The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  Sarah Frank stared at the beamed ceiling. I wonder where he’s off to? Salty tears filled her eyes. If Charlie loved me even a little bit, he’d tell me about his troubles.

  Outside in the chilly night, Moon was trolling the depths of his dismal thoughts. I should’ve realized right away that Loyola was in serious trouble. He fixed his gaze on a thin sliver of silvery moon. Once upon a time, I was a halfway decent cop. His dark face was set like flint. But those days are gone. The tribal investigator’s fingers found the gold shield that was still pinned to his white shirt. I don’t deserve to wear this. He knew what he had to do. I’ll drive down to Ignacio tomorrow and toss this badge on the tribal chairman’s desk. But wait a minute. This is tomorrow. It wouldn’t be long before morning would dawn over the highlands. The chairman wouldn’t be in his office today. . . . But I’ll find Oscar Sweetwater, wherever he is—and turn in my badge.

  He slipped into his Expedition, shut the door with as little noise as possible, and eased the Columbine flagship over the Too Late Creek bridge slowly so that the rattling of redwood planks would not disturb anyone’s slumbers. An ailing Dolly Bushman especially needed her rest, and the foreman’s residence was just on the other side of the bridge.

  The drive south to the reservation would take the Ute through Granite Creek, where most of the population would still be asleep. It would also take him through one of the finest stretches of God’s creation, which was just what he needed. Breakfast would also be good for what ailed him and steaming-hot coffee would sure hit the spot, but a stone-quiet early-morning drive with blue-gray granite mountains soaring heavenward at every direction is a tonic that tends to clear a man’s head of musty cobwebs and other debris. Mile by mile, the troublesome stirrings in Moon’s mind gradually subsided. Halfway to town, he began to feel tolerably better. What I need is some useful work to do. Like getting a line on Loyola’s grandson. If I could track Wallace Montoya down, he might be able to tell us something about those so-called witches.

  By the time Moon passed the Granite Creek city-limits sign, first light was beginning to glow over the mountains and the lean fellow who had skipped supper last night was beginning to feel a dim glimmering of appetite. I’ll stop at Chicky’s Daylight Bakery for coffee and doughnuts. But it has been said, and truly, that men do not live by bread alone; Moon needed nourishment for his soul. Feeling the deep ache of that hunger, the Ute realized that this was the dawn of a Sunday morning. After refreshment at Chicky’s, the lifelong Catholic would attend early-morning Mass at St. Anthony’s, which was about six blocks from the doughnut dispensary.

  CHIEF OF Police Scott Parris was also feeling a deep ache, but this one was of a purely physiological nature. A dull throb in his left arm was troubling his sleep. As if reeled in by the persistent pain, the ardent angler drifted ever so slowly upward from the muck of a deep, murky river. Just above his buoyant spirit, warm sunlight glistened invitingly on a rippled surface. There, the dreamer would be freed from dark fantasies to encounter a new day.

  He almost made it.

  Poor fellow apparently got snagged on something or other. The sinister, irresistible undertow pulled him away toward one of those epochs labeled “Way Back When.”

  The summer of 1877.

  But where? In this instance, a location where justice was dispensed with a lusty vengeance. Granite Creek, Colorado.

  Episode Two

  The Holiday

  It was his dream, and U.S. Marshal Scott Parris was the center of attention again. But even for a man with more than a fair share of ego, being center stage was not particularly gratifying. Local citizens who had never seen a lawman hanged had arrived in a great swarm, like green-flies that had picked up the scent of dead flesh.

  Almost three hundred curious spectators had arrived on foot, half again as many on horseback, and several dozen had shown up in heavy mule-drawn wagons or fine carriages hitched to high-stepping horses.

  The crowd had gathered in front of the courthouse to witness his execution at the Hanging Tree—a hideously deformed old cottonwood. To facilitate the day’s big event, a stout lower branch had been sawed off to a sturdy six-foot projection, which the hangman had notched with a hatchet to receive the rope.

