Savage Run

30

The Stockman’s Bar in Saddlestring was dim and smoky, and Marybeth wore her determination like an invisible suit of armor. As she closed the door behind her and absorbed the scene on this Saturday night, she confirmed to herself that the armor was necessary.

Ranch hands, mechanics, fishing guides, and flinty divorcees peopled the bar. Dark booths were behind them. The walls were covered with faded black-and-white rodeo photos and local cattle brands, and the support and ceiling beams were made of twisted and varnished knotty pine. In the back of the long and narrow building, low hanging lamps made fields of light green on three pool tables. Loose billiard balls in abstract geometrical configurations glowed beneath the lights. Eight-ball specialists in cowboy hats or backward caps either sipped from beer mugs or leaned across the pools of light to sight in on cue balls, like elk hunters aiming at a bull.

Marybeth sat on the first empty stool at the bar and waited for the bartender to work his way down to her. She ordered a glass of beer. Throughout the Stockman at least a half dozen sets of eyes were working her over. She felt the eyes on her in a way that made her think of her law career, the bar’s patrons like judges waiting for her answer to a question.

She had been to the Stockman only once before, four years earlier, when Joe had brought her to meet with his supervisor, Vern Dunnegan, and Vern’s then-wife, Georgia. Vern had a booth near the pool tables that he had claimed as his and where people met with him. Marybeth had smiled politely with Georgia as Vern and Joe discussed department policy and disputed directives, and she had nudged Joe with her foot to get his attention so they could leave. The Stockman was historic, dark, local, and corrupt, and she had seen enough at the time. Both Vern and Georgia made her uncomfortable, and the mounted elk, deer, sheep, and moose heads on the walls seemed to want to draw her back to an earlier, rougher era. She had not planned on ever coming back. When Sheridan, still outside in the car, had realized that her mom was leaving her to go inside the Stockman Bar, she had erupted.

“What if the sheriff comes by and sees me here?”

Marybeth had stopped with the door half open and the dome light on.

“Tell him I’ll be back in a minute.”

“What if he says it’s child abuse? I mean, you are leaving your loving daughter outside in your car while you go into a saloon!”

“I’m investigating something, and I think there may be a man inside who can help us,” Marybeth said patiently, but her eyes flashed. “Don’t forget that your dad is missing.”

Sheridan started to speak, but caught herself.

“There’s somebody in there who might know where Dad is?”

Marybeth took a deep breath. There was a lot to explain.

“That’s what I’m hoping,” she said, almost pleading. “Please don’t do your thing on me now.”

Sheridan thought about it, nodded, then leaned forward in her seat to hug her mother’s neck.

“You look like a fox,” Sheridan said, leaning back and looking at her mother as a peer. “You’re a hottie.”

Marybeth had dressed in new jeans, a dark French-cut T-shirt, and a denim ranch jacket. Her blonde hair was lit with the glow of the neon beer signs. She was here to meet with a rancher. Or ex-rancher, to be more precise. Only he didn’t know it yet.

She recognized him, as her eyes grew used to the bar gloom. He sat at the farthest end of the bar, on a stool by the wall, which he leaned against. Although he was situated in the shadows and the only illumination of his features was from a small-watt neon tube in an aquarium on a shelf of stuffed prairie dogs playing pool, there was something foreboding about him. She felt it right away. He was avuncular, short, and solid. He had a large head with a bulbous, alcohol-veined nose. His head was mounted on a wide body, and he wore a silver-gray 24X short-brim Stetson Rancher that was sweat stained and battered, but had cost $400 new. He was in his sixties. When he ordered another bourbon he cocked his finger and raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly and the bartender knew what it meant-and scrambled.

There was an empty barstool next to him, and Marybeth picked up her glass of beer and carried it there. She sat the glass on the bar, settled into the stool, and looked at herself and the ex-rancher in the mirror. He looked back, narrowed his eyes, and smiled with puzzled amusement.

“I’m Marybeth Pickett, Mr. McBride. Can I have a few minutes of your time for an important matter?”

“I know who you are.” His grin grew, and he looked her over. “Babe, you can have as much of my time as you want. Call me Rowdy.”

“Okay, Rowdy,” she said. “Tell me about the Stockman’s Trust.”

Something passed over his face and his eyes inadvertently widened. He took a sip. “It seems kind of ironic that you’re asking a man drinking in the Stockman’s Bar about something called the Stockman’s Trust, don’t it?”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“What about it?” His voice was gruff.

“I received some information today that there are two killers who have been hired by the Stockman’s Trust. My husband may be in danger.”

“Killers?”

She withdrew the note written by John Coble from her jacket pocket and slid it over to him. He read it, then folded it and handed it back.

Dear Game Warden:

It is my understanding that you have been investigating the murder of Stewie Woods and that there is a possibility that someone is impersonating Woods and causing trouble. A man named Charlie Tibbs (stock detective) has been hired to rub out environmentalists and has done a good job of it. Stewie Woods was the first target on our list. I assisted him in this task, but I have quit.

Charlie Tibbs was last in the vicinity of Yellowstone Park, but I think he’s coming here.

The men that hired us is the Stockman’s Trust. I don’t know the names of the men, but you should investigate.

I’m writing you this to help relieve my conscience.

Signed, John Coble

P.S. Don’t try and look for me. I have left the country and changed my name and I done you a kindness here.

McBride seemed to be contemplating what he would say next.

“Before you sold your ranch to Jim Finotta, you were a member of the Stockman’s Trust, right?”

