Bertie clenched his hands into fists. “What?”
“He stepped on a rusty old bear trap that’d probably been there for sixty-two years or more.” The Ute’s expression was deathly grim. “Faster’n a woodpecker’s peck, Robert’s left foot got snapped half off.”
Bertie cringed. “That is absolutely ghastly.”
“You took the words right outta my mouth.” Moon went on with his narrative. “That trap was chained to an iron spike that was driven into the ground, which was froze solid at the time. Robert couldn’t get to his tools, and he didn’t have a folding knife in his pocket, so he had no choice but to take drastic action.” He waited for Bertie to ask him, “What did he do?”
“What did he do?”
“He used his teeth.”
“His teeth?”
Moon nodded. “Robert gnawed his foot off just above the ankle.”
Bertie blanched as if he had been slapped in the face. “That is simply astonishing. Even if a man had the raw courage to do such a thing, I would not have thought that he would be able to get his mouth that close to his foot—”
“Robert was a lot younger then, and a good deal more supple.”
“Well, that is really the most amazing, almost unbelievable—”
“Yes it is. After Robert had chewed himself outta the bear trap, he dipped the bloody stump in a bucket of hot tar.”
“Why did he happen to have hot—”
“For coating the bottom of the fence posts.” Moon picked up the pace: “After that, Robert tries to get onto his horse. But his mount gets spooked by all the blood and tar, and off he canters, clippity-clop, clippity-clop.” He paused to admire his way with words. “After he cusses that horse from here to breakfast, Robert breaks off a willow sapling and makes himself a crutch. What he has in mind is to hobble all the way back to the Columbine headquarters. Now, this was no small thing to do. On the way, he has to wade through eight or nine icy streams, cross over any number of steep ridges and deep arroyos—and all this during the worst blizzard this country’s seen in eighty years. And by now the snow is a yard deep, three or four times that much in the drifts.” As he contemplated such an admirable feat, the Ute’s dark features took on a rapt expression. “This is a hike of twenty-five miles. But ol’ Robert is tough as a fifty-cent steak; he makes it back alive.”
Tears pearled up in Bertie’s eyes. “I am almost too moved to speak.”
“Did I mention that a pack of starving timber wolves trails him half the way home, and Robert beats one of ’em to death with his crutch?”
Bertie shook his head.
“Well, he did just that.” Moon pulled down the brim of his hat, hoped Bertie would remember to ask.
After a puzzled frown twisted his brow, Bertie asked, “But why do the men call him Sissy?”
“Oh, that.” The Ute looked toward the corral, where the crippled old cowboy was loading a few hand tools into a saddlebag. “Robert might not want me to tell you.”
“Well, I certainly would not want to hear any scandalous gossip.” Every cell in Bertie’s body ached to know.
Moon lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone: “You’d have to swear not to ever repeat it to a living soul.”
Bertie crossed his heart.
“When Robert got back and told the other cowboys what’d happened, the fellas in the bunkhouse thought it was another one of his jokes. See, he was a big cutup—always pulling chairs out from under the boys, dropping bear-sign in the Mulligan stew—clever pranks like that. So they took a doubtful look at that twenty-pound gob of tar at the end of his leg and figured his foot was still in there. While five or six of ’em held ol’ Robert down, the others began to pull that tar boot off.” The storyteller assumed a pained expression. “And when they did, I guess it must’ve hurt something awful. Anyway, when the tar finally popped loose, ol’ Robert sorta yelped.”
“Yelped?”
Moon nodded. “And that’s why they call him Sissy Bob.”
“But—how awesomely unfair!”
“Maybe. But it’s what a cowboy comes to expect.”
“Gruesome and unjust though it is, your account of the old cowboy’s tragic self-amputation does not discourage me in the least from pursuing my chosen vocation. Much to the contrary, I am all the more convinced that riding my pony on the wide-open range is the only life for me.”
The Ute shook his head. “Bertram, I’m sorry to say this—but you might as well forget it. You don’t have any applicable skills. There’s not a stockman in the world that’d hire you on.”
The small man set his jaw. “There is one.”
“And who would that be?”
“You.”
