The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  “Money, money, money.” She clutched her purse tightly to her bosom. “Is that all you ever think about?”

  He considered this question with some care. “No. I also think about all the hours I spent trying to get your property back. I think about my unpaid bills. And if there’s any time left over, I think about the unjust way some rich folks treat those less fortunate than themselves.”

  She sighed. “Well, if it is any comfort—I am deeply sorry I fired you. As of this moment, consider yourself back on the payroll.”

  Moon shook his head.

  Her mouth gaped. “You are refusing to be rehired?”

  He nodded.

  “But why?”

  “Working for you was no fun. Neither was it profitable.”

  A lengthy silence grew tense.

  “Charles, there must be some way to settle our differences.”

  The Ute stared at a feathered war club mounted above the mantelpiece.

  She wrung her hands. “Oh, I really must clear my conscience.”

  He turned a page in the Drum, smiled at the obituaries. “I can only spare you a few hours.”

  Jane Cassidy took a deep breath, held it as long as she could, then: “I am willing to confess that…” This was very hard. “That you were quite right.”

  “Right about what?”

  “About how to recover my property.”

  He laid the paper down. “Aha.”

  “Oh please, spare me your triumphant ‘aha’—it is most annoying.” She examined a row of painted fingernails.

  Walter Price has agreed to represent an anonymous scoundrel who calls himself Yellow Jacket. This individual claims to be able to return the items stolen from the Cassidy Museum—in exchange for the exorbitant reward you persuaded me to offer.”

  “Sounds like things are beginning to look up for you.”

  “I happen to know that Walter Price has informed you of the fact that this felon will only make the exchange if you act as his stand-in.”

  Moon folded his hands over his silver belt buckle, closed his eyes.

  Jane knotted her hands into pale fists. “Must you be so annoyingly taciturn?”

  No response.

  “Charles, you simply must cooperate. Otherwise, this horrible Yellow Jacket person may dump our family treasures in the river.”

  “Why should I care?”

  “That is a very mean thing to say.” Jane Cassidy found a laced silk hankie in her purse, dabbed the pink textile at her dry eyes. She leaned close to the tribal investigator. “Besides, I would feel much more confident if you were there with me.”

  “There where?”

  “At Walter Price’s office in Durango. That is where the exchange would take place. A representative from my Denver law firm will be present. And Bertie, of course. I really do want you there to protect my interests, Charles. After all—this million-dollar-reward thing was your idea.” She watched the Indian’s closed eyes. He seemed to be mulling it over. The rich woman played the only card she had. “I will of course pay you well for your time.”

  He opened one eye. “How much?”

  She told him.

  Charlie Moon shook his head.

  “Do you have a figure in mind?”

  He did. And told her.

  “Charles—you cannot be serious!”

  “And I get paid up front.”

  “Well, really—surely you trust me to keep up my end of the arrangement.”

  “Miss Cassidy—you cannot be serious.”

  “That is very cruel.” She dropped her hand into a sweater pocket, found the willow ring the Ute had braided for her. “But of course you have me over the proverbial pot.”

  “Barrel.”

  “Whatever. But I agree to your conditions. Now do you promise to help me get my property back from this Yellow Jacket scoundrel?”

  “Not till you make things square between us. You still owe me for time and expenses.”

  “Well, of course I had anticipated that small matter.” She searched her purse. “Here is your check.”

  He held the slip of paper at arm’s length. Released it. Watched it fall to the floor.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “I want to see if it bounces.”

  “Charles!”

  He watched the inelastic landing. “It looks to be okay, but I am obligated to remind you that passing bad paper is a serious offense.”

  “Oh, phooey! Now please call Walter Price, tell him that you’ll help me get my stolen property back.”

  The Ute leaned back, stared at the beamed ceiling. “There’s one last thing.”

  “What?”

  “That morning you fired me, you insulted Sidewinder.”

  “Who?”

  “My dog. And his feelings are still hurt. So on your way to your Cadillac, make your apologies.” He added, “Loud enough so I can hear.”

