The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  “Looks to me like your standard Mexican standoff.”

  The Man Who Would Be Cowboy sized up the situation and came to a drastic conclusion. “Charles, I wish to state that I am withdrawing my threat to make trouble for you with your hateful and vengeful attorney.”

  “Okay, Bertram. Then I guess I don’t have any need to tell your aunt what you and Ralph Briggs was up to.”

  “Sadly, I am back where I started.” Bertie took off his jacket. “I have nothing left to live for.” He grunted as he pulled off his expensive wing-tip shoes. “In case you are mildly curious about how this shall end, I intend to throw myself into the depths of the river.”

  “Bertram, the stream is running low. You won’t drown right off—you’ll get beat to death on the rocks.”

  The pale man unbuttoned his canary-yellow silk shirt. “Forgive me the vulgarity—but quite frankly, I don’t give a gnat’s extraordinarily tiny excretory orifice how I shall expire.” Effecting a theatric gesture, he tossed the costly garment aside.

  “Well, there’s me to think of.”

  Bertram unlatched a mother-of-pearl belt buckle. “You?”

  “Sure. I’m the poor fella who’ll have to wade in and pull your cold, blue, water-wrinkled body outta the stream. You’ll look like a prune that sprouted arms and legs.” Moon’s expression suggested an acute attack of nausea. “It’ll be so disgusting, I won’t be able to eat my supper.”

  “I do regret the deleterious effect on your appetite. But there is no reason to alter my course.” Tears of self-pity filled his eyes. “Besides, no one will miss me.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  He gave the Ute a wet, squinty look. “Will you regret my passing?”

  Moon nodded. “Life won’t be the same without you. I’ll be upset for several minutes.”

  “That is quite touching. Nevertheless, I am obliged to jump into the river.” He stepped out of one leg of his blue suede trousers.

  “Wait—hold on there!”

  Bertie paused. “If you have something to say, please get on with it. I am beginning to feel unpleasantly chilly and prickly.”

  “Put your pants back on.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I can’t stand to look at those shorts you’re wearing. They’ve got little baby ducks on ’em.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No, there’s some Teddy bears too.”

  “Oh, pshaw! I mean—is that all you have to say?”

  “Step back into your britches, Bertram—I’ll give you a job.”

  This could be a trick. “What kind of position do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know exactly. We’ll work something out.”

  “Will I get a horse to ride?”

  “Sure. You can pitch your saddle on a nice little brush-tail mare we call Sweet Alice.” She’s already crippled up three good riders.

  Bertram Eustace Cassidy drifted off into a glassy-eyed rapture. His words were as from one lost in a lovely dream: “Charles—may I tote a .44-caliber Colt six-shooter?”

  “You can tote a brace of mortars for all I care.” With any luck at all, he’ll fall off the horse and shoot himself.

  He stepped back into the breeches. “Charles?”

  “Yeah?”

  The chilly man buckled his belt. “I must make a confession—I really wish I could have succeeded in blackmailing you.”

  “You are a really nasty fellow, Bertram. A natural-born felon and cutthroat.”

  He slipped into his shirt. “It is apparent that you agreed to hire me on because you feel sorry for me.”

  “Well, if I ever did, I have got over it. As a matter of fact, if you want to strip buck naked and jump in the river, go right ahead. I won’t pull your body out—your sorry carcass can float all the way down to the Golfo de California.” Moon turned away. “I’m going back to the house.”

  Carrying his shoes, Bertie minced along behind the Ute. “I wish I had been able to effectively carry out my threat—extort you out of something more tangible than a job. I should like to have had something that was really important to you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Your favorite quarter horse. A perfectly balanced Winchester rifle. A section of prime grazing land. Something really special.”

  Charlie Moon stopped in midstride. “Bertram, if you’re going to be a cowboy, you’ve got to learn how to keep your mouth shut for hours at a time. You could start practicing right now by not saying another word for a whole minute.”

