White Shell Woman

by James D. Doss

  Not intending to reply, Charlie Moon was surprised to hear the thought slip past his lips. “Scared to death.”

  “Oh,” Daisy said. “You already heard that story.”

  To block any other stray words that were inclined to escape, he clenched his mouth tightly shut.

  Her wrinkled face settled into a satisfied smirk. “You know what I think?” She didn’t wait for a response. He might just say doorknob again. “I think somebody has already found White Shell Woman’s tear. And intends to keep it for himself.”

  Moon attempted an innocent expression. His reflection in the windshield sneered back at him. A brutish mug on an FBI most-wanted poster.

  CHARLES “GRAVE-ROBBER” MOON

  DESPICABLE ARTIFACT THIEF

  DESECRATOR OF SACRED SITES

  USE EXTREME CAUTION WHEN APPROACHING

  SUBJECT UNHINGED BY BRAIN INJURY

  MAY BE ARMED

  P.S.: FORMER SWEETHEART SAYS

  SHOOT THE BASTARD

  ON SIGHT.

  His aunt’s voice interrupted this melancholy fantasy. “It could be very bad for the person who took White Shell Woman’s tear if they don’t do what that old Anasazi wizard wants them to do—very bad.”

  Moon didn’t ask.

  Needing no encouragement, the tribal elder explained precisely what the old wizard expected of the person who had removed the precious artifact from its hiding place. And if he refused, what the terrible consequences of such folly would be.

  Moon almost wished he’d left her at home. Almost. But he had woke up this morning with a pocket full of silver dollars. And the day was not yet spent.

  UNHINGED

  By the time Charlie Moon delivered his aunt to the Columbine, the groaning moan of the hardworking wind had abated to a weary sigh. But the Ute still had sand in his mouth. He brushed his teeth. An hour later he had a fine lunch under his belt, and felt much better. Furthermore, he had managed to dismiss his aunt’s fanciful tale. He inquired whether she would like to go for a short ride, take her things over to the cabin.

  Daisy Perika agreed; asserted that she was looking forward to spending the night there. Charlie Moon’s ranch headquarters was too big. Too many dark corners. Reminded her of a museum. Or a barn.

  Leaving the sandblasted F150 to heal in the therapeutic shade of the leaning cottonwoods, Moon drove the Expedition along the lane that led across one of the Columbine’s smaller fenced pastures. It was barely a half mile wide. He had the windows down, the better to inhale the sweet mountain air.

  Daisy Perika was straining for her first glimpse of the log cabin that lay across the lake and just beyond a spruce-lined ridge. “Well, that was a fairly decent meal you fixed. Pork chops. Pinto beans. Fried squash.” She glanced sideways at her nephew. “I didn’t know you could cook anything but beef steaks.”

  “Had lots of practice.”

  “Sure. You’ve been a bachelor a long time.”

  Moon absorbed this body blow with a grunt. Wonder what Camilla’s doing right now.

  Penetrating the stand of blue spruce, the arrow-straight ranch road was transformed into a meandering serpent, gliding stealthily beneath thick evergreen branches.

  The sudden change from bright high-altitude sunlight to deep shade startled the old woman—it was as if a prankish magician had snuffed out the sun. Black-looking moss was spread like a lumpy carpet under the scented trees. A furry Something scurried along in the emerald twilight, startling a patch of delicate ferns into a shiver of excitement.

  The air was corpse-cool, and unhealthily damp. Daisy pulled the woolen shawl tighter across her shoulders. She wondered whether death was like this. Would the dangerous journey from Middle World to Upper World pass through a dark, cold place where loathsome creatures lay in wait for the unprotected soul? The next time I see Nahum Yacitti, I’ll ask him what it was like to make the crossing. More than once the old shepherd had returned from Upper World to talk with the Ute shaman. Maybe when it’s my time to go, Nahum will come to take me across. “Charlie?”

  He lifted his boot off the accelerator pedal, shifted the Expedition to low. “Yeah?”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, that head doctor—he said your injury might cause you to—well…have some problems.”

