Land of Wolves (13 page)

Ronnie winked at Vic and then handed me the entirety. “You can pay here—save you time at the checkout line.”

“Deal.” I handed him some bills, took my change, and we started out through the automatic doors. Figuring that since I had Dog we’d travel in my truck, I made my way and climbed in as the beast gave up riding shotgun and jumped onto the backseat. Vic climbed in and buckled up.

“Where’s the infamous shotgun?”

“I gave it to Jimenez to give back to Abarrane since Lucian didn’t want it.”

She nodded. “So, what’s the story on all the animosity between cattlemen and sheepmen?”

I started my truck and backed out, took a right, and headed out of town. “Transhumance.”

“Is that some kind of LGBTQ thing?”

“I don’t think so.” Settling in, we raced across the foothills and then began the long climb crisscrossing the canyon that leads to the high country. “It’s a type of herding that goes back to the old-world methods of pastoral migration, moving large herds of sheep from the lowland plains to the mountains where there’s enough grass to fatten the herds.”

“So, what was the problem?”

I gestured out the window. “It’s not easy to explain but
private land ownership and fences to make it simple. The old style called for vast areas where sometimes thousands of sheep grazed across the checkerboard of public and private land. There was always and maybe still is competition between the cattlemen and the sheep owners for that grass. You add the homesteaders into the pot, and you historically get trouble.

“So, it was all about grass?”

“Some, but I suspect there was a little more to it than that.”

“What?”

“Bigotry. Most cattlemen and cowboys were white, while most shepherds were Hispanic, Mexican, Native, or Basque. The cattlemen looked down on the sheepmen—they saw them as meek individuals who didn’t have the gumption to seek independence like the cowboys had, and both cattlemen and sheepmen looked down on the homesteaders.”

“That’s stupid.”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t, but you have to remember that period of the American West was a time of great racial identification and suspicion of different peoples.”

“Was it really violent?”

“In 1903, the Sheep Shooters, a group of antisheep cattlemen, tallied between eight thousand and ten thousand sheep killed on the open range. Hell, hooded riders used clubs to kill thousands of them here in Wyoming and Montana.”

“When did all that foolishness stop?”

“World War I, when we all got the Germans as a mutual enemy. It’s still a difficult business to be in. The sheep industry has bottomed out in many ways. There are fewer sheep in this country than there were two hundred years ago and only a tenth of the number that there were in the forties. There are
now a little over five million sheep, mostly located on land that can’t support cows.”

“Who has the most sheep?”

“China, with about a hundred and forty million.”

“How come we’re not getting shepherds from China?”

“Good question.”

She sat up as I turned right onto the gravel roadway. “Where, exactly, are we going?”

“The road at Hunter Corral and the access path on the other side of Paradise Guest Ranch.”

“So, the other side of paradise.” She lodged her boots on the dash as she always did. “Sounds good to me.”

Clay Miller, the head ramrod at Paradise Guest Ranch, said we were free to use their road to the park where Extepare had one of his herds, and he even invited us to lunch—I had held up my white paper bag.

He cocked his stained cowboy hat back on his head and nodded. “Arriett’s up in that North Park section, but he comes in here every week or so.”

“For what?”

“Wine—he’s French after all.”

I nodded and started my truck as Clay squinted an eye at me. “So, what are we doing about this wolf problem?”

Playing into the old joke, I made something up. “I think the Game and Fish are capturing them, neutering them, and then releasing them.”

“They do understand that the problem is the wolves eating the sheep and not screwing them, right?”

“Have a nice day, Clay.”

Laughing, he pulled back from my window and waved us through the open gate. “Don’t get bit.”

Bouncing along the dirt road, we entered the tree line and watched as the forest closed around us. There was a small amount of snow on the ground where the drifts had been, but it was obvious that winter was in recession, and before long the brimming reservoirs would be sending the life-giving water down the mountain to the pastures and irrigation ditches below.

“I love it up here.”

I turned to look at her. “Really?”

“There aren’t any people.”

“Oh.” I waited a moment before adding. “You know I have a cabin up here.”

She turned to look at me. “What?”

“A private lease with the Forest Service that my family has had since 1904.”

“Where?”

I gestured in a vague direction. “Oh, back that way.”

“And you never told me about it?”

