A Serpent's Tooth: A Walt Longmire Mystery

by Craig Johnson

  At what used to be the front door, I looked straight at him to assure him that I wasn’t just wandering, sidestepped in, and went over to the scorched empty key rack. I stepped on something and stooped to pick up a set of keys that were under a couple of inches of dirty water. They were on a funny ring I’d never noticed before from some second- or maybe third-tier amusement park with an image of a giant character who looked a little like Bozo, leaning on a structure that read CAMDEN PARK—AT THE SIGN OF THE HAPPY CLOWN.

  There was something else, too, that I noticed as I bent over—the vague scent of kerosene.

  I turned around and started back toward the Suburban. I flipped to the second key and attempted to get it somewhere in the vicinity of the keyhole that unlocked the tailgate. My hands continued to shake, and the damn thing fell. I started to lean down, but the Cheyenne Nation was quicker, as usual, even catching them before they struck the pavement.

  He stood and slipped in front of me, and I listened to the unctuous whir of the window descending. He reached inside, pulled the latch, flipping down the tailgate, and glanced back at me, standing there quaking. “You need to get out of those clothes.”

  I pointed a quivering hand at the dirty laundry and willed my finger to stop shaking—if it didn’t, I silently swore, I was going to bite it off. It must’ve heard me and grew steady.

  Henry sighed and pushed the clothing that smelled like my deputy aside till there was nothing but the ribbed surface of the Chevrolet’s floor. He turned to look at me and then walked around the vehicle, systematically unlocking and opening each door, looking inside and then closing it.

  He finished his investigation, had circled the vehicle, and, leaning against the quarter-panel, stopped beside me. “Nothing.”

  I nodded, still staring at the back of the beat-up truck. “Inside the substation, did you smell kerosene?”

  “Yes.”

  When I extended my hand, he’d already pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket and handed it to me with Verne Selby’s number punched in and ringing. I held the device to my ear and waited through five rings before Verne’s wife, Rebecca, answered their phone.

  She whispered. “He—hello?”

  “Rebecca, it’s Walt. I need to speak with Verne.”

  There was a rustling of sheets, and her voice rose. “Walter, do you know what time it is?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t and I don’t mean to be rude, but gimme Verne.”

  I heard her talk to the judge, and after a moment I heard his voice. “Hello?”

  “I need a warrant.”

  He cleared his throat. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “I can get the paperwork going in the morning. . . .”

  “Right now. I’m going into East Spring Ranch down near Short Drop with or without a warrant—you can back me up with some paperwork or I can just go in there on my own. I’m in Powder Junction right now, and either way I’m headed south in a few minutes.”

  I could almost see him nodding into the receiver. “I’ll fax it to the sheriff’s substation.”

  I took a breath, staring at the powdery paint of Double Tough’s unit but refusing to look at the burned-out corpse of a structure across the parking lot. “Send it to the town hall instead.”

  • • •

  “We are waiting?”

  “We are not.” We were standing at the counter of the Powder Junction Town Hall with Brian Kinnison, in anticipation of the warrant, when the Bear sabotaged me by handing me his cell phone again.

  I looked at him, but he gestured for me to talk and walked away.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I sighed. “I’m going in there and none too friendly.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m going to find out what’s going on, and I’m going to get who did this.”

  I could hear her struggling to get her boots on. “You need help.”

  “I’ve got help.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll be gone in five.” I walked over to Henry and handed the phone to him. “Here.” Vic was still yelling on the other end. I returned to the counter just as Brian was pulling the papers out of the fax machine. He put them on the flat surface and looked at me.

  “You’re sure these people did this?”

  “Yep, I am.”

  “You want me to alert the militia?”

  I half-smiled, in spite of myself. “I didn’t know you had a militia.”

  He glanced at the clock on the wall and smiled back. “Seems like a good time to start one up.”

  I stuffed the warrant in the inside pocket of my jacket, which wafted the smell of a dead campfire, sat my water-mauled hat on my head a little straighter, and started out the door. Henry was waiting for me as I hit Powder Junction’s one-block boardwalk, and I could see he was thinking. I stepped up even with him and asked. “Why the substation? Why not just take the bit? They had to know this was going to start a war.”

  “Yes.”

  “But why him? I was the one pushing; I’m the one most likely to go after them.” I patted the papers in my pocket. “This guarantees it.”

  “Yes.”

  “They thought they could steamroll us out here in the middle of nowhere and get away with it?” I stuck an index finger toward him. “Don’t say yes.”

  He grunted. “I am hoping that is not the case.”

  I gestured to the tiny street. “Because he was closer?”

  The Bear shrugged. “We are only forty minutes away.”

  “Twenty, according to Vic.”

  He nodded. “We should be going; I think I can keep you from shooting people, but I am not sure I can dissuade her.”

  I climbed in on the driver’s side and pulled the door closed behind me as the Bear slung himself in. I watched as he reached over, pulled the Remington Wingmaster from the brace that held it against the dash and transmission hump, and jacked the breech of the twelve-gauge like a sidekick in some bullshit TV show where they did such things a dozen times. The unspent shell went flying into the back, unlike on TV, and I looked at him. “We might need that round.”

