“This is not acceptable,” McTeague muttered between clenched teeth.
“This is none of our business,” the Ute pointed out. “Or in our jurisdiction.”
“Speak for yourself,” the fed said. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation has jurisdiction everywhere in the United States of America. And its territories.”
Moon looked doubtful. “I’m not sure that applies to Utah.”
The shaken man’s dentures popped out of his mouth, skidded across the filthy floor.
“Oh, really!” McTeague was getting to her feet.
“Leave it alone,” Moon advised.
Cowboy Roy’s right boot landed near the left one.
“That does it.” McTeague fumbled in her purse, found her ID.
The squash-blossom necklace, which had slipped from under Roy’s shirt to under Roy’s Levis, slipped down his left pant leg, spilled out like a long-lost silver-turquoise treasure.
Bearcat grunted with pleasure, discarded his victim, bent to reach for the necklace.
Like an NFL linebacker attempting to recover a fumble, Bettie Jean had already made a dive.
The muscle-bound deputy was not a man who flexed well at the waist. Seeing that the frantic woman would get her hands on the evidence before he could scoop it up, Bearcat put his heavy foot on the item in question.
“Nooooo!” Bettie Jean wailed. “You’re squashing my squash blossom!” She tried without success to tug it from under his boot heel.
For the first time in days, Bearcat smiled. He was of the opinion that he had finally gotten control of the situation.
Not so.
Unable to retrieve the ornament one brutish man had nabbed and another had stepped on, the lady had but one option. She must get the second brute to remove his foot. Toward this end, she grabbed the deputy by the leg, opened her mouth wide, chomped down on his fleshy calf.
This was exceedingly painful. A low, foghorn moan escaped from Bearcat’s innards.
“Oh, no,” McTeague muttered. “Now he’ll hit her. I’ve got to do something.”
“He won’t lay a hand on her.” Moon added in a tone meant to soothe: “Just stay put.”
She was not the least bit soothed, certainly didn’t like to be told to “stay put” and emphasized this by stamping her foot.
Moon was the soul of serene self-control. “He won’t lay a glove on her, McTeague.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Code of the West. No self-respecting frontier lawman will hit a woman. Not even if she chews his leg off at the knee.” Seeing her doubtful expression, he explained: “Not while there are witnesses present.”
McTeague watched the deputy grimace. Charlie’s right. He won’t lift a hand against that vicious female! Ignoring Moon’s pleas to leave the brawl to the local constabulary, McTeague approached the deputy whose attacker was entwined tightly around his leg. With all the authority she could muster, the fed presented her official ID. “FBI.” She gave the woman a stern look. “Let the officer go.”
It would be hard to say who was the more surprised—Deputy Bearcat, AKA Leland Redstone—or Bettie Jean.
The deputy stared at the federal officer.
The woman took the opportunity to get a better bite on his leg.
Bearcat repeated the forlorn foghorn moan. Louder this time.
McTeague got a grip on the woman’s ear, rotated it a good half-turn.
This twist in the plot came as a painful surprise. When Bettie Jean opened her mouth to screech and raised a hand to pull at McTeague’s hand, the deputy took this opportunity to jerk his leg free.
The FBI agent released the ear, gave the woman on the floor the patented glare that had, on so many previous occasions, made it entirely clear who was in charge here. “Now get up.”
Ever so deliberately, Bettie Jean got to her feet. Having clenched her right fist, the muscular woman prepared to take a roundhouse swing at the interfering federal officer.
This was an error.
Before Bettie Jean was half-cocked, McTeague dropped her with a smart left hook.
Having materialized at McTeague’s side, Moon gave his favorite lady cop a frankly admiring look.
Having retrieved the silver-turquoise necklace with one hand, Deputy Bearcat was rubbing his injured leg with the other. He had regained his calm demeanor. “You the FBI agent that called the sheriff’s office early this mornin’?”
Keeping a keen eye on Bettie Jean, whose gaze was fixed on the squash blossom, McTeague nodded. I hope she gets up and tries something. So I can knock her off her pegs again. And I’ll break her jaw this time! Adrenaline is potent medicine.
Bearcat eyed the tall Indian. “This that Ute cop you said was comin’ with you?”
Charlie Moon admitted that he was, and introduced himself.
