The Night Visitor (24 page)

She got up and pushed her chair aside. Time to drop a small grenade. “Additional photographs would have been very helpful. But I do understand your position.”

As she had intended, Moses had keyed in on the critical word. “Excuse me, Miss Foster… did you say
additional
photographs? From this, one must assume that you have already obtained unauthorized …”

The waters had been troubled. Now she rolled the depth charge overboard. “Mr. McFain was very kind. Last evening, he allowed me to take several photos of the skinning knife that was discovered… under the jawbone of the mammoth, if I understand correctly. Of course, if you wish to deny it, I'd certainly accept your word.”
Gotcha.

Moses paled into a wooden silence. Even Cordell York was hushed. It was Robert Newton who surprised everyone by speaking, though he was merely muttering to himself. “This is simply unforgivable. This rude fellow confiscates the artifact, and now we learn that he has allowed this journalist to… Well, it is just astonishing.”

“I'll take that as a confirmation that the flint blade was found as reported,” Anne said evenly. She scribbled meaningless scrawls on her notepad as she muttered: “Confirmed: age of fossil bones… butcher marks… flint artifact found in association with bones.” She looked innocently up at Moses. “Unless you wish to deny that these are the facts.”

“McFain!” Moses yelled, and banged his fist down on the card table, which utterly collapsed at his feet. “That confounded idiot told her everything!”

Anne, though startled, was unperturbed. “I'd really like to take a few photographs of the mammoth bones …”

“Certainly not,” Moses said sullenly. “Whatever you publish, it will be without authorization.”

Delia's hands were on Moses' shoulders, her strong fingers gently massaging the old man's tight muscles. Her dark eyes appealed to Anne Foster.
Please don't give my father a hard time.

Robert Newton's face wore a mask of serenity, but he was nervously pulling at a pendulous earlobe.

Cordell York sighed. The old man was foundering. Clearly needed a bit of help. “Excuse me,” he said.

The other scientists were surprised to hear such a polite phrase pass the arrogant man's lips.

“I believe I have a solution.” York directed his remarks to Anne. “It happens that I am senior editor of a distinguished quarterly journal that deals primarily with North American vertebrate paleontology. Our winter issue is almost ready to go to press, but I am prepared to e-mail a short technical note this evening, presenting the Silvers' preliminary findings. The article would carry today's date. By this means, the initial scientific paper will precede any publication in the popular press that may result from your efforts. This will help deflect criticism from our straightlaced colleagues and thereby enable the
Silvers to provide you with an accurate summary of their findings to date. In the spirit of such mutual cooperation, we would expect you to publish nothing more than a… uhh… sober and factual account of what you learn here.”

Anne swallowed a sarcastic response. “It's a deal.”

Moses looked up at the vain man with grudging respect. “It seems a workable solution. Not,” he added bitterly, “that we have much choice.”

Delia Silver beamed on Cordell York, who accepted this adulation as his just due. “I think it's a simply wonderful idea.”

“I would rather describe my contribution,” he said brightly, “as a wonderfully simple idea. But all praise is gratefully accepted.”

Anne Foster was completing her photography of the mammoth bones when Nathan McFain, accompanied by the dapper antiquarian, barged into the tent. “So,” he boomed, “I see you got to take your pictures.”

She nodded. “Everyone has been very kind. And cooperative.”

The rancher thought Moses Silver looked ten years older. McFain was inordinately pleased by Silver's unexpected capitulation to the pretty journalist. “Hah,” he said, “well, I'm glad to hear it.”

Moses shot Nathan McFain a look that would have shaken a lesser man.

McFain absorbed the impact and lobbed back a wicked grin. The rancher was well aware that he had always been more tolerated than welcomed (on his own property!) by these standoffish eggheads. Now it was apparent that none among the academics intended to acknowledge his presence with so much as a “good morning.” So they were still pissed off about him taking
his
flint blade. Well, they'd get over it. Or they wouldn't. All the same to him. As far as he was concerned, they were here to do a job. Much like hired help, except better. They worked without pay.

