You can imagine what happened next. The cup crashed to the floor to shatter into a thousand and one smithereens, waking the old woman from her doze with a spine-jerking start and an oath that doesn’t bear repeating.
Daisy was saved from the cup-shattering, oath-making scenario by—still another ring of the telephone. These confounded interruptions were getting to be somewhat tedious for Charlie Moon’s cantankerous auntie. She banged the cup onto the table, pushed herself up from the chair, and stalked over to a great-great-grandson of Mr. Bell’s invention, jerked the handset off the cradle, and shouted, “Well, who is it this time?”
The caller was one of those faultlessly polite souls who feels obliged to respond to all questions. “It’s me, Daisy—Patsy.”
“Oh.” I guess I ought to be nice to the woman Charlie’s gonna marry. “What can I do for you, toots?”
“Well … I’m expecting Miss Whysper this evening, but something unexpected has come up and I have to make a quick trip over to Colorado Springs.” Miss Poynter paused for a quick intake of breath and an admiring glance at her engagement ring. “I should get back home in time for my seven o’clock tea and cookies with Miss Whysper, but please tell Charlie’s houseguest about my errand to the Springs … just in case I return a few minutes late.”
“Okay, I’ll pass it on.” The tribal elder rolled her eyes. All I am around here is a messenger.
“Oh, thank you so much.” Patsy made a kiss-kiss sound that nauseated the Ute elder. “Goodbye, now.”
The glum Indian hung up the telephone without a word, then toddled off down the hallway to knock on Miss Whysper’s bedroom door and inform the tourist of this latest fast-breaking news—only to find the guest-bedroom door open and the inner sanctum vacant. Daisy snorted. Well, I can’t tell her if she ain’t here.
True.
What the annoyed old soul could do was return to the kitchen and brew herself a fresh half pot of coffee. Which was her firm intention and the happy end upon which she focused her entire attention. But upon her arrival, Daisy Perika was highly chagrined to find out what was not in the red Folgers plastic canister. Ground coffee. There was nary a single, solitary grain. Nor was there a back-up supply of her favorite brand in the spacious walk-in pantry. Well—ain’t this is a helluva note! All things considered (and from her Daisy-centered point of view), hers was an entirely justifiable complaint. After all, wasn’t it Charlie Moon’s legal obligation to ensure that a caffeine fix was always close at hand for his adorable auntie? (Check the box next to Yes!) And this oversight was no minor infraction. Indeed, his flagrant dereliction of nephewly duty was grounds for filing a lawsuit against her irresponsible relative. Enough said? No. As is her habit, Daisy was about to have the last word. As she slammed the pantry door: Charlie is such a big gourd-head!
And her day had barely gotten started.
But as troubles are measured (on the logarithmic one-to-ten Perika scale), Daisy’s vexations hardly moved the needle. Or, to put it another way: for other unfortunates hereabouts, the grumpy old woman’s morning would have seemed like a June picnic in Granite Creek’s U.S. Grant Park. Really. With the GC Kiwanis Club providing complimentary pulled-pork BBQ with iced lemonade and Charlie Moon’s Columbine Grass making music lively enough to make a ninety-year-old cowboy kick off his boots and dance in the grass like all his toes was on fire.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
A STRANGE GENTLEMAN IN TOWN (AND HE’S PACKING)
The descriptor (Strange) is not intended to imply that the newcomer was particularly odd or even mildly eccentric. In this neck of the woods, hard-looking characters who carry deadly weapons (concealed or in plain view) are considered run-of-the-mill until they employ said weapon in a manner that is deemed either unlawful (armed robbery of the Cattleman’s Bank) or unseemly (shooting up a respectable pool room just for the fun of it). Nor is the gentleman characterized as strange merely because he was a stranger—though that is getting closer to the point. Surly passersby whose faces are unknown hereabouts are as common as blackflies in July.
His appearance was strange not so much because the gent was an unknown quantity in Granite Creek—but due to the fact that he was deliberately concealing his identity. Yes, like that Strange Lady in Town—and for similar reasons to those that motivated m’lady to assume the moniker Miss Whysper. (Which, in neither instance, deceives those happy few of us who are in the know.) This particular male tourist had slipped surreptitiously into Scott Parris’s jurisdiction because he was concerned about being recognized—in this instance, by a particular young woman. If Miss Louella Smithson should spot him, his sensitive and secretive mission would be foiled. Thwarted. Stymied.
