The Dark Horse

7

October 28, 3:17 P.M.

It looked like UPS with all the boxes in the kitchen of the old Nolan ranch house, and it was all I could do to find a place to sit down. I chose a foldout stool, which was leaning against the wall, and sipped my can of iced tea. I turned down a slug from the bottle of rye whiskey that Bill had offered before he spilled himself a double shot into a tumbler-it was his second since I’d arrived. I wondered what it was that caused old cowboys from around here to resort so readily to drink. He alternately sipped and wrapped plates, stacking them in cardboard boxes.

“I tell you, if you ever want to talk yourself out of buying anything ever again, just be forced to pack up everything you’ve already got.” He held up a dish for my inspection. “You need any dishes, Mr. Boss?”

I shook my head no and thought about all the boxes still in my own life that were lined up against the walls of my cabin. “Where you headed?”

“Believe it or not I bought a condo in Denver, down in LoDo.” He stopped packing for a moment and toasted the Queen City. “Thought I’d try urban life; see if it agreed with me. Eat in restaurants, drink five-dollar cups of coffee, and see if the Rockies can ever win the big one.” He smiled.

I felt a little guilty about raising the next subject. “Being neighbors with Wade Barsad turn you against ranching?”

He thought about it. “Oh, there wasn’t much of the ranch left after I sold the majority to him. All I had was this old place, two hundred and sixty acres, and the new house.” He glanced around. “I got it all listed in Gillette and Sheridan, and it’ll probably be sold by next week.”

I sipped my tea. “You ever think about buying the other part back instead?”

The look on his face hardened, but it was having a difficult time combating the liquor. “Not really. My family had this and an old gas station up on the east side of the Powder River forever, but it always seemed like they were working three jobs just to make ends meet.” There was a resignation in his voice I recognized. “I guess I’m just tired of it.”

“No family?”

“Nope, I’m the last one stupid enough to stay. I had a wife.” He looked around as if she might be in one of the boxes. “But I must’a misplaced her somewhere.” His eyes finally rested on the tumbler of rye, with more than a little meaning.

“Kids?”

“Yeah, but it appears they went the way of their mother.”

I studied him. “Footloose and fancy-free.”

“That’s the way of it.” He continued to gaze at the amber liquid intermixed with the ice cubes for a while longer, then rattled the tumbler, sat it down, and began wrapping more dishes. “You don’t have to dance around it; you can ask me about Wade, I don’t mind. I got nothing to hide.”

“General consensus was that he needed killing.”

He breathed a short laugh. “I’ve heard that from more than one source.”

“You don’t seem overly bitter toward the man.”

He folded the flaps on the box, pulled up another one from the floor, and glanced at the large and mismatched stack of dishes on the counter. “Hey, you sure you don’t need any dishes?”

“Yep, I’m sure.” I continued to look at him.

He picked up the bottle from the counter, refilled his glass, and took another swig for emphasis. “I got my money out of him.”

“Meaning?”

He shrugged. “Most of the people around here who hated his guts, hated him because he cheated ’em in one way or another. I got my money up front, when he bought the ranch. Maybe I just caught him at the head of the curve, while he was still flush.”

“Lost it quick?”

He sat the bottle back on the counter and gazed at the unwanted dishes, but his enthusiasm for packing seemed to be waning-mine would have. As he ruminated, he reached up, unplugged, and plucked from the wall one of the ugliest metal sunburst clocks from the fifties that I’d ever seen. “Oh, yeah.”

“He didn’t know a lot about ranching?”

He looked at the clock, greasy from years of ticking above the range, its cord dangling to the floor, and it was like time had died. “You need a clock?”

“Nope.”

He looked disappointed. “You don’t start taking some stuff, I’m going to stop talking to you.”

I held out a hand for the clock-it was even uglier on closer examination.

He smiled, satisfied that there was at least something in the kitchen he wasn’t going to have to pack. “He didn’t know heifer from steer as near as I could tell, but he came rolling up in that big, black Cadillac of his at a time when it didn’t seem like anybody else was doing anything but leaving.”

