Like any important announcement at the Columbine, this earthshaking revelation (think 9.3 on the Richter scale) was bound to be divulged in the dining room—at suppertime.
Sarah Frank had little doubt that her more or less secure life was about to absorb an unprecedented jolt; what she did not know was … How will I react? Little Miss Stiff-Upper-Lip promised herself that there would be no tears. I’m twenty years old now—not some silly teenager who runs away to her bedroom to bury her face in a pillow and bawl like a calf who can’t find its mother! This was simply how the cookie had crumbled; there would be no hysterics. I’ll say: “I’m very happy for both of you, Charlie—I know you’ll have a wonderful life together.” And to top that off in first-class fashion … I’ll smile at the big bonehead like I really mean it. (She was only about two notches away from applying Daisy Perika’s heartfelt “big gourd-head” epithet to the object of her vexation.) Speaking of whom (Mrs. P.):
Daisy also knew what her nephew was working his way up to, and knew just what she’d do. I’ll laugh in his face and tell him, “Of all the dumb things—”
And she probably will, but anticipating Daisy’s insults is a risky business, and even if she imagines it word-for-word, repetitions tend to be tedious. So we shall wait for the actual event.
Of the trio, the normally steady-as-he-goes Charlie Moon was the least sure of himself. Whether or not breaking the young woman’s heart would have done less damage at a more propitious time and in a more private venue—those present for the impending earthquake shall never know. Not that Charlie Moon had given the matter of Sarah Frank’s feelings a great deal of thought—but, like his proposal to Patsy, the thing simply had to be done. The long, tall Ute refused to admit to the reality of the Ute-Papago orphan’s affection for him. This was a futile exercise in self-deception; deep down where he had tried to strangle and drown the truth, the essence of it kept bubbling up to disturb his peace. But worrying about what might go wrong was not the Cowboy Way, and, like pulling an aching tooth or branding a bawling year-old heifer, the stockman figured the best thing was to yank the danged molar or press the sizzling iron into the tender flesh right now and be done with the hurtful business. Nevertheless, the clueless tribal investigator (who honestly believed that … This’ll hurt me a lot more than Sarah) hesitated. To put it more bluntly, he dithered. Also dawdled. And hemmed and hawed. Even vacillated, which is virtually unheard of in Granite Creek County.
But eventually, and without the slightest get-ready-for-this preamble, Moon mumbled the dreadful words: “Uh … me and Patsy have decided to tie the knot.” Which reminded the prospective groom of a promise he had made to his betrothed. Meeting Sarah Frank’s blank stare with a sickly smile, he said, “And Patsy asked me to pass on her request for a special favor.”
The young woman’s dry lips hissed a death-rasp whisper. “Favor?”
The hopeful groom nodded. “She’d be real pleased if you’d agree to be one of her … uh…” What do they call them? “Bride-somethings.”
“Bridesmaids,” Daisy snapped.
“Oh, right.” Charlie Moon told them something he did know, which was the date and time of day for the big event. And the fact that the wedding would take place at the Columbine, in the headquarters parlor.
A conversation stopper?
For Sarah, yes. A half-swallowed piece of prime Columbine beef stuck in her throat.
For Daisy, Moon’s announcement was her cue. She laughed with all the scorn she could muster, then said, “Of all the dumb things you’ve ever done—this one sure takes the layer cake!”
Prepared for some such observation from his no-punches-pulled auntie, Moon smiled at the irascible old relative.
Aggravated by this good-natured response, Daisy shook a fork at her annoying nephew. “Mark my words—that white, blue-eyed matukach hussy will make your life so miserable you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
“Well, if she does, I ought to be able to manage.” He winked at the wrinkled tribal elder. “I’ve had some training.”
“Hah—you just think you have.” Daisy paused for a derisive snort. “You can get away from me for days at a time, but when it comes to a wife—not that I’d expect you to know because you’ve never had one—being married is a full-time job.” The old crone grinned to display her few remaining peg-shaped teeth. “First thing you know, that yellow-haired gal will have a rope around your neck and you’ll be followin’ her around like a whipped dog.”
What was Sarah Frank doing during what passed for witty repartee in the Columbine headquarters dining room? Choking. Literally.
Being directly across the table from the chokee, Daisy was the first to notice Sarah’s distress. “Slap her on the back!”
