Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  “Yep, but Bass, you could have all of it.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m not so sure I want it with all that bad luck.” He looked at me. “Hell, you know what I could do with just that three hundred thousand dollars?”

  Vic weighed in. “Less than you could do with twenty-four million.”

  “Yeah, but then I’d have to guard that painting, try and sell it . . . I don’t know, but it sounds like a lot of trouble.”

  Wes cleared his throat. “I’m sure that arrangements could be made.”

  “I’d rather not, really.”

  “Mr. Townsend, what if we made provisions for the painting to, say, be on loan from you to Fort McKinney. That way you could retain ownership while the servicemen up at the Home could admire the piece?”

  He snapped his fingers and pointed them at me. “Hey, that sounds good.”

  “I’m not sure how Carol is going to feel about being responsible for the painting, but I’m betting we can get insurance.”

  He glanced down at the other items on the table. “There’s some other stuff.”

  “Do you want us to see it?”

  “Please. Take a look at what’s in the envelope. I’m not sure what it means, but it looks old.”

  Wes reached over and opened the end, carefully sliding a slip of rough paper from the envelope, tattered on the ends and with a portion at the middle missing where it had been folded. Gently, the banker turned the sheet over to reveal writing that had been scribbled in haste.

  Benteen, where are you?

  W. W. Cooke

  We all stood, silent.

  Bass leaned in closer to examine the note. “Who is W. W. Cooke?”

  “Lieutenant Cooke, Custer’s adjutant at the Little Bighorn . . . If this is real, it would be the last known message from Custer before his death, even more recent than the one that hangs in the library at West Point.” I stood up straight, leaning my back against the wall. “Giovanni Martini, the bugler for the Seventh carried the first message to Colonel Benteen, but then Sergeant Daniel Kanipe carried another, and then there were rumors of Captain Jack Crawford carrying a final message that may or may not have gotten through.” I glanced down at the scrap of paper. “This may be that final message.”

  “There’s more.” He cleared his throat. “In the box.”

  We all looked at the tiny cardboard container.

  Bass swallowed and gestured toward it. “Um, you might want to see what’s in there next.”

  Wes leaned over, carefully taking off the lid and staring at the contents and then up at me with an eyebrow cocked. He placed the box back onto the surface of the table and then slid it toward us.

  Peering in, I could see, nestled in slightly yellowed cotton, a shriveled portion of human flesh.

  Vic looked over my shoulder. “Is that a finger?”

  “Yes, I believe it is.”

  Bass spoke under his breath. “Are you shitting me?”

  “I’m no expert, but from the condition, I’d say this is quite old.” Picking up the box, I looked closer at the grisly artifact. “A pinky, I believe.”

  “It’s got a ring on it.”

  I glanced at Bass.

  “Be my guest, I’m not touching that thing.”

  Reaching in with thumb and forefinger, I plucked the digit from the cotton and held it up to the light, the golden ring falling off onto the table, clattering and chiming as it rolled in an uneven circle, finally falling over and lying still.

  There in the minimal light of the safety-deposit examination room, the wider part of the ring winked up at us in tarnished gold, the color not unlike the eyes of my undersheriff.

  A signet ring engraved with the spiraling initials GAC.

  * * *

  —

  “I’m just glad it wasn’t his penis with an arrow stuck in it.”

  I tried not to focus on that image as she drove up the hill toward the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home, carefully placing the cardboard tube onto the new dash. “Nice of him to give the artist proof to Henry.”

  “That’s a lot of shit he’s giving away.” As she drove, she glanced at me. “Is Henry really going to have it framed and hang it in the bathroom at the Red Pony?”

  “Probably.” I moved the small cooler from the carpeted floor to my lap. “I guess it’s real, but who knows? Anyway, the Bear will do what he always does: whatever he wants.”

  She slowed the missile and put on her blinker to turn left into Fort McKinney where four familiar figures sat waving at traffic and waiting for us. Pulling up in front of them, she put the Banshee in park and stepped out as Dog hopped into the front and I hobbled my way around the elongated hood with the small cooler.

