Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

  Unaware of the Ute’s regretful insights, Popper continued: “Ben was always a stiff-backed old varmint—he told Bearcat where he could go straight to, which wasn’t Helena—or any other place in Montana.”

  Moon stared at the wall, frowning at the hand-hewn, cement-chinked logs. “Mr. Silver must’ve known your deputy wouldn’t leave him there alive.”

  Ned Popper nodded. “Once Bearcat broke the phone connection, Ben knew he was already a dead man.” The Utah lawman picked up a forty-nine-cent salt shaker, examined the dispenser as if it was the most fascinating plastic fabrication he’d ever seen. “Bearcat was always a little slow making up his mind, and about the time he was trying to decide what to do with the old man, his cell phone jangled. It was Bertha, telling him I was on the way to Ben’s place and he’d better get outta there lickety-split. Before he left, Bearcat bashed Ben in the face two or three times—he thought he’d killed the old man, but Silver wasn’t one to give up the ghost ’til he was damn good and ready. Not knowing there was a witness, Bearcat commenced to backtracking his way back through Hatchet Gap. Sarah must’ve come out from wherever she’d been hiding and tried to help ol’ Ben. That’s how she got his blood on her hands, and from her hands onto that ball-bat she flung through the window at me.” A thoughtful pause. “I expect she either thought I was Bearcat come back—we wear the same kind of county-issue hat—or maybe she figured the whole sheriff’s office was in cahoots on the burglary.” He shook his head. “She wasn’t far wrong. Three bad-hats out of four—that’s a pretty sorry score.” Tired of this dismal neighborhood, he shifted gears and headed for a more sunny destination. “I imagine you’d like to know what Mr. Silver had that his half brother wanted so bad.”

  Moon seemed to be somewhere else.

  The compulsive conversationalist is not discouraged by such minor issues as a disinterested audience. “Well, I can tell you.” A slight frown. “Or at least how Ben Silver described it in his will.”

  This got the Ute’s attention. “Will?”

  Pleased at having a live audience, Popper nodded. “That’s right.” Another twist on the mustache tip. “Funny thing—you’d never guess what it was, not in ten thousand years.”

  Moon made a run of it. “A gold nugget big as your fist.”

  “Good try, but you’re not even close.” The sheriff described the treasure.

  Moon said: “A small thing, to be the cause of so much trouble.”

  The Utah sheriff nodded. “Now, guess who he left it to.”

  “I’m all out of guesses.”

  Popper told him.

  The Ute felt his head start spinning again. “Why would he do that?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Why not?”

  Moon was all out of answers. And questions.

  A clock on the wall swept up precious seconds, dustpanned them into the past.

  The taciturn Indian was a strain on the sheriff’s compelling urge to finish his tale. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I come to find out what my employees was up to?”

  Moon sighed. “Consider yourself asked.”

  Sheriff Popper needed no further encouragement. “Bertha didn’t know Bearcat had hightailed it off to Colorado to find Sarah Frank—she thought he’d been murdered, along with Deputy Packard. Way she saw it, Ray Oates had hired some thug to kill off everybody that could tie him to the burglary, and the unplanned murder of his half brother. With Packard drowned and Bearcat vanished, my dispatcher figured she was number three on the hit list. So hoping I would protect her, Bertha confessed.” Recalling an unresolved suspicion, he scowled at the tribal investigator. “So I thought I ought to pay you a call. See how deep the mud was at the Columbine.” Seeing the puzzled expression on Moon’s face, he explained: “That late-night call to Marilee Attatochee came from your ranch.”

  The Ute blinked at the Utah sheriff. “There are six phone lines on the Columbine. Which one—”

  The Tonapah Flats sheriff was pointing at Father Raes’s telephone.

  Moon considered this news for a few heartbeats. “If Sarah Frank was anywhere on the Columbine, I’d know it.”

  Popper’s eyes spoke for him. Maybe you do know it.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Unfinished Business

  As Charlie Moon’s strength returned, his senses sharpened. Catching the scent of Bearcat’s blood, he fought off a surge of nausea, pushed himself up from the chair.

