Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  “Just a basic idea.”

  “Without any trace of the artist or history—I really can’t say.”

  “Is it worth a million?”

  “A million what?”

  “Dollars.”

  “Goodness gracious, no.” She looked at me and laughed. “If you were planning on retiring on this, I’m afraid you’re going to have to stick with being a sheriff.”

  I leaned in and looked down at it. “So, even if it was a prominent artist and a noteworthy painting it wouldn’t be worth that kind of money?”

  “Well, if you were to, say, find one of Michelangelo’s studies of the male model of the Libyan Sibyl from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel it might be worth that much, but even then, you’d have a hard time certifying it.”

  “Why?”

  “The final rendering was female—art changes and artists change their minds.” She glanced at the painting again. “And in all honesty, even though the artist is certainly capable, he or she was no Michelangelo.”

  “I see. So, a couple hundred bucks?”

  “At best.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what gave you the idea that it might be worth a million dollars?”

  “Just hazarding a guess.” I reached down and scooped the thing up along with the coverings. “You mind if I keep this stuff to protect it?”

  She stood. “Not at all, and if you want a second opinion, we have a number of specialists in the field, appraisers who can perhaps determine the exact worth. Count von Lehman, for one.”

  “Count von Lehman?”

  She smiled. “More of our shirttail Sheridan County royalty.”

  “He’s really a count?”

  “Papal indulgence—he used to teach up in Bozeman and over at Sheridan College after he formally retired.” She smiled. “I once asked our conservationist, Larry Lowe, what kind of count von Lehman was and he said No Count, but you might have him take a look at it. Last I heard he was living over near Story in some strange house he built.”

  I patted the packet surrounding the orphan art. “Not for a couple hundred dollars, I don’t think.”

  “Well, if you decide you want to hang it on the wall of your office, Larry can stretch it onto a frame for you—old canvas can be awfully brittle.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” Pulling some of the books from a satchel on the stool beside me, I sat them on the counter. “These are a few of the books he had. Any idea if they might be worth something?”

  She examined the books, opening one and flipping through the pages. “Harmsen Collection Volume Two: American Western Art, Visual Art of the Lakota, Early Illustrators of Western Art . . . There’s some call for these, but not so much since they’ve been written in.” She looked up at me. “The owner?”

  “Was.”

  “Oh.”

  “From the notes in the books, would you say he was educated in art?”

  She opened the book again and started reading. “Possibly. If you want to leave some of them with me, I’ll go through them and see what I can find.”

  “You’re sure that’s not too much trouble?”

  “Not at all.”

  We took the elevator down to the ground floor, walking past the life-size display of Bradford Brinton. “The new digs are pretty amazing.”

  “It’s a long way from William Moncreiffe’s original ranch house, huh?”

  “When did he sell the place to Brinton?”

  “1923.”

  “Before my time.”

  “Mine too.” She extended a hand when we stopped at the glass doors at the front of the relatively new museum. “I’m sorry if this turned out to be a disappointment, Walter, but it’s a bit of unusual excitement I suppose?”

  “The actual owner passed away over in Durant at the Veterans’ Home, and I thought we should get a general idea of what it’s worth.”

  “Still, not your usual line of work.”

  I placed the art under my arm and extended a hand. “Nope.”

  She took my hand, and we shook. “Well, if I can be of any further assistance at all, don’t hesitate.”

  “I won’t and thank you again.” Heading out the door, I looked toward the edge of the parking lot where Vic sat on a bench watching Dog, who was standing in Little Goose Creek.

  Walking down the stairs, I angled toward the two and stopped beside her, placing my hands on my hips. “Did you let Dog go swimming?”

  “It was his idea.” She didn’t move, her head lying back with the sunglasses covering her eyes reflecting the intermittent sunshine that sparked through the thick-leaved cottonwood trees. “I guess he needed cooling off, or he decided to go fishing.”

  “The inside of my truck is now going to smell like wet dog.” I glanced around at the beautifully sculpted grounds near the little town of Big Horn in neighboring Sheridan County. “You missed a beautiful museum.”

  “Yeah, I just don’t like museums that much. I spent my whole childhood back in Philadelphia going to museums and, of course, visiting the Liberty Bell.”

  “See the bell a lot?”

  “Every school year since sixth grade—we’re on a first-name basis.” She stretched her legs out and crossed her boots as Dog dipped his head and gulped a gallon or two. “I don’t know what the big deal is, I mean, it’s got a crack in it.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “What did they say about your painting?”

  “A couple of hundred bucks at best.”

  Her eyes went back to Dog. “Sell it to ’em, and we’ll go have lunch.”

  “I don’t think they want it.”

  “Too bad.” She stood and stretched, her uniform shirt coming loose and revealing her lean torso. “So, who is this Bradford Brinton guy?”

  “Born in Illinois, Brinton got a degree from Yale and went into business with his old man as vice president of the Great Detour Plow Company, which merged with J. I. Case Threshing Machines.”