  “Of course. Certainly.” Bertie’s brow furrowed into a frown. “I almost forgot. There is one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “When you visited Ralph in the hospital, you showed him a small wooden box—which you claimed contained all of your evidence on the museum burglary. He was quite rattled by this mysterious assertion, as was I when he told me. In fact, that cursed box was a major reason I did not reveal the fact that the Yellow Jacket coins were counterfeits. I could have, you know. No one could have proven that the thieves had not made the substitution…unless…Charles—I want know what was in the box.”

  “Why should I give two hoots about what you want to know?”

  “You needn’t be so testy. Besides, as I am to be your employee, there should be some level of trust between us. Think of it as a gesture to prove your goodwill.”

  “I don’t have any goodwill left for you.”

  Bertie stamped his bare foot. “Charles, I simply must know!”

  “Then ask your partner in crime.”

  “Ralph Briggs has the box?”

  “He should. I sent it to him a coupla days ago.” The thought made Moon smile.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  THE BOX

  At promptly half past three, the United States mail was delivered to The Compleate Antiquarian. Among the assortment of bills, advertisements, magazines, and catalogs was a small parcel. It had an illegible return address, a crisp Durango postmark.

  What could it be?

  The possibilities were titillating and practically endless.

  With all the enthusiasm of a hopeful child on Christmas morning, Ralph Briggs used a sixteenth-century Florentine dagger to slit the brown paper wrapping. What he found inside was a surprise—the tribal investigator’s little cedar box. Taped on the lid was a handwritten note from the Ute.

  The message gave him pause.

  THE AFTERNOON dragged on.

  Perilously close to bankruptcy, ego terribly wounded, the antiquarian sat alone in the half-light of his immaculately appointed office. In a vain attempt to soothe his jangled nerves, he sipped straight gin from a crystal goblet. For the forty-ninth time, he read the enigmatic note:

  Ralph—

  I made you a promise, so here it is.

  But take my advice and do NOT open the box.

  Set fire to it—burn it to ashes.

  C. Moon.

  He was afraid to flaunt the sly Indian’s advice. Something bad would be inside. But he could not endure the rest of his life without knowing. Moon had assured him that in the box was the sum total of the hard evidence on the Cassidy Museum burglary. Enough, apparently, to send two respectable citizens to prison—if the stolen coins had been identified as counterfeits.

  Minutes passed like snails in low gear.

  A lemon-tinted sun fell behind the willows.

  Twilight arrived with an expectant hush.

  It must be done. He held his breath, gingerly pressed the button under the brass latch.

  The spring-loaded lid yawned open.

  Ralph Briggs frowned at the contents—five playing cards.

  A three and a nine of spades.

  Five of clubs.

  Seven of hearts.

  Jack of diamonds.

  It took a few irregular heartbeats for understanding to dawn on the unfortunate man. The tribal investigator had shown his hand—his nothing hand. Briggs sat in stunned silence, stared at the mocking
display. Moon was holding trash. He had no proof that Bertie and I planned the burglary. It was another empty bluff—and I folded!

  Enraged, he drove the Florentine dagger through the jack of diamonds, impaling it to the Chippendale mahogany desk that heretofore had not the slightest blemish.

  Oh no—what have I done?

  Ralph Briggs clenched his hands into fists, beat them on the mutilated Chippendale. I will get you for this, Charlie Moon. Just you wait and see.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  MONTHS LATER

  The cowboy turned the big truck into the Chuckwagon Drive Up, expertly nosed it into a space between a pair of small sedans.

  Spotting the killer pickup, the carhop made a mad dash and was outside before the shining red behemoth had lurched to a rocking stop at station 10. Within a few strides of the F-350, Shirley Spoletto was unnerved by the sudden realization that Charlie Moon was not behind the wheel. In fact, there seemed to be no one at all in the cab. And then she saw the cowboy hat, its peak barely even with the top of the steering wheel. Shirley approached the vehicle with the righteous suspicion of a woman who was expecting a prince but has been offered a warty-skinned frog. The gum-chewing waitperson looked into the open window.

