Murders of the Sixth Kind, Ch 4

From Legends of Tsalagee, book 2

Author’s note: The chapters presented here in ILLUMINATION Book Chapters are from the second novel in my Legends of Tsalagee mystery series. The release date has yet to be determined, but roughly late summer, early fall 2021. In the meantime, I’m looking for beta readers. If interested, please visit my website and contact me via email for more information.

Four

White drummed the booth tabletop with his right fingers, studied his F-150 pickup parked outside the window. “I believe it were a UFO.” He turned his head to look at Renata.

“So do I,” she said.

White nodded once and looked across the table at Deputy Bluehorse. “What about you, Cal?”

The three of them sat in a booth at Arlene’s, the middle of three along the front window, the pane with the green E N painted on it. Come for their mid-morning coffee meet, Cal and White also took on a fresh-baked cinnamon roll. Jo Lynn said to them when she came over with their coffee, “I got three cinnamon rolls left, better jump on ‘em.”

“Yep,” White said.

“Okay,” from Cal. Renata shook her head “no.”

Pouring, Jo Lynn said to Renata, “Too bad, honey. Woman in your job could use some more weight.” The men laughed; Renata rolled her eyes.

White had come in two minutes after the deputies and slid into the booth next to Renata. Like the rest in the café, they took up conversation on the weekend’s events — the mysterious lights in the night sky. Also, that bloodless body that turned up out at Tubbeeland. White already knew about Renata’s investigations.

“So whadda you think, Cal?” White asked again.

The deputy shrugged. “Well, Renata said the object she couldn’t identity flew up into the air, so I’d have to say I believe that what she reported was a UFO.”

“Yep,” Renata added.

“Naw, naw, that ain’t what I meant. I mean, one of them extertrestral things with space aliens in ’em. I think that’s what you seen and I think that’s what that crazy bitch Sunny seen. I would’ve thought it’s just another one of her damn ol’ hippie pot-headed hallucinations hadn’t been for them other reports from the Easter boy, Miz Anderson, and them others. Easter may’ve been drinkin, but don’t believe Miz Anderson made anything up. Don’t know her well, but believe she’s honest… and Baptist sober, too. Seen some of them myself one night in the A Shau over in Vietnam.”

Although less than a mile from where Sunny Griggs stood when she witnessed the lights, White had seen nothing that past Friday night, absorbed in watching the latest episode of Blue Bloods. But he wasn’t skeptical about such things, having had his own encounters with strange phenomena. Besides his Vietnam sightings, he claimed to have fifteen seconds of 8mm footage he shot back in ’77 of a local Bigfoot. He’d also seen enough episodes of Ancient Aliens on the History Channel to believe these UFO things been around for thousands of years.

“You figured out who that dead guy was yet?” White asked.

Cal and Renata glanced at one another; Cal shook his head.

“I figure them aliens done it,” White offered. “Ain’t never heard of a human getting sliced up that way, but they do it to cows all the time.”

The short wide olive-skinned guy everybody referred to as “the stranger” came through Arlene’s door, limped his funny limp along the counter and took a stool. Cal changed the subject.

“Hear you got a new neighbor, Uncle White,” he said.

“Heard that, too; only I ain’t met him yet.”

“He just came in,” Cal said. “You could go over and introduce yourself.”

White looked over his right shoulder, then back at his coffee cup. “Naw, not here. I’ll go t’his place some evenin, take him over a Bundt cake or somethin.”

The two deputies laughed. “I didn’t know you could cook, White,” Renata said.

Decided he’d play along, shrugged. “Bundt cakes ain’t hard. All’s you need is one of them pans with a hole in it, and an oven. Rest is in a box with directions on it.”

White had four-wheeled out to his range in the late afternoon. Sun was getting below the trees behind him. About time to pack it up. Picking up the Smith and Wesson to unload it, he looked out to the fence line where the headless gnome still stood.

Sunny hadn’t removed it, left the stupid thing standing there. He guessed she probably didn’t want to sacrifice another one of its brothers. She’d come out sometime earlier and set this one upright, but didn’t send in another. Just as well, White nodded. He’d damn sure blow that one’s head off, too. Earlier, he considered takin another potshot at the standing remains but decided against it. Hell, Sunny was just tryin to creep him out with it or piss him off. Maybe both. Truth was, it sorta did, but he’s not gonna let her know that.

He brought his Smith .357 out this evening, along with the Glock and Henry. He always liked to fire the rifle; liked the feel and power of it in his hands and its kick against his shoulder. Imagined he was Heck Thomas or Bill Tilghman firing on the likes of Bob Dalton or Cherokee Bill Goldsby.

“That three fifty-seven a Smith and Wesson?”

