After passing over many difficulties, the Twins found themselves way, way, way east—standing at the door of a great turquoise house.
—Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee
THE COLUMBINE
PETE BUSHMAN, LONG-TIME manager of the vast ranch property, stood bowlegged on the front porch of the foreman’s house, looking down his nose at the three men. They waited patiently for the straw boss to say something worth hearing.
“The new owner of the Columbine intends to make this a workin’ ranch again. Turn a profit.” There are fools, and then there are damn fools. Bushman chewed on a jawful of Mail Pouch tobacco. “There’s rusty old bob-war fences that need mendin’, alfalfa hay to be planted and cut, barns that need cleanin’ out. I’ll expect you fellas to work your asses off. If you got any ideas that this here is a soft spot to rest awhile and get fat, then hit the road now.”
Silence.
He spat on the powder-dry dust at their feet. “Any questions?”
The youngest of the new hires, as if in a classroom, raised a hand. “This Mr. Moon—what can you tell us about him?”
The other two were experienced. But the Kid didn’t know enough to keep his yap shut. Bushman considered his response with care. “Well, he’s one of them Ute Injuns. Decent enough fella if you treat him right.” The ranch foreman glared at the trio of misfits with steely-blue eyes. “The boss useta be a cop for his tribe. He never says nothin’ about it, but I know for a fact he’s killed at least eight men. Some of ’em with his bare hands. So don’t do nothin’ to get him pissed off.” The foreman produced a gold-plated Hamilton pocket watch and glanced at the ivory face. “I got to go up to the big house now—you boys come along with me. Boss’ll want to get a look at you.” But as far as Pete Bushman was concerned, there was wide, deep river separating these common hands from the owner of the Columbine. And the foreman was the bridge over those troubled waters. “Them Ute Injuns is kinda standoffish—so you fellas keep your distance. And don’t say nothin’—I’ll do the talkin’.”
HUMAN RESOURCES
Despite Bushman’s insistence that the cowboys should wait on the porch while he powwowed with the Indian, the Ute invited them into his enormous parlor. They wiped their boots on the welcome mat and came inside, hats in hand. The odd-looking trio positioned themselves near the massive door, ready to exit in a hurry if this gigantic Indian lost his temper. They exchanged uneasy glances, but uttered not a word.
Charlie Moon thought the new hires seemed painfully shy. He was about to start up a conversation with the cowboys when deterred by a dark look from the foreman. Moon followed Pete Bushman to the far end of the long parlor.
The foreman kept his voice low. “Well, there they are.”
And indeed, there they were. Three sets of eyes, furtively darting around the room. Taking in the antique furnishings and expensive artwork. And thinking more or less the same thoughts: This is some sure-enough rich Indian.
“I’d like to have a little talk with these cowboys,” Moon said, “let them know who I am. What I expect of them.”
Pete Bushman shook his head stubbornly. “I’ve already told these hands who you are. And I’ll damn sure give ’em plenty of work to do.”
“Thing is, I’d like to get to know—”
The foreman’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. “If you want to do my job, you sure’n hell don’t need me around.”
Moon smiled. Which irritated Pete Bushman all the more. “I’d like to know something about these men.”
“What? They’re just ordinary, run-of-the-mill—”
Firmness was called for. “Pete. If they’re going to be my employees, I mean to know who they are. Where they’re from. What kind of work experience they have.”
Knowing he was licked, the foreman shrugged. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” He nodded to indicate the man on the far left. “That old one’s Alfredo Marquez. He’s got about nine middle names I don’t recollect. Alf’s up here from Mexico. I expect them federales are after him.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Well, there’s talk that Alf knifed some other Mexican fella. Fight over a woman, I expect.”
The Ute ignored this tidbit of gossip. Maybe Mr. Marquez did have some trouble in Mexico. But Bushman tended to exaggerate. He watched as Alfredo Marquez, who was thin as a grass snake, leaned first one way. Then another. Moon shook his head. “You sure Mr. Marquez is strong enough to work?”
“Oh, he can work all right. Alf’s just teeterin’ some ’cause he’s had a bit too much to drink.” Sensing that his boss was about to express his disapproval, the foreman added quickly: “But he works cheap.”