  He smiled, and a line settled alongside the upturned corner of his mouth as he popped the lid on the center console—he knew all my caches and clichés—and pulled out an extra box of shells. “What other weapons do we have?”

  I started the Bullet and pulled the gear selector down into drive. “Steadfast resolution.” I turned and looked at him, not as if he would take the option, but it had to be said. “If you want out, now would be the time.”

  He actually laughed as he reloaded the round. “I try never to miss an episode of Steadfast Resolution—it is my favorite program.”

  • • •

  The Cheyenne Nation was the first to notice that the lights were on at the Short Drop Merc.

  I slowed my truck from its sonic speed and pulled to the side of the road just past the turnoff into the pint-sized town. I leaned forward; it seemed as though almost every light in the place was on, especially in the bar, and a few vehicles were parked out front, including a decked-out Ford King Ranch pickup.

  The Bear shook his head. “You do not think . . . ?”

  “Yes, I do.” I threw the Bullet into reverse, scorching the scoria surface of Route 192 with two black strips of Michelin rubber about ninety feet long. I locked it up and spun the wheel, bouncing the three-quarter-ton over the edge of the pavement and down the slight grade leading into town past the signature hemp noose that swung from the cottonwood.

  I kept my brights on as I slid up to the boardwalk hitching post alongside the other vehicles, my headlights directed into the front windows, a copious cloud of dry, ochre-colored dust drifting past us and blowing against the structure like an angry orange smell.

  “I take it we are not counting on the element of surprise?”

  I threw my door open. “Nope.”

  His hand caught mine as I started to exit. �
��Does not make sense; remember that.”

  I looked at him, said nothing, and then nodded.

  We mounted the steps, and I didn’t bother with the knob, instead choosing to enter the room boot first. The door bounced off the wall and started back, but I caught it with one hand and stood there holding it.

  I noticed my hands had stopped shaking for good.

  The only person in the room that I did not want to shoot was standing behind the bar with her hands on her hips, keeping enough collateral damage distance between her and what appeared to be her unwanted patrons—smart woman, that Eleanor Tisdale.

  There were three men at the bar and two more playing pool at the table to my left.

  I noticed the Cheyenne Nation drifting in the door behind me like casual death, the shotgun trailing behind his leg completely unnoticeable.

  “Well, howdy, Sheriff. You look like you could use a drink.”

  I looked at the three, especially at the one with the mouth whom I recognized as Ronald, Roy Lynear’s oldest son, the one from over in South Dakota. Behind him were Lockhart and the younger strong arm whose acquaintance I’d made from a distance in Butte County.

  Gloss and Bidarte were at the pool table, and the Bear had already taken a few steps in that direction. Having cased and set the room, I started toward Ronald and Lockhart and watched as the muscle slid in front of them. I guess they thought they had numbers on their side, but maybe they had never seen an episode of Steadfast Resolution, let alone the season finale.

  Lockhart was the unstated leader, I was sure of that, but he lingered and made no move to engage me. I hit the younger one a good, solid roundhouse to the side of his head, which sent him into the bar where he made the mistake of trying to catch himself; I took that opportunity to uppercut him and send him back, dragging along a few glasses and more than a few beer bottles with him as he fell.

  The favored son and Lockhart didn’t move and stayed there, not lifting a hand from the edge. Ronald Lynear’s eyes widened as I pulled up over him, my nose about an inch or two higher than the top of his head.

  His face turned upward as I made a show of breathing in his scent. He appeared to be paralyzed but finally eased out the words in a smoother voice than I would’ve thought him capable of in such a situation. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re doing, Sheriff?”

  I breathed in deeply. “They say that guilt has a specific odor, one you can smell from a mile away.”

  He waited a moment and then asked, “And what is it that one of us might be guilty of?”

  Still sniffing like a bloodhound, I leaned a little to the side. “The willful destruction of county property.”

  “You don’t say?”

  I brought my face around to his. “I do.” Leaving him, I stepped over the fallen man and gave Lockhart the once-over. “You see, the sheriff’s substation . . .” I glanced back at Lynear and then settled my eyes on Lockhart again. “The county property in question was burned with a chemical accelerant, probably kerosene.” I bent down to the glass-jawed guy, slid a Wilson Combat/Tactical .40 from his inside-the-pants holster, and propelled it across the gray hardwood floor where it lodged under Henry’s uplifted boot with a solid thunk.

  Nobody moved.

  I sniffed the younger man’s head and then lifted an arm, attaching one end of my handcuffs to his wrist. “Guilt is a lot like kerosene; the scent stays longer than you might suspect.” I dragged the cuffed individual along by the arm like an afterthought, turned toward Gloss and Bidarte, and took a few steps into the center of the room.

  Gloss put the butt of his pool cue on the floor, his hand tightening around the shaft of it, and glanced at Henry and then at me. “You stay the hell away.”

  The Bear and I looked at each other, and he was the first to speak. “That sounded remarkably like an admission of guilt.”

