Three Sisters (39 page)

By the time Daisy Perika had grunted and groaned her way out of bed, hobbled into the headquarters kitchen, made a pot of brackish coffee, downed half a cup—Charlie Moon was already “up-and-at-’em.” Sarah Frank was following the tall, lean man around like a restless puppy, pleading that he let her make the bacon-and-egg, biscuit-and-gravy breakfast, which he did. By the time the day’s first meal (watery eggs and half-cooked bacon, excellent biscuits and passable brown gravy) was on the table, foreman Pete Bushman was bam-bamming his fist on the kitchen door, tipping his droopy-brimmed cowboy hat at “the ladies,” getting the day’s marching orders from the boss, who wanted two men sent to repair a break in the fence north of Pine Knob. While Moon was helping Sarah wash the breakfast dishes, Scott Parris showed up, finished off a cup of leftover coffee, all the while chatting excitedly with his Ute friend about their plans for an all-night fishing campout at Lake Jessie, which was just behind the spruce-forested ridge, set like an emerald in the flowered dress of the rolling high-country prairie.

In Parris’s view—and he was an angler who knew how to tie flies and tell fisherman lies—a red woolly-popper would be just the thing. Those twenty-inch rainbows would not be able to resist such a delicacy.

The Ute did not bother to voice his well-known opinion, which was that what sensible fish liked in any season was raw meat. Wriggly red worms. Succulent chunks of beef liver.

Daisy suggested crickets.

When the fisherman turned an ear to listen to the tribal elder’s sage counsel, she allowed as how the fat black insects must be tied to the hook. With a hank of brown horsehair if a person had some handy. But don’t run a hook through it. Injure a cricket and your gums will bleed, your eyes will cross, and your bowels will—Well, never mind
that.

Scott Parris assured Daisy that if a cricket happened by he would give it a try. And though he could not assure her that he would use brown horsehair to affix it to the barbed instrument, he promised not to impale the creature.

Pete Bushman returned to inform the boss that four steers were “down in the west pasture with a fever, an’ one of ’em’s got a big sore on his lip.” The animals were not yet dead, but (so the self-educated PhD in cow-ology opined) they would certainly be among the deceased before sundown. “I sure hope it ain’t the hoof-and-mouth—that’d wipe us out for sure. But don’t worry, I already called the vet’nary doc to come have a look. He said he might get here tomorrow. Or the day after.” As if this were not enough, the foreman (noting the presence of the local chief of police) was reminded of what he had disremembered to report during his earlier visit—that three of the cowboys were being detained in cramped quarters at Granite Creek PD.

Scott Parris, who had intended to delay the bad news for at least an hour or two, verified the truth of this report. By eyewitness accounts, apparently after two or three six-packs too many, one of those bowlegged rascals had driven the GMC Columbine flatbed truck through the window of Little Bennie’s Bar and Grill. The other two had come along for the joyride. There was no apparent motive, aside from the fact that Little Bennie had, in a fit of pique over an unpaid bar bill and several unwarranted insults, laid a pool cue across the skull of Six-Toes, who happened to be the Columbine employee behind the wheel when the flatbed went through Bennie’s plate glass window, which would probably cost at least a thousand dollars to replace. Which, since he ran a rough joint, was well under the deductible on Bennie’s insurance policy.

As Moon was attempting to learn more details, Sarah Frank dropped a heavy crockery platter, which did not break. But it did land on her big toe and she let out a terrific yowl.

Sidewinder apparently admired the sound of her wail. The quirky Columbine hound joined in to provide a high-pitched accompaniment. It was, a passing bunkhouse critic would later assert to his comrades, “a memorable piece of disharmony.”

It was also a run-of-the-mill morning within the boundaries of Charlie Moon’s grassy kingdom.

There was much more during the next few hours, but let us skip over these equally interesting incidents and cut right to the chase. Fast forward to half past four in the afternoon.

