He cleared his throat and gestured toward the depleted vista. “Jus’ keep going that way, toward the mountains.”
The hills became more pointed as we drove, and the tall, dry grass rolled like waves crashing against the foothills of the Bighorns. Gradually, the road became more apparent and I could see a ranch gate in the distance, a big one made from rough-hewn 12 Ч 12s, with a bent sign chained on the top and sides.
There was a brace of structures in a meadow of bottomland below the pale yellow cliffs, which were the same shade as the ranch house, barn, and outbuildings. The stone of the buildings, the shadows of the giant cottonwoods that just had turned dusty gold, and the deeply overhung cedar-shake roofs felt cool even from a distance, and I could feel emotion pulling in my chest as I took it all in.
I stopped the truck at the gate. We sat there for a moment, then Bill got out, and I opened the door for Dog. The three of us met at the cattle guard, and Bill gestured for me to continue toward the gate, which I did, even though he still held the. 30–30. He held the bottle too, if unsteadily, but I wasn’t too afraid of being shot in the back anymore and reached down and ruffled Dog’s ear. “C’mon. You’ve jumped these things before.”
Bill followed us over to the thick rails that made up the pivoting double gate. The hardware was handmade, and I could see all sorts of finishing touches in the forged steel, a talent which was far beyond the abilities of most ranchers. Even the chains that held the sign above us looked handmade.
Bill leaned on the top rail with the Winchester lying parallel, his forearms covering the rifle. “The fella that built this place was a blacksmith by trade, but he dabbled in masonry.”
“Uh huh.” I propped up an elbow of my own on the worn spot just where you would have gripped to pull the custom latch. I could see that the four-inch rails were smoothed, where horsemen had sidled against the gate for more than a half-century, so that they could open it without dismounting, saving themselves the ignominy of becoming a cowboy afoot.
“Knew what he was doing: back to the cliffs, easy access to water, and those beautiful mountains off in the distance.” Bill stood there for a moment, breathing in the flavor of the changing wind as it followed the bottomland and climbed the cliffs that surrounded a perfect basin where the homestead was located and where the air was sweet and heavy with the life-affirming humidity of the river. “He had a wife who was probably the prettiest thing in the Powder River country-musical, too. Played the piano, as I recall.”
There were a few juniper and some cottonwood trees growing up from the fissures in the rock along the cliff, the volunteers mimicking the shimmer of the big guys by the ranch house. There was an old road that led down to the huddle of buildings, but until you were almost upon it, the place was completely concealed from the outside. You had to know it was here to get here.
I turned as Dog circled the perimeter, taking in the smells, and I could feel a little of the moisture collecting in my eyes. “Whatever happened to them?”
Bill stood with his back against the gate, the rifle now propped against the fence, and gestured with his chin for me to join him. He scratched his neck where his protruding Adam’s apple strained as he continued to look up at the ranch sign. “They had a boy who played ball, offensive tackle for USC, but I don’t think he ever amounted to much.”
The chains that held the sign racked against the eyelet bolts with the wind and then relaxed, the sound like spurs jingling on a hardwood floor. Memories were crowding in on me now, and all I could do was stand there and take the hits like a tackling dummy.
He finally lowered his head and took a sip of the rye as I stared at the sky and read the name I knew as well as my own. Because it was my own.
The gusts pushed against the wooden plank, but the letters that my father had carved deep into the whorls of the iron-wood were still highly legible and read, LONGMIRE.
8
October 28, 5:40 P.M.
I handed the bottle back to him and stood there, still feeling the burn in my throat as I thought about what Henry had said alongside the red road, about knowing where we were going. “You remembered my family after all these years, Bill?”
He blew out a deep breath that pursed his lips. “Yeah. I heard about Martha getting the cancer and I know I should’ve gotten in touch, but I didn’t, and after that it just kept getting harder and harder to work up the nerve.” He readjusted, still in search of a comfortable spot for his butt on the top rail, and tossed a small pebble into the roadway that stretched down to my father’s house. “I figured I’d see you again.” He laughed. “I don’t mind telling ya, I was getting worried thinking I was going to have to write you a letter from Denver. Hell, I’d rather take a bullet than write a letter.”
I walked away from the gate toward the edge of the cliff and stared at the reflections on the water as Buffalo Creek twisted its way to the reservoir that I had helped my father build. I stood there on the bluff overlooking the place where I’d grown up, trying to deflect the flood of history and emotion. “After they died, I just stopped coming out this way.”
“I know.” He took another swig of the liquor and gestured toward the tidy ranch house with the stone archways shading the front porch and to me with both hands, his voice echoing off the rock face. “Funny how you can have your life some place and then just pick up one day and walk away.”
“How long did you know it was me?”
He smiled. “I met Eric Boss before, and he wasn’t what everybody was describing. I read the newspapers, and you’ve been in there a lot lately.”
“I suppose so.”
“Then I got a look at you at the bar last night.”
“You were there?”
“Nope. I started to come in but saw you and turned around and went home.”
“What time?”
He smiled. “You sound like a sheriff now.”
I didn’t smile. “What time?”
He cleared his throat and spit to the side, wobbled a little, and paused. He looked like he might puke, but he only belched and turned back to me. “ ’Bout eleven-thirty. It looked like you were havin’ a little scrape with that Cly fella.”
“Who else knows who I am?”
He made a face. “Nobody.”
“Nobody?”
His eyes stayed steady underneath the brows. “Nobody that I know of.”
I took a deep breath and looked at the homestead and then at the sign again.
His eyes narrowed as he watched me but then widened as he followed my gaze. “I’ll be damned. There aren’t that many Longmires around these parts, and I’ve heard the stories about your grandfather and that fugitive buffalo soldier.”
“Did you recognize Henry back there on the road?”
He waited a minute, aware that I’d changed the subject. “Yeah. I think more people know who he is than know who you are. He’s kind of a celebrity around these parts… He played ball, too. Didn’t he?”
“Running back for the Cal Bears, appropriately enough.”
His head nodded, maybe a little more than it should have. “Both of you were good-what happened?”
“Vietnam.” I looked back toward the house, my eyes unable to leave it alone. “Do you think anybody’s made any connections?”
“Well, nobody’s said anything, but you’ve got ’em nervous.” He shook his head. “What the hell are you doin’ out here, Walt?”
I plucked the. 30–30 from its resting place and examined the breech-it was loaded after all. I held it and looked at him. “You know, I thought you might have some other reasons for bringing me out here.”
It took a long time for him to respond but, when he did, he looked confused and then just a little shocked.
