Read Online A Serpent's Tooth: A Walt Longmire Mystery by Craig Johnson - Free Book Online
Authors: Craig Johnson
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“My compadre learned his social graces from cows.”
I nodded. “So, are you Roy Lynear?”
He laughed, obviously much amused by the thought. “Oh no, I simply work for Mr. Lynear.” He extended his hand toward me. “I’m Tomás Bidarte. I am the poet lariat of Nuevo Leon.”
“Lariat, not laureate?”
He smiled, and it was a dazzling display, revealing some creative dentistry with more than twenty-four karats. “My poetry is more for the cantina than the parlor.”
I took the hand. “What do you do when you’re not rhyming?”
We shook, and his grip was like cast iron. “Work for Mr. Lynear.”
I looked around the vaquero toward the truck with its running lights on, sitting in the half-light of the approaching night. “Well, it’s an odd time to come visiting, especially armed. Is Roy out there, because I’m dying to meet him.”
He continued smiling, studying me. “And I’m sure he’s going to want to meet you too, Sheriff.”
“Send him in.”
Bidarte turned his matinee-idol profile toward the door and then back to me. “That, señor, might be a little easier said than done.”
• • •
The man in the back of the brand-new King Ranch one-ton diesel was testing its rear suspension—he must’ve tipped the scales at an easy four hundred pounds. He was comfortably seated in what must’ve been a custom-built La-Z-Boy throne, complete with his sheepskin slippers prominently displayed on the foot extension. He wore an oversized, expensive-looking bathrobe draped over a snap-button shirt with a large turquoise bolo tie and a pair of TCU purple sweatpants. On his head was an honest-to-God sombrero.
“‘The harvest has passed and the summer has ended, and we are not saved.’”
Vic and Eleanor had joined me at the edge of the wooden walkway, an advantage that made us the same height as Roy Lynear.
“Jeremiah, chapter eight, verse two.”
He turned his head and looked at me. “You know the word of God, Sheriff?”
“I know entire sentences.”
He continued to study me, unsure if I was the real deal or if I’d only stumbled upon a line of scripture, then gestured toward one of his massive legs. “Inconvenient gout; I apologize for having you come out here into the night like this, but my joints are hurting so bad I’m afraid I wouldn’t make it up those steps.”
I watched as John Deere in a ball cap stayed on the other side of the truck bed with the shotgun in his hands.
The massive man in the chair settled his eyes on me. “I suppose I should introduce myself—I’m Roy Lynear.”
Vic was quick to respond. “We’ve heard a lot about you lately.”
He studied my deputy, and I was pretty sure he was both attracted and annoyed. “Have you, now?” He glanced at the sullen one behind him and to the caballero who had propped an ornately inlaid, pointy-toed boot on the rear bumper of the chariot near the Texas plate. “From these two?”
To my surprise, the Hispanic fellow spoke freely. “You are the company you keep.”
The giant man laughed until he wheezed. “Tomás Bidarte here is one of the great vaquero poets. He’s in all the anthologies, aren’t you, Tom?”
He tipped his hat. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
Lynear issued a command. “Give us one, Tom.”
Bidarte slipped an elongated knife from the back pocket of his jeans and pushed a button, the stiletto blade leaping out into the running lights a good eight inches. He cleaned his fingernails as he spoke.
“Have more than you show,
Talk less than you know.
Lend less than you owe,
Ride more than you go.”
The older man shook his head and kicked a slipper at the poet. “That wasn’t one of your best.”
“Well, Patrón, you get what you pay for.”
Lynear gestured quickly and nodded at the man behind him. “One of my dim-witted sons, George.” He hunched himself a little forward and looked past me. “Excuse me, Sheriff. Mrs. Tisdale?”
She took a step forward and crossed
I nodded. “So, are you Roy Lynear?”
He laughed, obviously much amused by the thought. “Oh no, I simply work for Mr. Lynear.” He extended his hand toward me. “I’m Tomás Bidarte. I am the poet lariat of Nuevo Leon.”
“Lariat, not laureate?”
He smiled, and it was a dazzling display, revealing some creative dentistry with more than twenty-four karats. “My poetry is more for the cantina than the parlor.”
I took the hand. “What do you do when you’re not rhyming?”
We shook, and his grip was like cast iron. “Work for Mr. Lynear.”
I looked around the vaquero toward the truck with its running lights on, sitting in the half-light of the approaching night. “Well, it’s an odd time to come visiting, especially armed. Is Roy out there, because I’m dying to meet him.”
He continued smiling, studying me. “And I’m sure he’s going to want to meet you too, Sheriff.”
“Send him in.”
Bidarte turned his matinee-idol profile toward the door and then back to me. “That, señor, might be a little easier said than done.”
• • •
The man in the back of the brand-new King Ranch one-ton diesel was testing its rear suspension—he must’ve tipped the scales at an easy four hundred pounds. He was comfortably seated in what must’ve been a custom-built La-Z-Boy throne, complete with his sheepskin slippers prominently displayed on the foot extension. He wore an oversized, expensive-looking bathrobe draped over a snap-button shirt with a large turquoise bolo tie and a pair of TCU purple sweatpants. On his head was an honest-to-God sombrero.
“‘The harvest has passed and the summer has ended, and we are not saved.’”
Vic and Eleanor had joined me at the edge of the wooden walkway, an advantage that made us the same height as Roy Lynear.
“Jeremiah, chapter eight, verse two.”
He turned his head and looked at me. “You know the word of God, Sheriff?”
“I know entire sentences.”
He continued to study me, unsure if I was the real deal or if I’d only stumbled upon a line of scripture, then gestured toward one of his massive legs. “Inconvenient gout; I apologize for having you come out here into the night like this, but my joints are hurting so bad I’m afraid I wouldn’t make it up those steps.”
I watched as John Deere in a ball cap stayed on the other side of the truck bed with the shotgun in his hands.
The massive man in the chair settled his eyes on me. “I suppose I should introduce myself—I’m Roy Lynear.”
Vic was quick to respond. “We’ve heard a lot about you lately.”
He studied my deputy, and I was pretty sure he was both attracted and annoyed. “Have you, now?” He glanced at the sullen one behind him and to the caballero who had propped an ornately inlaid, pointy-toed boot on the rear bumper of the chariot near the Texas plate. “From these two?”
To my surprise, the Hispanic fellow spoke freely. “You are the company you keep.”
The giant man laughed until he wheezed. “Tomás Bidarte here is one of the great vaquero poets. He’s in all the anthologies, aren’t you, Tom?”
He tipped his hat. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
Lynear issued a command. “Give us one, Tom.”
Bidarte slipped an elongated knife from the back pocket of his jeans and pushed a button, the stiletto blade leaping out into the running lights a good eight inches. He cleaned his fingernails as he spoke.
“Have more than you show,
Talk less than you know.
Lend less than you owe,
Ride more than you go.”
The older man shook his head and kicked a slipper at the poet. “That wasn’t one of your best.”
“Well, Patrón, you get what you pay for.”
Lynear gestured quickly and nodded at the man behind him. “One of my dim-witted sons, George.” He hunched himself a little forward and looked past me. “Excuse me, Sheriff. Mrs. Tisdale?”
She took a step forward and crossed
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