The Widow's Revenge (4 page)

If the apparition looked back at the toothy mammal with some apprehension, that was probably because those of his ilk detested members of the feline clan.

When Daisy turned to fix her gaze on Sarah, she noticed the cat.
You see him, don’t you?
The shaman’s beady little brown eyes fairly glinted with expectation as she spoke to the girl. “Well?”

The youth drew in a breath of fresh air. “I may see just a little
something
.”

“Tell me about it.”

Like thoughtful spaniels do, Sarah cocked her head. “It’s nothing much.”

Daisy chuckled.
Neither’s he.

“Sort of like a shady spot.” She strained to expand on this. “It’s like something was soaking up the light.”

Daisy smiled.
She sees the little booger all right.
But the development of any useful skill takes time. With a little bit of luck, the more the girl looked, and the more she
wanted
to see—the clearer the
pitukupf
’s image would be. “Anything else?”

There was. But, being a polite young lady, Sarah hesitated to mention the distinct olfactory sensation.

The tribal elder pressed. “Well—what is it?”

Sarah hoped that the little man (if he was really there) was not a sensitive sort. “Well, I think I can
smell
something.”

Daisy chuckled at the
pitukupf
’s outraged expression. “Something like three-day-old roadkill?”

“Oh, no.” The girl shook her head so hard that her long black locks whipped across her face. “Nothing like that!”
More like something sour.
Spoiled milk? She strained to think of a suitable euphemism. “The scent is . . . well . . . kind of
tart.
” She smiled reassuringly at the hazy image. “But not at all unpleasant.” Since she was four years old, this was as close as Sarah had come to outright lying.

The dwarf smirked at the Ute elder.

“Hah.” This was all Daisy could come up with. Fun was fun, but enough dillydallying around. Sarah had done better than expected; now it was time to work the other side of the potential match. Daisy shook her walking stick at the dwarf. “Okay, come and get the stuff this nice little girl brought out here for you.”

The nice little girl froze, clasped her hands over her face. She also peeked between her fingers at the stump.
Oh, if somebody I can’t see picks up the jam or the pie, I’ll just die!

Not to worry. Death was not an option. Not today.

The dwarf evidently had no intention of demonstrating his presence by so bold a demonstration of levitation. In a hoarse whisper, the Ute leprechaun advised the shaman that he would collect the jam, pie, and mirror after she and the half-breed child had departed.

The old woman sneered at her neighbor. “There won’t be anything on
the stump unless you tell me everything you know, and I mean
right now
.” Daisy shook her formidable walking stick at the dwarf. “And it’d better be good and none of it made up.” She stamped her foot. “And don’t you think for a minute I won’t know the difference.”

The
pitukupf
was insulted by this rude display. Even chagrined. For a moment, it seemed as if he might simply turn and walk away. But Daisy wouldn’t budge, so in the end, he gave in. What he had to say concerned one of the few Apaches that the Southern Ute tribal elder counted as a friend.

As Daisy listened to the little man’s stunning narrative, she considered the dire implications of this report.
If what he says about Loyola is true, there’s not much I can do
. . .
not by myself.
A hopeful thought occurred to her:
I could tell Charlie Moon about it.
This notion came with a counternotion attached:
But he’d never believe me.
This was a knotty problem that would likely take some time to unravel. And time was a commodity that the busy woman had no surplus of.
After me and Sarah get to the Columbine, I’ll telephone Loyola and get her side of the story.
The shaman had not dismissed the possibility that the dwarf was either outright lying or, at the very least—painting over the truth with a thick coat of
pitukupf
varnish.
Soon as I know the facts of the matter, I’ll figure out what to do about it.

With an almost painful intensity, Sarah strained her ears in an attempt to hear the dwarf’s words. The shaman’s apprentice heard nothing. Well, almost nothing. There was that odd, whispering twitter, like a dry breeze rattling dead cottonwood leaves.

