A Serpent's Tooth: A Walt Longmire Mystery

by Craig Johnson

  “Lola.” I paused for a moment. “I mean I don’t know if she’s told Michael. I think she wants it to be a surprise.”

  A funny look played across his face.

  I broke eye contact with him and looked back down the main drag at the banner proclaiming the impending homecoming festivities. “I told you, it’s something that Virgil said on the mountain.”

  “Live Virgil or dead Virgil?”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “I haven’t decided yet.” I glanced up at the Bighorns, at the new snow there. “He made some predictions about my life; about it not all being good.”

  “Whose is?”

  “This sounded a little more dire.” I watched the breeze pull at his hair—a wind that seemed to urge us southeast away from the mountains. “I guess I’m getting scary in my old age.”

  He climbed a few stairs and turned to look at me. “You are truly concerned?”

  “I suppose.”

  “What would you like to do?”

  I thought about it and shook my head. “Nothing. I mean there’s nothing I can do besides call Cady and tell her I’ve got a bad feeling and she should stay at home and hide in the closet.”

  “I do not think she will do that.”

  “Me either.”

  “You put a great deal of stock in Indian prophecies?”

  I grunted. “More and more these days.”

  He stepped back down and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Then I will make one—she will be fine.”

  I stared at him, wanting to believe. “You promise?”

  “Yes; there are two things I know beyond any shadow of a doubt.”

  “And they are?”

  He started back up the steps. “That the future is uncertain, and that it can change.”

  I followed after him. “And the other?”

  “The most important thing about a rain dance.”

  “Which is?”

  He called over his shoulder. “Timing.”

  • • •

  “They have not delivered my fucking corsage yet.”

  The Bear looked at me as we stood in the doorway of her office. “She wants to go to the homecoming ceremony Friday night, and she wants a corsage.”

  “Black-and-orange, same as the Doggies.”

  “Dogies.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Rockwell?”

  She logged off her computer and tipped her chair back. “Cousin Itt is back in the holding cell communing with a higher power between viewings of My Friend Flicka.”

  I pushed off. “I’m going to have a conversation with him and then make a run down to Short Drop and have a chat with Roy Lynear about his son and the possible whereabouts of Sarah.”

  Her interest was immediately piqued. “Can I go?”

  “If you promise not to shoot anybody.”

  She smiled the wicked little smile she reserved for the more energetic aspects of our occupation. “Cross my hairs and hope to lie.”

  I was not in the least comforted and, leaving them to discuss the finer points of shooting people, started off for the holding area.

  Rockwell was reading from the old Book of Mormon and was seated on the bunk with the cell door open, his graying hair hanging down to the edge of the mattress pad and cascading over it. He didn’t move when I came in but continued to harken to the word.

  “I see you got your book back.”

  Pulling off a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses, he noted the page number and gently closed it. “It brings me comfort.”

  “It’s probably worth a fortune with that inscription from Sara Rockwell.”

  He folded the glasses and placed them in his vest pocket. “My mother.”

  “Um.” I paused. “Yep.” I pulled up a chair. “That’s actually something I’d like to talk to you about.”

  He set the book on the bunk beside him. “This is not the only time I have spent in a jailhouse, Sheriff Longmire.”

  “I know Orrin Porter Rockwell spent eight months in the Independence, Missouri, jail.”

  He nodded his head enthusiastically. “A horrid place with food unfit for dogs.”

  His performance was spot-on, and I started wondering if maybe we could get the old guy a job in some outdoor drama in Utah. “Rockwell was there because he attempted to murder Lilburn Boggs, the governor of Missouri.”

