As the Crow Flies

by Craig Johnson

  He still didn’t move but spoke out of the side of his mouth. “I’m not bluffing, Sheriff.”

  “I know that; I also know that as soon as this propane hits an ignition source like a water heater or a pilot light, it won’t matter who’s bluffing.” I blew air through my nose in an attempt to drive some of the gas away. “You say you’re tired and that you’ve had enough. Well, there’s really only one way to end this in a respectable fashion—give me the lighter.”

  If I was going to make a grab for it, now would’ve been the time.

  It was then that there was an incredible clatter behind Herbert from the other end of the hallway. I fully expected the building to go up, but it didn’t, and we both stood there as I glanced out the window and saw Barrett Long’s truck dragging the doors at the end of a tow strap.

  I was right; he did figure it out.

  I was just glad the sparks the metal doors were making on the surface of the parking lot were far away and receding.

  Our attention was suddenly drawn to the other end of the hall where Lolo Long had thrown herself through the door and had swung both the beam of her Maglite and the barrel of that big revolver of hers toward us. “Freeze. Police!”

  She was doing better.

  Herbert backed against the desk and looked at me, his thumb still on the wheel of the Zippo.

  I shouted as quickly as I could. “Don’t shoot. The entire basement is full of propane; one shot and the whole place goes up.”

  She looked uncertain but continued down the hall toward us with her sidearm and flashlight still pointed toward Herbert. It was only when she was about twenty feet away that she noticed the cigar and, more important, the lighter in his hands.

  “Holster the weapon, Lolo.”

  She ignored me and gestured at him with the barrel of the Smith. “Drop the lighter.”

  We stood there with her on one side of the stairwell opening, me on the other, and Herbert facing the creeping gas that continued to seep up from the basement.

  “Chief, holster the weapon.”

  She looked at me for the briefest of seconds and then did as I’d asked.

  I took a breath before speaking again, hoping it wasn’t my last. “Herbert? I sure would hate to think that after all the places we’ve been and all the stuff we’ve been through, that it would all end like this.”

  After a moment, his eyes turned to mine.

  I pushed off the wall and stuffed my hands in the pockets of my jeans. “You say you’re tired. Well, I’m tired too.” I watched as his eyes shifted, and he studied the lighter in his hands. “My daughter is getting married at Crazy Head Springs in a few days and I sure would like to be there for that, just like I’d think Chief Long here would like to go see her son up in Billings, and I imagine you’d like to be around for Adrian’s first birthday whether it’s through Plexiglas or not.”

  He didn’t move, and I wondered for just the briefest of moments what it would be like to be flash fried in the instant it would take for him to roll the thumbwheel on the flint and spark the tiniest of flames in the lighter’s windscreen. The alarms would clamor and most likely the building itself would be lifted off its foundation; the sprinklers would come on, but unlike the movies, reality would dictate water pressure—and the Tribal Headquarters of the Northern Cheyenne would burn again.

  We would likely never know it or see it; instead, the force of ignition and instantaneous explosion would carry the three of us through the hallway, through the doors and staircase, and throw us out onto the lawn like pulverized, flame-broiled meat.

  But I had faith in Herbert His Good Horse, the man who had brought so much laughter and good will to his fellow man. “Considering what it is you’re thinking of doing, I have to tell you that I don’t see much romance in death. We’ve seen too much of it.” I sighed and continued, figuring that if I was going to die, I was at least going to have my say. “I’ve been in these situations before and can tell you that there’s nothing romantic about it, nothing heroic—dead is just dead.” I slowly pulled a single hand from my pocket and held it out to him, steady there between us, palm up. “What is it that Jimi Hendrix says about love?”

  He kept his eyes on me but didn’t move, the words on the lighter pouring out of him like music. “When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”

  His thumb relaxed on the wheel of the lighter. “Hey, a Native American, First Nations Indigenous Person, and a white guy walk into a multicultural drinking establishment…” He studied me with a broad smile. “You don’t like that one? Neither do I. Okay, try this one—two Indians walk out of a bar…”

  I waited for the punch line with my hand still extended.

