The Old Gray Wolf

by James D. Doss

  This dark thought was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on her bedside table. On the second ring, Daisy snatched up the telephone. “This is the Columbine Answering Machine Girl. I only get paid two bits a call and I don’t waste breath repeating myself, so listen close: if you want to talk to my idiot nephew Charlie Moon or poor little Sarah Frank, neither one of ’em is in the house so call back tomorrow or next week or next year—I don’t really give a tinker’s damn—goodbye!”

  A quavery voice pleaded, “Please don’t hang up, Daisy—it’s me.”

  Realizing who was on the other end of the line, the tribal elder rolled her eyes. “‘Me’ could be anybody at all. A magazine salesman who wants to pick a poor old woman’s pocket, some nitwit who dialed a wrong number—or a silly old French-Canadian woman who can’t remember her own name.” Pleased at this latter witticism, Daisy dropped the scowl and shifted to the full-smirk mode. “So which one of those are you?”

  “Oh, you know who I am.” A giggle. “It’s me—Louise-Marie.”

  “I should’ve guessed—a wrong number if there ever was one.” On a roll, Daisy was feeling better with every heartbeat. “So what’d you call me for, you want a hot tip about that big Arab camel race that’s coming up in Pagosa Springs?”

  “Oh my, no—I hadn’t even heard about it.” A pause. “Besides, you know that I never bet on sporting events.”

  “Ah, then you’re hoping to trick me into telling you something I shouldn’t. I know—you’re gonna try to pry one of my confidential recipes outta me. No, don’t tell me—let me guess. You’re after my top-secret formula for green-tomato, pimento, bell-pepper, blue-corn relish that tastes so good it’s sinful to take more than a teaspoonful.”

  “Well … I always did like that delicious relish, Daisy—it goes awfully well with scrambled eggs.” A quick intake of breath. “But that’s not what I called about.”

  Exhausted from her effort, Daisy leaned back in the armchair to rest. “Just wanted to shoot the breeze, eh?”

  “Actually, I wanted to let you know that Toadie’s … that Hester Tillman’s funeral is set for day after tomorrow at two P.M.”

  “Don’t tell me where—it’ll be at a witches’ church where all the mourners fly in on broomsticks.”

  “Oh my, no! Hester’s funeral will at the Episcopal church in Durango.”

  Daisy snorted. “Well, you tell the priest that just to be on the safe side, he ought to drive a pine stake through Toadie’s heart before he gets started.” She paused to grin and “heh-heh.” “That way, maybe old frog-face will stay put in her coffin.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say!”

  “Not as terrible as a bunch of Episcopalians watching old Toadie turn into a big, fat bat and fly away when the priest says his ‘amen.’”

  “Daisy, I won’t listen to another word of such nonsense.” Louise-Marie sniffed, which was a sign that she was about to get her dander up. “The reason I called is that I heard about what Toad—… what Hester said to Danny Bignight just before she died. And I know you’re upset about her saying she’d come back and haunt you if you don’t come to her funeral.” The aged woman paused to recall what her point was, and did. “But that was just Hester’s way of making a joke.”

  Daisy shook her head and sighed. “Old Toadie couldn’t make a joke if her life depended on it.” And that Pueblo Indian cop don’t know how to keep his mouth shut. The Ute elder recovered her scowl, her ire now focused on Officer Bignight’s indiscretion. If Louise-Marie knows about Toadie’s threat, then so does everyone in Ignacio.

  Louise-Marie helped herself to another inhalation of crisp Ignacio air. “And I think the least you could do is show up and bring some flowers to put on her casket—or her grave.” There was a slight quaver of emotion in the French-Canadian woman’s voice: “Hester always liked you, and it’ll hurt her feelings if you don’t come to her funeral or burial.” She added artfully, “You know that Hester was very fond of you.”

  THE PRIDEFUL BEHAVIOR

  Say what you may of Louise-Marie LaForte’s faltering mental acuity, the woman knew how to probe at Daisy Perika’s several weaknesses, the chief of which was pride.