Moon let it pass. “What about the cowboy in the middle?” The man’s teeth were yellowish, with exaggerated canines. The eyes, shaded by the brim of a tattered black hat, were small, dark—and mean. The man had the look of a starved rodent.
Bushman snickered. “They call him Pogo—’cause he has a kinda possum look about ’im.”
“He running from the law?”
“Not now.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Bushman shook his head. “He’s done his time.”
“Knifed somebody, did he?”
“Oh no. Nothin’ like that.”
“What, then?”
“Pogo, he stole some steers up in Montana.”
Moon looked up at the beamed ceiling, and imagined a blue sky. Where untroubled clouds drifted by. “Pete—I don’t mean to be overly critical. But do you think it’s sound business practice for a rancher to hire a cattle thief?”
“Oh, don’t worry so much. Pogo never steals from his employers.”
“I am relieved to hear this. But I have something to say.”
“I’m listnin’.”
“So far, this is a sorry lot of cowboys.”
Bushman bristled. “With what you’re payin’, you’re damn lucky to get ’em.”
Moon gave the third man the once-over. This one was tall and lean. His honest young face was decorated with a serious-looking handlebar mustache. Moreover, his blue cotton shirt was spotless, his gray trousers pressed, his boots shined. “That one,” the Ute said, “is a bit of a dude. But he looks like a first-rate cowboy.” He glanced uneasily at Bushman. “What particular felonies has he committed?”
“Far as I know, the Kid’s got a clean slate.”
Moon stared at the foreman in disbelief. “Kid?”
Bushman seemed proud of this one. “That there’s the Wyomin’ Kid.”
“Surely you’re joking, Mr. Bushman.”
“That’s just his nickname. The Wyomin’ Kid’s Christian name is Jerome. Jerome Kydmann.”
Moon tried to be hopeful. “Well, being from Wyoming, maybe Jerome knows something about the cattle business.”
“Far as I know, the Kid has never set foot in the Wyomin’ you’re talkin’ about.” Bushman waited for the boss to inquire.
Moon did not ask. He did not want to know.
Bushman told him anyway. “Jerome’s from Wyomin’, Rhode Island.”
Still the Ute held his tongue.
“It’s a little town on Route 95.” Bushman chuckled under greasy whiskers. “Few miles east of Moscow. That’s in Rhode Island too.” His eyes sparkled with merriment. “I looked it up on a road map.”
The Ute exhaled the breath he had been holding. “So what does the Wyoming Kydmann know about cattle?”
Bushman’s face was rosy with Santa-like good humor. “’Bout as much as most kids from Rhode Island. But he claims he’s eager to learn.”
Moon set his jaw and spoke through clenched teeth. “Listen to me, Bushman. I may be willing to take a chance on a tequila-soaked Mexican knife artist. I might even be willing to give Pogo-the-Cattle-Rustler a try after I warn him how I stake cow thieves over anthills and then pour honey on ’em. But I will not pay out hard cash to some tinhorn who don’t know the difference between a Holstein milk cow and a Texas longhorn. And worst of all, calls himself the Wyoming Kid. And that’s that.”
“You’re the boss.”
“So you tell the Kid we can’t use him.”
“Okay. But like I said, he’s eager to learn. Real eager.”
Moon glared at his foreman. “How eager? You intend to exploit this young man—work him to death for bed and beans?”
The foreman looked sinfully prideful. “Better’n that.”
Moon’s tone softened. “What’s better than him working for free?”
“The Wyoming Kid will pay us to work here.”
“You serious?”
“Serious as a bad case of the claps.”
“How much?”
“I told him we could provide a minimum of sixty hours of actual cowboyin’ experience per week—for a tuition of only three hundred dollars a month.”
Moon stood in awe of his crafty foreman.
“Of course, the Kid’s gotta supply his own horse and saddle and such.”
The bony fingers of guilt probed Moon’s conscience. “This Jerome, he…uhh…not too bright?”
“The Wyomin’ Kid’s got hisself one of them Embee-A degrees from Harvard U. But he don’t like the corporate world. Says it’s a soul-killing rat race. So he’s set his mind to learn the cowboyin’ trade.”
