Walt Longmire 05 - The Dark Horse

by Craig Johnson

  We were both silent, then I apologized. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring any beer.”

  He continued to smoke and then smiled with more than a few teeth missing. “ ’At’s all right, I did.”

  October 19: eight days earlier, night.

  I had been seated at my desk alone, having sent Vic home to grab a shower before she pulled the all-nighter.

  I opened the windows in my office and had just leaned back in my chair to enjoy the unseasonably soft breeze when I heard Dog get up from beside my desk and thump his oversized paws to the door. The beast paused in the hall but continued on toward the holding cells. Since I had adopted Dog, he’d almost never left my side, unless it was for Ruby, and I knew she was home and in bed, so I got up to follow his trail when I heard a low, steady noise.

  I flipped on the kitchenette light. It didn’t give the flat, antiseptic quality that the fluorescent overheads did and wouldn’t disturb Mary too badly if she was only crying in her sleep.

  She was crying but was not on the bunk; she was standing by the bars with her head down. She paid no attention to me or to Dog, who was looking up at her. I took off my hat and stepped forward; there was a lone streetlight across the road that illuminated the sidewalk in front of Durant Elementary, and its light spilled from the windowsill and splashed against the side of her light-colored hair. She was still crying very softly, and I turned to look at her as her shoulders twitched and her voice echoed against the concrete floor in a low moan.

  She had a maiden name, but it wasn’t on the two-page report. “Mrs. Barsad . . .”

  I knew that people made noises in jail, whether they were conscious of it or not. Angry sounds, boisterous sounds, sad sounds—some even sang—but as she continued, I could hear it was the wounded sound, the one that caused the stillness in my hands and the cooling in my face.

  The one I couldn’t stand.

  “Mrs. Barsad?”

  She wailed softly, and I could feel that she was in a place that I could never reach. I felt it in me, and it clawed its way up the inside of my spine. I knew that it would come out of my mouth like a regurgitation of emotion, if I let it.

  I thought about the missing lovers and the dead parents, the friends and strangers that I had seen behind closed doors and closed eyelids. I had lost people too and had grown used to those surprise visits of the mind that froze my thoughts and my heart.

  I stood there, staring down at her, until I became aware of the welling in my own eyes. “Mrs. Barsad?”

  She had paused for a second as she’d inhaled. I barely made out the words that she repeated over and over, and over and over: “So-o-o girl, no . . . Oh, God . . . So-o-o girl . . .”

  October 27, 9:05 P.M.

  Hershel handed me one of the tepid beers he’d retrieved from the spot in the river that he used as a refrigerator as he sat with his back against the post. “There ain’t a pit in hell deep enough and dark enough for that son-of-a-bitch.”

  I threw a couple more logs into the fireplace and dusted off my hands on my jeans before taking the beer. Dog lay down between us as a conciliatory gesture to the old cowhand, even going so far as to allow Hershel to pet his broad back.

  “Dante reserved the lowest rings of hell for the betrayers.” I popped open the can and took a swig. “Rainier.”

  He looked at the fire. “Now, don’t make fun of my beer.”

  “Mountain fresh, my favorite. Really.” He nodded without comment, and I took a moment to study the Henry repeater leaning behind his shoulder. “Is that a real Henry?”

  “Yes, it is.” He smiled. “I found that gun back in the rocks up on Twentymile Butte at the Battlement.”

  “Can I see it?”

  He continued to study me. “I don’t know you that well, and my fortune is in this rifle.”

  I glanced at the fire. “You got a lot of fortunes.”

  “Used to.”

  I nodded and looked out toward the river. “Did you know Wade Barsad well?”

  He sipped his beer with the cigarette still in the corner of his mouth and then let the can dangle as he supported his wrist on his bent knee. “Enough to not cross the street to piss on ’em if his guts was on fire.”

  I took another sip and thought about how much he sounded like my old boss, Lucian Connally; they would’ve been close to the same age. “Did you work for Barsad long?”

