The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

Daisy looked at the ceiling.

  His gaze followed hers.

  She shouted, “Hah!”

  Wolfe jumped halfway out of his chair. “What?”

  “You can take a look at the thing now. If it’s still in one piece, you should be able to wear it without any problem.”

  He removed the handkerchief. In the center of the white saucer, where the lump of turquoise had been, was a pinch of dark powder.

  The shaman groaned. “I was afraid of that.”

  The white man’s voice quavered: “What happened?”

  “That stone was witched, all right—when I took the spell away, it turned to poison stump dirt.”

  This is absolutely astonishing. He reached out a fingertip to touch the residue of his three-hundred-dollar investment.

  “Don’t!” Daisy snatched the saucer out of his reach. “It’d rot the end of your finger off.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, was interrupted.

  “Don’t thank me,” she said in a kindly tone. “You’re a friend of my nephew, so it was only right that I help you.” She added, with a wag of her finger, “It would be better if this bad business wasn’t talked about.” Especially to Charlie Moon. “And you can give me that twenty-six dollars now.”

  Wolfe emptied his wallet, pulled on his blood-spotted shirt, thanked the tribal elder for her services. He left in a daze.

  Daisy Perika stood on the rickety pine porch, watched the pale-skinned policeman drive away in the mud-streaked SUPD automobile. This has been a very good day. The tribal elder had not had so much fun since the last time she had put one over on her long-suffering parish priest.

  Jim Wolfe stuck his arm out of the dusty black Blazer, waved to the old woman.

  Daisy raised her right hand to wave back.

  With her left, the shaman clutched the legendary K’os Largo turquoise pendant to her breast. Later on, she would dump the “poison stump dirt” back into the geranium pot.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE VISITATION

  Plump as a plum, five-two in her boots, Wanda Yerba had the look of a shy schoolgirl. This impression was misleading. Sergeant Yerba was a senior SUPD jailer and a plenty tough customer. Last July, a Santa Clara Pueblo man on her work detail had made a run for it. Wanda bested him in a thirty-yard sprint, tackled him in the middle of the street. When the disgruntled would-be escapee made a crude reference to a female canine, the jailer punched him square in the nose. This had taken all the fight out of the foul-mouthed felon.

  But she loved the job. “Every day,” she would tell her mother, “there is something new and interesting.”

  On this particular day there was a visitor for the tree-climbing Apache. Wanda stared at the scar-faced Navajo, whose head was wrapped in bandages. “What happened to your head, Eddie—and your face?”

  “I had an accident,” Eduardo Ganado said. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Poor Eddie; he’s always having accidents. “I’ll have to check your briefcase.”

  Ganado opened the case for the jailer’s inspection.

  She stared into the gaping mouth of the shiny cowhide satchel. “There’s nothing inside.”

  He offered her an embarrassed grin. “I don’t have no legal papers to tote around yet—it’s mostly just for looks.”

  She shrugged, led the lawyer’s employee to the cell block. “Hey, Navarone—somebody’s here to see you. I’ll take you to the library.” Visitors were not allowed in the cells.

  Halfway between his neatly made bunk and the stainless steel toilet-sink unit, the Apache sat cross-legged on the painted concrete floor. Felix Navarone had his back to the cell door, his gaze fixed on a narrow window set with a single horizontal bar. He did not respond.

  Wanda was not offended by the silent treatment. At least this prisoner had made no attempt to spit on her. “It’s a guy from your attorney’s office—you want to see him or not?”

  Felix Navarone closed his eyes. “I don’t need no lawyer to spring me. I can leave this place whenever I want to.”

  The sergeant glanced at Ganado. “Navarone claims to be a big shot medicine man.”

  “Góchi’,” the sullen prisoner muttered.

  Though Wanda’s Apache vocabulary was limited, it included that one. “It is not nice to call your friendly neighborhood jailer a pig.”

  Brand-new at his job and unsure how to proceed, the Navajo legal aide waited to see what was going to happen.

  The Apache raised his arms, began to chant:

  You will see it—steel blades cannot cut my flesh.

