Time of the Wolves

  Books by Marcia Muller

  Deceptions

  Duo (with Bill Pronzini)

  Time of the Wolves

  “Joanna Stark Mysteries” by Marcia Muller

  The Cavalier in White

  There Hangs the Knife

  Dark Star

  “Elena Oliverez Mystery” by Marcia Muller

  The Tree of Death

  The Legend of the Slain Soldiers

  SPEAKING VOLUMES, LLC

  NAPLES, FLORIDA

  2012

  The Time of the Wolves

  Copyright © 2003 by the Pronzini – Muller Family Trust.

  Additional copyright information on page 216.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  9781612323503

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Introduction

  Sweet Cactus Wine

  The Sanchez Sacraments

  Cave of Ice

  Time of the Wolves

  Sisters

  The Lost Coast

  Forbidden Things

  Knives at Midnight

  The Indian Witch

  The Cyaniders

  About the Author

  GREAT BOOKS E-BOOKS AUDIOBOOKS & MORE

  Introduction

  In the early 1980s when I was a struggling new writer, my friend (and now husband) Bill Pronzini suggested I write a short story for a Western anthology he was editing. It seemed like a good idea; after all, I’d watched “Gunsmoke” and “Maverick”, hadn’t I? But the subject matter proved to be a problem, and it wasn’t until I read a news item about a man being killed when a giant saguaro cactus fell on him that I could begin. “Sweet Cactus Wine”, in which a benign saguaro commits mayhem, was my first Western tale.

  Others followed, set in both the old and new West. Three stories feature characters from two mystery series: In “The Sanchez Sacraments” Santa Barbara-based Mexican-American museum director Elena Oliverez becomes involved in a controversy surrounding the donation of a group of pottery religious figures; San Francisco sleuth Sharon McCone investigates in “The Lost Coast”, set in a remote and little-known area in California’s Humboldt County, and again in “Knives at Midnight”, a case whose solution hinges on a point of law that has been on the books since frontier days.

  Travels often inspire story ideas. A visit to an ice cave in Montana resulted in my first collaboration with Bill Pronzini, “Cave of Ice”. After an initial rocky start, the success of this joint project ultimately led us to work together on numerous short stories, three novels, various anthologies, and one non-fiction book. While I was traveling in Kansas, the story of a close relationship between an Indian woman and a white settler, “Sisters”, was suggested to me by a local history buff. My frequent journeys to the coastal area of Mendocino County prompted me to set “Forbidden Things” there. Years later, in the non-series novel POINT DECEPTION, I would create fictional Soledad County—an amalgam of various northern California locales; “The Indian Witch” and “The Cyaniders” are explorations of the history of those places.

  As readers and writers know, the film industry often does strange things to the literary properties it purchases, and that was certainly true of the title story of this volume, “Time of the Wolves”. The 1988 Western Writers of America Spur-nominated story was used as the central segment of a made-for TV movie, INTO THE BADLANDS, a trilogy of western horror/fantasy sales, starring Bruce Dern, Helen Hunt, and Mariel Hemingway. While the story itself is a straightforward tale of a woman settler’s ordeal on the Kansas prairie, the 1991 film (whose producers proclaim it as being set “somewhere between civilization and the ninth circle of hell”) put a confusing supernatural twist on it, and Dern’s over-the-top performance as the narrator, a cold hearted bounty hunter, was less than successful.

  A mediocre film notwithstanding, I’ve enjoyed delving into the history and the present-day state of the American West. I hope you will enjoy reading these stories as much as I did writing them.

  Marcia Muller

  Petaluma, California

  March 29, 2002

  Sweet Cactus Wine

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, the way it always does in the Arizona desert. The torrent had burst from a near-cloudless sky, and now it was clear once more, the land nourished. I stood in the doorway of my house, watching the sun touch the stone wall, the old buckboard, and the twisted arms of the giant saguaro cacti.

  The suddenness of these downpours fascinated me, even though I’d lived in the desert for close to forty years, since the day I’d come here as Joe’s bride in 1866. They’d been good years, not exactly bountiful, but we’d lived here in quiet comfort. Joe had the instinct that helped him bring the crops—melons, corn, beans—from the parched soil, an instinct he shared with the Papago Indians who were our neighbors. I didn’t possess the knack, so now that he was gone I didn’t farm. I did share one gift with the Papagos, however—the ability to make sweet cactus wine from the fruit of the saguaro. That wine was my livelihood now—as well as, I must admit, a source of Saturday-night pleasure—and the giant cacti scattered around the ranch were my fortune.

  I went inside to the big rough-hewn table where I’d been shelling peas when the downpour started. The bowl sat there half full, and I eyed the peas with distaste. Funny what age will do to you. For years I’d had an overly hearty appetite. Joe used to say: “Don’t worry, Katy. I like big women.” Lucky for him he did, because I’d carried around enough lard for two such admirers, and I didn’t believe in divorce anyway. Joe’d be surprised if he could see me now, though. I was tall, yes, still tall. But thin. I guess you’d call it gaunt. Food didn’t interest me any more.

