The Widow's Revenge (22 page)

The felon muttered a colorful curse the Ute had never heard before. “If your cowboy had told me that, I’d never of said a single word to you.”

Moon watched cottonwood and willow branches bending in the wind. “If all the Texas authorities want you for is stealing an old TV set, you’ll have no problem from me.” Sometime in their lives at least half of the Columbine cowboys had been in trouble with the law. “Are you looking for work?”

“To tell you the honest truth, I’d rather go lookin’ for trouble. But I’m flat broke and could use a job until I make enough doe-ray-me to buy me a bus ticket back home to Tennessee.”

“If you’d like to apply for a job, tell Butch and he’ll bring you to the ranch.”

“As easy as that?”

“There’s nothing easy about working on the Columbine. You put in an honest day’s work for a day’s pay. And you have to stay sober while you’re on the job.”

“Oh, I guess I could do that. For maybe a week or two.” Dead silence.
“D’you expect me to tell you everything I know about those outlaws that murdered Wally?”

“That’s not a condition of employment.” Moon closed his eyes as the wind tossed dust and grit in his face. “Put Mr. Cassidy back on the line.”

After moving out of Smith’s hearing, Butch asked the pertinent question: “So what do you think?”

“Chances are, Smith never heard of Wallace Montoya before he saw the news on TV—my guess is he’s conning us for a job. But just on the off chance he’s legit, we won’t lean on him. If Smith decides to stay in town, that’s fine—but see if you can find out where he’s hanging his hat.”

“Okay, boss.”

“But if he’s interested in a job at the Columbine, bring him along and introduce him to Mr. Bushman. I’ll keep clear of Smith till he’s ready to talk to me.” Moon had an afterthought: “Soon as you get back to the ranch, bring me your sick cell phone.”

“Right.”

After breaking the connection with Butch Cassidy, the Ute Catholic’s lips moved in a silent, urgent supplication.
Please, God—we need this witness
.

Having spoken to the deity, the rancher checked in with his foreman. Charlie Moon told Pete Bushman what to do if Butch brought a Mr. Smith to see him.

Two hours later, the self-proclaimed ex-con alcoholic was hired on at the Columbine.

WHICH TENDS TO SPOIL EVEN THE KEENEST MANLY APPETITE, WHICH
was why when Charlie Moon was informed by Foreman Pete Bushman that another steer had been killed by a predator—this one over yonder where Dry Creek meets up with Sunrise Arroyo—the owner of the outfit left half his morning meal on the platter, gulped down a half cup of honeyed coffee, and marched out of the dining room and into the parlor, where he opened the gun cabinet and selected a suitable rifle.

As a grim-faced Moon exited the headquarters, Bushman had to sprint to stay at the tall man’s heels. “The cowboy that found the carcass figgers it was a bear that done it. Probably a big black, maybe even a griz.” Perversely enjoying this opportunity to ruin the boss’s day, Bushman was determined to have his say. “If you’d a listened to me four or five years ago, and started killin’ off all these beef-eatin’ bears and cougars, we wouldn’t still be losing two or three prime beeves every month.”

FOLLOWING
A good night’s sleep, Daisy Perika was enjoying one of those rare mornings when she fairly bubbled with excess energy. She displayed this happy state by cleaning off the dining-room table, all the while singing in a crackly voice, “You’re not behind the plow, Joe—you’re in the Navy now, Joe.” Though there were no fixed rules about such matters, the table-cleaning chore was normally attended to by Sarah Frank, who was absent from the dining room. Where was the Ute-Papago teenager?

