The Night Visitor (9 page)

The trucker blinked.
What'n hell is this cop talkin' about?

Moon nodded toward Elena. “You will want to address your complaint to my sidekick… the Wicked Witch.”

Elena shot Moon a venomous look, then gave her full attention to the bewildered intruder. He was wearing a blue cap. On the cap were the words
KEEP ON TRUCKIN
'. She pointed at the long flatbed hooked to the Peterbilt cab. “That your load of hay?”

He nodded sullenly.

“Then haul it away, buster!”

His voice was annoyingly nasal. “Lissen, you cain't talk like that to me, I got a right to be here …”

“One,” she said.

“You Injun Smokeys don't scare me none …”

“Two.”

“I ain't gonna be pushed around. Not by no Judy cop.”

“Good for you,” Moon said. This would be fun.

“Three,” Elena said with an air of finality. The policewoman pulled a cigarette lighter from her jacket pocket, then headed with a purposeful stride toward the Peterbilt.

The trucker looked uncertainly at the tall policeman. “What'n hell's she gonna …”

Moon took his hat off, scratched his head thoughtfully. “With Elena, it's hard to say.”

“She's bluffin',” the trucker said without conviction.

“Like to place a bet?” Moon said.

“Bet?”

The Ute policeman produced his wallet. “Five'll get you ten she's gonna set your hay on fire.”

The truck driver stood for a moment, frozen in stupefied disbelief. He watched the young woman flick the lighter to life… and touch the flame to the bristly corner of a bale of alfalfa. “Omigod,” he screamed to his backup driver, “Archie, help me stop 'er!” and sprinted toward the truck as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him, slipping and sliding on the gravel. His partner, who had been enjoying this small drama from the relative safety among the motley congregation of Tillie's customers, also scooted off toward the Peterbilt.

The Southern Ute police officers watched the truck depart with a great clashing of gears.

Butter Flye, who had watched the spectacle with some relish, was clapping her tiny hands. When she grew up she wanted to be just like the Wicked Witch.

Moon glanced at Elena, who was grinding her teeth. “You want to drive Mr. Flye's rig back to the station?”

Elena accepted Horace Flye's pickup keys from her fellow officer. Somebody had to convey the trailer containing this hideous child to SUPD headquarters. From there on, the nasty little imp was Charlie Moon's problem. She tried—without success—to start Flye's old pickup truck.

Moon reached over her legs and pulled the choke out. One
and a quarter inches. “It's flooded. Count to fourteen,” he said, “then pump the accelerator three times.”

She counted to fourteen. Pumped the accelerator three times, Turned the ignition key. The old engine coughed and sputtered. And started. Officer Chavez gave Moon a suspicious look. “How'd you know that?”

Moon patted the rusting hood. “Well, this old baby is a 1973 Dodge. With a four-barrel carburetor. Dodge pickups with four-barrel and manual chokes was kinda touchy that year. But only the ones made for the first five months or so. Then Chrysler changed to Holly carbs.”

“Fascinating,” she said.
Ultra-boring guy stuff.

Moon—who had invented the explanation—shrugged modestly. “One other thing—when you get to the station, don't set the parking brake.”

Boy, what a nag.
“Why not?”

“'Cause if you do, the shoes'll stick. Then you'll have to crawl underneath and bang on the calipers with a ball-peen hammer. It's a dirty job.”

“Oh—yeah. The calipers.” Elena did not know what shoes or calipers had to do with brakes.
Maybe Charlie Moon is putting me on …

“You know,” he said with open admiration, “that was a pretty convincing show you put on for those truckers.”

She frowned at the pitted windshield. “You think so?”

“Sure. You almost had
me
convinced you was gonna set that hay on fire.”

“I was,” Elena snapped. “It was too wet.” She turned to smile prettily at him, then let out the clutch and gunned the engine.

Moon stood in a wake of gritty dust, watching the rear end of the trailer bounce across the graveled parking lot.
Well now. There's more to this woman than a man might have expected.

