HORACE FLYE FOCUSED pale blue eyes on the rearview mirror. What he saw—over the bed of his aged pickup truck—was the blunt face of the camping trailer. He braked gradually and pulled off the asphalt, easing to a slow stop under a flickering neon sign. Butter, back there in the trailer, was most likely sound asleep. And if he stopped too hard—like he’d done back in Pagosa—she’d likely fall out of the bed again. And yell her head off at him. Butter had a temper, just like her mamma. The bewhiskered man balanced a pair of plastic-rimmed reading glasses on his nose, and squinted at the Colorado road map. Hmmm. Looks like I’m on some kind of Indian reservation. Close to some little town called Ignacio. Maybe even in it already. The Arkansas man scratched at his whiskered chin, which itched. A good omen. Maybe it’s about time for my luck to change.
A sudden gust of wind bent a mountain ash sapling and kicked an empty Coors six-pack carton across the parking lot.
He buttoned up his grease-stained denim jacket, jammed a battered felt hat onto his balding head, then got out and slammed the pickup door. Horace saw the white cloud of his breath: his teeth began to chatter. The weary traveler walked stiff-legged back to the trailer and slammed his palm against the aluminum wall. He grinned uneasily when her pudgy face appeared in the window. “Sweetie, I gotta go in here for a few minutes,” he yelled at the pale countenance. “You just watch the TV for a little while.”
The face didn’t respond. Just stared back sullenly.
Horace Flye nodded—as if Butter was a compliant daughter who would do as her father said. This self-delusion accomplished. Horace turned on his heel.
The small, wiry man walked a few paces to the front of his pickup. He paused in the graveled parking lot, his hands jammed into the hip pockets of his khaki britches. He leaned back onto the heels of his scuffed roper boots and stared up at the scarlet neon sign. It made a sizzling, popping sound—and emitted a pungent electric smell.
Tillie’s
Navajo Bar & Grille
There were a half dozen pickups parked out front, and some beat-up old sedans. A big Peterbilt was hitched to a long flatbed loaded with sweet-smelling bales of hay. Horace rubbed at his woolly black beard and pondered the situation. Well, a travelin’ man couldn’t tell everything just by lookin’. But this was probably as good a place as any. He felt the stare on his back. He glanced back at the camper and saw Butter’s round face in the window, her unblinking blue eyes accusing him. He waved halfheartedly and hurried off toward the entrance of the drinking establishment. There was a hand-printed sign stapled to the front door.
NO GUNS ALLOWED ON THE PREMISES
THIS IS A CASH BUSINESS
NO CHECKS NO PLASTIC
NO BULLSHIT
Horace grinned behind his beard. Yep. This was the place sure enough. He pushed on the door. An antique jukebox churned out a mournful cowboy’s wail about a wicked woman with a cheatin’ heart. The place smelled of beer and cigarette smoke and failed lives. The newcomer paused to give his eyes time to adjust to the cavelike darkness. There was a scattering of tables on a scarred hardwood floor, booths along the wall on each side of the door, a long bar across the far wall. A big heavyset woman was sitting by an old-fashioned mechanical cash register. She wore a tentlike black dress, a dozen silver rings on her stubby fingers, a tight necklace of turquoise beads under her chins, light blue eye shadow to match the beads. As she flipped through the pages of a magazine, piggy little eyes looked up at him. And were not impressed with what they saw.
Whew. This one could stare down a moose with one eyeball. That’d have to be Tillie.
There was a bald-headed man tending the bar; he didn’t look like someone who’d give a fellow heartburn. A couple of bearded guys sat at one of the wooden tables, nursing canned Coors and mumbling about reports of black ice at Muleshoe and fifty-mile-an-hour winds up on LaVeta pass. Those would be the hay-haulers. The booths were unoccupied except for a skinny man in a spotless white cowboy hat who listened stoically to whining complaints from a bleary-eyed blonde with a pretty Mexican shawl on her shoulders and a shot glass in her hand. There were several men scattered along the bar, perched on stools that were upholstered in red imitation leather. Horace studied the assortment of bar-side customers with a practiced eye. For the most part, they were a poorly-looking lot. Several hopeless-looking bums with three-day beards and empty eyes. Two pimply-faced youths leering at a copy of Penthouse, whispering and snickering. An extremely fat man in greasy coveralls whose butt enveloped the stool. An empty stool separated Chubby from a dark-skinned man with two braids draped down his back and one leg hanging off the stool. The one-legged fellow had a heavy crutch propped against the bar beside him. One-Leg nodded at the bartender, who promptly refilled his mug. He pulled a small roll of greenbacks from his hip pocket and un-peeled a twenty.
Bingo.
Horace approached the bar, and seated himself on the stool between Chubby and One-Leg. He smiled congenially at the bald bartender, who gave the greasy countertop a brisk swipe. “Coors.”
He was served efficiently and with no more comment than a barely perceptible nod. He pulled a tobacco sack and papers from his shirt pocket and proceeded to construct a cigarette. Horace licked the paper cylinder to seal the thing, then turned his face toward the man on his right. “So. You a vet’ran?”
The one-legged man turned a dark face toward the stranger and scowled. “Why’d you think that?”
The Arkansas man touched a lighter to the cigarette, and inhaled deeply. “Well… I figured maybe you lost your leg in a war.”
“Hmmmf,” the dark man said, and returned his attention to the almost empty beer mug.
Horace coughed up several puffs of smoke, and waved at the bartender. “Another one for my buddy here.”
The Ute, somewhat disarmed by this unexpected favor, watched as the bald man refilled the mug. Then he noticed that the matukach visitor was missing the middle finger from his left hand. Though this was not so serious an amputation as his own, the one-legged man felt some small flicker of kinship with the stranger. “So. You lose your finger in the war?”
“Nope,” Flye said sadly. “Bear bit it off. And et it right in front of me.”
The Indian nodded solemnly. “They’ll do that sometimes.”
Flye had not been entirely truthful. Three years ago, he had been trading insults with a drunken miner in Bozeman. The man from Arkansas had—unwisely as it turned out—“given the finger” to his adversary. It was such an offer as could not be refused. The miner, who was armed with a razor-sharp Buck knife and a somewhat whimsical nature, had—despite Flye’s loud protests—accepted the digit.
The visitor stuck his grubby hand out. The right one, which had all its fingers. “Name’s Horace Flye.”
The Ute accepted the hand with some reluctance. “Curtis Tavishuts.”
“Pleased to meet you, Curtis.” And he was. Horace sipped at the beer. “It’s a hard thing for a man to lose his leg.” He eyed his left hand. “Or even a finger.” Horace assumed a faraway, mysterious expression. “But there’s lots worser things that can happen to a man.” He nodded to agree with himself. “Yessir. Lots worser things.”
He waited.
For a long moment, the taciturn drinker did not respond. Finally, as if to get it over with, the Ute regarded the bearded stranger with bleary-eyed boredom. “So what’s worse than losing a leg?”
“Well,” said Horace in a mildly defensive tone, “there was somethin’ awful peculiar that happened to me some years back. But it ain’t a easy thing to talk about.” He ground out the half-spent cigarette in a dirty glass ashtray.
