The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  For a soul who had no great hankering to be husked from her earthly shell just yet, this was an ominous development. And one whose outcome must remain shrouded in mystery. There are strict rules about who can approach that boundary, so we have no choice but to leave the Apache elder’s spirit as it continues swiftly on the one-way journey toward—

  Wait a minute. What is this?

  The whole business is very unseemly, but the supposed corpse is twitching.

  Moreover, the aged heart has thumped. There—it thumps again.

  And look at that—her wrinkled face smiles.

  One can only conclude that the stubborn woman has refused to die.

  Why—because she is determined to live and fight another day?

  No doubt. Evidently, the old warrior still has plenty of fire in her belly.

  But there may be another, more revitalizing reason for her tenacious hold on life. Though her terrifying adventure into the witches’ lair was absolutely exhilarating, Loyola’s appetite for revenge has not yet been sated.

  But with every faint heartbeat, things were returning to normal.

  After lying on the floor for what seemed an eternity, the old woman gradually realized where she was and remembered where she had been. She also recalled bits and pieces of what she had heard in the witches’ encampment. Some of it had to do with Granite Creek, a town miles to the north. Which was not far from where Daisy Perika’s nephew owned a big cattle ranch.

  Loyola was exceedingly fond of Charlie Moon. She could not count how many times when (back when he was a uniformed Ute cop) the amiable man had responded to her calls. Not only had Charlie invariably taken care of the problem—he never made fun of me. And there was another thing: That skinny Ute ain’t afraid of nothing. Recalling the fact that Charlie did not believe in witches, Loyola wondered whether such an apparent shortcoming might not turn out to be an advantage. Surely, she reasoned, the witches would be put on edge—perhaps even seriously off-kilter—if confronted by a gritty nonbeliever. Why, Charlie Moon would spit in their eyes, break their arms and legs, yank their heads off—and, after these preliminaries, get really mean-and-dirty tough.

  That settled the matter.

  I’ll call Charlie.

  But realizing that it was still dark outside, the weary woman decided that she could use an hour or two of serious shut-eye. I’ll phone him after the sun comes up. Flat on her back on the cracked kitchen linoleum, the automatic pistol gripped tightly in her hand, the plucky old soul yawned. And drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE DAWNING OF A NEW DAY

  AS SARAH FRANK HELPED CHARLIE MOON WASH THE BREAKFAST DISHES, she was trying to think of a way to approach and then broach the delicate subject. Her budding female intuition suggested that the first order of business was to maneuver the Object of Her Affections into a pleasant, quiet spot where they could be alone. Preferably under a blue sky, in a field of fragrant wildflowers where butterflies fluttered by and honeybees hummed sweetly and so on and so forth. After considering several suitable locations on the Columbine, she selected that gently rolling high prairie that was bejeweled by an alpine lake. Okay. She inhaled and held her breath. Here goes. This was going to be difficult, but the thing had to be done. Straightening her back, the young lady got right to it. Handing her prospective husband a freshly washed saucer, Sarah said—with only the slightest quaver in her voice, “After that big breakfast, I think it’d be nice to go for a walk.”

  Moon nodded approvingly as he dried the saucer. “It’d do you good.”

  The teenager’s face burned. “What I meant was . . . I thought maybe you’d like to go for a walk too.”

  “Well, that sounds like a fine idea but—” The fellow generally completed everything he started, including sentences. But Moon had heard the urgent warble of the telephone.

  Sarah sighed, rolled her big, brown eyes, and departed for the parlor.

  After drying his hands on the dish towel, Moon picked up the telephone. “Columbine Ranch.”

  A familiar voice crackled in his ear. “Charlie Moon—why, that is your voice. I’d know it anywhere. I expect you remember me; this is Loyola.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Montoya.” He smiled at his memory of the eccentric Apache elder. “I hope you’re doing well—”

  “Well I’m not, and I don’t have time for silly chitchat, so you listen close to what I’ve got to say.”

