Divorce Horse (walt longmire)

by Craig Johnson

  Static. “Boss, it’s unit two.”

  Cady, always quicker on the draw, this time grabbed the mic from my dash. “Unit two, this is unit one. How’s the pow-wow?”

  Static. “Hi, Cady. The natives are restless, at least one of them is.”

  She keyed the mic. “Did somebody really steal the divorce horse, or was Tommy just high and forgot where he put it?”

  Static. “No, he seems pretty straight to me, and the horse is missing.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  Static. “Roger that.”

  I glanced at her. “Three to one.”

  Cars and trucks were parked on the side of the road for a quarter of a mile to escape the dollar fee that Rotary collected like they were the Cosa Nostra. A thickset cowboy ambled up to my window.

  “Chip.”

  “Walt.” He looked past me and smiled at my daughter, who was making a display with her engagement ring. “Hey, Cady.” The smile faded as he stuck a palm out to me. “Gimme two dollars.”

  “I’m on a call.”

  He repeated. “Gimme two dollars.”

  “It’s official.”

  “Gimme two dollars.”

  “The sign says a dollar.”

  Chip looked at the Bear as the vintage T-Bird made a beeline for the VIP parking area by the grandstands and then back at me. “He said you’d pay.” He took the money and smiled at Cady. “Nice rock. I heard you were getting married?”

  She fluttered her eyelashes at him, and it seemed to me she’d dated him at one point, too. “I am.”

  “Congratulations.”

  As we pulled in beside Henry, I cried foul. “That was a blatant use of a prop.”

  She twirled the enormous diamond on her finger. “What, this little ol’ thing?” She opened the door and slid out. “Three-two.”

  The roar of the crowd intimated that the Indian Relay Races had already begun, a single rider, three-horse free-for-all that involved the three horses, one for each leg of the relay, a rider in traditional dress of loincloth and moccasins who leapt from one mount to the other, and muggers, the name given to the unfortunate individuals who had to hold on to the half-wild horses in the exchange. This was an old native practice that made the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association look like a lady’s afternoon tea.

  I stretched my legs and followed Henry as he led us through the tunnels that met with the main, lateral walkway. We took a left through the throngs toward the paddocks, down a set of steps to ground level.

  Ken Thorpe, another of the Rotary mafia, was leaning against the gate but turned and looked at us as we arrived. “Hey, Walt.”

  “I’m not giving you a dollar.”

  He looked a little confused. “Okay.”

  “Tommy Jefferson, New Grass team, had a horse stolen?”

  “Yep, but he’s riding on a spare.”

  We all crowded at the gate in time to see the riders making the near turn, bareback and crouched into the manes of their horses. The men were painted and so were their mounts. One of the beauties of the sport was the pageantry-some of the riders in full warbonnets, some in shaman headdresses; the riders and their ponies resplendent in team colors, the designs reflecting the lines, spots, handprints, and lightning bolts that are recorded in the old Indian ledger drawings.

  Henry pointed. “That’s Tommy in the green.”

  Sporting the three vertical stripes of the New Grass team, Tommy was hard-charging in second coming up on the last leg of the second part of the relay. It was possible that the young man was simply pacing himself, but it didn’t look like it: it looked like the ride of his life.

  We watched as they cannoned by, the fine dust of the fairgrounds settling on our hats and shoulders as we all jockeyed to see the riders transfer onto the last horse in the race. It was at this exchange where the majority of wrecks occurred.

  The lead rider, a lanky fellow from the Coleville Reservation in eastern Washington, always a powerhouse, vaulted from his mount as one of his muggers grabbed that horse’s reigns while another held the last horse steady. The Spokane Indian misjudged the distance, or maybe it was the horse making a tiny surge to see what was leaping onto its back, but the rider managed to grab hold of the mane on the Appaloosa and launched skyward before settling into a rocket trajectory past the grandstand, the poor man bouncing off the horse’s rump but still hanging on.

  The crowd of close to four thousand went crazy, but by that time Tommy Jefferson, New Grass team of the Crow Nation, had leapt from his own mount. His mugger attempted to hold the chestnut steady, but the horse was now circling him with Tommy holding on to the mane, one ankle draped over the horse’s spine.

