The Western Star

by Craig Johnson

  He looked around, and I’m not so sure if it was my physical intimidation or the absolute desolation of the Wyoming landscape, but he weakened. “Look, they’re all asleep, and with any luck they’ll stay asleep until we get to Winterland—but if they do wake up, you’re not anything close to a cop, you dig?”

  —

  “How does he look?”

  I readjusted my rear end on the hard wooden bench. “Like he’s dying.”

  Lucian looked reflective. “Well, hell . . . there’s hope, then.”

  “What, that he’ll die before they let him out?”

  The old, one-legged sheriff lifted his own cup in a toast. “Here’s to it.” He turned and studied the side of my face. “In case it’s slipped your mind, this one is guilty numerous times over, and there is nary a cell in the bottom of the state prison in Rawlins that he doesn’t damn well deserve to inhabit until he is dead.” He stood and limped to the other side of the marble hallway. “That he wasn’t introduced to a good dose of hydrogen cyanide was the judge’s mistake and not ours.” He glanced up and down the empty hallway. “When do these damn lawyers come to work, anyway?”

  I pulled out my pocket watch. “Not till nine, which is why I’m sitting on this rock of a bench.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About five minutes after the last time you asked me that question, and ten after the time before that.”

  He crossed the hallway and sat again. “Well, aren’t we in a good mood.” He paused. “Did he say anything?”

  “No, he’s unconscious.”

  “Well . . .” He sipped the last of his coffee and crushed the cup in his hand, flapping the lid of an adjacent trash can in order to dispose of it. “You just remember what he did when you start feeling magnanimous.”

  In the distance I heard a pair of cowboy boots headed our way, and we both looked up to see a lean, handsome individual with curly gray hair peeking out from under a silver-belly cowboy hat. He was holding a white confectionery box tied with a blue ribbon, and his smile broadened as he looked down at us. “You fellas want a donut?”

  I stood. “Thanks, but I don’t eat donuts.”

  He smiled. “I thought you might be cops.”

  “We are.” Lucian followed suit and stood. “And the hell with you, I do eat donuts.”

  He held out a hand to me. “Scott Snowden.”

  “Sheriff Walt Longmire, and this is retired sheriff Lucian Connelly—careful when you hand him one—he hasn’t had his shots.”

  He laughed, nodded, and tried to open the door but finally gave up. “Well, I’m glad I brought the pastries.”

  I got up. “Excuse me for asking, but are you connected to the compassionate release case?”

  “Yes, I was brought in by the state.”

  “Prosecution or defense?”

  He smiled the broad smile and opened the box, holding it out to Lucian. “Neither.”

  Lucian studied the contents and then reached in, picking a powder-coated cream filled. “So whose side are you on?”

  “Neither.” Snowden pulled out a chocolate frosted and took a bite, chewing as he spoke. “I’m the new judge.”

  “What the hell happened to Healy?”

  “Bonefishing in the Bahamas.” The judge swallowed. “Usually they adjust the timing based on the judge’s calendar, but the defense was pushing that the case is time sensitive due to the prisoner’s condition. In these situations they arrange a transfer on a judge-to-judge basis, and Stu Healy contacted me to hear the case.” He cocked his head. “What, you fellas don’t like me?”

  Lucian studied him. “We like you fine, but we’d developed a working relationship concerning this case with ol’ Hang ’Em High over the last few decades, and you’ll excuse us if we’re damn surprised to see a new face.”

  He gestured for us to sit, which we did. “Usually this case has been handled by the Board of Parole?”

  I leaned back on the bench, which squealed in protest. “Yep.”

  “But they presented in court by habeas corpus this time.”

  “Which means?”

  “First, let’s review what we know: the prisoner was convicted years ago, and he’s done decades of time. What that means, legally speaking, is that the case is closed on him. Guilt has been determined and a sentence imposed, and from my understanding of the case, many appeals over the years have been exhausted?”

  “Many.”

  He nodded. “Even though his lawyers have filed for parole every four years, the sentence was an indeterminate one—sentenced to life, as opposed to a minimum or maximum term of actual years, so that he is ineligible for parole without a governor’s commutation.”

  Lucian pulled another donut from the box, which Snowden had put down on the bench next to him. “He damn well better not, or I’ll drive up the street to the mansion and shoot him in the ass.”

  “Well . . .” Snowden paused on that one. “Be that as it may, to simplify, the parole process is administered by the Board of Parole, which is comprised of seven gubernatorial appointees. It is the only body with the jurisdiction to request the governor to consider a compassionate release, unless—”

  Protecting Lucian’s cholesterol level, I closed the box of donuts. “Unless they file that habeas corpus Great Writ.”

  “Yes, constitutionally guaranteed and available to any prisoner to present the claim that he is illegally held.”

  “How can they claim that?” Lucian chewed on his donut. “You just said yourself that he’s guilty as homemade sin, case closed.”

  “There’s nothing illegal about keeping an aged, infirm prisoner incarcerated, and there probably isn’t any hope legally in getting him released in this manner.”