  “Charles, you are a horrid brute.”

  He heard the angry pop-pop of her slippers going across the oak floor, the crashing bang of the heavy front door. Then she opened it again.

  Her quavering voice drifted into the parlor. “Nice doggie—sweet doggie. Come to Auntie Jane.”

  Completely taken in by this sinful deception, Sidewinder whined with pure joy.

  “There, there, you like to have your pretty head rubbed, don’t you.” Filthy, smelly beast.

  Satisfied, Charlie Moon opened the Will James book, removed the two-dollar bill. He began to rock and read. This is good. After all his travels and trials and troubles in the city, ol’ Will is finally heading back to cow country again.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  SNYDER MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

  The notice thumbtacked to the door was directly to the point: NO VISITORS EXCEPT IMMEDIATE FAMILY.

  Charlie Moon knew for a fact that Ralph Briggs had no immediate family—which would deprive him of visitors altogether. Furthermore, the Ute reasoned that he was probably the antiquarian’s closest friend, which was surely a passable substitute. Thus justified, he pushed the door open.

  A stack of pillows propped Ralph Briggs up in his bed. His pallid face looked up at the towering man. “Why, Charles—it is nice to see you.” He raised an eyebrow at the object in Moon’s hand. “How prosaic—you brought the patient a flower.”

  “Patient? I’d heard you was dead—I brought this posy to lay on your chest.” Moon approached the bed, hung his black Stetson on an IV stand. “But for a corpse, you look fairly presentable.”

  “Do not make jokes; I have had a terribly traumatic experience.” The antiquarian pointed to a bandage on his chest. “My surgeon tells me that I am fortunate to be alive.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that.” The Ute pitched the lily onto the bed. “You never know—life can hold some nasty surprises.”

  Ralph Briggs inspected the flower. “It is frightfully wilted. Where did you find it—in a florist’s trash bin?”

  “Even better than that. That fancy pansy was in a Coke bottle down at the nurses’ station. They said it’d been in room two-twelve till right about midnight, which was when the previous owner left all his worldly cares behind. Word is, the poor old guy expired from something highly infectious.”

  The sickly man grimaced, tossed the lily aside.

  The Indian reached into his coat pocket, produced a small paper bag.

  Briggs raised a hand to make a feeble protest. “Oh, please—not another gift.”

  Moon placed it on the antiquarian’s lap. “I brought this just in case you bellyached about the first one.”

  The sick man accepted the offering with a wary look. Inside the bag was a fuzzy object. “What is this—a colony of stump fungus run amok?”

  “It’s a rabbit.”

  “If you say so. It looks a bit, well—scruffy.”

  “It is a rabbit that has seen some hard times.”

  Briggs turned up his nose at the stuffed animal. “Tell me this is not one of those battery-operated monstrosities t
hat hops around and tells off-color jokes in a falsetto voice.”

  “Nah, he doesn’t do none of that stuff. But you can talk to him and he won’t talk back—Little Bunny Buddy is a good listener.”

  The sick man sneered. “Little Bunny Buddy—how sickeningly sweet.”

  Moon took the fuzzy rabbit facsimile from Briggs, placed it on the telephone table by his bed. “So how’re you feeling, tough guy?”

  “Dreadful. My chest feels like someone drove a railroad spike through it. And from time to time I still cough up clotted blood.”

  “I’m sorry I asked.”

  Briggs played with the tightly stitched corner of a green bedsheet. “Just yesterday, Bertie Cassidy stopped by to inquire about my health.”

  “That was thoughtful.”

  “Bertie is an old and dear friend.” Ralph Briggs shot a quick look at the tribal investigator. “He informs me that some mysterious person who calls himself Yellow Jacket has contacted Walter Price—and offered to return the valuables taken from the family museum in exchange for Jane Cassidy’s substantial reward. But the deal will fall through unless you agree to act as go-between.”

  “Yeah,” Moon said. “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Bertie also tells me his aunt is pleading with you to take on the job, but that you have been resisting.”