The Indian shrugged, and took a long drink of beer.
Other conversations in the saloon—if such aimless mutterings could be called conversations—were stilled. Ears were cocked. Problems—especially the other fellow’s—were of considerable interest to this motley congregation. Particularly if they were really nasty problems. Like he had an incurable venereal disease or the ERS was after his butt.
Horace exhaled a great sigh of cigarette smoke. “Well, I guess if you really want to know… it happened back in Arkansas, when I took a bad fall off’n a ginny mule. And cracked my noggin on a rock. I ain’t been the same never since.”
The Indian grinned in his beer, but resisted the temptation. Too easy.
Like a pious monk at prayer, Horace clasped his hands and bowed his head. “Some might say it was a gift, I s’pose. But it’s not one I asked for. See, after the fall, I had awful headaches for a long time. But worstest of all, it turned out I could see things.”
Curtis Tavishuts turned to frown at the matukach. “See things? What kinds of things?”
Horace smiled the beatific smile of one who has accepted his heavy burden. “Oh… this and that. Hants and golliwogs and boogers and such.”
The Indian asked for a clarification.
The Arkansas man shrugged. “Ghosts and goblins. Shades of dead folks.”
The taste of the free beer went sour in Tavishuts’ mouth.
Horace continued his spiel. “Sometimes, I see what’s goin’ to happen tomorrow. But most of the time, I see hidden things.”
The Ute barfly was not at all pleased by this revelation. Talk of ghosts and goblins was unhealthy. But what did this bushy-face fellow mean by hidden things? “Whaddayou mean, you can see hidden things?”
“Well,” Horace said with a mild leer at Tillie, “sometimes I can see right through people’s clothes.”
Tillie blushed. And attempted to hide her ample bosom behind the magazine.
Horace’s lewd smirk implied that mere paper was no barrier.
The Ute snorted. “You mean to say you got X-ray vision? Like Superman?”
The bearded stranger seemed to go on the defensive. “Well, it don’t work all the time. But sometimes I can see through things.”
Tavishuts smiled knowingly at the other customers along the bar, who were hanging on every word. “How about right now?”
An expression of unease passed over Horace’s face. “Well, it kinda comes and goes. It ain’t workin’ so well right now, but yesterday I coulda counted all the teeth in your head and the loose change in your pocket.”
The Ute turned his attention to his drink. “Bullshit,” he said scornfully, “it’s all bullshit.”
Horace looked hurt. “No it ain’t.”
“Sure it is. All bullshit. If it wasn’t bullshit, you could—”
“I bet I can see what’s in your coat pocket.”
“Bet?” Tavishuts grinned, exposing a wide gap where four teeth had been expertly removed by his wife—who was no dentist. She had used an ax handle for the operation. “You want to put some cash on the line or is this just more o’ your bullshit?”
Horace opened a worn leather wallet. He laid a dollar bill on the sour-smelling pine bar. “This says I can see what’s in your jacket pocket.”
The Ute cast a doubtful look at the crazy man who had met his challenge. And felt all eyes on himself.
“Put up or shut up,” Horace snapped.
“A dollar bet? That’s peanuts.” Curtis Tavishuts reached into his hip pocket, produced the small roll of greenbacks. And peeled off a twenty. He slapped this beside the white man’s dollar bill.
For the first time on this cold day, Horace Flye felt warm inside. And pleased with himself. He withdrew the dollar bill, replaced it with a twenty, and placed a grimy palm over his eyes. There was an excited murmuring among the customers. “I’d ’predate it if I could have some quiet.” While all watched, he concentrated on the issue at hand. Like how fast to leave the bar once he had this sucker’s money in his pocket.
Tillie, her modesty forgotten, heaved her great bulk up from the chair by the cash register. She left her Teen People magazine behind and waddled toward this odd pair of customers.
His stomach—well aware that it was time for lunch—growled at him. Charlie Moon turned the aging SUPD Blazer south onto Goddard Avenue. It was about twenty seconds to Angel’s Cafe. The Ute police officer was anticipating a king-sized blue-com enchilada. Half a dozen of Angel’s featherlight sopapillas, broke open with a spoon-handle and sweetened with red clover honey. A sixteen-ounce root beer in a frosted mug. But he couldn’t make his mind up about dessert. Pie, maybe. Raspberry-rhubarb, heated in Angel’s microwave. With two or three scoops of vanilla ice cream on the side.
Life was good.
As a rude preamble to bad news, the police radio belched static. Then came the voice from only a mile away. “Officer Moon.”
Nancy Beyal was a nice enough young lady, but at this moment the dispatcher’s velvet voice had all the charm of a broken fingernail dragged across the blackboard.
“Charlie Moon. Respond, please.”
It’d be the usual nonsense. Little Kathi Begay’s cat had climbed up a tree and didn’t know how to get down. Or Arlin Tall Rain had borrowed another one of his neighbor’s pigs. He ignored the summons. Let Nancy bug somebody else.
Another burp of static, followed by: “Charlie Moon, I know very well you can hear me, so pick up.”
“Shoot.” He yanked the microphone off the chrome hook and held it by his chin. “Nancy, I’m goin’ off duty. It’s time for lunch. Send Elena. Or Daniel Bignight.”
“Caller asked for you personal, Charlie.”
He frowned at the sandblasted windshield. “Who called?”
“A Mr. Clapper.”
Didn’t ring a bell. “Who’s he?”
“A bartender… at Tillie’s Navajo Bar and Grille.”
Must be Gus. “What’s the problem?”
“Caller reported a disturbance.”
He pressed the microphone button. “Nancy, Tillie’s place is not—I repeat not—in Southern Ute tribal jurisdiction. Contact the Ignacio town police. They can handle it.”
“Caller asked for you yourself, Charlie. Says there’s an Indian involved in some kind of fight.”
Moon groaned. If a local troublemaker turned out to be a Native American—anything from an Ontario Abitibiwinni to a New Mexico Zuñi—it was SUPD business. “What kind of Indian?”
“Caller didn’t say.”
He pressed the microphone button. “Weapons involved?” A sensible policeman wanted to know if he was supposed to break up a fight where a couple of drunks had knives or straight razors. Or pistols …
“Caller didn’t mention any weapons. I’d like to chat with you, Charlie, but I got some other traffic comin’ in. Goodbye.”
“Shoot.” He hung the microphone on the hook, jammed his big boot onto the brake pedal, made a squealing U-turn on Goddard, and flipped the emergency-lights switch. His stomach growled in protest.
He growled back.
Moon skidded to a stop on the gravel, switched off the ignition, and hit the ground before the V-8 engine had coughed to a stop. The Southern Ute policeman ducked his head under the doorway, and burst into Tillie’s Navajo Bar and Grille.
And stood there, and stared.
The tables had been pulled away to make room on the dusty floor for the combatants. A circle of cheerful drinkers stood around the spectacle, shaking fists, waving dusty cowboy hats, stomping heavy boots, laughing raucously, urging the gladiators to even greater efforts. Only a few bothered to glare at the unwelcome lawman.
Moon shoved his way through the ring of spectators.
