The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  Sidewinder kept his hindquarters where they were.

  Blood in her eye, the tribal elder raised the oak staff a tad higher.

  For a few strained heartbeats, the determined descendants of wolf and Eve stood toe-to-toe. Eyeball-to-eyeball.

  Daisy (ready to strike!) did not blink.

  The hound (prepared to bite!) did not budge.

  This gut-wrenching standoff might have gone on for ever so long, except—

  Thunk!

  This was the sound of Sarah lowering the F-150 tailgate. The girl turned, gaped at Daisy. She’s going to hit him! To prevent such a dastardly deed, the teenager clapped her hands and called to the dog, “C’mon, Sidewinder—let’s go for a ride.”

  The beast raised his nose to make a disdainful sniff at the old woman. Following this cutting insult, the hound turned, departed for the truck in a deliberate gait, and loped into the bed of the F-150. Before the girl had raised and latched the tailgate, Sidewinder had laid himself down again.

  Daisy ground her teeth at the annoying animal and glared at the upstart teenager. There was no need for that. Another few seconds, I would’ve had that dog on a dead run for the pickup—with his tail tucked between his legs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  DAISY’S BIG DAY

  THE PICKUP-TRUCK RIDE SOUTHWARD FROM THE COLUMBINE WAS mighty fine for humans, also for canine and feline creatures. It could hardly have been otherwise: this was one of those delightful summer days when feathery cloud skiffs skim effortlessly over glassy-smooth turquoise seas and sweet heavenly breezes refresh the world-weary soul. Moreover, ecstatic little bluebirds flittered about their joyful business, and carefree butterflies fluttered hither and yon amongst wildflowers so lovely that even the most jaded eyes would have ached at the vision.

  No wonder Sarah Frank was happy. Until—

  Until, when they approached a familiar crossroads, which the youthful driver intended to pass directly through, and her aged passenger barked an order: “Make a left.”

  “But that’s not the way to your—”

  “We’ll go to my house later.” Daisy whacked her walking stick on the dashboard. “Turn here!”

  Sarah did, and after Daisy commenced to yell and wave her arms, she made a hurried U-turn. When the unnerved driver was certain that she had the F-150 headed in the direction Daisy wanted to go, she posed that deep question that philosophers and sages have pondered through the ages: “What are we doing here?” And another, almost as profound: “Where are we going?”

  Her surly passenger did not care to be interrogated by impertinent young whippersnappers. “You’ll find out when we get there.”

  Some twenty-two minutes later, Sarah nosed the pickup into a weed-choked driveway very near the middle of Nowhere, Colorado. “That rickety old house with all the black-and-yellow tape wrapped around it—is that where the elderly woman died in the fire in her kitchen?”

  Having arrived at her intended destination, Daisy was in a jovial mood. “This is where Loyola Montoya lived before she died.”

  Sarah cut the ignition to a heavy silence. “I don’t think we should be here.”

  As Daisy eased her aged frame out of the pickup, the spotted cat slipped past her heels. Once on the ground, she leaned on her oak walking stick and turned to instruct the driver. “Go around back and let that dog out of the truck.”

  Sarah raised the door on the fiberglass camper shell and lowered the tailgate in the expectation that the Columbine hound would come bounding joyfully out, eager to explore this virgin territory.

  It was not to be.

  Sidewinder approached the tailgate, but, apparently having taken a liking to the amenities of the pickup bed (which included straw and a tattered old quilt), he showed no sign that he intended to disembark. Not that he was lacking the normal canine interest in unexplored real estate. The dog raised his nose to sniff the fragrant scent of moist sage, the tempting aromas of a variety of succulent rodent species, and . . . something else. He stared suspiciously at the older of the human beings.

  Shaking her wooden staff at the hesitant creature, Daisy barked, “Get out of there, you lazy old son of a bitch!”

  The object of this insult might have taken offense at being labeled “lazy” by Daisy. Or perhaps something else was on Sidewinder’s mind. For whatever reason, the animal refused to budge.