Immediately grasping the situation, Moon applied a sound thwack between Sarah’s shoulder blades. The result of which shall not be described in nauseating detail. Who wants to hear about a sweet young lady’s inevitable response to this well-intended assault? None of us, that’s who. Descriptions of projectile vomiting are off-putting—even when the projectile is merely a smallish piece of partially chewed beef, which—having been expelled from her throat—sailed directly across the dining table to land in Daisy’s coffee cup. Ker-plop!
What one may say without offending delicate sensibilities is that the experience was extremely mortifying for Sarah, that Charlie Moon was embarrassed for the young lady, and that Daisy Perika cackled like an old red-combed hen who’s just been told an off-color joke by the lusty barnyard rooster.
It was do-or-die time for Sarah, who was obliged to offer a ladylike apology for spitting her beef into Aunt Daisy’s highly caffeinated beverage—and make her noble speech to Charlie Moon about how happy she was for him and Patsy, the wonderful life they were bound to share, et cetera. So did she “do”—i.e., come through with flying colors? No. She died.
Miss Frank got up from her chair, walked calmly out of the dining room and down the hallway, entered her darkened bedroom, closed the door softly, fell onto the bed—face in the pillow—and bawled. But, to her eternal credit—not like a calf who cannot find its mother. More like a twenty-year-old china doll whose delicate heart has been fractured into a zillion smithereens. Oh! I’ll never be able to look Charlie Moon in the eye again.
An exaggeration. But not by much.
And I hate him and Patsy Poynter and I hope they choke to death on their wedding cake and I’ll be there to laugh and clap my hands and yell, “Have another slice!”
Not very nice, but she meant it. Every malevolent word. But, as we all know, the white-hot heat of such youthful passions passes once angry lassies have had time to think things through.
On occasion, though, what we all know proves to be … not entirely true.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHARLIE MOON TAKES A NIGHTTIME WALK
Where to? Let’s watch and find out.
There he goes, across the parlor, through the front door, across the redwood porch, and down the creaking steps. He strides purposefully across the dusty headquarters yard, down the dirt lane, and across the Too Late Creek bridge—to the foreman’s residence.
What for?
Most likely, to conduct some ranch-related business with his second-in-command. It might be interesting to listen in, but eavesdropping will have to wait. Sarah Frank is also about to take an after-sundown stroll and the young lady’s urgent business trumps Mr. Moon’s.
THERE IS A TIME FOR LEAVING
Resembling a numb sleepwalker—or an insubstantial, imagined phantasm in someone’s dream—Sarah Frank seemed to almost float out of the Columbine headquarters. Only barely conscious of her surroundings, the terribly unhappy young woman was moved by some deep, instinctive impulse toward the river—where perhaps peace was to be found in its cold, rolling waters. For how many faltering heartbeats did she stand alone on the pebbled bank, staring unseeingly at midnight-black waves and snowy froth where the stream broke over mossy boulders and heaps of smooth rocks?
Sarah had not the slightest notion, and the issue of bits of time measured by man-made chronometers never entered her stunned young mind. Even so, her precious moments—like lustrous pearls slipping along an invisible string—were not wasted.
ON THE BENEFITS OF PEACEFUL SOLITUDE
Sarah Frank loved the vast, open spaces of Charlie Moon’s Columbine Ranch—from the spruce-studded Buckhorn Mountains on the east to the rugged Misery Range, whose jagged peaks pierced and bled the setting sun. At the first dusky hint of evening, she would often slip away to conceal her willowy form among a cluster of chattering aspens that had congregated near the riverbank. Marvelously uplifted by the joyous, uproariously glorious stream that laughed its way to the western sea, the girl would close her eyes and pretend that she had slipped back a thousand thousand years to an era when there was not another human soul between the oceans. The Ute-Papago orphan would be—for an eternal moment—entirely, blissfully secluded. But young ladies who are alone for more than a few heartbeats tend to get lonely, and wherever Sarah’s imagination might transport her to, the essence of Mr. Moon’s soul was obliged to follow.
Tragically, almost unutterably romantic? Perhaps.
But on this evening, her isolation was complete because … It’s all over now.
A TIME
The gentlest of breezes touched the aspen branches and murmured to her, For everything, there is a season.
Sarah’s head nodded; her lips whispered back, “A time for every purpose under heaven.”
