A Dead Man's Tale Page 6

  After tossing and turning in her Columbine headquarters bedroom for much of the night, just short of daylight Daisy Perika was finally drifting off into a deep, peaceful sleep—when she was jarred awake by a raucous squawking. The horrid, grating sound salted her already-raw nerves. (Imagine the Wicked Witch of the West dragging sharp, dry fingernails along a dusty chalkboard, and cackling evil laughter all the while.)

  The Ute elder got out of bed, mumbled a guttural expletive in her native tongue, jerked the window curtain aside, and glared at the ruffled raven who had so rudely disturbed her sweet slumbers. “Hit the road, you half-wit loudmouth, before I borrow Charlie’s twelve-gauge shotgun and blow you to a bunch of flindered feathers and stinking bird guts!”

  The raven cocked her head, and this is (more or less) what she said: “Awrrk—haawrrk—whaawrk!”

  Any bespectacled professor of Advanced Communication Theory that you happen to meet on the street will tell you that very little information can be contained in a statement that consists of a mere three “bits.” How much? About three bits’ worth.

  Any practitioner of Daisy Perika’s arcane trade could (if she would) tell you that there are barely perceptible undertones, subtle intonations, and understated accents that accentuate the Western American Raven vocabulary. The combination of these components, particularly when used by a skillful conversationalist, tends to enrich the seemingly sparse statement with considerable content. In this specific instance, enough to cause the elder to suspect that this particular member of the crow family was someone she knew. Her glare faded to a hopeful stare. “Are you who I think you are?”

  A rather open-ended query, but it did not ruffle the visitor’s feathers. She nodded as ravens do, with an affirmative croak and several rapid jerks of her head. To prove the truth of what she had said, the talkative creature languidly stretched one black wing, then the other—which meaningful gestures removed any doubt about the matter. Daisy Perika concluded that this was definitely Delilah Darkwing, who dwelled within a half mile of the tribal elder’s reservation home. Delighted to be visited by her neighbor from Cañón del Espíritu, the shaman apologized for her earlier curt remarks and asked what was on Delilah’s acorn-size mind. Had her old friend brought urgent news from the Canyon of the Spirits?

  “Awrrk—awrrk—haaarwrk!” Obviously excited, the presumed Miss Darkwing shifted her slight weight from one spindly leg to the other. Then back again. “Awrrk—waawrrk—sqwaawrk!”

  As she listened intently to these remarks, Daisy learned that the answer to her question was No. And Yes. The subject of the compulsive gossip’s report had nothing to do with Cañón del Espíritu or that motley horde of ghosts who were fated to haunt the ancient canyon until the voice of the final trumpet awakened all the dead. But urgent news it was, and of no mean import.

  After the raven had had her say, she took to wing and flew away without waiting to hear the bemused “thank you” mumbled by the elderly Ute. Daisy Perika returned to the bed, laid her head back on the pillow, sighed, and closed her eyes. Well. That does give a person a lot to think about. When I get home, I’ll check things out.

  This peculiar episode naturally raises a trio of pressing questions.

  First, was Daisy’s early-morning visitor really her old friend Delilah Darkwing from the shadowy canyon between Three Sisters and Dogleg mesas?

  Perhaps. One hesitates to speculate.

  Second, was this the selfsame raven who had spied on Samuel Reed and perched on Scott Parris’s office windowsill?

  Hard to say. (Ravens look and talk much alike.)

  Third, how did a scruffy-looking creature come to have such a remarkable name? It is gratifying to have a question that one can answer. Daisy had given the name to her. For reasons that the shaman has never confided to her closest friend or next of kin, she is firmly convinced that the feathered creature is possessed. Yes. And by no less than the spirit of a young Ute woman who died a few years back. The deceased person’s first name was Delilah—but her surname was nothing nearly so impressive as Darkwing. That embellishment was Daisy Perika’s invention.

  Chapter Twelve

  Two More Crafty Old Indians—on a Mission

  The shiny new Dodge pickup transporting the pair of elderly Native Americans had just passed through the Columbine Ranch front gate and was bumping along the miles-long graveled road toward the headquarters where, only a couple of hours ago, Charlie Moon’s aunt had carried on an intense conversation with a raven.

