The Night Visitor (6 page)

The small, wiry man walked a few paces to the front of his pickup. He paused in the graveled parking lot, his hands jammed into the hip pockets of his khaki britches. He leaned back onto the heels of his scuffed roper boots and stared up at the scarlet neon sign. It made a sizzling, popping sound—and emitted a pungent electric smell.

Tillie's
Navajo Bar & Grille

There were a half dozen pickups parked out front, and some beat-up old sedans. A big Peterbilt was hitched to a long flatbed loaded with sweet-smelling bales of hay. Horace rubbed at his woolly black beard and pondered the situation. Well, a travelin' man couldn't tell everything just by lookin'. But this was probably as good a place as any. He felt the stare on his back. He glanced back at the camper and saw Butter's round face in the window, her unblinking blue eyes accusing him. He waved halfheartedly and hurried off toward the entrance of the drinking establishment. There was a hand-printed sign stapled to the front door.

NO GUNS ALLOWED ON THE PREMISES
THIS IS A CASH BUSINESS
NO CHECKS NO PLASTIC
NO BULLSHIT

Horace grinned behind his beard. Yep. This was the place sure enough. He pushed on the door. An antique jukebox churned out a mournful cowboy's wail about a wicked woman with a cheatin' heart. The place smelled of beer and cigarette smoke and failed lives. The newcomer paused to give his eyes time to adjust to the cavelike darkness. There was a scattering of tables on a scarred hardwood floor, booths along the wall on each side of the door, a long bar across the far wall. A big heavyset woman was sitting by an old-fashioned mechanical cash register. She wore a tentlike black dress, a dozen silver rings on her stubby fingers, a tight necklace of turquoise beads under her chins, light blue eye shadow to match the beads. As she flipped through the pages of a magazine, piggy little eyes looked up at him. And were not impressed with what they saw.

Whew. This one could stare down a moose with one eyeball.
That'd have to be Tillie.

There was a bald-headed man tending the bar; he didn't look like someone who'd give a fellow heartburn. A couple of bearded guys sat at one of the wooden tables, nursing canned Coors and mumbling about reports of black ice at Muleshoe and fifty-mile-an-hour winds up on LaVeta pass. Those would be the hay-haulers. The booths were unoccupied except for a skinny man in a spotless white cowboy hat who listened stoically to whining complaints from a bleary-eyed blonde with a pretty Mexican shawl on her shoulders and a shot glass in her hand. There were several men scattered along the bar, perched on stools that were upholstered in red imitation leather. Horace studied the assortment of bar-side customers with a practiced eye. For the most part, they were a poorly-looking lot. Several hopeless-looking bums with three-day beards and empty eyes. Two pimply-faced youths leering at a copy of
Penthouse
, whispering and snickering. An extremely fat man in greasy coveralls whose butt enveloped the stool. An empty stool separated Chubby from a dark-skinned man with two braids draped down his back and one leg hanging off the stool. The one-legged fellow had a heavy crutch propped against the bar beside him. One-Leg nodded at the bartender, who promptly refilled his mug. He
pulled a small roll of greenbacks from his hip pocket and un-peeled a twenty.

Bingo.

Horace approached the bar, and seated himself on the stool between Chubby and One-Leg. He smiled congenially at the bald bartender, who gave the greasy countertop a brisk swipe. “Coors.”

He was served efficiently and with no more comment than a barely perceptible nod. He pulled a tobacco sack and papers from his shirt pocket and proceeded to construct a cigarette. Horace licked the paper cylinder to seal the thing, then turned his face toward the man on his right. “So. You a vet'ran?”

The one-legged man turned a dark face toward the stranger and scowled. “Why'd you think that?”

The Arkansas man touched a lighter to the cigarette, and inhaled deeply. “Well… I figured maybe you lost your leg in a war.”

“Hmmmf,” the dark man said, and returned his attention to the almost empty beer mug.

Horace coughed up several puffs of smoke, and waved at the bartender. “Another one for my buddy here.”

The Ute, somewhat disarmed by this unexpected favor, watched as the bald man refilled the mug. Then he noticed that the
matukach
visitor was missing the middle finger from his left hand. Though this was not so serious an amputation as his own, the one-legged man felt some small flicker of kinship with the stranger. “So. You lose your finger in the war?”