Which outcome would be vexing. Annoying. Aggravating.
So what was a professional gun toter to do? This one’s tactic was to melt into the crowd of rowdy cowboy tourists.
Has his ploy been successful? Thus far, it would seem so.
He is practically invisible among the dozens of big-hatted stockmen in town for meetings of the Rocky Mountain Cattlemen’s Association and the Western States Brand Inspectors. Indeed, had he been of a mind to, the Strange Gentleman could have insinuated himself into the intimate company of any of those cheerful souls who were enjoying a tasty T-bone at the Sugar Bowl, a cold brew in one of eleven local bars and saloons, or a serene stroll along Copper Street to soak up the high-altitude atmosphere of a sure-enough Colorado cow town where ranchers, miners, truckers, university academics, elected public servants, and other shady characters rubbed elbows and generally got along as well as might be expected, which is to say that most recovered from wounds inflicted.
But consider this aside: aside from helping themselves to a fried chicken blue-plate special and a chilled Coors, or doing some window-shopping on the town’s main business thoroughfare—every once in a while one of those conference-attendee cowboys might feel the need for a sweet, high-calorie treat. Or even a morale-raising haircut and skin-scraping straight-razor shave. This is mentioned on account of the fact that when the stranger was purchasing a double-dip chocolate ice cream cone at the corner drugstore, he inquired of the friendly counter clerk, “What’s the most popular barbershop in town?”
“That’d be Fast Eddie’s—hands down.” The freckled youth, who had a gold-plated ring affixed to his left nostril (and spiked green hair), added a spatial dimension to his recommendation by pointing north. “Eddie’s shop is about a block and a half up Copper. I get me a trim there once a month.”
Despite this dubious endorsement, the out-of-towner headed in the prescribed direction, licking the ice cream as he trod along Granite Creek’s bustling, boisterous, bumper-to-bumper main street.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN IS NAMED
No, not identified. Named.
Yes, there is a difference.
* * *
It was the busiest hour of a hectic day when Fast Eddie and his hireling barber looked up to see the slim, elderly figure push his way through the front door of the town’s top-rate clip joint. Both barbers nodded politely at the newcomer and continued with their serious work—which was not what the casual passerby might think. An astute observer would conclude that cutting hair was merely a front, that honest trade practiced only to provide a cover for their actual, less admirable vocation: exchanging gossip with locals. Beyond a glance from one of a half-dozen benchwarmers and a couple of customers waiting for their turns in the chair, the stranger was barely noticed. Which was understandable, since there was little about him to attract attention in a county where skinny old men were outfitted in OshKosh B’gosh jackets, Dickies denim shirts with pearl buttons, faded Wrangler jeans, brown leather belts with shiny brass buckles, beat-up old cowboy hats, and scuffed boots. Such characters were as common as fleas on black alley cats. Except that this stranger had iron-gray hair with prominent sideburns and was outfitted in a perfectly pressed gray suit, shiny gray cowboy boots, and a gray London Fog trench coat (which he hung
on a wooden peg provided for manly outerwear). His fine gray Stetson stayed right on his head, where it belonged.
Now, to the issue of the gentleman’s being named. The proprietor of the shop had a compulsive habit of dubbing strangers with fitting nicknames, especially those who appeared unlikely to identify themselves. This one was dead easy. Howdy, Old Gray Wolf. Noting that the newcomer did not doff his five-hundred-dollar cowboy hat right off the bat, Eddie marked him right off as a real-McCoy cowboy—and well heeled at that.
After sizing up the locals like the seasoned sizer-upper he was, Old Gray Wolf selected an empty chair between a pair of talkative customers and settled in for the wait without so much as a nod to the locals. In a barbershop in Denver, Colorado Springs—or even Pueblo—someone might have thought it just slightly unusual that the stern-looking elderly gentleman had hardly a word to say. But savvy out-of-towners who show up in such out-of-the way watering holes as Granite Creek generally do not speak unless spoken to. A discreet silence is particularly adhered to in old-fashioned barbershops where more than four dozen soap mugs are displayed on unpainted pine shelves, each one with a regular customer’s name painted on it.
