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  When they are ready, this is for

  Summer

  Bry

  Moriah

  Walker

  Savannah Rose

  and

  Nathan

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Epilogue

  Also by James D. Doss

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  HESTER “TOADIE” TILLMAN

  No; please do not ask. It would be less than charitable to explain how the unfortunate old soul got tagged with a nickname which suggests froggish features. Ninety-year-old ladies are not without vanity, and are entitled to their privacy.

  But that polite designation might be misleading. In the interest of trustworthy reporting, it shall be noted that not everyone in La Plata County who has encountered Mrs. Tillman would characterize her a bona fide lady. Probably not one in ten of them. Perhaps not one. Truth be told, the mean-spirited old crone is believed by more than a working quorum of duly registered voters to be a black-hearted, spell-casting witch—for which dubious craft there is no overwhelming market in South Central Colorado. Yes, this does sound like deliberately titillating gossip, and so it may be—but maliciously disseminated rumors, barefaced hearsay, and silly tittle-tattle are occasionally relevant to a significant current event, as is the case at this very instant, about a mile and a minute north of the Ignacio city limits on Route 172. Which is not a nice place to be if one is either trapped inside a severely damaged automobile or attempting to console the mortally injured citizen within it. Which unhappy duty has fallen upon one …

  OFFICER DANNY BIGNIGHT

  The aforementioned constable is a respected employee of the Southern Ute Police Department and a reputable (if displaced) member of the Taos Pueblo, which venerable New Mexico community boasts the largest continually occupied apartment building in the United States of America and (as far as we know) the vast entirety of the Western Hemisphere. But that advertisement is an aside for which remuneration is unlikely, so let us get right to the grisly business at hand—which is an unforeseen and jarring encounter between Hester “Toadie” Tillman and Danny Bignight, which follows a far more jarring encounter between the sturdy motor vehicle Ms. Tillman was a passenger in and a medium-size ponderosa pine. No contest.

  Even as we speak, the elderly reputed witch is about to be pried from the wrecked Dodge pickup—the very same conveyance that her granddaughter was driving when a bald front tire (the one on the passenger side) meandered onto the shoulder to roll over a pointy chunk of gravel and pop (ka-boom!) like a pricked balloon. For the record, the driver will depart in the first of two waiting ambulances, which will (sirens screaming, emergency lights flashing) roar away speedily to Durango’s Mercy Regional Medical Center. Therein, she will be expertly treated in the ER and survive with a one-inch scar to cleft her chin. This mark will serve as a lifelong memento of the accident and a reminder not to use the rearview mirror for applying shocking pink lip gloss whilst exceeding the posted speed limit.

  But enough about the granddaughter; back to Hester “T” Tillman.

  As a brawny state trooper applies the hydraulic Jaws of Life spreader-cutters to the crushed vehicle’s roof, Officer Danny Bignight is doing his level best to comfort the old woman whom he is deathly afraid of. Mrs. Tillman has a few words to say to this latter-day Good Samaritan who would just as well have passed her by if underpaid SUPD cops had the same options as Bible-time priests and scribes. Happily, the attending police officer is not the immediate object of her dreadful declaration; Bignight is merely Toadie’s intended messenger. The alleged brewer of sinister potions and caster of evil spells has a menacing communication for one Daisy Perika, who shall be introduced in due time. But let it be said right up front that compared to Miss Daisy P., Hester T. is a sweet, purring, furry little pussycat.

  This so-called pussycat, still trapped in the crunched-up Dodge pickup, hissed at the public servant, “Now listen to me, Danny Bignight—you pass what I’ve got to say on to Daisy word for word, or my curse’ll fall on you and all of your family down at Taos Pueblo.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” As the cop listened to the message for Daisy Perika, he broke into a cold sweat, his soulful eyes bulged like big brown bubbles in the white of an overfried egg, and his stomach churned sourly. As one might expect, Danny Bignight also swallowed hard.

  Following her final declaration, Toadie cackled a crackly laugh, hiccupped—and drew her last breath. Or—as old folks long ago used to say on dark nights in the flickering yellow light cast by kerosene lamps—she gave up the ghost. Where a particular given-up ghost goes and what it does when it gets there remains an open question—and one that is relevant to a forthcoming unnerving event which will create no small disturbance.

  By the time the state trooper and an EMT had pulled the aged woman’s warm corpse from the totaled pickup and loaded it into the second ambulance, which was perhaps six minutes after Toadie’s final hiccup, Danny Bignight had retreated into the sanctuary of his SUPD unit and locked the door. As he wiped perspiration from his forehead, the Southern Ute police officer knew what Job One was: I’ll go see Aunt Daisy right away!

  No, Daisy Perika is not Danny Bignight’s aunt. As it happens, every Southern Ute on the res and most of the Hispanics and Anglos who reside in and around Ignacio apply the title Aunt to the crotchety tribal elder, who is more or less infamous in her little corner of the world, and mighty proud of it. If you were to ask Daisy, she’d tell you that if those do-nothing bureaucrats in Washington, D.C., were really on the ball, that honora
ry first name (Aunt) would be printed in U.S.government ink onto her ragged old Social Security card, but they are not (on the ball) and it is not (printed there).