On the west side of the two-story log house, on the wraparound porch, we find Scott Parris and Charlie Moon. The men are seated on a redwood bench, watching fuzzy shadows try to pull themselves loose from cottonwood trees, horse barns, and fence posts. Parris, who has already forgotten about crickets, is putting the final touches on a handmade red woolly-popper. The Ute, who appears to be doing nothing at all except staring off into the distance, is thinking about four valuable purebred Herefords that are ailing.
I wonder what’s wrong with ’em. Hope it’s nothing contagious.
And about three cowboys and a broken window.
I’ll go in tomorrow, see what I can work out with Bennie. I’ll give the boys a few days to get stone-cold sober and consider the error of their ways, then I’ll bail ’em out. But this is the end of the line for Six-Toes. I should’ve sent that beer-sponge packing years ago.

Forget Mr. Moon’s thoughts—Daisy Perika has appeared on the porch. Toddling along at a sprightly pace for one of her years, she takes a seat on the swing, gives the plank floor a brisk heel-kick. Back and forth she goes. What she’s up to, nobody knows.

Scott Parris took his eye off the artificial bait long enough to smile at Charlie Moon’s aunt. “Nice afternoon.”

She nodded. “Yes it is.”
Nice and warm
.

“Hope you’re feeling good.”

A sly little smile. “I’m doing all right.”

“That’s good.” The witty conversationalist returned his attention to the red woolly-popper, made the final tie. Imagining that he was a famished trout, he took an appraising look at his work.
That looks better’n any worm I ever saw
.

This was one of those pleasant interludes when it seemed that everything worth talking about was in the range of Nice to Good.

Charlie, Scott—enjoy the brief moment while it lasts.

The old woman in the swing is about to do her thing.

Daisy Decides to try Finesse

The operative word is
try.
And add another qualifier: “to the best of her ability.” Which was not all that much. Being a damn-the-torpedoes, full-speed-ahead personality, the tribal elder did not have extensive experience with such foreign concepts as finesse. Deception, innuendo, manipulation—these were the principal tools of her trade. And Daisy’s shop was open for business.

So, after swinging for nigh unto sixty-four cycles, she addressed the fishermen in this manner: “Looks like a good day for fishing.”

Moon and Parris responded with agreeable grunts.

Not the slightest put off by this male conversation, she continued. “Last night, I had an interesting dream.”

Even this ominous pronouncement failed to get Moon’s attention. Despite the fact that the shaman’s dreams had often proved to be a portent of trouble.

Ditto for Scott Parris, who was smiling in a proud, almost fatherly manner at what he had begotten (a handsome red woolly-popper), placed it in a plastic tray, and snapped the transparent container shut.

The determined conversationalist is not discouraged by such minor difficulties as a disinterested audience. Still into the swing of things, the cunning old woman continued her monologue: “That dream helped me to remember something that’s been aggravating me for weeks and weeks.” She glanced at her favorite relative. “Did you ever have a dream that helped you figure something out?”

“Mmmm,” Moon said.
Maybe I should fire all three of those drunk cowboys. That’d teach ’em a good lesson. And send a strong message to the rest of the hired help.

“My dream was about these three little white girls at an arts-and-crafts fair.” The shaman watched a horsefly circle her knee.
Land on me, bloodsucker, you’re dead meat.
Mr. Horsefly departed. “There was prizes for the things the kids brought. Like pictures they’d made and sculptures and little clay pots and the like.”

The on-the-wagon alcoholic felt a pang of conscience.
No, I guess that’s a bit drastic. First, I should invite all three of those cowboys to an AA meeting. And if they don’t show up, then I fire their butts.

“One of these little girls—” Daisy pretended to recall an important detail. “Oh—did I mention they was sisters?”

The word rang a bell with Scott Parris, who was checking his spinning reel.
Sisters?
He looked up. “No, I don’t think you did.”

“Well, they was. Sisters, that is. All three of ’em. To one another.”

“I have an older sister,” the chief of police said. “Alice Anne. She went off to school in Bloomington, got trained to be a registered nurse, then married a pipe-fitter and moved to Gary. Gary, Indiana. Like in
The Music Man.
”
Seventy-six trombones—oom-pah-pah!

