The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  The Ute grinned. “What happened to your head, Eddie—and your face?”

  The injured man gave him a bushy-browed scowl. “You don’t want to know.”

  “That’s true enough. But you want to tell me, so go ahead.”

  Eduardo Ganado did a grin-and-shrug. “Ah, you know how it is with me. One awful thing after another.”

  Charlie Moon did know. Among all the troubled souls on the res, Ganado was the one who most deserved the grim descriptor accident-prone. Wherever the luckless fellow went, bad things happened—mostly to him. Chimneys that had been solid for a hundred years tossed bricks onto Ganado’s head. Windows that had never misbehaved fell on his fingers. And power tools of all varieties seemed to lust for a chunk of his flesh. If a sick vulture emptied its bowels in the sky anywhere over southern Colorado, the odds were nine to four that the putrid load would fall on the hapless Navajo. Eddie Ganado claimed he’d been struck by lightning six times, and no one doubted this. “Looks like somebody tried to scalp you with an ax.”

  This produced a chuckle. “No, but it was just about as bad.”

  “Grizzly bear peg you for a square meal?”

  Ganado shook his mangled head, rotating the extended braid. “It wasn’t no kind of animal.”

  “You got caught in a threshing machine?”

  “Nope. But you’re not far off.”

  “I’m all out of guesses.”

  Ganado leaned back, hooked his thumbs in his belt. This was his storytelling stance. “It was all because of a sickly old pine tree that was leaning toward my house. I figured, Next big wind, she’ll come crashing down through the roof. So I get out my chain saw to cut it down, cranked ’er up, and—”

  Moon could see it coming.

  “—Got my hair caught in the infernal machine.”

  “You’re lucky it didn’t take your head off.”

  The Navajo nodded. “Don’t I know it! My poor old melon was goin’ bumpity-bump-bump against that chain-saw motor till I finally yanked off the spark-plug wire and shut ’er down.” He tapped the left side of his head. “It pulled my hair out by the bloody roots—skin and all. And cut up my face.”

  Moon grimaced. “That must’ve hurt.”

  Ganado nodded solemnly. “You can say that again.”

  The fun-loving Ute manfully resisted the temptation.

  “And just as I got the chain saw shut off, I tripped over it and fell down and banged my knee on a big rock. That’s how I come to be all gimpy.” He leaned to rub the painful joint. “This kinda stuff don’t hardly ever happen to other folks. My mother was always saying: ‘Eddie, you are a hard-luck kid.’” Eduardo Ganado nodded to agree with this assessment, which caused the pump-handle braid to rotate in the eerie fashion of an auger drilling into his bandaged skull. “Sooner or later, my knee’ll mend. But I’ve lost half my hair. Maybe for good.”

  Moon offered the Navajo a thoughtful look. “Your hair’ll grow back—if you use the right kind of medicine.”

  Well aware that Charlie Moon’s famous aunt was a purveyor of marvelous curative potions, the Navajo took the bait. “What kinda medicine?”

  “To start with, you have to drink at least six cups of strong black coffee every day.”

  “Hey—I practically do that already.”

  “Then you’re already halfway there. But to make it work, you have to put a squirt of talcum powder in your Java.” He noted that the Navajo barely flinched. “And two tablespoons of castor oil.”

  That did it.

  “Castor oil?” The scalped man’s lips started to pucker. “How long will it take to get my hair back?”

  Moon looked infinitely sorry for the unfortunate man. “Three or four years—whichever comes first.”

  Ganado’s face drooped in despair. “If it don’t grow back, I’ll just shave off the hair that’s left.”

  Having had enough fun, Moon cut the Expedition ignition. “What brings you out here—you in the market for some prime beef?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t need no beef—that ain’t it. I’m here on accounta my new job.”

  No employer in his right mind would hire the trouble-plagued man. “So what’re you doing?” Ophthalmic surgery can safely be ruled out, and any task that requires the handling of high explosives.

  “Right now, I’m a legal aide—but I’m on a work-study program to become a paralegal.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A paralegal gets paid more money.”