True to Fast Eddie’s expectations, this steely-eyed hombre hadn’t come to town to talk. The cowboy was on a drop-dead-serious mission, and fishing for information—which made it necessary to listen. After the old-timer had heard enough, Eddie supposed he’d know what to do next.
But, in the interests of full disclosure, it shall be noted that every once in a while the taciturn westerner did nod at an interesting remark, or grunt his agreement with a local know-it-all’s assertion—and three or four times Old Gray Wolf even uttered a word or two. Carefully contrived nods, grunts, and utterings were among his crafty means of encouraging the line of talk in a specific direction. Other artful ploys included an inquisitive tilt of his head, a slightly arched brow, or, when called for—a doubtful frown.
The talkative local at his left elbow turned out to be Happy Billy Ryan, a clinically depressed real-estate agent who had not made a sale in more than fourteen months. To Ryan’s keen nose for prospects, the stranger smelled like freshly minted cash money—and Ryan’s hopeful eyes saw a man who ought to own a fine, Granite Creek County ranch.
The gabber on the Old Gray Wolf’s right turned out to be semiretired (formerly full-time professional loafer) “Big” Matt Bass, a 250-pound talking machine who had conversations with himself when there were no other ears around to bend. Bass figured the stranger was attending one of the two big meetings in town, and though the taciturn man might be a rancher, Bass opined that the lanky old feller was most likely a senior brand inspector. The kind that shoots a suspected cattle rustler right between the eyes and then inquires about why that Bar-Triple-X burned into the Hereford’s hide looks an awful lot like it used to be a W-over-M Panhandle brand. Bass was about to open his mouth and make an astute observation on the subject of cattle thievery when.…
Happy Billy Ryan got in the first word. And quite a few more after that. After some innocuous remarks about the weather (which could be worse), and the grass on the vast prairies west of town (not bad for this time of year), the die-hard salesman broached the subject of how prices were down on rangeland now and how—if you knew whom to deal with—there were a half dozen prime spreads that could be had for a song.
Not at all averse to the realtor’s transparent attempt to fleece him, the OGW applied his considerable talent to steering this one-sided conversation toward the biggest, finest ranch in Granite Creek County.
Happy Billy Ryan, who had no idea of Charlie Moon’s recent thoughts about selling the fabled Columbine—much less that the Ute rancher had actually received an offer—opined (sagely) that Moon’s big ranch was not on the market, nor ever likely to be as long as that Indian cowboy was forked-end down. On the other hand, the middleman seller of land had a “feeling” that Charlie Moon might be willing to part with the Big Hat, and at a fair price.
While Ryan was sucking in a breath, Matt Bass used the opportunity to slip a word in edgewise, informing the stranger that “Ol’ Charlie Moon has just moved his foreman Pete Bushman and Pete’s wife Dolly over to the Big Hat.”
This was news to the real estate agent, but he’d inhaled a double lungful of innervating mountain air and he expelled its good effect with: “The only reason I can think of for Charlie doin’ that, Matt—is that he’s fixing the place up to put on the market.”
Seeing some sense in that, Matt Bass nodded his shaggy head. “Pete and Dolly Bushman are too long in the tooth to run a spread the size of the Big Hat.”
Happy Billy Ryan: “And they’re practically like mom and dad to Ol’ Charlie. He’d trust them to spruce the place up some—maybe even show the Big Hat to potential buyers.”
“Hmm,” saith the Old Gray Wolf.
Ecstatic with this response, Billy Ryan touched his nose with a knowledgeable forefinger. “You can take it from me, mister—that smaller ranch will have a For Sale sign tacked on it come next month.” More slyly still, and in a hoarse whisper that everyone in the barbershop could hear: “If you’re interested in a buy of a lifetime, you just say the word. I’ll check into it and get back to you.”
The object of the pitch shrugged. Land was something the mark already had enough of, but he was interested in anything that had to do with Deputy Moon, Chief of Police Parris—and Miss Louella Smithson.