  Bullets cannot kill me—I will dance with the lightning.

  You will see it—iron bars cannot keep me captive.

  The earth cannot hold me—I will fly with the Thunder People.

  “Before you start flapping your wings,” Wanda said, “you want to say hello to Mr. Ganado?”

  Felix Navarone turned. “Who?”

  “Eddie Ganado,” the legal aide said.

  The prisoner got to his feet, smiled crookedly at the Navajo. “You really working for my lawyer in Durango?”

  Ganado held up his new briefcase for Navarone to see. “Started just this morning. She asked me to come down here, see how you’re being treated.” The visitor glanced at the jailer. “It’s a part of my training.”

  “I’ll tell you how they’re treating me,” Navarone snarled. “The plumbing stinks. The food stinks. This fat Góchi’ jailer stinks!” Choking with hatred, he jerked a thumb at his stitched-up beak. “And that white SUPD cop tried to bite my nose off.”

  Wanda turned an earnest face to the legal aide. “We were very concerned about infection. So we made sure Officer Wolfe got his anti-Apache booster shots.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE FOREMAN

  Charlie Moon parted the curtains to have a look at the dawning morning. And what a glorious new day it was. The sun was showing a crimson arc along the jagged crest of the Buckhorn range. The underbelly of a trout-shaped cloud was transformed to shimmering hues of turquoise and pink. As the great fish swam through the pool of heaven, there was an unspeakably lovely iridescence, hinting of rainbows in paradise. From deep in some place that he did not know, the man confined to the earthly world felt an inexpressible pang of melancholy.

  In a heartbeat, the moment was gone.

  Having things to do, the practical Ute got about his daily business.

  Charlie Moon was preparing a breakfast of fried eggs, fried pork chops, fried potatoes, and baked biscuits when he heard the familiar rap-rap on the back door. “C’mon in, Pete.”

  The Columbine foreman pushed his bewhiskered face into the kitchen, sniffed. Approving of the scents, Pete Bushman closed the door behind him, clomped his dirty boots across the hardwood floor to have a look at what the Ute was up to at the kitchen stove.

  Moon turned over an egg. “You want some eats?”

  “Nah. My old woman’s done taken care a that.” To demonstrate the truth of this assertion, the scrawny old cowboy banged a fist against his chest, burped.

  “If you’d like a dose of caffeine, help yourself.”

  Bushman took the sooty coffeepot to the table, pulled up a chair, poured a mug half full, squinted suspiciously at the tar-black brew. “Can’t you make it any stronger?”

  “Not without a special permit from the government.” Charlie Moon put his plate on the table, took a seat across from his foreman.

  For a minute or two, the crusty old man watched the boss eat. “You hear about old Joe Henry’s spread to the east of the Columbine?”

  Moon nodded.

  “It’s coming up for sale. The Big Hat only has a tad over eleven sections, but most of it’s well-watered. And besides the prime grazing land, there’s over nine hundred acres of good timber.”

  The Ute continued to eat.

  Bushman wound up for another pitch. “There’s some beef stock that goes with it, about two hundred and twenty head.”

  The rancher looked up from his b
reakfast. “Any horses?”

  Bushman grinned under his whiskers. All these Utes love horses. “Maybe a couple dozen. And there’s a Chevy stake-bed truck that’s only three years old. Two good tractors. And a brand-new diesel well-drilling rig.”

  “Sounds like somebody’ll be real happy with the Big Hat.”

  Bushman ignored this negative response. “Old man Henry set hisself up the best machine shop within a hundred miles. Power saws. Grinders. Welders. Cutting torches. Heavy-duty drill press. Even a metal lathe and a great big Detroit milling machine. You name it, that shop has got it.”

  Moon looked at his plate.

  “With a setup like that, we could do all of our own repairs.” Bushman put his elbows on the table. “And the price is right.”

  The boss gave him a doubtful look. “How right?”

  The foreman told him.

  Moon shook his head.

  Bushman persisted: “That’s a real good price.”

  “There’s no use thinking about it, Pete.”

  “Charlie—in the ranchin’ bidness, if you don’t go full steam ahead, you go backerds.”

