A Dead Man's Tale Page 7

  From long experience, the tribal cop realized that chances were no better than one in ten that the man who’d been spotted was the Chickasaw that Lyle Thoms wanted killed. And even if it was Posey Shorthorse, he was probably just passing through. But Oscar Sweetwater’s old friend had to be treated with faultless respect. “Do you have any other information that might help me find him?”

  Lyle Thoms stared at the Ute. “Would it help if I gave you his address?”

  “Well…that might come in handy.”

  “If I knew where Shorthorse hung his hat, I’d have already shot him dead.” The Chickasaw’s face was like stone.

  The Ute could not suppress a grin.

  “You’ll take care of him, then?” There was a steely glint in Thoms’s eye.

  “I’ll look into it.” First chance I get. A bad apple like this was probably wanted for several felonies. If I find out the fellow’s in town, I’ll turn Scott Parris loose on him.

  “Good.” Thoms helped himself to a deep breath. “That’s settled, then.”

  The Spy Barely Averts Discovery

  She did it with two fingers. It happened like this: Daisy Perika felt a sneeze coming on. A great big one. The kind that can blow the ham and eggs right off your plate.

  Did she panic? Not a chance.

  The tough old lady pinched her nostrils shut and held her breath until she thought her head was going to swell up like a balloon and explode all over the place.

  But it didn’t.

  And the “ah-choo!” gave up before Daisy did.

  Moon is Snookered

  The head man of the Chickasaw Blue Lizard Clan drummed his fingers on the kitchen table’s red-and-white-checkered oilcloth for a moment, then paused. “Let’s talk about your fee.”

  The needy rancher waited in respectful silence.

  “I’ve thought about it.” The Chickasaw studied the Ute’s best poker face. “If I was to pay you for swatting a fly buzzing around my head, that’d be worth maybe fifty cents. If I needed you to kill a rabid dog on my front porch, I’d pay…say, fifty dollars. Then, if I wanted you to get rid of a man, that’d be worth more.”

  Moon’s poker face slipped a half smidgen. How much more?

  A fair hand at seven-card stud, Lyle Thoms read Moon’s expression and answered the question. “Let’s say…twenty thousand dollars cash money.”

  The tribal investigator blinked. “That’s a fair price.”

  “Yes it is, for a killing a man.” Thoms leaned toward Moon and spat the words across the table at the Ute. “But Posey Shorthorse ain’t no man. He ain’t even a green snake or a dung beetle.”

  Charlie Moon wondered where this was going.

  Lyle Thoms told him. “For ridding the world of a nothing like that, I’ll pay you twenty-five cents.”

  The supposed assassin cocked his head. Did he really say—

  “I know you’d be glad to do it for free—but it’s an insult, see?” Realizing from Moon’s bemused expression that he wasn’t quite getting through, the Chickasaw elder put it this way: “Before you execute Shorthorse, make sure that low-down bastard knows you’re doing the job for two bits.”

  After barely suppressing a disastrous sneeze, Daisy Perika came very near giving herself away by laughing out loud. Deciding on a tactical retreat, the tribal elder withdrew to her bedroom, where she let the chuckle out—and then busied herself with packing for the drive south in Sarah Frank’s pickup.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There is Absolutely No Place

  Like home, of course.

  When Sarah Frank and Daisy Perika arrived at the tribal elder’s remote dwelling for an overnight stay, tears formed in the old woman’s eyes. There could be no doubt about it, everything was better here than on the Columbine—including the sky, which was of a deeper hue of blue. And those halfhearted birdsongs on Charlie’s ranch couldn’t hold a candle to the crooning of robins and bluebirds in Cañón del Espíritu and…The air here makes me feel twenty years younger! Before going inside, Daisy took time to inhale a dose of that vaporous elixir. After shivering in those chill winds that whistled on her nephew’s ranch, the warmth of this sweet afternoon breeze felt ever so welcoming. Indeed, the moist breath exhaled from the mouth of Spirit Canyon carried delectable hints of an early summer, and familiar scents of savory herbs and enticing spices that Daisy gathered to concoct everything from arcane medications to tasty soups and salads.