  The mugger, not knowing what to do, did the only sensible thing and let go., The only one that knew what it was supposed to be doing was the horse, who reared and blasted down the straightaway with Tommy hanging off the side, the rest of the field fumbling with their own transfers and losing in their attempts to catch up.

  “Oh, no.” The Bear, of course, was the first to see the danger.

  At the far end of the grandstand were the chutes for the roping and bull-dogging events-massive, metal gates, reinforced with what looked like highway guardrails. Tommy was headed straight toward them.

  The chestnut, in its attempt to catch up with the Appaloosa, had set a course that would give it the best advantage but would also carry it and its rider next to the metal barrier. We could see that the horse would likely make it, but Tommy, most assuredly, would not.

  Pogo-hopping on one foot, the young man was scrambling to get both legs up, but with only about a hundred feet to go, it looked like he only had maybe two hops left.

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  It was so evident that he wasn’t going to make it that I reached for Cady’s hand in an attempt to distract her from what appeared to be Jefferson’s imminent death. Her hand was already reaching behind her for mine, and I felt her grip as Tommy post-holed one miraculous stamp on the ground and barely slithered past the abutment, his calf grazing the steel fence.

  The crowd, which I thought might’ve exhausted itself, went ballistic. All four thousand were standing as Tommy rounded the far corner and actually appeared to be gaining on the Coleville rider, the rest of the field a far third.

  Through the back straight, I could see the warbonnet of the Spokane Indian traveling across the ground as if by magic, levitated above the infield and the far railing at close to forty miles an hour. But there was a vengeance that followed him, a Crow centaur who rounded the far corner and blew into the straight like an arrow. You could see Tommy’s head tucked into the horse’s mane, allowing them the most aerodynamic advantage, or maybe it was the whispering of the Indian’s voice that carried them along like Crow chain-lightning.

  The Spokane rider, feeling the breath on the back of his neck, turned to get a glimpse of his pursuer, and when he did, the warbonnet he wore inverted, the eagle feathers tunneling around his face like shaft-shaped blinders. His arm came up to catch it at the crucial moment when they turned the near curve, which caused the Appaloosa to go wide and miss the apex.

  Tommy, taking full advantage, veered his pony to the inside, and the two were neck and neck.

  From our ground-level viewpoint, it looked as if they were headed straight toward us, and as they drew to the corner it appeared as if the Colville rider had the advantage. When they rounded the curve nearest us, though, Tommy made up the distance on the inside, and they were once again running as if the two horses were in traces.

  They crossed the finish line, no one able to tell which horse, the chestnut or the Appaloosa, had finished in first place. We had to take the judge’s word on it.

  Tommy had lost by a nose.

  Henry turned to look at our little group. “It was not for lack of trying.”

  “No.” I spoke to Ken. “How long till the next race?”

  “Oh, it’s a good hour. They’re doing the Fancy Dance competition down here in front
of the grandstand as soon as they pick up the poop and smooth the track over with the grader.”

  “Can we cut across to the infield and talk with Tommy?”

  “If you give me a dollar.” He smiled. Then he opened the gate and ushered us through.

  Saizarbitoria was waiting on the other side. “Did you guys see that?”

  I nodded. “I guess he had at least one life left, huh?”

  He fell in step as we approached the heated conversation going on over by the announcer’s tower, the gist of which was that Tommy was going to burn the announcer’s booth down with flaming arrows if the judges didn’t change their opinion as to which horse had crossed the finish line first.

  Tommy’s demeanor was amplified by his leg, which was bleeding and streaking the chartreuse war paint he still wore. “You fuckin’ Indians are trying to rob me!”

  So much for Native American discrimination.

  “Now, Tommy, calm down. .”

  The Colville Agency, far from home and deep in enemy territory, had wisely chosen not to attend the unofficial inquest, so the two camps in contention were Tommy and his muggers-two men almost a big as Henry and me-and the three judges, one of whom was giving extra attention to the rules since he was Tommy’s uncle.

