The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (6 page)

“Hello?” My voice bounced back at me, a query mocking my imagination.

There was no answer, but the footfalls receded as I
turned and began running back in the direction I’d come. With the pounding of my boots on the roadway, I couldn’t hear the footsteps any longer, but I didn’t need to. I’d heard them for certain this time and was bound to at least catch a glimpse of whoever else was there with me.

Winded, I stopped in the middle of the second tunnel and looked around. I couldn’t see anyone but could still hear someone else, running as I had been.

“Hello?” There was only the echo of my voice bouncing about from all sides as I lurched forward, yanking out the Maglite again and flashing it into the last of the tunnels just ahead—back to go.

It seemed as if there were something crouched down in the middle of the road, but I couldn’t be sure. Picking up speed, I got closer and pulled my sidearm, causing the Womack file folder to fall out and scatter onto the roadway, the slight breeze pushing the sheets of paper like long-dead leaves.

I was right where whatever it was had been when I slipped on something, fell hard onto the pavement, and rolled to the curb. There was a roar as a vehicle in the tunnel blew past me, headed south. I lay there for a moment and then, rolling into a sitting position on the
curb, I looked at the receding taillights of the car, just another midnight motorist headed home to Shoshoni or Riverton.

I shined the flashlight beam back to where I’d tripped—I could swear it was as if someone had been in the middle of the road in a hunter’s crouch—but how had whatever it was escaped being run over by the passing car? Shaking my head, I gathered the pages that had scattered across the entirety of the tunnel and stuffed them into the folder, none too gently, annoyed with myself for behaving like a rookie and almost getting run over for the trouble.

I limped toward the open air when my boot hit something on the road’s surface again. Cursing the night, I lifted my foot and looked down to see what I’d slipped on reflecting between the centerlines of the road. I knelt just as the figure had and picked up an 1888 Hot Lips Morgan silver dollar.

We sat there in Rosey’s cruiser at the pull-off about a hundred yards from the entrance of the north tunnel and watched the giant tow truck pull away with the Diamond Rio tanker.

Henry had driven the Bullet over to meet us, and we’d been there for about forty minutes. The conversation had dwindled to the point where we all just looked at the green numbers on the dash clock as they ticked ever so slowly toward the appointed time, the unmentioned silver dollar burning a hole in my shirt pocket as if it had a circulatory system of its own.

The Bear’s voice rose from the backseat. “How, exactly, did you hurt your leg?”

I’d had to use Rosey’s first-aid kit to patch up my ankle—evidently, my explanation hadn’t been satisfactory. “I tripped on the curb trying to get out of the way of a car that was going through the tunnels.” I glanced at them. “I figured I had plenty of time before Rosey got back, so I thought I’d stroll down to Boysen Dam, but it took longer than I thought, so I decided to pick up my pace and head back, and that’s where I met the car.”

“In the tunnel?”

“Yep.”

“Did you see anything else?”

I cleared my throat. “Um, not really.”

Rosey had been listening but went back to watching the dash. A moment passed, and then she cracked open her door and climbed out. “We have another twenty minutes, so I’m going to grab some air.” She walked toward the guardrail, placed a boot on the metal, and, leaning both arms on a knee, watched the dark water through the rising mist.

“You are a horrible liar; fortunately, she does not know that.”

I turned in my seat to look at the Bear. “Yep, well . . .”

“What really happened?”

Static. A familiar voice crackled over the airwaves. “Unit 3, Walt? Anybody out there?”

I glanced at Rosey, but she hadn’t moved, so I plucked the mic from the dash and keyed it. “Roger that, Captain America. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

Static. Jim laughed. “Yes, it is. I just wanted to check in and see how you guys were doing.”

“We’re good. Rosey’s getting some air, and we’re just sitting here drinking coffee.”

Static. “She’s not there?”

“Nope.”

Static. “Good. Walt, like I said, this is it. If nothing happens tonight, you guys need to fold up the tents and head home.”

“Are you trying to get rid of us?”

Static. “No, but I also don’t want you wasting your time. If this all goes the way I think it is, I’m going to want Trooper Wayman in my office at eleven. Do you think you could tell her that?”

“Sure.”

Static. “I really appreciate you guys coming over and helping out with this, but I think it’s time we circled the wagons and took care of our own, you know what I mean?”

“We do.”

Static. “Well, if you guys have a minute, stop by the office on your way out, and I’ll buy you a bad cup of coffee.”

“Only if you promise not to glue our mugs down.”

Static. “Over and out of my mind.”

“Roger that.” I hung the mic back on the dash and turned to look at the Bear. “You were saying?”

“What happened in the tunnel?”

