Dead Soul (24 page)

“To do the job right, they’ll need to have your scooter for at least a week.”

The senator snorted. “That is impossible—I will not even consider it.”

“Yeah. That’s what I told ’em. There’s no way you could get along without your wheels for that long. You’d have to rent yourself a backup unit. And rich as you are, you wouldn’t be likely to do that.”

He turned innocent eyes on the driver. “I wouldn’t?”

“Nope. Even though you could afford to buy a brand-new GroundHog and keep the spare in Washington. Which would actually be convenient, because you wouldn’t have to fly the original scooter back and forth between Colorado and the capital.” Moon added: “‘No,’ I said, ‘The senator wouldn’t ever go to the expense. Not even if the national security of our great Republic was at risk.’”

“Charles, I cannot believe you said such a thing.”

“Neither can I.”

“True, I do not cast greenbacks to the four winds. But neither am I a penny-pincher.”

The tribal investigator shot the senator a sly look. “Then some extra expenses won’t be a problem?”

“Well, of course not. Hang the expenses—full speed ahead.”

“Now that’s the kind of talk I like to hear.”

“I hate to admit it, but a duplicate GroundHog is an excellent idea. On this very day, I will instruct Miss James to place an order for another unit.”

Moon shook his head. “The counterespionage specialists won’t go along with that.”

“They won’t?”

“Nobody but you and me and the feds can know about the duplicate GroundHog.”

“Then how will the purchase be made?”

“Through the FBI’s Denver field office. And any kind of check from you is out of the question. We’ll hide the expenditure on my credit card.”

“I must say, that is very decent of you.”

“Not really. I’m talking about my BoxCar card—I’ll use your plastic to get a loan from the Stockman’s Credit Union. Later on, when I turn in my expense account, the cost of the new GroundHog will be broken up into several cost categories. Travel. Meals. Whatever.”

“Of course. Go right ahead—I hereby authorize you to make the expenditure.”

“I’m glad you approve.” Charlie Moon pulled to a stop under a pair of tired cottonwoods that leaned against each other for support. “I made the application for the loan yesterday.”

“I must admit that I am greatly impressed by your audacity. Furthermore, I admire your circuitous—nay, I shall even say
devious
—means of achieving the desired result.” Senator Davidson beamed on the younger man. “Charlie, you have all the makings of a crackerjack politician.”

Moon frowned at the elder statesman. “Sir, I know I have my shortcomings, but that sort of remark is uncalled for.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

THE UNINVITED

LUNCH AT THE COLUMBINE WAS A SPLENDID AFFAIR
.
THE MEN ATE
like wolves; they talked loudly of politics and cattle and the economy and what a great country this was. Miss James attempted to help Dolly Bushman in the kitchen, but the senator’s able assistant was gently shooed away from the cookstove. What would it look like—a guest working like a hired hand? Dolly would not rest until all present had had their fill of barbecued beef ribs, baked beans, potato salad, hot baked bread dripping with butter. When Charlie Moon insisted that the woman who had prepared the feast sit and enjoy the fruits of her labor, Dolly finally relented.

Moon was about to take a bite of pie when the telephone on the parlor wall jangled. Pete Bushman made a move to get up from the table, but was stilled by a look from the boss. “We have an answering machine,” his employer said.

The caller hung up when the recorded voice asked for a name and number.

Immediately, Pete Bushman’s cell phone buzzed. The foreman mumbled something under his bushy beard, got up, and stomped out of the dining room. He stood in the parlor, listened to a torrent of words, barked a few curt orders, pressed a memory button, repeated the previous performance, dialed 911, had another brief conversation.

Moon, who had been watching Pete out of the corner of his eye, got a nod from the grizzled foreman.

By the time the Ute got to the parlor, Pete had opened the glazed gun case.

“What’s going on?”

“We got troubles.” He pitched the boss a carbine.

Must be the cougar.
Moon checked the magazine. It was full. “Two-Toes?”

“Nope. The call was from Alf. He’s working on the irrigation ditch down at the south alfalfa.” Bushman selected an automatic shotgun, loaded it with slug shells. “We got a bunch a yahoos on black motor-sickles comin’ up the road hell fer leather. I figger it’s that nasty bunch you had a run-in with.”

