“Could we please go into the restaurant and get something to eat?”
“We just finished breakfast a while ago.” Daisy lifted her nose, took a sniff. But that barbecue does smell good.
ABOUT A mile beyond Hoke’s, Butch passed the Mayflower van and was puzzled by what he saw in front of him. Aside from miles of empty straight-as-an-arrow two-lane—not a thing. That little Indian girl drives slow as sap running down a cedar stump [this was dandy cowboy talk he had picked up], so I don’t see how she could have got out of sight so fast. Which raised the question: What is going on here? The answer came in a flash. He braked, did a neck-jerking U-turn, and headed for that truck stop where he frequently enjoyed the famous barbecue sandwiches.
By the time Butch had backtracked his way back to Hoke’s and parked his pickup by one of the out-front gas pumps, Daisy and Sarah were seated in a booth, chowing down on today’s lunch special. He spotted them as soon as he was inside the front door, and spied on the pair from behind a postcard carousel until a suspicious clerk inquired whether there was something she could do for him. Butch blushed, mumbled something unintelligible, and retreated to his pickup, where he could keep an eye on Daisy and the girl through the café window. To help while away the time, he filled the gas tank, checked the oil level on the dipstick, and measured the air pressure in the tires, adding or subtracting a couple of pounds per square inch as required. Butch also used up considerable time wiping at the pickup windows. All except the rear window, which was difficult to reach and hard to see through because of a thick layer of Columbine dust. Are any of these details significant? We shall see.
BY THE time Daisy and Sarah were finishing their tasty lunch, they were feeling pretty good. And why not? The food was delicious, they had a comfortable booth with a vase of plastic flowers on the table, and they were blessed with neighboring diners who did not talk loudly, belch, or remove earwax with toothpicks. The nice young couple behind Sarah were holding hands and whispering. The heavyset man seated back-to-back with Daisy was alone. He was also bald as a billiard ball, clean shaven, and wore pink-tinted sunglasses.
Having had enough escapade for one day, Miss Frank was becoming concerned that Charlie Moon might get back to the ranch headquarters early and find out that she had borrowed a pickup. “Maybe we ought to go back to the Columbine now.”
The frugal diner wrapped the remainder of her brisket sandwich in a paper napkin, shook her gray head. “Not yet.”
Sarah slurped the last of her Coke thorough a straw, then: “You still want to go into town?”
“Sure.” Daisy put the half sandwich into her purse, snapped it shut.
“To the supermarket?”
“Nope.” Before the chatterbox could ask, Where, then? Daisy told her.
Sarah stared wide-eyed at her peculiar companion. “Why would we want to go to see Mr. Wetzel’s landlady?”
Daisy did not respond immediately. I still feel like someone’s watching me. After glancing this way and that, she said, “I’d like to take a look inside the house where Hermann Wetzel got shot.”
“What for?”
The aged woman presented a smug expression. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
FROM THE very moment when Sarah Frank had mentioned the Columbine, their conversation had attracted the attention of the lone diner seated back-to-back with Daisy Perika—the heavyset, bald-as-a-billiard-ball, clean-shaven fellow who was wearing pink-tinted sunglasses. Once upon a time and not so long ago (about six hours or so), he’d had a goodly supply of hair on his head, a manly beard on his chin. That’s right. Jake Harper, ever since his return to the rich man’s summer home above Granite Creek, had been hankering for someone else’s cooking, which had tempted him out of hiding for a Hoke’s Famous Barbecue brisket sandwich and a Daddy-Bear Bowl of Hoke’s (infamous) Firehouse Chili, which is reputed to burn holes through Hoke’s Tennessee Forge iron cook-pots, but that’s a crock—or at the very least a slight exaggeration.
Whatever the case may be, a hungry man sometimes does foolish things, and on top of exposing his digestive tract to a helping of gastric dynamite, our daring diner was close enough to Charlie Moon’s volatile aunt to lean back and nibble on her ear, which would have annoyed the old woman quite a lot and then some.