  The lean cowboy wore faded jeans, a partially unbuttoned blue flannel shirt. His hands were scratched and callused from hard work. The face that looked back at her from under the sweat-soaked Stetson was sunburned, the blue eyes merry. “Howdy.”

  She sized up the half-pint. “Howdy yourself.” Shirley remembered her current profession. “What’ll you have?”

  He winked. “What’ve you got, dream of my heart?”

  Having heard a hundred better lines, the footsore carhop rolled her eyes. “Route 666 burgers, Tater Tots, hot fudge sundaes, and so on.” She pointed at the sign. “It’s all wrote down there.”

  The fellow touched the brim of his hat. “You want to see something awesome?”

  Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You do something obscene—I’ll punch you right in the snout.”

  He removed the Stetson, exposing a head that—except for a brown horseshoe of fuzz set snugly above his ears—was as bald and pale as a peeled white onion.

  She jumped back. “Ugh—what is that?” It appeared to be some kind of horrible disease.

  “Look closer, my golden-tressed wench.”

  “You watch your smart mouth.” Shirley leaned forward for a better look, clasped a hand over her mouth. “Eeeeew!” She had once seen a similar case on her favorite documentary television show, and knew right away what it was. “You got a lotta little blue brain-eating worms wriggling around under your skin—I saw that very same thing on X-Files!”

  “Not so,” said the cowboy. “It is a work of manly art. A hairy-faced Picasso in Pueblo applied it with carefully sterilized needles and organic ink.” He tapped a finger on his skull. “Surely you recognize the famous subject that has been so skillfully depicted upon the epidermal canvas of my spherical member.”

  “It’s only a tattoo?” Somewhat relieved, the carhop leaned closer still. “It better not be somethin’ dirty, or I’ll poke a thumb in your eye.” She stared long and hard, finally shook her head. “What’s it supposed to be?”

  The owner of the artistic work made no attempt to hide his shock at her ignorance. “Why, it is obviously a map of Lower Mesopotamia—as it would have appeared in the latter portion of the sixth century, B.C.”

  She gave the bubble gum a good chew. “I think it’s gross.”

  “Your words cut me to the marrow. This was a very expensive tattoo.”

  “Well, if it cost six bits, you paid too much. I still say it’s a bunch of worms.” She snickered. “Maybe they’re tryin’ to look like hair.”

  This suggested another approach: “Listen, toots—d’you know what leads to male pattern baldness?”

  She thought about it. “Some kinda geek gene?”

  “A natural assumption for one of your stunning limitations, but you are in error.” He puffed up his chest. “The root cause of the dearth of hair on my head is—excess testosterone.”

  “Hah.” She smirked. “That’s a good one.”

  “A pithy rejoinder, my golden-haired Aphrodite erudite, but the baldness-testosterone correlation is a scientifically verifiable fact, and you can look it up if you are so inclined. I can quote to you a list of scholarly references in such reputable sources as The New England Journal of Medicine, Archives of Endocrinology, The National Enquirer, and Soldier of Fortune—all of which I have memorized for just such occasions as this.” He smirked right back at the long-legged blonde.

  Somewhat taken aback by this verbal onslaught, Shirley took a moment to regain her natural composure. She glared at the man with worms on his head; her words bore the unmistakable sting of accusation as she tapped the Ford’s glistening fender. “Where’d you steal this fancy truck?”

  “This magnificent product of Mr. Ford’s Kansas City, MO, assembly plant and Happy Dan’s Custom Trucks and Vans was a virtual gift. From a generous friend.”

  “Sez you. I happen to know for a fact that this F-350 belongs to Charlie Moon.”

  “Not anymore, missy. She is mine now.”

  “Oh yeah—how’d she come to be yours?”

  “Charlie happens to be a buddy of mine—he gave her to me.”

