The Dark Horse (3 page)

 

 

 

Mary Barsad didn’t look like one of my usual lodgers. She was tall with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, with a face that had more character than pretty would allow. She looked good, which was a real trick in the orange Campbell County Department of Corrections jumpsuit she was wearing. She had narrow, long-fingered, capable hands and had used them to cover her face.

“Would you like something to eat, Mary?”

She didn’t say anything.

“Dog and I are starved.”

Her face came up just a little, and I looked into the azure eyes as they settled on Dog. She was terribly thin, and a trace of blue at her temples throbbed with the pulse of her thoughts.

“No, thank you.” She had a nice voice, kind, very unlike the one with which I’d just been dealing.

“It’s chicken potpies till Monday—sure you won’t change your mind?”

Her eyes disappeared behind the hands, and I was sorry to see them go. I hung an arm on the bars. “My name is Walt Longmire, and I’ll only be gone for about twenty minutes, but if you need anything I’ve got a deputy right down the hall; her name is Victoria Moretti, but she goes by Vic. She might seem a little scary at first . . .” I trailed my words off when it became apparent that she wasn’t listening.

I watched her for a moment more and then slipped out the back door and down the steps behind the courthouse to the Busy Bee Café. Dog followed. We walked past one of the bright, red-and-white signs that read KYLE STRAUB FOR SHERIFF, A MAN TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE. I thought about the newest political slogan to sweep the county—a man to make a difference; what did that make me, a man against making a difference? Whenever I saw the slogan, I felt as though somebody was walking on my grave without me fully being in it.

Kyle Straub was the sitting prosecuting attorney and had been running a vigorous campaign with signs, bumper stickers, and pins; I had seen all of them with an unsettling frequency. When it had come time to choose a homily for my own campaign, I’d proposed a slogan from Cato the Elder, CARTHAGE MUST BE DESTROYED, but that platitude had been quickly shot down by the local council.

I had supporters. Lucian Connally, the previous sheriff of Absaroka County, had put in an appearance at the local VFW and had loudly announced to any and all, “If you stupid sons-a-bitches don’t know what you’ve got, then you don’t deserve a sheriff like Walt Longmire anyway.” Ernie Brown, “Man about Town,” was the editor in chief of the
Durant Courant
and had caught our dispatcher Ruby in an honest moment where she’d stated flatly that she wouldn’t elect the attorney as dogcatcher. It seemed as though everyone was doing all they could to make sure I would be elected in November—that is, everybody but me.

The first and only scheduled debate at Rotary had been something of a disaster despite my friend Henry Standing Bear’s support. Kyle Straub had made a point of lobbying for a new jail as the centerpiece of his future administration, and the fact that we didn’t have enough lodgers to support the facility the county had now had done little to dampen the enthusiasm for a new building out along the bypass. I had failed to take into consideration how many contractors filled the rolls of Rotary.

It was the middle of October, and there was a star-filled twilight, with an evening that was cooling off nicely in promise of the cold to come. Autumn was my favorite season, but Cady had left and I was still unsettled by her departure—and now by the woman in my jail. I took a quick look at my pocket watch to see if I was going to make it before the café closed, and the brass fob with the Indian chief centered between opposed horse heads flapped against the pocket of my jeans. There were more than just a few leaves dropping from the cottonwood trees that surrounded the courthouse, and I crunched through a few piles on my way to the Bee.

Dorothy Caldwell had been keeping the café along Clear Creek open later to take advantage of the tourist trade, but all that might have dried up with hunting season almost over. If she’d already closed, it meant the potpies, which bordered on cruel and unusual punishment for the lot of the Absaroka County Sheri’s Department staff, never mind for Dog.

I paused at the open door of the all-but-empty café. “Can I bring him in?”

Dorothy, the owner/operator, turned from scraping the grill to regard me and beast. “It’s against the law.”

“I am the law, at least for another couple of months.”

“Then I guess its okay.”

