Dead Soul (5 page)

Senator Davidson heard footsteps, turned, expecting to see the approaching form of his good-natured Indian chauffeur.

HIS BLADDER
relieved, Oscar Sweetwater was at his Buick, fumbling in his pocket for the keys, when he heard the sound. The tribal chairman turned toward the rear of the restaurant, where Billy Smoke always picked up the senator after their late dinners. There it was again. Something between a whimper and a groan.

Sweetwater unlocked the Buick, removed a flashlight and a very old Colt .32-caliber revolver from the glove compartment. As he walked slowly toward the sounds, he opened the cold steel cylinder and ran his finger around it, feeling the rims of brass cartridge cases, counting six.
Ready for business.
Rounding the corner of the cinder block building, he heard an indistinct thumping sound—a car door closing? He waited, then called out, “Who’s there?” The silence was prickly-cold. The elderly Ute switched on the flashlight. He swept the beam across a half dozen parked sedans, a rusty Chevy pickup. And the senator’s Lincoln. But no sign of a living creature, human or otherwise. The pitiful whimpering had ceased. A sea of silence washed over the graveled parking lot.

The tribal chairman took a half dozen steps toward the Lincoln. “Hey—Patch. You there?”

The answer was illuminated in the beam of his flashlight. The senator, easily identifiable by a shock of silvery-white hair, was stretched out on his side. The Southern Ute tribal chairman knelt by the still figure. “Patch—are you…dead?”

There was a faint, answering whimper. Sweetwater played the flashlight beam around the lot. Barely a dozen paces away, immediately behind the Lincoln, he saw another body.
Must be Billy Smoke.
Right size. Right shape. Right hair color. But it was impossible to be certain if it was Billy. Much of the man’s face was caved in. Sweetwater was certain of one thing. Only one of these men would need medical attention.

The tribal chairman grasped his friend by the shoulder. “Hold on, Patch.” The aged man managed a stiff, bowlegged gallop toward the restaurant. Oscar Sweetwater heard someone screaming for help. It was his own voice. The Ute didn’t realize he was speaking in his native tongue.

THE CASHIER
looked up in openmouthed alarm as the wild-eyed maniac burst through the restaurant door. It was an old dark-skinned man waving a flashlight in one hand, a pistol in the other. He was shouting in a choppy language she did not understand. The woman, who had been robbed three times in five years, automatically raised her hands over her head. She nodded at the cash register. “Hey, take it all, Pops—just don’t shoot me!”

Oscar Sweetwater pointed the revolver at a telephone, sucked in a deep, rattling breath. “Call an ambulance.”

“Yes sir.” She snatched the phone off the hook.

“And the police—call them too.”

Chapter Seven

Four Months Later

LATE MORNING SUNSHINE BATHED THE COLUMBINE IN A SPRAY OF
purest gold. On the wintertime side of the ranch headquarters, the river—swollen with snow melt—roared over black basalt boulders. At the edge of the south valley, the mirror-surfaced glacial lake nestled like an emerald on the throat of the mountain. Charlie Moon, who owned this rugged corner of paradise, was leaning on a steel-pipe fence beside a fat, bearded trucker who smelled of beer and tobacco. Both men were watching Moon’s ill-tempered foreman and a half dozen dusty cowboys unload twenty head of Herefords into the holding corral. The purebred animals were a fine sight to behold. Fine enough to make a stockman’s eyes go moist. When the last of the costly beasts were unloaded, the trucker said a hearty good-bye to Moon and thanked the rancher for a first-rate breakfast. The heavyset man went to button up his rig in preparation for a long, empty run to Fort Worth.

With the throaty rumble of the diesel engine, the cowboys shouting and cursing, the clanging of gates, the snorting and stomping of half-ton animals, the corral was incredibly noisy. Moon, who had his back to the ranch headquarters, had not heard the arrival of the sedan. Neither was he aware of the small man making his cautious way down the slope from the big house. He was startled when a thumb poked him in the ribs.

He turned to see the wrinkled, smiling face of the Southern Ute tribal chairman. The rancher shook the elder’s outstretched hand. “Hey, Oscar—you sneaked up on me.”

Oscar Sweetwater took a place at the fence. Admired the fat cattle. “Looks like you’re doing all right for yourself.”

“I haven’t gone bankrupt yet. And,” the former tribal policeman added, “it beats hauling drunks to the jailhouse.”

“But you still carry a badge.” Sweetwater was not a man for making small talk. He had a reason for reminding Charlie Moon that he was a special investigator, reporting to the tribal council. Which, for practical purposes, meant that he did an occasional piece of work for the tribal chairman. If Moon had the time. And the inclination.

