Shadow Man (7 page)

Having enjoyed a breakfast of fried eggs and broiled beefsteak, the owner of the Columbine took his third cup of heavily sugared coffee onto the west porch of the headquarters building. Before the start of the day’s work, it was Charlie Moon’s practice to take a few minutes to enjoy this remote patch of paradise. The sun was just showing a blushing face over the Buckhorn range, the mist-shrouded river laughed its uproarious way along a road cobbled with glistening black stones. A fresh breeze carried the honeyed scent of purple clover. The Ute raised his cup to salute the morning, and its Maker. The descendant of Adam forgot about his steaming coffee, drank deeply of unadulterated joy. For this eternal instant, his life was filled with perfect peace. Time hung still, as if the ponderous rotation of a trillion-trillion galaxies had ceased.

Dogs are not romantics. The hound made his creaky way up the steps. Sidewinder regarded the human being he had adopted with a yellowed eye and cavernous yawn.

The man was away in some distant land.

To assert his presence, the dog bumped against the rancher’s knee.

Moon looked down at the beast. “Howdy-do.”

The animal responded with something that was either a rude belch or a canine expletive.

The Indian cowboy seated himself on a sturdy redwood bench.

The big dog plopped down at his feet, expelling a satisfied
whuff
from his lungs.

Quiet tiptoed back, settled down with man and beast.

Charlie Moon knew that he was blessed to have the loan of this wide river valley. Sunlight sparkled over the sweet waters, shimmered in the aspen leaves. There was so much beauty dancing about that it threatened to overwhelm him. He closed his eyes.

Peace is a precious and ephemeral commodity.

His coffee was cold when he heard the hoarse voice.

“Hey—boss!”

Moon watched his foreman approach in a stiff-legged walk. This determined gait suggested some urgent business. Trouble was what the cantankerous old man usually brought to the headquarters. Unless he had a serving of disaster or calamity to spare. “Morning, Pete.”

The dog got up, raised its nose to sniff at the wonderfully odorous man.

Pete Bushman stopped at the bottom porch step, tugged at his scruffy beard. “We got us some problems.”

Imagine that.
Moon prepared himself to receive the daily ration of bad news.

The foreman dished it out. “I just got a call from Slope-Eye Piper, who got bailed outta the Granite Creek jail yesterday afternoon. Seems Slope’d spent the night carousin’ around in town, and this morning when he was drivin’ back to the Columbine, he passes the lane to that spread we bought over t’other side a the Buckhorns, he notices the gate is busted up some, so Slope makes the turn and drives down the lane to have a look-see and—”

“Pete, give me the short version.”

Bushman took a deep breath. “Well—from the sign, Slope says it looks like some rustlers broke through the Big Hat main gate sometime last night, drove right up to the headquarters with a big truck, made off with maybe twenty head of our best Herefords.” Bushman turned to squint at the eastern horizon. “I imagine they’re in Wyomin’ or Kansas by now.”

The Ute got up from the bench, frowned at his foreman. “What about the men we’ve got stationed at the Big Hat—are they okay?” There was not a man on his payroll who would not fight it out toe-to-toe with cattle thieves. The fact that the cattle were missing suggested that the three cowboys must be hurt bad. Or worse.

Bushman’s bushy face wilted under the boss’s searing gaze. “Uh—none a our boys wasn’t exactly there at the time.” To clarify this confusing assertion, he pointed toward a distant place across the river. “I’d brought ’em back to this side a the Buckhorns, moved ’em over onto the north section, on the bank of the Little Brandywine. They was mending some a that old bob-war fence that’s been there since Moses was tendin’ sheep.”

Moon was enormously relieved to know that none of his men was injured or dead. But leaving the Big Hat unguarded was inexcusable and Bushman knew it. The boss waited for an explanation. It was not long in coming.

“Thing is,” the foreman half-whined, “we been kinda shorthanded since three of our top hands got jailed in Granite Creek for wrecking the Silver Belle Saloon and Portuguese Tom got sick with the bloody flux and little Butch went over to Denver City to get that tattoo took off his scalp and got a nasty infection that turned his eyes pink and yeller.” The foreman kicked his dusty boot at a kidney-shaped pebble, missed it. “I figgered if ’n the gate to the Big Hat was locked up tight, well, it didn’t seem likely that nobody would cut the chain and go in there to steal nothin’—I mean, they’d likely have thought we’d be bound to have somebody on the place lookin’ after our stock—” Realizing he had stumbled into a grievous tactical blunder, Bushman stopped in midsentence, stared at the ground. Wished he could sink into it.