“Nope,” Flye said sadly. “Bear bit it off. And et it right in front of me.”

The Indian nodded solemnly. “They'll do that sometimes.”

Flye had not been entirely truthful. Three years ago, he had been trading insults with a drunken miner in Bozeman. The man from Arkansas had—unwisely as it turned out—“given the finger” to his adversary. It was such an offer as could not be refused. The miner, who was armed with a razor-sharp Buck knife and a somewhat whimsical nature, had—despite Flye's loud protests—accepted the digit.

The visitor stuck his grubby hand out. The right one, which had all its fingers. “Name's Horace Flye.”

The Ute accepted the hand with some reluctance. “Curtis Tavishuts.”

“Pleased to meet you, Curtis.” And he was. Horace sipped at the beer. “It's a hard thing for a man to lose his leg.” He eyed his left hand. “Or even a finger.” Horace assumed a faraway, mysterious expression. “But there's lots worser things that can happen to a man.” He nodded to agree with himself. “Yessir. Lots worser things.”

He waited.

For a long moment, the taciturn drinker did not respond. Finally, as if to get it over with, the Ute regarded the bearded stranger with bleary-eyed boredom. “So what's worse than losing a leg?”

“Well,” said Horace in a mildly defensive tone, “there was somethin' awful peculiar that happened to me some years back. But it ain't a easy thing to talk about.” He ground out the half-spent cigarette in a dirty glass ashtray.

The Indian shrugged, and took a long drink of beer.

Other conversations in the saloon—if such aimless mutterings could be called conversations—were stilled. Ears were cocked. Problems—especially the other fellow's—were of considerable interest to this motley congregation. Particularly if they were really nasty problems. Like he had an incurable venereal disease or the ERS was after his butt.

Horace exhaled a great sigh of cigarette smoke. “Well, I guess if you really want to know… it happened back in Arkansas, when I took a bad fall off'n a ginny mule. And cracked my noggin on a rock. I ain't been the same never since.”

The Indian grinned in his beer, but resisted the temptation. Too easy.

Like a pious monk at prayer, Horace clasped his hands and bowed his head. “Some might say it was a gift, I s'pose. But it's not one I asked for. See, after the fall, I had awful headaches for a long time. But worstest of all, it turned out I could
see
things.”

Curtis Tavishuts turned to frown at the
matukach. “See
things? What kinds of things?”

Horace smiled the beatific smile of one who has accepted
his heavy burden. “Oh… this and that. Hants and golliwogs and boogers and such.”

The Indian asked for a clarification.

The Arkansas man shrugged. “Ghosts and goblins. Shades of dead folks.”

The taste of the free beer went sour in Tavishuts' mouth.

Horace continued his spiel. “Sometimes, I see what's goin' to happen tomorrow. But most of the time, I see
hidden
things.”

The Ute barfly was not at all pleased by this revelation. Talk of ghosts and goblins was unhealthy. But what did this bushy-face fellow mean by
hidden
things? “Whaddayou mean, you can see
hidden
things?”

“Well,” Horace said with a mild leer at Tillie, “sometimes I can see right through people's clothes.”

Tillie blushed. And attempted to hide her ample bosom behind the magazine.

Horace's lewd smirk implied that mere paper was no barrier.

The Ute snorted. “You mean to say you got X-ray vision? Like Superman?”

The bearded stranger seemed to go on the defensive. “Well, it don't work all the time. But
sometimes
I can see through things.”

Tavishuts smiled knowingly at the other customers along the bar, who were hanging on every word. “How about right now?”

An expression of unease passed over Horace's face. “Well, it kinda comes and goes. It ain't workin' so well right now, but yesterday I coulda counted all the teeth in your head and the loose change in your pocket.”

The Ute turned his attention to his drink. “Bullshit,” he said scornfully, “it's all bullshit.”

Horace looked hurt. “No it ain't.”

“Sure it is. All bullshit. If it wasn't bullshit, you could—”

“I bet I can see what's in your coat pocket.”

“Bet?” Tavishuts grinned, exposing a wide gap where four teeth had been expertly removed by his wife—who was no dentist. She had used an ax handle for the operation. “You
want to put some cash on the line or is this just more o' your bullshit?”

