“Do you feel like sitting up?”
Moon raised himself on an elbow. Groaned with a painful intensity that made the woman wince.
“Easy, now.” She reached out to steady him. “You might have a broken rib. And your blood pressure may be unstable. Get up very slowly or you might faint.”
“Cowboys don’t faint,” he grumbled. “And if there’s any bones busted, I’d just as soon find out right now.”
She helped Moon get onto one knee, gradually onto his feet.
He leaned on a corner post, gave the woman a peculiar, unfocused look. “Oh…you were right…I feel like I’m gonna topple over—”
Lila Mae McTeague reached out to catch him.
Moon picked her up, danced around the corral.
“What are you doing!”
“I think they call it a hornpipe,” he shouted. “But I never did one with a partner before.”
A half-dozen cowboys showed up from nowhere to gawk at the spectacle. There were several “wa-hoos,” “yi-pees,” and one “way to go, boss!”
“Charlie Moon—put me down!”
He looked like he might not. “Or what?”
She showed him a fist.
Disappointed in her lack of enthusiasm, he eased her down.
Disappointed that he had given up so easily, she attempted an expression of outrage. “You are the most annoying man I have ever met.”
“Thank you.” He found his hat, clamped it on his head. “You are the nicest lady I ever did a hornpipe with.” He held his arms out. “How about it—want to go for another round?”
“I am not accustomed to dancing in manure-caked corrals.” McTeague looked toward a clump of willows, pointed. “Let’s go over there by the pond.”
“Western ranches don’t have ponds. That is a stock tank.”
“Then let’s go over by the stock tank.”
“Behind those bushes, where nobody can see us?”
“Precisely.”
“And what’ll we do over there?”
She picked up the lunch bucket. “We’ll have our lunch.”
Pulled by equine curiosity, Sweet Alice followed them through the break in the fence. While the human beings enjoyed their meal, the horse took turns munching at grass, slurping water from the stock tank.
After the fried chicken and corn on the cob and potatoes and pie had been dealt with, Charlie Moon picked his teeth with a willow twig. “So, how’re things with you, McTeague?”
“Tolerable,” she said.
“In these parts, the word is tol’ able.”
“I am not from ‘these parts,’ thank you.” She wiped her mouth with a snow-white linen napkin. “I wouldn’t have been surprised to get a tin plate of greasy fatback, burned pinto beans, and month-old biscuits that would break a bulldog’s teeth. But the food was simply scrumptious.”
“The grub on the Big Hat is always first-rate.” Moon winked at her. “And Cap brought them fancy napkins just for you.”
She remembered the cook’s missing spectacles and smiled. “Do you really think he has a crush on me?”
“Hey, anything is possible.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Do I have to explain it?”
“You certainly do.”
“Well, ol’ Cap, he’s a regular hairy-chested man just like the rest of us. When a fine-looking woman comes around, he’s bound by the laws of nature to stop and take notice. Even show off a little bit. But that’s as far as it’ll go. You shouldn’t expect any candy or flowers from my five-star hash slinger.”
“He is bashful, then?”
“It’s not so much that. I expect the fact that you’re a FBI pistol-packing momma puts him a little on edge.”
“I see your point. It bears remembering that your ranch is a haven for all sorts of petty felons.”
“There’s nothing petty about these felons. But it is a fact that when you come around, quite a few of my employees get nervous.”
“As no doubt they should. But you may tell Cap that I have not the least intention of searching out evidence of any frightful deeds he has done.”
“I am sure he will appreciate it.”
She shifted gears. “You knew all along, didn’t you?”
“Knew what?”
“That Bureau Forensics would determine that the arm found in Moccasin Lake was not Dr. Blinkoe’s limb.”
“I am still digesting my lunch.” He grimaced. “Couldn’t we talk about something else?”
“Charlie, don’t try to kid me. You knew all along that wasn’t Blinkoe’s arm. The question is: How did you know?”
“Just for the sake of civil conversation, I guess I could humor you—pretend I’m every bit as clever as you think I am.”
“Yes you could. So go right ahead.”