Now that the Flyes' battered little craft was safely at anchor in the SUPD parking lot, Charlie Moon was wondering what to do about Butter Flye. It was a tricky problem. The little girl needed looking after, but she wouldn't open the trailer
door for anyone but her father. He had choices to make. Like breaking the door and turning the kid over to Social Services. Or he could quietly kick Mr. Flye loose and let him deal with his daughter. That'd work as long as Roy Severo didn't catch wind of it. The chief of police was a stickler for doing things by the book. If he found out Flye wasn't an Indian, Severo would turn the Arkansas man over to the town police in the blink of an eye. Then Buffalo Bill McCullough would have to deal with Butter Flye. Moon smiled to himself. That solution did have a certain appeal. The Ute policeman was helping himself to a cup from the dented SUPD coffeepot when he felt someone staring at his back. He spooned in a half dozen cubes of sugar, then glanced over his shoulder. An accusing expression smoldered in Roy Severo's hard black eyes.

Moon grinned and raised his cup in salute. “H'lo, boss.”

The chief of the Southern Ute Police Department said nothing; he nodded toward his office door. Moon followed the little liger into his den. Severo fitted his compact frame into a padded chair behind his desk and glared at Officer Moon. He did not offer his subordinate a seat.

Moon put his dripping coffee cup on the corner of Severo's immaculate desk, earning himself a scowl from the chief. He sprawled in a hard wooden chair, stretched his long legs, and clasped his hands across his silver belt buckle. He looked innocently around the office, taking in a wall filled with framed photographs of Severo with various politicians and minor celebrities. There was a display board of shooting-match medals. And last year's calendar. He waited for the chief to break the silence.

Severo's glare hardened. “What'n hell you think you're doin', Charlie?”

Moon frowned in pretended bewilderment. “Could you clarify the question?”

The chief of police slammed his fist against the oak desk, jarring a splash of coffee from Moon's cup. “You know damn well what I mean. What're you doin' keepin' a
matukach
in our jail? Or don't you remember that we turn anybody what ain't a Native American over to the town police or the state cops?”

“I assume,” Moon said evenly, “that you refer to prisoner Horace Flye.”

“You assume right,” Severo said through clenched jaws. “That one belongs to Bill McCullough.”

The temptation to drop the Flyes in McCullough's soup was a strong one. But the urge to have some fun with the chief proved irresistible. And like so many decisions, drastically altered the future for many souls. “He claims to be Native American.”

Severo popped up from his chair like a toy man on a coiled spring. “What? That hairy-faced blue-eyed bastard claims to be… one of
us?”
It wasn't all that surprising. Ninety percent of the population claimed to have an Indian great-grandparent.

Moon retrieved his coffee cup and took a sip. “He does. On his mother's side. And it is my understanding that a citizen's claim to Native American ancestry must be accepted as valid unless and until the higher-ups decide otherwise. To turn him over to the non-Indian authorities would be against tribal policy. And,” he added slyly, “politically unwise.”

Roy Severo sagged into his padded chair with the resignation of a beaten man. “What tribe?”

Moon hesitated. The chief of police, though somewhat gullible, was a long way from being a fool. But it was fun to pull the blanket over his head. “Mr. Flye's ancestors were the remnants of a small group of southern Arkansas mound-builders. The scholarly types know all about 'em—but I doubt
you'd
have ever heard of these people. They're …” Moon swallowed hard, “… the Mugwumps.”

“Oh sure.” Severo was stung by Moon's low opinion of his knowledge. “The Arkansas Mugwumps. I met one of 'em when I was in the Marines. A fine bunch of folks. Measles or somethin' almost wiped 'em out, if I remember correctly.” Feeling somewhat smug now, he leaned back and put his hands behind his neck. “So what's the charge?”

“Well, I haven't officially filed a charge yet. Mr. Flye got in
a
fight with Curtis Tavishuts over at Tillie's and …”

Severo pointed a finger at Moon. “Lissen to me, Charlie. Curtis Tavishuts ain't nothin but a one-legged mean-assed
loudmouthed low-down drunk and a troublemaker to boot who ain't worth his weight in horse manure.” This overlong declaration completed, he gasped for breath. “You can hold Curtis for a day or so till he sobers up, but I want that poor ol' Mugwump out of this jail tonight. You hear?”