  He sighed. “ ’Bout four of the longest years of my life.” He reached down and stroked Dog’s thick fur. “He didn’t like animals, and I don’t trust people that don’t like animals. Hell, animals are the finest people I know.” As if on cue, Dog rolled over and laid his head on the edge of the patio. The cowpoke smiled and talked to the nearest animal while rubbing the beast’s belly. “You like to scare the shit out of me, you monster. I thought you was gonna eat me alive.”

  “Where was he from?”

  “Youngstown, Ohio. Ever been there?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Me neither, but they must breed some true-to-life sons-a-bitches and that’s good enough reason for me to never go.” He took another long draught of his beer. “Made all his money in some steel mill, stole it probably.” His eyes were drawn to the river and the star-dappled sky. “Always talkin’ about how he hated all this cowboy shit.”

  I set the insurance binder on the hearth and leaned forward, my elbows on my knees. “He hated animals, and he hated the West? That kind of strikes me as odd for a fella who buys a ranch in Wyoming.”

  He looked at me pointedly. “Hers.”

  I nodded. “Seems like an odd couple. Where’d they meet?”

  “Some cuttin’ event down in Las Vegas; he liked Las Vegas.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, belching softly at the end. “He was a handsome booger and smart. Don’t get me wrong, he had a boatload of cash and he could turn the charm on like a bug light whenever needed.”

  “Why’d she do it?”

  His hand stopped on Dog, and he looked out into the darkness. “I don’t think she did, but if she did, she come to it righteous.” He stayed motionless, and I got the impression that the Powder River and the high plains sky was not what he was seeing. “I knew a couple once, up near Recluse; fella was out irrigatin’ and come in for his supper and said somethin’ about his wife’s biscuits. She pulled an old long gun off the wall . . .” He gestured to the big carbine in his lap. “. . . not unlike this one, and splattered his brains all over the dinner table.” It was silent for a moment. “She’d had enough and, brother, believe-you-me, Mary Barsad had had enough.”

  “Were you here the night it happened?”

  He motioned with the stubble on his chin toward the hills to our right. “My trailer, back at the loading chutes. Saw the reflection of the fire in the window and heard the horses a screamin’ and come runnin’, but it was too late.”

  I nodded. “Was there lightning that night?”

  He begrudged the answer. “Yep.”

  “The fire from the barn caught the house?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where is the barn?”

  “Opposite side from where you parked your car.”

  “You go in?”

  He looked at me incredulously. “There wasn’t no goin’ in there.”

  “Where was she?”

  I glanced back at the blackened and cavernous rubble.

  This time he motioned with the beer can and the cigarette. “Out there in the grass, with that varmint rifle across her lap.” He took the last puff off the cigarette, stubbed it out on the ground beside the patio, and then stuffed the butt into his shirt pocket. Evidently, Hershel Vanskike was a respectful man, of what I wasn’t quite sure, but I had suspicions. “Her head was down, and it was almost like she was asleep. I touched her shoulder and she looked up at me and said that the horses were dead and that she’d killed him.”

  “Did she show any remorse?”

  “Nope, just said it like she was talkin’ about the weather.” He studied m
e for a moment longer. “You sure do ask a lot of questions about people, for a guy that’s concerned with the insurance. You tryin’ not to pay?”

  “No.”

  “He’s dead, and she’s goin’ to prison; who gets the money?”

  “You tell me.”

  “He’s got a brother back in Youngstown.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch?”

  He nodded his head. “Most likely.”

  We both laughed. “I’m just curious.” I took a sip and changed the subject. “She was good on horseback?”

  He warmed to that line of conversation and smiled. “You ain’t never seen anything like it. She was Junior Cutting Title in Las Vegas, National Cutting Horse Association Super Stakes Champion. Brother, she was the best I ever seen—and I seen some.” He took the last swallow of his beer and crushed the can in his hand. “She could separate a horsefly from a cow’s ass.”

