Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

  His buoyant thoughts and the faithful automobile carried him through the darkness, across the rolling high prairie, along the hem of the blue-gray mountain’s pleated skirts, past the foreman’s darkened house, over the Too Late Bridge, which spanned the Too Late Creek, which flowed into the big river—whose numbingly cold waters were currently rolling along toward a rendezvous with the immense Pacific.

  The priest slowed as he passed Charlie’s Moon’s large house. The Columbine headquarters was dark, but did not sleep. When he saw a pair of red eyes glinting in his headlights, the driver realized that Sidewinder was on the job. He smiled, muttered a fond hello to the eccentric animal.

  The Columbine hound had heard the sound of the automobile when it was still miles away, and recognized the familiar clackety-clacking of valves tapping in the aged Buick engine. The surly beast had emerged from under the long porch just in time to offer a solemn greeting to the ranch’s most distinguished resident. On the other side of a long ridge, nestled in a glade of blackish-blue spruce, was the priest’s small cabin. The hound would pay a visit there when the world was light again. The kindly man always had some tasty tidbit to offer a hungry visitor. And though no one had taken note of this curious fact, the holy man of God was the only person on the cattle ranch that Sidewinder—a highly accomplished thief—would not steal food from. The dog watched the cherry-red taillights recede and wink out, listened intently to the decaying sounds of the engine. Finally, when there was little more to see than the moonlit profile of the Buckhorn range, nothing to hear but the humming hymn of night wind in the pines, the dog yawned, retreated to his straw bed under the headquarters’ porch.

  The Priest Encounters a Small Mystery

  It was with considerable satisfaction that Father Raes Delfino emerged from his dusty automobile, removed a single suitcase from the trunk, and trudged down the flagstone path toward the cabin. It is so good to be home again. He opened the front door, flicked the switch, was temporarily blinded by the incandescent flash of a sixty-watt bulb in a copper-shaded lamp. Blinking, he placed the suitcase on a chair, walked across the small parlor—stopped dead still. He looked around. Nothing appeared to be amiss. He listened. Not a sound. Nevertheless…Something is not quite right.

  The logical half of his brain kicked in. Everything is just as it should be. It’s merely my imagination. I’m exhausted from getting up before sunrise, enduring a long, tiresome drive. And I’ve not had a bite to eat since breakfast. Taking note of this last assertion and wishing to express its hearty agreement, his empty stomach uttered a guttural growl. Well, I know what to do about that. The practical man headed for the kitchen, flipped another light switch—goggled at what he saw on the table. What is this?

  This, upon closer examination, proved to be three cardboard boxes and two plastic grocery bags stuffed with stuff. Mostly food—in glass jars, steel cans, cellophane bags. Who would have left me all of this? Not Dolly Bushman; the foreman’s wife thoughtfully provided such ready-to-eat treats as luscious lemon layer cakes and crispy apple fritters. When Charlie Moon dropped by with food, the victuals leaned toward massive beefsteaks, sugar-cured hams, quart jars of blackberry jam. He noticed a note, which was secured under the corner of a box, immediately recognized the mischievous old Ute woman’s scrawl. God help us all. He held it under the light.

  about time you got back

  where have you been this time

  to see the new pope I bet

  and kiss his ring

  I figured you wasn’t getting enough to eat

  so I left you a few things to chew on

  And that’s not all I left you ha-ha

  Daisy

  PS don’t say nothing to Charlie

  you know what they say

  In case Father Raes did not know What They Say, she had penciled the proverb in for him:

  what a big jug-head don’t know won’t hurt him

  The scholarly man scanned the message again, found the second reading just as extraordinary as the first. The expression on his face testified to that sort of suspicion that a citizen experiences when a politician proclaims: “My only ambition is to be a public servant—send me to Washington (or Denver, or wherever) and I’ll look after things for you.” Indeed, he might well have said pshaw. Balderdash. Even hogwash.