On the floor were two men, locked in a bitter embrace. One was Curtis Tavishuts. The other was a white man Moon didn’t recognize.
They rolled, cursed, groaned, kicked like mustangs, swore like merchant seamen. Moon sized the thing up. Tavishuts had the weight advantage, maybe forty pounds over the skinny matukach with the fuzzy beard. But the absence of a left leg was a significant disadvantage to the Ute, so that the lighter man was on top almost as often as the cripple. Aside from a few scratches, neither seemed to be injured. And there was no sign of a knife.
Tillie materialized at Moon’s side. “Hiya, Charlie. Whatcha doin’ here?”
He didn’t take his eyes off the scuffle. “Got a call from Dispatch. Somebody phoned in a report of a disturbance.”
“That must’ve been Gus.” Tillie glowered at the bald bartender, who was not to be counted among the spectators. He blushed and turned his attention to a glass that needed washing. “Gus Clapper,” she continued with a dreary sigh, “is an old woman when it comes to fights. Any little dispute, he calls in the cops.”
Moon pointed at the struggling mass with the tip of his boot. “I’ll need to know who …”
“Oh, that’s Curtis Tavishuts,” Tillie said. “He’s a regular.”
“I recognize him” Moon said evenly. “We don’t have all that many tribal members missing a leg.”
“Oh, you mean the other one.” She shrugged. “How’d I know? He looked old enough to buy a drink, so I didn’t ask to look at his I.D.” She giggled and nudged the policeman with a knobby elbow.
“You never seen him before?”
She shook her head. “Nosiree. He just blew in with the tumbelin’ tumblin’ weed. And made a bet with the Indian.”
“So I guess Tavishuts lost the wager.” The one-legged Ute had always been a sore loser.
Tillie frowned thoughtfully at the men writhing on the floor. “As you can see, it ain’t quite settled yet. The little skinny guy bet Tavishuts he could see what was in his coat pocket.”
Moon sighed. There was one born every minute. “And I expect he did.”
“Uh-huh.” She grinned, showing heavy pink gums lined with tiny, delicate teeth. “A 1996 nickel, made at the Denver mint. Couple of toothpicks. And a piece of peppermint candy.”
“And Tavishuts figured out the fellow had dropped the stuff in his pocket before he struck up a conversation?” It was surprising he had that much brains.
She nodded. “Yeah. But only because Tavishuts he don’t eat no peppermint nor no other kinda candy—he’s got the sugar diabetes. And because there was a fishin’ license in his coat pocket the fella never mentioned. So your Indian, he grabbed the little white guy and tried to pull his head off.”
Moon nodded. There were one or two fights here every week. “Well,” he said wearily, “I’d best put a stop to this.”
She hugged him around the waist. “Charlie, honey, my customers is enjoyin’ this little scuffle. And those fellas ain’t hurtin’ each other all that much. So if you could just wait a few minutes, till they’re all tuckered out …”
Moon pretended to be astonished. “Your clientele are making wagers on the fight?”
She nodded. “First man who’s on his feet and stays that way is the winner. And if you break it up, it’ll ruin the afternoon for a lot of nice folks. You wanna make a bet? Hank Simms,” she nodded toward a grizzled truck driver, “is giving three to two on your one-legged Indian.”
“Tillie, I’m a sworn officer of the law.”
“The odds is the same for everybody,” she said with a righteous sniff. “You bein’ a cop don’t cut no ice—three to two is the best deal you can get.”
“What I meant,” he explained patiently, “is that it is considered unseemly for a tribal police officer to indulge in illegal gambling while on duty. Especially when the bet is on who’ll come off worse in a bar brawl.” He’d have loved to put ten dollars on the skinny white man.
She snorted. “Whatever you say, Charlie. But if you don’t like the odds, then at least leave ’em be till they’re all give out.”
“It’s my job to preserve the peace. I can’t just stand by while they …”
She gave him a motherly look. “You look all out o’ sorts. Like you ain’t had your lunch. Could I fix you a double cheeseburger?” She batted her huge, false eyelashes at him. “With fries?”
His stomach heard this offer. And was interested. “I don’t know …”
She grabbed him by the wrist, and used her two hundred and thirty pounds to advantage. Moon felt himself being led away from the spectacle, toward said grille of Tillie’s Navajo Bar and Grille. “How about two quarter-pound patties of prime ground sirloin. Not cooked too done. And double cheese. Fresh-brewed coffee. It’ll be on the house.”
He glanced doubtfully over his shoulder at the combatants. They did seem to be tiring… “Well… if it’s not too much trouble.”
Tillie headed for the grille, and began to work her culinary wonders on huge patties of ground beef. She peppered and salted and worked in chopped onion. She slapped the pink disks on the griddle, where they popped and sizzled.
Moon’s attention was divided. On one hand, there was the wonderful aroma of burning animal fat. On another, the grunts and curses of the ineffectual wrestlers.
Tillie put on a fresh pot of Big Jim’s Java.
Unexpectedly, a shrill shriek pierced the smoke-filled atmosphere of Tillie’s Navajo Bar and Grille. “Aiiiieeeeeee!”
It was the white man who protested so loudly.
Curtis Tavishuts had managed to get the smaller man’s right ear between his remaining teeth. And was chewing on it with evident relish. Almost immediately, there was a roar of pain from the Indian. The skinny white man had gouged a dirty thumb into the crippled Ute’s eye, and popped the orb halfway out of its socket.
Within an instant, Moon was upon them, peeling the weary scufflers apart. It was no easy task. Tavishuts did not wish to loose his yellowed teeth from the chewed ear—he relented only when the Ute policeman twisted his nose. Once the combatants were disentangled, the big policemen lifted them like rag dolls. Because the skinny man was much lighter—and because Tavishuts’ missing leg made him much harder to right—the bearded stranger was the first on his feet. Jubilant shouts went up from the apparent winners. There were loud cries of “foul” from those drunks who had backed Tavishuts—and heartfelt complaints that this was not a fair finish. If the cop had not interfered, the Indian would have chewed the man’s ear off, and surely come out the winner. Not so, the others cried—a gouged-out eyeball was worth three or four chewed ears any day of the week. All turned to the proprietor to settle the dispute honorably. Tillie, with a Solomon-like solemnity, considered the case. And made her decision: the fight was a draw. All bets were off. There were dark mutterings here and there, but most were satisfied to break even in a fair contest that had been ruined by the meddling lawman.
Moon sat the miscreants in a pair of Tillie’s uncomfortable straight-backed chairs, then straddled a similar piece of furniture. He assumed his professional expression of “sorrow at being a witness to this disgraceful conduct” and addressed the Ute first. “Curtis, you’re an embarrassment to the People. What’s the matter with you?”
The one-legged Indian rubbed at his injured eye and glared at the skinny white man with the one that worked. “This little blue-eyed devil cheated me on a bet—he put some stuff in my pocket when I wasn’t lookin’ and then he pretended to have X-ray vision—like Superman!” His injured expression appealed mutely to the police officer. Would a real human being do such an unspeakable thing?