Putting the pistol in its bag, the voice came from behind him, White jumped. He wheeled, the gun still in his hand. Ten yards behind him was the stranger, dark in the twilight.

“Whoa, sorry pal,” Tom said, raising both hands, palms out. “Didn’t mean to spook ya. Heard ya shooting, thought I’d come see what youse up to. I’m your new neighbor.”

“Damn,” White said, lowering the pistol. “What t’hell’s wrong with you, mister? Sneakin up on me like that, I coulda shot ya.” Keeping it held at his side, he didn’t mention he’d unloaded the revolver. “Still might,” he added.

The square man laughed; didn’t appear nervous… or sorry. He wore no hat, his hair black and slicked back, looking darker in the twilight, like a fat weasel. “Yeah, I can see that. Hey, c’mon. I didn’t mean nutin.” He raised his hands higher with a shrug.

“You’re that Tom Kelly feller from California,” White said.

“You know me?”

“Friend of mine said he met ya. Word gets around.”

“Well, hey,” the man said. He stuck out his hand, offering it. “You got me at a disadvantage.”

White, after a slight pause. switched the revolver to his left, took the handshake. “Name’s Oxley, White Oxley.”

“Actually, I knew that. That real estate cowboy told me. Been meaning to come over a couple weeks now. Guess the shootin kinda drew me over here.”

White spat. “Bobby John ain’t no cowboy.”

Tom laughed. “Didn’t think so. Has a damn nice hat, though.”

White nodded and laughed, too. “Well, yeah. T’answer your question: this here’s my Dirty Harry gun,” White held the big pistol up to chest level for Tom to see. “It’s a Smith Model Twenty-seven, six-and-a-half-inch barrel.” He paused and grinned. “In case you’re feelin lucky today.”

Tom gave a slight nod, half-grinned back. White turned the gun butt-first, handed it to Tom. “It ain’t loaded.” Tom took it, started looking it over, opened the cylinder and spun it.

“You a shooter?” White asked.

Tom stuck out his lower lip and nodded. “Yeh,” he said, nodded some more. “Yeh. Done some uh dat.”

“What, you hunt or just shoot?”

“Little bote.” More nodding. “Little bote.”

White kept a silent look on Tom for a few more seconds, watching him examine the pistol like he knew how to handle it. “I knew some Italian guys in the Army.” Tom handed the pistol back, White put in its canvas bag and zipped it. “They talked like you, only they wasn’t from California. They come from New York, born and raised there, they told me. Pretty obnoxious about it, too, as I recall.”

“I’z a kid there, grew up in Brooklyn. Moved out to El Ay when I’z twenty.”

“Yeah, I don’t spect Los Angeleez and New York is all that different. Not enough to change your accent, anyway.”

Tom watched White pack up the guns. “Guess youse is through shooting for the day.”

“Yep, used up all my ammo. You wanna come up to the house, might have some coffee. Ain’t got no Bundt cake, though.”

“What?”

“Aw, nothing,” White picked up the Henry in one hand, the pistol bags in the other. “It’s a joke I have with a friend.” White watched the guy move around, noticed the limp. “Hop in the ATV, we’ll go see about that coffee. Might have some whiskey to smooth it down some. You opposed to whiskey?”

“Not in this lifetime,” Tom said.

Tom sat at the kitchen table while White got mugs from a cabinet, poured up the coffee and put them in the microwave. “This here’s noon coffee, damn coffee maker shuts off after two hours, so I gotta nuke it up some. Hope you don’t mind.”

Tom shrugged, drummed his fingers on the table, looked around. “So youse a bachelor?” he asked.

“Used to have a wife,” White brought the mugs to the table along with a pint of Old Crow. He opened the bottle and poured generous dollops into both mugs. “She passed on a couple years back. Cancer got ‘er.”

Tom stuck his lower lip out again and shook his head. “Too bad. My mudda had the Big C. Terrible thing.”

“Case of my wife, I believe it was best she passed on. I’s married to the woman for forty-three years, knew her more’n fifty, but in all that time don’t believe she ever had a sunny day. I coulda been partly to blame, but I thought she had to take credit for some of it.

“How ‘bout you? Got a missus?” White sipped from the cup of whiskey with coffee in it.

“Nah. Had me some girl friends back in N — California; nutin too long-term. Longest one hung around about four years. All of ’em bimbos. All any of ’em wanted was for me to buy ’em stuff, expensive stuff. But I mostly only wanted one thing, too. Y’know?” He pushed his lip out and shrugged. “It seemed like a fair exchange.”

White snorted and sipped. Tom went on. “After a while, we seemed to tire of each other, though. We all moved on, no hard feelings with any of us. Know what I mean?” Tom took a good drink from the mug, coughed, and smacked his lips.

“Excellent coffee,” he said.

White smiled, took another sip of his own. “So how you likin the neighborhood?”

