wiping at the greasy Formica surface with a paper towel. "You never know what you'll find in Angel's grub. Maybe," he said, "you'll get the salamander!"
Parris hid a grin. Special Agent Hoover leaned forward, straining to hear. "Did I understand you to say…"
"Damn right," Gorman said, jerking his thumb toward the smelly kitchen where Angel concocted the grub. "Salamander," he muttered darkly. He glared back at Moon. "You know my third cousin Sally Bitter Horse, from over at Hondo Fork?"
Moon nodded. Everybody knew Sally. The Navajo woman was always suffering with some new and wonderful ailment.
"Well," Gorman whispered hoarsely, "Sally, she told me she got that salamander right here, in some of Angel's chicken salad three Sundays ago. That night, Sally took the chills. And then," he lowered his voice, "she had the squirts for most of a week." He hitched his thumbs under his overall bib. "That's what she says."
Hoover stared uncertainly at the rancher. "Even in this dump… surely no one would put a…"
Gorman shook his head sadly at the ignorant tin horn. "Nobody
puts
salamander in the food, sonny. When you're not watchin', they just crawls in there all by theirselves." City folk. They never did understand hardly anything about nothing.
Hoover glanced quickly toward Charlie Moon, then at Scott Parris. Both men were hanging on every word from the old man's mouth. These dumb cops would believe anything. But the special agent looked into the dim chamber that was Angel's kitchen. On the far wall, there was a shelf lined with large jars. Jars filled with dill pickles. And pickled cauliflower. And shriveled pigs' feet. And what else? Hoover pushed the menu aside.
Gorman leaned over and whispered in Moon's ear. "I need to talk with you."
Moon wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and looked up at the rancher. "About Big Ouray? I already told you I'd go and check it out."
"Well, that's just the thing," Gorman said with forced casualness, "it's like I told you this morning—I called Doc Schaid. He'll go have a look. He'll work out what happened and write it up on one of them forms. You don't need to bother yourself about it no more."
"That's fine," Moon said, "but I'll go over to the canyon and nose around anyway. If somebody killed Big Ouray, it's police business."
At the mention of a killing, Hoover's back straightened. "What did you say?"
Gorman had practically wadded his old hat into a ball. "Just leave it alone, dammit. If death wasn't by natural causes, there won't be no insurance money. If there ain't no insurance payment, I'm wiped out." Moon sure was awful slow to catch on. Big men were like that. Slow.
Hoover fairly shouted. "Killed? Damn it all, who was killed?"
Moon ignored the visitor from the Bureau. "Okay, Gorman. I've got to poke around a bit, but I'll try not to queer your insurance settlement."
The rancher nodded his thanks and bolted away while Hoover sputtered. The special agent was trying vainly to get Moon's attention. "What happened to this… Big Ouray?"
"Yeah," Parris said, "you didn't mention anything about—"
"Sure I did, just before Mr. Hoover got here. Gorman Sweetwater, the fellow that just left, he found Big Ouray dead this morning. Over in
Canon del Espiritu.'"
Hoover's voice was almost shrill. "How was the victim killed?"
Moon didn't look at the special agent. "Victim?"
Hoover slammed his palm against the table. "The homi-cide, dammit! Was it by gunshot, a knife, blunt instrument, what?"
A tiny light sparkled in Moon's eyes. "Well, we don't know exactly how Big Ouray met his end." He wrinkled his brow in pretended concentration. "Could be something he ate. Maybe some Jimson weed."
A muscle twitched in Hoover's jaw. "You suspect he was poisoned?"
The Ute sipped at his coffee. "Could be," he said, "we won't know until the car… the remains are examined by Doc Schaid."
Parris was trying hard to understand, then he put it together. Big Ouray was the dead bull Moon had mentioned
Parris hid a grin. Special Agent Hoover leaned forward, straining to hear. "Did I understand you to say…"
"Damn right," Gorman said, jerking his thumb toward the smelly kitchen where Angel concocted the grub. "Salamander," he muttered darkly. He glared back at Moon. "You know my third cousin Sally Bitter Horse, from over at Hondo Fork?"
Moon nodded. Everybody knew Sally. The Navajo woman was always suffering with some new and wonderful ailment.
"Well," Gorman whispered hoarsely, "Sally, she told me she got that salamander right here, in some of Angel's chicken salad three Sundays ago. That night, Sally took the chills. And then," he lowered his voice, "she had the squirts for most of a week." He hitched his thumbs under his overall bib. "That's what she says."
Hoover stared uncertainly at the rancher. "Even in this dump… surely no one would put a…"
Gorman shook his head sadly at the ignorant tin horn. "Nobody
puts
salamander in the food, sonny. When you're not watchin', they just crawls in there all by theirselves." City folk. They never did understand hardly anything about nothing.
Hoover glanced quickly toward Charlie Moon, then at Scott Parris. Both men were hanging on every word from the old man's mouth. These dumb cops would believe anything. But the special agent looked into the dim chamber that was Angel's kitchen. On the far wall, there was a shelf lined with large jars. Jars filled with dill pickles. And pickled cauliflower. And shriveled pigs' feet. And what else? Hoover pushed the menu aside.
Gorman leaned over and whispered in Moon's ear. "I need to talk with you."
Moon wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and looked up at the rancher. "About Big Ouray? I already told you I'd go and check it out."
"Well, that's just the thing," Gorman said with forced casualness, "it's like I told you this morning—I called Doc Schaid. He'll go have a look. He'll work out what happened and write it up on one of them forms. You don't need to bother yourself about it no more."
"That's fine," Moon said, "but I'll go over to the canyon and nose around anyway. If somebody killed Big Ouray, it's police business."
At the mention of a killing, Hoover's back straightened. "What did you say?"
Gorman had practically wadded his old hat into a ball. "Just leave it alone, dammit. If death wasn't by natural causes, there won't be no insurance money. If there ain't no insurance payment, I'm wiped out." Moon sure was awful slow to catch on. Big men were like that. Slow.
Hoover fairly shouted. "Killed? Damn it all, who was killed?"
Moon ignored the visitor from the Bureau. "Okay, Gorman. I've got to poke around a bit, but I'll try not to queer your insurance settlement."
The rancher nodded his thanks and bolted away while Hoover sputtered. The special agent was trying vainly to get Moon's attention. "What happened to this… Big Ouray?"
"Yeah," Parris said, "you didn't mention anything about—"
"Sure I did, just before Mr. Hoover got here. Gorman Sweetwater, the fellow that just left, he found Big Ouray dead this morning. Over in
Canon del Espiritu.'"
Hoover's voice was almost shrill. "How was the victim killed?"
Moon didn't look at the special agent. "Victim?"
Hoover slammed his palm against the table. "The homi-cide, dammit! Was it by gunshot, a knife, blunt instrument, what?"
A tiny light sparkled in Moon's eyes. "Well, we don't know exactly how Big Ouray met his end." He wrinkled his brow in pretended concentration. "Could be something he ate. Maybe some Jimson weed."
A muscle twitched in Hoover's jaw. "You suspect he was poisoned?"
The Ute sipped at his coffee. "Could be," he said, "we won't know until the car… the remains are examined by Doc Schaid."
Parris was trying hard to understand, then he put it together. Big Ouray was the dead bull Moon had mentioned
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