The Widow's Revenge (29 page)

THE TRIBAL INVESTIGATOR

After checking the pistol strapped to his belt, Charlie Moon stepped softly down the darkened stairway and into the cavernous headquarters parlor.

ON THE ROAD

Rolling like a cannonball on steroids toward the Columbine, Charlie Moon’s best friend prayed that he would not be too late.

Someone is bound to ask: “How fast does the chief of police roll in his supercharged black-and-white GCPD unit?”

Whilst soaring sickeningly over undulating ridges and dipping perilously into shallow hollows, Scott Parris proceeds at 115 miles per hour.

Faster on level straightaways.

SUCH AS LIGHT, WHICH IS SO PRECIOUS—EVEN THE FEEBLE ILLUMINA
tion from distant stars, luminescent clock dials, gas pilot lights, and the like. Those faintish glows enable us to maneuver at night without bumping into such hazards as sooty coal scuttles, sappy cedar fence posts, and dozing snapping turtles.

Smothered under mile-thick clouds, the Columbine might as well have been buried within the twisted innards of a West Virginia coal mine. Aside from an occasional flash of lightning that was almost blinding, the darkness was total.

As the man who had just penned his last will and testament groped his way toward the kitchen, he had some time to think.
Unless I’m wrong—and I’m not—this’ll end up being at least four against one
. A sobering thought for a man who did not harbor suicidal tendencies. And not only that . . .
I don’t know where these guys are holed up and ready to draw a bead on me
. Plus (and this was a big minus)
—They’re bound to know that I’m here in the headquarters
. The poker player frowned at the long odds.
They also know that I’m likely to go out to the machine-shop shed and try to restart the diesel generator
. A dicey situation.
There must be some way of stacking the deck so I’ve got a fighting chance of being alive when the sun comes up
. Charlie Moon felt his way to the coat rack by the kitchen door, where he donned a long, black raincoat and a floppy old cowboy hat, also black.
Well, I hope I think of something
. He unlocked the kitchen door and backed away to take cover behind the headquarters’ two-foot-thick log walls.

Creeeeak. Squeeeeak
.

(These were the sounds the hinges produced as Moon used the toe of his black cowboy boot to push the oak door open.)

Pistol in hand, he waited for slugs to come flying into the kitchen. After a few dozen heartbeats, the Ute slipped silently onto the south porch.

Somewhere out yonder in the outer darkness, several bad actors waited. Eager to play their supporting roles in the unfolding drama, the hopeful performers watched for their cue—which would be the appearance of the leading man.

Mr. Moon was already at center stage.

But it would not be strictly accurate to assert that the quasi-invisible man-in-black had
put in an appearance
.

THESE WERE THE NICKNAMES OF THE FOUR NEW-HIRE COWBOYS WHO
comprised the B Team, the Family’s postgraduate felons.

When Charlie Moon opened the headquarters kitchen door, locked it behind him, and stepped stealthily across the porch floor without making a board creak, the bloodthirsty foursome could neither hear nor see the man they were so eager to meet.

When a crooked finger of white-hot lightning reached out to touch an already-dead ponderosa atop Pine Knob, Garfield did catch a shadowy glimpse of something that might have been the stealthy Ute—or some nameless phantom who traveled by night. By the time another flash occurred, the ghostly figure was nowhere to be seen.

Following the maybe-sighting, the armed hooligans heard someone open the machine-shop door. And close it.

At a low, piggish grunt from the team leader (Asok), his comrades emerged one by one from a collection of willows clustered on the bank of Too Late Creek. All in a line they marched, like the trained soldiers they were. Garfield followed Asok by the prescribed three paces. Garfield was likewise followed by Herman. Marmaduke tagged along behind.

The sinister quartet approached the machine-shop shed with keen anticipation.

Asok was carrying his propane-fueled, push-button-activated weed burner.

The long, lean Mr. Moon was the designated dandelion.

After conferring in muffled mutters, Asok extended a leather-gloved hand and turned the doorknob. He opened it a crack and listened intently. The team leader heard only the breeze whispering in the willows, the rattling of cottonwood leaves. The thick gloom inside the cinder-block
structure seemed to flow outward, making the dismal night even blacker, bleaker.

Without hesitating or hurrying, the four thugs stepped inside.

Asok aimed his weed burner in the general direction of the diesel generator, where they expected the Indian would be.

Garfield and Herman raised their carbines.

At a whispered command from Asok, Marmaduke switched on his flashlight.

Four sets of eyes goggled at the empty space.

There was no sign of their intended victim.

CHARLIE MOON
, who had not entered the machine shop, closed the door, latched it, and for good measure jammed a hefty two-by-six under the doorknob.

Herman had a tendency to state the obvious. “The sneaky tommy-hawk tosser has locked us in!”

Not realizing that their intended victim was
outside
, Marmaduke instinctively switched off his flashlight. He yelped when Herman turned and accidentally nuzzled the carbine muzzle into his groin.

Startled by this unseemly commotion, Garfield fired three quick shots. The first round struck Herman in the left temple, the second and third drilled neat little holes through a two-gallon gasoline can.

Presumably in the hope of casting some much-needed illumination on a murky situation (but this is mere speculation), Asok thumbed the button on his weed burner. Whatever the team leader’s intent might have been, it was surely not for the three-meter-long dagger of flame to ignite the spilled gasoline. But it did.