The fugitive was startled by the snatches of conversation he had picked up, which raised such issues as: Who ’n hell are these people? What connection do they have with the Columbine Ranch? Why does the old lady want to get into Hermann’s house? Provocative questions without satisfying answers tend to ruin even the most healthy appetite.
Harper wolfed his food down, paid the bill, and withdrew to the magazine rack, where, peering from behind a copy of Motorcycle Mommas, he eyeballed Daisy and Sarah. The old woman looks like a real weirdo. She probably read about the shooting in the newspaper and wants to go snooping around where somebody got killed. Which was no big problem. Not unless she knows more than she’s letting on. I’d rather wait till after dark, but maybe I’d better get over to Hermann’s house right now and grab his money while the grabbing’s good. But, though he was eager to hit the road, there was something about the elderly woman that made him feel uneasy. I’ll hang around for a minute or two and see what they do.
Daisy, who felt a sudden (and urgent!) demand from her bladder, pushed a few dollars across the table to Sarah. “Go pay for the food.”
The girl stared at the greenbacks. “Can I have some money for gas?”
Kids these days must think a person is made of money. Daisy, who still lived in that era when gasoline cost twenty-seven cents a gallon, slapped a five in Sarah’s hand.
“Uh—that won’t pay for very much—”
“Well that’s all you’re going to get from me.” Daisy hobbled off to the ladies’ facility, shouting over her shoulder, “I’ll meet you out back by the gas pump.”
As it happened, the heavyset, bald, beardless man in the pink shades who lingered at the magazine rack was directly between Daisy and the restroom, and though he had intended to keep an eye on the elderly woman and the girl, Jake Harper’s attention had been distracted by the centerfold, which featured a motorcycle momma from Memphis who was of no mean proportions. Which was why he did not see Daisy coming. He did feel the prod of her oak staff on his shin, and hear her bark, “Hey, Onion Head—get outta my way!”
He did, and in a big hurry.
As she passed, in a voice loud enough for Harper and a dozen other customers to hear, Daisy offered this observation: “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, looking at that trash!”
Enough was enough. His freshly shaved head now as pink as his shades, Jake Harper put the current copy of Motorcycle Mommas back on the rack, turned his back on the belligerent senior citizen, and headed for the parking lot.
As Harper stomped out the front door, he almost collided with Butch Cassidy, who was coming in. Daisy Perika’s appointed guardian had been temporarily distracted for a minute or so by a nice-looking lady in a classic red 1967 Mustang who had engaged him in a conversation about pressing issues such as the high price of gasoline, the nice weather they were having, and whether or not he was married. When he’d happened to glance at the restaurant window, Butch had been startled to see the empty space in the booth where Daisy and Sarah had been only a minute earlier. Or had it been ten minutes? Time passes so quickly during conversations with attractive ladies. Thinking it likely that Daisy and her young companion were already on the road, he had cranked up his pickup. But just on the off chance that they might still be inside Hoke’s cavernous building, he hurried in for a quick look-see. But just in case his quarry attempted a quick getaway, Butch had left his engine running. It was the wrong thing to do. There were signs on every gas pump warning motorists against this dangerous practice.
As Butch strode into the restaurant, Daisy was in the ladies’ room and Sarah was outside, headed for the far end of the rear parking area, where her borrowed Columbine pickup was concealed behin
d the eighteen-wheeler.
Which was why Butch found neither hide nor hair of either female, and headed out the back door.
Sarah eased her truck up to a vacant gas pump, checked out the prices. I wonder what “octane” means. She opted for the least expensive option.
Butch’s progress was impeded by the clutter of every sort of motor vehicle imaginable. In addition to the usual assortment of big, brawny diesel rigs and glistening hundred-thousand-dollar RV motor homes, the lot was beginning to fill with dozens of old, rusty, battered pickups. Remembering what day it was, Butch understood. On Tuesdays, Hoke’s take-out lunch special was a brisket sandwich with two sides of your choice and a fizzy fountain soft drink—all for the amazing low price of $5.98. It took him a little while to spot Sarah putting gas into the other Columbine pickup. When he did, the situation raised a thorny issue: What should a rookie gumshoe do when he found what he’d been looking for? March right up to the kid who was like a daughter to Charlie Moon and say something like, Well, what are you two doing here with a Columbine vehicle? Butch decided to call the boss and ask for instructions.