  Fine as they were, the sky, birdsongs, air, and flora were just for openers.

  At the instant she stepped over her threshold, the homesick woman was almost overwhelmed by the inexpressible joy of…being back where I belong again!

  Daisy’s creaky rocker by the parlor hearth was miles more comfortable than any chair in Charlie Moon’s log house, and the tired old soul knew that tonight she would sleep like the blessed dead…and in my very own bed!

  But what is home without a neighbor? Daisy will say, “Just the way I like it!”

  But even for this cantankerous old lady, it depends upon the personality of the nearby resident, and after Mrs. Perika has been abroad for a while her standards tend to become relaxed. So much so that even a formerly detestable face can be a welcome sight.

  Which explains why Daisy was eager to pay a call on the only more or less mortal soul within an hour’s walk. Even though the Ute shaman was not particularly fond of the dwarf, the pitukupf was a singular resident in a community populated primarily by such run-of-the-mill society as wild animals and spirits of dead people. The eccentric citizen whom she aimed to visit was a remarkable little man who had spent the better part of his thousand or so years within the shadowy sanctum of Cañón del Espíritu—most recently, as the sole occupant of an abandoned badger hole.

  There were two reasons for Daisy’s desire to see the wily pitukupf.

  The first was friendship. Though their relationship had been checkered by the occasional misunderstanding, the little man was (excepting the raven) Daisy’s only friend in the vicinity. But that term of endearment can be misleading. They were friends only after a fashion—in the sense that aged warriors David and Goliath (had the oversized Philistine not perished during their initial encounter) might have become jolly comrades after the wars who would (whilst tipping pewter mugs of mulled ale) debate the relative merits of shepherd’s slings and gigantic spears. The relationship between Daisy and the dwarf was, to put it simply—complex. Not so very long ago, the annoying little trickster had vexed the volatile old woman to the point that she had very nearly beaten her tiny neighbor to death.

  Please don’t ask. It was an embarrassing incident, best forgotten.

  Daisy’s second reason for desiring an audience with the dwarf had to do with the recent visit to the Columbine Ranch by one Delilah Darkwing, who had urged the tribal elder to arrange a meeting with the pitukupf. Needless to say, urgings by ravens are ignored at one’s peril. Minutes earlier, when Sarah pulled her red pickup into Daisy’s front yard, that feathered personage had been perched expectantly on the topmost branch of a juniper. In the Ute-Papago girl’s presence, the shaman and the raven had limited their exchange to meaningful glances.

  Daisy deposited her suitcase in the bedroom and advised Sarah that she was going to “take a little walk.”

  Stiff from the long drive and brimming over with pent-up energy, the eighteen-year-old was ready for a hike. “Where to?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” The elder avoided the youth’s hopeful gaze. “I just want to go have a look at things.”

  “What things?”

  Daisy bristled at this cross-examination. “Rocks. Trees. Skunks. Centipedes. Whatever I happen to come across!” The edgy old woman leaned against her stout oak staff, took a deep breath—and explained so that even a teenager could understand: “I want to be by myself for a while and enjoy some peace and quiet.” She jutted her chin in a defiant gesture. “While I’m gone, you can fix us some supper.”

  Sarah arched a doubtful brow. “Well…okay.
” I guess. “What do you want to eat?”

  “I’m not picky.” Charlie Moon’s aunt shrugged. “Anything that don’t smell bad or try to bite me back.”

  Daisy’s Time Alone

  That was her intention, but she was never entirely without company.

  Miss Darkwing was never far from Daisy Perika’s side; the gossipy raven flew from huckleberry bush to aspen sapling to mossy boulder to aged ponderosa—all the while updating the tribal elder on recent events such as births, deaths, feuds, mysterious disappearances, and newcomers in the canyon. Not to mention dreadful omens, thunderous rumblings from Cloud Woman, fiery night-sky portents, and the like.

