The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  Daisy chuckled at the pitukupf’s outraged expression. “Something like three-day-old roadkill?”

  “Oh, no.” The girl shook her head so hard that her long black locks whipped across her face. “Nothing like that!” More like something sour. Spoiled milk? She strained to think of a suitable euphemism. “The scent is . . . well . . . kind of tart.” She smiled reassuringly at the hazy image. “But not at all unpleasant.” Since she was four years old, this was as close as Sarah had come to outright lying.

  The dwarf smirked at the Ute elder.

  “Hah.” This was all Daisy could come up with. Fun was fun, but enough dillydallying around. Sarah had done better than expected; now it was time to work the other side of the potential match. Daisy shook her walking stick at the dwarf. “Okay, come and get the stuff this nice little girl brought out here for you.”

  The nice little girl froze, clasped her hands over her face. She also peeked between her fingers at the stump. Oh, if somebody I can’t see picks up the jam or the pie, I’ll just die!

  Not to worry. Death was not an option. Not today.

  The dwarf evidently had no intention of demonstrating his presence by so bold a demonstration of levitation. In a hoarse whisper, the Ute leprechaun advised the shaman that he would collect the jam, pie, and mirror after she and the half-breed child had departed.

  The old woman sneered at her neighbor. “There won’t be anything on the stump unless you tell me everything you know, and I mean right now.” Daisy shook her formidable walking stick at the dwarf. “And it’d better be good and none of it made up.” She stamped her foot. “And don’t you think for a minute I won’t know the difference.”

  The pitukupf was insulted by this rude display. Even chagrined. For a moment, it seemed as if he might simply turn and walk away. But Daisy wouldn’t budge, so in the end, he gave in. What he had to say concerned one of the few Apaches that the Southern Ute tribal elder counted as a friend.

  As Daisy listened to the little man’s stunning narrative, she considered the dire implications of this report. If what he says about Loyola is true, there’s not much I can do . . . not by myself. A hopeful thought occurred to her: I could tell Charlie Moon about it. This notion came with a counternotion attached: But he’d never believe me. This was a knotty problem that would likely take some time to unravel. And time was a commodity that the busy woman had no surplus of. After me and Sarah get to the Columbine, I’ll telephone Loyola and get her side of the story. The shaman had not dismissed the possibility that the dwarf was either outright lying or, at the very least—painting over the truth with a thick coat of pitukupf varnish. Soon as I know the facts of the matter, I’ll figure out what to do about it.

  With an almost painful intensity, Sarah strained her ears in an attempt to hear the dwarf’s words. The shaman’s apprentice heard nothing. Well, almost nothing. There was that odd, whispering twitter, like a dry breeze rattling dead cottonwood leaves.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE JOURNEY NORTH

  AFTER A FINAL CHECK INSIDE HER HOUSE TO MAKE SURE THE PROPANE water heater was set to Pilot and all the electric lights were turned off and the circuit breaker that powered the well pump was likewise de-energized, Daisy locked the front door and made her way slowly across the yard. The tired old woman steadied herself with her sturdy oak walking stick as she grunted and groaned herself into the passenger side of the pickup.

  About four miles and twenty minutes down the rutted lane, as they intersected Fosset Gulch Road, Sarah made a significant announcement: “I’m going to have a talk with him.”

  The shaman smiled at the woman-child. “The dwarf?”

  Sarah shot her a shocked look. “No, with him.”

  Realizing now what this meant, the old woman did not respond.

  After they crossed over the Piedra bridge and onto the steaming black-top of Route 151, the girl pointed her pickup more or less northwest, and added, “We’ve got to get things straightened out.”

  Still, the aged passenger held her tongue.

  Silence reigned as they passed the entrance to Chimney Rock Archaeological Site, where the Twin War Gods loomed ominously in the sky, gazing toward the Three Stone Sisters, whose lengthening shadows would soon darken the windows of Daisy’s home.

  Not a word was said when Lake Capote appeared on the right side of the highway, or when Sarah turned west on Route 160.

  But not too many minutes later, when they entered Bayfield, the seventeen-year-old’s brow furrowed into a thoughtful frown. Having carefully considered all aspects of the situation, Sarah summed up with this irrefutable assertion: “Either Charlie Moon wants to marry me—or he doesn’t.”

