The Dark Horse

by Craig Johnson

  “Careful, you’ll blow my cover.” I glanced back, but Bill hadn’t moved and continued to occupy the passenger seat. I turned around. “You broke down?”

  He still remained motionless. “We are resting.”

  I noticed the rolled-up sleeves and the grease and dirt on his folded arms. “So, you’re broke down.”

  “Resting.”

  I nodded and approached a little closer, leaning against the wavering flanks of Rezdawg, the green and white paint looking as though it had been applied with a spatula. “What are you doing out here?”

  “It is the Rez. I live here.”

  “Here. Specifically.”

  One eye opened slightly to regard me. “Waiting for you.”

  “Uh-huh, and how did you know I’d be out here?”

  He looked irritated that I was ruining his sunbath and finally opened both eyes and swiveled his neck to look at me. “I did not.” He flicked his eyes at the truck. “She did.”

  “I see.”

  “Where are you going?”

  I glanced north, where the country got wilder and the breaks of the river more jagged, then at Bill, who had turned with the rifle now up and on the seat. “I think I’m being driven out into the country to be executed.”

  Henry nodded, and the eyes closed again. “Nice day for it.”

  “Yep.”

  We both enjoyed the sun for a moment, the pale surface of the rocks reflecting a dirty, almost white chalk. His voice rumbled in his chest again. “So, are you ready for the fights tonight?”

  I shook my head and felt a little anger. “What in the world possessed you?”

  He smiled just a little ghost dance of a smile. “It is something to do.”

  I shook my head at him. “You’re not as young as you used to be, you know.”

  “Neither are you, and you are riding around with someone who is going to shoot you.”

  I grunted. “When I get back to town—”

  “If you get back to town.”

  “If I get back to town, I’m going to grab that piece of paper from the bar and cross off your name.”

  He closed his eyes again. “I would not do that.”

  “Why?”

  “It is the best cover we have so far; there is no way an upstanding citizen would ever do anything as stupid as be friends with someone who was fighting in The Powder-River-Pound-Down-Tough-Man Contest.”

  He had a point.

  I glanced back at the Dodge; Bill had probably locked the doors—it was Indian Country after all. “I gotta go, or he’s going to get suspicious.”

  “Do you want me to follow you?”

  I shot a look around at the open country. “I would, but I don’t think you could do it without being seen.”

  “My people, we have a way with these things. . . .”

  My ass, along with my head, was beginning to ache. “Uh-huh.”

  The dark eyes closed again. “As you wish.”

  I patted the mottled surface of the ugliest pickup on the high plains. “Anyway, he’s pretty drunk, and I don’t want to overwork Rezdawg.”

  The one eye glanced at the truck and then at me. “She is almost through resting.” I pushed off and started to turn, but he spoke again. “Rezdawg is only obstinate when you are around. She hears your words, and it hurts her feelings; you should apologize.”

  I leaned in for a little emphasis. “I’m not apologizing to your crappy truck.”

  He shrugged and closed his eyes again. “When she won’t start and you are executed, do not blame us.”

  “I won’t. I’ll see you later.”

  “You know where he is taking you, right?”

  I stopped and looked at him. “Maybe.”

  He sighed, and I got a slight wave from under the arm. “Wacin yewakiye.”

  Good luck, indeed.

  When I got back to the truck, it was locked. I knocked on the window and watched as Bill searched his new vehicle for the button to allow me to open the door. “What was that all about?”

  I started the diesel. “He says he’ll trade you. Even up.” The Winchester was now lying across Bill’s lap but still pointed toward me; I was fully aware that the lever-action didn’t have a safety. I pulled the selector back into D. “Where to?”

  He looked back from the big Indian to me, had a moment of hesitation, and then pointed in the direction we had been headed. “Down there about two more miles in the breaks, then right at the draw, and there’s an old two-track.”

  I pulled out slowly, so as to not blow too much red dust on Henry, and continued alongside the river at just under forty miles an hour. As he’d said, there was a draw that led northwest, but there were two drooping strands of barbed wire hung across the road ending in one of the old levered hoops.

  I looked at him, and he shrugged. “I know it’s against the code, but could you get it? I’m so drunk, I’m liable to pinch a finger off.” It is a western tradition that the passenger always gets the gate, which is why cowboys generally fight to sit in the middle, where you have no responsibilities other than to avoid the odd scrotal meeting with the gearshift.

  I got out of the truck, walked toward the makeshift gate, and listened to hear if the passenger-side window rolled down along with the fumbling sound of the .30-30 being laid over the sideview mirror.

  Nothing.

  I undid the levered hoop and then dragged the post with the two strands of wire attached to the side of the little-used road. Bill motioned for me to climb back in, which I did. I eased the massive truck through the narrow gate and started to stop so that I could go back and close it, another western tradition, but Bill motioned to drive on. “Go ahead, there isn’t any stock in here.”

  I noticed he wasn’t drinking from the bottle any longer.

  We came up on a rise and then took a knife’s edge turn away from the river to where the trail, covered with cactus and sagebrush, edged along some of the rocks that Henry and I had been looking at from the road.

