THE AWAKENING
CHARLIE MOON sat straight up in bed. What was that?
The telephone rang again.
He snatched it up, jammed the wrong end against his ear. “Yeah?”
The faint voice spoke in his mouth: “Hello—hello?”
He reversed the instrument, jabbing his eye with the stubby antenna.
Now the woman’s voice was in his ear: “Hello—are you there?”
He rubbed the sore knuckles on his right hand. Ned Navarone’s head must be full of cement. “Where else would I be?”
There was a smile in her voice. “You sounded startled.” A pause. “I hope I did not wake you.”
The digital clock on the bedside table informed the man that it was twelve minutes past four AM. He eased himself back on the pillow, stretched his long legs out on top of the quilt. “Wake a hardworking rancher—at this time of the day?”
“You were already up?”
“Us country folk sleep barely two hours out of every twenty-four. I have already made a batch of buttermilk biscuits from scratch, pitched three bales of alfalfa hay to the work horses and a peck o’ cracked corn to the Dominiker hens.”
“That is very unkind of you.”
“The horses and hens did not complain.”
“You know what I mean. You woke me up with your phone call; I was trying to get even.”
“You’ll have to try harder.”
“Do you have any suggestions?”
“I’ll try to think of something.” He yawned into the telephone.
“Goodie—I knew I woke you up!”
“No you didn’t.” The phone did.
“Then why are you yawning?”
“I am bored?”
“No, that wouldn’t do. And you should not lie to me, Charlie Moon.”
“From time to time, I might exaggerate—but I would never tell you a lie.”
So I’ve heard. “That is gratifying to know.”
“It is also gratifying to know you was laying there flat on your back, eyes big as saucers, not able to sleep—wanting to talk to your favorite cowboy.”
“Don’t kid yourself.” How did he know? “I called to tell you that a slug found in Mr. Ganado’s remains was in sufficiently good condition for our forensics experts to identify the pistol that shot it. I’m talking about Officer Wolfe’s service revolver. Which is hardly surprising in light of the fact that Wolfe had possession of the Gourd Rattle van key, and we found the van with Ganado’s body inside.”
“Hmmm.”
“Charlie, what does that ‘hmmm’ mean?”
“Oh, not much. It’s kind of a filler when a feller can’t think of a thing to say.”
“Don’t you give me that.”
The silence fairly sizzled.
“Tell me!”
“McTeague, there are some things a modest man prefers to keep to himself.”
“Charlie, you are beginning to get on my nerves.”
“That’s because you’re wound up way too tight. But I know what’d make you feel lots better.”
“Strangling you?”
“The pleasure from that would wear off in a week or so. What you should do is say something nice to me.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “Thank you for the tip.”
“Tip?”
“You know very well what I mean—alerting me to look in the late Officer Wolfe’s raincoat pockets for the ignition key to the Gourd Rattle van.”
“Oh, that. You are welcome, McTeague.”
“And I suppose your excessive modesty will prevent you from telling me how you knew?”
“You got it.”
“Strangling still sounds like a good idea. You are a very annoying man.”
“Don’t think it comes easy. I took a six-week mail-order course.”
“Good night, Charlie.”
“Good night, Irene.” He dropped the telephone into its small cradle, rolled onto his side. On the other side of the windowpane, the night was thick with darkness. Within minutes, Charlie Moon had fallen deep into a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
THE CLIENT
Durango attorney Walter Price shouldered the lobby door of the Price Building with all the enthusiastic aggression of a seasoned NFL linebacker, glanced at the platinum watch strapped on his wrist, vaulted up the stairs three at a time, twisted the porcelain knob on the outer office door at precisely 8:58 AM. He very nearly bowled over Miss Weiss, who was waiting near the threshold.
“Ah—excuse me.” Price removed his hat, exposing a neatly groomed head of silver-gray hair that was the envy of every bald man in Durango.
“Good morning, sir.” She had something in her hand.
He placed his hat on a tasteful teakwood rack. “What is this?”
“Your mail.”
“Impossible. The post does not arrive until eleven-twenty.”
“This was a special delivery.” She held the smile inside her mouth.
“How very odd.” The attorney accepted the dirty white envelope, held it gingerly between immaculately manicured finger and thumb, turned up his nose. “It is soiled.”
“That is probably because I stepped on it.”
He frowned at the woman. “Why, pray tell, would you put your shoe on a piece of office correspondence?”
“I did not see it on the floor. Before I arrived at seven thirty-four, someone had slipped it under the door.”
He noted that there was neither stamp nor return address. Someone had printed “W Price” on the envelope. “This is really quite irregular.” He gave the thing back to the secretary.
“Shall I open it for you, sir?”
“If you must.” He hung his topcoat just under the hat.
Miss Weiss applied a singled-edged razor blade to the envelope, removed a page of cheap lined paper. “Sir, I believe you should read this.”
The attorney snatched the page from her hand. Squinted at the block-printed words:
I got the Casidy stuff. I saw the rich woman on the TV. She can have it back for the milion $ but I wont have nothing to do with no too bit lawyer. If Charly Moon will act for me Ill prove I got the stuff. You want to deal put an ad in the papers an say you want to buy some spotted dogs. The kind that ride on fire trucks.
