Dry Bones: A Walt Longmire Mystery (4 page)

Vic nodded and looked past him. “They on a mission?”

He shook his head. “No, but they are vegetarians and one’s a vegan.”

I glanced down at the meat loaf on my plate. “I’m betting that they’re about to go into red-meat protein arrest?”

“Something like that; you know of any place where they can eat?”

Vic barked a laugh. “Boulder.”

“Not exactly what we’re known for here in Wyoming.” I thought about it. “I guess they could go up to the deli at the IGA and put something together.”

He nodded. “Back up Main and then a left on Fort toward the mountain?”

“Yep.” As he sent his team off to graze, I scooted down one so that he’d have a place beside us and looked at Vic. “McGroder was the AIC on the prisoner exchange up the mountain last year.”

“I remember.” She mock-saluted him. “The cluster fuck.”

The agent sat. “Yeah, the cluster . . .” He looked at our plates as Dorothy brought over a menu. “I’ll have what they’re having.” Mike smiled. “I’ve learned never to argue with my Indian scouts in this part of the country.”

I forked off a section, steered it into my mouth, and chewed, giving him time to tell me why he was here, but he only sipped his water and made small talk with Vic about her connections with the Department of Justice in Philadelphia, her old stomping ground.

He finally turned on his stool and placed his back against the counter, crossing his arms and looking at Main Street. “It was a nice little town you had here, Sheriff.”

“Why are you saying that in past tense?”

“Because it’s about to turn into a circus.”

I placed my fork on my plate and turned toward him. “And why is that?”

He sighed. “You ever hear of Skip Trost?”

“Nope.”

“You know, you need to get out more. Skip Trost is the acting deputy U.S. attorney for, among other states, Wyoming, and was sworn in about five months ago with little or no federal trial experience, but he had served as a legislative aid—”

“I get the picture.”

“Well, Trost here is suddenly in the catbird seat and decides that he’s going to make a name for himself with the American people by instituting an investigation into nationwide fossil collection and even going so far as initiating a sting to expose illegal collections and sales of state property.”

I was glad I’d just about finished my meal, because I was rapidly losing my appetite. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

“A dinosaur by the name of Jen?”

He pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket and examined a Post-it attached. “‘The Hope Diamond of fossils with unlimited scientific value in research, exhibition, and education and a specimen with a quality of preservation and completeness of structure unlike any ever before seen.’” He shrugged and looked out the window. “As soon as they get all of it out of the ground.”

I set my fork on my plate. “Jen.”

“It’s going to make the Scopes monkey trial look like a lemonade stand.” He swiveled back around. “The High Plains Dinosaur Museum came to the attention of the DOJ when a graduate student in vertebrate paleontology who worked as a part-time ranger over in Yellowstone was approached by a private collector who told him he could supplement his income by selling fossils from the park to the HPDM.”

“What happened with that?”

Mike smiled as his usual arrived. “A seventy-five-dollar fine. As it turned out, the old guy had sold stuff to the museum and had lied about where he’d gotten it.”

Vic laughed. “May J. Edgar Hoover’s soul rest in peace.”

“Not exactly a priority for the bureau?” I sipped my iced tea. “Okay, so the acting deputy U.S. attorney Trost has it in for the HPDM, and the wheels of justice are going to grind exceedingly fine until—”

“Oh, it’s way better than that.” McGroder cleaved off a piece of his meat loaf and started it for his mouth before pausing. “It’s not enough of a political powder keg for Trost to want to save the poor people of Wyoming from the rapacious clutches of the High Plains Dinosaur Museum.” He pointed his loaded fork at me. “This rinky-dink state really has two senators?”

“Yep, same as Utah and Colorado and the other forty-seven. You need to get out more, Mike.”

“Well, the networks and large-circulation newspapers really don’t give a crap if you cowfolk are getting ripped off, but you throw a few First People/Native American/Indian types into the mix and voila, you’ve got yourself a national platform from which you can draw the attention of the potential electorate to yourself.” He raised a fist in mock support. “Save Jen.”

“What Indians are you talking about?”