  As Daisy trod her breathless way into Spirit Canyon along the slightly upgrade deer path, she also encountered a lonely disembodied soul who was determined to bend her ear, a cheeky chipmunk who demanded a handout or else, and a cheeky little rattlesnake who coiled under a winterkilled Apache plume—all of whom she pointedly ignored. In addition to these residents, not a few pairs of unseen eyes watched the aged woman’s progress with considerable interest—and not all of them belonged to such common residents as mule deer, squirrels, cottontails, badgers, and ghosts.

  With much huffing, puffing, grunting, and groaning, Daisy finally arrived at her destination. She was in for a disappointment. After tapping her walking stick on the ground by the badger hole and calling out several times, she was forced to conclude that the dwarf was not at home. It’s just like the ugly little wart not to be here when I want to talk to him. The disgruntled visitor kicked a stone into the entrance of the pitukupf ’s underground dwelling, but this did not satisfy. Charlie Moon’s annoyed aunt looked around for someone to complain to, but the raven—who presumably had some pressing business to attend to—was nowhere to be seen.

  Daisy’s feet ached liked she’d walked ninety miles. Before I head back to my house, I’ll sit down and rest for a while.

  The familiar ponderosa log was within a few yards of the badger hole, where it had fallen years ago. She seated herself on the rotting trunk, gazed at the twilighting sky, and commenced to wonder where on earth the pitukupf might have gone. But not for long.

  “Yikes!”

  Someone or something had tapped a finger on Daisy’s shoulder.

  A smallish finger.

  The startled woman turned to see the little man, who was standing on the log beside her. The pitukupf ’s wicked grin enraged the shaman, and she was about to brain the impudent rascal with her oak staff when she remembered the reason she’d come to visit her after-a-fashion friend. Knocking the dwarf’s head clean off (in B’rer Bear fashion) would not materially enhance her chances of finding out why the dwarf had dispatched Delilah Darkwing to summon Daisy Perika to an urgent meeting.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “O bury me not on the lone prairie

  Where coyotes howl and the wind blows free

  In a narrow grave just six by three—

  O bury me not on the lone prairie.”

  Daisy’s Self-Appointed Guardian

  Daisy Perika was not half as surprised by the dwarf’s appearance as was Sarah Frank, who had followed the shaman into Cañón del Espíritu.

  Sarah had not visualized the entirety of the pitukupf, but she had seen the lower portion of his anatomy with crystal clarity, and the sight of a pair of spindly little legs standing on the log beside Aunt Daisy was enough to send chills rippling along the Ute-Papago orphan’s spine, constrict her throat so that speech was impossible, make the delicate hairs on the back of her neck stand up like porcupine quills, plus other physiological responses too numerous to enumerate. Staring fixedly at the disembodied limbs, she opted for denial. That can’t be real. That being the case, she was obliged to provide a satisfactory explanation for the apparition. I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast and my blood sugar’s low so I’m having a hallucination. Sarah closed her eyes and prayed for the vision to go away. She cracked her left lid. The horrid little legs were still there and Aunt Daisy was talking to the empty space above them! The girl reclosed the eye, clasped her cold hands, and prayed very hard. When she opened both eyes, Daisy was talking to completely empty space. Greatly relieved, Sarah thanked God and her guardian angel. To restore her dwindling supply of glucose, the girl unwrapped what she thought was a candy she’d found in her pocket—and popped a mentholated cough drop into her mouth. Sarah made a face and a promise to herself: As soon as I get back to Daisy’s house I’ll eat some chocolate-chip cookies and strawberry ice cream.

  But something else was about to happen that would make the girl feel distinctly uneasy. Something that all the sugar in Colorado wouldn’t help.

  Here it comes.

  Watch the coal-black raven flutter down from somewhere up there and settle lightly on Daisy’s left shoulder. This sudden appearance was enough to spook the eighteen-year-old, but in addition to the dramatic entrance—the bird put her beak very close to the old woman’s ear and began to gabble.

  Sarah Frank was goggle-eyed with astonishment. Oh, my—that crow looks like it’s talking to Aunt Daisy!

  Indeed it did. But what made the effect perfectly eerie was that the Ute elder was obviously listening to every word, even nodding now and again.