Moon frowned, as if bridling at the order. “You're the boss.” Without waiting to be dismissed, he got up and left the police chief's office.

Roy Severo felt he'd handled the situation pretty damned well.

So did Moon.

Horace Flye was greatly displeased. Here he was in jail, his ear practically chewed off by a drunk who probably had more germs in his mouth than a hydrophobic hound dog. And for what? Just for trying to make an honest dollar. Well, twenty honest dollars. Furthermore, he was highly annoyed at the one-legged Indian in the next cell, who didn't seem to mind being in the jug. The man was sleeping peacefully.

Flye could not rest. For one thing, he had many troubles to ponder. For another, he had drunk seven cups of the establishment's complimentary coffee. It was not a brew meant for those with nervous constitutions. And Flye was a naturally jittery fellow.

He picked up a tattered newspaper off the floor. It was last week's
Southern Ute Drum.
Idly, he began to thumb through the pages. Mostly it was news about the tribe that did not interest him. A front-page story about a water-rights battle. Articles on self-improvement that he certainly did not need to read. Advertisements promoting restaurants and pawnshops and churches. But on page three, he saw something that caught his interest.

EXCAVATION ON MCFAIN LAND

Local rancher Nathan McFain, who has holdings on the eastern boundary of the S.U. reservation, reports finding a large animal bone in his pasture. Mr. McFain has called in Professor Moses Silver and his daughter Dr.
Delia Silver, experts from Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University. The Silvers are supervising the excavation of the site, believed to contain the fossil bones of an extinct animal, probably a mammoth. This father-daughter team has published several books and a number of scholarly articles on the ice-age animals that once roamed the American West …

And the article went on, describing the rancher's temporary plans to cover the excavation site with a large tent. A permanent structure would be erected when the excavation was completed. The scientists would be staying in log cabins on the McFain Dude Ranch. There were two photographs. One of Nathan McFain, pointing triumphantly at sections of bone protruding from the sand.

Horace Flye squinted; looked like Godzilla's ribs.

The second photograph showed the paleontologist from Granite Creek—an aged man with thick spectacles, his arm around a young woman dressed in a plaid shirt and faded jeans. Dr. Delia Silver was an archaeologist. She was smiling, Horace Flye thought,
just like she's looking right outta the picture at me.
He stared at the image of the young woman for some time. Kinda skinny. But still… a pretty thing. Delia. Now that was a sweet, old-fashioned name.

Moon stood before the cells, studying a sheaf of papers fastened to a clipboard.

Curtis Tavishuts—perhaps not wishing to be extravagant with his remaining sound eye—did not bother to look up. Also, he was asleep.

Horace Flye—holding the bandage against his chewed ear—eased his aching body off the bunk with a groan. He leaned on the cage door. The Arkansas man had a sly look on his face. “So, did my little Butter give you any trouble?”

“Trouble?” Moon said, with an expression of innocent bewilderment.

“Oh, I just thought that maybe she might've… well, you know—kinda gotten sassy with you. She can do that sometimes.”
Like when she's awake.

“No trouble,” the Ute policeman said. “She's a little sweetheart.”

Flye seemed oddly disappointed. “You sure you got the right trailer?”

“I'm surprised you'd go in a bar and leave such a small child alone. She's kinda young to be taking care of herself.”

Horace Flye snorted. “Butter's pretty growed-up for her age. She keeps the trailer clean. She can even cook some, like eggs and pancakes. And she's smart as a whip.”

Moon was writing on the clipboard. “Well, that's good. I expect she'll do real well in a foster home.”

“What? Foster home? Now waitaminute …”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry. It probably won't be more than six or eight weeks till your case comes up.”

“You cain't hold me that long… not without a charge.”

“You evidently don't realize,” Moon said, “that the Southern Utes are a sovereign nation. We have our own way of doing things. Like administration of tribal justice,” he added darkly.

“But I got a right to call a lawyer and …”

“Not here, you don't. We do things the Indian way. Bein' a Mugwump and all,” the Ute policeman added in a tone of mild admonishment, “you should know that.”

“Well, sure I do… but… I just cain't afford to stay here that long.”