The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  But, by and by, it occurred to her that not all her heartburn could be charged to the likes of Lila Mae McTeague, Annie Rose, and Patsy Poynter. Charlie Moon was partly to blame. After a few dozen more clippity-clops of bouncing along in the saddle (which may have been affecting her brain), make that largely to blame. Why can’t Charlie be smart enough to see what’s going on?

  Why, indeed. But this is one of those ageless and imponderable questions that is quite beyond the cognitive powers of us common folk. Such matters shall be left to the domain of brainy philosophers, eminent psychologists, talk-show hosts, and other erudite scholars.

  But Sarah had the bit in her mouth and would not let go.

  The farther she rode toward Sunrise Arroyo, the madder she got. Urging her pony into a faster trot, the girl ground her teeth. Charlie treats all those hussies like they were something special. And he treats me like a kid! She hated that three-letter word. Loathed and detested it. If he ever calls me kid again, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .

  The passionate young lady did not complete the thought, but the fact that she was about to fantasize some unspeakable mayhem is relevant to what happened when she came over the same ridge Charlie Moon had topped, and spotted him standing by a steer’s carcass, staring into the trees. Oh, he makes me so mad! She dug her heels into her mount’s flanks. The pinto broke into a full gallop.

  Like Charlie Moon and his recently departed mount, neither Sarah nor her pony spotted the cougar that was partially concealed in a thickish cluster of youthful aspen shoots. Neither did the fact register in her overheated brain that Moon’s black horse was not among those present and accounted for.

  The full-grown mountain lion did see the angry girl (longish parcel clutched tightly under her left arm) charging like a Mongol warrior on a crazed pony. The sizable cat was moderately unnerved by this novel sight, and, being of a prudent disposition, Ms. Cougar turned tail and melted silently into the shadowy forest.

  The cavalry, it seemed, had arrived in the nick of time.

  Charlie Moon turned to determine who his rescuer might be. He would not have been surprised to see Butch Cassidy, the Wyoming Kyd, his crusty old foreman, or even one of the new hires. When he saw Sarah coming on like John Wayne in True Grit, he imagined her with the reins clenched between her teeth, and laughed out loud. What a girl!

  Sarah might have gotten past the laugh, which she interpreted as follows: So. He thinks I look comical.

  Moon waved a big hello and shouted, “Hi, kid!”

  Oh! Sarah’s eyes narrowed. Her scowl turned into a hateful frown.

  When it looked like the spotted pony was out of control and might run him down, Moon sidestepped, with the intent of grabbing the wild-eyed animal by whatever he could get hold of, or yanking the girl out of the saddle. Whatever opportunity presented itself.

  At the instant before a collision, Sarah reined her pony in. The pinto made a wide circle around the steer carcass before coming to a dead stop.

  She sure seems excited. Moon assumed his characteristic grin, and repeated the unforgivable sin: “Well, kid—I’m sure glad to see you.”

  “Oh you are, are you?” Out of breath, she took time to inhale a helping. “I guess you should be—I brought something for you.”

  Moon eyed the UPS box. “What’s that?”

  “Your damned old banjo, that’s what!”

  The man who had never heard so much as a darn or dang pass between the prim little girl’s lips could hardly believe what he’d heard. “What?”

  She repeated it. Verbatim. And louder this time.

  Well. “I appreciate you bringing it.” He pointed his chin at the parcel. “But that’s a genuine Stelling’s Golden Cross that cost me about three head of prime beef, so please be careful and don’t drop it.”

  Sarah had no intention of dropping anything. She raised the parcel over her head, flung it in his general direction. Yes, flung it. Hard as she could.

  More by luck than skill, Moon made a catch that any receiver in the history of the National Football League would have admired.

  Being busy removing something from a saddlebag, the young lady did not fully appreciate this manly display of athletic prowess. “And here’s your stupid brownies!” She tossed the canvas bag at Moon’s head. The missile went well over its intended target, but the alert receiver managed to snatch her wild pass—without dropping the boxed banjo.