“The Cheyenne Conservancy, a land trust organization, has filed an order to desist, citing the federal Antiquities Act of 1906 prohibiting the removal of fossils from any land owned or controlled by the United States without permission from the Cultural Committee or the Tribal Historical Preservation Office.”

“The site where that fossil is being excavated isn’t the Cheyenne Reservation or federal land.”

He chewed, and it was almost as if he was enjoying my discomfort. “Actually, it’s both. That portion of the ranch is on Cheyenne Conservancy land and you have to have a permit to dig there, and guess who doesn’t have a permit.”

“The High Plains Dinosaur Museum.”

He continued smiling. “It’s all right, Walt, you’ve still got a hole card; if the possession holds up with the Native American rancher, then the tribe and the federal government are going to be left out in the cold. You see, the rancher bought that particular land from a white homesteader in 2000 and exercised his right to have it held in trust for twenty-five years by the U.S. Department of the Interior under the Indian Reorganization Act of 1934, which allowed him to not have to pay taxes on it. The problem is that putting your land in trust, either federal or Cheyenne, limits the options of selling it or anything on it.”

Vic and I looked at each other for a moment, and then I turned to look at McGroder. “Then all our hopes of avoiding this are pinned to Danny Lone Elk?”

He chewed and swallowed, wiping his mouth with a knuckle. “Yeah, I think that’s the guy we need to talk to.”

Vic shook her head. “Well then, you’d better talk loud.”

 • • • 

“This is going to introduce an unwelcome criminal facet to the proceedings.”

We’d finished our meal, and I was explaining the eccentricities of the Lone Elk situation to Agent McGroder as we made our way back toward my office at a brisk pace. “Probably not going to calm things down, huh?”

He laughed as we climbed the steps to the courthouse. “All we need now is a bearded lady and a guy who bites the heads off chickens.”

Vic’s cell rang, and she answered, talking with whom I assumed was my dispatcher, and then tucked the thing back in her jacket. “Ruby says the FBI is at the office.”

I glanced at McGroder. “No, they’re not—they’re right here.”

She glanced at me. “No, our kind of FBI.”

“Oh.” I began walking again. “So, what happens now?”

He folded his overcoat over his arm and patted the inside breast pocket of his suit. “I’m going to the museum to deliver a warrant and was wondering if you’d like to tag along.”

“What are your intentions?”

“Just a look-see. The only fossil I’m interested in is Jen, but I thought I’d get here early and try and nip some of these shenanigans in the bud, so to speak.”

“They’ve barely gotten any of her out of the ground.”

He held up his hands. “So much the better. I’m just going to meet my guys at your office and then head over to the museum for a tour, probably with the director—what’s his name?”

“Dave Baumann.”

“With Dave, and see if any of the fossils have stickers on them that read P
ROPERTY OF THE
U
NITE
D
S
TATES
G
OVERNMENT,
and then make a phone call to Trost, so without any further ado he can start warming up his dulcet tones for the interviews tomorrow.”

“Interviews . . . Plural, huh?” I glanced around at the cottonwoods, flower boxes, and the idyllic environs of our small-town courthouse. “Did I fail to mention that I’m going on vacation this week?”

“Yes, you did, and as of now it would appear that you’re not.”

As we rounded the back of the courthouse, I could see a very large Indian reclined on the steps of the old Carnegie Library that served as my office; he was eyeing the two bureau people who were eating what looked to be lettuce wraps and drinking bottled water. “Uh oh . . . Looks like a standoff.”

Vic chimed in. “Wounded Knee III.”

By the time that we got there, Brandon White Buffalo, possibly the largest Indian on both the Cheyenne and Crow Reservations, had crushed his cigarette out and, standing his full seven feet two inches, pushed off from the steps to greet us. “Ha-ho, Lawman.”

I gestured toward the giant. “The real FBI.”

Vic added, “Fuckin-Big-Indian.”

I watched as Brandon pocketed the butt.

“Don’t you know those things stunt your growth?”

The operator of the White Buffalo Sinclair Station held out a hand with fingers that looked like a collection of Polish sausages, and enveloped my own. “It’s a nasty habit, but it is easy to quit; I have done it many times.”

I tried not to grimace as he applied his legendary grip. “How are you, Brandon?”

