The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volumes 1-4 (15 page)

What kind of special business had Christian Sharps intended? In 1874 the rifle had been adopted by the military because it could kill a horse dead as a stone at six hundred yards—six football fields. Congregational minister Henry Ward Beecher pledged his Plymouth church to furnish twenty-five Sharps rifles for use in bloody Kansas. Redoubtably, the preacher may have done more for the cause of abolitionism with his Beecher’s bibles than did his sister Harriet with her
Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
But it was John Brown who brought the Sharps to a bloody birth at Harpers Ferry, and a nation’s innocence was lost at Gettysburg. After the Civil War, free ammunition had been handed out to privateer hunters to usher the vast, uncontrollable buffalo herds into extinction. Then there were the Indians. Good and bad, these actions had earned the Sharps buffalo rifle the title of one of the most significant weapons in history and in language. Sharps shooter: sharp-shooter. “What makes you think . . . ?”

“The amount of lead, cartridge lubricant, no powder burns . . . A feeling.” He turned and walked toward the house, the rifle scabbard thrown over his shoulder. After a moment, he stopped. “Three hundred and seventy.” Big deal.

I was sitting at the picnic table and contemplated muzzle velocity and trajectory sightings at 440 yards. The Sharps was now wedged between three small sand bags, and a much larger spotting scope sat atop a three-pronged pedestal at my elbow. Omar returned with two cups of coffee, at my request. The cups were thick buffalo china with his brand on them, and it was really good coffee.

“Jay still enjoying the matinee?”

“You know, I’ve seen men ruined by drink, drugs, and Dodge pickup trucks, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen one ruined by soft-core porn.” He nudged his mug a little farther over and leaned his elbows on the table. “You’d think he’d never seen a set of tits before.”

“Amazing what they can do with special effects these days.” I looked down the three-foot barrel. “Trajectory?”

“Like a rainbow, and it hits like a twelve-pound sledgehammer at fourteen hundred feet per second.”

“Sounds slow and painful.”

The noise he made was not kind. “Like my marriage.”

I looked across the range and unbuttoned the top button of my uniform coat. The sun was getting higher, and the warmth felt good on my back. “You think this is what did it, huh?”

“Reasonably sure.”

“We need to broaden our search grid.”

“By a wide margin.” He pushed the mug even farther away; maybe he didn’t drink coffee. “If you want, I’ll go up there and do a walk around. Might be less intrusive than Search and Rescue.”

I wondered why he was being so helpful. “You curious about this case?”

“A little.”

“I’d have to send somebody with you.”

He laughed. “Does this mean I’ve made the list?”

“Don’t feel so honored, everybody with two ears and a trigger finger has made it so far.”

“Maybe I can help you to shorten it.” He looked out at the doomed pumpkin. “Well . . .”

“Well, what?”

He nudged the butt of the rifle toward me with his fingertips. “I’ve shot it before. Your turn.”

* * *

By the time I got back to the paved county road we were in a full-blown Chinook, and the temperature had risen above sixty-five degrees. I regretted not taking off my jacket before I’d gotten in the Bullet and flipped the heater over to vent. The Esper place was out near the junkyard south of town, so I hopped on the interstate and blew by Durant. I was about a mile past the exit when I remembered that I had told Ruby to send Jim. I figured I’d just keep going and radioed in to tell Ruby to tell Ferg I’d just take care of it myself.

“I left a message at his place and on his cell. It’s before noon, so he’s probably out fishing.” Static. “When are you going to get a mobile phone?”

“Then we wouldn’t be able to say cool things like ‘roger that.’ ”

More static. “I’m willing to make the sacrifice.” Static. “You better get back here and let the Ferg go round up the Espers, Vic says she’s got news from DCI.”

I was already looking for a turnaround and spotted one at the top of the next rise. “Nothing she wants to tell me over the radio?”

Silence for a moment. “She says she’d tell you over a mobile phone.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I whipped through the official vehicle crossover, checked my speed, and automatically looked around for the HPs; they love to give tickets to sheriffs.

I parked the Bullet and reached over onto the passenger seat to get the small satchel Omar had given me. Vic was seated across from Ruby in one of our plastic civilian chairs with her feet propped up on Ruby’s desk. Her legs were barely long enough to make the reach. It didn’t look comfortable, but it was Vic.

