Stone Butterfly (27 page)

“Forget it, Charlie—you don't need to bother with Dukey on my account.”

“I'll be back in a minute.” Moon passed by Mr. Raincoat, found his way to a shadowy corner booth by the ladies' room. He tipped his black Stetson at the pretty lady.

She smiled at the long, lean cowboy. “What's up, Tex?”

“Could I sit down for just a minute?”

The redhead looked at her watch. “Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight…”

Moon straddled a chair. “You're a very attractive woman.”

“Thank you. Is that why you followed me into this fine restaurant?”

“Partly.”

She pursed her pretty lips. “Only partly?”

He nodded. “I got a proposition for you.”

“You certainly don't waste any time.”

“Time is a highly valuable commodity.”

“Your place or mine?”

“Ma'am, I don't believe you have a place in Granite Creek.”

“What are you, big boy—some kind of clairvoyant?”

“Nope.” Charlie Moon produced the gold shield from his shirt pocket, presented it. “I'm some kind of cop.”

The brittle smile froze on her face, instantly aging it by a decade. “How very nice for you.”

“But not for you.”

She glanced over his shoulder.

“That big fella you're looking at—you just give him a signal to come over here and rescue you?”

“What if I did?”

“It's fine with me. Fact is, it's exactly what I was hoping you'd do.”

Raincoat loomed near.

“That's close enough,” Moon said.

The big man stopped. “Little lady, this fella botherin' you?”

“Yes, I am.” The Ute got to his feet. “Now you sit down where I was at.”

Raincoat's hands made ham-sized fists. “Why would I want to do that?”

Moon's eyes narrowed. “Because I told you to.”

“That's pretty big talk for a—”

“He's a cop, Mick.”

Raincoat, AKA Tricky Mick, blinked at the redhead. “What?”

“Last chance,” Moon said. “Sit down.”

Mick sat.

The tribal investigator placed both palms on the filthy table, leaned close enough to smell the man's sour breath. “I saw you work your dodge on my friend.” He nodded to indicate Scott Parris, who had not gone unnoticed by the pair. “Good-looking lady gives him the big eye, which gets him all flustered. Gorilla-Mick bumps into him, picks his pocket.”

The pair of grifters presented stony faces.

“It was a nice, clean job.” Moon addressed the plug-ugly half of the team. “But you picked the wrong guy's pocket.”

Redhead was beginning to get the drift of things. “He another cop?”

“Better than that.” Moon grinned. “He's chief of police.”

Mick groaned.

“You got two choices,” the Ute said. “Number one, you go straight to jail.” He watched their faces blanch. “Then there's number two. Mick peels off his raincoat, real slow and easy—and hands it over to me. I remove my friend's wallet from one of those oversized pockets, check to make sure his greenbacks and plastic are still inside. Then you two get up, take a stroll out to the bus and get on board.”

Redhead and Mick exchanged looks.

“The coach that's warming up leaves for Colorado Springs in about two minutes. Maybe a tad less. You're not on it, I'll introduce you to the chief of police.”

Redhead nodded at her partner. Mick shed the raincoat.

Moon went through the pockets, removed four wallets, an antique pocket watch, a brand-new Case pocket knife.

“The folding knife's mine,” Mick grumbled.

The Ute pitched it on the table.

The bus driver tooted his horn.

Moon watched the pair hurry away to their appointed carrier.

Parris watched his friend approach. “What was that all about?”

“If I tell you, you got to swear you won't interfere.”

“I'm not mad enough to swear, but okay.”

Moon watched the Greyhound pull away. When it was out of sight, he passed the raincoat to his best friend.

“The sun's shining to beat the band—I don't need this.”

“Neither did the other guy. Which was something an experienced copper should have noticed when Mick and Redhead staged that encounter with him on Copper Street.”

Parris stared at the bulky raincoat. Reached for his hip pocket. “Oh no—don't tell me.”

“Your wallet's in the inside coat pocket. Along with some other stuff you can return to several local citizens, who will be extremely grateful to their keen-eyed chief of police.”

