Snake Dreams

by James D. Doss

  Daisy was about to repeat the instruction about hitting the road with the monkey aloud when she recalled a tantalizing tidbit of gossip about the late Hermann Wetzel. “Back when you folks lived in Ignacio, folks said that Hermann wouldn’t keep any of his money in the bank. Word was, your husband put his life savings in a coffee can and buried it someplace in the backyard.”

  The ghost begged to disagree. Chiquita knew for a fact that her husband had kept his liquid assets in a zippered canvas bag, which he’d kept hidden someplace in the garage. Or the workshop. Or maybe the tool shed. Sadly, she had never been able to find it.

  This was not encouraging, but Daisy persisted. “After Hermann moved to Granite Creek, where d’you suppose he kept it then?”

  The confounded monkey, who had been remarkably still for these past few moments, bared a fine set of pointy teeth at the shaman.

  Chiquita gave the leash a cruel yank that almost pulled the creature’s tiny head off.

  The startled primate flailed its skinny arms and legs and, as soon as it got its breath, let out one of those raucous shrieks that scatter flocks of multicolored birds in tropical rain forests and startle sweaty scientists who are busy netting exotic insects.

  Having gotten her pet’s attention, the leash holder ordered the agitated beast to answer Daisy’s questions.

  The creature shook its head and rattled off what sounded (to Daisy) like a string of monkey curses.

  Puzzled by this peculiar interplay between the dead woman and her pet, the Ute woman posed a pertinent question: “How would this little booger know where Hermann hid his—” Daisy had gotten a close look at the animal. Oh my goodness—the ugly face on that monkey is Hermann Wetzel’s!

  After more harsh jerks of the leash applied by his mistress, the Hermann Wetzel look-alike revealed (in monkey gibberish, which Chiquita evidently understood) that the bankroll was in a small bag concealed under the floor of his final earthly home.

  Daisy craved more-specific information: Where under the floor?

  But Hermann W was a spunky little monkey, and no matter how many neck jerks and dire threats Chiquita applied, he would say no more. Moreover, he gave his former mate an enthusiastic bite on her thumb. Which was when Daisy noticed that the leash was fastened to Chiquita’s wrist with an iron band. The unhappy couple were mutual prisoners, fastened together for . . . how long?

  Thankfully, Daisy was not privy to such information.

  As the tribal elder contemplated their terrible entanglement, Chiquita and her monkey-husband vanished. Not in a puff of vaporous smoke or a flash of blinding light, but they were definitely gone.

  The weary old woman fell back onto her pillow, lay there with eyes wide open. Stretched out beyond her were those gray, lonely hours that linger ever so long before touching dawn. But, by and by, when a rising sun bathed her bedspread in liquid gold, Daisy Perika knew what she was going to do. More or less.

  Thirty-Six

  Daisy’s Opportunity

  When the sun was barely over the Buckhorn Range, Daisy Perika and Sarah Frank got out of bed to find themselves alone in the house. No Charlie Moon. This was not remarkable; the busy stockman often departed before daylight to attend to the latest emergency, which might be anything from a busted pump in an irrigation well to a drunken employee in the GCPD jail who expected the boss to go his bail.

  They found a note on the dining-room table:

  I expect to be back a little while after sundown.

  Charlie

  Daisy had little to say during breakfast with Sarah. The sly old woman was too busy thinking. Always a risky occupation, though not so much for the tribal elder as for Western civilization, which seems always to be teetering on the brink of the abyss. In this particular instance there was no telling what the outcome might be.

  After breaking her fast, the cranky old soul stood at one of the parlor’s large west windows, gazing in the direction of Too Late Creek bridge. It was unnaturally quiet. The Ute elder put her nose close to the glass; her gaze darted this way and that. No sign of the usual hireling lurking about. The reference is to the unfortunate employee whom Daisy’s nephew assigned to “keep an eye on the old lady.” Maybe he forgot. Charlie had a lot on his mind lately, what with that silly Yazzi girl making off with Sarah’s pickup and some guns. That one’s just as bad as her mother and I’d bet a shiny silver dollar to a wooden nickel that Nancy’ll end up just like her. Dead and pulling an ugly little monkey around on a leash. Daisy breathed a melancholy sigh. It’d be just like Chiquita Yazzi to bring her wacky daughter along when she comes to pester me. The shaman nodded to agree with herself. Some night, I’ll wake up and there they’ll be—the both of ’em sitting on the foot of my bedstead, yapping their heads off about how all their troubles are my fault and why don’t I go and do this and that to get things straightened out. She ground her teeth. Why can’t dead people just let me alone?