  The driver glanced at the sullen Chickasaw, who was hunched forward in the passenger seat. Lyle looks like he’s asleep. From Oscar Sweetwater’s perspective, it was hard to tell. Lyle Thoms’s left eye tended to droop. Moreover, the Chickasaw elder had said precisely nine words since they left Ignacio more than an hour ago. The words (repeated three times) were: “We there yet?” The passenger startled the Ute by suddenly jerking his head erect and peering through the windshield at the Misery Range peaks, which were wreathed in swirling gray clouds.

  “Look’s like it’s snowing up there,” Sweetwater said. “Honest-to-goodness spring comes late in this high country and lasts maybe a month. After that, there’s about two weeks of real summertime.”

  The Chickasaw glanced at the Southern Ute tribal chairman. “We there yet?”

  “We’re on Columbine property, but it’s a few more miles to Charlie Moon’s big log house.”

  Thoms leaned back and closed his eyes. “This Moon fella—he half as good as they say?”

  “He’s twice as good and then some.” The Southern Ute chairman raised his chin in a stern gesture of tribal pride. “Charlie Moon always gets the job done.”

  The passenger grunted.

  Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, Sweetwater scowled at the winding road ahead. If Charlie don’t get this Chickasaw’s business taken care of right away, there’ll be sure-enough hell to pay. He swallowed a sigh. And I can’t even afford the interest.

  Some twenty minutes later, the Dodge pickup rolled past the foreman’s residence, then immediately crossed the Too Late Creek bridge. As the Columbine Ranch headquarters loomed into view, Lyle Thoms craned his neck to get a look at the two-story log structure.

  Oscar Sweetwater parked the dusty truck under a budding cottonwood. “Wait here a few minutes, Lyle.” He set the hand brake. “I’ll go find out if Charlie’s in the house.”

  The Indian from Oklahoma responded with a shrug.

  Mr. Twice as Good is Softened Up

  Charlie Moon had heard the pickup rattle across the bridge. He was waiting on the headquarters west porch when the tribal chairman braked the vehicle to a stop under the cottonwood. In the cool shadows, and unnoticed by his visitors, he watched Oscar Sweetwater say something to a passenger whose face was unfamiliar. The tribal investigator was mildly surprised when the man who signed his occasional vouchers for services rendered got out of the truck and left the other man inside.

  When the elected leader of Moon’s tribe discerned the slender form in the shade of the porch roof, he raised his right hand. “Hey, Charlie.”

  “Good morning, Oscar.” It would have been impolite to inquire about the old man in the truck. If and when he was of a mind to, the chairman would identify his passenger. Moon invited the shrewd politician inside and asked whether he would like a cup of hot coffee.

  “That’d be nice,” Sweetwater said. “And maybe something to chew on while I drink.” He looked hopefully toward the kitchen. “Has Daisy made any of them fried fruit pies that I like so much?”

  Moon shook his head. “She’s busy packing her suitcase.” For maybe the third time this morning.

  “Where’s that fussy old woman going?” Someplace a long ways off, I hope.

  “Daisy and Sarah leave for the res later today. Every week or two, my aunt visits her home to make sure everything’s shipshape.”

  Sweetwater snorted. “If I know Daisy—and I do—she’ll be wandering around in Spirit Canyon, talking to animals
and ghosts and…whatnot.”

  Moon understood that “whatnot” was Sweetwater’s code word for the pitukupf. Withholding comment on that sensitive subject, he opened the porch door for his guest.

  A minute later, Sweetwater was seated at the kitchen table. “I brought an old friend with me.” He gestured with a jerk of his head. “He’s out in the pickup.”

  Moon turned up the flame under the percolator. “Maybe he’d like some coffee and a bite to eat.”

  “That can wait. First, I want to tell you something about him.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by Sarah Frank’s hurried entry into the kitchen. She exchanged a quick greeting with the tribal chairman, but avoided eye contact with Charlie Moon, who watched in bemused silence as the young woman snatched a matched pair of mugs from a cupboard and a brown paper sack of stale pastries from the breadbox.

  After tending to their distinguished guest, Sarah poured the apple of her eye a cup of black coffee. She also stirred in a tablespoon of Tule Creek Honey, and then—without a word—she rushed away.

