Hoover leaned forward expectantly. "You apprehended them?"
Moon avoided Hoover's searching gaze. "It was my day off." He brightened. "But they were picked up by Kansas cops over in Coffeyville when they broke into a hardware store."
Hoover's face mirrored his disappointment and his suspicions that the Southern Ute Police Department was in sad shape. "What about tribal politics," he said, "fill me in on any controversies."
"Well… tribal council's split over a recommendation by the Economic Development Board," Moon said. "The EDB bunch, led by Arlo Nightbird, wants to go after some federal money."
Angel appeared again, pouring coffee into the newcomer's cup.
Hoover pretended to be interested in his coffee, but his gray eyes glistened under oddly reptilian lids. A snake about to strike. "Federal money? What for?" The special agent licked his lips; he could taste the sweet possibility of fraud and corruption. And promotion.
"Arlo Nightbird's cronies, they want to do a study up in Canon del Espiritu," Moon said. "If it works out, maybe they'll be able to store some nuclear waste up there. Big money in it for the tribe, but most of the council members are worried about messing up the canyon."
"And you," Hoover said, "how do you feel about storing nuclear wastes on the reservation?"
"Don't know," Moon said. "I generally like to hear both sides of an argument before I make up my mind."
Parris could sense the big Ute closing up. If Hoover pushed too hard, Moon would tell him nothing of value.
"Interesting," Hoover said, "federal money. That project will bear watching."
"Whatever you guys want for lunch," Moon said as he waved at Angel, "it's on me."
"Thanks," Parris said, "I'll have the Navajo Taco."
Hoover reached for a menu, jammed between a napkin dispenser and a sticky ketchup bottle. "They serve any authentic Ute cuisine in this place?"
"Well," Moon offered congenially, "it's mostly Mexican and American but there are a couple of Ute dishes. I'd recommend the three-meat stew."
Hoover frowned as he scanned the menu. "As long as it's not that old-fashioned Ute stew." He grinned without humor. "I don't normally eat horse meat."
Parris closed his eyes. Maybe, when he opened them, Hoover would be gone. Like a bad dream.
Moon's fork stopped halfway to his mouth; he cocked his head sideways and blinked at Hoover. "Horse meat?"
"I understand that when times used to get tough during the winter, Utes would eat their dogs first, then their horses." Hoover glanced up from the menu; the grin on his face was as genuine as the "turquoise" stone in his string tie. "Guess I won't have to worry about what I eat until the cold weather comes."
The Ute thought about this for a moment. "Well, not necessarily," Moon said amiably. "When beef gets a little pricey, Angel might buy a couple of nags that came in last over at the Downs."
Hoover pretended not to hear. He studied the menu and wondered about some of the unfamiliar words. What the hell did fajitas mean? And sopaipillasl
Parris pointed a spoon over Moon's shoulder. "Someone wants to see you." An old, gaunt Ute was fidgeting at Moon's side. The Ute policeman turned to look at the grumpy man. "It's sure nice to see you again." He glanced behind the rancher, but Benita was not with her father. "You want something to eat, Gorman?"
The rancher was turning his battered felt hat in his hands. He leaned over Moon's shoulder, and spoke slowly into the big man's ear. "I'd think twice about having my eats in this place."
Hoover's ears pricked up.
Moon had heard the story three times, but he knew the old man wanted to tell it again. "And why's that?"
Gorman glanced toward the counter where Angel was wiping at the greasy Formica surface with a paper towel. "You never know what you'll find in Angel's grub. Maybe," he said, "you'll get the salamander!"
Parris hid a grin. Special Agent Hoover leaned forward, straining to hear. "Did I understand you to say…"
"Damn right," Gorman said, jerking his thumb toward the smelly kitchen where Angel concocted the grub. "Salamander," he muttered darkly. He glared back at Moon. "You know my third cousin Sally Bitter Horse, from over at Hondo Fork?"
Moon nodded. Everybody knew Sally. The Navajo woman was always suffering with some new and wonderful ailment.
"Well," Gorman whispered hoarsely, "Sally, she told me she got that salamander right here, in some of Angel's chicken salad three Sundays ago. That night, Sally took the chills. And then," he lowered his voice, "she had the squirts for most of a week." He hitched his thumbs under his overall bib. "That's what she says."