  Please—don’t get Aunt Daisy started on the subject of government. Wild-eyed anarchists everywhere tremble at her heartfelt threats against all shapes and forms of authority—and her stated intent to “… push on the pillars till I bring the temple down on all those #%$*! parasites.” (Including those wild-eyed anarchists, who—seen through Daisy’s gimlet eyes—are merely hopeful bureaucrats in disguise.)

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE UTE ELDER’S WILDERNESS HIDEAWAY

  Imagine yourself miles from the nearest human settlement, hiking along a dusty trail. All cares forgotten, you are whiling away a balmy autumn day in a wilderness which is both picturesque and forbidding. To the north, a slight blue haze shimmers over round-shouldered mountains. From those ancient peaks, miles-long brown mesas stretch out like a fallen giant’s fingers, clutching at crumbling earth. Between the steep sandstone cliffs of those flattened heights, the patient forces of nature have worked for hundreds of millennia to shape the landscape that you see today. Gurgling little springtime streams, gray winter rains freezing in sandstone cracks, and howling grit-laden winds—all those relentless forces have combined to carve out deep canyons, wherein are multitudes of secluded, shady glades where direct sunlight has never beamed an incandescent ray on lichen, moss, or fern, nor shall it ever. Away to the south, beyond the mesa’s grasping fingertips, the sun-drenched topography is gradually transformed into a jumble of rugged hills, isolated buttes, rolling arid prairie, and huge patches of nasty badlands that provide suitable habitat for those scaly, slithering serpents who will (when they are of a mind to) hiss, rattle—and then fang you.

  But let us not be overly concerned about where we are stepping. (That coiled object half concealed in the dead grass is probably a discarded hank of manila rope. Or so we hope.)

  This image is etched indelibly on your consciousness? Good.

  While distracted by the panoramic Big Picture, you have passed right by the most important feature of this remote landscape. We refer to the well-known residence of that notable citizen who—excepting a few fleshless exceptions to be described in a moment—is the only human soul who has a settled homestead within the vast neighborhood already described, which comprises approximately forty-four square miles of the Southern Ute reservation.

  But do not fault yourself for this understandable oversight. But just so you’ll know where to look should you ever pass this way again, Aunt Daisy’s home is situated right over there. Yes, on the sunny side of that low ridge and near (very nearly in) the yawning mouth of Cañón del Espíritu, wherein (so the tribal elder assures us) dozens of ghostly presences lurk. (We refer to the aforementioned “few fleshless exceptions.”) Not only do these spirits lurk, they also (so Daisy claims) often appear to her in a more or less bodily form. Why are they drawn to the cantankerous old woman? There is no one-size-fits-all answer. As each year of our lives is recalled by unique events and distinguishable seasons, so the spirits have their various and sundry reasons for rubbing elbows with Daisy. But, that said, the lonely souls of the long dead reveal themselves to the Ute shaman primarily for the purpose of conversing with a warm-blooded human being. And the oftentimes cold-blooded Daisy Perika is, in a somewhat twisted sense, what a roving poker player might call “the only game in town.” Way out here at the mouth of Spirit Canyon, the Southern Ute tribal elder is simply the only person around.

  Except when she has company.

  Which Daisy does at the moment. Which fortuitous circumstance enables us to focus our attention on three more of the four primary participants in the forthcoming adventure—which has already begun (only they don’t know it). Namely …

  CHARLIE MOON, SCOTT PARRIS, AND SARAH FRANK

  By way of introduction to those who have not yet been formally introduced to the citizens listed above, they are, respectively:

  The amiable nephew of the notoriously cranky Southern Ute tribal elder. Charlie is that long, lean, lanky fellow who is toting Daisy’s circa-1935 leather suitcase from her front door to his Ford Expedition. Mr. Moon is a former SUPD officer, a part-time tribal investigator, current owner of the Columbine Ranch in Granite Creek County—and sometimes deputy to Scott Parris, a tough ex-Chicago cop who is chief of the Granite Creek Police.

  The aforesaid tough cop has opened the rear hatch of the SUV and is pushing a cardboard box in between a heavy toolbox and a gallon jug of well water. What’s in the cardboard box? Four quarts of Daisy’s homemade peach preserves, two loaves of m’lady’s baked-in-her-oven rye bread, three pints of green-tomato relish, some leftover walnut fudge, and miscellaneous other delectables to spice up the meals at Charlie’s ranch. Parris has the enviable distinction of being one of the few Caucasians (matukach) whom Daisy Perika is fond of, which means that she does not spit in his eye just for the fun of it. Speaking of eyes and distinctions, the blue-eyed lawman is also the only paleface who has seen physical evidence of that legendary dwarf who presumably resides in the shadowy inner sanctum of Spirit Canyon. (Several years ago, the white man spied some tiny footprints in the snow.) Gently suggest to Daisy that these might have been the paw prints of an adult raccoon and she will very likely knock your block off and then kick it down the road a furlong or two.