“You aren’t going to believe me.” Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the coin and handed it to him through the open slider of the grate that separated us. He stared at it for a moment and then back at me. “This one is marred.”

“Only because I happened to step on it and slip sideways, which, by the way, kept me from getting run over.”

He looked out the window. “It was in the road like the others?”

“Dead center, between the lines. I was running and hit the darn thing, and it may have saved my life.”

“Running?”

“Yep.” I glanced around to make sure Rosey hadn’t moved and, satisfied, I told him about seeing something in the north tunnel.

“A shape?”

“Yep, kneeling down where the silver dollar was.”

“Kneeling, so it was human?”

“I don’t know. . . . I think so. I mean, what else could it have been?”

“Why were you running?”

“My footsteps were echoing in the tunnels, but then I started hearing other footsteps—ones that didn’t match mine. I heard them, and then I heard them running away, so I chased after the sound back to the north tunnel.”

He grunted. “Where the shape was kneeling and placing this silver dollar on the road?”

“Yep.”

He grunted again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have a guardian.” He smiled at me through the grate, and I knew it wasn’t the first time he’d smiled at a white man through bars. “The shape, form, whatever it was placed that coin at the centerline so that you would slip on it and prolong your life.”

“You don’t think that’s a bit of a reach?” I turned in the seat to get a better look at him. “I’m not buying into the ghost thing just yet.”

“All right, but whatever it was, it saved your life.”

“You don’t think it could’ve been just a random, chance kind of thing?”

“No. In my experience with the residents of the Camp of the Dead, they rarely act randomly or leave things to chance.”

“That supposition still depends on the willful suspension of all critical, rational thinking and a belief in things that go bump in the night.”

He continued to smile, to my annoyance. “So, you think it is giant raccoons who have found the bag of silver dollars and are leaving them in the middle of the road to what purpose?”

Suddenly the driver’s-side door opened, and Rosey threw herself in; slamming it behind her, she pulled off her gloves and blew warmth into her hands. “Jeez, it’s getting cold out there.” She turned to look at us both. “What are you guys talking about? It looked pretty intense.”

“Giant raccoons.”

She turned to look at the Cheyenne Nation. “That’s a new one.”

I glanced at the dash and could see that we had another four minutes before showtime. “I’m getting my thermos out of my truck; anybody want a cup of coffee?”

They didn’t answer, so I pushed open the door and
limped over to where the Bear had parked the Bullet and fetched the battered Stanley with the stickers on the side that read
DRINKING FUEL
.

Shutting the door, I started my hampered travels back to the cruiser when I thought I noticed something at the side of the road, near the opening of the north tunnel, a dark shadow that faded away into the uneven surface of the granite wall as I turned.

I took a step forward, but whatever it was, it didn’t reappear. I thought about limping over, but we were coming down to the wire. I opened the door of the Dodge and wedged myself into the front seat. Screwing off the chrome top of the thermos, I poured myself a capful and checked the time.

12:32.

Without taking her eyes off the dash, Rosey asked, “You decided to brew some fresh?”

I took a sip. “Two more minutes.”

“See any raccoons?”

I turned and looked at him. “Maybe.”

I have had some long minutes in my life. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to hear the radio call or I didn’t. I knew I didn’t believe, but what was I going to do then? Rosey was going to have to be confronted, and there
really wasn’t anybody in a better position to do it than me. I figured I’d start slow and gentle, trying to get her to see the impossibility of the situation and that she was going to have to come to terms with the fact that there was a problem—the first step in getting it solved.

12:33.

That she was going to have to move past the stigma of psychiatric intervention and realize that it was a difficult job that sometimes took its toll in strange and unpredictable ways. There was nothing normal about a career in law enforcement, and the strains of making life-and-death decisions every day were bound to have an effect. If need be, I’d tell her about my own experiences on the mountain in the snow. It wasn’t anything I’d shared with anyone else, but this was important enough that maybe I could get her to understand.

12:34.

None of us moved, and I waited a few seconds before sipping my coffee in as nonchalant a manner as I could muster under the circumstances.

Rosey reached down and turned up the volume on her radio to the point that the electric hum of random frequency crowded the inside of the cruiser, and I could feel it in the fillings of my teeth.

I fussed with the heat and then figured I’d ask again. “Does anybody want—”

“Shhhh!”

I stared at her but didn’t say anything. Henry stuck a hand through the slider, and gave him my half cup of coffee.

Rosey still sat there looking at the radio.

I turned and looked at it, too.

12:35.

I didn’t move, not wanting to give the impression that these types of things happened with split-second timing.

She glanced at me, but I remained concentrated on the dash clock. She took a deep breath and sat back in her seat, started to say something, and then changed her mind.