  Despite the tribal elder’s shortcomings, it never occurred to Daisy that anyone she had not physically attacked with a deadly weapon might actually dislike her. On the contrary, Charlie Moon’s aunt considered herself well-nigh irresistible—a prize rose among common dandelions. “Well … I guess maybe the old crackpot did like me—in her peculiar way.” Daisy would have enjoyed attending a gathering where she was bound to meet dozens of folks she hadn’t seen in a long time and might never encounter again on this side of That River. Moreover, she knew that either Charlie Moon or Sarah would be glad to drive her to Hester Tillman’s funeral and burial. But the proud old woman didn’t want it to look like she was being bullied into showing up by Toadie’s threat. “I’ve got some important things I have to do day after tomorrow.” Which flimsy excuse dredged up a fragmentary memory of a half-forgotten nightmare. “Like trim my toenails.”

  “Oh—shame on you, Daisy!”

  Suspecting that Louise-Marie secretly enjoyed her outrageous remarks, the old jokester cackled wickedly and cracked wise again: “And I’ll be busy picking some lint out of my black stockings. But if you happen to see Toadie’s homely ghost hanging around her grave, tell her I said that I never visited her when she was alive and I don’t see any reason to change my habits now.”

  THE DETRIMENTS THEREOF? (OF PRIDEFUL BEHAVIOR)

  Quién sabe? (Who knows?)

  Yes, such a response is inadequate for those adrenaline freaks who live right on the ragged edge of calamity—such edgy folk get their kicks from breaking society’s rules come what may. And on occasion, so do we. In this instance, the temptation to answer a hypothetical question is overwhelming.

  So here goes: presumably, Hester “Toadie” Tillman. (She knows.)

  But aside from a ho-hum haunting (rattling chains, pitiful moaning, horrific groaning, and whatnot) that would not cause Daisy Perika to bat an eyelash, if the dearly departed has some sinister plan up her shroud sleeve for serious revenge, she has not yet revealed it. Which leads us to consider the dead woman’s habits whilst still residing among the living: those who have crossed her and lived to tell the tale will tell you that Mrs. H. “T.” Tillman is known for biding her time. For how long? Until all the cows come home—or until her intended victim is lulled into a state of dull complacency. Then (so they say)—Toadie strikes and fangs like an enraged prairie rattlesnake.

  Stay tuned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE INCAUTIOUS TOURIST

  The young woman behind the Bronco’s steering wheel felt reasonably secure, and why not? Miss Louella Smithson had driven all the way from Kansas City without mishap. Now—with the considerable authority of Mr. Rand McNally—the map on page 20 of her new road atlas assured her that she was heading more or less northwest and would eventually end up in Granite Creek. (The town, not the chilly stream.) As she focused her intent gaze on the two-lane, “Ellie” fervently hoped so, but in her granddaddy’s West Texas lingo … I seem to be going every whichaway! With the tight curves in the sinuous road, the setting sun would be directly in her eyes one moment, only to shift to the left or right, and then—presumably as some sort of celestial prank—the golden orb would pop up over her shoulder to shine blindingly in the SUV’s rearview mirror. All this erratic solar bopping about made it unlikely that she would notice the vehicle that was trailing along about a quarter mile behind her. But even if she had, Miss Smithson might not have become suspicious. Unless she had taken note of something odd. Her Bronco engine badly in need of a tune-up, she was poking along at about ten miles per hour under the posted speed limit, and the vehicle behind her old SUV was matching its speed precisely—even when Louella sped up slightly when coasting downgrade … or puttering along on a long climb. Moreover, every other automobile that had gotten within sight had pas
sed her old motor vehicle (and its tail) as if they were sitting still.

  Pay no attention to that hopeful “old saying”—what we don’t know can hurt us.

  As the numbers on mile-marker signs regressed through the troublesome teens and eventually dwindled to single digits, her heartbeat gradually increased. At precisely nine miles from the designated center of Granite Creek and not quite seven from the city limits, Miss Smithson spotted what looked like a rest stop and slowed to ease her blue-and-white 1989 Bronco off the blacktop and into that welcoming refuge for bone-weary travelers.

