The Old Gray Wolf (9 page)

The whirlwind-wrecked windmill? That had looked like a total loss, but the Columbine blacksmith—a brawny man with hands big as catcher's mitts and hairy forearms like cedar posts—has been known to work wonders with mangled machinery. The smithy is convinced that he can repair the damage, and despite Charlie Moon's doubts about the outcome—is about halfway there.

Which gets us around to those three souls who reside under the roof of the two-story log headquarters building. It's a long way past sundown, but let's look in upon them.

SARAH
FRANK

Shhh. (The young lady, who went to bed worried about the man in her life, seems to be deep in the sweet, dreamless sleep of the innocent.)
Seems
to be. But in Sarah's melancholy night-vision, she is driving her red Ford pickup away from the Columbine and Charlie Moon—forever. And compared to a week or maybe two, that's a long time to be gone.

Never mind. Now and again, anxious young folk tend to suffer from excessive angst. But they get over it. Usually.

DAISY
PERIKA

Charlie Moon's irascible auntie is not numbered among the innocent, and the troublesome tribal elder finds herself dead center in a straight-out nightmare.

There is no point in going into the nitty-gritty details, but it may be of interest to know that Daisy is dreaming that she is present at Hester “Toadie” Tillman's funeral. This aged woman has attended more wakes, funerals, and burials than an acre of gnarly old piñon trees has knots, and there's nothing about such gatherings that is even slightly nightmarish for one with so much experience in saying her goodbyes to the dearly departed, or for that matter, shouting a hearty
hasta la vista
to those señors and señoritas whom she is glad to have seen the last of.

But even for Daisy P.—who is accustomed to seeing dead people in broad daylight and talking to them about this and that and whatnot—it is somewhat jarring when the person you are viewing in the luxuriously quilted casket is also standing beside that costly coffin, and making complaints. In the case of Daisy and the elderly lady who had been trapped in the wrecked pickup, their conversation went something like this:

Daisy (politely): “Pardon me for asking, Toadie—but how d'you manage to be two places at one time?”

Hester: “This ain't my actual funeral, Daisy—it's a silly dream you're having.” A miffed expression. “I bet you won't even bother to show up at the real send-off.”

Daisy: “Oh, I might—if I'm not too busy doing something important.”

Hester: “Like what—trimming your toenails?”

D.: “That's not a bad idea.” A smirk. “When other folks show up to celebrate your going away, I might be at home clipping an ingrown nail on my big toe.”

H. (shaking a finger at the smart aleck): “I sent Danny Bignight to warn you, Daisy—you'll be sorry if you don't show up to mourn at my funeral!”

D. (regretfully): “I'm already sorry, Toadie.”

H. (doubtful): “Are you—really?”

D. (nodding): “You bet! I'm sorry your momma and daddy didn't get run over by a Greyhound bus when they was five years old.”

H. (transformed into a hideous toadstool with a thousand bloodshot eyeballs, every one of them glaring at her hateful enemy): “I'll
get
you for that!”

D. (rolling her two eyes): “Being dead hasn't made you any more likable.”

Not much of a comeback for acid-tongued Daisy Perika, but she may be excused for being somewhat off her usual form. Even those who have dreamed of being trapped in the center of a railroad trestle bridge (over a deep arroyo filled with snarling grizzly bears, six-foot rattlesnakes, and millions of purple scorpions) with two humongous steam-engine locomotives approaching from opposite directions at ninety-nine miles per hour to smash the dreamer flat as a fritter will be compelled to admit that Daisy's confrontation with a thousand-eyeball toadstool was, at the least, unnerving. Charlie Moon's aunt opened her eyes and groaned.
Well, I'm glad that aggravation is over.

But it wasn't. Not quite. Hester “Toadie” Tillman's impudent threat to return from the grave and haunt her rankled the tribal elder.
If she so much as shows her homely face, I'll make that silly old woman wish she'd never died in the first place.
The tribal elder's mouth gaped in a soul-satisfying yawn. She snuggled her head into the feather pillow.
Now I'll get me a healthy dose of shut-eye and forget all about ol' Toadie.