The slender Ute nodded his head slowly, like a buzzard pecking flesh off the foreman’s bones. “But it was
me
that was fooled—I was the one that thought we had some men over there.” He looked toward the Buckhorns, blinked into the face of a blazing yellow sun. “But maybe the thieves had a grain of sense, and figured that if the gate was locked there must not be anybody on the Big Hat. Columbine cowboys don’t have a reputation of being so scared of rustlers that they lock themselves in at night.”

The foreman got the message. “Uh—right. Tell you what, I’ll put off mendin’ them fences out past Pine Knob. I’ll tell Slope-Eye to stay at the Big Hat and I’ll send a half-dozen more boys over there with carbines and orders to make it hotter’n a west-Texas cookstove in August for any rustler who so much as—”

“I’ll take care of the Big Hat.” Moon’s tone was flat, hard. “You look after the Columbine.” To avoid saying something he would regret till his dying day, he turned away, disappeared into the headquarters.

The owner of the Columbine had not raised his voice or said an unkind word, but in all the years he had worked for Charlie Moon, Pete Bushman had never seen the Ute so flat-out angry. It was understandable that the boss was riled—nothing makes a stockman madder than getting his beeves rustled. It was the foreman’s habit to argue about every decision Moon made, but this time Bushman shrugged at the empty space where the tall man had been standing.
I s’pose it could’ve been worse.

Sidewinder descended the porch steps, paused long enough to growl at the bearded man.

The foreman hardly noticed.

The hound raised a hind leg, emptied his bladder in Bushman’s boot.

Pete Bushman noticed. He also danced, shrieked a curse that would have made an inebriated longshoreman blush.

His duty duly done, the hound sauntered away toward the horse barn, where he would curl up and nap in the straw.

Charlie Moon stood in the cool darkness of the massive parlor, feeling extremely hot under the collar. Big fists clenched, he stared at a heap of piñon embers smoldering in the fireplace.
I shouldn’t have been so hard on Bushman. He’s as good a foreman as any from Montana to New Mexico, and everybody who walks on God’s earth makes mistakes. But twenty head of purebred beef stolen—that’ll amount to a good chunk of our profit for the whole year!
The rancher removed an old horseshoe that had hung on a brass hook below the mantelpiece for nine decades. It was the Columbine’s “lucky shoe.” He took hold of the thing with both hands, straightened it out. It was not
perfectly
straight, but in this world perfection is a hard commodity to come by. Feeling marginally better, Moon bent it into a U again. Not a perfect U, but it would have to do. He hung the good-luck piece back on the hook, glared at it.
See you do a better job from now on.

There was a banging on the door. It was not Bushman’s knock.

Moon ignored it.

The second rapping was louder.

Charlie’s old F-150 pickup and his Expedition are parked side by side. So he must be around here somewhere.
The logician was County Agent Forrest Wakefield. He knocked on the seasoned oak a third time.

The door was jerked open. The Ute rancher’s rangy frame filled the space.

“Hi, Charlie.”
He looks like he could chew up a railroad spike and spit out carpet tacks.
Wakefield took off his brand-new cowboy hat, held it over his heart like a shield. “How you doin’ today?”

“Peachy.” Moon gestured him inside with a nod. “What’s up, Forrest?”

“Oh, somma this and somma that.” The county agent came inside, blinked in the low light. “That coffee I smell?”

Moon led him across the parlor, down the hall, into the spacious kitchen. “I can’t remember—you like it black?”

“Cream and sugar, if you please.”

“Oh—right.” Moon prepared the beverage, put the mug and mixings in front of his guest.

Wakefield added a dab of cream, two spoons of brown sugar, took a sip. “Mmmm. That just hits the spot.”

“You want some breakfast?”

The county agent looked around the kitchen. “You got anything already made?”

“A leftover beefsteak. Some biscuits I can warm up for you. And there’s gallons of jam and jelly.”

“Ahh—that’ll do just fine.”

