Walt Longmire 05 - The Dark Horse

by Craig Johnson

  I struggled up from the floor and grabbed the corner of the bar as I ran toward the jagged glass shards of the now-shattered front window; I slid to a stop in the full illumination of the truck’s high beams.

  I brought the Winchester up in a half-extension, the barrel pointed directly at the darkened driver’s side. Old habits die hard, and the words were out of my mouth before I could reassess. “Sheriff, freeze!”

  There was a brief second when absolutely nothing happened, except the second, third, fourth, and fifth helping of guessing; you don’t know who they are, you don’t know if they’re going to comply, you don’t know if they’re still armed, you don’t know if they’re still aiming at you, you don’t know if they’re involved with the case, and you don’t want to shoot even after being shot at, unless you absolutely must.

  Then the big full-ton shifted, and the reverse lights illuminated the rear of the truck. I lowered the barrel of the shotgun, aimed at the radiator, and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp click.

  Nothing.

  I jacked the pump-action as the Dodge flew into reverse, sprayed gravel in a murdersome arc, and was jammed into a forward gear. I took aim at the rear tires and pulled the trigger again.

  Click.

  Nothing.

  The truck disappeared over the hill at the edge of town and then reappeared on the next hill, hell-bent for diesel leather as it continued down the Powder River Road, the smoldering running lights like tracers in the darkness.

  I turned back and heard noises from the rooms in the motel—people shouting, people running, and probably now people dialing 911. I rested the shotgun on the particleboard surface, jacked the pump-action back but not forward, and looked into the empty chamber of the Winchester.

  I raised my head and could still see the unconscious owner of The AR propped against the mudroom wall in the pooled moonlight. I spoke quietly to the two of us as I lay the scattergun on the bar and watched my hands shake. “Who the hell puts only one round in a shotgun?”

  6

  October 28, 6:11 A.M.

  I waited quietly in the back of the Campbell County sheriff’s cruiser, tried not to concentrate on the multitude of stains on the seat, and watched as the former and now retired Absaroka County sheriff and the current and very active Campbell County one explained to a deputy why it was he couldn’t arrest me. The deputy didn’t seem happy with the turn of events but, with less than a year on the job and facing close to a half-century of experience, he didn’t have much recourse.

  Sandy laughed with Lucian, and they came over to the parked car where they both got in the front. They turned and looked at me through the wire mesh that divides the arrester from the arrestee, both grinning like possums.

  My old one-legged boss shook his head. “Jesus H. Christ.”

  I shrugged as best I could with the handcuffs on, nodded toward him, and looked at Sandy. “What, you decided you needed backup?”

  He smiled and glanced at Lucian. “He said you were most likely lost, and we should go look for you.” Everybody liked Sandy, and if you didn’t, all he had to do was smile and you would. “He also said it was likely that people would be shooting at you.” I didn’t say anything, and he continued. “That deputy of mine wants to put you in jail some kind of bad.”

  “I refused to give him any ID and didn’t offer a whole lot of information. I told him I’d just wait for you. I take it he doesn’t know who I am?” The young man was watching us from the walkway of The AR.

  Lucian interrupted. “He thinks you’re Dillinger, but then he couldn’t find his pecker in a pickle jar.”

  Sandy folded his arms over the back of the front seat. “So, what happened?”

  I told them.

  “Holy crap.” He sighed.

  I leaned forward. “What’d Pat say?”

  “The owner?” I nodded. “He says he was closing up the place and that he heard something in the back and went to check it out.”

  “With the shotgun?”

  The sheriff of Campbell County snorted. “He didn’t mention that part, till we asked him how the window got blown out and onto the road.”

  I looked at him. “And?”

  Lucian laughed. “He says somebody drove by, threw a few shots into the bar, and kept going. Says it happens periodically when he makes folks pay up their tab—said he always throws a few rounds back at ’em just to dissuade ’em of the activity.”

  I readjusted my weight. “And the part about being unconscious when the deputy got there?”

  “Says he slipped and hit his head.”

  “In the mudroom. In the back?”

  “Said that’s where he usually goes when folks are shootin’ up the front.”

  I pushed my cuffed hands to the side. “Well, since he’s not saying anybody hit him, do you think he has any idea who did?”

  Lucian chimed in again. “Hard to say, but since you displayed yourself in a rather dramatic fashion and announced to any and all, including the fella in the truck, that you were a sheriff, it might be time for you to get the hell outta Dodge—red, white, or blue.”

  I looked at Lucian and thought about the woman in my jail as it grew silent in the cruiser. “Have you been to the jail?”

  “Mine?”

  “Mine.” Our eyes met, and I was always struck by the darkness in his pupils; maybe I needed to get him and Saizarbitoria together. “You meet her?”

  His voice changed, growing softer. “Yes, I have.”

  “Do you think she’s guilty?”

  He took a deep breath and blew it out of his nostrils like a shotgun blast. “She’s burnin’ bridges in her head; I’m just not sure if he was one of ’em.” He studied me. “What’s that got to do with horseshit and hat sizes?”

  “Everything.” He made a noise in his throat. “Somebody taught me that, a long time ago.”