  I sat down and finished shelling the peas anyway. It was market day in Arroyo, and Hank Gardner, my neighbor five miles down the road, had taken to stopping in for supper on his way home from town. Hank was widowed, too. Maybe it was his way of courting. I didn’t know and didn’t care. One man had been enough trouble for me, and, anyway, I intended to live out my days on these parched but familiar acres.

  Sure enough, right about suppertime Hank rode up on his old bay. He was a lean man, browned and weathered by the sun like folks get in these parts, and he rode stiffly. I watched him dismount, then went and got the whiskey bottle and poured him a tumblerful. If I knew Hank, he’d had a few drinks in town and would be wanting another. And a glassful sure wouldn’t be enough for old Hogsbreath Hank, as he was sometimes called.

  He came in and sat at the table like he always did. I stirred the iron pot on the stove and sat down, too. Hank was a man of few words, like my Joe had been. I’d heard tales that his drinking and temper had pushed his wife into an early grave. Sara Gardner had died of pneumonia, though, and no man’s temper ever gave that to you.

  Tonight Hank seemed different, jumpy. He drummed his fingers on the table and drank his whiskey.

  To put him at his ease, I said: “How’re things in town?”

  “What?”

  “Town. How was it?”

  “Same as ever.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Why do you ask?” But he looked kind of furtive.

  “No reason,” I said. “Nothing changes out here. I don’t know why I asked.” Then I went to dish up the stew. I set it and some cornbread on the table, poured more whiskey for Hank and a little cactus wine for me. Hank ate steadily and silently. I sort of picked at my food.

  After supper I washed up the dishes and joined Hank on the front porch. He still seemed jumpy, but this time I didn’t try to find out why
. I just sat there beside him, watching the sun spread its redness over the mountains in the distance. When Hank spoke, I’d almost forgotten he was there.

  “Kathryn”—he never called me Katy, only Joe used that name—“Kathryn, I’ve been thinking. It’s time the two of us got married.”

  So that was why he had the jitters. I turned to stare. “What put an idea like that into your head?”

  He frowned. “It’s natural.”

  “Natural?”

  “Kathryn, we’re both alone. It’s foolish you living here and me living over there when our ranches sit next to each other. Since Joe went, you haven’t farmed the place. We could live at my house, let this one go, and I’d farm the land for you.”

  Did he want me, or the ranch? I know passion is supposed to die when you’re in your sixties, and as far as Hank was concerned mine had, but for form’s sake he could at least pretend to some.

  “Hank,” I said firmly, “I’ve got no intention of marrying again . . . or of farming this place.”

  “I said I’d farm it for you.”

  “If I wanted it farmed, I could hire someone to do it. I wouldn’t need to acquire another husband.”

  “We’d be company for one another.”

  “We’re company now.”

  “What’re you going to do . . . sit here the rest of your days scratching out a living with your cactus wine?”

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do.”

  “Kathryn. . . .”

  “No.”

  “But. . . .”

  “No. That’s all.”

  Hank’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. I was afraid for a minute that I was going to be treated to a display of his legendary temper, but soon he looked placid as ever. He stood, patting my shoulder.

  “You think about it,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow, and I want a yes answer.”

  I’d think about it, all right. As a matter of fact, as he rode off on the bay, I was thinking it was the strangest marriage proposal I’d ever heard of. And there was no way Hogsbreath was getting any yesses from me.

  He rode up again the next evening. I was out gathering cactus fruit. In the springtime, when the desert nights are still cool, the tips of the saguaro branches are covered with waxy white flowers. They’re prettiest in the hours around dawn, and by the time the sun hits its peak, they close. When they die, the purple fruit begins to grow, and now, by midsummer, it was splitting open to show its bright red pulp. That pulp was what I turned into wine.

  I stood by my pride and joy—a fifty-foot giant that was probably two hundred years old—and watched Hank come toward me. From his easy gait, I knew he was sure I’d changed my mind about his proposal. Probably figured he was irresistible, the old goat. He had a surprise coming.

  “Well, Kathryn,” he said, stopping and folding his arms across his chest, “I’m here for my answer.”

  “It’s the same as it was last night. No. I don’t intend to marry again.”

  “You’re a foolish woman, Kathryn.”

  “That may be. But at least I’m foolish in my own way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If I’m making a mistake, it’ll be one I decide on, not one you decide for me.”

  The planes of his face hardened, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. “We’ll see about that.” He turned and strode toward the bay.

  I was surprised he had backed down so easy, but relieved. At least he was going.

  Hank didn’t get on the horse, however. He fumbled at his saddle scabbard and drew his shotgun. I set down the basket of cactus fruit. Surely he didn’t intend to shoot me!

  He turned toward me. I got ready to run, but he kept going, past me. I whirled, watching. Hank went up to a nearby saguaro, a twenty-five footer. He looked at it, turned, and walked exactly ten paces. Then he turned again, brought up the shotgun, sighted on the cactus, and began to fire. He fired at its base over and over.

