Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

  But time had done its cruel work on her bent frame. Seated on the sofa, the weary woman was only half-listening to KSUT FM. Having just finished a snack of walnuts and prunes, she was hunched forward, squinting intently at the work on her lap. What she was doing was sewing tiny blue-and-white beads onto a miniature pair of goatskin moccasins. These were for Myra Cornstone’s most recent baby boy—which made four in a row, and the young woman wasn’t even married to the matukach truck driver who shared her bed. Not that this was altogether Myra’s fault, of course. The way Daisy saw things, Charlie Moon was mostly to blame. Just a few years back, when Myra had only one baby, Daisy’s nephew had an opportunity to marry the nice-looking young Ute woman—but what did Charlie do? Why the big jug-head muffed his chance, of course. When it came to women, all Charlie did was chase after those blue-eyed, white-skinned matukach hussies! In her anger, Daisy poked the needle all the way through the soft leather sole—and into her thumb.

  “Ouch!” She also muttered a few other expletives, which shall remain unreported.

  Daisy sucked a droplet of blood from the puncture wound, blamed the painful injury on Charlie Moon, and made herself a solemn promise to have yet another talk with her nephew. (“Having a talk” meant giving him a finger-shaking-in-your-face lecture, under which circumstances he was expected to sit and listen and not open his mouth except to say “Yes ma’am.”) In Daisy’s view, it was high time Charlie settled down with a nice Ute girl. Or—if it came to that—even an uppity Navajo, or one of those shifty-eyed Pueblo Indians. But not an Apache, thank you. That would be going a tribe too far. The point was, if Ute women and men kept marrying up with the whites, why in another fifty or sixty years the whole tribe would be a bunch of pale-faced, yellow-haired so-called Indians who wouldn’t know a bow-and-arrow from a willow basket. The more the aged woman pondered the grim situation, the more she was convinced that this was a devious plot by those devilish matukach to get control of tribal lands and gas leases and the casino. Daisy knew exactly how they went about it. It started with all those flashy movies and TV shows about rich white people who were always having such a fine time. That Hollywood propaganda was what got the younger, softer-headed Utes to thinking about—

  She jumped when Alexander Graham Bell’s invention rang. Ben Silver’s soul mate glared at the offensive thing. Depend on a dead white man to come up with an infernal machine that scares a peaceable old woman out of her wits.

  It did it again.

  Setting her work aside, Daisy put the receiver to her ear. “If you want to sell me something, you’d better hang up before I forget I’m a lady and tell you where you can stick your telephone—”

  “It’s me.”

  “Charlie?”

  “Last time I looked.”

  “Don’t you get sassy with me.” She recalled that he had bought her the new telephone. “This blasted thing rings too loud. When it goes off, my old heart just about stops.”

  “Turn it down.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a little switch on the side that sets the ringer volume. You can switch it to low.”

  “I don’t like to mess with switches and knobs and whatnot. Next time you’re here, you can set it for me.” She got a fresh breath. “And why’re you wasting our time talking about stupid telephones? I’ve been waiting all day for you to call and tell me what you’ve found out about Sarah Frank.”

  “Uh—that’s what I called about.”

  “Well then get on with it!”

  “We’ve been in Tonapah Flats, met with the sheriff. They’re still looking for Sarah.”

  Daisy tried to decide whether this was good news or bad. “Where could she be?”

  “Don’t have any idea.” A pause. “But there’s a chance she might head for Colorado.”

  The old woman’s heart raced. “You think she might come to my place?”

  “You’re the only person she knows on the res.”

  Daisy shook her head. “It’s a long, long way for a girl of her age to travel alone.”

  “If she knocks on your door, I hope you’ll let me know.”

  Evading the subtle question, she said: “What do you mean ‘we’?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “You said ‘We’ve been in Tonapah Flats.’ Who’s there with you?” Scott Parris, she hoped.

  “Special Agent McTeague.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment fairly dripped from Daisy’s lips. “That tall, skinny white FBI woman.” She heard Moon’s chuckle in her ear. He don’t understand nothing. “Myra Cornstone’s had another baby.” A pause. “And I know for a fact that you’re not the father!”

