By Craig Johnson
The Longmire Series
The Cold Dish
Death Without Company
Kindness Goes Unpunished
Another Man’s Moccasins
The Dark Horse
Junkyard Dogs
Hell Is Empty
As the Crow Flies
A Serpent’s Tooth
Any Other Name
Dry Bones
An Obvious Fact
The Western Star
Depth of Winter
Land of Wolves
Also by Craig Johnson
Spirit of Steamboat (a novella)
Wait for Signs (short stories)
The Highwayman (a novella)
Stand-alone E-stories
(Also available in Wait for Signs)
Christmas in Absaroka County (four stories)
Divorce Horse
Messenger
VIKING
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2020 by Craig Johnson
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Names: Johnson, Craig, 1961- author.
Title: Next to last stand / Craig Johnson.
Description: [New York] : Viking, [2020] | Series: The Longmire series
Identifiers: LCCN 2020013739 (print) | LCCN 2020013740 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525522539 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780525522546 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3610.O325 N49 2020 (print) | LCC PS3610.O325 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020013739
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020013740
Netflix is a registered trademark of Netflix, Inc. All rights reserved.
The series Longmire™ is copyrighted by Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0
For Kathryn Court, editor, publisher, and dear friend.
CONTENTS
Cover
By Craig Johnson
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
About the Author
There are not enough Indians in the world to beat the Seventh Cavalry.
—GEORGE ARMSTRONG CUSTER
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The story of Cassilly Adams’s painting Custer’s Last Fight, approaches the drama of the historic moment it depicts and is something I’ve wanted to write about for some time. Although I’ve been interested in the Battle of the Little Bighorn, I never developed the mania that seems to overtake those who fall under the spell of the monumental incident that took place just up the road from my ranch. There has been so much written and rewritten on the subject that it seemed like a mountain too tall to climb, until I stumbled onto something that triggered my interest . . .
Other than seeing Budweiser reproductions hanging in every bar and saloon in the West, I happened on the painting in a literary sense in the Norman Maclean Reader, a collection of essays, letters, and other writings by, in my estimation, one of the most eminent men of letters in the West. A portion of the book is dedicated to an unfinished Custer manuscript that the great writer either gave up on, or simply discovered he didn’t have time to write. The Cassilly Adams painting is referred to numerous times, and its social implications intrigued me to the point that I started off on the first of many steps in climbing Mount Custer.
One source was Christopher Kortlander, ambassador and diplomatic agent for the Crow Nation and his extravagant Custer Battlefield Museum in Garryowen, Montana. Mr. Kortlander is licensed to reproduce the Otto Becker revision of Adams’s Custer’s Last Fight through Anheuser-Busch in a beautiful, museum- quality print, which is available through the museum at www .custermuseum.org.
There have been numerous books written on Custer, The Little Bighorn Battle, Sitting Bull, and Crazy Horse just to name a few, and I can say that I have now read the majority of them—and not all of them are good. The ones I’ll mention here are the cream of the crop, so that any readers who wish to follow in my footsteps will have a ready-made trail marked for them.
For an overall, clear view of the historic events that led to the battle, the battle itself, and the ramifications that followed, Nathaniel Philbrick’s The Last Stand would be hard to beat, with James and Jim Donovan’s A Terrible Glory coming in at a phenomenally researched second. Stephen E. Ambrose’s Crazy Horse and Custer was another wonderful read that brings the epic event down to a human scale, along with the venerable Son of the Morning Star, by Evan S. Connell. There are others that encompass a larger scope, such as The Custer Myth by Colonel W. A. Graham and The Custer Reader by Paul Andrew Hutton, but I have to admit that I most enjoyed the native narratives for their polar perspectives. We’re fortunate enough to have amazing works such as James Welch’s Killing Custer and my good friend Joseph M. Marshall III’s The Day the World Ended; along with the anthologies of Lakota and Cheyenne voices such as Custer’s Fall, collected by David Humphreys Miller; Cheyenne Memories of the Custer Fight, compiled by Richard G. Hardorff; and Lakota Noon, compiled by Gregory Michno. Osprey Publishing’s offering, Little Big Horn 1876: Custer’s Last Stand, is a concise guide to the battle for those not wishing to climb the mountain but loiter among the foothills.
This book wouldn’t have been quite so enjoyable without my many visits to the Brinton Museum in Big Horn and the Buffalo Bill Center of the West over in Cody, two museums that if you happen to be passing through the wilds of Wyoming, you should make a point of experiencing.
Thanks to Mary Sue Williams and the staff at the Wyoming Home for Soldiers and Sailors—yes, she really does exist—and the staff and rangers up at the Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument for answering my continual questions in my numerous visits.