  It was quiet, and neither of them looked at me.

  “Well.” The ex-sheriff of Absaroka County sniffed and thumbed his nose. “Never did any of this undercover crap—you’ve got a lot of people worried that you’re gonna fool around and get yourself killed out here.”

  I thought that the old sheriff had been sent out to check on me, but I didn’t figure on him admitting it. I changed the subject to save him any further embarrassment. “What’s everybody else in the motel say?”

  There was a pause as Sandy prepared to speak; Lucian and I both looked at him. “Not a whole heck of a lot.” He scratched his neck and placed one of his sun-leathered hands on the dash, the heavy, curved, Cuban bracelet on his wrist blinking in the morning sun. “There’s a little tattooed girl that says you beat up her boyfriend, but other than that it’s business as usual out here on the Powder River—ain’t nobody sayin’ nothin’.”

  “Who called 911?”

  “Anonymous, female, from the pay phone outside the post office/library up the hill.”

  I thought about it and could only come up with one name. “You’ll run a check on the Dodge?”

  “Yep.” The hand on the dash reached for the mic.

  “One more thing?”

  He and Lucian turned back to look at me. “Yeah?”

  “Get these damned handcuffs off.”

  October 21: seven days earlier, evening.

  I’d followed Dog, who had made a habit of trotting to the holding cells.

  Mary Barsad was running her hand across his back. She was sitting on the floor beside the bars and looked up when I came in. “Nice dog; where’d you get him?”

  “From a friend.”

  “Didn’t they want him anymore?”

  I thought about what to say. “Um, no.” It was still early, and Vic was going to be back soon, so I pulled one of the folding chairs over and sat.

  She looked back to study him. “What kind of dog is he?”

  I shrugged. “When there’s bacon around, I’d swear he was part wolf.”

  “St. Bernard and some German shepherd, I’d say.” She scratched under his ne
ck. “Something else, but I’m not sure what.”

  “You know a lot about animals.”

  She breathed a soft laugh. “Yes, but evidently I’m a poor judge of human beings.”

  I leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Which brings to mind a question.”

  The more-than-blue eyes came up. “Please don’t ask me why I got mixed up with Wade.”

  We sat there looking at each other. “You know, my daughter was in a bad relationship back in Philadelphia, and I’ve developed a theory on that.” She continued to gaze at me. “I think our hearts are the most fearless organ we’ve got, considering how often they’ll make the same mistake, over and over again.”

  She continued to study me. “You do know the heart is just a muscle, right?”

  I smiled. “Then maybe we’re getting stronger from the exercise.”

  Her eyes had broken contact with mine. “Or you just lose another piece.”

  October 28, 10:10 A.M.

  The first cup of coffee I could get was at the auction at Bill Nolan’s place. It was from a catering service out of Wright called the Chuck Wagon, and thankfully they didn’t know me. I took my two ham and egg sandwiches and my coffee back over to the rental car and fed Dog his breakfast through the window.

  The majority of the items to be auctioned were in a large, tin-sided indoor arena with the heavy equipment parked in a row along a fence line. I wandered up and took a look. I wasn’t alone; there was a pretty good crowd of ranchers who had arrived early. It was late in the season for an auction, and the majority of the chores that these newer-looking implements would be used for were already done for the year. Prices would be low, and if you needed a swather, baler, or tractor for next year, now was your chance.

  I exchanged a few nods but thankfully didn’t recognize anybody. I kept an eye partially peeled for a red Dodge duellie—so far, nothing.

  I was always generally ill at ease at these types of things, feeling as though auctions were like picking over bones. I couldn’t help but remember the one at my parents’ place after they had passed. I’d gone through their things and hadn’t kept much, but when it came time for the auction I’d had a strong impulse to bid on everything like some museum curator attempting to keep the collection whole.

  I still owned the place but hadn’t been back there much since.

  “See something you like?”

  I turned and found Juana and Benjamin watching me as I mindlessly fingered a Massey Ferguson model 775 swather—at least, that was what was decaled on its peeling side. “No, this looks too much like work.”

  “Didn’t you say you were born on a ranch?”

  I looked at her. “Not to you.”

  She smiled and watched me as Benjamin studied the equipment. “Did you sleep okay?”

  “No, but the toilet worked magnificently and so did the shower.” I inclined my head toward the little outlaw. “How are you this morning, young man?”

  She nudged him with her hip, but he ignored both of us and pushed his hands deeper into his jean pockets. “He’s mad, because I won’t buy him and Hershel a horse trailer.”

  “Hershel’s here?”

  She nodded toward the tin building. “Inside, inspecting the trailer.”

  I nudged Benjamin’s ever-present hat. “You two outlaws run together?”

  He nodded and began speaking quickly. “He says we’re going up to the Battlement someday; it’s a butte where the dinosaurs are buried and the teepee circles are and where the secret graves are for the buffalo soldiers and the Indians that—” He quieted suddenly, remembering that he was in midpout.

  I watched him as he looked at his mother. “Hey, I was just getting interested.”

  He ducked his head and stared at the ground. “We can’t get there without a trailer; it’s too far for the horses, and there’s no water.”

