The Old Gray Wolf

by James D. Doss

  Louella Smithson’s granddaddy waited for a response. “Say—can you hear me okay?”

  “Yes sir—copy you loud and clear.” Wow—this is like getting a call from Wyatt Earp! Not quite, but Parris’s hyperbole was understandable.

  “I expect you’re a busy man, so I’ll try to keep this short.”

  “Take as long as you like, sir.”

  “Thank you kindly, but I don’t have a lot of wind left these days. I guess I still smoke too many cigarettes”—the caller paused for a raspy cough—“so I’ll just tell you that my granddaughter Ellie—her given name is Louella Smithson, and years ago when she left Plainview for Kansas City, she started calling herself ‘Ella.’ Sorry, I guess I’ve already gotten off the track. Point is, even as we speak, Ellie’s on her way to Granite Creek. She should show up in a day or two.”

  I wonder what this is all about. “I hope she enjoys her visit.”

  “I hope so too, but Ellie has some business to tend to.”

  Parris didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of business?”

  “A law-enforcement issue that she’s interested in. Since I used to wear a badge, my granddaughter figured it might help some if I called and introduced her to you.” Smithson’s croaky chuckle betrayed a mild embarrassment. “She figures that an intro from a brother lawman might help her get started off on the right foot—if you know what I mean.”

  “Uh, yes sir.” Parris thought he knew exactly what his “brother lawman” meant. He wants me to entertain his granddaughter while she’s in town. Show her around. Take her out to dinner. The whole ball of beeswax. A mild frown found its way to his brow. What a bummer. But he couldn’t say no. “Can you tell me where Miss Smithson will be staying?”

  “No. But I expect she’ll be calling you soon as she gets there—to set up a meeting.”

  “Not a problem, sir.” Parris blushed at this half-truth.

  “I sure appreciate it. Ellie is awfully anxious to talk to you.”

  Parris’s frown furrowed deeper. “About what in particular?”

  After an embarrassed pause, Smithson said, “My granddaughter’s writing a true-crime book and she figures you might be able to help her.”

  I might’ve known: folks who don’t have anything better to do write dopey books or call radio talk shows ten times a day—or find some other way to make a general nuisance of themselves. “Uh—help her how?”

  “Oh, I expect she’ll want a few pointers about modern police procedure—that kind of thing. But Ellie doesn’t want me to discuss her personal business.”

  “She prefers to tell me about it herself?”

  “Well … let’s say up to a point.” Ray Smithson’s wry smile could be heard in his voice. “But that gal knows how to keep her secrets. And me, I’ve promised to keep mum … more or less … if you understand what I’m gettin’ at.”

  Parris did. “Would it help if I pressed you a little?”

  “Nope—my lips are stapled shut.” The old man’s grin was as loud as a jumbo firecracker at 2:00 A.M. “But if it’ll make you feel any better, go ahead and give it your best shot.”

  “All right.” Parris cleared his throat and repeated Smithson’s earlier question to his granddaughter. “What’s she really up to?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t tell you that—but I will go so far as to say that I’m a little bit worried.” There was a brief silence while he tried to think of the best way to put it. “Ellie’s smart as a whip, but she tends to be headstrong and overconfident—a combination that’s likely to get her into some trouble. I’d sure appreciate it if you’d kinda keep an eye on her.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Parris glanced sideways at Moon’s dark profile. “Without any direct reference to her personal business in Granite Creek, might I ask what line of work your granddaughter’s involved in—besides writing books?”

  “You might at that, and I’m glad you did.” The sly old Texan’s voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “Ellie pays the rent by tracing missing persons. But what she really wants to do is become a big-time bounty hunter.”

  “You telling me she’s tracking some seriously bad actor?”

  “No, I’m not tellin’ you anything of the sort—and I’m also not telling you that Ellie figures this bad actor is headed directly for your fair city—and that he’ll probably show up in a couple of days.”

  Uh-oh. “I hope she’s wrong about that.”

  “You and me both. And I’d never think of telling you that tracking the rascal down and writing about her experience in a book ain’t enough for Ellie, or that she’s hoping to help you arrest this criminal and then collect a big reward when he’s put in the lockup for good.”