He thought about it. “It might have been because what the lady fisherman snagged on her hook was a left arm. And I’d seen Blinkoe wearing that ring on his right hand.”
She shook her head. “He always wore the ring on his left hand.”
“Ah—then maybe I remembered seeing the ring on a different finger.” He nodded to agree with himself. “Yeah. That must’ve been it.”
“Afraid not,” she said. “The ring was on the same pinkie where Dr. Blinkoe always wore it. The Bureau has several photographs to prove this point.”
“Then it must’ve just been a gut feeling. I never did trust that slicker.” The Ute’s face reflected the pain of a hurtful memory. “First time we met, Blinkoe tried to cheat me at cards.”
McTeague rolled her eyes. “Thank you so much for sharing this meaningful anecdote with me.”
She’s got the dangdest prettiest eyes I ever saw. “You’re entirely welcome, ma’am.”
“But you still have not provided a satisfactory explanation.”
Moon shrugged. “I’ve never admitted I knew it wasn’t Dr. Blinkoe’s arm. Being a fella with a well-developed sense of humor, I’ve merely been humoring you.”
“Charlie, did I ever tell you that you are the most annoying man I have ever met?”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
“I meant every single word of it. And I think you’re being evasive.”
“It’s not likely—I don’t even know the meaning of the word.”
“It is a variation on ‘evasion.’”
“Oh, right. Like the Evasion of the Giant Space-Crickets.”
“Don’t be silly, Charlie. ‘Evasive’ means ‘intentionally ambiguous or vague.’”
“I bet you had to look that up in a dictionary.”
She made another shot at it, aiming for his ego. “I bet you had some devilishly clever reason to believe that dismembered arm belonged to a John Doe. You probably spotted some obscure little clue that I missed entirely.”
“You might be right.”
“But you’re not going to tell me.”
“If I did, it’d only upset you.”
“Okay. Have it your way.” Sooner or later, I’ll find out. “The primary issue is that the severed limb was never attached to Dr. Blinkoe’s torso. Which raises two rather interesting questions.”
He nodded. “Number one—whose severed limb is it? Number two—how did Blinkoe’s ring and watch get on the John Doe’s finger and wrist?”
“So what do you think?”
He winked at her. “I think you liked doing the hornpipe with me.”
She ignored this latest evasion. “I suppose you also know what I found out about Pansy Blinkoe’s family.”
He nodded. “But I don’t want to annoy you, so I’ll pretend like I don’t.”
McTeague smirked. “I don’t believe you.”
“What don’t you believe—that I know or that I don’t?”
“That you don’t. You’re bluffing.”
“Okay, I’m bluffing. So go ahead and tell me what you found out about Mrs. Blinkoe’s parents.” He paused. “And her so-called brother.”
The FBI agent threw her nap
kin at him. “You did know!”
He presented the wide eyes. “Know what?”
“Don’t give me that innocent-as-a-newborn-babe expression. How did you know?”
“That the fellow who calls himself Clayton Crowe is not, never was, and never will be Pansy Crowe-Blinkoe’s brother?”
She waited.
“Maybe it was like knowing that severed arm hadn’t been ripped from Blinkoe’s shoulder—just a highly experienced lawman’s razor-edged intuition.”
McTeague threw her head back. “Bilge water!”
The Ute looked tossed aside his willow toothpick. “Nautical phraseology is wasted on an Indian raised in the arid West.”
“I bet you understand hogwash, tommyrot, applesauce, and…and claptrap!”
Moon did not hide his disappointment. “Those expressions are a bit overused.”
Lila Mae gave him a venomous look. “How about rattlesnake spit!”
What a woman. “Okay, I’ll admit it—I wasn’t completely clueless.”
“Don’t tempt me, Charlie.”
“Right. Well, what it all boiled down to was Clayton’s big brown eyes. Blue-eyed parents like Mr. and Mrs. Crowe are both endowed with a pair of genes for blue irises. They can produce all the blue-eyed babies they are of a mind to. But it is almost impossible for them to have brown-eyed offspring—which suggests a number of more likely possibilities. Like the mother had an unseemly relationship with a man who carried at least one brown gene. Which could mean he was, like the song says—a Brown-eyed Handsome Man.”
