The Old Gray Wolf (21 page)

But hold on. What was that?

“Ooouuuueeee!” With slight variations and intonations, this bloodcurdling, spine-tingling yowl was repeated several times.

On yowl number four, Charlie Moon groaned. On five, he opened his eyes and stared at the unseen beamed ceiling.
Sidewinder must be howling at the moon.
A sensible conclusion—except for one minor detail: there was no moon tonight. Except for the capitalized version, whose sleep had been so rudely disturbed.

“Ooouuuu … ooouueeee!”

Moon pulled the quilt over his head.
Sooner or later, he'll stop.

Sooner. Later. The hound did not.

Having no great appreciation for this doggish serenade, the miffed rancher rolled out of bed, raised the window, and yelled at the hound, “Quiet down out there!”

Sidewinder, who had something to say and was expressing himself the only way a descendant of wolves knows how, was also miffed. And hurt. But he did cease his nighttime solo.

THE
UTE
-
PAPAGO
ORPHAN

Sarah Frank is to be counted among the insomniacs, and we know why. There is no point in belaboring the love-struck maiden's continuing melancholy about Charlie Moon's upcoming wedding to Patsy Poynter, or Sarah's indecision about when she would leave the Columbine forever, and where to go from there. Suffice it to say that the young woman has been staring at the darkened ceiling for thousands of clockish ticktocks. But nothing stays the same, and Sarah's grief will eventually be numbed by her mind's vital need for rest and the soporific effect of darkness. Her relief will, of course, necessarily be transient—at this latitude, the sun
must
come up in the morning.

THE
TOURIST

The Columbine's guest was the second of the sleepless souls—and there was ample reason for her nighttime distress. Miss Whysper had a great deal on her mind, and nocturnal mental activity tends to prevent an overtired person from drifting off into blissful unconsciousness. You know how it goes: one bothersome thought leads to another of like kind, and this process repeats itself with monotonous regularity until a dreadful circle is completed, at which point the sleepless soul is obliged to tread once more along the pathway of vexing conjectures.

In this instance, the self-administered affliction proceeded as follows:

Miss Whysper's hopeful yawn was transformed into a wistful sigh.
It would be so nice to stay at the Columbine until I'm rested and up to speed.
But she knew that …
I really should return to Granite Creek tomorrow morning and get on with my work.
On the other hand, something useful might be accomplished right here …
A day or two at Mr. Moon's ranch would provide an opportunity to learn a lot about the deputy, his elderly aunt, and that young woman who seems to be so terribly unhappy.
Not so happy herself, Miss W. shivered under the genuine Daisy Perika–hand-stitched quilt.
It's awfully cold tonight … my toes are almost numb!
But morning was only hours away, and …
It's supposed to warm up tomorrow.
Which meteorological prediction called to mind the remarkably effective greenhouse effect.
Not long after sunrise, the inside of the Bronco could be toasty warm.
And already-odorous rubbish smells were noticeably worse when heated.
Maybe I should have lowered the car windows a couple of inches.
She stretched luxuriously, yawned again, and indulged in a self-confession:
I have an unhealthy tendency to worry too much.
But that went with the territory; the life of an ambitious entrepreneur was not all that it was cracked up to be.
All I do is work work work.
And no matter how carefully a lady laid her plans, complications she could not possibly have foreseen were always popping up to aggravate the situation.
Nothing in life is ever as simple as it ought to be.
But negative thinking was like walking backward, and after all …
I knew what I was getting into when I chose this line of work.
The bottom line was that a self-employed woman who expected to pay the rent had to put her vocation first.
So I'll leave the ranch tomorrow morning and start getting things done
. A person never knows when a golden opportunity might present itself …
Like Chief Parris and Mr. Moon and their lady friends dropping in on me at the hotel.
This out-of-the-blue encounter had led to the irresistible invitation to visit Mr. Moon's ranch and introductions to several other interesting people …
Which will make it much easier to complete my work in a satisfactory fashion.
Miss Whysper knew just what she'd do on the morrow:
I'll arrange meetings with the cops' lady friends
. Professor Mayfair and Miss Poynter both had day jobs, so tomorrow evening should be a suitable time.
And that will give me all day to take care of some other odds and ends.
Getting her work done up front was really a no-brainer.
I'll have plenty of time to kick back and relax after I return home.

It seemed like the matter was settled.

Then, like a lady hoop snake about to swallow her tail …
But if I rested here for a couple of days, I'd be better prepared to do my work in Granite Creek.
Another yawn, and …
On the other hand …

It was no wonder that the weary traveler tossed and turned for almost another hour before finally drifting off into a troubled sleep.

*   *   *

Having dispensed with three of the four, we may turn our attention to the last.

THE
SOUTHERN
UTE
TRIBAL
ELDER

Not unlike her nephew upstairs, Daisy Perika was, typically, unconscious only a few heartbeats after her head had made a comfortable hollow in the pillow. But hers was not to be the well-known
blessed rest of the innocent
, and anyone who dared disrupt her slumbers would be best advised to let sleeping aunties lie undisturbed—particularly when they are liable to wake up in a bad mood and put the big bite on you.

We'd like to.

But, as is so often the case with Charlie Moon's eccentric relative, Daisy's midnight experience would prove uncommonly interesting. Phase one of the disturbance began only a labored breath or two after she had switched off the table lamp by her bed and nestled her head into the feather pillow. Was she in the process of drifting off to sleep? Perhaps. But whether Daisy was wide awake or already halfway along the pathway to that eerie shadowland where
anything
can happen, the tribal elder was convinced that her rest was interrupted by something distinctly unpleasant. More to the point, something stinkingly malodorous.