The rancher shook his head. “It will never happen, Mr. Cassidy.”
“Au contraire, Monsieur Lune—it will happen. And within the hour.”
Moon’s interest was aroused. “What’ve you got in mind—some kinda bribe?” He hoped it would be hard cash. And plenty of it.
Bertie shook his head. “What I have in mind is vicious, filthy—blackmail.”
Moon laughed in his face. “Is that a sure-enough fact?”
“You can bet your boots and saddle.”
Despite the seeming absurdity of the man’s threat, Moon felt an uneasy coldness settle in his gut. “You figure you got something on me?”
Bertie glared at the Ute. “I am morally certain that you, sir, have committed a flagrant piece of flummery.”
Moon requested clarification.
“By some means, you discovered the location of the loot burgled from the Cassidy Museum. I do not know how you got the stuff off that precipitous cliff ledge—but by some method or another, you most certainly did.”
Moon tried to smile, botched the job. “You been smoking Jimsonweed?”
“Oh, bosh and piffle—I am onto you and you know it.” Bertie gave him a very odd look. “And you will not deny it.”
The Ute turned his gaze to the remnants of the sunset. The sky above the Misery range was on fire.
Moon’s accuser cleared his throat. “I surmise that soon after you recovered the Cassidy valuables, you brought them to my aunt. Your intention was to return her property with no thought of asking for a reward.” That is the sort of man you are—a genuine straight shooter. “But when you arrived, Auntie Jane was even more rude than usual. She shrieked and screamed herself hoarse—and the old witch fired you on the spot.” Bertie watched the Ute’s frozen profile. “That was when you decided to collect the reward. Not that I blame you, of course.” His round face took on an expression of pure adoration. “It was, in fact, that single bold act that caused me to admire you more than any other living human being. To wit—”
“To what?”
“Please do not criticize my manner of speech. This is my account, I shall tell it in the manner that suits me.”
“Sorry. Go right ahead.”
“To wit—you scribbled that barely legible note to your lawyer with your own crafty hand.” He pointed at Moon. “You, sir, are Yellow Jacket!”
The accused gave Bertram Eustace Cassidy a dark look.
“Charles, I know what you are thinking. You’re thinking, He doesn’t have any proof.”
I’m thinking I oughta throw you in the river, laugh, and clap my hands when you go bobbing downstream like an empty jug.
“But I do not need proof—not the kind required in a court of law. All I need do is plant some doubt about you in Walter Price’s mind. Your attorney is a very mean-spirited fellow. If Walter should come to harbor a suspicion that you snookered him into helping you fleece my aunt out of a fortune—he would make your life utterly miserable. And you know that I am right.”
In an effort to roll this issue over to the left side of his brain, Moon tilted his head. “Let me get this straight. If I don’t hire you on at the Columbine, you’re sayin’ you’ll make trouble for me with my legal counsel?”
“Indeed I am.” Bertie stiffened his back. “And I most cer
tainly shall.”
“I am surprised at you.” Moon watched a cutthroat trout slice the river’s shimmering surface. “Spreading inflammatory tales about a man is a low-down thing to do.”
“Sticks and stones will shatter my bones, but words…et cetera.”
Moon noted that there were several sizable stones close at hand. And a big stick.
Bertram Eustace Cassidy rubbed his pudgy palms together. “So—what do you say?”
Charlie Moon looked down his nose at the miniature blackmailer. “Making threats may be how things are done where you come from. But it is not the Cowboy Way.”
This hurt, but Bertie stood his ground. “I don’t give a hoot about the Cowboy Way. If you do not hire me on, I will tell Walter Price that you flimflammed him.”
“No you won’t.”
Bertie’s eyes goggled. “I won’t?”
Moon’s face was hard as steel. “Not if you value your life.”
Miss Cassidy’s nephew felt a delicious surge of fear. “Do you intend some kind of physical violence to my person?”
“I did think about dropping your sorry carcass into a tub of boiling pig fat. But there’s lots better things to do with lard—and a better way to handle an ornery cuss like you.”
“That sounds very much like a threat.” Bertie assumed a lopsided Billy the Kid sneer he’d once seen on the silver screen. “Whatever happened to the Cowboy Way?”
