The Witch's Tongue (39 page)

“Why should I give two hoots about what you want to know?”

“You needn’t be so testy. Besides, as I am to be your employee, there should be some level of trust between us. Think of it as a gesture to prove your goodwill.”

“I don’t have any goodwill left for you.”

Bertie stamped his bare foot. “Charles, I simply
must
know!”

“Then ask your partner in crime.”

“Ralph Briggs has the box?”

“He should. I sent it to him a coupla days ago.” The thought made Moon smile.

At promptly half past three, the United States mail was delivered to The Compleate Antiquarian. Among the assortment of bills, advertisements, magazines, and catalogs was a small parcel. It had an illegible return address, a crisp Durango postmark.

What could it be?

The possibilities were titillating and practically endless.

With all the enthusiasm of a hopeful child on Christmas morning, Ralph Briggs used a sixteenth-century Florentine dagger to slit the brown paper wrapping. What he found inside was a surprise—the tribal investigator’s little cedar box. Taped on the lid was a handwritten note from the Ute.

The message gave him pause.

THE AFTERNOON
dragged on.

Perilously close to bankruptcy, ego terribly wounded, the antiquarian sat alone in the half-light of his immaculately appointed office. In a vain attempt to soothe his jangled nerves, he sipped straight gin from a crystal goblet. For the forty-ninth time, he read the enigmatic note:

He was afraid to flaunt the sly Indian’s advice. Something bad would be inside. But he could not endure the rest of his life without knowing. Moon had assured him that in the box was the sum total of the hard evidence on the Cassidy Museum burglary. Enough, apparently, to send two respectable citizens to prison
—if
the stolen coins had been identified as counterfeits.

Minutes passed like snails in low gear.

A lemon-tinted sun fell behind the willows.

Twilight arrived with an expectant hush.

It must be done
. He held his breath, gingerly pressed the button under the brass latch.

The spring-loaded lid yawned open.

Ralph Briggs frowned at the contents—five playing cards.

A three and a nine of spades.

Five of clubs.

Seven of hearts.

Jack of diamonds.

It took a few irregular heartbeats for understanding to dawn on the unfortunate man. The tribal investigator had shown his hand—his
nothing
hand. Briggs sat in stunned silence, stared at the mocking display.
Moon was holding trash. He had no proof that Bertie and I planned the burglary. It was another empty bluff—and I folded!

Enraged, he drove the Florentine dagger through the jack of diamonds, impaling it to the Chippendale mahogany desk that heretofore had not the slightest blemish.

Oh no—what have I done?

Ralph Briggs clenched his hands into fists, beat them on the mutilated Chippendale.
I will get you for this, Charlie Moon. Just you wait and see
.

The cowboy turned the big truck into the Chuckwagon Drive Up, expertly nosed it into a space between a pair of small sedans.

Spotting the killer pickup, the carhop made a mad dash and was outside before the shining red behemoth had lurched to a rocking stop at station 10. Within a few strides of the F-350, Shirley Spoletto was unnerved by the sudden realization that Charlie Moon was not behind the wheel. In fact, there seemed to be no one at all in the cab. And then she saw the cowboy hat, its peak barely even with the top of the steering wheel. Shirley approached the vehicle with the righteous suspicion of a woman who was expecting a prince but has been offered a warty-skinned frog. The gum-chewing waitperson looked into the open window.

The lean cowboy wore faded jeans, a partially unbuttoned blue flannel shirt. His hands were scratched and callused from hard work. The face that looked back at her from under the sweat-soaked Stetson was sunburned, the blue eyes merry. “Howdy.”

She sized up the half-pint. “Howdy yourself.” Shirley remembered her current profession. “What’ll you have?”

He winked. “What’ve you got, dream of my heart?”

Having heard a hundred better lines, the footsore carhop rolled her eyes. “Route 666 burgers, Tater Tots, hot fudge sundaes, and so on.” She pointed at the sign. “It’s all wrote down there.”

The fellow touched the brim of his hat. “You want to see something awesome?”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You do something obscene—I’ll punch you right in the snout.”

He removed the Stetson, exposing a head that—except for a brown horseshoe of fuzz set snugly above his ears—was as bald and pale as a peeled white onion.

She jumped back. “Ugh—what is that?” It appeared to be some kind of horrible disease.

“Look closer, my golden-tressed wench.”

“You watch your smart mouth.” Shirley leaned forward for a better look, clasped a hand over her mouth. “Eeeeew!” She had once seen a similar case on her favorite documentary television show, and knew right away what it was. “You got a lotta little blue brain-eating worms wriggling around under your skin—I saw that very same thing on
X-Files
!”

