The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  Couldn’t be helped.

  The malefactor had some dirty work to do, so as soon as he got his wind back the game fellow crawled around, searching with his good eye and grubby hands for something that might come in handy. For the longest time, all Asok found were bits of smoldering rubbish. Broken bits of tree branches. A tattered leather vest. Marmaduke’s bloody left hand. Did this macabre discovery discourage our searcher? Not a chance. He tossed the dismembered appendage aside and kept right on mucking about.

  Perseverance is a sterling quality, and one that is often rewarded. Which is why we should not be surprised that Asok eventually found what he was looking for.

  A functional Winchester carbine.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  IT’S ALMOST OVER

  IT WAS NOT AN EASY CHOICE FOR A GIRL TO MAKE, BUT SARAH FRANK did what is widely regarded hereabouts as the Right Thing. After murmuring a shy “maybe later” to the Wyoming Kyd’s request for a dance, Sarah had followed Daisy Perika into the Big Hat kitchen, leaving Mr. Jerome Kydmann in the parlor with a hopeful, boyish smile pasted firmly on his face. Then (when no one was paying them any attention) the Ute-Papago orphan snatched up Mr. Zig-Zag and slipped out the kitchen door with the tribal elder. They met an expectant Sidewinder on the back porch. After installing the Columbine hound in the F-150 bed, the pair boarded the trusty pickup and headed lickety-split toward the big ranch on the west side of the Buckhorns, where, Daisy was convinced, her nephew was in some kind of serious trouble.

  Twenty-nine minutes later, they were bouncing along the twisty-turny miles-long dirt lane that connects the ranch headquarters to the paved highway. The girl stretched her neck to look over the steering wheel. “What’s that in the ditch?”

  This was a purely rhetorical question. What that was, was perfectly obvious.

  Daisy did not appreciate wasteful nuances of speech, or those who resorted to such pointless affectations. “It’s a cop car.” Recalling her recent telephone conversation with a particular cop, she added, “Looks like the one Scott Parris drives.”

  Sarah braked to a skidding stop and got out to shine a flashlight into the black-and-white’s open door. She hurried back to her pickup. “There’s nobody in it.”

  “You mark my words—those witches are behind whatever’s going on here tonight.” The shaman wagged a finger at the her wide-eyed apprentice. “They’ve run Scott off the road, then carried his body off.” Most likely, to soak it in barbecue sauce and roast it over a fire. The morbid old woman shuddered.

  Cringing at the thought of witches with enough gumption to attack the tough-as-boot-leather chief of police, the girl closed the pickup door, locked it, and got the truck moving again.

  The tribal elder shook her old gray head. “I told you something was wrong here.” We’d better not go barging in like a couple of idiots. This business needed some serious thinking over. “Switch your headlights off and drive slow.”

  Sarah did as ordered.

  As they approached the foreman’s residence, Daisy felt a sudden prickling on the back of her neck, a thumping in her temple that drummed, Danger Ahead. “Pull over and stop.”

  The obedient seventeen-year-old parked her truck at the foreman’s house.

  Daisy looked up to see a lone raven gliding under the stars. Beyond all probability, the aged shaman believed this night visitor to be her special friend from Cañón del Espíritu. The winged creature circled a scraggly elm in the Bushmans’ yard before settling lightly on a twisted branch. The shiny black bird cocked its head, eyeballed the elder—and croaked twice as if to say . . . They’re waiting.

  They were. Just on the other side of the Too Late Creek bridge.

  Lowering her gaze, Daisy saw a sight in the glimmering moonlight that almost stopped her heart.

  Three horses. Two riders.

  Seemingly eager to get on with the night’s grim work, the pale, un-mounted horse pawed at the muddy earth and snorted. The riders on the pintos exchanged somber stares with the tribal elder.

  Recognizing the orphan’s parents astride the spotted ponies, Daisy felt a thrilling chill. They’ve come for their daughter—the white pony is for Sarah. The girl was destined to die tonight. And there’s not a thing I can do about it.