  The fact that he was seated backward on a white, pink-eyed mule, with his hands tied behind his back, made it difficult for the prisoner to retain even a semblance of dignity. But Scott Parris did his level best. The cold-eyed U.S. marshal sneered at the offer of a last cigarette. Ditto for a stiff shot of rye whiskey. If the hanging judge had been within range, Parris would have spat in his eye.

  As the hangman mounted a shaky stepladder to slip a noose around Parris’s neck, a Methodist parson approached with the Good Book in his hand. “Marshal, do you have anything you wish to say before sentence is carried out?”

  Parris glared at the kindly man. “Damn right I do!” he bellowed at those citizens who had gathered to watch the show. “What was it I did?”

  There was no response from the suddenly hushed congregation.

  The hangman, who had another appointment in Leadville, tightened the noose.

  The condemned man had another question, which he dared not utter for fear of what the answer might be: Where’s my buddy—where’s ol’ Charlie Moon?

  Judge “Pug” Bullet nodded at the hangman, who gave the albino mule a good slap on the flank.

  Off went the startled creature, scattering the holiday crowd.

  His body dangling heavily from the hemp rope, Scott Parris gasped. Choked. Was still for a few final heartbeats, then—

  As if attempting a macabre ballet, his muscular torso twisted. Twitched.

  The dancer’s swollen, grape-purple face gaped blindly at his entranced audience.

  One last spine-wrenching twist. A final spasmodic twitch.

  Somewhere in the audience, an appreciative viewer applauded.

  A wasted effort.

  There would be—could be—no encore.

  The performance was over.

  The actor’s corpse hung silent, still . . . turned slowly on the corded hemp.

  Hovering above the thinning congregation of flesh-and-blood gawkers, Marshal Parris’s disembodied self scowled at his hideous corpse. He murmured to no one in particular, “I’m sure glad my sainted mother never lived to see her little Scotty end up as a damned . . .” He choked on the western expression for hanged outlaws, then spat it out—“A damned cottonwood blossom!” The heavy weight of anger and humiliation was almost too much for a spirit to bear.

  MERCIFULLY—OR so it seemed—the undertow of Sleep’s dark stream released Parris’s soul to the embrace of a wet, gray dawn, which in itself was not a bad thing; rain is a great blessing in the arid high country west of the Front Range. The pesky fly fouling this cloudy pie-in-the-sky? Only this: When actual horrors come to call, they must be confronted face-to-face. Waking up is not an option.

  The Granite Creek chief of police rolled onto his back, gasped, hacked a painful series of strangling coughs. Oooohh . . . my throat hurts like hell.

  Rubbing his eyes, he recalled something about a big crowd and a soft-spoken man with a Bible in his hand. Must’ve had a weird dream. Most of the unlikely melodrama had already slipped away, and by the time Scott Parris’s feet were on the floor, the morbid spectators and kindly minister had concealed themselves in some dark closet of his memory.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HIS SOUL’S REFRESHMENT

  COUNTING CHARLIE MOON, THERE WERE TWELVE WORSHIPERS AT THE early-morning mass, which—as it began—was not noticeably different from thousands of others that the lifelong Catholic had attended.

  The priest’s deep voice reverberated off the beamed ceiling and paneled walls: “In the name of the Father—” all present crossed themselves, “and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  The hushed amens might have been the wings of a dozen unseen doves fluttering about in the twilight heights of the sanctuary.

  The celebrant con
tinued, “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”

  Unheard beneath the other voices, Moon responded in a whisper, “And also with you.”

  “As we prepare to celebrate the mystery of Christ’s love, let us acknowledge our failures and ask the Lord for pardon and strength.”

  The congregation joined with the priest: “I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault in my thoughts, and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do. . . .”

  Stung by the painful reminder of what he had failed to do, Charlie Moon was suddenly struck deaf and dumb. The familiar words caught in his throat; the priest’s voice was drowned out by a heavy silence that seemed bent on suffocating his soul. For some time—precisely how long he could not tell—he might have been at the bottom of a deep well. And then he heard—or thought he heard—a distant murmuring.

  Oh, I’m dead now—dead, dead, dead!

  Her voice was instantly recognizable.

  But don’t blame yourself, Charlie Moon.