  “What do you think, Ralph—should I help Jane Cassidy get her stuff back?”

  “It is not for me to say.” Briggs gave his visitor a solemn look. “But I would advise you to treat the proposed exchange with due caution.”

  “You figure I could get burned—messing with this Yellow Jacket character?”

  “That is a most likely outcome.” With some puffing and grunting, Ralph Briggs managed to get up on one elbow. He took a sip from a glass of iced tea, pointed at his visitor with a plastic straw. “Even though you are used to dealing with dangerous felons, you could get in over your head. Mark my word—whoever has the burgled valuables is not only dangerous, he is also devilishly clever.”

  Moon looked doubtful. “From the note Yellow Jacket wrote, Walter Price has this bird figured as—and I quote, ‘a charter member of the Illiterati.’”

  “Do not be fooled by such a simple ruse—that is undoubtedly what the clever fellow wants everyone to think. In my estimation, you are dealing with a first-class criminal mind.”

  “I guess you could be right.” Moon helped himself to a cookie from the patient’s dinner tray. “You have any idea who it is?”

  Briggs responded with a listless shrug.

  “Smart money would figure it’s the same Gomer who called you on the phone before you got shot. I kinda hoped that by now you might’ve remembered something that would help me to—”

  “No, no, no!” Briggs closed his eyes and groaned. “As I have told the FBI, the state police, and Scott Parris—I can barely remember the call from that coarse person who claimed to have the Cassidys’ stolen property. Since the trauma of the shooting, my mental and emotional condition has been very delicate.”

  “Sorry. Guess I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “Apology accepted.” The pale man collapsed onto the pile of pillows. “So—do you intend to help Jane Cassidy conclude her deal with the felon?”

  “That kinda depends.”

  “On what?”

  Moon closed the door to the private room, came close to the bed, lowered his voice barely above a whisper. “I think I’ve got things figured out.”

  There was a glint of interest in Briggs’s eyes. “Do you know who Yellow Jacket is?”

  “Way I see it—Yellow Jacket is a decoy. I’ve got bigger game in mind.”

  Briggs frowned. “What on earth do you mean?”

  “We’ve been friends for a long time, Ralph—so I’m going to tell you something.” Charlie Moon glanced at the closed door, then at his old friend. “There’s a lot more to this museum burglary than meets the eye.”

  “Please explain.”

  “What’s important,” Moon said, “is not identifying Yellow Jacket. Or even finding out who burglarized the Cassidy Museum.”

  Briggs was startled by this assertion. “It is not?”

  Moon shook his head very deliberately. “What matters is why it was done.”

  “Charles, this is all very confusing. Now please tell me what is going on.”

  “I can’t let you in on all the details right now, but if things play out like I expect—I’ll be able to blow the whole scheme wide open.”

  “When?”

  “When Walter Price shows Jane Cassidy the Yellow Jacket loot.”

  Briggs stared at the Ute as if he had never seen his face before.

  Moon kept his voice low. “Don’t ask me why, but I have a hunch that the coins Yellow Jacket has are fakes. Which is one of the things you told me might happen.”

  The antiquarian’s eyes grew large. “You believe the scoundrel would attempt to pass off counterfeits on the Cassidys?” Briggs did not wait for a response. “But that would never work. Bertie would spot a substitution in an instant.”

  “That’s what I figure too. But if those coins turn out to be duds, I’ll have the masterminds who’re behind the museum burglary dead to rights.”

  “Excuse me—was that a plural?”

  Moon nodded. “Way I got it figured, there are exactly two of ’em.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “Yes I do.”

  “Gracious—do you know who they are?”

  Moon seemed a bit uneasy. “Only one for sure. But once number one is jugged, it won’t take ten minutes to get the name of number two.”

  Briggs stared at the Ute. “Are you absolutely certain about this?”