Big smile. “How you doin’, faddass?”

“I’m sorrowed to see the time spent in the echoing halls of criminal investigation have done nothing to curb your native vulgarity.”

They looked at each other, and Vic raised her eyebrow. “He are a college graduate.”

I slapped her small feet and continued on to my office. She followed after me and watched as I eased into my chair. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’ve been running.” I was watching, but her expression didn’t change.

“Bullshit.”

“Honest.” I didn’t have to tell her how far.

“How far?” I smiled at her. “I mean from the Bullet into the office doesn’t really count.”

“Sure it does.”

“Or up to the drive-through to get more beer.”

“It’s a cumulative effect, right?” She tossed another registered packet onto my desk; this one was from the Store. “And this is?”

“You’re king of the big words this morning, you tell me.” She turned and swaggered out of the office. “I’m getting another cup of coffee. Should I get you one, or do you want to run out here and get your own?”

I was reading the cover letter when she put my coffee in front of me. She sat in the chair opposite and now propped her feet up on my desk. I looked at the Browning tactical boots laced up past her ankles. I followed them up to her big, tarnished gold eyes, one of which winked at me over the Philadelphia Police mug. “Glad to have me back, aren’tcha?”

I grunted and turned the letter around for her to see. “We have a state ornithologist?”

She sipped her coffee. “Makes you proud, huh?”

“Haliaeetus leucocephalus?”

“Sounds dirty, doesn’t it?

I shook my head. “Boy, are you in a mood.”

“I actually got some sleep; you ought to try it sometime.” She continued to look at me over the lip of her mug.

“Are you going to help me out with this gobbledygook, or do I really have to read this?”

“Haliaeetus leucocephalus,
the national bird of los estados unidos.”

I read a little farther. “
Meleagris gallopavo?”

The gold rolled to the ceiling. “Think Thanksgiving.”

“Turkey?”

“The feather they found on scene with Cody Pritchard.”

“So, they’re saying that it wasn’t an eagle feather, that it was a wild turkey?” I let that sit awhile. “I wasn’t aware that eagles or turkeys were suspect; I thought we had all agreed that the gunshot wound might have had something to do with the cause of death.”

She uncrossed her legs, put her feet on the floor, and sat her cup on the edge of my desk. “Wait, it gets better.”

“If you bring Cock Robin into this, I’m going to send you back to Cheyenne.”

“It was a turkey disguised as an eagle.” She reached across the desk and reopened the extended envelope, plucking out the feather, and handing it to me in its cellophane wrapper. “It’s a fake.”

I turned on my desk lamp and examined it under the light. It looked real enough to me.

“They sell ’em all over the place, even got ’em down at the pawn shop with all the shells and beads and shit.” I thought about the eagle feathers hanging from Omar’s rifle sheath. “They use them for crafts and such. You can fit your thumbnail into the spline of a turkey feather, but not a bird of prey like an eagle.”

Sure enough, my thumbnail fit in the spline ridge. “What was Cody Pritchard doing with fake eagle feathers?” She sat back in her chair. “You don’t think . . . ?”

“I do.”

I looked at the feather again; it was about a foot long and the quill was about a quarter inch thick. It was dark about three-quarters of the way up, then solid white where it had been bleached. “A calling card.”

“Knowing Cody’s predilection for all things Native American, I would say that’s a safe bet.”

I continued to look at the faux feather. “Damn, I don’t like the direction this is taking.”

Her eyes dropped; she didn’t like it either. “I confiscated some samples from the pawn shop and FedExed them down to Cheyenne to check the dye lots, but they said not to hold our breath. They said the majority of Native Americans just dip them in Clorox themselves.” She laced her fingers together and leaned forward. “I could get some more samples from over in Sheridan. Bucking Buffalo Supply Company over on Main Street carries them, too. I don’t know about Gillette.”

I held up the feather and looked at it. “Working on the supposition that this is a calling card, who should we say is calling?”

“Good question. I guess this means we can keep our shingle out.”

“Yep, business is good.” I turned the feather in my hand. “All right, bearing this in mind, we’re looking at a murder.”