“I never did no such thing,” Flye lied. “This whiner tried to welch on an honest bet. Where I come from, that’s the worstest thing a man can do.” The stranger, who held a grimy handkerchief over his chewed ear, thrust a daggerlike finger at the one-legged Ute. “Welcher!”
Moon noticed that one digit was missing from the bloody hand. “You lose a finger in the fight?”
Flye shook his head.
“He claims a bear bit it off,” Curtis Tavishuts said with a sneer. “That fuzzy-faced bastard can’t open his mouth without lyin’.”
Moon raised an eyebrow at the skinny, bearded man. “Just where do you come from?”
Chewed Ear puffed out his thin chest. “Arkansas.”
“Hah,” the Ute said. “Damn hillbilly from Dogpatch.”
Moon aimed a warning glance at Tavishuts, then returned his attention to the man from Arkansas. “What’s your name?”
The white man spoke without taking his baleful gaze off the surly Ute. “Horace Flye.”
“Horsefly,” Tavishuts said derisively, and spat on the floor.
“Injun welcher,” the man from Arkansas responded, and also spat on the floor.
Tillie bellowed: “Either one of you dummies spits on the premises agin’, you’ll be cleaning it up with your tongue.”
“Blue-eyed devil,” the Ute muttered.
“One-legged cannybubble,” Horace hissed.
Moon sighed. A lot of children were walking around in men’s bodies. “Now both of you keep quiet long enough to listen to what I’ve got to say.” He gave Curtis Tavishuts a hard look. “You know the routine. This disturbance occurred out of tribal jurisdiction but we’ve got an agreement with the Ignacio town police about arresting Native Americans. So I’ll take you over to SUPD and put you in the lockup till we can sort this out.”
Tavishuts grunted to show his indifference. The SUPD can was like a second home. And the meals were catered by Angel’s Cafe.
The Southern Ute policeman addressed the out-of-towner. “Mr. Flye, as you are not an Indian, you’ll be taken into custody by the Ignacio town police who… well, speak of the Devil …”
The timing was fortuitous. Moon looked out a greasy window to see the freshly waxed Ignacio town police cruiser come to a halt, its tall mast antenna oscillating with a whish-whish sound. A moment later, the bearish form of Sergeant Bill McCullough kicked the door open. He stood there, ten paces from the pair of bar-brawlers. Like an executioner relishing the bloody task before him. The town policeman was shorter than Charlie Moon, barely topping six feet even in his thick-heeled black boots. But he had shoulders a yard wide. A long bullet-shaped head which—because he had no discernible neck—sat directly on the yard-wide shoulders. He peered through nasty little black eyes, set on each side of a long, broken nose. This was a cruel face that might have adorned a recruiting poster for a neo-Nazi organization. But it was all deception. Underneath the fearsome shell was a warm heart, a generous nature. And a wry sense of humor.
Charlie Moon knew this.
Horace Flye, of course, did not.
McCullough’s voice was deep, like the rumble of summer thunder. “H’lo, Charlie. You got one for me?”
The Ute policeman nodded. “Looks like we got a bad guy for both of us.”
McCullough’s massive hand caressed the heavy black baton hanging on his gun belt. His thick lips twisted into a diabolic grin, exposing a row of square teeth such as are rumored to bite through seasoned two-by-fours like they were ripe bananas.
Flye sucked in a deep breath and turned to Moon with a desperate whisper. “Well, I guess you’ll have to take me to that Injun jail too.”
Moon repeated his position with considerable patience. “Like I told you, the Southern Ute police only have jurisdiction over Indians. Everybody else is dealt with by the Ignacio town police.”
Horace nodded eagerly. “But I am an Injun.”
Moon suppressed a smile. The mere sight of Buffalo Bill McCullough had a sobering effect on the criminal element. “Funny… you don’t look Indian.”
“Oh, but I am. On my mamma’s side, bless her poor soul.”
“Oh? Which tribe?”
An unexpected question. There was the barest hesitation as crooked wheels spun in Horace’s head. The word seemed to spring from nowhere. “Mugwump.”
The Ute policeman cocked a doubtful eyebrow. “Never heard of ’em.”
“Oh, that’s ’cause they’s a little bitty tribe. Almost wiped out a long time ago.” The traveler from Arkansas was warming to his task. “You never read that book—The Last of the Mugwumps?”
“Can’t say I have.”
McCullough, wiener-sized thumbs hooked in his gun belt, approached his quarry. Each heavy footstep brought a protesting groan from the oak floor. The buffalo-shouldered town policeman ignored the one-legged Indian. He looked crookedly down the bend of his nose at the hapless Arkansas man. His voice was a deep, resonant bass, seeming to rumble up from some internal volcano. “I s’pose this little pissant belongs to me.”
Horace Flye felt like an insect caught in the sticky web of a large, bullet-headed spider. He gazed at the Ute policeman with mute appeal.
“That’s what I’d thought,” Moon said. “But now he claims to be Indian.”
McCullough snorted. “Injun my arse. Looks like a damn shanty Arshman to me.”
“Well, he could be part Irish.” Moon assumed a thoughtful look. “But even if he’s only got a drop of Native American blood in his veins, he falls under SUPD jurisdiction.”
Relief and gratitude washed over Horace Flye’s face.
Bill McCullough tilted his huge head and studied Horace. “What kinda Injun this pissant say he is?”
“Mugwump. On his mother’s side.”
McCullough was genuinely puzzled. “I never heard a no Mugwumps. They must not be from around here.”
“They’re from Arkansas,” Moon said. “They were almost wiped out a long time ago. There was a book wrote about ’em.”
McCullough scratched an ear the size and texture of a worm-eaten cabbage leaf. “Book?”
“Sure,” Moon said with feigned pity for the untutored town cop. “The Last of the Mugwumps.”
“Oh yeah… I think I saw the movie.” McCullough turned away slowly. “Well, if they’re both Injuns, I guess they’re all yours, Charlie.” His rolling gait took him out the door.
Horace Flye allowed himself a grateful sigh of relief.
Tillie showed up at Moon’s side with a grease-stained plastic tray. “Charlie, honey, I got your burger and your fries. And coffee. Been holdin’ it for you, whilst you been doin’ your poleece work.”
He sniffed appreciatively. “The coffee still hot?”
“Should be.” She stuck her grubby thumb into the cup, and waited for the thermometric information to reach her brain. “Well, it’s warm. I could stick it in the microwave.”
“Well, I’d sure like to… but I need to get my prisoners over to the clinic. One’s got trauma to the ear, the other needs his eyeball popped back into the socket.”
Horace rubbed his bleeding ear.
Curtis Tavishuts blinked the bulging eye, which ached like an abscessed tooth.
Tillie shrugged her massive shoulders. “Oh well, I guess I’ll just eat it myself.” She took a huge bite from the burger.
Moon’s mouth watered. His stomach was past growling.
It was late afternoon when Charlie Moon locked the prisoners into adjacent cells. Horace Flye’s ear was now cleaned, stitched, and bandaged. The young physician, after a glance at Tavishuts’ yellowed teeth, had also given Flye a tetanus shot. Curtis Tavishuts’ eye had been inserted back into its socket by a consulting ophthalmologist and pronounced sound enough, though it was watery and extremely bloodshot. And did not look in precisely the same direction as the sound eye.
