Chapter One
Colorado, Southern Ute Reservation
In the Shadow of Three Sisters Mesa

This being his weekly visit to his aged relative, daisy Perika's long, lean nephew was seated at her kitchen table. It was evident that his entire attention was focused on the tribe's weekly newspaper, more particularly a column by a Granite Creek astrologer-psychic, wherein the seer predicted that (following an earthquake of unprecedented magnitude) the Lost Civilization of Atlantis would surface in the South Pacific! Though it was absolutely certain that the calamity would occur on February 10 at 9:15 a.m. Mountain Standard Time, the stars and planets were somewhat foggy on the precise year of the event—which might be 2007, or perhaps 2077—depending upon whether or not Saturn decided to visit the House of Uranus whilst that latter planet was in diametric juxtaposition to the Twenty-sixth Planet, which had not yet been discovered. The whole thing was a sham, of course.

(Clarifying note: Reference is not made to the astrologer's immodest prophecy—but rather to the more unpretentious sham currently being committed by Charlie Moon, whose apparent interest in the newspaper was a pretense.)

As it happened, Moon had heard the tramp's shuffle-footed approach when the intruder was a good hundred yards away, and the full-time rancher, part-time tribal investigator thought it would be entertaining to see how his aunt would deal with this unwelcome guest. In happy anticipation of the fireworks to come, he turned another page of the Southern Ute Drum and waited for the fun to begin. In about six seconds, he estimated. And began to count them off. One thousand and one. One thousand and two.

If Daisy had not been concentrating all her attention on the preparation of a morning meal for herself and her nephew, she might have been aware of Yadkin Dixon's arrival. Or perhaps not—the hungry man was intentionally making a stealthy approach.

One thousand and three. One thousand and four.

The way Mr. Dixon saw it, a hard-hearted old woman who kicked at chipmunks and heaved stones at pretty, flitting bluebirds could not be expected to deal kindly with a self-educated economist who firmly believed in the concept of a free lunch. Or free breakfast, as the case might be.

One thousand and five. One thousand and six.

The first evidence of his unwanted presence was the tap-tap of a knuckle on the kitchen window—and his long, horsy face gawking at her through the glass. After a startled twitch, the Ute woman quickly turned away. In Daisy's Book of Bad Things, this particular pestilence fell into that same insufferable category as the dull ache that plagued her left hip on a rainy day. Her remedy was: Ignore the hateful thing, it would eventually go away.

Her attempt to pretend that Dixon did not exist was wasted on the thick-skinned beggar who camped out somewhere in the vicinity of her home. The persistent fellow was not about to leave without some nourishment to occupy that hollow space betwixt the Coors pewter belt buckle and his spine.

Shamming on unashamedly, Moon pretended to be engrossed in an article entitled "Treating Hemorrhoids with Acupuncture." Ouch.

After ignoring the beggar for a full two seconds, Daisy gave up the game. Like death and taxes that were here to stay, Mr. Dixon was not going away. She wiped her hands on a polka-dot apron, jerked the back door open.

Before she had a chance to say something uncivil, Dixon tipped a tattered slouch hat. "Good morning, ma'am—and God bless you." Though a greeting of this sort tended to disarm his ordinary marks, he might as well have expected a cheerful "Howdy-do" to charm a grinning-skull tattoo off the hairy hide of a whiskey-soaked Hell's Angel.

Daisy marched outside, wagged a finger in his face. "Don't you start ma'am-ing me, you two-legged coyote." Ugh—he smells like last week's fish. She glared at the filthy white man. "What d'you want this time?" As if I don't know.

Charlie Moon also knew. And unseen by those outside, he had made his way to the cookstove, plopped several fat sausage links into a cast-iron skillet.

Mr. Dixon assumed a pitiful tone. "I wondered if you could spare a poor, homeless person a few leftovers from your table." His hopeful smile exposed yellowed teeth that resembled hard little kernels of unpopped corn. "Some cold, pasty oatmeal—or a few potato peels?"

"I gave you something to eat just last week." Daisy tried to recall the details and did. "It was a cheese sandwich, big enough to choke a bull moose." Though somewhat rusty from lack of use, Daisy's conscience gently reminded her that the months-old cheese was fuzzy with blue mold and on top of that the bread was hard enough to break a brass monkey's teeth and— Being one who did not accept criticism gracefully, she interrupted the inner voice: I scraped the fur off that cheese. And even if the sliced bread was a little stale, you can't expect a dirt-poor widow woman to give her last slice of fresh bread to a man who hasn't used a toothbrush since that goober-pea farmer from Georgia was president.