  The old woman felt two pairs of eyes staring at the back of her head. Daisy turned to discover Sarah Frank and the spotted cat gazing at her. The Ute-Papago orphan was clutching Mr. Zig-Zag to her neck. “I wonder when Charlie will be back.” She rubbed her chin on cat fur. “I wish he’d asked us if we wanted to go with him.”

  Daisy snorted at such a silly notion. “Men don’t think about things like that—not a one of them.” She banged her oak staff on the floor. “When they get ready to take off somewhere and have a good time, they just get up and go—and leave the women behind to cook and clean and wash their dirty clothes!” Neither Daisy nor Sarah was expected to do any chore at the Columbine, but never mind. This impromptu lecture on the war between the sexes had nothing to do with facts. Daisy leaned on her staff and pointed a crooked finger at the girl. “And I know what I’m talking about—I’ve had me three husbands and not one of ’em who’d take me to town to get a hamburger or see a picture show unless I threw a fit!”

  The sixteen-year-old’s eyes filled with tears. “Charlie’s not like that.”

  “Oh he’s not, ain’t he?” Daisy jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Then why’s he gone and left you and me behind to mope around this big house?”

  Sarah had no answer to that. A salty tear dripped off her face, onto the cat’s ear, which flicked.

  Daisy muttered under her breath, “One thing you have to say for Nancy, when she decided it was time to go, she didn’t wait around for some man to take her—she stole some guns and a truck and hit the road.” Seen from this perspective, the Yazzi girl’s action seemed pardonable. Almost admirable. Daisy’s wrinkled brow managed to furrow even deeper. Which gives me an idea. An impish smile curled her lips. “Sarah, something just come to me.”

  “What?”

  Daisy told her.

  Sarah could hardly believe her ears. “You want me to steal one of Charlie’s pickups?”

  This girl had too many principles, scruples—bothersome stuff like that. Daisy assumed a doubtful expression. “Did I say ‘steal’?”

  “Yes!”

  “Well, imagine that. I guess it’s because I’m getting old as Moses, but sometimes when I try for one word—out pops another one.” Her hunched little frame shook with a chuckle. “What I meant to say was we could borrow one of Charlie’s trucks and go for a ride into town.”

  Sarah thought it over.

  Daisy patted her on the arm. “We’d be back long before Charlie gets home.”

  The girl shrugged. “I guess that’d be okay.”

  Daisy pointed toward the kitchen. “The spare truck keys are on a pegboard by the back door.”

  Sarah placed her cat on a leather couch, departed to select an ignition key.

  The Ute elder smiled at the pliable child’s skinny backside. She could grow up to be just like me.

  THE TRUCK started right up and they pulled away from the Columbine headquarters without incident. Things seemed to be going their way, which is to say that no startled cowboy assigned to guard duty came running after them yelling, Hey—where do you two thin
k you’re goin’! As they proceeded along the miles of dirt lane toward the paved highway, there was not the slightest indication that the same irate cowboy had cranked up his assigned motor vehicle and was following them.

  But he had. And was.

  After they passed through the ranch gate and Sarah made a left to aim the vehicle toward Granite Creek, the road in front of them was clear of traffic as far as the eye could see. Both driver and passenger believed that they were in for clear sailing.

  What Sarah had in mind was a quick trip into town, then back to the Columbine hours before sundown. Charlie Moon would be none the wiser.

  Escapades of almost any sort are considerable morale boosters for teenagers with the blues, and getting away with something that feels just a little bit dangerous is great fun, so Sarah was feeling pretty good for the first time since that other teenager had heisted her pickup truck. Sad to say, the innocent lass did not realize that she had fallen under a Dark Influence.

  Ever so pleased with herself, Daisy Perika began to flesh out her plot for finding Hermann Wetzel’s money.