Smelling opportunity like a hound who’s caught the scent of a fresh hambone, the desperate realtor kept right at it. Comfortable in his supporting role, Matt Bass piped up now and then. Within a few minutes, other locals were offering helpful and informative commentary.
By the time he’d finally eased his bony, rail-thin frame into Fast Eddie’s plushy chair, the recent arrival had learned quite a lot about Mr. Moon’s holdings and acquaintances, almost as much about Scott Parris, plus some spotty information about what was going on in Granite Creek—particularly during the past week. Removing his hat, the Old Gray Wolf passed it to the barber with the terse instruction: “Crown down, if you please.”
“Yes sir.” Eddie placed the expensive lid on a small oak table provided for those finicky customers who did not hang their hats on pegs. The Stetson was placed brim-up—so that all the old cowboy’s luck wouldn’t spill out. Pleased with this courtesy, the customer made his next request in a voice that was smooth as a ribbon of Japanese silk: “Would you mind turning me so I can see the street?”
“Not a problem, sir.” Eddie rotated the chair ninety degrees. “How’s that?”
“Fine.” The senior citizen watched a pretty lass pass by, tugged along by a black toy poodle wearing a yellow collar with tiny red lights that blinked. “Just a light trim will do.”
“Right. D’you want your eyebrows trimmed?”
“No, thank you.” The flinty eyes under the bushy brows glinted. “You can thin my sideburns some, but don’t square ’em off at the bottom—I tend to that chore myself.”
“Yes sir.” And you figure I might trim one sideburn higher than the other. Fast Eddie was a world-class talker, but a shrewd barber knows at a glance which strangers to chat up and when to hold his tongue. This old-timer looks like a sure-enough hardcase.
Right on, Eddie. If the aged cowboy (and he was an actual rope-twirling, bronco-busting son of a gun) had been the sort of loudmouthed, swaggering desperado who carved notches into the grips on his .44 Colt six-shooter, the count would have exceeded a dozen—and marred the polished, hand-carved rosewood.
Considering the notable accomplishments he’d made in his chosen vocation, this particular tough customer was a modest man—and one who enjoyed life’s simple pleasures. While the barber’s silvery scissors snickety-clicked, the object of Eddie’s tonsorial artistry entertained himself by watching parades of pedestrians and motor vehicles. But all the while, his cold gray eyes were watching for someone and something in particular. The someone was Miss Louella Smithson, the something her 1989 Ford Bronco. She’
s not far away and she’s getting closer. He could feel the young woman’s presence in his bones. But, no matter what the bones know, the old pro realized how difficult it could be to find a particular person when you didn’t know what her plans were—even in a small town like Granite Creek. He didn’t really expect to spot Miss Smithson cruising down the town’s busy main street, but every once in a while a man who keeps his eyes wide open gets lucky. So just on the off chance, he kept a close watch on the traffic. If she happens to spot me before I see her—there’s likely to be six kinds of hell to pay. A wry smile twisted the Old Gray Wolf’s thin lips. And I’ll get the whole bill laid on my plate.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
BIG TROUBLE IS BREWING, BUT DO NOT FRET—YOUR FEDERAL GOVERNMENT HAS MATTERS WELL IN HAND
As does the local governing authority in Granite Creek County, Colorado—more specifically, the office of the district attorney, where Chief of Police Scott Parris and Deputy Charlie Moon have been summoned by a no-nonsense lady whose invitation may not be ignored.
After seating Scott and Charlie in District Attorney Pug Bullet’s private conference room, the DA’s capable secretary backed up two steps to put her hands on her narrow hips and cock her head (quizzically) and contemplate the result of her efforts to arrange things just so. The lawmen (Miss Judy Purvis thought) looked to be somewhat uncomfortable, sitting elbow-to-elbow, tiny microphones pinned to their collars, staring straight ahead at a yard-wide, high-definition, flat-screen terminal that displayed the Department of Justice logo on a serene, Mediterranean-blue background. “Okay, let’s see how well you’re framed.” She thumbed a remote to replace the DOJ display with a live shot of the grim-faced men, staring like a pair of surly schoolboys who didn’t like having their snapshots made.
“We look like a couple a two-bit criminals,” Parris muttered sideways to his buddy.
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