Finally, thanks to all my friends and comrades on the Northern Cheyenne and Crow Reservations for being the filter through which all this information had to pass.
This book marks a beginning and an end within the Longmire canon with the retirement of my dear friend and editor at Penguin Random House, Kathryn Court, who took a chance years ago on a cowboy novelist from a town of twenty-five and became the godmother of then unknown Walt Longmire. Through her careful mentoring, the good sheriff has achieved dizzying heights, and a great deal of my success can be traced to her. I’m sorry to see her go but understand that life is made up of transi
tions and this is another. I will miss her dearly.
Thanks to my agent and confidant, Major-General Gail Hochman and her second in command, Brigadier General Marianne Merola. Thanks to Colonel Margaux Weisman, Lieutenant- Colonel Victoria Savanh, Major Ben Petrone, Lieutenant Mary Stone, Master Sergeant Eric Wechter, and Corporal Francesca Drago.
A special thanks and welcome to Chief Mule-Skinner Brian Tart, president of Viking and Penguin Publishing, who takes over the reins of editing me. We’ll keep our eyes to the horizon where new adventures await along with many novels to come.
Finally, to my wife, Judy, the Scout, who finds the sign of my heart no matter how rocky the trail may be.
1
Years ago, on one particularly beautiful, high plains afternoon when I was a deputy with the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department, I propped my young daughter, Cady, on my hip and introduced her to Charley Lee Stillwater. Charley Lee was one of the Wavers, as they were called, the old veterans who sat in front of what was originally Fort McKinney, which then was called the Wyoming Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home until the name was changed to the Veterans’ Home of Wyoming, to wave at passing traffic.
Charley Lee put Cady in his lap and sang old cowboy tunes to her all afternoon—she’d been enraptured.
On the drive home, the five year-old asked, “Has Charley Lee been out in the sun too long?”
I’d smiled. “No, honey—he’s a different color than us.”
She thought about that one, her hair swirling in the wind. “He’s brown.”
“Well, yep, he is. Like your uncle Henry.
She spoke with the certainty of one well acquainted with her colors. “Uncle Henry is tan.”
“Um, yes, he is.”
“What are we?”
“We’re white.”
The future lawyer studied her hand and then me as if I was trying to get something over on her. “We’re pink.”
“Yep, but they call it white.”
She’d been silent for a moment and then proclaimed with solemnity. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Few things about skin color do, Punk.”
Fort McKinney was built in response to the intense reaction caused by the defeat of Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer and his Seventh Cavalry at the Battle of the Little Bighorn in 1876. It was one of many forts constructed to combat the fanciful Indian menace that was sweeping across the high plains, even though the Indian Wars were over with by the time Custer may or may not have saved the last bullet for himself.
By 1894 it was pretty well figured out that wild Indians weren’t really much of a threat and the fort was closed; in 1903 the grounds and structures were handed over to the state of Wyoming.
It’s about a half mile along the cottonwood-lined entrance from the fort’s front door to State Route 16 that winds its way through Durant and up into the Bighorn Mountains range, but Charles Lee Stillwater would make the trip every morning and every afternoon in his electric wheelchair to sit by the red-brick sign that read VETERANS’ HOME OF WYOMING and wave at the sporadic traffic.
That’s how I had met Charley Lee, an exuberant man who liked to refer to himself as “the last of the Buffalo Soldiers” down to the Union kepi he wore on his head. Of all the men in their modified wheelchairs at the entrance to the home, he was the one who waved as if his very life depended on it.
I always waved back, and one day, when I served as a young deputy under former sheriff Lucian Connally’s command, my curiosity got the better of me, and I’d stopped for a visit. Maybe it was because I was freshly back from Vietnam or maybe I was still in need of a little enlisted conversation, but I’d driven the Bronco Lucian had assigned me into the pull-off, handed out Reed’s Root Beer candies to the small group, and leaned on the fender to talk with them. It became a routine that became a habit during the slow afternoons special to rural law enforcement, and one I continued with through today.
“He was born in Saint Louis, Missouri, July Fourth, 1923, to George and Lula Stillwater, and was the older of two sons,” Kenny Cade offered from his wheelchair. A chief petty officer, he was a small man and a bundle of energy who had lost his legs when a jet had run over them. It was a little cool this morning, so Kenny was wearing his khaki N-1 Deck Jacket, the faux fur pulled up near his tanned face. “He worked at the family general store his parents owned, but when a traveling negro baseball team, the Indianapolis Clowns, stormed through the town, Charlie threw out twelve base runners and hit three lingering curveballs so far into the weeds that no one could find them. He played pro ball after that.”
I leaned against my truck and nodded. “How did he end up in the military?”
“Pearl Harbor.”
“Oh.”
