The Old Gray Wolf

by James D. Doss

  This was one of those slice-of-life vignettes that takes longer to report than to experience, the whole episode having occupied a mere two dozen seconds of Miss Whysper’s precious time. Preserving her reputation of being the sort of self-sufficient woman who has no need to lean on strong men, she did not wait for Moon to approach the Bronco and escort her to his two-story log headquarters. Indeed, a few heartbeats after the Ute had emerged from his shiny automobile and before he’d made more than a few paces toward the older SUV, Miss Whysper had grabbed the pink suitcase in her hand, jammed the matching pink laptop under her arm, and closed and locked the Bronco door—only to confront that colorful well-known local character who goes by the name of Sidewinder. Trotting amiably up to greet the stranger, the venerable hound first sniffed at her boots, then looked up with soulful, hopeful eyes that glistened in the starlight.

  Miss Whysper addressed the Columbine’s dignified canine with due respect: “Sorry I can’t pat your head, big fellow—but as you can see, I have my hands full at the moment.”

  Apparently understanding her difficulty, the dog turned his attention to the rusty old horse she’d rode in on. As Sidewinder sniffed his way around the Bronco with a keen professional interest, the lady marched briskly across the yard to the spot where the rancher customarily docked his proud Columbine flagship.

  As he had in the hotel room, the gallant man offered to take the lady’s pink luggage—knowing that she would refuse.

  Upon this occasion, however, Miss Whysper yielded the suitcase up without the least protest.

  Women. Go figure.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHARLIE MOON’S INNER CIRCLE

  Having already been introduced to Charlie Moon’s stunning fiancée and (more recently) the homely Columbine hound, Miss Whysper was now about to encounter those who formed the core of the rancher’s family—Aunt Daisy and Sarah Frank. And even if they were more like peripheral kin, it must be said that Mr. Moon was very fond of Columbine foreman Pete Bushman and his sweet, sugar dumpling of a wife.

  Those who are acquainted with Pete might well ask, “How could Moon possibly have the slightest affection for a cranky old straw boss who delights in giving him heartburn on a regular basis?” A reasonable question. The inexplicable answer is: by the same means that enabled the amiable man to adore his irascible aunt Daisy—the ineffable grace of God.

  Pete’s better half posed no such challenge; like Sarah Frank, Mrs. Bushman was easy to love. It was typical of Dolly’s selfless generosity that the hardworking old soul had spent her afternoon preparing a mouthwatering meal for other folks to enjoy. This special “going away to the Big Hat supper” was to be shared with Charlie Moon and his household. Along about dusk, when hard, stark shadows begin to get mossy-soft around the edges, Dolly had loaded the scrumptious victuals into their old pickup—which Pete cranked up for the three-hundred-yard jaunt to the Columbine headquarters.

  When Daisy Perika had heard Pete’s truck coming a-rumbling across the Too Late Creek bridge’s loose boards, she’d muttered to no one in particular, “Well—I wonder what this is all about?” Something cooked up to vex her, no doubt.

  GUESS WHO’S COME TO DINNER?

  Charlie Moon opened the porch door for his guest, followed her into the parlor, and—encountering the four aforesaid members of his “Columbine family”—introduced “Miss Susan Whysper.”

  Which drew blank stares from those gathered there.

  Charlie explained, “Miss Whysper’ll be staying at the ranch for a few days while she gathers some information for a book she’s writing.” He expanded on this subject by stating that the book was of the true-crime genre and would have something or other to do with Granite Creek County. Moon’s expression conveyed the information that he’d said about all he could about the matter; if anyone wanted to know more, they could ask the author. This presumably titillating announcement created no discernible impression upon those present. Which left the Ute’s quiver empty. Never mind. A cornered Indian does not go down without a fight, be it with bare hands. In this instance, he should have run up the white flag. Desperate to break the ice, he spelled Miss W.’s unusual name out loud. Emphasizing the y.

  The result of this inane attempt to endear his guest to the reception committee?

