The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  Surprising herself, the Ute elder nodded.

  The tribal investigator attempted to ease the distraught woman onto a track that went somewhere. “But you didn’t find Jacob?”

  “No.” Kicks Dogs gave him a wild-eyed stare. “And that was when I got really scared. I started running. I don’t know how long I run, but I finally got outta that terrible canyon. And I found Daisy’s trailer house.” She turned her head to smile at the old woman.

  Moon chose his words with care: “Mrs. Gourd Rattle, where did you park your car last night?”

  She pointed. “It’s up there on the mesa.”

  “This morning, did you go back to your vehicle?”

  Kicks gave him an odd look. “Why would I do that?”

  “Well—to see if your husband had gone to the car.”

  She seemed perplexed at this suggestion. “Why would Jake do that?”

  Charlie Moon felt his face getting warm. “Maybe to find a dry place to get out of the rain and snow.” Maybe to drive away.

  She shook her head briskly, whipping stringy strands of yellow hair through the air. “That’s silly—he’d never go back to the van without taking me. No, Jake’s wandered off somewhere in that canyon. He’s hurt. Or dying. Maybe he’s already…” She clasped her hands, gave Moon a big-eyed look. “Somebody has to go look for him.”

  The tribal investigator used his cellular telephone to dial the SUPD number he knew by heart. Charlie Moon had a brief conversation with a recently hired morning-shift dispatcher he had never met, requested that a search be initiated for a tribal member who had apparently wandered off alone in Spirit Canyon. The dispatcher informed him that Chief of Police Whitehorse would have to authorize a search, and the chief was currently tied up in a meeting with tribal chairman Oscar Sweetwater. On top of that, there were no officers immediately available to take part in a search.

  He reminded her that a tribal member might be lost in the snow. Moon doubted this, but it was a possibility. The dispatcher asked him to hold for a moment. She returned after a long absence to inform Moon that SUPD officer Jim Wolfe had reported in from the graveyard shift and was about to go home, but had agreed to drive his unit out to Three Sisters Mesa. He would meet Mr. Moon in Spirit Canyon.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE SEARCH

  As the tribal investigator entered the mouth of Cañon del Espiritu, snow floated about him like goose down. A shallow river of blue-gray mists washed along the bottom of the broad canyon. A wispy, whispery fog imposed an eerie silence, transfigured familiar objects into nightmarish props. Jutting boulders stood like alien creatures frozen in instant death. A symmetrical, snow-covered juniper took on the appearance of a giant, frosted toadstool. A prickly yucca pretended to be an icy sheaf of two-edged swords—whose malignant purpose was to impale the unwary pilgrim.

  Though endowed with considerable imagination, Charlie Moon was largely immune to these sinister portents. His practical mind was occupied with how best to complete this thankless task. And so as his boots crunched along a snow-packed streambed, the tribal investigator focused on the job at hand. He had already passed the easy way to the top of Three Sisters Mesa, which was near the mouth of the canyon. That path was used by his aunt on her occasional herb-gathering trips to the crest of the mesa. The more challenging trail was a mile and a half into Spirit Canyon. Based on Kicks Dogs’ report, her husband had made his camp near the foot of this steep ascent.

  A slender, gray-eyed, sandy-haired six-footer, SUPD officer Jim Wolfe was a sturdy product of the Oklahoma hills. Weather of all kinds pleased the enthusiastic man—especially when it was wet. Outfitted in waterproof boots, a heavy black raincoat, and a broad-brimmed black canvas hat, he was sorry that the snow had not amounted to an all-out blizzard. As he watched the tall figure coming up the canyon in long strides, Wolfe removed the hat, waved it at the tribal investigator. “Hey—Charlie.”

  The Ute, who had seen the matukach first, waved back.

  Moon approached, pumped Wolfe’s outstretched hand. The white man’s eyes were bloodshot; he looked to be badly in need of some serious sack time. “Dispatch didn’t have any day-shift officers available. I’m glad you felt up to putting in a few more hours.”