  Moon could not come up with a defense against this charge.

  “I’m making some moccasins for it.” Daisy added acidly: “When the whites take control of the reservation, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Uh—right.” What in the world is she talking about?

  Daisy shifted gears again. “I just can’t believe Provo Frank’s little girl would actually murder somebody.”

  “We don’t know exactly what happened yet,” the tribal policeman said. “So let’s not jump to conclusions.” There was a roaring sound as a cattle truck on the westbound side of the interstate made a not-so-close encounter, rumbled off toward the looming sunset. “If I hear anything I’ll give you a call.”

  “Don’t call—come by and see me.” Her tone was softer now, almost pleading. “We could go into town. Maybe have some lunch at Angel’s.”

  “It’s a date.” The cell phone signal was starting to break up. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Daisy returned the instrument into its cradle, picked up her needlework, stared at the tiny pair of moccasins. Seems like half of the Indian children I know end up dead or in jail before they have time to grow up. She got up, hobbled off into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee—and as she would tell Louise-Marie LaForte during her next telephone conversation with the elderly French-Canadian woman: “I almost jumped out of my skin!”

  What almost made Daisy shed her wrinkly epidermis was Yadkin Dixon. Or more explicitly, Mr. Dixon’s homely face—which was peering in through the kitchen windowpane. Daisy Perika was in no mood for nonsense. The enraged woman hit the back door like an antique locomotive with a full head of steam. Before the slab of oak had slammed behind her, she shook a fist and screamed: “What d’you think you’re doing, you big Peeping Tom!” This was more insult than inquiry—she had not the least interest in what the white man thought he was doing.

  Undaunted by this affront to his dignity, the unflappable Mr. Dixon tipped his tattered hat. And offered her a short-handled ax. “I believe you wanted this returned?”

  Daisy snatched her property from his hand, pitched it onto a pile of kindling wood. “Thanks for nothing.” She pointed in a direction that was away from her home. “Now get going before I lose my temper.” The bottom of her face split into a froggish grin. “If you ain’t out of sight by the time I count to three, I’ll go get my twelve-gauge and pepper your behind like it was a fried egg!”

  “Woman, I am impervious to your blustering threats.” The superstitious vagrant produced a peculiar-looking object from his shirt pocket. It was a tiny portrait of a famous Indian warrior encased, along with a few grains of blue corn pollen, in plastic. “In case you do not recognize this object, it is a powerful magic amulet given to me by an Apache medicine man. It protects the owner from buckshot, bullets, and arrows—none of these things can hurt me.”

  “Is that right?” The Ute woman squatted to pick up a peach-sized stone. “Let’s see if Big Chief Geronimo can protect you from this!” Before Yadkin Dixon could dodge, she made an overhand throw, which went low, landing a few inches below the buckle on his belt.

  From the man’s yelp, it may reasonably be concluded that it hurt.

  Still a Long Way from Home

  As if in response to some subtle subliminal signal, Sarah Frank floated up from a deep sleep, surfa
ced into a dreamlike consciousness. What she saw—through the windshield and down the road—was an enchanting picture from the pages of her memory book. There in the slanting light of the late-afternoon sun, just as she remembered it, was the sturdy bridge. Under it, the Piedra—swollen with foamy snow-melt—roared its boisterous way south toward Navajo Lake. She knew that a few miles on the other side of the tumultuous river, at the end of a rutted dirt road, Aunt Daisy’s cozy little trailer home was nestled among a cluster of juniper and piñon. In hopes of seeing it, the girl closed her eyes. But what the visionary perceived were shadows from the past. Sarah shuddered, dismissed these troublesome ghosts. “You can let me out at the bridge,” she shouted, and scooped up her backpack.

  Mr. Zig-Zag stretched his neck to see what all the fuss was about.

  Slowing, the driver glanced at the long, narrow mirror above his head. “This line don’t leave passengers with miles and miles to walk before they get to their destination.”

