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“Ask Ned to talk to his friends in the Orange County Sheriff ’s Department and to throw that name around along with Lee Nguyen and Tran Van Tuyen; see if they can come up with something down in Little Saigon. Anything else?”
Static. “I’ll just let you read the report. When are you coming back up?”
“I’m going to run out and talk to the Dunnigan brothers, and then I’ll have Saizarbitoria give me a ride back. I figure I can let him have one more night with his wife before banish-ing him to Powder Junction. How’s Dog?”
Static. “He’s fine.”
“Thanks, Ruby.” I paused. “Cady and Henry make it back?”
Static. “Yes, and they’re planning on having dinner later.”
“They say where?”
Static. “I’m not allowed to say.”
Cahoots.
Static. “I have a Methodist women’s meeting at seven o’clock, so can you make it by six-thirty?”
I pulled my pocket watch from my jeans and fl ipped it around. “Easily.”
Static. “I’m holding you to that.”
After talking to Santiago, I commandeered our only vehicle and drove out toward the Rocking D and the ghost town of Bailey. The two kids who had been standing in the fenced-in yard were still there. It took me a minute to find the appropriate switches on the unfamiliar Chevrolet, but I tapped the siren and lights and watched as they jumped up and down, this time in counterpoint, both of them continuing to wave as I made the turn and headed west.
Small joys.
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There had once been a coal mine near the town, but with the caprice of geology and with the disaster that had claimed the lives of seventeen miners just after the turn of the century, the last one, Bailey had bailed. All that was left of the settlement were a few buildings clinging to the trailing end of the Bighorn Mountain range and a cemetery.
I slowed to look at the abandoned buildings in the late afternoon sun, vertical structures attempting to join the horizontal landscape. There were only six—a few were wood frame and a few were stone, a couple had storefronts, and only one was worthy of a second story. The old grayed walkway was twisted, and the wood was pulled from its substructure, but the rough-cut two-by-eights were still there, waiting for the ringing sound of silent boots.
There was a union hall and a tipple at the end of the street, with an assortment of roofless shacks that had been built along the stone cliffs that rose at the end of the abandoned town; the weedy graveyard was on the far side. Seventeen markers had been placed where there were no bodies. The disaster had happened when the unfortunate miners had hit a gas pocket, and the resulting explosion had shaken the ground all the way back to Powder Junction almost twenty miles distant.
None of the bodies were recovered, and I always felt strange driving by the lonely little spot of abandoned civilization.
There weren’t many ghost towns left in the state; most had been packed away and carted off to amusement parks and tourist destinations along I-80. I guess it would be for the good of the county if we got rid of the fire hazard, but it would be sad to see the place go. One of the buildings had already partially burned when some kids had come up from Casper, had drunk too much beer chased with too many shots, and had decided to see how quickly hundred-year-old buildings would burn. We were lucky 74 CR A I G J O H N S O N
in that it was winter, and the snow had isolated the damage to one collapsed wall, one DUI, and three minors in possession.
I doubted many tourists came up 190 to the gravel Bailey Mountain Road, and those that did probably mistook what they saw for the real Hole in the Wall of Butch-Cassidy-and-the-Sundance- Kid fame. Through a side canyon, the road leaves the river and the formation of stunning red sandstone with a passage just large enough to allow the entry of a single wagon.
A handful of men at this location could hold off an army of sheriffs, but they’d never had to, the Wild Bunch’s reputation doing their fighting for them.
Fiction writers would have you believe that this spectacu-lar location was the Hole in the Wall of western fame; it was in reality a cinematic fabrication at best and an uninformed lie at worst. The actual Hole in the Wall was a good thirty miles south and barely noticeable as a slight break in the cliffs, allowing just enough slope for a man on horseback to pass. It had been described by my father to me as the least memorable historic spot in Wyoming.
It was now private land on the Willow Creek Ranch, and the Ferg had been pestering me for years about getting him on the place to do a little fishing at the rustler’s settlement, where Buffalo Creek tumbled out of the canyon and into a perfect tri-angular pasture. The dozen or so log cabins that Butch, Sundance, and the Wild Bunch had used were all gone, the last having been hauled over to Cody and the Buffalo Bill Museum.
I continued on my way and drove past the Bailey public school, which was a one-room schoolhouse, a last bastion of public education with, at last count, two students. It troubled me to think about the school closing, the cabins disassembled, and the ghost towns being flattened; it reminded me that the majority of my life had passed. I had started my education in A N OT H ER
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a school very much like the one here and had spent my child-hood in a town a lot like Bailey would have been if there had not been the mining disaster.
I thought about Cady as I drove; about Michael, who was due to arrive imminently; about Vic; then about the upcoming election in November and the debate on Friday.
I tried to stop thinking and propped my hat over the big eyelet hook that was anchored on the dash. We had a lot of DUIs in Powder Junction, and I guess Double Tough had improvised this way to secure drunken drivers to the vehicle.
