The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  “No I’m not. Me and Sarah are at the Big Hat.”

  Scott Paris frowned. “The Big Hat?”

  “What am I talking to—a cop or an echo chamber?”

  “Well, it just surprised me that you two would be all the way over there—”

  “That’s where we are, all right—and we’ve got plenty of company. The Bushmans are here and the Wyoming Kyd and the one they call Butch, and Six-Toes, and the big blacksmith whose name I can’t remember—and all the rest of those half-wit ranch cowboys—the whole kit and caboodle.” A pause while she sucked in a breath. “Everybody’s here but Charlie.”

  That doesn’t make any sense. “Everybody?”

  “Well, except that sweet little nurse who’s been taking care of Dolly. And maybe a few more. I don’t know every last soul that works for my nephew and I don’t reckon I’d want to.”

  “What’re so many of the Columbine crew doing over at the Big Hat?”

  “Having a big party, that’s what.” She barked in his ear, “And after this bunch of cow-pie kickers fills their bellies with food, they’ll get back to playing more of that silly hillbilly music and kicking up their heels way into the night—just like everything was all right.”

  My buddy’s having a party and he didn’t invite me? “Why isn’t Charlie there with you?”

  “Well if I knew that, I’d know what’s going on—wouldn’t I?”

  She gets more peculiar by the year. And meaner. “I expect Charlie’s probably got the Columbine phone disconnected because of all those annoying calls he’s been getting from TV and newspaper people. Have you tried his cell phone?”

  “No. I’ve got the number on a little piece of paper, but I can’t find it in my purse.”

  “Tell you what, Daisy—you relax and have a good time at the party. I’ll get in touch with Charlie and make sure everything’s okeydokey.”

  “You promise?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to . . .” A sharp pain twisted like a corkscrew in his chest.

  “Hey—did you cut me off?”

  “Uh—no, Daisy. But I’ve got another call coming in on my radio. Talk to you later.” If I’m not dead. Parris folded and pocketed his miniature telephone and picked up the microphone. “What is it, Clara?”

  “I’ve got a call for you, sir—FBI.”

  “Patch ’em through.”

  “Just a sec.”

  Parris listened to his dispatcher’s side of the conversation, which consisted mainly of a string of yes sirs and I understands.

  Clara Tavishuts’s voice rattled in the dashboard speaker. “The special agent would rather not conduct a conversation on our radio system. He’ll place a call on your mobile phone. I gave him your number.”

  “Right.” He was hanging the microphone on the hook when his cell phone buzzed. “Hello. Chief of Police Parris here.” He listened to the news. “Is that a fact?” Listened again. “You have, huh?” Frowned. “Got it.” Nodded. “Sure. I’ll let Charlie Moon know.” But not this instant. The tribal investigator would have to wait for a couple of minutes.

  Immediately after disconnecting from the fed, Parris called his dispatcher. Without explaining why, he directed Clara to call in every GCPD officer—no excuses would be accepted. She was also instructed to request assistance from the state police. Every available cop available within fifty miles was to converge on the Columbine.

  Clara reminded the boss that three officers were on vacation, two more were sick, and the state police were already spread thin. “I’ll do what I can, but don’t hold your breath.”

  Parris broke the connection, mumbled an appropriate expletive, which was instantly followed by a second chest pain. Must be indigestion. The frustrated cop fumbled around in several pockets until he found a package of Tums. He popped a pair of antacid tablets into his mouth and crunched them like chalky candy while he dialed the programmed number for Moon’s cell phone.

  The Ute rancher answered immediately. “Hello, pardner.”

  “Hiya, Chuck. Say, I just had a call from the Bureau about that item you gave me. They lifted three decent fingerprints off it.”

  “So tell me who they belong to—Hold on a minute.”

  “What is it?”

  “Electric power just went off.” Pause. “But the diesel generator kicked in.”

  Parris scowled at a few fat pelts of rain that were beginning to splatter on his windshield. “Has your telephone landline crapped out too?”

  “Yeah. A big storm’s rolled in, and we’ve been having some pretty fair gusts of wind.”