  The two-track path ended in a scrabble field and then slowly climbed into a dry pasture that rolled with the hills. When we got to the top of the nearest one, I could see slight depressions where the road continued north and west and some larger rocks to our right, jutting out from the ground beside us like molars—the perfect place to kill someone, if you were so inclined.

  I looked at the rancher. “What now?”

  He cleared his throat and gestured toward the depleted vista. “Jus’ keep going that way, toward the mountains.”

  The hills became more pointed as we drove, and the tall, dry grass rolled like waves crashing against the foothills of the Bighorns. Gradually, the road became more apparent and I could see a ranch gate in the distance, a big one made from rough-hewn 12 × 12s, with a bent sign chained on the top and sides.

  There was a brace of structures in a meadow of bottomland below the pale yellow cliffs, which were the same shade as the ranch house, barn, and outbuildings. The stone of the buildings, the shadows of the giant cottonwoods that just had turned dusty gold, and the deeply overhung cedar-shake roofs felt cool even from a distance, and I could feel emotion pulling in my chest as I took it all in.

  I stopped the truck at the gate. We sat there for a moment, then Bill got out, and I opened the door for Dog. The three of us met at the cattle guard, and Bill gestured for me to continue toward the gate, which I did, even though he still held the .30-30. He held the bottle too, if unsteadily, but I wasn’t too afraid of being shot in the back anymore and reached down and ruffled Dog’s ear. “C’mon. You’ve jumped these things before.”

  Bill followed us over to the thick rails that made up the pivoting double gate. The hardware was handmade, and I could see all sorts of finishing touches in the forged steel, a talent which was far beyond the abilities of most ranchers. Even the chains that held the sign above us looked handmade.

  Bill leaned on the top rail with the Winchester lying parallel, his forearms covering the rifle. “The fella that buil
t this place was a blacksmith by trade, but he dabbled in masonry.”

  “Uh huh.” I propped up an elbow of my own on the worn spot just where you would have gripped to pull the custom latch. I could see that the four-inch rails were smoothed, where horsemen had sidled against the gate for more than a half-century, so that they could open it without dismounting, saving themselves the ignominy of becoming a cowboy afoot.

  “Knew what he was doing: back to the cliffs, easy access to water, and those beautiful mountains off in the distance.” Bill stood there for a moment, breathing in the flavor of the changing wind as it followed the bottomland and climbed the cliffs that surrounded a perfect basin where the homestead was located and where the air was sweet and heavy with the life-affirming humidity of the river. “He had a wife who was probably the prettiest thing in the Powder River country—musical, too. Played the piano, as I recall.”

  There were a few juniper and some cottonwood trees growing up from the fissures in the rock along the cliff, the volunteers mimicking the shimmer of the big guys by the ranch house. There was an old road that led down to the huddle of buildings, but until you were almost upon it, the place was completely concealed from the outside. You had to know it was here to get here.

  I turned as Dog circled the perimeter, taking in the smells, and I could feel a little of the moisture collecting in my eyes. “Whatever happened to them?”

  Bill stood with his back against the gate, the rifle now propped against the fence, and gestured with his chin for me to join him. He scratched his neck where his protruding Adam’s apple strained as he continued to look up at the ranch sign. “They had a boy who played ball, offensive tackle for USC, but I don’t think he ever amounted to much.”

  The chains that held the sign racked against the eyelet bolts with the wind and then relaxed, the sound like spurs jingling on a hardwood floor. Memories were crowding in on me now, and all I could do was stand there and take the hits like a tackling dummy.

  He finally lowered his head and took a sip of the rye as I stared at the sky and read the name I knew as well as my own. Because it was my own.

  The gusts pushed against the wooden plank, but the letters that my father had carved deep into the whorls of the iron-wood were still highly legible and read,

  LONGMIRE.

  8

  October 28, 5:40 P.M.

  I handed the bottle back to him and stood there, still feeling the burn in my throat as I thought about what Henry had said alongside the red road, about knowing where we were going. “You remembered my family after all these years, Bill?”

  He blew out a deep breath that pursed his lips. “Yeah. I heard about Martha getting the cancer and I know I should’ve gotten in touch, but I didn’t, and after that it just kept getting harder and harder to work up the nerve.” He readjusted, still in search of a comfortable spot for his butt on the top rail, and tossed a small pebble into the roadway that stretched down to my father’s house. “I figured I’d see you again.” He laughed. “I don’t mind telling ya, I was getting worried thinking I was going to have to write you a letter from Denver. Hell, I’d rather take a bullet than write a letter.”

  I walked away from the gate toward the edge of the cliff and stared at the reflections on the water as Buffalo Creek twisted its way to the reservoir that I had helped my father build. I stood there on the bluff overlooking the place where I’d grown up, trying to deflect the flood of history and emotion. “After they died, I just stopped coming out this way.”

  “I know.” He took another swig of the liquor and gestured toward the tidy ranch house with the stone archways shading the front porch and to me with both hands, his voice echoing off the rock face. “Funny how you can have your life some place and then just pick up one day and walk away.”

  “How long did you know it was me?”

