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

My undersheriff made an exasperated sound, yanked the silenced S&W she’d taken from Carlson, and fired a round into the cooler. The two men might as well have been statues: still life, roughnecks with spare. “No, it’s not all right. You are under arrest, and you need to sit down. Now.”

They did, and quick.

The Cheyenne Nation continued to look at me. “Shoot one of them in the foot.”

“Don’t encourage her.”

He glanced at the Kenworth, still patiently idling in the roadway, pointed in the wrong direction. “Why you?”

“I told you . . .”

“Tell me.” Vic joined him in the interrogation, her eyes as angry as one of those snakes she so disliked. “Why you?”

I thought about it. “It’s my stupid idea, and if anybody’s going to get killed doing it, I’d just as soon it not be either of you.” I set the muscles in my jaw. “Also, I want Lockhart.”

The Cheyenne Nation shook his head. “That I can do better.”

“I want him alive.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re better than they are.”

He snorted. “I suppose we are about to find out if that is true.”

Vic still didn’t look convinced. “But if they start shooting, we shoot back, right?”

“I don’t think they’re that stupid.”

“Well, you didn’t think those morons were that stupid either. Let’s do the math, shall we?” She counted off on her fingers. “Desperate + guns = stupid.”

“I’m betting that the majority of the guys down there are just hired hands, brought in and told to keep their mouths shut.”

Her lips stiffened. “Maybe, but then there’s Frymire.”

I added. “And then there’s Bidarte.”

• • •

In all actuality, the Kenworth had an eight-ball suicide knob and an automatic transmission, but I didn’t see any reason to share that information with the rest of the crew. I had to drive the fully loaded tanker down to the T in the road before being able to turn it around but reassured myself by seeing that the blockaded youths were still hanging around the disabled vehicles.

I pulled the chain and sounded my horn as I turned, watching as they waved.

I throttled up the big tanker and started back down the road, pulling up and stopping to get Henry. He stepped onto the running board and shouted to be heard above the diesel engine. “We could still call in the Highway Patrol and the Natrona County Sheriff’s Department.”

I nodded. “We will, but first I want those hornets in a bottle.”

“You will be in the front of the tanker when it explodes—you will be trapped with them in that bottle.”

“I’m hoping to be out of the truck and a little ways down the road when the truck explodes.”

“Signal?”

I smiled. “Me running for my life from this damn truck.”

“Perhaps something more specific?”

I thought about it and remembered being told by a Special Forces colonel that in these situations a two-part signal was best so as to not inadvertently tip the shot. “I’ll push my hat up and scratch the back of my neck.”

He nodded. “They will see you coming and wonder why the truck has turned around.”

“I’m counting on that.”

“They will shoot you.”

“Not until they know what’s going on.”

The eyebrow again. “Maybe, brother, maybe.”

“Lockhart will want to parlay.”

“And Bidarte?”

Indicating that I was ready to go, I shrugged and put my hands on the wheel. “If he comes near me with that knife of his, you have my permission to shoot his arm off.”

Vic swung the Jeep out onto the road and pulled in front of the truck as he finally grunted a laugh. “Deal.”

I watched as she turned her classic profile to look at us. “Keep an eye on her, Henry.” He turned his head to regard my undersheriff. “Does she seem a little emotional to you lately?”

“She is worried about you.”

I batted my eyelashes at him. “Aren’t you worried about me?”

A full laugh. “No. I have this McMillan TAC-50.” He stuck his hand out and waited as I gripped him back. “Pax?”

I nodded into the glint in his eyes, perfectly confident that if things went completely wrong, it would be me and not the Cheyenne Nation that screwed the pooch. “Pax.”

• • •

The Kenworth was an older model but rode nicely on the hardpack and in no time we were at the cutoff to the canyon. Vic pulled past as Henry jumped out, pulling the brush away. I flipped off the headlights so that they wouldn’t reflect from the rock walls of the canyon, unconcerned with the noise of the engine since the machinery associated with the clandestine rig would mask that until the last moment.

It was quite possible that I wouldn’t have to detonate the tanker; that parking it in the middle of the one-lane road and stuffing the keys in my pocket or tossing them into Sulphur Creek far below would be enough. I was hoping that was the case, but it was also possible that Lockhart and Bidarte and a few of the others were desperate enough to avoid prison that they would rather kill some no-name sheriff than serve time or worse. Lockhart, I was sure, would try and negotiate, but Bidarte, looking at a lifelong jolt in Rawlins at the least, was another matter.

I took a certain comfort in watching the Jeep swing around. Henry walked up and stood on my running board with the .50 in his hand. I inched my way down the incline toward the only major curve in the road and a pavilion of sharp-edged rocks that would provide good cover and a magnificent shooting position.

I pulled alongside the boulders, and he stepped off the running board with the McMillan and the canvas bag of ammo. I watched as he picked the exact spot I would’ve, another rock like the one before, although this one looked more like a chest freezer, that was angled a little downward with a protective shield of rubble in front. He began setting up the bipod for the big, magazine-fed bolt action, and I watched as he loaded the weapon with the blue-tip incendiary rounds. I guess he figured that an incendiary would take Bidarte’s arm off as well as a regular one.

Vic appeared in the window with the binoculars around her neck, her disparagement in full bloom. I looked at her and noticed that her hair was longer and even had a few butterscotch streaks leftover from the summer. “Do you dye your hair?”

She shook her head at me. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“I guess.”

She folded her arms on the sill and averted her gaze. “Yes, I dye my hair in hopes that you might someday notice.”

“I notice your hair and the rest of you to the point of distraction.”

The tarnished gold eyes came back to mine and stayed there. “So, where are we?”

“What?”

“You and me, where are we?”

I waited a moment before making the next statement. “You want to talk about that now?”

“You brought it up.”

I smiled and fiddled with the eight-ball on the steering wheel. “I’m trying, kiddo. You once said that you didn’t want hearth and home and to do like you said and take one day at a time. I’m attempting to adjust to that, but it’s hard for an old dog to learn new tricks.”

“Yeah, well, that may have changed.” She sighed. “I’m thinking that I love you and don’t want to share you with the rest of the populace.”

I stared at her, and it was like the world had stopped on its axis. “Are you proposing to me?”

“No, dumb ass. I’m trying to get you to propose to me.” She looked down the length of the Kenworth’s hood in the direction of the rock cornice and the disappearing road. “Get as far away from this damn thing as you can before playing with your hat and neck, okay?”

“I am always careful when playing with my neck.”