“What do you want me to do?” her mother had asked. “Next time he calls, keep him on the line. Don’t hang up on him. Talk to him instead, ask him questions. I think that’s what he wants, to get you upset. But while you’ve got him on the line, call me immediately on your cell phone so I know we’ve got him live and I’ll know if he hangs up or not. That way, I can check out my theory.”
“Where do you think he’s calling from?”
Nate shrugged. “Didn’t you say you can hear some background noises sometimes? People talking, even some music?”
“Yes.”
“There are only a few public places open that late at night,” Nate said. “So I’m thinking it’s a bar or a restaurant.”
“I see. Who do you think it is?”
“It’s just a guess,” Nate said. “I don’t want to say anything until I confirm it.”
“Just make him stop,” her mom said. “Every time the phone rings I think it’s Joe. And I don’t want to miss Joe’s call because this idiot is on the line.”
Nate nodded, and sipped his coffee.
“Don’t hurt him, Nate.”
“Never,” Nate said, in a tone meant to be disbelieved.
When the phone rang an hour later and her mother said, “Seventwooh,” to Nate, he was out the door and in his Jeep before she picked up the receiver.
Sheridan watched as her mother opened her cell phone and speeddialed Nate’s number while asking, “Why do you keep calling me? Is there something you want? Why won’t you talk to me?”
Ten minutes later, Bud Barnum looked up in time to see the oldfashioned accordion doors crash in and a huge pair of hands reach into the phone booth and grab his collar.
“Hey!”
Nate Romanowski jerked the receiver from his hand and asked, “Marybeth?”
When he heard an answer, Romanowski let the phone drop and was on Barnum like an animal.
“Help me!” Barnum cried out to the patrons seated at stools at the Stockman’s Bar, but no one stepped forward.
Even Timberman, who had a sawedoff shotgun and a tapewrapped pool cue under the bar, froze where he stood.
Romanowski pulled the exsheriff close and spoke quietly from an inch away: “From now on, you will leave that family the fuck alone.”
Barnum tried to reply but found himself being violently pulled along, Romanowski’s hands still on his collar, aimed for the bar. A few drinkers had the presence of mind to grab their mugs and step away, but most didn’t, and when Romanowski launched him onto the bar facefirst and pulled him down the length of it, beer splashed into his mouth and whiskey stung his eyes.
Romanowski didn’t let go until he had wiped the bar clean with Barnum and sent him hurtling off the other end, where he crashed in a heap with a sound like wet laundry being thrown on the floor.
Barnum lay there, trying to get his breath back, wiping at the sting in his eyes, when he felt more than saw Romanowski lean over him, again inches away. He felt his lips pried open by thick, callused fingers, and he cried out sharply when pain shot through his mouth and his cupped tongue filled with hot blood.
He sagged sideways, not moving, and opened his eyes to see Romanowski toss cash on the bar and announce he was buying the house a round.
Romanowski pointed a finger at Timberman: “If you ever see Barnum head for the telephone booth again, warn him off. He likes to intimidate families. He uses a calling card so they can’t tell who’s harassing them.”
With that, Romanowski gave Barnum a look of icy contempt and walked out of the Stockman’s.
After they were sure he was gone, several of Barnum’s old friends helped him to his feet. They hadn’t helped when he needed it, he thought. They had frozen and watched. He tried to say, “Get your hands off me, you fuckers,” but his voice slurred and blood spattered from his mouth.
“Bud, you’ve got to get that thing out,” one of the men said, reaching toward Barnum’s mouth.
The exsheriff turned angrily away and reached up, feeling drops of blood spatter hot on his hand.
Tears filled his eyes as he pried the calling card out from between his front teeth, where Romanowski had shoved it up well into his gum. Removing the plastic card resulted in a fresh torrent of blood. His friends stepped away, even as Timberman approached with a bar rag.
“Stay away from me!” Barnum roared, spattering them all. He was well aware of how quickly this story would travel through Twelve Sleep County.
Sheridan could tell from the way her mom’s face went white that she could hear what was happening on the other end of the line.
“What did you expect?” Sheridan asked.
“I said not to hurt him,” her mother said. “It sounded like Sheriff Barnum.”
Sheridan weighed that and nodded. “He hates us, all right.”
Her mother slowly hung up the phone. “I can’t believe I live in a place where people hate us.”
“It’s because of what Dad does,” Sheridan said.
“Then maybe he should do something else!” her mother said angrily.
Sheridan turned her back on her mother and went into her bedroom and slammed the door. She was still awake when she heard the sound of Nate’s Jeep pull up outside.
If she filled her backpack with clothes and started walking, she wondered, how far could she get before the sun came up?
...
Barnum knocked heavily on the door. With the other hand, he held a bar rag soaked with blood to his mouth. The front of his shirt was covered with it. Even the underside of his hat brim was flecked.
He saw a band of light appear beneath the door and the peephole darken for a moment, then heard the bolt being thrown.
Randan Bello stood wrapped in a towel, his eyes in slits.
“What in the hell happened to you?” he asked.
“Never mind that,” Barnum croaked. “I know what you’re doing in Saddlestring, and I’m here to help.”
Bello stepped back away from the door and examined Barnum from his bloodstained boots to his hat.
“Come in, Sheriff,” Bello said.
Outside the motel, Nate Romanowski cruised through the parking lot in his Jeep with his headlights off. His .454
Casull lay unholstered on the passenger seat.
Hunters, mainly. Plates from Colorado, Michigan, Pennsylvania. Hunting states. Except for the SUV Barnum had parked next to, the one with the Virginia plates. Interesting.
Nate slowed to a crawl but didn’t tap his brakes so his brake lights wouldn’t flare. He leaned across the passenger seat and looked up at the windows that were lit. He saw a man with a profile that looked familiar—someone from a long time ago—approach the window and reach out with both hands for fistfuls of curtain. But before the man pulled the curtains closed, Nate saw the silhouette of Bud Barnum’s crushed cowboy hat over his shoulder.
Nate thought of his red tail flaring two days before.
Instinctively, he rubbed the hand grip of his weapon with his thumb.
Twenty Eight
Smoke Van Horn was a huge man who seemed to fill up the cabin when he entered the room, accompanied by the smell of wood smoke, grease, horses, and leather that hung in his oversized sheepskin coat. His face was massive and naturally thrust forward, like a fist.
“Nice night out there,” Smoke said to Joe. “We need some snow, though, to get the elk moving.”
He let his coat slide off his shoulders, then tossed it on the bed across the room as if he’d done it a hundred times before. Perhaps he had, Joe thought. Under the coat, Smoke wore the same clothes Joe had seen him in that afternoon in the meadow, as well as the holster and .44 Magnum.
“I was just scouting the territory when I saw the light from your cabin,” Smoke said in a tooloud voice, “so I thought I better check it out. I’ve thrown more than a few backpacker types out of your place before, you know. A couple of years ago some hunters moved in before Will got up here, and I sent them packing too. I figure this place is paid for by my tax money and license fees, so I don’t want nobody trashing it.”