  Big uh-oh. “Bounty hunting is a dangerous profession.”

  “Yes it is.” A discreet pause. “I sure hope you won’t ask me who Ellie thinks she’s following to Granite Creek and why she figures he’s gonna show up in your jurisdiction.”

  “I wouldn’t even think of inquiring, sir. But if you happen to drop a small hint, I’d be a danged fool to ignore it.”

  “Oh, I’m not likely to do a thing like that. My high-strung granddaughter would throw a hissy fit if I happened to mention that this fella she’s hoping to make a big rep on is a sure-enough bad outlaw who’s already murdered a Chicago police officer in cold blood.”

  The ex-Chicago cop grimaced. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to bring up a thing like that.”

  “Then you’ll appreciate why I can’t say a word about how Ellie thinks that he’s comin’ a-gunnin’ for you and your buddy.”

  More than a little taken aback, Parris blinked at the Expedition windshield where plump, plopping snowflakes were beginning to make wet spots. “Uh … which buddy is that?”

  “Why, Mr. Moon, your deputy—who else? And I’d appreciate you not asking me any more questions, Chief Parris. I’ve already said too much.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And there’s no need to ‘sir’ me every time you open your mouth, young feller—I’m just a wobbly old cowboy with one boot at the edge of an open grave and the other on a nanner peel. Call me Ray.”

  “Understood.” Sir. “And you can call me Scott.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Just one last thing, sir—uh, Ray—could you describe the vehicle Miss Smithson is driving?”

  “I can, unless she’s traded that gas hog in. The last time she stopped by my place, Ellie was in her rusty old Bronco. And I’m not talking about one of those lightweights that Ford rolled off the assembly line; Ellie rolls around in one of them big brutes, an ’88 or ’89. Blue and white. Spare tire mounted on the tailgate. Oh, and Missouri plates.”

  “Thanks.” Parris had committed the information to memory. “And don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll call you when your granddaughter shows up, so you’ll know she got here okay.”

  “I owe you one, Scott.” A wheezing cough. “But don’t bother to telephone me—I won’t be at home. I’m about to set off on my last fishing trip before serious winter sets in down here. I’ll ring you up in a few days to find out how Ellie’s getting along.” A pause. “Well, it’s almost suppertime—I got to go burn me some beans and bacon. G’bye for now.”

  “Goodbye, Ranger Smithson.” Sir.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE DEPUTY HAS OTHER PLANS

  After Scott Parris had returned the telephone to Moon, he pulled out of the illegal parking spot. Motoring along toward the center of town, the chief of police recited the essentials of Ray Smithson’s end of the conversation to Charlie Moon, including the description of Miss Louella Smithson’s SUV.

  As was his practice when listening to bad news, the taciturn Ute held his silence until his friend was done. And then some.

  Which silence irked Parris. “Well, what do you think of them apples?”

  Moon took some additional time to roll the thing over in his mind. Finally: “I think I’m only a part-time deputy. I’ll do whatever comes up if it’s r
easonable. When push comes to shove, I’ll shoot bank robbers dead, pull drunk drivers over and throw their ignition keys into the ditch—I’ll even put a ticket on a nun who spits on the sidewalk if she gives me any nasty backtalk. But looking after visiting authors who play at bounty hunting is way beyond my pay grade.”

  “What about this bad outlaw who might be comin’ to town to rub us out?”

  “If and when this Mr. Eraser shows up, pard—you let me know so’s I can keep out of sight.”

  The thought of Charlie Moon hiding from a bad guy made Parris’s big face split into a toothy grin. As a young lady jaywalked across Copper Street while chatting into her cell phone, he stomped on the brake and scowled under his bushy brows. What do these kids use for brains—steamed cauliflower? “You figure this Miss Smithson is some kind of airhead who sees a crazed killer behind every boulder and bush?”

  “No I don’t.” Moon smiled at the oblivious youth who was snarling both lanes of traffic. “But it’s possible that this so-called true-crime author specializes in romantic fiction.”