The road was rough—it obviously hadn’t been graded since early spring—and the ruts and bumps kept me from getting the twenty- five-year-old unit above thirty. The clouds of dust obscured my view to the rear as I took a right and continued up through the lodgepole pines and scattered cottonwoods that grew along the draws. It was as if life had chosen to run away and hide in the ragged crevices of the harsh country and forgotten to come back out.
I trailed along a small ravine where swallows cartwheeled in the thermals of the russet cliffs, and glanced over the edge to where the creek still carried the snowmelt of the Bighorn Mountains. It looked like pretty good fishing on the Dunnigan place, but I’d also noted the NO HUNTING signs, and fi gured that the fi sh, like everything else, were something the brothers didn’t give away.
They were both handsome old bachelors; I fi gured that they hadn’t married because they were too tightfisted to consider a wife. To hear Lucian tell it, their father, Sean Dunnigan, had been like that as well, except that back in the dirty thirties he had had no choice but to marry Eileen if he wanted to eat—he was that broke. Hence Den and James.
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of the ranch house, a lone and plying sound that had echoed from the canyon. She’d never grown used to the isolation of the place, had grown senile on the ranch, and had died in the late seventies, rapidly followed by Sean, who had evidently grown used to the music of the only woman he’d known.
The brothers were good hands and tough old boys, tough enough to outlast all their neighbors, and they had slowly bought up the surrounding land and the water and mineral rights until the Dunnigans pretty much owned the Beaver Creek Draw.
James was the eldest and had inherited the ranch, even though he’d been kicked in the head by a cantankerous mare when he was a teenager and wasn’t “quite right,” as the locals had put it.
Den had known that James would inherit, had been pissed off at this rule of succession, but had accepted his lot and consequently taken a job in corrections up in Deer Lodge, Montana. He had even bee
n engaged to a woman, but when the engagement entered its second decade she took exception. Den had returned at his father’s request when it became clear that James could not run the ranch by himself and that Sean had gotten too old to be much of a help.
My professional interaction with the Dunnigans was mostly with Den. There had been an incident where he had almost killed another rancher with a shovel in an altercation over water rights and another where he’d broken a bottle off on the bar in town and threatened to perform an amateur tra-cheotomy on a rodeo cowboy, but other than that, we’d been limited to the instances when Den would call in a lost James.
He did this on a periodic basis. A couple of years earlier, during hunting season and an early snow, we’d responded, along with the highway patrol and the county search and rescue, only to A N OT H ER
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find James seated at the Hole in the Wall Bar, adamant that he had phoned his mother and explained that he was safe and spending the night in town.
The problem was that his mother had been dead for a quarter of a century.
I rolled across the cattle guard and parked beside a turquoise and white ’76 Ford Highboy; the motor was running, but nobody was in it. The ranch house was simple, sided horizontally with a low-slung roof, and there was a metal shop nearby that was four times the size of the house.
By the time I got to the sidewalk, Den was coming out the front door. His eyes widened beyond his usual squint and then settled into a general dissatisfaction at seeing me. He had on a clean, white straw hat, hard like plastic, with a black, braided horsehair band, and was dressed in a freshly pressed shirt and creased jeans that cut the air as he walked. There was a red and white cotton bandana at his neck, and he’d even polished his boots. “I guess I need to turn off my goddamned truck.”
I stopped at the single step leading into the house. “Sorry, Den, but I need to speak with you and James.”
He stood there for another moment looking at me and then hobbled past on bowlegs, which approached a full circle, to the parking area where he reached into the side window of the old Ford and shut off the motor. A rifle rack cradling a beaten .30-30 Winchester showed through the rear window.
Den came back down the poured concrete walk, and I could smell the beer on his breath as he scuffled past. I followed him into the house without a word or invitation.
The tawny light of early evening was spreading across the Powder River landscape, and it settled a comfortable glow inside the kitchen. James was seated at a Formica table with a 78 CR A I G J O H N S O N
shot glass and a bottle of Bryer’s Blackberry Brandy, which I assumed was dinner. There was an empty bottle of Busch with more than a few bottle caps pinched together and scattered across the table where I assumed Den must have been sitting before my arrival. The walls were paneled in knotty pine, and all the appliances were what they had called golden harvest in the fi fties. I was sure that nothing in the kitchen had been changed since their mother had died.
The heat was oppressive, even with the industrial- type box fan that was propped in one of the windows. The older of the two brothers stood when I entered, wiping his palms on his jeans and sticking out his hand. He seemed embarrassed that I’d found him drinking in his own home. “Hello, Walt. Would you like some coffee? Mother makes it in the morning for us.”
I withheld comment. “No, thanks. Mind if I sit down, James?”
He pulled out a chair for me and glanced at his brother, who stood by the door with his arms folded and his hat still on. “I suppose you know why I’m here?”
James sat back down and laid an arm along the table. “It’s about that girl we found? ”
“Yep.”
He nodded and then trapped his lips between his teeth.
“About the bar?”
“Yep.”
“We did see her there.”
I took my hat off and set it on the orange vinyl seat of the chair beside me. “That’s what I understand.”