  Moreover, and in addition to harboring general misgivings, Father Raes Delfino felt just a touch of anxiety. Daisy Perika—why the very name is a synonym for Trouble. And what is this “ha-ha” business—what else has she left here in my absence? Something to plague me, no doubt. But only a few heartbeats passed before the old woman’s gift of food made the man of God blush with shame. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, prayed: Dear Father in Heaven—forgive me for entertaining such unworthy thoughts. Daisy may be a bit odd, and the note certainly has its mysterious qualities—but it appears that she has cleaned out her little pantry and brought the bounty all to me. I should be especially thankful for such a selfless act from a person whom one would hardly expect to give a crust of bread to a starving tramp on her doorstep even if she tripped over his body—Excuse me. I’m so sorry—I didn’t really mean that. Daisy has many good qualities and I am thankful for what she has done. A long pause. A penitential sigh. As soon as I have had a few hours sleep, I shall call her up and thank her for this kindness. Amen.

  But while the priest felt absolved from his minor sin, he still did not feel comfortable. The thought nagged at him: There is something more to this than meets the eye. His keen eyes surveyed the kitchen for some clue. He listened. Even sniffed the air. Yes. I’m absolutely certain—there’s someone here!

  But who? And where?

  He was of the opinion that there is an answer to every question. Though not always the one we are prepared to hear.

  What he heard was a scuffing sound in the cellar. As if someone—or something—had bumped into a basket of red cabbages or a sack of sweet potatoes.

  Father Raes called out, “Who’s down there?”

  Silence. Of the sort that inhabits a dusty, musty tomb.

  The rightful resident was resolute. “You might as well show yourself.”

  He marched across the kitchen floor, jerked open the cellar door, assumed a stern demeanor as he addressed the blackness below: “Either you come up, or I’m coming down.” For the third time that night, he toggled a light switch. There was no response from the single bulb that hung above the cellar stairs. Must be burned out. I’ll have to get a flashlight.

  As it happened, this turned out to be unnecessary.

  The man of the house heard a feline whine, was startled to see a black-and-white bundle of fur toddle up the wooden stairs. Just as if they had been lifelong friends and belonged to the same political party, Mr. Zig-Zag purred—and rubbed his gaunt rib cage against the cleric’s leg.

  Father Raes chuckled, bent to rub the amiable animal. “Well, well—what do we have here?” The solution to a small mystery, of course. For some reason known only to herself and God, Daisy Perika has brought me a cat. “Come along, I’ll find you something to eat.” As he watched the creature lap up a saucer of milk, he wondered: Why doesn’t Daisy want her nephew to know about this animal? He consulted his wristwatch, yawned. Well, it’s far too late to be puzzling about such issues. When I talk to Daisy, I’ll ask her.

  After Mr. Zig-Zag had had his fill, he wandered around and about the cabin, sniffing at table legs, old shoes, empty corners. Finally, giving the priest a rub on the shin, and mouthing a respectful “meow,” the animal stepped softly over to the cellar door, looked back expectantly at the latest human being to be bent to his will.

  “Ah, so you wish to sleep down there with the root vegetables?” And stalk the wily mouse, I suppose. “Very well, then. But just in case you wish to come back upstairs—or go outside, I’ll leave both doors slightly ajar.”

  Having finished his business with the cat, Father Raes Delfino retired for the night.

  Though sorely in need of rest, his sleep w
as troubled.

  As the weary man tossed and turned, he dreamed about dozens of stray cats swarming over the cabin, an old Ute woman who was laughing at some private joke she’d played on him, and most disturbing of all—the presence of a ghostly presence in his bedroom. Once, he awakened to see the small, thin form standing near his bed. It is a female. And she is staring at me. Not the sort of man to be unduly alarmed by such an unpretentious apparition—he had seen truly frightful phantoms during his missionary work with primitive tribes in the Amazon—the priest reached to the night table for his spectacles, switched on the lamp by his bed. Now I don’t see a thing. He switched off the light, fell back on a lumpy pillow. It must have been a hallucination. Following a satisfying yawn, he drifted away to a restful sleep. If there were other dreams, the dreamer did not remember them. But after a late-morning breakfast, he picked up the telephone, dialed the Ute woman’s number that he knew so well. He also knew the woman very well. I will thank her for the food, but I will also be very direct, and ask for an explanation about this cat that she doesn’t want Charlie Moon to know about. He knew the Ute elder would be evasive. Daisy is up to something. Which was like saying the governor was a politician. Or water is wet.

