Dry Bones: A Walt Longmire Mystery by Craig Johnson Read Free Book Online Page A

straightened and looked at Saizarbitoria, me, and finally back to DT. “Take it back and have them order up another one.”
    Double Tough cleared his throat. “Oh, I think it’s close enough—”
    “Go back and have them order up one that matches.” She glanced at us again. “I can’t believe you assholes were going to let him wander around here looking like a fucked-up husky because you two were afraid of hurting his delicate feelings—shame on the both of you.”
    As she stalked out, we all stood there in the uncomfortable silence, and then I leaned in and studied the eye again. “Maybe a little greener, but it looks good, troop.”
    Sancho nodded. “Really good. A little greener, maybe . . . I mean, you might as well get it right—the insurance is paying for it.”
     • • • 
    The tribal delegation was waiting for me in my office, sitting in my guest chairs and reading from the plaques and studying the photos on my walls. Brandon thumped a finger on one. “What are all these sheriffs doing in front of this train?”
    I turned the corner and sat at my desk across from Cheyenne chief Lonnie Little Bird and Tribal Police chief Lolo Long as Vic lingered near the doorway. “The old sheriff, Lucian—that was the last run of the Western Star back in ’72.”
    Lolo was the first to ask, “The Western Star?”
    “The Wyoming Sheriff’s Association had this yearly junket that they used to do, a train by the name of the Western Star that ran from Cheyenne to Evanston and back—twenty-four drunk sheriffs shooting sporting clays off a flatbed.”
    Chief Long pulled a handful of blue-black hair back from her face, revealing the sickle-shaped scar at her temple and the dark, dark eyes. Out of uniform, she was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a weathered leather jacket—all of which seemed to fit in remarkable ways. “Sounds like fun.”
    She wanted to continue the interrogation, but I cut her off and gestured around the room. “The few plaques are his, but he didn’t want them, and I never got around to taking them down.”
    “What do you have time for these days?”
    I smiled at my reservation comrade in arms. “The job, Chief Long, the job.” I took my hat off and set it on my desk, crown down, and introduced Vic to the group.
    “We’ve met.”
    Lolo’s head lifted, and she spoke. “Undersheriff.”
    Vic’s voice carried just a little edge to it. “Chief.”
    I addressed the rest of the war party. “Chief Little Bird.”
    Lonnie laughed. “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Mm, hmm. Yes, it is so.”
    I glanced at Brandon, who was still standing, and then back at Lonnie. “Is this a formal call?”
    “I am afraid so.”
    “Danny Lone Elk?”
    He nodded and leaned back in his wheelchair. “Just so you are aware, we did not do this.”
    “Do what?”
    “Call the FBI.”
    “Since Wounded Knee II, when the Department of Justice shows up I rarely think that it’s the tribe that has called them.”
    Lolo played with the woven horsehair zipper slide on her jacket. “Danny had made commitments with the tribe that upon his death his ranch was to be signed over to the Cheyenne Conservancy, and that is our only concern at this time. I am not sure if the fossil in question is part of that land or an antiquity that is dealt with differently. Danny mentioned that a home for the dinosaur might be made on the reservation in Lame Deer at the Chief Dull Knife College or that there might be a sale of a limited number of replicas of the skeleton or the donation of some of the bones to the tribal headquarters, but that above all, the proceeds from such a sale should go exclusively to his children and grandson.”
    “What’s your involvement?”
    She leaned forward and smiled a dazzling smile that made my toes tingle. “I’m the director of the Cheyenne Conservancy.”
    “So you were in a sort of partnership with Danny.”
    “Yes.”
    “Has anybody talked to Dave Baumann about