  “Yes ma’am.” She’s a lot like Aunt Daisy.

  “I’ve got a serious problem. You remember my grandson Wallace?”

  “Yes I do. His father was a friend of—”

  “Don’t mention my son to me, Charlie. He was a no-account who didn’t have a friend in the world except for vermin like himself. And Wallace’s momma was one of that horse-stealing, egg-sucking bunch of Anglos from over by Trinidad and you know well as I do that not a one of those yahoos was worth the powder it’d take to blow ’im to hell. And even with some good Apache blood pulsing through his veins, Wallace didn’t turn out much better. When he should be here looking after me, he’s gone—and you can bet your last greenback dollar that he’s hanging around with a bad crowd.” She paused long enough to get a breath. “A while back, Wallace started hanging around with them damned witches that’ve been plaguing me every night for a week. Or maybe it’s been for a month. Nowadays, I tend to lose track of time. Back when I was young, I didn’t have any need for a calendar or a clock, but ever since my eighty-eighth birthday it’s been all downhill. Wallace is probably shacked up with some slut—”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Montoya, did you say witches?”

  “Charlie, if you keep interrupting me, I’ll lose track of what . . . Now what was I talking about?”

  “Something about a plague of witches.”

  “Oh, right. Witches. And I want ’em off my property right now! So strap that big pistol onto your skinny hip and pin a big, shiny policeman badge onto your shirt and streak your face with war paint and saddle up Old Biscuit and gallop down here right now and—”

  “I’m not an SUPD officer anymore, Loyola.”

  “I know that. But from what I hear, you’re some kinda big-shot tribal investigator. If that ain’t so, just tell me.”

  Charlie Moon was distracted again, this time by a glimpse of someone hovering in the shadowy hallway. One of Aunt Daisy’s few pleasures was eavesdropping. Charlie pretended to be unaware of her presence.

  “Charlie?” Concerned that she had been disconnected, Loyola shouted in Moon’s ear, “Charlie Moon—are you there? If you’ve hung up on me, I’ll just call back.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Good. So tell me—do you big-shot Ute tribal cops wear uniforms?”

  “Sure we do.”

  “What color?”

  “Gray.”

  She snorted. “Sounds to me like a damned Johnny Reb outfit.”

  He managed a wan smile. “Why do you think they call us the Southern Utes?”

  “Ha-ha!” Pause. “What was I talking about before you started yappin’ about uniforms?”

  “You were telling me how you preferred a well-dressed state police officer to a shabby SUPD cop.”

  “Oh, no I wasn’t—and don’t you be smart-mouthing me, Charlie Moon, or I’ll tell your aunt Daisy on you, and she’ll give you a whack on the bean with that big stick she leans on.” Pause. “Oh, now I remember. It was about them nasty witches. You strap that big pistol onto your hip, and pin your shiny policeman badge onto your shirt, and get down here soon as you can and kill every last one of them sons of bitches!”

  “You really think that’s necessary?”

  “Well of course I do! You know what they say: ‘The only good witch is a dead one.’ I want every last one of ’em planted under six feet of dirt!”

  Moon tilted his head to gaze at the beamed ceiling. “I’m not allowed to shoot anybody before you fill out the appropriate form.”

  “Form? What are you babbling about?”
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  “Official Complaint Form number 595, which is for requesting a legal killing. Line One is where you print your full name and Social Security number. On Line Two, the complainee—that’s you—specifies exactly what ordinances and/or tribal laws the alleged malefactors have broken that calls for summary capital punishment.”

  “Well that’s the silliest damn thing I ever heard of.”

  “Maybe so, but rules are rules, Loyola. I can’t go shooting a U.S. citizen dead right on the spot unless they’ve committed a serious offense. Like spitting on the sidewalk without a signed permit or jaywalking in front of a yellow school bus or—”

  “These witches kill innocent animals.”

  “What kind of animals?”

  She shouted in his ear, “They murdered my sweet little nanny goat!”