The Ute glanced toward the dining room. “Job One is to protect our guests. Get on the phone and—”

Bushman cut in. “I already told Alf to bring all the men he’s got to the headquarters fast as he can. I called the Wyomin’ Kyd. He’s strawbossin’ some repairs on the east fence line. He’ll bring as many hands as he has; any as ain’t already armed’ll pick up their guns at the bunkhouse. Then I called the state police—told ’em the senator is here on the Columbine and we’ve got big trouble a-comin’ down the road. Cops’ll be here fast as they can.”

“You did good, Pete.”

There was a heavy scratching at the porch door, followed by a deep-throated bark. Moon opened the door, pointed the large hound toward the dining room. Seeming to understand what was required of him, Sidewinder trotted away to take up a position behind Miss James’s chair.

Henry Buford appeared at Moon’s elbow, frowned at the grim-faced armed men. “What’s up?”

“We may be about to have a problem with some motorcycle hooligans.” Moon pointed at the gun cabinet. “Take whatever you feel comfortable with.”

“I’m already packing.” The senator’s ranch manager pulled back his suit jacket to expose a holstered 9mm automatic pistol.

“You’ll need more than that,” Bushman said.

Buford selected a Remington repeating rifle.

Moon glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, made a quick calculation. “I think I know where I can stop them.”

Pete Bushman set his jaw. “Well, I’m goin’ with you.”

The Ute rancher shook his head, gave his foreman a look that brooked no argument. “There’s no time to discuss this, Pete. You stay here at the headquarters—make sure our guests are safe. Soon as a few of our men show up, send them down the road to find me.” He hesitated. “I doubt this situation is as bad as it looks. But if any of those fellas show up here looking for trouble, don’t bother with winging ’em—shoot to kill.”

Bushman gave the boss a look that expressed his intense desire to do just that.

Moon headed for the door.

Henry Buford hurried along behind the Ute, down the porch steps. “Well, I’m coming with you.”

“It would be better if you stayed—”

The BoxCar manager made a barking laugh. “Don’t give me any orders—I’m not one of your hired hands.”

Moon was sliding into the pickup. “I thought you’d want to stay close to Patch.”

Buford’s face flushed red. “My responsibility is to keep thugs well away from the senator.” He jumped into the passenger side of the pickup, slammed the door. “And the best way to do that is to back you up.”

Moon cranked the engine, slammed the gearshift into “low,” kicked gravel. “I am happy to have your company.”

Buford chuckled. “I heard about how you kicked some ass over at the Mountain Man. Word is, one of those leather-jacketed, drug-pushing terrorists put a big diamondback in your pickup.”

“Yeah,” the Ute said.
But I’m still here.

When they approached the bridge over Too Late Creek, the pickup was doing sixty miles an hour on rough road. The Ute hit the brakes, slid to a sideways stop on the rickety plank structure.

Buford understood. This was the only bridge across the yard-deep stream, and the banks were steep and heavily treed with cottonwood and willow.

The men took up positions behind the pickup. The tall Ute rested his carbine on the cab, the BoxCar manager stood by the tailgate. They heard the understated mumbling of engines. As the seconds ticked away, the throaty rumble grew loader.

Henry Buford blinked into the noonday sun, pulled down the brim of his felt hat. “Here they come.”

And there they came. A stampede of savage beasts, enfolded in a billowing cloud of dust.

For a long moment, it appeared that the bikers might collide with the pickup on the plank bridge. But within fifty yards of Too Late Creek, there were yelps from the leaders of the pack, a waving of hands, motorcycles skidding to a stop.

Moon and his backup waited.

Slowly, the dust responded to the pull of gravity, settled on the road.

DOLLY BUSHMAN
—equally familiar with kitchen appliances and firearms—had left the former to take up the latter. The foreman’s wife was stationed at a front window with a double-barreled, twenty-gauge shotgun. The woman was entirely ready to conduct such business as might become necessary. Her husband, who had been tramping from window to window, was muttering incoherently under his beard.