Blissfully unaware of Daisy's internal dialogue, the hungry man rubbed his stomach. "Alas, I have long since digested that delectable delicacy." Dixon assumed a saintly expression he had recently seen on a stained-glass window at St. Mark's Episcopal Church in Durango, where he had also tapped the Rector's Emergency Discretionary Fund for bus fare to Topeka so that he might attend his dear old mother's funeral (while Dear Old Mother was on a Caribbean cruise with her latest husband). "I would be grateful for some broken soda crackers. Or a shriveled-up apple core."

Moon cracked three brown-shell eggs on the edge of the skillet, smiled appreciatively at the man's line of talk. It was always a pleasure to witness a highly skilled professional going about his work.

Daisy was not about to leave the subject of the white vagrant's last visit. "And after I fed you that sandwich, what did you do?" Like a well-rehearsed attorney, the prosecutor-persecutor answered her own question. "You thanked me by stealing a brand-new ax from my pile of piñon wood!"

The beggar—who was short of everything but pride—stiffened his back and lied: "I did no such thing."

Her nostrils flared dangerously. "Don't tell me that, you snake-eyed sneak-thief—I was watching you from that window." To identify the physical evidence that supported her accusation, the witness for the prosecution pointed to indicate the aforesaid window.

Little wheels turned in his head, tiny ratchets clicked and clacked, and so on and so forth. Figuratively, of course. "I might have picked up your ax." Dixon's highly plastic features effortlessly assumed the injured expression of one who—though painfully wounded by a malicious and false accusation—would not take offense. "But even if I did—all I ever intended was to borrow it for a few hours."

The hard-faced woman had a ready answer for that. "Then why didn't you bring it back?"

Having fended off many serious allegations over the years, Dixon did not miss a beat. "It is my faulty memory." He leaned forward, fixed his feisty accuser with an earnest gaze. "Ever since I was struck north of Clarksville, Tennessee, by that speeding L&N freight train that was pulling eighteen boxcars and a green caboose, I can hardly remember anything—even my name." He paused for a moment, evidently involved in an intense mental effort to recall what the initials Y-D stood for, only to be defeated by the arduous task. "But be assured that as soon as I return to my modest encampment, I shall search for your—uh—dear me, you see—it has slipped away from me already." A cherubic smile. "Tell me again—what it was that is missing—a hammer from your toolshed?"

The old teakettle was approaching a boil; she hissed at him: "You took my new ax—and it was on my woodpile!"

Dixon stared at the neat stack of split piñon. "Hmmm." He nodded as if the light was beginning to dawn. "An ax, you say. Well if I should find such an implement among my meager belongings, I shall bring it to you directly."

"Well I won't hold my breath." Daisy exhaled. "And there's another thing." Inhaled. "You've got no right to be squatting on the Southern Ute reservation." She pointed at her house. "My nephew's inside, and he's a tribal policeman and—"

"Is that a fact?" Dixon's poor memory had made a remarkable recovery. "I was under the impression that Mr. Moon had retired from the Ute police department several years ago, to manage his cattle ranch."

"Charlie is a tribal investigator, and if I just snap my fingers—" she displayed a finger and thumb, all cocked to snap, "—he'll trot out here and arrest you right on the spot and—"

"You called?"

Following Dixon's gaze, Daisy turned to see her nephew's lanky form in the doorway. Moon had brought with him a platter of scrambled eggs and pork sausage. These victuals were tastefully accompanied by a pair oven-hot biscuits.

Yadkin Dixon fixed a hopeful gaze on the food. "It is good to see you, sir. I have continued to follow your career for some time now—and if I may say so, I am to be counted among your many admirers."

Moon chuckled at the blatant flattery, offered the plate to his ardent fan.

The gift was gratefully accepted by the famished man.

Daisy shook her head, turned to mutter misgivings to her overly generous relative: "Now that good-for-nothing bum'll be back every day, begging food, stealing anything that ain't nailed down." Knowing her words were wasted, she elbowed him aside, huffed and grumbled her way back into the kitchen.