  The frail little girl was at his elbow. “If you crossed the bridge, right away you’d have to turn off the gravel road”—she pointed—“and onto a narrow dirt lane. You couldn’t drive this big bus on it.”

  Braking to a stop by the roadside, he arched a brow with justifiable pride. “I’ll have you know—I can drive this vehicle wheresoever I wants to.”

  “No you can’t.” She used the firm tone of a stubborn young woman who has made up her mind. “I’ll get off here.”

  “Well…” he sighed, “okay.” One of the Rules of the Line was that when a passenger wanted off, no ifs, ands, or buts—the driver must comply. He pushed the crank to open the door. “But it’s way too far to walk.” He pointed. “You and Mr. Zag go over yonder to the far side of the bridge and wait for your next ride.” Seeing she was about to open her mouth, he raised a finger to his lips: “Shush! And listen to what I’m tellin’ you. There’s a nice young lady I know who’s got a summer job up at Chimney Rock Archaeological Site. Mary generally gets off earlier, but today she had to work late, so she’ll be by in her Jeep—” he consulted the trusty pocket watch, “—in about twenty minutes. You just give her a big wave—Mary’ll be glad to take you the rest of the way to Daisy’s place.”

  Sarah thanked the peculiar man, who seemed to know everything about everybody. After watching the bus pull away, she crossed the bridge over the Piedra. While Mr. Zig-Zag stalked some unseen prey, the girl stood in the shadow of a mushroom-shaped willow. After what seemed to be a terribly long time (almost three entire minutes!) she began to wonder whether the black man really knew a young lady who worked at Chimney Rock. And even if he did, how would he know she was coming home late today? Off to the northwest, the sky was darkening. A sudden breeze rippled through the willow branches, chilled her thin legs. Nobody’s going to show up.

  Barely sixteen minutes later, Mary Hale’s mud-splattered CJ-5 rumbled onto the Piedra bridge. The driver saw no one standing on the other side.

  Sarah Frank’s small form was far down the dirt road—and quite out of sight.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Deputy Tate Takes the Call

  Immediately after various salt lake, phoenix, and denver television stations had begun broadcasting the lurid description of Ben Silver’s murder and the Tonapah Flats Sheriff’s Office’s urgent request for information on the whereabouts of Sarah Frank, calls started trickling in at a rate of about one every ten minutes. But aside from a report from Leota—a small settlement on the Uintah and Ouray reservation in northeastern Utah (which was being checked out by tribal police)—not a single breathless report of a “Sarah sighting” had been worth following up. After Ben Silver’s surviving sibling sweetened the pot with his offer of a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for “information resulting in the recovery of certain Oates family property—“which is believed to be in the possession of Sarah Frank”—the rate of calls had tripled, but the already dubious quality of the reports deteriorated even further. Greed does indeed accomplish wondrously wicked works with the sickly human psyche. Exhausted from fielding calls, the dispatcher complained to Sheriff Ned Popper, who assigned a portion of the thankless task to his two deputies—who would take all the out-of-area calls. Grateful for this respite from chatting with well-meaning citizens and various kooks, Bertha Katcher switched the 800-line to the complicated new telephone console on the duty desk in the outer office.

  It was precisely 3:54 P.M. and Deputy Sheriff Tate Packard was watching the Seth Thomas wall clock. His four-hour shift manning the 800-number would be up in six minutes. He squinted suspiciously at the second hand, which seemed to have slipped the clutch, shifted down to slow motion. Maybe the battery’s running down. The telephone rang, he picked it up. “Hello, Tonapah Flats Sher—”

  “I heard about that little girl on the TV.” An elderly woman’s voice squeaked in his ear. “I think I may’ve spotted her.”

  Packard noted the number on the caller-ID readout, poised his ballpoint above the NAME blank on the report form. “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Oh, I don’t intend to reveal my identity—not ’til I’m sure I can collect the reward.”

  “Ma’am, the county is not offering a reward, that’s a private—”

  “But the man on the TV station said—”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you know.” Tate Packard blinked eyes that felt like they’d been salted and peppered. “If your information leads to something we can use—”

  The woman interrupted. “Say, are you recording this call?”

