Land of Wolves by Craig Johnson Read Free Book Online Page B

reason—you give dat to that grouchy boss of yours the next time you see him, you know?”
    “He’s not my boss anymore.”
    He knocked some knuckles against his lowered head. “I keep forgettin’. G’ttin’ old I guess.”
    “We all are, Abe.”
    “How ’bout you fellas come in and have a cup o’ coffee?” He nodded and stepped off the porch to ground level, looked up at me, and then glanced over at the Basquo. “ Kaixo .”
    Sancho extended a hand. “ Ondoeskerrik asko .”
    “I knew you was one of us people, you handsome devil you.” The old Basquo began laughing. “ Zein da zure izena ?”
    “ Nire ib zena Santiago Saizarbitoria da .”
    “ Pozten naiz zu ezagutzeaz .”
    I took a step forward, breaking up the Basquefest. “Abe, I’ve got some bad news.”
    He turned and looked at me for a moment and then dropped his eyes to the mud between us. “Yeah, dat Don Butler, he call.” He glanced back at Sancho and then me, turned, and thumped up the steps with tears in his eyes. “How ’bout you fellas come in and have dat cup o’ coffee.”
----
    —
    Abe sat ceramic buffalo mugs on the table with the red and white–checked plastic cover, and I glanced at the frilly curtains that gave the tiny kitchen a European feel. “Where’s Wilhelmina?”
    He gestured toward another portion of the house. “Oh, she don’t feel so good in the mornings, so I try and let her get the sleep, you know?”
    As Sancho and Abe sat, I studied the black and white photo hanging on the kitchen wall. “I know that’s your father, Beltran, but is the other man his brother, Jakes?” Both men looked as tough as wrought iron.
    “Ya, dat ol’ dark-looking Basquo was my uncle—the real black sheep of the family—had the bluest blue eyes you ever saw.”
    “Was?”
    “Oh yeah, we figure he be dead.”
    “Your father was the one who shot Lucian, wasn’t he?”
    He sipped the coffee, his eyes sparking over the rim of the mug like daybreak. “There’s some argument in de family ’bout dat.”
    My translator decided to join the conversation. “In what way?”
    He shot a quick look to Saizarbitoria. “Hard to believe there would be some differences in a Basquo family story, you know?” He leaned back in his chair and studied me. “There’s talk dat Jakes was the one dat actually shot Lucian and that since my dad was the older of the two, he takes the blame.”
    Rolling the sawed-off from my shoulder, I looked at it again. “Lucian says it was Beltran that shot him.”
    Abe shook his head and laughed some more. “Yep, dat’s what Lucian says all these years all right.”
    I leaned the dangerous-looking weapon against the wall and came over and sat with them. “Are you saying Lucian was in on it?”
    “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, but you give him dat shotgun and see if the statuary limits is up on dat, then you come back here and tell me, you know?”
    I sipped the coffee—it was really good. “Whatever happened to Jakes?”
    Abe took a deep breath and slowly let it out, twisting at the hairs in his ear. “Don’t know to tell da truth. When my father got out of dat prison in Rawlins, him and Jakes got into it over how Jakes was running the place, and Jakes took off to Idaho and married some Indian woman and started his own spread, a big one—but then he got into money trouble and disappeared back in the eighties. I heard he got hit by a train or somethin’.” Reaching behind him, he picked up the old percolator from the stove and freshened our mugs. “It would have taken a train tokill one of those ol’ Basquos. We ain’t heard nothin’ from dat side of the family since.”
    I glanced at Saizarbitoria and sipped my coffee, letting the silence settle in the cozy kitchen, wishing I didn’t have to bring up the next subject. “Miguel Hernandez . . .”
    Abe returned the percolator to the stove and then wrapped his stubby fingers around his coffee mug. “Dat poor young man.” He looked up at me.