  As the old SUV’s knobby tires crunched on white gravel that had been hauled in from a Pleistocene-era pit, Louella pulled the windshield visor down to shield her eyes from a reddening sun that (presumably for an instant’s rest) was sitting atop a distant saddle-shaped butte. The fatigued tourist braked to a full stop and pushed the gearshift lever up to Park. At first glance, the cedar-dotted parking space had looked inviting. Now, her appraising gaze took in a half-moon parking lot that was bordered by the highway on the straight side and an arc of juniper, piñon, dwarf oak, and unsightly weeds on the curved bluff-side boundary. To the lady’s dismay, the graveled space was lightly cluttered with longneck beer bottles, crushed soft-drink cans, and various other unseemly discards. The midwestern cynic speculated (and correctly so) that the handsome knotty-pine trash receptacle provided for the proper disposal of rubbish was virtually empty. As the worn Ford’s V-8 engine chuggity-chugged along unsteadily on six or seven cylinders, Miss Smithson reflected that she had several urgent and thorny issues to consider. Though isolated, this two-acre eyesore was hardly conducive to productive contemplation. Even so, twilight was already slipping over the parking lot like a dank Mississippi Delta fog—which was all to the better. It would be easier to think once the unsightly trash was covered by the soft edge of night.

  Darkness, of course, will sometimes conceal a far more unwelcome presence than cast-off beverage containers.

  WHAT LOUELLA SMITHSON WAS NOT THINKING ABOUT

  You already know, of course—the vehicle that had dogged her trail for almost a hundred miles.

  An understandable oversight for a rank amateur, but not for a young woman who considered herself an old pro in the following game. That said, how many experienced bloodhounds expect the foxy felon at large to end up behind them?

  The aforesaid felon had considered passing the rest stop and stopping a mile or so up the road to wait for Miss Smithson—then follow her into Granite Creek. But on the off chance that an opportunity might present itself to dispose of the nuisance in this lonely place, the cold-blooded soul also slowed and pulled into the graveled space behind the hopeful bounty hunter, finding partial concealment under the inky shadow of an oversize juniper.

  WHAT THE SO-CALLED COWBOY ASSASSIN WAS NOT THINKING ABOUT

  Jane Law, that’s who—a Colorado State Trooper on routine patrol who had been gradually getting nearer to the Bronco and its tail ever since Miss Smithson and her dogged pursuer had passed through Salida. The thought of either bounty hunters or assassins never having crossed her mind, Ms. Smoky was now about a mile back and closing fast on the parked vehicles.

  An understandable oversight, even for a foxy felon who knows how to turn the tables on a so-so bloodhound.

  PREAMBLE TO A METAMORPHOSIS

  When Louella Smithson twisted the ignition key counterclockwise a few degrees, the overheated eight-cylinder engine dieseled for a couple of cycles, coughed like a ninety-nine-year-old asthmatic drawing his final breath—and died.

  This sudden absence of engine noise was jarring—sufficiently so that the Kansas City lady caught her breath. This place is as quiet as a hundred-year-old graveyard—and about as creepy. But, after a few deep breaths, so serenely peaceful. Which was just the prescription for her unsettled mind. I need to rest for a few minutes so I can organize my thoughts and prepare myself. And right at the top of the list … I’ll begin the process of assuming my new identity. Which, as those extroverts who strut about upon the stage or play to the motion-picture camera well know, would involve getting into character.

  The avocational actress smiled as she considered her upcoming role: When I meet with those two policemen in a day or two, I’ll no longer be Louella Smithson. Which assertion raised an obvious question: who, then? Patting her unkempt hair, the imaginative thespian raised her chin in a haughty expression. I shall be Miss … Miss Who? Miss Smithson considered a half-dozen potential aliases, but not one of them seemed quite right for this career-making performance—which called for something special. (And suitable for the cover of a book.) The harder she tried, the more Louella’s head ached. I’ve been driving way too long without a break; I’m too tired to think straight. But she knew just the remedy for what ailed her: I need a hot meal, a hotter tub bath, and some peaceful downtime in a quiet room. Problem solved. There would be ample opportunity to make the transformation after checking in to a motel. But I don’t want to waste my few minutes here. This was (she thought) as good a time as any to review her copious files on The Case.