Yellow Jacket
Walter Price tossed the note onto his secretary’s glass-topped desk. “This is truly appalling.”
“Yes, sir. When I saw how insulting this person was to your profession—”
“The spelling, the grammar, the punctuation—absolutely atrocious.”
“What do you intend to do, sir?”
“It is no doubt some sort of sophomoric hoax. And even if it were not, I would never associate the firm with such a…” He could think of no adequate descriptor.
“No, sir. Of course not.” Miss Weiss allowed herself just the hint of a smile. “Not even if Jane Cassidy would be eternally indebted to you for helping her recover the family’s stolen property.”
“Hang Jane Cassidy and all her kith and kin. I detest the woman.”
“Yes, sir. It is not like the firm needs to woo a wealthy client.”
He glared at the woman. “Miss Weiss, are you being impertinent?”
“Only a wee bit, sir. It adds a bit of spice to my otherwise humdrum life.”
“Very well then. Carry on.”
“Shall I file the Yellow Jacket note?”
“If you wish. But do not think that I will not stoop to dealing with common burglars. Or, for that matter, with Jane Cassidy.”
“Of course not, sir.”
Walter Price barged into his spacious corner office. “Get me some coffee.”
“Before or after I call Mr. Moon?”
“After.”
CHARLIE MOON was at the kitchen table, listening to a string of complaints from his foreman. Pete Bushman’s negative narrative was interrupted when the downstairs telephone in the Columbine headquarters rang.
Knowing
it would rattle his employee, Moon ignored the nerve-jangling sound.
Bushman sat though seven rings, began to grind his remaining teeth. “Ain’t you gonna answer that?”
The boss took a sip of sweet coffee. “Do you think I should?”
The foreman banged his fist on the table, yelled through his whiskers, “Shoot yes—this is supposed to be a bidness we’re runnin’ here. That could be McDonald’s callin’. Or Burger King. Or one a them big supermarket chains.”
Moon went into the parlor, put the plastic instrument against his ear. “Columbine.” A momentary pause. “Sure, I’ll hold for Mr. Price—if he don’t take too long.” A longer pause. “Hi, Walter. What’s up?” A very long pause. “That’s an interesting piece of mail you got. But ten to one it’s some kinda joke.” He listened to the lawyer’s response. “Walter, I don’t want to get mixed up in anything to do with the Cassidys. That cranky woman’s already hired and fired me—and she’s never paid me a dime for my time.” Moon counted off the seconds as Price made his case. “Well, go ahead, talk to her if you want to. But I’m not making any promises.” He hung up the phone, returned to the kitchen.
Despite an earnest effort to eavesdrop on the boss’s conversation, Pete Bushman had heard nothing but a few muffled mumbles. “Well, who was that?”
“Some lady who said she was a buyer for some company called Krugers. Or something that sounded like that.”
Must’ve been Krogers. The foreman’s face went pale under his sunburned skin. “What’d she want?”
“From what I could tell, she’s interested in buying some beef.”
“Oh my goodness—what’d you tell ’er?”
“Told her I’d never heard of no Krugers outfit. But that if she’d send some credit references, the Columbine might consider doing some business with her. But I don’t think she will.”
Bushman felt his stomach knotting up. “Why not?”
“She hung up on me.”
The light began to dawn. “Charlie—would you be funnin’ me?”
Moon’s face split into a mischievous grin. “Would a muskrat musk?”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
THE APOLOGY
Charlie Moon rolled out of bed when the big dipper was scooping the last few stars from the sky. The ice-cold river was splashing over black basalt boulders. To the south, ripples in Lake Jesse glittered in the galactic glow. The peaceful, sweet-smelling morning on the Columbine had all the makings of a fine, soul-satisfying day.
The Ute made a deliberate decision to enjoy these precious hours. He had a brief but serious talk with his dog, walked down the lane to stand on the Too Late bridge and watch the darting rainbow trout.
After a few minutes of smiling at the fish, he stopped at the foreman’s house to enjoy pleasant conversation and a fine breakfast with Pete and Dolly Bushman. The kindly woman had made enchiladas rancheros with green chili, refried beans, and flour tortillas buttered with the genuine article. Between bites, Pete reported a fair stand of grass on the four sections north of Pine Knob. All it needed was “a couple inches more rain, and it’ll grow so high we’ll be losing calves in it.” On cue, puffy clouds were already piling up a mile high over the Misery and Buckhorn ranges.
Moon returned to the ranch headquarters, took a seat at the fireside, and turned on the radio. According to the stockman’s report broadcast from the Grand Junction station, the price of beef had gone up four cents a pound in the last week.
He closed his eyes. Smiled. What could go wrong on a day like this?
THE TELEPHONE in the foreman’s house rang. Dolly Bushman answered it. “Columbine Ranch.”
A now-familiar voice barked back at her.