“Where would he get the money to pay…ahh…tuition?”
“The Kid’s folks is rich as Shaker eggnog.” The foreman watched his boss hesitate. “Charlie, if we don’t take ’im on, he’ll find a position somewheres else.” Bushman threw up his hands. “But if you think we shouldn’t be takin’ advantage of the poor young fella like this, I’ll go give him the sack right now.”
“Let’s not be hasty.” Moon beamed a beatific smile toward the callow youth, who smiled back under the waxed handlebar mustache. “Maybe we should give this fine young fellow a chance to learn an honest trade.”
Bushman, his victory won and savored, was in a generous mood. “Now if you want to, go on over and shake hands with ’em. But don’t you never get too chummy with the help. First thing you know, they’ll be actin’ like they own the place and you’re workin’ for them.”
“That’s good advice, Pete. From now on I’ll make sure my employees know who’s in charge here. All of them.” He gave Bushman a flinty look that made the foreman’s bloodshot eyes pop.
ECONOMICS 101
By long tradition, all serious business at the Columbine Ranch headquarters was conducted in the kitchen. Charlie Moon sat across the massive oak dining table from his foreman. Pete Bushman’s steel-rimmed spectacles hung low on the bridge of his nose; he was leafing slowly through a green ledger, making sums and subtractions on a yellow pad. And muttering darkly under his whiskers.
The clock on the wall pilfered the minutes one by one.
From time to time, each man helped himself to a sip of black coffee.
While the foreman fussed over the ranch records, Charlie Moon thought his happy thoughts. By the grace of God, here I am—owner of maybe the finest ranch in Colorado. No more police work for me. No more hauling in drunks who puke on my new shirt. No more arresting wife-beaters whose wives kick me in the shins because I’m mistreating their loving husbands. Nosir. All I have to do is tell my foreman what I want done, and Pete’ll see to it. Before long, I’ll be able to sit right by the window in my great big parlor and watch hundreds of purebred Herefords grazing in the valley. In due season, there’ll be calves. And once stock starts going to market, the greenback dollars will start falling all around me like cottonwood leaves in October. And I’ll have all the time I need for fishing. Then he remembered the sweetest blessing of all. Won’t be long till Camilla shows up for a visit. What a grand life.
The policeman-turned-rancher was startled by the sound of gravel caught in a coffee grinder. It was Pete Bushman, clearing his throat. The Ute blinked at his employee.
Bushman nibbled at the pink eraser on the number-two lead pencil. “I may be off a dollar or two here or there. But I got it pretty much figgered out.”
“What’s the bottom line?”
“Well, you want to buy two hundred head of good Hereford stock. But first we need some maintenance on the farm equipment—gotta get some alfalfa planted. Lots of fixin’ up to do. Some of them south fences needs new bob-war. Barn roof is wantin’ some shingles. Corner post in the west corral’s all rotted. Livestock chute needs some weldin’ work. And there’s the pay for the cowboys.” He grinned. “Just the two of ’em. And then there’s taxes.”
“Taxes?”
“Property taxes.”
He showed the Ute last year’s bill.
Moon squinted at the paper. “That much?”
“For ranchers, rates per acre aren’t all that high. But then you got an awful lotta acres.”
The owner groaned. “What about the black-ink side of the ledger?”
“Well, that lawyer fella down in Durango allows us a fixed allotment for certain kinds of expenses. We leased out sixteen hundred acres of grassland on the other side of the mountain to that U.S. senator who you got for a neighbor.” Bushman grinned. “And then there’s the three hundred dollars a month from the Wyomin’ Kid.”
“Don’t remind me.” Moon was feeling a twinge of guilt. “After a month or so we’ll cancel his…uh…tuition. Once he’s able to do some useful work, we’ll put him on the payroll.”
“Don’t really matter. Three hundred greenbacks is a drop in the bucket for an outfit this size. ’Specially if you intend to invest in a bunch of purebred beef.”
The Ute leaned forward to stare at Bushman’s scribblings. “So what’s the projected bottom line?”