  When the citizen with the cell phone was on the sidewalk, Parris pulled away. “Is this your way of hinting that you don’t intend to help me escort our guest around town?”

  “That’s about the size of it, pard.”

  The chief of police assumed a sad expression. “That cuts deep—my straight-arrow deputy copping out on me.”

  “I need to get used to not being a cop anymore.” Mr. Moon beamed like the brightest moonbeam you ever saw. “With all the spare time I’ll have on my hands, I intend to concentrate on activities I really enjoy—like raising fine quarter horses, winning twenty-dollar bets, and making lively music.” Parris’s longtime sidekick hit another lick on his stringed instrument. But the whole truth be told, the man who was looking forward to the biggest and best-ever change in his life had something far more important to do than raise horses, win wagers, and pluck banjo strings.

  Scott Parris did not disapprove of Moon’s intent, but he had not expected his friend to make the big plunge right away. In his experience, the Indian tended to mull over major decisions for a long while. A month at least. Sometimes a whole year.

  What had inspired Charlie Moon to make his move so suddenly? Only a confirmed cynic would suggest that it was the twenty-dollar wager with Parris. Possibly because he was stimulated by the present conversation, the Ute was suddenly accosted by one of those pesky “inner voices” that gets us into so much trouble:

  Do it now, before you chicken out!

  Mr. Moon nodded. Right. I’ll do it tonight. On the other hand, it was getting late in the day. Tomorrow will be okay. He mouthed his next thought in a whisper: “That’ll give me some time to think just how to go about it.”

  Which calls for a parenthetical comment: (“Time to think” is a powerful antidote to decisive action; Moon’s life-altering plan was beginning to look a bit iffy.)

  His buddy’s enigmatic whisper had not gone unnoticed by Scott Parris’s keen right ear. The driver shot his characteristic sideways glance at the suspect deputy. “What’d you say about thinking?”

  “I’m thinking I feel a song coming on.” But not with bare fingers. After affixing the newly purchased finger-picks to his limber digits, the poker player who was betting his entire stake on the turn of a facedown card commenced to pluck strings and sing. Sing what?

  What else? “Jack of Diamonds.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING (HE FINALLY DOES IT)

  The inevitable climax to this emergent crisis had been brewing for quite some time, and one way or another—the thing had to be settled today.

  After a mostly sleepless night that was punctuated with vexing dreams about a rabid fox nipping at his bare feet, Charlie Moon rolled out of bed at the first cold gray glow of dawn to pull his britches, socks, and boots on. Half dressed, he exited his upstairs bedroom into the hallway and climbed the pine ladder into the headquarters loft. Fighting the shivers in that chilly, dusty space, he dialed the combination on the Columbine’s old Mosler safe, opened the eighty-pound door—and removed a small box that contained the symbolic hope of his future.

  Before Daisy Perika and Sarah Frank were up and about, the hopeful man had perked a pot of black-as-tar coffee, fixed himself a stick-to-his-ribs breakfast of three fried eggs, a thick slice of ham, and some warmed-over biscuits from yesterday. Though he had no appetite, he wolfed it all down like a soldier who was going to need all the strength he could muster for a desperate take-no-prisoners mission.

  Whatever else may have occurred between Moon’s early rising and his eventual arrival at the Granite Creek Public Library at 9:00 A.M. on-the-dot (which was when the front doors were unlocked) is not of any consequence and shall be omitted.

  Except to note that from their bedrooms on the first floor, both Daisy Perika and Sarah Frank had heard Moon tromp along the upstairs hallway and climb the ladder into the attic.

  Daisy rolled over on her other side and sighed. “The big gourd-head is gonna do it.” Which raises two questions: Do what? and How did she know? The answers are (respectively): We’ll soon find out, and Daisy knew what her nephew kept in the attic safe.

  Sarah Frank knew, too. Like Daisy, she remained snuggled in under the quilted covers while Moon had his breakfast, but the moment he closed the front door behind him, the young woman sprang out of bed. Clad in her blue-and-white-striped pajamas, Sarah sprinted down the hallway and across the parlor to a west-porch window. She arrived just in time to see the Expedition make a tight U-turn in the Columbine headquarters yard. I bet I know what he’s going to do. She did. But, short of snatching a Winchester carbine from the gun rack and shooting Moon dead before he was out of range, there was not a thing Sarah could do to prevent him from doing it.

