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

I stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“The One, Mighty and Strong.”

I laughed. “I’m not a Mormon; I’m barely a Methodist.”

He went back to eating his burrito. “Pity.”

I continued to watch him for a while longer and then pulled the truck into reverse, backed out of the convenience store lot, and took the on-ramp to I-25 South. “Well, let’s go introduce you to Roy Lynear then.”

• • •

“Oil?”

The rippling effect of the Powder River set the keynote for the topography of the southern part of my county, where the Bighorn Mountains relaxed their grip and allowed the hills to subside into prairie.

The area had been the source of one of the largest oil holdings in the United States, but that time had passed and now the Teapot Dome reserves were only a testing ground, leased out to numerous oil companies for the development of experimental methods.

I followed Rockwell’s eyes to one of the pump jacks in the distance beside the front gate of the East Spring Ranch. “Yep.”

The nodding donkeys kept time to the geothermal beat, but it was unlikely that they were pumping much oil. The entire area had been put up for sale by the federal government, but there hadn’t been any takers; the other major naval oil reserve in Elk Hills, California, however, had fetched over three and a half billion—the largest privatization of federal property in history.

The Teapot, on the other hand, was pretty much empty.

Standing outside the chain-link fence, I tossed the station wagon’s keychain in my hand and thought about what a bad idea this was.

I caught the keys and looked at the fob—a plastic, prism-like portrait of Jesus that fluctuated as I tipped the thing back and forth. First, it was the Messiah appearing thoughtful and prophetic with His eyes down, and next He was looking to his Father with blood trailing across his face from the crown of thorns on his head—it was the kind of kitschy macabre stuff that was sold in trinket shops in Mexico.

Flipping through the keys, I found three short ones that were similar—all of them marked Master Lock.

Rockwell, who stood beside me, studied the fence and then the chintzy fob in my hand. “I did not think the Methodists, even with their many faults, were given to brazen idolatry.”

I tipped the holographic image back and forth for his entertainment. “Not mine.” Reaching up, I undid the highest lock, then the middle one, then the bottom, and pushed the gate sideways on the casters.

There were no sirens, no lights, nothing.

We climbed back in the Bullet—Rockwell didn’t have as much trouble this time. I pulled forward, then got out and closed the gate but left it unlocked just in case we had to make a hasty retreat. I climbed back in and turned to stare down the freshly graded red-scoria road that led into the dark. I was now at the portion of this particular exercise in stupidity where I was going to have to make up my mind as to what, exactly, I was doing.

I figured I had about three hours before the sun came up. Evidently, I had been thinking pretty hard, because Rockwell heard it. “What are we doing here?”

“That’s a really good question.” I laughed and glanced at him. “Officially, we’re here to notify one man that his wife—and another man that his mother—has been in a car accident.”

“This Wanda Bidarte Lynear?”

“Yep.”

He looked down the darkened plain. “Am I correct to assume that there is something clandestine about our arrival?”

“Boy howdy.”

“Oh, good. I used to specialize in such activities.” He nodded his head and smiled, and I shook my own.

I pulled the three-quarter-ton down into gear. There was a glow on the horizon to our right so maybe we didn’t have that three hours I had been assuming. A worn track led east, but the main road veered left, and I figured it was best to see where it led. About a half mile north we came to a draw that went to the right where there was a newly built road toward an old ranch house and barn with a few cottonwoods surrounding it. There were a bunch of outbuildings and a number of Quonset huts and prefabricated steel buildings that were popular in our area because they were inexpensive and could be quickly assembled.

I figured the ranch house and barn were from the twenties, but the rest of the place was most decidedly recent.

The only lights evident were a dusk-to-dawn arc light in the common area between the house and barn and a block of illumination cast from the open door of one of the very large steel buildings. It looked like there was movement in that area, and shadows appeared to be passing back and forth inside.

I wondered what it was that they could possibly be doing under the cover of night as I pulled the Bullet to the right alongside an old post-and-pole fence that protected myriad wash lines with an abundance of women’s and children’s clothing hanging from clothespins; it looked, from the assortment of items, as though there must’ve been close to a dozen women and thirty children in residence.

I cracked open the door and looked at Rockwell. “You might want to stay in the truck; I’m not sure what kind of reception we’re going to get.”

He snorted, and this time had no trouble finding the door handle.

I walked toward the entrance of the metal building. The bonnet on a 357 Peterbilt truck was tipped forward and at least a half-dozen men were working on what appeared to be a massive, portable drilling rig.

I recognized two of the men right off—George, Roy Lynear’s son, and Tomás Bidarte, the other man I’d met at The Noose bar. I was surprised to see how adept the Hispanic poet appeared to be at working on the big diesel.

I didn’t see the father but figured he was there somewhere.

Orrin Porter Rockwell joined me in the doorway, and it wasn’t long before another one of the men, one I didn’t know, nudged George, who raised his head, jumped down from the running board of the truck, and advanced with a torque wrench in one hand.

“What are you doing here?” He looked to the left and smacked the two-foot tool in the palm of his other greasy hand. “And how did you get in?”

I waited a moment and then didn’t respond, at least not in the way he wanted. “Mr. Bidarte?”

At the sound of my voice, Tomás raised his head. It was easy to see the similarity between him and his mother, weight notwithstanding; it was the look, the same look she had given the grave decorations at the front gate. There was something about the lack of movement, an old-world stillness that carried no intention, just a waiting quality that was slightly unnerving. “Yes?”

“Mr. Bidarte.” I turned to George. “Is Roy Lynear here, also?”

“What’s it to you if he is?”

I wondered if anybody who had ever met George had anything but the urge to punch his teeth down his throat. “I need to speak to your father.”

He smirked, which appeared to be his signature expression. “What’s it like to need?”

A sonorous voice carried from our right. “Who is it, George?”

“That sheriff.” He gave Rockwell the once-over. “And some hobo.”

Rockwell looked at me, and I was glad that I’d disarmed him.

“It’s Sheriff Longmire, Mr. Lynear.”

After a second, the elder spoke again. “Well, come around here, Sheriff.”

I walked past George, careful to get the point of my shoulder as close to his chin as I could as I passed, and walked around two banks of rolling tool cases plastered with stickers, almost all of them in Spanish. Rockwell followed me, but the old guy seemed to be unable to take his eyes off of Bidarte, who remained on the running board of the dismantled truck.

Roy Lynear was seated in another of his custom-built La-Z-Boy chairs that usually were meant to accommodate two, if not one and a half, but at present was filled to capacity with the great man himself. He was enthroned in a space that was like a miniature living room with a vintage Navajo rug spread out underneath the faux-leather chair. Lynear had what looked to be a motor manual for the drilling rig open in his lap and, of all things, a diet soda resting on his knee. “Hello, Sheriff.” He closed the book. “A surprise visit in the middle of the night?” He glanced past me at Rockwell.