“Not so,” said the cowboy. “It is a work of manly art. A hairy-faced Picasso in Pueblo applied it with carefully sterilized needles and organic ink.” He tapped a finger on his skull. “Surely you recognize the famous subject that has been so skillfully depicted upon the epidermal canvas of my spherical member.”

“It’s only a tattoo?” Somewhat relieved, the carhop leaned closer still. “It better not be somethin’ dirty, or I’ll poke a thumb in your eye.” She stared long and hard, finally shook her head. “What’s it supposed to be?”

The owner of the artistic work made no attempt to hide his shock at her ignorance. “Why, it is obviously a map of Lower Mesopotamia—as it would have appeared in the latter portion of the sixth century,
B.C.
”

She gave the bubble gum a good chew. “I think it’s gross.”

“Your words cut me to the marrow. This was a very expensive tattoo.”

“Well, if it cost six bits, you paid too much. I still say it’s a bunch of worms.” She snickered. “Maybe they’re tryin’ to look like hair.”

This suggested another approach: “Listen, toots—d’you know what leads to male pattern baldness?”

She thought about it. “Some kinda geek gene?”

“A natural assumption for one of your stunning limitations, but you are in error.” He puffed up his chest. “The root cause of the dearth of hair on my head is—excess
testosterone
.”

“Hah.” She smirked. “That’s a good one.”

“A pithy rejoinder, my golden-haired Aphrodite erudite, but the baldness-testosterone correlation is a scientifically verifiable fact, and you can look it up if you are so inclined. I can quote to you a list of scholarly references in such reputable sources as
The New England Journal of Medicine, Archives of Endocrinology, The National Enquirer
, and
Soldier of Fortune—
all of which I have memorized for just such occasions as this.” He smirked right back at the long-legged blonde.

Somewhat taken aback by this verbal onslaught, Shirley took a moment to regain her natural composure. She glared at the man with worms on his head; her words bore the unmistakable sting of accusation as she tapped the Ford’s glistening fender. “Where’d you steal this fancy truck?”

“This magnificent product of Mr. Ford’s Kansas City, MO, assembly plant and Happy Dan’s Custom Trucks and Vans was a virtual gift. From a generous friend.”

“Sez you. I happen to know for a fact that this F-350 belongs to Charlie Moon.”

“Not anymore, missy. She is mine now.”

“Oh yeah—how’d she come to be yours?”

“Charlie happens to be a buddy of mine—he gave her to me.”

“He’d never do no such a thing.” Shirley’s eyes glinted dangerously. “I flat-out don’t believe a word you’re saying.”

“Next time you see Charlie, ask him yourself. All the equity he had in the vehicle, he generously transferred to me—all I had to do was take over the payments.” He placed the wide-brimmed hat back over Lower Mesopotamia, casting that unfortunate land into a darkness that smelled sourly of perspiration. “Would you care to examine the registration?”

Ignoring this challenge, she leaned on the door. “I happen to know this truck has a name. If a man knows the name, he can start ’er up without the key.”

The driver cleared his throat, then: “Go, Betty Lou.”

The V-8 engine rumbled to life. Settled down into a throbbing, feline purr.

Jeepers—it really is his truck
.

Sensing his advantage, the driver hurried to build on it. “Despite my scruffy appearance and low-paying job, I am a man of some means.”

The long-legged kitten felt a purr coming on. She hung her elbows inside the cab.
He is a cute little bunny rabbit
. “My name is Shirley, Worm Head—what’s yours?”

The cowboy grinned. “Cassidy, ma’am.”

“Hah—I think I’ve heard a you.” She blew a sticky pink bubble, which popped in his face. “You must be
Hopalong
Cassidy.”

“Ol’ Hoppy may well have been a distant relation of mine.” He sniffed to demonstrate his distinct displeasure at the thought. “But I am not cut from the sort of cloth that those fancy movie-star cowboys are made. I have gravel grit in my craw, greased lightning in my draw, and I can whip my weight in wildcats. To sum it up, I am a sure-enough woolly-booger with spurs on.”

Having rarely met any other kind of man, Shirley was tolerant of liars and braggarts. “Is that the honest truth?”

“The hard-case cowboys at the ranch—they call me by a descriptive nickname.”

She asked what.

The driver of the big red pickup truck told her what.

Shirley giggled. “You kidding me?”

“No, ma’am.” The Columbine cowhand tipped his hat. “Butch Cassidy is who I am.”

