The Widow's Revenge (18 page)

1822–1877

Well, at least he got this year right. The spirit rolled its spirit-eyes. But I was born in 1823.

“Hmmm,” the Indian said.

Parris watched with fascination as his buddy puzzled over the epitaph.

Charlie Moon thought.

Thought some more.

Aha!

As the Ute applied the hot iron to the moldering plank again, the U.S. marshal’s spirit leaned close to see what tribute his pardner would leave for posterity to marvel over. Maybe something about how I never took a dime of graft, or never backed down from a fight, or how I drilled “Lightning” Bull Bates between the eyes before his Navy Colt ever cleared leather.

Sad to say, Parris was not able to see what words of fond remembrance his pal had inscribed on the wood. As so often happens when we
are just on the verge of finding out—a dark cloud slipped across the crescent moon. In an instant, Pine Knob was black as the inside of (this was the dreamer’s metaphor) a buzzard’s gizzard.

It was bad enough to be deprived of enjoying one’s epitaph. Worse still was the unanswered question that nagged at U.S. Marshal Scott Parris.

What did them black-hearted bastards hang me for?

CHARLIE MOON WOULD NEVER HAVE THOUGHT OF MENTIONING THE
family’s cold-blooded murders to Daisy or Sarah, particularly during their evening meal. His supper talk was limited to observations such as how welcome the recent rain had been, and that the moisture would help green up the bone-dry six sections north of Pine Knob. Happy tidings were gratifying to talk about; bad news could wait.

But, as it happened, not for as long as Moon had hoped.

Only two hours earlier, with Sarah at her elbow, the tribal elder had tuned in to the afternoon news on her semiantique tabletop vacuum-tube radio, which had been an anniversary gift from her third husband, whom Daisy praised as being “not nearly as bad as the first two.” They had been informed about the “Snyder Memorial Hospital Massacre,” right down to gory details of how the FBI was searching the grounds for a bloody ice pick, and that the no-show night nurse had been strangled with a piece of copper wire and stuffed into the trunk of her car. Daisy and Sarah were also informed about the tragic Widow Jeppson homicide. Now, the Ute tribal elder and the Ute-Papago orphan realized why Charlie Moon, Scott Parris, and the strikingly pretty FBI agent had held a private conference in Moon’s office the day before.

Under the trying circumstances, the old woman and the young one agreed not to bring up the subject. If the most important man in their lives eventually decided to say something about the killings, it would be something along the lines of,
It’s a bad businesses, but it’s not ours.
Charlie Moon would remind them that with hungry predators pulling cattle down, drunken Columbine cowboys starting fights in town, and expensive equipment breaking down left and right, there was more than enough trouble to deal with on the ranch without worrying about what
went on in town. He would assure the ladies that Granite Creek PD, the state police, and the FBI were on top of it. Next time you turn on the radio news, the bad guys will be behind bars. Or, better yet, dead.

AFTER SUPPER

While a thin, gray twilight was settling in on the high plains between the blue-gray Buckhorn Range and the shimmering, mystery-shrouded Misery Mountains, the major characters at the Columbine headquarters had settled down, each to attend to his or her particular business.

Partly to keep his mind off the mounting murder count, but mainly because he was determined to take a hot shower before bedtime, Charlie Moon was inside installing a new thermocouple in the propane water heater, where the pesky pilot light kept going out.

A dark blue woolen shawl pulled snugly around her stooped shoulders, Daisy Perika was perched on the west-porch swing. Despite the fact that Mrs. P. was singing the few phrases she could remember from “Now the Day Is Over” with an expression of childlike innocence befitting a medieval saint, one cannot entirely dismiss the possibility that the enigmatic old soul was figuring out some new and interesting way to create troubles for her nephew.

Seated nearby in a form-fitting wicker chair, Sarah Frank was figuring out several new ways to make herself attractive to Mr. Moon. No. She shook her head. Attractive was not aiming high enough. The thin little slip of a girl smiled.
Irresistible
. That was what she would shoot for.

Napping in Sarah’s lap, Mr. Zig-Zag pursued his own fantasies, but that information is not available. Whatever spotted tomcats may dream about, they keep it strictly to themselves.

Sidewinder was stretched out on the plank porch between the hymn-crooning old woman and the hopeful young lady. His long muzzle rested between a pair of paws so large as to give him a comical appearance, but the sad-faced dog was a deeply serious personality who never went for laughs. And, unlike felines, those of the doggish persuasion are not at all reticent in sharing even their most intimate experiences. (At the moment, Sidewinder is enjoying a siesta fantasy where he stalks the most outrageously
huge jackrabbit any canine has ever imagined. Big as a full-grown buck elk.)

As his happy dream of sufficient rabbit flesh for a nine-month winter began to deteriorate into something less pleasant, the hound commenced to snort. Groan as if suffering sharp pains. Shudder like a wolfish ancestor caught in a late-spring blizzard.

With the exception of a hungry coyote who had once aspired to have her cat for supper, Sarah adored all of God’s furry creatures. She observed the old dog with girlish compassion. “I wonder what’s the matter with him.”

The tribal elder, who had a ready answer for every question, snapped, “Indigestion.”
That dumb dog’ll eat anything that can’t outrun him, from banana peels to watermelon rinds.

THE DOG’S EYES

Though tightly shut at the moment, they are known to be large, brown, and marvelously expressive. The anxious beast awakened abruptly to peel the lids off his eyeballs and stare intently toward an old-growth grove of giant cottonwoods. Like a company of furloughed old soldiers who refused to muster out after the war was declared lost, the woody brigade occupied a low ridge between the headquarters building and Too Late Creek. The hound got to his feet, lowered his head, and muttered a low, guttural growl. Hair bristled on the back of Sidewinder’s neck.