Hoover stared uncertainly at the rancher. "Even in this dump… surely no one would put a…"
Gorman shook his head sadly at the ignorant tin horn. "Nobody puts salamander in the food, sonny. When you're not watchin', they just crawls in there all by theirselves." City folk. They never did understand hardly anything about nothing.
Hoover glanced quickly toward Charlie Moon, then at Scott Parris. Both men were hanging on every word from the old man's mouth. These dumb cops would believe anything. But the special agent looked into the dim chamber that was Angel's kitchen. On the far wall, there was a shelf lined with large jars. Jars filled with dill pickles. And pickled cauliflower. And shriveled pigs' feet. And what else? Hoover pushed the menu aside.
Gorman leaned over and whispered in Moon's ear. "I need to talk with you."
Moon wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and looked up at the rancher. "About Big Ouray? I already told you I'd go and check it out."
"Well, that's just the thing," Gorman said with forced casualness, "it's like I told you this morning-I called Doc Schaid. He'll go have a look. He'll work out what happened and write it up on one of them forms. You don't need to bother yourself about it no more."
"That's fine," Moon said, "but I'll go over to the canyon and nose around anyway. If somebody killed Big Ouray, it's police business."
At the mention of a killing, Hoover's back straightened. "What did you say?"
Gorman had practically wadded his old hat into a ball. "Just leave it alone, dammit. If death wasn't by natural causes, there won't be no insurance money. If there ain't no insurance payment, I'm wiped out." Moon sure was awful slow to catch on. Big men were like that. Slow.
Hoover fairly shouted. "Killed? Damn it all, who was killed?"
Moon ignored the visitor from the Bureau. "Okay, Gorman. I've got to poke around a bit, but I'll try not to queer your insurance settlement."
The rancher nodded his thanks and bolted away while Hoover sputtered. The special agent was trying vainly to get Moon's attention. "What happened to this… Big Ouray?"
"Yeah," Parris said, "you didn't mention anything about-"
"Sure I did, just before Mr. Hoover got here. Gorman Sweetwater, the fellow that just left, he found Big Ouray dead this morning. Over in Canon del Espiritu.'"
Hoover's voice was almost shrill. "How was the victim killed?"
Moon didn't look at the special agent. "Victim?"
Hoover slammed his palm against the table. "The homi-cide, dammit! Was it by gunshot, a knife, blunt instrument, what?"
A tiny light sparkled in Moon's eyes. "Well, we don't know exactly how Big Ouray met his end." He wrinkled his brow in pretended concentration. "Could be something he ate. Maybe some Jimson weed."
A muscle twitched in Hoover's jaw. "You suspect he was poisoned?"
The Ute sipped at his coffee. "Could be," he said, "we won't know until the car… the remains are examined by Doc Schaid."
Parris was trying hard to understand, then he put it together. Big Ouray was the dead bull Moon had mentioned earlier. This had to be stopped. "Hoover, I think you've mis-"
"I'll handle this," the FBI agent snapped. He glared at Moon. "Any marks on the body?"
"Yeah," the Ute replied, "from what Gorman told me this morning, you could say there were marks."
The special agent found a small leather-bound notebook in his coat po
cket. "Well? What kind of marks?" Hoover didn't attempt to hide his impression that he was dealing with an oaf.
"Well, let me see," Moon said. "Oh yeah. His ears."
"Ears? What about his ears?"
"Gone, both of 'em. Like politicians right after election day."
Hoover paled. "You mean… purposely removed?"
"Snipped off." Moon took a long drink of coffee. He leaned forward dramatically and lowered his voice to a hoarse stage whisper that could be heard across the restaurant. The truck drivers had forgotten their beer, the teenagers had lost interest in the jukebox. Taxi was scribbling furiously on the margins of a coffee-stained manuscript page. "That's not the worst part."
Unconsciously, Hoover flattened his back against the plywood booth. "What…"
"Big Ouray's balls. Sliced off slick as a whistle." Moon made two quick knifelike motions with his hand. "Both of 'em. At least that's what Gorman says."
The notebook slipped from Hoover's fingers. "You haven't viewed the body yet?"
"Only heard about it this morning. I'd planned to get out there this afternoon, but Gorman says Doc Schaid will take care of everything. I guess there's no hurry now."
