The Old Gray Wolf

by James D. Doss

  A marginal note: those high-octane parcel-delivery drivers are endowed with loads of get-up-and-go. They also have tight schedules to meet and not two ticktocks of the clock to waste. Not a few of ’em (and this was one) enjoy making the dramatic high-velocity entrance and do not mind scattering flocks of nervous turkeys, honking geese, or chickens of any description.

  Sad to say, Charlie Moon does not keep any feathered livestock.

  The sturdy van rolled into the Columbine headquarters yard at high noon on the dot. The hyper driver was out of her seat about one heartbeat after the vehicle braked to a stop under a gaunt, lonesome lady cottonwood who’s been standing right on the spot for ninety-two years without ever receiving a single string-tied parcel, scented love letter—or as much as a penny postcard from someone who wished she were here. Or there. Whichever.

  Such visits were not unusual. An operation the size of the Columbine Land and Cattle Company received at least a dozen parcels weekly from UPS and their major competitor. Charlie Moon knew all the drivers by name and temperament. The AAA member also knew that by the sweat of her brow, this particular FedEx employee was supporting an alcoholic husband, a doped-up, dropped-out daughter, and (on the plus side) two darling grandchildren.

  Moon stepped outside the west door of the headquarters to meet this lean, hard-muscled, late-middle-aged woman. He waved as she approached with an armload of cardboard boxes and inquired as she deposited her burden on the redwood-planked porch, “How’s the family, Paula?”

  The hardworking lady paused long enough to roll her eyes heavenward and say, “As well as can be expected—you got any outgoing today?”

  “No, but I’ll have a couple of boxes on Friday.”

  “Works for me.” She was already marching away to the idling van. “See you then, Charlie.”

  THE EAVESDROPPER

  Why was Daisy Perika at a parlor window, peering out between slightly parted curtains? Possibly because the arrival of a delivery truck was generally the high point of the tribal elder’s day. That, and the fact that the old woman took an almost childish delight in spying on her nephew—or anyone else who might have private business to conduct. As it turns out, Charlie did. Even though he didn’t know it.

  WHAT HE HAD DREADED

  As Charlie Moon knelt to gather up the parcels, he spotted the return address on a smallish item and his heart almost stopped. But almost is a long way from cardiac arrest, and this development was not entirely unexpected. She hardly ever answers the phone when I call and never returns my messages. Leaving the other deliveries untouched, he took the deadly thing to the porch swing and seated himself—the rusty suspension chains creaking under his weight. He had no desire to open this parcel that would destroy his last hopes, but his nimble fingers were busy doing just that. And before the prospective jilt-ee could blink, there it was—nestled inside in a comfy bed of Bubble Wrap. The familiar hinged, velvet-covered, satin-lined box.

  There was also a small, pink envelope—factory-scented to enhance the wild-rose pattern printed on it. To the grim-faced recipient’s nostrils, the fragrance was funereal.

  THE RECRUIT

  Astonished at her good fortune, Daisy turned to jerk her head at Sarah Frank—a gesture whose unmistakable meaning was, “Come over here right now!”

  THE KISS-OFF

  Setting the jewelry box aside on the swing, Charlie Moon opened the envelope with all the enthusiasm of an about-to-be-lynched rustler who was obliged to dig his own grave. The tear-stained note inside—it was too brief to be considered a letter—would contain no surprises. The doomed groom already knew more or less what his erstwhile fiancée would have penned. And so he made no attempt to read it carefully, as would a man who had some hope left. As he scanned the brief epistle, the disconnected phrases impressed the gist of the message upon his numb consciousness.

  Dear Charlie … Daphne is improving slowly … long period of convalescence … I’m really needed here … rented my Granite Creek home to a sweet couple … with an option to buy … given the circumstances … doesn’t seem fair to keep your ring … so I’m returning it … maybe someday we’ll … so sorry, Charlie … Love and Kisses … Patsy

  Both in explanations and kindness, this rejection was superior to the previous two—and more hurtful than both combined. But the fair-minded man realized that Patsy was not to blame: she’d come very close to losing her sister in Granite Creek. She might not ever set foot in town again.

  It was Miss Whysper who’d brought all these troubles with her, and the assassin whom Francine Hooten had sent to Granite Creek County had already paid with her life. But what really got the bad business started was the arrival of her thieving son, who just happened to snatch a purse in the supermarket parking lot at the very moment when Scott Parris was close at hand. And the chief of police had made a one-in-a-thousand toss of a can of peas that connected with LeRoy Hooten’s skull.

  Anywhere along the way, the merest intervention of fate might have altered this dismal future. A kind word from a Granite Creek passerby to LeRoy Hooten. Scott’s aim being not quite perfect. The mere fluttering of the proverbial butterfly’s wings. But nothing of the sort had occurred, and Moon reminded himself that this note from Patsy was not the worst of the bad outcomes. The names of those who were dead in the wake of Miss Whysper’s cruel rampage passed by his dark eyes. Pete and Dolly Bushman. Tiffany Mayfair. Miss Louella Smithson. Ex-Texas Ranger Ray Smithson. Not only had Moon provided the murderer with Columbine hospitality … I didn’t have a clue about what was going on until she’d already murdered five people. He shook his head. Some deputy I am.

  The injured man wanted to fight back—to punch some loudmouth bully in the face and knock his rotten yellow teeth all over the barroom floor—but this was a defeat without a punchable adversary. Searching for someone or something to strike back at, Moon’s gaze was inevitably drawn to the velvet box.

  The discarded lover thumbed the lid open to glare at an ill-starred circle of gold that sparkled with a single small diamond, that icy eye glittering at him with cold insolence. The noble metal was as corroded brass, the precious setting a faceted fragment of glass. There was a tiny residue of superstition buried deeply in the rational man’s mind. It bubbled up from the black muck to suggest that this circular symbol of eternal love was a phony—a talisman of misfortune whose sinister function was to lure him into romantic alliances that were predestined to fail. Offer this cursed thing to an intelligent, honey-sweet, attractive woman, and the lady would walk away and leave him lonelier than ever.

  Being the sort of fellow who preferred immediate action to tedious cerebration or unmanly self-pity, he snapped the damn box shut, stuffed the hated thing into his jacket pocket, lurched up from the swing, leaped off the porch rather than use the steps—and strode away like a resolute man on a deadly serious mission. Which he was.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHARLIE MOON’S NEW BEGINNING

  Like all genuine transformations, this one could not be had without a kind of death—one that would sever the silver strand that connected Mr. Moon’s tomorrows to all his yesterdays. The determined man stopped at the riverbank, removed the boxed engagement ring from his pocket, and opened the lid for a final look and a heartfelt promise, which he uttered aloud: “I’ll never make that mistake again.”

  You know what he’s going to do.

  But for those who don’t, imagine Chief of Police Parris about to fling his purloined can of peas—or Deputy Moon chucking a chunk of asphalt at an oncoming automobile. The plan was much the same in this instance, except that Charlie Moon’s easy target was a fifty-foot-wide river rather than a purse snatcher’s coconut-size head or a Chevrolet sedan’s windshield. Watch the long, lean man grip the ring box in his right hand, wind up like a Colorado Rockies pitcher atop the mound in Coors Field, stretch his sinewy arm back a yard behind his head like ol’ Jason Hammel about to lay a smokin’ sizzler knee-high and dead center across home plate, and—

&
nbsp; “No!”

  (Who has dared interrupt this heart-stopping drama?)

  Charlie Moon would also like to know. Frozen in midpitch, the promising rookie from Granite Creek County took a look over his shoulder—in the general direction of second base.

  “Shame on you!” Sarah Frank snatched the box from his hand.

  He blinked at the angry lass whose dark eyes flashed with white-hot fire. “What’d I do?”

  Silly question. “You were going to throw it away.”

  Charlie Moon did not need to be informed of that fact, and he was up to here with various women who had nothing better to do than aggravate him. “So what?” With uncharacteristic sternness, he explained, “The dang thing’s mine and I can do whatever I want to with it.”

  Sarah stamped her foot. “No you can’t!”

  Such an assertion as this stumps a red-blooded male American who firmly believes in the sanctity of private property, not to mention all the cherished rights pertaining thereto. So the best Moon could come up with was, “Why not?” This was a sincere question, and one that instantly discombobulated the tightly wound young lady into a speechless state.

  But only for a heartbeat. “Well…” Add two more heartbeats. “Because.”

  Which snappy comeback called for a witty riposte: “Because why?” Gotcha now.

  No he didn’t. “Because … it’s a sin!”

  Well. Despite his admitted deficiencies, Mr. Moon was a practicing Christian who took his religion seriously. He had never stolen anything since he was delivered from alcoholism by the Grace of God, and he had never killed a man except in defense of himself or another citizen. Moreover, the Catholic confessed all his sins regularly and repented with utmost sincerity. All this being so, he was puzzled by the girl’s charge. “Why?”

  “Why what?” Sarah’s state of discombobulation had not entirely abated.

  Having regained a measure of his characteristic serenity, the Ute lived up to his reputation for being an uncommonly patient man. “Why is it a sin for me to pitch something that’s mine into the river?”

  Sarah looked to heaven for an answer, which was immediately forthcoming (from the opposing realm), and instantly relayed it to the alleged sinner: “Because it could be sold and the money given to the poor.” There.

  Charlie Moon smiled upon his sweet-as-honey persecutor, who had just quoted Judas Iscariot. But the boxed engagement ring was not pure nard in an alabaster flask that she who had been forgiven much would use to anoint the feet of God’s Messiah. Nevertheless, Sarah did have a point, and Moon had cooled off some and was able to see the foolishness in the rash act she had interrupted. Sort of. “Okay.” He pointed at the box clasped tightly in her hands. “You sell the ring and put the money in the poor box at church.” But even as he proposed a solution that seemed worthy of a latter-day Solomon, the kind man saw a shadow pass over the girl’s face. Moon realized that he’d hurt her feelings. Poor kid, she wants to put it in her jewelry box with all those other trinkets. Sufficient injury had been suffered for the day, so he added, “But don’t sell it right away.”

  Confused by these seemingly wishy-washy instructions, the youth waited for clarification.

  Which was immediately forthcoming.

  “From what I hear on the street, consumer demand for used jewelry is close to rock-bottom right now.” Charlie Moon cocked his head sideways, as if in deep thought. “But sooner or later, the market is bound to get bullish.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “So I’d advise you to hold on to it until the price of engagement rings peaks.”

  “Whatever you say.” But Sarah posed a sensible question: “How’ll I know when that happens? I mean … the ring might be worth a thousand dollars one day and double that in another week.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” The rancher assumed an expression of manly confidence. “I know something about the cattle market and how it fluctuates—and beef on the hoof is not all that much different from pork bellies, wheat, gold, or diamonds.” He gave the girl a light, one-armed hug. “I’ll tell you when to sell it.”

  “Okay.” But there was that one more thing and Sarah’s eyes were full of hope, her girlish innocence now transformed into sly, feminine guile: “Should we keep it in the attic safe till then?”

  “Nah.” Charlie Moon shrugged. “That trinket has spent way too much time in the dark already. You pick a good place for it.”

  That was the right answer, and she knew just where. But I wouldn’t dare. “Really?”

  “Sure.” Poor, clueless fellow.

  Sarah Frank opened the box, removed the engagement ring, and slipped it onto her supple brown finger, where the diamond shone like a miniature supernova and the gold glistened like King Midas had just put the Big Touch on it—and it was a perfect fit. Oh, I could just die!

  Thankfully, she did not.

  The ecstatic young woman grabbed the tall, lean man in a hug around the neck, pulled herself up to kiss her astonished benefactor right on the mouth, released him into a dumb numbness that paralyzed Charlie Moon from head to toe—and ran away toward the big log house, almost bowling Daisy Perika aside.

  The tribal elder, who had crept close enough to overhear the conversation, was shaking her head. There ain’t a man alive that can outsmart the silliest girl you ever saw.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  WEEKS LATER AT THE COLUMBINE APPROXIMATELY 10:02 A.M. PLUS 16 SECONDS

  But who cares a nickel or a dime about precise time? Not Charlie Moon, who was in the headquarters parlor, reclining in his favorite rocking chair. And speaking of specie, the Indian did not give one penny’s worth of attention to the ticktocking clock on the mantelpiece.

  All things considered, this was a restful interlude for a hardworking man who needed a few hours alone. There had not been a knock-down, drag-out brawl in the bunkhouse for almost four days, no reports of busted windmills, sick cattle falling like flies from some mysterious malady, or cougars on the prowl for prime beef. Moreover, Mr. Moon was all alone. Sarah Frank was away, attending some class or other at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University, and best of all—Aunt Daisy was spending an entire week in her reservation home.

  As he took advantage of this uncommon respite from life’s various and sundry vexations, Moon’s eyes were closed, his long legs stretched out, his bare feet propped on the hearth and warmed by a famished blaze that was licking at tasty chunks of resinous pine. Mighty fine? You bet. But do not jump to the conclusion that the rancher was malingering. This one was not even dozing. So what was he doing? The man in the rocker was waiting for the telephone to ring.

  By and by, it did. Seven times.

  No, the peaceful soul did not get up from his comfortable chair and stroll over there to where the communications instrument jangled. And why should he? Charlie Moon figured he knew who was calling, the reason why, and more or less what Scott Parris had to say.

  Before ring number eight could sound, the answering machine kicked in. After Parris listened impatiently to the standard Columbine greeting, he barked at the man in the chair, “Charlie, I know you’re there. Now here’s the deal—what I need to tell you about is confidential police business, so I can’t leave it on your machine. Now pick up the phone, dammit—so I won’t have to drive all the way out to the ranch!” The chief of police continued to fume, fret, and fuss until his minute was up.

  As Señor Luna yawned, his eyes remained closed. Behind the lids, he was looking forward to the forthcoming visit from his best friend, but now he would complete his restful midmorning siesta. Imagine sixteen solid minutes of deep, dreamless sleep.

  TIME HAS PASSED

  A wide-awake Charlie Moon was in the headquarters kitchen, getting the six-burner propane range primed and ready for action. In a little while, there would be pig meat sizzling deliciously in a black iron skillet, seasoned legumes bubbling contentedly in a stainless-steel sauce pan, and black, brackish brew blurpity-blurping rhythmically in a blue-enameled percolator
. Accompanying these satisfying sounds would be a breathtaking aroma wafting up from the oven vent. But that would be then, and this was right now. At present, an eighth inch of olive oil simmered in the skillet, the sauce pan was empty as a dead man’s fixed stare, and not a flicker of a blue flame blazed underneath the coffeepot. But the oven was already hot and a bowl of sticky biscuit mix was ready to spoon onto a sooty cookie sheet.

  Being alone in the house and in no particular hurry to commence with the feast, the Ute occupied himself by setting the table with two brown-as-Big-Muddy-Creek stoneware crockery platters, a pair of matching mugs, silver forks and spoons that had belonged to his mother, and a couple of bone-handled hunting knives such as suspicious housewives sharpen when their tomcat men are still out at 2:00 A.M. As he occupied himself with these tasks, the man of the house was expecting another call—this one on his cellular telephone. Which was why Mr. Moon was not the least bit surprised when the instrument in his shirt pocket buzzed like a spinning lead slug does when it drones past your ear; a sound you’re happy you can hear because when you don’t, you are no longer here.

  Figuring the odds at about twenty to one, the poker player connected without checking the caller ID. Scott Parris’s keen-eared deputy knew he was right when he heard the high-rpm roar of the GCPD black-and-white’s supercharged V-8 engine. He’s mad as a hornet and on his way here. “Howdy, pardner.”

  “Howdy yourself! Why didn’t you answer the phone when I called almost an hour ago?”

  “I was indisposed.” Moon’s free hand laid a can opener on the table. “I’m guessing you got yours too.”

  “I sure did,” Parris growled. “When Mr. UPS showed up with a parcel from that purse-snatching son of a bitch’s murderous momma, my first thought was that she’d sent me an improvised explosive device that’d blow my fat head all the way to Kingdom Come if I so much as cracked the lid.” The cop snorted. “But after taking thought, I realized that a lady who mails a gentleman a homemade bomb does not generally put her right name and return address onto the box.”