  Oscar Sweetwater glared at the empty space the girl left behind. “Does she ever stop to catch her breath?”

  Moon smiled at his edgy guest. “Young folks are generally brimming over with energy they need to burn up.”

  “Well I wish she’d burn it up somewhere else; it tires me just to see her buzzing around like a ninety-pound mosquito.” The grumpy old man frowned at the glazed doughnut in his hand. “What was we talking about?”

  Moon took a sip of the sweetened brew. “You were going to tell me about the gentleman who’s waiting in your pickup.”

  “Oh, right—his name is Lyle Thoms. First thing you need to know is that he’s one of them hard-nosed Chickasaws from Oklahoma.” He shot Moon a look that said, And you know what they’re like. “Long time ago, Lyle did me a favor.” Significant pause. “A really big favor.” He waited for the tribal investigator to ask what.

  Moon took another, longer drink of coffee.

  The old man made a gnarly fist with his right hand and stared at it. “Did you know I had a sister?”

  “No.” The chairman could still surprise him.

  “Well, ain’t you gonna ask what her name was and what happened to her?”

  “What was your sister’s name, Oscar—and what happened to her?”

  Sweetwater opened his mouth, shut it when he heard the peg-peg of Daisy Perika’s walking stick.

  Charlie Moon’s aunt ambled in and took a look at the tribe’s ablest politician. “What’re you doing here, you old renegade—stirring up trouble for us good Indians?”

  The chairman raised his chin. “With you on the job, there’s no need for that.”

  After an appreciative chuckle, Daisy addressed her nephew: “I can’t find my blue shawl.”

  Moon pointed with his coffee cup. “It’s on the hat rack in the hall.”

  “Oh.” The old woman with the oak staff turned and peg-pegged away.

  Sweetwater watched her go. “What was we talking about when she butted in?”

  Moon smiled at his guest. “Your sister.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Her name was Sophie.” Like a little boy about to swallow a dose of castor oil, Sweetwater hesitated and made an ugly face. “What happened to Sophie was…” He blinked away a pair of tears. “It’s been over sixty years, but I can remember it better than what I had for breakfast this morning.”

  Moon put his cup on the table.

  The old man raised his chin again. “One night, while my folks was away in town and me and Sophie was playin’ out in the front yard, this fella pulled up in a big, shiny black car and started asking questions like ‘How far is it to Durango?’ and ‘Can I talk to your daddy?’ and ‘Are you two kids home alone?’”

  Seeing what was coming, the tribal cop closed his eyes to the dark vision the old man was summoning up.

  “I can’t hardly talk about it, even after all these years.” Sweetwater coughed. “Let’s just say that I got beat almost to death—and I was the lucky one.” The silence ticked away a dozen old-man heartbeats. “The bastard took Sophie with him. Every able-bodied man in the tribe and about two hundred matukach searched for my little sister. They found her body over by Flint Hill.”

  A full minute of silence followed.

  A soft breeze sighed under the eaves.

  Finally, Sweetwater was able to speak again. “Based on what I told the cops about the man and his motorcar, the state police was able to find him. The arrested the devil up over by Las Animas; he was headed toward Kansas. I don’t want to go over the whole nasty business, Charlie—but he was indicted by a grand jury, and tried. I was the only witness that could identify him, but when I got on the stand, I was so scared I couldn’t hardly say a word. And the defense attorney—some slicker from Denver—made me out to be a fool kid who couldn’t tell one matukach from another.” Silence. “The jury found him not guilty.”

  Moon shook his head. “I bet I can guess the rest of the story.”

  “I imagine you can.”

  “Your father put the word out about the killer, who probably ended up in Oklahoma.” Moon gestured with his chin. “And that old Chickasaw hard case who’s biding his time in your pickup—he saw to it that justice was done.”

  “I’m not saying he did.” For the first time that day, Sweetwater came very near smiling. “And I’m not saying he didn’t.” There was a hard look in the chairman’s eyes. “But that bad man ended up dead, and he didn’t die easy.” He glared at the Southern Ute warrior. “Lyle Thoms did me and my family a special favor.” Sweetwater sucked in an oversized helping of high-country air. “And now he’s asking me for one.”