  About what you might expect. The silence in the huge headquarters parlor was deafening. Even the wall clock’s clickety ticktocks were smothered by the heaviness of the unnatural quiet. Yea, and outside on the high-prairie night, a lonely coyote had terminated her shrill yip-yippings—as if waiting for the next cowboy boot to drop. No, this was not a fortuitous coincidence; a pair of loudmouthed owls had ceased their funereal hootings, the Columbine hound was holding his doggy breath—even the crisp sigh of a chill breeze in the eaves was stilled.

  Mr. Moon was both puzzled and mildly annoyed by this cool reception.

  The arrival of unexpected guests was a frequent occurrence at the Columbine, but the overnighters were usually men who were Charlie’s friends—and known to both Sarah and Daisy. But Miss Whysper’s sudden appearance was not sufficient to account for the cool reception. The reasons were as varied and complex as the individuals.

  Already crushed by Moon’s engagement to Miss Poynter, Sarah stared wide-eyed at this elegantly attired female of the species. Charlie attracts women like honey draws flies. Moreover … She’s not bad-looking.

  Indeed, when not overshadowed by such eye-stunning company as Patsy Poynter and Professor Tiffany Mayfair, Miss Whysper’s understated attractions became apparent: a slender but distinctively feminine figure whose supple grace suggested sly, feline instincts. Dark, semiseductive eyes set in an oval and perfectly symmetric face. And the lady had a full measure of that elusive quality that, for want of a better descriptor, shall be specified as poise. The sum of these attributes was sufficient to appeal both to men and to boys—and served as a warning to twenty-year-old ladies, even those whose man was already engaged to the best-looking reference librarian in twenty states. Maybe forty-eight.

  Charlie Moon’s aunt had no particular interest in this overdressed matukach woman who had invaded her private space and crashed an intimate supper with the Bushmans. Daisy Perika hoped that Miss Whysper wouldn’t stay longer than it took her to catch a bad case of the flu—and didn’t give two copper cents about her stupid book about lowlife crooks or whether or not she felt welcome at the Columbine. And that was only for starters; Daisy was just getting warmed up.

  While Moon’s glowering aunt stood with her backside to the parlor fireplace’s dying embers, a heartbroken Sarah Frank avoided Charlie’s eyes. But your typical Ute-Papago orphan is made of first-class material, which is also known as the right stuff. Gathering up all her willpower, the willowy lass murmured something that sounded like, “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Pete Bushman, his speech impaired by a bulging jawful of tobacco, kept his mouth firmly shut. All things considered, this was undoubtedly the wisest course of action.

  Accustomed to Pete’s social shortcomings and always deferring to others before asserting herself, Dolly Bushman was nevertheless appalled at the lukewarm show of hospitality. Assuming the role of First Lady of the Columbine, the foreman’s wife approached Charlie’s guest with a warm smile. Dolly did her level best to make the stranger welcome with a combination of lighthearted chattering, comforting clucking, and a general fussing-about that conveyed the assurance that Moon’s lady friend was as welcome as a cool drink of springwater during a seven-year drought.

  Though Miss Whysper understood and appreciated Dolly’s mother-hen attentions, when the traveler relieved Charlie Moon of the pink suitcase and expressed the need to “freshen up,” it was apparent that she had opted for a tactical withdrawal—if not a strategic retreat.

  More than a little shamed by Dolly Bushman’s good example, Sarah escorted the unexpected tourist to one of the Columbine’s guest bedrooms. No, not the spacious accommodations upstairs that boasted an antique cherry fourpo
ster, an adjoining bathroom with a tiled tub big enough to float a juvenile hippo in, and a stunning view of the Buckhorn Range—which desirable quarters just happened to be directly across the hallway from the modest chamber where Charlie slept. Sarah ushered Miss Whysper to a small, shadowy downstairs guest bedroom with a window that overlooked an expanse of rolling prairie. This cubicle was directly across the hallway from Daisy’s bedroom, and diagonal from Sarah’s.

  Why? Because Miss Whysper was obviously too bone-tired to climb the stairway, and this cozy guest bedroom was conveniently only a few steps away. It was also conveniently located near the dining room, and suppertime was only minutes away.