  The head judge, Richard New Grass, glanced over his nephew’s shoulder at me, and perhaps more important, at Henry. He nodded at the Bear and turned his attention back to the agitated rider. “It was an electronic finish, Tommy; there’s nothing we can do about it. The Colville rider won fair and square, and that’s all there is to it.” Tipping his trademark black cowboy hat back on his head, Richard turned his patrician face toward me, effectively ignoring his nephew. “Can I help you, Sheriff?”

  “I understand there’s been a robbery? Something about a horse?”

  Tommy danced himself between us and jerked his head in emphasis with every word. “You’re damn right there’s been a robbery-these sons-a-bitches are tryin’ to take this race away from me.”

  Tommy made a dramatic display and turned on the heels of his moccasins, ignoring his uncle and walking between Henry and me toward Cady, who had been standing behind us. “And not only do these damn Indians steal the race, but one of my best horses is gone.”

  The muggers walked off to wipe down the sweat-marked horses. I shrugged at Richard and the rest of the judges, but they were leaving as well, most likely relieved to be rid of the New Grass entourage.

  Tommy was walking with Cady, and they were both laughing-and I had the feeling I was about to lose a point.

  At the outside edge of the infield, they walked past a trailer that was attached to a white Dodge half-ton painted with the green stripes of the New Grass team, next to an event tent festooned with the banners of the team’s sponsors, most prominently BUCKING BUFFALO SUPPLY COMPANY, HARDIN BAIL BONDS, and H-BAR HATS. There were a number of energy drinks and sodas in a fifty-gallon cooler, and, after a few plunges into the ice, Tommy finally pulled out three power drinks, one for Cady and one each for Henry and me. “Here, supplied by one of my sponsors.”

  Cady handed hers back. “Do you have diet?”

  Tommy sighed. “That shit’s bad for you.” And retrieved a bottle of water. “All I got.” Then he scooped off his coyote headdress, threw himself into a lawn chair, and looked down at his bloody calf. “Oh, man. .” He stuck out his tongue in play exhaustion and exhaled a quick breath toward Henry. “Hey, throw me one of those horse bandages, would you?”

  Henry did as requested and even wrapped the leg of the young athlete. “I am sorry you lost.”

  Tommy shook his head. “Just for show-we won the first heat and Colville came in seventh. We were second in this one, so all we have to do is place higher than they do by less than that in the next heat and we win it all. Lots of money riding on this one-could keep us going into next year’s competition.” He reached over and slapped the Cheyenne Nation’s shoulder as Henry taped up the rider’s bandage. “Gotta keep these Indians honest, right Bear?”

  I watched as the Cheyenne Nation stood, but stooped a little and appeared to be looking closely at Tommy’s face. “So they tell me.”

  Tommy, aware he was being inspected, grinned widely. “Haaho. New teeth.”

  Henry nodded. “I thought so.”

  “Big Horn County Jail. The meth ate them out, so they gave me new ones.” His hands stroked his arms and then brushed against each other in a demonstration of purification. “I’m clean.” His head bobbed and his eyes darted to Cady. “Damn, you look good, girl. Hey, you know I’m free, right?”

  Her face looked sad when she responded. “That’s what I heard.”

  “Yeah, it was a long winter.” Jefferson glanced at me, obviously embarrassed at the episodes that had included the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department and assorted Durant officials. “I still miss her, you know?”

  Cady nodded and stood next to his camp chair. “Yeah.”

  Tommy looked up at her. “How about you, are you seeing anybody?”

  I got the glance as she showed him the ring. “Yeah, I’m engaged to a guy back in Philadelphia-Dad’s undersheriff’s brother.”

  He whistled and glanced at me. “Vic?”

  I nodded but Cady answered. “His name is Michael.”

  He folded his newly clean arms over his lean, horseman’s body. “He anything like her?”