  Before Daisy had time for another thought, she was stunned to witness the descent from the dark heavens of an immense, glistening screen. It was (she thought) as if some unseen hand had pulled down a rolled-up white window shade. Whether this experience was merely her overstressed mind’s hallucination or a genuine revelation, the effect was perfect. As she stared at the multidimensional projection on the silvery screen, the aged woman’s vision was flawless. Daisy could see everything in all directions, be it the Columbine headquarters, the new horse barn, a hollow old pink-barked ponderosa housing a variety of rodents, a towering blue-granite mountain veined with gold and silver—and she could see all these marvels inside and out in the most minute detail. Moreover, the privileged old woman could hear every sound, and delighted in the soft murmuring of the creek, the joyous rippling of the rocky river, the gentle whispering of a damp breeze in the willows, and every single syllable that anyone might utter and—what they were thinking.

  The shaman could even see and hear herself, urging Sarah to stay in the pickup.

  Strangely, none of this frightened Daisy Perika.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  THE SCROLL UNROLLED

  SARAH FRANK DID NOT SEE HER PARENTS WAITING PATIENTLY WITH THE painted and plumed white pony for her to mount and ride, but she did share Daisy Perika’s conviction that Charlie Moon was in some kind of trouble. And . . . I can’t just sit here in the pickup and wait to see what happens. Ignoring the old woman’s urgent pleadings to stay put, the teenager (accompanied by her aged tomcat) got out of the vehicle and strode down the lane toward the Columbine headquarters. The farther Sarah went, the faster her gait, the more hopeful her thoughts. The storm was certainly responsible for the slippery roads that had caused Mr. Parris’s accident, and lightning striking a pole had probably knocked out the Columbine phones. Charlie will be okay.

  But in spite of this effort to convince herself otherwise, Sarah knew that all was not well.

  With a disgruntled Sidewinder locked in the back of the pickup, a grumbling Daisy in the cab, and Mr. Zig-Zag padding along at her heels, Sarah fairly trotted across the Too Late Creek bridge, her path illuminated by the glow of moonlight. Nearing the headquarters, she was pleased to see Charlie Moon’s big automobile and a glimmer of firelight between the curtains in a parlor window. The scent of a few smoldering embers from the tool shed suggested a cheerful domestic scene that brought a smile to her lips. I bet Charlie’s sitting in front of the fireplace with a mug of coffee and— Sarah saw something that stopped her in her tracks.

  An almost-naked figure of a man was limping crossing the yard in the shadows. She watched him mount the headquarters porch, one stealthy step at a time. What’s going on? Sarah’s blood ran cold as the sinister stranger peeked into the parlor window. She heard herself whisper, “What’s that in his hand—a walking stick?”

  EVEN IN his present, somewhat addled state, Asok recognized a golden opportunity when he encountered one. This would be almost too easy for a fellow who enjoyed his work more when there was some measure of challenge in it. But, as Trout was apt to remind him, the bottom line was to get the job done. I’ll shoot the skinny Indian first, then the other guy, then the woman.

  He raised the carbine, took aim at the taller of the two men. . . .

  CERTAIN THAT Moon was in the parlor and about to be murdered, Sarah Frank shouted as loud as she could, “Charlie—he’s going to shoot you!”

  Everything happened within three heartbeats.

  The startled B Team leader turned, instinctively fired the carbine at the slender, moonlit figure.

  Sidearm drawn, Charlie Moon sprinted across the parlor to the porch door.

  Special Agent Rose was right behind him, her 9-mm Glock ready f
or action.

  Smith’s .44 Magnum in his hand, Scott Parris got a glimpse of the seminaked man at the window. He shot through the glass. Three times.

  Call it overkill. The first of the plump slugs severed Asok’s spine at the base of his neck, the second took his left arm off at the shoulder, and number three punctured a lung and knocked him off the porch, facedown into the mud.

  Call it coincidence. Chief of Police Scott Parris, aka Marshal Scot Paris, had shot his man . . . in the back.

  IT’S OVER

  Charlie Moon was kneeling beside Sarah.

  The girl’s pretty party dress was soaked in blood that gleamed black in the silver moonlight.

