The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  “Under the circumstances,” the tribal investigator said, “it is hard for me to do any serious talking.”

  Ganado’s broad face mirrored his puzzlement.

  “Before I can carry on a serious conversation,” Moon explained, “I need to put my foot up on something.” He looked around. “Like a sawhorse, a tree stump, or a keg of nails.”

  The Navajo stared at the eccentric Ute. “I don’t have no sawhorse or nail keg—but I got a stump out back of the house.”

  Moon was cheered by this news. “Then let’s go to it.”

  He followed the limping man through a space between the house and the garage.

  Ganado pointed at a crumbly stump.

  The Ute made a close examination. “I don’t mean to be overly critical, Eddie—but this is not a good talking stump. It’s sawed off too close to the ground, and it’s rotten old cottonwood.”

  Moon’s host wished it to be known that he was not responsible for this deficiency in his hospitality. “That stump was here when I rented the place from Oscar Sweetwater—and it was rotten then.”

  “I was hoping for a pine stump.” With undisguised disappointment, the tribal investigator kicked at the offensive wooden corpse.

  Ganado’s tone took on an edge. “Well, I’m sorry as I can be, but that’s the only stump I got.” Grandma was right—all these Utes have a crazy streak.

  Moon took a look at the lay of the land, pointed to a gasoline-powered irrigation pump at the edge of a ten-acre bean field. “I’ll give that a try.”

  Relieved, the Navajo followed the Ute to the substitute for a stump.

  Moon rested his boot on the pump. “These your soybeans, Eddie?”

  Ganado seemed mildly amused by the notion. “Nah. Oscar Sweetwater leases this field out to one of them stiff-necked Mormon farmers down by Arboles.”

  The tribal investigator made a small probe: “So how’s your job going?”

  “Oh, okay I guess. But I don’t expect I’ll stay there much longer.” With minimal effort, he made an ugly face. “That lawyer wants me to take a class at the university—learn how to use a computer.” To demonstrate his contempt for such a fool idea, he spat on a dusty bean plant.

  “And you’d rather be a full-time unemployed person.”

  A listless shrug. “Till something better comes along.”

  Realizing that a subtle approach would be wasted on Ganado, Moon cut right to the bone: “Does that Apache’s lawyer really think she can make trouble for the tribe?”

  “Hey, she don’t tell me nothing.” Ganado hesitated. “But I think she’s like to cut a deal to get Mr. Navarone sprung.” He kicked at a clod of dirt. “Mr. Navarone says that white SUPD cop shook him outta the tree—and would’ve killed him if those state cops hadn’t pulled him off.”

  The tribal investigator studied the irrigation-pump motor as if the rusty machinery held a special fascination. “On the way here, I stopped off at the junction of Route 160 and 151. Which is where Felix Navarone bailed out of his pickup, ran from the state cop, and climbed the tree.”

  Eduardo Ganado ran his hand through his mangled mat of hair, laughed. “That Felix—he always was kinda excitable.”

  Felix? This use of the Apache’s first name surprised Moon. Up to now the jailbird had simply been “Mr. Navarone” to Ganado. “You knew the Apache before he was jailed?”

  The Navajo squinted at the bean field. “Sure. That’s what makes me so useful to the law firm. Within a coupla hundred miles, there ain’t a dozen people worth knowing that I don’t know. I can tell you the names of their kids. And dogs.” He hurried on. “And I know lots of other stuff that comes in handy in the lawyer business.”

  Moon gave the man an appraising look. “What do you know about pi?”

  Ganado blinked at the Ute. “What kinda pie?”

  “The diametric kind.” Moon put a hand into his jacket pocket, produced a paper tape measure. “That tree Navarone climbed has a nice round trunk that’s thirty-one and a half inches around, which makes it ten inches in diameter. Give or take a smidgen.”

  Ganado continued to stare at the calculating man.

  “That Apache climbed a sturdy tree. Even if he’d had a half-dozen state troopers helping him, Officer Wolfe couldn’t have shook it hard enough to make one of last year’s dead leaves fall off a branch. Let alone Felix Navarone, who was holding on like a leech—until he made up his mind to let go and jump on a trusted employee of the Southern Ute Police Department. Which amounts to deliberate physical assault on a sworn officer of the law.”