Parris examined his wallet, found everything in its proper place. “Charlie, we can't just let those two yahoos ride out of Granite Creek. Next town they hit, they'll be up to their usual tricks.”

“Then put in a call to your cop friends in Colorado Springs. But you can't stop the bus.”

“Why?”

“Because I gave both of 'em my word.”

“Well, that throws a whole new light on the situation. A man's word is…his bond and all that whatnot.” A hesitation. “But would you mind if I made an incisive observation?”

“Not at all.”

“Now I don't want you to take this the wrong way, Charlie—but you seem to be awfully pleased with yourself.”

“Pleased?”

The chief of police nodded. “Even if I said puffed-up, it would not be going too far.”

“Well, maybe I got a reason to be pleased. Even puffed-up.” Moon reminded him: “It was
you
that got stung. And
me
that noticed what those two was up to.”

“I can't argue with that, Charlie. You were on the ball all right. But still—a little humility wouldn't hurt you.”

“Yes, it would. Tell you what—I'll be humble tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that.”

Parris gave his Indian friend an enigmatic look. “Well, we're done here so I guess we might as well be oozin' on down the street. I got a one-thirty meeting with the mayor and she hates it when I'm late.” He cleared his throat. “You got the correct time?”

“Sure do.” Moon looked at his wristwatch. It took the Ute a couple of disbelieving blinks to realize that his wrist was buck-naked. Mouth open, he looked in the direction the Greyhound had gone. “That sneaky redheaded woman—she must've slipped it off while I was—”

Scott Parris's huge laugh exploded, boomed across the room, shook the cobwebs on the rafters, rattled the dirty windowpanes.

Startled by this unexpected hilarity, Dukey dropped a gallon pot of pinto beans.

It was a few minutes before midnight when Father Raes Delfino turned off the paved highway, unlocked the Columbine gate, drove slowly along the hard-packed dirt-and-gravel road that would eventually bring him to the ranch headquarters where, he presumed, Charlie Moon would be sleeping on the second floor. The original moon—resembling the convexity of a silver spoon—was almost full, almost overhead. He glanced at the mildly tarnished satellite, mused that it could use some polishing,
Well, that was a silly thought. I've been up too long.
In an attempt to dislodge the encroaching spirit of slumber, the Jesuit shook his head.
I must stay wide awake until I'm home.
Home. The powerful word called up fond images of the log cabin Charlie Moon—a most generous soul—had made available to him upon his retirement from St. Ignatius and the active priesthood. The remote cabin was the perfect physical refuge from the tumult and troubles of this world; a place where he could withdraw without the least worry of being disturbed. Well, almost. From time to time, some cowhand would “drop by,” always “just to see if you needed somethin'.” A few of these men were practicing Christians, quite a few more were hardened sinners, but whether they were aware of it or not—all were souls whose ultimate desire and eternal purpose was union with God. This being so, Fr. Raes always had time for these visitors. And he loved them every one.
My obligation to feed the Lord's sheep will not end until I take my last breath. If then…
He watched an incandescent meteorite streak across the midnight velvet, expire in silence.

His buoyant thoughts and the faithful automobile carried him through the darkness, across the rolling high prairie, along the hem of the blue-gray mountain's pleated skirts, past the foreman's darkened house, over the Too Late Bridge, which spanned the Too Late Creek, which flowed into the big river—whose numbingly cold waters were currently rolling along toward a rendezvous with the immense Pacific.

The priest slowed as he passed Charlie's Moon's large house. The Columbine headquarters was dark, but did not sleep. When he saw a pair of red eyes glinting in his headlights, the driver realized that Sidewinder was on the job. He smiled, muttered a fond hello to the eccentric animal.