Ralph Briggs—who might have been a soul mate to Cordell York—watched with delighted amusement as the paleontologists
snubbed Nathan McFain. The exception was Delia Silver. Though she kept at her work, she nodded and smiled at Nathan. The young archaeologist, the antiquarian guessed, would be the one to try and talk some sense into the rancher's thick skull. Explain how important it was that all artifacts remain under the control of her father. At least until every bit of data could be gleaned from them.
Well, lots of luck, kiddo.

Butter was perched on Charlie Moon's shoulders, her tiny hands clasped around his forehead. She was enjoying the ride. It was funny, she thought, how people smelled different. Mamma always smelled like her perfume. Daddy smelled like tobacco. This big policeman smelled like soap. “Giddup, Wuff,” she said.

Moon had his broad-brimmed Stetson in one hand, the other was occupied with a pillowcase stuffed with a few belongings the child had insisted on bringing. “Don't forget,” the Ute policeman said, “if anybody asks you—you're a Mugwump.”

“Okay.” She frowned. “What's a Mugwump?”

Moon grinned. “An Indian tribe. Some of your daddy's relatives.”

“Oh.” These were new kinfolk to the child. But all additions to her small family were welcome. “Giddup
faster,”
the little Mugwump said, and dug her heels into his chest.

Moon and his small burden were entering the tent just as Anne Foster took her final photograph of the excavation.

The antiquarian was the first to notice the appearance of the gigantic man carrying a chubby blond tot. “My soul,” Ralph Briggs said in mock horror, “what have we here, poor fellow—a horrible growth on your neck?” He made a funny face at the girl.

She made a face back. More particularly, she pulled her lower lids down with her fingers, to expose a nauseating roll of pink flesh under her pale blue eyes. And stuck her tongue out at him. It looked like a raw sausage.

The antiquarian was—in his own words—chagrined. Not to say nonplused.

Moon lowered her tiny feet to earth.

Except for Daisy Perika—who gave the elfin newcomer a wary look—the child drew the women like iron filings to the poles of a magnet.

“How sweet,” Anne Foster cooed.

“Well, well—who is this?” Delia Silver asked.

“Meet Miss Butter Flye,” Moon said.

“A butterfly,” Anne said as she patted the tousled yellow mop. “My, what a little angel!”

“Little insect,” Briggs muttered acidly.

Scott Parris watched Anne's interaction with the child. Maybe someday she'd want one of her own. Or maybe two …

Daisy Perika leaned to have a close look at the small creature. “Butterfly, eh?” These white people were apt to have the most peculiar names.

“This is Butter,” Moon explained. “Daughter of Mr. Horace Flye.”

Delia's hand went to her throat. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “I had no idea …”

Nathan McFain stared uneasily at the child.

Butter stood very still, one hand clutching the precious pillowcase.

Robert Newton kneeled beside the child. “The usual reason we have young guests is that they want to see the elephant.”

The blue-eyed child gave him a blank stare.

Newton persisted. “Do
you
want to see the elephant?”

Butter nodded, and was led off by the hand to hear lurid tales about the huge beast whose bones lay in the sandpit. Sarah Frank, who had been upstaged by the arrival of this rival, followed along pensively. Giving the chubby little white girl the once-over. Then the twice-over.

Daisy sidled up to her nephew, and whispered. “What're you doin' with that little girl?”

“Police business,” Moon said dismissively.

“Hmmmf,” she responded. Charlie Moon could be downright mean.

Moon caught Scott Parris' eye. At a nod from his friend, Parris followed the Ute policeman outside the tent. Moon
noted with some satisfaction that Aunt Daisy was a few paces behind them. He'd counted on her curiosity.

The old woman stood well away from the lawmen, looking this way and that, taking a deep breath of fresh air. My, it was nice to be outside on such a fine morning.

Moon—pretending not to notice her presence—directed his words to Parris. But he spoke loud enough for Aunt Daisy to hear every word. “Little girl's father's left her at home alone.” He nodded toward the long, pine-studded hogback. “They have a camp-trailer up there on the ridge. Looks like he's off on a drunk somewhere.”

Daisy's expression made it clear that she had no interest in what her nephew might have to say. She hung on every word.

Parris frowned at the tent door. “So what're you gonna do with her?”