I rested the clock on a box and hoped he wouldn’t notice if I left it. “He wanted your place?”

“Hey, he was a godsend to me. The bank was getting ready to foreclose; damn right I was glad to see him.”

“Where did the money come from?”

“Out of state, both times.”

“Both times?”

“He bought half of my ranch about four years ago, and the other half about a year or so back.” He sipped his refreshed whiskey, set it on the counter with the bottle, and began packing dishes again. “But you know all this stuff.” He glanced up at me. ”I mean, you insured him, right?”

I didn’t answer the question. “Did he ever say where the money came from?”

He reached for the packing tape. “There was a lot of talk about that. Some folks puzzled over the fact of how such a lousy rancher could keep coming up with money.”

“What’d they say?”

“Oh, the usual stuff. Some said drugs, some said the mob, and others figured he was in the witness relocation program.”

“Really?”

“Wouldn’t be the first one who showed up out here.” He finished taping the last box and put it with the others on the linoleum floor. “He got sued about a half-dozen times, once by the hospital in Gillette, once by the propane delivery people, once by Mike Niall, once by Pat down at the bar, and twice by me.”

“What was the hospital one about?”

He picked up the bottle of rye and refilled the tumbler, which was four times, by my count. “That was tied in with Niall, who ’bout kicked his ass over some cattle Wade sold him. There was a fight, and Wade went and got a rifle out of his truck and Mike broke his hand takin’ it away from him.”

“That would be the rifle that his wife Mary used to allegedly kill him?”

His eyes avoided mine as he picked up the glass. “I’d rather not comment about that.”

“What about Pat at the bar?”

He leaned against the counter and propped an elbow on a folded arm, glass by his head. He was still staring at the floor. “Pat owed Wade a small fortune and rather than pay him money, he just gave him half the bar.”

“You?”

He opened the closest drawer and gazed at the mismatched utensils. “You need any silverware?” I didn’t say anything, and he closed it with the extra care that an almost drunk man would. “We had a little right-of-way problem, but I want to go back to something you mentioned about Mary.”

I waited, but he didn’t say anything. “I’m listening.” He didn’t move for a long time, and I was almost sad the greasy, old clock was unplugged; at least it would have given us something to listen to.

He finally spoke again. “You wanna take a little ride with me?”

“Excuse me?” I waited, but he didn’t say anything else. “I don’t think I’m following you.”

He put the tumbler down but picked up the almost half-full bottle. “I need to run up the road a minute, and I was hoping that you’d come along.”

“Now?”

“Yep, if you don’t mind drivin’, ’cause I’m about three sheets to the wind.” He pushed off the counter, the rye in his left hand, and stood there staring at the concrete pad of the porch with the propped-open screen door in his hand. “One thing I’m gonna miss.”

“What’s that?”

He gestured with the bottle. “Somebody’s been leavin’ me a fifth of whiskey every couple of days.” He smiled. “I guess I’ve got a secret admirer.” He called back to me as he continued out the door, and I got up from the stool. “Hey, don’t forget your clock.”

October 22: six days earlier, afternoon.

I had looked at her eyes, washed out like an old pair of Wranglers, and it seemed to me that the color there had gone through the wringer.

“I have these dreams.”

I already knew what the dreams were about, but there were other things I wanted to tackle, and I thought a little backstory might help with the context, so I asked her. “About?”

“Horses.”

I nibbled on a triangular portion of the grilled cheese sandwich that we were sharing. I’d already eaten lunch, but a deal was a deal. This was the first real response I’d gotten from her, and I knew I had to go slowly. “What horses?”

She brought her part of the sandwich up to her mouth but just held it there without eating. “Everything is orange, and there are these flares of circular light that keep expanding toward me-it’s hot, but I can see them in the distance, looking back at me.” She took a deep breath, and it was like she was still in a trance. “They’re all dead.”

I didn’t say anything.

“That night… I’d been at a friend’s house; he’d been sick. When I got home, he wasn’t there.”

“Your friend?”

“No, Wade.”

I paused. “This was the night of the fire?”

“No, before.” I waited. I was confused but didn’t want to disturb the flow. “When I got home, he wasn’t there. Neither was my horse.”