  Which situation called for direct action. The Ute woman reached for Sidewinder’s black leather collar and gave it a healthy jerk.

  Caught off guard by this unwarranted act of aggression on his person, the four-legged creature had little choice but to disembark.

  But as soon as the hound hit the ground, he attempted to hide himself under the pickup. And no doubt would have if the old woman had not grabbed him again, this time by the tail. At Daisy’s touch, the animal froze. Once again, the shaman smelled through his nose, saw through his eyes—spoke to him through his mind. We ain’t leaving this place till you go and find that dead man—so get to work before I tie a knot in your tail!

  We vertebrates who are not endowed with tails cannot imagine the horror of having such an appendage tied into a knot.

  The dog capitulated.

  Within a few heartbeats, Sidewinder was slowly circling Loyola Montoya’s dreary old barn of a house. After completing two revolutions, the canine satellite zigged and zagged a couple of times before following his nose into the sad little apple orchard where the dry husks of last year’s crop had rotted on the ground.

  Pleased, Daisy hobbled off after the dog. That’s right. Head for the stream.

  Sarah did not like the looks of this. “Where are you going?”

  Daisy called over her shoulder, “You want to find out, come along.”

  The girl followed her cat, who followed the Ute elder, who followed the hound.

  This odd quartet passed through the dismal orchard and down a narrow path that went under a wasp-infested grape arbor to an outdoor privy. The dog veered off the privy path to follow a lesser branch through tick-infested weeds. This latter thoroughfare terminated abruptly at the bank of Ignacio Creek. Sidewinder paused to look back at the Ute elder.

  Daisy pointed her stick at the gurgling water. “Keep going.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the hound loped across the stream to the opposite bank, where he disappeared into a thick cluster of willows.

  The old woman braced herself, then stepped into the rippling waters. Ohhh, that’s cold! She slipped on an unseen stone, almost lost her balance, but just in the nick of time—

  Sarah appeared at Daisy’s side to provide a helping hand.

  With the aid of her walking stick and the girl’s support, the old reprobate made it across the stream (which was knee-deep at the center) and cursed her way up the opposite bank.

  They pressed on to the far side of the willows and found themselves in a large field with a huge cottonwood at its center. The rest of the more or less open space was dotted with piñon, juniper, and land-mined with vicious clusters of prickly-pear cactus. At the edge of this open space, and standing so directly in front of them that it appeared to have been placed on those coordinates for the express purpose of excluding a cranky old Ute woman, a skinny Ute-Papago orphan, a spotted cat, and a long-nosed hound—was a neatly lettered sign.

  Property Line

  Blue Diamond Natural Gas Company

  NO TRESPASSING

  Grateful for this unambiguous instruction, Sarah picked up her tomcat and hugged him to her chest. “We’d better go back to the pickup.”

  Daisy Perika snorted, mumbled a vile curse in the Ute tongue, spat on the sign, and—as an example to the timid girl—walked past it.

  Sarah stayed put.

  Which was okay with Daisy. But the intrepid hiker was displeased when she realized that she was entirely alone. She turned to shout at the dog, “What’re you waiting for, a yellow taxicab?”

  It may be that Sidewinder simply had no burning interest in further exploration, and
it is even possible that the noble creature had scruples about infringing upon the gas company’s private property—but given their remote location, it seems improbable that he was waiting for some form of motorized transport. Whatever his reasons, the dog had reverted to form: he would not budge.

  Further angry shouts, energetic walking-stick shaking, even dire threats involving disembowelment—none of this altered the animal’s view. Her quiver almost empty, Daisy was at a loss about which poison arrow to fire next, when, as it sometimes does, something unexpected occurred.

  The stubborn hound, who had been inspecting a line of black ants marching across the sandy soil, suddenly jerked his neck and focused his brown eyes on something above the earth.

  Expecting to see something of interest, such as a low-flying raven or red-tailed hawk, Daisy looked up.

  As did Sarah

  And the cat.

  But search the sky as they might, there was nothing unusual to be seen.

