Free A Dead Man's Tale by James D. Doss

“Young folks are generally brimming over with energy they need to burn up.”
    “Well I wish she’d burn it up somewhere else; it tires me just to see her buzzing around like a ninety-pound mosquito.” The grumpy old man frowned at the glazed doughnut in his hand. “What was we talking about?”
    Moon took a sip of the sweetened brew. “You were going to tell me about the gentleman who’s waiting in your pickup.”
    “Oh, right—his name is Lyle Thoms. First thing you need to know is that he’s one of them hard-nosed Chickasaws from Oklahoma.” He shot Moon a look that said, And you know what they’re like. “Long time ago, Lyle did me a favor.” Significant pause. “A really big favor.” He waited for the tribal investigator to ask what.
    Moon took another, longer drink of coffee.
    The old man made a gnarly fist with his right hand and stared at it. “Did you know I had a sister?”
    “No.” The chairman could still surprise him.
    “Well, ain’t you gonna ask what her name was and what happened to her?”
    “What was your sister’s name, Oscar—and what happened to her?”
    Sweetwater opened his mouth, shut it when he heard the peg-peg of Daisy Perika’s walking stick.
    Charlie Moon’s aunt ambled in and took a look at the tribe’s ablest politician. “What’re you doing here, you old renegade—stirring up trouble for us good Indians?”
    The chairman raised his chin. “With you on the job, there’s no need for that.”
    After an appreciative chuckle, Daisy addressed her nephew: “I can’t find my blue shawl.”
    Moon pointed with his coffee cup. “It’s on the hat rack in the hall.”
    “Oh.” The old woman with the oak staff turned and peg-pegged away.
    Sweetwater watched her go. “What was we talking about when she butted in?”
    Moon smiled at his guest. “Your sister.”
    “Oh, that’s right. Her name was Sophie.” Like a little boy about to swallow a dose of castor oil, Sweetwater hesitated and made an ugly face. “What happened to Sophie was…” He blinked away a pair of tears. “It’s been over sixty years, but I can remember it better than what I had for breakfast this morning.”
    Moon put his cup on the table.
    The old man raised his chin again. “One night, while my folks was away in town and me and Sophie was playin’ out in the front yard, this fella pulled up in a big, shiny black car and started asking questions like ‘How far is it to Durango?’ and ‘Can I talk to your daddy?’ and ‘Are you two kids home alone?’”
    Seeing what was coming, the tribal cop closed his eyes to the dark vision the old man was summoning up.
    “I can’t hardly talk about it, even after all these years.” Sweetwater coughed. “Let’s just say that I got beat almost to death—and I was the lucky one.” The silence ticked away a dozen old-man heartbeats. “The bastard took Sophie with him. Every able-bodied man in the tribe and about two hundred matukach searched for my little sister. They found her body over by Flint Hill.”
    A full minute of silence followed.
    A soft breeze sighed under the eaves.
    Finally, Sweetwater was able to speak again. “Based on what I told the cops about the man and his motorcar, the state police was able to find him. The arrested the devil up over by Las Animas; he was headed toward Kansas. I don’t want to go over the whole nasty business, Charlie—but he was indicted by a grand jury, and tried. I was the only witness that could identify him, but when I got on the stand, I was so scared I couldn’t hardly say a word. And the defense attorney—some slicker from Denver—made me out to be a fool kid who couldn’t tell one matukach from another.” Silence. “The jury found him not guilty.”
    Moon shook his head. “I bet I can guess the rest of the story.”
    “I imagine you can.”
    “Your father put the word out about the killer, who probably ended up in Oklahoma.” Moon gestured with his chin. “And that old Chickasaw hard