  “Then why are his lawyers doing it?”

  “I suppose we’ll find out this morning.” He shrugged, and his voice took on a singsong quality. “‘When the men on the chessboard get up and tell you where to go . . .’”

  Lucian turned and looked at me, recognizing a quote when he heard one.

  “Grace Slick, Jefferson Airplane.”

  My old boss glanced back at the judge and then at me again. “Who’s Grace Slick, and what the hell does Jefferson’s airplane have to do with the case?”

  —

  The seats on the bus were almost as luxurious as the ones on The Western Star, and when the driver instructed me to sit on one, it felt like I was sinking into a sofa. I could hear music playing toward the back, but the curtains dividing the front of the bus from the back seemed to indicate that I should mind my own business, so I just sat there watching the night sky pass by the moonroof and thinking about who could’ve hit me.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure it had been George McKay, but I was having a hard time understanding why. Sure, I’d had contact with his female companion, but I wouldn’t think enough to warrant hitting me over the head with a hunk of wood and leaving me on the tracks to freeze to death—but was the assailant trying to kill me or just get me off the train?

  My head hurt, and I was tired, but I knew after receiving such a blow I shouldn’t sleep, so I pulled out the Agatha Christie and began reading. After about an hour I’d finished the fifteenth chapter of part two. It was a gift from my father, the ability to read quickly and still retain the details.

  I put the paperback down on the plush seat next to me and thought about what Leeland had said about whodunits—he did it, she did it, nobody did it, or they all did it.

  I yawned and thought I might take a short nap, even though I knew better. I’d given the driver instructions to exit at Wamsutter, that I’d jump out since the railroad tracks were fairly close to I-80 at that point.

  I’d no sooner closed my eyes when I heard the curtain being pulled back. I lifted my head and saw a beautiful woman in a flowing caftan standing there looking at me with an o
dd blanket printed with stars and planets thrown over her shoulders and rose-colored octagonal sunglasses on her face despite it being the middle of the night.

  “Well, hello, cowboy.”

  “Ma’am.”

  I started to get up, but she cut me off with a shake of her head. I noticed she was barefoot on the gold shag carpeting. “The bus is moving, so you’re not Leon.”

  “That’s the driver?”

  “So they tell me.” She glanced up front and then out the sunroof above my head. “Where the hell are we?”

  “Wyoming.”

  She stooped a little, raising her tinted glasses, and peered out the darkened windows. “Looks like the moon.”

  “And about as populated.”

  “I’ve never been to Wyoming—what’s it known for?”

  “Yellowstone National Park, Devils Tower National Monument . . .” She didn’t seem impressed, so I added, “We’re the first state to give women the vote and the first state to have a female governor.”

  She clutched the blanket around her as she raised a fist. “Right on.”

  I stuck out a hand. “Walt Longmire.”

  She took mine in hers and studied it. “Big hands—lots of scars.” She sat down on the sofa beside me. “So, what do you do, Walt Longmire?”

  Remembering the conversation I’d had with the driver, I answered, “I’m a cowboy, ma’am.”

  She pursed her perfectly bowed lips and looked at the bandages that protruded from the underside of my hat. “What happened to your head?”

  “Um, a horse.”

  She nodded. “One of the two regrets in my life.” She uncoiled her legs and placed them, crossed at the ankles, over my lap. “So far.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve never ridden a horse.” She glanced down at my book. “A cowboy who reads?”

  “Yep.”

  Lowering the sunglasses onto her freckled nose, she studied me. “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Not really.”

  She reached into one of the pockets of the caftan, pulled out a small baggie of marijuana, and went about rolling a joint. “Care to explain?”

  “After the cowboys who worked for the big outfits or ranches got cut loose in the fall, they’d find a place in the town to winter up, and one of the things they always took with them was a stack of books to pass the time.”

  She licked the paper and sealed the joint, sticking it in the corner of her mouth. “Sounds like a nice way to spend the winter.” She glanced out the window again. “I’d imagine they are formidable here.”

  “Can be.” She lit the joint with a Scripto Vu Lighter, took a puff, and then held it out to me. “No, thanks.”

  She shrugged. “Bad for the voice, but it helps me sleep.” Her Day-Glo blue eyes changed to green and she leaned forward and looked at me for a long minute. “So, what are you doing on my bus?”

  “Your bus?”

  “Yeah, my bus.”

  “Are you famous?”

  She cocked her head to one side in disbelief. “You don’t know who I am?”

  “I’m afraid not; I’ve been out of the country for a while.”

  She actually seemed pleased with the idea. “Cool. You going to San Francisco, Walt Longmire?”

  “No, ma’am. Wamsutter, just down the road.”

  “That where you live?”

  “No.”

  “What’s there?”

  “I’m catching a train.”

  She took another toke on the joint. “Where’s it going?”

  “Evanston and then back to Cheyenne.”

  “Cheyenne, that where you live?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She lowered her gaze and looked at me. “Then where the hell do you live?”

  “A small town called Durant, up near the Montana border at the base of the Bighorn Mountains.”