  Thirty-Seven

  On the Road Again

  After stopping at a bakery in Salida to purchase a brown paper bag of breakfast, Charlie Moon and Scott Parris were rolling east on Route 50 toward Cañon City.

  Accustomed to doing the driving himself, Moon was enjoying this rare time in the passenger seat. He held a steaming cup of sugary black coffee in his left hand, a warm-from-the-oven thickly glazed apple fritter in the other. The satisfied diner paused between a slurp and a chomp to cast a glance at the driver. “So what’s the latest on Nancy and her boyfriend?”

  “Telephone tap hasn’t picked up anything since their conversation about meeting in some restaurant. Pueblo PD are making all the usual checks, but it’s not likely Nancy’s still in town.” Parris slowed as a lame old dog limped across the road. “There’ve been reports of one or the other of ’em all over Colorado. And there’ve been sightings in Arizona, Wyoming, Kansas, Utah, New Mexico, and Michigan.”

  “Michigan?”

  “Why not?” Parris shrugged. “Those two could be in Alaska by now.”

  Moon emptied the Styrofoam cup.

  A magpie who had been dining on feathered roadkill took flight. It may have been this small incident that reminded the driver of something unpleasant.

  Except for the hum of new tires, a mile passed in silence. Then another.

  Finally, Parris steeled himself and said, “Charlie, I need to talk to you about something that’s, well—personal.”

  “Pardner, if you don’t mind—I’d rather not hear about stuff like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Intimate stuff you should only discuss with your family physician.”

  Parris set the formidable jaw that his girlfriend (an anthropologist) considered “quasi-Neanderthal.” It took some time for the caveman to get up sufficient courage to make the admission. “I’m worried that my mind is going soft.”

  Moon choked on a chunk of pastry.

  Parris gripped the steering wheel. “Last night, I dreamed that I was a chicken farmer in Florida.” For specificity, he added, “Key West.”

  “Sounds like a fine way to while away your declining years.”

  Parris shook his head. “It was extremely weird—I was raising genetically modified Rhode Island Reds.” Reliving the nightmare, Parris shuddered. “Those Reds all had two heads. And four legs.”

  Moon mulled this over. “I don’t know that there’s much of a market for chicken heads in Florida—unless it’d be in the Haitian voodoo trade. But you’d have the drumstick market cornered in no time flat.”

  Parris was not amused. “When I woke up in the middle of that dream, for a few seconds I laid there flat on my back, trying to remember—do chickens have four legs; or only two?”

  “Well don’t leave me in suspense—which was it?”

  “This ain’t funny, Charlie.”

  “Sorry, pard.” Now he’ll come up with some way to get even.

  A mile down the road, the town cop said, “Oh, by the way—have you managed to patch things up with your lady friend?”

  Caught off guard, Moon took this one square on the chin. “Patch what things up?”

  “How would I know?” Parris was feeling much better. “But word is, she’s pretty ticked off at you over something or other.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  The rumormonger nodded. “From what I hear—not long after you left her standing in the Silver Mountain lobby, Special Agent McTeague checked out of the hotel. Headed straight for the airport.”

  Charlie Moon forced a smile. “That’s what Lila Mae did all right. And she had a good reason to leave town that night.” I wish I knew what it was.

  The driver nodded. “Bureau business, I expect.” The cop glanced at his passenger. “Then you two ain’t on the outs—you’re still talking to each other?”

  “I called her last night.” Twice. Got her answering machine both times. He had not left a message.

  This exchange was interrupted by the buzz of Moon’s cell phone. He checked the caller ID. “What’s up, Butch?”

  Little Butch Cassidy’s voice boomed in his ear: “Thought you ought to know, boss—your aunt and the girl left the Columbine a while ago. The kid drove off in one of your pickups.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Headed toward Granite Creek. I’m about a half mile back, so they don’t know they’ve got a tail.” Cassidy was not your typical Columbine employee—the former museum curator had several university degrees and an intellect to match. But he had given up everything to fulfill his childhood ambition, which was to become a sure-enough cowboy. During his several semesters at the Columbine Cowboy School, Butch had cleaned horse stables, ridden a sullen little mare to check and mend fences, cleared brush with the Farmall tractor and Bush Hog, assisted pregnant Herefords during troublesome deliveries, injected frisky calves with antibiotics, and generally surprised his skeptical comrades by passing with a B-plus average. Now he was playing at private eye. What a life.

