The Widow's Revenge (27 page)

She cocked her head. “Why don’t you?”

It was one thing to admire a woman who spoke her mind, but Moon figured he wouldn’t care to spend overly much time with one. “Tell you what—if you’re on the foreman’s front porch when I pass by, I’ll slow down enough so you can open the door and jump in.”

“Such a charming offer—I am absolutely bowled over.” With this, Annie Rose turned on her heel and departed.

Moon watched her cross the headquarters yard, then the Too Late bridge. He didn’t stop watching until the shapely little lady had turned into the Bushmans’ front yard.
Now that’s a remarkable woman
.

And she was.

TWILIGHT

For perhaps the hundredth time since she had returned to the foreman’s residence, Annie Rose began with Step One of the Procedure. Watching the sixty-watt bulbs in the copper chandelier, she flicked the light switch up. Then down. As on the previous occasions, they winked on, then off.

Following this electrifying response, she proceeded to Step Two, which involved picking up the Bushmans’ telephone as if to make a call. Annie didn’t dial. All she did was listen, expecting to hear the usual drone—

But this time—
no dial tone
.

Aha! The game was afoot.

THE SIGNAL

Annie Rose walked through the Bushmans’ kitchen and stepped onto the back porch, where she placed a satellite-telephone call that would be relayed to several colleagues. Her message was brief, and cryptic.

“This is Orphan with confirmation. It is Showtime. I say again—Showtime.”

AS CHARLIE MOON SEATED HIMSELF BEHIND HIS DESK AND SWITCHED
on the gooseneck lamp, he remembered how his attorney had been nagging him for years to get this unpleasant task behind him. The rancher could almost hear the lawyer’s stern voice—“If you keep putting this off, some fine day you’ll wake up and find out it’s too late.” A bitter smile creased the tribal investigator’s face.
Some fine day
had come, and he might not see the sun rise on another one.

He took a single sheet of white paper from a drawer, selected an old-fashioned fountain pen from an assortment of writing instruments in a black-on-white Chaco cup, and got to work. When he was finished, he read the document carefully to make sure he had not omitted anything of importance.

CHARLES MOON
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

I wish I had time to do this right, but things seem to be coming to a head. If anything happens to me, like I end up dead, this is what I want done with what money is in the Columbine account and whatever can be raised by selling off stock and equipment—

1. All my debts should be paid off, with my employees getting their pay first. After that’s done, whoever else I owe can fight over what’s left
.

2. Any income from the round house I own down by Ignacio, which is leased to the schoolteacher—I can’t remember her name right now—all of that should go to my aunt Daisy Perika, and after she dies it should go to my best friend, Scott Parris. Scott
also gets all of my guns and fishing gear. And my Expedition if he wants it
.

3. All of my so-called real property, including the Columbine and the Big Hat spreads, is for Sarah Frank, who’s the daughter of my other best friend, the late Provo Frank. Provo and his wife died years ago. That’s all I can think of, but if I’ve forgotten anything important, I expect my attorney Mr. Wilbur Price will take care of it. Sorry, Wilber—I should’ve done this a long time ago, like you said
.

4. Almost slipped my mind. Scott Parris gets the four sections that include Lake Jesse and the priest’s log cabin. Sarah inherits that property when Scott dies
.

The author shook his head.
That walks like a three-legged dog, but it’s the best I can do right now
. After signing and dating the document, he slipped it into an envelope, upon which he printed this instruction:

TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH
C MOON

C Moon put his will into a desk drawer.

WHAT WITH HEART-STOPPING, NECK-AND-NECK HORSE RACES WHERE
weeks of hard-earned wages changed hands, not to mention lively bluegrass music that had set maybe sixty pairs of cowboy boots a-stomping, and enough tasty food to feed the entire population of Fishtail, Montana, for a month, everybody at the Big Hat Breaking in the New Banjo party was having a fine and dandy time. With one notable exception. It was not that the Ute elder didn’t enjoy the occasional festive gathering. Daisy Perika had been known (as recently as the previous year) to kick up her heels at a dance and let out a lusty whoop or two.

