The Old Gray Wolf (14 page)

Which calls for a parenthetical comment: (“Time to think” is a powerful antidote to decisive action; Moon's life-altering plan was beginning to look a bit iffy.)

His buddy's enigmatic whisper had not gone unnoticed by Scott Parris's keen right ear. The driver shot his characteristic sideways glance at the suspect deputy. “What'd you say about thinking?”

“I'm thinking I feel a song coming on.” But not with bare fingers. After affixing the newly purchased finger-picks to his limber digits, the poker player who was betting his entire stake on the turn of a facedown card commenced to pluck strings and sing. Sing what?

What else? “Jack of Diamonds.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE FOLLOWING MORNING (HE FINALLY DOES IT)

The inevitable climax to this emergent crisis had been brewing for quite some time, and one way or another—the thing had to be settled today.

After a mostly sleepless night that was punctuated with vexing dreams about a rabid fox nipping at his bare feet, Charlie Moon rolled out of bed at the first cold gray glow of dawn to pull his britches, socks, and boots on. Half dressed, he exited his upstairs bedroom into the hallway and climbed the pine ladder into the headquarters loft. Fighting the shivers in that chilly, dusty space, he dialed the combination on the Columbine's old Mosler safe, opened the eighty-pound door—and removed a small box that contained the symbolic hope of his future.

Before Daisy Perika and Sarah Frank were up and about, the hopeful man had perked a pot of black-as-tar coffee, fixed himself a stick-to-his-ribs breakfast of three fried eggs, a thick slice of ham, and some warmed-over biscuits from yesterday. Though he had no appetite, he wolfed it all down like a soldier who was going to need all the strength he could muster for a desperate take-no-prisoners mission.

Whatever else may have occurred between Moon's early rising and his eventual arrival at the Granite Creek Public Library at 9:00
A.M.
on-the-dot (which was when the front doors were unlocked) is not of any consequence and shall be omitted.

Except to note that from their bedrooms on the first floor, both Daisy Perika and Sarah Frank had heard Moon tromp along the upstairs hallway and climb the ladder into the attic.

Daisy rolled over on her other side and sighed. “The big gourd-head is gonna do it.” Which raises two questions:
Do what?
and
How did she know?
The answers are (respectively):
We'll soon find out,
and
Daisy knew what her nephew kept in the attic safe.

Sarah Frank knew, too. Like Daisy, she remained snuggled in under the quilted covers while Moon had his breakfast, but the moment he closed the front door behind him, the young woman sprang out of bed. Clad in her blue-and-white-striped pajamas, Sarah sprinted down the hallway and across the parlor to a west-porch window. She arrived just in time to see the Expedition make a tight U-turn in the Columbine headquarters yard.
I bet I know what he's going to do.
She did. But, short of snatching a Winchester carbine from the gun rack and shooting Moon dead before he was out of range, there was not a thing Sarah could do to prevent him from
doing it
.

She watched the automobile roll down the ranch lane and rumble across the timbers of the Too Late Creek bridge. As Moon passed the foreman's residence, a small cloud of frosty dust billowed behind the SUV to produce a foggy yellow barrier between the despairing youth and the man in her life.
Oh, I just
hate
him!
Sarah's hands knotted into brittle little fists that could've knocked the knotty head clean off a wooden Indian.

9
:
01
A
.
M
.

The prettiest reference librarian Moon had ever laid eyes on was warming up her computer terminal when she became aware of a silent someone who was casting a long shadow over her shoulder. Ever ready to assist a reticent member of the reading public, the sweet lady turned to present a reassuring smile to whoever might need her help. The lady's smile upped from “professional glow” to hundred-kilowatt knock-your-socks-off intensity. “Oh, Charlie,” she said. “It's you.”

He managed a weak grin. “I know.”

How to describe her laugh at this minuscule witticism? Imagine six dozen little silver bells tinkling on Ye Fairie Queen's ankle bracelet as she dances among acres of iridescent wildflowers. Moreover, Patsy's blue eyes sparkled merrily. “What brings you to the library so early?”