Tavishuts glowered through the bars at the white man with his good eye. “Goat-faced hillbilly cheat—I bet you married your sister!”
Flye, holding his palm over the bandaged ear, leaned forward on his bunk and returned the one-eyed glare double measure. “Blanket-assed Injun, go stick a feather in it!” The white prisoner had—if only for the moment—forgotten his Native American heritage.
The Ute prisoner raised his heavy crutch like a club. “Soon’s I get a chance, fuzz-face, I’ll knock your pea-sized brain out.”
Flye sneered. “You couldn’t hit your ass with a bass fiddle, you cross-eyed hoptoad!” He tapped his temple. “Better men than you has tried, and I still got my brain right here between my ears.”
“Between one ear,” the Ute prisoner shot back. Pleased with what he thought to be admirable eloquence, Tavishuts licked his lips. “That ear I chewed on woulda tasted better with some ketchup.”
Flye raised his right hand, which was not missing the offending finger. “Bite this, you one-legged cannybubble.”
Tavishuts muttered a vulgar curse in the Ute tongue. It had something to do with Flye’s ancestors and domesticated animals.
Charlie Moon—weak from hunger and drained of his last ounce of patience—gave them a steely-eyed glare. He did not raise his voice, but it had an edge like a straight razor. “Be quiet.”
The prisoners fell silent, but continued to exchange poisonous looks.
Moon proceeded to list the rules. Keep quiet. Do as you are told. Otherwise… well, you don’t want to know about “otherwise.” Though a sullen pair, they seemed to hear him.
Flye, in fact, listened politely.
Tavishuts figured it was mostly bluff. But he had a grudging respect for the big policeman. It was said that one pop on the chin from Moon’s fist and a man would forget his name and address for a month or more.
The Ute policeman congratulated himself for handling a bad situation fairly well. He’d hold them for twenty-four hours while his “investigation” of the brawl was completed. Tillie, of course, wouldn’t file any charges—she had been grateful for the entertainment value of the brawl. What these fellows needed was a good night’s sleep. If they behaved at breakfast, he’d turn them loose tomorrow morning. But now, he was headed for Angel’s Cafe and an early supper. Chicken-fried steak. Home-fried potatoes. Lots of brown gravy. He was leaving the cell block when he heard Flye’s urgent call.
“Hey there… waitaminute… Ossifer Moon!”
He turned wearily. “Yeah?”
“I just thoughta somethin’.”
“What?”
“Well, what with all the excitement, I’d plumb forgot. I’d appreciate it if you could bring my pickup and trailer over here. And park my rig right outside. And you gotta be careful how you handle that old truck. She’s got a manual choke—pull it out just about a inch and a quarter, then pump the gas pedal three times before you try to start ’er up. And when you get the rig over here, don’t set the hand-brake on the pickup. Sometimes the shoes stick and I gotta crawl underneath and bang on the brake calipers with a ball-peen hammer before I can get the wheels to roll.”
“Half-assed hillbilly truck,” Curtis Tavishuts muttered with a sneer. “You ought to get yourself a team o’ Arkansas mules to pull it.”
Moon silenced the Ute prisoner with a glance. “We’re kind of shorthanded, Mr. Flye. When we can get around to it I’ll send somebody over and …”
Horace was on his feet now, his brow furrowed into a field of wrinkles. His hands were white-knuckled on the door-bars. “You cain’t wait that long. She might get cold or hungry or somethin’.”
“Who?”
“Why, my daughter. She’s in the trailer.”
So this fuzzy-faced con artist had a daughter. And she’d kept herself holed up in the camper while her father was carted off to jail. If blood tells, she’ll be every bit as wacky as her old man. “Well, I’ll take your pickup keys to her. Then she can drive your rig wherever she wants.” Maybe all the way back to Arkansas.
“Oh no.” Horace Flye shook his head. “She couldn’t do that. She’s a good cook and housekeeper and such, but I ain’t taught her how to drive the truck.”
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Butter,” Horace Flye said proudly.
Moon was not surprised. It had been that kind of day. Horsefly begat Butterfly. The last—one might hope—of the ill-fated Mugwumps.
Moon was pleased to see Officer Elena Chavez filling out her daily log. He paused by her side and waited.
She signed the log, looked up, and smiled.
Elena had long, black hair. And very pretty eyes set in an oval face—which was also pretty. Moon, temporarily distracted, gathered his thoughts, cleared his throat. “You busy, Officer Chavez?”
“Not if you need me, Charlie.”
Her eyes seemed to grow into big pools that a man could fall into. Unconsciously, Moon backed away a half-step. “I got to go see a young woman in a camp-trailer. I could use some help.”
This piqued her interest. “Oh. You going to make an arrest?”
Moon grinned. “Don’t plan on it. But somebody’ll need to drive the rig over here. So she can visit her father.”
She zipped her leather jacket and made a mock salute. “Let’s ride.”
They were nearing Tillie’s Navajo Bar and Grille. The home of unforgettable cheeseburgers. And fries made with real lard. Moon sighed.
Officer Elena Chavez loosened her seat belt. She scooted across the Blazer seat. An inch closer to the tall man. “Bad day, Charlie?”
He grinned weakly at his fellow officer. “You ever hear of a tribe called the Mugwumps?” Elena was attending the university every other semester, working on her law degree. And she was very proud of her recently acquired knowledge. Liked to show off a bit, in fact.
A thoughtful frown furrowed her brow. “Mugwumps. Hmmm. I think that’s what they called Republicans who wouldn’t support James Blaine for president.”
“Blaine? Never heard of him. Was he from Arkansas?”
“I don’t think so.” She looked suspiciously at Moon’s profile. It was hard to tell when the man was teasing her. “But it all happened a long time ago. Back around 1884.”
“But you never heard anything about the Mugwump Indian tribe?”
She shook her head.
“Well, I guess they can’t teach you everything at the university.”
Moon—flanked by Officer Elena Chavez—approached the camp-trailer. He glanced at the Arkansas license plate. The small trailer, like the rusting Dodge pickup truck, had seen better days. Someone—Horace Flye, he assumed—had used duct tape to seal joints along the edges of the gray metal structure. He tapped lightly on the aluminum door. There was no response. So maybe Miss Butter Flye had fluttered off somewhere. Probably inside Tillie’s joint, having a burger and a beer.
He tapped on the door again. “Miss Flye… are you there? This is Officers Moon and Chavez, of the Southern Ute Police Department. Your father is in custody and …”
A face appeared in the square window in the door. A small, roundish face. With stringy yellow hair unaccustomed to a comb, watery blue eyes, and pumpkin-colored freckles. The chubby face pressed itself against the glass. The little nose flattened into an ugly white splotch.
Moon shook his head in astonishment. This was a child. Five years old, maybe. Six tops. They’d have to coax her outside and into the squad car. Then turn her over to a county Social Services representative. He took off his hat and smiled. In what he hoped was a fatherly fashion. “Miss… ah… could we have a word with you?”
No response.
Elena cooed: “Oh, Charlie—she’s just adorable.”
