Read Online The Night Visitor by James D. Doss - Free Book Online

out the winner. Not so, the others cried—a gouged-out eyeball was worth three or four chewed ears any day of the week. All turned to the proprietor to settle the dispute honorably. Tillie, with a Solomon-like solemnity, considered the case. And made her decision: the fight was a draw. All bets were off. There were dark mutterings here and there, but most were satisfied to break even in a fair contest that had been ruined by the meddling lawman.
    Moon sat the miscreants in a pair of Tillie’s uncomfortable straight-backed chairs, then straddled a similar piece of furniture. He assumed his professional expression of “sorrow at being a witness to this disgraceful conduct” and addressed the Ute first. “Curtis, you’re an embarrassment to the People. What’s the matter with you?”
    The one-legged Indian rubbed at his injured eye and glared at the skinny white man with the one that worked. “This little blue-eyed devil cheated me on a bet—he put some stuff in my pocket when I wasn’t lookin’ and then he pretended to have X-ray vision—like Superman!” His injured expression appealed mutely to the police officer. Would a real human being do such an unspeakable thing?
    â€œI never did no such thing,” Flye lied. “This whiner tried to welch on an honest bet. Where I come from, that’s the
worstest
thing a man can do.” The stranger, who held a grimy handkerchief over his chewed ear, thrust a daggerlike finger at the one-legged Ute. “Welcher!”
    Moon noticed that one digit was missing from the bloody hand. “You lose a finger in the fight?”
    Flye shook his head.
    â€œHe claims a bear bit it off,” Curtis Tavishuts said with a sneer. “That fuzzy-faced bastard can’t open his mouth without lyin’.”
    Moon raised an eyebrow at the skinny, bearded man. “Just where do you come from?”
    Chewed Ear puffed out his thin chest. “Arkansas.”
    â€œHah,” the Ute said. “Damn hillbilly from Dogpatch.”
    Moon aimed a warning glance at Tavishuts, then returned his attention to the man from Arkansas. “What’s your name?”
    The white man spoke without taking his baleful gaze off the surly Ute. “Horace Flye.”
    â€œHorsefly,” Tavishuts said derisively, and spat on the floor.
    â€œInjun welcher,” the man from Arkansas responded, and also spat on the floor.
    Tillie bellowed: “Either one of you dummies spits on the premises agin’, you’ll be cleaning it up with your tongue.”
    â€œBlue-eyed devil,” the Ute muttered.
    â€œOne-legged cannybubble,” Horace hissed.
    Moon sighed. A lot of children were walking around in men’s bodies. “Now both of you keep quiet long enough to listen to what I’ve got to say.” He gave Curtis Tavishuts a hard look. “You know the routine. This disturbance occurred out of tribal jurisdiction but we’ve got an agreement with the Ignacio town police about arresting Native Americans. So I’ll takeyou over to SUPD and put you in the lockup till we can sort this out.”
    Tavishuts grunted to show his indifference. The SUPD can was like a second home. And the meals were catered by Angel’s Cafe.
    The Southern Ute policeman addressed the out-of-towner. “Mr. Flye, as you are not an Indian, you’ll be taken into custody by the Ignacio town police who… well, speak of the Devil …”
    The timing was fortuitous. Moon looked out a greasy window to see the freshly waxed Ignacio town police cruiser come to a halt, its tall mast antenna oscillating with a whish-whish sound. A moment later, the bearish form of Sergeant Bill McCullough kicked the door open. He stood there, ten paces from the pair of bar-brawlers. Like an executioner relishing the bloody task before him. The town policeman was shorter than Charlie Moon, barely topping six feet even in his thick-heeled black