“Wahoo Sue?”

She stared at the floor and still held the sandwich at her lips. “He said he killed her, but he didn’t. I know him better than that; know how he liked to torture things.” Her eyes came up again, and she smiled. There was no happiness in it. “Look at me.”

“Who was the friend you went to visit?”

She stopped smiling. “I don’t think I want to tell you that.”

I waited as she took a bite of her sandwich-the first-and chewed without enthusiasm. “Why?”

She handed the rest of her portion of the grilled cheese to Dog through the bars. “Don’t you think enough people are in trouble with all this?” I watched as Dog carefully extended his muzzle and took the bite from her tapered fingers.

“No, I don’t.” I looked out Virgil White Buffalo’s window. He had been our lodger for a week or so in the summer and while here was intent on watching the children at day care play in the school yard. “See, here’s the thing.” I looked back at Mary. “I don’t think you did it, and that means somebody else did. And in a roundabout way, it’s become my responsibility to find out who that is.” I took a deep breath and figured if I laid all my cards on the table, maybe she would see them, too. “I’ve got a killer out there, somewhere, and I have no intention of letting them get away with it. Now, who’s your friend?”

October 28, 3:30 P.M.

Small-man-big-truck syndrome was what Lucian called it.

There, sitting in the now-empty arena, sat a sparkling red Dodge duellie. I stopped as Dog moved ahead of us and sniffed the tires and then turned around and looked at Bill and me. I glanced at the ex-rancher, and he smiled as he took another slug from the whiskey bottle. “Ain’t she a beauty?”

I only nodded and said nothing, wondering what he hoped to gain from introducing me to a vehicle I’d already met twice, once at the Barton Road Corrals and again early this morning, when I’d attempted to shoot out the radiator with an empty shotgun. It had plates now, but it assuredly looked like the same truck.

“A lifetime of ranching and this is the first brand-new pickup I ever bought.”

I gauged the size of the thing. “It’s going to be kind of hard to parallel park this at Larimer Square.”

He shrugged, and it honestly appeared that he didn’t have an underlying motive in showing me the truck. “You can take the boy out of the big-sky country, but you can’t take the big-sky country out of the boy.”

I noticed he walked to the driver’s side, before remembering that he had asked me to drive. “Sorry, the last thing I want to do is pilot this thing after too much ‘who-hit-john.’ ”

I circled around and peered in the tinted windows-the same Winchester was still leaning against the passenger seat.

Same vehicle. Had to be.

Bill was watching me when I looked up. “New truck-are you sure you want my dog in there?”

He studied me for a second more and then shrugged as he pulled the passenger-side door open. “It’s a truck.”

I opened the door on my side and listened to the buzz indicating that the keys were in the ignition, then opened the back door and watched as Dog leapt onto the pristine, slate-gray seat and set up sentinel at the middle. The thing was a showcase for modern electronics, with a GPS navigation system, a DVD player, and a satellite radio. The furry beast gave me a quick look that said, How come we don’t have a truck like this? It was not the first of Dog’s disenchantments with a life of public service.

I glanced around the interior again and didn’t see the 9 mm pistol, but just because I couldn’t see the semiautomatic, that didn’t mean it wasn’t there, either in the door compartment, the center console, or the escarpment of the dash glove box.

Bill climbed in and centered the. 30–30 between his legs along with the booze. He looked puzzled and made a face as I hesitated. “C’mon, let’s go.” He reached back and ruffled Dog’s ears as the barrel of the Winchester leaned over and casually pointed at my head. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Dog.”

He looked at me, caught my eye on the rifle, and pulled it back upright. “That’s convenient.”

I turned the key, watched the coil indicator light up and turn off, and started the big diesel. For the first time in a very long time, I regretted having to fasten my seat belt.

He motioned me through the double doors, down the ranch road, and onto the Powder River Road. We were headed north and drove silently through town past the old mill. They were nailing masonite over the front window of the bar as we passed. Bill didn’t wave, upholding the it’s-not-a-friendly-town motto, and we continued up the grade to where some WYDOT trucks were parked at the condemned bridge.