The slight movement of night air caressed her black hair. A time to be born …
“And a time to die.”
The breeze was stilled; a sly serpent’s voice spoke to her: A time to kill!
“No.” She closed her eyes. “A time to heal.”
Thus rebuffed, the demon departed … until a more opportune time.
The breath of night returned. A time to weep.
“And a time to laugh.” Unable even to smile, the young woman sighed. “And a time for leaving.” So said Sarah. But not before I serve as Patsy’s bridesmaid—and wish Charlie and his sweet wife all the happiness in the whole world. And after that? Then I’ll leave. A salty tear appeared in her eye. But where will I go? The lost soul considered her options. For a month or so, I could stay in a dorm room at the university. And after that? I’ll go back where I came from.
Which was where?
Sarah could not return to the Papago reservation in Arizona. Both of my grandparents are dead, and my other relatives there treat me like I’m … a stranger.
Which suggested spending a few months with Marilee Attatochee in Utah. Aunt Marilee is nice, and was always kind to me, but … But Sarah had never been content in Tonopah; the very thought of returning to that windswept desert community almost made her shudder.
Before coming to the Columbine and being close to Charlie Moon almost every day, where had she ever been truly happy? Nowhere.
Except for one place …
I could go down to the res and take care of Aunt Daisy. The old woman certainly needed looking after, and Daisy Perika’s remote home in the arid badlands of the Southern Ute reservation was a perfect retreat for a young woman who’d lost the only man she’d ever loved or ever would. Every meter and mile of the tribal elder’s wilderness retreat held a special enchantment for Sarah, from the yawning mouth of Cañón del Espíritu at first light until the evening shadow of Three Sisters Mesa had spread a fuzzy blanket of gray twilight over the sleeping landscape.
Yes, spending a few months with Charlie Moon’s aunt might be just the Rx for what ailed Sarah Frank.
But it’s not like I have to make up my mind right this minute. The dreaded marriage was almost a month away. Three weeks and six days. She glanced at her wristwatch. Minus about nine and a half hours.
It would appear that the therapeutic river had done a first-rate job.
Not that Sarah was entirely (or even 95 percent) cured, as when an infected wisdom tooth is dexterously plucked out by a plucky dentist wielding chrome-plated pliers, or a troublesome gallbladder is deftly severed by the skilled surgeon’s stainless-steel scalpel.
Nevertheless, the love-struck girl was definitely on the mend.
Which is not necessarily to say, as if abruptly consigning this deathless romance to oblivion, “The End.” After several decades spent hanging on to to this spinning globe by one’s fingernails, one learns to be cautious about making confident prognostications.
It is not only that our lives tend toward complexity; as you may know from playing bingo, purchasing lottery tickets, or trusting your favorite TV weather forecaster—the outcome of any process you might want to mention is aggravatingly unpredictable. Which willy-nilly property sometimes pencils big surprises into what we thought was a well-scripted play.
More jarring still, these bolts from the blue sometimes appear to be highly contrived, which—to some of us—suggests that someone concealed behind the scenery is pulling strings now and then. Managing the performance. Even picking winners and losers … Dare one say stacking the deck?
What was that from fifth row, center—did someone mutter, “God forbid!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHARLIE MOON’S DIFFICULT MISSION AT THE FOREMAN’S RESIDENCE
It was one of those decisions that he’d been putting off for a couple of years or more, but the thing had to be done tonight—right on the spot, and without any rambling preamble.
So the rancher sat in his foreman’s parlor for about an hour, sipping strong coffee, nibbling at Dolly Bushman’s delicious warm-from-the-oven chocolate-chip cookies—all the time chatting aimlessly with Pete about the dry weather, the price of beef, and those two new Mormon cowboys from Utah who didn’t drink a drop of whiskey, utter the least swearword, or get into fistfights if they could avoid it, but when push came to shove, those clean-cut fellas could stand their ground with the biggest, toughest, meanest cowpunchers the Columbine had to offer and give as good as they got. Whenever the boss ran out of other things to talk about, he’d drift back to the weather. Charlie Moon covered just about every subject a man could think of except the one that was on his mind and had to be broached before he could leave.
Not that Pete or Dolly Bushman was the least bit fooled.