  “Makes cents to me.”

  “And when I get all my paralegal studies done, I’ll be certified.”

  Feeling generous, Moon let this opportunity pass. “Who are you working for?”

  Ganado could not recall his employer’s name. “Uh—that woman lawyer in Durango. The one who defends Indians.”

  Moon knew the lady from his time with the SUPD. She must be hard up for help. “She keeping you busy?”

  Ganado nodded. “I mostly run errands. Sometimes I visit her clients that’re in the jailhouse, other times I deliver legal papers. Today, she sent me up here to see you.”

  Uh-oh. “This about one of her clients?”

  “Yeah. Let me see…” The legal aide thumbed through a small notebook. “It’s about Mr. Navarone—that Apache who got treed by the cops over near Capote Lake.” He gave the tribal investigator a challenging look. “This lawyer I work for wants to talk to you about it. But she says you ain’t been returning her phone calls.”

  “I returned the first one, left a message on her machine. Told her if she wanted to talk to me about tribal business, she could either get permission through the tribal chairman to interview me in his office, or subpoena me for a deposition. I guess your employer wasn’t pleased with my response.” He took a hard look at Ganado’s lemon-colored Pontiac. “That must be why she sent you up here to run me off the road.”

  “Don’t get all bent outta shape, Charlie—I was just doing my job.” Squinting at the notebook, Ganado continued. “According to our information, Mr. Navarone was arrested by one of your tribal cops—Officer James Wolfe.” The Navajo rolled the distasteful words around in his mouth before spitting them out: “A white man.”

  Moon looked down the long highway, wishing he were miles away. “Felix Navarone shouldn’t have been carrying an open container in his pickup. And he shouldn’t have resisted arrest or assaulted an officer.”

  The Navajo’s dark eyes narrowed. “Mr. Navarone swore up and down that he not only hadn’t taken a drink outta that whiskey bottle—he didn’t even know it was in his truck. That same morning, he’d picked up a hitchhiker from Dalhart. Mr. Navarone figures that sneaky Texan must’ve left the bottle in his vehicle.”

  Moon did not respond to this foolishness.

  Wrongly sensing that he was making progress, Ganado plunged ahead. “That state trooper chased Mr. Navarone up the tree. After which, that white-faced SUPD cop bullied our client, harassed him, and beat the stuffin’ outta him.” Feeling the steel in the Ute’s gaze, Ganado shifted to a more conciliatory tone: “And besides, Mr. Navarone needs to go visit his mother down in New Mexico.”

  Moon smiled. “I imagine the poor woman is not well.”

  “That’s right. She’s got a bad case of gout or distemper. Somethin’ like that.”

  Charlie Moon set his jaw. “Look, Eddie—I did not participate in the pursuit or the arrest of Felix Navarone. And I am not a Southern Ute police officer anymore—haven’t been for quite some time now.”

  Eduardo Ganado’s mouth worked its way into a knowing smirk. “But you’re a big-shot tribal investigator who’s got the tribal chairman’s ear. And Wallace Whitehorse—that Northern Cheyenne ex—Air Force military cop you Utes hired for a chief of police—he does whatever the chairman tells him to.”

  “I’ve got a pretty full plate today. Say what’s on your mind.”

  “Okay. Here it is. You was there at the roadblock. You saw what happened.” The Navajo’s chest swelled like a tree toad’s thro
at. He shook his finger at Moon. “Our client got a raw deal. That state trooper chased him up a tree”—he pointed the finger at the sky—“then Officer Wolfe shook him offa the limb—and kicked the daylight outta him. Then our client was charged with resisting arrest, carrying an open container of alcohol, and assault on a cop with intent to do serious bodily harm—boy, that’s a laugh.” To demonstrate this assertion he huffed out a “Hah!”

  Moon stared at the peculiar man. Not known for his willingness to work, Eddie Ganado was taking his new job seriously.

  Ganado kept right on going. “Our client suffered a severely dislocated shoulder.”

  “Serves him right for picking a fight with Jim Wolfe.”

