Snake Dreams (20 page)

Too late, Lila Mae. The telephone has stopped ringing.

Charlie Moon listened to a computerized voice that invited him to leave a brief message after the tone. He cleared his throat. “It’s me.” Two heartbeats. “I just called the Silver Mountain and found out that you checked out last night.” As if it had a mind of its own, his hand found the black velvet box in his jacket pocket. “I hope everything’s all right.” Two more heartbeats. “Call me soon as you get a chance.”

A Busy Morning

Despite the fact that a week had passed and Lila Mae McTeague had not returned his telephone call, Charlie Moon was feeling about as good as might be expected, considering that a new-hire twenty-two-year-old cowboy had (on a ten-dollar bet from a savvy old-timer that he wouldn’t stay in the saddle ten seconds) attempted to ride Sweet Alice. The unfortunate fellow had ended up with three busted ribs in his left side that hurt almost as much as his injured pride.

As the taped-up bronc buster was being hauled away to the hospital, Moon was assaulted by a dire prediction from Pete Bushman, a bewhiskered old stockman who had an uncanny knack for finding something new to worry about. The ranch foreman snapped off a chaw of Red Man tobacco and (between enthusiastic chews) reported the latest bad news: “Them damn range worms are swarmin’ in Delta County and they’ll prob’ly be here by next week and eat ever’ damn blade a grass on the Columbine and then they’ll chomp all the leaves off’n the cottonwood trees.”

The owner of the outfit assured his second in command that if a caterpillar invasion threatened, he would hire a crop duster to spray the threatened pastures with Permethrin.

Bushman had no confidence in expensive pesticides or noisy little biplanes or—for that matter—any solution Moon
might suggest to the vexing problems he delighted in tormenting the boss about. After spitting tobacco juice onto the porch step, he grinned under his scraggly beard. “If the spray plane don’t stop ’em, whadda we do next—call all the cowhands together for a prayer meetin’?”

Pushing back the brim of his black Stetson, Moon looked to the heavens for a measure of peace.
What I need is some time off. A little bit of relaxation.

TOWARD THAT
end, not too far into the afternoon Charlie Moon was in a rocking chair by the fireplace, a cup of sweet coffee beside him, a much-read copy of Zane Grey’s
The Last Trail
in his hand. From what could be gleaned from this tale, it seemed a good bet that Jonathan Zane had never encountered a horde of famished caterpillars. The reader was enjoying the part about how Mr. Zane loved the lonely wilderness like other men lusted after—But wait.

What was that distant tapping? Someone rapping on Moon’s chamber door? Something or other about a lady called Lenore? A raven who saith over and over:
Nevermore?

No.

The Columbine ravens are a sensible clan, who limit their remarks to simple caw-caws and the occasional strident squawk. What the Ute’s keen ears had picked up when the automobile was about a quarter mile away was an aged Volvo’s valves tapping. Well, talk about your perfect day! He put the book aside, went outside with his coffee cup, and watched his best friend park in the shade of the Daddy of all Cottonwoods, slam the car door, and approach in that heavy, shoulder-swinging gait that always reminded the Ute of John Wayne about to take on a dozen armed bad guys. Ten paces away, Scott Parris waved. “Hey, Charlie.”

“Hey yourself, pardner.”

The Granite Creek chief of police mounted the porch steps with the heavy grunts of a man who is not as young as he used
to be and feels it in his hip and knee joints. He was also beginning to present a belly. Not so much as to justify calling him fat. Not to his face. “That coffee smells good.”

Charlie Moon raised his cup. “You like to have some?”

“Later, maybe.”

“Want to go inside, sit by the fireplace?”

A fresh breeze caressed Parris’s face. “Let’s stay out here.”

Moon seated himself on a redwood bench.

After considering a couple of wooden chairs, the edge of the porch, and the steps, Parris settled on the chain-suspended swing, which creaked under his 220 pounds. He kick-started the pendulum seat into motion, treated his lungs to a breath of the crisp-as-a-new-dollar-bill high-country air, and soaked in a healthy dose of a silence that was, by some deep magic, enhanced by the mystical whisper of the river that rolled a little slower now that most of the snowmelt was somewhere a long way downstream. “How’re you getting along, Charlie?”

“Tolerable.” This man who hung his wide-brimmed black hat smack in the middle of a piece of paradise that he held clear title to, knew it wouldn’t do to push his luck by bragging.

“How’s your aunt?”

“Oh, same as ever. Daisy’s taking her after-lunch siesta.”

“How’re the girls getting along?”

“Okay.”

The chief of police shot a glance at the front door. “They in the house?”

“An hour or so ago, Sarah and Nancy rode off on a pair of pinto ponies.” Moon pointed his chin in a northerly direction. “By now, they’ll be on the far side of Pine Knob. Probably won’t be back until suppertime.”
So you can talk all you want to about the Wetzel killing.

The town’s top cop didn’t let on that he was pleased to hear this.

Scott’s as easy to read as a comic book.
But which one?
With that hat, Dick Tracy.
“I hope you’ll be staying for supper.”

“Thanks, Charlie. Maybe I will.”

“Glad to hear it.” It would be fun to tweak him a little bit. “So, besides shouldering your way up to the feed trough, what brings you way out here?”

Parris hesitated. The seasoned lawman had an overpowering sensation that someone besides Charlie Moon was listening to every word he said. And someone was, but that person was not Sweet Alice, the homely little mare who had a crush on the boss and was never far from Moon when he was on the Columbine. Nor do we refer to Sidewinder, the hound who was sleeping on the warm porch planks, dreaming of a meal where the main course was warm, furry cottontail. And of course, we would never suggest that Sarah’s spotted cat (who was curled up by the dog) would eavesdrop. In the entire course of recorded history, no one of the feline persuasion has ever paid the least attention to a single word uttered by a human being—though, on occasion, the sly creatures have been known to pretend.