  He shook his head, and the pearly hair swayed back and forth. “Another act in which I had no part; the proof of said statement resides in the fact that the man survived. If it had been I, such would not have been the case.” He leaned forward. “I will tell you my theories on who was party to the attempted assassination; it was none other than the storekeeper, Uhlinger, who accused me of stealing the pepperbox pistol that was found that night.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I would never have overcharged the weapon, which led to its being dropped upon firing. Another point being that with so many weapons at my disposal, why would I steal one from a local merchant who at first claimed that it had been stolen by Negro slaves and then by me?” He laughed. “Oh no, if you can find a suitable villain in the public’s eye, which we Mormons were at that period in time, and I think Philip Uhlinger did, then you are free as a proverbial bird.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Have I told you about fishing from the second-story window of the Centennial jail with corn dodgers? I never caught a Missourian, but I had numerous vigorous nibbles!”

  “Mr. Rockwell . . .” I sighed, long and loud so that he would be aware of my mood. “You’ll excuse me for saying so, but I find it very hard to believe that you are approaching two hundred years old.”

  He smiled, and there was a twinkle in his opalescent eyes. “I don’t look a day over a hundred and fifty, do I?” He sat forward. “My name is Orrin Porter Rockwell, and I was born June 28, 1813, in Belchertown, Hampshire County, Massachusetts, and was endowed in the Nauvoo Temple on January 5, 1846.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose with thumb and forefinger. “So, that’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

  “It is a strange one, yes?”

  I looked up at him. “Yep, it sure is.”

  “I will attempt to explain, Sheriff.” He edged forward on the bunk and rested his elbows on his knees. “I was the subject of a direct prophecy by the prophet Joseph Smith.”

  “Which was?”

  His face brightened. “As you mentioned, I had just spent eight months in a pestilential hellhole jail in Missouri. Filthy and starved beyond recognition, I made my way back to Nauvoo and arrived unannounced at a Christmas party at the great prophet’s home.” He stood, overcome with enthusiasm for his story. “I remember the soft and golden glow of the parlor oil lights as I stumbled into the room and the beaming face of the prophet. There were other men there, bodyguards to Joseph, who grabbed hold of me for fear that I might mean the great man harm.” He laughed. “Perfectly reasonable when you consider my appearance, but Joseph stepped forward and placed his hands upon my head, telling me that as long as I kept the faith and never cut my hair, no bullet or blade would ever harm me.”

  “Like Samson.”

  “Exactly, but something must have happened in that moment when the prophet laid hands upon me in that my rate of aging crept to a standstill; as near as I can tell, within the span of the last two hundred years I have aged only forty!” I stared at him. “Eighty-five years old and as strong as the day is long—is that not miraculous?”

  “That’s one word for it.”

  His eyes sharpened under the bushy brows. “You do not believe me.”

  I spread my hands. “Well, you’ve got to admit that it’s a pretty fantastic story.”

  “It is!”

  “So, how do you explain the recorded death of one Orrin Porter Rockwell in 1878 due to natural causes, who was subsequently buried in a Salt Lake City cemetery?”

  “It is a fundamental belief in our faith that no true believer shall be interred in the earth without a proper physica
l monument to indicate the site, but it is not I, sir—and it is the true Orrin Porter Rockwell who stands before you.” He limped out the open door and half-crouched beside me. “The burial of the nameless man was a clever ruse by the church in an attempt to keep the populace from pestering the prophet into another use of his miraculous powers as he had with me.”

  I stared at him. “I see.”

  “You still do not believe?”

  “No.”

  “What is it I can do to convince you?”

  I sighed the way I always did when I’d reached the limits of my energies when dealing with crazy people. “To be honest, not a lot.”

  He casually reached under his herringbone-patterned vest into his inside coat pocket, past the vintage eyewear, and pulled out a Colt 1860 Army model with a shortened barrel, deftly turning it in his hand in a flash and holding it out to me, butt first. “Here, shoot me with this, if you like.”

  I sat there, looking at the black-powder pistol, more than a little concerned with the dexterity the old man had just displayed.

  He thumped his chest with a broad hand, indicating a target for me. “I will not be harmed, I can assure you.”

  I took the big pistol and examined the beautiful gleaming finish of the museum piece. “Have you had this the entire time you’ve been here?”