He did wave at the few workers who paused to look at the general prosperity that the new truck signaled as we drove across the tire-worn smooth planks. He motioned for me to stop at the dirt lot at the other side, and I reached for the key. “No, leave it running. I just want to ask a quick question.” He rolled down the window and yelled to a redheaded and mustached man who stood at the back of the Range Co-op trailer. “Hey.”

The man turned and walked over. He was another rail-thin individual and looked a little incongruous wearing the massive electrical tool belt at his waist and the broad-brimmed black cowboy hat on his head. I recognized him as Steve Miller, the man who had hooked up the phone at my cabin and whose daughter, Jessie, had deep-sixed a Datsun pickup in an irrigation ditch about a year ago.

I was wondering how to keep my cover as the telephone man spotted me and started to speak, but Bill cut him off. “Hey, Steve, how long are you guys gonna leave that emergency phone over on the pole?”

Steve nodded at me for just a second and then glanced over his shoulder at the blue plastic receiver still connected to the junction box. “Not long; I was just using it until they remove the bridge.”

Nolan reached out and grasped the lean man’s elbow. “Do me a favor and leave it up there till after the weekend? I’m cut off back at the house, and that thing’s pretty handy.”

Steve glanced at me again, and I diverted my gaze in hopes that he wouldn’t say my name. “Well, you’re not supposed to be using it, Bill.” He looked my way again. “It’s against the law.”

I assumed that was for my sake.

“I ain’t usin’ it for long distance. I just need you to leave it over the weekend, all right? In case of emergency.” Without waiting for a response, he hit the button and the tinted window rolled up.

Steve stepped back. I gave him a brief nod as I slipped the Dodge in gear and pulled out.

Bill threw an arm over the seat and looked past Dog to see if the telephone man was making any move to go toward the utility phone on the pole. From the rearview, I could see him watching us, but then he turned and went back to the trailer.

Nolan looked straight ahead. “They’re gonna tear it down.”

I glanced at him. “The bridge?”

“They shouldn’t rebuild it; they should just leave that town over there, stranded.”

It was almost the exact same thing that Mike Niall had said. “Why is that?”

He took a stiff draught of rye and licked his lips. “S’cursed.” He settled his back against the seat and gestured with the bottle toward the bow in the river behind us. “You know, the town used to be on that side of the river.”

I faked ignorance. “Really?”

“Yep.” He fiddled with the foresight on the. 30–30 and collected his history. “Camp Bettens was out here somewhere, about five miles east of Absalom-used to be called Suggs, about a century ago.” He paused again. “You look like you were in the military. Were you?”

I continued to study the road. “Was.”

He sniffed and nodded. “You got the look.”

“What look is that?”

He smiled to himself. “A precision of movement, and you don’t seem to miss much.” He cleared his throat. “There was a night back in 1892, when these two buffalo soldiers wandered into the saloon at Suggs and were met with more than a few racial slurs.” He shook his head and laughed, contemplating the liquor bottle. “Can you imagine that bunch of bar-flies, whores, and outlaws suddenly considering their watering hole as exclusive?” He laughed again. “Well, these ol’ boys were 10th Cavalry, companies G and H, and had just come back from Cuba and the Philippines-and let me tell you, they were not unserious individuals.”

“Hershel Vanskike has an old Henry rifle from-”

“Do you believe that ol’ coot has that thing hanging in a saddle scabbard out there in a sheep wagon on Barton Road?”

“He says it’s his fortune, and that he’s going to retire on it.”

The rancher nodded. “If somebody doesn’t run off with it first.”

We crossed Highway 14/16, which was the main paved road, and since Bill made no move to indicate another direction, I continued north on the Powder River Road. I navigated a long straightaway where the gravel changed from gray to shale-red and glanced up to see a sign that read YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE NORTHERN CHEYENNE RESERVATION. There were stunted juniper bushes and mountain mahogany, some stretching into miniature trees but most just shrubs, and strong embankments of rock jutting from the valley that the Powder River had carved. “I take it those buffalo soldiers quietly departed, choosing to take their custom to another and more liberal establishment?”