Sarah’s gaze followed the dog’s.
He sees something.
The girl saw nothing but shadows under the cottonwoods.

Then, the hound did the
oddest
thing. Without taking his gaze off the whatever-it-was, he sidled over to the old woman, pressed himself hard against Daisy’s leg—and
whimpered
like a frightened puppy. For a valiant animal who had never backed down from a confrontation, be the enemy a snarling cougar, diamondback rattlesnake, or grizzly bear, this was a peculiarly pitiful performance. Perhaps strangest of all, he was seeking comfort from a bad-tempered old woman who was not the sort of bosom buddy that a four-legged canine person would be inclined to share a meaty ham bone with.

Daisy scowled at the dog.
Now what’s gotten into him?

A fair question.

And Sidewinder’s eccentric performance had only just begun. Just as Charlie Moon stepped onto the porch, the creature raised his head in wolflike fashion to let out one of those long, mournful howls that make neck hairs stand up and skin prickle.

Daisy’s neck hairs.

Sarah’s skin.

It took a lot more than a dog’s howl to spook Charlie Moon. Seating himself on a redwood bench, the man patted the dog’s head. “What’s the matter, old boy?”

Daisy answered for the animal. “He’s scared of something.”

As if to validate this assertion, the hound responded with another yowling howl, which was even eerier than the previous complaint.

Moon remained unmoved. “Sidewinder’s not scared of anything alive.” As it happened, this assertion was not only true—it was a highly relevant observation.

Daisy squinted at the cluster of cottonwoods.
I can just about make out a fuzzy something or other out there. But only if I look to one side of it.
It was, she thought, like trying to see a dim star. If the tribal elder looked directly at it, the fuzzy something vanished. As if it had a will of its own, Daisy’s right hand moved toward the hound’s bristled neck. When her fingers touched the animal, it was as if an electric current tingled its circuitous path through her hand, along her arm, up her neck, into her brain, and then—zipped along the optical nerves to her
eyes.

Whether or not this was literally true, the shaman instantly
knew
that she was seeing what the hound saw—in what might be described in the current technical vernacular as “high-resolution black-and-white.” And at the instant she realized this, it seemed as if the
thing
knew it too, because it began to drift. But not away.

No such luck.

Daisy held her breath.
Here it comes, across the yard, directly toward the porch!

Perhaps assured by the aged woman’s touch, Sidewinder did not flinch.
He bared a set of formidable teeth, uttered a barely audible growl that
Daisy felt rumbling in her own belly and throat.
Seemingly sharing the dog’s sensations, the shaman had a sense of smell keener than she could have imagined. Be it the pungent scent of pine needles, oddly sour human body odors, the wildly fragrant perfume of a distant rainstorm—her olfactory experiences were almost overpowering.

Unnerved by the hound’s unseemly behavior, Sarah hugged herself and murmured to no one in particular, “This is scary.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of.” Moon’s assertion did little to comfort the girl. “I expect it’s just a hungry old cougar skulking about.” But, try as he might, the Ute’s keen eyes could find nothing amiss in the twilight, which was slowly thickening into night. Moon picked up Daisy’s sturdy walking stick and ambled out into the yard for a better look.

Appalled at this display of imprudence, Sarah went into the parlor to find a rifle.

DAISY PERIKA
was barely aware of their departures; what the shaman saw froze her old bones to the
very marrow.
Coming ever closer was something that appeared to be the residue of a human being—the
leftovers.
A strand of rusty barbed wire was twisted around its neck, the eyes were goggled as if about to pop, and a swollen tongue protruded rudely from its mouth. That should have been sufficient, but no—the naked, flayed corpse was slathered in a mixture of clay and something oozy that smelled oddly sweet. And (Daisy thought)
vinegarish.

This was more than enough to ruin an elderly lady’s peaceful evening, but what unnerved her most of all was—the hideous apparition was floating
upside down
, its head about a yard above the ground.

The shaman’s long, doggish ear flicked when someone whispered into it,
That’s Wallace—my stupid grandson.

Daisy:
Loyola—is that you?

Sure.
A cackle of laughter.
Who’d you expect, Cleopatra?

Daisy (sternly)
: What’s this all about?

Well what do you think?
The spirit breathed a sigh.
It’s about
murder—mine and my grandson’s. I warned Wallace to stay away from those nasty
brujos,
but did he listen? Oh, no, he wanted to buddy around with that devilish lot—and look what he got for his trouble!

Though Daisy could not speak aloud—the shaman was limited to barks and growls—she
thought
the question:
Where’s his body?

The dead woman’s familiar voice crackled in her ear:
Go through the willows, wade across the creek, and follow the stink and you’ll find Wallace. That’s where those witches left him, to rot like a—

She had intended to say
like a butchered pig!
but the Apache ghost’s narrative was interrupted by the following:

Uurrrgle . . .

What was that?

It can best be described as a gurgling sound.

Aarrkle . . . ooble . . .

There it goes again.

The source of this unseemly disruption?

The upside-down corpse. Loath to be left out of the conversation, it floats ever closer to the porch where Daisy and the hound commune with Loyola. The bruised lips twist as the mouth attempts to speak around the swollen tongue.
Orrrk . . . urrble . . . waaarrk!

Warning growls rattle in Daisy-Sidewinder’s throats.

The upside-down horror pauses. Jitters uncertainly this way and that. Edges a tongue’s length closer to the porch.

The shaman-hound amalgamation bares both sets of teeth; two pairs of hindquarters tense for attack. It looks like there’s going to be a great big brouhaha until—