The foreman scratched his head, pursed his lips, muttered a few choice curses under his breath. “I’d say—give or take a few bucks—we’re lookin’ at forty-five, maybe fifty thousand dollars.”
Moon’s relief showed on his face. “Well, we can’t expect much for the start-up year. Even so, that’s not much of a profit margin for a ranch this size.”
The foreman’s eyes popped. “Profit?”
He didn’t want to ask. But he did. “You’re projecting we’ll lose fifty thousand dollars this year?”
Bushman’s belly shook with laughter. “Only if we work twenty-six hours a day—including Sundays. And if we’re extra lucky. Why, once we get this ranch up an’ runnin’, we’ll be able to lose two or three hundred thousand dollars a year.”
“That’s not funny.”
Bushman shook his grizzled head at the innocent. “You actually figured you’d make serious money raisin’ beeves? Shoot—there ain’t been no decent profit in the beef market for thirty years. Big supermarket chains and hamburger franchises buy beef from places like Argentina. South Africa. Australia. American ranches like this is mostly owned by rich people. And rich people are too smart to fool around with big herds a beef cows.”
Moon’s expression was that of the small boy who has just watched a double scoop of ice cream fall from his cone to the sidewalk. On a very hot day. And a big dog came along and licked it up.
The foreman sensed that his boss needed some encouragement. “You want to make a few dollars, we could raise some rodeo stock. There’s some money in that, if you know what you’re doin’. And we could raise some o’ them sad-looking llamas. And buffalo. We can sell buffs to the Indians. We might even start us a flock o’ them big ostrich birds. There’s even some money in camels. But if we’re eventually goin’ to have a payin’ operation, we need just a little bit of capital to get over the hump.”
“I’m not going to borrow money.”
“I was thinking of something else.”
“I could put you to mending fences. Put the Wyoming Kid in charge of the business end of things.” Moon wore his poker face. “A Harvard MBA would put this operation on a paying basis in no time flat.”
“Don’t get snappy. What I meant was—well—I don’t hardly know how to say it.”
“Just spit it out, Pete.”
“You Injuns are a sensitive lot. You might not like to hear it.”
“I’m always interested in hearing what’s on my foreman’s mind.”
“Well, then I’ll say it right out.” Bushman looked at the ceiling. Scratched at his bushy beard. Licked his lips. Cleared his throat. “Well…you could get yourself a job somewheres.”
Moon had not believed he could be surprised by anything this bewhiskered old grouch had to say.
The foreman continued in a more sympathetic tone. “I realize, bein’ unskilled labor you prob’ly couldn’t earn all that much. But anything you could scrape up would help.”
Moon attempted to stare a hole through the man’s forehead.
“And it’s not like you’re needed around here—all you’d be doin’ is hangin’ around, tellin’ me how to do my job.” Bushman scowled at this imagined outrage. “Me who was cowboyin’ when you was still in diapers.”
“I take it back—I’m not interested in what’s on your mind.”
“Well, that’s all I’ve got to say.” Having made this vow of silence, the foreman proceeded to enumerate a long list of calamities likely to cripple the Columbine. He noticed a vacant look on the boss’s face, and paused. “Hmmpf.”
Charlie Moon was staring at something on the table. A stray grain of barley. The little white seed looked untroubled. Even cheerful.
The foreman cleared his throat. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
The Ute didn’t look up. “I’m so poor, I can’t even afford to pay attention.”
Bushman slammed the ledger shut, jammed a floppy hat down to his ears. And prepared to depart without so much as a good-bye.
Moon realized that this sad financial picture was not his foreman’s fault. Bushman had merely framed it for him. “How about I fix us a snack?” He slapped the old man between the shoulder blades.
Bushman wheezed, then managed to regain his wind. “My missus won’t like it if I don’t have no appetite for lunch.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to get Dolly peeved at you.”
The foreman glanced at the huge refrigerator. Licked his lips. “What kinda snack did you have in mind?”
“You name it.”
“How about a ham san’wich.”
“Okay. I’ll make you a small one.”
“Well…not too small.”