A FEW miles east of Cañon City, Moon’s cell phone buzzed. “Tell me some good news, Butch.”
“I located your aunt and the kid, boss—they’re at Hoke’s. The girl’s gassing up the pickup.”
“Good work. Keep an eye on ’em.”
“Will do.” And they won’t get out of my sight again.
SCOTT PARRIS grinned at his stern-faced Indian friend. “Daisy and the kid creating havoc in Granite Creek?”
“Not yet. They made a stop at Hoke’s.”
“Today’s when they have the special on that brisket-sandwich lunch.”
Moon nodded. “Daisy must’ve got a yen for some barbecue.” I was worried over nothing.
Thirty-Eight
An Understandable Error
After using the facilities, Daisy Perika emerged and aimed her nose at the exit, where a thoughtful Mormon gentleman from Provo, Utah, tipped his wide-brimmed hat, smiled, and held the door open for her. Isn’t that nice? Not entirely.
The elderly woman, who tended to get confused in places she was not intimately familiar with, had not aimed her nose at the rear door. No. Daisy exited on the highway side of Hoke’s commercial establishment. She might have noticed her mistake if she could have seen the passing traffic, but her view of the road was blocked by a big truck hauling enough baled alfalfa to feed all the Columbine stock for a full day, and that is a lot of hay. The error was compounded when Daisy spotted Butch’s Columbine pickup (they all had the blue-and-white official state flower on both doors), which was where she expected it to be—i.e., parked at one of the gas pumps. The misdirected woman naturally assumed that this was the vehicle that she and Sarah had arrived in.
As Daisy got into the cab with the aid of her trusty walking stick, she wondered where the girl had gone to. Probably off looking for me. Well, I’ll just sit here till she comes back. Had she been the observant type, Daisy might have noticed a few things that were different in this pickup, such as the copy of Kenoyer’s Ancient Cities of the Indus Valley Civilization on the dashboard, Butch’s sunglasses hanging from the sun visor, and the fact that the key in the ignition was mounted on a sterling silver ring from which dangled an eighteenth-dynasty Egyptian glazed steatite scarab.
It was not as if Daisy were sleepwalking. She did notice that the engine was throbbing. Isn’t that just like a teenager, going off leaving the motor running? Precious fuel was being wasted. I’d better shut it off. She could have reached over from the passenger side and twisted the ignition key, but Daisy decided to perform the operation from behind the wheel. Scooting across the bench seat, she got her hands on the steering wheel and was thrilled by a sudden joy of recollection as her feet touched the pedals.
What did she remember? A prior escapade.
About three or four years ago—but it seemed like only last month—Daisy had piloted Louise-Marie LaForte’s 1950s-era Oldsmobile along this same road from the Columbine to Granite Creek, and quite a distance beyond. That had been quite a fine adventure, despite the fact that she had come this close to getting into really serious trouble. If I could, I’d do it all over again. As the sweet memories flooded over her, the tribal elder tapped the accelerator, was delighted to hear the engine pick up rpm’s. She also jigged the steering wheel back and forth, all the while smiling like a happy child. Tiring of accelerator tapping and steering-wheel jiggling, she put her right hand on the gear shift and gazed at the letters and numbers: P R N D 2 1 She tried to remember what these indicators meant. Fragments of what she had learned from driving Louise-Marie’s venerable Oldsmobile began to come back to her. P is for park. D is for drive. R and N remained unfathomable mysteries, and the numbers made no sense at all. But after all, how to park and drive was all a person really needed to know. Making a car go isn’t hard, not unless it has a clutch. Her confidence surged. If I was of a mind to, I bet I could drive this old truck all the way from here to . . . She tried to think of a suitable destination. And did.
No. We must not leap to conclusions.
Daisy had no intention of driving the pickup anywhere. Why should she, when Sarah Frank would do the driving for her? What happened next, as Daisy would tell you herself, was not her fault. It was that “loudmouthed yahoo” who was to blame.
