Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  “Did he go to school for this stuff?”

  “Not that I know of.” I stared at the stacks. “Must’ve been self-taught.”

  “You think he bought and sold paintings—that’s where the money came from?”

  “I don’t know, but you’d think something like that wouldn’t have gone unnoticed around here.” Placing the book back into the stacks, I opened the door and flipped on the light, finding the place a lot more orderly than the last time I’d seen it. “I’d say Carol’s been working overtime.”

  There were plastic milk-case style file folders and manila envelopes that filled a few old beer cases stacked neatly on a hand truck by the door. Slipping a few folders from the plastic containers, I looked at the writing on the envelope that read Correspondence Between CLS and the Buffalo Bill Center of the West. There were more with other illustrious names like the Booth Western Museum, the National Museum of the American Indian, the Brinton Museum over in Sheridan County, the Gilcrease Museum in Tulsa, the Eiteljorg in Indianapolis, and the Denver Art Museum.

  “Pretty amazing, huh?” We turned to find Carol, who was holding two trays, in the doorway.

  “I’ll say, and a pretty amazing job on your part in filing all this stuff.”

  She shrugged, handing each of us a tray with the aforementioned walleye, tartar sauce, and Tater Tots. “My father was an accountant.”

  Sitting on the bed, I watched as Vic sat in the guest chair and Carol leaned against the wall by the hand truck. “So, what was all this correspondence about?”

  “A lot of trading information about artists and their art. Sorry to be so vague, but to be honest, I didn’t read any of it. As soon as I ascertained who it was, I just piled it into the appropriate files or boxes and moved on to the next.” She glanced around. “If I’d started reading, I don’t think I would’ve gotten very far in getting it cleaned up—there were even letters he’d written back and forth with the Budweiser Corporation in Saint Louis.”

  “No personal correspondence among family members?”

  “There were some letters from his daughter, but not much. They’re in the second carton there.”

  “You didn’t run into any more treasures or artwork?”

  She shook her head. “Only what’s on the walls.” She glanced around. “Some of it’s relatively valuable, but nothing worth a million dollars.”

  Starting on my lunch, I threw a chin toward the painting of the Buffalo Soldier standing in front of the Navajo rug. “What about that one?”

  “I can’t say for sure because I’m certainly no expert, but I’d say that one is relatively new from the look of the paint; the style and everything . . . Doesn’t it almost look like a poster for a movie or something?”

  “In fact, it does. It also looks remarkably like Charley Lee.” Leaning forward, I studied the canvas. “And there’s no signature.”

  Vic broke off eating with a piece of walleye on the end of her fork, which she extended toward the art. “Has anybody looked on the back of the thing?”

  Carol once again shook her head. “I was concentrating on getting a pathway cleared so we could walk in and wasn’t so much worried about what’s on the walls.” She turned back to me. “Anything on that one we found in the blanket?”

  “I haven’t pursued it just yet, but there are at least two museums here in the state with which he was in correspondence, so I guess I’ll start there.” I continued eating and unscrewed a bottle of water she’d provided and took a swig. “Any sign of a will?”

  She smiled. “There was an envelope in his personal file that had a piece of notebook paper in it from 1994, not notarized, leaving all his worldly possessions to one Bass Townsend.”

  “And who, pray tell, is Bass Townsend?”

  “That, is a very good question.”

  Vic made a face. “So, if we don’t find somebody to give this money to, who gets it?”

  “The federal government.” I turned back to Carol. “Any word from the tax folks over in Sheridan?”

  “They want to know which institution has the money.”

  “I bet they do . . . What, they’re worried that a Wyoming sheriff is driving around with a million dollars in a shoebox?”

  “Something like that.”

  “The Bank of Durant, right down the street here.”

  “Security box for Charley Lee?”

  “Yes, well, I think yes. I’ll go have a talk with Verne Selby and see if I can’t get a warrant.” I looked back up at the painting. “What do you do with the personal items if there isn’t anyone to forward them to?”

  “Generally we keep any artifacts for the museum display in the dayroom and just donate the things that aren’t of much value, but with these paintings and books . . . Especially the military history and art—I don’t know what we’re going to do. There’s a ton of books on Custer and the Little Bighorn.”

  Vic chimed in. “I hope they’re better than the movies.”

  Carol looked at me. “We caught a really bad double feature at the Red Pony last night.” I glanced out the door. “Did you see all the notes in the margins of the books?”

  Carol sighed. “I did. I pulled all the pieces of paper from them, but I don’t know what to make of all those notes.”

  “We need somebody who knows something about art to go through them.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “The closest would be the Brinton over in Big Horn.” I glanced out the door again at the tall stacks of books and at the bathroom where even more books sat on top of the toilet. “Good thing you’ve got a hand truck.”

  * * *

  —

  I listened as the judge imitated the banker. “It’ll have to go through probate.”

  “That’ll take months, if not years.”