And so she would.

Until the next haunt came along.

CHARLIE
MOON

Daisy Perika is a tough act to follow, but for the sake of triangular symmetry, the third member of the small family shall be visited.

As it happens, the tribal elder's nephew has not yet fallen asleep. The hardworking stockman has a lot on his mind. Some pleasant things to think about, some otherwise. Here is the list:

His pretty sweetheart, Patsy Poynter.

The gored cowboy at the hospital.

The trouble Six-Toes is always creating.

The sinking price of beef on the hoof.

The rising costs of operating the Columbine, and …

The sudden realization that his quarterly tax report is overdue.

Those folks who always see the bright side might say one out of six ain't so bad, but they have probably never tried to make a decent profit raising cattle.

Number seven was a more or less neutral issue. We refer to a recent offer Mr. Moon had gotten a from a consortium of Las Vegas investors to buy the Columbine Ranch—which formal proposal expired in six days. The stockman began to mull it over.
If I sold this big ranch for the price those high-rollers quoted, I could buy that dandy little three-section spread on the Gunnison.
It was well-watered, and not only that …
I'd have enough cash left over to last me for the rest of my life and then some.
He hung a Cheshire cat smile in the darkness.
I might raise a few quarter horses just for fun, but
—and this was a solemn promise—
I'd never work hard another day in my life.
He nodded as well as a man can whose head is reclining on a firm pillow.
I'd turn in my deputy badge to Scott and my tribal-investigator badge to Oscar Sweetwater.
Why not?
Scott don't really need a deputy and the tribal chairman hasn't given me a job to do for almost a year.
Then, there was Moon's immediate family to consider.
Daisy and Sarah would enjoy a little horse ranch on the Gunnison just as much as being here on the Columbine.
Which raised another issue:
I wonder what Patsy would think about raising horses.
Which, quite naturally, got him to thinking about the prettiest lady in Granite Creek County.

This general line of middle-of-the-night mulling continued for quite a while, until—as a man does from time to time—the Ute sat up in bed and flat out made up his mind.
I'm going to do it.

Which raises the burning question:

IS
HE
REALLY
GOING
TO
DO
IT
?

It would appear so. But don't go betting your best boots and Mexican saddle on it.

The issue seemingly settled, Charlie Moon has stretched out on his bed again and is about to drift off to sleep, but by the time the sun comes up and he wakes up, the rancher mostly likely won't remember very much about these wee-hour musings. And even if he does, he'll probably shake his head and wonder,
What got into me—to even
consider
such a thing?

Of course, there's always the onion-skin-thin chance that he really will. (Do it.)

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE WELL-OILED MACHINERY OF GOVERNMENT HAS BEGUN TO HUM

Comforted by this assurance, we shall not fret about the potential troubles brewing for Charlie Moon and Scott Parris. Somehow, the lawmen will muddle through; they always do. In the end, things will turn out all right. Unless they don't.

Which government?

Uncle Sam's, of course—the one in Washington, District of Columbia, on the Potomac. Comprised primarily of the Executive Branch (headed by a POTUS who knows precisely what to do and always acts decisively), a bicameral Congress whose sole intent is to look after the public interest, and a Supreme Court whose members are dedicated to preserving the original intent of the U.S. Constitution. Not to mention more bureaus, departments, administrations, and offices than a centipede could count if she had twenty toes on every foot.

Oh, very well—fret if you must. But the widely held view that the feds cannot get
anything
done right or on time borders on the very edge of cynicism—and strictly speaking is not true. Not one hundred percent of the time. Despite the best obstructive efforts of those hundreds of thousands of dedicated bureaucrats who had jobs for life and elected officials who had benefits beyond the fondest dreams of the average working citizen—every once in a while, things do fall into place, and promptly so. And all because of a modest proportion of highly dedicated public servants among both feds and government contractors who put in long, hard days—and without a penny of overtime pay—all with minimal appreciation from the aforementioned average working citizen.