  “I’m doing as good as can be expected.” He tapped the brake pedal as a mule deer bounded across the lane. “There are some peculiar symptoms I have to get used to.”

  This didn’t sound good. “Like what?”

  “Odd things.”

  “How odd?”

  “Sometimes…” He sighed. “Sometimes I see things.”

  Getting something out of this man was hard as pulling a mule’s back teeth. “What kinda things?”

  His eyes seemed to glaze over. “Things that aren’t there.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t dare ask. Not while they were in this dark forest.

  “And sometimes,” he added, “I have a hard time controlling my temper.”

  Charlie Moon didn’t have a temper. “Sounds like you’re not quite yourself.”

  “Last week,” he said matter-of-factly, “I shot a John Deere tractor.”

  “You did?”

  “Five times.”

  “Why?”

  “That was all the live rounds left in the chamber. I’d plugged a contrary fence post with the first one.”

  “No, I mean why did you shoot a tractor?”

  “You don’t want to know.” The big Ute ground his teeth and muttered under his breath. “Damn machine had it coming.”

  She scooted an inch closer to the car door. Away from him. “Well, I hope you start getting better real soon.”

  “Doc Kenny says I’ll eventually be fine. But getting over a brain injury takes time.”

  The lane left the small forest, and so did they. The reentry into sunlight pleased the Ute elder. It was like passing from death into life.

  Moon braked to a stop by the sturdy cabin. He helped the elderly woman from the Expedition and began to unload her cardboard boxes from the rear seat. He nodded to indicate the cabin’s front door. “You can open up for me. Use that key I gave you.”

  She fumbled in her purse. “Well—it’s not here. Must’ve left it at home.”

  A ring of keys was in the ignition switch, but Moon had an armload of boxes. “Why don’t you try it?” he said.

  His words had been masked by a gust of wind. Daisy squinted, as if this would help her to hear. “What?”

  He used his chin to point at the cabin door. “Doorknob.”

  She stared oddly at him. He’s doing it again.

  Moon stared back. Poor old woman must be going deaf. He set the boxes down, turned the knob. And stared thoughtfully at the unlocked door. “Guess I should keep this locked. We’ve been having a problem with a prowler.”

  “A prowler—way out here?”

  “Hasn’t done any real harm yet. Just swiped a few things.”

  Probably just a bear. “What kind of things?”

  “Nothing much. Horse blanket from the barn. Sack of apples. Couple of pies.”

  Daisy felt her skin tingle. “All sorts of riffraff is running around these days.”

  He frowned at the elderly woman. “Maybe you should stay up at the ranch house tonight.”

  She dismissed this suggestion with a wave of her hand. “I’m not afraid of no pie thief. Besides I’ve got things to do here.” Things you don’t need to know about.

  “Well, I suppose it’ll be all right. We strung a phone line out here last week. Anything disturbs you, you can ring me at the big house.”

  Daisy pulled a wicked-looking butcher knife from a box of cooking implements. “If any sneak thief comes messing around here, I’ll have his liver for breakfast.”

  They passed through the living room to the small kitchen. Daisy found a blue cotton cloth in one of the boxes and spread it over the stout redwood table. Moon started to open a
box marked “Food.” She slapped his hand. “Don’t be messing around with my stuff.”

  “Just thought I’d help you—”

  “I don’t need no man’s help. I can do this job by myself.”

  He eyed the “Food” box. “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure. Now hop in your fancy car and get along back to that big ranch house.”

  “Okay. But you keep the doors locked. I’ll come and pick you up for breakfast.”

  “I can make my own breakfast. Now get going.”

  Charlie Moon turned, took three steps toward the door, then stopped cold.

  “What is it?”

  He raised a hand to silence her. Then stood perfectly still.

  Daisy could feel her pulse throbbing in her neck.

  Slowly, the Ute rancher turned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He answered in a whisper. “I heard something.”

  “What was it?”

