The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  AN HOUR later, and not so far away, another wary female creature was alert and watching. The famished cougar was crouched under a scrub oak in Snake Canyon, muzzle resting between her paws. The very soul of patience, she waited for a deer to pass by.

  AS IT had been on that other most singular night, so it would be again.

  The land was bathed in a sea of pale moonlight.

  Ever so slowly, an avalanche of clouds rolled off the mountains, spilled into deep sandstone chasms between the mesas. Icy mists bejeweled every piñon and juniper needle with glistening droplets.

  With a sudden start, the big cat detected something unexpected. She pricked her ears, triangulated the location of the source. The predator looked up into the mists, blinked amber eyes. Something was up there. It was descending into the canyon…but not along the rocky trail. Though partially concealed by the moonlit mists, it was apparent that the intruder was floating in midair.

  Muscles tensed along the mountain lion’s rangy frame. She felt a tingle of elemental excitement, but not a trace of fear. This was something she had witnessed once before, and the beast was certain that she was not threatened by the presence.

  As the bigcat watched, a puff of wind separated the mists, a silver sliver of light illuminated a spot on the canyon floor just below the Witch’s Tongue. Like a plump droplet of water slipping along a blade of grass, the intruder seemed to be suspended on the narrow shaft of moonlight.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  THE EXCHANGE

  Enthroned like an imperious potentate behind his magnificent cherry desk, Walter Price was in his element and loving every moment. The attorney tilted his finely sculpted head, made ready to preside over the small congregation.

  Jane Cassidy was perched on a moose-hide sofa, her emerald-green dress bright against the soft brown leather. The wealthy woman’s attorney seated himself beside her, taking care to neither rankle his wealthy client nor wrinkle his three-thousand-dollar suit.

  Standing quite still in a corner of the room, Bertie Cassidy was doing a passable imitation of the teak coat hanger at his side.

  Arms folded across his chest, Charlie Moon stood before a heavy oak door, effectively blocking the entrance to a soundproofed conference room.

  Walter Price pressed the red button on his desk intercom station, spoke crisply to an unseen employee. “No calls, Miss Weiss.” The attorney got up from his chair, clasped his hands behind his back, directed his words to Jane Cassidy: “You are absolutely certain that you do not wish to have the exhibits examined by a team of independent experts?”

  “That would be an unnecessary expense,” she said. “Bertie and I have discussed the matter. We will certainly know whether the items to be presented are our property.”

  Price glanced at her lawyer, got a barely perceptible nod. “Very well then. I assume that everyone present is fully informed of the purpose and protocol of these proceedings.”

  “You need not be so pompous, Walter,” Jane said. “You’re not a judge yet.”

  Price’s face flushed beet red.

  The ruthless woman continued. “I for one am painfully aware of the fact that I have come to your tastefully furnished office to determine whether this anonymous felon you represent—this Yellow Jacket—has produced the property stolen from the Cassidy Museum. If this is the case, I’m willing to redeem it for the sum of one million dollars.” She turned to glare at her legal counsel. “So let’s get on with this farce.”

  The Denver lawyer exchanged glances with his esteemed Durango colleague, made a mental note to apologize later for his client’s unseemly behavior.

  Jane Cassidy was not finished. She screwed her pale face into an ugly scowl. “We should be able to wrap this up pretty quick if this so-called Yellow Jacket—whom I presume to be the filthy night crawler who burgled my museum—is not trying to pull a fast one. I want all of the stolen property returned. And it had better be in good condition. Otherwise, I’ll sic the law on the blackguard.” She leaned forward, clutching her purse. “Will you communicate this outright threat to your client, Walter?”

  Walter Price returned her stare. “Even as you speak, your pithy statement is being recorded on the audio tape—I daresay this will be sufficient evidence of your intention. But do take note of the fact that my client’s identity is unknown to me.” He glanced at the Ute. “Mr. Charles Moon has some measure of communication with Yellow Jacket. If he should have the opportunity, and wishes to do so—he may convey the gist of your comments.”