  Sarah whirled her mount and was gone in a cloud of dust.

  Not so very far away, she raised a defiant chin. I guess I showed him! From somewhere in that small fraction of her mind that retained a degree of rationality, a pertinent question was posed: Showed him what? Well, that was a no-brainer. I showed Charlie that I’m not some dumb kid.

  After a few bumpity clippity-clops, her throbbing heart had settled down to about ninety thuds per minute. The rider eased off some on her hard-pressed pony, which settled down to a leisurely trot. Ever so gradually, a measure of sanity returned. As it did, the girl’s face contorted into a painful grimace. I showed him that I’m an idiot.

  Presumably to emphasize his agreement, her mount snorted.

  Sarah Frank’s eyes overflowed with tears.

  BEMUSED AND bewildered, Charlie Moon watched the enigmatic creature ride away. Poor kid. Something must be bothering her. But even if he’d had a knack for understanding what motivated this particular member of the tender gender, there was not a lot he could do about it at the moment. So the full-time rancher, part-time tribal investigator, sometimes banjo picker did what any man who hadn’t finished his breakfast would do.

  He seated himself on a black basalt boulder and helped himself to a chewy brownie. That sure does hit the spot. After enjoying a half dozen more of Patsy Poynter’s delicious pastries, Moon opened the long, narrow box. What he found inside pleased him very much indeed.

  In practically no time at all, the bluegrass musician had tuned the dandy instrument and within a heartbeat or two after that he was picking “Turkey in the Straw,” which sounded worlds better than it ever had on his fair-to-middling banjo. Despite the fact that he was stranded in this remote place with neither horse, rifle, nor sidearm, Moon seemed blissfully unaware of the mortal danger that still lurked in the fringes of the mountain forest.

  No so.

  Despite his ignorance of that sex that remains mysterious to 97 percent of men (the other 3 percent are engaged in self-deception), Moon knew his cougars.

  Little by little, and ever so cautiously, the mountain lion crept closer. She cupped her ears to a sound that had been never heard in this neck of the woods.

  Charlie Moon cocked his head to glance at the glowing feline eyes. “See how you like this.” He served up a lively rendition of “Old Joe Clark” that might indeed have the power to soothe the savage beast.

  Or not.

  The jury was still out.

  Though the outcome remained uncertain, the cougar reclined on a grassy mat under the aspens and listened with a terrible intensity.

  By and by, after drifting into a selection of old standards made famous by such luminaries as Bill Monroe and the Bluegrass Boys, Flat and Scruggs, and the like (for this was evidently what Moon’s singular audience preferred), the musician terminated the impromptu gig and got up from the boulder. As he placed the venerable banjo back into the box, the performer addressed the predator in this manner: “Much as I would like to stay and pick a few more tunes for you, it’s time for me to get on down the road toward home.”

  Apparently dissatisfied with this announcement, the big cat growled.

  The rancher eyed the hungry creature who shared his liking for beef, though Moon preferred his steaks on a plate and not so rare. “Now here’s the deal. I’m going to leave, but I don’t intend to take my eye off you till I’m over the ridge.” He tucked the banjo box under his arm. “I expect you’ll come and help yourself to a supper of prime Hereford, and I won’t begrudge you that. But hear this, big cat—if and when you and me meet again, I’ll have
something with me besides a five-string banjo.” (Think .44 caliber Winchester.) “So from now on, you’d better feed yourself on elk or deer. You kill another purebred steer, I’ll send a half-dozen crack shots with rifles out here to track you down and send you straight to the Happy Hunting Ground.”

  Was he serious? You can bet your boots and saddle.

  Did Moon really believe the mountain lion understood English? Not for a second. But the Ute was convinced that animals have a facility for picking up the gist of a threat.

  Having finished his speech, Moon made his retreat.

  As he had expected, the cougar matched him step for step.