  “Don’t know. But the noise was down there.” He pointed at the floor. “In the cellar.”

  “Probably just a squirrel,” Daisy said. But she was trembling like an aspen leaf in a brisk wind.

  Moon approached the cellar door. “Okay,” he boomed, “come on out.”

  There was no response.

  He gave his aunt a look that brooked no argument. “Go outside. Get in the car and lock the doors.”

  But Daisy Perika could not make her feet move.

  Charlie Moon removed a heavy, long-barreled pistol from underneath his jacket.

  Daisy, who did not know he was armed, gasped. “What are you gonna—”

  Moon glared at the cellar door. “Come out now. Or I’m coming in after you.”

  He’s acting crazy! Her whole body seemed to shudder. “No, don’t—”

  But her nephew had already opened the door. She heard the boards creak as he took several steps down the darkened stairs.

  “I’m counting to three,” he said to the darkness. “One.” A pause. “You better show yourself.” Another pause. “Two.”

  “Charlie,” she said, “don’t shoot, it’s just—”

  “Three.” There was a rafter-shaking boom. The smell of spent gunpowder wafted up the cellar stairs. It was mixed with dust and the smell of old potatoes.

  She waited, too deep in despair to pray that nothing really bad had happened down there. It was too late for that.

  A minute passed.

  Two minutes.

  A grim-faced Moon finally appeared at the head of the stairs. He stuck the revolver under his belt. “You’d better wait in the car.” He looked around. “I need to find a shovel.”

  “Who did you shoot?”

  He hesitated. “It’s best if you don’t know.”

  “You better tell me.” Then we can get our stories straight. I’ll claim it was self-defense.

  Moon glanced down the stairs. “I gave him a chance. He should’ve come out.”

  “Oh my God in heaven.” Daisy collapsed on a kitchen chair. “It’s all my fault.”

  “Thieving bastard had it coming to him. I bet he was after my stash of Vidalia onions.”

  “Oh, poor old Alvah,” she wailed.

  “Who?”

  Daisy was wringing her hands. “Alvah Yazzi.”

  Moon seemed bewildered by all this. “How would that Navajo get into my cellar?”

  “It was me and Louise-Marie LaForte,” she moaned. “We brought him up here in her old car. I gave him my key to the cabin.”

  Moon stared holes in her. “Why would you go and do a thing like that?”

  “Because he asked me.” Daisy rested her face in her hands. “After April was killed, Alvah set it up to look like he was dead—then he hid in Cañon del Espíritu. But he ran out of food he could manage without his false teeth. He came to my trailer late one afternoon, but I wasn’t at home. So that numbskull Navajo climbed onto the top of my house. For a while, he sat up there—watching for me. Then he got tired of waiting, and laid down on the roof and fell asleep. Later that night, he woke up—and started banging on the side of the trailer to get my attention. I come within a inch of shootin’ him. When I found out who he was, I said, ‘What in the world is the matter with you, Alvah—waking me up in the middle of the night.’ That’s when he told me what’d happened. And begged me for help. So I started taking food up the canyon to where he was hiding. Then one day, he saw you followin’ me—and watched you eat the breakfast I’d left for him.” Daisy glared accusingly at her nephew.

  Moon avoided her eyes. “I thought you was leaving the food for…ahh…the little man.”

  “Hmmpf,” she said. “Anyway, after you almost found him, Alvah Yazzi figured that Cañon del Espíritu wasn’t a good enough place to hide. That’s when he begged me to help him get him away from there—to someplace safe.”

  “And so you and Louise-Marie carted him up here. To my ranch.”

  She nodded. “We put him in the trunk of her old car. He was mad as a yella hornet when we finally let him out. Said he’d almost died of suffocation and the heat and from being bumped around like an old sack of apples.” The Ute elder grunted. “Just like one of them Navajos. Do him a big favor and all he can do is find something to complain about.” She offered her nephew a sorrowful look. “And now he’s dead. And you killed him.”

  “Well,” Moon said slowly, “not exactly.”

