The Widow's Revenge (36 page)

Moon and Annie Rose? The Ute and the FBI agent have noticed the bullet hole in the oak boards.

The victim? Mr. Smith is firmly convinced that the IED detonated when probed, that both his legs (along with other essential parts) have been blown off, and that the residue of his body shall expire shortly. This, despite the fact that he feels no pain? Most certainly. Smith has concluded that he is in a state of shock and (if he survives long enough) will eventually feel some considerable discomfort at those locations where said anatomical parts were severed by the explosion. In light of this unhappy expectation, he hopes to expire quickly, forthwith, and without undue delay.

Scott Parris continues to grin like a half-wit chimpanzee. His belly shakes with laughter. Indeed, the chief of police has not enjoyed himself so much in years.

LOUD ENOUGH TO WAKE THE DEAD? NO
.

But, like that fateful “Shot Heard Around the World” on April 19, 1775, at Old North Bridge in Concord, Massachusetts, the resounding boom of the .44 Magnum cartridge fired through the parlor floor by Chief of Police Scott Parris would lead to alarming consequences.

ASOK

His hateful heart still throbs; he is still
up there somewhere
. But the troublesome fellow will not remain there.

When the sole survivor of the B Team was jarred all the way back to full consciousness by the Granite Creek cop’s thunderous gunshot, he was startled to find himself rather—sorry, there is no better way to put it—
out on a limb
. More to the point, the felon was faceup, spread-eagled on a sturdy cottonwood branch where his body had rested since being vigorously expelled from the Columbine machine-shop shed when his weed burner ignited the inferno, which incident caused so much commotion and subsequent comment.

The stunned man opened his eyes to the moonlit sky.
Where the hell am I?
A pertinent question for one of his religious persuasion. The avowed Satanist blinked several times. Asok’s left eye was out of commission. His left ear picked up a few night-sounds, but on account of a ruptured drum his right one did not function.

Damn. I’m half blind and half deaf
.

Not only that . . .

I’m freezing to death
.

Ever so gradually, Asok realized why.

I’m naked as a Tennessee jaybird!

The latter assertion was an exaggeration.

True, his scuffed leather jacket, blue work shirt, smelly undershirt, faded jeans, over-the-calf socks, and boots had all been blown off by the violent force of his explosive expulsion from the shed. The single scrap of clothing left on his body was a pair of boxer shorts that were neither white, gray, nor navy. Brace yourself. Asok preferred red Valentine hearts on a pink background, and as if this fashion statement were not sufficient, a multitude of plump, naked infants armed with bows were aiming arrows at the hearts. And though a man who willfully wears such an appalling undergarment deserves not a speck or smidgen of pity, it must be admitted that the felon had awakened to find himself in difficult circumstances. Even so, for a laborer about to begin collecting the Wages of Sin, these misfortunes were merely the loose change in Lucifer’s deep pockets.

As a chill breeze blew some of the soot off Asok’s face, the B Team leader began to get annoyed. Then angry. Finally, downright chagrined. His dander all up, the fellow had one thing on his mind—revenge on that Indian who was responsible for turning a straightforward task into a fiasco. Figuring the best way to get even was to finish the job, he rolled over on the branch and fell about thirteen feet to the ground. A long way down. He moaned softly and ground his teeth.
I think I cracked my collarbone
.

Couldn’t be helped.

The malefactor had some dirty work to do, so as soon as he got his wind back the game fellow crawled around, searching with his good eye and grubby hands for something that might come in handy. For the longest time, all Asok found were bits of smoldering rubbish. Broken bits of tree branches. A tattered leather vest. Marmaduke’s bloody left hand. Did this macabre discovery discourage our searcher? Not a chance. He tossed the dismembered appendage aside and kept right on mucking about.

Perseverance is a sterling quality, and one that is often rewarded. Which is why we should not be surprised that Asok eventually found what he was looking for.

A functional Winchester carbine.

IT WAS NOT AN EASY CHOICE FOR A GIRL TO MAKE, BUT SARAH FRANK
did what is widely regarded hereabouts as the Right Thing. After murmuring a shy “maybe later” to the Wyoming Kyd’s request for a dance, Sarah had followed Daisy Perika into the Big Hat kitchen, leaving Mr. Jerome Kydmann in the parlor with a hopeful, boyish smile pasted firmly on his face. Then (when no one was paying them any attention) the Ute-Papago orphan snatched up Mr. Zig-Zag and slipped out the kitchen door with the tribal elder. They met an expectant Sidewinder on the back porch. After installing the Columbine hound in the F-150 bed, the pair boarded the trusty pickup and headed lickety-split toward the big ranch on the west side of the Buckhorns, where, Daisy was convinced, her nephew was in some kind of serious trouble.

Twenty-nine minutes later, they were bouncing along the twisty-turny miles-long dirt lane that connects the ranch headquarters to the paved highway. The girl stretched her neck to look over the steering wheel. “What’s that in the ditch?”

This was a purely rhetorical question. What
that
was, was perfectly obvious.

Daisy did not appreciate wasteful nuances of speech, or those who resorted to such pointless affectations. “It’s a cop car.” Recalling her recent telephone conversation with a particular cop, she added, “Looks like the one Scott Parris drives.”

