Wait for Signs: Twelve Longmire Stories Read Free

tall, heavyset man entered the café; he wore a large silver-belly hat, a .357 revolver, and a star. He waved at the two behind the counter as I turned back to the deputy. “Wanda’s Crow. If she thought he was Indian, she’d have said so.”
    I caught the eye of the woman with the hairnet. “Wanda, was the kid Indian?” After a brief conversation with the manager, they both shook their heads no. “You need to quit jerkingus around, get a more detailed description of the suspect, and put a unit out to circle the vicinity.”
    “Is that what you’d do?” He studied the notebook again for my name—evidently he wasn’t a quick learner.
    I watched as the large man with the star stood behind his deputy. Wesley Burrell Best Bayles, the sheriff of Big Horn County, was a legend; hell, I’d seen him eat the MONTA NA BREAKFAST! SERVED ALL DAY! AS FEATURED IN READER’S DIGEST!
    “Son, don’t you recognize the highly decorated peace officer of Absaroka County, Wyoming?”
    After telling the deputy to get in his unit and ride surveillance, Wes excused him and drank a cup of coffee while I talked to the manager. Ray Bartlett said a guy had come in and asked for a job, so he had given him an application. The kid had sat in the corner booth till a couple of rodeo cowboys finished up at the buffet and departed. He had worked up his nerve, come up to the register, pulled a .22 pistol from his waistband, stuck it in Wanda Pretty On Top’s face, and demanded the cash. Wanda, figuring the $214 wasn’t worth her life and unsure if the .22 would kill her or just hurt real bad, handed it over. He asked for the change, and she had sighed and then dutifully dumped the coins into a deposit bag. The kid made them get down on the floor, which Wanda said was fine with her ’cause she was dying to get off her feet. Then he told them that if they moved in the next ten minutes, he’d shoot ’em. Ray said that it had been about five when we came in.
    Wes filled himself another and motioned toward me, but I declined. “Ray, what’d the kid look like?”
    “Tall, thin . . . stringy long hair and a straw cowboy hat.” Ray thought. “Jeans, a T-shirt, and one of them snap-front western shirts.”
    I nodded. “Had the tail of the shirt out to cover the gun?”
    “Yep.”
    “Anything else?”
    Ray thought some more. “He smelled, and he had bad teeth.”
    I looked to Wes and watched as he plucked the mic from his shoulder and called in the description to the deputies and assorted HPs he had out prowling. We shook hands.
    “Thanks, