Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  Prayer answered.

  The Ute’s one-eyed field of view was blocked by the backside of another hairy something. Big one. Twice the size of its opponent. And the slugger in the near corner meant business. Legs firmly planted on the moss, it crouched slightly forward as if ready to pounce. The newcomer had taken a stand—between the bear and the defenseless man.

  The black bear was surprised at this development. Perhaps even startled. But not greatly impressed.

  Scott Parris was impressed. Greatly. His jaw had dropped to his collar. He managed to get it back in the hinge, and in a croaky whisper urged, “Shoot, Charlie—kill ’em both!”

  But his friend, who recognized the new player, had lowered the pistol. The game was out of his hands.

  On his hind legs, standing straight as a lodgepole pine, the bear eyed this aggravating barrier betwixt him and supper, rumbled a guttural growl.

  The response was immediate and unequivocal: “Hhhnnngh!”

  Mr. Bear displayed a magnificently clawed paw, made a warning swipe.

  Bobbie Sue raised a ham-size fist, in which was clenched a club large enough to stun a three-ton mammoth.

  The preliminary gestures were over. The main event was about to begin.

  Mr. Bear made a lunge, the huge woman in the grizzly skin made a swing.

  What followed was something the likes of which this forest had never seen. Howls, yowls, claws a-slashing, bludgeon a-bashing, bodies a-rolling, teeth a-snapping, bones and saplings fracturing, blood and spittle spraying, then—the opponents parted.

  Armistice.

  The formidable warriors circled the small battlefield, clockwise. Eyed each other. Mumbled. Muttered. Grumbled. Gurgled. Reverse circled.

  The bear bared his teeth, showed her the extended paw with bloodied claws. Growled.

  Bobbie Sue reached inside her hairy garment. Showed him the shiny blade of a Bowie knife. Unbloodied, but thirsty.

  Upon a telepathic exchange of signals, the circling stopped.

  The black bear, who had somewhat lost his appetite, snarled.

  Bobbie Sue, who had never been in such a scrap, coughed up a “Hhhnnngh!”

  The animal eyed the woman. I can take you.

  Her beady black eyes stared back. C’mon then. Show me whatcha got.

  Not a creature-sound in the forest.

  Charlie Moon, who had never witnessed such a wonder, was transfixed.

  Scott Parris was not entirely there. His consciousness had slipped away elsewhere. All he could see was a self-induced hallucination orchestrated to match his superstitious expectations. But he could hear his wristwatch. Tick-tick. And feel his heart pump. Thump-thump.

  The bear glared.

  Tickety-tick. Thumpity-thump.

  The mountain woman glared back.

  Tickety-clickit.

  Hairy bear snarled.

  Clickety-clickit! Thumbumpity BUMP!

  Hairy Woman snarled louder.

  Something just had to happen to put an end to this….

  It did.

  Bobbie Sue slowly raised the Bowie knife to her face, drew the razor-edged blade under her nose, licked up the ooze of blood, smacked her lips. “Hhhnnngh!” She spat a crimson stream at the bear’s right eye! Hit it, too. Dead-center.

  Enough was enough.

  Señor bear blinked. Cocked his head.

  Bobbie Sue grinned. Blood dripped off her chin.

  Deciding to call it a draw, her worthy opponent dropped to all fours, and—like a chunk of black chocolate pitched into a boiling, bubbling candy pot—melted away into the night.

  The bloodied victor turned to gaze upon her prize.

  What she saw was Andrew Turner, in the wheelchair—gazing back at her. With bland expression, blind eyes. Bobbie Sue turned, vanished like a shadow into midnight.

  Parris’s heart was knocking against his ribs. “Charlie—that was the damnedest thing I ever did see!”

  “It was some scrap, all right.” Moon holstered his pistol.

  The white man was waving his arms. “At first, I thought the big one was another bear.”

  The Ute cocked his head. “And now you don’t?”

  He glared at the Ute. “Don’t mess with me, Charlie.”

  Moon had put on a puzzled expression.

  Parris pointed toward the field of battle. “Tell me this—did you ever see a bear whip out a hunting knife?”

  “No.” Puzzled was replaced by concerned. “Did you?”

  The chief of police wagged the pointing finger at his deputy. “You know damn well I did.” The finger froze as he tried to organize his jumbled thoughts. “Uh—what I mean is I didn’t. That’s the whole point—bears don’t use knives.”

  Moon smiled at a fond memory: “Few years ago in Kansas City, I saw a little chimpanzee in a sailor suit eat a peeled banana.”

  “So what?”

  “He used knife and fork.”

  “Dammit, I don’t care if he—”

  “After lunch, he rode a blue tricycle and tooted on a brass trumpet.”

  “Charlie—read my lips. I don’t want to hear about some silly ape in KC. You’re changing the subject because you know that big one wasn’t no bear!”

  “Then what was it?” Moon grinned. “The big Doo-Dah you thought you saw in the snowstorm—totin’ a burrito big enough to choke a buffalo?”

  “Make fun of me if you want to.” Parris jutted his chin. “But it was that big Doo-Dah that fought the bear!”

  “Hey—if that’s your story, stick to it.” Moon brushed a dead leaf off his sleeve. “But don’t mention me being here with you.”

  “Charlie, I saw a sure-enough Bigfoot and you’re my best friend and you’ve got to back me up!”

  “Even if you’re hallucinating?”

  “Damn right!” Parris tapped a finger on his best friend’s chest. “Code of the West.”

  “Okay, then. Write it all down in your official report. I’ll say you must’ve gotten a better look at that big bear than I did.” The Ute set his jaw like steel. “And when all those beer-soaked barflies and pool-hall louts start poking fun at you, they’ll have me to answer to.”

  Parris blinked. I’d be laughed out of town. His eyes narrowed. I’ll come back with my deer rifle, hunt it down.

  Charlie Moon knew what his friend was thinking.

  During all the commotion and excitement, the lawmen had forgotten about the prize Mr. Bear and Miss Bigfoot had been fighting over. No matter. They would soon discover that the man in the wheelchair was no longer with them. Only the husk remained. From a purely physiological perspective, Beatrice Spencer’s husband had expired on account of a heart that refused to pump. But Andrew Turner’s life had been whisked away by claws that slash, teeth that bite, that nameless terror that comes by night.

  Fifty-Three

  Aftermath

  Upon returning on the following morning to find out what had happened to her husband, Beatrice Spencer was gratified to find him dead, but the lady was surprised and also dismayed to find the corpse without a mark of tooth or claw. A lady who lays careful plans for a picnic hates to see them go awry. It may have been because she was miffed that she spoke so unkindly to her silent spouse: “It just goes to show, Andrew—what a distasteful man you are. Even with honey on your head, hungry bears pass you by.” The mention of the honey raised a sticky issue: This is going to be such a bother. But there was no other way. Beatrice Spencer hiked back home for the necessities. Upon her second return, she gave the corpse’s head and shoulders a thorough cleaning, paying particular attention to his matted hair.

  Please forgive an aside. By mere chance, she happened to have just the item, purchased at a small import shop in Colorado Springs that specializes in fragrant candles and soaps. Also shampoos of every fruity, flowered scent—from Apricot Nectar to Zinnia Sunrise. Including Strawberry Surprise.

  Six days later, Andrew Turner’s death would be officially listed as stress-induced cardiac arrest.

&nbs
p; The infinitesimal traces of honey on his scalp had gone unnoticed by the medical examiner. But Doc Simpson did catch a whiff of that other scent. Leaned closer. Got a stronger whiff. Eeew! What kind of a man would wash his head with sissy stuff like that. Not one to give the dead any slack, the crotchety old physician scowled at the offending cadaver. If I was to run out of Old Leather or .45 Caliber, I’d let my hair go dirty as a toilet-bowl brush before I used a ladies’ shampoo.

  Fifty-Four

  The Widow

  Surprised at how lonely she was without a man in the house—even a mate with such serious shortcomings as Andrew Turner—Beatrice Spencer was soon hankering for a suitable replacement. It was not necessary for the widow to compile a list of eligible bachelors and consider them one by one. She already had a certain someone in her sights. Yes, that’s right.

  Beatrice spent days on end thinking about her quarry. She was, as she had demonstrated, a calculating woman. As she excused the man’s minor minuses, added up his substantial pluses, she arrived at a nice round sum. Charlie Moon was first-rate husband material. A man a woman could depend on. On top of that, the Ute cowboy could not be described by the cruel epithet that authentic stockmen reserve for a certain class of city-bred hobby ranchers, i.e.: “All Hat, No Cows.” Moon owned the two largest ranches in ten counties, and word had it that both the Columbine and the Big Hat turned a modest profit. And he’s rather good-looking. Her pretty smile glowed. And I do believe Mr. Moon is interested in me. The woman did not know how she knew. But know she did. It might have been how attentive Charlie Moon had been at Andrew’s funeral, the intense look in his dark eyes when he took her hand in his, expressed his sorrow over the recent loss of both her sisters. Odd, though, how he didn’t even mention my husband’s death. It’s almost like he senses that I’m better off without Andrew. One speculation tends to lead to another. Perhaps Charlie Moon and I are kindred souls, linked by Fate’s invisible chain to meet in life after life, again and again. The artist was a definitely a romantic. But as she had demonstrated in dealing with Andrew, Bea also had her let’s-get-down-to-business side.

  The business at hand was this: One way or another, I must finagle an encounter with Mr. Moon. One way was to pick up the modern version of that marvelous nineteenth-century invention, punch in the bachelor’s telephone number. Another was to invite him to dinner. She decided to do both.

  Eyeing the caller ID, Charlie Moon picked up on the third ring. “Good morning, Miss Spencer.”

  Miss Spencer. Beatrice liked that. “And a good morning to you, Mr. Moon.” An embarrassing moment followed. The lady had forgotten what she had intended to say. “Uh…” This was a start. But not a good one.

  Moon to the rescue: “I’m glad you called.”

  “You are?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why?”

  He had no intention of revealing his number one reason. Went straight to reason number two. “Well, I was kinda hoping you might invite me over for a meal.”

  “Consider yourself invited to dinner. Tomorrow evening. Show up at six.”

  “Sorry. No can do.”

  “You can’t?”

  “I’m planning on having supper here at the Columbine. With a very special lady friend of mine.”

  “Oh.” (This was a twenty-below-zero Oh.) “Then you already have a date.” Ouch. Why did I have so say date?

  “I sure hope so.” Moon explained the complication: “It depends on whether or not she says yes to my invitation.”

  “Let me get this straight, Mr. Tact. I’ve just asked you to my home for dinner, and you’ve turned me down flat—just on the off chance that this ‘special lady’—kindly consents to dine at the Columbine?”

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself. So what do you say?”

  “I say you certainly have a lot of nerve—” Full stop. Dead silence, while the lady thinketh. Hmmm. Little brain wheels turneth, grindeth fine the gristy gist of Moon’s remarks. Did he just—“Charlie, did you just invite me to dinner at your place?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” (Forty below) I could strangle him with my bare hands.

  “Dinner’s too fancy for the Columbine. I invited you to supper.”

  With the sunshine smile cometh the heart thaw. “Mr.

  Moon—you are a most exasperating man.”

  “So I’ve been told. Pick you up about six?”

  “It’s a date.” Forehead slap. Date—I went and said it again!

  Fifty-Five

  Agendas (His and Hers)

  The setup was perfect.

  In the parlor, Strauss was spinning on the CD player. Barely audible strains of the “Wine, Women and Song” waltz drifted into the dining room, which would have been dark had it not been for thin flames perched upon a pair of ivory candles, whose soft glow flickered on the white linen tablecloth. The grilled almond-crusted trout served with lightly buttered wild rice and thinly sliced marbled rye toast—was absolutely first-rate. And the peach cobbler with hand-cranked vanilla ice cream (both desserts courtesy of the foreman’s wife)—what can be said. Sufficient praise would exhaust all superlatives.

  During the meal, they chatted about this and that. Charlie Moon’s time with the Southern Ute Police Department. What he’d done—and hoped to do—with his beef-cattle business. Beatrice Spencer shared stories of childhood. Her formidable parents. And her sisters, of course—when they were young and death seemed a million years away. Though unmentioned, the recent calamities in her life hung like a dismal fog over the conversation.

  Though Beatrice had not had a bite since a breakfast of green tea and a blueberry muffin, she barely picked at the delicacies. Since receiving Charlie Moon’s invitation to an evening meal at the Columbine, the recently bereaved widow had quite lost her appetite. For food. But from time to time, she would eye the lean man across the table. Lick her lips.

  Armed with fork, knife, and spoon, Mr. Moon had cleaned his plate. He was thinking about a tasty dessert. No, not the pie and ice cream. He wondered how Sweet Thing was getting along. When’s the last time me and Lila Mae talked? Sometime last month. It’s about time I gave her a call.

  Bea shot the cook another look. He’s gotten quiet all of a sudden. Like there’s something he wants to say, but can’t quite decide just how. She was a very perceptive woman. Up to a point. “It was very thoughtful of you to attend Andrew’s funeral.”

  Her host was about to speak, substituted a shrug.

  She tried again: “It’s very lonely, up on the mountain—all by myself. But of course you would understand.” She took a dainty sip of coffee. “You live alone in this big house.”

  Moon nodded. And for way too long. “I’m glad you could come for supper.”

  His words fluttered the candle flames. Also her heart. She held her breath. Then: “May I call you Charlie?”

  “Only if I can call you Bea.”

  Her laugh was like little bells. Little silver bells. I might as well ask him outright. “Charlie, why did you invite me to dinner?” She corrected herself: “I mean supper.”

  “Why?” He offered her a bowl of mints, was politely declined, chose his words with care. “Why, for the pleasure of your company.”

  “How kind of you to say so.”

  “But that’s not the only reason.”

  She set her cup aside. “Oh, do tell me more!”

  “Well, it’s like this.” Moon looked her straight in the eye. “You’re the kind of woman I like. A real go-getter.”

  Go-getter? “I like you too, Charlie,”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” But before the evening’s over, you’re likely to change your mind. “Bea—there’s a matter we need to talk about.”

  “Involving you and me?”

  “Well, yes.” And my buddy Scott. And your dead husband. “Way I see it, we need to clear the air. Get some things sorted out.”

  Both her eyebrows arched. “Gracious—that sounds rather ominous.”

  It was.
And he intended to ease into it. “I’d like to make you a proposition.”

  Oh, my—and I thought he was shy! She placed both hands in her lap, crossed two sets of fingers. Lied: “I hope your intentions are honorable.”

  A brief smile passed over Moon’s face. “It has to do with Mr. Turner.”

  “Yes. I see.” He’s concerned that I am still in love with Andrew—that my husband’s cherished memory would be a barrier between us. What a lot of rot! She cleared her throat, began: “I want to assure you that any lingering affection for my lately deceased spouse will not be an issue.” Eager to assure the startled man, Bea hurried on: “Though Andrew did have his positive attributes, we were basically incompatible.” Raising a hand to prevent Moon from interrupting, she provided a for-instance: “If I had known how little he cared for art—how brutally he would criticize my best efforts—I would have never consented to the marriage. Believe me, Charlie—”

  “I do believe you, Bea. And I like your pictures.”

  Wide-eyed: “You do?”

  He helped himself to a mint. “During the past couple of weeks, I’ve lost count of how many art galleries I’ve visited. I’ve looked at dozens of your paintings.” Now I could spot one at thirty yards.

  This revelation was almost too much. “You actually sought out examples of my work?”

  “You bet. And I bought some watercolors you did when you were a kid.”

  Each eye was wetted by a single tear. “That is so sweet of you!”

  Moon felt his face blush. “Well—I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Well of course it was!”

  It was time to face the unpleasant task head-on. The lanky man unfolded his angular frame from the chair. “How about I give you a tour of the house.”

  “I can hardly wait.” She dabbed a napkin at immaculate lips. “Where shall we begin?”