  Never mind. The dog’s interest was riveted by this unseen nothing.

  And the old shaman had a pretty good notion of what the animal was looking at.

  As if tugged by an invisible leash, Sidewinder was pulled forward, his gaze ever upward. The lanky, four-legged creature passed Daisy, who followed him for about fifty yards—until the dog stopped beneath the towering cottonwood. Looking down, the hound whined, hesitated . . . reached out with his left front paw and began to scratch at the earth.

  Immobile as the trunk of the old tree, Daisy held her breath.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CALLING MR. MOON

  SARAH FRANK HAD NOT ADVANCED FROM HER POSITION BEHIND THE gas company’s Do Not Trespass sign.

  But even from a distance, she was keeping a close eye on Daisy Perika. Sarah had seen the mischievous old woman in action on several previous occasions, and she did not like the looks of things. Daisy’s up to something and she’ll get all of us into trouble. (“Us” included her cat and Charlie Moon’s dog.) But what can I do?

  Call the Man, that’s what.

  The girl put Mr. Zig-Zag down and dialed a number on her cell phone. After seven rings, Charlie Moon’s recorded voice spoke into her ear: “This is the Columbine Ranch. You can leave a message after the tone.” After the machine provided the aforesaid tone, which was more like a chirrupy beep, Sarah spoke softly, so Daisy would not hear. (The sound of a human voice carries a long way in places remote from the incessant drone and hum of our mechanized civilization.) “Charlie, this is Sarah. Me and Daisy are at the place where that old Apache woman was killed. Well, not actually in her house, or even on her property. We waded a little stream and now we’re on some land that belongs to a gas company and they have a No Trespassing sign and Daisy and Sidewinder are way out in a big field and Sidewinder’s digging a hole in the dirt and I thought you ought to know and—”

  “I know all about it.”

  Charlie’s voice is so loud and clear. “You sound like you’re right here.” Like you could reach out and touch me. Thrilled at the thought of his touch, Sarah felt a big hand on her shoulder, shrieked a terrified “eeeeeek!” flung the cell phone into the air, and turned to see Charlie Moon’s laughing face. After a stunned moment of gaping at the solid-looking apparition, she stamped the ground. “You scared me!”

  Picking up her cell phone, he laughed louder.

  Sarah tried ever so hard to frown, but the effort made her face ache. Charlie’s sudden appearance bordered on the magical. “How did you get here?” She stared at his dusty-dry cowboy boots. “Did you cross the creek?”

  “Sure.” Moon managed to swallow the grin as he put the cell phone into her hand. “These new high-tech boots are coated with Teflon—they shed water like freshly oiled goose feathers.” He had walked on a fallen log across the stream.

  This lighthearted exchange was interrupted by Daisy’s yell: “Charlie Moon, get yourself over here and have a look at what me’n this hound have found.” She raised her stick in a gesture to bar the girl’s path. “Sarah, you stay right where you are.”

  Having had quite enough of being ordered around for one day, Sarah pointedly ignored the old woman’s command, and though she had to make two strides to Moon’s one, she stayed beside her man. This turned out to be a mistake. Big one. What the Ute-Papago girl saw when she got to the spot would haunt her dreams until the day she died.

  Ignoring the imprudent girl and pretending not to mind that her sneaky nephew had followed them all the way from the Columbine, Daisy pointed her walking stick at Sidewinder’s shallow excavation.

  Protruding absurdly from the soil were the soles of pair of bare feet. Blackened, stinking bare feet with the toes all curled underneath. Like (Sarah thought) when you have cramps in the middle of the night.

  Moon put his hand on Sarah’s shoulder again. Gently this time.

  She looked up at the love of her life.

  He gazed down at the winsome seventeen-year-old.

  She raised a hand to shade her dark eyes from the midday sun. “You want me to leave.”

  The tribal investigator nodded and pointed. “Wait over there where you were—yonder by the stream. And don’t say a word to anyone about what you’ve seen.”

  She nodded.

