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

boots. But he had shoulders a yard wide. A long bullet-shaped head which—because he had no discernible neck—sat directly on the yard-wide shoulders. He peered through nasty little black eyes, set on each side of a long, broken nose. This was a cruel face that might have adorned a recruiting poster for a neo-Nazi organization. But it was all deception. Underneath the fearsome shell was a warm heart, a generous nature. And a wry sense of humor.
    Charlie Moon knew this.
    Horace Flye, of course, did not.
    McCullough’s voice was deep, like the rumble of summer thunder. “H’lo, Charlie. You got one for me?”
    The Ute policeman nodded. “Looks like we got a bad guy for both of us.”
    McCullough’s massive hand caressed the heavy black baton hanging on his gun belt. His thick lips twisted into a diabolic grin, exposing a row of square teeth such as are rumored to bite through seasoned two-by-fours like they were ripe bananas.
    Flye sucked in a deep breath and turned to Moon with a desperate whisper. “Well, I guess you’ll have to take
me
to that Injun jail too.”
    Moon repeated his position with considerable patience. “Like I told you, the Southern Ute police only have jurisdiction over Indians. Everybody else is dealt with by the Ignacio town police.”
    Horace nodded eagerly. “But I
am
an Injun.”
    Moon suppressed a smile. The mere sight of Buffalo Bill McCullough had a sobering effect on the criminal element. “Funny… you don’t
look
Indian.”
    â€œOh, but I am. On my mamma’s side, bless her poor soul.”
    â€œOh? Which tribe?”
    An unexpected question. There was the barest hesitation as crooked wheels spun in Horace’s head. The word seemed to spring from nowhere. “Mugwump.”
    The Ute policeman cocked a doubtful eyebrow. “Never heard of ’em.”
    â€œOh, that’s ’cause they’s a little bitty tribe. Almost wiped out a long time ago.” The traveler from Arkansas was warming to his task. “You never read that book—
The Last of the Mugwumps?”
    â€œCan’t say I have.”
    McCullough, wiener-sized thumbs hooked in his gun belt, approached his quarry. Each heavy footstep brought a protesting groan from the oak floor. The buffalo-shouldered town policeman ignored the one-legged Indian. He looked crookedly down the bend of his nose at the hapless Arkansas man. His voice was a deep, resonant bass, seeming to rumble up from some internal volcano. “I s’pose this little pissant belongs to me.”
    Horace Flye felt like an insect caught in the sticky web of a large, bullet-headed spider. He gazed at the Ute policeman with mute appeal.
    â€œThat’s what I’d thought,” Moon said. “But now he claims to be Indian.”
    McCullough snorted. “Injun my arse. Looks like a damn shanty Arshman to me.”
    â€œWell, he could be
part
Irish.” Moon assumed a thoughtful look. “But even if he’s only got a drop of Native American blood in his veins, he falls under SUPD jurisdiction.”
    Relief and gratitude washed over Horace Flye’s face.
    Bill McCullough tilted his huge head and studied Horace. “What kinda Injun this pissant say he is?”
    â€œMugwump. On his mother’s side.”
    McCullough was genuinely puzzled. “I never heard a no Mugwumps. They must not be from around here.”
    â€œThey’re from Arkansas,” Moon said. “They were almost wiped out a long time ago. There was a book wrote about ’em.”
    McCullough scratched an ear the size and texture of a worm-eaten cabbage leaf. “Book?”
    â€œSure,” Moon said with feigned pity for the untutored town cop.
“The Last of the Mugwumps.”
    â€œOh yeah… I think I saw the movie.” McCullough turned away slowly. “Well, if they’re both Injuns, I guess they’re all yours, Charlie.” His