Three Sisters by James D. Doss

Author:James D. Doss [Doss, James D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2007-06-24T04:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Eight

Where Did It Go

Andrew Turner’s Corvette? Most likely, under the fluffy white stuff. Most likely.

But there is no doubt about where last night’s late-spring storm has gone. After creating havoc on Spencer Mountain, the rip-roaring, sleet-spitting, hell-bent horde of rowdy night riders thundered away to plague tough-as-boot-leather Kansas wheat farmers and hard-eyed we-can-take-your-best-shot Panhandle cattle ranchers. The skirmish isn’t quite over, but the outcome is not in doubt. The violent storm will die on the prairie with gasps and whispers and sighs. The plainsmen and their sturdy families will survive. And endure. And thrive.

The Colorado sky that had melted in the rosy glow of sunrise was now frozen anew, annealed into that pale hue of cobalt blue that tints the lips of new corpses. A frolicsome wind rolling down Spencer Mountain had heaped up knee-deep drifts along the long, winding driveway, briskly swept it clean in favored spots in between.

At the tightest curve in the graveled road, a huge, red Ortega’s AAA tow truck was backed up to the edge of the Devil’s Mouth. This behemoth vehicle was flanked by a boxy white ambulance, the Granite Creek Mountaineers’ black Dodge van, Charlie Moon’s Columbine Expedition, and three low-slung black-and-white Chevrolets representing the Granite Creek Police Department. In a madcap orchestration of colored lights that produced a mildly hypnotic if not a pretty sight, the Mac wrecker blinked a mellow yellow rotation, the police vehicles accompanied with asynchronous blue-and-red pulsations.

Mr. Ortega, a bewhiskered, fire-breathing enthusiast who could not abide being idle, waved his arms in general exasperation, barked orders at his wooden-faced brother-in-law assistant, paused every few breaths to shout helpful advice down to those half-dozen climbers who had rappelled into the Devil’s Mouth. The indolent brother-in-law proved impervious to the assault, and the tow-truck owner’s exhortations were ignored by those stalwart volunteers who were risking their lives in an attempt to locate a missing Corvette, which, since it was not on the rocky slope, must be concealed beneath the snow.

A cluster of uniformed GCPD officers and EMTs watched the jolly entertainment and waited.

Standing apart from the gathering, in the downwind shadow of a ninety-nine-year-old gnarly-barked juniper, were two men who happened to be the best of friends. The venerable tree provided scant protection from the wind. The tall, slender fellow and his broad-shouldered, barrel-chested buddy clutched at their hats.

The chief of police said, “I must be stupid.” When his Indian comrade did not protest this brutal self-assessment, Scott Parris enlarged on the assertion: “Way I see it, we’re both stupid.”

“Leave me out of it.” Charlie Moon grinned into the wind. “My IQ is high enough this morning to suit me.” About the same as the temperature.

Parris used the hand that was not holding on to his hat to point at Mr. Ortega and his stoic in-law. “If we wasn’t stupid, we’d be wearing wool sock-hats that don’t blow off—like them wrecker-truck guys.” He gazed longingly at the warm, county-issue caps with furry earflaps that his officers had donned for the occasion.

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