  After watching Sarah Frank walk away, Moon squatted and blinked at the blackened feet.

  Daisy’s gravelly voice crackled behind him, “That’ll be Loyola’s grandson Wallace.”

  He turned his head to frown at his aunt. “You sound pretty sure of that.”

  “Sure enough to bet you a twenty-dollar bill.” Daisy vainly attempted to straighten a back that was bent with age. “And you want to know something else?” She interpreted his silence as an affirmative reply. “After them witches strangled Wallace with—”

  “Strangled?”

  “That’s what I said. And don’t be interrupting me! They did it with a hank of barbed wire. And after they choked the life out of him, they roasted him over an open fire.”

  Moon stared at the inscrutable woman.

  “Well, don’t just stare at me like I’ve been eating locoweed stew—say something!”

  “Okay. Why would they do that?”

  “Why would they roast him?”

  Moon nodded.

  “Well that’s a dumb question—for the same reason they soaked his body in barbecue sauce!”

  The tribal investigator frowned. “What in the world makes you think—”

  “Because I smelled it.” Her beady-eyed stare dared him to argue the point.

  Knowing that look too well, Moon shrugged. “Well, if you’re right, your nose is a lot better than mine.”

  “Hah!” If you knew whose nose I smelled that barbecue through, you’d think I was ready for the funny farm. Daisy shook her walking stick at the annoying nephew. “We’re not dealing with your run-of-the-mill witches, Charlie—this is a bunch of damned cannibals!” Daisy had unwittingly uttered the descriptor that Special Agent McTeague had deliberately omitted during her conversations with Parris and Moon. The FBI’s full designation for the criminal group was—the Cannibal Family.

  “Whatever you say.” The tribal investigator got to his feet and looped his long arm around the eccentric relative. “Now here’s the deal. This situation has got to be reported. But I’d rather you and Sarah weren’t around when the cops show up.”

  “And why not?” Daisy banged her walking stick within a half inch of the pointy toe of his boot. “It was me and Sidewinder that found Wallace’s body.”

  “That’s the very reason I don’t want you here.”

  As her nephew proceeded to explain about the inevitable publicity, Daisy Perika listened with a burning intensity. She didn’t mind talking to newspaper reporters or being interviewed on radio or TV. Not a bit. But when her concerned relative explained that it might be extremely dangerous to become known to the “witches” as an upstanding citizen who had discovered critical evidence that could be used against them in a court of law, the tribal el
der began to have second thoughts. These witches didn’t just kill Loyola and her grandson; they murdered Mrs. Jeppson and all of those nurses and sick people over at the hospital. And third thoughts. Doing away with one more old woman wouldn’t be nothing to them—it’d be like stepping on a bug. “All right, then.” Deep martyr’s sigh. “Have it your way. I’ll go back to the ranch with Sarah and act like I’m just a useless old woman who never does nothing that anybody appreciates.”

  Despite the grim situation, Moon managed a wan smile. “I appreciate that. And remind Sarah to keep quiet. I don’t want anyone to know that either of you have even been here.”

  “Whatever you say.” Off she went.

  After his aunt had departed with the girl and her cat and left nothing behind but a lot of quiet, Charlie Moon began to wish he had somebody to talk to. Being alone except for the corpse (an unseemly partner for conversation) and the Columbine hound (who was regarding Moon with an inquisitive look), the choice was easy. “Well, it’s just you and me now, pardner.” Fixing his gaze on the dead man’s feet, the tribal investigator explained to the dog how important it was that this discovery be kept as quiet as possible. The less this bloody-handed band of murderers knew about what the Law was up to, the better. Which raised the issue of how much Law to summon to the crime scene. The answer was obvious: the fewer the better. After pondering his options, the lawman knew what he had to do—though it went against the grain.

  Charlie Moon dialed the programmed number on his cell phone.

  WHEN SHE saw the caller ID, Special Agent McTeague answered immediately. “What’s up, Charlie?”

  “I’d rather not say on an open line.”

  “Bad news?”