Hoover closed his eyes and bowed his head. "This is simply astounding. A Ute has been murdered and mutilated, and you're sitting here, calmly having lunch…"
"Well…" Moon paused thoughtfully, then replied, "I never exactly said he was a Ute. You can't always tell by looks. Fact is, Big Ouray's got a whiter face than yours." He took a quick drink from his coffee cup. "I'd say he was from Anglo stock."
Hoover was slightly embarrassed at his presumption. "With a name like Ouray, I naturally assumed…"
Moon appeared sympathetic with Hoover's confusion. "These days, you can't tell by a name. Now there's a little Filipino woman who lives just north of town. Calls herself Blue Bird Feathers, but she's no Indian, Ute or otherwise. Reads the stars, predicts the future, sells magic potions and garlic candy. Stuff like that."
Angel stopped by to ask if Hoover was ready to order. The special agent waved the man away. "We can't sit here until the corpse rots. Get a camera, all the analytical equipment you have available. And understand," he pointed at Moon, "I am officially taking charge of this investigation."
"Look," Parris said, "I don't think you understand. Before you go off half-cocked-"
"Perhaps you don't understand," Hoover snapped, "murder on an Indian reservation is a matter of federal jurisdiction."
"Well, we don't know for sure it was murder." Moon wiped at his mouth with a paper napkin and raised his massive form slowly. "But as far as I'm concerned, whatever you say goes."
Hoover started to reply, then his hands trembled. He clenched his hands into fists, then turned quickly and headed for the door.
Moon cupped his hand to his ear. He frowned at Scott Parris. "Is it just me, or did you hear that thumpity-thump sound?"
Parris listened intently. "Hear what?"
"Opportunity," the big Ute said with a merry twinkle in his eye, "opportunity knocking."
6
Charlie Moon watched Hoover's Ford sedan in his rear-view mirror. "Road's going to get kinda rough for that little street car. Not near enough clearance."
Parris reminded himself that he was acting chief of Southern Ute Police. Among other duties, he was responsible for maintaining good relations with the Bureau. "You'd better tell Hoover the truth about that bull."
The Ute assumed a pious expression. "Nothing I told him wasn't the truth."
Hoover followed the tribal police Blazer into the mouth of Canon del Espiritu; he felt the muffler dragging as the little Ford struggled through deep ruts. When Moon stopped for Scott Parris to open the gate, the special agent abandoned his sedan and slid into the front seat beside the Ute. Parris closed the barbed-wire contraption after Moon drove the Blazer through the gate, then climbed into the rear seat of the four-wheeler. The Ute nosed the squad car slowly up the canyon in low gear, examining the landscape to the right of the dirt lane.
Hoover was leaning forward with both hands on the dash board. "How far is it to this Ouray fellow's house?"
"Big Ouray had no use for houses," Moon replied. "Al-ways lived out of doors, night or day, rain or shine."
"Remarkable," Hoover said, "a real eccentric. Was he a loner?" He loved this job.
"Wasn't acquainted with him myself," Moon said, "but those who knew him said he was kind of hostile. Liked bein' with cows more than with people."
Parris dropped his face into his hands. Moon was determined to do this thing.
"The sexual mutilation," Hoover said with a professorial air, "is a classic giveaway. Ten to one it's his wife."
"He didn't have himself a wife," Moon said with an air of sadness. The Ute adjusted the rearview mirror so he could watch Parris's face.
"If the victim wasn't married, look for a jealous girlfriend. Or her husband. Of course," Hoover added thoughtfully, "maybe he wasn't interested in girls. You know anything about his sexual preferences?"
"From what I hear," Moon said, "Big Ouray's… what I guess you'd call… uh… straight."
Parris groaned as the Ute winked in the mirror. In more than one way, the acting chief of police was just along for the ride.
As they rounded a heavy stand of scrub oak, Moon stomped the brake pedal. A green Dodge van was blocking the road.
The Ute cut the ignition and muttered under his breath. "Doc Schaid's truck. Didn't expect him to get here so soon; Gorman must have really leaned on him."
Hoover leaned forward expectantly. "The medical examiner?"
"What passes for one," Moon said.
