One of the Blazer’s front tires hit the shoulder at sixty-six miles per hour, kicked up a spray of snowy slush. Jim Wolfe jerked the steering wheel, brought the vehicle back onto the blacktop.
Charlie Moon pretended not to notice.
The driver blushed pink. “This old rust bucket is a death trap. I need to get the steering checked.”
The next sixteen minutes were devoid of conversation.
Presently, Chimney Rock loomed up on the south side of the highway.
When the SUPD Blazer topped the final hill before the turnoff at Capote Lake, Wolfe hit the brakes. There was a minor traffic jam at the intersection where Route 151 stemmed off in a southwesterly direction, following the willow-studded bank of Stollsteimer Creek. Officer Wolfe groaned. “A roadblock.” His thoughts spilled out of his mouth in a mumble: “Prob’ly because of that burglary.”
The tribal investigator’s ears pricked. “Burglary?”
The white cop shrugged. “It wasn’t in SUPD jurisdiction.”
“So where was it?”
Wolfe stared straight ahead. “The Cassidy Museum was broke into last night.”
The thirty-acre Cassidy estate was near the reservation boundary. “What’d the thieves get?”
“Ah—some old coins, I think.” Wolfe scowled at the clutter of traffic. “Why didn’t dispatch alert me about the roadblock?”
Moon was eager to get back to Aunt Daisy’s trailer, say his goodbye, and aim his Expedition north toward the vast open spaces of the Columbine. “Jim, you’re a police officer, you’re on duty, and you’re driving a four-wheel-drive Blazer with snow tires. You can whip right around this traffic.”
Wolfe eyed the steep, narrow shoulder to his right and found it not entirely to his liking. “I don’t know—maybe I should have a word with the state cops before I go barging through their operation.” The SUPD officer pulled halfway off the pavement, shut off the engine, pulled on his long black raincoat, left his unit to have a powwow with a young state trooper who was working the westbound lane from Pagosa Springs.
Resigned to the delay, Moon went along for the walk. He wondered whether Danny Bignight had shown up at Daisy’s to take Kicks Dogs home. If not, Jim Wolfe could take care of that task. The Ute preferred to avoid another encounter with Jacob Gourd Rattle’s distraught wife. The memory of how he had pictured the meek little woman to Jim Wolfe as her burly husband’s murderer brought a smile to his face.
THE ENCOUNTER
HAVING FLIRTED with a pretty blonde in a sleek red convertible, the state police officer regretfully waved the Caddy on.
“Tough duty,” Charlie Moon observed.
Lieutenant Staples turned to see the tall Ute and the uniformed SUPD officer. “Hey, guys—what brings you here? You gonna give us a hand with traffic?”
Wolfe looked embarrassed. “Uh, I was wondering if it would be okay if I drove my unit around the—”
“Just a minute. Let me get some of these good citizens on their way.” The trooper gave his attention to the next vehicle. It was not shiny, the occupant was anything but pretty—and also the wrong gender. The dark-skinned man in the 1957 Chevy pickup was trying very hard to look like he was not alarmed about being stopped. This raised the trooper’s suspicions. Wonder what this yahoo’s hauling. Drugs, maybe.
Wolfe and Moon waited.
Officer Staples put on a counterfeit smile, made a circular motion with his finger to indicate that the driver should lower his window.
As he cranked the window down, the man in the old pickup wondered why the Indian cops were backing up the state police. He recognized the uniformed SUPD officer as Jim Wolfe—a real tough guy, not a man to cross. The tall one was Charlie Moon, the legendary Ute cop who had gone off to be some kind of cowboy. Felix Navarone stuck his head halfway out of the window, tried to smile back at the spiffy-looking state cop. “Wassup, bro?”
Officer Staples leaned close to the pickup, caught the faint scent of whiskey on the man’s breath. He peered into the cab through shades that concealed sharp gray eyes. “Sir, may I see your driver’s license?”
Felix Navarone produced a goat-hide wallet from his hip pocket, offered it to the trooper. A twenty-dollar bill was folded under the Colorado driver’s license.
Staples lost the smile. “Sir, please remove your license from the wallet.”
