Wyatt was the biggest but the youngest. His face was cherubic, without the sharp angles his brothers’ had. Everything about Wyatt was soft and round, his cheeks, his nose, the extra flesh around his soft brown eyes. He was in his early thirties. When people within the community talked about the historic Scarlett Ranch, or the battling Scarlett brothers, it was understood they were referring to Arlen and Hank. It was as if Wyatt didn’t exist, as if he was as much an embarrassment to the community as he was, no doubt, to the family itself. Joe knew very little about Wyatt, and what he had heard wasn’t good. When Wyatt Scarlett was brought up, it was often in hushed tones.
Joe was close enough now that he could see Arlen clearly. Arlen was bleeding from a cut on the side of his head, and he shot a glance over his shoulder at the approaching vehicles. Which gave an opening to Hank, the middle brother, to swing and hit the back of Arlen’s head with the flat of his shovel like a pumpkin on a post.
Julie screamed and covered her face with her hands.
Joe realized what he was thrusting her into and slammed on his brakes. “Julie, I’m going to take you home . . .”
“No!” she sobbed. “Just make them stop! Make them stop before my dad and my uncles kill each other.”
Joe and Sheridan exchanged glances. Sheridan had turned white. She shook her head, not knowing what to say.
Joe blew out a breath and continued on.
ARLEN WENT DOWN from the blow as the convoy fanned out in the sagebrush and surrounded the brothers. Joe hit his brakes and opened his door, keeping it between him and the Scarletts. As he dug his shotgun out and racked the pump, he heard McLanahan whoop a blast from his siren and say, in his new cowboy-slang cadence, “DROP THE SHOVELS, MEN, AND STEP BACK FROM EACH OTHER WITH YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD. EXCEPT YOU, ARLEN. YOU STAY DOWN.”
The officers spilled out of their vehicles, brandishing weapons. The warning seemed to have no effect on Hank, who was standing over Arlen and raising his shovel above his head with two hands as if about to strike it down on his brother the way a gardener beheads a snake.
Joe thought Arlen was a dead man, but Wyatt suddenly drove his shoulder into Hank and sent him sprawling, the shovel flying end-over-end through the air.
“Go!” McLanahan shouted at his men. “Go round ’em up now!”
“Stay here,” Joe said to Julie and Sheridan. His daughter cradled Julie in her arms. Julie sobbed, her head down.
Joe, holding his shotgun pointed above the fray, stepped around his truck and saw three deputies including Deputy Mike Reed rush the three prone Scarlett Brothers. Reed was the only deputy Joe considered sane and professional. The others were recent hires by McLanahan and were, to a man, large, mulish, quick with their fists, and just as quick to look away if an altercation involved someone who was a friend of the Sheriff’s Department—or, more specifically, McLanahan himself.
Arlen simply rolled to his stomach and put his hands behind his back to be cuffed, saying, “Take it easy, boys, take it easy, I’m cooperating . . .”
Wyatt, after watching Arlen, did the same, although he looked confused.
It took all three deputies to subdue Hank, who continued to curse and kick and swing at them, one blow connecting solidly with Deputy Reed’s mouth, which instantly bloomed with bright-red blood. Finally, after a pepper spray blast to his eyes, Hank curled up in the dirt and the deputies managed to cuff his hands behind him and bind his cowboy boots together with Flex-Cuffs.
AFTER TWO YEARS as county sheriff, McLanahan still seemed to be somewhat unfinished, which is why he had apparently decided in recent months to assume a new role, that of “local character.” After trying on and discarding several personas—squinty-eyed gunfighter, law-enforcement technocrat, glad-handing politician—McLanahan had decided to aspire to the mantle of “good old boy,” a stereotype that had served his predecessor Bud Barnum well for twenty-four years. In the past six months, McLanahan had begun to slow his speech pattern and pepper his pronouncements and observations with arcane westernisms. He’d even managed to make his face go slack. His sheriff’s crisp gray Stetson had been replaced by a floppy black cowboy hat and his khaki department jacket for a bulky Carhartt ranch coat. Rather than drive the newest sheriff’s department vehicle, McLanahan opted for an old county pickup with rust spots on the panels. He bought a Blue Heeler puppy to occupy the passenger seat, and had begun to refer to his seven-acre parcel of land outside the city limits as his “ranch.”
McLanahan squatted down in the middle of the triangle of handcuffed brothers and asked, “Can one of you tell me just what in the hell this is all about?”
Joe listened.
“Mama’s gone,” Hank said, his voice hard. “And that son-of-a-bitch there”—he nodded toward Arlen—“thinks he’s going to get the ranch.”
McLanahan said, “What do you mean she’s gone? Like she’s on a vacation or something?”
Hank didn’t take his eyes off of Arlen. “Like that son-of-a-bitch killed her and hid the body,” he said.
“What?” McLanahan said.
There was a high, unearthly wail, an airy squeal that seemed to come down from the mountains. The sound made the hairs on Joe’s neck stand up. It was Wyatt. The big man was crying.
Joe looked over his shoulder at his pickup truck, to see if Julie had heard. Luckily, the windows were up and she was still being held by Sheridan.
“Mind if I stand up now?” Arlen asked the sheriff.
McLanahan thought it over, nodded his assent, and told Deputy Reed to help Arlen up but to keep him away from Hank.
Joe squatted down a few feet from Wyatt.
“Are you okay?” Joe asked. “Are you hurt?”
Wyatt just continued to sob, his head between his knees, his back heaving, tears spattering the ground between his boots. Joe asked again. Wyatt reached up with his cuffed hands and smeared his tears across his dirty face.
“Where’s my mom?” Wyatt asked, his words mushy. Joe noticed Wyatt had missing teeth. “Where did she go?”
“I don’t know,” Joe said. “She can’t be far.”
“But Hank says she’s gone.”
Joe said, “I’m sure we’ll find her.”
Wyatt’s eyes flared, and for a second Joe thought the man would strike out at him.
“Where’s my mom?” Wyatt howled.
“Pickett!” McLanahan yelled, “What are you doing over there?”
Joe stood uneasily, searching Wyatt’s upturned, tragic face for a clue to his behavior. “Making sure Wyatt’s okay,” Joe said.
“He’s not,” McLanahan said, and one of the deputies laughed. “Trust me on that one.”
Joe looked at Arlen, and Hank. Both brothers were turned toward Wyatt, but neither said anything. They simply stared at their younger brother as if they were observing an embarrassing stranger.
Joe walked over to Deputy Reed, who was holding a bandanna to his split lip.
“What do you think the deal is with Opal?” Joe asked, out of earshot of the Scarlett brothers.
“Don’t know,” Reed said. “But I do know that old woman’s just too goddamned mean to die.”
WHILE SHERIFF MCLANAHAN interviewed each of the brothers quietly and individually, Joe concluded that he was no longer needed and, by inadvertently bringing Julie, he had done more harm than good.