  The old woman was coming closer. Don’t give it a thought. She appended an addle-brained cackle. Oh, no—it’s not your fault. The Apache crone seemed to be sitting in the pew beside him. There’s no way you could’ve got there in time to help me. A pause for sighing. It happened not long after dark.

  From the corner of his eye, Moon thought he could see a wispy image of the dead woman. He could definitely smell the pungent scent of kerosene, the horrific odor of burned hair and roasted flesh. And then . . . and then—

  The whatever-it-was reached out with an icy hand—touched his face.

  Charlie Moon could not move. Like a sleeper stranded between a nightmare and wakefulness, he was paralyzed.

  He felt her clammy breath, and caught a whiff of garlic as Loyola Montoya whispered in his ear, Alphabet soup. White Shell Woman smears mud on her face. Hammers and nails. Buckets and pails. Puppy dogs’ tails. Sugar and spice and everything nice. When White Shell Woman smears mud on her face. Hammers and nails . . .

  Over and over she repeated the string of nonsense, then added, Remember what I told you . . . Jefferson’s General Store . . . something terrible!

  Moon closed his eyes. Please, God . . . make it stop.

  For too many racing heartbeats, the urgent prayer went unanswered.

  Then—intermittently, as if from a dream—he could hear the voices of the priest and the small congregation. The words drifted in from some faraway place.

  “Glory to God in the highest, and peace to his people on earth . . . we worship you, we give you thanks . . .”

  Over it all, Loyola prattled on: Hammers and nails. Buckets and pails. Puppy dogs’ tails . . .

  Though he could not make a sound, Charlie Moon managed to move his lips. You take away the sin of the world . . . have mercy on me.

  Such a plea cannot be ignored.

  The agonizing spell was broken by the voices from flesh and blood:

  “. . . For you alone are the Holy One

  You alone are the Lord

  You alone are the Most High

  Jesus Christ,

  with the Holy Spirit,

  in the Glory of God the Father.”

  “Amen!” the stricken man said, mildly alarming the small congregation, causing even the decorous priest to arch an eyebrow.

  Moon was too relieved, too happy to be concerned about committing a churchly misdemeanor. Though a fading hint of the telltale scents remained, whatever had been haunting him had fallen silent. The presence was gone.

  Aunt Daisy, who had experienced more ghostly encounters than (as she liked to say) “Bayer has aspirins,” would have insisted that her nephew had been visited by Loyola Montoya’s wandering spirit. Without a doubt, the dead woman wanted to tell Charlie something. When he had the time (and inclination) to mull over this unsettling experience, Charlie Moon would conclude that he had been visited by a guilty conscience.

  The Gospel reading was from the third chapter of Matthew, where St. John the Baptist describes how the Lord—winnowing fork in his hand—will clear his threshing floor to gather the wheat into his barn—and burn the chaff with unquenchable fire.

  Pretty strong stuff.

  The homily was on the same subject.

  Though Charlie Moon tried hard to concentrate on the message, he remained distracted by the memory of the visitation.

  After receiving Holy Communion, he left the century-old brick church and pushed his comfortable black Stetson down to his ears. He was making long strides across the parking lot when a flash of lightning illuminated that jagged row of dark peaks that looms over Granite Creek.

  As he approached his parked car, Charlie Moon remembered the razor-thin crescent that had hung like a scythe over last evening’s sunset. White Shell Woman had already muddied up most of her face. If Loyola had heard the “witches” discussing their intent to commit a “sacrifice,” the planned crime might have been committed last night. Or it could happen tonight. Or for that matter . . . right now.

  At that very instant, as he was reaching for the car door, a long tongue of lightning took a good lick at an old, diseased, precariously leaning elm tree across the street. A withered branch splintered and burst into flames that illuminated the gray morning. Simultaneously, as if an inner flash of light had brightened a dim corner of his mind, the tribal investigator experienced a remarkable epiphany.

  The priest’s homily contained the key that would unlock the mystery of Loyola’s seemingly meaningless phrases. It was all a matter of separating the wheat from the chaff, the true from the false. Easier said than done, of course. Charlie Moon went with intuition.

  And perhaps, just a touch of inspiration.