A pertinent question, and one that the overly tall Indian cowboy did not want to answer right on the spur of the moment. “Uh…”

Poor Charlie … he looks like he's going to be sick
. Losing the smile, she inquired with all the tenderness of a mother addressing her three-year-old son, “Do you feel all right, sweetie?”

Being an accomplished multitasker, Moon swallowed hard—nodded—and responded thus: “Let's get out of here.”

“What?”

He enlarged on his notion: “I need a breath of air.”

Patsy detected the hint of a greenish tint on his dark face.
Oh my God—he's going to throw up!
Ejecting herself from the cushioned armchair, the panicked librarian took the gangly man by the arm and ushered him to the rear door (the nearest of the exits), which (thankfully) was equipped with a photo-detector mechanism that opened the portal when they were within three paces. This emergency egress was also (unfortunately) equipped with a loud buzzer, which was intended to attract attention to those slippery citizens who (rather than check items out in the designated manner) opted to sneak library property out the back door. Both the photo-detector door opener and buzzer worked flawlessly. As soon as they were on the redwood deck that overlooked the creek that had given its rock-hard name to both the county and the town, Moon leaned on the painted pipe railing and inhaled a refreshing gulp of air.

Patsy squeezed his sinewy arm. “Do you feel better now?”

He responded with another nod.

*   *   *

Head librarian Miss Parsons (who rarely missed a trick) had noticed the unseemly commotion even before the 140-decibel buzzer sounded, and had concluded immediately that Granite Creek County's most prominent rancher, best friend and deputy to the chief of police, enthusiastic banjo player, manager of the Columbine Grass bluegrass band, and longtime boyfriend of Miss Patsy Poynter—was looking more than a little queasy. Stepping smartly over to a spotless window that was situated between a matched pair of microfilm readers, she gazed upon the couple and shook her head.
I know what this is all about.
And, like Daisy and Sarah, Miss Parsons did know. Which knowledge was helpful to the curious lady, because Mr. Moon and his sweetheart were addressing each other in adoring looks and whispers.

(Sorry. Even if a head librarian or a fly-on-the-outer-wall could have picked up an endearing phrase here and there, it would be indiscreet to repeat a single word.)

As she watched their lips move, Miss Parsons nodded knowingly. When Mr. Moon removed a small, velvet-covered box from his jacket pocket, she sighed and rephrased her earlier conviction in a whisper: “I
knew
that's what he was going to do.” Watching the tall, dark man open the box and remove the diamond ring and slip it onto the woman's finger, the elderly spinster felt a wetness gathering in her eyes. When Patsy began to cry and the couple embraced like the rapturous lovers they were, Miss Parsons's vision blurred with tears.

Brief though it may be, this account shall be deemed sufficient.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

MR. MOON BREAKS THE BIG NEWS

Like any important announcement at the Columbine, this earthshaking revelation (think 9.3 on the Richter scale) was bound to be divulged in the dining room—at suppertime.

Sarah Frank had little doubt that her more or less secure life was about to absorb an unprecedented jolt; what she did
not
know was …
How will I react?
Little Miss Stiff-Upper-Lip promised herself that there would be no tears.
I'm twenty years old now—not some silly teenager who runs away to her bedroom to bury her face in a pillow and bawl like a calf who can't find its mother!
This was simply how the cookie had crumbled; there would be no hysterics.
I'll say: “I'm very happy for both of you, Charlie—I know you'll have a wonderful life together.”
And to top that off in first-class fashion …
I'll smile at the big bonehead like I really mean it.
(She was only about two notches away from applying Daisy Perika's heartfelt “big gourd-head” epithet to the object of her vexation.) Speaking of whom (Mrs. P.):

Daisy also knew what her nephew was working his way up to, and knew just what she'd do.
I'll laugh in his face and tell him, “Of all the dumb things—”

And she probably will, but anticipating Daisy's insults is a risky business, and even if she imagines it word-for-word, repetitions tend to be tedious. So we shall wait for the actual event.