Senator Davidson, having armed himself with a carbine, was waving the weapon around like a club, and demanded, “What in hell is going on—are we under attack?”

The Columbine foreman stuffed a chaw of tobacco into his mouth. “Patch, we got us a situation here. But I wouldn’t worry none.”
Dammit, where are them no-account cowboys when you need ’em?

With the hound hovering protectively at her side, Miss James was only mildly alarmed. Whatever was going on, surely Charlie Moon and Henry Buford could manage it. But if things got desperate, she had already decided to use the single rifle left in the gun cabinet.

The senator rolled his manual wheelchair to the front window, beside Dolly Bushman.
If push comes to shove, I’ll give a damn good accounting of myself.
He cocked the carbine.

Dolly looked down at the ashen-faced politician.
You live to see
another election, you sure enough got my vote
. The plump sentry returned her attention to the window. Though prepared to do battle, she was not overly concerned that it would come to that.
Charlie Moon can handle whatever is out there.

HALF
-
TON WAS
in the lead, his great bulk concealing much of the black Harley. The huge man cut his engine, waved to his band of followers. They did the same. The sudden quiet was unnerving.

Pie Eye, stuffed into a sidecar near the middle of the sinister procession, appeared to be in a semivegetative state. His mouth lolled open, the eyes stared blankly.

Moon and his comrade waited.

The motley crew of bikers spewed their hatred at the unexpected obstruction. There were mutters, grunts, shouted obscenities.

The Ute held his silence.

In a voice that could barely be heard, Henry Buford was singing an old hymn.
Shall We Gather At The River…

The oversized leader of the gang blinked at the men behind the pickup, aimed a toothless grin at the Ute, and yelled, “Hey, Injun-cowboy, this any way to make your company welcome?”

The BoxCar manager interrupted his singing. “I make it thirteen. Not counting the veggie.”

Moon nodded. A baker’s dozen.

Buford was perfectly calm. “Charlie, how do you want to do it?”

“If this goes sour, I’ll take the ones to the left. You go for the right side.”

“Suits me. And this being your party, you can have seven, I’ll take six.”

“Sounds fair.”

“But I want the fat one.”

“You goin’ for the easy shot?”

Buford chuckled.

“These crazies make a move, Half-Ton is your meat. But first, let me try talking.”

“Talk to this bunch?” Buford snorted. “You might as well recite Kipling to a herd of pigs.”

BUSHMAN LOOKED
out the kitchen window, saw them coming on the run.
Thank the Lord!
The Columbine foreman threw the back door open to the Wyoming Kyd. Jerome Kydmann—the Kyd was from Wyoming, Rhode Island—appeared to be a decade younger than his thirty-four summers. It had not been necessary for the Kyd to arm himself. An incurable romantic, Jerome always wore a brace of blued-steel, ivory-grip Colt .45 six-shooters. This was considered a mild eccentricity on a cattle ranch populated with a congregation of exceedingly strange characters.

A half dozen scruffy-looking Columbine cowboys trooped in behind the well-dressed straw boss. Most of these carried rusty old carbines or revolvers of doubtful reliability.

The small, lean Mexican in a broad-brimmed straw hat was the exception. Griego Santanna had a chrome-plated pistol in his hand, a glistening bowie knife tucked under his belt—a wild, happy glint in his eye. He addressed his inquiry to Pete Bushman: “Ho-kay, where are these
comancheros
you want Griego to murder for you?” Fighting was much more fun than mending barbed wire fences.

Miss James, still in the dining room, had not noticed the arrival of the cowhands. She heard the voices, turned to see the band of cutthroats invading the Columbine headquarters.

The Mexican grinned at her, exposing nine stainless steel teeth. With the intention of amusing the wide-eyed gringo woman, Santanna pulled the bone-handled bowie knife from a beaded leather sheath, rotated the nine-inch blade to display the mirror finish. “
Brillante,
” he said to the attractive lady, and winked. “Very pretty, huh?”

Sidewinder moved in front of the woman, bared a mouthful of impressive teeth at the Mexican.