“I’m not so sure I can take this job.”
His dark eyes narrowed, but a smile stayed on his lips. “Well, it’s a hell of a time to tell me that.” He cocked his head. “How long you been working for me now?”
“Coming up on two weeks.”
He crossed his arms and glanced over his shoulder to assure we had at least a semblance of privacy. “I believe that would be the shortest on record, aside from that one kid ten years ago that ended up shooting himself.” He laid his eyes on me like a blanket. “You aren’t planning on shooting yourself, are you?”
“I’m just not sure if this is what I need to be doing with my life.”
“I can see that, God help me.” He reached out and pulled on my arm. “C’mon, I’ve got a bunch of fellas in the parlor car who aren’t sure if they’re doing what they’re supposed to be doing with their lives, either—but they’re all gonna be drunk as hootie owls by the time we get to Laramie, so who cares.”
“I’ve got an appointment.”
He glanced down the hall and then back at me again. “With McKay’s property?”
“Hardly. I owe Sheriff Leeland a drink and promised him I’d meet him in the dining car.”
He studied me for a moment. “Well, you can stop and have a beer with the boys as you pass through.”
“All right, but not for too long, if that’s okay with you.” I closed the door and pulled up short. “Hey, how do you lock this door anyway?”
“With the key Mr. Gibbs gave me, but I’ve never locked a cabin in my life.”
I stared at the door.
“Here, you take the damn thing, then.”
I locked the door, pocketed the key, and started off after him.
“Look, I’m not one to tell a grown man what to do, but be careful with Leeland.”
It seemed like a strange statement. “In what way?”
Summoning up a response, he stared at the lush carpeting. “He’s something of a politician.”
“And you’re not?”
He studied me, and I marveled as I had a number of times in the last two weeks at the absolute darkness of his black pupils. “There are probably a lot of things you can learn from the men on this train, Troop, different things they can all teach you—or you can not learn a damn thing. Suit yourself.” He sniffed a laugh and started off, seemingly unconcerned if I was following.
—
“Whiskey or bourbon?”
I stared at the tall, empty glass in front of me, looking the entire world like a water tower. “You’re kidding, right?”
The parlor, or bar car, of The Western Star looked to be circa 1880 but had actually seen its share of updates. The thick leaded-glass skylights allowed the afternoon sun to cast a golden light through the car as it sat there at the station. There were oak-paneled walls and green velvet curtains with gold sashes that matched the oriental carpeting. There were a few miniature oil paintings and an honest-to-goodness baby grand piano crouched in the forward corner.
The young woman waited for an answer without a hint of exasperation at my dithering. “Whiskey or bourbon?”
“Um . . .” I placed a hand over my glass. “Neither.”
She shook her head as she moved on. “You’re not a Mormon, are you?”
I glanced around at the collective senior law enforcement of the state of Wyoming as Lucian pointed out a few of the men I hadn’t met, including one particularly wizened individual. “That’s Anson Tillman, our neighbor from Sheridan County.” We walked over, and he gestured to the two men at the table with him. “Meet Bill Wiltse, newly elected from Fremont County, and Wayne Hanna of Sublette.”
“Nice to meet you, gentlemen.” I tilted my head in the direction of a tall, thin individual by the door, who was talking to a heavyset man. “Those two?”
“Sundown Nolan of Campbell and Otis Phelps from Platte County.”
“You’re kidding. Sundown?”
He sipped his bourbon. “Meaning if you aren’t white, you need to be out of his jurisdiction by sundown.” He noticed the look on my face. “What?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s been something of a cultural revolution going on in this country lately.”
“And in case you haven’t noticed, John’s dead, Bobby’s dead, and Martin’s dead, and not a damn thing has changed—people still hang by their tribe. That’s all we are, just a loose coalition of tribes.” Lucian sighed and stared at me. “Speaking of, how’s that outlaw buddy of yours, that Cheyenne? Ladies Wear, was it?”
I thought about my best friend in the world, a man I hadn’t spoken to in over a year. “France.”
“Come again?”
“Standing Bear, Henry Standing Bear, he’s in France last I heard.”
“What the hell’s he doin’ over there?”
I smiled. “A woman.”
“Well, that’s a better reason than most.” He waited a beat before pointing at my left hand. “I’m guessing those scars wasn’t from France.”
“No.” I sighed, figuring he’d want the story sooner or later. “Johnston Atoll—I was given a rehabilitation duty, punishment by the provost marshal.”
“Johnston what?”
“Johnston Atoll.” I was surprised the old Doolittle Raider hadn’t heard of the place. I figured with his extensive travel in the Pacific he’d heard of every speck of land that was there. “It’s an atoll in the north Pacific Ocean.”
He half shut one eye and considered. “Little airstrip located on a coral reef about eight hundred and sixty miles southwest of Hawaii?”
So he had heard of it. “Yep.”
“Never been there, but it sounds like a paradise.”
“Probably was before we started dropping atomic bombs on it and using it for storage of chemical and biological weapons.”