  Parris was stabbed by another searing pain, this one accompanied by an icy premonition. “Your phone and electric-power problems may not have anything to do with the storm. The guy from the FBI told me those prints match some they lifted from a crime scene in Arkansas. What the Bureau would like to know is how the prints of a high-profile Family member ended up on something that belongs to the Columbine. And so would I.”

  “We’ll get into that when I have time, pard. But from what the feds told you, it looks like I’ve got a member of the Family here with me.”

  “Listen, Charlie, those wolves don’t hunt alone—they run in packs. And if they’re planning something for tonight, there’s probably at least of four of ’em on the Columbine—a full team.”

  Moon drew in a long breath. “That’s what I figure.”

  “So why didn’t you call me?”

  “I thought about it, but didn’t want to tip my hand. I shut down the ranch today and sent everybody over to the Big Hat.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “For a party.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  “If the bad guys are here, I figured it was best to force their hand—tempt them into making a move they hadn’t planned.” Moon waited a few heartbeats. “And I needed a plausible excuse to get Daisy and Sarah off the ranch. And Dolly Bushman.”

  “And seeing how you manhandled those thugs in the hardware store, you figured you could do it again. All by yourself.”

  “I know the territory, pard. And I’ve got another advantage—those rascals don’t know that I know they’re on the Columbine.” At least I hope they don’t.

  Parris scowled at his invisible friend. “Do you realize the spot you’re in?”

  “Sure. I figure I’ve got Trout cornered here on the Columbine.” And most likely, a team of his top guns.

  “That ain’t funny, Charlie. And just to keep the record straight, the special agent I just talked with didn’t say the prints belonged to Trout—he just said they belonged to a—”

  “I heard you. A ‘high-profile member of the Family.’ ”

  “Hang on, buddy—don’t go and do something stupid. I’ll be there in nothing flat. And I’ve already called in some extra troops.”

  “I appreciate it. But I can deal with this.”

  “The hell you can—you’ll get yourself killed! Now just hole up where they can’t find you till I show up. Oh, and another thing—and this is important. It’s about Dolly Bushman’s nurse. She’s—”

  All Charlie Moon heard after that was a dead-cold, bottom-of-the-well silence. Coincident with Parris’s chopped-off sentence, the rancher had seen a bright flash through his office window. For a second or two, it had lit up the crest of Black Frog Butte, which was where the telephone company’s microwave antennas were located.

  They’ve dynamited the phone tower.

  Despite the fix he was in, Moon could not help admiring the Family’s thorough approach to doing business.

  PARRIS SHOUTED, “Charlie. Are you there?” His big, meaty hand tried to squeeze Moon’s voice out of the mobile phone. “Talk to me Charlie.” Please talk to me.

  It was not to be.

  CHARLIE MOON waited. Anytime now, they’ll take down the diesel backup.

  Before the thought had faded from the rancher’s mind, the bulb in his gooseneck lamp dimmed to yellow, brightened, dimmed again, then—went
black.

  OVER YONDER

  Just across the Buckhorn Range, at the smaller ranch that Foreman Pete Bushman liked to call the Baja Columbine, folks were having a fine old time. Well, most folks. Charlie Moon’s aunt Daisy was not in a mood to enjoy the raucous hand-clapping music and rowdy boot stomping that passed for dancing.

  Nevertheless, it was sure-enough Party Time, and Sarah Frank was feeling mighty fine in her pretty blue dress when the Wyoming Kyd made his way across the crowded Big Hat headquarters parlor. Now, it is an indisputable fact that the Kyd has the biggest, brightest smile in all of Granite Creek County, and don’t you know he was flashing all his pearlies at the shy seventeen-year-old. Sarah felt a surge of pleasure at this unexpected attention; also, a sharp elbow jab her in the ribs. She turned to blink at Daisy Perika’s leathery face.

  The tribal elder, who had appeared as if from nowhere, croaked in Sarah’s ear, “Something’s wrong over at Charlie’s place.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “What?”