  “Thanks for the heads-up.” Moon had lost interest in his sugary breakfast. “Keep a close eye on ’em.”

  As the Ute pocketed the telephone, Parris inquired, “Problem?”

  “It’s Butch’s turn to look after Aunt Daisy.”

  “So what’s she up to this time?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Hey, how much trouble could a tired old woman cause?” After letting that hang in the air, the chief of police added with a smirk, “Things get really nasty, the governor could declare martial law.”

  AS THE borrowed Columbine pickup chugged along toward Granite Creek, Daisy Perika had developed a distinctly uneasy sensation that something was wrong. She could not see anything worrisome in the door-mounted mirror—just the big Mayflower van that had followed them for the past few miles. But this seasoned veteran of countless conflicts had developed a habit of acting on her instincts. If Daisy had been trudging along a deer path in Cañón del Espíritu, she would have stepped into a cluster of the willows by the stream and waited to see if another creature was soft-footing it along behind her. Perhaps an old cougar who figured that the elderly Ute was easier pickings than a swift-footed mule deer. She reached over to touch the youthful driver’s elbow. “Turn in at that big truck stop down there on the right.”

  Sarah slowed to make the turn. I bet she needs to go to the bathroom.

  Daisy pointed. “Go around back, where all those big trucks are.”

  As they bumped across the graveled parking lot, Sarah noticed that the fuel gauge was reading a tad below the quarter-tank mark. Which provided the brand-new driver with an opportunity for another first. “I’d better put some gas in the tank.”

  “Not right now.” Daisy pointed at an eighteen-wheeler loaded with irrigation pipe. “Pull up behind that big red truck.”

  Sarah shot a worried look at the tribal elder. Aun
t Daisy had no qualms about relieving herself wherever it was convenient. Oh my—I hope she doesn’t intend to go outside. “Uh—are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine as frog hair—now shut the engine off.”

  Sarah watched the enigmatic woman—purse hanging from the crook of her left arm, oak staff in her right hand—grunt and groan her way out of the pickup. Her worst fears seemed justified when Daisy went to peer around the cab of the huge semi, as if to confirm that no one was likely to invade her privacy. The mortified girl prayed, Oh please, God. Please don’t let her pee right here in the parking lot where somebody might see her. Please please please!

  Teenagers are a sensitive lot.

  Sarah’s apprehension was transformed to relief when Daisy toddled off toward Hoke’s Truck Stop. The grateful youth tagged along, hands clasped under her chin. Thank you thank you thank you!

  The successful roadside business was housed in a one-acre-square, steel-paneled building with a multitude of large windows and double doors on all sides. In addition to twenty-one fuel-pump stations (a dozen out front, nine behind), Hoke’s various departments provided almost everything a tourist might need or desire, including jackalope picture postcards, road maps for all fifty states plus Mexico and Canada, a line of high-quality automotive supplies, sundry over-the-counter medications, a two-chair barbershop where Mrs. Hoke and her brother-in-law wielded old-fashioned shears and electric clippers with frightful enthusiasm, a convenience store stocked with essential groceries and a thirty-foot magazine rack, and, best of all—the old-time café that dished out Hoke’s Famous Oklahoma Barbecue. The mouthwatering chopped-brisket sandwiches attracted gourmands from neighboring states. Not only that, the spacious restrooms were clean and functional.

  As they entered the rear door, Sarah Frank caught a delicious scent from the restaurant kitchen.

  Daisy Perika headed across the convenience store to a fly-specked window that faced the highway. The wary old woman peered through the glass, looking for she knew not what. She observed traffic going this way and that, lots of people pumping gas and wiping at dusty windshields with squares of blue paper, but she saw nothing that looked the least bit suspicious. Well, if there was somebody following us, he ain’t there now. If she had gotten to the window a mere six seconds earlier, Daisy would have seen Butch’s Columbine pickup pass by on the highway, and the sight would have caused her to gnash the aged bicuspids and feel the bile rising in her throat. As it was, she felt a tug on her sleeve, and turned to see Sarah’s hopeful expression.