I leveled with him. “A lot of this stuff is local history. If you’re going back to Rawlins then you don’t need to know it.”
He looked at both of us, his black eyes glittering like the backs of trout rolling in dark water. “I’m in.”
We shook on it; the median age of our department was now securely under the age of fifty. “Mari Baroja cut Charlie Nurburn’s throat in 1951.”
He leaned back against the bars of the cell behind him and let out a long slow whistle. “Some of the poetry is a little dark.”
The plows had been doing their job, and the highway was clear as I set off south to the old homestead, but we had to hurry because it didn’t look like the weather would hold. Henry had made a few calls while I had gathered up some cold weather gear and called the Busy Bee for a few club sandwiches and a couple of coffees. Dorothy had met us at the curb with two paper bags. She hadn’t waited for a response but just waved, turned, and disappeared back into the cafe. We kept the food in the front, away from Dog, who was still sulking about having to leave the office, but Ruby was going out with her granddaughter that evening and couldn’t watch him.
About three miles out of town, we saw an HP headed in the other direction. He waved, flipped across the median, and pulled up behind us after I’d slowed and stopped. I wondered how Leo had escaped being detected.
“You were not speeding, were you?”
I didn’t acknowledge him but rolled the window down and leaned an elbow on the ledge as the light bar on the highway patrol cruiser began revolving and the door popped open. It was Wes again, and I watched as he straightened his Smoky the Bear hat and strolled up with the gigantic Colt. 357 banging at his leg. “License and registration.” He folded his arms and leaned against my door. He pushed the hat back, and a strong dollop of gray flopped down on his forehead.
“Are you the only one working out here?”
“We’ve got our two, three more from the Casper detachment, and another three from over in Sheridan.” He looked at my eye patch. “Jesus, what the hell happened to you?”
I gestured over to Henry. “The Indian beat me up.”
Wes tipped his hat. “Hey, Henry.”
“Wes.”
“You know, all I’m looking for is a Mack truck with a mobile home attached to it.”
Wes nodded. “Seems like we’d be able to find that, doesn’t it?”
I pushed my own hat back. “I thought you were retired.”
“Next week.” He smiled an easy smile. “Why, you gonna have a party for me?”
“No, I was just wondering when we were gonna get some younger HPs around here with better eyesight.”
He shook his head. “Where you guys headed?”
“Down to Mari Baroja’s for a little look around.”
“You want me to tag along?”
“No, but if you or your boys wouldn’t mind swinging through Durant, Leo had been staying over Lana’s little bakery next to Evans’s Chainsaw.” I turned to Henry. “What kind of car does Joe Lesky drive?”
The Bear looked up from a small notebook. “Tan, ’87 Jeep Wagoneer, County 25, Plate 3461.”
Wes nodded and reaffirmed that Ruby had already taken care of the car’s ID. I smiled the half smile I’d perfected and turned toward him. “If I don’t see you? You be careful down there in Arizona.”
He smiled a smile of his own. “You bet.”
“Do you want to hear about Ellen Runs Horse?”
I negotiated around a slow-moving 18-wheeler, neither black nor Mack. “Sure.”
The dark wave of hair fell alongside his face as one eye studied me. “As we suspected she is Crow.”
I continued to stare at the road through my one eye. “Anyone hint about her having an illegitimate child with Charlie Nurburn?”
He nodded. “Better than that.” He shifted his weight and leaned against the door. “She registered a child, Garnet Runs Horse, in the tribal rolls, but gave the child up for adoption in 1950.”
“Lucian said Ellen told him that the child died. I guess she lied. Where did he go?”
“Wind River.”
“Name still Runs Horse?”
“I do not know.”
I thought about it. “That would figure, since Leo’s been living over near Lander, but where did he get the name Gaskell?”
“Maybe his father took the adoptive family’s name?”
“Maybe so.” I pulled my mic from the dash. “Base, this is Unit One, come in?”
After a moment of static, a cool voice responded, and it wasn’t Ruby; I had forgotten that she wasn’t there. “What the fuck do you want now?”
I glanced at Henry, keyed the mic, and quickly composed myself. “How was the bookstore?”
Static. “I bought you the Idiot’s Guide to Swimming.” The Bear snorted.
“Thanks.” I listened to the static for a moment, since it was more comforting than her voice. “Can you do me a favor?”
Static. “Seems like I’ve done you an awful lot of them lately.” Static. “What?”
“Can you run a check on any Gaskells who might be living over near the Wind River Reservation, Lander, or Riverton?”
Static. “I know what towns are near Wind River.” I nodded at the LED display on the radio, trying to get it to be nice to me. Static. “Have you signed the release papers on Mari Baroja? The Wicked Witches of the West are here.”
I wondered if they were in the same room and quickly figured yes they were. “I signed the papers and gave them to Bill McDermott who should still be over at the hospital.”
Static. “I’ll send them there.”
“Get a hold of Bill Wiltse and see if Fremont’s got anything on the Gaskells.”
Static. “Got it.” Static. “Just in case we need to get in touch with you while you are traipsing around the southern part of the county, how should we reach you?”
I thought about it. “Try the methane foreman.”
Static. “Double Tough?”
I smiled. “Is that what you’re calling him?”
Static. “Fuckin’ A. Over and out.”
Speak of the devil. As I headed down the ramp off the highway, I saw Jess Aliff with a couple of his roughnecks. They were on their way to Four Brothers, but he made the time to come over and answer a few questions. I asked him about the gunshot wound, to which he replied, “What gunshot wound?” I liked Double Tough more every time I saw him. I also asked him if he would direct us to the old homestead where Mari Baroja had lived with Charlie Nurburn and whether the road would support the Mack and a house trailer to which he had responded maybe.
We followed the ridge that he had told us about, moving diagonally southeast toward the north fork of Crazy Woman toward the Nurburn place. With the wind blowing, it was impossible to see if there were any tracks; our own would be invisible in a matter of moments. I stopped the truck after a mile and a quarter where the ridge divided and split off into two directions. “Now what?”
He looked at me. “If I were a creek, I would be where the ground slopes.”
“Right.” Sometimes it was good to have an Indian scout.
We topped the ridge cap and looked down the small valley. The road, or what we assumed to be the road, hung to the right side of the flat. The north fork of Crazy Woman turned right, around a curve, about a half a mile away. The blowing snow had filled in the small canyon, and it was difficult to see where the road might be.
“Would you drive a Mack truck down here with a mobile home attached to it?”
He took a deep breath and looked at the missing road. “No, but there are a number of things Leo Gaskell would do that I would not.”
I slipped the three-quarter ton into granny gear, it was already in 4-wheel, and committed. Most of the fill was powder, and the truck settled even as we idled the big V-10 down the canyon to the apex of the undersized ranch. At the far end of the stretch, I edged the truck against the coulee wall and glanced up at the meadow that opened to the flat at the bottom of the canyon. It was a beautiful spot but, if you spent the first part of the winter here, you spent the last part of the winter here, too.