“My heart is heavy, Lawman. The Cheyenne have lost a great leader, and it’s not a time when we can spare such men.” He sparked an eye at my undersheriff. “Miss Moretti.”

She put her hand on her sidearm. “Do not try and pick me up.”

Brandon made a habit of lifting people from the ground as a greeting, but a well-placed kick had preempted the tradition with Vic a few months back.

He nodded and glanced at McGroder, who extended his hands and spoke up quickly. “I’d rather not be picked up either.”

Throwing a thumb over his shoulder, Brandon smiled and turned back to me. “The ones who don’t smoke are inside—including both the chiefs.”

As far as I knew, the Cheyenne were an autarchy, so I was interested to see who the other chief might be. “Henry with you?”

“No, the Bear isn’t a part of the party—he prefers to work outside official channels, but you know that.” The Buffalo studied me. “You are disappointed?”

I shrugged. “I haven’t seen Henry in a couple of weeks, and my granddaughter is going to be in town . . .”

“The little brother is back to seeing the divorcée up at Rocky Boy.”

I glanced around and dropped my voice. “Are we ever going to get to meet her?”

“Who knows.” The three-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound Crow/Cheyenne hybrid turned and shook hands with the special agent as he introduced himself and then shot a look at the herbivores on the bench. “Those are yours?”

McGroder nodded and studied the giant, probably making the connection between him and his uncle, the man who had saved me on the mountain. “Yeah, I made ’em leave their trench coats at home.”

“We did not call you.”

I had to smile as McGroder flexed his fingers, attempting to get the circulation back in them. “No.”

“Then why are you here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Mike adjusted his sunglasses and looked up at the big man. “At the behest of the American people.”

Brandon gestured toward himself. “Are we not the American people?”

“Certainly you are.” He looked at me for help, but I was going to let him tread water on his own. The agent licked his lip, smiled, and breathed deep. “We’re just here to make sure that everybody plays fair.”

Brandon White Buffalo’s head tilted to one side as he considered the AIC before laughing. He turned and mounted the steps to my office, his gigantic legs carrying him up like the dinosaurs that had held my imagination recently. “You are about two hundred years too late, Agent in Charge.”

McGroder turned to look at me as the glass door swung closed, the gold and black letters of my department shuddering with the soft impact. “I have a feeling that the next week is going to be interesting around here.”

“I hope you’re wrong.”

He smiled, waved good-bye to Vic, and then collected his people from the bench. “Hey, where is the High Plains Dinosaur Museum, anyway?”

I pointed. “South end of town, across from the high school. It used to be the Moose Lodge and before that a carpet outlet.”

He thought about it. “The tin building that I saw on the way in?”

I shrugged as Vic and I started up the steps to our defunct library offices. “We take our institutions where we find them.”

He pulled out his phone as the trio started toward the black Tahoe with government plates parked at the curb. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask for your cell number?”

“You can ask.”

He shook his head, and they loaded up and started off, catching the light on Main and disappearing around the corner.

Vic finally turned. “I’ve got a question.”

I gave her my full attention, the way I always did.

“Skip?” She pulled the door open and entered. “A deputy U.S. attorney by the name of Skip?”

 • • • 

“I told Brandon that he couldn’t smoke in here.” My dispatcher answered a phone and asked the caller to please wait, then hit the hold button.

I looked around. “Where is everybody?”

Ruby nodded her head toward the hallway behind her desk. “Your office.”

I walked past Saizarbitoria’s door and could see that Double Tough, my other deputy, who had just come back from medical leave, was standing next to Sancho’s desk. The skin on the side of his face was mottled from having been burned, and I was still getting used to the eye patch. “How you doin’, troop?”

He did his best Blackbeard imitation as Vic and I crowded in the doorway. “Argh . . .”

The Basquo urged me in. “Boss, we need an opinion here.”

“I’ve got people in my office.”

“It’ll just take a second.”

I entered Saizarbitoria’s immaculate but tiny room and stood there with the other two men, Vic holding at the doorway. “What’s up?”

Sancho gestured toward Double Tough. “DT’s got a new eye.”

What with Danny Lone Elk, like we didn’t have enough ocular problems as of late?