The Widow's Revenge (24 page)

Presumably to emphasize his agreement, her mount snorted.

Sarah Frank’s eyes overflowed with tears.

BEMUSED AND
bewildered, Charlie Moon watched the enigmatic creature ride away.
Poor kid. Something must be bothering her
. But even if he’d had a knack for understanding what motivated this particular member of the tender gender, there was not a lot he could do about it at the moment. So the full-time rancher, part-time tribal investigator, sometimes banjo picker did what any man who hadn’t finished his breakfast would do.

He seated himself on a black basalt boulder and helped himself to a chewy brownie.
That sure does hit the spot
. After enjoying a half dozen more of Patsy Poynter’s delicious pastries, Moon opened the long, narrow box. What he found inside pleased him very much indeed.

In practically no time at all, the bluegrass musician had tuned the dandy instrument and within a heartbeat or two after that he was picking “Turkey in the Straw,” which sounded worlds better than it ever had on his fair-to-middling banjo. Despite the fact that he was stranded in this remote place with neither horse, rifle, nor sidearm, Moon seemed blissfully unaware of the mortal danger that still lurked in the fringes of the mountain forest.

No so.

Despite his ignorance of that sex that remains mysterious to 97 percent of men (the other 3 percent are engaged in self-deception), Moon knew his cougars.

Little by little, and ever so cautiously, the mountain lion crept closer. She cupped her ears to a sound that had been never heard in this neck of the woods.

Charlie Moon cocked his head to glance at the glowing feline eyes. “See how you like this.” He served up a lively rendition of “Old Joe Clark” that might indeed have the power to soothe the savage beast.

Or not.

The jury was still out.

Though the outcome remained uncertain, the cougar reclined on a grassy mat under the aspens and listened with a terrible intensity.

By and by, after drifting into a selection of old standards made famous by such luminaries as Bill Monroe and the Bluegrass Boys, Flat and Scruggs, and the like (for this was evidently what Moon’s singular audience preferred), the musician terminated the impromptu gig and got up from the boulder. As he placed the venerable banjo back into the box, the performer addressed the predator in this manner: “Much as I would like to stay and pick a few more tunes for you, it’s time for me to get on down the road toward home.”

Apparently dissatisfied with this announcement, the big cat growled.

The rancher eyed the hungry creature who shared his liking for beef,
though Moon preferred his steaks on a plate and not so rare. “Now here’s the deal. I’m going to leave, but I don’t intend to take my eye off you till I’m over the ridge.” He tucked the banjo box under his arm. “I expect you’ll come and help yourself to a supper of prime Hereford, and I won’t begrudge you that. But hear this, big cat—if and when you and me meet again, I’ll have something with me besides a five-string banjo.” (Think .44 caliber Winchester.) “So from now on, you’d better feed yourself on elk or deer. You kill another purebred steer, I’ll send a half-dozen crack shots with rifles out here to track you down and send you straight to the Happy Hunting Ground.”

Was he serious? You can bet your boots and saddle.

Did Moon really believe the mountain lion understood English? Not for a second. But the Ute was convinced that animals have a facility for picking up the gist of a threat.

Having finished his speech, Moon made his retreat.

As he had expected, the cougar matched him step for step.

But this predator who could lick the flesh from his bones stopped at the steer’s carcass, where the sweet scent of raw flesh was fragrant to her nostrils.

True to his word, Charlie Moon didn’t mind the famished animal enjoying this particular meal. In the cattle rancher’s hardscrabble occupation, an occasional cougar kill was part of the cost of doing business. The key word here is
occasional
.

THE DISTANCE FROM THE JUNCTION OF DRY CREEK AND SUNSET ARROYO
to the ranch headquarters was only nine miles and change, but that’s a serious hike for a man shod in cowboy boots, especially when he’s been humiliated by losing both his horse and rifle, and come face-to-face with a couple of angry female creatures who gave every indication of wanting to bite his head off (actually in one instance, metaphorically in the other). On top of all that, Charlie Moon was obliged to tote his classic banjo, which managed to get heavier with every step.

But the walk wasn’t all bad. There were pluses.

Like the last of the brownies, which tasted just as good as the first one.

Also, since he’d signed his name on the dotted line and taken title to the Columbine, this was one of the few times Charlie Moon had ample time to admire the east-pasture landscape, and he liked what he saw very much and then some. The land’s fine attributes included the reddish tint of the soil, knee-high buffalo grass that carpeted the prairie between boulders of basalt and granite that ranged from the size of basketballs to pickup trucks. Most of these lumpy specimens were streaked with veins of white, yellow, or pink quartz—a few with all three.

And there was much more to admire.

Here and there a pink-barked ponderosa or a lonely, cone-shaped spruce provided a perch for a gawking crow that croaked at the rancher, or an irate pygmy owl that scowled down her hooked beak at this impertinent human biped who was trespassing into the exclusive domain of wild things.