I waited till the next minute passed. “Is it usually on the dot?”

She nodded and turned away toward the door. “Maybe a few seconds after, but it’s always 12:34.” She opened the door again and got out, leaving it hanging ajar. “I need some air.”

I glanced back at Henry, then got out with my thermos and cup and pulled his door open for him, leaving
ours open as well so that we might hear anything that came in over the airwaves. “Well?”

Rosey had resumed her spot at the guardrail.

“Would you like me to speak with her?”

“No, it’s my line of work.”

He nodded, reached into his pocket, and handed me back the silver dollar. “I’m going to go get my greatcoat out of your truck.”

I looked at the very unhappy and confused woman by the rail. “Yep, it might be a long night.”

 • • • 

“How ’bout a cup of coffee?”

“You think I’m crazy now.”

“Yep, most people take my coffee.”

She didn’t move. “I think I might be losing my mind, Walt.”

“You’re not losing your mind, you’ve just had a few strange occurrences that have put you off.” I unzipped my jacket, reached under my shirt, and pulled out the large ring on the chain around my neck. “You see this ring?”

“Yeah?”

I examined the thing myself, the available light
reflecting off the silver. “A little over a year ago, a seven-foot-tall Crow Indian gave this to me.”

“Okay.” She looked at me when I didn’t answer. “That’s nice.”

“Yep, it was, especially considering he was dead at the time.” She stared at me. “Virgil White Buffalo kind of came to my rescue up in the Cloud Peak Wilderness while I was chasing down some escaped prisoners, one of them a very bad man.” I waited a moment before continuing. “I was hypothermic, concussed, and damaged in about a half dozen ways. I needed company, and help, so I guess I came up with Virgil. I had conversations with him, interacted with him . . . but I know he wasn’t there.”

“Where’d the ring come from?”

“I found it.”

“Just like I found the silver dollars?”

The one in my pocket burned like a heated rivet. “Yep, something like that.”

“So, what are you saying?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s important what I’m saying—it’s what you’re saying.”

“And what is it I’m saying?”

“Help.”

Crossing her arms, she pushed her boot off the guardrail and turned toward me. “Excuse me?”

“Rosey, you are one of the finest police officers I know—smart, tough, thorough, instinctive, fair, independent. . . .” I gestured toward the towering granite walls that surrounded us. “Heck, most people wouldn’t even have put in for a duty like this down here at the end of the world, especially with all the stories, myths, and legends that surround this place.” I lowered my arms and looked at her. “But there’s something wrong. Think about it, think about what he says—Unit 3, that’s you. You’re Troop G, Unit 3. Then he calls in a 10-78, officer needs assistance.”

She stood there looking at me but saying nothing as the wisps of fog tangled around our boots.

“You need assistance. I think that’s what this is all about—you need help.”

She yanked her head toward the river and started to say something, but I cut her off. “Rosey, everybody needs a little help once in a while, but I don’t think you’re capable of asking outright, so you came up with somebody else to do it for you. Bobby Womack.”

She looked down at her boots and bit her lip. “So, you do think I’m crazy.”

“No, I don’t. Haven’t I been clear about that?”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I think you’re mistaken.”

“Mistaken.”

I dipped my head, trying to catch her eyes underneath our combined brims. “It happens; we’re not perfect.” I glanced toward the vehicles and could see the Cheyenne Nation, giving us plenty of space, patiently waiting by my truck.

“So, does he think I’m crazy, too?”

I turned back to her. “Hold on just a minute. I’ll let him head back to the motel with my truck and then you and I can talk.” Not waiting for a response, I limped over and handed the Bear my thermos and keys.

“What is up?”

“This is probably going to take longer than you’re going to want to stand out here for, so why don’t you head back to the motel, and I’ll catch a ride with her to Thermopolis?”

He stashed the thermos in the Bullet. “Tomorrow morning?”

I glanced back—Rosey hadn’t moved. “Yep, it’ll take that long, at least.”

“I will stick around a little while, maybe head over to the tunnels and see what I can see.” Without waiting for a response, he turned, the duster trailing after him like monstrous bat wings as he walked past the cruiser and down the road toward the cavelike entrance. “Hang on to that silver dollar—it might be good luck.”

“Two times over.” I looked back and could see that Rosey, listening to the invisible river, had stepped across the guardrail and was sitting on the cold metal. “Hey, you’re going to freeze your ass off.” I crossed and sat beside her, facing the other way with my hat in my hands. “So, what do you want to do?”

She kept watching the fogged-over landscape. “I want to keep being a highway patrolman.”

“Who says you can’t?”

“Oh, Walt. They don’t like crazy people with guns.”