The Old Gray Wolf (26 page)

Now, to the issue of the gentleman's being
named
. The proprietor of the shop had a compulsive habit of dubbing strangers with fitting nicknames, especially those who appeared unlikely to identify themselves. This one was dead easy.
Howdy, Old Gray Wolf.
Noting that the newcomer did not doff his five-hundred-dollar cowboy hat right off the bat, Eddie marked him right off as a real-McCoy cowboy—and well heeled at that.

After sizing up the locals like the seasoned sizer-upper he was, Old Gray Wolf selected an empty chair between a pair of talkative customers and settled in for the wait without so much as a nod to the locals. In a barbershop in Denver, Colorado Springs—or even Pueblo—someone might have thought it just slightly unusual that the stern-looking elderly gentleman had hardly a word to say. But savvy out-of-towners who show up in such out-of-the way watering holes as Granite Creek generally do not speak unless spoken to. A discreet silence is particularly adhered to in old-fashioned barbershops where more than four dozen soap mugs are displayed on unpainted pine shelves, each one with a regular customer's name painted on it.

True to Fast Eddie's expectations, this steely-eyed hombre hadn't come to town to talk. The cowboy was on a drop-dead-serious mission, and fishing for information—which made it necessary to
listen
. After the old-timer had heard enough, Eddie supposed he'd know what to do next.

But, in the interests of full disclosure, it shall be noted that every once in a while the taciturn westerner did nod at an interesting remark, or grunt his agreement with a local know-it-all's assertion—and three or four times Old Gray Wolf even uttered a word or two. Carefully contrived nods, grunts, and utterings were among his crafty means of encouraging the line of talk in a specific direction. Other artful ploys included an inquisitive tilt of his head, a slightly arched brow, or, when called for—a doubtful frown.

The talkative local at his left elbow turned out to be Happy Billy Ryan, a clinically depressed real-estate agent who had not made a sale in more than fourteen months. To Ryan's keen nose for prospects, the stranger smelled like freshly minted cash money—and Ryan's hopeful eyes saw a man who ought to own a fine, Granite Creek County ranch.

The gabber on the Old Gray Wolf's right turned out to be semiretired (formerly full-time professional loafer) “Big” Matt Bass, a 250-pound talking machine who had conversations with himself when there were no other ears around to bend. Bass figured the stranger was attending one of the two big meetings in town, and though the taciturn man might be a rancher, Bass opined that the lanky old feller was most likely a senior brand inspector. The kind that shoots a suspected cattle rustler right between the eyes and then inquires about why that Bar-Triple-X burned into the Hereford's hide looks an awful lot like it used to be a W-over-M Panhandle brand. Bass was about to open his mouth and make an astute observation on the subject of cattle thievery when.…

Happy Billy Ryan got in the first word. And quite a few more after that. After some innocuous remarks about the weather (which could be worse), and the grass on the vast prairies west of town (not bad for this time of year), the die-hard salesman broached the subject of how prices were down on rangeland now and how—if you knew whom to deal with—there were a half dozen prime spreads that could be had for a
song
.

Not at all averse to the realtor's transparent attempt to fleece him, the OGW applied his considerable talent to steering this one-sided conversation toward the biggest, finest ranch in Granite Creek County.

Happy Billy Ryan, who had no idea of Charlie Moon's recent thoughts about selling the fabled Columbine—much less that the Ute rancher had actually received an offer—opined (sagely) that Moon's big ranch was not on the market, nor ever likely to be as long as that Indian cowboy was forked-end down. On the other hand, the middleman seller of land had a “feeling” that Charlie Moon might be willing to part with the Big Hat, and at a fair price.

While Ryan was sucking in a breath, Matt Bass used the opportunity to slip a word in edgewise, informing the stranger that “Ol' Charlie Moon has just moved his foreman Pete Bushman and Pete's wife Dolly over to the Big Hat.”

This was news to the real estate agent, but he'd inhaled a double lungful of innervating mountain air and he expelled its good effect with: “The only reason I can think of for Charlie doin' that, Matt—is that he's fixing the place up to put on the market.”

Seeing some sense in that, Matt Bass nodded his shaggy head. “Pete and Dolly Bushman are too long in the tooth to run a spread the size of the Big Hat.”