  “Sounds heavenly.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “On this bus—at least it seems like it. We did a free concert in Central Park and now we’re headed west for gigs in Hollywood, San Diego, and San Fran.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “It’s just singing, you know, but most of the concerts turn out to be three or four hours.”

  “That’s a lot of singing.”

  “Yeah.” She continued looking at me, and I was struck by the intelligence in her eyes. “So, you got a girl up near the Montana border at the base of the Bighorn Mountains, cowboy?”

  “A wife, or she used to be.”

  “Used to be?”

  I reached into the watch pocket of my jeans and pulled the ring out. “I think I’m getting divorced, and she’s pregnant.”

  “That’s pretty brave.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A divorced woman having a child on her own in this society—pretty bold, if you ask me.” She took the ring and examined it. “My marriage broke up last year when I started fooling around with my guitarist, but I got a daughter out of it, you know?” I nodded, and her eyes came back to me. “I’ve kind of sworn off men for a while. . . . But you’re cute. Is riding a horse anything like riding a cowboy?”

  “So they tell me.”

  She rubbed her legs back and forth together in my lap and slipped the ring on her finger. “How far is it to Wamsutter?”

  “Not very.”

  She smiled and sat up, letting the blanket fall away, exhaling the smoke gently into my face. “That a challenge?”

  We both felt the bus decelerating and then the curved incline as Leon took the exit ramp. “I’m afraid it’s a disappointing fact.”

  She looked out. “Not much here.”

  “Nope.”

  She leaned against a pillow and planted her feet firmly back in my lap. “Stay.”

  “What?”

  “I get a feeling for people, and I like you. Stay on the bus and come to San Francisco with us.”

  “I—”

  “The whole scene in the city is so far out, you’ll have a blast, I promise.”

  The bus slowed to a stop, and Leon called, “Hey, cowboy!”

  She leaned in closer, holding the joint out to the side. “Stay.”

  “I . . . can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got a job to do.”

  “Here? Or up near the Montana border at the base of the Bighorn Mountains?”

  I thought about it. “Maybe both.”

  She stayed like that, looking at me for a bit, and then, sadly, she took her legs away and pulled the blanket back up over her shoulders.

  The driver appeared, top hat and all. “Dude, we’re here.”

  I took a deep breath and stood. She reached a hand out to me and then followed us to the exit. Leon threw the lever, opening the door to the excruciating wind.

  Tucking my hat down on my swollen head, I stepped out under the cold, partially clear Western sky.

  “Hey, Walt Longmire.” I turned, and she was standing on the lowest step, the top of her head almost even with my nose, her hand holding my ring out to me. “You’re going to want to give this back to her.”

  “I’m not so sure that she . . .”

  As she flipped the butt end of the joint away, we both watched as the wind hooked it left like a major-league curveball. “I am.”

  When I took the ring, she slipped the blanket from her shoulders and wrapped it around me, pulling me in close and touching her lips to mine. Seeing the eyes that close was like getting hit with a cattle prod, but after a moment I reacquired speech. “What was the other thing?”

  She leaned back in the doorway, the caftan blowing around her knees, and hugged herself in an attempt to stay warm. “Huh?”

  “You said there were two things you regre
tted not doing and one was riding a horse; what was the other?”

  “Fucking Jimi Hendrix.”

  I stood there for a moment more, clutching the spacey blanket around me so that it wouldn’t blow away. “Well, come up near the Montana border at the base of the Bighorn Mountains sometime, and I’ll help you with the other one.” I started to go but then turned back just as Leon began closing the door. “Hey, what did you say your name is?”

  She smiled, still pleased that I had no idea who she was. “Grace.”

  The door closed, the air brakes released, and the big silver Challenger bus pulled up the ramp and back onto the highway, the fumes of diesel and illicit drugs the only indication that it had been there at all.

  I turned and walked under the overpass toward the lights of the town. As a few snowflakes whistled by me, I silently prayed the train was on the tracks ahead.

  It was cold enough to slow the blood in your veins, and I held the blanket in close in an attempt to keep from freezing. I thought that if I didn’t find the train I was going to have to come up with something better than huddling in the entryway of the Sinclair gas station I had just passed.

  Mercifully, as I entered the main part of town I saw the same kind of light that had illuminated the sidetrack in Medicine Bow.

  Approaching the train from the rear, I cut toward the road where the barrier arms were lowered and the clanging bells were deafening. As cold as I was, it took me a minute to register what was happening, but fortunately I stopped before getting hit by a train going in the other direction.

  It figured that I’d travel for miles in a nice warm bus with a good-looking woman only to be dropped off on the wrong side of the tracks to freeze to death as a hundred and fifty coal cars passed by.

  Crouching down, I clutched the blanket and thought about what the woman had said about Martha being brave. I was going to have to make a choice and decide if I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her; of course, it seemed that she had decided that she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life with me, and if that was really the case, then all bets were off and there really wasn’t any reason to stick around Wyoming.

  Either way, I was going to at least find out who hit me in the head and give them a little of what they deserved before I moved on.