  “He doesn’t,” Daisy Perika snapped. “Now stop yammering so much before you give me a splitting headache!”

  Did this cruel retort hurt Sarah Frank’s feelings? Hard to say. But all the way to the Columbine Ranch, the girl uttered not another word.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ESCALATION

  One Minute after Midnight

  THAT WAS WHEN LOYOLA MONTOYA HEARD IT.

  This was not one of those creepy night sounds that prickles the skin and sets the heart to thumping—such as the sinister creaking of footsteps across squeaky old floors, bloodcurdling gurgles commonly attributed to antique plumbing, or a rude bump-in-the-night something that delights in disturbing the sleep of honest citizens. Not a bit. This was quite unlike any creaking-gurgling-bumping phenomenon that Loyola had ever experienced.

  It sounded like somebody whimpering.

  A more or less sensible soul, Loyola was aware that she sometimes awakened hearing leftover sounds from a lingering dream. The sleepy woman raised her head from the pillow and listened intently. It seems quiet enough now, so I’ll just lay down and close my eyes and— No. There it goes again. But now the sound was not so much a whimpering as a plaintive bleating. Of the kind that will not cease until attended to.

  Like a hungry baby or Nancy the nanny goat. The animal was a sound sleeper, who rarely stirred in the middle of the night unless threatened by a hungry coyote. Or bear. Or mountain lion.

  Damnation—if it ain’t one thing, it’s something worse! Loyola got out of bed and padded into her darkened kitchen, where she heard the pitiful summons for a third time. Maybe the poor thing’s scared of the witches, and wants to come inside.

  The lady of the house picked up a butcher knife with her right hand, used her left one to unlock the back door. She opened it.

  What did she find?

  Not a coyote or a bear or a mountain lion.

  But her dear old nanny goat was, in a manner of speaking, on the back porch. The poor creature, throat slit, was hanging upside down from a two-by-six rafter. Nancy’s blood dripped onto the porch floor. As the Apache elder cut the goat down, tears rolled down her leathery cheeks. She said a few comforting words before putting the animal out of its misery.

  Loyola felt rather than saw several pairs of eyes watching her from their dark concealment. The sly night breeze whispered in her ear: You’d better get out of here . . . find someplace to hide. Triggered by a signal from somewhere deep in her visceral region, the elderly lady’s adrenaline pump turned on to prepare her for flight or fight. The former choice was not an option. Cold fury invariably vanquishes fear—along with any residue of common sense.

  Loyola set her jaw. This time, those witches have gone too far. There’s going to be nine kinds of hell to pay! The outraged old woman addressed her unseen tormenters aloud with a cold, hard calmness. “You’ve done it now, you mean sons of bitches.” She raised the butcher knife over her head like a banner. “This means war!”

  This was no idle threat.

  The furious old warrior entered her house without bothering to lock the door behind her. She stomped across the kitchen floor, marched into her bedroom, and opened the corner closet. Loyola yanked her dead husband’s World War II .45 caliber automatic pistol out of a scruffy old duffel bag. She ejected the magazine, counted s
even fat cartridges, popped the magazine back into the slot, and expertly loaded one into the barrel.

  Loyola returned to her darkened kitchen, the .45 in her hand. By now, the angry, dangerous lady was aching for revenge. Out of nowhere, a question occurred to her: What would Geronimo or General George Patton do in a situation like this? The answer was obvious.

  Attack.

  Despite her shortcomings in making sound judgments, the elderly woman was not such a fool as to make a frontal assault that was bound to end in disaster. She sat down at the kitchen table to rest, and to consider the situation. All of those witches are young and strong, and I’m outnumbered by at least a dozen to one. The widow had a few modest aspirations, chief of which was to live to be 101 years old.

  She realized that successful assaults, particularly those made by the flinty-faced Apache chieftain and the daring World War II general, invariably followed carefully laid-out plans. But most important of all, those military strategists were known for making swift, bold moves that the enemy did not expect. Loyola had one significant advantage over her enemies: They expect me to cower all night here in my house like a frightened old woman who’s scared of her shadow. Her course of action was obvious: I’ll surprise the murderous rascals!

  But how? And to what end?