  Ganado performed his characteristic shrug, indicating that it mattered not to him whether Felix Navarone had jumped or fallen, or whether he ever got out of jail.

  “And besides myself and the state police, there are some other witnesses that saw what happened.” Charlie Moon watched the Navajo’s flat black eyes. “There were quite a lot of travelers stopped on the highway, gawking at the show. And lots of tourists carry cameras with them. Maybe one of ’em took a snapshot that’ll show Navarone jumping off the tree limb.”

  Ganado’s face expressed his acute disinterest in picture-taking tourists.

  Well, that’s that. “Eddie, I’m going to offer you some sound advice.” He watched Ganado’s jaw muscles go taut. “Don’t get on the wrong side of Oscar Sweetwater. The tribal chairman is a contrary old man. And he’ll always find a way get even with a fella who crosses him.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He looked pointedly at Moon’s red pickup.

  Moon took the measure of his shadow, which stretched two yards from his boots. “Guess I’d better be rolling on down the road.”

  Eduardo Ganado did nothing to delay his guest’s departure.

  THE SECRET SIN

  DAISY PERIKA performed the secret ritual once every twenty-four hours, always at the appointed time. The marginal Catholic would wait until her home had fallen into the deep trough of night. In the darkness, it seemed less likely that God would notice what she was up to. He would be busy keeping track of those millions of Chinese on the sunny side of the world.

  After making certain that the windows were tightly curtained, the aged woman would take the black shoe box from the kitchen cabinet, put it on the dining table, and remove the lid. Among the potions and herbs and odds and ends and this and that was the object of her special affection. Hands trembling, Daisy would withdraw the K’os Largo horned-star pendant that she had liberated from SUPD officer Jim Wolfe.

  This midnight was much like the others.

  Daisy alternately gazed at the lump of turquoise, pressed it against her wrinkled face, imagined how she would use the magic in the stone to find lost objects, heal deadly diseases—even see through that heavy veil that cloaks the future from the eyes of ordinary mortals. The shaman could feel the power in the silver-marbled stone. She also felt something else—a nagging sting of guilt.

  The tough old warrior struggled valiantly with her conscience. Daisy’s weapons were a characteristic stubbornness combined with an inventive flair to rationalize her banal theft into an act of unparalleled virtue. After all, it was not like this pendant had actually belonged to that silly white man. Those matukach think they can buy anything with money, but the People know it isn’t so. The treasure had once belonged to Hasteen K’os Largo, but the Navajo medicine man was dead and gone. Daisy assured herself that if she knew who K’os Largo’s grandchildren were, she would certainly return the precious object to them. The tribal elder piously imagined a simple ceremony down at Window Rock, where she would present the horned star to the dead man’s grateful descendants. She would make a brief but stirring speech about how the Utes and Navajos should forget past disputes and work harder to get along.

  But that ugly old Navajo man probably never did find himself a woman who’d give him any children. So until I hear he’s got some family still alive, it’s up to me to take good care of his property.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  LUNCH WITH OSCAR
r />   It was midafternoon at Angel’s Cafe, a slow time when a single waitress could tend to the few patrons. On this particular day, the hash slinger assigned to this duty had taken the afternoon off, to drive her mother to the dentist in Durango. Or so she claimed. Made hard and cynical by his three decades in the restaurant business, Angel Martinez did not believe his employee’s tale for a microsecond. But the harried businessman had no alternative but to act as cashier, cook’s helper, dishwasher, and waiter.

  And so it was that Angel headed for a corner table where the Southern Ute tribal chairman was seated with Charlie Moon. The Ute politician had already expressed his wish for privacy; Oscar Sweetwater had even had the gall to direct the owner of the establishment not to seat other customers anywhere near him and Charlie Moon—this was a business meeting. It was mutually understood that the restaurant counted on tribal members for a large proportion of its business, so the proprietor had promised that the Utes would not be disturbed. Now, Angel signaled his approached by clearing his throat, and inwardly winced as the conversation between the Indians stopped. The hardworking Hispanic forced a bright smile, rubbed his hands on a dish towel tucked in his belt. “You fellas ready to order?”