Sarah braked to a skidding stop and got out to shine a flashlight into the black-and-white’s open door. She hurried back to her pickup. “There’s nobody in it.”

“You mark my words—those witches are behind whatever’s going on here tonight.” The shaman wagged a finger at the her wide-eyed apprentice.
“They’ve run Scott off the road, then carried his body off.”
Most likely, to soak it in barbecue sauce and roast it over a fire
. The morbid old woman shuddered.

Cringing at the thought of witches with enough gumption to attack the tough-as-boot-leather chief of police, the girl closed the pickup door, locked it, and got the truck moving again.

The tribal elder shook her old gray head. “I told you something was wrong here.”
We’d better not go barging in like a couple of idiots
. This business needed some serious thinking over. “Switch your headlights off and drive slow.”

Sarah did as ordered.

As they approached the foreman’s residence, Daisy felt a sudden prickling on the back of her neck, a thumping in her temple that drummed,
Danger Ahead
. “Pull over and stop.”

The obedient seventeen-year-old parked her truck at the foreman’s house.

Daisy looked up to see a lone raven gliding under the stars. Beyond all probability, the aged shaman believed this night visitor to be her special friend from
Cañón del Espíritu
. The winged creature circled a scraggly elm in the Bushmans’ yard before settling lightly on a twisted branch. The shiny black bird cocked its head, eyeballed the elder—and croaked twice as if to say . . .
They’re waiting
.

They were. Just on the other side of the Too Late Creek bridge.

Lowering her gaze, Daisy saw a sight in the glimmering moonlight that almost stopped her heart.

Three horses. Two riders.

Seemingly eager to get on with the night’s grim work, the pale, un-mounted horse pawed at the muddy earth and snorted. The riders on the pintos exchanged somber stares with the tribal elder.

Recognizing the orphan’s parents astride the spotted ponies, Daisy felt a thrilling chill.
They’ve come for their daughter—the white pony is for Sarah
. The girl was destined to die tonight.
And there’s not a thing I can do about it
.

Before Daisy had time for another thought, she was stunned to witness the descent from the dark heavens of an immense, glistening screen.
It was (she thought) as if some unseen hand had pulled down a rolled-up white window shade. Whether this experience was merely her overstressed mind’s hallucination or a genuine revelation, the effect was perfect. As she stared at the multidimensional projection on the silvery screen, the aged woman’s vision was flawless. Daisy could see everything in all directions, be it the Columbine headquarters, the new horse barn, a hollow old pink-barked ponderosa housing a variety of rodents, a towering blue-granite mountain veined with gold and silver—and she could see all these marvels inside and out in the most minute detail. Moreover, the privileged old woman could hear every sound, and delighted in the soft murmuring of the creek, the joyous rippling of the rocky river, the gentle whispering of a damp breeze in the willows, and every single syllable that anyone might utter and—
what they were thinking
.

The shaman could even see and hear
herself
, urging Sarah to stay in the pickup.

Strangely, none of this frightened Daisy Perika.

SARAH FRANK DID NOT SEE HER PARENTS WAITING PATIENTLY WITH THE
painted and plumed white pony for her to mount and ride, but she did share Daisy Perika’s conviction that Charlie Moon was in some kind of trouble. And . . .
I can’t just sit here in the pickup and wait to see what happens
. Ignoring the old woman’s urgent pleadings to stay put, the teenager (accompanied by her aged tomcat) got out of the vehicle and strode down the lane toward the Columbine headquarters. The farther Sarah went, the faster her gait, the more hopeful her thoughts. The storm was certainly responsible for the slippery roads that had caused Mr. Parris’s accident, and lightning striking a pole had probably knocked out the Columbine phones.
Charlie will be okay
.

But in spite of this effort to convince herself otherwise, Sarah
knew
that all was not well.

With a disgruntled Sidewinder locked in the back of the pickup, a grumbling Daisy in the cab, and Mr. Zig-Zag padding along at her heels, Sarah fairly trotted across the Too Late Creek bridge, her path illuminated by the glow of moonlight. Nearing the headquarters, she was pleased to see Charlie Moon’s big automobile and a glimmer of firelight between the curtains in a parlor window. The scent of a few smoldering embers from the tool shed suggested a cheerful domestic scene that brought a smile to her lips.
I bet Charlie’s sitting in front of the fireplace with a mug of coffee and—
Sarah saw something that stopped her in her tracks.

An almost-naked figure of a man was limping crossing the yard in the shadows. She watched him mount the headquarters porch, one stealthy step at a time.
What’s going on?
Sarah’s blood ran cold as the sinister stranger peeked into the parlor window. She heard herself whisper, “What’s that in his hand—a walking stick?”

EVEN IN
his present, somewhat addled state, Asok recognized a golden opportunity when he encountered one. This would be almost too easy for a fellow who enjoyed his work more when there was some measure of challenge in it. But, as Trout was apt to remind him, the bottom line was to get the job done.
I’ll shoot the skinny Indian first, then the other guy, then the woman
.

He raised the carbine, took aim at the taller of the two men. . . .

CERTAIN THAT
Moon was in the parlor and about to be murdered, Sarah Frank shouted as loud as she could, “Charlie—he’s going to shoot you!”

Everything happened within three heartbeats.