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

case who’s biding his time in your pickup—he saw to it that justice was done.”
    “I’m not saying he did.” For the first time that day, Sweetwater came very near smiling. “And I’m not saying he didn’t.” There was a hard look in the chairman’s eyes. “But that bad man ended up dead, and he didn’t die easy.” He glared at the Southern Ute warrior. “Lyle Thoms did me and my family a special favor.” Sweetwater sucked in an oversized helping of high-country air. “And now he’s asking me for one.”
    “I’m guessing this isn’t official tribal business.”
    “You guess right, Charlie. This is personal—and a favor to Lyle is a favor to me.” The chairman took a sip of his now-tepid coffee. “But don’t worry about working for nothing. Lyle’s got deep pockets. He’ll pay you.”
    “Pay me for doing what?”
    Oscar Sweetwater pushed himself up from the straight-back chair. “I’ll let my friend tell you that.”
    Charlie Moon listened to the old man’s boots clomp away down the hallway.
     
    The Southern Ute tribal chairman sent the Chickasaw elder into the Columbine headquarters but decided to remain outside.
    “To enjoy the fresh air,” Oscar Sweetwater told Lyle Thoms.
    Also to distance himself from any legal entanglement in the Chickasaw’s grim business. Charlie Moon was a man you could depend on to get the job done. But there was always a chance that something would go wrong.

Chapter Thirteen
    The Chickasaw’s Proposal
    Charlie Moon ushered his guest to the place where important business on the Columbine was generally conducted. Lyle Thoms seated himself at the tribal investigator’s kitchen table, in a chair that was still warm from Sweetwater’s recent presence.
    Figuring he knew more or less what was coming, Moon waited. Best thing is to let the old man have his say, then figure out how to handle things.
    Lyle Thoms got right to the point. “I want a man killed.”
    Moon didn’t blink. “That’s all?”
    “No.” Not given to subtleties, Thoms was immune to sarcasm. “I’ll need proof that he’s dead. You can scalp him or cut off his private parts—whatever suits you. Just send me something so I’ll know you got the job done.” To facilitate the mailing, Thoms recited his four-digit post office box number in Tishomingo, Oklahoma, which—and this was one of those peculiar coincidences that is bound to occur from time to time—also specified the day and month of Daisy Perika’s birthday.
    Which naturally intensified the old woman’s interest.
    Yes, Charlie Moon’s inquisitive auntie was enjoying her favorite pastime.
    Daisy Gets an Earful
    From the Ute elder’s self-centered point of view, her practice of eavesdropping on other folks’ private conversations did not represent a character flaw. She was merely pursuing an interesting and enlightening hobby. And it was great fun to sneak around and find out things you were not supposed to know.
    Which was why Daisy had slipped out of her slippers, left her walking stick in her bedroom, and managed to creep along the hallway without creaking a single board in the thick oak floor. This time, that sharp-eared nephew of mine won’t know I’m here.
    Charlie Moon Plays Along
    “So who is this fellow that needs killing?”
    “Posey Shorthorse.” Lyle Thoms pulled a wallet from his hip pocket and removed something from behind a thick wad of greenbacks. He pushed it across the kitchen table to his host.
    Moon picked up the snapshot of a muscular young man. He looks mean as a stepped-on rattlesnake.
    “That’s Shorthorse.” Thoms’s thin lips twisted into a distasteful grimace. “He’s a Chickasaw—one of our bad ones.” He pushed another item across the oilcloth.
    Moon looked at the blank rectangle of paper. He turned it over to discover a stylistic representation of a lizard. That looks like something you might find painted in the bottom of a Mimbres pot. The reptile’s tail was curled around its body