MOON ENJOYED a mug of honeyed coffee on the headquarters porch. The rancher was serenaded by the song of an uproariously happy river splashing its way over a glistening cobblestoned highway to the faraway western sea. Yonder on a rocky ridge, a wily old canine raised her nose to commune with an unseen waning moon and managed a passable imitation of cowboy singer Don Edwards mimicking a yip-yipping coyote—and thus was the circle of mutual admiration closed. Pretty good stuff, and you’d think a man would be satisfied, but this was not enough for Mr. Moon. Never one to deny himself a lawful pleasure, he topped off the treat by filling his eyes with the eastern sky, which was aglow over the Buckhorns with a silvery-white phosphorescence. Exclusively for his benefit, the silver radiance melted into liquid gold, followed this with shimmering streaks of pink, then swirls of deep purple. Good things have a way of passing away too quickly, and this sterling performance was completed within a dozen heartbeats.
The tribal investigator drained his mug, went inside and strode across the parlor and into the hallway, where he stopped in front of a mirror mounted on a closet door. Knowing that Loyola would expect him to look his very best, Moon had dressed in his gray Sunday-go-to-meeting suit, matching gray bull-hide cowboy boots, and a dove-gray John B. Stetson. The tall man straightened his black string tie and checked the sharp-as-an-ax creases in his custom-made slacks. As a final touch, he pinned the gold Southern Ute tribal investigator shield onto the left pocket of his white shirt.
He evaluated the resultant image with a critic’s flinty gaze. Pronounced it
not bad.
In a final adjustment to the
strictly business
portion of his outfit, Moon checked the .357 Magnum six-inch-barrel pistol holstered on his hip. No problem there. Loaded for bear. On a social call such as this, the sidearm was merely ornamental, but appearance was (by Moon’s careful reckoning) about 92 percent of getting a lawman’s job done, and Loyola expected a visiting cop to be suitably armed.
What a fine morning this was.
What an extraordinary day it would be.
LOYOLA’S TEN ACRES
The sun was hanging nine diameters high in a pale blue sky when Charlie Moon turned off the paved road and onto the rutted dirt lane that wound its serpentine way through a quarter mile of sage, piñon, and juniper before finally terminating at the farmhouse that Loyola Montoya had called home since the deepest, darkest years of the Great Depression.
Moon parked the Columbine Expedition in the scant shade of a sickly elm. A pair of inquisitive yellow jackets landed on the windshield and peered at the new arrival. Ignoring the winged, stinging insects, the tall, thin, gray-clad man got out of his automobile. He strode across the weed-choked yard toward the slightly awry front porch of a weather-beaten frame house, which had not felt the touch of a paintbrush since Loyola’s husband had died almost thirty years ago. Hopeful cottonwoods had sprouted here and there. Also sage and prickly pear. The invited visitor stepped onto the porch, hoped his bull-hide boots wouldn’t break through one of the rotted pine boards. He tapped on the front door, which opened under the pressure of his knuckle to exhale a musky scent of staleness. Moon took hold of the door, tapped harder.
Nothing.
“Hello inside—anybody home?”
He could hear the tinny tick-ticking of a small wind-up clock.
This did not feel
right.
The lawman called out louder, “Mrs. Montoya—it’s Charlie Moon.”
A warm breeze rattled dry cottonwood leaves.
The lawman stepped inside. He stood in the gloomy parlor, waiting for his pupils to dilate. Little by little, the familiar interior of the widow’s homematerialized. The small brick fireplace that featured a fancy wrought-iron grate. A sagging old sofa that reminded him of a swayback mule his grandfather had ridden to Ignacio every Saturday morning. A
The tribal investigator drained his mug, went inside and strode across the parlor and into the hallway, where he stopped in front of a mirror mounted on a closet door. Knowing that Loyola would expect him to look his very best, Moon had dressed in his gray Sunday-go-to-meeting suit, matching gray bull-hide cowboy boots, and a dove-gray John B. Stetson. The tall man straightened his black string tie and checked the sharp-as-an-ax creases in his custom-made slacks. As a final touch, he pinned the gold Southern Ute tribal investigator shield onto the left pocket of his white shirt.
He evaluated the resultant image with a critic’s flinty gaze. Pronounced it
not bad.
In a final adjustment to the
strictly business
portion of his outfit, Moon checked the .357 Magnum six-inch-barrel pistol holstered on his hip. No problem there. Loaded for bear. On a social call such as this, the sidearm was merely ornamental, but appearance was (by Moon’s careful reckoning) about 92 percent of getting a lawman’s job done, and Loyola expected a visiting cop to be suitably armed.
What a fine morning this was.
What an extraordinary day it would be.
LOYOLA’S TEN ACRES
The sun was hanging nine diameters high in a pale blue sky when Charlie Moon turned off the paved road and onto the rutted dirt lane that wound its serpentine way through a quarter mile of sage, piñon, and juniper before finally terminating at the farmhouse that Loyola Montoya had called home since the deepest, darkest years of the Great Depression.
Moon parked the Columbine Expedition in the scant shade of a sickly elm. A pair of inquisitive yellow jackets landed on the windshield and peered at the new arrival. Ignoring the winged, stinging insects, the tall, thin, gray-clad man got out of his automobile. He strode across the weed-choked yard toward the slightly awry front porch of a weather-beaten frame house, which had not felt the touch of a paintbrush since Loyola’s husband had died almost thirty years ago. Hopeful cottonwoods had sprouted here and there. Also sage and prickly pear. The invited visitor stepped onto the porch, hoped his bull-hide boots wouldn’t break through one of the rotted pine boards. He tapped on the front door, which opened under the pressure of his knuckle to exhale a musky scent of staleness. Moon took hold of the door, tapped harder.
Nothing.
“Hello inside—anybody home?”
He could hear the tinny tick-ticking of a small wind-up clock.
This did not feel
right.
The lawman called out louder, “Mrs. Montoya—it’s Charlie Moon.”
A warm breeze rattled dry cottonwood leaves.
The lawman stepped inside. He stood in the gloomy parlor, waiting for his pupils to dilate. Little by little, the familiar interior of the widow’s homematerialized. The small brick fireplace that featured a fancy wrought-iron grate. A sagging old sofa that reminded him of a swayback mule his grandfather had ridden to Ignacio every Saturday morning. A
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