  She watched the automobile roll down the ranch lane and rumble across the timbers of the Too Late Creek bridge. As Moon passed the foreman’s residence, a small cloud of frosty dust billowed behind the SUV to produce a foggy yellow barrier between the despairing youth and the man in her life. Oh, I just hate him! Sarah’s hands knotted into brittle little fists that could’ve knocked the knotty head clean off a wooden Indian.

  9:01 A.M.

  The prettiest reference librarian Moon had ever laid eyes on was warming up her computer terminal when she became aware of a silent someone who was casting a long shadow over her shoulder. Ever ready to assist a reticent member of the reading public, the sweet lady turned to present a reassuring smile to whoever might need her help. The lady’s smile upped from “professional glow” to hundred-kilowatt knock-your-socks-off intensity. “Oh, Charlie,” she said. “It’s you.”

  He managed a weak grin. “I know.”

  How to describe her laugh at this minuscule witticism? Imagine six dozen little silver bells tinkling on Ye Fairie Queen’s ankle bracelet as she dances among acres of iridescent wildflowers. Moreover, Patsy’s blue eyes sparkled merrily. “What brings you to the library so early?”

  A pertinent question, and one that the overly tall Indian cowboy did not want to answer right on the spur of the moment. “Uh…”

  Poor Charlie … he looks like he’s going to be sick. Losing the smile, she inquired with all the tenderness of a mother addressing her three-year-old son, “Do you feel all right, sweetie?”

  Being an accomplished multitasker, Moon swallowed hard—nodded—and responded thus: “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What?”

  He enlarged on his notion: “I need a breath of air.”

  Patsy detected the hint of a greenish tint on his dark face. Oh my God—he’s going to throw up! Ejecting herself from the cushioned armchair, the panicked librarian took the gangly man by the arm and ushered him to the rear door (the nearest of the exits), which (thankfully) was equipped with a photo-detector mechanism that opened the portal when they were within three paces. This emergency egress was also (unfortunately) equipped with a loud buzzer, which was intended to attract attent
ion to those slippery citizens who (rather than check items out in the designated manner) opted to sneak library property out the back door. Both the photo-detector door opener and buzzer worked flawlessly. As soon as they were on the redwood deck that overlooked the creek that had given its rock-hard name to both the county and the town, Moon leaned on the painted pipe railing and inhaled a refreshing gulp of air.

  Patsy squeezed his sinewy arm. “Do you feel better now?”

  He responded with another nod.

  * * *

  Head librarian Miss Parsons (who rarely missed a trick) had noticed the unseemly commotion even before the 140-decibel buzzer sounded, and had concluded immediately that Granite Creek County’s most prominent rancher, best friend and deputy to the chief of police, enthusiastic banjo player, manager of the Columbine Grass bluegrass band, and longtime boyfriend of Miss Patsy Poynter—was looking more than a little queasy. Stepping smartly over to a spotless window that was situated between a matched pair of microfilm readers, she gazed upon the couple and shook her head. I know what this is all about. And, like Daisy and Sarah, Miss Parsons did know. Which knowledge was helpful to the curious lady, because Mr. Moon and his sweetheart were addressing each other in adoring looks and whispers.

  (Sorry. Even if a head librarian or a fly-on-the-outer-wall could have picked up an endearing phrase here and there, it would be indiscreet to repeat a single word.)

  As she watched their lips move, Miss Parsons nodded knowingly. When Mr. Moon removed a small, velvet-covered box from his jacket pocket, she sighed and rephrased her earlier conviction in a whisper: “I knew that’s what he was going to do.” Watching the tall, dark man open the box and remove the diamond ring and slip it onto the woman’s finger, the elderly spinster felt a wetness gathering in her eyes. When Patsy began to cry and the couple embraced like the rapturous lovers they were, Miss Parsons’s vision blurred with tears.

  Brief though it may be, this account shall be deemed sufficient.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MR. MOON BREAKS THE BIG NEWS