  His smile faded. “Hey… it could happen.”

  EPILOGUE

  I stood there in my stiff dress clothes and tried not to scratch as I watched the traditional Cheyenne wedding ceremonial procession approach, replete with mounted retinue and my white-buckskin-clad daughter.

  As father of the bride, I had been offered a traditional outfit of my own but was having enough trouble with my tuxedo jacket and tie. I stuffed a forefinger into the collar of my dress shirt and pulled it a little looser, trying not to feel like the butler to the Northern Cheyenne tribe.

  After a moment, I shifted back to twirling my wife’s engagement ring on my little finger and felt a sharp jab from an elbow. “Stop fidgeting.”

  I spoke to her in a low voice. “I can’t help it; I think the last time I wore this was at the Wyoming Sheriff’s Association Ball when I first got elected.”

  “I thought sheriffs didn’t have balls?”

  “Ha, ha.” I looked down at my undersheriff and sister of the groom. She’d elected to come over to the bride’s side because she liked us better. “I figured we’d lost you to Nebraska.”

  “Fuck that.”

  The formal procession drew near, and Cady was radiant.

  “She looks great.”

  I smiled. “Yep, she does.”

  “It’s nice that she’s not showing.”

  I gave Victoria Moretti a look.

  “I’m just sayin’.” Her eye wandered. “Even my two-headed brother looks good.”

  I studied Michael, who was about to become my son-in-law. He looked a little dazed and confused, kind of the way that other guy did what seemed like a century ago. Granted, Martha and I hadn’t had the pomp and circumstance; we’d had only that justice of the peace from Miles City and his wife playing the accordion, but it had been enough to galvanize our lives together.

  Michael looked like he might run, but there were the three other Moretti brothers to chase him down, and the old man, Chief of Detectives North, who would likely just put a bullet in his leg and then charge the municipality of Philadelphia for his ammunition.

  Lena Moretti was lovely, as usual, in a knee-length off-white dress; she was doing her best to look cool and unflappable as her high heels sank into the rich earth of Crazy Head Springs.

  We had a motley bunch seated on our side of the aisle—my dispatcher, Ruby, with Dog; my old boss, Lucian; and a contingency of deputies—Saizarbitoria with Marie and Antonio, the Ferg and his wife, and Frymire, Double-Tough having volunteered to man the desk back at the office. Dorothy, who had made the wedding cake from one of Alphonse’s old-world recipes, was seated next to Lucian, as were most of the field office of the FBI, including Agent in Charge Cliff Cly, and even a couple of Philadelphia Police Department detectives of our own, Katz and Gowder. Mary Barsad was there with Juana and Benjamin, and Omar and Lana and Bill and, of course, Doc Bloomfield.

  The Cheyenne chief sat in his wheelchair with Melissa behind him and smiled over the pageantry of the approaching bride. His right-hand man, the Cheyenne Nation, stood a little closer to us on the ceremonial bed of white sage. I repeated to myself, over and over—E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse, E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse, E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse.

  “Are you chanting to yourself?”
<
br />   I hadn’t realized I was mumbling. “I’m trying to remember how to say my line.”

  She shook her head and spoke from the side of her mouth. “Look, nobody’s going to be paying any attention to you. All right?”

  I nodded.

  She changed the subject, probably hoping to divert my attention. “So, KRZZ is looking for a new morning drive guy?”

  I watched as the black horse carrying my daughter crossed the clearing as the other maidens, including Dena Many Camps, followed on their own mounts in single file. “I guess so. It turned out the first child that Audrey miscarried was Clarence’s, but when he was in Iraq he got hurt.”

  Vic leaned in. “So the one that went over the cliff with his mother?”

  “Adrian.”

  “Adrian belonged to Herbert His Good Horse?”

  “Yep. Audrey was leaving the Rez with Clarence and taking Adrian with her. I guess it was more than Herbert could stand; Adrian is the last living heir to the His Good Horse name.”