  “No problem. I can use the time-and-a-half pay.” Wolfe jerked his thumb upward. “My unit’s parked up on Three Sisters Mesa.”

  “Was Gourd Rattle’s van up there?”

  Wolfe shook his head. “If it was, I didn’t see it.”

  The fog was lifting, exposing the sandstone walls of Cañon del Espiritu. If even the bare essentials of Kicks Dogs’ tale were to be accepted, they must be within a few hundred yards of the spot where her husband had set up camp. Moon squinted, examining the mesa rim. “You seen any sign at all of Jacob?”

  “Nope.” The paleface tried to smile. “So what’s the scoop?”

  The tribal investigator gave Wolfe the boiled-down version. “Mrs. Gourd Rattle dropped her husband out here on Monday, headed back home, then drove the family van back yesterday to pick him up. But Jacob wanted to stay another night, so she stayed with him. He slept somewhere near the middle of the canyon floor; she found a place under an overhang. The woman woke up early this morning, saw her husband walking away with his buffalo robe. She thought Jacob was looking for shelter from the snow.”

  The white man’s eyes narrowed. “What was Jake Gourd Rattle doing in the canyon?”

  The tribal investigator shrugged. Following his dream…

  Jim Wolfe stared up at the place where the Three Sisters were still shrouded in clouds. “His vehicle might still be up there. But if his wheels are gone, then he’s gone, too.”

  High on the cliffs, there was a harsh call from an unseen raven. It was answered by a raspy echo from the opposite wall. As if summoned, a low, moaning wind swept down the broad canyon. To Jim Wolfe’s superstitious ear, it was the soul-wrenching sound of a ghostly woman wailing for her dead children. This was followed by a deep belly-rumble of thunder, a diffuse flash of lightning.

  Moon wondered how much evidence had been covered up by the drifting snow. That was an odd thought. Evidence of what? “We’ll look for his van later. But as long as we’re down here, let’s check things out.”

  Wolfe nodded. “You want to head up canyon?”

  “Might as well.”

  The lawmen got to work, trudging doggedly along in the wet snow.

  Every few paces, Moon would put his hands to his mouth, bellow the missing man’s name.

  As the spirit moved him, Wolfe would do the same.

  The calls were invariably answered—by mocking echoes off the canyon walls.

  Another boom of thunder was followed by a stinging sleet that peppered the snowy floor of the canyon. The sleet changed to a fine-grained snow. This was converted to heavy, wet flakes. It snowed hard for an hour, covering the canyon floor with several more inches of soft, feathery carpet.

  During this time, the men did not exchange a word.

  The snowfall finally ceased, and with it, the obligatory search.

  Having backtracked, the searchers headed for the only trail that led out of this section of Spirit Canyon. The slippery snow made the winding path more hazardous than usual. The climb was steep until they reached the trail’s upper portion, where the rocky path zigzagged to the crest of Three Sisters Mesa.

  As if to celebrate their arrival, the clouds parted in a narrow slit. Sunlight spilled down from the cleft heavens like a waterfall of molten gold.

  The tribal investigator followed the SUPD officer to his coal-black Blazer, where Wolfe shared a Thermos of steaming coffee with him. Thus refreshed, the lawmen walked along the rutted lane. Even the heavy-treaded tracks the Blazer had left a short time ago were concealed under the new snow. While the white policeman watched, the tribal investigator climbed a six-story tower of sandstone—the lesser of the legendary Three Sisters.

  Having reached the craggy shoulder of the Pueblo woman, Charlie Moon pulled the brim of his
black Stetson down to shade his eyes. He had an unhindered view of the mesa and beyond. Unless Jacob had taken considerable trouble to hide it, there was no van. Convinced that he had done his duty and more, Moon descended the skirts of the petrified woman.

  They returned to the SUPD officer’s four-wheel-drive unit.

  Moon listened while Jim Wolfe contacted dispatch, reported negative results on a preliminary search for Mr. Jacob Gourd Rattle and his vehicle, and requested that a second unit be sent to pick up Mrs. Gourd Rattle at the Perika residence.

