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

He smiled. “And you do not want them here?”

I stopped and looked at the cracks in the sidewalk and in my own logic. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because I do not approve of their methods.”

“Their methods or their beliefs?”

I stopped and turned to face him. “Well, one’s kind of responsible for the other, now, isn’t it?” He continued smiling, and I continued walking. “And stop grinning at me.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“Well, nobody’s threatening Cord. . . .”

“Mostly because you haven’t formally told his father, who is lodged in the southern part of your county, that you have him.”

“That’s the next step.”

“So you are still concentrating on the missing woman?”

“Yep.”

We walked along. “Speaking of missing women, have you heard from your daughter lately?”

“No.” I stopped on the sidewalk and looked at him again. “Have you?”

“No.”

We continued walking. “I think she’s glad she bought that old tannery building; it’s got plenty of room, and since there are going to be three of them . . .”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets as we started up the steps leading to the courthouse. “The baby is due in January, yes?”

“Yep.”

“Lola.”

“Lola.” I paused for a moment. “I mean I don’t know if she’s told Michael. I think she wants it to be a surprise.”

A funny look played across his face.

I broke eye contact with him and looked back down the main drag at the banner proclaiming the impending homecoming festivities. “I told you, it’s something that Virgil said on the mountain.”

“Live Virgil or dead Virgil?”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “I haven’t decided yet.” I glanced up at the Bighorns, at the new snow there. “He made some predictions about my life; about it not all being good.”

“Whose is?”

“This sounded a little more dire.” I watched the breeze pull at his hair—a wind that seemed to urge us southeast away from the mountains. “I guess I’m getting scary in my old age.”

He climbed a few stairs and turned to look at me. “You are truly concerned?”

“I suppose.”

“What would you like to do?”

I thought about it and shook my head. “Nothing. I mean there’s nothing I can do besides call Cady and tell her I’ve got a bad feeling and she should stay at home and hide in the closet.”

“I do not think she will do that.”

“Me either.”

“You put a great deal of stock in Indian prophecies?”

I grunted. “More and more these days.”

He stepped back down and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Then I will make one—she will be fine.”

I stared at him, wanting to believe. “You promise?”

“Yes; there are two things I know beyond any shadow of a doubt.”

“And they are?”

He started back up the steps. “That the future is uncertain, and that it can change.”

I followed after him. “And the other?”

“The most important thing about a rain dance.”

“Which is?”

He called over his shoulder. “Timing.”

• • •

“They have not delivered my fucking corsage yet.”

The Bear looked at me as we stood in the doorway of her office. “She wants to go to the homecoming ceremony Friday night, and she wants a corsage.”

“Black-and-orange, same as the Doggies.”

“Dogies.”

“Whatever.”

“Rockwell?”

She logged off her computer and tipped her chair back. “Cousin Itt is back in the holding cell communing with a higher power between viewings of My Friend Flicka .”

I pushed off. “I’m going to have a conversation with him and then make a run down to Short Drop and have a chat with Roy Lynear about his son and the possible whereabouts of Sarah.”

Her interest was immediately piqued. “Can I go?”

“If you promise not to shoot anybody.”

She smiled the wicked little smile she reserved for the more energetic aspects of our occupation. “Cross my hairs and hope to lie.”

I was not in the least comforted and, leaving them to discuss the finer points of shooting people, started off for the holding area.

Rockwell was reading from the old Book of Mormon and was seated on the bunk with the cell door open, his graying hair hanging down to the edge of the mattress pad and cascading over it. He didn’t move when I came in but continued to harken to the word.

“I see you got your book back.”

Pulling off a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses, he noted the page number and gently closed it. “It brings me comfort.”

“It’s probably worth a fortune with that inscription from Sara Rockwell.”

He folded the glasses and placed them in his vest pocket. “My mother.”

“Um.” I paused. “Yep.” I pulled up a chair. “That’s actually something I’d like to talk to you about.”

He set the book on the bunk beside him. “This is not the only time I have spent in a jailhouse, Sheriff Longmire.”

“I know Orrin Porter Rockwell spent eight months in the Independence, Missouri, jail.”

He nodded his head enthusiastically. “A horrid place with food unfit for dogs.”

His performance was spot-on, and I started wondering if maybe we could get the old guy a job in some outdoor drama in Utah. “Rockwell was there because he attempted to murder Lilburn Boggs, the governor of Missouri.”

He shook his head, and the pearly hair swayed back and forth. “Another act in which I had no part; the proof of said statement resides in the fact that the man survived. If it had been I, such would not have been the case.” He leaned forward. “I will tell you my theories on who was party to the attempted assassination; it was none other than the storekeeper, Uhlinger, who accused me of stealing the pepperbox pistol that was found that night.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I would never have overcharged the weapon, which led to its being dropped upon firing. Another point being that with so many weapons at my disposal, why would I steal one from a local merchant who at first claimed that it had been stolen by Negro slaves and then by me?” He laughed. “Oh no, if you can find a suitable villain in the public’s eye, which we Mormons were at that period in time, and I think Philip Uhlinger did, then you are free as a proverbial bird.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Have I told you about fishing from the second-story window of the Centennial jail with corn dodgers? I never caught a Missourian, but I had numerous vigorous nibbles!”

“Mr. Rockwell . . .” I sighed, long and loud so that he would be aware of my mood. “You’ll excuse me for saying so, but I find it very hard to believe that you are approaching two hundred years old.”

He smiled, and there was a twinkle in his opalescent eyes. “I don’t look a day over a hundred and fifty, do I?” He sat forward. “My name is Orrin Porter Rockwell, and I was born June 28, 1813, in Belchertown, Hampshire County, Massachusetts, and was endowed in the Nauvoo Temple on January 5, 1846.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose with thumb and forefinger. “So, that’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

“It is a strange one, yes?”

I looked up at him. “Yep, it sure is.”

“I will attempt to explain, Sheriff.” He edged forward on the bunk and rested his elbows on his knees. “I was the subject of a direct prophecy by the prophet Joseph Smith.”

“Which was?”

His face brightened. “As you mentioned, I had just spent eight months in a pestilential hellhole jail in Missouri. Filthy and starved beyond recognition, I made my way back to Nauvoo and arrived unannounced at a Christmas party at the great prophet’s home.” He stood, overcome with enthusiasm for his story. “I remember the soft and golden glow of the parlor oil lights as I stumbled into the room and the beaming face of the prophet. There were other men there, bodyguards to Joseph, who grabbed hold of me for fear that I might mean the great man harm.” He laughed. “Perfectly reasonable when you consider my appearance, but Joseph stepped forward and placed his hands upon my head, telling me that as long as I kept the faith and never cut my hair, no bullet or blade would ever harm me.”