  Though she did not know the day or hour it might occur, Daisy Perika was expecting the call. When the telephone by her rocking chair rang, she leaned sideways to eye the thing. Particularly the caller ID. Yeah, it’s him all right. The crafty old woman smiled, resumed her rocking. She also began to sing a favorite hymn:

  “I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the ro-ses.”

  The telephone continued to ring, Daisy continued rock. And to sing.

  “And the voice I hear, fall-ing on my ear…” What’s the rest of that line?

  A quick intake of breath.

  “He walks with me, and he talks with me.”

  Back and forth in the chair.

  “And he tells me that I am his own.”

  The telephone ceased its ringing.

  The old woman did not cease her singing.

  “And the joy we share, as we tar-ry there, none other has ev-er known.”

  Her happy song went right on, through the last two verses.

  Her seesawing chair kindly provided the rhythm.

  Creak-squeak.

  Creak-squeak.

  Creak-squeak.

  The rocking felt very good. It’s what they call…something-or-other. Daisy frowned. What’s the word? It came to her.

  Therapeutic.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  What Happened Early on a Damp Morning in the Spruce Woods

  During the past several months, Sidewinder had found himself a new friend, who went by the name of Sweet Alice. The Columbine hound often spent the predawn hour out on a run with the outlaw mare, as was the case on this particular morning, when they had taken their exercise along the shore of the alpine lake.

  After a vigorous workout that made the horse sweat and the dog pant (dogs are not permitted to sweat), they were moving along at an easier gait. As the odd couple loped along the prairie past Father Raes’s cabin and entered the dense strip of forest on the rocky ridge above the Columbine headquarters, the hound caught a whiff of a scent that went distinctly against the canine grain. Sweet Alice watched while Sidewinder paused in midstride, held a right front paw poised above a fallen aspen branch, which in death wore a shroud of bright green moss. Unlike the ferns, neither aspen branch nor green moss would have an important role in what was about to happen, but minor players deserve to be mentioned. What about the ferns?

  Only yards away, something was rustling the ferns.

  The horse’s eyes were wide, but more with curiosity than alarm.

  The descendant of wolves—who had twice tangled with mountain lions—waited for the appearance of the age-old enemy. Sidewinder had never backed away from a fight.

  With a suddenness that almost took the old dog’s breath away, it appeared. Stared back at him with an impudent black-and-white face.

  A low growl rumbled under the hound’s ribs. A brush of coarse hair bristled along his neck.

  The reckless cat arched his back—hissed like a snake about to strike.

  Sidewinder lowered his head, bared yellowed teeth, made ready for the deadly lunge.

  Something else appeared in the shadows. The presence was a few paces behind the cat, and barely visible in the morning mists. Though the lips did not move, her thin young face spoke to the hound. Please don’t hurt my cat.

  The formidable beast was completely disarmed.

  Sensing an opportunity, Mr. Zig-Zag approached the dog with dainty, fastidious steps, rubbed his neck against the gentled adversary. Purred.

  Sweet Alice—known for her equine sense of humor—snickered a derisive whinny.

  Sidewinder groaned, looked away.

  A perceptive observer would have concluded that the dog was embarrassed.

  Late That Evening, at the Priest’s Cabin

  During his second night at home Father Raes Delfino had not heard a sound, but when he awoke with a start and sat straight up in bed—she was there. Close enough to reach out and touch. On this occasion, he did not reach for his spectacles or switch on the light. Neither did he speak. What this wise man did was wait. And listen.

  The priest heard the most astonishing confession.

  When she had finished her whispers, the judicious cleric weighed his words before responding. “You’re absolutely certain that you have killed a man?”