The foreman’s wife sucked in a deep breath before responding. “It’s not my fault if Charlie don’t call you back—I gave him all of your messages.” The amiable woman listened patiently to the expected complaint. “If he don’t answer the phone at the big house, it’s most likely because he’s got better things to do…” Than talk to the likes of you. Dolly’s eyes popped. “You’re out at the main entrance?” I’ll let the boss deal with this. “Well, I suppose you might as well come on up the lane.” She pressed a button to unlatch the gate.
CHARLIE MOON was relaxing before a crackling fire of split pine. The owner of the spread was reading the yellowed pages of a book Will James had written in 1929, Lone Cowboy: My Life Story.
Had it not been for a singularly annoying banging on the door, the ranch headquarters would have been soothingly silent.
Her voice screeched like a falcon falling toward its prey: “Charles—I know you’re in there. Now open this door!”
He enjoyed another paragraph.
The determined woman kicked at the heavy door with her opentoed shoe, yelped with pain.
The Ute smiled at the near-miraculous account of Will finding Smoky again after the stolen animal had been missing for years. That hard-case cowboy sure did love that ol’ horse.
She called out in a childlike whimper. “Charles, I believe I have injured myself.”
He took a sip from a mug of very sweet, very black coffee, heard a happy bark from Sidewinder.
There was an immediate response from his female visitor: “Get away from me you horrid, filthy beast!”
Moon marked his place with a two-dollar bill, put the book aside, got up from his rocking chair.
Another round of barking.
“Charles, I demand that you call off your nasty dog!”
He unlatched the door, took note of his hound, eyed the shiny black Cadillac parked by his dusty F-350, smiled at the white woman on the porch. “Look who’s come to visit—the rich lady who fired me.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Jane Cassidy brushed past him. “Do not attempt to be snide, Charles—it does not become you.” She limped across the dark parlor, plopped down on a leather couch near the massive granite fireplace.
“Make yourself right at home,” he said. “Have a seat.”
Her lips parted in a snarlish smile. “Sarcasm is not your long suit.”
Moon glanced back at the Caddie, where Bertie sat behind the wheel. “Shall I ask your nephew to come inside?”
“Certainly not. I had to listen to Bertram whine and complain all the way here. Leave the little insect in the car.”
He closed the door, sat down beside her. “Could I get you something to drink?”
She patted her hair into place. “A stiff shot of bourbon would do nicely.”
“I was thinking more like coffee.”
“I was thinking more like eighty-proof alcohol.”
“Can’t help you there.”
“A glass of wine, then. A crisp, flinty Chardonnay would do nicely.”
“Don’t have any of that.”
“Do you have a Grignolino port?”
The rancher admitted that he did not.
Her voice betrayed a hint of alarm. “Surely you have a wine cellar.”
He shook his head. “We keep potatoes and onions and rutabagas down there.”
“You must be joking.”
“Only about the rutabagas.”
“Oh well, I suppose a Bavarian beer will suffice. Do you keep Reissdorf Kölsch?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “But I could call my foreman, see if Pete’s got a six-pack of Bud in the fridge.”
“That is not funny.” An ugly suspicion was beginning to form in her mind. “Charles, I hate to sound accusative—but are you some kind of temperance freak?”
“I’m some kind of alcoholic.”
“Oh, of course,” she murmured. “I suppose all of you Indians tend to drink too much.” Generously deciding to dismiss her host’s shortcomings, Jane Cassidy held her palms out to the warmth of the dancing flames. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I came all the way to this dreadfully remote and dusty place to see you?”
“Nope.”
She turned to make round eyes at the Ute. “You’re not?”
He shook his head.<
br />
“Why?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Charles—that is positively…” She searched for the word. “Discourteous.”
“And even if I did, there’s no point in asking. You’re going to tell me anyway.”
She sniffed. “Well, if you take that attitude, I may not tell you a thing.”
He tilted his mug, took a long drink of coffee.
She shot him a venomous look. “I may just get up and leave without saying so much as another word.”
That’ll be the day. Moon picked up a copy of last week’s Southern Ute Drum.
She glared at the flames licking the bark off the pine logs. “The least a guest can expect is a little conversation.”
“Beef prices are up.” The rancher turned a page. “Four cents a pound.”
She flung her arms up. “Well, wa-hoo!”
“Those of us poor souls who must work the land for a living care about such things as beef prices. And the cost of nails and horseshoes and baling wire.”
“Oh blast you and your smelly cattle.” Jane Cassidy resigned herself to the distasteful but inevitable task. “I suppose you expect an apology.”
“No.” Moon suppressed a grin.
“Well, you shall have one anyway.” She avoided looking at his face. “I regret my behavior during our previous encounter. I was…well, in a somewhat snappish mood when you called. I should not have questioned your competence, or your advice about the best course of action for ensuring the recovery of my stolen property.” Tapping a finger on her knee, she waited for an agonizingly long three seconds. “Well?”
“Meteorologist in Denver says we’re in for a hard winter.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“I sent you an itemized bill. And not for the two hundred dollars an hour you agreed to, but for just a quarter of that. You never paid me.”
The Witch's Tongue Page 28