  I took a breath of my own and was sorry to take us back to the sadness. “Why burn all the horses?”

  The older man resumed petting Dog, then stopped and shook his head with his eyes closed. “I’ll be damned . . .”

  “What?”

  His eyes opened, and he looked up at me. “You insured the horses, too, didn’t you?”

  I hadn’t insured anything, but Eric Boss had. “Well . . .”

  “And her?”

  I strained to understand. “Mary?”

  “No, her.” I continued looking at him blankly as the fireplace crackled and popped with small explosions. “Them horses . . . Barsad didn’t burn ’em all.”

  3

  October 27, 10:30 P.M.

  Her name was Black Diamond Wahoo Sue, and she was not your usual championship cutting horse; first off, she was a she and, secondly, she was dark as a starless night. A gorgeous and rare solid black in coat, mane, tail, and legs, the big gal had won every event in which she had competed and was the best in the cutting, reining, and reined cow-horse circles. The mark of a great mare is her ability to produce horses that are possibly even better than herself; Black Diamond Wahoo Sue had done so to the tune of more than twenty-five million dollars, which went a long way in explaining why she was underinsured at close to a cool five million.

  Mary raised her, and she was the horse Mary had ridden at the National Cutting Horse Association championships, her pride and joy, and the thing that Wade Barsad had focused his considerable hatred upon before that fateful night when he’d burned alive not eight horses, but seven.

  We walked our party around to the opposite side of the house and down a flat path that shone with mica in the moonlight. The beer supply had run dry; four for him and two for me, after which Hershel Vanskike produced a fire-damaged bottle of single malt Laphroaig, vintage 1968, from behind the fireplace. So far I’d declined, 1968 having not been the best of years for me.

  The iron gate was soot-covered but still clung to the archway that framed the desolation of the burnt barn. It must’ve been something before the fire, but there wasn’t much left. The photos in the insurance binder showed a log barn handcrafted with natural timbers and small, mission-style lights inset with amber glass that had given the place a friendly bronze glow. I’m not sure if it was the photography or the story, but the barn was more inviting than the house, or used to be.

  The heat must have been terrific, and it was easy to see how the flames had jumped from the barn to the cedar shingles of the house. I stared at the charred timbers and piles of rubble.

  It looked like a mass grave.

  “Did they leave them in there?”

  He socked himself another from the bottle and swung it toward me, a little of the precious, tawny liquor sloshing from the opening at the neck. I held out a hand in abstinence. “No, thanks.”

  “Don’t blame you, stuff’s horrible; needs a little Dr. Pepper.” The old cowboy nodded with a liquor-soaked solemn that he’d probably never shown for any human being. “Smelled like cooked horse for days; I can still smell it.” He weaved there for a moment. “I had my rifle ’cause I wasn’t sure what was going on, but you couldn’t even see to shoot the poor things.”

  Dog sniffed at the burnt grass, looked at the wreckage, then at the drunken cowhand, and backed up and sat on my boot. “And Wahoo Sue?”

  He licked the paper on another cigarette and twisted it together a little unsteadily as I held the bottle for him. “Damn, she was a runner.” He pulled another Blue Tip match from his hatband and lit the cigarette, cupping it in his hand again. “She won that forty-mile Durant-to-Absalom overland race, just run off and left the rest of ’em—first time a woman ever won it.”

  He took a puff, and I could hear the soft pop of his inhale. He brought his head up and took the bottle back, his voice taking on an animation that it hadn’t contained before.

  “She was a cutter, but that horse would race anything. I seen her race other horses, pronghorn antelope, even pickup trucks on the county road. She wasn’t the biggest, she wasn’t even the fastest, but she had something in her that wouldn’t let her get beat. You can see that in an animal.” He continued to look at me through the faint glow of the ember by his chin and the complex sugars racing through his veins. “And some people.”

  “What happened?”