  Moon caressed her pinched face with his fingertips. “Hang on, now. Everything’s going to be . . .” The lie stuck in his throat. Everything was not going to be all right. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

  Blood gurgled in the girl’s throat, trickled from the corner of her mouth. Sarah had no breath left for final words.

  Never mind.

  The Ute read her lips in the moonlight.

  I love you, Charlie Moon.

  “I know.” He felt her slipping away. “I love you too.”

  DID THE seventeen-year-old hear these words she had yearned for for so long?

  Only God and Sarah know.

  He is silent.

  She is gone.

  CHARLIE MOON embraced the limp, frail corpse against his chest. The husk she had left behind was like a bag of brittle sticks.

  The stricken man was unable to move. Or to make a sound.

  Not so Mr. Zig-Zag. Sarah’s spotted cat screamed.

  The hound locked in Sarah’s pickup howled.

  Scott Parris threw his head back and roared like a wounded cougar.

  Stunned by this night’s final act of violence, Special Agent Rose stood as still as the trees, where there was not the least breath of breeze to stir a leaf. The woman listened. What did she hear?

  THE COLUMBINE is not entirely silent.

  Under the porch step, a fat black cricket chirps.

  In the ruins of the burned-out machine-shop shed, a few embers snap and crackle.

  Farther away, the rolling of the river can be heard.

  But what is that faint throbbing, rhythmic whump-whump?

  It is not the B Team leader’s blood pump. Asok’s spirit has also departed, but to a different destination than Sarah’s.

  The whump-whumping is generated by the whirling rotors of an incoming FBI helicopter. Finally, the cavalry Special Agent Rose summoned is arriving.

  DAISY PERIKA? She remains in the parked pickup truck.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  LEFT BEHIND

  OH GOD! DAISY PERIKA MOANED IN IMPOTENT FURY. WHY COULDN’T IT have been me instead of that poor little girl whose life had barely got started? All alone in the pickup cab, the tribal elder hung her head and wept.

  But wait. Is Daisy alone?

  No. It would appear that someone is sitting beside her.

  A gentle hand touched her shoulder. “Why’re you crying, Aunt Daisy?”

  The weeping woman turned to stare at the girl. She’s alive.

  Very much so. And Sarah’s spotted cat was on the seat between them.

  And then . . . and then . . .

  Daisy looked up to see a lone raven gliding under the stars. Beyond all probability, the aged shaman believed this night visitor to be her special friend from Cañón del Espíritu. The winged creature circled a scraggly elm in the Bushmans’ yard before settling lightly on a twisted branch. The shiny black bird cocked its head, eyeballed the elder—and croaked twice as if to say, They’re waiting.

  They were, of course.

  Three ponies. Two riders. Just on the other side of the Too Late Creek bridge.

  Like a cloud-shrouded sunrise, the truth dawned slowly on Daisy Perika. It hasn’t happened yet.

  But it would.

  That white horse intends to carry someone away. The stubborn old woman shook her head. But it won’t be this little girl. Daisy’s dark face resembled chiseled obsidian. Not if I have anything to say about it. Seldom right, but never in doubt—Daisy knew exactly what to do. “Listen to what I tell you, Sarah. I want you to go into Pete Bushman’s house and find the rusty old Colt pistol he keeps underneath that ugly little lamp stand beside his bed. It’s in a Redwing shoebox, and there’s a box of cartridges there too. Bring both of ’em to me.”

  “But—”

  “No back talk. Just go do it!”

  Small details tend to give credence to a carefully constructed lie, and are especially enhancing to a hastily contrived falsehood. But we must not be quick to censure others who commit such offenses. The way Daisy Perika saw it, her story about Pete Bushman keeping a rusty old Colt pistol in a Redwing shoe box underneath the ugly little lamp stand by his bed was not an outright, deliberate, one-hundred-percent, barefaced fabrication. For all she knew, the Columbine foreman probably did have an unsightly lamp stand by his bedstead, and it would be just like Pete to stash a six-shooter and some cartridges in a shoe box, and put the shoe box underneath the lamp stand, and the shoe box might have once contained a Redwing product. Not that the practical old soul tended to give much thought to such ephemeral issues as truth and falsehood, particularly when there was urgent business to attend to.