  “The shoulder injury ain’t all—that white SUPD cop bit him on the nose.”

  The tribal investigator shook his head. “That’s not the way I see it.”

  “What?”

  “Me and a half-dozen other witnesses are willing to swear that Felix Navarone bit himself on the nose.”

  The Navajo stared. “That don’t make no sense.”

  Eddie never did have a sense of humor. “In a really wild fight, strange things can happen. About seven years ago, down in Taos, I personally witnessed a scrap between two New Mexicans. Well, after it was broke up by the deputy, the massage therapist from Dixon was hauled off to the pokey—but the fortune-teller from Tres Piedras was so stewed up that he kept right on fightin’ by himself—and chewed his own ear off.”

  This nonsense confused Ganado, so he chose to ignore it. “You tell the tribal chairman that if you people persecute our client on these humped-up charges, the lawyer I work for will sue you Southern Utes for more money than all your gas wells and casinos make in a year. And she’ll see that Officer Wolfe-man never works in uniform again. Not in Colorado, not New Mexico, not anyplace.”

  Moon pointed to his mouth. “Eddie, read my lips. You—are—talking—to—the—wrong—man. If Felix’s lawyer wants to play Let’s Make A Deal, she’ll have to make her pitch to the tribe’s legal counsel.”

  Ganado rapped his knuckles on the Expedition door. “Charlie, I’m going to do you a favor.”

  Moon closed his eyes. God help me…

  The gossip looked to his right and left, as if some spy lurking on the empty prairie might overhear his next remark. “You should do some checking on Officer Wolfe.”

  “You think so?”

  Ganado nodded the pump-handle braid. “That white man is one bad cop. Over the years, he’s been taking bribes. Stealing. Beating up suspects. Even worse stuff than that. He’s the one that oughta be in jail.” The accuser touched a finger to his nose. “A word to the wise.”

  The Navajo was rapidly becoming a nuisance; Moon felt his face getting warm. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll make a note of your slander against a tribal employee. And see that the appropriate legal authorities are informed.”

  “Now look here, Charlie, I was just trying to—”

  Moon’s cell phone warbled. For once the sound was a welcome interruption. The tribal investigator pressed the Talk button. “Hello.”

  Ralph Briggs’s voice chirped in his ear: “Charlie?”

  The Ute had hoped it might be Miss James. “Yeah, Mr. Briggs. It’s me.”

  “You sound not a little nonplussed.”

  “I’ve been detained for a moment.” He shot a look at Eduardo Ganado. “What’s up, Ralph?”

  “You know that special item you were interested in?”

  Moon nodded.

  “Charlie—are you there?”

  “Yeah, I remember. In fact, I’m planning to stop by your place and—”

  “I realize that you thought my price was—shall we say—slightly on the high side.”

  “Shall we say I could buy me a fine new registered bull for what you’re asking.”

  “Then perhaps you should.”

  “Ralph, I’ve got places to go, things to do. State your business.”

  “I intend to do you a huge favor.”

  First Ganado, now you. “That’ll be the day.”

  “Do not be such a cynic. I am perfectly serious.”

  “Prove it.”

  “How would you like to buy the object in question for say—one dollar hard cash.”

  Moon perked up at this. “Did I hear you right?”

  “Uno dinero.”

  “I think it lost something in the translation, but you’ve got my attention.”

  “I will say it so you can understand. One government-issue engraving of President George W. And I am referring to the one who crossed the Delaware River in a small boat.”

  “Okay, I get the picture.”

  “There would be, of course, a quid pro quo.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Charles, I need your expert assistance with a certain matter. It has to do with the burglary near the tribal boundary. Where all those old coins were stolen.”

  “The Cassidy heist.”

  “The very same. How soon can we have a private conversation?”

  The family museum had been burgled on the same night that Jacob Gourd Rattle had—at least according to his wife’s account—disappeared from the canyon. The tribal investigator did a quick calculation. “I could be at your shop this evening—say nine o’clock.”

  “Done.”