“Its formal name is Ranch 34 of the National Order of Cowboy Rangers—a fraternal order of cowboys that started up before the turn of the century whose
lodges
were referred to as
ranches,
and the one here in Absaroka County was my family cabin, Ranch 34. Back before World War I, these groups were mostly organized to provide life insurance and burial rates, but the NOCR was infamous for one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Stealing the body of William Frederick Cody, aka Buffalo Bill.”

She turned in the seat to stare at me. “What?”

“January 10, 1917, Buffalo Bill Cody died of kidney failure in
Denver, Colorado, and for four months lay in state until they could blast enough ground away to bury him at the top of Lookout Mountain, there near Denver. The American Legion and other groups in Wyoming responded by joining together in a reward for the return of the body to Cody, Wyoming, which resulted in the state of Colorado placing the body under armed guard until it could be interred under four feet of concrete in June of that same year.”

“So, Wyoming and Colorado fought over the body?”

“Yep.”

“And this National Order of Cowboys and Indians . . .”

This time I said it a little more forcibly. “National Order of Cowboy Rangers.”

“They went down and tried to steal the body?”

“Yep.”

“But they didn’t?”

“There’s a lot of conjecture on that.”

“But Buffalo Bill is buried on Lookout Mountain in Colorado, right?”

I drove along in a modicum of silence. “I don’t know, is he?”

She continued to study me. “Oh, you fucker.” After a moment, she slumped back in her seat. “I want to see this cabin.”

I nodded. “If I can remember the combination.”

“Then you can tell me the rest of the story.” She pointed to the ridge in the wide meadow. “Sheep.”

Sure enough, there was a broad band of off-white at the ridge, so I wheeled up the dirt road and slowly bumped our way to the location about a half-mile distant.

The sheep wagon was backed into the trees at the very top of the ridge, which provided viewing access to both sides of the
vast field of what would become green grass. Pulling my truck up a respectful distance, I parked and we both got out. I didn’t see any dogs or livestock other than the sheep, so I allowed Dog the luxury of stretching all four of his legs.

The beast jumped out and trotted toward the wagon, choosing a chocked wheel to lift a leg.

There were about a hundred head milling about, looking for new grass and bathing in the warmth of the spring sun, as I knocked on the door of the wagon. “Jacques Arriett, are you home?”

There was no response.

Walking around the wagon, I could see where a horse or mule had been tied up in the shade, but the water bucket was still half-full and the stake line hung limp to the ground. “He must be out on his mount.”

“Rounding up wine?”

“Maybe.” I looked around but couldn’t see any sign of the man. I smiled. “I guess we could’ve called ahead.”

“Uh huh.” She knocked on the door again. “You think he hung himself too?”

“I hope not, and just for the record I don’t think Miguel Hernandez hung himself either.” Glancing toward a copse of aspens near the wagon, I walked over and ran my hand over the trunks, studying the signs and images that had been freshly carved in the tender bark.

“And this breakthrough in the big case is based on what?”

Pulling out a small notepad from my jacket, I drew a pencil from my pocket and quickly sketched the images as best I could. “Mule hair on the inside of Hernandez’s pants.”

“That means somebody could’ve used a mule to hang him.”

I continued to study the symbols. “And the mules were tied up when we found his camp.”

“Holy shit, you’re right.”

“I guess I’d be more worried if this Jacques guy’s mule or horse were here.”

Folding her arms, she leaned against the wagon. “Walt, why the hell would someone be running around killing shepherds?”

I took in the entire area but could see no sign of Arriett. Finally folding my field notepad closed, I turned to look at her. “I wish I knew.”

The place hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d seen it almost fifteen years ago. Some of the footers on the front porch were starting to rot along with the exposed rafter ends and the purlins. The old asphalt roof was missing a few tiles, but the tarpaper underneath appeared to be holding up, at least until I could get inside.

Feeling along the top of the doorframe, I finally found the old commercial-style key. I turned to see Vic leaning against the railing looking through the grove of quaking aspens to the beaver pond below. “This is beautiful.”

“Not bad, huh?”

“Why do you never come up here?”

I looked around, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out. “Strong associations with my grandfather.” I turned back toward the door, hoping that Tom Groneberg, the manager of my familial properties, hadn’t changed the lock.

Luckily the key turned like I’d been here only days before.

Standing there in the doorway, I inhaled the old air that my
grandfather had at one time exhaled and my feet felt frozen to the porch.

“You all right?”