Recall, by way of sterling example, FBI Special Agent Mary Anne Clayton, aka Marcella Clay, who—at considerable risk to life and limb—made the clandestine video recording of Mrs. Francine Hooten's mouth whilst the bereaved purse snatcher's momma was uttering felonious instructions to a hired assassin. And recall how the undercover agent had (via mobile telephone) transmitted the video data stream of the old woman's moving lips to her Bureau contact. A creditable day's work for a government employee, but her labors were not complete. When the butler discovered the misplaced “bug” on the garden pathway, the so-called Marcella Clay had alerted a Bureau handler of her intention to withdraw immediately from the Hooten residence. A pretty good performance for an underpaid fed, and though the daring FBI operative was definitely the star of act one of that melodrama, there were other players (yet to step onstage) who deserve our appreciation.

Only hours after the data was received, it was processed (so that only Mrs. Hooten's mouth was digitized for analysis) and then transmitted to four internationally recognized experts—three of the human species, the fourth belonging to no known biological category. A trio of deaf-from-birth lip-reading experts (located in Greenville, South Carolina, Medford, Oregon, and Medicine Hat, Alberta) eyeballed the processed version of Francine Hooten's mouth forming words unheard except by the speaker and the unseen (alleged) assassin. All three of these contract lip-readers recognized the words
Paris
and
moon,
and naturally assumed some sort of French Connection with lunar overtones that suggested an astrological element.

While the humans were watching Mrs. H.'s thin lips form syllables, a skilled MIT-educated computer scientist in the Hoover Building in D.C. was uploading the digitized video frames into a souped-up HP parallel-processor desktop wherein the latest version of a custom-developed Bureau software (LIPanalyze IV) would compete with the three human professionals. It was not so much a matter of who would win the game—a distinguished linguist at the University of Texas in Austin (who reads lips while conducting her all-deaf Sunday-school class at a congregation of happy Presbyterians) would review the four independent reports and produce a written summary of Mrs. Hooten's “most probable” remarks.

But before you begin bemoaning the slowly turning wheels of the federal bureaucracy—be advised that the entire process was completed in twenty-two hours flat. How's that? Go ahead, admit it—doesn't knowing how the government's toothed gears twirl and mesh make you feel measurably better?

You want to know what happened to the Sunday-school-teacher's report? (Bringing up such issues is in poor taste, and suggests a distinct lack of patriotic fervor.) The report was
distributed,
of course.

Who (if anyone) on the distribution list would actually take time to read the document, what action (if any) would be initiated—and who (if anyone) would carry out the prescribed action?

Very well, if you insist on exhibiting nitpicking negativity.

The answer to all three questions is: FBI Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague.

Those who know the formidable lady will be visibly impressed, but if you've never heard of this remarkable public servant—that just goes to show how little recognition a really top-notch fed gets for working six days per week for an average of about twelve hours a day. More to the point, Scott Parris is acquainted with McTeague, and so is Charlie Moon—the slender Ute rancher's acquaintance with the lady being of a much more personal nature than that of the brawny
matukach
chief of police—whose relationship is strictly professional and not always friendly.

For those who desire clarification about Mr. Moon's connection with the drop-dead gorgeous fed, here is a tidbit of nonmalicious gossip to chew on and digest: once upon a time, Charlie and Lila Mae came
this close
to a merger of the martial kind. No, reverse the order of
i
and
t
to make that
marital
. (Sorry—one of those embarrassing Freudian slips of the typographical category.) Where were we? Oh, yes—recalling the potential Moon–McTeague amalgamation of some years past. Alas, as is so often the case—the deal fell through at that proverbial last minute. And all on account of a smart-aleck, quarter-wit Columbine employee (one Six-Toes) who didn't know the difference between wholesome cowboy humor and stupidity. And still don't. Doesn't. Whatever.