The Widow's Revenge (26 page)

Suffocating!

The dreamer awakened, flailing his arms, gasping for breath—to find his face buried in a fluffy pillow. Parris rolled over, tossed the offending pillow across his bedroom, where it knocked a framed photograph of his mother off the wall. He lay flat on this back, stared at the ceiling, and inhaled several lungfuls of fresh air.
Wow. That was a bummer of a nightmare
.

There was this consolation:
When you’re dead and buried, that’s The End
. This nightmare was the final installment of the episodic dreams. Or so he thought.

IN THE COLUMBINE ATTIC

At about the time Scott Parris was awakening from his horrific dream, Charlie Moon was wide awake and entirely focused on the task of placing two extremely dangerous items into his massive attic safe. When the job was done, he closed the door and twirled the dial.

There. That’ll do for now
. This was not a perfect storage place, but he couldn’t think of a better one for the short run.
I’m the only one who knows the combination. In a few hours I’ll have Daisy and Sarah out of the house, and I’ll make sure these things are disposed of before they get
back
. He frowned.
But if something goes sour and I’m not around day after tomorrow, somebody could eventually get hurt
. How might such a calamity come to pass? A half-dozen hair-raising scenarios occurred to him. The most likely of these:
A locksmith with a court order might open the safe door so lawyers could go through my personal effects
.

A man’s responsibilities do not end with his death.

Charlie Moon searched several cardboard storage boxes until he found a yellow pad and a roll of masking tape. He printed instructions on a sheet of paper and taped it onto the safe door.

DANGER!

DON’T OPEN THIS SAFE

Call Special Agent McTeague
She’ll know what to do
C Moon

DURING A LONG NIGHT OF SITTING ON THE SHADOWY FRONT PORCH
with a heavy pistol strapped to his hip and a Winchester carbine in his lap, Charlie Moon mulled over his problem. Ignoring the perfect illusion that planets and stars were passing ever so slowly overhead, he considered a number of potential solutions, each with flaws that could prove disastrous. Moon was acutely aware that he wasn’t holding any face cards or aces, but life was a chancy game at best, and any course of action was better than waiting for the black-hearted villain across the table to make his play and ruin your day.

The tribal investigator’s sole advantage was that he knew he was in deep trouble, and—
they don’t know I know
. The issue was how best to use that edge. Moon was leaning toward a strategy that would force the other player to show his hand before he’d intended to. Which called for a tactic that would unnerve the enemy; do something that he could not possibly anticipate. But whatever the plan, it was essential to protect Daisy, Sarah, and all those hardworking folks on the Columbine who depended on the boss to make the right decisions.
One way or another, I’ll have to isolate the bad guys. Separate the goats from the sheep
.

A cold white glow of first light just was beginning to show over the Buckhorns when the man finally settled on a plan. The first step was to have a little powwow with Jerome Kydmann.
I can always depend on the Kyd to do what needs doing. And he never asks a lot of questions—just gets the job done
.

His decision made, Charlie Moon began to feel tolerably better. Not all that short of optimistic. Perhaps having
something to do
was just the medicine he needed.

THE MORNING
had dawned bright and cloudless, but with a lingering redness in the west and also in Moon’s eyes, when (at breakfast) he announced his intention to Daisy and Sarah. The elder and the younger lady were equally surprised, but did not question his instructions. Daisy had noticed that no-nonsense glint in her nephew’s eyes that made it clear that neither queries nor complaints would be tolerated. Sarah did not sense that anything was amiss.

Immediately after the morning meal, Daisy and Sarah, accompanied by Mr. Zig-Zag and the official Columbine hound, departed in the girl’s pickup. Sarah’s Ford truck was followed by the Wyoming Kyd and a pair of cowhands in another, less spiffy-looking F-150. All three of these sharp-eyed Columbine employees were armed and—presumably in light of the recent crime wave—advised to keep a close eye on the womenfolk.

The Kyd and his companions figured something more was up than Moon had let on, but, aside from the foreman, nobody on the Columbine was in the habit of questioning the boss. When Mr. Moon had that grim, flinty look, you just tipped your hat, said, “Yes, sir,” and did what the man said.

WHEN FOREMAN
Pete Bushman heard the small caravan rumbling over the Too Late Creek bridge, he hurried over to a living-room window and watched as they passed by his residence.
Now what is this all about?
Preferring face-to-face exchanges to telephone conversations, he headed to the headquarters to find out.

Charlie Moon informed his crusty straw boss that Mr. Kydmann and the assigned cowboys were accompanying Daisy and Sarah over to the Big Hat. And that all labor on the Columbine would cease by noon.

Stunned by this unanticipated news, Bushman barely got the “Why?” past his lips and through his unkempt beard.

“Because an hour after noon is one o’clock,” Moon explained. “Which is when the big shebang at the Big Hat begins to commence.”

Pete Bushman stared blankly at the inscrutable Ute. “What’n hell big shebang are you talking about?”

Moon managed to look surprised at this shameless display of ignorance. “You haven’t heard?”

Bushman allowed as how he had not heard a single, solitary word.