“Um . . .” I glanced inside. “Yep.” I took a step. The place looked exactly as I remembered. The room was dominated by an old moss-rock fireplace, barrister bookcases, and old Mission furniture. From where I stood I could see the massive moose mount on the far wall and the old Navajo rug that covered the floor where the weathered leather sofa stretched across the room.

“Hey.”

I turned and looked down at her.

“We don’t have to go in here if you don’t want to.”

Turning back, I could see the opening that led to the bedroom and the string of black and white photographs that I knew by heart on the log wall, the closest one of my mother and father standing down near the pond maybe sixty yards away.

There was a noise, a persistent noise, that came rushing at me, and all I could do was stand there and listen as it grew louder. It was like something was calling out to me from a long time ago, something that had to be answered now.

Opening my mouth, I could feel a constriction in my chest and couldn’t seem to speak as I turned toward Vic again, who stood just a little away, talking on her cell phone; a miracle in itself that there was service. It took a minute, but I caught my breath and smiled as she hung up and turned to look at me.

“That abandoned vehicle Sancho was going to check on? Well, it belongs to that guy you met the other night.”

“Which guy?”

“Abarrane Extepare’s son-in-law, Donnie Lott.”

“Did you check the room?”

“No, I talked to the woman at the front desk who reported the car and then came up here and knocked on the door, but nobody answered.”

Pulling the magnetic card from the paper sleeve, I held it in my hand as I rapped on the wooden surface of room 214. “Mr. Lott, it’s Walt Longmire, the sheriff.” There was no answer, so I knocked again. “Mr. Lott?” I slipped the card through the lock mechanism and pushed the door open wide.

The room was clean, but he’d been here.

The bed had been slept in, and there was a sports duffel sitting on a chair; a laptop on the desk nearby. Taking a few steps farther, I walked into the bathroom and could see that his personal items and a Dopp kit were on the shelf above the sink. He’d taken a shower, a damp towel still hanging over the edge of the tub.

Turning around, I could see Sancho taking a closer look at the nightstand. “Something?”

“A notepad with a local number written on it.”

“Mobile phone?”

“Nope.”

“We’ll have to check if he made any calls through the front.”

He gestured toward the desk. “What about the computer?”

“We’ll look at it, but only after we’re sure he’s really missing.”

“Want me to phone the number into Ruby and find out who it is?”

“I’ve got a suspicion, but go ahead.”

He got out his cell and followed me as I vacated the room, careful to close the door behind us. Walking down the steps, I stopped at the front desk and spoke with the perky young woman there who was inordinately excited to be in on the crime of the century. “He only paid for the one night?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, but that’s not unusual. Sometimes people aren’t sure what they’re doing and then pay for another night. Housekeeping knocked on the door, but there was no answer, so they opened up and saw all the personal items and immediately closed it.”

I propped an elbow onto the counter. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“I didn’t, but Bobby checked him in last night. I came in at eight this morning, but I never saw him at the breakfast buffet or anything.”

“Is Bobby around?”

“No, but I can get him on the phone.” She reached for the receiver and dialed. “Normally I don’t make much of a fuss, but the car had been there all day and I was getting worried, so I kept calling up to the room and when nobody answered . . .” Her attention returned to the phone. “Bobby, the sheriff is here, and he wants to talk to you.”

She handed me the phone. “Hey, Bobby, Walt Longmire. You checked Mr. Lott in last night?”

The voice was young and sounded tired. “Uh huh.”

“And what time was that?”

He thought about it. “Late, like after midnight.”

“Did you ever hear or see anything of him after that?”

“No, not a peep.”

“Okay. Well, if you think of something, could you give me a call?” I handed the phone back to the young woman. “Thanks.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing, for now.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, he took a shower last night and slept in the bed and all his stuff is still in the room with no sign of foul play or anything else for that matter. His vehicle is still parked outside, so I’m guessing that he’ll show up. Maybe he went for a run and turned his ankle or something. We’ll check the hospital and the out-clinics and then we’ll just keep an eye open.”

She seemed disappointed. “That’s it?”

“I don’t want to put out a full-blown manhunt and call in the bloodhounds and then find out he’s eating a sandwich over at the Co-Op.”

“We have bloodhounds?”

“One. Well, he’s a hound, although I don’t think he’s into the blood thing.” I turned to look at Sancho and started out the door. “C’mon, let’s go look at the vehicle.” Rounding the building, I spotted the four-door Wrangler parked alongside, which was easy because it was the only vehicle there. “What, they were worried about parking space?”