“Not all brown-eyed men are handsome.”
“I hope that remark was not intended to hurt my feelings.”
“I wish I could reassure you.”
“You’re a hard-hearted woman, McTeague. But to get back to what we were talking about, I didn’t believe for a moment that Mrs. Crowe had given birth to this brown-eyed Clayton.”
“I’ll say this, Charlie—you are far more perceptive than I would have thought.”
“Thank you. But most of the credit should go to my extremely capable high-school teacher, Miss Atherton. I thought I recalled something about eye colors and inheritance from her biology class, but I had to go see the lady and check it out.”
“I am very impressed.” A hesitation. “I don’t suppose you know who the so-called Clayton Crowe actually is.”
Moon was genuinely sorry and it showed on his face.
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I would if I could. But once again, I owe it all to Miss Atherton. That clever lady got on the Internet, found facsimiles of all four of Pansy Crowe’s high-school yearbooks. The Clayton Crowe in the apartment over the Blinkoe garage was actually Roger Culpepper. Pansy and Culpepper were Queen and King of the Fall Festival. There were three or four pictures of them together. It didn’t take a quantum mechanic to figure out he was her old boyfriend. Mr. Culpepper must’ve hit hard times, looked up his former sweetheart. I guess Pansy couldn’t turn him away from her door, so they cooked up that story that he was her brother. Dr. Blinkoe bought it, and agreed to let him stay in the apartment over the garage.” Moon thought about it. “I think Pansy was just softhearted. I doubt her and the so-called Clayton ever did anything they shouldn’t have.”
Special Agent McTeague stared at this remarkable man. “Do you actually believe that?”
He nodded. “I’m not saying there wasn’t still some romantic attraction between them.”
“But you really believe it was a…a chaste relationship?”
“That’s the way I see it.”
“Charlie, you are a hopeless romantic.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“There is one thing you don’t know.”
“If I don’t, it’s because Miss Atherton didn’t tell me.”
“Six days ago, Roger Culpepper, aka Clayton Crowe, was stopped near Garden City, Kansas.”
Moon raised an eyebrow. “Stopped from doing what?”
“Not from. Stopped for doing what. By a Garden City police officer.”
“Okay. What was what?”
“Driving Pansy Blinkoe’s pickup truck. Through a red light.”
“Where was Pansy at the time?”
“Not with her high-school sweetheart.”
“And how did Culpepper aka Crowe explain having possession of Mrs. Blinkoe’s fine motor vehicle?”
“He lied, of course. Said she had loaned it to him. Along with her credit card, which he’d used an hour earlier to purchase fuel at a truck stop in Dodge City.”
“‘Loaned it to him,’ eh? Culpepper must’ve been rattled. A six-year-old with his hand in the cookie jar would’ve thought up a better story.”
“After he had a few hours to think it over, he came up with another one.”
“I bet it was a dandy.”
“Culpepper claims he returned to his garage apartment late one night, realized his ‘sister’ was gone. This disturbed him, because ‘sis’ generally wasn’t away so late at night. He rode his motorcycle into Granite Creek, intending to cruise around. He claims he spotted her pickup parked at the Lullaby Motel. Key was in the ignition, her spare credit card stashed in the ash tray. Culpepper says he figures Pansy is shacked up with some guy in the motel, so he decides to teach her a lesson. He muscles his motorcycle into the pickup bed, drives away. He intended to leave the truck a few miles out of town, but before he knew it, the sun was up and he was across the border in Kansas.”
“And he never admitted to being anything but Pansy’s brother?”
“He was only interrogated twice.”
“Please don’t tell me they turned him loose.”
“I won’t, because that would be a lie. During the second day of his incarceration in the Finney County lockup, he faked a heart attack and was rushed to the hospital. While in the emergency room, Culpepper apparently experienced a remarkable recovery. Feeling no urgent need for medical care, he apparently left the premises while no one was looking. And has not been seen since.”