“Right.” Navarone made a sickly grin, passed the plasticized card to the policeman.
A glance verified that the license was not expired, that the licensee was not required to wear optical correction, that the color photo was a good match to the anxious man behind the wheel. “Sir, please show me your vehicle registration.”
There was a blank look from the driver, then: “Oh yeah. I think I know where it is.” Navarone leaned toward the driver’s side, fumbled with the chrome button on the glove compartment. When the curved door fell onto its hinges, a pint of whiskey was exposed. It was about half full. Which made it—in a legal sense—an open container of alcohol.
Lieutenant Staples grinned. Gotcha. “Sir, give me the ignition key, then get out.”
Felix Navarone’s dark eyes grew large. “What?”
“Give me the ignition key and—”
The driver’s hand was moving toward his jacket pocket.
He’s going for a piece! Staples crouched, reached for his automatic, yelled, “Put your hands where I can see them—right now!” His pistol had barely cleared the black canvas holster when the driver of the old pickup made a dive for the passenger side of the cab, burst through the door, hit the ground running, leaped over a ditch, sprinted across an open area toward a pine thicket.
While Charlie Moon and Jim Wolfe watched, several other state policemen abandoned their posts to help Officer Staples give chase.
Moon smiled at his good fortune to have happened on the scene just in time for the entertainment. Moreover, the tall Ute felt a wager coming on. “Jim, I’ll bet you twenty bucks he’ll make it into the piney woods and they won’t catch him…” he glanced at his wristwatch, “for at least ten minutes.”
Wolfe had no interest in the bet. “I think we should help ’em grab this guy.”
“Not a good idea,” Moon said. “For one thing, these Smokeys already got him outnumbered six to one. And for another, I have not been an SUPD cop for quite some time—my days of chasing drunks and crazies are over for good.” He clamped a firm hand on Wolfe’s shoulder. “Of course, if you want to go a-running after this knot-head, I would not try to talk you out of it. But I don’t see why you’d even consider such a thing.”
Wolfe told him why: “That fella they’re chasing is Felix Navarone—a Mescalero Apache. And I’m sure you know that all Indians arrested in these parts fall under Southern Ute PD jurisdiction.”
“I know who he is; but let these fellas cuff him. Then tell them he’s a ’Pache and they’ll turn him over to you for deposit in our tribal jail.” The Ute pointed with a jut of his chin. “Looks like these law dogs already got this outlaw treed like a three-legged raccoon. You should’ve taken my bet.”
Wolfe stalked off toward the cluster of state-police officers who had an isolated cottonwood.
Moon followed his enthusiastic comrade up the snow-packed grade, staying several paces behind.
LIEUTENANT VIRGIL Staples looked up at the man sitting on a branch twelve feet above the ground. The lunatic did not have a gun. Not in his hand. Might be in his pocket, though. “Sir, please keep your hands where we can see them.” As an afterthought, he added in a hopeful tone, “You might as well climb down.”
The climber shook his head.
Another state trooper pointed out the obvious: “There’s no way you can get away, mister. We’ve got you surrounded.”
Felix Navarone’s eyes darted from one uniform to another. “I’m not comin’ down.”
The troopers exchanged glances. Muttered among themselves about who should climb up to get the man. There was a general consensus that Staples should do the climbi
ng—by right, this was his prisoner. Officer Staples, who did not wish to soil his immaculate uniform on the bark of the cottonwood, opined that it would be best to chop the tree down. An older trooper quipped that Staples should just shoot the citizen off the limb—if he thought he could hit him at this range. All in all, the encounter with the tree climber was becoming a quite jolly event.
Startling everyone, the Apache threw back his head. Howled.
One trooper offered the opinion that this was a fair-to-middling imitation of a gray wolf.
Another argued that it was more like the sound of a redbone hound.
The treed man howled again.
THE MORE crafty motorists used this unexpected opportunity to slip through the abandoned roadblock. A few more curious souls parked on the shoulder to watch the circus. Unnoticed by the police, one of these was focusing a brand-new video camera.
JIM WOLFE cleared his throat.
All eyes turned to the SUPD officer.
