Legacy of Evil

by Sharon Buchbinder

  “A shower first, then a cold one.” Bronco whistled for Gaucho who came bounding out of the darkness. “You look satisfied with yourself.” The cat chirped and head butted his leg. He clipped the leash on the harness. “No scaring the guests.”

  Lucius smiled. “I sure appreciate that. We have two couples staying with us. They fished all day, caught their limit. Hope you like trout almondine.”

  “My best recipe is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My second best recipe is drive through. This is a treat.”

  Lucius led the way into the hotel. “Your room’s at the top of the stairs, to the right. We might have a few scraps of fish left for your friend. I’ll go check the kitchen.”

  ****

  Bronco admired his room. The updated bathroom, king sized bed, and flat-screen TV brought the place into contemporary times, but the carved wood-paneled walls spoke of its rich history. Gaucho immediately leaped onto the four-poster, rolled onto his back, stretched his legs out and fell asleep. Never let anyone say that cat wasn’t pampered.

  Every muscle in his body screamed for a long hot bath, but with a cold drink waiting for him in the bar, a quick shower would have to do. Bronco pulled the white cloth curtain around the tub, cranked on the faucets to let the hot water run, and stripped out of his denim cut, T-shirt and jeans. He’d blown out of Colorado so fast, all he had with him was one set of spare jeans and a T-shirt in the bottom pouch of his back pack. He’d forgotten to pack underwear. Perfect. Guess I’m going commando. He set the recycled mayonnaise jar of yarrow tea on the edge of the sink, along with the dry washcloths Emma had provided. He stepped into the shower, yelped, and adjusted the spray of hot water. Lathering shampoo into his hair, he put his head back under the flow of water, and sighed.

  Clean at last.

  The only thing that would make this perfect would be if Emma was in here with him. He’d be careful washing her back—and her front—and using slow gentle movements. He’d be happy to show her exactly why this bucking Bronco was a ride she’d never forget. Soap bubbles slid down his chest, and he slowly stroked his pecs and lower abdomen in a dreamy state of relaxation. As his hand headed toward his groin, the toilet flushed.

  “Dammit, Gaucho! I’m going to kill you!”

  He snatched the curtain back—and no one was there, not even the cat. He stepped out of the shower and stomped into the bedroom. Gaucho, still sprawled out on his back, was apparently deep in sleep because his feet were running in the air.

  Shaking his head, he went back into the bathroom. The jar full of yarrow tea sat in the sink with the top off, a cloth soaking inside. “What the hell?”

  He glanced up at the steam-covered mirror. A pair of dark brown eyes stared back at him. When he swiped at the condensation, they vanished.

  ****

  Emma packed her coyote colored rucksack with enough clothing for a week. After stuffing the side pouches with travel sized toiletries, protein bars, nuts, dried fruit, and bison jerky packets, she took the Mossberg 500 out of its rack, slid it into her tactical shotgun scabbard, and placed everything by the front door. Her glove compartment was packed with ammo, as was the ammo reload carrier pouch attached to the scabbard. Hunting knife strapped to her hip, she pondered for a moment, tapping her chin, feeling like she was missing something.

  Her olive drab first aid kit sat open on the kitchen table. She didn’t recall putting it there. Shaking her head, she said, “I must be losing my mind.” Along with the usual scissors, scalpel, compress dressings, adhesive bandages, adhesive cloth tape, hydrocortisone, antibiotic ointment, antiseptic wipes, aspirin, acetaminophen, gloves, roller bandages, gauze, triangular bandages, and tweezers, she also packed injectable lidocaine, suture, needles, syringes, and an assortment of plastic containers filled with medicinal herbs and compounds.

  The now clean and less stinky canine patrol came bounding through the doggy door, yipping and dancing around the kitchen. “Hey, who said it was dinner time?”

  Panting, Baaíishiialiche the Labrador mix threw herself on the floor in front of the refrigerator and gazed at the door as if in love. Hisshe, or Red, the rescue beagle, howled mournfully while Bishké, the German shepherd mix sat in front of the backpack and whined.