The deputy sheriff offered a huge, hairy paw. “Welcome to Tonapah Flats.”
Moon shook the hand that had shaken the boots off Cowboy Roy. “Speaking for myself, and Agent McTeague, we are glad to be here.” He was, for the first time since breakfast, feeling fine.
Having given up the necklace as lost, Bettie Jean was contemplating two things: revenge and Lila Mae McTeague’s leg. Like a starved hound stares at a meaty ham bone.
Go right ahead, McTeague thought. Try to put the bite on me and I’ll kick your teeth all over the floor. Though more or less aware of the Code of the West, the Easterner could not in any sense be considered an adherent to the Rules.
Glancing up at the fed’s stern face, Bettie Jean read her thoughts. And had second thoughts.
Bearcat cuffed the blond woman to a brass bar rail. There was no need to apply restraints to Cowboy Roy, who remained flat on his back, toothless, staring blankly at the saloon ceiling.
When the bartender arrived with Moon’s coffee, the three officers of the law took this opportunity to seat themselves at a moderately clean table. The Ute had a taste. Then another. That coffee has character. But not the kind you’d want to meet in a dark alley.
Bearcat ordered a cup for himself.
McTeague did the same.
The pair of hot beverages arrived in nothing flat.
McTeague had a taste, almost gagged, pushed the mug aside.
After expending a minute or so to exchange pleasantries, Lila Mae McTeague asked whether the local authorities had picked up Sarah Frank.
Bearcat added a powdered nondairy creamlike substance to his coffee. “Nope. And Sheriff Popper and Deputy Packard and some volunteers from the community has been lookin’ for her all night and most of the mornin’.” He tasted the brew. That must be the worst coffee north of the Mississippi. Geography was not his best subject. “But she’ll show up sooner or later.” He looked over the cup at the attractive federal agent. “She’s just a little girl—how long can she stay out there by herself?” He poured in another dash of whitish powder, added two spoons of sugar. Took another taste, made a horrible face. “When Miss Frank’s belly starts to growlin’, she’ll come a-knockin’ on her cousin’s door.”
Not being particularly impressed with the deputy’s professional qualities, or the stimulant beverages offered in the Gimpy Dog, McTeague tactfully suggested that perhaps she and Charlie Moon should pay a call on the sheriff.
Moon took the hint, tossed off the final swallow of soul-jolting coffee, said a hearty good-bye to the spunky deputy.
Chapter Fifteen
Bad News
The Sheriff’s office occupied the west end of the Tonapah Flats Municipal Center, a rugged construction of Paul Bunyan–size pine logs capped with a corrugated steel roof.
Charlie Moon and Special Agent McTeague entered a smallish outer office. A large, heavyset woman—obviously the dispatcher—was seated in a glassed-in enclosure. She was close enough to bite an old-fashioned microphone that had been salvaged when the local AM-FM radio station had died from lack of interest. The sign on her desk notified all who cared that the moon-faced person with the painted-on eyelashes was
Bertha Katcher. The woman shifted her wary gaze from the tall, slender Indian to the Cosmo cover lady. Miss Katcher pressed a button, her voice rattled a speaker mounted in a cobwebbed corner above the door. “You that FBI lady that wants to see Shurf Pokker?”
McTeague hesitated, then nodded.
Another button was pressed, the electric door latch clicked like a 30.06 rifle bolt slamming a big one into the chamber. “Go right on in.”
Moon and McTeague entered a considerably larger space. The vault-like door snapped shut behind them.
The antithesis of massive, muscle-bound Deputy Bearcat rose from behind a gunmetal-gray desk. The slightly built, good-looking young man resembled a teenager who hadn’t yet hit his growth spurt. He cocked his head, flashed a boyish smile at the attractive woman who was a full head taller. “You must be Special Agent McTeague.”
She reflected the smile back at him. “If I must, there’s no point in denying it.” McTeague reached into her purse, flashed her picture ID. “And you must be Deputy Packard.”
“That’s me all right, as you can tell by reading the label on the package.” He jerked a thumb at the TATE PACKARD patch stitched above his shirt pocket, stuck out a hand.
She shook it. “My somewhat taciturn colleague is Mr. Charles Moon—special investigator attached to the chairman’s office, Southern Ute Tribe.”