  He smiled. “I met Eric Boss before, and he wasn’t what everybody was describing. I read the newspapers, and you’ve been in there a lot lately.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then I got a look at you at the bar last night.”

  “You were there?”

  “Nope. I started to come in but saw you and turned around and went home.”

  “What time?”

  He smiled. “You sound like a sheriff now.”

  I didn’t smile. “What time?”

  He cleared his throat and spit to the side, wobbled a little, and paused. He looked like he might puke, but he only belched and turned back to me. “ ’Bout eleven-thirty. It looked like you were havin’ a little scrape with that Cly fella.”

  “Who else knows who I am?”

  He made a face. “Nobody.”

  “Nobody?”

  His eyes stayed steady underneath the brows. “Nobody that I know of.”

  I took a deep breath and looked at the homestead and then at the sign again.

  His eyes narrowed as he watched me but then widened as he followed my gaze. “I’ll be damned. There aren’t that many Longmires around these parts, and I’ve heard the stories about your grandfather and that fugitive buffalo soldier.”

  “Did you recognize Henry back there on the road?”

  He waited a minute, aware that I’d changed the subject. “Yeah. I think more people know who he is than know who you are. He’s kind of a celebrity around these parts. . . . He played ball, too. Didn’t he?”

  “Running back for the Cal Bears, appropriately enough.”

  His head nodded, maybe a little more than it should have. “Both of you were good—what happened?”

  “Vietnam.” I looked back toward the house, my eyes unable to leave it alone. “Do you think anybody’s made any connections?”

  “Well, nobody’s said anything, but you’ve got ’em nervous.” He shook his head. “What the hell are you doin’ out here, Walt?”

  I plucked the .30-30 from its resting place and examined the breech—it was loaded after all. I held it and looked at him. “You know, I thought you might have some other reasons for bringing me out here.”

  It took a long time for him to respond but, when he did, he looked confused and then just a little shocked. “Me?” We both looked at the Winchester. “I bring that thing with me everywhere I go anymore. With all the things goin’ on out here, I figure a man ought’a have some protection.”

  I walked back through the gate and leaned on the grill guard of his truck. “Who else has a red Dodge like yours?” He sat there, looking at me blankly. “Your new truck—anybody else have one like it?”

  “No, don’t think so.”

  “When did you put the plates on?”

  He thought about it. “This morning. I got ’em in the mail yesterday.”

  “Anybody else use your truck?”

  “No.” Then he reconsidered. “I let Hershel use it to haul some of the equipment over for the auction, but that’s it.”

  I thought about last night, when I’d carried the cowboy home. “Were you driving out on the Barton Road by the corrals last night?”

  He laughed. “That was you that brought Hershel back?” He laughed again. “I always make a loop to make sure he gets to his trailer all right.” He shook his head. “I was on my way home.”

  “When I saw your truck at the corrals, it passed me, then headed south and east.”

  It was silent for a bit—we both knew his place was north and west. He sniffed and covered his face with a hand. “I sometimes take Barton down to Middle Prong and then circle back on Wild Horse—just cruisin’.” He slid the palm of his hand down and rested his chin. “You’d be amazed at the things you’ll do if you think you’re never gonna see a place again.”

  I looked over my shoulder and could see someone on horseback on the road leading up to and alongside the cliffs. “How about at the bar?”

  “When?”

  “Afterward.”

  He sounded honestly confused. “Like I told you, I went home and hung my keys by the door like I always do.”

  “So, you we
ren’t at the bar in Absalom at about one-thirty this morning?”

  “Hell, no. Like I said, I was at home asleep. I was in bed by midnight—I can guarantee it.” He fished in his shirt pocket, pulled out a plastic medicine vial, and rattled the contents. “Took two of these—boom, boom, out go the lights.”

  I held out a hand, and he threw me the bottle. I read the paper label and looked up at him. “Where did you get Mary Barsad’s medications?”

  He studied me. “It’s not what you think.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “It’s not.” He started to reach for the container, but I tightened my hand around it. His hand dropped. “She gave ’em to me. I was having trouble sleeping, and she thought they might help.”

  “Did they?”

  “Like a pole-axed steer.” I waited. “We were just friends, that’s all.” He watched me, trying to gauge my reaction. “I’d see her out ridin’ and we’d talk; pretty soon she’d stop by and have a cup of coffee. We got to talkin’, and if I was to tell you the truth, I think she felt sorry for me—and shit, Walt, I let her.”

  “Then I take it that you knew her pretty well?” He nodded. “Do you think she shot Wade?”

  He took a deep breath. “God, I don’t know—” He slipped off the fence, stretched his muscles, and walked toward the middle of the road with his palms at the small of his back. He spoke to the cliff. “I’d like to think that she didn’t do it but she says she did, so what the hell do you think?”

  I decided to keep a few hole cards where they belonged. “I’m not sure.”

  “I mean, they found her with the gun—”

  I knew the story. I’d heard it from Hershel and had read it in the Campbell County reports, but I figured I’d play along. “Who did?”

  “Well, Hershel; then he came and got me.”

  “Did he bring her?”

  “Nope, left her sitting there in the yard, but he took the gun and came and got me.”

  “He left her sitting in the yard with the house burning?”