The Widow's Revenge Read Online Free PDF

murderous rascals!
    But how? And to what end?
    Job One was to determine the enemy’s precise location, strength, and intentions. The aged lady, who was missing several teeth, hung a gapped Cheshire grin in the darkness.
First off, I’ll go spy on ’em
. This daring plan was both gratifying and invigorating. And might lead to unexpected opportunities. Such as—
If I can draw a bead on one of those snakes, I might just take a potshot at him before I slip away.
A healthy kick of adrenaline reinforced her morale.
With a little luck, I might kill two or three of ’em.
The mere thought of spilling blood made her heart race.
Hah! That’d make ’em think twice before they murder another old woman’s goat!
    Chief-General Montoya pressed the automatic pistol’s cold steel against her thin chest.
I’ll show that collection of riffraff who’s boss around here.

CHAPTER EIGHT
RECONNOITERING THE ENEMY ENCAMPMENT
     
     
    LOYOLA PULLED ON A PAIR OF COMFORTABLE LEATHER MOCCASINS AND a navy-blue woolen coat—and packed the .45 automatic into a black canvas shopping bag. A few owl-hoots after 3 A.M. , she left her house by the front door, locked it behind her with the key she kept on a string around her neck, and made her way oh-so-quietly along the weed-choked lane toward the paved road. At that junction, the latter-day warrior turned her face south to begin a long, roundabout hike to an old, little-known footbridge across Ignacio Creek.
    Along the way, Mrs. Montoya began to have a few misgivings. Such as:
This is probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life
. And:
Those witches’ll probably string me up to a tree limb and slit my throat, just like they did my poor old nanny goat.
But after she had crossed the rotting pine bridge to the opposite bank, there could be no thought of turning back.
    Like her Apache ancestors, she crept silently through the willowy underbrush along the stream bank. The trek was more difficult and the going slower than she had expected. Loyola worried that dawn might break before she reached her destination. After ever so many scratches, stumbles, and rips in her cotton stockings, she stopped abruptly. Squinted.
Is that what I think it is?
    It was.
    A flicker of light from a small campfire.
    Loyola dropped to her knees and began to crawl. Now so near her objective, skulking was such great fun! She was reminded of those old black-and-white picture shows where stealthy red Indians delighted in sneaking up on unwary cowboys who slept close to the coals of a campfire. She imagined herself taking a scalp with such delicate skill that thevictim wouldn’t know what’d happened until after he’d had breakfast and decided to comb the lice out of his hair.
I wish I’d brought a razor-sharp hunting knife, so I could clench it between my teeth.
    As she crawled along, dragging the canvas bag that contained her heavy artillery, the fun gradually diminished. During this ordeal Loyola scuffed her knees, tore her skirt half off, and muttered unladylike curses in her native tongue.
    When she was close enough to hear the poppity-crackle of the campfire and the muffled sounds of voices, the wild-eyed old woman crouched behind a prickly huckleberry bush. After a pause to catch her breath and say a prayer, Loyola raised her white-haired head just enough to take a quick look. What she saw did not appear to be a sinister gathering of Satanists.
    This seemed to be nothing more than a bunch of ordinary folks camping out and having a good time. A tall, skinny fellow was telling off-color jokes. Several were chugging beer from longneck bottles. There was a sizable carcass on a spit over the fire, and one of their number was ladling a thick, fragrant sauce onto the roasting meat.
    Loyola sniffed the mouthwatering aromas.
That barbecue sauce smells too good to be store bought
. She sniffed again.
And the meat smells like roasted pork.
But (she thought) you could bet your Social Security check that those goat-murdering