The deputy nodded, offered his hand to the seven-foot man. “Mr. Moon’s reputation precedes him.” He’s that tough Indian cop that nobody messes with.
Moon gave the pleasant man’s hand a firm shake.
An older, taller, lean-as-longhorn-jerky lawman emerged from a private office. His weather-beaten face was decorated with a waxed handlebar mustache. A fresh gauze pad was taped on his forehead.
Tate Packard flashed the little-boy smile. “Hey, boss—we’ve got some distinguished visitors.”
The FBI agent and the tribal investigator introduced themselves to Sheriff Ned Popper, who invited them into his inner sanctum. Once they were seated, he pointed to the coffee percolator. “You guys—uh, excuse me, ma’am—you folks in need of some caffeine?”
Never one to turn down a free cup, Moon allowed as how he could do with a shot.
McTeague demurred with a “No, but thank you.” Her taste buds had not yet recovered from the Gimpy Dog brew.
Ned Popper poured black liquid into a Styrofoam cup, watched the Ute add six spoons of sugar. “I’d love to have a dose myself, but if I start drinking coffee after I’ve had my breakfast cup, I’ll end up wide awake all night.” The angular man opened a miniature refrigerator, removed a quart of buttermilk, poured three fingers into a heavy crockery mug that had POPPER THE COPPER printed on it. He hated the thing, but it was a birthday present from his eight-year-old granddaughter, who had made the mug at school and so that was that. He took a sip, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, fixed his appreciative gaze on the lovely woman. “Deputy Bearcat told me about your telephone call, Agent McTeague.” He cleared his throat. “I s’pose the FBI wants to find out what’s happening with the missing Indian girl.”
The canny fed saw the jurisdictional bullet aimed at her head, neatly sidestepped the missile. “As you know, Sheriff—the Bureau’s interest in crimes involving Native Americans is generally restricted to those which occur on reservations, or involve the crossing of state boundaries.” Knowing the “generally” would pique the Utah lawman’s curiosity, McTeague glanced at her favorite man in the entire world. “But as it happens, Tribal Investigator Moon is a friend of Sarah Frank’s family. When I became aware of his intention to visit your office and inquire about the missing girl, I accepted an invitation to accompany him.”
As he turned his attention to the Ute, the old lawman’s eyes glinted with a new spark of interest. “I didn’t know the kid had much family left. Aside from her cousin Marilee, I mean.”
Moon responded in a flat monotone a cemetery passerby might hear if dead men conversed amongst the tombstones. “I was a friend of Provo Frank.”
At this reference to Sarah’s father, the sheriff put a pair of rimless reading spectacles on his nose, opened a folder. He silently mouthed a few words as he read, then looked over the glasses at Moon. “Both of the girl’s parents died about eleven years ago, within weeks of one another. And it says here you were involved in the investigation.” The grizzled old lawman glanced at the homicide report, barely suppressed a shudder. “I can’t hardly believe what was done to that poor woman.”
Not wanting to discuss any of that grisly business, Moon abruptly changed the subject. “We met Deputy Bearcat down at a local saloon.”
The sheriff clasped his hands into a massive, knobby fist and sighed. “I hear there was a dandy rhubarb down at the Gimpy Dog—wish I’d been there to see it.”
The federal agent delivered a terse report of the fracas, winding up with: “It appeared that your deputy could have used some backup.”
“I don’t doubt it, but we’re a little short-handed.” Popper slyly eyed the attractive female, wished he was three decades younger. “My dispatcher likes to send that big Choctaw on the ugly calls, like shootouts and brawls. No matter how nasty the job is—you can always depend on Bearcat to get it done.”
McTeague decided to leave the bar fight behind. “Deputy Bearcat informed us that you do not yet have Sarah Frank in custody.”
“That’s right enough.” Popper stuffed the spectacles back into his shirt pocket, shook his head. “Late yesterday, me and Deputy Packard scoured the brush country on both sides of the ridge and didn’t find nothing but some footprints, most of which could’ve been a week old. This morning, the state police and some local volunteers helped us search the Gap. We didn’t find no sign of her. Which in and of itself don’t prove nothing, because the Gap is mostly all rocks, so there wasn’t many places for her to leave a footprint.” For a moment, the old man wilted; weariness seemed to almost overwhelm him. “She could still be up there, layin’ low as they say. There’s a thousand little nooks and crannies where truckloads of full-grown persons could hide, much less one skinny little kid like Sarah.”