  Daisy told her what. “When I call his phone, Charlie don’t answer.” There was much more to it than that, of course, but it wouldn’t help matters to tell the Ute-Papago orphan that she had seen three spirit-ponies trotting along in the thin, dry air above the rocky ridge.

  The Kyd, who had arrived just in time to hear Daisy’s remark, had a ready explanation: “The boss is prob’ly on his way over here.”

  Daisy, who didn’t appreciate Mr. Silly Grin butting in, shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  Prompted by the sound of distant thunder, the handsome young man added, “Or maybe the storm’s knocked the phone service out. Wind prob’ly blew a tree onto the line. Happens all the time.” He turned his smile back on Sarah. “Young lady, you are looking entirely too pretty tonight.”

  “Oh . . .” Her face burned under his appreciative gaze.

  Not one to let up when he figured he was making some progress, the Kyd tipped his snow-white, four-hundred-dollar Stetson. “If Charlie don’t show up by the time the music starts, can I count on the first dance?”

  “Well—I don’t know. . . .”

  Daisy glared at this young matukach upstart. “I think somebody ought to go back to the Columbine and check on Charlie.” The old woman had a strange feeling that Scott Parris would never get there.

  Jerome Kydmann laughed. “Oh, the boss don’t need any checking on. Charlie Moon can take care of himself.” He jerked a thumb at his cowhide vest. “I’m the fella that needs some attention.” He reached out to take Sarah’s hand. “Now how about it. Do I get that first dance—or don’t I?”

  The girl glanced at the cranky old woman, who seemed determined to spoil her fun—then at the good-looking young cowboy. It might teach Charlie Moon a lesson if I danced with Mr. Kydmann. She reflected the Kyd’s smile back at him. Maybe even make him a little bit jealous.

  Well. What was a romantic, impressionable young lady to do?

  Being who and what she was, Sarah made a decision.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ACCOUNTING FOR THE MAJOR PLAYERS

  On the Columbine

  The Deadly Quartet

  THE FOUR NEW EMPLOYEES, WHO HAD HARDLY EXCHANGED A WORD among themselves since being hired on by Pete Bushman, were huddled together in a thick stand of willows. They muttered and murmured about this and that. A passerby (had there been one) would have concluded that they were old friends, perhaps members of a close-knit family. The hypothetical passerby would have been correct on both counts, and most likely dead before he had time to entertain a second thought.

  Three of the hardcases were armed with .44 Magnum revolvers and brand-spanking-new Winchester 94 carbines. The fourth, who had the distinction of being the team leader, also had a .44 Magnum revolver hanging heavily on his hip, but instead of a carbine he carried a propane weed torch whose searing flame could be activated by the press of a button. The instrument had been modified to produce a ten-foot tongue of fire that could lick the skin right off a man.

  The trio of riflemen watched the ranch headquarters for some sign of the long, lanky Indian.

  The flamethrower-toting team leader was waiting for the go-ahead signal from a predator who was a step higher up the food chain than himself.

  DOLLY’S NURSE

  Annie Rose was on the Bushmans’ front porch, making a second call on her satellite telephone. “This is Orphan. Scramble. I repeat: Scramble!” This being the final signal, she stashed the communications device in her purse, where a well-oiled 9-mm automatic pistol would keep it company.

  THE EX-CON

  Alone in the bunk house and enjoying the rumbling of thunder, Bill Smith neither fretted about the gathering storm nor cursed the inky darkness. The cheerful, big-shouldered man got up from his cot to touch a forty-nine-cent cigarette lighter to a six-inch tallow candle. He twisted the wax cylinder into a ketchup bottle and placed the makeshift lamp in a window. Admiring the tiny flame, he threw back his head and crooned, “O-oooh . . . Let my little light shine!”

  THE TRIBAL INVESTIGATOR

  After checking the pistol strapped to his belt, Charlie Moon stepped softly down the darkened stairway and into the cavernous headquarters parlor.

  ON THE ROAD

  Rolling like a cannonball on steroids toward the Columbine, Charlie Moon’s best friend prayed that he would not be too late.