  “Case, as in the Case?”

  “Yep. He enlisted and took part in the Meuse-Argonne and Somme offensives in WWI and bought this ranch in 1923. He was married and had two daughters and died in Miami, Florida, in 1936 of acute pancreatitis when he was fifty-six.” I glanced around. “He left the ranch to his sister, and she used it as a summer home until 1960, when she turned it and the artistic contents over to the Northern Trust of Chicago, who administered it as the Bradford Brinton Museum.”

  She peered down the creek as Dog ambled across the bank and looked up at us. “And that’s the ranch house, down there, that we drove by?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s the other one, farther down?”

  “From what I’m to understand, his whoopee house.”

  “Whoopee house?”

  “He sometimes had women and liquor brought in.”

  “You cowboys . . .” Shaking her head she turned and looked back at the state-of-the-art, sixteen-million-dollar museum as Dog drew closer. “And who built that?”

  “Forrest E. Mars Jr.”

  “And who is Forrest E. Mars Jr.?”

  Dog began shaking, filling the air with droplets that coated us. “Have you ever eaten a Mars Bar, Milky Way, or a bag of M&M’s?”

  She wiped off her glasses with a shirttail. “Sure.”

  “Then in some small way you helped foot the bill for that museum.”

  “Mars, as in Mars.” We started back for my truck with Dog in tow. “So, Sheridan County is the Main Line of Wyoming?”

  “In what way?”

  “Old money.”

  I thought about it. “I guess so.”

  * * *

  —

  I looked out over Lake Desmet, the three-thousand-acre body of water that runs along the Bozeman Trail at the base of the Big
horn Mountains, but I couldn’t see it even though I felt as if I were floating on it. Someone was talking to me, but I couldn’t seem to respond. It was as if I opened my mouth I might drown.

  “Maybe he won the lottery.”

  I jerked my mind back in hopes that she might not have noticed its absence. “What?”

  She glanced at her wristwatch. “That was a short one, only three minutes—maybe you are getting better.”

  I sipped my iced tea but said nothing.

  She gazed out at the small waves being decapitated by the wind. “Who the hell knows, maybe ol’ Charley Lee just invested wisely.”

  I rested the iced tea back on the table. “And the books and partial painting don’t really mean anything?”

  “I’m just saying there may not be any mystery to all this.” She looked out the Lake Stop windows at the restless water. “It seems like you want there to be?”

  I shrugged. “I just want that million dollars to go to the right person, and I’d like to know where it came from.”

  “Not your job.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That’s what we have lawyers and bankers for, not to mention the IRS.”

  “I’m trying to help them along.”

  “You’re trying to do their job, which is why you’re pissing them off.”

  “I’m not pissing anybody off.” There was a disturbance on the deck as a mother and father bickered, their voices rising.

  “Then where’s your warrant?”

  I shrugged. “I’m working on it.”

  She sipped her Diet Coke but then turned and gazed at me. “What did Verne Selby say?”

  I gestured out the window. “He basically told me to go jump in said lake.”

  She turned, self-satisfied, as we both studied the landscape past the combative parents.

  Our food arrived, and we sat there eating, relatively silent, staring through the glass at a few of the other tourists seated on the deck outside, their children making bright noises and racing about like barn swallows.

  “Is having kids overrated?”

  I was surprised by the question but quickly recovered before stuffing more pork carnitas into my mouth. “It has its moments—kind of like a tornado that goes on in your life for twenty years.”

  She took a fry from her plate and popped it into her mouth. “Sounds like fun.”

  I chewed and thought about it as we watched the argument outside become even more heated. I was about to turn away when the woman, having waited until the man had gone to the railing to say something to the children below, looked directly at me and mouthed two words.

  HELP ME.

  “Heard from your daughter lately?”

  A long moment passed as the man returned and leaned in toward whom I assumed was his wife. “No, I guess she’s busy.”

  “Yeah.”

  He was quick, and we could hear the report of the blow as he smacked her, her face turning as she lifted a hand of her own to cover up, then turning to look at him in shock.

  I was already off my stool when the woman stood and backed away to the left, turning and running into the building and disappearing into the bathroom.

  Vic was standing to my left as I started off. “I’ll check on her.”

  I said nothing but continued toward the end of the bar and took a left, pushing through the glass doors and moving toward the umbrella-covered table where the angry man sat watching the two kids playing in the sandbox below the deck.

  “Excuse me?”

  He turned, and his eyes blinked only once.

  “Could I see some identification, please?”

  He continued to stare at me.

  Pulling my light jacket back, I revealed my star and kept very strong eye contact with him. “I need to see some ID. Right now.”

  Nodding a response, he hunched up and removed his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open, pulling out a license and handing it to me with as much indifference as he could muster. But in the action his jacket gaped, and I could make out a snub-nosed revolver tucked into his belt.