She was positioned at a parlor window, watching Charlie Moon’s back as the object of her passionate affections (rifle in hand) made yard-long strides toward the seventy-year-old horse barn, which would soon be replaced with a new one.
I wish Charlie would ask me to go with him
sometimes
. From her narrow perspective, which was focused on a single objective, this was an eminently reasonable aspiration.
When we’re married, I’ll need to know everything I can about running a big cattle ranch
. She punctuated this wishful thinking with a wistful sigh, and continued to reason her way toward becoming Mrs. Moon.
I can already ride a horse as good as most of these cowboys
. And not only that . . .
I can shoot a rifle and hit a soup can at fifty yards
. A worried frown squenched her coal-black eyebrows.
I hope the bear or mountain lion or whatever’s out there don’t hurt him
. Sarah closed her eyes and prayed for her future husband’s protection.

Bless her sweet, innocent heart.

CHARLIE MOONRIDES

And at a brisk, frisky trot. But not on his favorite mount.

Trusty old Paducah was in his stall—lame and awaiting a visit from the veterinarian. What was so special about this particular member of the equine clan? For one thing, Paducah did not shy at rattlesnakes coiled in his path or bolt at thunderous bolts of lightning, and Moon could fire a .50 caliber rifle from the saddle without the stolid animal as much as
flicking an ear
. Which behavior some folks might say (and some cowboys did) was clear evidence that the animal was “deef as a stone” and lacking the least measure of common horse sense. Didn’t matter.

On that subject, Charlie Moon had the only opinion that counted, and he appreciated having an even-tempered, unflappable horse tucked between his knees. Whatever his alleged shortcomings, Paducah was a steady-as-you-go sort of mount who would always bring a rider home again, dead or alive. That said, the rancher was satisfied to be astraddle Midnight, a spirited, shiny black gelding whose muscles rippled in the slant of the morning sun. It took a tight rein to prevent the energetic animal from breaking into a headlong run toward the junction of Dry Creek and Sunrise Arroyo, which was where the forested lower slopes of the Buckhorns blended into the boulder-dotted glacial plain known on the Columbine as the East Range. The rider was in no hurry. Moon had much to think about, and he figured that being in the saddle for a while would help him sort a few things out.

Such as:

College is awfully expensive. I hope Sarah’ll be satisfied with an in-state school
. Fort Lewis College in Durango was tuition-free for Indians.
That’d be a good place for the girl to find herself a fine young man. One with a good prospects
. Moon thought maybe he would take Sarah on a tour of the campus, which happened to be his alma mater.

And:

Pete Bushman is getting too old for running a place the size of the Columbine. I need a younger man who knows about stuff like modern ranch-management techniques and computers and whatnot
. The Wyoming Kyd was the obvious candidate. But Bushman was one of those stubborn, old-fashioned stockmen who would work until Death laid a cold hand on his shoulder.
Maybe I can ease him into some easier job
. A possible solution came to mind:
I could move Pete and Dolly into the headquarters on the Big Hat spread, and move a few head of cattle over there for him to look after
. Congratulating himself for coming up with this devilishly clever notion, Moon resolved to speak to the foreman’s sensible wife about a move to the Big Hat.

And most of all:

I need me a wife
. The lonely bachelor considered a few possibilities and was startled to find the singing librarian right there at the top of his short list.
Patsy is about as pretty as a woman can get without making a man’s eyes pop right out of their sockets. And she’s sweet as honey in the comb
. He could imagine the delight of spending all his days with this outstanding lady as his wife. He tried hard to think of a negative. Came up with nothing worth mentioning. Tried harder. There was this one thing—Patsy was a town girl.
I wonder if she’d take to ranch life?

Which brought him down a notch to consider Possibility Number Two.

Beatrice Spencer is plenty smart, and good-looking. And she owns the Yellow Pines Ranch
. Which was not a working spread, but nine sections of Yellow Pines joined the Big Hat, which bordered the Columbine, and wouldn’t that make a world-class operation. Bea, of course, was a headstrong woman who was likely to be bossy, and would be more like a general partner than a loving wife. He tried to find a bright side and did: The cleverest of the three Spencer sisters was capable of running a big
ranch all by herself.
That would come in real handy if I broke a leg. Or got stomped to death by a crazed horse or shot between the eyes by a drunken cowboy or chewed up by a
—Whoa!