A heavily built man appeared through the sage, followed by a small woman dressed in a man's shirt, faded jeans, and high leather boots. The veterinarian, who carried a small tripod-mounted camera in one hand, was returning to his truck. Moon noticed that he walked somewhat unsteadily. His companion, an attractive brunette with a rich olive complexion, was lugging his black bag of instruments and med-ications. Schaid was a hulking man whose stooped posture belied his six-foot-four height; the picture of him carrying only the camera while the tiny woman strained at the heavy medical bag was ludicrous.
Moon opened his door. "You fellows sit tight for a minute. Doc Schaid's more likely to talk if it's just me and him."
"I guess that's okay for now," Hoover agreed doubtfully, "but I'll need to interrogate him as soon as-"
"Hey, Harry," Moon yelled, "what's cookin'?"
The veterinarian's response was a sullen grunt.
Moon was irrepressible. "How did you talk Mrs. Night-bird into doin' duty as your packhorse?"
Emily Nightbird smiled sweetly. "I needed something to keep me busy, Charlie. And," she added tenderly, "I love to be around the animals."
Schaid scowled, leaned the tripod against a dwarf oak, and displayed a bandaged right hand. "Got injured. Shorthanded, gotta make do." Moon sniffed the faint odor of whiskey. So the rumors were true; the vet was hitting the bottle. According to the stories that floated around Angel's Diner, Schaid's marriage had gone sour. The local gossips also whispered that the vet's wife had found herself a rich boyfriend. Barbara Schaid hadn't been heard from since her husband reported that she left to visit her ailing sister in Virginia. The veterinarian had evidently realized that his wife, who served as his surgical assistant, wouldn't be returning soon. He had hired Herb Ecker to assist him in the surgery. The Belgian exchange student had stayed with the veterinarian for barely a month, then left to sell insurance for Arlo Nightbird. Now Arlo's wife was working with Schaid. The Ute studied the bandages. Schaid also limped slightly. "What happened to your paw, Harry?" Veterinarians who worked with large animals were injured almost as often as rodeo cowboys.
The veterinarian hesitated before answering. "Damn mare stepped on it." He moved the bandaged hand behind his back. "Who'd you bring with you?"
Moon nodded toward the Blazer. "That's my pardner Scott Parris in the back seat. He's chief of
police up at Granite Creek; he's pinch-hitting for Severo." He pointedly ignored Hoover, knowing this would raise the veterinarian's interest.
Schaid, who was always suspicious of strangers, squinted at the squad car. "Who's that city cowboy?"
Moon dropped his voice and nodded toward the car. "Oh, him? He's down from Denver."
"Denver?" Schaid's face was a question mark.
Moon gingerly nudged a pebble with the scuffed toe of his boot. "He's determined to examine the carcass." The hint of a smile flitted across the Ute's face. "I just didn't know how to say 'no.'"
Neurons began to misfire under the veterinarian's thick skull. Big Ouray had been a valuable animal. The insurance company might send an expert consultant to perform an examination. Schaid cleared his throat and spat. "City boy. Probably couldn't find his ass with both hands." The last thing Schaid wanted was a qualified veterinary pathologist nosing around this carcass. This was his turf. His carcass. "He here representing the insurance company?"
"No." The Ute looked away, toward the towering figures of the Three Sisters sitting in eternal comfort atop the mesa. "He's representing the government."
"Government?" Schaid had a habit of repeating key words.
Hoover had waited long enough; he ejected himself from the car and flipped his I.D. wallet open to display his credentials. "Hoover. Special agent, FBI." He snapped the wallet shut. "I'll inspect the body. Right now."
Schaid stared blankly at the special agent. "Body?"
Hoover pocketed his credentials. "I'll want a signed copy of the autopsy."
The veterinarian's voice dropped to a whisper. "Autopsy?"
"And," Hoover nodded at the woman, "I'll want to interrogate your assistant."
"Interrogate?" Emily decided that enough was enough. "What is this all about, Mr___"
Hoover tipped his hat at her. "The Bureau investigates all major crimes on Indian reservations, ma'am." He had seen all the John Wayne films and knew that western gentlemen addressed ladies as "ma'am."
"I'll need to find out everything you know about the Big Ouray murder."
"Murder… Big Ouray?" Emily's brows made inverted Vs over her lovely brown eyes. She glanced at Moon. The Ute avoided her eyes.
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