  He nodded. “Oh, yes. I never take the air unarmed.” I thumbed open the cylinder, taking in the rounds. “Honestly, you may fire upon me at will.”

  I rested the weapon in my lap and placed my face in my open hands. “Mr. Rockwell, do you have any other weapons on your person?”

  • • •

  I carefully placed the hog leg pistol along with a Navy-model .44, a Derringer, a wicked pair of brass knuckles, two knives of moderate length, and a frighteningly sharp Bowie knife with the initials OPR burnt into the hickory handle onto my desk.

  Vic raised her head to look at me. “You didn’t search him?”

  “We never formally arrested him.” I shook my head at myself. “It’s my fault more than anybody’s.” I slumped into my chair and looked at both Saizarbitoria and her. “He still claims to be the Orrin Porter Rockwell of frontier repute.” I gestured toward the assortment of weapons. “But faced with his personal armament here, I’m afraid it puts a new complexion on things.”

  Ruby joined Sancho in the doorway as Vic sat in my guest chair and placed her boots on the corner of my desk as always. “So we’re putting Orrin the Mormon on the Evanston Express?”

  I thought about the state psychiatric hospital in the southwestern part of Wyoming. “I hate it because he seems like a nice old guy.”

  Vic’s voice was muffled as she spoke behind the fist at her mouth in an attempt to not burst out laughing. “He’s a nice armed-to-the-teeth old guy.”

  Ruby volunteered, “And he’s very helpful.” We all turned to look at her, and she felt compelled to elaborate. “He takes out the trash, washes out the coffee mugs; he even raked the leaves on the lawn out beside the courthouse this morning.”

  Santiago folded his arms on his chest. “Not to change the subject, Walt, but was there any mention of who it was that sent him?”

  “No, I thought the first order of the day was to disarm him.”

  The Basquo’s attitude was conciliatory. “How did he respond to having his weapons taken away?”

  “Disappointed.” I looked at all of them and then down at the cache on my desk. “Not that his weapons were gone, but more that he was disappointed that we would think of taking them. He told me about being a federal marshal back in the day and that he’d be happy to help us in our investigation.”

  Ruby took a step closer but shuddered as if the weapons might leap to action on their own. “Did you ask him about the Tisdale girl?”

  “I did, and he wouldn’t give me a straight answer.”

  “How did he take to getting arrested?”

  It was quiet in the room.

  Vic looked up. “Tell me you arrested him.”

  It was quieter in the room.

  “Oh, Walt.” She got up and started through the doorway as Ruby and Sancho made way for her.

  “Where are you going?”

  Her voice carried from the hallway: “To arrest the son of a bitch.”

  I looked up at my remaining staff. “I just couldn’t do it; he’s two hundred years old and he looked so depressed.”

  Santiago nodded and walked over to my desk. “They’re loaded?”

  “Yep.”

  He picked up the shortened Army Colt and carefully examined it. “Looks like the real deal to me.”

  “I think it is, too. We can check the thing for model numbers and manufacturer’s impressions; I’m no expert, but I’d swear it’s the genuine article.”

  He fingered the edge on the Bowie knife. “Forged steel with a Damascus finish—looks like it was honed from a barrel stave.”

  I nodded. “Common practice in the 1800s.”

  Vic returned to the doorway, a little flushed from the run. “So, nobody’s going to be surprised that he’s gone, right?”

  7

  “You wouldn’t think that a manhunt for a gimpy two-hundred-year-old would be this difficult.” We stood there on the street behind the sheriff’s office and looked past Meadowlark Elementary toward the trees along Clear Creek that came from the Bighorn Mountains. Vic followed my gaze. “Maybe he’ll meet up with Virgil White Buffalo and solve both of our problems.”

  “At least he’s unarmed.”

  She snorted. “As far as we know.”