  All eyes focused on the Ute tribal investigator.

  Moon, who was wearing his wooden-Indian poker face, made no reply.

  Walter Price cleared his throat. “After I placed the requisite advertisements in the classified sections of a half-dozen local newspapers, the person who prefers to be known as Yellow Jacket got in touch with Mr. Moon. Subsequently, Mr. Moon was able to take possession of certain items, which said Yellow Jacket represents as the same material that was illegally removed from the premises of the Cassidy Mus—”

  Jane Cassidy threw up her gloved hands. “Oh for Jupiter’s sake, Walter—will you skip all the stuffy legalese and get on with this third-rate show?”

  The steely-eyed attorney managed to control his temper. “Very well, Jane. The conditions are spelled out in some detail in the agreement your legal counsel has already read. But here is the executive summary. If the property which I am prepared to present is accepted by you as that which was stolen from your museum, you agree to accept the property forthwith—and immediately render a cashier’s check in the sum of one million dollars as a recovery fee. You also agree to take no action whatever either to identify my client or to assist the authorities in so doing. In the event that my client should ever be arrested and charged in connection with the theft of these particular goods, you agree to use all resources at your disposal to defend my client in any court of law where my client may be prosecuted. If you should not honor any detail of your part of the covenant, I will certainly sue you on behalf of my client.”

  The rich woman rolled her eyes. “Walter, I have already signed ten copies of your mind-numbing document, and each one has been witnessed and notarized. Now when do I get to see the stuff?”

  The Denver attorney coughed.

  Jane turned to him. “What is it, Harold?”

  He smiled apologetically. “As your legal counsel in this matter, I merely wish to point out that if the objects presented do not suit you in any way—you are under no obligation to pay a dime.”

  “Quite correct,” Walter Price said. “But the other side of that two-edged blade is this: If for any reason you decide not to accept the valuables, you shall leave all of the property in my possession.” A malicious expression twisted the attorney’s face. “Which will automatically result in other legal procedures quite outside the scope of the current agreement.”

  Bertie surprised everyone by speaking. “Do you mean that our—that the materials would be turned over to the police?”

  “I am not at liberty to say precisely what such procedures would be.” Walter Price spoke with almost no discernible movement of his thin lips. “But if it turns out that this Yellow Jacket person—or anyone else—is attempting any sort of fraud, I shall do everything in my power to see that justice is done. Which would begin with a detailed analysis by recognized experts of the items allegedly stolen from the Cassidy Museum. If there has been any attempt to substitute items of lesser value, I shall pursue the matter to the utmost legal limits.”

  “Great,” Jane Cassidy barked. “Now let’s see the loot!”

  Price nodded at Charlie Moon. The tribal investigator stepped away from the door. The attorney took a shiny brass key from his vest pocket, unlocked the entrance to the conference room.

  Inside was a long, varnished table.

  At the far end of the table, a uniformed security guard stood at rigid attention. The hard-faced man had a semiautomatic pistol holstered on his belt. Closer-by stood a tall, thin, g
ray-haired woman, immaculately dressed in a black silk dress and black spike heels. A single strand of pearls was suspended from her neck. Walter Price’s office manager was considerably more intimidating than the armed man. She stepped to one side, made a sweeping gesture to draw their gazes to the display on the table.

  There were three cardboard boxes; each had once contained precisely twenty-four cans of Aunt Nancy’s Chicken Gumbo Soup.

  Price smiled affectionately at the elegant lady. “Thank you, Miss Nelson. You may return to your normal duties.”

  She moved across the carpet without making a sound.

  The tough-looking guard remained at his post.

  Walter Price reached into a box. He removed a transparent plastic bag, placed it on the table.

  At the sight of it, Jane Cassidy shrieked, “My cameos!”

  Price allowed himself a supercilious smile. “Take your time, Jane. Make certain these are the identical items taken from your museum. Again for the record, you have the right to bring in experts of your choice to verify the authenticity and condition of each item.”