  “I’m guessing this isn’t official tribal business.”

  “You guess right, Charlie. This is personal—and a favor to Lyle is a favor to me.” The chairman took a sip of his now-tepid coffee. “But don’t worry about working for nothing. Lyle’s got deep pockets. He’ll pay you.”

  “Pay me for doing what?”

  Oscar Sweetwater pushed himself up from the straight-back chair. “I’ll let my friend tell you that.”

  Charlie Moon listened to the old man’s boots clomp away down the hallway.

  The Southern Ute tribal chairman sent the Chickasaw elder into the Columbine headquarters but decided to remain outside.

  “To enjoy the fresh air,” Oscar Sweetwater told Lyle Thoms.

  Also to distance himself from any legal entanglement in the Chickasaw’s grim business. Charlie Moon was a man you could depend on to get the job done. But there was always a chance that something would go wrong.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Chickasaw’s Proposal

  Charlie Moon ushered his guest to the place where important business on the Columbine was generally conducted. Lyle Thoms seated himself at the tribal investigator’s kitchen table, in a chair that was still warm from Sweetwater’s recent presence.

  Figuring he knew more or less what was coming, Moon waited. Best thing is to let the old man have his say, then figure out how to handle things.

  Lyle Thoms got right to the point. “I want a man killed.”

  Moon didn’t blink. “That’s all?”

  “No.” Not given to subtleties, Thoms was immune to sarcasm. “I’ll need proof that he’s dead. You can scalp him or cut off his private parts—whatever suits you. Just send me something so I’ll know you got the job done.” To facilitate the mailing, Thoms recited his four-digit post office box number in Tishomingo, Oklahoma, which—and this was one of those peculiar coincidences that is bound to occur from time to time—also specified the day and month of Daisy Perika’s birthday.

  Which naturally intensified the old woman’s interest.

  Yes, Charlie Moon’s inquisitive auntie was enjoying her favorite pastime.

  Daisy Gets an Earful

  From the Ute elder’s self-centered point of view, her practice of eavesdropping on other folks’ private conversations did not re
present a character flaw. She was merely pursuing an interesting and enlightening hobby. And it was great fun to sneak around and find out things you were not supposed to know.

  Which was why Daisy had slipped out of her slippers, left her walking stick in her bedroom, and managed to creep along the hallway without creaking a single board in the thick oak floor. This time, that sharp-eared nephew of mine won’t know I’m here.

  Charlie Moon Plays Along

  “So who is this fellow that needs killing?”

  “Posey Shorthorse.” Lyle Thoms pulled a wallet from his hip pocket and removed something from behind a thick wad of greenbacks. He pushed it across the kitchen table to his host.

  Moon picked up the snapshot of a muscular young man. He looks mean as a stepped-on rattlesnake.

  “That’s Shorthorse.” Thoms’s thin lips twisted into a distasteful grimace. “He’s a Chickasaw—one of our bad ones.” He pushed another item across the oilcloth.

  Moon looked at the blank rectangle of paper. He turned it over to discover a stylistic representation of a lizard. That looks like something you might find painted in the bottom of a Mimbres pot. The reptile’s tail was curled around its body three times.

  “That’s my business card,” Thoms said. “This year, I’m head man of the Blue Lizard Clan.” He looked searchingly at the Ute. “Shorthorse got my fourteen-year-old granddaughter pregnant, then beat her up so bad she lost the baby. After that, he went off and left her alone.” He exhaled a deep sigh. “Poor little girl went stone crazy. Soon as she was able to walk, she went down to the creek and drowned herself.” Thoms thumped his knuckles on the table. “I want Shorthorse killed.” He thumped it twice. “The clan wants him killed.” A triple thump. “And we’ll get it done one way or another.” A thoughtful pause. “Problem is, Shorthorse knows we’re after him.” He raised his knuckles again, paused. “Late last year, we got word that he was bumming around out in Los Angeles, living off women. We sent a Chickasaw warrior out there. Our young man never came home.” Thoms took a sip of strong black coffee and made a face as he swallowed. “We figure Shorthorse must’ve killed him and then left L.A. I figured the bastard was gone for good, but just last week I got word that he’d been seen in Granite Creek.”