“Well, sorta.” He took another but smaller sip-I guess he was trying to slow his intake. “They escaped a shoot-out but got sniped at all the way back to Camp Bettens. The next night, twenty of the troops got together and rode back into Suggs and set up a standing and kneeling position on the main street and threw one massive volley into the saloon.”

I glanced over and watched as the Winchester continued to bounce between his knees. “I bet that livened things up.”

He nodded and closed his legs together to support the rifle as I wound my way along the cliffs at the riverbank. We were climbing. “As you might imagine, there was a considerable amount of return fire, but the only person in the bar who was hurt was the bartender, who was hit in the arm, and he got a shot off that killed one of the troopers. The squad from the 10th departed, leaving one of their dead in the street, and the locals sniped at ’em again all the way back to their post. There was a court-martial, and the whole batch of ’em got reassigned in short order to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.”

I glanced back at Dog in the rearview mirror, and even he was watching the man with the rifle. “End of story?”

“Not exactly.” He glanced out the side window at the river, still flowing a tired, watery chocolate milk. “Two months later, one ’a them buffalo soldiers came back, walked in that saloon, and raised up the barrel of a big Colt Walker. 44 and shot that same bartender in the left eye.”

“I take it he didn’t survive that one?”

“Nope.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly with a belch. “They put together a posse and went after the trooper, but they never found him. Some people say he mingled on the reservation here, but others say he got help from a local rancher and got away.”

“Interesting.”

He turned in the big, leather seat and looked at me with more consideration than he had so far. “It is, isn’t it?” He continued staring at the side of my face, and I registered where his hands were, one idly on the barrel of the rifle, the other holding the bottle. “There’s history all over these hills-some of it people know, some of it they don’t.” He didn’t move. “I wonder about that.”

“About what?”

“About history, when it dies.” He leaned back into the seat but still regarded me. “Kind of like the tree that falls in the forest when nobody’s around? I mean, if nobody remembers the history, did it still happen?”

I studied the road ahead, looking like a red ribbon stretched through an extended bolt of khaki cloth, and thought about the Indian notion of the black road and the red road. According to Native spirituality, the black road was one of selfishness and trouble, while the red road was one of balance and peace.

I smiled and shook my head as I noticed a vehicle parked at the end of the long stretch, and a tall, dark man leaning against the truck bed with his face turned upward like a sunflower.

I let off the accelerator and gave Bill an answer. “History’s history-it doesn’t change.”

He shook his head as I slowed. “Not really. Think about all the history in this area that never got witnessed, never got written down-isn’t it dead?”

I stopped the Dodge a little past the battered green three-quarter ton and slipped the new truck into park. “Nope.”

Bill leaned to look past Dog and through the back glass at the tall man who hadn’t moved, still sunning himself and ignoring our arrival. “Hey, isn’t that that big buck you were bidding against on that horse trailer of mine?”

I ignored the slur and nodded. “Yep, I think it is.”

My hand was on the handle of the door before he spoke again. “You sure you wanna do this? Those ol’ boys can be pretty concerted, especially when they don’t get what they want.”

“I’ll risk it; he might be broken down.”

He glanced back again. “Drivin’ that shit-box, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

I left Dog in the truck so he wouldn’t greet the Cheyenne Nation with too much enthusiasm and noticed that Bill didn’t offer me the rifle or accompany me as I walked the ten yards back in the shale dust; the red road stretched to the blue horizon. I stopped about six feet away, as if I didn’t know the Bear. His head stayed back, and his eyes remained closed as he spoke softly. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?”

“Careful, you’ll blow my cover.” I glanced back, but Bill hadn’t moved and continued to occupy the passenger seat. I turned around. “You broke down?”

He still remained motionless. “We are resting.”

I noticed the rolled-up sleeves and the grease and dirt on his folded arms. “So, you’re broke down.”

“Resting.”

I nodded and approached a little closer, leaning against the wavering flanks of Rezdawg, the green and white paint looking as though it had been applied with a spatula. “What are you doing out here?”

“It is the Rez. I live here.”