In this delightful environment, Moon also had plenty of time to think. And to wonder about various and sundry issues. He indulged himself in both activities.

I wonder what Lila Mae’s up to right about now
. He smiled as a jackrabbit sprang from behind a boulder to go racing across the prairie, big ears flopping in comical fashion.
I bet she’s in the Hoover Building, meeting with a dozen other uptight feds that’re all duded up in suits and vests and shiny shoes
. His smile broadened.
Special Agent L. M. McTeague will be letting ’em know who’s the boss and telling ’em what’s what
.

Some twenty miles to the west, just over the bluish gray Misery peaks, a storm cloud’s mottled belly growled and grumbled.

SARAH FRANK
heard the thunder shortly before Moon’s eardrums were vibrated by the low rumbling. She was in her bedroom at the headquarters, stuffing a scruffy gray dress into a scuffed suitcase. The seventeen-year-old’s eyes were dry now, her course firmly set in her mind.
I’ll leave a note for Aunt Daisy, telling her that I’ve left in my pickup
. . . . The pickup Charlie had given her on her sixteenth birthday. A lump materialized in her throat.
He’s been so good to me
. Truer words were never spoken.
And I’ve treated him like dirt!
She fought back a fresh deluge of tears. But, after making such a fool of herself, there could be no turning back.
I’ll tell Aunt Daisy that I’m going to Tonopah Flats in Utah
. Sarah’s plan was to stay with Marilee Attatochee (her
real
aunt) until she could earn enough money to rent her own room.
Maybe I can get a job as a waitress at the Cowboy Restaurant
. She sighed.
I’d rather work at that nice little newsstand next door, but they probably don’t need anybody, and besides, nobody tips girls who sell newspapers and magazines and paperback books
. The prospective waitperson began the hopeful process of estimating how much she’d make working seven days a week, ten or twelve hours a day.
In three or four months I’ll be able to afford a nice little apartment
. As Sarah finished her packing, the hopeful girl-woman furnished all three of the imaginary rooms with inexpensive but tasteful furnishings from the Tonopah Flats Goodwill store.

Finally, Sarah snapped the sad little suitcase shut and frowned at the shabby piece of luggage. She considered writing a note to the man she had wronged.
No
. That would be the easy way out. Also the coward’s solution.
I can’t leave before I apologize face-to-face to Charlie Moon
.

Another, seemingly irrelevant thought percolated to the surface:
I wonder where Charlie’s horse was when I threw the banjo and brownies at him?
Her brow furrowed.
Probably tied up in the aspens, where I couldn’t see it
.

THE FOOTSORE
object of Sarah’s thoughts was about halfway home when he saw a distant puff of dust.
That’s a horse and rider
. Moon squinted. No, make that two horses. Only one rider.
Well thank you, God. Midnight had enough horse sense to head back to the barn, and some cowboy with more than an ounce of brains between his ears is bringing my mount back to me
. He smiled when a variation on this theme occurred to him:
It might be Sarah, bringing a pair of horses to run me down with
.

As Moon’s rescuer came closer, he could clearly hear the sound of eight hooves pounding the ground, and he got a better look at the rider—who was definitely not a she. This was a big, broad-shouldered fellow. Could be any one of a dozen hands.

It was the alcoholic ex-con who called himself Bill Smith.

Moon was pleased to see that Bushman had provided the new hire with decent clothes, all the way from a weather-beaten but serviceable wide-brimmed hat down to footwear that looked familiar.
Those boots belonged to Texas Joe, who got knifed last year at that bar fight over in Pueblo
. The Columbine’s superstitious cowboys would go barefoot before they’d wear a dead man’s boots, and Moon figured Smith would probably shed them once he found out.

The man who claimed to be Wallace Montoya’s buddy reined his mount in and eyed the Ute with a wide grin. “We ain’t actually met face-to-face, Mr. Moon—I’m Bill Smith.”

“I know who you are.”

“Yes, I s’pose you do.” Smith’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve seen you a couple of times too.”

“I’m sure glad to see you right now.” Moon took hold of his mount’s reins.

Smith laughed. “Didn’t know if I’d find you dead from a broke neck or
maybe with nothin’ more than a busted leg and some cracked ribs. But here you are, forked-end down just like you never got throwed.”

“I didn’t get throwed,” Moon grumped. “But thanks for bringing me my mount.” He aimed an accusing stare at the big black.

As if aware of having committed a serious infraction, the animal looked away.

Moon mounted the still-skittish horse. “How’d you know where to come looking for me?”

“That fuzzy-faced old foreman came down to the bunk house right after you rode out and said you’d gone to check on the dead steer, and he told us where it’d got killed.” Bill Smith used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his forehead. “And Mr. Bushman said, ‘When that Indian says he’s goin’ to take care of somethin’ by hisself, it’s best to leave him be till he gets the job done. So all a you boys just keep your distance.” He gazed at the UPS parcel with more than casual interest. “I hope you don’t mind me asking—whatcha got in that box?”