  “ ’Bout a week before . . .” He looked back at what was left of the barn and swigged down a mouthful of single-malt with a squint. “Before this, Wade loaded that horse up into a trailer, laid a .30-30 in the seat of his truck, and then drove off. He went out onto BLM land, south and east toward Twentymile Butte, toward the Battlement. He come back, but the horse didn’t.”

  October 19: eight days earlier, night.

  Mary Barsad’s eyes had been open, but I wasn’t sure that anyone was home.

  I stepped around the partition wall and could see her perfectly framed in the illumination of the streetlight outside the window—she was standing at the bars, her slender fingers wrapped around the steel.

  Her face had turned a little, but she spoke to the diffused light. “Somebody closed the gates.”

  I glanced down at Dog and noticed he was looking up at me. “Mary?”

  “Did you feed Sue like I told you?” Her voice had a detached, otherworldly quality to it.

  “Mrs. Barsad?”

  “We’ll have to wrap that tendon on her—it looks like she’s favoring it.” Dog woofed at her, and I gave him a nudge with my leg. She smiled but continued to gaze out of the cell and just to my left.

  “Mary, are you all right?”

  I watched as her lip trembled and a sob broke loose from her throat. “The horses . . . there’s something wrong with the horses.”

  I didn’t know that much about sleepwalking but had heard that it wasn’t wise to awaken someone in that condition, so I decided to play along. “The horses are fine, I just checked on them.” Dog looked up at me again, and I shrugged.

  She turned and was looking me in the face now. “They’re hurt.”

  I placed a hand on the bars. “No, I just checked and they—”

  She came closer to me and trailed her hands across the surface of the bars as though she were playing a silent harp. “There’s a fire.”

  “No, there’s no fire.”

  “I smell it. . . . Can’t you smell it?”

  Her hand shot out and gripped my sleeve, and Dog mumbled a bark again. “Mrs. Barsad, there’s no fire.” She took a deep breath, and the air caught about halfway. “I just checked, and the horses are all right.” She continued to pick at my sleeve, her eyes imploring. “I think Sue might have aggravated that tendon again, so I wrapped it like you said.”

  Her eyes stayed steady with mine and, with three consecutive blinks, the muscles around her mouth relaxed. She finally smiled and let out a cautious laugh. “She’s okay then?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She let go of my sleeve and stood there. “That’s good. She’s tough.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She didn’t move, and I looked into the shine of her eyes. “M
aybe you should get some sleep?”

  She nodded, turned, and crossed back to the bunk. “You’ll let me know how she is?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She sat, tucked her legs back under the county-issued blanket, and turned away from me toward the concrete-block wall. “Thank you, Hershel.”

  There was a disassociated quality to the entire conversation, and I stood there thinking about what had been said. I finally nodded, patted Dog on the head, and turned to go back to my office. Vic stood in the doorway with two cups of coffee. “Who the fuck is Hershel?”

  I shushed her, and we took our coffee into the reception area near Ruby’s dispatch desk. I took a sip from my chipped Denver Broncos mug and sat on the bench. “She sleepwalks.”

  “No shit.”

  Vic sat next to me, Dog curled up in front of us, slowly rolling over onto his back. “Do you know anything about that stuff?”

  “A little. My brother used to do it.” She sipped her coffee.

  “Which one?”

  “Michael. When he was a kid he used to get up and walk around the house with this dopey expression on his face. He grew out of it, sorta.” She lowered her mug and looked at me. “My mother says my uncle Alphonse says my father used to do it; it’s supposedly genetic.”

  I leaned back and listened to the thin, wooden stays of the bench squeal. “Is it dangerous to wake them up?” I thought about the episode I’d just witnessed.

  Vic shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think we could ever get Michael to wake up.” She watched me. “I’m still not sure we have.” I didn’t laugh at the joke, and she continued to study the concern that rested on my face. “What’d she talk about?”

  “Horses.”

  She petted Dog’s belly with the toe of her boot. “That would make sense. There are environmental factors that can bring sleepwalking on—insomnia, tension, post-traumatic stress disorder, or dissociative states—”