  Someone is bound to ask: “How fast does the chief of police roll in his supercharged black-and-white GCPD unit?”

  Whilst soaring sickeningly over undulating ridges and dipping perilously into shallow hollows, Scott Parris proceeds at 115 miles per hour.

  Faster on level straightaways.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  WE TAKE SO MUCH FOR GRANTED

  SUCH AS LIGHT, WHICH IS SO PRECIOUS—EVEN THE FEEBLE ILLUMINAtion from distant stars, luminescent clock dials, gas pilot lights, and the like. Those faintish glows enable us to maneuver at night without bumping into such hazards as sooty coal scuttles, sappy cedar fence posts, and dozing snapping turtles.

  Smothered under mile-thick clouds, the Columbine might as well have been buried within the twisted innards of a West Virginia coal mine. Aside from an occasional flash of lightning that was almost blinding, the darkness was total.

  As the man who had just penned his last will and testament groped his way toward the kitchen, he had some time to think. Unless I’m wrong—and I’m not—this’ll end up being at least four against one. A sobering thought for a man who did not harbor suicidal tendencies. And not only that . . . I don’t know where these guys are holed up and ready to draw a bead on me. Plus (and this was a big minus)—They’re bound to know that I’m here in the headquarters. The poker player frowned at the long odds. They also know that I’m likely to go out to the machine-shop shed and try to restart the diesel generator. A dicey situation. There must be some way of stacking the deck so I’ve got a fighting chance of being alive when the sun comes up. Charlie Moon felt his way to the coat rack by the kitchen door, where he donned a long, black raincoat and a floppy old cowboy hat, also black. Well, I hope I think of something. He unlocked the kitchen door and backed away to take cover behind the headquarters’ two-foot-thick log walls.

  Creeeeak. Squeeeeak.

  (These were the sounds the hinges produced as Moon used the toe of his black cowboy boot to push the oak door open.)

  Pistol in hand, he waited for slugs to come flying into the kitchen. After a few dozen heartbeats, the Ute slipped silently onto the south porch.

  Somewhere out yonder in the outer darkness, several bad actors waited. Eager to play their supporting roles in the unfolding drama, the hopeful performers watched for their cue—which would be the appearance of the leading man.

  Mr. Moon was already at center stage.

  But it would not be strictly accurate to assert that the quasi-invisible man-in-black had put in an appearance.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  ASOK, GARFIELD, HERMAN, AND MARMADUKE

&n
bsp; THESE WERE THE NICKNAMES OF THE FOUR NEW-HIRE COWBOYS WHO comprised the B Team, the Family’s postgraduate felons.

  When Charlie Moon opened the headquarters kitchen door, locked it behind him, and stepped stealthily across the porch floor without making a board creak, the bloodthirsty foursome could neither hear nor see the man they were so eager to meet.

  When a crooked finger of white-hot lightning reached out to touch an already-dead ponderosa atop Pine Knob, Garfield did catch a shadowy glimpse of something that might have been the stealthy Ute—or some nameless phantom who traveled by night. By the time another flash occurred, the ghostly figure was nowhere to be seen.

  Following the maybe-sighting, the armed hooligans heard someone open the machine-shop door. And close it.

  At a low, piggish grunt from the team leader (Asok), his comrades emerged one by one from a collection of willows clustered on the bank of Too Late Creek. All in a line they marched, like the trained soldiers they were. Garfield followed Asok by the prescribed three paces. Garfield was likewise followed by Herman. Marmaduke tagged along behind.

  The sinister quartet approached the machine-shop shed with keen anticipation.

  Asok was carrying his propane-fueled, push-button-activated weed burner.

  The long, lean Mr. Moon was the designated dandelion.

  After conferring in muffled mutters, Asok extended a leather-gloved hand and turned the doorknob. He opened it a crack and listened intently. The team leader heard only the breeze whispering in the willows, the rattling of cottonwood leaves. The thick gloom inside the cinder-block structure seemed to flow outward, making the dismal night even blacker, bleaker.

  Without hesitating or hurrying, the four thugs stepped inside.