Happy Billy Ryan: “And they're practically like mom and dad to Ol' Charlie. He'd trust them to spruce the place up some—maybe even show the Big Hat to potential buyers.”

“Hmm,” saith the Old Gray Wolf.

Ecstatic with this response, Billy Ryan touched his nose with a knowledgeable forefinger. “You can take it from me, mister—that smaller ranch will have a For Sale sign tacked on it come next month.” More slyly still, and in a hoarse whisper that everyone in the barbershop could hear: “If you're interested in a buy of a lifetime, you just say the word. I'll check into it and get back to you.”

The object of the pitch shrugged. Land was something the mark already had enough of, but he was interested in anything that had to do with Deputy Moon, Chief of Police Parris—and Miss Louella Smithson.

Smelling opportunity like a hound who's caught the scent of a fresh hambone, the desperate realtor kept right at it. Comfortable in his supporting role, Matt Bass piped up now and then. Within a few minutes, other locals were offering helpful and informative commentary.

By the time he'd finally eased his bony, rail-thin frame into Fast Eddie's plushy chair, the recent arrival had learned quite a lot about Mr. Moon's holdings and acquaintances, almost as much about Scott Parris, plus some spotty information about what was going on in Granite Creek—particularly during the past week. Removing his hat, the Old Gray Wolf passed it to the barber with the terse instruction: “Crown down, if you please.”

“Yes sir.” Eddie placed the expensive lid on a small oak table provided for those finicky customers who did not hang their hats on pegs. The Stetson was placed brim-up—so that all the old cowboy's luck wouldn't spill out. Pleased with this courtesy, the customer made his next request in a voice that was smooth as a ribbon of Japanese silk: “Would you mind turning me so I can see the street?”

“Not a problem, sir.” Eddie rotated the chair ninety degrees. “How's that?”

“Fine.” The senior citizen watched a pretty lass pass by, tugged along by a black toy poodle wearing a yellow collar with tiny red lights that blinked. “Just a light trim will do.”

“Right. D'you want your eyebrows trimmed?”

“No, thank you.” The flinty eyes under the bushy brows glinted. “You can thin my sideburns some, but don't square 'em off at the bottom—I tend to that chore myself.”

“Yes sir.”
And you figure I might trim one sideburn higher than the other
. Fast Eddie was a world-class talker, but a shrewd barber knows at a glance which strangers to chat up and when to hold his tongue.
This old-timer looks like a sure-enough hardcase.

Right on, Eddie. If the aged cowboy (and he was an actual rope-twirling, bronco-busting son of a gun) had been the sort of loudmouthed, swaggering desperado who carved notches into the grips on his .44 Colt six-shooter, the count would have exceeded a dozen—and marred the polished, hand-carved rosewood.

Considering the notable accomplishments he'd made in his chosen vocation, this particular tough customer was a modest man—and one who enjoyed life's simple pleasures. While the barber's silvery scissors snickety-clicked, the object of Eddie's tonsorial artistry entertained himself by watching parades of pedestrians and motor vehicles. But all the while, his cold gray eyes were watching for someone and something in particular. The someone was Miss Louella Smithson, the something her 1989 Ford Bronco.
She's not far away and she's getting closer.
He could feel the young woman's presence
in his bones.
But, no matter what the bones know, the old pro realized how difficult it could be to find a particular person when you didn't know what her plans were—even in a small town like Granite Creek. He didn't really expect to spot Miss Smithson cruising down the town's busy main street, but every once in a while a man who keeps his eyes wide open gets lucky. So just on the off chance, he kept a close watch on the traffic.
If she happens to spot me before I see her—there's likely to be six kinds of hell to pay.
A wry smile twisted the Old Gray Wolf's thin lips.
And I'll get the whole bill laid on my plate.

 

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

BIG TROUBLE IS BREWING, BUT DO NOT FRET—YOUR FEDERAL GOVERNMENT HAS MATTERS WELL IN HAND

As does the local governing authority in Granite Creek County, Colorado—more specifically, the office of the district attorney, where Chief of Police Scott Parris and Deputy Charlie Moon have been summoned by a no-nonsense lady whose invitation may not be ignored.

