The Highwayman: A Longmire Story (Walt Longmire #11.5)(4)

“No, but we will give her time, just in case.”

I paused before opening the door. “Do you mind if I ask why it is that she’s so important?”

“It is their canyon.”

“Actually, it belongs to the state of Wyoming.”

“The Shoshone and Arapaho have prior rights, and since she is both Shoshone and Arapaho . . .”

I pushed the door open and shouted, “You decorate that tree out there at Christmas?”

Jim Thomas pushed off his chair and walked over to the counter that separated us. “No, but I put out a bowl of red and green M&Ms. That’s about as festive as I get.”

He was handsome, with a blond crew cut, pale blue eyes, and an easy grin. If the Wyoming Highway Patrol were to have a poster child, he would be it.

“Might appease the Natives.”

He shook hands with the Cheyenne Nation and gestured for us to have a seat in the available office chairs. “I’m not sure anything will do that.” Saying nothing else and leaving the proverbial ball in our court, he sat back in his chair and studied us.

“How are you, Jim?”

“Good. Glad to be off I-80.”

“I bet. Congratulations on the promotion, Captain America.”

He grimaced at the nickname, and I felt like telling him about my just-acquired one. “Thanks.” He glanced at Henry and then back to me. “To what do I owe the pleasure of you being on this side of the mountain?”

“I got a call from one of your troopers last week.”

He rested an elbow on the arm of his chair and palmed his face. “She called you?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What’d she say?”

“That you were trying to get her in for a psychiatric evaluation.”

His hands dropped to his lap. “Wouldn’t you?”

I glanced up at the wooden rack of mugs on the wall, a few of them blank but most of them adorned with not only the Wyoming Highway Patrol emblem but also the patrolman’s name. “Has this ever happened down there before?”

He sighed and stood, going over to the counter again and leaning on it with his muscled arms folded. “Not that I’m aware of. I called Mike Harlow to try and talk with him, but he hung up on me.”

The Bear looked at him. “Who is Mike Harlow?”

“The trooper who had the Wind River Canyon patrol up until three months ago, when Rosey took it over.”

I chewed the inside of my lip. “And who had it before he did?”

“Bobby Womack.”

We all grew quiet at the mention of the man’s name. “Why do you suppose Harlow won’t speak to you?”

“Probably because he’s sick and tired of talking about Bobby Womack.” Thomas slid a hand along the old Formica. “Mike’s a little sore. I think he was hoping that they’d give him command of G, just as a figurehead for a few months before he retired.” He sighed. “But they brought me up, and I think he got a little pissed off.”

“Do you think it would make a difference if we asked?”

“Maybe.”

“Where is he?”

“He retired and bought a cabin down in the south end of the canyon. You can’t miss it—he’s got a Marine Corps flag on a pole down there.”

I raised a fist. “Semper Fi.” I lowered my hand and eased back in my chair. “Kind of odd, retiring in the place he patrolled for all those years.”

Jim nodded and smiled, his face looking even more like that poster child. “We all thought it was pretty odd. I asked him about it at the little party we had for him the beginning of February, and you know what he said?” The big captain shook his head, the close-cropped hair not moving a bit. “‘Nobody ever gets out of that canyon, so I’m not even going to try.’”

We sat there for a while, listening to the radio chatter from all over the state. “What do you think it is, Jim?”

“I wish I knew. Rosey’s a sterling officer—that’s why I invited her over when I got the command—but this thing’s got me licked. I don’t know what to make of it. I sat with her down there in that car, and we never heard a thing; three nights I did it. Nothing.”

“She says it doesn’t happen every night.”

He spread his hands, truly at a loss. “And what am I supposed to do with that, Walt? I’ve got a wife and two daughters. I can’t just go down there and sit in the canyon with one of my troopers. That’s why I have them, to do the jobs that I can’t.”

“Still, you’ve heard the stories.”

He looked at the rack of mugs on the wall. “Yeah, I’ve heard ’em. We’ve all heard ’em, haven’t we?”

“Yes.”

The trooper turned his head, surprised that the Bear had been the first to speak. “All the way up on the Cheyenne reservation?”

“The moccasin telegraph never sleeps.”

Thomas stood and walked over to the mugs on the wall, including one with his own name. “You see these? There’s one for every trooper in G, past and present.” He pulled his own from its cubby and twirled it on his finger like a six-shooter. “When a trooper dies, we turn his mug toward the wall, solid white.”