  I put my hand to my mouth, shutting off a scream.

  Hank fired again, and the cactus toppled.

  It didn’t fall like a man would if he were shot. It just leaned backwards. Then it gave a sort of sigh and leaned farther and farther. As it leaned, it picked up momentum, and, when it hit the ground, there as an awful thud.

  Hank gave the cactus a satisfied nod and marched back toward his horse.

  I found my voice. “Hey, you! Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  Hank got on the bay. “Cactuses are like people, Kathryn. They can’t do anything for you once they’re dead. Think about it.”

  “You bet I’ll think about it! That cactus was valuable to me. You’re going to pay!”

  “What happens when there’re no cactuses left?”

  “What? What?”

  “How’re you going to scratch out a living on this miserable ranch if someone shoots all your cactuses?”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  He smirked at me. “You know, there’s one way cactuses aren’t like people. Nobody ever hung a man for shooting one.”

  Then he rode off.

  I stood there speechless. Did the bastard plan to shoot up my cacti until I agreed to marry him?

  I went over to the saguaro. It lay on its back, oozing water. I nudged it gently with my foot. There were a few round holes in it—entrances to the caves where the Gila woodpeckers lived. From the silence, I guessed the birds hadn’t been inside when the cactus toppled. They’d be mighty surprised when they came back and found their home on the ground.

  The woodpeckers were the least of my problems, however. They’d just take up residence in one of the other giants. Trouble was, what if Hank carried out his veiled threat? Then the woodpeckers would run out of nesting places—and I’d run out of fruit to make my wine from.

  I went back to the granddaddy of my cacti and picked up the basket. On the porch I set it down and myself in the rocking chair to think. What was I going to do?

  I could go to the sheriff in Arroyo, but the idea didn’t please me. For one thing, like Hank had said, there was no law against shooting a cactus. And for another, it was embarrassing to be in this kind of predicament at my age. I could see all the locals lining up at the bar of the saloon, laughing at me. No, I didn’t want to go to Sheriff Daly if I could help it.

  So what else? I could shoot Hank, I supposed, but that was even less appealing. Not that he didn’t deserve shooting, but they could hang you for murdering a man, unlike a cactus. And then, while I had a couple of Joe’s old rifles, I’d never been comfortable with them, never really mastered the art of sighting and pulling the trigger. With my luck, I’d miss Hank and kill off yet another cactus.

  I sat on the porch for a long time, puzzling and listening to the night sounds of the desert. Finally I gave up and went to bed, hoping the old fool would come to his senses in the morning.

  He didn’t, though. Shotgun blasts on the far side of the ranch brought me flying out of the house the next night. By the time I got over there, there was nothing around except a couple of dead cacti. The next night it happened again, and still the next night. The bastard was being cagey, too. I had no way of proving it actually was Hank doing the shooting. Finally I gave up and decided I had no choice but to see Sheriff Daly.

  I put on my good dress, fixed my hair, and hitched up my horse to the old buckboard. The trip into Arroyo was hot and dusty, and my stomach lurched at every bump in the road. It’s no fun knowing you’re about to become a laughingstock. Even if the sheriff sympathized with me, you can bet he and the boys would have a good chuckle afterwards.

  I drove up Main Street, and left the rig at the livery stable. The horse needed shoeing anyway. Then I went down the wooden sidewalk to the sheriffs office. Naturally it was closed. The sign said he’d be back at two, and it was only noon now. I got out my list of errands and set off for the feed store, glancing over at the saloon on my way.

  Hank was coming out of the saloon. I ducked into the shadow of the covered
walkway in front of the bank and watched him, hate rising inside me. He stopped on the sidewalk and waited, and a moment later a stranger joined him. The stranger wore a frock coat and a broad-brimmed black hat. He didn’t dress like anyone from these parts. Hank and the man walked toward the old adobe hotel and shook hands in front of it. Then Hank ambled over to where the bay was tied, and the stranger went inside.

  I stood there, frowning. Normally I wouldn’t have been curious about Hank Gardner’s private business, but when a man’s shooting up your cacti, you develop an interest in anything he does. I waited until he had ridden off down the street, then crossed and went into the hotel.

  Sonny, the clerk, was a friend from ’way back. His mother and I had run church bazaars together for years, back when I still had the energy for that sort of thing. I went up to him, and we exchanged pleasantries.

  Then I said: “Sonny, I’ve got a question for you, and I’d just as soon you didn’t mention me asking it to anybody.”

  He nodded.

  “A man came in here a few minutes ago. Frock coat, black hat.”

  “Sure. Mister Johnson.”

  “Who is he?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t get into town much these days.”

  “I guess not. Everybody’s talking about him. Mister Johnson’s a land developer. Here from Phoenix.”

  Land developer. I began to smell a rat. A rat named Hank Gardner.

  “What’s he doing, buying up the town?”

  “Not the town. The countryside. He’s making offers on all the ranches.” Sonny eyed me thoughtfully. “Maybe you better talk to him. You’ve got a fair-sized spread there. You could make good money. In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t been out to see you.”