“Here. Specifically.”

One eye opened slightly to regard me. “Waiting for you.”

“Uh-huh, and how did you know I’d be out here?”

He looked irritated that I was ruining his sunbath and finally opened both eyes and swiveled his neck to look at me. “I did not.” He flicked his eyes at the truck. “She did.”

“I see.”

“Where are you going?”

I glanced north, where the country got wilder and the breaks of the river more jagged, then at Bill, who had turned with the rifle now up and on the seat. “I think I’m being driven out into the country to be executed.”

Henry nodded, and the eyes closed again. “Nice day for it.”

“Yep.”

We both enjoyed the sun for a moment, the pale surface of the rocks reflecting a dirty, almost white chalk. His voice rumbled in his chest again. “So, are you ready for the fights tonight?”

I shook my head and felt a little anger. “What in the world possessed you?”

He smiled just a little ghost dance of a smile. “It is something to do.”

I shook my head at him. “You’re not as young as you used to be, you know.”

“Neither are you, and you are riding around with someone who is going to shoot you.”

I grunted. “When I get back to town-”

“If you get back to town.”

“If I get back to town, I’m going to grab that piece of paper from the bar and cross off your name.”

He closed his eyes again. “I would not do that.”

“Why?”

“It is the best cover we have so far; there is no way an upstanding citizen would ever do anything as stupid as be friends with someone who was fighting in The Powder-River-Pound-Down-Tough-Man Contest.”

He had a point.

I glanced back at the Dodge; Bill had probably locked the doors-it was Indian Country after all. “I gotta go, or he’s going to get suspicious.”

“Do you want me to follow you?”

I shot a look around at the open country. “I would, but I don’t think you could do it without being seen.”

“My people, we have a way with these things…”

My ass, along with my head, was beginning to ache. “Uh-huh.”

The dark eyes closed again. “As you wish.”

I patted the mottled surface of the ugliest pickup on the high plains. “Anyway, he’s pretty drunk, and I don’t want to overwork Rezdawg.”

The one eye glanced at the truck and then at me. “She is almost through resting.” I pushed off and started to turn, but he spoke again. “Rezdawg is only obstinate when you are around. She hears your words, and it hurts her feelings; you should apologize.”

I leaned in for a little emphasis. “I’m not apologizing to your crappy truck.”

He shrugged and closed his eyes again. “When she won’t start and you are executed, do not blame us.”

“I won’t. I’ll see you later.”

“You know where he is taking you, right?”

I stopped and looked at him. “Maybe.”

He sighed, and I got a slight wave from under the arm. “Wacin yewakiye.”

Good luck, indeed.

When I got back to the truck, it was locked. I knocked on the window and watched as Bill searched his new vehicle for the button to allow me to open the door. “What was that all about?”

I started the diesel. “He says he’ll trade you. Even up.” The Winchester was now lying across Bill’s lap but still pointed toward me; I was fully aware that the lever-action didn’t have a safety. I pulled the selector back into D. “Where to?”

He looked back from the big Indian to me, had a moment of hesitation, and then pointed in the direction we had been headed. “Down there about two more miles in the breaks, then right at the draw, and there’s an old two-track.”

I pulled out slowly, so as to not blow too much red dust on Henry, and continued alongside the river at just under forty miles an hour. As he’d said, there was a draw that led northwest, but there were two drooping strands of barbed wire hung across the road ending in one of the old levered hoops.

I looked at him, and he shrugged. “I know it’s against the code, but could you get it? I’m so drunk, I’m liable to pinch a finger off.” It is a western tradition that the passenger always gets the gate, which is why cowboys generally fight to sit in the middle, where you have no responsibilities other than to avoid the odd scrotal meeting with the gearshift.

I got out of the truck, walked toward the makeshift gate, and listened to hear if the passenger-side window rolled down along with the fumbling sound of the. 30–30 being laid over the sideview mirror.

Nothing.

I undid the levered hoop and then dragged the post with the two strands of wire attached to the side of the little-used road. Bill motioned for me to climb back in, which I did. I eased the massive truck through the narrow gate and started to stop so that I could go back and close it, another western tradition, but Bill motioned to drive on. “Go ahead, there isn’t any stock in here.”

