The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (Walt Longmire #11.5)(13)

She slipped off the glove with the pearl snap and bit her thumbnail. “I don’t know.”

I stuffed my hands in my jacket and attempted to be a voice of reason. “Bobby Womack is dead, Rosey.”

“You know, the legend goes that the Indians arrived here after crossing the great sea of the Big Horn Basin, and the land was so big that it made it impossible for the people to find game, so they prayed to the Creator and asked him to help. He did, by draining the sea and catching the water and the fish and game in the narrow canyon, and the people were saved.” She stared at the ground and didn’t move. “But what if that isn’t all that got caught? What if there’s a little bit of Bobby left here in the canyon, too?”

“Why now?”

She finally looked at me, a strong lock of blond falling over one eye. “Exactly.”

? ? ?

“I talked to Vic and Ruby back at the office and they said to tell you they were glad you didn’t drown.”

“Tell them thank you for me.” Henry sat on the bench outside our motel room and wrung the water from his socks. “How was your conversation?”

I continued to peel my apple with my old Case RussLock. “Which one?”

He draped the socks on a nearby planter, which somebody had filled with pansies in a desperate attempt to hurry the season, and leaned back against the wall. “Let us start with the first.”

“Mike Harlow seems like a pretty good guy—I hiked up to his cabin. He’s just gone hermit and doesn’t respond to phone calls and e-mails.” Cutting off a piece of apple, I chewed.

“Sounds like somebody else I know.” He stretched his legs out, his toes grabbing at the sun-heated air. “Had he had any strange experiences?”

“A few, over the years.” I sat on the bench at the other side of our door and related the stories that Harlow had told me earlier.

He sat there unmoving. “No radio calls or silver dollars?”

“No.”

He nodded and thought. “Why would there suddenly be more incidents of a supernatural nature in the canyon?”

“What do you mean?”

“Thirty-five years after the death of Trooper Bobby Womack and only a handful of incidents since. Why would things appear to be happening with a greater frequency now?”

“Rosey was just asking me that same question.”

He grinned that hidden little smile he did when he knew something you didn’t. I got that smile a lot. “As she should—what is the one thing in the canyon that has changed?”

I rested my chin in my palm. “Rosey.”

“Yes.” He stretched his shoulders, unbunching the knots that had collected battling the rapids. “So, the situation begs, is she simply more susceptible to the influences of Bobby Womack than someone like Mike Harlow, or is she somehow personally connected?”

“I don’t see how. She says she was born down in Riverton, but her family left when she was four, so they couldn’t have known each other.” I stood and walked out into the April sun, warming my shoulders after the seemingly endless winter. “I don’t see how they could’ve ever met.”

“How old is Rosey exactly?”

“I don’t know, but we can ask Captain Jim, because I’m not asking her. I’ve done some crazy things in my life, but asking women their age isn’t one of them.”

“Is Mike Harlow from here?”

I thought about the man’s accent. “I don’t think so. Pennsylvania maybe? Why?”

“Having been born here might make Rosey more susceptible to the ways of the canyon.” He frowned. “Does she have any Indian blood, specifically Shoshone or Arapaho?”

“Not that I’m aware of, I mean, she’s blond-haired and blue-eyed—maybe she’s Cherokee?”

“You know what you get when you have sixty-four Cherokees in one room?”

I glanced at him sideways. “One Indian. I’ll tell you this much, if somebody other than Rosey doesn’t hear Bobby Womack on that radio tonight, then all this is going to come to a screeching halt.”

“What does the spectral trooper say?”

“He identifies himself as Unit 3 and calls in a 10-78.” I noticed the Cheyenne Nation’s blank look and felt foolish; I assumed that with all his dealings he’d absorbed everything I knew. “Officer needs assistance.”

“And that is all?”

“Yep.” I readjusted my hat and turned to look at the passing traffic on the road leading toward the canyon. “It’s strange, because why would he be calling for backup? The man died pulling his cruiser directly in front of a runaway tanker truck—it wasn’t like anybody could’ve helped.” Tipping my hat back, I ran the calluses on my hand over my face. “But there are other types of assistance. We’re taught to work independently, but nothing strikes you quite like a 10-78, the urgency to reach a fellow officer in need. It’s instinctual to individuals who are trained to respond and risk their lives for each other and complete strangers.” I spoke through my fingers. “But what if it’s a psychological cry for help?”

“Meaning Rosey again?”

“Yep. Look, I don’t think we’re going to hear anything on that radio tonight, but what if what Rosey is hearing is what she wants to hear or, more important, what she needs to say?”