The Columbine hound had heard the sound of the automobile when it was still miles away, and recognized the familiar clackety-clacking of valves tapping in the aged Buick engine. The surly beast had emerged from under the long porch just in time to offer a solemn greeting to the ranch's most distinguished resident. On the other side of a long ridge, nestled in a glade of blackish-blue spruce, was the priest's small cabin. The hound would pay a visit there when the world was light again. The kindly man always had some tasty tidbit to offer a hungry visitor. And though no one had taken note of this curious fact, the holy man of God was the only person on the cattle ranch that Sidewinder—a highly accomplished thief—would not steal food from. The dog watched the cherry-red taillights recede and wink out, listened intently to the decaying sounds of the engine. Finally, when there was little more to see than the moonlit profile of the Buckhorn range, nothing to hear but the humming hymn of night wind in the pines, the dog yawned, retreated to his straw bed under the headquarters' porch.

The Priest Encounters a Small Mystery

It was with considerable satisfaction that Father Raes Delfino emerged from his dusty automobile, removed a single suitcase from the trunk, and trudged down the flagstone path toward the cabin.
It is so good to be home again.
He opened the front door, flicked the switch, was temporarily blinded by the incandescent flash of a sixty-watt bulb in a copper-shaded lamp. Blinking, he placed the suitcase on a chair, walked across the small parlor—stopped dead still. He looked around. Nothing appeared to be amiss. He listened. Not a sound. Nevertheless…
Something is not quite right.

The logical half of his brain kicked in.
Everything is just as it should be. It's merely my imagination. I'm exhausted from getting up before sunrise, enduring a long, tiresome drive. And I've not had a bite to eat since breakfast.
Taking note of this last assertion and wishing to express its hearty agreement, his empty stomach uttered a guttural growl.
Well, I know what to do about that.
The practical man headed for the kitchen, flipped another light switch—goggled at what he saw on the table.
What is this?

This,
upon closer examination, proved to be three cardboard boxes and two plastic grocery bags stuffed with stuff. Mostly food—in glass jars, steel cans, cellophane bags.
Who would have left me all of this?
Not Dolly Bushman; the foreman's wife thoughtfully provided such ready-to-eat treats as luscious lemon layer cakes and crispy apple fritters. When Charlie Moon dropped by with food, the victuals leaned toward massive beefsteaks, sugar-cured hams, quart jars of blackberry jam. He noticed a note, which was secured under the corner of a box, immediately recognized the mischievous old Ute woman's scrawl.
God help us all.
He held it under the light.

In case Father Raes did not know What They Say, she had penciled the proverb in for him:

The scholarly man scanned the message again, found the second reading just as extraordinary as the first. The expression on his face testified to that sort of suspicion that a citizen experiences when a politician proclaims: “My only ambition is to be a public servant—send me to Washington (or Denver, or wherever) and I'll look after things for you.” Indeed, he might well have said pshaw. Balderdash. Even hogwash.

Moreover, and in addition to harboring general misgivings, Father Raes Delfino felt just a touch of anxiety.
Daisy Perika—why the very name is a synonym for Trouble. And what is this “ha-ha” business—what else has she left here in my absence? Something to plague me, no doubt.
But only a few heartbeats passed before the old woman's gift of food made the man of God blush with shame. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, prayed:
Dear Father in Heaven—forgive me for entertaining such unworthy thoughts. Daisy may be a bit odd, and the note certainly has its mysterious qualities—but it appears that she has cleaned out her little pantry and brought the bounty all to me. I should be especially thankful for such a selfless act from a person whom one would hardly expect to give a crust of bread to a starving tramp on her doorstep even if she tripped over his body—Excuse me. I'm so sorry—I didn't really mean that. Daisy has many good qualities and I am thankful for what she has done.
A long pause. A penitential sigh.
As soon as I have had a few hours sleep, I shall call her up and thank her for this kindness. Amen.

But while the priest felt absolved from his minor sin, he still did not feel comfortable. The thought nagged at him:
There is something more to this than meets the eye.
His keen eyes surveyed the kitchen for some clue. He listened. Even sniffed the air.
Yes. I'm absolutely certain—there's someone here!

But who? And where?

He was of the opinion that there is an answer to every question. Though not always the one we are prepared to hear.

What he heard was a scuffing sound in the cellar. As if someone—or
something
—had bumped into a basket of red cabbages or a sack of sweet potatoes.