The rancher was on his guard. “You here for pleasure—or business?”

Sweetwater looked up at the seven-foot Ute. “I am a fortunate man. For me, business is always a pleasure.” He jutted his chin to indicate the animals in the corral. “I think you like your business too.”

The younger man clapped his big hand on the chairman’s thin shoulder. “Let’s go up to the house.”

OSCAR SWEETWATER
’
S
small form was almost swallowed up by a huge, overstuffed chair. The old man’s eyes were closed. He would occasionally open them, take a sip from a mug of coffee laced with milk.

Charlie Moon stood in front of the massive granite fireplace that dominated the north side of the parlor. Flames crackled in the stack of split pine. The rancher warmed his hands.

Sweetwater cleared his throat. “Seems like a long time since we buried Billy Smoke.”

Moon, half mesmerized by the flames, nodded. “How’s the senator getting along?”

The chairman moved the mug in a counterclockwise motion. A dark whirlpool formed in the black liquid. “Patch bought himself a fancy motorized wheelchair.”

“Will he ever walk again?”

“Don’t look like it. Some people think he’ll resign from the senate. But Patch knows this attack will get him lots of sympathy—and plenty of extra votes come next election. And the next election is all he cares about. You mark my words, Charlie—he’ll be back in Washington before the first snow. Tootin’ around on his electric scooter. Making big things happen.” Sweetwater smiled at the picture in his mind.

The rancher seated himself on a leather couch, pointed his knees at the fireplace. “You been keeping yourself out of trouble?”

“What do you mean by that?”

Moon allowed himself a smile. “Just wondered if you’d managed to stay out of the pokey.”

The tribal chairman snorted. “I don’t know what’s wrong with those cops in Granite Creek. Throwing me in the jailhouse when I was an innocent bystander reporting a crime.”

Moon nodded. “It is a mystery. All you did was run into a restaurant at midnight, wave a loaded pistol at the cashier.” He grinned at the chairman. “And with two bodies lying outside in the parking lot.”

“All I wanted was for that dopey cashier to call the police, but I was all outta wind. And I forgot to talk American. Them dumb coppers locked me up like I was some kinda criminal. And,” he added in an accusative tone, “one of ’em is your buddy.”

“If the chief of police wasn’t my buddy, they might’ve kept you in that cell for a week. Scott Parris called me to find out if you had a history of criminal behavior.”
Or lunacy.

“Speaking of your lawman friend, has he got anything new on who killed Billy Smoke?”

Moon intertwined his fingers over a silver belt buckle. “Not the last I heard. He figures it was some lowlife transient looking for a quick buck.”

Firelight twinkled in the elder’s dark eyes. “Is that what you think?”

The tribal investigator nodded.

“Think they’ll ever catch him?”

“Habitual criminals like that eventually end up in prison. Or dead from an overdose of heroin or lead. But it’s a hundred-to-one shot against us ever knowing his name.”

The chairman snorted again. “That makes it easy for your chief of police buddy—he’s got nobody to look for.” He was silent for a moment. “But maybe the killer was somebody that knew Billy. Somebody that wanted him dead.”

The randomness of senseless evil was always hard to accept. “The evidence is pretty clear—it was a robbery gone wrong.” Moon stretched his long legs toward the fireplace. “Wallets were stolen from both of the victims.”

The chairman shook his head stubbornly. “Billy Smoke’s mother don’t believe that. She thinks whoever killed her boy had a grudge against him.”

“Who’d have a grudge against Billy Smoke?”

Sweetwater ignored this question. “And most of the tribe agrees with her.” He gave his host a sly, sideways glance. “That’s why I want you to look into the matter.”

Well, I saw that one coming.
“Granite Creek PD has already looked into it. And because a U.S. senator was assaulted, the FBI has investigated the incident.”

Oscar Sweetwater dismissed this with a wave of his hand.

Moon sat for a long time, staring at the flames. “It’s been months since Billy was killed. If the right suspect isn’t arrested within twenty-four hours of the crime, he usually gets away clean. If he’s not picked up within a week, the chances of ever catching him are so close to zero that—”

“Don’t quote me no statistics,” the chairman snapped. “I know it won’t be easy. But look into the matter, Charlie. If you can’t find nothing, then you can’t. But we got to at least make a show of trying to find out who killed one of the People.”

Make a show. Of course. It’s always about tribal politics.
“Oscar, after all this time, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You could talk to the senator. He’s your next-door neighbor.”

Next door thirty-some miles away. “The FBI must’ve talked him to death already.”

