Dead Soul by James D. Doss Read Free Book Online Page A

understand. The woman, who had been robbed three times in five years, automatically raised her hands over her head. She nodded at the cash register. “Hey, take it all, Pops—just don’t shoot me!”
    Oscar Sweetwater pointed the revolver at a telephone, sucked in a deep, rattling breath. “Call an ambulance.”
    “Yes sir.” She snatched the phone off the hook.
    “And the police—call them too.”

Chapter Seven
    Four Months Later
    LATE MORNING SUNSHINE BATHED THE COLUMBINE IN A SPRAY OF purest gold. On the wintertime side of the ranch headquarters, the river—swollen with snow melt—roared over black basalt boulders. At the edge of the south valley, the mirror-surfaced glacial lake nestled like an emerald on the throat of the mountain. Charlie Moon, who owned this rugged corner of paradise, was leaning on a steel-pipe fence beside a fat, bearded trucker who smelled of beer and tobacco. Both men were watching Moon’s ill-tempered foreman and a half dozen dusty cowboys unload twenty head of Herefords into the holding corral. The purebred animals were a fine sight to behold. Fine enough to make a stockman’s eyes go moist. When the last of the costly beasts were unloaded, the trucker said a hearty good-bye to Moon and thanked the rancher for a first-rate breakfast. The heavyset man went to button up his rig in preparation for a long, empty run to Fort Worth.
    With the throaty rumble of the diesel engine, the cowboys shouting and cursing, the clanging of gates, the snorting and stomping of half-ton animals, the corral was incredibly noisy. Moon, who had his back to the ranch headquarters, had not heard the arrival of the sedan. Neither was he aware of the small man making his cautious way down the slope from the big house. He was startled when a thumb poked him in the ribs.
    He turned to see the wrinkled, smiling face of the Southern Ute tribal chairman. The rancher shook the elder’s outstretched hand. “Hey, Oscar—you sneaked up on me.”
    Oscar Sweetwater took a place at the fence. Admired the fat cattle. “Looks like you’re doing all right for yourself.”
    “I haven’t gone bankrupt yet. And,” the former tribal policeman added, “it beats hauling drunks to the jailhouse.”
    “But you still carry a badge.” Sweetwater was not a man for making small talk. He had a reason for reminding Charlie Moon that he was a special investigator, reporting to the tribal council. Which, for practical purposes, meant that he did an occasional piece of work for the tribal chairman. If Moon had the time. And the inclination.
    The rancher was on his guard. “You here for pleasure—or business?”
    Sweetwater looked up at the seven-foot Ute. “I am a fortunate man. For me, business is always a pleasure.” He jutted his chin to indicate the animals in the corral. “I think you like your business too.”
    The younger man clapped his big hand on the chairman’s thin shoulder. “Let’s go up to the house.”

    OSCAR SWEETWATER ’ S small form was almost swallowed up by a huge, overstuffed chair. The old man’s eyes were closed. He would occasionally open them, take a sip from a mug of coffee laced with milk.
    Charlie Moon stood in front of the massive granite fireplace that dominated the north side of the parlor. Flames crackled in the stack of split pine. The rancher warmed his hands.
    Sweetwater cleared his throat. “Seems like a long time since we buried Billy Smoke.”
    Moon, half mesmerized by the flames, nodded. “How’s the senator getting along?”
    The chairman moved the mug in a counterclockwise motion. A dark whirlpool formed in the black liquid. “Patch bought himself a fancy motorized wheelchair.”
    “Will he ever walk again?”
    “Don’t look like it. Some people think he’ll resign from the senate. But Patch knows this attack will get him lots of sympathy—and plenty of extra votes come next election. And the next election is all he cares about. You mark my words, Charlie—he’ll be