The guilty party is a third human being, recently arrived. Daisy Perika. By means of a mysterious episode of women’s intuition, the crafty old shaman had awakened suddenly from her nap, realized that something was up, toddled out to the parlor to find out what it was, and had at this very moment concealed herself by an open window just behind the porch swing where Parris was back-and-forthing. Daisy’s right ear was pressed close to the screen. She had not made a sound, but (ladies should take note of this)
men have intuition too.
Cops who are not well endowed with that essential gift do not stay healthy for very long, and Scott Parris’s sixth sense was operating at full throttle. Which was why he responded to Moon’s question (“So, besides shouldering your way up to the feed trough, what brings you way out here?”) by suggesting an immediate change of venue.

Moon cocked his head. “Lake Jesse?”

“You heard me right.”

The old woman, who had also heard him loud and clear, whispered a rude word.

The Ute, who was aware of his aunt’s eavesdropping,
greeted his friend’s request with a wry twinkle in his eye. “A man of your mental caliber hankers to match wits with a fish that has a brain about the size of a piñon nut?”

The hopeful angler nodded his classic fedora. “I’m feeling lucky today.”

ON THE
crest of Pine Knob, the young women eased their spotted ponies along at a slow walk. Their full-speed chatter was frequently punctuated by girlish laughs. As if she’d spotted a rattlesnake in her path, Nancy Yazzi suddenly reined her mount to a dead stop. Squinting in the sunlight, she pointed across the river at the Columbine headquarters. “Look. Charlie Moon and some guy are getting into a pickup.”

Shading her eyes, Sarah Frank verified the truth of this statement.

Nancy leaned forward in the saddle. “Who’s that man with him?”

“It’s too far away to be sure.” The sixteen-year-old frowned. “But that old car looks like the one Mr. Parris drives.”

The name sounded familiar. “That policeman who was at your table last night?”

Sarah nodded, patted her spotted pony’s neck. “Mr. Parris is the chief of police.”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “It looks like they’re leaving.”

Sarah watched the Columbine pickup kick up a puff of dust along the dirt lane that wound around the big horse barn before crossing a rocky ridge studded with spruce and pine. “They’re headed toward the little log cabin.” A grim memory of what had happened there a couple of years ago gave the Ute-Papago girl a sudden chill. “Or maybe they’re going to the lake.” Something terrible had happened there as well. In an attempt to chase the memories away, Sarah said, “There are lots of pretty wildflowers near the lake.” She turned to gaze at her companion. “Want to head back to the house?”

Nancy shook her head.

Eager to get going, Sarah’s mount stamped at the hard earth, whinnied. “What do you want to do, then?”

Hermann Wetzel’s stepdaughter assumed a mischievous smile. “Let’s follow Charlie and that cop—without them knowing it.”

Sarah frowned. “You mean . . .
spy
on them?”

“Why not?” Nancy laughed. “It’d be fun, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” But she did. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“Oh, okay—if you’re going to be a wet blanket.” The older girl rolled her big eyes. “I guess we can go sit on the corral fence and count horseflies.”

Unable to abide the wet-blanket charge, Sarah came up with a compromise: “I guess we could flip a coin.”

Nancy fished a quarter out of her pocket. “Call it in the air.” She thumbed the silver-plated copper disk.

“Tails!”

Up, up it soared, sketching a perfect parabolic arc.

There was an infinitesimal pause at the apex, then—down, down to the ground.

So what was it—heads or tails?

As it happened, the quarter was difficult to see from their vantage point. Impossible, actually—the contrary coin landed behind a plump clump of prickly pears. The riders had to dismount to determine whether they would (a) go spying on the men or (b) count horseflies.

A Fishing Expedition

Decked out in a skirt of red willows trimmed with cattails and a blue-and-white blouse of reflected sky, Lake Jesse was dressed in her Sunday best. From the west, a sage-scented breeze barely rippled her glassy surface. From time to time, an iridescent, almost luminescent trout would break the water to snatch a tasty insect, then vanish into the blue-green depths.

On the shore, the alleged anglers sat about two yards apart, Scott Parris on a cottonwood log, Charlie Moon on the ground. The spinning outfits provided by the host were propped on a scarified basalt boulder left behind by the most recent glacier. Close at hand was a lard can filled with black river-bottom soil, coffee grounds, and about two dozen earthworms who might have just about concluded that they need not fear the dreadful fate of becoming fish bait that afternoon. As an afterthought, Moon had also brought along a minnow bucket, which stood beside the lard can.

The fishermen friends had not bothered to wet a line.

And why should they? Reeling in a sizable, scrappy fish requires intense concentration, which tends to distract a man from what he profits most from—which is a quiet hour away from work, worries, and needless conversation. Which was the reason why barely four dozen words had passed between them. Three-and-a-half dozen of these had traveled from the white
man’s mouth to the Indian’s ear. Not a word about local crime, county politics, or devastating bovine diseases.

About thirty feet offshore, a big rainbow rolled over the surface, slurped up an unwary six-legged creature. Moon watched the concentric ripples spread and vanish.
About a five-pounder.
He picked up his spinning outfit, fumbled in the bucket for a lively minnow, found the unlucky candidate, deftly slipped the hook through mouth and gill without injuring the scaly creature. Moon executed a skillful flick of the wrist to place the live bait on the spot where the trout had surfaced.
Bull’s-eye!