The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (Walt Longmire #11.5)(15)

“Well, damn.”

“Let it go.”

She placed her slice back in the box, sat the pop next to me, and started for the driver’s-side door of her unit. “No, if somebody slams into the back of Coleman Fuel, it’s not going to be on my watch.”

“You want one of us to ride along?”

She shrugged. “If you want—you don’t get enough traffic stops over in Absaroka County?”

Henry gave me a nod, and I slid off the tailgate and dropped the rest of my slice in the container too, taking my root beer and the file with me. “Don’t eat all the pizza while we’re gone.”

He glanced down at the box as I slid into the cruiser. “What pizza?”

Rosey hit the ignition, and thankfully the Dodge fired up. She slipped it into gear and hit the light bar, swung onto the empty road, and jetted after the unlit truck.

We caught up in a couple of minutes; of course, the driver was reluctant to pull over, though I can’t imagine there were many options for flight in the battered truck. Finally, he turned into the pullout near the first tunnel before you get to the Boysen Reservoir.

Rosey hit her dash cam and radioed in the plate numbers before easing out, slipping on her signature leather search gloves with the pearl buttons. I sat there for a moment but then put my soda can in the holder and got out on the passenger side, unsnapping my Colt and moving along the guardrail opposite her. I figured better safe than sorry as I approached the old Diamond Rio tanker truck that I pegged as being from the fifties.

The conversation was already getting heated as I looked up into the passenger window of the beater, noticing a padded pistol case on the dash and a certain tang in the air. “You wanna tell me why you pulled me over this time?”

“I need your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance, sir.”

“You know my name, missy.” He waited and then added, “And what if I don’t have it this time?”

“I’ll have to impound your vehicle, at which point you can call somebody to come and get you.”

“How many times are you and me gonna do this shit, huh?” He grumbled some more, then leaned up on one haunch and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “You know, this country’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket when you can’t do anything without papers.”

I watched as she studied the card in her hands with the Maglite. “Registration and proof of insurance, Mr. Coleman?”

There was a pause. “Haven’t got it with me.”

She turned the beam of the flashlight on the side of his face and studied him. “Mr. Coleman, have you been drinking?”

“Oh, now, horseshit.”

“Would you mind turning off the ignition and stepping out of the vehicle?”

“Yeah, I mind.” He sniffed and didn’t move. “I’m getting pretty tired of this harassment, you bitch.”

She stepped back, still keeping the flashlight beam on him. “Mr. Coleman, I need you to step out of the vehicle.”

“Look, I’m just going to the dump.”

“At ten o’clock at night?” He jumped at the sound of my voice, and both haunches came off the seat this time as he stared at me with his mouth hanging open. “Turn the ignition off and get out of the vehicle like the trooper told you.”

I watched as his eyes flicked to the unzipped soft case on the dash and then shifted back toward me and my 1911 on the sill.

? ? ?

“Suspended license, still no insurance, a half dozen unanswered citations, and who knows who the truck belongs to.” With Coleman fuming in the back of her car, Rosey and I sorted through the front seat of his vehicle and collected the empty gin bottle and the S&W 29-10.44 Magnum revolver that was in the soft case. “I’ve pulled him over about a dozen times now on assorted infractions, and he just gets worse each time.”

“How long till the tow truck gets here?”

“They said about an hour, maybe longer since it takes a special wrecker to haul this monster.”

“Same guys who fixed your car?”

She shut the driver’s-side door and continued writing on her aluminum clipboard with the nifty self-lighting pen. “Yeah.”

“An hour seems to be their standard response time.”

She sighed and looked up the road. “I could have him at the Hot Springs County Jail, booked, and be back here in an hour.”

I pulled out my pocket watch and looked at it. “Do it.”

She glanced up at me. “What?”

“Run him in, and I’ll babysit the truck.” I took the Womack file with me, shut the passenger-side door, and leaned on the powder orange front fender of the Diamond Rio. “Stop and tell Henry where I am. If he gets bored he can come down here and get me.”

“I don’t want you to have to do this.”

I pocketed my watch and glanced back toward the first of the narrow canyon entrances, the rough edges of the rock reflecting in the moonlight. “I’ve never been down here on foot—it’ll give me some time to look around and read the reports.”

She tucked the clipboard under her arm, straightened her hat, and handed me her Maglite. “You’ll need a reading light. I’ll be back in an hour.” She pointed a finger at me. “Don’t get run over.”