  The crusty old Ute picked up the plasticized menu, pointed his forefinger at the soup of the day. “With crackers,” he said.

  “You want your usual glass of milk?”

  Oscar Sweetwater nodded.

  Angel smiled hopefully at the younger man, who was always polite.

  Charlie Moon selected the catfish dinner with great northern beans, home fries, and coffee. And an extra side of hush puppies.

  Angel inscribed each detail on his order pad with the exquisite care a nineteenth-century journalist would have used to record the Gettysburg address.

  Moon pointed to the tribal elder. “And don’t bring two checks—Oscar’s buying.”

  After the restaurateur had hurried away to shout instructions at a sweating cook, Sweetwater took half a minute to unwrap a paper napkin that enfolded the stainless steel flatware. He gazed with childish fascination at his distorted reflection on the convex side of a spoon. “So you went to see Eddie Ganado—what did you find out from that lazy Navajo?”

  The tribal investigator watched a pretty girl pass by the cafe window. “Ganado may not be working for Felix Navarone’s lawyer much longer. He said he was thinking about quitting.”

  The tribal chairman scowled at his part-time employee. “More likely, he’ll get fired for stealing stationery.”

  “And I don’t think Navarone’s lawyer has any dirt on Officer Wolfe,” Moon said. “I expect she’s throwing a bluff.”

  Sweetwater nodded halfheartedly. “Maybe. But if Navarone goes to trial, she’ll claim our cop shook the tree and made that crazy Apache fall off the limb.”

  “Officer Wolfe didn’t shake Navarone off a limb. That cottonwood’s almost a foot thick. A nine-hundred-pound gorilla couldn’t shake that tree hard enough to—”

  “I don’t care whether that matukach cop shook the tree or not,” Sweetwater said. He looked around the empty restaurant, lowered his voice. “What about the videotape—does that Apache’s lawyer know about it?”

  Moon took his time stirring six teaspoons of sugar into the black coffee. “If she does, Ganado hasn’t heard anything about it.”

  Sweetwater was fascinated by the tribal investigator’s methods. “How did you figure that out?”

  “I mentioned that maybe one of the tourists at the roadblock had taken a snapshot while the Apache was up the tree. If Ganado had known about the video, I would’ve seen it in his eyes.” Moon sipped at the sugary coffee.

  Sweetwater closed his eyes, massaged the lids with his thumbs. “I still don’t feel good about that tape. She’s threatening to sue the tribe big-time.”

  “Oscar, you want my recommendation?”

  “Say what’s on your mind.”

  “Call that lawyer’s hand. Watch her fold.”

  Sweetwater eyed the tribal investigator. Charlie Moon had good instincts. “How sure are you?”

  Moon stared at the shimmering surface of the coffee. “Ninety percent.”

  Angel brought their food to the table. As he hurried away from the secretive Utes, he amused himself with a frivolous thought: They’re probably planning a horse-stealing raid against the Arapahos.

  Oscar Sweetwater ate his mushroom soup with considerable deliberation, taking sufficient time to enjoy each mouthful. He watched the younger man wolf down the oily catfish, gas-generating beans, and deep-fried potatoes. The tribal elder—who had a tricky gallbladder and all sorts of colonic complaints—would have given a month’s salary to be able to eat just one or two of the grease-soaked hush puppies on Moon’s platter. He waited until the tribal investigator had wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, then prepared to announce a decision he had made hours earlier. “You’re the best poker player for a hundred miles.”

  A hundred? Charlie Moon thought this faint praise indeed, but on account of excessive modesty he did not protest.

  Oscar Sweetwater turned the empty milk glass in his hands, watched the blue neon script of the ANGEL’S sign reflect off the cylindrical surface. “So if you say the lawyer is bluffing, I expect you’re probably right.” Sweetwater heaved a heavy sigh. “But I can’t afford to get the tribe involved in a lawsuit—even if there’s just one chance in ten the Apache might win. We’re bringing in good money off the gas wells and real estate and the casino, but we’ve got every dollar allocated. The risk is just too big to take.”