  Job One was to determine the enemy’s precise location, strength, and intentions. The aged lady, who was missing several teeth, hung a gapped Cheshire grin in the darkness. First off, I’ll go spy on ’em. This daring plan was both gratifying and invigorating. And might lead to unexpected opportunities. Such as—If I can draw a bead on one of those snakes, I might just take a potshot at him before I slip away. A healthy kick of adrenaline reinforced her morale. With a little luck, I might kill two or three of ’em. The mere thought of spilling blood made her heart race. Hah! That’d make ’em think twice before they murder another old woman’s goat!

  Chief-General Montoya pressed the automatic pistol’s cold steel against her thin chest. I’ll show that collection of riffraff who’s boss around here.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  RECONNOITERING THE ENEMY ENCAMPMENT

  LOYOLA PULLED ON A PAIR OF COMFORTABLE LEATHER MOCCASINS AND a navy-blue woolen coat—and packed the .45 automatic into a black canvas shopping bag. A few owl-hoots after 3 A.M., she left her house by the front door, locked it behind her with the key she kept on a string around her neck, and made her way oh-so-quietly along the weed-choked lane toward the paved road. At that junction, the latter-day warrior turned her face south to begin a long, roundabout hike to an old, little-known footbridge across Ignacio Creek.

  Along the way, Mrs. Montoya began to have a few misgivings. Such as: This is probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life. And: Those witches’ll probably string me up to a tree limb and slit my throat, just like they did my poor old nanny goat. But after she had crossed the rotting pine bridge to the opposite bank, there could be no thought of turning back.

  Like her Apache ancestors, she crept silently through the willowy underbrush along the stream bank. The trek was more difficult and the going slower than she had expected. Loyola worried that dawn might break before she reached her destination. After ever so many scratches, stumbles, and rips in her cotton stockings, she stopped abruptly. Squinted. Is that what I think it is?

  It was.

  A flicker of light from a small campfire.

  Loyola dropped to her knees and began to crawl. Now so near her objective, skulking was such great fun! She was reminded of those old black-and-white picture shows where stealthy red Indians delighted in sneaking up on unwary cowboys who slept close to the coals of a campfire. She imagined herself taking a scalp with such delicate skill that the victim wouldn’t know what’d happened until after he’d had breakfast and decided to comb the lice out of his hair. I wish I’d brought a razor-sharp hunting knife, so I could clench it between my teeth.

  As she crawled along, dragging the canvas bag that contained her heavy artillery, the fun gradually diminished. During this ordeal Loyola scuffed her knees, tore her skirt half off, and muttered unladylike curses in her native tongue.

  When she was close enough to hear the poppity-crackle of the campfire and the muffled sounds of voices, the wild-eyed old woman crouched behind a prickly huckleberry bush. After a pause to catch her breath and say a prayer, Loyola raised her white-haired head just enough to take a quick look. What she saw did not appear to be a sinister gathering of Satanists.

  This seemed to be nothing more than a bunch of ordinary folks camping out and having a good time. A tall, skinny fellow was telling off-color jokes. Several were chugging beer from longneck bottles. There was a sizable carcass on a spit over the fire, and one of their number was ladling a thick, fragrant sauce onto the roasting meat.

  Loyola sniffed the mouthwatering aromas. That barbecue sauce smells too good to be store bought. She sniffed again. And the meat smells like roasted pork. But (she thought) you could bet your Social Security check that those goat-murdering bastards didn’t buy their meat like upright citizens. They must’ve killed one of Lonnie Ross’s pigs. Wouldn’t bother them that Lonnie’s wife was sickly and that the young couple had four hungry children to feed and Lonnie hadn’t worked since he got laid off last Christmas. When Loyola heard someone laugh, angry tears welled in her eyes. First they murder my sweet little nanny goat, now they’re picnicking on one of my dirt-poor neighbor’s pigs.

  It was apparent that someone had to do something about this outrage. Loyola knew very well who that someone was, and also what that something was—and she was more-than-ever determined to draw warm blood.

  But not before she’d learned everything she could about this devilish bunch.

  Straining to hear, the aged spy cocked her ear. As she’d hoped, snatches of conversation did reveal something about their malevolent plans. Quite a lot, in fact. She tried very hard to commit every bit of it to memory.

  After Loyola had absorbed as much as she could without becoming completely befuddled, she gave up the tedious intelligence-gathering game.

  The time had come to get down to serious business.