I sat on my regular stool nearest the cash register; Dog sat in the space between the counters and looked at Dorothy expectantly. She reached into a stainless steel container, plucked out a piece of bacon, and tossed it. In one snap, it was gone. I looked down at the brute with the five-gallon shaggy red head, big as a bucket. “It’s like the shark tank at Sea World.”

“How many?”

I noticed she didn’t bother to ask of what; I hadn’t seriously picked up a menu in the place in years. “Three.”

She took a frying pan as big as a garbage-can lid down from the hanger above. “You got a lodger?”

“Transport from over in Gillette.” I glanced back out onto the deserted main street and could imagine how much the three of us looked like some high plains version of Hopper’s
Nighthawks
.

She dumped a few tablespoons of bacon grease into the heating pan; like all things bad for you, it smelled delicious. She took out three large strips of round steak and began pounding them with a meat mallet, then dipped them in milk and dredged them in flour seasoned with salt, pepper, and just a touch of paprika.

I caved. “I take it chicken-fried steak is the usual?”

She tossed the strips of battered meat into the frying pan and dropped some fries into the deep fryer as Dog looked on. “The special. When are you going to get it right?”

I opened the file that I had put on the counter and studied the few pages that the Campbell County deputies had brought with the woman. “Make sure you include ketchup packets.”

“Vic?”

“Yep.”

The next question didn’t sound completely innocent. “What’s she doing working late?”

“Prisoner’s female.”

She leaned against the counter and looked down at the file, her salt-and-pepper locks hiding her eyes. “Mary Barsad?” Her cool hazel eyes reappeared and met with my gray ones.

“Ring a bell?”

She picked up an oversized fork and expertly turned the steaks. “Only what I read in the papers. She’s the one that shot her husband after he killed her horses, right?”

I shrugged at the report. “The motivating factors are not mentioned, only the grisly consequence.” I looked at the thread-bare corner of my shirtsleeve—I had to get some new duty shirts one of these days. “What’s the story on the horses?”

“The official one is lightning, but the rumor is he locked them in the barn and set it on fire.”

I stared at her. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. “That’s the story down the lane. He was a real piece of work, from what I hear. You must have been fly-fishing with Henry when the story broke; it was in all the papers.”

“Where’d this happen?”

“Out your way, in Powder River country. She and her husband had that really big spread across the river near the middle prong of Wild Horse Creek.”

“Rough country.” I thought about it. “The L Bar X. I thought what’s his name, Bill Nolan, had that.”

“Did, but the rest of the story is that this Barsad fella came in a few years back and started buying everybody out. Took the old place and built a log mansion on it, but I guess that pretty much burnt down, too.”

“The report says that he was shot while he was asleep. He set the barn full of horses on fire and then went to bed?”

She pulled up the fries, dumped them in the styrofoam containers along with the steaks, three small mixed salads, and the packets of ketchup and ranch dressing. “Seems kind of negligent, doesn’t it.”

“He burned the horses alive?”

She placed three iced teas in a holder, along with the requisite sugar, and slid them across the counter with the meals. “That’s the rumor. From what I understand, the finest collection of quarter horses this country’s ever seen.”

I got up, and Dog started for the door; he knew full well that the real begging couldn’t start till we got back to the jail. “Barrel racer?”

“Cutter, but I think she also did distance riding. I understand she was world-class.”

“She looks it.” I gathered up the movable feast. “What the heck was she doing with this . . .” My eyes focused on the file before closing it and placing it on top of the stack. “. . . Wade Barsad?”

I paid the chief-cook-and-bottle-washer, and she gave me back the change. I stuffed it into the tip jar. Like the usual, it was our ritual.

“They don’t all start out as peckerheads; some just get there faster than others.”

I paused at the door. “Is that experience talking?”

She hadn’t answered.

The dark-eyed bartender’s name was Juana, and she was from Guatemala. Her son, Benjamin, the little outlaw from the porch, was half Cheyenne and now sat on the bar stool next to me. He was nursing a Vernor’s ginger ale and was hypnotized by
Jonny Quest
on the Cartoon Network. I didn’t even know that such a thing existed. The lawgiver who passed the privy proclamations had disappeared.