  “He’d never do no such a thing.” Shirley’s eyes glinted dangerously. “I flat-out don’t believe a word you’re saying.”

  “Next time you see Charlie, ask him yourself. All the equity he had in the vehicle, he generously transferred to me—all I had to do was take over the payments.” He placed the wide-brimmed hat back over Lower Mesopotamia, casting that unfortunate land into a darkness that smelled sourly of perspiration. “Would you care to examine the registration?”

  Ignoring this challenge, she leaned on the door. “I happen to know this truck has a name. If a man knows the name, he can start ’er up without the key.”

  The driver cleared his throat, then: “Go, Betty Lou.”

  The V-8 engine rumbled to life. Settled down into a throbbing, feline purr.

  Jeepers—it really is his truck.

  Sensing his advantage, the driver hurried to build on it. “Despite my scruffy appearance and low-paying job, I am a man of some means.”

  The long-legged kitten felt a purr coming on. She hung her elbows inside the cab. He is a cute little bunny rabbit. “My name is Shirley, Worm Head—what’s yours?”

  The cowboy grinned. “Cassidy, ma’am.”

  “Hah—I think I’ve heard a you.” She blew a sticky pink bubble, which popped in his face. “You must be Hopalong Cassidy.”

  “Ol’ Hoppy may well have been a distant relation of mine.” He sniffed to demonstrate his distinct displeasure at the thought. “But I am not cut from the sort of cloth that those fancy movie-star cowboys are made. I have gravel grit in my craw, greased lightning in my draw, and I can whip my weight in wildcats. To sum it up, I am a sure-enough woolly-booger with spurs on.”

  Having rarely met any other kind of man, Shirley was tolerant of liars and braggarts. “Is that the honest truth?”

  “The hard-case cowboys at the ranch—they call me by a descriptive nickname.”

  She asked what.

  The driver of the big red pickup truck told her what.

  Shirley giggled. “You kidding me?”

  “No, ma’am.” The Columbine cowhand tipped his hat. “Butch Cassidy is who I am.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  DUE RECOGNITION

  While he listened to his investigator’s report, the tribal chairman deftly tied a tiny blue hummingbird feather onto a long-shanked hook. When Charlie Moon had finished, Oscar Sweetwater put the trout lure into a small plastic box. “That’s it?”

  Moon nodded. “Felix Navarone is doing his fifteen at a federal jug in West Virginia. Jacob Gourd Rattle’s wife has gone home to North Carolina.” He glanced at the clock on the wall, remembered his obligation. �
�I’d better be rolling on down the road. Aunt Daisy is expecting me.”

  “Tell her I said hello.” The old man got up from his desk, gave Moon a stony look. “But before you leave, there’s something I want you to see.”

  Moon clamped the John B. Stetson on his head. “What would that be?”

  “Follow me.”

  Charlie Moon followed Oscar Sweetwater out of the chairman’s musty office, down the dimly lighted hallway, out of the tribal headquarters building, across a neatly kept lawn, under the branches of a leafy maple.

  At the edge of the parking lot, the elected leader of the Southern Utes stopped at a newly painted-off space. A sturdy wooden signpost was at the curb. The sign was wrapped in shiny red paper; this covering was secured with a blue ribbon that blossomed into a festive bow. “Remember what you asked for?”

  Moon stared in amazed disbelief. His request for a private parking space had been a joke. This hard-nosed old politician didn’t have a sense of humor. “Look, Oscar, you didn’t need to—”

  The chairman raised his hand for silence. “You’ve been doing good work for the tribe. And I guess I’m not too good at letting people know how much they’re appreciated. I figured this was the least I could do.” He gazed expectantly at his part-time employee. “Well, ain’t you gonna undo the wrapping?”

  Moved by this unexpected kindness, Charlie Moon tore the crimson paper off. Atop the square pine post was a thick set of cedar boards. The assembly was two feet long, almost a foot high. On the side facing the parking space, a gifted craftsman had etched deep letters into the wood: RESERVED C MOON.