  TAKING CHARGE

  Even before the girl was out of sight, Daisy had pushed the cat off the seat and positioned herself behind the steering wheel. The instant her fingers found the ignition switch, she twisted the key and held her breath. The warm engine stuttered, grumbled, then settled down to a reassuring rumble. So far, so good. But . . . Now I’ve got to remember how to drive one of these things. Searching her memory of past escapades in motor vehicles, Daisy took hold of the gearshift. It must be in Park. This wasn’t so hard. It’s all coming back to me now. She pulled the lever as far down as it would go.

  The pickup lurched forward like the favorite at Churchill Downs exploding from the gate.

  HAVING BEEN unable to find a shoe box anywhere in the Bushmans’ dark bedroom, Sarah Frank heard the sound of her F-150 roaring away and realized that once again—she’d been had. The girl emerged from the foreman’s residence just in time to see her treasured pickup go careening across the Too Late Creek bridge, watch it bounce off the left railing, swerve to bump into the right one. Oh, no!

  Wringing her hands in dismay, the girl (as old-timers like to say) took off after it.

  SAINT DAISY THE SELFLESS

  Barreling along like the Night Train from Memphis, Daisy Perika was pleased to see the three spirit-ponies and two riders move aside at her approach. That’s right, get outta my way before I run you down! The tribal elder was absolutely delighted to spot the seminaked man with the carbine—who had not yet taken up his firing position at the parlor window. Wa-hoo—I’m just in time!

  ASOK THE REPROBATE

  As he crossed the headquarters yard, the half-deaf Asok did not hear the approach of the pickup truck. He did hear Daisy toot the horn, and would have seen the headlights come on if the flustered driver had managed to find the appropriate switch. Diverted from his primary objective, which was to take a gander into the parted curtain on the headquarters porch, the man who had already survived several ordeals this evening turned to deal with his current problem. Seeing a vehicle without lights bearing down on him, it took no great stretch of Asok’s meager intellect to conclude that the driver (whom he assumed was a man) was not kindly disposed toward him. He’s gonna run me down!

  Prepared to die in Sarah’s place, Daisy muttered, “Go ahead, you twobit half-wit—shoot me dead.”

  Asok did his level best, but the urgency of his situation called for a shooting that was more or less “from the hip.” No matter what we may’ve heard about the legendary accomplishments of Old West gunslingers, shooting a firearm without looking down the barrel tends to degrade a fellow’s marksmanship.

  Bam! The first slug penetrated the F-
150’s radiator.

  Bam! Number two clipped off the radio antenna.

  Bam! The third lead projectile passed through the windshield to whistle past the driver’s right ear and spray her face with tiny shards of sharp glass.

  HER BEATIFICATION IS PUT ON HOLD

  This unpleasant experience did nothing to endear the shooter to the cantankerous old woman. Indeed, the sting of a sliver of glass in her eye tended to distract our heroine from her sacrificial mission. Daisy’s natural instincts (anger and aggression) took over. All the furious woman could think about was getting even. “Oh, I wish I had me a loaded pistol so I could shoot back!” The vengeful wish reminded the bloodthirsty woman that she did have a lethal weapon in her possession.

  A model F, 150-caliber, V-8 projectile.

  Mrs. Perika was no shooter-from-the-hip. Dead-eye Daisy got her target lined up with the chrome-cougar ornament Sarah had installed on the hood, and stepped on the gas.

  Unnerved by this bold frontal attack, the terrified terrorist dropped his weapon and made a run for it.

  DAISY’S REVENGE

  About a half second after the firing of the third shot from Asok’s carbine, Charlie Moon burst through the west-porch door, pistol in hand.

  Armed with the .44 Magnum he’d fired into the floor under Bill Smith’s chair, Scott Parris almost knocked his Ute friend over in his attempt to get out and get in on the action.

  Special Agent Annie Rose was close behind, her recovered Glock 9-mm automatic at the ready.

  Despite uncharitable rumors to the contrary, and that occasional exception that serves to prove the rule: Sworn officers of the law do not use their deadly weapons lightly. By training and temperament, these trusted guardians of our lives and property prefer to find out a little something about what’s going on before contributing to the carnage.