“Yeah.” She looked resigned.

“But we’re going to have to go back and check the feather thing with Cody’s family, friends, and such.”

“Let me guess who’s gonna have to do that.”

“I can stick the Ferg on it. His fishing career is about to get cramped.” I held the feather up between us. “This immediately points to Indian involvement.” I looked at the feather some more. “Well, on the surface of it.”

“And a fake eagle feather?”

I shrugged. “Fake Indians?”

“I’m getting confused. Running with the supposition that this is real Indian mojo . . .”

“Doesn’t make sense. I don’t know everything about Indian medicine, but I don’t think they tolerate this fake stuff. Not when it’s this big.”

“What is the significance of the feather?”

“Not a clue, but I know this guy . . .” I punched up automatic dial number two, and Henry’s number at the Pony began ringing. “How was Cheyenne?”

She took another sip of her coffee. “The wind blows, along with everything else.” Nobody answered. He was probably waiting at my house to make me run. “Nobody?”

“Otherwise engaged. I’ll get him later.” I handed the feather over to her.

“Fuck.”

“Yep. Looks like we’re gonna have to go talk to some Indians.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

“What’s in the bag?”

I reached over and opened the flap of the canvas bag and tossed her a cartridge. It was as long as her index finger and about as big around. Her eyes shot to mine and then returned to the shell.

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

I put Vic on tracking down all the Sharps buffalo rifles registered in Wyoming under curio and antique registration. It wasn’t required, but maybe they would be registered for insurance purposes. Then she was going to check all the gun shops in the area and call up the replica companies that might have sold such a weapon or ammo. I thought we might have a better shot at the ammunition but that was balanced out by the possibility that the shells were loaded by the shooter. That meant tracking down reloading dies and paraphernalia for big calibers. It was going to be a lot of work, but she smiled when I gave her the slug shot from Omar’s gun to have compared with the original. The smile faded when I told her she was going to have to go out with him for a quick spiral search of the site this afternoon. “How’s Myra these days?”

“Last word from her was that Paris, half of Omar’s money, and none of him was suiting her just fine.”

She took her empty coffee cup and started for her office. “I wish Glen was rich.”

I thought about Vic being rich. She already had the fuck-you attitude; fuck-you money might be too much. I trailed after her and asked Ruby if she’d heard anything from Ferg. “Nothing; they must still be biting.”

“I’m gonna have to drive down to the Espers.”

She paused to look at me. “Not really. I think Ferg was fishing down on the north fork of Crazy Woman; as soon as he gets on the highway he’ll get the message and head over there. It’s on the way.”

“Any Post-its?”

“Vic got them all.”

I stood there. “Any pencils need sharpening?”

“Why don’t you go talk to Ernie Brown, Man About Town? He’s called here about six times since yesterday.” She went back to her keyboard and began typing. “Maybe he’s afraid of being scooped.” I gave her a hard look as I shambled out of the office with my tail between my legs. “Should I call and tell him the great man is on his way over, seeing as how you have nothing else to do?”

I didn’t slam the door; it would have been undignified. It was still gorgeous outside, so I decided to walk over to the
Durant Courant
’s office, a block down and over. That would show them.

* * *

Omar and I had had a brief conversation on the more practical aspects of what I had still hoped wasn’t a murder case. Who could do it? What were the logistics of shooting an almost .50 caliber rifle more than five hundred yards? Omar had his own theories. “I can narrow it down to almost a dozen men who could make a shot like that on a consistent basis.”

“In county?”

“In county.” He stroked his goatee and pulled on the long hairs at the end. “Me, you, Roger Russell from down on Powder, Mike Rubin, Carroll Cooper, Dwight Johnston in Durant, Phil La Vante, Stanley Fogel, Artie Small Song out on the Rez, your pal Henry Standing Bear and . . .” He shrugged.

“Let’s go with the ‘and’ first?”

“A sleeper. Somebody who does this stuff, is very good at it, and who nobody knows about.”

“Let’s move on to you.”

He looked back at the pumpkin without smiling. “I’d either be a liar or a fool to tell you anything different. I’ve got the talent and the weapon, just no motive.”