  THE WIDOW’S REVENGE

  Loyola Montoya raised the heavy pistol in both hands, closed her left eye, took careful aim at the back of the nearest and biggest witch, and whispered, “With a little luck, I’ll drill the son of a bitch right through his black heart.” Stiffening her back and setting her teeth in anticipation of the roar of the .45 and its jarring recoil, she hissed through her teeth, “This is for Nancy.” The expectant marksman pulled the trigger.

  Nothing.

  The weapon in her hands might as well have been a useless lump of pot metal. Accustomed to conversing with herself when puzzled, Loyola commenced her whispering. “What went wrong?” She glared at the pistol. “I must’ve left the safety on.” (She had.) But the shootist knew how to remedy that error. And she tried. Ever so hard. But though her thumb searched ever so diligently for the smallish latch, it could not find the contrary thing. Oh, what an old fool I am. Humiliated and deflated, she muttered, “Damn!”

  Whispers and hisses are one thing (or two?); a mutter, quite another.

  Two or three someones had heard Loyola’s heartfelt “Damn!”

  One was the man whose broad back had been her intended target. He shushed his comrades to silence with a subtle gesture, then turned to stare directly at the spot where the Apache elder was concealed behind the huckleberry bush.

  The other members of the coven followed his gaze.

  Thirteen evil stares are a formidable force to be reckoned with.

  Loyola froze. But not entirely. The thumb on her right hand was (unbeknownst to the dangerous lady) still searching for the safety.

  The big man made another barely perceptible gesture. Four other brujos separated from the circle to join him. The five, striding purposefully about two yards apart, approached the old lady’s hiding place.

  The Apache warrior’s determined thumb found what it ha
d been looking for, and her trusty trigger finger reacted—

  Boom-boom-boom! (They are not called automatic pistols without good reason.)

  “Yi-yi-yikes!” (With each thunderous report, the startled shooter yelped.)

  Simultaneously with the booms! and Loyola’s yelps, devil worshipers were falling to prone positions with arms outstretched. No, they were not calling on their Father Below for deliverance. The prudent supplicants were hitting the dirt so as to present the smallest possible targets. Sad to say (one cannot help but side with the sniper), the tactic was effective. Not one of the hated thirteen was struck by the zipping lumps of lead.

  The sole casualties were a gnarly branch on a twisted piñon, a quarter-million-year-old chunk of brownish red sandstone, and a left front tire mounted on one of the unhappy campers’ stolen motor vehicles. We are not talking shabby, off-brand retread. The fatally wounded tire was a brand-spanking-new Goodyear whitewall.

  One hesitates to moralize, but this helpful advice simply aches to be offered: It is unwise to shoot a hole through a man’s automobile tire. Particularly when his religious persuasion encourages him to all manner of violent excesses.

  FLIGHT

  That single word pretty much sums it up. Loyola made a hasty retreat, and, like a flushed partridge—anything but a silent one. The venerable pistol still smoking in her right hand, she splashed across the shallow creek, fairly trotted through the sickly orchard, mounted her back porch two steps at a time, unlocked the door, slipped inside, and latched it behind her.

  An impressive performance for one of her years. Perhaps her last before the final curtain falls?

  The exhausted woman stumbled across the kitchen, tripped over her feet, and tumbled to the floor. She lay as still as a discarded rag doll, staring unseeing at the dark ceiling, gasping for breath. Poor old soul. Morbid thoughts flitted about in her mind like black moths trapped under an iron pot. Well, I guess this is it. Death’s cold hand pressed hard against her chest. I wish I could’ve killed some of those witches while I still had the strength. Alas, she felt her life force fading away. I always figured dying would hurt more than this. Her tired old heart thumped slower and slower, then began skipping beats. Feeling terribly alone, Loyola remembered her grandson. I wonder if Wallace will find my body. And where the half-wit will bury me. Probably in some weedy cemetery next to a landfill. Her hands and feet had gone from prickly-chilly to completely numb. I hope one of my lady friends will tell the mortician to put that nice, black silk dress on my corpse. And my black slippers. Loyola’s vision had narrowed. She was looking down a long, dark tunnel. Well, what in the world is this? She could see a hint of light at the far end. That looks like a candle flame a thousand miles away. But I seem to be getting there pretty quick!