  It was the middle of the day, and it was unlikely that Rockwell, or whoever he was, had gotten far. “Any ideas?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I spend my days trying not to think like a nut job.”

  “Where is our Indian tracker when we need him?”

  “I’m betting The Red Pony and then home.” She paused. “Drats, huh?”

  I thought about the situation and what the old man’s intentions and motivations might be. “Where is Cord?”

  “I assume still gainfully employed at the Busy Bee.” She turned and looked at me. “Surely you don’t think . . .”

  I started across the courthouse parking lot toward the stairs leading down to Main Street. “It’s why he’s here.”

  She followed, quick-walking alongside me in an attempt to make up for her shorter stride. “So, we know why he’s here?”

  Staying to one side, I navigated the stairs. “Cord says he’s his bodyguard. I just wish I knew who sent him.”

  My undersheriff jumped a few steps to confront me. “But this Rockwell character tried to kidnap him.”

  I barely stopped before bowling the two of us down the stairs. “True.”

  “And he was headed south, which kind of indicates Orson Welles in the three-quarter-ton.”

  “Roy Lynear, the father.”

  “Looking out for the son while we search for the Holy Ghost.”

  “I suppose, but his father is the one who kicked him out.”

  “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want somebody to keep an eye on him.”

  “Well, Rockwell hasn’t shown any interest in kidnapping Cord since being in contact with us. I guess he figures Cord is about as safe as he can be without being locked up.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Then why are we sprinting to the Busy Bee?”

  “Because you never can tell.” I moved past. “Let’s get off these stairs; I’m having way too many serious conversations here.”

  When we got to the sidewalk, Saizarbitoria pulled up in his unit and reached across the bench seat to manually roll down the passenger-side window. “I want a new car.”

  Vic laughed. “Get in line.”

  “I’m not joking; there’s a guy over in Story that’s got a four-wheel-drive with cruise control and electric windows—I’ll pay half.” He lowered his head so that he could look up at me. “It’s even white. Please?”

  “Put in a requisition, and I’ll see what I
can do.” I rested my forearms on the sill of his door. “Anything on the fugitive?”

  “I put an APB out on him and figured I’d make the loop down by the church just in case he decided to go there.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Ruby called the Ferg in, and he’s on Route 16, started for the mountains to make sure he didn’t head up that way.” He threw a wrist over the steering wheel and glanced down through the heart of town. “He’s ancient. Where the hell could he have gone off to?” He pulled the car from the curb, flipped on the lights and siren, and the few cars in the main drag cleared to allow him to pass.

  “Way to sneak up on ’em, Sancho.” She turned to look at me, the tarnished gold pupils dialed up to high, and planted a Browning tactical boot forward in a provocative manner. “Hey, Walt?”

  “No, you can’t have a new vehicle.”

  She started to punch my chest with the index finger that sometimes felt like a truncheon but then slowed the velocity until I could barely feel the tip of her finger as it rested there. “You know she’s dead, right?”

  I stared at her.

  “The mother, Sarah Tisdale, the one you’re hanging this whole investigation on. You know she’s dead.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Missing persons after the first twenty-four—you know the percentages.” She squared off in front of me, folded her arms, and looked at the sidewalk, which gave me a little relief from the metallurgy. “Three weeks and nobody’s heard from her? I don’t know who killed her, Walt, but she’s dead as Kelsey’s nuts.”

  “She could . . .”

  “No, she couldn’t.” She stepped in close and looked up at me. “Stop it.” She ran her fingers along the edges of my jacket lapels. “I know how you are and don’t think I don’t appreciate it.” Her hand rested over my heart. “I sometimes think that’s where your true strength lies, in that bullshit hope of yours, but I’ve also seen the aftermath when it doesn’t work out and we all get to watch you crawl from the wreckage.” She patted my heart and let her hand drop. “I’m just warning you that this is going to be one of those times.”

  I nodded and raised my head to find the boy standing on the sidewalk only about ten feet away. “Hi, Cord.”