There was no accounting for taste. Moon cleared his throat. “I guess you’re… uh… Butter.” This grubby little Flye was still in the larval stage.
The cold blue eyes stared up at him.
“Your father sent us over here. So we can take you to see him.”
The child’s face was deadpan.
Moon tried again. “Would you like to put your coat on and go with us and …”
She shook her head.
“Well,” he said gently, “your father is real lonesome without you.”
The child glared at him. Without blinking.
He turned the doorknob. Locked. He tried all the keys he’d taken from Flye. No luck. The kid had the door latched from the inside.
“Butter,” he said gently, “you’ll have to unlock the door.” She shook her head again, rubbing her flattened nose along the glass.
A gust of wind, tasting of ice, whipped across the graveled parking lot. A few curious patrons were gathering at the window of Tillie’s Navajo Bar and Grille to enjoy this diversion from late afternoon TV. Moon buttoned his jacket. “You see, Butter, it’s going to be real cold tonight. You can’t stay out here …”
With a pudgy hand, she cranked the window open a notch. The little mouth actually spoke. “It’s warm in here. You’re the ones who’ll get cold.” This said, she laughed in his face.
The policeman—accustomed to dealing with coldhearted felons—realized that some measure of firmness was called for. “Now look, young lady—if you don’t open the door, I’ll have to force the lock and …”
“Wuff!” she snapped.
Moon blinked at his fellow officer. “The kid’s barking at me.”
To clarify her intent, the child snarled: “You’re the Big Bad Wuff.”
Moon was mystified. “Big bad what?”
Elena laughed, and the sound was like little bells in his ear. “Honestly, Charlie—you don’t know the first thing about dealing with children. The Big Bad Wolf was the heavy in that Three Little Pigs story. Anyway,” she said in her lawyer’s voice, “you can’t break into the camper without a valid warrant. It is—for legal purposes—a private domicile.”
“Wolf, huh?” Moon looked down his nose at the little girl’s face.
“Big Bad Wuff,” the child hissed.
A half dozen of Tillie’s customers had meandered outside, the better to see and hear what was going on. A merry old drunk waved a long-necked beer bottle and yelled at the Ute policeman: “Don’t take no shit off’n that kid, Charlie. Shoot ’er through the winder.” He aimed his trembling forefinger at the trailer. Cocked his thumb. Pulled the trigger. “Ka-bam!” His hand jerked backward from the imaginary recoil.
Moon gave this unwelcome advisor a flinty look.
The drunk belched and addressed his words to a sour-looking truck driver. “Cops ever’ where ’er all alike. No sensa yoomor.”
A truck driver—who had a blue swastika tattooed on his forearm—nodded his agreement in a low growl: “Damn gestapo.”
“Charlie,” Elena murmured soothingly, “you’d better let me handle this.” The man simply did not have a way with children.
Moon stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture with his gloved hand. “Officer Chavez, you are in charge.”
She patted his arm in a gesture of consolation. “Let a pro show you how it’s done, big man.” Elena smiled sweetly at the little face in the window. “Hi there, honey. See, we’re here to help you. Your daddy is in ja—… well, he can’t come to you—so you need to go see him. Daddy misses his little Butter-pat real bad—and he’s so worried about you being out here all by yourself.”
The pudgy little face had a slit of a mouth. An ugly red tongue stuck out of the slit. “You,” the child said, pointing her grubby finger accusingly, “are the Wicked Witch.”
Elena gasped.
Moon grinned.
“Wicked Witch,” the child screamed, “Wicked Witch. Help, help… the Big Bad Wuff and the Wicked Witch are tryin’ to get me! Eeeeeeeeeeee!”
The tattooed trucker, determined to involve himself in the commotion, left the cluster of comrades huddled in front of Tillie’s Navajo Bar and Grille. Not at all intimidated by Charlie Moon—and disdainful of addressing a police woman—he swaggered up and confronted the gigantic Ute. “Hey, whatcha doin’, pickin’ on a little kid? You got nothin’ better to do? Why doncha go somewheres an’ arrest a real crim’nal or somethin’?”
Charlie Moon had met such troublemakers a hundred times—filled with righteous indignation and spoiling for a fight. When they regained consciousness, they were always tearfully contrite. Couldn’t apologize enough for their rude behavior, blamed it on demon rum. When released, they headed for the nearest tavern. Moon—who was not in the mood to lower the boom—was the soul of politeness. “Oh, you’ve got me wrong, sir. See, I’m not in charge here. I am the Big Bad Wolf.”
The trucker blinked. What’n hell is this cop talkin’ about?
Moon nodded toward Elena. “You will want to address your complaint to my sidekick… the Wicked Witch.”
Elena shot Moon a venomous look, then gave her full attention to the bewildered intruder. He was wearing a blue cap. On the cap were the words KEEP ON TRUCKIN’. She pointed at the long flatbed hooked to the Peterbilt cab. “That your load of hay?”
He nodded sullenly.
“Then haul it away, buster!”
His voice was annoyingly nasal. “Lissen, you cain’t talk like that to me, I got a right to be here …”
“One,” she said.
“You Injun Smokeys don’t scare me none …”
“I ain’t gonna be pushed around. Not by no Judy cop.”
“Good for you,” Moon said. This would be fun.
“Three,” Elena said with an air of finality. The policewoman pulled a cigarette lighter from her jacket pocket, then headed with a purposeful stride toward the Peterbilt.
The trucker looked uncertainly at the tall policeman. “What’n hell’s she gonna …”
Moon took his hat off, scratched his head thoughtfully. “With Elena, it’s hard to say.”
“She’s bluffin’,” the trucker said without conviction.
“Like to place a bet?” Moon said.
“Bet?”
The Ute policeman produced his wallet. “Five’ll get you ten she’s gonna set your hay on fire.”
The truck driver stood for a moment, frozen in stupefied disbelief. He watched the young woman flick the lighter to life… and touch the flame to the bristly corner of a bale of alfalfa. “Omigod,” he screamed to his backup driver, “Archie, help me stop ’er!” and sprinted toward the truck as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him, slipping and sliding on the gravel. His partner, who had been enjoying this small drama from the relative safety among the motley congregation of Tillie’s customers, also scooted off toward the Peterbilt.
The Southern Ute police officers watched the truck depart with a great clashing of gears.
Butter Flye, who had watched the spectacle with some relish, was clapping her tiny hands. When she grew up she wanted to be just like the Wicked Witch.
Moon glanced at Elena, who was grinding her teeth. “You want to drive Mr. Flye’s rig back to the station?”
Elena accepted Horace Flye’s pickup keys from her fellow officer. Somebody had to convey the trailer containing this hideous child to SUPD headquarters. From there on, the nasty little imp was Charlie Moon’s problem. She tried—without success—to start Flye’s old pickup truck.
Moon reached over her legs and pulled the choke out. One and a quarter inches. “It’s flooded. Count to fourteen,” he said, “then pump the accelerator three times.”
She counted to fourteen. Pumped the accelerator three times, Turned the ignition key. The old engine coughed and sputtered. And started. Officer Chavez gave Moon a suspicious look. “How’d you know that?”