  The Tonapah Flats sheriff followed the owner of the Columbine through the cabin’s front door, into the chilly night.

  The storm had broken up and dispersed to distant neighborhoods. Lagging behind were a few disorderly toughs who flexed puffy muscles, threatened thunderous mayhem and cataclysmic disaster—but these were merely the noisy bluffs of boisterous bullies. But yonder, pooled like molten glass on the grassy prairie, was a quiescent presence that deserved serious attention. Aloofly silent, supremely serene, Lake Jesse concealed her dark secret beneath a surface of shimmering moonshine.

  At peace in his ignorance, the Ute helped himself to a deep breath of mountain air that had never been so charged with invigorating energy. It’s a lucky thing Father Raes wasn’t here when Bearcat showed up. He wondered where the priest might have gone off to this time, hoped it was someplace far away from the Columbine. It would take a while to clean up the mess.

  On the Shore of Lake Jesse

  A masked shrew darts to and fro along a fallen piñon, pausing here and there to sniff for victuals, occasionally inserting a long, pointed snout under the wrinkled bark. Though the tiny creature’s diet includes a variety of tasty items, this particular Sorex cinereus prefers fatty, high-calorie treats like the plump pine beetle larvae, and her clever nose knows this favorite delicacy is close at hand.

  As a few last-breath bubbles percolate to the lake’s surface, the perpetually famished diner is distracted from her task—but only momentarily. After a blink of beady eyes, the hyperactive rodent gets back to the urgent business of finding a late-night snack—but she is startled to see a bright something take flight from the watery interface with night; soar upward toward some unseen destination.

  What was this?

  A snowy-winged night-fowl on the prowl?

  A flash of moonshine reflecting off the water?

  Or…something altogether other?

  An Exercise of the Intellect

  As Knuckle-Dragger Number Two trudged along betwixt lake and cabin, his mind had time to generate a few thoughts, some lacking in clarity:

  Hah—that’s one blackbird priest that won’t be preachin’ no more sermons.

  I wonder if Sarah What’s-her-name has still got Mr. Oates’s thing-amajig.

  I wonder if Bearcat ever found that skinny little Papago brat.

  I wonder where I should shoot Bearcat at. (The thinker may refer either to an anatomical or a geographic location.)

  Maybe just this side of the Utah line. (The issue is clarified.)

  I’m hungry.

  I could eat a porky-pine, hide and all.

  I wonder how far it is to a Burger King.

  The Sheriff’s Concern

  “Call me a worrier,” Ned Popper murmured to Charlie Moon, “but I am plagued by a nagging spot of botheration.” He cast a furtive glance at the cabin, where his deputy’s semi-headless body was sprawled on the kitchen floor. “I know how Raymond Oates’s mind works, and I can’t see him sending one man here to find Sarah Frank. I’d be surprised if Bearcat came all the way to Colorado without any backup.”

  Except for a clicking of aspen leaves in the breeze, the silence was perfect.

  In this world, Perfection does not tarry long.

  The Ute heard a slight rustling in the tall grasses. An animal, he thought. But not the four-legged kind. Moon wished he’d brought a weapon.

  Popper heard it a moment later; his hand instinctively moved toward the holstered .45.

  “Huh-uh.” The hoarse voice rattled in the darkness. “Don’t put a finger on that hand-ca
nnon, Sheriff. And don’t neither a you move a inch or I’ll let you have both barrels.”

  “Groundhog,” Popper muttered. “One of Ray Oates’s hired boot-lickers.” The surviving Tonapah Flats lawman called out: “What brings a greasy, pea-brained hash slinger like you so far from home?”

  “Business, Popper—that’s what.” The barrel-like form appeared at the ragged edge of the gloom. Groundhog had a sawed-off 12-gauge cradled in his arm. The weapon was pointed in the general direction of his intended victims, and he was coming nearer, one deliberate step at a time. Enjoying his meaty role as Hard Case with Deadly Weapon, Groundhog directed his next line to the Ute. “Tell me where you got that little Injun gal stashed—an’ I promise not to gut-shoot you.”