Moon had closed the loop in his dismal thoughts.
There ain’t been a case of hoof-and-mouth in the United States of America since 1929, and Pete Bushman ought to know better than to be spouting off about something bad as that. All it would take is a rumor or two and the Japanese would put a freeze on importing American beef, which is the best in the world.
But the rancher, who had his gaze fixed on a far horizon, knew that anything could happen and sometimes did.
If one of my beeves was to pick up hoof-and-mouth—I’d be ruined. Finished. Wiped out. Done for.
Lacking a pocket thesaurus, he was obliged to let the matter drop.

Without the least tinge of conscience, Daisy flicked an adorably cute little ladybug off her arm. “A bad thing happened at that arts-and-crafts fair.” The porch swing having slowed while she dispatched the beetle, Daisy energized her pendulum seat with a superbly timed kick. “Two of them little girls got some punch from Louise-Marie—the kind she makes from her family recipe. And they got another cup for their sister. But right after the little sister drank some, she passed out—almost died.” The Ute elder’s voice did not betray her inner tension. “But the punch didn’t bother the older sisters, or anybody else at the fair. I think the littlest sister must’ve had some kind of allergy.”

Parris frowned. “Alice Anne couldn’t eat peanut butter without getting all green around the gills. And ragweed—all Sis had to do was look at a picture of a plant in a magazine and she’d start sneezing her head off.”

Which remark penetrated Charlie Moon’s consciousness to provide him with a comforting thought:
I bet them steers got into some locoweed. And the one with the sore on his mouth probably got it from chompin’ on a thorn or a strand of barbed wire. Bushman’s getting too old to spot toxic weeds. I’ll send the Wyoming Kyd and some sharp-eyed young men over to check that pasture from one end to the other.

Daisy closed her eyes. “I thought I remembered what was in that punch. But just to be sure, I called Louise-Marie last night—and I found out that I was right. It was nothing but crushed-up ice and white cane sugar and…” She paused for dramatic effect and got it.
“Strawberries.”

Moon looked at his aunt. “Strawberries?”

Daisy nodded. “In the punch. That was what almost killed little Astrid. She must’ve been about five or six years old.”

Now she had their attention. One hundred percent.

Parris: “Did you say ‘Astrid’?”

Daisy repeated the nod. “Astrid Spencer.” The aged woman’s lips went thin. “It was her sisters—Beatrice and Cassandra—who gave her the fruit punch.” She frowned at the memory. “The way old Joe Spencer yelled at them girls, I guess they must have knowed that their little sister couldn’t have anything with strawberries in it. But they were just dumb kids, and wasn’t paying attention.” She put her feet firmly on the floor, stopped the swing. “But you’d think that after a bad experience like that, no matter how much older she got, Astrid wouldn’t have ever put a strawberry in her mouth again.” She smiled at her nephew, pushed herself up from the swing. “Well, I shouldn’t be bothering you young men with stories about my dreams, and old-time memories. I expect you’ve got more important things to think about.” She turned, headed for the parlor door. “Like fishing for trout.” After a few steps, she stopped, turned to smile at Scott Parris. “Best bait for rainbows is
black
crickets. And don’t forget to tie ’em on the hook.”

He nodded, heard himself mumble, “Horsehair.”

“Brown horsehair.” She took two more steps, paused again, turned again, addressed the chief of police again: “Did you know Andrew Turner was getting out of the hospital today?”

Parris shook his head.
I thought he’d be in Snyder Memorial for at least another week.

Moon presented a poker face. Kept his thoughts to himself.

Not so Daisy. Moon’s aunt was happy to share the product of her cogitations. “I think his sweet little wife got tired of her man being in the hospital, and made up her mind to take care of him at home.” With this parting shot, she departed. The screen door, which was held shut by a long, coiled spring, slammed behind her:
Bang!

This awakened Sidewinder, who had been napping in the slanting sunlight. The rangy old hound got up, gaped his mouth in a toothy yawn, sauntered by the lawmen without taking any notice of their presence.

Parris watched the big dog lope off the porch, disappear under it.

The Ute was gazing wistfully in the general direction of Lake Jesse.

The hopeful angler made a polite inquiry: “What are you thinking, Charlie?”

“Pard, I’m thinking we ought to go fishing.”