AFTER A FINAL CHECK INSIDE HER HOUSE TO MAKE SURE THE PROPANE
water heater was set to Pilot and all the electric lights were turned off and the circuit breaker that powered the well pump was likewise de-energized, Daisy locked the front door and made her way slowly across the yard. The tired old woman steadied herself with her sturdy oak walking stick as she grunted and groaned herself into the passenger side of the pickup.

About four miles and twenty minutes down the rutted lane, as they intersected Fosset Gulch Road, Sarah made a significant announcement: “I’m going to have a talk with him.”

The shaman smiled at the woman-child. “The dwarf?”

Sarah shot her a shocked look. “No, with
him
.”

Realizing now what this meant, the old woman did not respond.

After they crossed over the Piedra bridge and onto the steaming black-top of Route 151, the girl pointed her pickup more or less northwest, and added, “We’ve got to get things straightened out.”

Still, the aged passenger held her tongue.

Silence reigned as they passed the entrance to Chimney Rock Archaeological Site, where the Twin War Gods loomed ominously in the sky, gazing toward the Three Stone Sisters, whose lengthening shadows would soon darken the windows of Daisy’s home.

Not a word was said when Lake Capote appeared on the right side of the highway, or when Sarah turned west on Route 160.

But not too many minutes later, when they entered Bayfield, the seventeen-year-old’s brow furrowed into a thoughtful frown. Having carefully considered all aspects of the situation, Sarah summed up with this irrefutable assertion: “Either Charlie Moon wants to marry me—or he doesn’t.”

“He doesn’t,” Daisy Perika snapped. “Now stop yammering so much before you give me a splitting headache!”

Did this cruel retort hurt Sarah Frank’s feelings? Hard to say. But all the way to the Columbine Ranch, the girl uttered not another word.

One Minute after Midnight

THAT WAS WHEN LOYOLA MONTOYA HEARD IT
.

This was not one of those creepy night sounds that prickles the skin and sets the heart to thumping—such as the sinister creaking of footsteps across squeaky old floors, bloodcurdling gurgles commonly attributed to antique plumbing, or a rude bump-in-the-night
something
that delights in disturbing the sleep of honest citizens. Not a bit. This was quite unlike any creaking-gurgling-bumping phenomenon that Loyola had ever experienced.

It sounded like somebody whimpering.

A more or less sensible soul, Loyola was aware that she sometimes awakened hearing leftover sounds from a lingering dream. The sleepy woman raised her head from the pillow and listened intently.
It seems quiet enough now, so I’ll just lay down and close my eyes and—
No.
There it goes again.
But now the sound was not so much a whimpering as a plaintive
bleating.
Of the kind that will not cease until attended to.

Like a hungry baby or Nancy the nanny goat. The animal was a sound sleeper, who rarely stirred in the middle of the night unless threatened by a hungry coyote. Or bear. Or mountain lion.

Damnation—if it ain’t one thing, it’s something worse!
Loyola got out of bed and padded into her darkened kitchen, where she heard the pitiful summons for a third time.
Maybe the poor thing’s scared of the witches, and wants to come inside.

The lady of the house picked up a butcher knife with her right hand, used her left one to unlock the back door. She opened it.

What did she find?

Not a coyote or a bear or a mountain lion.

But her dear old nanny goat was, in a manner of speaking, on the back
porch. The poor creature, throat slit, was hanging upside down from a two-by-six rafter. Nancy’s blood dripped onto the porch floor. As the Apache elder cut the goat down, tears rolled down her leathery cheeks. She said a few comforting words before putting the animal out of its misery.

Loyola felt rather than saw several pairs of eyes watching her from their dark concealment. The sly night breeze whispered in her ear:
You’d better get out of here . . . find someplace to hide.
Triggered by a signal from somewhere deep in her visceral region, the elderly lady’s adrenaline pump turned on to prepare her for flight or fight. The former choice was not an option. Cold fury invariably vanquishes fear—along with any residue of common sense.