  “That is one fine looking truck.” My unofficial Uber driver, the sergeant major of the marine corps, ran his eyes over the new unit. “Black, though, hard to keep clean.”

  “Shut up, Delmar—it’s got white doors.” The army command sergeant major, Clifton, smiled at Vic. “Beautiful lady, beautiful truck.”

  “How fast does it go?” Kenny, the chief petty officer wagged his head in admiration.

  Folding her arms, she leaned against one of the white doors with our freshly applied star. “Faster than he’ll let me.”

  “I bet.” The air force master sergeant, Ray, glanced at me with a raised eyebrow. “Whaddaya got there, Sheriff?”

  I stopped with Vic, the cooler dangling from my hand. “Oh, something I found on the road.”

  Delmar pivoted his newly restored chair for a better look at me. “Can we have it?”

  Kenny nodded. “Salvage laws of the sea, you know.”

  Ray agreed. “This stretch of road is under our command.”

  “What kind of medication are you guys on?”

  Clifford laughed. “The best the federal government can buy.”

  “You guys get me in trouble with your CO, and I’ll be back but not with gifts.” I walked over to set the cooler in Delmar’s lap but then paused. “You guys will save one for Magic Mike when he gets out of the medical unit?”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant.”

  “All right, then.” I put down the cooler. “I just wanted to say thank you for what you did. You could’ve stayed up here in mothballs, but instead, you put yourselves in considerable peril by assisting me with the apprehension of a dangerous criminal and restored a valuable piece of American history to its proper owners.” I stepped back, presented them with my snappiest salute, and ignoring the pain, clicked the heels of my cowboy boots together.

  They sat there looking at me, and then one by one they raised their hands and returned my gesture of respect, honor, and recognition.

  “Gentlemen, you are relieved.” I dropped the salute, and we watched as the Wavers peeled off, one by one, wheelchairs motoring down the pathway toward the old fort with just a touch, perhaps, more dignity.

  Vic strolled up and joined me in watching the military-branch flags bobbing as they rolled along like caissons. “So, what is it, anyway?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This crappy painting that people were ready to kill each other for—I mean why not go out and steal a real work of art like the Mona Lisa?”

  “Well, this one wasn’t quite so closely guarded either in the closet or the chicken shed.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Well, I’d imagine it’s the same reason it got painted, toured around the country, and hung on that saloon wall in Saint Louis, and why Augie Busch ran off a million copies of the thing—contact.”

  “Huh?”

  I turned and limped back toward her truck but was struck as I always was by the power and majesty of the mountains that guarded our little town. “Contact with an important part of American history. Pick a side, but it was a turning point for both cultures and p
opular or not it still resonates into the modern day.”

  “I think most school kids nowadays don’t even know who Custer was.”

  I turned to look at her. “Sitting Bull.”

  “Nope.”

  “Crazy Horse?”

  “Nope.”

  “More’s the pity.” I stood there at the front of her truck. “Hey, can I borrow your phone?”

  She gave me a strange look but then pulled it from her pocket and handed it to me. I dialed, listening to it ring.

  Looking north I thought about the obelisk and the scattered stones on that hillside and ruminated on a band of nomadic people who, even though they won the battle, had lost their way of life. Sitting Bull knew, even with all his dreams of falling soldiers with no ears, that the other US military boot would drop, and the gains made in this great battle would only be a footnote.

  “Daddy?”

  I held the phone a little closer. “Hey Punk, I’ve got some sad news . . .”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Craig Johnson is the New York Times bestselling author of the Longmire mysteries, the basis for the hit Netflix original series Longmire. He is the recipient of the Western Writers of America Spur Award for fiction, the Mountain & Plains Independent Booksellers Association's Reading the West Book Award for fiction, the Nouvel Observateur Prix du Roman Noir, and the Prix SNCF du Polar. His novella Spirit of Steamboat was the first One Book Wyoming selection. He lives in Ucross, Wyoming, population 25.

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