Moon patted the rusting hood. “Well, this old baby is a 1973 Dodge. With a four-barrel carburetor. Dodge pickups with four-barrel and manual chokes was kinda touchy that year. But only the ones made for the first five months or so. Then Chrysler changed to Holly carbs.”
“Fascinating,” she said. Ultra-boring guy stuff.
Moon—who had invented the explanation—shrugged modestly. “One other thing—when you get to the station, don’t set the parking brake.”
Boy, what a nag. “Why not?”
“’Cause if you do, the shoes’ll stick. Then you’ll have to crawl underneath and bang on the calipers with a ball-peen hammer. It’s a dirty job.”
“Oh—yeah. The calipers.” Elena did not know what shoes or calipers had to do with brakes. Maybe Charlie Moon is putting me on …
“You know,” he said with open admiration, “that was a pretty convincing show you put on for those truckers.”
She frowned at the pitted windshield. “You think so?”
“Sure. You almost had me convinced you was gonna set that hay on fire.”
“I was,” Elena snapped. “It was too wet.” She turned to smile prettily at him, then let out the clutch and gunned the engine.
Moon stood in a wake of gritty dust, watching the rear end of the trailer bounce across the graveled parking lot. Well now. There’s more to this woman than a man might have expected.
Now that the Flyes’ battered little craft was safely at anchor in the SUPD parking lot, Charlie Moon was wondering what to do about Butter Flye. It was a tricky problem. The little girl needed looking after, but she wouldn’t open the trailer door for anyone but her father. He had choices to make. Like breaking the door and turning the kid over to Social Services. Or he could quietly kick Mr. Flye loose and let him deal with his daughter. That’d work as long as Roy Severo didn’t catch wind of it. The chief of police was a stickler for doing things by the book. If he found out Flye wasn’t an Indian, Severo would turn the Arkansas man over to the town police in the blink of an eye. Then Buffalo Bill McCullough would have to deal with Butter Flye. Moon smiled to himself. That solution did have a certain appeal. The Ute policeman was helping himself to a cup from the dented SUPD coffeepot when he felt someone staring at his back. He spooned in a half dozen cubes of sugar, then glanced over his shoulder. An accusing expression smoldered in Roy Severo’s hard black eyes.
Moon grinned and raised his cup in salute. “H’lo, boss.”
The chief of the Southern Ute Police Department said nothing; he nodded toward his office door. Moon followed the little liger into his den. Severo fitted his compact frame into a padded chair behind his desk and glared at Officer Moon. He did not offer his subordinate a seat.
Moon put his dripping coffee cup on the corner of Severo’s immaculate desk, earning himself a scowl from the chief. He sprawled in a hard wooden chair, stretched his long legs, and clasped his hands across his silver belt buckle. He looked innocently around the office, taking in a wall filled with framed photographs of Severo with various politicians and minor celebrities. There was a display board of shooting-match medals. And last year’s calendar. He waited for the chief to break the silence.
Severo’s glare hardened. “What’n hell you think you’re doin’, Charlie?”
Moon frowned in pretended bewilderment. “Could you clarify the question?”
The chief of police slammed his fist against the oak desk, jarring a splash of coffee from Moon’s cup. “You know damn well what I mean. What’re you doin’ keepin’ a matukach in our jail? Or don’t you remember that we turn anybody what ain’t a Native American over to the town police or the state cops?”
“I assume,” Moon said evenly, “that you refer to prisoner Horace Flye.”
“You assume right,” Severo said through clenched jaws. “That one belongs to Bill McCullough.”
The temptation to drop the Flyes in McCullough’s soup was a strong one. But the urge to have some fun with the chief proved irresistible. And like so many decisions, drastically altered the future for many souls. “He claims to be Native American.”
Severo popped up from his chair like a toy man on a coiled spring. “What? That hairy-faced blue-eyed bastard claims to be… one of us?” It wasn’t all that surprising. Ninety percent of the population claimed to have an Indian great-grandparent.
Moon retrieved his coffee cup and took a sip. “He does. On his mother’s side. And it is my understanding that a citizen’s claim to Native American ancestry must be accepted as valid unless and until the higher-ups decide otherwise. To turn him over to the non-Indian authorities would be against tribal policy. And,” he added slyly, “politically unwise.”
Roy Severo sagged into his padded chair with the resignation of a beaten man. “What tribe?”
Moon hesitated. The chief of police, though somewhat gullible, was a long way from being a fool. But it was fun to pull the blanket over his head. “Mr. Flye’s ancestors were the remnants of a small group of southern Arkansas mound-builders. The scholarly types know all about ’em—but I doubt you’d have ever heard of these people. They’re …” Moon swallowed hard, “… the Mugwumps.”
“Oh sure.” Severo was stung by Moon’s low opinion of his knowledge. “The Arkansas Mugwumps. I met one of ’em when I was in the Marines. A fine bunch of folks. Measles or somethin’ almost wiped ’em out, if I remember correctly.” Feeling somewhat smug now, he leaned back and put his hands behind his neck. “So what’s the charge?”
“Well, I haven’t officially filed a charge yet. Mr. Flye got in a fight with Curtis Tavishuts over at Tillie’s and …”
Severo pointed a finger at Moon. “Lissen to me, Charlie. Curtis Tavishuts ain’t nothin but a one-legged mean-assed loudmouthed low-down drunk and a troublemaker to boot who ain’t worth his weight in horse manure.” This overlong declaration completed, he gasped for breath. “You can hold Curtis for a day or so till he sobers up, but I want that poor ol’ Mugwump out of this jail tonight. You hear?”
Moon frowned, as if bridling at the order. “You’re the boss.” Without waiting to be dismissed, he got up and left the police chief’s office.
Roy Severo felt he’d handled the situation pretty damned well.
So did Moon.
Horace Flye was greatly displeased. Here he was in jail, his ear practically chewed off by a drunk who probably had more germs in his mouth than a hydrophobic hound dog. And for what? Just for trying to make an honest dollar. Well, twenty honest dollars. Furthermore, he was highly annoyed at the one-legged Indian in the next cell, who didn’t seem to mind being in the jug. The man was sleeping peacefully.
Flye could not rest. For one thing, he had many troubles to ponder. For another, he had drunk seven cups of the establishment’s complimentary coffee. It was not a brew meant for those with nervous constitutions. And Flye was a naturally jittery fellow.
He picked up a tattered newspaper off the floor. It was last week’s Southern Ute Drum. Idly, he began to thumb through the pages. Mostly it was news about the tribe that did not interest him. A front-page story about a water-rights battle. Articles on self-improvement that he certainly did not need to read. Advertisements promoting restaurants and pawnshops and churches. But on page three, he saw something that caught his interest.
EXCAVATION ON MCFAIN LAND
Local rancher Nathan McFain, who has holdings on the eastern boundary of the S.U. reservation, reports finding a large animal bone in his pasture. Mr. McFain has called in Professor Moses Silver and his daughter Dr. Delia Silver, experts from Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University. The Silvers are supervising the excavation of the site, believed to contain the fossil bones of an extinct animal, probably a mammoth. This father-daughter team has published several books and a number of scholarly articles on the ice-age animals that once roamed the American West …
And the article went on, describing the rancher’s temporary plans to cover the excavation site with a large tent. A permanent structure would be erected when the excavation was completed. The scientists would be staying in log cabins on the McFain Dude Ranch. There were two photographs. One of Nathan McFain, pointing triumphantly at sections of bone protruding from the sand.