  The Denver attorney nodded. “Yes, you must be quite sure that—”

  “We don’t need any experts,” she snapped. “Bertie and I are intimately familiar with every piece that was stolen.” Jane Cassidy snatched up the bag, held it up to the sunlight filtering through the office window, then clasped it to her breast. “Oh—dear Momma’s precious Italian cameos—” She plopped down on a wooden chair. “I am so, so happy.” She turned to wave at her nephew. “Come here, Bertie—come and see.”

  He came to look over her shoulder. “Yes, isn’t it wonderful.”

  The Denver attorney muttered in her ear, “Is every piece there?”

  “I believe so.” Jane Cassidy opened the plastic bag, spread the assortment out on the table. “I don’t recall exactly how many there were, but this seems to be the lot.”

  Walter Price coughed to get their attention. “And now we come to the most valuable portion of the stolen goods—the rare coins. Every piece has been meticulously cataloged and compared to the list of stolen items. Needless to say, the match between catalog and list is perfect. And please note that the coins are still in the original display folders, just as they were taken from the museum.”

  Each of the folders was sealed in a plastic evidence bag.

  Jane was still clasping the hoard of antique jewelry to her bosom. “Bertie will have a look at them. One old penny looks much like another to me, but my nephew knows these coins better than anyone.”

  Jane’s nephew took a seat at the table. Folder by folder, he examined the displays of large copper cents. Liberty caps. Draped Bust. Turban Heads. Coronets. Braided Hair. Mint-condition Flying Eagles, Indian Heads, bronze Two-Cents, Silver Three-Cents, Nickel Shield-Type Five-Cent pieces, a variety of half dimes, Capped-Bust quarters, Flowing-Hair half dollars. Most dazzling of all were the glistening Liberty Seated and Morgan silver dollars. An atmosphere taut with suspense permeated the attorney’s office as Bertram Eustace Cassidy peered at the plastic-covered displays.

  Eventually, Jane would have no more of it. “For goodness’ sakes, Bertie—are you in a trance?”

  The small man turned with a start. “What?”

  Jane managed a saccharine smile. “Dear Bertie—you do love your shiny little coins, don’t you? But these overpriced lawyers are waiting to hear what you have to say.”

  Bertie seemed puzzled.

  The Denver attorney approached him with a studied gentleness. “Mr. Cassidy, are these coins the ones stolen from the family collection?”

  Jane Cassidy’s nephew stared across the room at the tribal investigator. He flexed his fingers, rubbed his plump hands together. “It would appear that—”

  Charlie Moon smiled at him.

  Jane jerked at her nephew’s sleeve. “Well?”

  Bertie removed a crisply folded linen handkerchief from his shirt pocket, mopped at his forehead. “Yes. These are the coins that were taken from our family museum.”

  Walter Price was unable to conceal his relief. “Are they all there?”

  Bertie nodded.

  “And in the substantially same condition as when they were stolen?”

  “Yes, yes.” Bertie tugged at his collar. “They are in perfect condition.”

  Forgetting himself for a moment, Walter Price beamed at the odd little man, clapped him on the back. “Well, then. I’d say that does it.” There is nothing left to do but collect the money.

  AN HOUR later, Walter Price was alone with Charlie Moon. Armed couriers had arrived from the bank; the Cassidy check had been exchanged for six canvas bags of cash.

  Relaxed now, the attorney removed his jacket, rolled up his white silk sleeves. He stood at a window, watching the afternoon traffic. “Now all we have to do is get the payment to my anonymous client.” The various niggling details caused him to frown. “There are several issues to be dealt with, but you should convey to Yellow Jacket that he must take complete responsibility for payment of taxes. My sole responsibility is to see that my client is paid in the manner previously agreed to.” He glanced uncertainly at the Ute. “Which means that you are going to be responsible for transporting a very considerable sum of cash. I hope you have made suitable arrangements—for security, I mean.”

  Moon nodded. “That’s been taken care of.” Six Columbine cowboys—all armed to the teeth—were waiting outside to escort him back to the ranch. It was not really necessary, but the hardworking men would enjoy the outing.