  She laughed. “No.” I watched her study him for a moment, and then ask: “I heard about you and Lisa. What happened?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, wet with sweat, the black of it shimmering blue in the half sun. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I got so interested in the horses that she thought I wasn’t interested in her anymore.” He sighed. “We both got mad and said some things. . That’s when I got started on the Black Road with the drugs and stuff. I told her I wasn’t sure what it was I wanted. .” He gestured around the dirty infield at the blowing trash. “So here I am, and I guess this is what I wanted.” He swung his legs onto the dirt, pushed out of the chair, winced at the weight on his leg, and glanced at me, possibly unhappy that I was hearing all of it; then he hitched his thumbs in his loincloth. “I keep thinking that I’ll just call, but I made myself a promise that I wouldn’t bother her anymore after all that happened.”

  We stood there for a moment, listening to the drumming and chanting echoing off the grandstand from the Fancy Dance competition, no one looking at Tommy, Tommy looking up at the first evening star.

  I straightened my hat. “So, what’s the story on the div. . Um, on the horse?”

  His face came back to life. “Oh, that horse. He’s got an adjustable lug on his left shoe, but if we’d had him in this last heat we would’ve won straight up.”

  “What happened?”

  He shook his head at the injustice. “We had ’em all tied to the back side of the horse trailer over here and when we went to go take ’em to the start, he was missing.”

  I looked past Saizarbitoria at the two muggers, looking like embarrassed twin towers. I remembered one of their names. “Randy, you guys look for him in the infield?”

  The giant answered. “Yeah, but he’s an escape artist, that one. The only one he really liked was Lisa-he’d follow her and nicker and toss his head. Only bit me.”

  The other giant added. “He can untie knots like a sailor, but I had him clipped. We looked everywhere, but he’s not here.”

  Tommy’s voice rose from behind me. “Somebody stole him. He’s not in the infield and there’s no way he would’ve crossed the track on his own.”

  I glanced around the sizable infield-no trees, just dirt and prairie. “No way he could’ve pulled loose, jumped the railing, and joined in as the horses raced by?”

  Jefferson shook his head. “The pickup riders would’ve gotten him. He was stolen, I tell ya.”

  I glanced at Henry and watched as he walked between the two giants and rounded the horse trailer. Shrugging, I started after him, noticing my daughter’s hands behind her back,
three fingers extended on one hand and three on the other: tied.

  Ruthless.

  I glanced at Saizarbitoria. “You can head back over to the grandstand, Sancho, but turn your radio up so you can hear it.”

  I joined the Bear between the infield railing and the side of the trailer where the horses were tethered to a piece of rebar steel attached to the side just for that purpose. Two-year-olds, the horses were skittish, and moved away, stamping their hooves and showing us the whites of their eyes.

  The Cheyenne Nation reached up and ran a hand over the nearest horse, a dark bay, nut brown with a black mane, black ear points and tail, who immediately settled with a sighing rush of air from his distended nostrils; the Bear had magic in his hands, and besides, the animal was probably happy to meet an Indian who wasn’t trying to catapult onto his back.

  Henry stepped forward and then ducked under the halter leads attached to the bar. Some of the other horses backed away, and one tried to rear but was held down by the length of the rope strung through his halter. The Bear mumbled something and they settled. Magic, indeed.

  At the ends of the leads were the metal snaps that could only be manipulated by an opposing thumb, and I didn’t see a lot of those around on that side of the trailer.

  At the other side of the horses, Henry kneeled and placed his fingertips in the impacted dirt. I felt like I always did whenever I followed his intuitive skills. The Bear was a part of everything that went on around him in a way that I could only witness. He had described scenarios to me so clearly from the remnants of events that I would have sworn that I’d been there. Crouching behind the trailer and looking at the hitching bar, he sighed. “If they had him clipped to the end of the bar-somebody took him.”

  “Where?”

  His dark eyes shifted as he stood, and he walked past the rear of the trailer to run his hand along the inside railing, finally stopping and lifting the top loose. He stared at the ground. “Here, the horse was led through here.”

  I joined him and looked past the dimpled, poached surface of the track at a forgotten gate leading to a fairground building that hadn’t been used since the renovation of the place back in the eighties. “Across the track and through there-toward the old paddocks.”