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

He smiled. “I’m not drinking, but I thought I’d join in the celebration.”

“And what is it you’re celebrating?”

He made a face, as if it were obvious. “Our new water well.”

I turned and looked at them. “And how were you able to drill that well without the benefit of your Hughes polycrystalline three-cone bit?”

He looked at me with an expression as blank as the biblical nonshifting desert sands. “Our what?”

“The industrial one-hundred-seventy-thousand-dollar bit we found in the back of Big Wanda’s Plymouth that she ran off the road to try to keep us from finding.”

The sands remained still. “We used the one that was attached to the Peterbilt that you saw the other night. Tomás fixed it. I’m sure I don’t know what other drill it is you’re talking about.”

“Maybe you don’t.” I set the glass down and squared off with Lockhart. “But I bet he does.”

A long moment passed, and Lockhart placed a hand on Lynear’s shoulder and spoke to the confused man. “Ronald, why don’t you head back to the ranch; I’m sure your father is wondering what’s happened.” He slapped him gently. “Go on, we’ll be along in no time.”

The man of religion glanced at all of us and then quietly departed, excusing himself as he passed Eleanor, still standing at the entrance.

Lockhart stood there for a moment more and then started toward the door. “Could I get you to step outside with me for a moment, Sheriff?”

I stared at him, at Eleanor, and then back to Henry. I pushed off the bar and followed him out the door.

It was cool, but the rays of the sun were just starting to rise over the plains with a diffused, yellowish-gray glow. I turned to Lockhart, leaning against one of the support poles.

Lynear was just backing out in an older Buick with a crumpled fender that had been touched over with gray primer on the passenger side. We both watched as he pulled out and drove away.

“I’m a professional; I want you to know that.”

I turned and looked at him, folding my arms over my chest. “I do. It’s a professional what that I’m trying to figure out.”

“Sheriff, how much money do you make a year—forty, fifty thousand?”

“I don’t know; like I said, they stopped teaching us remedial math at the academy.”

He nodded. “But you can tell me what time it is, right?” He turned and looked at the rising sun, and I watched him shiver. “Well, how about I tell you what time it really is?” His face returned to mine. “Time to look the other way.”

I said nothing.

“How old are you, Sheriff? Closing in on retirement with a half-finished house would be my guess, with children, a daughter, maybe? Newly married and expecting your first grandchild? A professional herself, possibly a lawyer in a large eastern city, an associate with hopes of making partner. . . .”

I cut him off. “I get it, you know all about me—I sure hope there’s more to this conversation than that.”

“I hope so, too, Sheriff, I hope so, too.” He shivered a little more, and I had to admit that I was enjoying his discomfort. “What if I told you that I’d like to make a donation to the Walt Longmire reelection campaign?”

“I’ve already been reelected.”

“Oh, this money would be disassociated from any political responsibilities; you could use it for whatever you wanted, finishing your house, a gift for your daughter, college for the grandchild. Anything you’d like, it doesn’t matter. A lot of money, Sheriff. Like Senator Everett McKinley Dirksen used to say: a billion here, a billion there, and pretty soon you’re talking serious money.”

I dropped my head and spoke into my folded arms. “So, we’re talking about serious money, then.”

“Very serious.”

I raised my head slowly and stared at him. “Mr. Lockhart, are you trying to bribe me?”

He smiled. “Hasn’t it ever been tried before?”

“Nope, generally people are smarter than that.” I tilted my head and looked at him. “They don’t know, do they?”

“Who know what?”

I gestured toward the departed car and the general direction of East Spring Ranch. “Your religious friends, they don’t know about whatever it is that you’re doing that’s going to result in serious money.”

“That’s really not the point here, is it?” He shivered some more, looking in the bar and longing for the warmth inside. “So, am I to take that response as a no to my offer?”

“That was an offer, was it?”

“Yes, it was and still is. Just for looking the other way. Nobody gets hurt.”

“Nobody gets hurt.” I probed the grain of the boardwalk with the toe of my boot. “And that’s why you killed Double Tough, because he had a working knowledge of whatever it is you’re doing?”

A look of exasperation flitted across his face. “Why would we kill your deputy?”

“For a Hughes polycrystalline three-yoke bit.”

His response was swift and a little angry. “Sheriff, if I wanted, I could have a truckload of them within twenty-four hours.” He pushed off the pole and stood in front of me. “I didn’t kill your deputy—it makes no sense. I have to admit that I didn’t know about you before, but now that I do I can see that you would be a formidable adversary.” He took a breath. “I’m a businessman, beyond all the things you think I am or the things you think I do—I am in business. Now, you tell me, is it good business for me to take you on?”

I said nothing.

“Why would we want a war with you?”

I still said nothing.

“Well, there’s your answer.” He gestured toward the bar. “Do you mind if I collect Tomás? It’s been a long evening.”

I gestured with a nod and watched as he went to the door, opened it, and called inside. Lockhart started for the truck and a moment later was followed by Bidarte and the Cheyenne Nation.

As Bidarte passed, I stuck out an arm and stopped him, leaned in, and sniffed him. He stared at me for a moment, then stepped onto the gravel, and, standing by the door of the truck, he studied me as Henry and I leaned on either side of the wooden pole.

Lockhart pulled his keys from his pressed khakis and hit the button to unlock the doors on a black half-ton, then stepped off the boardwalk and opened the driver’s side. A thought occurred to him, and he spoke again. “By the way, I have to ask—did you smell kerosene on Gloss?”

I studied the horizon, where that first glimmer was simmering under the streaked sky. “No.”

I saw a flash of movement to my left but before either the Bear or I could react, there was a loud thunk in the post between us. I turned my head slowly and could see Bidarte’s blade buried in the coarse grain of the wood just at head height, still vibrating from the impact.

Henry and I stared past the foot-long stiletto at each other’s faces. The Cheyenne Nation reached up and plucked the knife from the post, expertly nudging the tang and folding it back before tossing it to the tall Basque. “If you were aiming for the post, that was a good throw.”

Bidarte tucked the knife into his back pocket. “Oh yes, señor. I was.”

I ignored him and studied the horizon.

Looking at the sun for a moment, Lockhart followed my eye, and patted the top of the cab as an afterthought. “Concerning Mr. Gloss and the kerosene, it would’ve been easier to lie.”

I kept my eyes on the rising sun as the two of them climbed in the truck and backed into a sweeping arch that gave them a clear trajectory up the embankment and south onto 192.

“No, it wouldn’t.”

13

“I think Dog sleeps with you more than I do.” She had elected to pass up her usual seat on the guest chair in my office and sat on the floor near me.