The Widow's Revenge (2 page)

Scott Parris has had a long and tiring day.

After a healthy belch relieves the pressure of his bedtime snack, the widower turns off the TV, stomps off to the darkened bedroom, switches the window air conditioner on, slips between navy-blue sheets, and drifts off to sleep.

And to dream. All night.

About what? Oh, this and that.

Mostly subjects of no great interest, so we shall skip over the preliminaries and get right to the
main event
, which occurred just before a blushing sun peeped over the mountains to see whether yesterday’s world was still here. The middle-aged cop’s dream was to be the first installment in a series of—

No.

Mr. Parris was
not
to be afflicted by a series of those annoying recurrent dreams one so often hears about, where the unfortunate sleeper is afflicted over and over with the same tedious night-vision, such as when he is obliged against all common sense to trudge down a long, dark corridor—always getting closer to the closed door, but never quite arriving to discover what nameless horror lurks behind it, ready to
pounce.

No doubt because he had a certain gift for originality and was an enthusiastic viewer of television, Scott Parris was about to be treated to the first installment of an educational melodrama—each episode of which would form a distinct segment of a compelling plot. And, no doubt because the GCPD chief of police was an ardent fan of Western lore, his episodic dream series would begin—and end—
way back when
.

Aha! It is about to commence.

As the curtain rises, watch his brow furrow.

Episode One
Granite Creek, Colorado, 1877

Scott Parris finds himself in a makeshift courtroom that is provided with filthy brass spittoons, a pair of shifty-eyed lawyers, a surly-looking Judge
“Pug” Bullet, arresting officers Sheriff Ed “Peg-Leg” Knox and his sidekick deputy “Pig” Slocum, and a jury of twelve solemn men (all with ample growths of whiskers on their chins), who have just returned with a verdict for the tough-looking prisoner. Among the audience are a half-dozen newspaper reporters scribbling copious notes, a crowd of curious townsfolk who have come to gawk at the proceedings, and, in the back of the room—a slender, seven-foot-tall man dressed in fringed buckskin, beaded moccasins, and a wide-brimmed black Stetson festooned with an eagle plume.

The Indian—a hard-eyed Ute who goes by the name of Charlie Moon—is Marshal Parris’s closest friend.

This is a typical scene in the life of a lawman of the period, but even with his Ute comrade present, Parris is ill at ease.

What makes the lawman edgy? The identity of the center of attraction—i.e., the prisoner who is waiting to hear what the jury of his twelve so-called peers have to say about the charge.

Who is the prisoner?

No, not a member of the marshal’s family. One of his good friends?

A wasted guess—Charlie Moon is Parris’s
only
friend.

The man who had been charged with a capital crime is known by friend and foe alike as—U.S. Marshal Scott Parris.

How did the reputable lawman get himself into such a scandalous fix? Well, it’s a sad story, but an instructive one for those sensible souls who prefer to stay clear of serious trouble. It happened like this, on the second day of May, when a certain bad hombre and his gang of cutthroats hit town and began to throw their weight around—

Hold on. Something important is about to happen.

The judge bellows, “We ain’t got all day, Hobart—tell us one way or another. Is the accused criminal guilty as charged, or is the jury a bunch a idiots?”

The foreman of the jury gets to his feet.

The crowd falls silent.

How silent?

The judge taps his black imported Kentucky Black-Leaf cigar on the edge of his bench. The warm, gray tobacco ash breaks off.

Falls

Falls . . .

Ssssshhhhh . . .

That’s the sound of the ash hitting the oak floor.

Judge Pug Bullet aims his cigar at the foreman. “Well, don’t just stand there looking like a addlebrained jackass, Hobart—has the jury reached the correct and just decision, or will I be obliged to lock the whole lot of you up in the horse stable till you get it right?”

“We have, Pug—uh, Your Honor.” Hobart Watkins clears his throat and aims a liquid projectile at the nearest spittoon. “We find the accused guilty of all charges.”

“Guilty?” Marshal Parris gets to his feet, raises his manacled hands to make fists. “Guilty of what?”

Judge Pug yanks out his .44 Colt and bangs the pistol handle on a two-by-ten pine plank supported by a pair of whisky barrels, which serves as his bench. “Siddown, you no-good piece a dirt—and shut your trap!”

“I’ll be damned if I will!” Scott Parris glares at the homely man in the shabby black cloak. “This ain’t nothin’ but a kangaroo court of half-wits and misfits!”

If the Law is to retain any semblance of dignity, such outrageous outbursts must be dealt with, and promptly. The judge nods to the rough-and-ready lawmen, who will be more than happy to do the dealing-with. Promptly.

Sheriff Knox balls his gloved mitt into a knotty fist and gives Parris a healthy box on the ear.

Roaring like a wounded griz, the prisoner loops his manacle chain around Knox’s neck, tightens it until the sheriff’s eyes bulge and threaten to pop out of their sockets.

Coming to the rescue, Deputy Slocum gives the marshal an enthusiastic punch in the abdomen. Lower abdomen. Below Parris’s silver belt buckle. But not low enough to cripple him.

Returning the friendly gesture, Parris knees Slocum in the crotch.

As it is apt to do in such situations, pandemonium breaks out.

Strangers begin throwing punches left and right.

Ladies begin to swoon right and left.

Awakened by the ruckus, an aged redbone hound scowls at the hysterical bipeds, gets up, and walks out of the place without so much as a by-your-leave.