While he listened to his investigator’s report, the tribal chairman deftly tied a tiny blue hummingbird feather onto a long-shanked hook. When Charlie Moon had finished, Oscar Sweetwater put the trout lure into a small plastic box. “That’s it?”

Moon nodded. “Felix Navarone is doing his fifteen at a federal jug in West Virginia. Jacob Gourd Rattle’s wife has gone home to North Carolina.” He glanced at the clock on the wall, remembered his obligation. “I’d better be rolling on down the road. Aunt Daisy is expecting me.”

“Tell her I said hello.” The old man got up from his desk, gave Moon a stony look. “But before you leave, there’s something I want you to see.”

Moon clamped the John B. Stetson on his head. “What would that be?”

“Follow me.”

Charlie Moon followed Oscar Sweetwater out of the chairman’s musty office, down the dimly lighted hallway, out of the tribal headquarters building, across a neatly kept lawn, under the branches of a leafy maple.

At the edge of the parking lot, the elected leader of the Southern Utes stopped at a newly painted-off space. A sturdy wooden signpost was at the curb. The sign was wrapped in shiny red paper; this covering was secured with a blue ribbon that blossomed into a festive bow. “Remember what you asked for?”

Moon stared in amazed disbelief. His request for a private parking space had been a joke. This hard-nosed old politician didn’t have a sense of humor. “Look, Oscar, you didn’t need to—”

The chairman raised his hand for silence. “You’ve been doing good work for the tribe. And I guess I’m not too good at letting people know how much they’re appreciated. I figured this was the least I could do.” He gazed expectantly at his part-time employee. “Well, ain’t you gonna undo the wrapping?”

Moved by this unexpected kindness, Charlie Moon tore the crimson paper off. Atop the square pine post was a thick set of cedar boards. The assembly was two feet long, almost a foot high. On the side facing the parking space, a gifted craftsman had etched deep letters into the wood:
RESERVED C MOON
.

C Moon swallowed the lump in his throat. “Thanks, Oscar. That’s really nice.”

“There’s more inside. Open it up.”

The tribal investigator noticed that the sign board was hinged on one end; he pulled on the other. There was more inside. A glistening silver parking meter.

The flag was showing red.

Oscar Sweetwater had been waiting for years to line this smart Aleck young buck up in his sights—and pull the trigger. As he saw the look of astonishment spread across his victim’s face, the marksman knew he’d nailed him good. Oscar laughed so hard he had to lean on the parking meter for support.

Charlie Moon watched the chairman haw-haw and gasp and wheeze.
Silly old geezer
.

The lean man towered above his aged aunt. The mismatched pair made their way along a deer trail that meandered among boulders, scrub oak, and clumps of yucca spears. Aside from the occasional scuffing sound of boot or shoe, they enjoyed a companionable silence that melded into the vast stillness in
Cañon del Espiritu
.

Finally, Daisy Perika decided to speak to her nephew. She watched his long shadow—spoke to it, as if the sliver of darkness were an extension of his soul. “Did you know that some of the People think you was the one who stranded that Apache on the Witch’s Tongue?”

The talking drums never stopped. “Do they, now?”

“It is bad manners to answer an elder’s question with another question.”

Moon allowed himself a smile. “Is it?”

“Don’t get sassy with me.” Daisy tapped him on the shin with her walking stick. “But whenever I hear that kind of gossip, I set ’em straight. I say, ‘Don’t you go accusing my nephew of doing something like that.’”

“Thank you. I appreciate your vote of confidence—”

“It don’t have anything to do with confidence. I
know
you didn’t do it.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, I have my ways.” She smiled. “Sometimes I see what happens with my own eyes. Other times, them that sees things come and tell me.”

Moon thought he would let that dog sleep.

The tribal elder stopped to lean on her oak staff. She stared at the shadow’s head. “You want to know who’s been telling me stuff?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether the person in question is still within the reach of the law.”

She thought about it. “Not the kind of law you’re talking about.”

I thought so
. Charlie Moon put an arm around her shoulders. “I bet I can guess.”

“Try.”

“Okay. Jacob Gourd Rattle’s ghost rose up from the grave. He comes and talks with you.”

She shook her head. “Jacob’s spirit hasn’t been around to see me yet.” A pause. “But another one has.”

Moon hoped she would not tell him.

“It was that
matukach
who worked for our Ute police department.”

He felt a sting of surprise. “Jim Wolfe?”

The shaman nodded. “Back in October, he came here with his father and mother.”

“His parents are dead too?”

“No. Last time I saw ’em, Tobias and his Okie missus was warm as you or me.”