  “What about the nephew in the wheelchair?”

  “Karl’s name was different, Red Fox, and that’s why it didn’t ring any bells on the medication listing I got from Lolo Long’s mother at Health Services—at least at first.”

  “And the bracelet belonged to Karl?”

  “Yep, it belonged to his great-grandfather, who fought in France during WWI; then Herbert used it to put Karl’s medication on when he lost his legs in the car crash. After a while, Karl was doing so well that Herbert started wearing the bracelet as a reminder. Audrey must’ve pulled it off of him when they were struggling.”

  “So, he was the one who tried to run over you on 212?”

  “Yep.”

  “And Herbert made the tape from recordings at the Tribal Offices?”

  “Yep, and just filled in the parts he needed Clarence to say by manipulating his own voice. He’d been worried about what Audrey was going to do and had been taping her for months.”

  “And used the Old Indian Trick of blaming it on the FBI?”

  I shifted my weight. “Herbert was a source for the BIA and dropped the tape on them anonymously. The FBI would’ve figured it out with a little more analysis, but everybody was in a hurry to jail Artie.”

  “Well, they must not have taken it too badly since they’re in attendance.” She glanced at the collected law-enforcement and then over their heads where a small contingency of tribal security, two officers to be exact, stood watch. “Is that her?”

  I rested my eyes on the tall woman with the broad shoulders, her hair loose for once, spreading down her back like a luxurious, blue-black shawl. I noticed she’d traded in the S&W for a Sig-Sauer P229 .40, complete with stylish rosewood grips. After a second, the jasper eyes turned and looked back at us, and I could’ve sworn she’d overheard our conversation from almost fifty feet away. The nearest eyebrow was arched, and her full lips were smiling.

  My undersheriff turned her head to look at me. “I don’t like her.”

  “Too bad; you have a lot in common.”

  “You think so?”

  I turned and looked at her for a change. “I was giving sheriff lessons.”

  “I bet you were.”

  A familiar voice sounded from just behind us. “I hate to break up this lovely conversation, but would you mind going and helping your daughter off the horse so that she can get married?”

  I glanced back at the Cheyenne Nation, master of ceremonies, my best friend, and the man who was going to actually be marrying my daughter to Michael Moretti. “E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse.”

  He looked at me blankly.

  “Right?”

  He shrugged and nudged me with a strong hand. “Close enough.”

  Vic added, under her breath, “You’re on.”

  I started the walk down the aisle between the two families, as Ruby, always able to read my moods, stretched a hand out to squeeze mine as I passed, in a token of reassurance.

  There were rows of poles meandering across the meadow and leading into the forest at the head of the valley that led down to the springs. The staffs were festooned with Indian paintbrush and white and pale-blue ribbons, the Cheyenne traditional colors, and flittered in the slight breeze.

  The scent of cedar, sage, and sweetgrass filtered through the air as I pulled up at the back of the crowd alongside the tribal police chief and sighed deeply.

  She glanced at me, still wearing the smile. “I don’t think your undersheriff likes me.”

  “No, I don’t think she does.” I glanced at Lolo Long. “You mind telling me something?”

  “What?”

  “What is it you’ve got against Henry?”

  She looked uncomfortable, and I was almost sorry I’d asked. “Nothing big.” She paused. “I had this huge crush on him when I was a kid, and he never gave me the time of day. He even dated my mom.”

  I glanced at her.

  “There was a time when my mother was rather hot.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” I played with the ring on my little finger. “Where is your mother?”

  “In Billings, making arrangements to adopt Adrian—there was no other time or she would be here. I’m supposed to go up there after the ceremony.”

  I leaned a little forward and watched as Albert Black Horse, in full Tribal Police uniform, did his best to ignore us and watch my daughter approach. “Well, you’ve got good help these days.”

  I listened as the Four Dances Drum Group beat in time to the horses walking down the pathway. E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse, E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse, E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse.

