C. Box - Cold Wind

Timberman looked away, but nodded almost imperceptibly. He didn’t want the cowboys at the end of the bar to see him answering the game warden’s questions. Now Joe understood.

“You heard what happened, right?”

Another nod.

“Do you think Bud hated her so much he’d try to pin something on her?”

Timberman shrugged noncommittally.

Joe said, “I’m not asking you to tell me something I’d ask you to repeat in court. I’m just trying to sort things out for myself. I know Bud to be a kind man, but pretty mule-headed at times. He’d focus on things until they got done. I remember when I worked for him, he’d bring up the same section of loose fence at breakfast every day to his ranch hands until I’d go out and fix it myself just to shut him up. I’m wondering if he was focused on getting back at Missy.”

“He did have some choice things to say about her from time to time,” Timberman conceded.

“Me, too,” Joe said.

Timberman reacted to that with a slight smile-no more than a twin tug up on the corners of his mouth.

“Word is,” Joe said, “Bud’s the star witness for the prosecution.”

Timberman said, “Hmmmm.” Then: “Maybe I ought to cut down on my Jim Beam order. I might not be pouring as much in the next few weeks.”

Joe finished his coffee. “Did Bud ever talk about wind turbines?”

Timberman looked up, puzzled. “Everybody does these days.”

Joe sighed. This was hard work getting anything out of Buck Timberman. “Did he seem to have any opinion of them either way?”

“Not that I can recall. More?” Timberman asked, chinning over his shoulder toward the pot.

“You’ve got more?” Joe said, not meaning coffee.

“Not really.”

“Then I’m fine.”

Joe slid off the stool and put a five on the bar.

“Don’t worry about it,” Timberman said, waving at the bill as if trying to get it out of his sight.

Joe left it, and said, “If you see him, give me a call, will you? My wife is pretty concerned about what’s going on.”

The slight nod. Then, “He lives upstairs. I’ve rented the rooms to him for a while. He pays in cash and on time, and there haven’t been any complaints.”

“Does he entertain guests?” Joe asked.

“Not that I’ve ever noticed.”

“No one recently, then?”

“No, sir.”

“Thanks for the coffee, Buck.”

“Anytime, Joe.”

Joe hesitated before opening the door to go outside. He glanced up the street, to see Deputy Sollis striding back angrily from Sandvick’s Taxidermy, barking on his radio.

“One thing,” Buck Timberman said softly, and Joe realized he was talking to him.

Joe turned and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Timberman had left his order on the counter and stood in the crook of the bar close to Joe and as far away from the four cowboys as possible.

“Nice-looking lady in here a week ago. She and Bud seemed to get on pretty well. She said her name was Patsy. Don’t remember a last name.”

Joe shook his head, not following.

“Before she met Bud, she asked me if I knew where she could find your friend.”

Joe felt his scalp tighten. “Nate Romanowski?”

“That’s the one,” Buck said.

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing to tell as far as I’m concerned.”

Joe nodded. Then he got it. “You said she got along with Bud, though. Think she asked him about Nate?”

“Couldn’t say for sure,” Timberman said, but Joe could read between the lines.

“Interesting,” Joe said. “Will you let me know if Patsy comes back?”

Timberman nodded his slight nod before turning and going back to his order form. Cutting down on his order of Jim Beam.

Justice of the Peace Tilden Mouton held the preliminary hearing. After a recap of the charges and the evidentiary testimony by Sheriff McLanahan but without an appearance by Bud Longbrake, Mouton bound Missy over for arraignment before Judge Hewitt on Monday.

The funeral for Earl Alden took place at the Twelve Sleep County Cemetery on a warm still morning. It was a small affair.

Joe wore his dark suit and stood with Marybeth, April, and Lucy in the sun. As the Rev. Maury Brown read the eulogy about a man he’d never met, Joe felt a drip of sweat snake down his spine beneath his shirt. He looked up and took in the scene around them.

The cemetery took up ten acres on the top of a hill west of Saddlestring. From where they stood, he could see the cottonwood-choked river below them, the town itself, and the Eagle Mountain Club perched on a bluff on the other side of the river. Insects burred in the turf, and while he was looking, a big grasshopper landed on the top of the casket with a thump. The air was ripe with pollen and the dank smell of dug-up dirt. A massive granite monument had been delivered to the site on a pallet. It was nearly as high as the large tarped mound of fresh dirt it sat next to.

Missy stood across from the casket and the hole in the ground. Small and black and veiled, she was flanked by Marcus Hand on one side and Sheriff McLanahan on the other. After the funeral, she’d be returned home on bail. A small knot of ranch hands and construction workers from the Thunderhead Ranch stood together apart from the other mourners. Joe wondered if they were there to pay their respects or to find out when and if they’d get their last paychecks.

He didn’t hear much of what Rev. Brown said. Instead, he observed Missy. Her veil hid her face and he couldn’t tell if she was crying, she seemed so still.

When the Rev. Brown turned to her and cued her to toss a handful of dirt on the casket that had been poised over the hole, Joe heard Missy say, “No thank you.”

On their way down a dirt pathway to the parking lot, Marybeth said how odd it was to attend the funeral for a man she barely knew, and she wondered aloud why members of Earl’s extended family hadn’t shown up.

Joe shrugged, wondering the same thing himself.

“I’d like to know how much that monument set Missy back,” Joe said. “It’ll be the tallest thing in the cemetery now.”

April and Lucy argued about where they wanted to go eat since it was Saturday and lunch out had been the incentive offered to attend the funeral.

“I couldn’t tell,” he said. “Was your mother crying?”

“Who knows?”

Joe reached out and found Marybeth’s hand and squeezed it. As he did, he heard a motor start up in the parking lot.

He looked up to see a boxy old-model yellow van back out of a space unnecessarily fast and race away.

“Who was that?” Marybeth asked Joe.

“I’m not sure. I thought I saw two people in the front, but I couldn’t see their faces.”

“I wonder if they were coming to the funeral and got here late. It would have been nice to have a few more mourners.”

“Yup,” Joe said, watching the van descend over the hill as if it were being chased by bees.

Joe escorted Marybeth up the stone steps of the Twelve Sleep County Courthouse for the arraignment of her mother in the courtroom of Wyoming District Judge Hewitt. The building had been erected of rough granite blocks and topped with a marble dome in the 1880s, and it reflected the original grandiosity of what the town was predestined to become but never did. Joe opened the heavy door for her.

“Your mom isn’t the first celebrity tried here,” he said. “Big Nose Bart was found guilty here back in the range war days. Lots of Old West outlaws were tried here. Most of them found innocent.”