare tire mounted on the tailgate. Oh, and Missouri plates.”

“Thanks.” Parris had committed the information to memory. “And don't you worry about a thing. I'll call you when your granddaughter shows up, so you'll know she got here okay.”

“I owe you one, Scott.” A wheezing cough. “But don't bother to telephone me—I won't be at home. I'm about to set off on my last fishing trip before serious winter sets in down here. I'll ring you up in a few days to find out how Ellie's getting along.” A pause. “Well, it's almost suppertime—I got to go burn me some beans and bacon. G'bye for now.”

“Goodbye, Ranger Smithson.”
Sir.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE DEPUTY HAS OTHER PLANS

After Scott Parris had returned the telephone to Moon, he pulled out of the illegal parking spot. Motoring along toward the center of town, the chief of police recited the essentials of Ray Smithson's end of the conversation to Charlie Moon, including the description of Miss Louella Smithson's SUV.

As was his practice when listening to bad news, the taciturn Ute held his silence until his friend was done. And then some.

Which silence irked Parris. “Well, what do you think of them apples?”

Moon took some additional time to roll the thing over in his mind. Finally: “I think I'm only a part-time deputy. I'll do whatever comes up if it's reasonable. When push comes to shove, I'll shoot bank robbers dead, pull drunk drivers over and throw their ignition keys into the ditch—I'll even put a ticket on a nun who spits on the sidewalk if she gives me any nasty backtalk. But looking after visiting authors who play at bounty hunting is way beyond my pay grade.”

“What about this bad outlaw who might be comin' to town to rub us out?”

“If and when this Mr. Eraser shows up, pard—you let me know so's I can keep out of sight.”

The thought of Charlie Moon hiding from a bad guy made Parris's big face split into a toothy grin. As a young lady jaywalked across Copper Street while chatting into her cell phone, he stomped on the brake and scowled under his bushy brows.
What do these kids use for brains—steamed cauliflower?
“You figure this Miss Smithson is some kind of airhead who sees a crazed killer behind every boulder and bush?”

“No I don't.” Moon smiled at the oblivious youth who was snarling both lanes of traffic. “But it's possible that this so-called true-crime author specializes in romantic fiction.”

When the citizen with the cell phone was on the sidewalk, Parris pulled away. “Is this your way of hinting that you don't intend to help me escort our guest around town?”

“That's about the size of it, pard.”

The chief of police assumed a sad expression. “That cuts deep—my straight-arrow deputy copping out on me.”

“I need to get used to not being a cop anymore.” Mr. Moon beamed like the brightest moonbeam you ever saw. “With all the spare time I'll have on my hands, I intend to concentrate on activities I really enjoy—like raising fine quarter horses, winning twenty-dollar bets, and making lively music.” Parris's longtime sidekick hit another lick on his stringed instrument. But the whole truth be told, the man who was looking forward to the biggest and best-ever change in his life had something far more important to do than raise horses, win wagers, and pluck banjo strings.

Scott Parris did not disapprove of Moon's intent, but he had not expected his friend to make the big plunge right away. In his experience, the Indian tended to mull over major decisions for a long while. A month at least. Sometimes a whole year.

What had inspired Charlie Moon to make his move so suddenly? Only a confirmed cynic would suggest that it was the twenty-dollar wager with Parris. Possibly because he was stimulated by the present conversation, the Ute was suddenly accosted by one of those pesky “inner voices” that gets us into so much trouble:

Do it
now,
before you chicken out!

Mr. Moon nodded.
Right. I'll do it tonight
. On the other hand, it was getting late in the day.
Tomorrow will be okay.
He mouthed his next thought in a whisper: “That'll give me some time to think just how to go about it.”