“That is for one hundred percent cowboys. It is true that I raise beeves and wear a John B. Stetson hat. But deep down, I am a sure-enough redskin—the kind who will stop at nothing to get even with his enemies.” Moon grinned wickedly at the little man. “You mess with me, I will turn you over to a certain party who is not as meek and mild as myself.”
The small man stared owlishly. “Who?”
The Ute had never looked so savage. “I will tell Auntie Jane on you.”
Bertie’s skin took on a chalky-gray complexion. “Tell her what?”
“How you and Ralph Briggs set up the museum burglary.”
“That is utterly absurd. Why on earth would I—”
“Because your aunt made up her mind to insure the Cassidy collection.”
“You are shooting in the dark.”
“Let’s see if I hit what I’m shooting at.” He aimed a finger at Bertie, cocked it with his thumb. “You knew the insurance company would send a passel of experts to examine and appraise every piece in the museum—and find out that most of those rare old coins weren’t so rare anymore. And they weren’t even old.”
B. E. Cassidy looked as if he might faint. And fall back in it.
Moon hammered away without mercy. “They weren’t even real coins, were they, Bertram? They were junk your partner provided to replace the good stuff he’d been selling off for you.”
Bertie saw no option but to tough it out. “You are bluffing.”
“I am holding aces and kings. After your aunt fired me, I had some time to think. And I thought I’d show the stolen coins to a collector down in Santa Fe who is a world-class expert. This noted numismatist told me they were all modern castings.”
“So what if they are? That proves noth—”
“When I visited your buddy Ralph Briggs in the hospital, I told him that if Yellow Jacket’s alleged pennies, half dimes, and silver dollars turned out to be duds, I’d be able to tell Jane Cassidy that a pair of slickers had set up the museum burglary—and name names.” Moon grinned at his victim. “Do you see where I’m going?”
Bertie did see. He did not like the destination.
“I figured that if Ralph was your partner, he’d tip you off that I was onto the counterfeit scheme—and tell you to make sure Aunt Jane didn’t bring in any experts to check out the Yellow Jacket loot. And about two minutes and ten seconds after I left his hospital room, he dialed your telephone number and did just what I’d hoped he would.”
Bertie was shocked at such underhanded subterfuge. “You were listening to our conversation?”
“Not me. It was the rabbit.”
Bertie looked perplexed.
“I brought Ralph a toy rabbit to keep him company. But this was not your regular run-of-the-mill toy cottontail. This bunny had a microphone in his mouth and a tape recorder in his belly—the voice-activated kind. I’ve only got Ralph’s side of the conversation, but he mentions you by name half a dozen times.”
“Isn’t that illegal? I mean recording a conversation without permission—”
“The tape won’t have to be played in a courtroom, Bertram. But if a certain rich lady by the name of Jane happens to get a microcassette in the mail and she pops it into a player and hears Ralph Briggs talking to somebody by the name of Bertie about how Charlie Moon is onto their scam and how Bertie had better make sure his aunt don’t hire a qualified numismatist to check out the substitute coins”—Moon paused to take a breath—“because that’s what that Indian cop is hoping for, I expect that’d get the job done.”
Bertie stuck a pair of little fingers into his ears. “I absolutely refuse to hear another word of this.”
Moon pulled one of Bertie’s fingers out of a small, pinkish ear and spoke into the orifice: “Yessiree—when Auntie Jane finds out her favorite nephew has been selling off the family heirlooms, Bertram is in big, bad trouble. Even if I tell her it was Ralph Briggs that came up with the notion of arranging a burglary to get rid of the counterfeits.”
Bertie unblocked the other ear. “You think me incapable of such a clever plan? I deeply resent that.”
“Sorry if I hurt your feelings. But there’s no doubt at all it was Ralph who talked Felix Navarone into stealing the fake stuff you’d leave out of the vault.” He eyed the curator of the Cassidy collection. “Navarone was supposed to turn the loot over to Ralph for a set price. And once Ralph had his hands on the stolen goods, he would’ve made sure nobody ever saw the counterfeit coins. I expected he would’ve melted ’em down, made himself a nice pair of bookends. Then the both of you would’ve been in the clear.”
