doubt for a moment that the Apache elder had died more or less as the medical examiner theorized. The Taos Pueblo Indian didn’t know how they’d done it, but he figured that one way oranother, the band of
brujos
Loyola had complained to Moon about were responsible for her death.
Charlie Moon also accepted the ME’s tentative finding of accidental death, but, like his friend Danny Bignight, the tribal investigator suspected that there was more to the fatality than met the medical examiner’s eye—contributing factors. Some bad guys had trespassed on Blue Diamond land and gotten crosswise of Loyola. One insult and threat had led to another until . . .
Just for meanness, they killed Loyola’s goat and strung it up on her back porch.
The stress of the angry encounter had probably led to Loyola’s stroke or heart attack.
If that’s really how she died.
He flexed long, lean fingers that could straighten an iron horseshoe, then fold it back into a U.
I’d like to get my hands on whoever it was.
Such a gratifying opportunity seemed highly unlikely—the thuggish half-wits would be far away by now, probably in another state. It bothered Moon that they would probably never pay for what they had done.
Not in this world.
What troubled him even more was an overdose of regret that was settling sourly into his gut.
If I’d driven down here yesterday, right after I hung up the phone from talking to Loyola, she’d probably still be alive.
And not only that . . .
There’s a good chance I could have dealt with those so-called witches.
He raised a sorrowful gaze to the pale blue sky.
But I put off the trip.
Why?
Because I’m just a part-time lawman. And not a very good one at that.
The time had come for some serious soul-searching.
CHAPTER TWELVE
RETURN TO THE COLUMBINE
AFTER HE FINISHED HIS LUNCH, FOREMAN PETE BUSHMAN BIT OFF A BIG chaw of Red Man Tobacco and went to sit on his front porch and chew. While awaiting the boss’s return, he entertained himself by spitting at blackflies. By and by, he heard the Ute’s automobile. He got up from his straight-back chair and ambled slowly across the yard to flag Charlie Moon down as the rancher slowed for a clattering crossing of Too Late Creek bridge. The scruffy-bearded stockman had not heard about Loyola Montoya’s grisly death down in La Plata County, much less the discovery of the charred corpse. As the tribal investigator lowered the passenger-side window, Bushman leaned on the door and grinned at the owner of the outfit. “Glad to see you, Charlie. There’s some things I need to talk to you about, mainly—”
“Not now, Pete.” Moon turned away from the foreman’s intense, beady-eyed gaze. “Whatever it is can wait till later.”
“No it can’t.” Bushman jerked his chin to indicate his residence. “Dolly’s down in her back again and—”
“I’m sorry, Pete.” Moon steeled himself for a conversation he preferred to avoid. “Does she feel well enough to go into Granite Creek and see a doctor?”
“Oh, sure. Fact is, we just got back from town. Doc Martin prescribed some little red pills, said Dolly should take it easy for a week or two. Maybe a month.”
“I hope that’ll do the trick. Make sure your wife gets all the rest she needs.”
“Oh, I’ll do that all right.” Bushman turned his head and spat at a fuzzy brown caterpillar. “But I’ve got an awful lot to do, so I’d like to hiresomebody to help look after my ol’ lady till she’s feeling some better. Kind of like a lady’s companion.”
Moon nodded. “See to it, then.”
Pleased by this easy victory, the foreman figured this was an opportune time to press a related issue. “And then there’s the new horse barn that needs to be roofed before winter sets in, and you know how that can happen here in September. But we’re shorthanded, Charlie, and—”
“Hire whoever you need, Pete.”
This was too easy. The cranky foreman glared at the boss. “Well I generally do,
brujos
Loyola had complained to Moon about were responsible for her death.
Charlie Moon also accepted the ME’s tentative finding of accidental death, but, like his friend Danny Bignight, the tribal investigator suspected that there was more to the fatality than met the medical examiner’s eye—contributing factors. Some bad guys had trespassed on Blue Diamond land and gotten crosswise of Loyola. One insult and threat had led to another until . . .
Just for meanness, they killed Loyola’s goat and strung it up on her back porch.
The stress of the angry encounter had probably led to Loyola’s stroke or heart attack.
If that’s really how she died.
He flexed long, lean fingers that could straighten an iron horseshoe, then fold it back into a U.
I’d like to get my hands on whoever it was.
Such a gratifying opportunity seemed highly unlikely—the thuggish half-wits would be far away by now, probably in another state. It bothered Moon that they would probably never pay for what they had done.
Not in this world.
What troubled him even more was an overdose of regret that was settling sourly into his gut.
If I’d driven down here yesterday, right after I hung up the phone from talking to Loyola, she’d probably still be alive.
And not only that . . .
There’s a good chance I could have dealt with those so-called witches.
He raised a sorrowful gaze to the pale blue sky.
But I put off the trip.
Why?
Because I’m just a part-time lawman. And not a very good one at that.
The time had come for some serious soul-searching.
CHAPTER TWELVE
RETURN TO THE COLUMBINE
AFTER HE FINISHED HIS LUNCH, FOREMAN PETE BUSHMAN BIT OFF A BIG chaw of Red Man Tobacco and went to sit on his front porch and chew. While awaiting the boss’s return, he entertained himself by spitting at blackflies. By and by, he heard the Ute’s automobile. He got up from his straight-back chair and ambled slowly across the yard to flag Charlie Moon down as the rancher slowed for a clattering crossing of Too Late Creek bridge. The scruffy-bearded stockman had not heard about Loyola Montoya’s grisly death down in La Plata County, much less the discovery of the charred corpse. As the tribal investigator lowered the passenger-side window, Bushman leaned on the door and grinned at the owner of the outfit. “Glad to see you, Charlie. There’s some things I need to talk to you about, mainly—”
“Not now, Pete.” Moon turned away from the foreman’s intense, beady-eyed gaze. “Whatever it is can wait till later.”
“No it can’t.” Bushman jerked his chin to indicate his residence. “Dolly’s down in her back again and—”
“I’m sorry, Pete.” Moon steeled himself for a conversation he preferred to avoid. “Does she feel well enough to go into Granite Creek and see a doctor?”
“Oh, sure. Fact is, we just got back from town. Doc Martin prescribed some little red pills, said Dolly should take it easy for a week or two. Maybe a month.”
“I hope that’ll do the trick. Make sure your wife gets all the rest she needs.”
“Oh, I’ll do that all right.” Bushman turned his head and spat at a fuzzy brown caterpillar. “But I’ve got an awful lot to do, so I’d like to hiresomebody to help look after my ol’ lady till she’s feeling some better. Kind of like a lady’s companion.”
Moon nodded. “See to it, then.”
Pleased by this easy victory, the foreman figured this was an opportune time to press a related issue. “And then there’s the new horse barn that needs to be roofed before winter sets in, and you know how that can happen here in September. But we’re shorthanded, Charlie, and—”
“Hire whoever you need, Pete.”
This was too easy. The cranky foreman glared at the boss. “Well I generally do,
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