  The walk-on was upstaged by a blinding flash of white-hot fire that tap-danced along the Buckhorn peaks. This performance was followed by a thunderous applause.

  Knuckle-Dragger Number Two paused, looked around, yelled for Knuckle-Dragger Number One: “Hey, Bearcat—where you at, Hoss?” I’ll kill the Choctaw later, but right now I wouldn’t mind havin’ me some backup.

  Popper and Moon comprehended the situation with a terrible clarity:

  Groundhog would take down the armed man first. But he was at the margin of the scatter-gun’s effective range; the shotgun toter had to come closer.

  Popper drew in a deep breath. “Your call, Charlie.”

  “Count off six more paces, shoot him dead.”

  “You figure I can pop off a shot before he unloads?” One.

  “Nope.”

  Groundhog advanced another step.

  Two. “Well thank you for the vote of confidence, Charlie.”

  “Don’t mention it, Ned.”

  Groundhog was walking faster now.

  Three. Popper flexed the fingers on his right hand. Ah, what the hell—I never expected to live this long. Four. And I always prayed I wouldn’t end up in one of them nursing homes.

  Moon noted with some pleasure that Sheriff Popper’s BUY YOUR TROUBLE HERE shop was open and ready to commence with business.

  Five. The old lawman’s grin arched under the dandy handlebar. Thank you, God—for letting me be here, doing this. Six. His right hand went for the revolver.

  Things got hectic.

  Groundhog’s finger tightened on the trigger—

  Popper’s heavy pistol cleared leather—

  The Ute let out a heart-stopping war whoop—

  For a fraction of a second, Groundhog couldn’t decide which one to shoot—

  Popper boomed off a slug that snipped a nip off the fat man’s ear—

  The left shotgun barrel belched pellets and flame—

  The sheriff caught a spray of red-hot buckshot, stumbled backward, tumbled to his knees—

  Moon was making a dead-on run at the shooter—

  Groundhog swung the shotgun, fired the right barrel—

  A pestilent swarm of BB’s stung the Ute’s flesh—

  As he broke the shotgun, ejected the still-smoking empties, Oates’s hireling was astonished to see the Ute still coming…a dead man running? Hands trembling, he fumbled in his pocket for fresh loads—

  Charlie Moon was nine strides away—

  Groundhog thumbed in the new ammo, deftly snapped the barrel shut—

  Popper blinked away blood streaming down from his forehead—

  Knuckle-Dragger Number Two aimed point-blank at the Indian—Adios, blanket-ass!

  The sheriff tried to steady the wavering .45—

  And then—

  Time began to s l o o o w… . .

  Abruptly, the clock stopped.

  See the still picture—

  A levitated Moon, frozen in mid-stride—

  Popper petrified, an oath lodged in his throat—

  Groundhog, teeth clenched, finger tight on the trigger—

  Then, the chronometer started up again, with a frenzy of gears-a-clicking, hands-a-whirling—Tickety-tock, tickety-tock, tickety-tock—

  A heavy thumpity-thump of unshod hooves, a guttural growling—

  Sidewinder hit the shotgun-toter low, took him down hard—wolfishly went for the throat.

  Snorting and pawing, Sweet Alice moved in for her fair share of the kill.

  Transfixed by this pair of practically paralyzing surprises, Popper and Moon watched the victim’s arms and legs flopping and flailing, the Columbine hound ripping and gnawing—the outlaw horse kicking and stomping her portion into a bloody pulp.

  The brutish assassination took perhaps a half-dozen heartbeats.

  When the grisly deed was done, silence returned.

  The Ute stood mute.

  But it was one of those occasions when something had to be said.

  The Tonapah Flats sheriff said it. “I don’t mean to complain, Charlie—but this peaceful ranch of yours is a mite too lively for a man of my disposition.” He cleared his throat and elaborated: “I could sure do with a few minutes of peace and quiet.” Still on his knees, but with revolver at the ready and blood in his eye, he squinted suspiciously at the darkness. “So I sure hope there ain’t nobody else hidin’ yonder in the woods.”