  Dispatch informed him that Officer Danny Bignight would transport the woman to tribal police headquarters for a formal statement, then take her home.

  The call completed, Jim Wolfe rolled himself a sad-looking excuse for a cigarette, touched the tip of the drooping cylinder with a flame sprouting from a plastic lighter. He sucked carcinogenic fumes into his lungs, puffed a pair of smoke rings. “What do you think about all this, Charlie?”

  Wolfe’s cigarette was reduced to a butt before the Ute responded. “I think I’m ready to call it a day.”

  “It’s a long walk to your aunt’s place.”

  The Ute did not deny this.

  “Hitch a ride with me,” Wolfe offered.

  Moon tipped his hat to salute the notion. “Let’s hit the road.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE MOONBEAM CLIMBER

  Jacob Gourd Rattle’s matukach wife wiped a crumb off her chin, cast a hopeful glance at the Ute woman’s propane stove. “You sure do know how to make good biscuits.”

  Daisy Perika had baked a second batch. She opened the oven, brought the blackened pan to the table.

  “Oh, thank you!” The guest snatched the largest of the flaky pastries. “Can I have some butter?”

  The old woman plodded over to the small refrigerator, returned with a plastic tub of margarine, banged it on the table beside the biscuit pan. “Is there anything else I can get for you before I sit myself down?”

  “Thank you kindly, but I don’t think so. I expect this’ll hold me for a while.” Kicks pried the biscuit open, smeared a generous helping of the yellow spread into the warm interior. She tried to hide a yawn. “I don’t know why I’m so sleepy.”

  Daisy seated herself across the table from the peculiar woman. “You probably didn’t get enough rest last night.” The old woman’s tone suggested that she was merely making polite conversation.

  Kicks Dogs’ head bobbed in a nod. “That’s the truth. Even after I had me a little sip of my sleeping tonic—which is one part whiskey and ten parts water—”

  More likely, the other way around. Daisy’s eyes twinkled.

  “—And plenty of sugar, well—what little sleep I got, I kept having these crazy dreams. One of ’em started with this weird sound. It was something like this….” She drew in a deep breath.

  “Vooooom.”

  Louder: “Vooooom”

  Louder still: “VOOOOOM!”

  The Ute shaman, whose dream was lost in the mists of her mind, squinted at the white woman. Why does this sound familiar?

  Jacob Gourd Rattle’s wife snapped off a chunk of biscuit, chewed. “Sometime later on, I dreamed I saw Jake’s legs.”

  His legs? Daisy cocked her head. “Where was the rest of him?”

  Kicks Dogs looked up, as if seeing the vision again. “I guess it must’ve been up there with his legs.”

  Daisy joined the narrator in gazing at the dusty plastic light fixture on the ceiling.

  Kicks returned her attention to the biscuit. “He was up above me, in those smoky clouds. At first, all I could make out were his legs and his feet. Well, I couldn’t actually see his feet—I mean I could see Jake’s boots. And then after he kept on climbing, I couldn’t see anything at all.”

  “Climbing?”

  Kicks nodded. “That’s what it looked like.” The white woman had a vacant, dreamy look as she waved a hand over her head. “He was just sorta floating up there in the air. But I thought to myself: Jake’s visions has come true—he is actually climbing up a moonbeam!”

  The Ute elder leaned closer to the storyteller. “Did you say moonbeam?”

  “Oh, did I forget to tell you about that? Jake had been dreaming for weeks that he was in that awful, scary canyon—climbing up a moonbeam.” She finished off the biscuit, licked her fingers. “Mmmm. That was good.” She regarded the Ute woman with pity. I hope when I get that old I don’t look like a wrinkled old toad. “You want to hear about my other dreams?”

  Apprehension was all over Daisy’s face. “There’s more?”

  “Oh, sure. When I start to dreaming, it’s just one after another all night. I had this one about these rootin’-tootin’ cowboys having this knock-’em-down, drag-’em-out brawl. And then I saw King Kong fall off of the Empire State Building.” She hugged herself. “I wish I could have fun dreams like that every night of the week.”