  “I can’t be one hundred percent sure till Jane Cassidy’s expert examines the coins. But if they’re counterfeits, I’ll be able to put the finger on those birds.” Moon looked very pleased. “Then I’ll be able to collect the whole reward for myself.”

  “I don’t understand. How could you possibly—”

  “About a week from now, Jane Cassidy’s offer does a reverse. At midnight next Saturday, it’ll be too late for the thief to turn in the real loot and collect the reward—the million bucks will be paid to the fella who provides Miss Cassidy with enough information to put the felons in the jug.” Moon put his thumb on his chest. “And that fella will be me. Not only that, I won’t have to lift a finger. I’ll just turn my evidence over to the FBI and let them do all the heavy work.”

  “Evidence?”

  He looked long and hard at the man on the bed. “Can you keep a secret?”

  Briggs nodded eagerly.

  Moon removed an object from his shirt pocket. “You know what this is?”

  Briggs hesitated. “It appears to be a wooden box. Cedar, I should think.”

  Moon admitted that this was so. “You want to make a guess what’s inside?”

  A shrug. “Something important, I suppose.”

  The tribal investigator tapped his finger on the lid. “Inside this box is all the hard evidence I have to blow the Cassidy Museum burglary sky high. Put at least two people in Uncle Sam’s jailhouse.”

  “Charles, it is not as if I have played no part in this drama; I have been seriously wounded by a vicious criminal who is probably connected in some way to the Cassidy Museum burglary. This being the case, I demand to know what is going on.”

  “Once this thing is settled—no matter how it plays out—I’ll make sure you get to see what’s inside this box.” Moon hesitated. “If you’re dead sure you want to know.”

  “I most certainly do.” The antiquarian chose his words with care: “I have heard you out. Now, I want you to listen to what I have to say.”

  The Ute leaned closer. “You have my full attention.”

  “You are not behaving like yourself, Charles. You seem to me to be in, well—a vindictive mood.”

  “You’re right about that.” Moon gave him a narrow-eyed look. “But I’ve got my reasons.
The way I see it, the criminals who set up the museum burglary may not have actually pulled the trigger on that .22. But one way or another, the rascals are responsible for you getting shot.”

  “Well, I must say that I am touched that you consider my misfortune to be so—”

  “Which is just the way things happen sometimes. Here today, dead tomorrow. But what I can’t forget is this: You getting shot and me coming close to getting plugged is why my woman left me.” The Ute raised his hand, made a formidable fist. “For a thing like that, a heavy price has to be paid.”

  “Yes.” Briggs blinked. “I see what you mean.”

  Charlie Moon gave the patient a worried look. “You look all pooped out—I’m afraid I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He placed the Stetson on his head, examined his image in a mirror on the wall, made a slight adjustment to the tilt of the brim, approved of what he saw. He shot the pallid man on the pillows a final glance. “I hope you’re up and around real soon.”

  Ralph Briggs watched the tall man vanish, listened to the hollow click of his boot heels fade away down the long hallway.

  The antiquarian turned off the bedside lamp but did not feel like sleeping. For quite some time, he stared at the fuzzy rabbit.

  Little Bunny Buddy stared back.

  In the dim half-light, he could have sworn that the artificial creature winked at him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  THE RETURN

  Daisy Perika had just scooped up the last spoonful of green-chili posole from her soup bowl. She was at peace, and thinking about getting into bed. In an instant, with no warning, a bone-rattling chill came over the tribal elder. After the shakes subsided, she turned to stare at the door. Without knowing why, Daisy found herself pulling on a yellow woolen shawl, turning the doorknob, stepping out onto the rickety wooden porch. Like one lost in a dream trance, she gazed at the trio of Pueblo women squatting on Three Sisters Mesa.

  Daisy knew that something was very wrong.

  She did not know what.

  While the sky turned crimson with the sun’s blood, the shaman stood watch, wondering what sort of wickedness was coming her way. Whoever or whatever it was, it had no right to be in this sacred place, or to disturb her peace. The old woman gripped the porch railing, set her jaw. I am getting sick and tired of this.