  “The three of you can knock it off. I’m not going away forever.” A rap at the door set the dogs into a frenzy of barking, yowling, and yipping. She put her hand up. “Stop!”

  Shaking, Hisshe stopped howling, but continued to whine.

  Thinking her ranch hand, Hank, had decided to stop by for any last minute instructions, Emma yanked the door open.

  Tommy Otterlegs stood on her front step in his black uniform, hat in hand. “Good evening.”

  “What on earth are you doing here again?” She glanced at the moon halfway on its journey to the night sky. “And late, at that.”

  He craned his neck, trying to peer around her. The dogs sat alongside her, forming a canine wall. “Just checking to see if everything’s okay.” He glanced down at the dogs, and his gaze snagged on her rucksack. “Going somewhere?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah, I’m going to be away for a while.”

  “I’ll be sure to have a patrol car come by your house and keep an eye out.”

  “My ranch hand will be here, no need for that.”

  “He can’t be here twenty-four/seven. Don’t you have horses for him to look after, too?”

  For the most part, Emma loved her tribe, but this was one member she could really do without—especially now. “I’m good, it’s all good. You want to send a cruiser, knock yourself out.” But no more than that, you officious twerp. “As you can see, I’m a little busy.”

  “Happy to check all your windows, make sure everything is buttoned up.” He put one foot in the door, as if to come in, and Bishké growled. He pulled his foot back. “Or not.”

  Smiling to herself, she sent a mental thank you to her protective canine.

  “Where are you going?”

  Damn, this guy just won’t take a hint.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going west, taking a friend to see the Lewis and Clark Caverns.” She knew that would provoke him, but she couldn’t help herself. “So, see you in a week or so.”

  His lip curled with anger. “You mean that biker? Seriously, what do you see in him? He’s no good. I looked him up in ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. He’s got a rap sheet as long as your arm. Assault, battery, auto theft, possession of dangerous drugs, possession of weapons, attempted murder—and that’s just the surface.” A smug expression crossed his face. “Yeah, I did my homework, that’s what I do. I find the bad guys and I Lock. Them. Up.”

  Emma put her hand on her right hip, the one with the knife holster. “Well, if he’s so bad, why’s he out on the streets?”

  “I—I’m—not sure. I’m trying to find that out.” He frowned. “His complete records are hard to access. I could only see the charges, not the details.”

  “Hmmm.” She shrugged. “Unless you have more than that, I strongly suggest you leave him alone. You wouldn’t want your boss to find out you’ve been harassing someone, would you?” His radio crackled to life. “Who’s closest to the Hardin Burger Barn? We have a D and D—Owner says her husband’s drunk as a skunk and harassing the customers.”

  “I’ve gotta get going. Duty calls!” Speaking into his radio, he spun on his heel and sprinted for his car.

  Wheels squealing, Otterlegs’ car peeled away from the curb as if in a high-speed pursuit.

  Chuckling, she returned to her packing. Bronco’s cover was so good, it even fooled the local Keystone cop. The next time she saw him, which would be very soon, she’d have to compliment him on his nice “resume.”

  Another rap at the door, this time in code, told her Steph had arrived. She swept in, and the dogs wagged their tails and jumped on her in greeting. “Yes, yes, my loves. Good to see you, too.”

  Throwing her arms around Emma, she lifte
d her off her feet in a breathtaking hug.

  “Steph, I’m not going away forever, just a few weeks.”

  “Well, I’m worried about you. I know you’re a powerful warrior woman and all that, but seriously, you don’t know who you’re up against.”

  “My brother is going to send a detailed report to me shortly, and Bronco’s got his own investigative tools.”

  Steph batted her eyes. “I’d love to see his tool, but I have a feeling you’ll see it before I do.”

  Heat burned Emma’s face. “You have the dirtiest mind. If you weren’t my cousin—”

  “Your life would be dull and boring!” Steph twirled her hair. “I do have a little bit more information on the brown-shirts.”

  “What? Tell me!”

  Steph pulled a kitchen chair out and seemingly floated into it. Her cousin was exceedingly graceful. Emma sat across the table from her.

