By Craig Johnson
The Longmire Series
The Cold Dish
Death Without Company
Kindness Goes Unpunished
Another Man’s Moccasins
The Dark Horse
Junkyard Dogs
Hell Is Empty
As the Crow Flies
A Serpent’s Tooth
Any Other Name
Dry Bones
An Obvious Fact
Also by Craig Johnson
Spirit of Steamboat (a novella)
Wait for Signs (short stories)
The Highwayman (a novella)
Stand-alone E-stories (Also available in Wait for Signs)
Christmas in Absaroka County (four stories)
Divorce Horse
Messenger
VIKING
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Copyright © 2017 by Craig Johnson
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Johnson, Craig, 1961– author.
Title: The western star / Craig Johnson.
Description: New York, New York : Viking, [2017] | Series: Longmire |
Identifiers: LCCN 2017025383 (print) | LCCN 2017028121 (e-book) | ISBN 9780698157545 (e-book) | ISBN 9780525426950 (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Longmire, Walt (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Sheriffs—Wyoming—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | FICTION / Westerns. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3610.O325 (e-book) | LCC PS3610.O325 W47 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017025383
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Lucy,
the sweetest pea of all the peas
CONTENTS
By Craig Johnson
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I know a lot of writers don’t listen to music as they write, especially music with lyrics, because most find the words distracting. Not me, and I even put together a playlist that I listen to, a soundtrack, so to speak, for each book. The Western Star is no different, and in that there’s usually a theme, the one for this novel is trains. Do you know how many train songs there are out there? From “Wabash Cannonball” all the way to the Doobie Brothers’ “Long Train Runnin’,” the one that had the greatest effect on me was the song I heard live at the WYO Theater in Sheridan.
I could tell you all about Chester, Montana, native Philip Aaberg, how he graduated from Harvard, bopped around Oakland cutting his teeth as a blues player, was a member of Elvin Bishop’s Group, became a standard on Windham Hill, or how he started his own label, Sweetgrass Music, but I think what you should probably do is just listen to his music—that says it all.
Mr. Aaberg was introducing a song called “That Train” from his Blue West album and had explained how it had been influenced by “This Train,” the old Sister Rosetta Tharpe rendition of the Florida Normal and Industrial Institute Quartette song. He went on to describe how he’d always loved the tune but had found it kind of exclusive and wondered if there wasn’t a train out there for the rest of us.
Now, I’d be lying if I were to tell you that I haven’t been influenced by Aaberg’s music, and more important when I hear him play I can pretty much bring a Wyoming sheriff to mind, pounding the ivories in the same inimitable manner. The momentum that Aaberg builds in “That Train” is stunning, and when I listen to it, all I can think is that we’re all going home.
I’ve always been intrigued by trains and never saw one I didn’t wish I was on—I’ve even jumped a few. Every night there is a Burlington Northern Santa Fe that pulls coal a couple of miles from my ranch at about two in the morning, and if I didn’t hear that rumble, I’m not sure I’d sleep well at night.
There are a couple of subjects that you can count on getting grief about—history, guns, cars, and I’m guessing trains. Though I’m sure there are a few slip-ups in The Western Star, I can say honestly that the supporting cast I had in putting this excursion together was marvelous, and I’d like to toot a horn for them.
First and foremost is Cathy Norris of BNSF for all the hours of talk and, more important, the wonderful on-board experiences of riding the rails across Wyoming. Cathy introduced me to James L. Ehernberger for when I had questions and she didn’t have answers, and to John and Lori Saunders, who filled out the research roundtable with details galore.
Scott Snowden, who appears as himself in the book, was instrumental in explaining the legal machinations surrounding compassionate release and continues to fork over some damn fine wine from the marvelous Snowden Vineyards in Napa. As Ned Pepper used to say, “I don’t need a good lawyer, but I could use a good judge.”
Thanks also to the Hotel LaBonte Bar, which needs to add to its law enforcement gallery, and to the Douglas Railroad Interpretive Center that allows you to crawl all over their exhibits.
Special thanks to Karma Osborn and Barbara Bogart for the lowdown on the Wyoming State Hospital and its predecessor, the Wyoming State Insane Asylum.
I’ve been pulling the Walt Longmire Express for thirteen years now, but I never would’ve made the grade without Gail The Hiawatha Hochman or Marianne Marrakesh Express Merola. The roundhouse over at 375 Hudson Street lodges some of my favorites with Kathryn The Royal Scotsman Court, Lindsey California Zephyr Schwoeri, Victoria Super Chief Savanh, Brian Rock Island Rocket Tart, Jessica 20th Century Limited Fitzpatrick, Mary Streamliner Meteor Stone, and Ben Cannonball Express Petrone.
But the whistle that always thrills my heart and the train I’ll never depart is Judy Orange Blossom Special Johnson, the express that runs through my heart every day.