  But this predator who could lick the flesh from his bones stopped at the steer’s carcass, where the sweet scent of raw flesh was fragrant to her nostrils.

  True to his word, Charlie Moon didn’t mind the famished animal enjoying this particular meal. In the cattle rancher’s hardscrabble occupation, an occasional cougar kill was part of the cost of doing business. The key word here is occasional.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE LONG WALK

  THE DISTANCE FROM THE JUNCTION OF DRY CREEK AND SUNSET ARROYO to the ranch headquarters was only nine miles and change, but that’s a serious hike for a man shod in cowboy boots, especially when he’s been humiliated by losing both his horse and rifle, and come face-to-face with a couple of angry female creatures who gave every indication of wanting to bite his head off (actually in one instance, metaphorically in the other). On top of all that, Charlie Moon was obliged to tote his classic banjo, which managed to get heavier with every step.

  But the walk wasn’t all bad. There were pluses.

  Like the last of the brownies, which tasted just as good as the first one.

  Also, since he’d signed his name on the dotted line and taken title to the Columbine, this was one of the few times Charlie Moon had ample time to admire the east-pasture landscape, and he liked what he saw very much and then some. The land’s fine attributes included the reddish tint of the soil, knee-high buffalo grass that carpeted the prairie between boulders of basalt and granite that ranged from the size of basketballs to pickup trucks. Most of these lumpy specimens were streaked with veins of white, yellow, or pink quartz—a few with all three.

  And there was much more to admire.

  Here and there a pink-barked ponderosa or a lonely, cone-shaped spruce provided a perch for a gawking crow that croaked at the rancher, or an irate pygmy owl that scowled down her hooked beak at this impertinent human biped who was trespassing into the exclusive domain of wild things.

  In this delightful environment, Moon also had plenty of time to think. And to wonder about various and sundry issues. He indulged himself in both activities.

  I wonder what Lila Mae’s up to right about now. He smiled as a jackrabbit sprang from behind a boulder to go racing across the prairie, big ears flopping in comical fashion. I bet she’s in the Hoover Building, meeting with a dozen other uptight feds that’re all duded up in suits and vests and shiny shoes. His smile broadened. Special Agent L. M. McTeague will be letting ’em know who’s the boss and telling ’em what’s what.

  Some twenty miles to the west, just over the bluish gray Misery peaks, a storm cloud’s mottled belly growled and grumbled.

  SARAH FRANK heard the thunder shortly before Moon’s eardrums were vibrated by the low rumbling. She was in her bedroom at the headquarters, stuffing a scruffy gray dress into a scuffed suitcase. The seventeen-year-old’s eyes were dry now, her course firmly set in her mind. I’ll leave a note for Aunt Daisy, telling her that I’ve left in my pickup. . . . The pickup Charlie had given her on her sixteenth birthday. A lump materialized in her throat. He’s been so good to me. Truer words were never spoken. And I’ve treated him like dirt! She fought back a fresh deluge of tears. But, after making such a fool of herself, there could be no turning back. I’ll tell Aunt Daisy that I’m going to Tonopah Flats in Utah. Sarah’s plan was to stay with Marilee Attatochee (her real aunt) until she could earn enough money to rent her own room. Maybe I can get a job as a waitress at the Cowboy Restaurant. She sighed. I’d rather work at that nice little newsstand next door, but they probably don’t need anybody, and besides, nobody tips girls who sell newspapers and magazines and paperback books. The prospective waitperson began the hopeful process of estimating how much she’d make working seven days a week, ten or twelve hours a day. In three or four months I’ll be able to afford a nice little apartment. As Sarah finished her packing, the hopeful girl-woman furnished all three of the imaginary rooms with inexpensive but tasteful furnishings from the Tonopah Flats Goodwill store.

  Finally, Sarah snapped the sad little suitcase shut and frowned at the shabby piece of luggage. She considered writing a note to the man she had wronged. No. That would be the easy way out. Also the coward’s solution. I can’t leave before I apologize face-to-face to Charlie Moon.

