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

“Yep.”

He mulled on it, and I glanced out the windshield where a large group of men were watching us and slowly starting to move our way. “When I was in prison in Missouri . . .”

“That wasn’t Missouri, Dale. It was Mexico.”

He nodded his head. “The man I made an acquaintance with . . . The man is here.”

I watched as the crowd drew nearer and concluded that we were almost out of time. “Bidarte, he’s the one that you were in prison with all those years.”

“He said he would help me find my daughter.”

“And the boy, Cord? He’s your grandson.”

“I see.” He studied me for a few moments, scratching at the blood flaking from his beard. “Sheriff?”

“Yep.”

He continued to stare at me with the opal eyes. “You are behaving very strangely.”

I nodded and pushed open my door; that’s what I got for trying to be the only sane person in the world.

• • •

The men had streamed toward the base of the incline but parted as a few that I recognized from before who were holding rifles appeared from the small building to my right.

I jumped down from the running board and walked around to the front of the Kenworth, forward enough, I hoped, that the Cheyenne Nation and Vic would be able to see me and, more important, my hat and neck.

A semicircle of men stood looking at me and my uniform. I searched their faces for somebody I might know, someone from in-county, but none of them looked familiar. Somewhere in the distance, someone shut off the generator that was making the majority of the racket and the other diesel truck shut down as well. Far from silent, it was a lot less noisy than it had been moments ago.

My voice sounded loud, even to me. “I’m looking for Tom Lockhart.”

Nobody said anything as Rockwell/Tisdale joined me, but they continued to train the automatic rifles on the two of us.

“This is an illegal drilling operation, and I’m here to tell all of you that you’re under arrest.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Lockhart appeared from behind the crowd and approached with Bidarte trailing behind. The faux-CIA man was wearing a hooded tactical jacket, a battle dress uniform, and combat boots, all in black, effectively dressed for the role of a lifetime. “I’m not even sure we’re in your county.”

“Above 43"30' N latitude; and yes, you are in my county.”

He pulled up a few yards away. “Well, if we are, then we are certainly beyond the scope of your jurisdiction.” He turned and looked at the group, some of them looking at each other and then at me and my star. “You men can go back to work; we’re running out of time here. . . .”

“You’ve run out of time.” I spoke in what my father used to call my field voice so that they could all hear me. “You men know there’s something fishy about this operation, but it’s possible that Mr. Lockhart here has suckered you into thinking that he works for the government—well, he doesn’t and he and his friend Mr. Bidarte are responsible for the death of an Absaroka County sheriff’s deputy.”

Lockhart laughed. “That’s bullshit.”

I threw a thumb over my shoulder. “Now, at the top of this canyon, I’ve got detachments from the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department—”

Lockhart was shouting now. “This is a United States government project, fully sanctioned by the Department of Homeland Security and a number of other agencies. . . .”

I raised my voice over his. “This man has no connection with the federal or any other government other than some polo shirts with embroidered patches on them. When all that honest-to-God law-enforcement personnel come barreling down that road, they’re going to take him and his bunch and lock them up. Now it’s possible that none of you will face prosecution, but he and his buddies with the rifles will. It’s up to you to decide how you want to play this, but my advice is to put your tools down, raise your hands, and get over to the side out of the line of fire.”

The workers were now talking among themselves, and you could see that there were at least some concerns.

Lockhart raised his voice again, gesturing toward Rockwell. “And is that one of your deputies, Sheriff, or a derelict?”

Rockwell’s voice rose above mine in a righteous indignation. “My name is Orrin Porter Rockwell!”

Lockhart smiled. “ The Orrin Porter Rockwell, the Destroying Angel and Danite, Man of God, Son of Thunder?” Lockhart continued, turning to look at the group as he spoke. “The bodyguard of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young, frontier legend, marksman, and man of iron nerve?”

Rockwell was studying him now, aware that he might be being made the butt of a joke. “Some would say, sir.”

Great. I stuck a hand out to silence the crazy man. “Orrin, you might want to let me talk here.”

“But I was to understand that you died in 1878, Mr. Rockwell.”

He looked at the crowd of them the way a bear would look at a baiting. “I was fortunate enough to receive the blessings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, saying that as long as I did not cut my hair I would be harmed by neither shot nor blade.”

“That means you would be two hundred years old?”

Rockwell’s eyes narrowed like train tunnels. “When the Prophet touched me, it imbued me with a spirit unlike any other living man and retarded the aging process so that I now stand here before you.”

Some of the roughnecks were drifting off and going back to work, assured that the sheriff and the fruitcake weren’t really a threat to the operation. Lockhart stepped in a little closer, with Bidarte and a few of the gunmen flanking him. “Thank you, Mr. Rockwell; you were most invaluable.”

I watched as Rockwell’s eyes moved past Lockhart to Bidarte. There was a change in his expression as he looked at the man, a softening that was unsettling. “Tomás, you can tell them.”

Bidarte dropped his face a little and then raised it to look at the man he’d shared a cell with those many years. “Orrin.”

Rockwell seemed disappointed, glancing first at him and then at Lockhart. “What are you doing working for this man?”

“It’s a job, my friend. Just a job.”

Lockhart spoke to me as the remainder of the workers siphoned off and began going about the business of dismantling the rig. “Sheriff, how about you and your friend here join me in the office and we can discuss what it is we need to do next?”

I shook my head at him. “How about you put your guns down and we stop playing games?”

Rockwell interrupted again. “I don’t understand, Tomás.”

“It’s just a job, Orrin, like looking for your daughter. I will explain to you later. I promise.”

“My daughter?” Rockwell stepped toward him as I reached out a hand. “You know where she is?”

“I do.” Bidarte threw a hand around Rockwell’s shoulders and pulled him in close. “I will take you to her.”

I surged forward, but the barrels of three automatic rifles pushed against me, holding me in place.

I saw Orrin’s shoulders slope and his body grow stiff, convulsing as Tomás Bidarte slipped the length of that deadly blade into him. Rockwell slumped, and I watched as the larger man supported his body and wrenched the knife up and sideways, a strike reminiscent of what he had done to Frymire. Tisdale went up on the toes of his boots in an attempt to ease the pressure, half-turned in Bidarte’s arms, the opal eyes draining like twin moons in his face as he looked at me, his mouth hanging open as he tried to speak.

We all stood there, the gunmen providing a visual insulation to the killing of a man.

With my aborted movement, my face was only inches from Lockhart’s, and I watched as a smile garroted his face before dropping into the easy speak of a boardroom deal maker. “You and I both know there’s no army of sheriffs and deputies up there.” He stepped in even closer. “This operation is chicken feed in comparison with what it is we’re going to make. . . .”