  Walter Price seated himself behind his desk. “I must say, Charles—in spite of the fact that your reputation is without blemish, I am nevertheless impressed that this anonymous person is willing to trust you with such a large sum. The point is this: I cannot help but assume that my remarkably shy client—even if he is not directly connected to the burglary—has something to hide. And such persons are not generally noted for their trusting nature.”

  Moon eyed the bags of greenbacks. “The way I figure it—this Yellow Jacket character must’ve not had much choice.”

  Walter Price nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, of course.” He hesitated. “There is something I wish to ask you. But it is merely to satisfy my curiosity—you are certainly not obligated to reply.”

  Moon waited.

  “This person who calls himself Yellow Jacket—I assume he provided the usual hand-printed notes to communicate with you. But have you ever seen him face-to-face?”

  “You mean like right now, me looking at you, man-to-man—in the flesh?”

  The attorney nodded. “Yes, that is precisely what I mean.”

  “No,” Moon said.

  “Charlie, do you know who Yellow Jacket is?”

  The Ute looked at the clever attorney for a long time. “Are you sure you want me to answer that question?”

  Walter Price smiled. “I believe you just have.”

  MIDNIGHT

  KICKS DOGS was quite soundly asleep, dreaming of something that had never happened in her unhappy childhood. In this sweet fantasy, a kindly man gave her a shiny half dollar for ice cream. She ran away before he could take it back. Jacob Gourd Rattle’s wife was roused from her peaceful slumbers. Not by a sound—merely by a sense that someone was out there. She clutched the covers to her chest and yelled, “Who’s there?”

  There was, of course, no response. There never is.

  I must’ve imagined it. She got out of bed, wrapped a tattered bathrobe around her thin body, switched on the outside light, looked through the windowpane—and saw something on her porch. A parcel. This would have frightened a soul who conjures up images of cruel pranksters and lunatic bombers. Not Kicks Dogs. The package seemed to speak to her. What it said was, Come and get me.

  Without another thought, Kicks went and got it.

  Though she wept in spells, and laughed, even offered thanks to God—the ecstatic woman would not find sleep again that night.

  She spent all the wee hours counting crisp new greenbacks
.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  MCTEAGUE’S TRIUMPH

  Charlie Moon was helping a couple of the cowboys shoe a skittish mare. The wild-eyed animal had already kicked a plank out of her stall; now she laid a hoof on the rancher’s thigh. When his cell phone demanded immediate attention, Moon was happy for an excuse to take a break. He limped out of the barn, leaned on the corral fence. “Yeah?”

  “Charlie, it’s me.”

  He was unable to smile. “Hello, McTeague. What’s up?”

  Her voice crackled with excitement. “You will not believe it.”

  “I am fairly gullible—try me.”

  “Can’t talk about it. Not on an open line.”

  “Let me get this straight—you called long distance just to tell me you can’t talk to me on the phone?”

  “If you want to know what’s happened, you will have to saddle up and ride, cowboy.”

  “Where to?”

  “Three Sisters Mesa. Get here soon as you can.”

  She found the grave in Snake Canyon. “I’m on my way.”

  “I’ll be looking for you.” She hung up.

  He stared at the barn where the horse was still kicking sparks, half-wished he had not answered the telephone.

  WHEN MOON braked the big red pickup to a stop on Three Sisters Mesa, he counted six SUPD units, all with emergency lights flashing—and one gray government-issue Ford sedan. SUPD chief of police Wallace Whitehorse was involved in an intense conversation with Special Agent McTeague, but the Northern Cheyenne was doing far more listening than talking, mainly punctuating the FBI agent’s comments with grunts and nods. Whitehorse noticed Charlie Moon’s approach but deliberately ignored him until Moon was within arm’s length. Even then, he acknowledged the Ute with an almost imperceptible nod. Charlie Moon and Oscar Sweetwater are thick as thieves—I bet the tribal chairman sent his big-shot investigator out here to see if I know how to do my job.