Dead Soul by James D. Doss

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