  Our tribal chairman is throwing in his hand before he sees what the lawyer is holding. Moon squinted at the desserts listed on a board over the lunch counter. Blueberry pie and vanilla ice cream sounds good.

  “I’ll going to make some calls,” Sweetwater said. “Get that troublesome Apache cut loose, but without the tribe losing face. I don’t want it looking like I caved in to his two-bit lawyer’s threats.”

  Which is just what you’re doing. “What about Jim Wolfe?”

  Sweetwater’s black eyes popped fire. “What about him?”

  “Wolfe was the arresting officer.”

  “So?”

  “So arresting officers have a peculiar habit of getting highly annoyed when they make a righteous bust—and somebody upstairs turns the bad guy loose on a technicality. And in this case, there’s not even a technicality. Wolfe got Felix Navarone dead to rights.”

  “That white cop can get annoyed if he wants to.” Sweetwater banged the glass on the table, sloshing milk on his thumb. “He has a complaint, he can take it to Chief of Police Wallace Whitehorse.”

  Moon had expected some such response. “Turning the Apache felon loose will make for bad morale in the whole Southern Ute Police Department. From Wallace Whitehorse down to the part-time janitor.”

  “I don’t give a hooty-toot about morale,” Sweetwater snapped. “Let them spoiled cops go suck their thumbs. I’ve got a responsibility to protect the tribe.”

  “I have a responsibility too.”

  “Which is?”

  “Advising my duly elected tribal chairman about the likely consequences of the actions under consideration.”

  Oscar Sweetwater leaned forward in a mildly belligerent manner. “Okay. Advise. What would you do if you was me?”

  “Keep the Apache in the clink. Report his lawyer to the state bar association.” Moon grinned merrily. “Charge her with—oh, I don’t know—slandering one of our officers. Overbearing barristry. Whatever’s likely to rattle her cage.”

  The tribal chairman snorted at this. “I never mess with lawyers or rattlesnakes. The decision is made—Felix Navarone will be back on the street soon as I can make it happen.”

  “You’re the boss.” Moon waved at Angel, requested a generous serving of blueberry pie à la mode.

  Angel removed a fresh pie from the display case. “Quarter cut?”

  Moon allowed as how this would be just barely sufficient, then smiled at the tribal c
hairman. “Now that business is done, why don’t you settle down and enjoy yourself. Order some dessert.”

  The dyspeptic tribal elder grimaced.

  “Not even a little bowl of ice cream?”

  Sweetwater laid two fingers on his jaw. “Cold stuff hurts my teeth.”

  “How about a slab of hot apple pie?”

  “Hot stuff hurts my teeth too.”

  “I’m sure Angel would be glad to bring you some room-temperature pie if that would—”

  “Stop tempting me, Charlie.” The old man grinned in a most unpleasant fashion. “Besides, our business isn’t quite finished.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I want you to have a powwow with that matukach cop.”

  “And what will me and Officer Wolfe pow and wow about?”

  Sweetwater pointed his finger at the insubordinate subordinate. “The facts of life. Explain to him how I am the Big Chief. How he ain’t even an Indian.”

  “That’s pretty cold, Oscar.”

  “Try this for cold—just a few hours ago, Felix Navarone’s lawyer filed papers for a restraining order to keep Officer Wolfe at least a hundred yards away from her client.”

  Moon assumed his poker face. I should have seen that coming. “It’s a standard tactic prior to a harassment charge.”

  Beaming with pride at his cook’s culinary craftsmanship, Angel delivered 25 percent of a blueberry pie. Centered on a dinner plate, the succulent slab was cunningly flanked by four scoops of French vanilla ice cream.

  Moon made appropriately appreciative remarks.

  Angel discretely placed a check on the table, went away happy.

  Oscar Sweetwater stared longingly at the dessert before glancing at his wristwatch. He mumbled something about being late for another meeting, got up with an old man’s painful groan.

  “Hold on,” Moon said. “You’re forgetting something.” He pointed at the bill.

  “Put it on your expense account,” Oscar said. The old man walked away stiff-legged, but with a smile on his weathered face.