Moon had guessed what the Gap was.
McTeague had not. She asked.
“Oh, excuse me, ma’am.” The sheriff offered an apologetic grin. “Ain’t it always the way with us locals—we talk like folks’ll understand what we don’t take time to ’splain to ’em.” He pointed to a window and began to ’splain. “Across the highway yonder, that long, rocky mountain you see is what we call the Big Lizard Ridge.” Popper continued with a glassy-eyed stare at the long-dead reptile. “And that narrow, V-shaped notch, where it looks like somebody has chopped down on the lizard—that’s what we call Hatchet Gap. There’s an old Paiute tale about how, about eleven zillion or so years ago, before there was any people on the earth, Thunder Woman got right ticked off at Big Lizard because of somethin’ or other—I don’t remember what—and she gave him a big whack on the back with her flint ax.” Popper paused long enough to look mildly doubtful. “At least that’s what they say.”
Dead silence from the visitors.
He twisted the left tip of his impressive mustache. “I guess you want to hear about what happened.”
Moon wasn’t entirely sure he did, but McTeague nodded.
“Okay, here’s some family history.” The sheriff looked far past Big Lizard Ridge, into the faded pages of his memories. “Ben Silver has lived here most of his life. About sixty-some years ago, not too long after Ben’s father died in Denver, his mother moved here and married Tom Oates.” I can’t imagine why Daphne did such a silly thing—woman must’ve had corn-mush for brains. “Ben’s half brother Raymond was born a coupla years after that. Few years later, their momma died, but Raymond Oates Senior didn’t die until nineteen-eighty-five. The brothers went their own ways. Ben bought himself a place on the other side of Big Lizard Ridge, and minded his business—which was managing the Chevrolet dealership out south of town. Raymond, he went off to the university and go
t himself a law degree, and as they say, he made good—built himself a big three-story brick house on ninety-six irrigated acres. He also owns a dozen local businesses, which amounts to about half the commerce in town.” Popper swiveled his chair so he could get a better look at the woman. “Neither one of the half brothers ever got married. And Ben and Raymond never got along. As they got older, Raymond kept on getting richer and Ben kept on getting grumpier. About six years ago, Ben sold the Chevrolet dealership and retired.” Popper paused for a sip of not-so-cold buttermilk. Made a face. More I drink of that stuff, the worse it tastes. “Last three or four years, Ben’s health has begun to go downhill. He’s had a dozen or more women come to fix him meals and do some cleaning-up around his house, but none of ’em could stand him for very long.” The sheriff’s eyes twinkled at a passing memory. “Simple fact is, Ben was a mean old bastard.” The kind of mean old bastard that a man just can’t help liking. He chuckled. “Last winter he said he’d die cold and naked and let the rats gnaw all the flesh off his bones before he’d have any more females messing around in his house. But Marilee Attatochee—that’s Sarah Frank’s Papago relative—talked him into giving her cousin a try, and Ben did. It surprised everybody, but Ben and Sarah seemed to get along okay. Which don’t necessarily mean Ben actually liked the girl—only that he could tolerate her. I imagine it was because the kid was always so quiet. It must’ve been female chatter that unnerved the old grouch.” He glanced at Moon. “You want a refill on that coffee?”
The Ute shook his head.
“That’s too bad. I like to smell it when I pour it out of the pot.”
“Then I’ll have a cup.”
“That’s very decent of you.” The sheriff dispensed the brew, sniffed gratefully at the aroma. He began to rock in the chair, which accompanied his monologue with a creaky squeaking. “Last several months, Ben’s been going to see his doctor every Tuesday at ten A.M. Half the folks in town probably knew that, and Sarah did for sure because her cousin Marilee was the old man’s taxi driver.” He looked quizzically at a passing fly, as if he might recognize the particular insect. “Ben had sold his car and wasn’t in any shape to drive one anyway.” He made a grab, barely missed the pesky creature. “Yesterday—which was a Tuesday—Marilee had some other stuff to do before she picked up Ben, and as soon as she left in her van—which was a few minutes after nine that morning, Sarah left by the back door. Marilee’s live-in boyfriend saw the girl go.”
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