Not tonight. Daisy felt distinctly uneasy. Something she could not quite put a name to was
pulling on her
.

When the Ute woman slipped outside, her stealthy departure onto the back porch went unnoticed except by the Columbine hound, who had settled down into a comfortable spot he’d found between a rusty old hand pump and a leaky horse trough. Unaware of the canine spy, Daisy leaned on her walking stick for quite some time. She entertained herself by watching a motley collection of puffed-up clouds gather over the craggy mountain range that served as a formidable boundary between the Big Hat and the Columbine. She also listened to a few faraway rumbles of thunder, and sniffed a faint hint of rain in the air. Her senses thus fortified, she decided to remove herself farther from the boisterous crowd. Being unfamiliar with her nephew’s smaller ranch, Daisy had no particular destination in mind. Fine adventures and deplorable follies often begin in just such circumstances.

Whether to protect the Ute woman or because he also hankered for a dose of solitude, Sidewinder tagged along behind. As Daisy plodded ever so slowly, her four-legged companion zigzagged this way and that in doggish
fashion, sniffing at such fascinating items as sprigs of dry buffalo grass, wickedly armored prickly-pear cactus, and, best of all—prairie-dog holes where prudent sentries darted into subterranean chambers to warn their rodent relatives of impudent trespassers passing by overhead.

After some more or less aimless meandering, the odd couple found themselves in a lonely spot where the heavy silence created a convincing illusion that the barely audible, almost dreamlike sounds from the cowboy festivities were unreal—an ethereal echo from some long-ago hoedown where no one could have dreamed of such marvels as automobiles, electric lights, and telephones. This solitary spot, barely a half mile from the Big Hat headquarters, was situated on the twisted spine of a long, rocky ridge.

Here, Daisy and Sidewinder were dwarfed by earth and sky, and everything worth singing or dreaming about—pale moon and dark mountains, sparkling stars and streams—had been named by dozens of wanderers from centuries past, whose ghostly presences the shaman sensed gathering about her. It was as if these lonely souls had risen from their graves for the privilege of witnessing some dramatic event.

The spell of Place can be immensely powerful.

Whether it was the soul-stirring isolation, the unexpected pressure of the hound suddenly leaning against her leg like a frightened puppy, or the lady’s fertile imagination—Daisy Perika experienced a dreadful premonition that her world was about to be shaken. She turned her wrinkled face toward the east, where night was rolling in like a vast, relentless tide. Not a problem. That happened every evening about this time. What prickled the skin on her neck was the certainty that—
something is coming
.

Something was.

Far away down the ridge, the old woman caught a glimpse of it. Something small, and bright—a tiny point of light? She squinted. No.
Three
tiny points of light, which were getting bigger, brighter with each of her thumping heartbeats. Daisy believed she knew what was coming. She had expected this encounter for almost twenty years.

The weary old soul was more than ready.

She was eager.

As the apparition got close enough to identify, she raised her staff in
welcome salute to the three ponies that ran shoulder-to-shoulder. Though the muscular animals were running about waist-high on an invisible path
above
the ridge, the shaman could hear their unshod hooves striking flinty stones, kicking red-hot sparks into empty space. Flanked by two pintos, the snow-white horse in the center had no rider.
That’ll be for me
. A pair of handsome, bronzed figures rode the spotted ponies. Their dark locks whipped in the wind.
Those must be my angels
.

“Here I am,” Daisy whispered. She raised her oak staff higher and shouted in a voice that cracked with age, “Swing low, sweet chariot!”
And slow down—so I can get on and ride all the way home
. She couldn’t wait to go.

Alas, there was to be no Swinging Low.

No slowing.

No going home.

Seeing the joyful wildness in the horses’ eyes and smelling their sour sweat, Daisy realized her error. Plumed and painted for war, these mounts and riders had not come for her. Moreover, the phantom animals seemed to be bent on running the Ute elder down.

Daisy stood her ground.