  “I might try and visit my son, while I’m up there.”

  I nodded my head, and then realized what she’d said and smiled back at her.

  “Nothing big, just touching base. You know, get things started.”

  “I think that’s a great idea.”

  She waited a moment before speaking again, and I could tell it was still hard for her. “If I haven’t mentioned it…”

  “You have.”

  She leaned a shoulder into my arm and bumped me—and that was enough.

  The black mare made the last turn in the path, and I could now see that its mane was braided like Cady’s hair. “You know, it was something you said that jogged my memory loose about the connection between Herbert and Karl and the bracelet. When you were getting ready to head off, you said something about the family stuff being more than you wanted to handle, and it got me thinking.”

  “You’re being kind.”

  “I’m being honest.” I took a breath and repeated my line, careful to not speak out loud this time.

  “You’d be very proud of me, Walt; I wrote up a very nice report explaining to the DOJ that Special Agent Cly was instrumental in breaking the case and that I was looking forward to working with him in the future.”

  I nodded. “You’re trying to get rid of him.”

  “Just as fast as paperwork can travel.”

  Breathing a laugh, I glanced back at the AIC, and he raised his eyebrows at me.

  My attention was drawn to the sky as two large, dark birds circled each other, and I quietly prayed that they weren’t turkey vultures. I looked at Lolo. “So, you’re going to keep the job?”

  There was a long pause as she thought about it. “For a while; see if it suits me.”

  I reached out and bumped the extra mags on her gunbelt with the back of my hand as I stepped forward. “It does.”

  Cady had pulled Wahoo Sue up to the assigned spot; she was an admirable horsewoman but working without a saddle or bridle was always a trick. I raised my hands up to her, took her by the waist, and gently lowered her to the ground.

  She looked at me and grinned, and I don’t think I’d ever seen her so beautiful. She spoke in a whisper as her hand crept up and stroked the big horse to quiet her. “So far, so good.”

  “Better than the wedding march on an accordion, I can tell you that.” I took her hand, and we turned toward the alta
r, a little time to spare as the menfolk answered Henry’s questions and got themselves together. “You look marvelous.”

  “Thank you; you look pretty spiffy yourself.”

  “Spiffy, huh?”

  She hugged my arm. “Yeah.”

  “I seem to recall that as one of your mother’s words.”

  “It was.” She hugged my arm tighter, and we both took a deep breath. “I wish she was here.”

  “Me too.” I cleared my throat and remembered the ring. “Um, I’ve got something to give you.”

  She glanced at me, a trace of annoyance in her voice. “Now?”

  “Well, yep. Here in a couple of minutes, it’ll be too late.” I placed my fingers around the ring on my little finger and pulled. There was a slight panic when it felt as if I might not be able to get it over the knuckle, but, after the second try, it came free.

  I handed it to my daughter.

  She took it, staring at the smallish diamond surrounded by two chips, one on either side of the antique setting.

  “It belonged to your great-great-grandmother. I gave it to your mother as an engagement ring when we got married, but she made me take it back for you when she… when…” I took another breath, knowing our time was running out. “Toward the end.”

  She looked up at me through the wayward strands of strawberry blonde, her eyes shining.

  “She wanted you to have it.”

  She swallowed and slipped the ring onto the same finger as the engagement ring that Michael had given her, the dichotomy between the sizes of the two stones almost laughable.

  “In 1863 that was a big diamond.”

  She laughed and cut the circulation off in my arm. “It’s all going to be all right.” Her clear, gray eyes came up to mine. “Right?”

  “Right.”

  Henry Standing Bear gestured toward the small Longmire family, the fringe under the arm of his outstretched sleeve swaying with the light breeze. We started down the aisle and toward the waiting Morettis. For a second, I was reminded of something a friend had said, something on the mountain, something ominous—but I pushed that from my mind and looked up to see that the two birds I’d noticed were crows circling right above the meadow, the primaries of their wing tips spread like fingers as they rode the thermals that lifted them into the cloudless sky.