  ENJOYING THE BUSHMANS’ GOING-AWAY CELEBRATION

  During the hearty evening feast that followed, and despite Daisy’s continued sullen silence, the atmosphere was considerably brighter, and Miss Whysper was treated to all the heartwarming charm of genuine Columbine hospitality. The dining-table conversation centered on Pete and Dolly’s move over to the Big Hat, which (Pete explained) was “just east yonder over the Buckhorn Range” and “miles closer to town than the Columbine.” Dolly invited the young woman to drop by tomorrow for coffee and cookies if she got a chance. “It’ll be our first day over there and we’ll be all by ourselves and lonesome for some company.”

  Miss Whysper assured Dolly that she appreciated the gracious invitation, but declined with regrets. “I would enjoy some downtime, but I expect to be very busy tomorrow.”

  With the solemnity of a drunken hanging judge, Pete Bushman advised the lady that all work and no play made Jack a dull boy. Oblivious to his gender blunder and puzzled by the smiles it produced, the old man scowled under his bushy brows and helped himself to another piece of crispy fried chicken, which is a dandy remedy for acute social discomfort and any number of other perplexing anxieties.

  Miss Susan Whysper was delighted to break bread with Charlie Moon’s inner circle, and by the time Dolly had served up a hot-from-the-oven peach cobbler that literally made her mouth water—the lady who had been “rescued” from Granite Creek’s excellent Holiday Inn was beginning to feel like a bona fide member of Mr. Moon’s close-knit family. Which suited the calculating woman’s purposes to a tee. In her line of work, there was nothing so beneficial as being accepted as an insider—and in this instance, without having expended the least effort. Color this self-proclaimed author of true-crime fiction self-satisfied. I could not have insinuated myself into a more advantageous position.

  Smiling as she dipped her fork into a steaming helping of dessert, Miss Whysper summed up the personal-relationship situation thus: There’s certainly no love lost between Charlie Moon and his grumpy old aunt. An understandable if egregious error. Glancing at Sarah, she compounded her misunderstanding: And the sad-faced girl seems to detest the very sight of him. The more or less clueless guest took a long, appraising look at the Bushmans. But the foreman and his wife are close enough to be Moon’s doting parents. Something of an exaggeration, but give the lady a B+ on her third guess.

  One out of three in the Correct column hardly rates a first prize for intuitive surmising, but one must allow the stranger a little slack. We all know from personal experience that first impressions are often somewhat wide of the mark. Charlie, Sarah, and the Bushmans would not have been offended by Miss Whysper’s superficial evaluations. But, of course, not everyone at Charlie Moon’s table would have been so charitable.

  If Daisy Perika were to have her say, it would sound much like what she was thinking: I don’t like female drifters who come around looking for a free meal and someplace to flop for the night. It’d be different if Charlie had brought home a regular freeloader, like a down-on-his-luck Texas cowboy, a too-old-to-work horse thief, or even a dirty old hobo wino—but all this worthless nitwit does is write silly books. (Imagine the tribal elder sighing and rolling her beady, ball-bearing eyes.) But what can you expect from a full-blooded Ute Dagwood who gets himself engaged to marry a blue-eyed matukach Blondie?

  Not an awful lot—that’s what.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  WIDE AWAKE AT THE COLUMBINE HEADQUARTERS

  Fortunately, this eyes-like-poached-eggs descriptor does not apply to every soul bedded down therein. But in the interest of completeness, all four shall be considered—and in order of increasing interest.

  THE MAN OF THE HOUSE

  Shhh! Charlie Moon is sleeping like a little boy who has rollicked all afternoon with a frisky, fuzzy puppy. His is enjoying a deep, peaceful sleep without dreams. Which is about as fascinating as watching gray moss grow on the shady side of a boulder, so we shall leave the man to his rest and—

  But hold on. What was that?

  “Ooouuuueeee!” With slight variations and intonations, this bloodcurdling, spine-tingling yowl was repeated several times.

  On yowl number four, Charlie Moon groaned. On five, he opened his eyes and stared at the unseen beamed ceiling. Sidewinder must be howling at the moon. A sensible conclusion—except for one minor detail: there was no moon tonight. Except for the capitalized version, whose sleep had been so rudely disturbed.

  “Ooouuuu … ooouueeee!”