THE SNACK
The men took their sandwiches onto the front porch and seated themselves in heavy redwood rockers. The ranch house was situated on a prominent knoll. Off to the north and down a long grassy slope was the river. Roaring and crashing over glistening black boulders. To the south, at the near edge of pastureland that stretched for a day’s walk was the lake—a thirty-acre melt of dark green glass. Ten miles away, to the west, blue granite mountains bulged jaggedly through the drifting vapors of late morning. From somewhere below these mists came the shrill call of a hawk.
Moon leaned back. Raised a heavy mug to his lips, took a sip of sweet black coffee. “Now this is the way for a man to live,” he muttered.
Bushman nodded. “It’ll do till a better one comes along.” And Glory is just over the mountains. The foreman took a healthy bite from his sandwich. Between the thick slices of dark rye was a single slice of ham. Three quarters of an inch thick. Smeared with honey mustard.
A large, yellowish hound walked slowly toward the ranch house. Up the steps. Without taking the least notice of the men, the lean animal aimed its long nose toward a sunny spot on the south end of the porch. The dog fell to his belly with a soft whuffing sound. He yawned, exposing an impressive set of teeth. The yawn complete, the hound licked his black lips, lowered his muzzle to the planked floor. Closed his eyes. The very picture of contentment.
Moon took a bite of rye and ham. “That your dog?”
Pete Bushman swallowed a gulp of steaming coffee. “Nope.”
Moon continued to relish his food. This is maybe the best ham sandwich I ever ate. Between bites, the Ute continued the conversation. “Whose dog is he?”
The foreman thought about the question. “Yours.”
Moon shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Bushman took ample time to chew his food. Swallowed it. “Oh, he’s your dog all right.”
The Ute took a long look at the somnolent animal. “Pete, if I had me a really ugly yella hound dog, I’m pretty sure I would know it.”
The foreman thought about going inside to warm up his coffee. Decided it would be better to sit awhile longer. “Sidewinder belongs to the ranch—always has. Now the ranch belongs to you. So he’s your dog.”
Knowing it would be useless to protest this carefully thought out logic, Moon took another tack. Slyly, he asked: “How’d that pitiful old hound get a name like Sidewinder?” Whoever named a dog owned it.
Bushman, sensing the trap, smiled into his coffee cup. You’ll find out soon enough.
Moon turned to look at Bushman. “This sickly looking dog get bit by a rattlesnake?”
Pete Bushman did not reply.
Sidewinder did.
Too late, Moon heard the thumpety-thump of large paws on the redwood planking. He had just managed to turn his head to see the hound take flight when a yellow blur passed over his chair. An instant later, the animal was at the shady end of the porch. Looking back at him.
“Damn!”
“You shouldn’t cuss in front of Sidewinder,” Bushman advised with an old-maidish air. “He is sensitive to bad language.”
The Ute was on his feet, pointing at the yellow dog. “He grabbed my sandwich!”
The dog did not deny this charge. Neither did he attempt to conceal the evidence. Indeed, the brazen culprit had Moon’s snack firmly under one paw, and was busy pulling at the ham.
“Now he’s eating it,” Moon growled.
Sidewinder growled back.
“Funny thing,” Bushman observed. “That dog’ll eat almost anything. I’ve seen him chow down on shriveled-up watermelon rinds. Rotten cucumbers. Lumps of coal. A plastic banana. I’ve even seen him slurp up old engine oil. But that skinny hound won’t eat that there rye bread. He only likes the white kind.”
“Besides snatching a man’s food from his hand, what’s this chowhound good for?”
“Not much. That’s what he does best.”
“You could’ve warned me.”
“I could’ve.” The grizzled foreman chuckled. “But a hardworkin’ man don’t find much entertainment out here.”
Sidewinder choked down the last morsel of pig flesh. And looked hopefully at Moon.
The Ute scowled at the dog. Then at the foreman. “Why didn’t he go for your sandwich?”
“For one thing, he’s not interested in stealing a man’s food unless he is really enjoying it. You was acting real hungry. And for another, ’cause he knows better. I’m on to all his tricks.”
Tricks? “What else does he do?”