Loyola set her jaw.
This time, those witches have gone too far. There’s going to be nine kinds of hell to pay!
The outraged old woman addressed her unseen tormenters aloud with a cold, hard calmness. “You’ve done it now, you mean sons of bitches.” She raised the butcher knife over her head like a banner. “This means
war
!”

This was no idle threat.

The furious old warrior entered her house without bothering to lock the door behind her. She stomped across the kitchen floor, marched into her bedroom, and opened the corner closet. Loyola yanked her dead husband’s World War II .45 caliber automatic pistol out of a scruffy old duffel bag. She ejected the magazine, counted seven fat cartridges, popped the magazine back into the slot, and expertly loaded one into the barrel.

Loyola returned to her darkened kitchen, the .45 in her hand. By now, the angry, dangerous lady was aching for revenge. Out of nowhere, a question occurred to her:
What would Geronimo or General George Patton do in a situation like this?
The answer was obvious.

Attack.

Despite her shortcomings in making sound judgments, the elderly woman was not such a fool as to make a frontal assault that was bound to end in disaster. She sat down at the kitchen table to rest, and to consider the situation.
All of those witches are young and strong, and I’m outnumbered by at least a dozen to one.
The widow had a few modest aspirations, chief of which was to live to be 101 years old.

She realized that successful assaults, particularly those made by the flinty-faced Apache chieftain and the daring World War II general, invariably followed carefully laid-out plans. But most important of all, those military strategists were known for making swift, bold moves that the enemy
did not expect
. Loyola had one significant advantage over her enemies:
They expect me to cower all night here in my house like a frightened old woman who’s scared of her shadow.
Her course of action was obvious:
I’ll surprise the murderous rascals!

But how? And to what end?

Job One was to determine the enemy’s precise location, strength, and intentions. The aged lady, who was missing several teeth, hung a gapped Cheshire grin in the darkness.
First off, I’ll go spy on ’em
. This daring plan was both gratifying and invigorating. And might lead to unexpected opportunities. Such as—
If I can draw a bead on one of those snakes, I might just take a potshot at him before I slip away.
A healthy kick of adrenaline reinforced her morale.
With a little luck, I might kill two or three of ’em.
The mere thought of spilling blood made her heart race.
Hah! That’d make ’em think twice before they murder another old woman’s goat!

Chief-General Montoya pressed the automatic pistol’s cold steel against her thin chest.
I’ll show that collection of riffraff who’s boss around here.

LOYOLA PULLED ON A PAIR OF COMFORTABLE LEATHER MOCCASINS AND
a navy-blue woolen coat—and packed the .45 automatic into a black canvas shopping bag. A few owl-hoots after 3
A.M.
, she left her house by the front door, locked it behind her with the key she kept on a string around her neck, and made her way oh-so-quietly along the weed-choked lane toward the paved road. At that junction, the latter-day warrior turned her face south to begin a long, roundabout hike to an old, little-known footbridge across Ignacio Creek.

Along the way, Mrs. Montoya began to have a few misgivings. Such as:
This is probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life
. And:
Those witches’ll probably string me up to a tree limb and slit my throat, just like they did my poor old nanny goat.
But after she had crossed the rotting pine bridge to the opposite bank, there could be no thought of turning back.

Like her Apache ancestors, she crept silently through the willowy underbrush along the stream bank. The trek was more difficult and the going slower than she had expected. Loyola worried that dawn might break before she reached her destination. After ever so many scratches, stumbles, and rips in her cotton stockings, she stopped abruptly. Squinted.
Is that what I think it is?

It was.

A flicker of light from a small campfire.

Loyola dropped to her knees and began to crawl. Now so near her objective, skulking was such great fun! She was reminded of those old black-and-white picture shows where stealthy red Indians delighted in sneaking up on unwary cowboys who slept close to the coals of a campfire. She imagined herself taking a scalp with such delicate skill that the
victim wouldn’t know what’d happened until after he’d had breakfast and decided to comb the lice out of his hair.
I wish I’d brought a razor-sharp hunting knife, so I could clench it between my teeth.