Father Raes called out, “Who's down there?”

Silence. Of the sort that inhabits a dusty, musty tomb.

The rightful resident was resolute. “You might as well show yourself.”

He marched across the kitchen floor, jerked open the cellar door, assumed a stern demeanor as he addressed the blackness below: “Either you come up, or I'm coming down.” For the third time that night, he toggled a light switch. There was no response from the single bulb that hung above the cellar stairs.
Must be burned out. I'll have to get a flashlight.

As it happened, this turned out to be unnecessary.

The man of the house heard a feline whine, was startled to see a black-and-white bundle of fur toddle up the wooden stairs. Just as if they had been lifelong friends and belonged to the same political party, Mr. Zig-Zag purred—and rubbed his gaunt rib cage against the cleric's leg.

Father Raes chuckled, bent to rub the amiable animal. “Well, well—what do we have here?”
The solution to a small mystery, of course. For some reason known only to herself and God, Daisy Perika has brought me a cat.
“Come along, I'll find you something to eat.” As he watched the creature lap up a saucer of milk, he wondered:
Why doesn't Daisy want her nephew to know about this animal?
He consulted his wristwatch, yawned.
Well, it's far too late to be puzzling about such issues. When I talk to Daisy, I'll ask her.

After Mr. Zig-Zag had had his fill, he wandered around and about the cabin, sniffing at table legs, old shoes, empty corners. Finally, giving the priest a rub on the shin, and mouthing a respectful “meow,” the animal stepped softly over to the cellar door, looked back expectantly at the latest human being to be bent to his will.

“Ah, so you wish to sleep down there with the root vegetables?”
And stalk the wily mouse, I suppose.
“Very well, then. But just in case you wish to come back upstairs—or go outside, I'll leave both doors slightly ajar.”

Having finished his business with the cat, Father Raes Delfino retired for the night.

Though sorely in need of rest, his sleep was troubled.

As the weary man tossed and turned, he dreamed about dozens of stray cats swarming over the cabin, an old Ute woman who was laughing at some private joke she'd played on him, and most disturbing of all—the presence of a ghostly presence in his bedroom. Once, he awakened to see the small, thin form standing near his bed.
It is a female. And she is staring at me.
Not the sort of man to be unduly alarmed by such an unpretentious apparition—he had seen truly frightful phantoms during his missionary work with primitive tribes in the Amazon—the priest reached to the night table for his spectacles, switched on the lamp by his bed.
Now I don't see a thing.
He switched off the light, fell back on a lumpy pillow.
It must have been a hallucination.
Following a satisfying yawn, he drifted away to a restful sleep. If there were other dreams, the dreamer did not remember them. But after a late-morning breakfast, he picked up the telephone, dialed the Ute woman's number that he knew so well. He also knew the woman very well.
I will thank her for the food, but I will also be very direct, and ask for an explanation about this cat that she doesn't want Charlie Moon to know about.
He knew the Ute elder would be evasive.
Daisy is up to something.
Which was like saying the governor was a politician. Or water is wet.

Though she did not know the day or hour it might occur, Daisy Perika was expecting the call. When the telephone by her rocking chair rang, she leaned sideways to eye the thing. Particularly the caller ID.
Yeah, it's him all right.
The crafty old woman smiled, resumed her rocking. She also began to sing a favorite hymn:

“I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the ro-ses.”

The telephone continued to ring, Daisy continued rock. And to sing.

“And the voice I hear, fall-ing on my ear…”
What's the rest of that line?

A quick intake of breath.

“He walks with me, and he talks with me.”

Back and forth in the chair.

“And he tells me that I am his own.”

The telephone ceased its ringing.

The old woman did not cease her singing.

“And the joy we share, as we tar-ry there, none other has ev-er known.”

Her happy song went right on, through the last two verses.

Her seesawing chair kindly provided the rhythm.

Creak-squeak.

The rocking felt very good.
It's what they call…something-or-other.
Daisy frowned.
What's the word?
It came to her.

Therapeutic.