Sancho smiled. “She’s a criminal justice student at Sheridan College.”

“Oh.”

“She says the instructors over there use some of your incidents as case studies.”

I pulled up to the black Jeep. “Oh, boy.”

The doors were locked, and there was the usual detritus of highway travel—an energy drink in the cup holder, an open bag of cashews, and a map of Durant and the Bighorn Mountain area with a highlighted section that was the Extepare ranch. “I’m assuming that the phone number was the Extepare place?”

“Your assumption would be correct.”

I pointed through the glass. “Well, his cell phone is on the center console, so if he made a call he did it from here or returned his phone to the car, although the night manager said he never saw him.”

Saizarbitoria nodded toward a door at the middle of the building. “He could’ve come that way, then the kid would’ve never seen him.”

I gestured toward the dark globes at the corner eaves of the building. “They’ve got security cameras. Do you want to ask Pepper Anderson in there if we can run through the tapes from last night?”

“Sure.”

“You want to loan me your cell phone and dial the Extepare place for me?”

“Sure.” He did and then handed me the phone. “It’s ringing.”

As he walked away, I held the thing to my ear and glanced around at the surrounding area, including the sidewalk that led under the interstate overpass and back toward the center of town.

The phone rang five times and then an answering machine with a prerecorded message asked me to leave a message, so I did. “Abarrane, this is Walt Longmire, and I’d like to speak
with you about your son-in-law, Donnie Lott. If you could call me back at the office I’d appreciate it. Thanks.”

Hitting the red button, I stood there looking up at the passing vehicles on the highway and then back at the only vehicle in the parking lot, noticing the wallet on the dash where he’d had it last night. “Where did you go, Donnie, my wandering boy?”

“He hasn’t heard anything from him?”

Ruby pulled the phone from her ear and looked up at me. “That’s what he said, duly noted in the Post-it I just handed you.”

“Didn’t even know he was coming to get his son?”

“As near as I can tell, no.”

“I guess I need to call Colorado.”

“I guess you do.” She went back to talking on her phone. “No, that would be the predator board you need to talk to . . .”

Entering my office, I sat and hit the space bar on my computer and drew warmth from the two smiling faces on the screen. “How are you guys? Me, I’m doing pretty well. Have I told you about the dead sheepherder? Nope? Well, he hung himself, but then they found mule hairs on his pants—”

“Am I interrupting something?”

I looked up to find Vic staring at me. She sat and glanced at the computer with which I’d just been in conversation. “So, have you finally gone off the proverbial deep end?”

“I’m in the shallows.”

“Hell, that’s where I live. The son-in-law is missing?”

“As of the moment. I guess I’m calling Colorado, but I got distracted by my computer and we were having a conversation.”

“You know they don’t talk back, right?”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Pulling out my Rolodex, I flipped through
to Extepare and noted the other number I’d scribbled on the margin. I called it and was rewarded with the voice of Jeannie Lott.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Lott? This is Walt Longmire, the sheriff up here in Absaroka County?”

“Oh, thank God.”

“I’m assuming you’re aware of the situation?”

“Do you have my husband there with you?”

“Not at this time, but I do have his belongings and a vehicle at a motel here in Durant.”

There was a pause as she readjusted the phone and sighed. “What are you talking about?”

“Were you aware he was coming up here last night?”

“Well, he was upset about Liam and said he was going for a hike and left in the Jeep, but when he didn’t come back, I had a suspicion he might be heading that way. I’ve been calling his cell, but there’s no answer.”

“So, you haven’t heard from him since he left?”

“No, and what do you mean by belongings and abandoned vehicle?”

“He appears to be missing.” There was a very long pause. “And his phone is in the center console of his car along with his wallet on the dash.”

“He never goes anywhere without his phone.”

I waited a moment before adding, “It may be that he’s just out taking a hike, but with your permission, I’d like to open his vehicle and get his wallet and phone to see if they might help in locating him?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Needless to say, if you hear from him, would you give us a call?”

“Certainly, and Sheriff?”

“Yep.”

Her voice was low. “Do you know if he’s had any interaction with my father or Liam?”

“Not yet, but you will be the first one I will contact.” I hung up and looked at my undersheriff. “If Abe doesn’t call back soon, I’m going out there.”

“Oh, joy. But wait, there’s more—two pains in the ass for one.”

“What?”