  “Uh—hold on, Ralph.” Moon cupped his hand over the cell phone, turned to Eduardo Ganado. “I’ve got five or six irons in the fire right now. Tell your employer if she wants my testimony, she can subpoena me. But I don’t think what I’d have to say would do your client any lasting good. Officer Wolfe made a righteous bust.”

  “Okay, Charlie.” Eduardo Ganado raised his hands in supplication to an empty sky. “I came to see you, tried my level best to make you see things our way. That’s all the boss can expect of me.” The comical man with the bandaged head limped away to the yellow car.

  Moon resumed his conversation with the antiquarian. “You did say one dollar—that’s the price?”

  “You heard me right. All you have to do is provide me with a professional service.”

  Moon watched the Pontiac convertible kick gravel off the shoulder, roar down the highway. “Hold it, Ralph. Before you describe the job you have in mind, I would like to point out—for the benefit of any law-enforcement authorities listening in on a tapped line—that I do not commit murders for hire, or any other felonies. Or for that matter, petty misdemeanors.”

  “You are such a card, Charles.”

  “And I won’t give you a kidney or lung. I need all my organs.”

  Ralph sniffed. “The task I have in mind cannot be discussed in detail over the telephone—but I assure you that it is not only legal, it serves the cause of justice. And the American Way of Life. Mom and her apple pie will thank you.”

  Pie is good. “I’m all for that.”

  “I knew you would be. When the deed is done, sweet little rosy-cheeked children will sing songs about your derring-do, and those who had formerly pined to become astronauts or antiquarians will hence dream of growing up to be overly tall, joke-cracking tribal investigators.”

  “That’s just a little over the top, Ralph.”

  “You are right, of course.” A wistful sigh. “I never know when to stop.”

  “Last thing I want to know is—do I have to get myself horribly maimed or killed?”

  “Only if you are determined to be a tragic hero.”

  AS CHARLIE Moon rolled on down the blacktop ribbon toward Granite Creek, he concentrated on pleasant thoughts. Like picking up Miss James. And finding out precisely what Ralph Briggs wanted in exchange for the item. After that, he and the lady would have a late dinner. A romantic dinner. Then, if he could work up the nerve…

  AT THE COLUMBINE

  SIDEWINDER DID not leave the rough plank surface of the Too Late bridge. The singular beast was still howling when the sun slipped into Dead Mule Notch, and a blood-red moon surfaced over the snowcapped Buckhorn range.

 
; CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SUNDOWN

  When twilight drops its gray veil across the face of the land, the fabric of reality sometimes takes on an oddly pitched web and weave. Charlie Moon was not a superstitious man, nor given to fanciful imaginings, but the oddest notion kept running through his mind—that the woman at his side was not made of flesh and blood. The lady was composed of something less tangible. At any moment, she might simply…go away. As he piloted his automobile along a sinuous road lined with dark rows of spruce and pine, the Ute made an effort to banish the absurd idea from his mind. But every few minutes, he felt the urgent need to glance at the passenger seat—just to make sure the lovely, dark-haired woman was actually there.

  She was. Miss James’s delicate hand reached out. Touched his arm.

  This got his attention.

  Her dark eye caught his.

  The happy man smiled.

  His sweetheart had lost track of precisely where they were. As if someone might overhear, she whispered, “Is the restaurant way out here?”

  “No,” Moon said, adding in a casual tone, “I have a stop to make.”

  Miss James studied his dark profile. “Stop? What for?”

  He shrugged. “Just some business.”

  She persisted. “What sort of business?”

  “The kind it’s better not to talk about.” Moon managed an adequate poker face. Inside, he was grinning from ear to ear.

  The woman made a pretense of being annoyed. “Very well. If you must be mysterious.”

  Better tell her something so she doesn’t get overly curious. “I’m stopping at an antique store.”

  A doubtful look creased her brow. “I did not know that you were interested in antiquities.”

  “I like all kind of old stuff. Rusty pickups. Broken-down horses. Eighteen-year-old hounds.” He grinned. “And—ah—mature women.”