Sweetwater grinned. “Patch Davidson don’t much like the federal cops. All he gave them was a written statement through his lawyer.”

Moon turned to the old man. “He refused to be questioned by the FBI?”

The chairman nodded. “Damn right. Ol’ Patch, he don’t mess with folks he don’t like.”

“What’s he got against the Bureau?”

A shrug under the old man’s plaid shirt. “Patch just don’t like who he don’t like. That’s all.”

“So what makes you think he’d talk to me?”

“You, he likes.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know.” He winked at the former tribal policeman. “Might have something to do with that time years ago.”

“What time was that?”

As if you don’t remember.
“You can ask him.”

“Oscar, it’d be different if I could see how me messing around in this business could help find Billy’s killer. But it won’t. Besides, I got lots of cow-related work to do.”

“From what I hear, you’re more or less a nuisance around here.”

“That’s an advantage of being the owner.” Moon grinned at the cantankerous old man. “I can be a nuisance whenever I want to.”

“If you’d get away more, this ranch might start showing a profit.”

“Sounds like you’ve been talking to Pete Bushman again.”

“He’s a capable foreman. You ought to leave the running of the Columbine to him.”

“Tell you what, Oscar.” Moon pointed. “I’m going to pick up that telephone. Call the BoxCar Ranch. Tell whoever answers that I’d like to drop by for a chat with the senator. If I get an invite, I’ll go and ask him about the assault. If I don’t, that’s the end of it. Agreed?”

The tribal chairman put on an offended expression. “Looks to me like you’re trying to weasel out of doing some useful work for the tribe. And it’s not like we don’t pay you enough.”

“Hey, you claim the senator likes me. So is it a deal or not?”

The old man sighed. “Well, if that’s all you’ll do—what can I say?”

Moon thumbed through the telephone directory.

Sweetwater gave him the number for the BoxCar spread.

Old man has a good memory.
Moon dialed.

A female voice answered. “BoxCar Ranch. Miss James speaking.”

“Uh—hello, this is Charlie Moon. I own the ranch next door, and I just wanted to—”

She interrupted. “Why, hello, Mr. Moon. Thank you for calling. The senator is anxious to speak with you.”

“He is?”

“Of course. Your tribal chairman advised us to expect your call. Please hold for just a moment.” There was a click in his ear.

Moon put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Oscar, you have flimflammed me again.”

The old man’s eyes widened in feigned innocence. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Sure I do. But I like to hear you say it.”

“You are a devious old man. Full of deceit and treachery.”

The Ute politician nodded his agreement with this assessment and smiled. “Thank you kindly.”

The rancher heard the senator’s gruff voice in his ear. “Charlie Moon—that really you?”

“Yes, sir. Oscar Sweetwater is here. He asked me to talk to you about—”

“Right. Can you drop by the BoxCar on Thursday morning?”

“Well, I suppose I—”

“That’s great. Make it around ten.”

Moon accepted the invitation. When the telephone conversation was terminated by the powerful politician, Charlie hung up the phone and turned to the tribal chairman.

Sweetwater avoided the tall man’s stare.

“Oscar.”

The chairman concentrated on the fireplace. Reflected flames danced in his merry eyes. “Did I hear somebody call my name?”

“Anything else you might want to tell me about the senator?”

The old man frowned, deepening furrows in an already wrinkled brow. “I don’t think so. Except…maybe one thing.”

Moon waited for the boot to drop.

“Patch—he might have something else for you to look into.”

“What might that be?”

Oscar Sweetwater shrugged bony shoulders. “He didn’t spell it out. But I think it has to do with security on his ranch.” He turned, smiled playfully at Moon. “I expect somebody’s been stealing old Patch’s beef cows.”

“Last thing I heard,” Moon said, “the BoxCar don’t have any cattle.”

The chairman nodded thoughtfully. “Them damn rustlers must’ve got away with all of ’em. No wonder the senator is so upset.”

MINUTES AFTER
the tribal chairman had departed, Pete Bushman showed up at the front door. The Columbine foreman was shaking his head, growling.

Moon invited his employee into the parlor. “What’s on your mind, Pete?”

“It’s that damn cougar.” Bushman shook his shaggy head. “This mornin’, he made a run at Alf Marquez.”

The Ute felt a sour coldness in the pit of his stomach. “Is Alf hurt?”

“Not this time. But that big scat spooked the Mexican’s mount, and Alf got throwed.” Pete pulled at his beard. “Two of the men was with him, one took a shot at the cat an’ scared it off. If he’d been workin’ by hisself, Alf’d a been cat food for sure.”