  Moon sighed. Whenever one of Loyola’s animals died, she refused to accept the misfortune as a natural event. The Apache elder evidently felt compelled to place blame on a tangible something or someone. The culprit might be a suspiciously sinuous coil of smoke curling up from a neighbor’s chimney, an unspecified toxin that she supposed was seeping from the earth to pollute Ignacio Creek, lethal radiation from electric power lines, or, that most convenient scapegoat of all—a witch. “You absolutely sure that somebody killed your goat?”

  “Oh, no—I guess it’s just as likely that poor Nancy tied her hind legs to the back-porch rafter, then slit her own gullet with that straight razor she carries in her hip pocket!”

  Somebody strung up her goat and cut its throat? Moon didn’t know what to make of this, and any response that might have been forming in his mind was interrupted by Loyola, who had just inhaled a fresh breath of air.

  The words fairly spilled from her mouth: “And now they’ve killed and roasted a big pig. Wasn’t my pig, though—poor old Dora died years ago.”

  “Dora?”

  “Sure. You remember my old sow. The witches must’ve stolen their roasting pig from my neighbors. But slaughtering other folks’ livestock is just the start—these witches kill people too.”

  “That’s a pretty serious charge.”

  “Well it’s the truth. Just last night, I heard ’em talk about it with my own ears.” She paused to snicker a gleeful “hee-hee” before continuing. “I snuck out of the house and creeped up to their camp.” Loyola was sorely tempted tell Moon how she’d fired several .45 slugs at the trespassers, but thought it best to skip over a violent detail that might detract from her credibility. It seemed more prudent to emphasize the intelligence-gathering aspect of her adventure. “I listened to what they was jibber-jabbering about. And guess what—that bunch of snakes was planning their next sacrifice!”

  Moon arched an eyebrow. “Sacrifice?”

  “Sure. That’s what witches do.” For a grown man, Charlie Moon sure don’t know much. “From what I was able to pick up, this particular bunch kills somebody about every twenty-nine days, and always right at the time when . . . when . . . what’s-her-name . . . oh, you know who I mean.”

  “Afraid I don’t.”

  “Oh, I remember now. White Bead Girl—that’s who I was trying to think of.” She added, in a snappish tone, “Just to be contrary, you Utes call her White Shell Woman.”

  Moon smiled at the Apache elder’s reference to the moon.

  “These witches sacrifice a human being when White Shell Woman has smeared her whole face with black mud.”

  “The Dark of the Moon?” That must be coming up pretty soon.

  “That’s right. And those devils plan to murder somebody up north, close to where you live.” She hummed a few bars of “Dig a Hole in the Meadow.” “What is the name of that little jerkwater one-horse town?”

  “The only town within forty miles of the Columbine is Granite Creek.”

  “Yeah. That’s the burg all right.”

  He laughed. “I expect it’s grown some since you were here.”

  “Well I won’t dispute that.” The ninety-six-year-old snorted. “They invented TV and went to the moon since I’ve been twenty miles from my farm. But Granite Creek is where the witches’ next sacrifice will happen.”

  Humoring the cantankerous old soul seemed the wisest course of action. “You’d better tell me all about it.”

  Longer pause.

  “Loyola?” Moon pressed the phone hard against his ear. “You okay?”

  “Shhh—don’t disturb me. I’m trying to remember.” Her exasperated sigh seemed to breathe in his ear. “What’s that president’s name? The one I always admired so much.”

  “Well I don’t know, Loyola.” Moon enjoyed a grin. “Us Southern Utes tend to favor Jefferson Davis.”

  “Oh—that’s his name all right, but the other way around.” Charlie heard Loyola stamp her foot. “Oh, you know the one I mean—the president with his face on the nickel.”

  “Mr. Tom Jefferson?”