“Before Finotta stole my ranch out from under me, you mean.” His eyes flared.

“Whatever.”

“Before I turned into a goddamned drunk at the end of the bar instead of a fourth-generation rancher?” he said bitterly. “If you’ll excuse my French.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said softly.

He shook his head. “I know it isn’t.”

She drank from her glass of beer, giving him a moment to collect himself.

“Yup, I was a member. I was never on the board, but I was a member.”

“Who else is a member?”

“What you need to understand is that there’s an oath. I took that oath. Don’t expect me to spill my guts out to you now, just because you look so fine, Marybeth Pickett.”

She turned her head so he wouldn’t see the look of distress on her face.

“Members of the Stockman’s Trust are everywhere,” McBride said after a beat. “Our bartender Jim might be a member. Your state legislator might be a member. Sheriff Barnum may be a member. In fact. never mind.”

“But Sheriff Barnum wasn’t ever a rancher.”

“It’s not just ranchers anymore. You just never know.” He looked around them to see if anyone was paying undue attention to the conversation.

“Were you just kidding me about Sheriff Barnum?” Marybeth asked.

One of the ranch hands splayed in a nearby booth was ogling Marybeth, and McBride stared him down as he might a curious dog. “There’s a lot of bitter men out here,” he whispered. “Under the surface, there is real anger. They see their whole way of life getting undermined and laughed at. It’s a real culture war.”

Marybeth nodded.

“The Trust got started back in the Tom Horn days,” he said. “That was the name of the group that hired Horn. They were all members of the Cattleman’s Association, but kind of a splinter group. They all chipped in, hired Horn, and then let the man work his magic on the rustlers down around Cheyenne.”

Marybeth nodded, listening intently. He liked that.

“After Tom Horn got hanged, the Stockman’s Trust kept on as a group. But instead of a bunch of guys who had come together for one particular thing, the Trust became sort of a secret men’s club. They elected officers and met semiregularly to discuss the matters of the day.” Rowdy paused and gestured at Marybeth’s glass. “D’you want another beer?”

Marybeth agreed. Anything to keep him talking.

Up until the 1940s, McBride said, the Stockman’s Trust membership was exclusively ranchers. It was a secret society, and new members swore an oath to keep it that way. Although all of the members knew why the organization had been formed in the first place, the Trust became a kind of salon. Because so many legislators, judges, oilmen, lawyers, and doctors were also ranchers, the organization prided itself in its old-fashioned exclusivity. It was an honor to be asked to become a member.

McBride’s father had been a member, as had his grandfather. At one time his father had been vice-president.

The Stockman’s Trust was financed by a voluntary levy by ranchers of a few pennies on every cow and by oilmen on barrels of oil they produced. Over time, quite a treasury was amassed. They used it to buy a discreet building in Cheyenne for a headquarters and to pay lobbyists to advance their agenda and protect their interests. The Stockman’s Trust was as effective in its quiet way as Tom Horn had been with his Winchester.

“Is it possible that the Stockman’s Trust has turned a culture war into a real one? That they’ve gone back to their roots?” Marybeth asked.

McBride pushed the fresh beer the bartender delivered toward Marybeth and drank a long pull from his bourbon.

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” he declared. “You’ve got to understand that the Stockman’s Trust had completely changed even before I got out of it. It wasn’t that old gentleman rancher’s club anymore. Most of the new board members were out-of-state absentee ranch owners. You know, the kind who likes to come out, put on his hat and boots, and play rancher a couple of times a year, so he can let it drop at cocktail parties in New York or L.A. that he owns a ranch in Wyoming. The old guys, like me, got pushed out. By the time I got out, I hardly knew any of them personally. They did all of their meetings by conference call instead of at the headquarters in Cheyenne. These jokers called in from their private planes or from cell phones in limos. They bitched about the bad PR ranchers were getting because of loudmouth environmentalists. It was getting to be a joke. These guys weren’t ranchers. They just owned ranches.”

“Did you quit?” she asked.

He stared into his drink. “I said some things I shouldn’t have said when I was drinking. Called a couple of ’em out-of-state cocksuckers, pardon my French. They rescinded my membership after I lost the ranch.”

“Why did those guys even want to be members?”

McBride was ready for that. “I kind of wondered that myself at first. Then I realized they liked the idea of the exclusive club just like they liked the idea of owning a third-generation Wyoming or Montana ranch. It’s the same impulse to be a local big dick and to call the shots. You know, like Jim Finotta.”

She nodded. She thought of what Ginger Finotta had been trying to tell her.

“He’s a member, isn’t he?” Marybeth asked.

“Shit,” McBride snorted. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

At home, there were no messages from Joe. It was ten-thirty. Trey Crump had called and said he would be leaving in the morning for the cabin, and he had asked Marybeth to fax him a copy of the map. If Joe was still missing in the morning, he would notify the County Sheriff to organize a search and rescue team.

Marybeth sat alone at the kitchen table. Her palms left a moist smear on the surface. She stared straight ahead and fought an urge to cry out of sheer frustration.

Suddenly, she pushed away from the table and dug the slim Twelve Sleep County telephone book from a drawer. She looked up and dialed the number for the Finotta Ranch.

The phone rang eight times before it was picked up. The voice was cold and distant.

“Is this Jim Finotta?” She asked.

“Yes.”

“May I please speak to your wife, Ginger?”

“Who is this?”

She told him. There was a long pause.

“Ginger is in bed.”

“It’s important.”

He hung up on her.