Craig Johnson - A Serpent's Tooth - A Walt Longmire Mystery

The one with the hair and the one in the plastic hat ignored Henry and started toward me along with the fourth man who was also in a black polo shirt and chinos. Unless I was mistaken, he was the muscle.

The tall, red-headed man was the first to talk, and he did it slowly, as if it tired him to speak with mere mortals and so that, with our limited faculties, we would be able to understand and obey. “Hello, I’m Ronald Lynear. Is there some sort of trouble?”

I waited until they were next to me, keeping my head in my wallet, pretending to count out bills as I kept my attention on young Edgar and his sister. “Nope, just buying some baked goods.”

Lynear glanced across the road at the stars on my doors, making a point of looking around the Cheyenne Nation, who now stood facing us with his muscled arms folded across his chest. Ronald put out his hand, feminine with long fingers and manicured nails, in an attempt to press down my wallet. “There’s no need for that; I’m sure we’ll be happy to make a donation to . . . the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department.”

He left his hand on mine until I looked up at him. “No need.”

He shot a look at the huge man beside him and stuffed both hands in his pants pockets. “This is my friend and spiritual advisor, Earl Gloss.”

I glanced toward the Bear, still standing in the road with a slight smile on his face. “That’s mine.”

Ronald Lynear waved at Henry and then turned back to me. “He’s Native American?”

“Northern Cheyenne, to be exact.”

He nodded and called out. “We will look forward to Lamanite assistance in the apocalyptic wars to come with the dark-skinned children of Satan.”

Henry’s grin broadened and his voice, even though it was low, carried in the wind like a scythe. “I would not count on it.”

Lynear’s eyes hardened a little, but he disguised it by turning back to me. “Where, exactly, is Absaroka County; if you don’t mind my asking, Sheriff?”

“Wyoming.”

“Oh, and what brings you to our fair state?” He gestured toward the table and the two young people still standing in his presence. “Besides the baked goods?”

“I’m looking for a woman.”

He didn’t look surprised. “And how can I help you?”

“Her name is Sarah Tisdale, and I have reason to believe that she is a member of your group.

He turned to confer with the older man. “Earl, have we heard of this woman?”

Gloss was quick to speak up. “Not that I am aware of, Mr. Lynear.”

I gave the two of them a nice, long stare. “Strange, because she made inquiries at the Butte County Sheriff’s Office concerning her child, Cord. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of that person either?”

Lynear turned again, and I was starting to get the impression that he was a pirate talking to the parrot on his shoulder. “Earl?”

The bearded man shook his head. “No, never heard of him.”

I stared at Gloss. “Funny, I didn’t say anything about it being a him.”

He looked past me at Edgar, who still stood by his sister, now clutching the can of pop to her chest, both of them keeping their eyes to the ground. “Edgar, where have you been and where is your truck?”

I interrupted. “There’s been an accident; no one was hurt, but their truck was dumped in a creek bed up near one of your gun towers.”

It was his turn to pause and then emphasize, “Observation towers.”

I glanced at Edgar, still studying the few sprigs of grass at his feet, and then turned back to Ronald Lynear. “And what is it you’re observing?”

“The Lord rewards those who are prepared.”

“I’m afraid I ran the boys off the bridge, but I’ll be happy to pay for the damages. We were just giving them a ride home.”

“I’m sure that also will be unnecessary, Sheriff.”

I kept my eyes on him but spoke loudly enough for them all to hear. “I am an honest man, Mr. Lynear, and pay for my mistakes. Besides, we’ve got the room for the children, and I’d kind of like to get a look at your place.”

“We’re a private people, Sheriff—I’m sure you’ll understand if we don’t offer you an invitation.” He gestured for Gloss to retrieve the children and, legally, there was little I could do, and he knew it.

The big guy bumping my shoulder as a parting shot smirked as he went around me, but then made a tactical mistake by pushing his luck just a touch too far. He shoved Edgar toward his so-called father and then reached down and viciously slapped the can of soda from the girl’s hands. “We don’t allow our children to drink such trash.”

Henry said later that the man might’ve fared better if he’d had any idea what it was that was about to happen next. The Bear said he might’ve even been able to stay on his feet, but I doubt it. As it happened, when my clenched fist struck the side of his head and sent him reeling into the ditch, he slapped against the ground like a poleaxed steer.

The Cheyenne Nation, always aware of what I was going to do before I did it, had already stepped out to block the other backseater, and I could see that Vic had unsnapped the safety strap on her 9mm and was looking eye to eye with one of the polo shirts before he turned to study me.

The scouring of wingtips grazed the inside of my lungs and the coolness overtook my face as my hands grew still. I faced the two remaining men with my knuckles resting on the card table and thought about how Edgar’s sister had been sitting out here all day without supplies, and how she was likely to be left behind until there was nothing more to sell.

“I haven’t bought my baked goods.”

6

One of the best ways I have discovered to get back in the good graces of your staff is to show up with a couple of boxloads of desserts and deposit them in the communal area near Ruby’s desk. I had done so and was now brooding in my office over a tepid cup of coffee that resided in my old-school Denver Broncos mug with the chip on the rim.

It was resting on a couple of magazines, and my forearm was lying flat on the desk with my chin propped on it as I slowly turned the mug by the handle and studied the chip, stained and grimy-looking from coffee residue.

“You could get a new one.”

I continued staring at my sole piece of office drinkware. “I don’t want a new one.”

The Cheyenne Nation leaned in my doorway, drinking a mugful himself. “Then what do you want?” He noticed the magazines under my arm. “Do you mind if I ask why you have the 1972 January edition of Playboy magazine on your desk?”

“I’m thinking of taking up airbrushing.” I waited a moment and then asked a favor. “Hey, do you think you could take Mr. Rockwell out for a walk long enough for me to talk to Cord about his mother?”

“Yes.” He waited and watched me continue to contemplate my mug awhile before asking, “Are you depressed because you missed chess with Lucian last night?”

“No.”

“Are you depressed because the Durant Dogies are retiring your number?”

“No.”

He nudged his sizable shoulder off the doorjamb and loitered. “Are you mad at yourself for that roundhouse punch that planted that farmer like seed corn?”

I thought about it. “I suppose.”

“Some seeds need planting.”

“It’s not going to make that boy and his sister’s lives any easier.”

He sipped his coffee. “How do you know that? It’s possible that now that he has been manhandled, he is less likely to manhandle.”

“That’s not how it works, and you know it.”

He considered his own mug, which obviously belonged to Vic and read in bold script PHROM PHILLY AND PHUCKING PROUD OF IT. “You could arrest them.”

“Tim Berg could arrest them.”