Charlie Moon waited patiently while the enthusiastic diner devoured the hearty breakfast. After Dixon had wiped his mouth on his sleeve and burped, the tribal investigator gave him a look that would have shaken a more sensible man. This was accompanied by an order. "You bring that ax back today." As the sly fellow was opening his mouth to protest, the Ute cut him off: "And if you so much as steal a look at any of my aunt's property, I'll give Chief of Police Whitehorse a call. The very least he'll do is run you off the res. More likely, he'll put you up in the tribe's modern correctional facility for ninety days."

Normally such a threat would have caused Dixon to protest, or at least raise an eyebrow, but a full stomach has a calming effect on a man. He picked a pointy juniper needle off a convenient branch, thoughtfully picked his teeth, pondered the offer of a free room and three meals a day. Concluded that it would place too many restrictions on his cherished freedom of movement. "I will certainly return the lady's ax." He tossed the toothpick aside. "And henceforth, I promise not to—uh—borrow any property that belongs to your charming aunt." He raised his right hand to show Moon a soiled palm. "You have my word of honor, sir."

Great. With that and six bits I could buy me a seventy-five-cent cup of coffee. Moon looked up to watch a golden eagle float by. By the time he lowered his gaze, the scruffy-looking white man had ambled over to the Columbine Expedition.

The visitor caressed the Ford Motor Company product. "This is quite a spiffy motorcar."

Moon winced at the greasy streaks Dixon's grubby fingers were tracing on the glistening fender. "I just waxed it."

"And you did a fairly decent job." Mr. Dixon got that faraway look in his eye, also cleared his throat. Which is a double warning that whether the unwary listener likes it or not, he is about to share a favorite memory. "Back in Michigan, when I was just a young lad, my daddy owned a cherry-red 1963 Jaguar XKE 3.8 coupe. Pop kept it garaged, except on Sundays, when he'd roll it out and take me for a ride into Lansing." His sigh was scented with nostalgia-blossom perfume. "Talk about your fine automobiles—there is absolutely nothing like a Jag."

Aunt Daisy's Very Bad Dream

Daisy was busy at the propane range, putting the final touches on her nephew's breakfast. This amounted to one skillet filled with sizzling sausage and fried potatoes, another of fluffy scrambled eggs, plus a simmering pot of green chili stew. Work, work, work—that's all I ever do. As a gray mist slipped out of Spirit Canyon and settled over her mind, the cook sighed. I bet that thieving white man'll be back here tomorrow, licking his lips and asking for any prime rib and baked potatoes that's left over from my lunch. Recalling his whining request for an apple core, her wrinkled face crinkled into a crooked little smile. I ought to give him a big, shiny red apple with enough pickleweed poison in it to kill a dozen smelly moochers—that'd teach him a lesson he wouldn't forget! In Daisy's version of the heartwarming tale, this was how Snow White had dispensed with the witch, who should have known better than to trust a silly white girl who had run away from home to hang out with a truckload of dwarves. From the shaman's experience, one pitukupf in the neighborhood was sufficient.

Fortunately for Mr. Dixon, the cook had dismissed him from her malevolent thoughts. But Charlie Moon was not so lucky. As the broth began to froth and bubble, Daisy sensed the time was ripe to make some trouble—and commenced to stir the pot. "Charlie, there's something that's been bothering me."

Moon turned another page of the Southern Ute Drum. No sham this time.

"I've been having this same bad dream, over and over." No response. She turned up the volume. "Last night, I had it again. It was so scary I woke up with the sweats."

He frowned at a full-page listing of Upcoming Events, had a great notion. I should take Lila Mae McTeague to the dance. No two ways about it—the long-legged FBI agent would be the best-looking woman there.

The Ute elder turned to scowl at her nephew. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Sure." I wonder if Lila Mae's ever been to a Bear Dance. Probably not.

"Plop, plop, plop."

Moon shook a wrinkle out of the newspaper. "What?"

"That was the sound it made."

He stared at her hunched back. "The sound what made?"

"The blood."

"What blood?"

She brought him a man-sized platter of eggs, sausage, and potatoes. "The blood dropping onto that dead man's face!"

"Oh. Right." He reached for a paper napkin, considered tucking it over his new white linen shirt with the mother-of-pearl buttons, decided to put it in his lap.

She hurried back to the stove. "You don't have the least idea what I've been talking about."

"Sure I do."

"Then tell me."

"The blood. It was going . . . uh . . . drip-drip."