  “I saw my friend, Babs, you know the one they beat up. We were at the Garrett, having a drink, and we were talking—”

  Emma covered her face with her hands and moaned. “You did not mention this investigation!”

  “Give me some credit, girl! Trust me, I’m a regular Mata Hari.”

  Emma grumbled under her breath, “Matted Hairy.”

  Steph slapped her hand. “While I was talking to Babs, a really cute young blond guy with a crewcut came over to our table and asked us if we were from Billings and if we were looking for a good time.”

  A lump formed in Emma’s throat. “No.”

  “Yep.” Steph smiled like a Cheshire cat. “So, I said, maybe, maybe not, have a seat, we’ll talk about it.”

  “And?”

  “He was adorable, but way too young for me, so I told him we’d be like his big sisters, keep him out of trouble. He says, ‘Oh, I’ve been warned already’ and I said, ‘Do tell’ and he told us there’s a website with travel advisories for LGBT folks telling them to stay out of certain parts of the country.”

  “I’m going to kill you. Spit it out.”

  “He said, ‘A bunch of Neo-Nazis have been posting crap online about how they’re going to own Montana, make it a sovereign nation, make the state racially pure again, like it was back in the good old days,’” Steph wiped a tear away. “They’re here. In our state. Up north. I think that’s who attacked Babs.”

  Emma’s head spun. Neo-Nazis trying to take over Montana? Were they really that widespread? She wasn’t totally naïve about the ultra-right-wing groups. In fact, for a short stint in the Marines, she’d spent some time as a recruiter. In preparation for the role, she’d been taught to be on the lookout for controversial tattoos and symbols. Some people, she’d been told, attempted to penetrate the military to try to recruit people for their extremist causes. Tattoo identification had been part of her training. Gang and prison tattoos were a red flag, as were any of the Aryan Nation, Skinhead, White Power Warheads, or any other White Supremacist or Neo-Nazi groups’ tattoos. Not only did these groups want to infiltrate to recruit members, but also to learn military and tactical training to take back to their paramilitary compounds to prepare for the coming war of the races.

  What if a group decided just obtaining the usual military weapons training wasn’t enough? What if they went high tech, going after the latest technology, including unmanned weaponized drones that could attack without anyone seeing it coming? These Neo-Nazis had to be responsible for the drone attacks on the mustangs and the eagles. Killing the sacred animals had been symbolic—and probably practice for bigger targets. She and Bronco had to stop them before they moved onto attacking people.

  Steph waved a hand in front of her face. “Hello? You in there?”

  Shaking her head to clear the black clouds lingering in her thoughts, Emma said, “Yeah, sorry. I had to process everything you said. Great job, Steph. You are Nancy Drew.”

  “Mata Hari. I’m too exotic to be Nancy Drew.”

  “You’ve got that right.” Emma stood. “Before I forget, here’s the arnica compound I promised you. Rub it in at bedtime. If you can put some heat on that, too, it will help.” She handed her a container of white ointment.

  “Thank you, baby.” Steph stood and clutched Emma’s hand. “You know, I never used to believe in this stuff about us Two Spirit people having the gift of prophecy. But, just this once, baby, please, for the love of your family, your tribe—me—please, please, please be careful. I have a really bad feeling about what’s coming.”

  Hugging her cousin, Emma tried to shake off a feeling of dread—with no luck.

  “If I don’t do this, others will be hurt. I can’t let whoever is doing this kill any more horses or eagles—or buffalo.” She almost said people, but kept that fear to herself. Instead, she plastered a grin on her face, lightened her voice and threw out, “Listen. Tonight I have a meeting at the Hotel LaBelle with a guy named Bronco who has a smart bobcat and looks like hot sex on a stick. I’d be crazy not to chase that cute little butt, wouldn’t I? What could possibly go wrong?”

  Chapter Seven

  Bronco quaffed his cold brew and made small talk with the other guests of the Hotel LaBelle. His mind kept wandering back to that kiss and wondering what Emma was doing now. Belatedly, he realized they hadn’t really discussed the next steps and timelines. But he was grateful for the ride from Mrs. Longjaw, although he found it difficult to socialize with normal people. Like now.