Clippity-clop
.

Nostrils flared, teeth bared—eyes afire!

Clippity-clop
.

The tribal elder closed her eyes.
God help me!

The apparition passed directly
through
the terrified woman, chilling her to the very marrow.

Daisy did not bother to turn her face to the west, where the departing horses and riders had been swallowed up by night. It was as if they had never been; the vision had ended.

Seemingly paralyzed by this unparalleled experience, the hound regained his mobility—and his voice. Sidewinder’s bony old frame rattled in a sudden, uncontrollable shudder; the traumatized creature began to whimper and whine.

Daisy patted the dog’s head and offered a few consoling words. “Shut up, you old bucket of [expletive deleted], or I’ll yank your tongue out by the roots.” Following this act of charity, the kindly old soul commenced
to consider the ghastly sight that had visited her on this night. Not many heartbeats thumpity-thumped before she reached a few preliminary conclusions.

This business didn’t have nothing to do with
my
death
.

On the contrary, the omen pointed to some
other
person who was destined to make that final ride. The visionary knew from long experience that such dramatic premonitions were rarely about distant relatives or casual acquaintances.
It’ll be somebody close to me
.

But who?

Charlie Moon’s aunt thought she knew.

If the war pony’s
missing rider
was not already dead, his spirit would certainly be cleaved from flesh before the sun came up again. Daisy Perika hoped (and prayed) that it wasn’t already too late to prevent a dreadful calamity. Barely aware of the nervous dog who was staying so close by her side, the worried woman set her face toward the bright lights and lively music.

JABBING HER WALKING STICK AT THE HARD EARTH LIKE A MADWOMAN
bent on slaying invisible fire ants and imaginary scorpions, Daisy Perika returned to the Big Hat headquarters in half the time it had taken her to make the journey to the lonely ridge above Piddlin’ Creek. Bypassing the partying on the front porch and in the parlor, the agitated woman entered the kitchen by the back door, where she found a battered old telephone mounted on the knotty-pine wall.

Daisy’s hands shook as she punched in the number for the Columbine landline. After trying three times to connect and suffering through the same computer-voice response (“We are sorry, but the number you are calling is either disconnected or temporarily out of service . . .”), she dialed 911. The instant she heard the Granite Creek Police Department dispatcher’s familiar voice, Daisy demanded to speak to Scott Parris. Being acquainted with Charlie Moon’s irritable relative, Clara Tavishuts knew better than to ask, “What about?” She promptly patched the call through to the chief of police’s black-and-white.

Forewarned that Charlie Moon’s irascible old auntie was on the line and apparently angry about something or other, GCPD’s top cop steeled himself and grinned. “What’s up, Daisy?”

“My temper, that’s what—and I ain’t got no time for any stupid small talk. The Columbine phone ain’t working.”

Parris blinked at the dark road ribbon of road that was slipping under his automobile at a mile a minute.
So who am I, the telephone company?

Daisy might have read his mind. “Something’s wrong with Charlie and you’re the police, so don’t even think about passing the buck—do something about it!”

“I’m on the way to the ranch now.” Parris rolled his eyes at the night
sky. “I’ll check things out and call you when I know something worth telling. Are you back at your home on the res?”

“No I’m not. Me and Sarah are at the Big Hat.”

Scott Paris frowned. “The Big Hat?”

“What am I talking to—a cop or an echo chamber?”

“Well, it just surprised me that you two would be all the way over there—”

“That’s where we are, all right—and we’ve got plenty of company. The Bushmans are here and the Wyoming Kyd and the one they call Butch, and Six-Toes, and the big blacksmith whose name I can’t remember—and all the rest of those half-wit ranch cowboys—the whole kit and caboodle.” A pause while she sucked in a breath. “Everybody’s here but Charlie.”

That doesn’t make any sense
. “Everybody?”

“Well, except that sweet little nurse who’s been taking care of Dolly. And maybe a few more. I don’t know every last soul that works for my nephew and I don’t reckon I’d want to.”