He nodded and leaned in. “Had a civics teacher in high school who fought in the Great War.” He tugged at his collar with a hooked index finger. “Had scars not so different from the ones you’ve got on your left hand.”
I nodded. “Mustard gas.”
“So, I take it your time there was not entirely recuperative?”
“Lucian Connelly.”
The sheriff extended a hand to the sad-looking man in the suit who now stood by our table. “Joe Holland, how did you get on this train?”
“The UP figured you fellas needed somebody to protect you from yourselves.”
Lucian glanced around the car. “They might be spot-on in their concerns.” He patted the seat next to him as I studied the man’s face, bulbous and heavy. “Wanna sit down?”
“No, I’ve got to make my first pass of the train before we head out.”
“Well, we’ll catch you on down the tracks.”
“Deal.”
The man moved off. “What county is he?”
“Special officer. Whenever the stationmaster sends out a special like this, the UP always provides its own on-train security.”
“What’s the matter, young’un, too good to drink with a bunch of sod-busting sheriffs?” A man in black-framed glasses pushed my boss aside and sat down across from me. “Jeez, Lucian, you’re not training him right.” He glanced at me again. “You’re not a Mormon, are you?”
“That’s not the first time I’ve been asked that today.”
He glanced around, seemingly embarrassed. “Jeez, you’re not, are you?”
“No, just cutting back as of late.”
He raised his eyebrows at Lucian. “Boy, did you bring the wrong deputy on this train.”
I glanced out the window. “Speaking of, does this thing ever move or do we just stay here at the station the whole time?”
“Oh, it’ll get moving here in a minute.” Sheriff Connelly did the necessaries. “Walt Longmire, meet Bruce Eldredge, sheriff up in Park Count
y.”
We shook, and he glanced around, finally settling on Lucian. “Hey, did you hear about that house breaker in Albany County eleven months ago?”
Lucian sipped his king-size bourbon. “No.”
“Black fella strung up in a barn south of Bosler, dead as a stone.”
My boss nodded but said nothing.
“Somebody hung somebody for breaking into a house?”
Eldredge glanced at me, nodded, and sipped from his vat of whiskey. “After breaking in, robbing, and killing a sixty-three-year-old woman.”
Lucian leaned back in his chair and reached up to lower the window shade at his side. “How did they know it was this fellow?”
Bruce hunched his shoulders over his drink. “Found all the stolen jewelry in his pockets.”
“After he was dead?” Connelly sighed. “Convenient.”
The bespectacled man nodded. “Maybe.” He studied Lucian and then looked around and leaned in. “You hear about Pixly?”
Connelly sipped his bourbon. “I heard he was dead.”
“That he is, but did you hear how?”
I looked at my boss. “Who’s Pixly?”
He made a face. “Fella that climbed in the window of a hotel in Jackson and abused and killed two young girls.” He turned back to the Park County sheriff. “How?”
“Somebody cut his dingle off; tied him up in a motel room in Alpine, taped up his mouth, and left him there to bleed to death on the carpet.”
My boss looked out the window. “Well, a tragedy in some very small and deeply disturbed circles, I suppose.”
“There are more, Lucian.”
The sheriff of Absaroka County turned and looked at the other man with his full attention. “How many?”
“In damn near all the counties.” He shook his head. “Have you had anything happen up in yours?”
“No.”
“Nothing at all?”
Lucian’s response was stronger this time. “No.”
“Well, you’re one of the only ones.” Eldredge took another sip. “That’s likely to raise some questions in itself.” Lucian kept looking at him, and the ill ease became palpable to the point that the other sheriff stood and excused himself. “I just thought you ought to know.”
I watched the man depart. “What’s going on?”
“Hmm? Nothing. Nothing you need to be concerned with, at least.” His eyes didn’t move from the surface of the table, but his hand lifted the glass, holding it away from his mouth like a promise. “Lots of time to think on a train. . . . Maybe that’s why people don’t take ’em anymore.”
It was at that moment that a whistle sounded long and loud enough to rattle teeth—and the world began moving.
3
“Glad you could make it.” Marv Leeland sat in the next to last seat of the next to the last car of The Western Star, his pale blue eyes focused on the gently rolling hills glowing a faded amber in the afternoon sun west of Cheyenne. “Hard to get lost on a train.”
“Oh, I think I could manage, if I set my mind to it.”
“Well, this is the end—the only thing farther back is the caboose.” He smiled. “Normally there wouldn’t be a caboose, but Gibbs won’t travel without one.” He took off his hat and rested it in his lap alongside the cuff of his pinned sleeve. “Have a seat.”
I sat at the table opposite him. “I don’t see a bar in this car.”
“I lied about that part.”
“Oh?”
