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

He smiled, and a line settled alongside the upturned corner of his mouth as he popped the lid on the center console—he knew all my caches and clichés—and pulled out an extra box of shells. “What other weapons do we have?”

I started the Bullet and pulled the gear selector down into drive. “Steadfast resolution.” I turned and looked at him, not as if he would take the option, but it had to be said. “If you want out, now would be the time.”

He actually laughed as he reloaded the round. “I try never to miss an episode of Steadfast Resolution —it is my favorite program.”

• • •

The Cheyenne Nation was the first to notice that the lights were on at the Short Drop Merc.

I slowed my truck from its sonic speed and pulled to the side of the road just past the turnoff into the pint-sized town. I leaned forward; it seemed as though almost every light in the place was on, especially in the bar, and a few vehicles were parked out front, including a decked-out Ford King Ranch pickup.

The Bear shook his head. “You do not think . . . ?”

“Yes, I do.” I threw the Bullet into reverse, scorching the scoria surface of Route 192 with two black strips of Michelin rubber about ninety feet long. I locked it up and spun the wheel, bouncing the three-quarter-ton over the edge of the pavement and down the slight grade leading into town past the signature hemp noose that swung from the cottonwood.

I kept my brights on as I slid up to the boardwalk hitching post alongside the other vehicles, my headlights directed into the front windows, a copious cloud of dry, ochre-colored dust drifting past us and blowing against the structure like an angry orange smell.

“I take it we are not counting on the element of surprise?”

I threw my door open. “Nope.”

His hand caught mine as I started to exit. “Does not make sense; remember that.”

I looked at him, said nothing, and then nodded.

We mounted the steps, and I didn’t bother with the knob, instead choosing to enter the room boot first. The door bounced off the wall and started back, but I caught it with one hand and stood there holding it.

I noticed my hands had stopped shaking for good.

The only person in the room that I did not want to shoot was standing behind the bar with her hands on her hips, keeping enough collateral damage distance between her and what appeared to be her unwanted patrons—smart woman, that Eleanor Tisdale.

There were three men at the bar and two more playing pool at the table to my left.

I noticed the Cheyenne Nation drifting in the door behind me like casual death, the shotgun trailing behind his leg completely unnoticeable.

“Well, howdy , Sheriff. You look like you could use a drink.”

I looked at the three, especially at the one with the mouth whom I recognized as Ronald, Roy Lynear’s oldest son, the one from over in South Dakota. Behind him were Lockhart and the younger strong arm whose acquaintance I’d made from a distance in Butte County.

Gloss and Bidarte were at the pool table, and the Bear had already taken a few steps in that direction. Having cased and set the room, I started toward Ronald and Lockhart and watched as the muscle slid in front of them. I guess they thought they had numbers on their side, but maybe they had never seen an episode of Steadfast Resolution , let alone the season finale.

Lockhart was the unstated leader, I was sure of that, but he lingered and made no move to engage me. I hit the younger one a good, solid roundhouse to the side of his head, which sent him into the bar where he made the mistake of trying to catch himself; I took that opportunity to uppercut him and send him back, dragging along a few glasses and more than a few beer bottles with him as he fell.

The favored son and Lockhart didn’t move and stayed there, not lifting a hand from the edge. Ronald Lynear’s eyes widened as I pulled up over him, my nose about an inch or two higher than the top of his head.

His face turned upward as I made a show of breathing in his scent. He appeared to be paralyzed but finally eased out the words in a smoother voice than I would’ve thought him capable of in such a situation. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re doing, Sheriff?”

I breathed in deeply. “They say that guilt has a specific odor, one you can smell from a mile away.”

He waited a moment and then asked, “And what is it that one of us might be guilty of?”

Still sniffing like a bloodhound, I leaned a little to the side. “The willful destruction of county property.”

“You don’t say?”

I brought my face around to his. “I do.” Leaving him, I stepped over the fallen man and gave Lockhart the once-over. “You see, the sheriff’s substation . . .” I glanced back at Lynear and then settled my eyes on Lockhart again. “The county property in question was burned with a chemical accelerant, probably kerosene.” I bent down to the glass-jawed guy, slid a Wilson Combat/Tactical .40 from his inside-the-pants holster, and propelled it across the gray hardwood floor where it lodged under Henry’s uplifted boot with a solid thunk .

Nobody moved.

I sniffed the younger man’s head and then lifted an arm, attaching one end of my handcuffs to his wrist. “Guilt is a lot like kerosene; the scent stays longer than you might suspect.” I dragged the cuffed individual along by the arm like an afterthought, turned toward Gloss and Bidarte, and took a few steps into the center of the room.

Gloss put the butt of his pool cue on the floor, his hand tightening around the shaft of it, and glanced at Henry and then at me. “You stay the hell away.”

The Bear and I looked at each other, and he was the first to speak. “That sounded remarkably like an admission of guilt.”

“Yep, it did.” I cocked my head. “You wouldn’t be armed again, would you, Mr. Gloss?” I gestured with the unconscious man’s arm. “I mean, not like your friend here, who I’m betting is going to be spending a few weeks in my jail in violation of the carry laws of the state of Wyoming.” I stepped to one side of the table, and they countered by moving to the other. “Do you have another weapon on you, by any chance? I took the last one you had, which means if you didn’t acquire a different one, you would have to find some other way of doing your dirty work, something like an accelerant—say, kerosene?”

He glanced at Henry and then at me and the holstered .45 on my hip.

His eyes came back up to mine, and I could see the panic-driven thought that was there. I reached down and drew back my jacket and unsnapped the safety strap from my Colt. “It doesn’t take much to carry one of these things—forty ounces of milled steel and eight rounds.” I pointed toward his shirttail, hanging past his waist. “Whatever you’ve maybe got there probably carries more, but caliber, rate of fire, that doesn’t really matter—doesn’t mean anything really. All that matters is being willing—willing to pull it, willing to fire it, willing to kill.” I took another step, still dragging the now half-conscious man along with me. “It’s one thing to set a place on fire with a man sleeping inside, but it’s another when a man is standing right in front of you, ready and willing.”

Bidarte sidestepped slightly to the left but carefully raised his hands, keeping them where Henry and I could see them. “I don’t know what this is all about, Sheriff, but we’ve been here, playing pool all night.” He gestured toward Eleanor and kept moving sideways. “The lady, she can tell you. . . .”

“That’s far enough; I’m not that bad a shot.”

He smiled but stopped.

I glanced at the proprietor, and she shrugged with a sad humping of her shoulders. “They came in here around six, all of them.” She looked away. “I wish I could tell you something different, but I can’t.”