  “I’ve heard of the place; its south and east of here, isn’t it? Out on Twentymile Butte?”

  He was chewing on the stampede strings again but spit them out to answer. “Yeah.”

  I nodded, and we all walked along the equipment and toward the indoor arena, Benjamin hanging back. After a few moments, Juana spoke again. “I understand there was some excitement down at the bar last night?”

  “I don’t know; I slept through most of it.”

  She continued to watch me. “And that would be why they arrested you?”

  I didn’t say anything; she continued to stare at me. “They released me on my own recognizance.”

  She raised an eyebrow, but let it go at that. “You look tired.” I nodded again as we walked toward the more recreational items that were to be auctioned later in the morning. “Are you coming to the fights tonight?”

  I laughed, because I’d forgotten all about it. “I thought I saw someone on the list I know.”

  “The Indian?” I turned and looked at her as more than a little mischief played in her baking-chocolate eyes. “He asked about you, or somebody who looked like you.” She pulled herself up to a towering five-foot-four and quoted with a flat Cheyenne accent, mimicking Henry’s down to the excluded contractions: “A large man with a large dog who probably looks like he would rather be somewhere else.”

  “That’d be me. What else did he say?”

  She smiled the perfectly formed grin; her lips were pink today. “He said that you used to be his sidekick but that you had gone bad.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “That you had stolen his dog.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And that he had tracked you from the Northwest Territories and was now going to have to kick your ass.”

  I sipped my coffee and glanced at a ’60 short-bed half-ton that looked like a refrigerator on wheels and was remotely familiar. There was a man standing with the hood up, talking to a maybe thirty-year-old. I casually steered our path in that direction.

  “Rebuilt, with only thirty-two thousand miles on her, floor shift and a heavy-duty suspension. I bought her off a rancher north of here.”

  Juana leaned on the fender and looked up at the man who was speaking, as I stood a little away. “Hi, Bill.”

  “Hey, chica.” He grinned right back at her. “How are you?”

  The younger man, seeing an avenue for escape, wandered off.

  Bill Nolan watched the man walk away. “Kids. If it ain’t got a satellite radio and cruise-control, they ain’t interested.”

  She turned partially toward me. “Bill, do you know Eric Boss?”

  He paused for the briefest of seconds and then stuck out his hand. “You’re the insurance guy that’s got everybody all worried.”

  It didn’t fully appear that he remembered that we’d gone to a Powder River, one-room schoolhouse, classes separated by three years and a long time ago. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Oh, any kind of authority makes ’em nervous around here.” He hadn’t changed enough that I wouldn’t have known him; still thin as a fence rail but with a few more years. A born car salesman, his father, Sidney, had owned the Powder River Red Crown Service Station along the river and to the north, and his mother had made peach ice cream that she sold for a nickel a cone.

  I remembered that Bill had had an uncanny ability as a child: he could imitate coyotes. It was a talent he’d acquired when his father built two guest cabins near the service station on the banks of the river. The dudes were always disappointed whenever the animals weren’t making noise every night, so Sidney sent his son out to the riverbank to imitate them. He was good at it, and I wondered whether he could still do it.

  The years had carved fissures and grooves in his face; he was about a head shorter than me and weighed about a third. His hair had gone a becoming silver, but the eyebrows were still jet-black and probably his most predominant feature. “You lookin’ for a truck, Mr. Boss?”

  “No, I’m afraid not, but I would like to ask you a few questions, if I could?”

  “Well, now I’m worried.”

  I glanced at Juana and
Benjamin, but she was determined to stay; she folded her arms and leaned against the old truck. “I was just wondering if you could tell me a few things about your relationship with the Barsads?”

  He looked around from beneath the bushes of eyebrow, and the meaning was clear. “This sounds like it’s going to be a lengthy conversation, and I’m kinda busy today with the auction. . . .”

  “We could talk some other time?”

  Juana moved Benjamin away as Nolan closed the hood on the truck. “That’d be handy. I’ve got some more stuff to get packed up over at the house, so I’ll be there later in the afternoon. I’ve got a couple of cans of iced tea in a cooler—refrigerator should be gone by then.”

  “That’d be fine.”

  He was already looking past me to where the auctioneer was setting up inside. “Around two then?”

  “You bet.”

  He nodded a perfunctory nod and walked past us; Juana hadn’t moved so far as to be out of earshot. “Still rounding up all the usual suspects?”

  I gave her a long look with a smile at the end. “Why don’t you give that almost-associate degree of yours a rest.”

  October 22: six days earlier, morning.

  It had been the third number with a Youngstown area code that I’d tried. The first was a home phone where I’d left a message, and the second was an office answering service where I’d left another.

  “I’d like to speak to Wendell Barnecke?”

  “Speaking.” There was a mumbled pause, and I got the feeling I’d interrupted the dentist’s lunch.

  “Mr. Barnecke, I’m sheriff of Absaroka County, Wyoming—”

  “Is this about my brother?”

  Vic and Ruby were in my office and were listening and watching me from across the desk; the dentist was on conference, which might’ve explained the bad connection, but the connection didn’t muffle the fact that Wade’s brother sounded officious.

  “Well, yes it is.”