After he had finished his second breakfast of the day, the county agent burped. “Charlie, you sure got it made in the shade. I wish I had me a place like this. Quiet. Peaceful. No neighbors for miles and miles.” He leaned back, tilting the wooden chair on its hind legs, watched the rancher wash the dishes. Well acquainted with the Indian’s quiet moods, Wakefield happily carried on with his monologue. “You know, Charlie—when I got out of high school, I didn’t want to go to veterinary school up at Fort Collins.”

The dishwasher put a platter and mug in the drying rack. “You didn’t, huh?”

The visitor shook his head. “Did it ’cause my daddy was a vet. And I didn’t really want to be a county agent, neither. But that’s what Uncle Simon did for a living over in Grand Junction, so I sorta drifted into this line of work. It was kind of a family tradition.”

Moon seated himself across the table from his guest. “What’d you really want to be?” The Ute bet himself ten to one the answer would be “cowboy.”

Wakefield scratched at his sunburned neck. “An actor.”

“That a fact?”

“You bet.” The county agent sighed. “But Pop wouldn’t hear of it.”

“I guess he was worried you’d leave the wide-open spaces behind—head straight for Hollywood.”

“Give me half a chance, I still would.” Wakefield squinted at a rectangular frame he constructed between his thumbs and fingers. “Big silver screen.” The county agent’s eyes glazed over. “Always saw myself as a tough Bogart kinda guy. G-man, maybe. Or gangster.” He raised his hand, aimed an imaginary pistol at a defenseless bread box.

The rancher stared thoughtfully at the slender, blue-eyed white man. “Yeah. I can just see you. Blond doll hanging on one arm, Tommy-gun cradled in the other. Nasty old cigarette dangling from your lip.”

The would-be actor perceived this romantic image, nodded his whole-hearted approval. “You got it.” He gave Moon a hopeful look. “I do a great Cagney impression. One of my favorite lines was in
Blood on the Sun
—it’s a great old 1946 flick. The Cag was Bob Sharkey.”

“
Blood on the Sun
was 1945,” Moon said. “Cagney played Nick Condon.”

Wakefield was goggle-eyed. “You sure of that?”

“Bob Sharkey was his role in
13 Rue Madeleine.
That was in 1947.”

“Oh. Right.”
I never know when Charlie’s kidding me.
“Anyway, you wanta hear my Cagney?” In preparation, the county agent cleared his throat.

“I’d rather have red-hot coals stuffed under my eyelids.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No I’m not.”

“Oh.”

“What brings you out to the Columbine?”

Wakefield remembered, made a face. “The sort of thing that makes me hate to be a county agent.”

Moon mirrored the grimace. “I don’t like the sound of this.”
Maybe I should’ve listened to his Cagney.

“Well, here’s the thing Charlie—there’s a medical test I got to run on a random sample of your herd.”
I’ll try to put the best face on it, but it’ll be like primping up a warthog.
“Won’t cost you a thin dime though; Department of Agriculture’s paying for the whole business.”

The rancher was greatly relieved to hear this. He beamed at the county agent. “I am greatly relieved to hear this.”

“Forrest Wakefield,” the owner of this name said, rolling the syllables over his tongue. “That’s a great actor’s name—don’t you think?”

“It’s not as good as Spencer Tracy. But I like it a little better than Engelbert Humperdinck.”

“Actually, Mr. Humperdinck wasn’t an actor, he was a—”

“I know what he was. What’s the medical test for?”

Wakefield blushed.
I might as well just say it straight out and get it over with.
“Uh—it’s for a prion-caused ailment technically known as Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. The layman’s term is mad cow dis—”

“I know what Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease is.” Moon clasped his hands together as if he were about to offer up a prayer. “What’s happened, Forrest—a case been found in Colorado?”

“Oh, my goodness no.” The government employee shook his head hard enough to make his neck bones crack. “Most certainly not. To the best of my knowledge. My
direct
knowledge. Of course, I am not apprised of every single incident that—”

“Then why do you want to check out my stock?”

“The story is—uh—I mean I am informed by my superiors that the USDA needs some big ranches in the Rocky Mountain states to evaluate a brand-new, in-the-field blood test for C-J prions.” He tried to make it sound like good news: “And whadda you know—the Columbine got selected!”

“A dubious distinction.” Moon got up from his chair, leaned to stare at the public servant. “Give it to me straight—what’s the downside?”

“Oh, none at all.” Wakefield looked at his right hand, examined the manicure he’d paid ten dollars for in Denver. “Of course, with any of these new procedures there can always be some
minor
problems that pop up.”