I noticed he wasn’t drinking from the bottle any longer.

We came up on a rise and then took a knife’s edge turn away from the river to where the trail, covered with cactus and sagebrush, edged along some of the rocks that Henry and I had been looking at from the road.

The two-track path ended in a scrabble field and then slowly climbed into a dry pasture that rolled with the hills. When we got to the top of the nearest one, I could see slight depressions where the road continued north and west and some larger rocks to our right, jutting out from the ground beside us like molars-the perfect place to kill someone, if you were so inclined.

I looked at the rancher. “What now?”

He cleared his throat and gestured toward the depleted vista. “Jus’ keep going that way, toward the mountains.”

The hills became more pointed as we drove, and the tall, dry grass rolled like waves crashing against the foothills of the Bighorns. Gradually, the road became more apparent and I could see a ranch gate in the distance, a big one made from rough-hewn 12 Ч 12s, with a bent sign chained on the top and sides.

There was a brace of structures in a meadow of bottomland below the pale yellow cliffs, which were the same shade as the ranch house, barn, and outbuildings. The stone of the buildings, the shadows of the giant cottonwoods that just had turned dusty gold, and the deeply overhung cedar-shake roofs felt cool even from a distance, and I could feel emotion pulling in my chest as I took it all in.

I stopped the truck at the gate. We sat there for a moment, then Bill got out, and I opened the door for Dog. The three of us met at the cattle guard, and Bill gestured for me to continue toward the gate, which I did, even though he still held the. 30–30. He held the bottle too, if unsteadily, but I wasn’t too afraid of being shot in the back anymore and reached down and ruffled Dog’s ear. “C’mon. You’ve jumped these things before.”

Bill followed us over to the thick rails that made up the pivoting double gate. The hardware was handmade, and I could see all sorts of finishing touches in the forged steel, a talent which was far beyond the abilities of most ranchers. Even the chains that held the sign above us looked handmade.

Bill leaned on the top rail with the Winchester lying parallel, his forearms covering the rifle. “The fella that built this place was a blacksmith by trade, but he dabbled in masonry.”

“Uh huh.” I propped up an elbow of my own on the worn spot just where you would have gripped to pull the custom latch. I could see that the four-inch rails were smoothed, where horsemen had sidled against the gate for more than a half-century, so that they could open it without dismounting, saving themselves the ignominy of becoming a cowboy afoot.

“Knew what he was doing: back to the cliffs, easy access to water, and those beautiful mountains off in the distance.” Bill stood there for a moment, breathing in the flavor of the changing wind as it followed the bottomland and climbed the cliffs that surrounded a perfect basin where the homestead was located and where the air was sweet and heavy with the life-affirming humidity of the river. “He had a wife who was probably the prettiest thing in the Powder River country-musical, too. Played the piano, as I recall.”

There were a few juniper and some cottonwood trees growing up from the fissures in the rock along the cliff, the volunteers mimicking the shimmer of the big guys by the ranch house. There was an old road that led down to the huddle of buildings, but until you were almost upon it, the place was completely concealed from the outside. You had to know it was here to get here.

I turned as Dog circled the perimeter, taking in the smells, and I could feel a little of the moisture collecting in my eyes. “Whatever happened to them?”

Bill stood with his back against the gate, the rifle now propped against the fence, and gestured with his chin for me to join him. He scratched his neck where his protruding Adam’s apple strained as he continued to look up at the ranch sign. “They had a boy who played ball, offensive tackle for USC, but I don’t think he ever amounted to much.”

The chains that held the sign racked against the eyelet bolts with the wind and then relaxed, the sound like spurs jingling on a hardwood floor. Memories were crowding in on me now, and all I could do was stand there and take the hits like a tackling dummy.

He finally lowered his head and took a sip of the rye as I stared at the sky and read the name I knew as well as my own. Because it was my own.

The gusts pushed against the wooden plank, but the letters that my father had carved deep into the whorls of the iron-wood were still highly legible and read, LONGMIRE.