  I wish this wild-eyed matukach woman had knocked on somebody else’s door.

  “It all seemed so real at the time,” Kicks said. “Even the part about King Kong falling off the skyscraper.” She gnawed at her lower lip. “But when I woke up this morning at first light and saw Jake walking away from his camp, I knew it’d all been just a bunch of crazy dreams.”

  The Ute elder grinned. Either that or he shinnied back down that moonbeam.

  Kicks Dogs reached for another biscuit. “These are really scrumptious. Do you have anything sweet to smear on ’em—maybe some homemade preserves?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CONTRIVED ENTERTAINMENT

  Charlie Moon had not been in an SUPD unit for quite some time, and it was very pleasant, having a chauffeur. The tribal investigator spent his time watching interesting things pass by at a velocity slightly in excess of seventy miles per hour. Lots of things.

  Her neck hanging over a barbed-wire fence, a fat red mare munching grass that was greener.

  A chugging Farmall tractor, with a rusty hay rake attached.

  A small pond, floating an empty rowboat.

  Telephone poles.

  Trees.

  A roadside sign: 60 MPH.

  Officer Jim Wolfe also saw it, let up slightly on the gas.

  Charlie Moon was enjoying the absence of words flitting about. He was grateful that Wolfe was apparently not one of those matukach who cannot bear silence. The kind who must fill up a peaceful quiet with “small talk.”

  Wolfe wrinkled his brow. “What do you think—”

  I shoulda known it couldn’t last.

  “—about Jacob Gourd Rattle leaving his wife out there in the canyon? And during a snowstorm!” The driver shot the tribal investigator a half-angry look.

  “I don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t think about it.” Now he’ll tell me what he thinks.

  “Well, I think he left her out there to die from exposure.” Wolfe scowled at his blurry reflection in the sandblasted windshield. “He’s beat that woman half to death three or four times already.” The driver set his jaw. “This time, he must’ve figured she’d freeze to death.”

  Charlie Moon calculated that it was almost an hour to his aunt’s home, and thought he would give Wolfe something to think about. If he were thinking, maybe he’d be quiet. “I can imagine five or six ways to explain what happened.”

  Wolfe made a tight-lipped smile. “Okay, why did Gourd Rattle leave his wife in the canyon?”

  Moon’s tone hinted at a sinister notion: “Maybe he didn’t.”

  The driver waited for a few seconds, then: “You surely don’t think he’s still there.”

  “In the canyon?” The tribal investigator pretended to roll this over in his mind. “For all we know, he might be.” The more improbable the theory, the better. “Try this on for size—the little woman had enough of Jacob beating her up. Sometime last night, she stopped his clock for good.”

  Wolfe’s mouth fell open. “You don’t actually believe that.”

  Moon managed t
o look as if he just might.

  The SUPD cop shook his head. “But that don’t make any sense. If Jake is dead in the canyon, why ain’t his van still on Three Sisters Mesa where his wife parked it?”

  “Maybe she never left it on the mesa.” After a pregnant pause, Moon added, “Could be she didn’t even drive it there.”

  Wolfe snorted. “Then how’d she get back to the canyon—on foot?”

  “That can’t be entirely ruled out.” The tribal investigator scowled, as if at an image of scandalous skullduggery. “But it’s more likely that somebody drove her there.”

  “Who?”

  Moon was enjoying himself immensely. “Her boyfriend.” He turned to stare at the white man, watched the muscles in Wolfe’s neck tense. “Go look it up. Nine times out of ten, when a good-looking young woman makes up her mind to kill off a husband who’s twice her age, she’s already found herself a brand-new hairy-leg to take his place. The replacement is always a good deal younger than her old man.”

  Wolfe was shaking his head. “That seems pretty thin to me—”

  “But mainly, she picks her new fella because he is willing to lay it all on the line to help the pretty lady dispose of her husband. Which is another way of saying that the new fella ain’t all that bright. This is why twelve times out of eleven, John Law will nail the both of ’em.”