  The girl began to harbor the hopeful suspicion that…I’m not really here and this isn’t actually happening. Then what was going on? It’s a bad dream and I’ll wake up in my bed at the Columbine and laugh about it. Ha-ha. But she knew better.

  After Delilah D. had had her say, she unfolded her dark wings and flap-flapped away.

  As if nothing out of the ordinary were transpiring, Daisy Perika resumed her conversation with the dwarf, which (according to the little man’s custom) was conducted in an archaic version of the Ute dialect.

  What did they talk about? The usual. How the weather wasn’t like it used to be years ago. Olden times when everything was better. Long-gone friends and enemies who had passed on. And, in closing, the critical subject.

  Without saying why, the dwarf sternly advised his aged Ute neighbor to steer clear of Chickasaws.

  Daisy Perika realized that the pitukupf must be referring to Lyle Thoms, the crotchety Chickasaw elder who had offered Charlie Moon twenty-five cents to kill a man by the name of Posey Shorthorse. She waited to hear the rest.

  There wasn’t any more. That was it.

  Well. Talk about your anticlimax.

  Daisy was furlongs and miles beyond disappointed. I can’t believe I went to all this trouble to hear that. But touched to realize that the little man was concerned about her welfare, the tribal elder did not complain. Not explicitly. Daisy merely assured her diminutive companion that while she appreciated his good intentions, she was in no need of such advice. As the Ute elder saw it, Chickasaws, Choctaws, Navajos, and Apaches were pretty much birds of a feather, and each in kind was to be avoided. “The next time you want to tell me something I already know, send me a penny postcard.”

  The pitukupf, who was a sensitive soul, got her drift. And he was more than a little miffed.

  She turned her gaze to the darkening sky. “I shouldn’t have set here so long—I’m stiffer than this pine log.” Pushing herself erect with the sturdy oak staff, the creaky-jointed old woman brushed bits of rotten ponderosa bark off her cotton skirt, bade the sullen dwarf a polite goodbye, and began to retrace her trek along the deer trail.

  As Daisy Perika slowly made her way to the mouth of Spirit Canyon—every step bringing her ever nearer to hearth and home—did she have the least notion that the Ute-Papago orphan had been spying on her?

  Well of course she did.

  How did Daisy know?

  Miss Delilah Darkwing had told her so.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Emergency

  When Mrs. Irene Reed was picking up the parlor telephone to place an urgent call to the local constabulary, the lady was at home alone.

  Which raises that ages-old question: where is a husband when a woman has need of the brute
? The query is somewhat too general for a meaningful response, but in this particular instance Samuel Reed was miles away from both his home and his spouse. Moreover, the absent helpmate was enjoying himself immensely.

  Do not judge the fellow too harshly. As wives gather with one another to chat about this and that, husbands must also occasionally have some time off for manly recreation and conversation, and Professor Reed was no exception. On the evening in question, he was in a private dining room at the Silver Mountain Hotel with three hairy-chested friends who shared his love of a cappella vocals that are characterized by consonant four-part chords (for every note, and in a predominantly homophonic texture). They call themselves the Velvet Frogs. No, not the chords, notes, or homophonics.

  We refer to the happy male foursome.

  Having tucked away succulent slabs of prime rib, buttered baked potatoes, melt-in-your-mouth apple pie, and splendid Bishop’s Blend coffee, the barbershop quartet was tuning up its fourfold voice for a practice session. The program included such favorites as “Down by the Old Mill Stream,” “Wait Till the Sun Shines, Nellie,” “Goodbye, My Coney Island Baby,” and “Sweet Georgia Brown.” That wasn’t all, and the V-Frogs always saved the best for last. Their big finish and surefire crowd pleaser was “Shine On Harvest Moon.” It is difficult to imagine a more innocent, wholesome gathering of menfolk.

  There is yet another reason to cut Sam Reed some slack. Even though his spouse is at home without her husband, and about to place a 911 call, Irene Reed is as calm as an alpine lake on one of those still days when there is no breeze to make the slightest ripple on its glassy surface.