“Oh, he likes to steal things besides food. Old Sidewinder’ll sneak away with your car keys if he gets half a chance. Or your boots.”
Moon’s scowl grew darker. “I don’t much like this dog.”
Sidewinder’s tongue hung over his lips. He grinned at the owner of the Columbine.
Bushman considered the dog’s demeanor, then glanced at his boss. “You know, Charlie—I think he’s fond of you.”
As if to corroborate this conjecture, Sidewinder wagged his tail. And slobbered.
THE CHAIRMAN
It was well into the afternoon when Charlie Moon cocked his ear at the distant sound of an engine. Wasn’t Bushman’s pickup. The old Dodge eight-cylinder needed a valve job; a man could hear the clickety-clacking a quarter-mile away.
He went to a window that faced the long driveway. A maroon Buick was barely managing to stay ahead of a boiling billow of dust. Whoever it was had gotten past Bushman’s place, which served as a sentry post to determine who could go on to the big house and who must return several miles to the paved highway. If Pete wasn’t at home, Dolly would hear intruders coming, flag them down, and ask them to state their business with the Columbine spread. Nobody got past Dolly without a good story.
The dusty automobile rocked to a stop behind Moon’s Ford pickup. The Ute knew who was driving before he saw the gray-haired, stoop-shouldered figure of Oscar Sweetwater emerge from the low-slung sedan. Oscar—having ousted Betty Flintcorn in a recent election—was now the distinguished chairman of the Southern Ute Tribal Council.
Moon went outside to greet the tribal elder, heard complaints about what the bumpy ranch road had done to the Buick’s shock absorbers. After promising to grade the road, he ushered Oscar into the parlor, got him into a comfortable chair.
“You want something to drink?”
The tribal chairman nodded at the fireplace. “Something hot.”
Five minutes later, Moon returned with a pot of freshly brewed coffee. “I’m glad to see you.”
Oscar Sweetwater nodded. “Thought you would be.” He took a sip of the coffee. “But you’re wondering why I’m here. You know I don’t generally drive myself this far from home.”
Moon didn’t admit that the chairman had read his mind.
Oscar grinned, exposing a well-crafted set of artificial dentures. “Well, I’ll tell you. I’m on a secret mission.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“It is. Nobody knows I’m here.” The grin morphed into a slight frown. “Well, except my wife. You know Nora—she’s got to know everything.” The old man stretched his legs. “You got a nice place here.”
“Thanks.”
“Being head of a big operation like this must keep you pretty busy.”
“I got a foreman to look after things. And some cowboys.”
The chairman eyed the magnificent furnishings. “Looks like you’re a rich man now.”
Uh-oh. Oscar’s sniffing out a donation for his favorite tribal project. “If land was money, I’d be sitting pretty.”
“Don’t ever give up your land. That’s a big mistake some of us Utes made a long time ago. A lot of our people sold the parcels they got from the government. That’s why a map of the reservation looks like a patched blanket.” He placed the empty coffee cup on a polished mahogany table. “Charlie—I heard how you found that little Zuni girl who got lost over at the ruins by Chimney Rock. Nice piece of work.”
“I just happened to be in the right place.”
Sweetwater thought about this. “It’s a God-given talent—being in the right place. At the right time.”
Moon waited.
“And you found that picture on the sandstone.”
“The little girl showed it to me.”
The tribal chairman stared at the fireplace. Reflected flames danced in his dark eyes. “How does a five-year-old girl find what all those educated people didn’t know about?”
Moon was not about to mention Dr. Amanda Silk’s theory that the petroglyph was a hoax. “Hard to say.”
Oscar Sweetwater offered his host an enigmatic half smile. “There’s talk going around.”
“There usually is.”
“Some people are saying that an old Anasazi haunt showed the little Zuni girl that picture of the Twin War Gods.”
Moon sipped at his coffee. Knowing that, sooner or later, the chairman would get to the point.
Oscar rocked in the chair. “Yesterday, I stopped by to see your aunt.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She told me something bad is going to happen.”
“Something bad is always happening.”
The chairman folded wrinkled hands over his belly and closed his eyes. “Daisy says there’ll be some big trouble on Ghost Wolf Mesa. On account of that Twin War Gods rock picture.”