Someone driving by honked their horn, and I watched as the men all waved.
Kenny continued, “Yeah, he joined up and they sent him to Fort Bliss, Texas, in ’42, where he shoveled shit in the stables and slung shit on shingles at the commissary.”
“He hated Texas.” All four of the men in wheelchairs nodded as I turned to Army Command Sergeant Major Clifton Coffman, who nudged his boonie hat back on his head.
“Why?”
“Said it was too hot, but hell, you shovel shit or shingles anywhere for four years and I defy you to like it.” Kenny continued. “When he got back, he became the starting catcher for the Kansas City Monarchs, also working part time in the textile mills. He married Clara, a widow with two children. And they had one of their own, whom they named Ella.”
I nodded. “I knew her. She was a nurse?”
“Yep. Charley Lee was well on his way to becoming an all-star when the 999th Armored Field Artillery requested his assistance in a little get-together along the thirty-eighth parallel.”
“Hell, I think they just promised him he wouldn’t have to go back to Fort Bliss.” Ray Purdue smiled, the air force master sergeant always seeming to be sharing a joke with only himself. “Korea had to be better than Texas.”
They all nodded some more.
Marine Sergeant Major Delmar Pettigrew rubbed a knob below his knee where his right leg used to be before a malfunctioning hand grenade had removed it and its twin to the left. “Order 9981.”
They all nodded some more.
“What was Order 9981?”
Another horn blew, and the Wavers waved again.
Ray lowered his arm and then squinted a pale blue eye in concentration. “In 1948, President Truman issued Order 9981 that all branches of the US military be desegregated, but some all-black units remained until the mid-fifties.” He continued. “By April 22, 1951, UN forces were trying to recover from a counteroffensive launched by the Chinese People’s Liberation Army. It was Charley’s 999th’s job to support South Korean infantry in what would be the Chinese army’s spring offensive.”
Clifton stared at the pavement between his missing legs, lost in a Jeep wreck during the Tet Offensive. “They got their ass shellacked for one full day before they were ordered to fall back because the Chinese were advancing south across the Imjin River. They redeployed at Kumgong-ni and began firing on the pursuing Chinese only four thousand yards away.”
“Four thousand yards?”
His eyes shifted to me. “Did I stutter, Lieutenant? Anyway, the observation outposts began being overrun and communication wires went silent on ’em.”
Delmar sighed. “They abandoned their asses.”
Kenny pulled at an earlobe as if trying to pull the story back. “When a reported battalion of South Korean infantry a thousand yards to the west turned out to be a singular soldier, Charley Lee and the rest of the 999th loaded up a convoy and headed south, hoping for the best.”
Delmar sighed. “They didn’t get it.”
They all nodded.
“What happened?”
Kenny, who seemed the most knowledgeable of
Charley Lee’s past, continued. “Falling back to Pobwon-ni, they found that that village had been captured and they were gonna be surrounded. They had about a hundred Chinese infantry hiding in the rice patties on either side of the road, and the 999th was getting hell with heavy submachine gunfire. Hell, all our guys had was howitzers, so the convoy was sorely lacking in short-range defensive weapons.”
Clifton smiled. “Charley Lee started catching and throwing the Chinese incendiary grenades back at ’em, but they started taking mortar fire and the damned vehicles were blowing up left and right.”
Delmar shook his head as he watched a blonde in a convertible drive by. “So, Charley Lee jumps in the M39. I mean, shit was on fire everywhere, and this Korean truck blows up in front of him. Well hell, he’d driven through enough cornfields back in Missouri and figured he could drive through rice patties, so he did.”
Kenny made a face. “Ran over at least a dozen Chinamen and then made it back onto the main road but not before taking machine-gun rounds in his left thigh, right hip, and foot.”
Ray pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one with a decorated Zippo he struck to life on his own stump. “That was the end of his ballplayer days.”
Kenny went on. “He rolled back to the textile mills and coached Little League and high school baseball before retiring back in Missouri. After his wife died, his daughter, Ella, brought him here.”
Somebody on the road honked, and they all dutifully waved.
“How did he die?”
Delmar laughed. “High-stakes bingo game Saturday night that Charley Lee won out and began laughing. He laughed so hard that he set to coughing and went off to bed and never woke up. All I could think was that was how I wanted to go.”
Another car horn blew, and the four men waved at the passing driver, all of them grinning.
Looking up and down the road that led into the mountains, I couldn’t help but feel a wave of sadness overwhelm me. Deaths up at the Fort are a common albeit sad occurrence that almost never necessitated the involvement of the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department, unless unfired ammunition or weapons were found. Because the staff knew Charley Lee was a friend and like a surrogate grandfather to my daughter, they contacted me as a professional courtesy.
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