“Liquor is easy to find, but a quiet place . . .” He let the thought trail off. “I’ve got a question for you.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I seem to remember a Walt Longmire who was the offensive tackle for the University of Southern California team that played in the Rose Bowl and handed Wisconsin their ass a few years ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was a wideout for the University of Wyoming, myself, back when I had two good hands.” He chuckled, and his eyes came up to mine. “You’re a hell of a ballplayer, son.”
“Thank you.”
“How come you didn’t go pro?”
I sighed. “I had an obligation with the United States government.”
He widened his eyes for comic effect and nodded. “Well . . . and now you’re toiling in the fields for Lucian?”
“A couple of weeks, so far.”
He made a point of staring at the scenery again. “Not looking to make a career in sheriffing?”
I thought about it. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but it might be better for my purposes in the long run.”
I studied him as he continued to look out the window. “In what way?”
“I’m looking for a short-term partner, and I thought you might suit the bill.”
“A partner in what?”
“An investigation.”
I glanced back at the empty car. “Why me?”
“You’re young, and you seem damn capable.” He looked at me. “And because, son, I’ve got a relationship with every man on this train, and I’m looking for a fresh set of eyes—eyes I can trust.”
I waited a moment, trying to figure him out but not having any luck. “On a train full of sheriffs you know.”
“Yes.”
I shook my head. “Am I to gather from that that your suspect in this investigation is a sheriff?”
“Quite possibly.”
I slumped back against my cushioned seat. “Why would you trust me? You don’t even know me.”
“Call it a hunch.” He smiled. “Lucian trusts you.”
“Well, following that line of thought would suggest you trust Lucian.”
“But I don’t.”
I studied him for a while, the sway of the rails the only soothing thing in the conversation. “I’m not so sure I should be having this talk with you.”
“Maybe not.”
“Do you mind if I ask what crime you’re—”
“Murder.”
The two of us sat there listening to the rail joints as they composed their own rhythm. “And this murder took place in Uinta County?”
He was slower to respond this time. “Not exactly.”
“I’ll need you to be exact if I’m going to assist you.” A thought dawned. “I’m not so sure I like where this conversation is heading.”
“And why is that?”
“Well, I’ve been working for Lucian only a couple of weeks, but I’ve known him most of my life.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Trust him to what?”
“To not kill someone. Just about every man on this train has killed, some more than others, and if you’re looking for a killer, I figure one who has already killed is a pretty good place to start.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me about this murder?”
“Actually . . .” His eyes went back to the darkening sky as the train rumbled on. “There’s more than one.”
—
Cady lifted her head and looked at me as she attempted to clean my granddaughter’s hands. I’d made pancakes; it was something I did for my daughter in the mornings when we were together, especially rewarding because now there were three of us again.
“What is she doing?”
“She’s humming.”
I rested the spatula on the edge of the frying pan and turned off the burner. “Does that mean she likes my pancakes?”
“She likes the syrup.”
“More!” Lola laughed, giggled, and clutched another flapjack, stuffing part of it in her mouth and dropping the rest for Dog, who knew a good deal when he ate one.
Cady watched her and then held up her own blob of fried batter by the edge. “By the way, what is this supposed to be?”
“I thi
nk . . .” I studied my creation. “It’s a bear.”
She turned it and looked at it, pulling off what for me passed as a leg.
I sat at the table with my tiny family. “Okay, I’m a little out of practice.”
“Maybe you and Dog should come to Cheyenne more often, then.”
Lola pointed at the beast and said, “Dog.”
“Maybe the two of you should come to Durant more often.”
We sat there in a three-hundred-and-seven-and-three-quarter-mile stalemate.
She sipped her coffee and deflected. “Where’s the gang?”
“Henry and Vic drove down to Denver, but I’m supposed to meet them in Fort Collins at around four o’clock to pick up your sofa. Personally, I think they just wanted to give us some time alone.”
The cool gray eyes studied me over the rim of her cup. “Where’s Uncle Lucian?”
“Still asleep.” She glanced at her wristwatch and then at me in turn. “He had a long night.”
“Mama. Down!”
Cady picked my granddaughter up from the high chair. “Say please, Lola.” She sat her on her lap. “Showboating for the young sheriffs, was he?”
“He had a good time.”
She kept looking at me, which always made me a little nervous, feeling that she might be thinking of trading me in on another dad. “You seem a little out of sorts.”
I shrugged.
“Is it the hearing?”
I stood and went over to the sink to rinse out my mug. “I suppose.” Lola began reaching for her mother’s coffee cup, so I went over and took her, lodging her on my hip, and then twisted back and forth until she began giggling again.
Cady straightened her bathrobe and watched us. “As I recall, last time it took less than an hour.”
Taking Lola’s hand, I made like I was going to bite it but then kissed it instead. “Forty minutes.”
“I don’t understand why you even have to be there.”
I turned and looked out the kitchen window at the treetops in Lakeview Cemetery. “It’s a promise I made.” Spinning my granddaughter around, I bounced her a few more times as the other sheriff of Absaroka County, looking a little worse for wear, appeared in the doorway. “Good morning, Sunshine.”
The Western Star Page 4