“Ferris Kaplan has arranged a town meeting concerning the wolf problem at the firehouse this evening with the Large Carnivore Response Team.” Her expression changed to one of disbelief. “Who knew the Duck Detectives had a Large Carnivore Response Team?”

“That’s short notice.”

“I think that’s the idea, so that they can say they had a public meeting about shooting the wolf without the inherent difficulties of dealing with the public. You know how troublesome they can be.”

“A wolf?”

“No, the public.”

“So, a stealth meeting.”

“You got it.”

“And we have to attend?”

“Ferris said he would appreciate us being there. You know, strength in numbers?”

“Right.”

She studied me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I stood and came around the desk. “You want to call up Ted’s Towing and tell them we’ll meet them over at the
Best Western to haul the vehicle here and then jimmy the Jeep so we can check Lott’s stuff?”

“Sure. Then we can go to the clandestine wolf meeting?”

I raised a fist. “The pack.”

Ted already had the Jeep open by the time we got there. I signed the receipt for the towing service, handed the clipboard back to the driver, and turned toward the Wrangler in which Vic sat in its driver’s seat. She was going through Lott’s wallet.

“He’s got seven dollars in here.”

“Yep, he was running out of money when I met him last night.”

She reached for his phone, pulling it from the console and holding it up to her face. “Eight calls from the wife in Colorado and one local call late last night.”

“Extepare?”

“Yeah.” She stared at the screen. “Nothing after that.” Her eyes came up. “Okay, worst case scenario—he calls ol’ Abe, who what, comes out here and gets him? Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“And then does what with him—shoot, shovel, and shut the fuck up?”

“Leaving his possessions and vehicle at the Best Western—doesn’t make for very nuanced criminal activity, does it?”

“No.” Placing the phone in a plastic bag and sealing it, she glanced down in the space between the seat and the console where entire universes are devoured. Sliding a hand between, she pulled a business card from the floorboard. “M
ICKEY
S
OUTHERN:
P
ER
VERT
H
UNTER
?”

“Saizarbitoria mentioned this guy, said he’d been in touch and was coming up from Denver to speak with us about a situation here in-county.”

“You think Lott’s been in contact with him?”

I stared at the card on my desk. “I’d say it’s a good bet.”

“So. . . .” She pointed at the card. “This guy hunts perverts?”

“I guess. Sancho said he had a show on the internet or something, outing pedophiles.”

“There’s no contact information, no email, no phone, nothing.” Turning the business card toward her, she studied it and then straightened from it as if it were giving off a bad smell. “Walt, there’s only one reason Donnie Lott would be in touch with this guy.”

“I know.”

“You think he confronted Abe and things went sideways?”

“I don’t know.”

“This is getting creepy.” She took the card and came around my desk, moving me aside with a hip. “Well, let’s check out the pervert station, shall we?”

“How do we do that?”

She typed, her fingertips driving the keys almost as hard as I did. “Easy—we just put in ‘Mickey Southern: Pervert Hunter’—I’m afraid of what will come up if we just put in ‘Pervert Hunter.’” A string of photos appeared on the left of a hooded individual with street scenes in the background and graphics emblazoned across the top that read M
ICKEY
S
OUTHERN
: P
ERVERT
H
UNTER
. “Holy crap, this dude is a cottage industry—he’s got over fifty episodes of this stuff.”

She clicked the thingamajig, and the screen filled with the
hooded guy, with a mechanically altered voice, talking about texting with an individual in Denver who thought he was communicating with a fourteen-year-old girl. The quality was rough, and you never saw Mickey Southern’s face, which led me to believe that he was the one running the camera. Each episode was about ten minutes in length and showcased the Pervert Hunter confronting pedophiles or suspected pedophiles on the street, in cars, and in a house I assumed he used as bait into which he could lure the targets.

Each episode ended with Southern facing the camera and giving the lowdown on his activities and reporting to authorities the individuals he was outing in the same mechanically altered voice.

Vic stopped the onslaught of episodes and turned to look at me. “Wow.”

“Yep, seems dangerous for a private citizen to be doing this kind of thing, not to mention illegal.”

“I can’t believe somebody hasn’t shot the guy.”

“Maybe nobody really knows who he is.”

She stood, folding her arms, and then reaching down typed in more information. “Obviously, people get in touch with him about situations with predators that they know.” Hitting a final keystroke, she gestured with a hand. “His website with a contact email. I guess that’s the only way to get in touch with him.”