  Sarah Frank is that lissome youth who has just locked the front door of Daisy’s house and is now approaching the automobile to help the tribal elder into her customary seat behind the driver, i.e. Charlie Moon. Speaking of whom, the twenty-one-year-old Ute-Papago orphan (Sarah) lives in the continual distress of being deeply and passionately in love with Mr. Moon, who—when he bothers to reflect on the pretty, willowy young lady at all—thinks of Miss Frank as his semiadopted daughter.

  These cursory introductions complete, we return to the action already under way—which has to do with Hester “Toadie” Tillman’s designated messenger, who is on his way to deliver the alleged witch’s threat to Aunt Daisy. Will Officer Bignight arrive after they are long gone? Hard to say. We hope not. If Danny doesn’t take care of business today, there’s no telling what the consequences might be. (The tension is almost palpable.)

  But wait a minute … About a quarter mile away to the east-northeast, isn’t that a puff of dust on the lane? Yes, it is.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SUPD OFFICER DANNY BIGNIGHT ARRIVES AT DAISY PERIKA’S DOMICILE

  Which visit was, in itself, sufficient to annoy the edgy old woman—who was eager to depart with Charlie Moon, Scott Parris, and Sarah Frank for a month-long stay at the Columbine Ranch. Daisy was, in fact, already settled into the backseat of Charlie’s Expedition beside the Ute-Papago girl and waiting impatiently for the men to get in, close the front doors, and “Get this big bucket of bolts rolling north!” when Bignight’s SUPD unit pulled up and lurched to a neck-jerking stop.

  Daisy scowled with understandable suspicion. This’ll be about some kind of trouble. In her long experience, sworn officers of the law rarely came calling to bring the glad tidings that a penny-pinching old woman who’d bought a one-dollar ticket in Someone or Other’s Annual Fund-Raiser Raffle had won First Prize (a brand-new, dark blue F150 pickup). Or even Twentieth Prize (a two-pound box of old-fashioned cherry chocolates, which you hardly ever saw in the store anymore and which sugary treats Daisy’s mouth fairly watered for).

  Officer Bignight emerged from the official tribal vehicle, hitched up his heavy black leather gun belt under his slightly bulging belly, and waved a fond salute at his former Southern Ute Police Department comrade.

  Well aware that his aunt was eager to get on the road, Charlie Moon ambled over to meet and greet his old friend. “Hello, Danny.”

  “Hey, Charlie.” Having noticed the old woman hunched in the backseat of Moon’s big SUV, Bignight recognized a welcome opportunity for passing the well-known buck. “Uh, I can see you folks are about to leave, so I’ll just let you deliver a mes
sage from Hester Tillman to Aunt Daisy.” He cleared his throat. “It was Hester’s last words before she … passed on.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Danny.” The devout Catholic Christian closed his eyes, crossed himself, and murmured a prayer for the sad old woman’s soul. This done, Moon made the standard inquiry: “How’d she die?”

  The SUPD cop described the pickup accident.

  The world-class poker player had no difficulty reading the fear in Bignight’s eyes. “What was Mrs. Tillman’s message to Aunt Daisy?” Some kind last words to terminate their lifelong feud, Charlie hoped.

  Bignight provided Moon with a brief summary.

  Having no intention of passing on such a silly threat to his elderly relative, a disappointed Charlie Moon passed the buck right back to its rightful owner. “I think you’d better tell Daisy yourself.” One of the few Southern Utes who didn’t believe in witchcraft explained without even the hint of a smile, “Hester might not like it if you used me as an intermediary.”

  This reminder had the hoped-for effect. Charlie’s right—that old witch told me to tell Daisy myself. Danny Bignight inhaled a deep breath that swelled his barrel chest. I might as well get this over with. Hitching up his sagging gun belt again, he approached the Columbine SUV with a tip of his hat at the open window where Daisy sat, and mumbled the perfunctory greeting: “How are you?”

  “I’m fine as frog’s hair,” Daisy snapped back. “Now tell me what’s on your so-called mind so I can get away from here.”

  This coincidental amphibian reference served only to elevate Bignight’s anxiety. I’d better get this right—ol’ Toadie is probably floating around somewhere close-by, listening to every word I say. Leaning close to the open car window, the reluctant messenger enlarged on what he’d told Charlie Moon about Hester Tillman’s untimely death. “Then, she said, ‘Now listen to me, Danny—you pass what I’ve got to say on to Daisy Perika word for word, or my curse’ll fall on you and all of your family down at Taos Pueblo. You tell that mean old Indian woman that if she don’t show up at my funeral and shed some salty tears on my account—I’ll come back and haunt her to death!’”