Of the trio, the normally steady-as-he-goes Charlie Moon was the least sure of himself. Whether or not breaking the young woman's heart would have done less damage at a more propitious time and in a more private venue—those present for the impending earthquake shall never know. Not that Charlie Moon had given the matter of Sarah Frank's feelings a great deal of thought—but, like his proposal to Patsy, the thing simply had to be done. The long, tall Ute refused to admit to the reality of the Ute-Papago orphan's affection for him. This was a futile exercise in self-deception; deep down where he had tried to strangle and drown the truth, the essence of it kept bubbling up to disturb his peace. But worrying about what
might go wrong
was not the Cowboy Way, and, like pulling an aching tooth or branding a bawling year-old heifer, the stockman figured the best thing was to yank the danged molar or press the sizzling iron into the tender flesh
right now
and be done with the hurtful business. Nevertheless, the clueless tribal investigator (who honestly believed that …
This'll hurt me a lot more than Sarah
) hesitated. To put it more bluntly, he dithered. Also dawdled. And hemmed and hawed. Even
vacillated,
which is virtually unheard of in Granite Creek County.

But eventually, and without the slightest get-ready-for-this preamble, Moon mumbled the dreadful words: “Uh … me and Patsy have decided to tie the knot.” Which reminded the prospective groom of a promise he had made to his betrothed. Meeting Sarah Frank's blank stare with a sickly smile, he said, “And Patsy asked me to pass on her request for a special favor.”

The young woman's dry lips hissed a death-rasp whisper. “Favor?”

The hopeful groom nodded. “She'd be real pleased if you'd agree to be one of her … uh…”
What do they call them?
“Bride-somethings.”

“Brides
maids,
” Daisy snapped.

“Oh, right.” Charlie Moon told them something he
did
know, which was the date and time of day for the big event. And the fact that the wedding would take place at the Columbine, in the headquarters parlor.

A conversation stopper?

For Sarah, yes. A half-swallowed piece of prime Columbine beef stuck in her throat.

For Daisy, Moon's announcement was her cue. She laughed with all the scorn she could muster, then said, “Of all the dumb things you've ever done—this one sure takes the layer cake!”

Prepared for some such observation from his no-punches-pulled auntie, Moon smiled at the irascible old relative.

Aggravated by this good-natured response, Daisy shook a fork at her annoying nephew. “Mark my words—that white, blue-eyed
matukach
hussy will make your life so miserable you'll wish you'd never been born.”

“Well, if she does, I ought to be able to manage.” He winked at the wrinkled tribal elder. “I've had some training.”

“Hah—you just
think
you have.” Daisy paused for a derisive snort. “You can get away from
me
for days at a time, but when it comes to a wife—not that I'd expect you to know because you've never had one—being married is a full-time job.” The old crone grinned to display her few remaining peg-shaped teeth. “First thing you know, that yellow-haired gal will have a rope around your neck and you'll be followin' her around like a whipped dog.”

What was Sarah Frank doing during what passed for witty repartee in the Columbine headquarters dining room? Choking. Literally.

Being directly across the table from the chokee, Daisy was the first to notice Sarah's distress. “Slap her on the back!”

Immediately grasping the situation, Moon applied a sound thwack between Sarah's shoulder blades. The result of which shall not be described in nauseating detail. Who wants to hear about a sweet young lady's inevitable response to this well-intended assault? None of us, that's who. Descriptions of projectile vomiting are off-putting—even when the projectile is merely a smallish piece of partially chewed beef, which—having been expelled from her throat—sailed directly across the dining table to land in Daisy's coffee cup.
Ker-plop!

What one may say without offending delicate sensibilities is that the experience was extremely mortifying for Sarah, that Charlie Moon was embarrassed for the young lady, and that Daisy Perika cackled like an old red-combed hen who's just been told an off-color joke by the lusty barnyard rooster.

It was do-or-die time for Sarah, who was obliged to offer a ladylike apology for spitting her beef into Aunt Daisy's highly caffeinated beverage—and make her noble speech to Charlie Moon about how happy she was for him and Patsy, the wonderful life they were bound to share, et cetera. So did she “do”—i.e., come through with flying colors? No. She died.