  Moon pulled the quilt over his head. Sooner or later, he’ll stop.

  Sooner. Later. The hound did not.

  Having no great appreciation for this doggish serenade, the miffed rancher rolled out of bed, raised the window, and yelled at the hound, “Quiet down out there!”

  Sidewinder, who had something to say and was expressing himself the only way a descendant of wolves knows how, was also miffed. And hurt. But he did cease his nighttime solo.

  THE UTE-PAPAGO ORPHAN

  Sarah Frank is to be counted among the insomniacs, and we know why. There is no point in belaboring the love-struck maiden’s continuing melancholy about Charlie Moon’s upcoming wedding to Patsy Poynter, or Sarah’s indecision about when she would leave the Columbine forever, and where to go from there. Suffice it to say that the young woman has been staring at the darkened ceiling for thousands of clockish ticktocks. But nothing stays the same, and Sarah’s grief will eventually be numbed by her mind’s vital need for rest and the soporific effect of darkness. Her relief will, of course, necessarily be transient—at this latitude, the sun must come up in the morning.

  THE TOURIST

  The Columbine’s guest was the second of the sleepless souls—and there was ample reason for her nighttime distress. Miss Whysper had a great deal on her mind, and nocturnal mental activity tends to prevent an overtired person from drifting off into blissful unconsciousness. You know how it goes: one bothersome thought leads to another of like kind, and this process repeats itself with monotonous regularity until a dreadful circle is completed, at which point the sleepless soul is obliged to tread once more along the pathway of vexing conjectures.

  In this instance, the self-administered affliction proceeded as follows:

  Miss Whysper’s hopeful yawn was transformed into a wistful sigh. It would be so nice to stay at the Columbine until I’m rested and up to speed. But she knew that … I really should return to Granite Creek tomorrow morning and get on with my work. On the other hand, something useful might be accomplished right here … A day or two at Mr. Moon’s ranch would provide an opportunity to learn a lot about the deputy, his elderly aunt, and that young woman who seems to be so terribly unhappy. Not so happy herself, Miss W. shivered under the genuine Daisy Perika–hand-stitched quilt. It’s awfully cold tonight … my toes are almost numb! But morning was only hours away, and … It’s supposed to warm up tomorrow. Which meteorological prediction called to mind the remarkably effective greenhouse effect. Not long after sunrise, the inside of the Bronco could be toasty warm. And already-odorous rubbish smells were noticeably worse when heated. Maybe I should have lowered the car windows a couple of inches. She stretched luxuriously, yawned again, and indulged in a self-confession: I have an unhealthy tendency to worry too much. But that went with the territory; the life of an ambitious entrepreneur
was not all that it was cracked up to be. All I do is work work work. And no matter how carefully a lady laid her plans, complications she could not possibly have foreseen were always popping up to aggravate the situation. Nothing in life is ever as simple as it ought to be. But negative thinking was like walking backward, and after all … I knew what I was getting into when I chose this line of work. The bottom line was that a self-employed woman who expected to pay the rent had to put her vocation first. So I’ll leave the ranch tomorrow morning and start getting things done. A person never knows when a golden opportunity might present itself … Like Chief Parris and Mr. Moon and their lady friends dropping in on me at the hotel. This out-of-the-blue encounter had led to the irresistible invitation to visit Mr. Moon’s ranch and introductions to several other interesting people … Which will make it much easier to complete my work in a satisfactory fashion. Miss Whysper knew just what she’d do on the morrow: I’ll arrange meetings with the cops’ lady friends. Professor Mayfair and Miss Poynter both had day jobs, so tomorrow evening should be a suitable time. And that will give me all day to take care of some other odds and ends. Getting her work done up front was really a no-brainer. I’ll have plenty of time to kick back and relax after I return home.

  It seemed like the matter was settled.

  Then, like a lady hoop snake about to swallow her tail … But if I rested here for a couple of days, I’d be better prepared to do my work in Granite Creek. Another yawn, and … On the other hand …

  It was no wonder that the weary traveler tossed and turned for almost another hour before finally drifting off into a troubled sleep.

  * * *

  Having dispensed with three of the four, we may turn our attention to the last.