  She thought wrong.

  * * *

  Having concluded that this was as good a spot as any, the assassin for hire had selected a weapon and was pulling on a pair of soft, thin-as-bat-skin leather gloves.

  * * *

  Oblivious to the mortal danger lurking only a few yards away, Louella Smithson fingered the lever that unlocked the driver’s bucket seat from its steel track and pushed it back a few inches. For what purpose? Why, to make room in her lap for a pink laptop computer. In addition to the usual personal information one keeps on hard-disk drives, everything Miss Smithson knew—and thought she knew—about the so-called Cowboy Assassin and the Hooten family was stored on that useful device. Not to mention a detailed and much-edited outline of her true-crime manuscript, which was complete except for a compelling opening scene, quite a lot of exciting stuff in the middle, and the triumphant conclusion wherein she would identify the hired gun in Granite Creek and be present for Cowboy’s arrest by that pair of local lawmen whom she had come to save from certain doom—namely, Chief of Police Scott Parris and Deputy Charlie Moon.

  And speaking of officers of the law …

  * * *

  State Police officer Janie Lawton slowed as she approached the rest stop, which was flagged on her mental map as a hangout for petty thieves who pilfered parked cars, small-time drug pushers, and other objectionable riffraff. Spotting two motor vehicles, she naturally ignored the shiny new one and targeted the rusty scuzzmobile—i.e., Miss Smithson’s venerable Bronco. Yes, a clear case of prejudicial selection (transport profiling) but a decision that probably saved Officer Lawton’s life—and most certainly preserved Miss Smithson’s.

  The assassin had already loaded a round into the blued-steel barrel of an automatic pistol and was about to make bad use of that lethal weapon.

  * * *

  Startled by the blinking lights, Louella Smithson sighed. What now?

  As it turned out, nothing much. Merely Trooper Lawton’s friendly warning not to tarry too long at the rest stop which was a known hangout for undesirables. Moreover, night was coming on and a snowstorm was rolling in from the west.

  “Thank you, Officer.” Louella tapped a painted fingernail on her laptop. “I have some work to do, but I promise I’ll be gone before the storm shows up.” And so she would.

  The state trooper departed.

  Louella Smithson—her mind energized by the mildly startling encounter with the police officer—turned again to the issue of a suitable persona to assume for her brief stay in Granite Creek. To that end, she opened a smallish MS Word file that listed previous aliases, each with an invented background to support the phony ID. After perusing these past deceptions, she recalled that each one had begun with the name—a suitable background story springing naturally from the ring of the moniker. And all those previous names had come to her like bolts from the blue.

  This one would, too.r />
  Using the pink-lacquered forefinger nails on each hand, Miss Smithson deftly pecked in “GRANITE CREEK ID.”

  That’s all it took; inspiration did the rest. Creativity is a mysterious phenomenon.

  Now, how the pair of dainty forefingers did fly!

  Watching her potential new alias appear on the computer display, the lady smiled at one that fairly jumped out at her: Miss Whysper. Yes—I do like the sound of that!

  Which was fortunate; her burst of inspiration had run its course.

  Under “Background,” and at a slower pace, she typed in: SUSAN WHYSPER WAS MY FAVORITE AUNT.

  THE VILLAIN?

  Long gone. Even as the trooper was offering the tourist a free weather forecast and unsolicited sage advice, the driver of the other, more-respectable vehicle had pulled away.

  Was the assassin disappointed by the inconvenient arrival of the state cop? Check the box by “Yesiree!” But Cowboy endured this setback with a true professional’s philosophical acceptance of a capricious Fate. A bad break—but maybe it was for the best. An incurable optimist, the hired gun was confident that there would be another time, a better opportunity—and quite a different outcome.