Bertie attempted a snort. “That is an uncommonly amusing theory.”
Moon grinned at his singular audience. “But no matter how hard we plan, things always go wrong. This time, just about everything turned sour. First of all, Felix took Eddie Ganado on for a partner—and Ganado was even greedier than Felix. When this fine pair of felons had a look at what they got away with, they must’ve decided that whatever Ralph Briggs had offered to pay for the loot wasn’t nearly enough. But when Felix called the antique dealer on the phone and demanded more money, Ralph was not willing. This irked Felix no little bit, so he threatened to tip off the police about how Ralph is the brains behind the burglary.” Moon shook his head. “This was a big mistake on Felix’s part. That antique dealer may not look it, but our Mr. Briggs is not an hombre to mess with. Ralph called Felix’s bluff. He’d take his chances with the law, stack his word up against the Apache’s. But just in case Felix does rat him out, Ralph tells me about the call from the burglar. He even tells me some of the truth—that when he refused to deal with the caller, the thief got all hot and threatened to tell the police that the well-known antique dealer is up to his ears in the burglary. If Felix ever tells his story to the authorities, this makes me a first-rate witness for Ralph.” Moon eyed his adversary. “Are you still with me?”
Bertie shrugged.
“Well, I’ll leave out the part about how Eddie Ganado overheard me talking to Ralph Briggs on the telephone. Figuring Ralph was going to hire me to hunt down the thieves, Ganado dropped by that night and took a pop at Ralph with Jacob Gourd Rattle’s .22. And if Miss James hadn’t yelled, Ganado might’ve nailed me too.”
“I regret that deplorable incident,” Bertie said. “I detest violence.”
“Me too. Especially when I’m on the receiving end.” Moon flipped a pebble into the stream. “You’ve been a bad boy, Bertram. And your aunt Jane is a mean and spiteful lady. If she finds out you are responsible for all this trouble and expense, she
will make your life miserable. And you know I’m right.”
The white man’s mouth gaped in the manner of a hooked carp. There was a choking gurgle, but no distinguishable words emerged.
The western sky was stained with swaths of shocking pink and deep purple. The Ute watched a fat moon rise over the wide valley. “How much did you and Ralph Briggs get for the coins you’ve been selling?”
Bertie sniffed. “I have been wondering how much of my aunt’s one-million-dollar reward money you were able to keep. After Walter Price took his cut off the top.”
“You first.”
“Oh, very well. The total take for the coins was just under eight hundred thousand dollars. Ralph’s fee was thirty percent.”
Moon offered his financial report. “Walter Price took fifteen percent and some expenses.”
B. E. Cassidy did the calculations in his head. “So you netted somewhat under eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“Somewhat.” Moon had delivered quite a tidy sum to Kicks Dogs, who would never know from where the greenbacks came. The balance had gone to purchase the Big Hat Ranch. It was, he thought, money well earned and spent.
“You did quite well, Charles. I’m surprised Walter didn’t take half.”
“You ended up with quite a nice piece of change yourself, Bertram.”
“Not really.”
“What happened—you blow your whole wad in Vegas?”
“Alas, it was much worse than that. After you separated Auntie Jane from her million, the old witch was absolutely determined to insure the Cassidy collection. Ralph and I were back to square one—as you have so aptly pointed out, the appraisers would have spotted the counterfeit coins, and quite possibly exposed what Ralph and I had done.”
Please tell me that you did what I hope you did.
He did. “Ralph and I were compelled to purchase the counterfeit coins from my aunt.”
Moon was thunderstruck with delight.
“The purchase was indirect, of course. I told Auntie Jane that Ralph Briggs had been approached by a wealthy Japanese collector. It took some time to persuade her to part with them, but I finally convinced the old hag that the coins had been more trouble than they were worth. Though it was very difficult for him, Ralph came up with almost half the purchase price. This was a great help, but I have only about ninety thousand dollars left in my account.” Bertie was close to tears. “But the question is, Where do we go from here? I have something on you, you have something on me.”
The Witch's Tongue Page 36