  “That’s the one. What them witches plan will happen at Jefferson’s General Store—no, wait a minute. That’s not right.” Loyola groaned. “Oh, my mind gets all tangled up and I can’t remember what to call things.” Talking to herself, the aged woman muttered, “Alphabet soup . . . hammers and nails . . . buckets and pails . . . puppy dogs’ tails . . . sugar and spice and everything nice . . .”

  Poor old woman. Maybe I should send a social worker out to see her. Moon heard a tick-tick-tick. Wondered what it was. Sounds like she’s clicking her false teeth.

  Loyola Montoya rarely wore her dentures. She was tapping a yellow, No. 2 lead pencil on her kitchen table. “I got mixed up, Charlie. What was we talking about?”

  The sad man sighed. Closed his eyes. “What the witches are planning to do in Granite Creek.”

  “Oh, right. And it’s a regular coven—I counted about a dozen. And some of them—maybe the whole bunch—are right out of the funny papers, at least they pretend to be.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Sure as crab apples are sour. What I mean is, their names are from the funny papers. But you can put a stop to this nasty business before it commences, Charlie Moon. Oh, look at the time! I can’t talk all day—how soon can you get here?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I could be stone cold dead by then—strung up like poor Nancy, with my throat slit ear to ear!”

  “Tomorrow morning, then.” The tribal investigator smiled at memories of his visits as a uniformed SUPD officer. “But I don’t work for nothing. I’ll be expecting a sugary snack and something cold and nutritious to wash it down with.”

  “You don’t need to remind me.” Loyola Montoya cackled a crackly old-woman laugh. “I never saw a grown man eat as many cookies and drink as much milk as you do, Charlie Moon—and without ever putting on a pound of fat. Just bring your six-shooter and thirteen bullets and—” A sharp intake of breath. “I just heard something rustling around on my back porch.”

  “Probably a raccoon.”

  “Either that, or it’s my stupid grandson who’s finally come home from his drinking and whoring, or it’s one of them damned witches come to spy on me through the window. Sometimes I think they prowl around my house when I’m away. I wish I had better locks and latches on my doors. A blind man with only two fingers on his hand could open the back door with a bent tenpenny nail. These long-distance calls cost an arm and a leg—I can’t talk to you anymore.” This terse announcement was followed by a sharp click. Loyola had hung up. Moon returned the telephone to its cradle.

  From her twilight sanctum in the short hallway between the dining room and the kitchen, Daisy Perika had heard enough to conclude that Charlie Moon was talking to Loyola Montoya. Evidently, the pitukupf’s report was not a fabrication—the strange old Apache woman was in some sort of trouble. Daisy was pleased to know that her nephew was going to look into the matter. She chose this moment for her entrance. “I was wondering if you might like to have a fresh cup of—Oh!” She raised both palms in an expression of embarrassed surprise. “I didn’t know you was talking on th
e telephone.” Daisy headed to the cookstove. “You want me to get you some coffee?”

  “Thank you.” Moon patted her bent back. “I don’t mind if you do.”

  Still smarting from her failed attempt to get Charlie Moon alone, Sarah Frank returned to the kitchen. The young lady also had a cup of coffee. Black and sweetened with Tule Creek honey, which was how Charlie had his.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A RECIPE FOR HEARTBURN

  AFTER HER EARLY-MORNING CONVERSATION WITH CHARLIE MOON, LOYola Montoya had enjoyed several quiet, peaceful hours. Shortly after the sun had slipped away to ready itself for another day, a sprinkling of stars sparkled above her ten acres of brush, weeds, and sickly apple trees. Loyola turned off the kitchen lights and listened by the screen door. I don’t hear anything. In the distance, a dog barked. Which don’t mean they’re not out there.

  After perhaps twenty seconds, which passed like as many minutes, the widow began to entertain the hope that the witches had departed to set up camp elsewhere.

  She pulled on a tattered black sweater, picked up the .45 caliber pistol off the table, made sure the safety was off, and slipped out the back door. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark kitchen and could see reasonably well in the patchy splashes of moonlight.