Read Online Messenger: A Walt Longmire Story by Craig Johnson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig Johnson
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changed my tone. “It’s just that I’d gotten used to the idea.”
“Your idea.”
“Evidently.” We glanced off another tree, but they were fewer and farther between. “What does she want to name the baby?”
“Lola.”
We drove along in silence as I contemplated the thought that my daughter was considering naming my granddaughter after a 1959 Baltic Blue Thunderbird convertible. “She wants to name my granddaughter after your car?”
He gestured toward the vehicle in which we rode. “At least she is not going to name her Rezdawg.”
“Lola, really?”
“Yes.”
I thought about it. “Where did the name of your car come from?”
“There was a lovely young woman from South Dakota . . .”
“The stripper?”
He smiled a knowing smile. “She was a dancer, yes.”
“A stripper; she was a stripper from over in Sturgis you dated in the seventies.”
“She was a very talented performer.”
“And you named the car after her.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not having my granddaughter named after a car named after a stripper.” I shook my head. “Lola Moretti. Lola Moretti?”
Vic chimed in for the first time, and I noticed she’d taken the buds from her ears and was cupping them in her hand. “Sounds like a pole dancer to me.”
Static. “. . . A couple of lives endangered, and if we don’t get any help here pretty soon I’m going to have to do something drastic.”
Henry, Vic, and I looked at the handheld radio in my grip as if the device itself might have blurted out the words and interrupted our conversation.
I punched the button on the mic and responded. “This is Walt Longmire, sheriff of Absaroka County. Copy?”
Static. “. . . Crazy Woman Canyon, and the situation is pretty serious. We can’t get to our vehicles and . . .” The sound drifted off, and I glanced at Henry. “. . . Without backup I’m going to have to use my gun.”
I keyed the mic again; it sounded like Chuck Coon, one of the forest service rangers. “Chuck, this is Walt Longmire. Over?”
The Bear mumbled under his breath. “Did you say Chuck Coon?”
I nodded and smiled. Coon was actually a very nice guy—the kind of ranger who wouldn’t cite you if your campfire was an inch too close to the trail or your horse was picketed a little too near a water source. Henry, however, had had a few visits with him about the difference between brook trout and brown trout and the number of each species allowed a day, but ever since I had dissuaded a group of motorcyclists traveling from Sturgis from beating Coon to death at West Tensleep Campground, the ranger had pretty much decided we were best friends. “Sounds like he’s in trouble.”
Henry shrugged. “We could go help whoever is trying to kill him.”
I thought about the distance between where we were now and where the ranger was. “How long do you think it’ll take us to get there?”
The Cheyenne Nation thought about it. “Not too long.”
Looking out the window to avoid Henry’s intermittent gaze as we glanced off another tree, I folded my arms on my chest. “Lola.”
Henry remained resolute. “It is a lovely name.”
Vic shrugged. “She’s my niece, and I vote for Lola. We just better start stocking up on body glitter.”
• • •
Passing Muddy Creek forest station, Henry accelerated into the turn and slowed at the dirt road marked Crazy Woman Canyon, a spot in the Bighorn Mountains where a settler family had been decimated, leaving only the mother who had, reasonably, lost her mind; the incident made famous in the Robert Redford film
Jeremiah Johnson
. “Did Coon say Crazy Woman Canyon or the campground at Crazy Woman Creek?”
“There is no campground in the canyon, but there is one at the north fork of the creek.” I braced a hand on the dash and again reached around for a seatbelt, even though I knew there were none.
Vic added. “He must’ve been confused.”
Henry hit the gas, the engine wheezed, and we lugged our
“Your idea.”
“Evidently.” We glanced off another tree, but they were fewer and farther between. “What does she want to name the baby?”
“Lola.”
We drove along in silence as I contemplated the thought that my daughter was considering naming my granddaughter after a 1959 Baltic Blue Thunderbird convertible. “She wants to name my granddaughter after your car?”
He gestured toward the vehicle in which we rode. “At least she is not going to name her Rezdawg.”
“Lola, really?”
“Yes.”
I thought about it. “Where did the name of your car come from?”
“There was a lovely young woman from South Dakota . . .”
“The stripper?”
He smiled a knowing smile. “She was a dancer, yes.”
“A stripper; she was a stripper from over in Sturgis you dated in the seventies.”
“She was a very talented performer.”
“And you named the car after her.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not having my granddaughter named after a car named after a stripper.” I shook my head. “Lola Moretti. Lola Moretti?”
Vic chimed in for the first time, and I noticed she’d taken the buds from her ears and was cupping them in her hand. “Sounds like a pole dancer to me.”
Static. “. . . A couple of lives endangered, and if we don’t get any help here pretty soon I’m going to have to do something drastic.”
Henry, Vic, and I looked at the handheld radio in my grip as if the device itself might have blurted out the words and interrupted our conversation.
I punched the button on the mic and responded. “This is Walt Longmire, sheriff of Absaroka County. Copy?”
Static. “. . . Crazy Woman Canyon, and the situation is pretty serious. We can’t get to our vehicles and . . .” The sound drifted off, and I glanced at Henry. “. . . Without backup I’m going to have to use my gun.”
I keyed the mic again; it sounded like Chuck Coon, one of the forest service rangers. “Chuck, this is Walt Longmire. Over?”
The Bear mumbled under his breath. “Did you say Chuck Coon?”
I nodded and smiled. Coon was actually a very nice guy—the kind of ranger who wouldn’t cite you if your campfire was an inch too close to the trail or your horse was picketed a little too near a water source. Henry, however, had had a few visits with him about the difference between brook trout and brown trout and the number of each species allowed a day, but ever since I had dissuaded a group of motorcyclists traveling from Sturgis from beating Coon to death at West Tensleep Campground, the ranger had pretty much decided we were best friends. “Sounds like he’s in trouble.”
Henry shrugged. “We could go help whoever is trying to kill him.”
I thought about the distance between where we were now and where the ranger was. “How long do you think it’ll take us to get there?”
The Cheyenne Nation thought about it. “Not too long.”
Looking out the window to avoid Henry’s intermittent gaze as we glanced off another tree, I folded my arms on my chest. “Lola.”
Henry remained resolute. “It is a lovely name.”
Vic shrugged. “She’s my niece, and I vote for Lola. We just better start stocking up on body glitter.”
• • •
Passing Muddy Creek forest station, Henry accelerated into the turn and slowed at the dirt road marked Crazy Woman Canyon, a spot in the Bighorn Mountains where a settler family had been decimated, leaving only the mother who had, reasonably, lost her mind; the incident made famous in the Robert Redford film
Jeremiah Johnson
. “Did Coon say Crazy Woman Canyon or the campground at Crazy Woman Creek?”
“There is no campground in the canyon, but there is one at the north fork of the creek.” I braced a hand on the dash and again reached around for a seatbelt, even though I knew there were none.
Vic added. “He must’ve been confused.”
Henry hit the gas, the engine wheezed, and we lugged our
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