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

“Like Samson.”

“Exactly, but something must have happened in that moment when the prophet laid hands upon me in that my rate of aging crept to a standstill; as near as I can tell, within the span of the last two hundred years I have aged only forty!” I stared at him. “Eighty-five years old and as strong as the day is long—is that not miraculous?”

“That’s one word for it.”

His eyes sharpened under the bushy brows. “You do not believe me.”

I spread my hands. “Well, you’ve got to admit that it’s a pretty fantastic story.”

“It is!”

“So, how do you explain the recorded death of one Orrin Porter Rockwell in 1878 due to natural causes, who was subsequently buried in a Salt Lake City cemetery?”

“It is a fundamental belief in our faith that no true believer shall be interred in the earth without a proper physical monument to indicate the site, but it is not I, sir—and it is the true Orrin Porter Rockwell who stands before you.” He limped out the open door and half-crouched beside me. “The burial of the nameless man was a clever ruse by the church in an attempt to keep the populace from pestering the prophet into another use of his miraculous powers as he had with me.”

I stared at him. “I see.”

“You still do not believe?”

“No.”

“What is it I can do to convince you?”

I sighed the way I always did when I’d reached the limits of my energies when dealing with crazy people. “To be honest, not a lot.”

He casually reached under his herringbone-patterned vest into his inside coat pocket, past the vintage eyewear, and pulled out a Colt 1860 Army model with a shortened barrel, deftly turning it in his hand in a flash and holding it out to me, butt first. “Here, shoot me with this, if you like.”

I sat there, looking at the black-powder pistol, more than a little concerned with the dexterity the old man had just displayed.

He thumped his chest with a broad hand, indicating a target for me. “I will not be harmed, I can assure you.”

I took the big pistol and examined the beautiful gleaming finish of the museum piece. “Have you had this the entire time you’ve been here?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes. I never take the air unarmed.” I thumbed open the cylinder, taking in the rounds. “Honestly, you may fire upon me at will.”

I rested the weapon in my lap and placed my face in my open hands. “Mr. Rockwell, do you have any other weapons on your person?”

• • •

I carefully placed the hog leg pistol along with a Navy-model .44, a Derringer, a wicked pair of brass knuckles, two knives of moderate length, and a frighteningly sharp Bowie knife with the initials OPR burnt into the hickory handle onto my desk.

Vic raised her head to look at me. “You didn’t search him?”

“We never formally arrested him.” I shook my head at myself. “It’s my fault more than anybody’s.” I slumped into my chair and looked at both Saizarbitoria and her. “He still claims to be the Orrin Porter Rockwell of frontier repute.” I gestured toward the assortment of weapons. “But faced with his personal armament here, I’m afraid it puts a new complexion on things.”

Ruby joined Sancho in the doorway as Vic sat in my guest chair and placed her boots on the corner of my desk as always. “So we’re putting Orrin the Mormon on the Evanston Express?”

I thought about the state psychiatric hospital in the southwestern part of Wyoming. “I hate it because he seems like a nice old guy.”

Vic’s voice was muffled as she spoke behind the fist at her mouth in an attempt to not burst out laughing. “He’s a nice armed-to-the-teeth old guy.”

Ruby volunteered, “And he’s very helpful.” We all turned to look at her, and she felt compelled to elaborate. “He takes out the trash, washes out the coffee mugs; he even raked the leaves on the lawn out beside the courthouse this morning.”

Santiago folded his arms on his chest. “Not to change the subject, Walt, but was there any mention of who it was that sent him?”

“No, I thought the first order of the day was to disarm him.”

The Basquo’s attitude was conciliatory. “How did he respond to having his weapons taken away?”

“Disappointed.” I looked at all of them and then down at the cache on my desk. “Not that his weapons were gone, but more that he was disappointed that we would think of taking them. He told me about being a federal marshal back in the day and that he’d be happy to help us in our investigation.”

Ruby took a step closer but shuddered as if the weapons might leap to action on their own. “Did you ask him about the Tisdale girl?”

“I did, and he wouldn’t give me a straight answer.”

“How did he take to getting arrested?”

It was quiet in the room.

Vic looked up. “Tell me you arrested him.”

It was quieter in the room.

“Oh, Walt.” She got up and started through the doorway as Ruby and Sancho made way for her.

“Where are you going?”

Her voice carried from the hallway: “To arrest the son of a bitch.”

I looked up at my remaining staff. “I just couldn’t do it; he’s two hundred years old and he looked so depressed.”

Santiago nodded and walked over to my desk. “They’re loaded?”

“Yep.”

He picked up the shortened Army Colt and carefully examined it. “Looks like the real deal to me.”

“I think it is, too. We can check the thing for model numbers and manufacturer’s impressions; I’m no expert, but I’d swear it’s the genuine article.”

He fingered the edge on the Bowie knife. “Forged steel with a Damascus finish—looks like it was honed from a barrel stave.”

I nodded. “Common practice in the 1800s.”

Vic returned to the doorway, a little flushed from the run. “So, nobody’s going to be surprised that he’s gone, right?”

7

“You wouldn’t think that a manhunt for a gimpy two-hundred-year-old would be this difficult.” We stood there on the street behind the sheriff’s office and looked past Meadowlark Elementary toward the trees along Clear Creek that came from the Bighorn Mountains. Vic followed my gaze. “Maybe he’ll meet up with Virgil White Buffalo and solve both of our problems.”

“At least he’s unarmed.”

She snorted. “As far as we know.”

It was the middle of the day, and it was unlikely that Rockwell, or whoever he was, had gotten far. “Any ideas?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I spend my days trying not to think like a nut job.”

“Where is our Indian tracker when we need him?”

“I’m betting The Red Pony and then home.” She paused. “Drats, huh?”

I thought about the situation and what the old man’s intentions and motivations might be. “Where is Cord?”

“I assume still gainfully employed at the Busy Bee.” She turned and looked at me. “Surely you don’t think . . .”

I started across the courthouse parking lot toward the stairs leading down to Main Street. “It’s why he’s here.”

She followed, quick-walking alongside me in an attempt to make up for her shorter stride. “So, we know why he’s here?”

Staying to one side, I navigated the stairs. “Cord says he’s his bodyguard. I just wish I knew who sent him.”

My undersheriff jumped a few steps to confront me. “But this Rockwell character tried to kidnap him.”

I barely stopped before bowling the two of us down the stairs. “True.”

“And he was headed south, which kind of indicates Orson Welles in the three-quarter-ton.”

“Roy Lynear, the father.”

“Looking out for the son while we search for the Holy Ghost.”

“I suppose, but his father is the one who kicked him out.”