While the aforesaid sneaky tomahawk tosser (who had taken note of the carbine shots) was putting some comforting distance between himself and the machine shop, the gasoline fire ignited other fuels stored in the shed. The surging pressure of the overheated atmosphere blasted the door off its hinges as the roof was likewise blown asunder, with flaming fragments hurled upward until gravity would summon them back to earth.

The Ute was (as they say in these parts) “a good fifty yards” from the fiery explosion. One hundred mediocre yards would have been better than a good fifty. The sprinter barely escaped serious injury by falling facedown and rolling under a flatbed truck.

AS BURNING DEBRIS RAINED DOWN AROUND HIM, CHARLIE MOON LAY
flat on his back under the flatbed. The Catholic Christian closed his eyes and addressed his Best Friend.

“I’d appreciate it if you don’t let my house burn down.” He thanked the Almighty for the steel roof on the headquarters, which would help prevent such a calamity. “And we sure do need the new horse barn.” That structure, still under construction and surrounded by wood chips and sawdust, was an iffy proposition, and even the faithful are sometimes fearful of asking too much of the One whose Word called the limitless universe into being. The new barn would survive. Moon heard his stock milling around in the corral, where glowing coals of fire were falling like hail from hell. “And even if the old barn burns to the ground, I’d be much obliged if you’d look after my horses.”

Piece of cake. The animals would not be harmed. Even as Moon was making his heartfelt request, a big dappled stallion panicked and jumped the corral fence, knocking off the top rail. The other horses immediately followed and headed for the river.

Encouraged by these hopeful developments, Moon offered an observation. “We’ve had lots of thunder and lightning this evening.” He followed this with a suggestion. “A little rain would help put out the fire.”

No sooner said than done.

Plop. Plop-plop. Ploppity-plop-plop.

A
little
rain was what he got.

Big, fat drops, falling about one or two to a square foot.

Well, that’s better than none
. “Thank you, sir.”

Moon’s momma had taught her bright-eyed little boy that it always helps to say “thank you.” The plump raindrops began to fall more frequently.

Within a few minutes, the dusty headquarters yard was transformed into mud. But, as local weatherman Pete Bushman had prognosticated, this was only the preliminary sprinkle. When an earsplitting bolt of lightning busted a big hole in the bottom of the sky, the deluge began. Hunkered under the truck, Moon whispered, “This is mighty helpful.”
But I hope you’re not thinking forty days and forty nights
.

Despite the cloudburst, gasoline- and diesel-fueled flames continued to roar in the machine shop’s blackened cinder-block shell, but all of the secondary fires had been put out.

Hellish cinders ceased to fall from the sky.

Moreover, there was a lull in the rainfall.

I might as well head back to the house
.

The rancher got a grip on the truck’s rear bumper, pulled himself from under the GMC vehicle, and got to his feet. On the off chance that a rifleman had the crosshairs of a night-vision sniper scope centered on his back, Moon made a run for the headquarters, zigging and zagging as he went. The instant his boots hit the porch steps, the rainstorm revved up again. As he entered the headquarters by the kitchen entrance, Charlie Moon’s nostrils picked up alluring scents.

He followed his nose to a half pot of cold coffee. While he was gulping the brackish brew directly from the percolator, Moon searched the dark space for a suitable snack. What he came up with were two pieces of leftover pie. An appreciative sniff identified one slab as apple, the other as cherry. Which confronted Moon with something he did not need at the moment—a decision to be made. His taste buds expressed a definite leaning toward the apple, but that wedge was a smaller portion than the cherry, which was a full quarter section.

Irritated by the delay, his stomach suggested a sensible solution.

Between swallows of stale coffee, Moon chomped his way through
both
chunks of pie. This combination of high-calorie pastry and high-octane beverage was stimulating. Intensely so. Indeed, describing the net effect as
inspiring
would not to be going too far. Which is undoubtedly why the sleep-deprived diner came up with a couple of ideas that (at the time) seemed pretty doggoned clever.

EARLIER IN THE DAY, THE RANCHER HAD WATCHED HIS HIRED HANDS
leave the columbine for the Big Hat. When the exodus appeared to be complete, he had telephoned Jerome Kydmann at the ranch on the far side of the Buckhorns to verify his list of partygoers. Charlie Moon was certain that six persons had remained behind on the Columbine.

All new hires.

Moon figured that the four greenhorns Bushman had hired on could be safely presumed dead in the charred remains of the machine-shop shed. That left Bill Smith, the admitted felon who claimed to have been a buddy of Loyola Montoya’s grandson—and Miss Annie Rose, who had expertly nursed Dolly Bushman back to health. If these two had remained in the vicinity, one might reasonably expect them to show up at the headquarters and inquire about the cause of all the excitement.

When company (invited or otherwise) shows up on the doorstep, western hospitality obliges the host to attend to such preparations as are necessary for their comfort, and despite those recent events that had momentarily distracted his attention, Mr. Moon was not one to ignore his obligations. And so he attended to a few essential domestic duties.

Such as:

Making sure all the downstairs curtains were tightly closed.

Striking a kitchen match under a double handful of pine splinters in the parlor fireplace and, after the tinder was aflame, adding several resinous chunks of split piñon.

Placing the most comfortable armchair in the parlor in front the hearth. Close enough so a chilled guest could singe his knees if he pleased.

Lighting a ninety-year-old kerosene lamp in the kitchen, and its twin in the dining room.

Loading the blue enamel percolator with fresh grounds and cold well-water, putting it on the propane range, turning on a blue ring of flame.

Clearing the dining table of breakfast dishes and making sure the chairs were dusted of crumbs and otherwise ready for guests.

Checking the .357 Magnum holstered on his belt.