After seating Scott and Charlie in District Attorney Pug Bullet's private conference room, the DA's capable secretary backed up two steps to put her hands on her narrow hips and cock her head (quizzically) and contemplate the result of her efforts to arrange things
just so
. The lawmen (Miss Judy Purvis thought) looked to be somewhat uncomfortable, sitting elbow-to-elbow, tiny microphones pinned to their collars, staring straight ahead at a yard-wide, high-definition, flat-screen terminal that displayed the Department of Justice logo on a serene, Mediterranean-blue background. “Okay, let's see how well you're framed.” She thumbed a remote to replace the DOJ display with a live shot of the grim-faced men, staring like a pair of surly schoolboys who didn't like having their snapshots made.

“We look like a couple a two-bit criminals,” Parris muttered sideways to his buddy.

Moon nodded his black Stetson. “Rustlers ready for a vigilante hanging.”

Miss Purvis disapproved of such inane chitchat. “You'd fit the screen better—and look much nicer—if you removed your hats.”

This time, Parris whispered to his sidekick, “Ignore the old bat, Charlie.”

As he put his hat on the table, Moon whispered back, “Don't ever mess with Miss Purvis.”

“Any cop who's afraid of a DA's sidekick is an egg-sucking sissy!” the chief hissed. Perhaps. But after a few heartbeats, Parris slapped his old fedora down beside the Ute's black Stetson.

The DA's secretary, who could hear a housefly larva treading on sewer slime at thirty paces (man strides, not maggot steps), shook her head.
The only difference between men and boys is that boys are cute.
Glancing at the Seth Thomas clock on the wall (whose hour, minute, and second hands specified the time of day at 4:59:07
P.M.
Mountain Time), Miss Purvis switched the display back to the DOJ screen. “Okay, showtime in fifty seconds.”

“The feds never start anything on time,” Parris grumped. “It's their way of showing us local yokels that we don't count for pig spit.” The lawman straightened the 1879 silver dollar on his bolo tie. “The three-piece suit'll be five minutes late, at the very least.”

Grinning like the Man in the Moon, Moon said, “Wanna bet?”

“Two bits?”

“You're on, high roller.”

As befitted the dignity of her official position, Miss Purvis disapproved of such inappropriate sport—particularly when conducted in the imposing office of the district attorney. Such behavior was uncouth. Unseemly. Very nearly indecorous. But deep inside her, a pigtailed twelve-year-old fun-loving girl hankered for a piece of the action.
Charlie Moon will win that twenty-five cents.
Miss P.'s predictions were unerringly accurate.

Sadly for the chief of police, at 5:00:00
P.M.
on the dot
the default display was replaced by a face. A female countenance, as it were. And one that was not merely pretty but heart-stoppingly gorgeous—worthy of the classic Greek sculptor's art. It smiled at the lawmen, but only one of the two experienced a skipped heartbeat.

The deputy was mildly annoyed with himself.
Why does she always have this effect on me?
(A pertinent question to pose, but one well beyond the scope of his expertise; Charlie should ask someone who knows.)

Even when digitized, Lila Mae McTeague's large, lustrous eyes managed to
scintillate
. “Hello, Scott … Charlie. Long time no see.”

“Hi,” Parris shot back.
I should've guessed.

His cardiac rhythm restored, Charlie Moon managed to find his tongue. “Good evening, Special Agent McTeague.” (It was evening in D.C.)

After Miss Purvis had left the meeting room to attend to other pressing duties, a few additional pleasantries were exchanged, which are neither interesting nor germane. These social niceties dispensed with, McTeague assumed her strictly business persona. “I realize that you fellows have other things to do—and so do I—so let's get on with this.” She opened a glossy blue three-ring folder that was emblazoned with the FBI logo. “Bureau Intel has come up with something that may be of interest to you.” After squinting, she slipped a pair of rimless spectacles over beautiful big eyes, which were a bit farsighted.

Forgetting the microphone on his collar, Parris whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Trifocals—I betcha five cents.”

“You would lose your buffalo nickel,” McTeague said without looking up. “These are reading glasses that I've used for years.”

Parris turned beet red. “Uh—sorry, McTeague. I was out of line.”