*   *   *

Her eyes tightly closed, the old woman wrinkled her nose—her sensitive nostrils
sniffed
. She sighed.
What kind of aggravation is this?
A polecat under the floor? She did not think so. This smelled more like …
a mangy old coyote wearing a dead man's socks.
(Two pairs for the quadruped.)

Yes, absurdly bizarre, but we must not be overly critical of her dubious metaphor—analyzing peculiar scents can be challenging even when all our faculties are at their peak, and Daisy was weary from the day's many activities. (Creating continual trouble for others is a tiresome business.) She sniffed again and got a better whiff.
Uh-oh.
The shaman thought she recognized the characteristic odor.
It's him.

It is so vexing when she will not be specific. Him
who
?

Daisy Perika opened her eyes.
It's the little man.

Thank you, ma'am. (She refers to the
pitukupf,
that diminutive thousand-year-old personage who abides in an abandoned badger hole in
Cañón del Espíritu
. The very same canyon whose gargantuan mouth eternally threatens to swallow the tribal elder's reservation home whole, which cozy domicile is many miles to the south of Charlie Moon's Columbine Ranch headquarters, wherein his aunt is presently bedded down.)

As Daisy reached out to switch the lamp on, she was irked to discover a spindly little (hairy) leg dangling down on right side of her head. Upon further investigation, she discovered a like appendage on the other side. These limbs were not feetless: a pair of tiny moccasins practically brushed her wrinkled cheeks. She deduced (correctly) that the
pitukupf
was perched brazenly on the headboard of her bed. Like others of his gender, the Little Man had a tendency toward tasteless jests and unseemly appearances. But this intrusion into her boudoir was a prank too far and something had to be said.

She said it: “Your feet stink like rotten meat!”

Was her uninvited guest offended by this blunt observation? Not in the least. Evidently pining for a conversation with his old friend, the dwarf made a few introductory remarks toward that end. He began with an insightful commentary on the weather.

It shall be noted that the
pitukupf,
though fluent in several languages, prefers to converse in an archaic version of the Ute tongue that even Daisy has difficulty understanding. For that reason (and others unspecified), only the gist of their verbal exchange shall be reported.

Daisy: “What're you doing here, you sawed-off little piece of [expletive deleted]?”

Unruffled, the dwarf informed the agitated shaman that he had traveled all this distance (at no small expense) entirely for her benefit.

Daisy (rolling her eyes): “That'll be the day.”

According to her night visitor, it was indeed. And after he had delivered his information and counsel, he would depart immediately for environs where his charitable intentions were appreciated.

Daisy snorted. “Have your say and
vamoose
!”

The elfin person informed his grumpy friend that she was about to be visited by the spirit of a troubled dead person.

“Hah! This sounds like that holiday ghost story—the one that European quill-pen pusher wrote down a long time ago.”
What was the name of that tale?
With the benefit of a thoughtful frown, she recollected.
Oh, right
. “A Christmas Song.” W
ho was that
matukach
fella who wrote all those tales about ghosts and pitiful little crippled orphans and seven-year-old-pickpockets and big white whales and whatnot?
It was so vexing to disremember a famous person's name.
Ol' Herman Mole-hill?
Close (she thought), but no cigar.
David Copperfoil?
Daisy shook her head.
He was the boy that got kidnapped by those pirates.
From somewhere in the fuzzy underbrush of her memory, a raspy voice said,
You can call me Ishmael.
Maybe so, but the suspicious old soul did not much care for aliases—in her book, a character who concealed his true identity was automatically suspect. After a string of faltering heartbeats (during which interval she firmly rejected Scrooge McDuck and Ahab the Arab), her stubborn perseverance was finally rewarded. In hallowed comic-strip fashion, a yellow lightbulb popped on above the thinker's head—and the tribal elder found the eminent author's name right on the tip of her tongue. After savoring the flavor, Daisy Perika
spat it out
: “Mr. Moby Dickens—that's who he was.
”

Close enough. After all, nineteenth-century American and English literature was not her long suit.

Exasperated by Daisy's discourteous inattention to the urgent matter at hand, the dwarf rebuked the flippant tribal elder. She would (he suggested) be well advised to pay close attention to what the forthcoming apparition had to say—and to act upon it without delay. To do otherwise would be a great folly—and invite unmitigated disaster.

Despite her annoyance at being upbraided by this arrogant little scamp, the shaman realized that it might be unwise to ignore the
pitukupf
's warning. “So who
is
this haunt?”

No response.

Moreover, the stink of the little man's feet was noticeably absent. As were the long-toed appendages themselves—not to mention the remainder of his miniature anatomy.

His hasty departure served to increase her suspicions.
The nasty little rascal came here just to annoy me—and to ruin my night's sleep.
Daisy Perika gritted her remaining teeth.
Well, it won't work.
The resolute old soul switched off the bedside lamp, nestled her head into the pillow again, closed her eyes, yawned enormously, and …

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

YES. PHASE TWO

As it happened (or so it seemed to the aged woman), her pleasant drifting toward sleep was interrupted by still another something or other—with a heavy emphasis on
other
. A nighttime encounter with this particular
whatever
would've made a strong man's skin crawl, his eyeballs pop halfway out of their sockets, his brave heart stop like a goose egg slamming into a brick wall at ninety miles an hour. No, please do not complicate an already ambiguous issue by asking by what means a goose egg could travel considerably faster than geese can fly. The more pertinent question is: what or whom was this jarring
other
?

We have our suspicions, but don't know for sure. Let us examine the evidence.

Exhibit one is: a low, mournful wail, not an arm's length from the pillow where Daisy's head rested so comfortably. So, did her skin crawl, her eyes pop, her heart stop? If you had such expectations, you are not acquainted with Charlie Moon's cantankerous relative. Without so much as cracking an eyelid, the aggravated sleeper groaned and said, “Oooh … what now?”