Horace opened a worn leather wallet. He laid a dollar bill on the sour-smelling pine bar. “This says I can see what's in your jacket pocket.”

The Ute cast a doubtful look at the crazy man who had met his challenge. And felt all eyes on himself.

“Put up or shut up,” Horace snapped.

“A dollar bet? That's peanuts.” Curtis Tavishuts reached into his hip pocket, produced the small roll of greenbacks. And peeled off a twenty. He slapped this beside the white man's dollar bill.

For the first time on this cold day, Horace Flye felt warm inside. And pleased with himself. He withdrew the dollar bill, replaced it with a twenty, and placed a grimy palm over his eyes. There was an excited murmuring among the customers. “I'd 'predate it if I could have some quiet.” While all watched, he concentrated on the issue at hand. Like how fast to leave the bar once he had this sucker's money in his pocket.

Tillie, her modesty forgotten, heaved her great bulk up from the chair by the cash register. She left her
Teen People
magazine behind and waddled toward this odd pair of customers.

His stomach—well aware that it was time for lunch—growled at him. Charlie Moon turned the aging SUPD Blazer south onto Goddard Avenue. It was about twenty seconds to Angel's
Cafe.
The Ute police officer was anticipating a king-sized blue-com enchilada. Half a dozen of Angel's featherlight sopapillas, broke open with a spoon-handle and sweetened with red clover honey. A sixteen-ounce root beer in a frosted mug. But he couldn't make his mind up about dessert. Pie, maybe. Raspberry-rhubarb, heated in Angel's microwave. With two or three scoops of vanilla ice cream on the side.

Life was good.

As a rude preamble to bad news, the police radio belched static. Then came the voice from only a mile away. “Officer Moon.”

Nancy Beyal was a nice enough young lady, but at this moment the dispatcher's velvet voice had all the charm of a broken fingernail dragged across the blackboard.

“Charlie Moon. Respond, please.”

It'd be the usual nonsense. Little Kathi Begay's cat had climbed up a tree and didn't know how to get down. Or Arlin Tall Rain had borrowed another one of his neighbor's pigs. He ignored the summons. Let Nancy bug somebody else.

Another burp of static, followed by: “Charlie Moon, I know
very well
you can hear me, so pick up.”

“Shoot.” He yanked the microphone off the chrome hook and held it by his chin. “Nancy, I'm goin' off duty. It's time for lunch. Send Elena. Or Daniel Bignight.”

“Caller asked for you
personal
, Charlie.”

He frowned at the sandblasted windshield. “Who called?”

“A Mr. Clapper.”

Didn't ring a bell. “Who's he?”

“A bartender… at Tillie's Navajo Bar and Grille.”

Must be Gus. “What's the problem?”

“Caller reported a disturbance.”

He pressed the microphone button. “Nancy, Tillie's place is not—I repeat
not
—in Southern Ute tribal jurisdiction. Contact the Ignacio town police. They can handle it.”

“Caller asked for you yourself, Charlie. Says there's an Indian involved in some kind of fight.”

Moon groaned. If a local troublemaker turned out to be a Native American—anything from an Ontario Abitibiwinni to a New Mexico Zuñi—it was SUPD business. “What kind of Indian?”

“Caller didn't say.”

He pressed the microphone button. “Weapons involved?” A sensible policeman wanted to know if he was supposed to break up a fight where a couple of drunks had knives or straight razors. Or pistols …

“Caller didn't mention any weapons. I'd like to chat with you, Charlie, but I got some other traffic comin' in. Goodbye.”

“Shoot.” He hung the microphone on the hook, jammed his big boot onto the brake pedal, made a squealing U-turn on
Goddard, and flipped the emergency-lights switch. His stomach growled in protest.

He growled back.

Moon skidded to a stop on the gravel, switched off the ignition, and hit the ground before the V-8 engine had coughed to a stop. The Southern Ute policeman ducked his head under the doorway, and burst into Tillie's Navajo Bar and Grille.

And stood there, and stared.

The tables had been pulled away to make room on the dusty floor for the combatants. A circle of cheerful drinkers stood around the spectacle, shaking fists, waving dusty cowboy hats, stomping heavy boots, laughing raucously, urging the gladiators to even greater efforts. Only a few bothered to glare at the unwelcome lawman.

Moon shoved his way through the ring of spectators.