James looked at the surface of the table. “Well, we . . .”
“We don’t have to tell you a God-damned thing. We didn’t do nothin’ to that girl.”
I turned toward Den, but his eyes were fixed on the linoleum. “I’m not aware of anyone having said you did.”
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He folded his arms a little tighter and continued to look at the floor. “But that’s why you’re here, ain’t it?”
“There are some questions I wanted to ask you and your brother.” I waited a moment. “Why don’t you have a seat, and we’ll talk.” He sat on a fold-out stool by the refrigerator. I turned back to James. “You want to tell me about the bar?”
It took him a while to speak, and he didn’t answer my question but instead gestured toward the bottle on the table.
“Would you like a little, Walt? I’ll git you a clean glass.”
“No, thank you.” I waited and started getting the feeling that there might be something more to this than I had at first anticipated.
James licked his lips and poured himself another shot of the sugary liquor. “It was hot on Friday, so we took a little break about one or two in the afternoon. You know, duck in for a cool one.” I noticed his hands were shaking as he put the bottle back down. “She was in there, sittin’ at the end of the bar. So, Den and I sat a couple’a stools away.” He looked up and smiled sadly. “She was a good-lookin’ young woman, and she kept glancin’ over at us.” His eyes turned to the full shot glass.
“We’re just a couple of old hands, Walt. We’re not used to a good-lookin’ young woman payin’ us much attention.”
“You talk to her?”
Den interrupted. “Hell, we thought she was a Jap. She didn’t speak no English.”
I waited, and James started again. “We tried to buy her a couple of drinks, but she wouldn’t take ’em. After a while she got up and waved a little wave at us and left.”
“Bartender can tell you that.”
I looked at Den. “Then what?” He clammed up, sullen again, but James cleared his throat, and I turned back to watch 8 0 CR A I G J O H N S O N
him down his shot. It seemed to me his face was redder than it ought to have been.
“We went out and started to get in the truck, and she was standin’ by her car like she was waitin’ for us.”
Den interrupted again. “She was damn well waitin’ for us.”
I tried to keep the conversation moving. “Then what?”
James cleared his throat again and looked as if all the blood in his body was rising in his face. “She needed gas money. . . .”
His face continued to grow redder, and if I hadn’t known any better, I’d have said that both of the Dunnigan brothers were about to implode of embarrassment. “And she . . . she wanted to couple with us.”
I sat there for a moment to make sure I’d heard what I heard. “I thought you said she didn’t speak any English?”
James seemed to be on the edge of a cardiac arrest. “She didn’t. She didn’t, but . . .”
“Then how could you tell that?”
Den yanked off his straw hat and threw it against the kitchen cabinets. “She grabbed James’s crank and pointed toward the gas cap. That good enough for you, God-damnit!?”
I stopped at the top of the office stairs and stood there glancing around the reception area and listened to the continuing ring of the phone. It was late, but the lights were all on and Ruby’s purse sat in her chair along with her sweater.
I stumbled forward and ran to get the phone, but as I reached for it, it stopped. I stared at the red light that had stopped blinking but stayed steady; someone had gotten it, someone in the building.
Dog was gone, too. I walked down the hallway and past my darkened offi ce where I looked for any Post- its on the door jamb—Post-its were our prose form of communication—but A N OT H
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there was only one and it was from Cady. I held the yellow square up to the light and read, “Daddy, we’re at the Winchester—come join us.” Ruby had marked the time at 6:17 P.M. Four hours ago.
There was a noise from the back of the building, so I continued to the end of the hall where I could see the lights on in the holding cells and the kitchenette.
I stopped in the doorway and watched as Ruby stepped away from the phone on the adjacent wall and sat down on one of our metal folding chairs to pet Dog and resume what looked like knitting.
I leaned against the wall and spoke. “Ruby?” She didn’t hear me, even though Dog looked up and wagged. “Ruby!”
She glanced up and looked stern. “I missed my Methodist women’s meeting.” Her eyes shifted to the holding cell, and I leaned around the corner for a peek at our only inmate.
He was eating with his fingers, and there was a carefully stacked pile of potpie containers near the door of the cell. He didn’t look up when I stepped around the wall to get a better look at him. His hair hung down around his face and to his knees, but he had on the sweatpants I’d provided, and the moccasins. “I guess he woke up.”
“And he was hungry.”
I glanced at the assembled cartons at the big Indian’s feet.
“How many has he eaten?”
“Eight, at last count. That, and three Diet Cokes.”
“I guess his throat wasn’t hurt that bad.” He continued chewing as I crossed to stand by Ruby’s chair. “He say anything?”
“No.”
“How did you know he was hungry?”
She looked up at me. “I made the assumption that since he had been living in a culvert under Lone Bear Road . . .”
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The giant deftly placed the empty tubs on the top of the others but didn’t move from the bunk. “Does that mean he wants another?”
“It has eight times now.”
I dug into the minifreezer and pulled out the last of our potpies, removing it from the box and tossing it into the microwave.
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