Moon preferred to steer the conversation away from his aunt’s premonitions. “So how’s the tribal government getting along?”
“Not bad. But we’re kind of shorthanded in some departments.” Oscar Sweetwater opened an eye to peek at Moon. “Too bad you’ve got so many things to occupy your time.”
“Why’s that?”
The tribal chairman made a tent of his fingers. “Well…I sorta have a proposition for you.”
Moon thought he knew what was coming. Wallace White-horse—the Northern Cheyenne the council had hired last winter—had finally had his fill of tribal politics. Sure. Whitehorse had taken a hike. “You already looking for a new chief of police?”
Oscar Sweetwater seemed surprised. “Oh no. That Cheyenne fella is doing a fine job.”
“Happy to hear it.”
The tribal chairman gave Moon an appraising look. Like a horse trader sizing up a promising animal. “Way I see it, a man should work at what he does best. You were always a good police officer.”
Aha. They were looking for a deputy chief of police. Someone who knew the tribe and the reservation inside out.
“That foreman of yours—Pete Bushman—me and him are old friends. On the way down the lane, I stopped at his place. Dolly gave me a big piece of apple pie and a cold glass of sweet milk. Me and Pete, we sat around. Talked some.”
“No kidding. And I bet my foreman told you to help me find a regular job.”
Oscar furrowed his brow as if trying to remember. “I don’t recall him saying anything like that. We mostly talked about football.” The tribal chairman grinned. “But now that you mention it, I bet you and Pete would both be happier if you got off the ranch now and again. It’d be good for you, doing some police work for the tribe.”
“What does Wallace Whitehorse think about this?”
The tribal chairman hesitated. “You wouldn’t be reporting to Chief Whitehorse.”
“How could I be a police officer for the tribe and not report to the chief of police?”
The chairman leaned toward Moon—as if someone might have an ear pressed to a keyhole—and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “What I had in mind was a special investigator job. Not a direct employee of the tribe, more like a consultant with your own business—contracting your services to us.”
Charlie Moon thought this sounded a little bit interesting.
Oscar Sweetwater could see that the former policeman was teetering this way and that, so the tribal chairman played his hole card. “We’d reimburse you for all reasonable expenses, including travel. A flat fee of one thousand per month to keep you on retainer. And the hourly pay is pretty good.”
“How good?”
Oscar told him.
Moon almost managed to conceal his pleasure.
“Tribe can afford it,” Oscar said matter-of-factly. “We have our hands in all kinds of businesses. Mining. Tourism. Gas leases…”
“Don’t forget the casino.”
Oscar Sweetwater nodded. “Gaming is a lucrative business for the tribe. I see it as a tax on those unfortunate people who don’t understand the laws of probability. Am I right?”
“Probably.”
“So are you interested in working for the tribe?”
“Running the ranch keeps me busy. Another full-time job is out of the question.”
“You could put in as few hours as you wanted to.”
“Exactly what sort of work do you have in mind?”
“Oh, this and that. Every so often, the council needs the services of a qualified investigator for”—he searched for the right words—“well…special projects. Issues where we can’t use our own police force. I don’t have to tell you that our tribal officers are pretty much limited in what they can investigate.”
“Yeah.” Anything beyond drunk and disorderly was handed off to the BIA cops. The really serious crime on the reservation was dealt with by the FBI.
“The tribe could hire a private agency out of Denver. But we don’t want no matukach Dick Tracy working for us—getting his long nose deep into private tribal business. You understand?”
“I’d need a private investigator’s license.”
“Our attorney has already done the paperwork.” Oscar patted his jacket. “I’ve got the application in my pocket. All you’ve got to do is sign it, we’ll mail it in. And pay the fees.”
Moon smiled. “You were pretty sure I’d be interested.”
“Sure enough to have a jeweler in Durango make you a new shield. Fourteen-karat gold plate. I’ll look pretty foolish if you turn me down.”
“I wouldn’t want to embarrass the chairman.”
“That’s the first lesson of tribal politics. So do we have a deal?”
“We do.”
They shook hands, and it was a binding contract.