Horace Flye squinted; looked like Godzilla’s ribs.
The second photograph showed the paleontologist from Granite Creek—an aged man with thick spectacles, his arm around a young woman dressed in a plaid shirt and faded jeans. Dr. Delia Silver was an archaeologist. She was smiling, Horace Flye thought, just like she’s looking right outta the picture at me. He stared at the image of the young woman for some time. Kinda skinny. But still… a pretty thing. Delia. Now that was a sweet, old-fashioned name.
Moon stood before the cells, studying a sheaf of papers fastened to a clipboard.
Curtis Tavishuts—perhaps not wishing to be extravagant with his remaining sound eye—did not bother to look up. Also, he was asleep.
Horace Flye—holding the bandage against his chewed ear—eased his aching body off the bunk with a groan. He leaned on the cage door. The Arkansas man had a sly look on his face. “So, did my little Butter give you any trouble?”
“Trouble?” Moon said, with an expression of innocent bewilderment.
“Oh, I just thought that maybe she might’ve… well, you know—kinda gotten sassy with you. She can do that sometimes.” Like when she’s awake.
“No trouble,” the Ute policeman said. “She’s a little sweetheart.”
Flye seemed oddly disappointed. “You sure you got the right trailer?”
“I’m surprised you’d go in a bar and leave such a small child alone. She’s kinda young to be taking care of herself.”
Horace Flye snorted. “Butter’s pretty growed-up for her age. She keeps the trailer clean. She can even cook some, like eggs and pancakes. And she’s smart as a whip.”
Moon was writing on the clipboard. “Well, that’s good. I expect she’ll do real well in a foster home.”
“What? Foster home? Now waitaminute …”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. It probably won’t be more than six or eight weeks till your case comes up.”
“You cain’t hold me that long… not without a charge.”
“You evidently don’t realize,” Moon said, “that the Southern Utes are a sovereign nation. We have our own way of doing things. Like administration of tribal justice,” he added darkly.
“But I got a right to call a lawyer and …”
“Not here, you don’t. We do things the Indian way. Bein’ a Mugwump and all,” the Ute policeman added in a tone of mild admonishment, “you should know that.”
“Well, sure I do… but… I just cain’t afford to stay here that long.”
“Don’t look like you’ve got much choice.”
“Please… there must be somethin’ you can do for me.”
There was a long pause before Moon muttered under his breath. “Of course, there is paragraph 117-B.”
Flye grabbed the bars. “What’d you say?”
“Theoretically, under 117-B, I could arrange for your probationary release. And if you were cut loose it wouldn’t be necessary to place your daughter into foster care. But I doubt you’d be interested… paragraph 117-B has some tough conditions.” He turned to walk away.
Horace felt his pulse racing. “What conditions?” he screeched.
“It’s not all that easy.” Moon turned to give the prisoner a thoughtful look. “You’d have to find steady work within seven days. And see that the child was properly taken care of.”
“I’ll do it. I can get a job anytime I want, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“Well,” Moon said doubtfully. “117-B does say I could let you go on probation. But if you don’t keep the terms of your parole …” He shook his head, as if the consequences were too grim to contemplate.
Flye swallowed; his prominent Adam’s apple bobbled. “Like you was sayin’—if I messed up whilst I was out on parole—not that I would, o’ course—but if I did, then what?”
The Ute policeman fixed the prisoner with a pitiless gaze. “You break parole under 117-B, we turn your file over to the FBI. Those suits really like to work child-neglect cases that occur on Indian reservations.”
“What… but I don’t neglect little Butter… and I thought you said you Utes had your own laws and whatnot… so why’d the FBI be interested in me and my child?”
“We got a contract with the Feds. Petty crimes we don’t want to deal with, we turn over to them. We pay ’em five hundred dollars a whack—but they only get paid if they win the case and put the criminal in the federal jug. So they have what you’d call… motivation. And what with all them Justice Department lawyers just aching to get their teeth in guys like you, they don’t lose one case in a hundred.”
On this particular day, the thought of teeth in his flesh—though merely a figure of speech—was exceedingly unpleasant. “Okay.” Horace rubbed at the bandage over his chewed ear. “Let’s go for that B-17 whatchamacallit. I’ll do whatever you say.”
Moon unlocked the cell door.
Flye waved the folded copy of the Southern Ute Drum. “All right if I take this with me?”
“Sure. The tribal newspaper is complimentary. Part of our service.”
He gave Flye the clipboard and a ballpoint pen. “This is the binding agreement that defines the terms of your probationary release. Sign here—on the bottom.”
The prisoner stared. “But there’s nothin’ wrote down on it. It’s just… just a blank piece a paper!”
“No problem,” Moon said amiably. “I’ll fill it in later.”
Horace Flye, holding his coat collar against the chill wind, tapped on the trailer door. “Butter, honey, it’s Daddy. Let me in.”
Like a misplaced peg, her round face appeared in the square window. “Is the Big Bad Wuff gone… an’ the Wicked Witch?”
Butter never made no sense. Just like her mamma. Must be somethin’ in the blood. “Sure, honey. Now open the door. Daddy’s gettin’ mighty cold.”
The little face frowned at the blood-soaked bandage on his ear. “How do I know you’re really my daddy? You could be the Booger-man, dressed up to look like my daddy.” Her face disappeared from the window.
“Butter!” He banged his fist on the flimsy metal structure. “You open this door right now, you hear? Or I swear I’ll take a switch to you an’—”
“Go ’way, Booger-man!” She turned the TV up loud enough to make the trailer walls vibrate.
It was the proverbial last straw. Horace Flye muttered a curse, then sat down on the retractable trailer step. All in all, it had not been a good day. I got maybe thirty dollars and change in my pockets. Tried to raise a little extra cash, what did it get me? A rasslin’ match with a sore loser. It was shameful, too—barely holding my own against a one-legged man with yaller teeth sharp as a possum’s who damn near chewed my ear off. Then gettin’ hauled off to an Injun jail. Don’t even have a wife to come home to no more. And now my own kid won’t let me into the trailer. It’s sure pure hell raisin’ up a young ’un these days. And now the freezin’ wind’s a-blowin’ sand into my face.
A man can only take so much. Even an Arkansas man who’s tough as an old boot. Salty tears made crooked tracks down the channels of his leathery cheeks; his thin body heaved with doleful sobs.
Presently, she turned the TV off. The door opened. The lower corner gouged him sharply in the ribs. A small head poked out. “I’m sorry, Daddy. But you always tell me to be careful who I open the door for.”
Horace Flye was in no mood to be consoled. He turned his head and glared hatefully at the child.
Butter tugged playfully at his ear bandage. “You look funny with only one earmuff.” She snickered.
“Damn smart-assed kid,” he muttered, and got to his feet. Shoulda had one of them vasextomee operations years ago.