1
I pressed in on the knurled end of my Colt 1911A1 with my thumb at the same time rotating the barrel bushing a quarter turn clockwise to free the plug and recoil assembly, my hands working from rote. “Business.”
Joe Iron Cloud, the young Arapaho sheriff, held up my silhouette target, the fluorescent light beaming through the holes tightly grouped at the center with only one high and slightly off t
o the right. “I guess business was good.”
I removed the mechanism, rotating the plug in a counterclockwise direction to free it from the spring. “I suppose.”
Some of the other sheriffs came over to join Joe, who chewed his gum like a masticating machine. “When did you start carrying that thing?”
Concentrating on the work in an attempt to try to get out of the mood into which I was descending, I rotated the barrel bushing counterclockwise, disengaging it from the slide. “Vietnam.”
Steve Wolf, the Wyoming Law Enforcement Academy’s range manager, approached and handed me a clipboard. “Walt, I need you to sign off on these.”
The younger sheriffs drifted away as I signed the forms, and the silver-haired man studied me.
“Mind if I ask why you do this?” Steve watched me continue to disassemble my weapon. “Come all the way down here every four years and requalify?”
I handed the paperwork back, shrugged, and leaned against the green felt bench. “A lot of these larger departments have facilities where they can do this stuff, but we’re kind of small. The only range we’ve got is outdoors, and come November, my undersheriff really doesn’t care for that.”
The range manager smiled and glanced at Victoria Moretti, who was in the process of cleaning her own weapon. “I’d imagine.” He was silent for a moment. “That, and the academy happens to be on the way to Cheyenne, where you go for a four-year parole hearing.”
I glanced at him and then went back to working on my weapon. “Yep.”
He waited a moment. “Lot of controversy surrounding that case.”
“Yep.”
“Lots of rumors.”
“Yep.”
Smiling, he pushed off the bench and started for his office, but then stopped to call back, “Hey, I heard a rumor that your daughter is working for Joe Meyer and that collection of outlaws down there in the attorney general’s office.”
Having reassembled the Colt, I finally turned to look at him. “Yep.”
“She living in Cheyenne?”
“Yep.”
“Well, maybe we’ll see you more often?”
“Nope.”
He shook his head and then turned away. “Really good talking with you, Walt.”
As I took my time to carefully oil the exterior of my sidearm, I found myself staring at the forest-green felt, stained with the oil from thousands of weapons that had been taken apart and put back together on its surface. I wondered how many men had been taken apart and put back together in the process.
“You keep playing with that thing and you’re going to wear it out.” Iron Cloud barked a laugh. “At least, that’s what my mother used to tell me.” I turned and looked at him, his broad grin splitting his suntanned face like a shearing glacier. “How ’bout having a beer with us?”
I reloaded the one round in the pipe, filled the magazine, slipped it between the ancient, yellowed stag grips, and placed the Colt into the pancake holster at the small of my back. “Sorry, Joe, I have to get to Cheyenne. Besides, Lucian is waiting on us back at the hotel.”
—
“How many times have we heard this fucking story?”
“I’ve heard it more times than you.”
I had to admit the Rainier beer tasted pretty good, giving me time to think as my old boss, the previous sheriff of Absaroka County, regaled the younger men, who had waylaid us after all, with tales of derring-do from bygone days.
Vic leaned in, sipping her dirty martini. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but does it change every time we hear it?”
“Every time.”
The perpetual frown was missing from his face, and his bushy eyebrows crouched over his nose as Lucian continued to hold forth. “I get this call that we had a cool one on the side of Route 16 out there on the edge of town. When I get there, this kid—Highway Patrol, he was—is standin’ over the damn body, I mean practically standing on the damn thing. Well, he steps back when he sees me and says it’s in my jurisdiction and what did I want to do?”
Vic nodded as she settled onto the piano stool beside me. “Yeah, it’s changed from the last time already.”
The first establishment near where we now sat was a tent town called Antelope that had popped up near Fort Fetterman and, appropriately enough, Antelope Creek in anticipation of the Wyoming Central Railroad back in 1886. Decamping and later moving their tents two miles west of the intersection of the Texas and Bozeman trails, the residents got serious and renamed themselves Douglas after Senator Stephen Douglas, the five-foot-four “Little Giant,” most famous for losing the presidency to a then relatively unknown log splitter from Illinois, six-foot-four Abraham Lincoln.
I stared up at the old pressed-tin ceiling. The LaBonte Hotel had been built in 1913 as a replacement for the Valley House Hotel, which had been torn down when the Burlington Northern Railroad had cleaved Douglas in two. I often wondered why, with nothing but open land all around, they had decided to run the railroad right through the middle of town.
The LaBonte got its name from the first resident of Converse County, Pierre LaBonte. It had recently been updated but was still old school. Most of the younger officers, deputies, and Highway Patrolmen stayed at the more modern digs on the strip near the interstate, but Lucian had brought me here when he first hired me, and we were creatures of habit.