  Packard barely stifled a yawn. “No ma’am. But I am filling out a form—”

  “A form—are you some kinda government agent?”

  “No, I’m a deputy sheriff—”

  There was a loud click in his ear.

  The amiable man hung up, shook his head to loosen the cobwebs. He heard the heavy clomp of size-fourteen boots, the deep voice of a bull moose–sized man.

  “Wahoo!” Bearcat yelled. “Hide your fair-haired daughters and your kegs a beer—the hairy-chested, hard-drinkin’ Choctaw is here!” He waved at Bertha Katcher in the soundproof dispatcher’s booth, she returned the sort of wan smile a kindly mother reserves for a mischievous child. The oversized boaster continued his chant: “I eats granite boulders for breakfast and swallers live alligators for lunch. I washes it all down with muddy water and I picks my teeth with a bowie knife!”

  Despite his weariness, Tate Packard grinned. “Then you’re just the man I’m looking for.” He pointed at the new telephone, which featured a dozen lights and twice as many buttons.

  “It’s not my shift yet.” Bearcat pointed at the clock on the wall. “There’s still almost two minutes to go.”

  “There won’t be another call.”

  The Indian snorted. “Betcha two bits there will.”

  “You’re on.”

  “Better make sure you’ve got some loose change in your pocket.” Bearcat lumbered across the room to the open closet they had dubbed “the canteen.” Helping himself to steaming water from a six-quart stainless steel coffee urn, cocoa from an economy-size box, miniature marshmallows from a plastic bag, and pure cream from a pint carton, he proceeded to concoct himself a seriously rich hot chocolate.

  Packard fixed his gaze on the hateful chronometer. It seemed to be licking up every fragment of time, taking ever so long to savor it. It’s got to be the battery. Twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten. He grinned. Eight. Seven. Six—

  The telephone rang.

  Dang! Pretending to ignore Bearcat’s snide chuckle, Packard snatched up the instrument. I am so tired of talking to these nutcases. Please, let this be somebody who’s actually seen something worth calling in about. “Tonapah Flats Sheriff’s Office,” he barked. “Deputy Packard speaking.”

  “Hey, podner—this here’s Buddy. Buddy Bigbee.” The inflection suggested that the caller expected his name to be familiar to any adult residing in the lower forty-eight.

  “Yes sir.” The deputy stifled a groan. “What
can I do for you?”

  “Negatory, son—this is about what I can do for you.” There was a quite audible belch. “But first of all, me’n the little woman—that’s Tillie—we want to know whether anybody’s already cashed in on that big re-ward.”

  It’s nine seconds past my shift, I oughta hand the phone to Bearcat. “Not as far as I know.”

  “Fine. ’Cause me’n Tillie—we’ve seen that girl.”

  Right. You and every other fruitcake within six hundred miles. Packard had not even bothered to pick up his ballpoint. “When and where was that?”

  “Why, it was early this morning, in Cortez. That’s in Colorado.”

  Packard dutifully went through the motions. “Sir, can you describe the person you believe to be—”

  “Well o’course I can. Skinny little brown-eyed gal—and she looked exactly like that runaway kid we saw later on the TV. And when we spotted her in Cortez, she was totin’ a cat.”

  “Can you describe the animal?”

  “Sure. It was an old black-and-white. Had a jaggedy little mark on its head.” There was a noisy interruption, while the chain-smoker coughed. “Which was why, at first, I thought the girl’d just sidled up to mess around with our mare—’cause the cat and the horse had the same kinda jaggedy marks on their heads.”

  Packard reached for the blown-up print of Sarah’s photograph, took a careful look at her cat. The jagged imprint on the animal’s head reminded him of a petroglyph he had seen in Paiute Canyon. It’s probably just a coincidence.

  Buddy Bigbee cleared his throat, pulled another drag on his cigarette. “Later on, after Tillie and me saw the little gal’s picture on the TV—we figured she must’ve hitched a ride in our horse trailer late last night, while we was passin’ through Utah on our way back to Colorado.” He added: “It had to be when we stopped for gas at that Shamrock station in Tonapah Flats.”