“A slippery fellow.”
“Indeed.”
“Tell me, McTeague—did you say that Mr. Culpepper used Pansy Blinkoe’s credit card to purchase gasoline in Dodge before he was picked up near Garden City?”
“That’s right.”
“Then he was heading west on Route 50. Toward the Colorado border.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps he was coming back to visit his ‘little sister.’”
“One cannot entirely rule it out.” Moon edged closer to the pretty lady. “How about we stop talking shop?”
She was agreeable to this proposal, and said so.
After the intense work of the morning, the afternoon was spent in a most pleasant fashion.
But like a breath of honeysuckle perfume or the trill of a mockingbird, such sweetness passes all too quickly.
While the sun was still over the Buckhorns, Lila Mae McTeague said her good-bye, drove away in the government-issue Ford Motor Company product.
47
Giving it Another Shot
After a light supper of broiled beefsteaks, baked potatoes, and great-northern beans—during which Sweet Alice and the hot-tempered FBI agent were the chief topics of conversation—Cap closed the Big Hat kitchen for the day. There were disputes among the cowboy gamblers about whether or not those few seconds when the horse didn’t move counted as honest time in the saddle, but the point was moot because it turned out that during all the excitement, no one had kept the boss’s time. Staying aloofly above the fray, Charlie Moon wrote Jerome Kydmann a check for an extra month’s pay. All in all, it had been an outstanding day. In twos and threes, the cowboys drifted away. Most to the drafty bunkhouse, a few to night duties.
It was generally assumed that the boss would head back to the other side of the Buckhorns. But before he returned to the Columbine, Moon had some unfinished business to attend to. And so he hung around, finding this and that to do, until a silver-dollar moon was rolling high over the prairie�
�and he was alone. He headed for the corral, which had been repaired during the afternoon. Under his breath, he hummed a few bars of “Strawberry Roan.”
She was waiting for him.
He climbed the mended fence, seated himself on the top rail.
Sweet Alice whinnied, brushed off a horsefly with her tail.
Moon pushed back his Stetson, looked the horse right in the eye. He delivered a stern monologue, explaining the hard facts of life on this planet. What the owner of the outfit had to say can be summed up pretty much as follows:
Broncs who cannot be gentled are of no use on a working ranch.
Horses who try to murder their riders can’t be sold even for rodeo stock.
There is a steady demand for horseflesh over at the Pueblo packing plant, where Perky Puppy Pet Food is ground up and put into fifteen-ounce cans.
He paused to let this sink in.
Alice approached, put her nose against his leg.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll give you one more chance.”
In a moment, the cowboy was back in the saddle again. Almost every muscle in Moon’s body was sore from his earlier experience. He waited for the inevitable explosion. Very few things are inevitable. There was no explosion. He gently flicked the reins, nudged S. Alice with his knee. The mare trotted gaily around the corral, yielding to the horseman’s every whim. After a few minutes of this exercise, he opened the gate.
Off they went at a canter.
The Ute was overflowing with joy. Wait till the boys see this!
He rode the horse along the spine of Dinosaur Ridge, south along the skyline fence, back along the lane from the highway. Moon fairly beamed with pride. This horse is gentle enough for a little girl to ride. He realized that she might still get snuffy from time to time, and maybe Sweet Alice liked to show off when she had an audience. But all she had ever needed was a good talking-to. “You’ve been a good ol’ nag tonight,” he said. “You’ve earned your sweet self a long drink of water.” He patted her on the shoulder, rode her up to the stock tank.
Concealed by the night and a grotesque grove of dwarfish oak, the bushwhacker lay on his belly. He squinted through the 9X scope mounted on the silenced Savage 110FP Tactical Rifle. As the horse loped along in an easy gait, the target in the saddle was bouncing up and down four or five inches. But that don’t matter—not at this range. And there was not a hint of a breeze. This time, it would be a dead-easy shot. He centered the crosshairs on the rider’s spine. Now won’t you be surprised when I knock a big hole in your back….
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