“What were they doing here?”

“They came to thank me for helping put their son’s murderer in the penitentiary.”
And to give me something, Some nights I wake up wishing I had took it
. “But when his folks went back to Oklahoma, Jim Wolfe stayed here with me. We’re good friends now.”

Charlie Moon did not want to hear it.

Daisy was determined to tell him. “Jim has told me lots of things, and some of it’s pretty strange.”

Her nephew was not surprised.

“Like about that time when you told him not to let the nickel fall off the whiskey glass, but it happened right after you left the saloon—and he never did get it out of the crack in the floor. Jim said that was when his luck started to go bad.” She watched her nephew’s face. “Does that make any sense?”

He had no answer to that.

“All the time, he tells me, ‘I should have listened to Charlie Moon. Charlie always gave me good advice. He is a smart one. But me, I have always been dumb as a stump. Dull-witted as a barnyard turkey, stupid as a—”

Moon heard the words fall out of his mouth. “Sack of dirt.”

“He said you’d say that.” She sat down on a ponderosa stump, laid the oak walking stick across her lap. “Anything you’d like to pass on to him?”

Wishing there was a way to make amends for things done and things left undone, Moon thought about it for a long time. The aged woman could serve as his confessor. “I’m sorry about the way things turned out. And I wish I’d helped him a lot more than I did.” He smiled at his aunt. “You can tell Jim that.”

She responded with a prideful smugness. “Tell him yourself.”

The unbeliever felt a clammy coldness creep over his skin. “You’re kidding.”

“No I’m not.”

Moon felt extremely foolish, but had to ask. “Where?”

“He’s been right beside you since we left my trailer.”

He took a cautious sideways look.

“No, on your left.”

He turned his head. “I don’t see anything.”

“I didn’t expect you to.” She reached into her pocket, found a lemon drop. “For a
matukach
, Wolfe isn’t all that bad. I sorta like him.”

“Right.” Moon grinned. “But what do you say when he’s not around?”

Daisy Perika popped the candy into her mouth. “I’m the only real family you got left.” She looked off into the canyon mists, watched a very old lost soul do a macabre dance before a faded petroglyph of a horned snake. “While I’m still here in Middle World, you should treat me with more respect.”

“I’m willing to give a try.”

She gave him a sly look. “Start by telling me about that package in your coat pocket.”

The Ute produced the paper-wrapped parcel. “This is what’s known in our traditional culture as ‘men’s stuff.’ So, seeing as how you’re a member of the female gender, I should not let you see it. If I break one of the old rules, I might get a headache when the sun goes down.”

The shaman glared at her nephew. “Let me see it, or I’ll fix you so your brain starts to ache while there’s still daylight.”

“Let’s make a deal.”

“I’m listening.”

“That’s the deal—all you can do is listen. So pay close attention, and tell me what it is.” Behind her back, he wrapped the loose end of the leather cord twice around his palm, let the flat-bone piece attached to the other end fall to his ankle.

Slowly at first, Charlie Moon began to swing the thing.

The thin slab of bone began to sing.

Vooooom
.

Daisy shook her head.

Louder:
Vooooom
.

“No,” she muttered.

Louder still:
Vooooom!

Moon was enjoying the demonstration. “Jacob Gourd Rattle brought a bullroarer to Snake Canyon; probably to call the spirits of wind and thunder.”

“Put it away,” the shaman said.

“It’s just a noise-making toy—”

Somewhere up there, a heavy rumble of thunder. A damp gust of wind swept down the canyon.

Charlie Moon ceased his demonstration of the groaning board. But only to make his aunt feel better.

By cosmic coincidence, silence and stillness returned to
Cañon del Espiritu
.

Daisy Perika heaved a sigh of relief.

Her nephew looked up at the thin slice of clear blue sky. The unseen thunderhead was probably somewhere over the mesa. And unexpected winds were always rolling down these canyons.

Knowing the gist of his thoughts, Daisy shook her head.
Fools never learn
.

Moon seated himself on the ground near his aunt.

In a vain attempt to find a more comfortable position, the weary woman shifted her rump on the stump. “I know how you got down onto the Witch’s Tongue.” There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “And how you got back up again.”

“I guess Wolfe told you about that too.”

Daisy shot him a crafty look. “He says you used that electric winch—the one on your fancy new pickup truck.”

She’s guessing
. But a mighty good guess it was.

“By the way—whatever happened to that big red truck?”

He felt the merest twinge of guilt. “Somebody else needed it more than I did.”
And could afford it more than I could
.