  Another, seemingly irrelevant thought percolated to the surface: I wonder where Charlie’s horse was when I threw the banjo and brownies at him? Her brow furrowed. Probably tied up in the aspens, where I couldn’t see it.

  THE FOOTSORE object of Sarah’s thoughts was about halfway home when he saw a distant puff of dust. That’s a horse and rider. Moon squinted. No, make that two horses. Only one rider. Well thank you, God. Midnight had enough horse sense to head back to the barn, and some cowboy with more than an ounce of brains between his ears is bringing my mount back to me. He smiled when a variation on this theme occurred to him: It might be Sarah, bringing a pair of horses to run me down with.

  As Moon’s rescuer came closer, he could clearly hear the sound of eight hooves pounding the ground, and he got a better look at the rider—who was definitely not a she. This was a big, broad-shouldered fellow. Could be any one of a dozen hands.

  It was the alcoholic ex-con who called himself Bill Smith.

  Moon was pleased to see that Bushman had provided the new hire with decent clothes, all the way from a weather-beaten but serviceable wide-brimmed hat down to footwear that looked familiar. Those boots belonged to Texas Joe, who got knifed last year at that bar fight over in Pueblo. The Columbine’s superstitious cowboys would go barefoot before they’d wear a dead man’s boots, and Moon figured Smith would probably shed them once he found out.

  The man who claimed to be Wallace Montoya’s buddy reined his mount in and eyed the Ute with a wide grin. “We ain’t actually met face-to-face, Mr. Moon—I’m Bill Smith.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Yes, I s’pose you do.” Smith’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve seen you a couple of times too.”

  “I’m sure glad to see you right now.” Moon took hold of his mount’s reins.

  Smith laughed. “Didn’t know if I’d find you dead from a broke neck or maybe with nothin’ more than a busted leg and some cracked ribs. But here you are, forked-end down just like you never got throwed.”

  “I didn’t get throwed,” Moon grumped. “But thanks for bringing me my mount.” He aimed an accusing stare at the big black.

  As if aware of having committed a serious infraction, the animal looked away.

  Moon mounted the still-skittish horse. “How’d you know where to come looking for me?”

  “That fuzzy-faced old foreman came down to the bunk house right after you rode out and said you’d gone to check on the dead steer, and he told us where it’d got killed.” Bill Smith used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his forehead. “And Mr. Bushman said, ‘When that Indian says he’s goin’ to take care of somethin’ by hisself, it’s best to leave him be till he gets the job done. So all a you boys just keep your distance.” He gazed at the UPS parcel with more than casual interest. “I hope you don’t mind me asking—whatcha got in that box?”

  “A five-string banjo.”

  “Well, that’s nice.” Smith seemed bemused. “You always tote a banjo when you check out dead livestock?”

  Moon nodded. “A serious musician is never without his instrument.”


  “Well I guess it’s a lucky thing you didn’t take up the piano.”

  The banjo picker grinned. “So tell me how you’re getting along on the Columbine.”

  “Oh, all right I guess.” Smith shrugged. “I never did work so hard, though.” His eyes sparkled with merriment. “And the pay ain’t exactly something to brag about.”

  “You do a good job, and maybe in a year or two I’ll see that you get a raise. Say two percent.”

  “That’s mighty generous of you, Mr. Moon.”

  “It’s mighty kind of you to say so. How’re the other new hires doing?”

  “Other new hires?”

  “Sorry. I guess being the last cowboy taken on this month, you wouldn’t know who the others were.”

  “I would if you told me.”

  Moon frowned. “To tell you the truth, I don’t even know their names yet.” With a notable exception. “Well, except for Miss Annie Rose—the young lady who’s been tending to Dolly Bushman.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard about her. Never managed to get a close-up look.” Smith turned his head to grin at the boss. “But the boys who’ve got a gander at that gal say she’s a dandy piece of eye candy.”