  A man is entitled to his hopes. But not the fulfillment of his every wish.

  See the wispy figure of the frail orphan, concealed deep in the thicket of spruce and pine, lightly entwined in the bloodberry vine. Watch the gaunt-faced girl close her eyes—tremble at the terrible knowledge concealed within. See what she sees, over and over again—the heartless men going about their brutal business:

  Furious at the painful blow inflicted by the poker-wielding priest, Bearcat beats Father Raes until the elderly man’s face is a mass of blood-soaked bruises.

  Groundhog arrives from his search of the forest, reports no sign of the Indian girl.

  As they stuff the priest’s body into the trunk of his worn-out automobile, the surly assassins exchange curses and accusations.

  Weep with her as the makeshift hearse bumps and lurches across the prairie cemetery, share Sarah’s shudder as the steel tomb sinks slowly into the alpine grave, feel her shiver as chill waters draw out the last trace of warmth from Father Raes Delfino’s still body—even to the very marrow in his bones.

  But now, the shared vision ceases.

  What she sees after this is Sarah’s secret.

  The Buick-coffin would not be discovered until the sun was high over the Buckhorns.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Six Days Later in Cañón del Espíritu

  Stand with your back to three sisters Mesa, your heels on the hem of the Pueblo women’s tattered talus skirt, your toes pointing at the unmarked grave Daisy Perika made. Now raise your face, cast your gaze toward the opposite wall of the canyon. Look closely—almost concealed behind the cluster of white-limbed aspen is a dark horizontal slot. This cleft in the wall is called, in the Ute tongue—Supáy Aváa-gani—Quiet Shade House.

  This lonely dwelling has only a single room, but that chamber commands a singular view. From this vantage point, a keen-eyed sentry can see anything that moves along the canyon floor. And the watcher can see without being seen; the inner sanctum is a place of perpetual shadows, where etched stick-figure wizards stand entranced on fire-blackened walls and fantastic animal pictographs dance and prance across a dozen millennia. And quiet it is. Whether the silence is the result of some ancient sorcerer’s spell or merely an acoustic delusion, neither strident raven-call nor mournful wind-hymn will disturb those who enter in.

  At this moment, Quiet Shade House shelters a pair of recent arrivals. They are not strangers in the Canyon of the Spirits; this is a return visit. A homecoming, one might say.

  Though it is difficult to make out their forms, this much can be said: The cat is spotted black and white, the girl is small and frail, and for a product of her twofold tribes—remarkably pale.

  There is a sudden, chilling breeze; she trembles with the aspen leaves. This being the place it has always been, she being what she has become, Sarah has lea
rned the virtue and value of silence. But if mute, she is not blind—her gaze is hypnotically fixed on that terrible place across the canyon. What she sees there—almost a hundred yards away—are three persons. One of them, Sarah dearly loves—another she is jealous of. The third is an ancient, hunched-over woman whose leathery skin has been varnished by many summers of scorching sun. Burdened with a lifetime of trials and troubles, the tribal elder leans on an oak staff—stares at a barely discernible mound of rocks and rubble.

  The woman at Daisy Perika’s side was slim and willowy-graceful, neither spot nor wrinkle blemished her ivory skin.

  Standing behind the women was a tall, slender man.

  All three were gazing at the slightest of bulges in a helter-skelter landscape of ice-fractured rocks and monumental blocks of stone that had tumbled down from the heights. The disturbance in the disorder appeared ever so slightly unnatural among the random jumble of boulders.

  During these past few days, Daisy had thanked God a thousand times that she had not lost her nephew. Charlie—whose lean body had been probed, sutured, and bandaged from heel to crown—still carried a few pellets of buckshot. She groaned inwardly at the memory of Father Raes Delfino’s funeral, which had been attended by hundreds of his flock, at least two dozen priests, and three bishops. Moreover, the Ute elder had also seen holy angels there. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints. Daisy could not imagine life without the little priest who had loved her soul so very much. “I am tired to death of standing by graves.” Blinking tears away, she pointed the walking stick. “Especially one I put together myself.”