Moon seemed to think about it for a long moment. “Well, I sure can't leave her up there on the ridge all by herself. The kid needs somebody to look after her until her father comes home.” Moon waited for his aunt to take the bait.

Not a nibble.

Parris, who knew his friend very well, guessed what Moon was up to. “Well, you could always turn her over to the tribe's Social Services people,” he said helpfully.

“Yeah. But you never know who'll end up with the kid once they're in the system.” Moon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think maybe I'll ask Gorman Sweetwater to look after her. He's got a big, empty house.” He saw Daisy's back stiffen. “And Gorman's got a nice farm. Dogs and cats. Pigs and chickens. All kids like animals. And I expect he'd like to have a little girl around for a while.” Time for the irresistible wiggle of the lure. “And Gorman's a responsible fellow.”

She was stomping across the pasture toward him, waving her oak walking staff. He smiled inwardly at the expression of outrage that twisted her face.

“Gorman Sweetwater,” Daisy fairly spat the words out, “is an old fool. Not to mention being a drunk. And not only that—he's taken to wearing one o' them Dodger baseball caps. He puts it on backward, like some big goof.”

Moon played the innocent. “Oh, I don't know …”

“No, you certainly don't,” she snapped. “That's no place for a little girl. That old goat'd be feeding her red chili and Mexican beer and takin' her to rooster fights.”

He snickered, knowing this would infuriate her.

“Don't you laugh at me, Charlie Moon!” She rapped at his leg with her heavy walking stick.

Ouch.
He rubbed at his shin. “You've just assaulted a sworn officer of the law.”

“One more star in my crown,” she said in a pious tone.

Time to set the hook. “Well, if you can think of a better place than Gorman's …”

“What's
wrong
with you?” she said, pointing west with the walking stick. “My place is just a mile over the ridge. She can stay there for the afternoon. All night if she needs to.”

“I don't think that'd be a good idea,” Moon said with a doubtful shake of his head. “One kid to look after is enough… for someone your age.”

“My age… what am I, one foot in the grave?”

“And I'd have to take that little camp-trailer over by your place. It's got all her stuff in it. No… I don't think it'd work. You have
two
girls to look after, you're bound to lose at least one of 'em.”

Furious, Daisy turned to Scott Parris. “Can you pull a trailer with that ugly foreign car o' yours?”

Parris, who had gotten a barely perceptible nod from Moon, nodded cautiously. “Sure. I got a ball hitch on the bumper.”

“Then,” she said to the
matukach
lawman, with a contemptuous glance at Moon, “you hook up that little girl's trailer and haul it over to my place. Me and the children will ride with you and your girlfriend.” She waved the heavy oak stick menacingly at Moon. “You got a problem with that, Mr. Policeman?”

Moon held his palms up in mock surrender. “I still think it's a mistake.”

“Hmmmf,” she said. It was good for him, every once in a while, to see that when her mind was made up she couldn't be pushed around. Imagine, leaving a tiny child with Gorman Sweetwater! Charlie Moon must be keeping his brain in his watch pocket.

When the trio entered the tent, they saw Sarah Frank standing off near the edge of the shadows. All by herself. But Butter Flye had the adults eating from the palm of her grubby little hand. Exulting in all the attention, she searched the pillowcase, and proudly displayed bits of tattered clothing.

Yellow-and-white socks.

Bits of tiny underwear.

A hank of scarlet ribbon …

Charlie Moon had just cranked the Blazer's engine when he saw Nathan McFain making determined strides toward him. The rancher threw up his hand in a gesture meant to detain the policeman. Moon lowered the window and waited.

“Charlie,” Nathan said, “I'm sorry about poppin' my cap like that about Horace Flye shortchanging me on the RV rental. Look… it's okay if the camp-trailer stays on my property for a while. The man was my employee, so I got a responsibility to his daughter.”

Moon cut the ignition. “You have any idea why he might've left?”

He shook his head glumly. “No mystery in that, Charlie. The good-for-nothing little bastard just decided to skip and leave his kid behind.” The rancher spat tobacco juice onto the curled bark of an old Cottonwood. “I expect his pickup broke down over at the lake. He's hitched himself a ride and headed back to Arkansas, most likely.”