At about this time, the designated scapegoat was approaching the pickup. From behind. Which was why Daisy, lost in her pleasant remembrance of past acts of madcap violence and general mayhem, did not see Charlie Moon’s employee coming.
Which was also why Butch Cassidy saw only the indistinct outline of someone’s head through the dirty rear window of the cab. Who the hell is in my pickup? This was a reasonable question to pose, and he might have marched up to the driver’s door and made a polite inquiry, but this namesake of that famous member of the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang was all hot under the collar and wanted to know right now, which was why, when he was within about a yard of the tailgate, Butch yelled, “Hey, you—what d’you think you’re doing!”
For a man of his modest proportions, he had a loud voice. A more apt nickname for the cowboy might have been Foghorn Cassidy.
Which was why Daisy was severely startled. Startled folks do unpredictable things, like gasp and grasp on tightly to whatever they happen to have in their hand, such as an F-150 gear shift—and in this instance tug on it. As it happened, she only pulled the shift one notch down from P. Ask any guru you happen to run into and that authority will tell you that illumination can come oh so slowly, or it can be an incandescent experience conferred in an instant, which is precisely how long it took our elderly student driver to learn what R meant.
How long did it take for Butch to become aware of his precarious predicament? Less than a heartbeat. As the instrument of his destruction lurched toward him, the cowboy made a grab for the ground and yelled loudly enough to attract the attention of several bystanders.
Realizing her error, Daisy pulled the gearshift all the way down. She did this while putting her foot on the accelerator instead of the brake, which caused the rear wheels to spin and toss an impressive arc of gravel. The pickup lurched away in the forward direction, at which point (we know not why—angry men do inexplicable things) Butch reached up and grabbed hold of the bumper. This was an ill-advised decision.
Daisy had temporarily forgotten the concept of what brakes are for or where to find the right pedal to push, which was the one just to the left of the accelerator. Off she went like a shot, not realizing that the “loudmouthed yahoo” was attached to the pickup by eight fingers and an iron will that boggles the mind and excites considerable admiration.
As she swerved to avoid a large woman carrying away eight of today’s lunch specials, Daisy barely missed clipping the fender of a shiny Mercedes, ditto of a brand-new Toyota pickup. She did demolish the last working telephone booth in the county (empty because the tourist who was talking to his stockbroker had seen the truck coming an
d made a mad dash for safety). The pickup romped its merry way across the prairie, making hash of sage and mesquite alike, and leaped over a shallow ditch and onto the paved road, at which point Daisy—steering along the center line—was a woman with but a single thought: I’m not stoppin’ for nothing.
And she didn’t. Not even the big Mac truck hauling a load of feathery livestock. Daisy was not fazed by the truck’s lights flashing, its horn blaring, the wild-eyed driver cursing up a storm and shaking his fist. A heartbeat before a head-on collision, the professional truck driver went for the ditch, spilling several crates of excited turkeys. Those fowls who were able to escape went dashing helter-skelter over the landscape.
About a mile down the road, very near the spot where Butch had made his U-turn, Daisy let out the breath she had been holding. By the time another half mile had passed, her abdominal organs had stopped churning out pints of bile and acid, and the aged heart had slowed to a mere ninety-eight beats per minute. She consulted the rearview mirror. Nobody’s chasing after me. She inhaled deeply. That didn’t turn out so bad.
Butch? Despite his best intentions, the gutsy fellow was no longer attached to the rear bumper by his digits. Our cowboy hero had been tossed aside when Daisy took out the antique telephone booth. And speaking of Daisy . . .
It occurred to her that Sarah was still at the truck stop. Tough cookies. I ain’t going back there. The Ute-Papago orphan was sixteen years old now and could take care of herself. When Daisy was younger than that she had gotten married to a fellow twice her age, and just four months later she’d ridden a big bay mare to Cortez and back, killed a man, and—No. Don’t ask. Daisy hardly ever talks about that. But when she does, she insists that the Apache rascal had it coming.
Snake Dreams Page 20