  Long-time friends, the foursome dining in the saloon with him probably traveled together everywhere. The men had been friends as children, and now forty years later were still connected. The good news was they had each other and could “talk amongst themselves.” The bad news was when all four of them turned their focus on him, he felt as if he was being interrogated by Senator McCarthy and the House Committee on Un-American Activities.

  “So.” The forty-something blonde named Claire tossed her hair over her shoulder and stared at his uncovered arm with the screaming eagle diving toward his wrist. “What does that tattoo symbolize?”

  Paul, her balding, portly husband, whom Bronco pegged at a hair over fifty, put his hand up. “Claire, that’s a personal question. I work with these people and I’ve been told each one has a story—none of which is my business.”

  “Hmm.” Bronco frowned. “Not sure what you mean by ‘these people.’ Can you clarify that for me?”

  Paul flushed as red as his glass of Merlot. “I just meant all these youngsters, the millennials, and what’s your generation—the Gen X’s? The ones I work with are covered in these things—and body piercings.”

  Claire grimaced.

  Lisa, a woman who either had cancer or anorexia—and his money was on the latter after watching her push her food around on her plate—had what he dubbed a Skunk-Do—black hair striped with thick lines of bleach blonde hair, chimed in. “Yech. Those things on the lips? The brow? And the nose? What do they do when they get a cold? I mean, doesn’t that thing catch a lot of—well, you know.”

  “Snot?” Bronco filled in, loving the expressions on their faces when he dared to use the four letter word. “The people I know who have nose piercings remove them when they get an upper respiratory infection. And tattoos? They’re not new. Tattoos date back to Neolithic times.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” drawled Lisa’s husband, Mark, who was on his fourth scotch—and that was just since dinner began.

  “Hold on.” Pulling out his phone, Bronco connected to the hotel Wi-Fi and searched on tattoos. “Smithsonian Magazine had an article on it.” He displayed a photo of a mummy with a tattooed hand that dated back to over five-thousand years old.

  Mark snorted and took another swig from his half-empty glass.

  “Come to think of it,” Claire said, “my grandfather had a ship tattooed on his chest. When I was a little girl, he’d take his shirt off and make it ride the waves for me.”

  “That’s completely different,” Paul sputtered. “He was a Navy man, a patriot. Not this…” He pointed at Bronco and stopped s
peaking.

  “What he means is,” Claire interjected. “Your generation.”

  Once again, his secret identity was good. Too good. As long as people were willing to judge others on appearance and not action, he’d never have to worry about having his cover blown. Bronco had said nothing nor had he done anything to offend the foursome—except show up in his own skin. He wondered how Lucius put up with guests like this, then he recalled the innkeeper came from a meaner time.

  “My generation? My guess is I’m no more than ten years younger than you folks. Not that big a difference in age. But clearly a difference in opinions.” He rose. “It’s been nice meeting you. I’ve had a long day, so I’m going to say good night.” The women’s high-pitched voices drowned out the men’s lower pitched mumbles of responses. He wondered how much later they’d be up drinking and if Lucius would have to carry Mark up to his room.

  He found Lucius wiping the kitchen counters. “Where’s your bride?”

  “In bed with her feet up.” He glanced at the kitchen clock. “She’s usually asleep by nine-thirty these days. Has more energy in the morning. What can I get you?”

  “Wondering if you have those fish scraps for Gaucho. If not, he’ll scare up a meal on his own.”

  The tall innkeeper dried his hands on a tea towel. “I sure do.” He rummaged in the large refrigerator and pulled out a plastic baggy filled with white chunks. “So, what did you think about the guests?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

  “Not a fan.” Bronco shrugged. “But they’re your bread and butter, so I’m not going to be a problem, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Quite the opposite, pardner.” Lucius handed him the baggy and then reached overhead and pulled down a package covered with buckskin. “Been doin’ a little investigating while they’ve been out.” He began to unwrap the bundle. “This here is Beautiful Blackfeather’s medicine stick.” He pointed to a plain looking twig with a wispy white feather at the tip. “You and I haven’t had a chance to talk about what I can do.” He put his hand up. “I know you don’t want me going out what with Tallulah being about to pop. Just watch.”