  Continuing to watch him, I glanced at the card and read, “Mr. Dean Gibson, San Jose, California?”

  “Yeah?”

  I glanced back and could see Vic returning with the woman, a hand on her arm. “Do you mind coming with me for a moment?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not leaving my kids out here.”

  As the two women arrived, I gestured toward the red-eyed one who had mouthed the words to me through the picture window. “Is this your wife, Mr. Gibson?”

  He glared at her, but she wouldn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

  “Then I’m sure she and my deputy won’t mind looking after the children while you and I talk?”

  He glowered at the woman for a few seconds and then redirected his scowl at me as he stood. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

  Gesturing for him to precede me, we walked toward the parking lot, and I quietly slipped my hand down to unsnap the safety strap on my Colt. When we got to the farthest table, I stopped with my hand on my sidearm.

  He turned to look at me, stuffing his hands into his jeans and rocking back and forth in his running shoes, exhibiting a little anxiety before smiling and breathing a quick laugh. “Listen, this isn’t what it looks like.”

  I glanced at the license in my hand and waited a few seconds before responding. “And what’s that, Mr. Gibson?”

  “She gets a little mouthy sometimes, and I can’t have that in front of my kids, you know?”

  “No, Mr. Gibson, I’m afraid I don’t. The state has pretty clear rules about that kind of physical abuse.”

  “Look, it’s not like I make a habit of hitting her, all right?”

  “The unauthorized application of force to another resulting in harmful or offensive contact and seeing as how you did it under the eyewitness of law enforcement . . .”

  “Oh shit, come on.”

  Ignoring his remark, I continued. “It’s entirely at my discretion as to whether to charge you with aggravated assault and or battery.”

  He said nothing more but just stood there, studying me.

  “Are you armed, Mr. Gibson?”

  He looked away and then brought his eyes back to mine. “No.”

  I let that one set for a while, hoping he’d change his mind but pretty sure he wouldn’t. “You sure about that?”

  He ran a hand through his hair and then dropped the hand to his belt buckle within easy reach of the revolver. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  I gave it another long pause as I closed my fingers around the stag grips on my Colt.

  Figuring he had no other options, he made his move, snatching for the revolver in his waistband. But my hand was just as quick, closing around his as I brought the large-frame, semiautomatic up with the other hand and slammed it under his chin, sending him over the railing backward as the .38 fell onto the deck and skittered off the edge.

  I was around the railing and grabbing the front of his jacket as he tried to get up, swinging a roundhouse at me that glanced off my head and removed my hat. In the instant that my vision was blocked, he brought a foot up, catching me in the knee as I brought the Colt back around to hit the side of his head this time.

  Falling into a parked car, he kicked at me again, this time catching me in the crotch, which I guess had been his target all along.

  The air went out of me, along with the will to stand upright and not puke, but I was able to get a hand on his ankle as he slithered from the hood of the car. We both tumbled onto the surface of the gravel parking lot, and he kicked me again as I gripped my way up his legs, pounding him with the butt of the Colt. He finally quit kicking, and I was able to grab the collar of his jacket and lift his face up to mine.

  I was screaming somet
hing at him, but I wasn’t sure what it was—something about women and children and guns.

  “Walt!”

  His head lolled to one side, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t listening.

  “Walt!”

  Somebody was yelling my name from a long way off.

  “Walt!”

  Releasing my grip, I dropped the man and fell to the side, resting my back against the wheel of the car next to us. Taking a deep breath, I brought a hand up to my face and could feel the scuffed flesh at my jaw where he’d caught me at least once.

  “Walt!”

  I turned and looked up into the sun where a dark figure was outlined, holding a Glock 9mm on the two of us. “Yep?”

  “You okay?”

  I took another deep breath and felt the nausea fading, just a bit. “Peachy, how ’bout you?”

  * * *

  —

  I stared at the partial painting of the bonneted native that was laid out on the bar.

  Henry Standing Bear lowered his face to look under the brim of my hat at my jaw. “A good fight, huh?”

  I looked up from the artist proof. “Depends on what you’d call good.”

  “You won.”

  Vic leaned forward, studying the other side of my face as Dog raised up between us, eager to go home. “The amazing thing is you never loose teeth—that’s handy and less expensive.”

  The Bear leaned back, picking up the remote and lowering the volume on the TV in the otherwise empty Red Pony Bar & Grill. “So, he was kidnapping his own family?”

  “What used to be his family back in California.” I gestured toward Vic, who had the story down a little better than me. “Divorced, right?”

  She nodded, and I noticed she was getting a little tipsy. “About a year ago, but I guess he never took it to heart. They went their separate ways, and she moved back to Ohio and took the kids with her. About a week ago he got a wild hair and drove to Dayton, grabbed her and the kids at gunpoint, and started back for San Jose with them.”

  The Cheyenne Nation frowned. “How did you spot him?”

  I shrugged. “She mouthed the words help me as I was looking at them through the window.”