Near the piano, there was a pool table and a dartboard, where I had sometimes seen Lucian compete, the extra darts embedded in his fake leg—an intimidating gesture for the benefit of his opponents.
Noodling around on the battered upright, I watched as the old, one-legged sheriff sipped a Wyoming Whiskey, his preferred libation when away from home, where he kept a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve twenty-three-year-old in the corner cabinet back at the Durant Home for Assisted Living.
“There was a big patch of blood at the back of his scalp, but I asked the HP if he was sure he was dead, and the troop said, ‘As Kelsey’s nuts.’ So, I pull the kid’s wallet and flip the body over, where I notice there are little blue threads all on the front of him. Well, while we’re waitin’ for the medical examiner to come over, I sit in my car and have my dispatcher patch me in to the mother, who doesn’t seem too upset about losing her baby boy. She says that her other son and another fellow went out with the kid rodeoing Saturday night and that they’d all hung one on.”
He pushed the Open Road Stetson back on his head. “Well, I roll over to the mother’s house where there’s a beat-up old Chrysler in the driveway with shitty carpeting, a curious shade of blue. I drag the one kid out and show him the carpet and tell him I’ve got him red-handed and he better damn well start singing, and boy does he—a regular Frankie Laine. He says the decedent and this other fella got into it, and the other fella pulled out a Ruger Blackhawk single-action revolver and shot the young son in the back of the head.”
Lucian took a swallow of the whiskey and licked his lips. “The one brother doesn’t seem too upset about his dead brother, and I’m starting to think this family might be a little bubble off plumb, but I get the address of the shooter and throw Cain in back of the Nash. On the drive over, he’s telling me that he didn’t have anything to do with killing Abel and that he didn’t even help the shooter dump the body—made him do it himself. Took some kind of strange moral stand on that one, I guess.” The old sheriff rolled his eyes. “Well, Ludlow Coontz, the shooter, is this big, dumb-lookin’ bulldogger, two hundred and seventy pounds if he was an ounce, and this is before I had yon man-mountain over there.”
He gestured toward Vic and me, and I raised my glass at the enthralled dozen or so off-duty officers.
“So, I get Ludlow in the car, and all the way over to the jail I’m telling him how I’ve already got the story and if he wants me to go easy on him he might as well come clean and admit to the killing, but he doesn’t say a word. I stick ’em in separat
e cells where I’m looking at this big bastard and figurin’ I’m gonna have to beat on him all night to get a confession out of him. . . .” He paused. “Not that we did that type of thing a lot, but sometimes it was called for. . . . Anyway, I walk back into the office, tryin’ to figure out what I was gonna do, when I spot the new photocopy machine we just got and unplug the thing and roll it back into the holding cells. I mean this was back in the day when those things were the size of a dishwasher. So, I plug it in and push it over and tell him to stick his hand on the glass, which he does, whereupon I cuff him to the bars and the machine and I close the lid. I ask him if he killed that boy, and he says no, and that’s when I hit the button. Well, it lights up and goes back and forth with this hellacious racket and spits out a photocopy of his hand, and I pick the thing up and study it like it means some damn thing.
“Ludlow, I say to this dumb ass, this here is the newest state-of-the-art equipment in our ongoing battle with evildoers, the Xerox 914 Lie Detector. So, I hit a few more buttons, and I tell him that I’ve recalibrated the Xerox 914 so that if he lies to me again, it’s gonna deliver about two hundred and twenty volts through his sorry ass.
“I hold my finger above the button and doesn’t old Ludlow start sobbin’ and tellin’ the whole story of how he shot that kid and that the Ruger Blackhawk is under his mattress back home.”
The other sheriffs broke out laughing, and Joe picked up his beer from the bar and sidled over, leaning on the piano as Lucian launched into another story. “You two might be stuck here all night.”
“Well, if need be I’ll stuff him in the backseat of the truck with Dog, and he’ll sleep it off by the time we get to Cheyenne.” Vic and I touched glass to can, sealing the deal.
Iron Cloud glanced at some of the photos on the wall behind me. “There’s a lot of history in here.”
It was true. The bar’s slogan is “Tell ’em I’ll meet you at the LaBonte,” and I’d spent many an hour combing the extensive collection of photos commemorating Wyoming peace officers that took in the history of the state from when it was an Indian territory to the present, a legacy that included small tintypes, 8×10s, and even a few movie posters. There were more than a few photos of Lucian, including the one of him in the hospital when they had just finished amputating the leg that bootlegger Beltran Extepare had attempted to remove with a shotgun in his own dynamic fashion. Lucian, with a nurse pulled onto his bed, is grinning widely and giving the camera a thumbs-up.
The Western Star Page 1