Tom shrugged again, a habit he had for most questions. “Interesting place; dead guy shows up out in a field with no blood, there’re mysterious lights in the sky.” He shook his head. “I d’know, I d’know. You got vampires around here?”

“Hell, they might be. All kinds of weird shit in these parts. You met your other neighbor yet?”

“That woman with all the leprechauns? Naw.”

“She’s a crazy bitch. Damned ol’ hippie. I’d stay away from her if I’s you.”

“What about our other neighbors, those Indians got all that land,” Tom asked.

“The Tubbees?” White poured more whiskey. “What is it you’ve heard about ‘em?”

“They own a lot of land, there’s a lot of them, they’re not too friendly, and they’ve got gold.”

That made White smile. He sat down the pint of whiskey and capped it. “So, you heard about the gold.”

“Only from one guy. Whadda you know about it? All a bunch of bullshit or what?”

“My family been around here almost as long as the Tubbees. My granddaddy knew old Amos. Ever’body around here did back then. He’s a famous man in these parts.

“Story goes, during the Civil War, Amos took up with the Union side; Indians what did that was called, loyalists. Most was Choctaws, a few Seminoles and Cherokee. Amos bein Choctaw, was Union. Anyway, after the war a lot of the Indins was starvin, ‘specially those sided with the Confederates. All they had was land and a few cows and pigs… those left the Union army didn’t take or kill.

“Amos started buying up all he could, both things — land and livestock. The Federals confiscated a lot, the land, and sold it real cheap to Union officers and soldiers who wanted it. Still, Amos seemed to get more’n his allotment, ‘specially after the Dawes Act come to be law. Seemed to be, Amos had a lot of money. Mystery how he come by it. Mainly just a poor dirt farmer before the war.”

White took another long drink of his whiskey-fied coffee and exhaled with loud satisfaction. He coughed and put a fist to his mouth; coughed again and said, “Damn.”

Tom waited until White finished his coughing fit, sipped. “So, I suppose this is the place where the gold comes in. Amos capture a leprechaun or something.”

White cleared his throat and hacked again. “Ain’t nobody ever seen any gold, nobody then or since, but my granddaddy said couldn’t nobody figure out how Amos got so all-fired rich suddenly.”

“There’s one story that near the war’s end, some in the Confederate government back in Richmond could see what was coming. So they wanted to spirit their gold reserves away to Mexico until they could mount an effort to rise again. Couldn’t use the railroads, so they took out overland in a small wagon column. Somewhere in east Texas they ran into a band of outlaws, some said Choctaws. Outlaws set the Confederates afoot with no guns and took their wagons.”

“Well, nobody knows if that really happened, just hearsay. But the fact Amos got rich quick made people suspicious, ‘specially amongst all the Southern sympathizers.”

Tom leaned back in his chair, scratched one side of his face with an upward movement of his fingernails. “So, he cashed in some uh dat gold to buy the land. Don’t guess he traded gold bars for it.”

White shook his head. “No, doubt it; still, that’s a lot of gold. Wouldn’t be easy to dispose of something like that. Not like you could drop a twenty-five-pound bar of gold on a store counter and say, ‘Gimme some eggs and milk.’ The storekeep might have trouble making change.”

Tom chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, yeah, that might raise some eyebrows. So, whatsit your gramps said happened to the gold the old Indian didn’t spend.”

“Most folks think it’s hidden away somewhere on Tubbeeland. After he bought the land, which he practically stole, the ranch started generating its own money, so he didn’t need to use the gold for cash. My guess, Amos didn’t want to put all that remaining gold in a bank somewheres. Despite his loyalist leanins durin the war, he knew how the Federal gummint treated a Indin’s property when they’s something they wanted.”

“And all his family didn’t split it up?”

“Hard to say, but there ain’t no actual sign they did. I figure only one or two of Amos’s boys knew where he stashed it. Knowin what gold lust could do to a person or family, maybe they kept it a secret. They had the land. Maybe all of ’em know where it’s at. And maybe out of some kinda fierce Indin family pride or somethin, they all wanna protect it from the outside world. Judgin from how hostile them Tubbees is to outsiders comin onto their land, I’d say that sorta makes sense.”

© 2021 by Phil Truman. All rights reserved PTI Publishing Broken Arrow, OK

This is a work of fiction. All persons and events depicted sprang from the mind of the author.

Thanks for taking time to read these chapters. I would welcome and appreciate your comments, pro or con.

Shout outs to: Britni Pepper, Tree Langdon, Roz Warren, Bebe Nicholson, Stuart Englander, The Garrulous Glaswegian. Linda Halladay, Liam Ireland, Teresa Kuhl, Amanda Walker, Karen Madej, Terry Mansfield, Trapper Sherwood