Pete (suspiciously): Charlie’s working his way up to somethin’. (With a nervous twitch in his left cheek): Somethin’ that I won’t like to hear.
Dolly (with motherly empathy): Poor Charlie wants to tell us some bad news but he just can’t make himself do it.
But by and by, Moon could and did.
Not the upcoming wedding. I’ll tell them about my engagement to Patsy later on. What he was obliged to say would be sufficient for the evening. After clearing his throat twice, he lowered his grim gaze to the cold coffee cup. “I’ve had a pretty good offer from some investors that want to buy the Columbine.”
The foreman and his wife froze like marble statues.
Pete: Ohmigod—I’m out of a job!
Dolly: Dear God … what will we do?
Swirling the tepid black liquid in the bottom of Dolly’s fine china cup, Moon felt like a drowning man who wasn’t going to come up. Not for the proverbial three times—not even once. “If the deal goes through, they’ll want to keep you on as foreman.”
Pete Bushman let out the breath he’d been holding till his lips were turning blue.
The buyers wanted to because that was how Deputy Moon had laid down the law. The consortium had protested that it didn’t make good business sense to take on an old, over-the-hill straw boss and his ailing wife, but Charlie Moon had stood firm on the point. “Pete Bushman gets an ironclad contract for twenty years or there’s no deal. Period.”
Not sure that the Bushmans would want to work for a bunch of city folks that hardly knew the difference between a heifer and a steer, Moon offered his foreman an option: “Or, if you and Dolly want to, you could move over to the Big Hat for the same wages.” He raised his gaze to their faces. �
�There wouldn’t be much stock to look after unless you wanted to keep some for yourselves—the main job would be to look after my smaller ranch. Protect my investment.”
Pete had known the good-hearted Ute too long to be fooled. Charlie’s offering to put us out to pasture.
Dolly found her voice. “If we was to go over to the Big Hat, would we be working directly for you?”
“Sure.” Moon nodded. “For as long as it suits you.” He added, “The Big Hat’s not for sale.”
She looked at her stricken husband. “Let’s go over there, Pete.”
The tired old man shrugged. “Whatever you say, Dolly.”
“I say we move the minute Charlie says it’s okay.”
“Go as soon as you like.” The Indian looked from one pale face to the other. “Try the place out before you make up your minds. Make sure you’ll be happy there.”
Pete Bushman let out a long sigh and turned to gaze at his helpmate. “Let’s you and me take a run over there tomorrow and look things over.”
As the old woman smiled, a teenage girl looked out from her tear-filled eyes. “It’ll be fun, Pete—moving to a new place and setting up housekeeping again.”
Grateful for this happy outcome, Moon put the delicate cup onto Polly’s battered coffee table. “Let me know how the Big Hat works out for you.” The tall man eased his lanky frame up from a lumpy but comfortable armchair. “If you’re of a mind to, you can always stay right here and run the Columbine for the new owners.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ON THE DETRIMENTS OF PRIDEFUL BEHAVIOR
Which deficiency, though always simmering just beneath her wrinkled surface, is not Daisy Perika’s immediate issue. At the moment, the cantankerous old woman has all her energy focused on producing a batch of white-hot fury—which incandescent anger is directed at her amiable nephew.
* * *
Seated in an armchair beside her bed, Daisy stared straight ahead at the doorway connecting her Columbine boudoir to the darkened headquarters hallway. If that big gourd-head so much as shows his silly face, I’ll pick up where I left off last night at suppertime and tell him just what I think about a full-blooded Southern Ute man marrying a pale-as-goat-milk matukach woman. A series of familiar sounds suggested that Daisy was about to have that opportunity: the sharp click-click of Charlie Moon’s boot heels trodding along the upstairs hardwood hallway, followed by muffled bumps as he descended the carpeted stairway. Good—here he comes! Her happy anticipation was short-lived. There was a clomping stomping as the rancher made his way across the parlor, a squeaking creak as he opened the porch door, and a crisp snap as that portal to the outer world closed and latched. He’s gone outside where I can’t yell at him. And she had no doubt that … He did it just to spite me. Thus deprived of her opportunity to vent, the puffed-up old fussbudget combined a dark scowl with a sly smirk, which is no small accomplishment. But sooner or later Charlie has to come back in again and when he does, I’ll let him know how I feel about—
The Old Gray Wolf Page 11