“Then you’re probably the only soul on the Columbine that doesn’t know about the big Breaking in the New Banjo celebration.” Moon picked up his Stelling’s Golden Cross and expertly claw-hammered a sprightly little introduction to “Soldier’s Joy” before continuing his narrative: “At one o’clock there’ll be a light lunch of beef burgers, home-fried potatoes, and baked beans. The horseshoe pitch is scheduled for two o’clock, an old-fashioned square dance at three—at which you’ll be doing the calling and fiddling—and at four o’clock there’ll be a quarter-mile horse race where wagering with cash money will not be discouraged. From five o’clock sharp to sundown is suppertime, and soon as folks have had their fill—why, that’s when the big hoedown kicks in.”

Bushman eyed the Columbine Grass’s lead musician.
That sounds just dumb enough to be true
. “And like always, your foreman is the last person you bother to tell what’s going on.”

Moon assured his highest-ranking employee that the omission was a mere oversight. “Now you and Dolly better head for the Big Hat.” He added, with a twang from the highest-pitched string, “And don’t forget to take your granddaddy’s fine old Bavarian fiddle.”

The grizzled old white man—who might have been crouched under a covered wagon, aiming his .50 caliber buffalo rifle at a war-painted redskin astride an unshod pony—eyed the sly Indian through slitted lids. “Charlie, I ain’t got no time for foolishness. Is this another one a your jokes?”

The Ute assured him that he was as serious as
a plague of giant range worms come to dine on prime Columbine pasture
. Having had his say, Moon picked up again on “Soldier’s Joy.”

This time, he’s got the brain fever for sure
. Not that it mattered. Once the boss had made up his mind, there was nothing for a long-suffering foreman to do but go along—no matter that he had forgotten more about running a cattle operation than this upstart Indian would ever learn if he lived for a thousand years, which wasn’t likely. But that didn’t mean a fellow had
to give in without a fight. Over the merry banjo picking, Pete Bushman (who’s arthritic right knee was aching) gloomily predicted that there would be a rip-roaring storm not long after sundown. The self-appointed forecaster advised Moon to plan for two or three inches of rain on any outdoor picnic he had in mind and to make sure the Big Hat headquarters was rigged to handle not only the eats—but the music and dancing too.

The boss stilled his fingers long enough to direct his hairy-faced subordinate to
make it so
. Almost as an afterthought, the owner of the outfit mentioned that he would be running a little late on account of “. . . some last-minute business that can’t wait till tomorrow. But don’t wait for me. I want everybody to have a grand old time, and I’ll get there soon as I can.”

Bushman, who knew his men pretty well, thought the boss’s smile looked a little strained.

By the time he got back to the foreman’s residence, Dolly was busy filling a bushel basket with three loaves of baked-last-week sourdough bread, two sugar-cured hams, and the pies and cobblers she always kept on hand for such emergencies. The foreman’s wife, who was feeling better than she had in a month, didn’t look up from her therapeutic work. “Don’t forget to bring along all four of the hand-crank ice cream freezers, Pete. And plenty of ice and rock salt.”

“Okay.” Hoping to recruit some help, Pete looked around. “Where’s what’s-her-name?”

“Annie’s in her bedroom—getting ready for the party, I expect.” Eyeing the pantry, Dolly decided she would take along an extra pound of coffee beans.

AS WAS
so often the case, Pete Bushman’s weather forecast would prove to be right on the mark. Shortly after sundown, there would be a gully-washing rain the likes of which had not been seen in these parts for a coon’s age, nor would be for some years to come.

Accompanying the deluge, lusty gusts of wind would lay tall pines on the ground and earthshaking thunder would play rhythm for long, spindly legs of lightning that danced insanely across the granite peaks.

A splendid display, for so few human observers to appreciate.

Not that the Columbine would be entirely lacking in human souls.

Charlie Moon would be present.

A few others would also remain behind. Why?

Each had his (or her) reason.

A case in point—

DOLLY BUSHMAN’S NURSE

As it happened, Charlie Moon was not the only workaholic on the ranch.

Whether by coincidence or deliberate plan, it turned out that Annie Rose also had “some last-minute business” that could not be put off. She convinced Pete and Dolly Bushman to leave for the Big Hat party without her. Dolly’s nurse-companion promised to show up after her work was done.

The Bushmans were barely out of sight when Ms. Rose legged it from the foreman’s residence to the ranch headquarters, practically danced up the porch steps, and banged her delicate fist on the west-facing door until Charlie Moon opened it to get an eyeful of this new hire for the first time.

Well.
She is good-looking
. Making no secret of the fact that he was not pleased to see her attractive face at this particular time and place, the boss responded to Miss Rose’s cheerful “Hello” with: “You ought to be headed for the Big Hat, with Dolly.”

Now, pretty women know they’re pretty, and this was not exactly the reception that Annie Rose had hoped for. Talking faster than was her habit and all in one breath, the lady explained that Dolly was doing just fine now and didn’t need much looking-after and she had some urgent things to get done that would take at least all afternoon and probably into the evening and it had occurred to her that she’d never been to the Big Hat before and she simply
hated
to drive after dark in unfamiliar places almost as much as she
detested
the thought of wasting expensive gasoline. “So can I ride with you to the party?”

The Ute admired a woman who spoke her mind, even when it took so many words to get the job done. “I’ll be running late. And you can’t miss the turnoff to the Big Hat.” As if it would help, he pointed east. “Take the
first left after you leave the Columbine gate, which is only about fifteen miles down the highway. You can’t miss it—there’s a big sign shaped like a cowboy hat.” Sensing that he was not convincing the attractive lady, Moon managed a genial smile. “Why don’t you let your work wait till tomorrow, and head on over there with the others and have a good time.”