  “Yep, it did.” I cocked my head. “You wouldn’t be armed again, would you, Mr. Gloss?” I gestured with the unconscious man’s arm. “I mean, not like your friend here, who I’m betting is going to be spending a few weeks in my jail in violation of the carry laws of the state of Wyoming.” I stepped to one side of the table, and they countered by moving to the other. “Do you have another weapon on you, by any chance? I took the last one you had, which means if you didn’t acquire a different one, you would have to find some other way of doing your dirty work, something like an accelerant—say, kerosene?”

  He glanced at Henry and then at me and the holstered .45 on my hip.

  His eyes came back up to mine, and I could see the panic-driven thought that was there. I reached down and drew back my jacket and unsnapped the safety strap from my Colt. “It doesn’t take much to carry one of these things—forty ounces of milled steel and eight rounds.” I pointed toward his shirttail, hanging past his waist. “Whatever you’ve maybe got there probably carries more, but caliber, rate of fire, that doesn’t really matter—doesn’t mean anything really. All that matters is being willing—willing to pull it, willing to fire it, willing to kill.” I took another step, still dragging the now half-conscious man along with me. “It’s one thing to set a place on fire with a man sleeping inside, but it’s another when a man is standing right in front of you, ready and willing.”

  Bidarte sidestepped slightly to the left but carefully raised his hands, keeping them where Henry and I could see them. “I don’t know what this is all about, Sheriff, but we’ve been here, playing pool all night.” He gestured toward Eleanor and kept moving sideways. “The lady, she can tell you. . . .”

  “That’s far enough; I’m not that bad a shot.”

  He smiled but stopped.

  I glanced at the proprietor, and she shrugged with a sad humping of her shoulders. “They came in here around six, all of them.” She looked away. “I wish I could tell you something different, but I can’t.”

  I looked over to Henry and remembered what he said before we’d entered—it does not make sense, remember that. When I turned back, I could see Gloss had dropped his hand and was starting to raise it toward the underside of his shirttail. There were about six feet between me and him, which was the range in which most sidearm fatalities took place. “You shouldn’t miss from that distance, but then again, neither should I.”

  Gloss started to shift his weight. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. . . .” He glanced to my right, where Lockhart was watching him.

  I heard a noise behind me—the Cheyenne Nation must’ve stooped to pick up the pistol—but I was pretty sure it was the shotgun that he was aiming in Gloss’s direction.

  I cleared my throat. “Now, in these types of situations, if you’re properly trained, the next step would be to distract the assailant just long enough for the primary target to pull his weapon, but I’ve nullified that possibility by having backup, right Henry?”

  “You bet your lily-white ass.”

  I gestured toward Gloss’s waist. “I’ll tell you what, if you want to get it out of your pants and ready to go, that’s fine by me.”

  His lips moved, but it took a few seconds for him to come up with something to add. “Look, um, is this some kind of joke?”

  My turn not to say anything.

  He shook his head, stared at the long green of the felt, and looked at the ceiling. “I want a lawyer.”

  “Place your weapon on the table—thumb and forefinger only.”

  He made a show of doing exactly that and carefully placed another high-priced, carbon-steel .45 with some kind of fancy finish on the flat surface.

  I reached across and picked it up.

  “You want to smell me now?”

  It was the wrong thing to say at the exact wrong time, and I made that clear by bringing the butt of the semiautomatic up and popping it into his nose. Blood blew from his nostrils, and his hands went up to his face. Bidarte actually laughed until I looked at him; then he gently placed his hands on the pool table in a position that didn’t look unfamiliar to him.

  I glanced at t
he others. “Anybody else want to join the conversation?”

  There were no takers, so I unhandcuffed myself, walked around the table, and yanked Gloss’s hand away from his face so that I could handcuff him to the other probable felon.

  Bleeding profusely, he attempted to staunch the flow with his other hand, but the blood was spouting onto the front of his shirt and his voice was muffled and nasal. “We haven’t done anything.”

  I gestured with the confiscated pistol. “Oh, you’ve done all kinds of stuff—it’s just a question of whether you’ve done this one thing, and if you have, are you going to be sorry.”

  • • •

  Vic, never one to miss a party, arrived a few minutes later, and we loaded Gloss and his pal into the back of her unit. My undersheriff glanced in the cage with a smile, noticing the man’s nose, still bleeding through the bar towel that Eleanor had provided. “Jesus, what’d you hit him with, a two-by-four?”

  I handed her Gloss’s other gun. “Here, for the collection.”

  She studied the weapon. “Another Wilson; you sure this guy’s name is Gloss?”

  “No, I’m not, but I figure you’ll be able to tell me by morning.”

  She whistled as she studied the sidearm. “A .38 Super, Combat Carry Competition—three grand, at least.”

  “Yep, the boys seem to have money.”

  “Must be the bake sales.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She glanced at them again. “Can we keep their guns?”

  “Sure, we’ll have a sale of our own.”

  She nodded. “So what’s Double Tough’s condition?”

  I stared at her.

  She stared back at me.

  Of course, Henry hadn’t told her over the phone. I took a breath, just to clear the pipes before trusting the words. “He’s gone.”

  Her mouth dropped open just a little bit and hung there. We didn’t get many fatalities in the department; as a matter of fact, this would be the only one—and on my watch.