As Midnight topped a low, rocky ridge, Moon reined the horse to an abrupt halt.

He had spotted the carcass.

WHEN SOMEONE TAPPED LIGHTLY ON THE HEADQUARTERS WEST-PORCH
door, Sarah Frank was sitting by the parlor fireplace, watching the flames and mooning over you-know-who. When she opened the door, Annie Rose’s pretty face smiled at her.

“Good morning.” The slender woman who had been hired to act as Dolly Bushman’s companion looked hopefully over Sarah’s left shoulder. “May I speak to Mr. Moon?”

Though Sarah tried ever so hard to smile back, her thin little lips would not cooperate. “He’s not here.”

As if she doubted this report, Annie cocked her head to glance over the girl’s
right
shoulder. “Oh—he’s gone so early in the morning?”

Sarah’s head bobbed in a nod. “He went to look at a dead cow.” She appended an explanation for the presumably city-bred woman: “Ranch work starts really early.”

Annie’s smile morphed from
friendly
to
amused
.
So does competition for desirable men
. “When do you expect his return?”

“Hard to say.” The seventeen-year-old shrugged. “Charlie could be gone all day.” She made an effort to be polite: “I could give him a message when he gets back.”

“That’s very kind of you.” The mature young woman cocked her head. “You may tell Mr. Moon that I called.”

“Uh . . . what for?”

The poor little thing is so charming. And so deeply in love
. Annie responded to a wicked impulse. “Tell him that he can take me to dinner tomorrow evening.”

Both of Sarah’s eyebrows arched—like drawn bows. “Dinner?”

Annie’s dark eyes sparkled. “At the Silver Mountain Hotel.” With this parting shot, she turned and crossed the thick-planked porch.

Sarah’s mouth gaped guppy-fashion.
Tell him yourself, you sneaky man-hunter—I won’t set up your dates for you!

Down the steps Annie Rose went, and across the yard. Her mischievous suggestion had been one of those spur-of-the moment inspirations that—in hindsight—might look more like a stroke of genius.
I wonder if he might take me up on it?
As she considered the advantages that might be gained from an evening out with Mr. Moon, the clever lady felt rather proud of her impromptu performance. Sufficiently so that she was inspired to begin whistling “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’.”

Sarah fumed.
Oh—just look at how she walks, all twisty-twisty like her hips are out of joint
. Some of these older women were without a trace of shame. A thoughtful expression furrowed the girl’s smooth forehead.
If I wanted to, I bet I could learn to walk like that
.

Not that she ever would.

MORE TROUBLE

Annie was barely out of sight and Sarah was about to close the west-porch door when a white Toyota pickup rattled across the Too Late Creek bridge. Down the graveled lane it came, tugging a small cloud of brownish yellow dust. The familiar motor vehicle belonged to the Columbine Grass’s pretty girl singer, who was also a librarian. An unmarried librarian. An astonishingly pretty unmarried librarian.

The pickup charged into the headquarters yard and parked with a lurching jerk under a tall cottonwood.

Right
between
Charlie Moon’s Expedition and Sarah’s red F-150 pickup.

Well.

Patsy Poynter, who was about nine times better-looking than Annie Rose, got out with all the pent-up energy of an excited teenager, which Sarah thought inappropriate in a woman who must be pushing thirty.

The blue-eyed blonde was carrying a canvas grocery bag. As she hurried across the yard, Patsy used her free hand to wave at the shy Indian girl. “Hey, sweetie!”

This enthusiasm, at the same time infectious and magnetic, pulled Sarah through the door and onto the west porch. Waving back, she murmured a tepid “Hi.”

The bluegrass band’s girl singer looked this way and that. “Where’s Charlie?”

First that kissy-kissy FBI lady, then twisty Annie Rose, now pretty-face Patsy—why don’t they just move in with him?
Sarah resisted the temptation to roll her eyes and heave a heavy sigh. “He’s not here.”