"It was going plop-plop-plop." She turned down the ring of blue flame under the pot, tossed him another challenge. "And how was it that I happened to hear that blood going plop-plop-plop?"

With Aunt Daisy it was nine-to-one for a nightmare, so he played the odds. "You was having one of them weird dreams."

"I knew you wasn't paying no attention." She banged the wooden spoon on the stove. "What I said was—I've been having the same bad dream, over and over."

Might as well get this over with. "Tell me all about it."

She sniffed. "Oh, you don't really want to know."

"Yes I do. And if you keep me in suspense, I won't be able to eat a bite of breakfast."

That'll be a day to remember. Daisy brought the stew pot to the table. "I dreamed about a skinny little girl."

He watched her ladle a generous helping of green chili stew onto the mound of scrambled eggs. That looks good enough to eat. He took a taste. It could use some salt.

She reached out to tweak his ear. "You're supposed to ask me: ‘Who was this skinny little girl?'"

"Consider yourself asked." He reached for the shaker.

She slapped his hand. "Don't do that—I've got it seasoned just right. I don't know who she is."

Momentarily deprived of salt, the Ute warrior raised his fork, expertly speared a sausage. "Then why should I have asked?"

"To show proper respect to a tribal elder."

"Right." He opened a steaming biscuit, inserted a generous helping of butter.

"I don't know who the girl is, because in these dreams, I don't ever see her face." She hobbled over to the stove. Back and forth, back and forth—it's a wonder I don't wear a path ankle-deep into the floor. "But I know she's in trouble. Serious trouble."

Behind her back, Moon snatched the shaker, added several dashes of sodium chloride, tasted the result. That's some better.

While preparing a plate for herself, Daisy paused to stare through the window at a diaphanous fluff of cloud floating over the big mesa. She watched it snag itself on the tallest of the Three Sisters. "In these dreams, the girl is standing over the dead man."

He took a sip of black coffee. I forgot to put sugar in it. He remedied this error with six heaping spoonfuls.

Daisy was silent for a long moment, watching the cloud that had become a misty wisp of gray hair on the petrified Pueblo woman's head. "And what makes it so awful is that her little hands is soaked in blood."

As chance would have it, he had just poured tomato ketchup onto a heap of fried potatoes.

The shaman shuddered. "And that blood just keeps dripping off the tips of her fingers—onto the dead man's face."

Charlie Moon was not a squeamish diner, but food was meant to be savored. He eyed the bloody chunk of spud on his fork. I wish she would wait until after I've had my breakfast to tell me about her nightmares.

Daisy Perika brought her plate to the table, thoughtfully watched her nephew frown at a slice of ketchup-painted potato. "All night I could hear it, even when I was wide-awake—all that blood dripping off her hands, onto that dead man's face." She saw the indecision on Charlie Moon's face. "There was so much that it puddled up in his eye sockets."

Knowing she would finally tire of the subject, he decided the fried potatoes could wait. In the meantime, he would fortify himself with eggs and sausage and buttered biscuits.

The old woman settled herself into a chair. For a while, she picked at her scrambled eggs. After a few tentative bites, she lost interest in her meal. Fixed her gaze on a Wildflower of the Month wall calendar. Began to hum her favorite Ute ballad, which she claimed had been stolen from her tribe by the British. Then, in a scratchy-creaky voice that would have set a deaf man's teeth on edge, she sang thusly:

In Sweet Grass Town, where I was born,
There was a fair lass dwellin' . . .

And so on. Until she got to the good part:

O grandmo-ther, make my bed!
O make it hard and narrow—
My sweetheart died for me today,
I'll be with him to-morrow.

After the next and semifinal verse, and following his aunt's long, melancholy sigh, Charlie Moon concluded that he had won the waiting game. He could almost taste his starchy, ketchup-tinctured victory.

From the corner of her eye, the tribal elder spotted the home fry that was newly impaled on the tines of her nephew's fork. She mumbled a hastily devised and highly discordant epilogue:

And knowin' I'll be no man's wife,
I'll slit my throat with a butcher knife . . .

The crimson-dripping morsel was rising toward Moon's lips.

Her mumble rose to a mutter:

And my blood drips down,
Down in the dust in Sweet Grass Town . . .

She watched the fork slowing—possibly coming to a stop . . .

"Plop," Daisy said. "Plop-plop."

Copyright © 2006 by James D. Doss. All rights reserved.