Wolfe pointed at the escapee on the tree limb. “That fella is an Indian. An Apache.”
An old trooper grinned, flashing a gold tooth. “Good. Then you can climb up there and get him.”
Wolfe studied the cottonwood, suddenly wished he had taken Charlie Moon’s sage advice. He tried to think fast, and did. “The suspect is north of the highway, which is not within the boundaries of the Southern Ute reservation, so he is not in my jurisdiction. But when you take him into custody, he must be transferred to the tribal jail at Ignacio.”
This produced a round of chuckles among the state troopers.
“Hey!”
The shout came from above the lawmen’s heads. They looked up at the object of their pursuit.
Officer Staples took off his shades, focused his hard eyes on the Apache. “You ready to come down?”
Felix Navarone shook his head. “Not so long as any of you white cops are under the tree.”
Staples grinned. “You prejudiced against Anglos?”
“You was gonna shoot me,” Navarone said. “That’s why I ran.”
“That’s a crock,” the trooper barked.
The man out on a limb pointed at Jim Wolfe. “You state cops back off, leave the Indian cop here. I’ll negotiate with him.”
This produced appreciative laughter. Someone pointed out the fact that Officer Wolfe was not “a genuine Indian.” He was merely a white man who worked for the Southern Ute PD. It was also noted that a real Indian was present. Maybe the man in the tree would like to have a powwow with Charlie Moon.
Navarone took a wary look at the seven-foot Ute. “I’ll talk to Officer Wolfe.”
The state troopers convened a quick conference. In the huddle, there was unanimous agreement that if they gave this Apache slicker half a chance, he’d hit the ground and run like an antelope. As he was apparently not armed, shooting him in front of several witnesses was out of the question. If the fleet-footed son of a gun made it into the underbrush, it was a three-to-one shot they would not catch him before dark; it would be necessary to bring in the dogs. And so they agreed on a plan. Leaving Wolfe under the tree, the half-dozen lawmen drifted away—forming a wide, loose circle around the cottonwood. It was unlikely now that the tree climber would be able to make an escape. But on the slim chance that he did, they could blame the White-Indian policeman. All was well.
Or so it seemed.
Wolfe looked up at the treed Indian. “Well?”
“I got something I want to tell you,” Navarone said. “And I don’t want them state cops to hear.” The Apache took one hand off the cottonwood limb, gestured that the SUPD policeman should come closer.
Jim Wolfe stepped directly under the limb. “What’s on your mind?”
Felix Navarone grinned. “Did you know that I can soar like the crow?” He raised both arms as if he might be about to fly away.
Wolfe tensed. What’s he up to now?
Standing well outside the circle of state troopers, Charlie Moon watched it happen. The Apache dropped off the branch onto Jim Wolfe, flattening the SUPD officer onto his back. The men rolled in the dust, grabbing, gouging, grunting. There were shouted curses from the covey of state cops who were dancing around the entangled pair of men. At first, Jim Wolfe, who’d had the wind knocked out of him, was getting the worst of it. But after the SUPD officer sucked in some oxygen, he began to hold his own and more. When Wolfe bit him on the nose, Felix Navarone yelled for help. The state policemen took their time, but eventually the white cop was plucked off the Apache.
Felix Navarone had a hideously bloody nose.
Jim Wolfe suffered more from injured pride than from his minor physical injuries. Snarling, he made a lunge at Navarone, which was blocked by a pair of beefy state troopers. Denied his vengeance, the white man bellowed, “Next time I get my hands on you, Navarone—you are a dead man.”
There was no doubt of the soul-felt sincerity of this threat.
Moon shook his head. Jim, Jim—you should have listened to me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BAD MEDICINE
Having concluded that Officer Jim Wolfe was in no condition to drive, Charlie Moon had commandeered Wolfe’s SUPD Blazer. Since leaving the scene of the melee, neither man had uttered a word. The tribal investigator was maneuvering the vehicle around the worst of the potholes that blighted the muddy road to his aunt’s remote home.
Filled to the gills with regret, Wolfe cleared his throat. “I have to say it.”
Moon kept his eye on the crooked lane.