“John; I bet you’re a John.” The young woman stole a sip from the straw of her son’s soda and glanced at me. “Nope, too plain. William maybe, or Ben.” She rested her elbows on the bar and looked at the boy. “Maybe he’s a Benjamin, like you.”

“He’s an Eric.” The child’s voice carried so much certainty that even I almost believed him. He sidled up on one cheek and pulled a business card from the back of his kid-sized Wranglers and handed it to his mother.

I recognized the card—it had rested on the seat of my rental.

She read. “Eric Boss, Boss Insurance, Billings, Montana.”

I looked at the little man and thought about the nerve it had taken to reach into a vehicle that contained Dog. His Cheyenne half was showing. “Did you get that out of my car?”

He didn’t say anything but received a sharp look from his mother and a full Spanish pronunciation of his name. “Ben-hameen?!”

He shrugged. “It was unlocked.”

She was on her way around the bar when he launched off the stool and was out the door like a miniature stagecoach robber.

She flung herself past me and across the room, yelling at her son from the open doorway. “
Vete a la casa, desensilla el caballo, y vete directamente a tu cuarto.
” The clatter of horse hooves resounded from the dirt street as she continued to shout after him. “
¡Escuchame!
” The young woman closed the screen door behind her and then crossed silently past me and back behind the bar. Once there, she slid the card across the surface. “I apologize.”

“It’s all right.”

She gathered a remote and switched off the cartoon, where a giant eye with spider legs was chasing people around in the desert. She reached over to a burner for the coffee urn. “Well, that pretty much settles that mystery.” I pushed my cup back toward her and watched as she refilled the buffalo china mug. “You’re here about the house that burned down, the barn with the horses.” She nudged the cup back. “That woman?”

I sipped my coffee—it was still surprisingly good—and collected the business card from the surface of the bar. “What woman is that?”

The sheriff of Campbell County had laughed on the other end of the phone.

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd, Sandy?”

“Everything in that Powder River country strikes me as odd. It’s another world, Walt. Everybody’s got police scanners; do you know what it’s like to try and serve papers out there?” I could just imagine him seated in his luxurious leather chair in his wood-paneled office. What with all the energy development, I was beginning to believe the talk that Gillette would be the largest city in Wyoming in ten years.

I raised my eyebrows. “Yep, but setting your barn on fire and then going to sleep?”

Sandy Sandberg laughed again. He didn’t take anything all that seriously—it was one of his charms—and being sheriff of a county as busy as Campbell would’ve given anybody ample opportunity for seriousness. “Yeah, well . . . they say it was lightning, but Wade Barsad was known to be kind of reckless.”

I studied the thin, two-page report on my desk. “Not local.”

“Oh, hell no. No man from around here would ever do that to a horse, let alone eight of ’em.”

“Why kill the horses?”

“I think she cared more about them than she did him.”

“That doesn’t sound too difficult.” Vic came in with her Red Bull, sat in my visitor’s chair, and propped her tactical boots on the edge of my desk like she always did. “Sandy, you mind if I put you on speakerphone? Vic’s here.” I went ahead and punched the button; I knew Sandy Sandberg liked to work a big room.

His laughter tinkled from the tinny speaker. “How’d you like that little present I sent over for you, sweetheart?”

Vic looked up from her energy drink and raised her head a little so she could emphasize each word. “Fuck. You. Sand. Bag.”

Sandy roared again. I interrupted before the two of them could get any further. “Where was he from?”

He took a breath to recover. “. . . Back east somewhere.” The way he’d said it, he might as well have been talking about Bangkok, and I was sure it was for Vic’s benefit.

“What about the woman—Mary?”

“Greenie from down in Colorado. She was one of those Denver Bronco girls, the ones that ride out onto the field after they score a touchdown? Not that the Donkeys have been doin’ a lot of that lately . . .”

“Where’d the money come from?”