  “Possibly.” I glanced around the chambers of His Honor Verne Selby. “If you don’t mind my asking, Walter, what are you looking for?”

  “A copy of Bleak House to throw at you.”

  He nodded. “That might hurt—as I recall it is a long book.”

  “There isn’t anybody, Verne, no contacts, nothing—just a handwritten will leaving all his worldly belongings to a Bass Townsend.”

  “Well, that’s inconvenient.”

  “And it’s a million dollars.”

  “Expensively inconvenient.”

  “I don’t think we’ve ever had anything like this happen in the county before.”

  He leaned back in his weathered leather chair and glanced down Main Street from his second story window. “We’ve had large estates that were liquidated, private assets, but usually there’s someone who comes forward. I’m assuming that a public announcement will be made in the Courant?”

  “Today, along with the obituary.”

  “Well, perhaps someone will come forward with some information.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  He straightened his mustache in a very cinematic, Clifton Webb way and then spread his hand. “The coffers of the state and nation will be replenished.”

  “Along with a bunch of lawyers.”

  “Jarndyce and Jarndyce.” He turned back to study me, and I let him for a good long while. “How are you doing, Walter?”

  “Annoyed.”

  “More than usual?”

  “Meaning?”

  He studied me with the pale, patient blue eyes. “There’s been talk that you’ve been more distracted and agitated than usual.”

  “From whom?”

  He waved in a vague sort of way. “Just general talk.”

  Repositioning myself in his chair, I thought about it. “Well, I’m still getting over some of the physical damage from Mexico, I only talk to my daughter once a week if she can tolerate it, and I’m not so sure I like being a sheriff anymore—I think that about covers it.”


  He nodded. “Still have your dog?”

  “I do.”

  “Good—always good to have a dog.”

  “Maybe it’s time, Verne.”

  “Possibly.” He leaned forward and rested his arms on his desk. “I understand the Basque contingency has been in contact with your deputy, the young man, Saizarbitoria.”

  “Yep, he talked with me about it.”

  “That’s good, that’s good.”

  “He’s a capable young man.”

  “Yes, but is he sheriff material?”

  “I think so.”

  “What does he have to say about standing for sheriff?”

  I laughed. “Mostly he wants to know if I’m stepping down.”

  “And are you?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  There was a long pause. “What would you do with yourself, Walter?”

  I stood, sliding my chair back into position beside the other one and looking around at the old barrister bookcases. “I don’t know. Maybe head up to Fort McKinney and wave at cars.”

  “It affects you, going up there, doesn’t it?”

  “It does.”

  “I don’t hardly ever remember Lucian Connally going up there at all.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  “I suppose we all deal with mortality in our own way.” He glanced up at me. “Do you still play chess with him at the home for assisted living?”

  “The old folk’s home, he calls it . . . Tonight, yep.”

  “How is he doing?”

  I walked over to the bookcases and stared at the perfectly uniform tomes, tan with maroon stripes, like soldiers on parade. “Not as sharp, and he doesn’t get out that much, which I suppose is my fault.”

  “I should go up there.” There was a pause as he thought about it, and the room seemed to grow smaller. “But you and I both know I won’t.”

  Staring at my reflection in the glass, I watched my lips tighten. “No, Verne, probably not.”

  * * *

  —

  “You keep leadin’ with that queen and you’re gonna get yer ass kicked.”

  “It’s my queen and my ass.”

  Lucian Connally retrieved his tumbler from the small table to our left, sipped his Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve, and licked his lips so as to not lose a drop. “Yes, it is.”

  “Are we celebrating something?”

  He lifted his glass. “June sixth, 1944.”

  “That was last week.” He continued to hold his glass out to me.

  I nodded and touched the rim of mine to the old Doolittle Raider’s. “D-Day.”

  He studied me. “Any dates you recollect from that war of yours?”

  “January thirtieth, 1968.” He looked at me, puzzled. “Tet Offensive.”

  He angled a knight toward the border. “Any good dates?”

  I mustered out “August third, 1972,” and thought about it. “I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you remember the day your plane got shot down?”

  “I remember the minute.”

  “The day you were captured by the Japanese?”

  “Yep, why?”

  “George Orwell used to say that the English people do not retain among their historical memories the name of a single military victory.”

  “Commie.”

  I laughed. “In his own way he fought a battle against totalitarianism that is as long-lasting as Churchill’s, against the language of fascism at least.”

  His dark eyes came up to mine. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  Angling left, I took his bishop. “Human nature. I mean, when you think about it, hardly any of the epic poems or books are about victorious battles—The Iliad, The Charge of the Light Brigade, The Lost Battle, A Farewell to Arms, Drummer Hodge . . . ”

  He grunted. “In answer to your question, successful and prosperous cultures have the luxury of looking back at death and defeat with a sense of nostalgia, having won the overall war.”

  I moved my monarch after his rook.