“Back there at the roadblock—I should’ve listened to you. Let those state cops take care of that Apache.”
The Ute gritted his teeth as the right front wheel slammed into a foot-deep pit concealed by the snow.
Wolfe’s voice was full of self-pity: “I’ve always been dumb.”
Charlie Moon wondered whether that last pothole had terminated a shock.
“Dumb as a stump,” Wolfe muttered. “Dull-witted as a barnyard turkey, stupid as a…a…” He strained with concentration, then looked at the driver. “You can jump right in whenever you’re ready.”
“Sack of dirt?” Moon offered this in a helpful tone.
“You misunderstand.” Wolfe managed a smile, which sent a sharp pain through his swollen lip. “This is where you’re supposed to give me a pep talk. Tell me how I’m not half as dumb as I feel right now.”
“Nah. It’d be wasted on a stubborn fella like you.” Moon braked when a coyote darted across the lane in front of the Blazer. He tried to think of something to raise his comrade’s spirits. “Felix Navarone got the worst of it. In fact, I think you almost bit that ’Pache’s nose off.”
“I bit his nose?” Wolfe made a horrible grimace.
“I thought it’d cheer you up—knowing you caused him seriously bodily harm.”
Officer Wolfe felt like gagging. “I had that guy’s nose in my mouth?”
“’Fraid so, Jim-boy. Your regular rough-and-tumble rhubarb ain’t a pretty thing to see. Eyes get gouged out, ears and noses chewed off. But I doubt Navarone carried any more germs than your average run-of-the-mill, lice-infested, drug-popping bum who don’t take a bath except when he passes out and falls in the gutter.” He shifted to low gear. “All the same, I hope you’ve had all your shots.”
“Excuse me for not laughing, but that ain’t very funny.”
Moon pulled into the yard by his aunt’s trailer house, parked Wolfe’s SUPD Blazer beside his Expedition, the flagship of the Columbine Ranch. A new set of tire tracks in the snow was evidence that Danny Bignight had already been here and gone—which meant that Kicks Dogs was on her way back to Ignacio. He turned off the ignition, turned to have a look at his passenger. “Jim, your lower lip has swole up like an inner tube. You’d better come inside, let my aunt check you out.”
Wolfe gave the shaman’s trailer a long, doubtful look. “Ah…thanks but I don’t guess I should. She might think it was an imposition.”
“I’ll go talk to her.” Moon got out of t
he Blazer, headed for the trailer porch.
Wolfe opened the passenger door, shouted. “Hey!”
Moon turned to see what the matter was.
“You took my car keys.”
The tribal investigator pulled the Blazer keys from his pocket. Stared at them. Funny how we get into habits. He pitched the keys back to the SUPD cop.
Daisy met her nephew at the door, squinted at the SUPD police unit, asked who was in the car.
Moon told her.
She knew about the white man. “Oh, him.”
“Didn’t think I ought to invite him in.” He lowered his voice: “Jim Wolfe is acting kinda peculiar today.”
Daisy gave her nephew a wide-eyed look.
“Not an hour ago, and for no good reason I could see—he went out of his way to bite a man.”
The Ute elder scowled at the report of such barbarism. “He what?”
“Well, I guess it’d be more accurate to say he gnawed on a man. But no matter how you put it, it amounts to the same thing—Jim Wolfe chomped right down on the poor Apache’s nose—”
“He bit an Apache?”
Moon nodded. “Officer Wolfe recognizes the cultural diversity of our society. When it comes to gouging and biting and kicking, he don’t show no favorites.”
She squinted up at her nephew. “Charlie Moon, are you lying to me?”
“Cross my heart and hope to ride a spotted pony all the way to Steamboat Springs and back—Jim chomped down on that ’Pache’s nose like he was bobbin’ for a crab apple. Dang near took it off, too.”
The Ute elder stuck her tongue out. “Ugh.”
He felt the sudden need to exaggerate. “I expect it’ll take twenty-six stitches to fasten the snout back betwixt Felix’s eyeballs.”
The shaman grimaced. “Felix Navarone?”
“The very same.” Moon frowned at his aunt. “You acquainted with the man?”
The Witch's Tongue Page 5