  The boss was unfazed by this pithy bit of stockman’s wisdom. “The Columbine is just starting to turn a profit.”

  “You could take out a loan.”

  “I don’t have enough in the bank for a down payment.”

  “There’s more than one way to gut a moose.”

  Moon shook his head. “I know what you’re going to propose. Don’t bother.”

  “Look, boss—it wouldn’t hurt us none to sell off some a that dry land on the far side a the highway to that developer in Granite Creek. It’s fifteen miles away, we don’t use it, and he’ll pay us top dollar—”

  “No.”

  When the boss used that tone, Bushman understood the discussion was over. But as he got up from the table, the old soldier took a parting shot: “If you don’t buy the Big Hat, somebody else sure will.” He gave the Ute a stern look. “And there’s no telling who your new neighbor might be. You could end up with a buncha tenderfoot riffraff livin’ right next door.”

  The Columbine’s boundary with the Big Hat Ranch was a good twenty miles to the east. “Next door” was on the far side of the Buckhorn range.

  The foreman was getting his second wind. “I’m talking about the kinda city folk that don’t eat beef—that’d raise worthless critters. Llamas and ostriches and…and armadillos!”

  Moon kept his grin inside. “I hear there’s good profit in that kind of stock.”

  Pete Bushman slammed the door behind him.

  THE FAREWELL

  HIS FOREMAN having been properly disposed of, Charlie Moon washed the breakfast dishes, enjoyed a third heavily sugared cup of coffee, pulled on a fleece-lined denim jacket, popped the black John B. Stetson on his head, picked up the dog’s crockery dish, closed the door behind him, and began humming the tune to “I’m Movin’ On.”

  The homely hound appeared from nowhere.

  The rancher put the dish on the porch. “Eat hearty, bub—I won’t be back till way after dark.”

  Sidewinder sniffed at the victuals. Looked up at the human with undisguised reproach.

  “What’s the matter? That is beef.” Not prime beef, but good enough for the likes of you.

  The animal ignored the food.

  “When you get hungry enough, you’ll be glad to lap it up.” Moon headed for his Expedition. Realizing that no one except the dog could hear him, he resumed the humming. And even if they could, the Columbine was his ranch. He could sing out loud if he wanted to. He thought he would. And did. Loudly.

  The hound peeled a bile-tinted eye at the happy singer. Began to make a groaning sound.

  Moon paused to address the ill-tempered beast. “What’s wrong with you this fine morning?”

  The music critic growled.

  “Okay, you don’t appreciate my singing. Well, I don’t care one whit. Anything else you got on your so-called mind?”

  Sidewinder glanced at the F-150 pickup truck, back at the human being he had graciously adopted.

  The Ute shook his head. “The answer to your first question is no, I’m not taking the truck today. And to address your second inquiry, the answer is no again. You can’t come with me.”

  A single bark from the hound.

  “Well, since you ask, I don’t mind telling you: I am going to pick up my lady. Me and Miss James will have a special dinner tonight. At which time I intend to make her a serious proposal.”

  Sidewinder barked twice. Cocked his head.

  “I cannot dispute that; the woman does not have good taste. But she likes me lots better than a bumblebee up her nose.”

  Another bark, in the form of a question mark.

  “Well, how should I describe her?” The man rubbed his chin. “She’s got this long, black hair. Pretty eyes big as saucers. Lots of nice curves—”

  The hound muttered something.

  “Her background? Well, there’s not much to tell. Her folks died when she was just a little pup.”

  Orphaned himself at six weeks, the dog looked to be saddened at this news.

  “But you might as well know this—if Miss James says yes to what I ask her, she will be coming to live at the ranch.” The Ute gave the beast a warning look. “And you will treat her nice. Or else.”

  There was an odd, gurgling sound from the hound.

  Moon patted the animal’s head. “For someone who hardly ever has a word to say, you sure are full of talk this morning.” He squinted at the sun. “I have enjoyed our conversation, but time’s a-wasting and I got to hit the road.”

  Sidewinder followed the happy man to the Expedition.