Demanding order in the court, the judge fires his pistol into the ceiling. Three times. Which, considering the fact that there are ten rent-by-the-hour rooms upstairs for ladies and their gentlemen guests, is more than a little reckless. But the gunshots get the job done.

As if by magic, the saloon begins to fall quiet again. Male members of the audience cease to brawl. A few even apologize to one another. Fainted ladies promptly regain consciousness, and began to fan themselves.

After giving the downed deputy a healthy kick in the ribs, the prisoner disentangles his manacle chains from the sheriff’s neck.

Glaring at the accused, His Honor proceeds to do his duty. “The prisoner shall be hung by his neck until—” The chief officer of the court pauses to press his thumb against his nose, blow said prominent snout, and wipe it on his sleeve before he commences to deliver the tail end of the weighty sentence: “Until he’s dead as a fossil!”

Fade to black.

SCOTT PARRIS
turned over and groaned.
Well, that was one helluva nightmare.
He opened his eyes and blinked at a window.
It’s still dark outside.
Knowing he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep, the chief of police snatched up the bedside telephone and punched in the familiar number.

CHARLIE MOON
was on the ranch headquarters east porch with a mug of coffee, waiting for the dawn. After checking the caller ID on his cell phone, the full-time Ute rancher, part-time bluegrass musician, and sometimes tribal investigator greeted his friend in the following manner: “Columbine Ranch. It’s five-ten
A.M.
, the temperature is Just Right, and our Motto of the Day is the same as it was yesterday—Eat More Beef.”

“H’lo, Charlie.” Parris grinned at his Indian friend. “You sound like you’re already up and at ’em.”

Charlie Moon grinned back. “I’m always busy, pardner—there’s no flies on me. But if you’re having a slow week over at the cop shop, and hinting around about how it’s been way too long since we went fishing, just say the word.”

Parris wanted to say the word. “Thanks anyway. I’ve got way too much work to do.”

“Sorry to hear it.” The rancher waited to hear what the call was about.

“Charlie, this’ll seem strange, but d’you recall that time a few years back, when you got your skull cracked . . .” Parris felt his face blushing, “and you had that weird near-death experience?”

“That’d be a hard thing to forget, pard.”

“D’you mind I ask you something about it?”

The Ute smiled at his unseen friend. “Would it do any good for me to say, ‘Yes I do’?”

“No it wouldn’t.” The town cop cleared his throat. “If I remember correctly, you told me you were happy over yonder on the . . . the
other side
.”

“Your memory’s working fine.”

Scott Parris inhaled deeply. “Then why’d you come back?”

Starlight sparkled in Charlie Moon’s eyes. “To look after you.”

DAISY PERIKA HAS A TENDENCY TO FORGET HOW BLESSED SHE IS TO
spend her twilight years in the snug, sturdy house Charlie Moon and his ranch hands built for her in the eastern wilderness of the reservation. Not only is the crabby old soul miles from her nearest human neighbor—a circumstance greatly to the advantage of all concerned—but Daisy’s home is situated on a site that can best be described as picturesque. Imagine living at the yawning mouth of
Cañón del Espíritu
and in the late-afternoon shadow of Three Sisters Mesa, whose stony siblings serve as sentries to warn the tribal elder of those booming storms that so often roll down from the San Juan Mountains to spit white-hot fire and boast thunderously of their destructive power.

How sad that, as Daisy carried a basket of foodstuffs to seventeen-year-old Sarah Frank’s red pickup truck, she cast not a glance at the Sisters’ dark profiles, or at the cloud of warships floating by in majestic parade.

Neither was she aware of the approach of a neighbor.

THE DANCING DWARF

The
what
?

This sounds very much like a put-on, but events that would be eyebrow raisers even in Crestone, Colorado, or Sedona, Arizona, are reportedly commonplace in the vicinity of Spirit Canyon. Moreover, it is whispered that Daisy Perika attracts strange company. And speaking of which (company), one is reminded of how those whom we least look forward to see approaching our front door have the aggravating habit of dropping by at the most inopportune times.

If the Ute woman, currently preoccupied with preparations for a visit to her nephew’s vast high-country cattle ranch, had known who (what)
was trudging up the dusty pathway from
Cañón del Espíritu
, she would no doubt have groaned, set her remaining teeth on edge, and said something like, “Isn’t it always the way. You plan a nice day and something is bound to happen that’ll mess it up.” Daisy would have recoiled at any suggestion that she was a pessimist, but she believed in an oft-quoted version of Murphy’s First Law:

If Something Can Go Wrong, It Will.

This was (according to the tribal elder) a knockoff of an archaic Ute proverb, from which is derived Professor Perika’s Eleventh Contention, i.e.:

Just About the Time You Get Ready to Leave the House,
the Little Varmint Will Show up Wanting Something or Other.

Though the rural environs wherein Daisy’s home is situated supports dozens of life forms that she would designate as
varmints
, the specific pest referred to in the aforesaid proverb is neither insect, arachnid, canine, feline, reptile, rodent, nor a member of any other group you might care to mention. Being one of the few of his kind that survives from the olden times, this varmint is not only a rare and endangered species—he is a singular creature indeed. So much so as to be almost unheard of outside the boundaries of the Southern Ute reservation, and even on the res, only a dozen or so traditional Utes have accurate knowledge of such creatures, and those experts tend to disagree with one another on minor details.