  “You just wounded him?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “Alvah’s not down there.”

  Thank God. “Where is he?”

  “Down in New Mexico, I expect. Or Arizona. Somewhere on the Big Rez.”

  A suspicious expression spread over her dark features. “Charlie Moon—who was it you shot down there under the house?”

  “You mean in the root cellar?”

  “No, I mean on toppa the chimbley. Now tell me.”

  “Okay. It was Mr. Rutabaga.”

  This made no sense at all. “Who’s he?”

  “A Swede.” Scandinavian member of the turnip family.

  “Is he hurt bad?”

  “Just a flesh wound.”

  Daisy Perika opened her mouth as if to protest, then clamped it shut.

  “Well, it was dark. I couldn’t get off a good shot.”

  “Charlie Moon—I am going to tell you something. And I want you to listen to me with both ears.” She pointed a trembling finger at her nephew. “You have completely lost your mind.”

  “Could be.” He grinned at his aged relative. “Maybe it runs in the family.”

  She glared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, I have this aunt who brought a Navajo outlaw up here and hid him on my ranch. Without asking my permission.”

  “Alvah hadn’t done nothing bad. That poor old man was just afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Of the witches who’d murdered his stepdaughter. Alvah figured they’d kill him next.”

  With Aunt Daisy and her ilk, there was always a witch to blame. “It wasn’t witches who killed April Tavishuts.”

  “That’s what I told Alvah. Witches aren’t responsible for all the bad things that happen.”

  He stared at the enigmatic old woman. Maybe she’s smarter than I give her credit for.

  The Ute elder shook her head. “But a sensible Ute girl should’ve known better than to mess around those old ruins. The spirit of that old Anasazi wizard has been prowling around Chimney Rock for ages. It was him that lured April into the ruins.”

  Moon sighed. Sure. If it’s not a witch, it’s a ghost.

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m a silly old woman.” She frowned at the cabin floor. And painted herself a lurid, bloody picture of what was in the cellar. “Can we please get outta here?”

  “Sure. We’ll head back to the big house. I’ll fix you a bedroom upstairs.”

  “Don’t
bother. You can take me home.”

  “But you just got here.” And it’s a long drive south…and a longer drive back.

  “My business here is done. I come to see if Alvah was still hanging around, but he’s gone. Besides, I could never catch a wink of sleep this far from home.”

  “Sure you could. I’ll fix a special pillow for you—stuff it with peach fuzz.”

  The old woman told him where he could stuff his peach fuzz.

  Charlie Moon had endured sufficient abuse for the day. “Okay. Home you go.”

  “And there’s another thing,” she snapped.

  With Aunt Daisy, there was always another thing.

  She jabbed an arthritic finger at his silver belt buckle. “Since your mother and father died years ago, I’ve been the closest thing to a parent you got. And I want you to know, Charlie Moon—I’m disappointed with you.”

  “I do something wrong?”

  “You shouldn’t of shot that poor foreigner in the cellar. Maybe he was a pie thief—but all he wanted was something to eat.”

  20

  …many of them practiced black magic; when they left their homes they traveled in the form of the coyote, the bird, the wildcat…. Evil grew among them.

  —Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee

  A FINE MADNESS

  ANNE FOSTER LEANED on her man. “I hope Charlie’s okay. His aunt is really worried about—well—you know.”

  Scott Parris gave his favorite redhead a reassuring one-armed hug. “He’ll be fine.” He rapped gloved knuckles on the heavy door. No answer. He opened it, poked his head inside. “Hey, Charlie—you in there?”

  Moon’s bass voice boomed through the house. “In the kitchen.”

  Parris and his fiancée headed across the cavernous parlor, then down a dimly lighted hall to the kitchen. The Ute was unwrapping a package of brown butcher paper. He paused to shake Parris’s hand.

  Anne gave Moon a hug. “How are you?”

  He shrugged under the embrace. “I’m getting by.” Moon frowned down at the top of her head. “You look different.”