  Moon stuck his head out the window, grinned at the animal. “Try not to get in too much trouble while I’m gone. Remember not to eat any live rattlesnakes or prickly pears.” A final jibe as he pulled away: “Did I mention that Miss James has two cats?”

  Unfazed by this news, the hound trotted along behind until the automobile rattled the pine planks on the Too Late bridge. He stood, watched it go. After an interval, Sidewinder raised his head, began to howl.

  AS CHARLIE Moon passed the foreman’s house, Dolly Bushman appeared at the front window. The boss stuck his arm out of the Expedition, gave her an enthusiastic wave.

  Dolly waved back, watched the big car top the crest of a low ridge, vanish from sight. She stood, listening intently.

  The Columbine foreman was at the dining table, manfully attempting to balance the checkbook used for Columbine operating expenses.

  The woman turned to her husband. “Pete, do you hear that?”

  He looked up from his scribblings. “Hear what?”

  The plump woman shuddered. “That dog.”

  Paperwork required all his powers of concentration; there was an edge of annoyance to his reply. “What about the danged ol’ hound?”

  She held her breath, then: “Just listen to him.”

  Her husband listened. “Yeah, I hear ’im.” So what?

  “It’s kind of strange—the way that animal is carrying on.”

  He bulged his eyes at her. “There’s nothin’ strange about it. That peculiar old mutt is usually unhappy about somethin’ or other. And when he’s unhappy, he yowls his fool head off.”

  “No.” Dolly shook her head. “That ain’t it.”

  Pete shrugged, got back to his work. But the rows of numbers stubbornly refused to add up.

  The telephone jangled.

  Dolly Bushman pressed the instrument against her ear. “Columbine.” She listened to a string of queries, followed each with a clipped response:

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Never heard of you.”

  “The boss isn’t here.”

  “Sorry, I don’t give out his cell phone number.”

  “Matter a fact, he just left.”

  “Maybe you can.”

  Dolly hung up.

  Pete looked up from his laborious calculations. “W
ho was that?”

  “Some fella wants to see Charlie.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE HARD-LUCK KID

  Charlie Moon passed under the massive pine-log arch at the Columbine gate, turned east on the paved road to Granite Creek. Within a mile, he met a decades-old yellow Pontiac convertible with the top down. The automobile’s headlights blinked half a dozen times before it went by him, screeched to a near halt, rolled up rubber on the road in a tight U-turn, resumed the headlight blinking—now accentuated by an urgent honking.

  What’s this all about? Moon slowed.

  The Pontiac passed, cut in front of him, lurched to a halt.

  The Ute pulled his Expedition to a stop on the shoulder.

  A barrel-chested man got out, slammed the door, came limping along the pavement toward the Ute’s car. He had a walnut complexion, wore an ill-fitting brown suit, a silver-dollar bolo tie—and had something on his head that resembled a white turban. Most remarkable of all, a black protrusion that looked like a pump handle appeared to be sticking out of his right ear.

  The peculiar figure raised a hand to wave.

  Moon recognized the odd figure as Eduardo Ganado, one of the more colorful characters in southern Colorado. The Navajo leased a small, run-down farm from tribal chairman Oscar Sweetwater. As he approached in his painful gait, it became apparent that the white turban on his head was constructed of surgical tape, the pump handle was his right braid, which protruded almost horizontally from the mummy wrapping. By all appearances, the left braid was but a memory.

  Moon pressed a button to lower the window. “Hi, Eddie.”

  Ganado returned the greeting with characteristic cheerfulness: “Yo, Charlie.”

  The Ute eyed the beautifully restored convertible. “You must spend a lot of time keeping that Pontiac looking so spiffy.”

  The proud owner beamed at this compliment. “When a man has only got one automobile, he naturally takes good care of it.” The odd character leaned forward, peered into the Expedition. There were ugly cuts and bruises on his face and forehead and several milky blotches on his dark skin that looked like burn scars. “Charlie, I appreciate you not asking about my injuries. Most folks, soon as they see me, say, ‘What happened to your head, Eddie—and your face?’ And I am so tired of explaining.”