  A nod.

  “Do you wish to explain the circumstances?”

  She stared at the floor.

  “Very well.” Father Raes assumed the stern expression. “But you must understand—taking the life of another human is a most serious sin.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “The first thing you must do is repent. Then, you must ask for God’s forgiveness.” He added: “And I will pray for your soul.”

  Tonapah Flats, Utah

  Knuckle-Dragger number Two was sitting in his truck, which was parked in the dark among a cluster of willows that also concealed an abandoned trailer home and the rotting carcass of a horse that a city hunter had mistaken for an elk. Having no one else to talk to, the chronic complainer muttered his grievances to himself: “Oates sure expects a helluva lot for his money. The cheap bastard starts out with ‘Go and see if the Indian kid is holed up at such-and-such a place’ and we agree on a price and then he commences to adding on chores like ‘Oh, and by the way, there’s a couple of other little things I’d like for you to take care of.’ And so I end up sitting out here in the stinking boonies waiting for the man Oates wants killed and buried.” And he’s a sure-enough dangerous man. I shoulda asked for an extra thousand. After scowling at the gravel lane that dead-ended at a run-down apartment building, the malcontent checked the dashboard clock. He oughta been here an hour ago.

  Having nothing else to do, the brutish man reached for the sawed-off shotgun, broke it down, ejected a pair of red shells, put them back in again, snapped the double barrels shut. Then did it again. And again. It helped to pass the time.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Some Days It’s Just One Dang Thing Right After Another

  When Miss Katcher tapped tentatively on his door, Sheriff Ned Popper was engrossed in a confidential wiretap report. “Come on in, Bertha.”

  The dispatcher, who had been losing weight, and looked more haggard with each passing day, stuck her sagging face into his office. “Shurf Pokker, there’s an out-a-town lawyer here to see you.”

  He arched a bushy eyebrow. “He have a name?”

  “I forgot to ask him.” Being more or less a literalist, she added: “But I imagine he must have.”

  “Send him in.” The duly elected sheriff of Tonapah Flats got to his feet.

  The visitor’s shoulders filled the doorway; his gray suit, pale-yellow silk shirt, sky-blue tie hinted at money and power. His beefy demeanor suggested an off-duty lumberjack masquerading as a man of busin
ess. The enigma presented a genuine smile, stuck out a bear-size paw. “I’m Bruce Staples. Of Arnette, Fagan, Jarvis, Staples, Gish, Bullock, and Armstrong. Our firm is in Salt Lake.”

  Popper smiled at the center of the totem pole, shook his hand. “Rest your bones, Mr. Staples.”

  “Thanks—don’t mind if I do.” The attorney plopped into an armchair, cuddled an alligator briefcase on his lap.

  “And by the way, my name’s Popper—with three P’s.”

  Bruce Staples chuckled. “I know your name, Sheriff. Ben Silver told me all about you.”

  Uh-oh—what’s this about? “So you knew Ben?”

  “Indeed I did. Both as a client, and a friend.”

  Sheriff Popper waited for the other boot to drop.

  Mr. Staples was not a man to waste words or ticks of the clock. “Ben came to see me exactly six days before his death.”

  The size-fifteen footwear fell with a sizable thud.

  “He had me draw up a new will. Being brief and to the point, it was keyed into the computer, printed out, signed, witnessed, and notarized before he left my office.” The efficient attorney sensed the expected questions forming behind the lawman’s craggy face, answered every one of them. “I would have contacted you immediately after his untimely demise, but the day after my meeting with Ben I left on a trip to Argentina. I returned yesterday, and read my client’s obituary in the newspaper.” There was a hesitation, as if Staples was searching for precisely the right words to string together. “Given the circumstances, it is necessary that you and I have a face-to-face.”

  The sheriff spoke softly under the handlebar mustache. “Was Ben expecting someone to make an attempt on his life?”

  Staples shook his head. “But he did express some concern about his deteriorating health.”

  Popper popped the obvious question. “So who’d Ben leave his stuff to?”