  “You don’t think it’s just a form of atonement for having participated in war in the first place?”

  “Not if it was a good war.”

  “Define the term good war.”

  “The ones we won.”

  “So Korea was not a good war?”

  “That was a tie.”

  Pursuing with the queen, I noticed his knight lying in ambush. “The Indian Wars?”

  He studied me and then lifted his glass, taking a long, slow sip. “You mind if I ask where all this horseshit is coming from?”

  “One of the residents up at the Veterans’ Home passed away a couple of nights ago, Charley Lee Stillwater.”

  “The colored fellow?”

  “Uh, yep. Anyway, he had a lot of Custer books, and then there was one of the movies on at Henry’s bar last night with Robert Shaw, I believe.”

  As expected, he brought out the knight.

  “My God, that one was horrible.” He made a face. “But not as bad as Ronald Reagan in Santa Fe Trail, where they had him as Jeb Stuart’s goofy buddy in 1859, when everybody knows Custer didn’t graduate from West Point until 1861.”

  I angled my queen away. “My point being that the preoccupation with Custer . . .”

  He touched his knight again and then settled on his king, sensing a danger. “Was personal propaganda is what it was, a brilliant campaign by a widowed wife; Libby Custer was relentless.”

  Drawing on his distracted attention, I moved my own king back.

  “She assembled her husband into a shining example to American youth, turned him into a hero. Heroes are big business, just look at all those ball-playing assholes on television selling shoes, soap, soup, and nuts.”

  Bringing my queen back, I tightened the noose. “I don’t follow.”

  “In the later part of the nineteenth century, we were moving away from a community and regionally based economy to a national one. Nationwide business is big business and for that you needed an image, and men like Custer fit the bill. Hell, he was on cigars, soap, and posters. I even had a pedal-car with his name on it when I was a kid.”

  “What if the image was false?”

  Ignoring the queen, he moved his king again. “Who’s to say if the image was false?”

  “He was actively engaging in genocide, Lucian.”

  “Says who?”

  “History.” Nudging my queen forward, I announced. “Check.”

  He looked disgusted.

  “Either way, there’s right and there’s wrong.”

  “Easy to say, sitting here playing chess in comfortable chairs and drinking my antiquarian bourbon.”

  I moved my queen again. “Check.”

  The old sheriff sighed. “I don’t think he was as blundering an ass as he’s portrayed, but in the heat of battle he made a dreadful miscalculation.” He reached out and toppled his king. “And for that, he paid the highest price that can be paid.”

  I lifted my glass. “Remember the Alamo.”

  He lifted his. “Amen, brother.”

  3

  “It could either be a bad copy or a proof of some sort.”

  “Proof of what?”

  “No, just a proof, like an artist study.”

  I watched as Barbara Schuster handled the canvas with white gloves in the conservation area of the Brinton Museum, carefully extracting it from waxed paper sleeves, and I felt bad about hauling the thing around rolled up in my jacket pocket. She reached up and adjusted a desk lamp with a circular fluorescent light and magnifying lens that was attached to the large table that dominated the room. “Well, from the action of the s
ubjects I would say that this is a study of a painting of a western battle sometime in the mid- to later part of the nineteenth century. The cavalryman is outfitted properly . . .”

  “The Indian looks a little odd.”

  “Yes.” She lowered her glasses on her nose. “Artists of that period, having never actually met an Indian, sometimes had some rather fanciful ideas as to their appearance. Many times the study would be done in an attempt to deal with problems involving light, color, form, perspective, composition . . .”

  “Costume?”

  “Yes, that too.”

  “He’s kind of a combination of tribes, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but like I said, a lot of times artists simply used their imagination, resulting in subjects that are somewhat far-fetched, but if this is a study for a larger work, then the final version might look completely different.” She flipped a toggle on the lamp, and I watched as it switched to a black light.

  “So, there’s no way to tell who the artist might be or what piece of art this might’ve been a study from?”

  “I’m afraid not.” She turned the canvas under the glow lamp again. “It’s for a work in progress and sometimes a great deal of the vitality of a piece of art can be gleaned from these types of studies, lending a fresh discovery or excitement to the work. It’s almost like notes on how the artist became aware during the creation of the art, allowing us the opportunity to be a part of that creative process, but there would be no reason to sign it if that’s the case.”

  “There’s no way this is a work of art unto itself?”

  “Doubtful. I mean if you look at the quality you can see that the artist did this in something of a hurry and left out a great deal of detail, giving the impression that it is a work leading to an actual painting if it was anyone of real repute.” Folding her arms, she sat back on her stool. “This was probably never meant to see the light of day.”

  “What’s it worth?”

  She stared at me. “Excuse me?”

  “What’s it worth, a ballpark figure?”

  Her eyes went back to the square of canvas and crusty pigments. “I’m no authority and those types of financial assessments are usually made by experts in the field or people who can break up the molecular aspects of the paint or the canvas itself . . .”