  I’ll toss out puppy dogs’ tails. Ditto for sugar and spice and everything nice.

  The chaff was discarded. Now, pay close attention to what’s left.

  Loyola had been unambiguous about one critical point: the witches would strike in Granite Creek. Moon barely heard a heavy rumble of thunder. But where in our fair city?

  Again, the absent apparition nattered at him, Hammers and nails.

  The Ute felt rain pelt his face. A carpentry shop? Or maybe a general contractor?

  The haunt seemed to be frustrated: Hammers and nails. Buckets and pails.

  A hardware store? Maybe. But which one? There were four establishments in Granite Creek that dispensed hammers, nails, buckets, and pails.

  The dead woman would not shut up. Alphabet soup . . . Alphabet.

  Alphabet. A-B-Cs. ABC Hardware?

  It fit.

  But Granite Creek was also home to ABC Auto Supply, ABC Dry Cleaners, and ABC Auto Repair. And . . . Alpha-Pet Veterinary Hospital. Puppy dogs’ tails. But that had been discarded as chaff.

  Moon felt his face flush. This is getting downright silly.

  But wait a minute . . . The intended victim was someone who’s name reminded Loyola of President Jefferson. That wasn’t much help. Counting first and last names, there were probably four dozen Jeffersons in the county. On the other hand, Loyola had said, That’s not quite right. Maybe the name she’d heard had only sounded like the president’s surname. But what sounds like Jefferson? The man who’d been awake all night could not think of a single example. Except . . .

  Jeppson.

  Jeppson’s ABC Hardware.

  Moon stared through his automobile window without seeing the other worshipers, several under brightly colored umbrellas, emerging from the church.

  What he did see, writ large:

  Mrs. Montoya was a widow.

  Mrs. Jeppson is a widow.

  Mrs. Montoya lived alone.

  Mrs. Jeppson lives alone.

  Mrs. Montoya was murdered.

  Mrs. Jeppson . . .

  Barely two minutes later, after greatly exceeding the posted speed limit, the Southern Ute tribal investigator arrived at the oldest hardware store
in Granite Creek.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ABC HARDWARE

  LOCATED ON THE CORNER OF SEVENTH STREET AND ROOSEVELT AVEnue, Jeppson’s ABC Hardware was the successor to a general store that once had been the centerpiece of a thriving business district. Alas, the Red Horse Saloon, Floyd’s Barber Shop, the First Miner’s Bank of Granite Creek, the Purina Feed Store, and several more—all had long ago closed their doors. The widow Jeppson lived in a 1940s-era two-story brick home that was situated about two blocks from her hardware store, that struggling enterprise now a faded and somewhat seedy anachronism in a neatly trimmed residential neighborhood. The venerable purveyor of hammers and nails, buckets and pails was surrounded by thirty acres of modern homes and a scattering of three-story apartment complexes that resembled those motels that cluster around interstate exits. As Charlie Moon turned in at ABC Hardware, a light rain salted with sleet began to sift through a vaporous gray mist. Turning on the windshield wipers, he noted that there was only one other vehicle in the parking lot—a twenty-year-old Ford Econoline van with California plates. Its rusted-out, sooty-black body appeared to have been brush painted by an amateur who was in a big hurry. Not much there to elevate the experienced lawman’s eyebrow. Aside from the fact that the van was puffing exhaust.

  Which minor extravagance raised a few questions in Moon’s mind.

  Such as: With the only business on this side of the street closed, why’s somebody in an old clunker burning gasoline? One query so often leads to another. And why, with a hundred spaces to pick from, did he back into a handicapped parking space at the front entrance? Questions posed in the absence of clear answers are such a vexation—and also a challenge to the imagination.

  Moon eyed the driver’s dim form. He could be a lookout for some bad guys who’re already inside. The poker player rolled that long shot over in his mind. It’s a lot more likely that he’s an out-of-towner who’s waiting to meet someone. The Ute checked his dashboard clock. It was almost 9 A.M. He might be a customer who hopes the hardware store will open in a few minutes. The experienced lawman considered other innocent possibilities. Calculated probabilities.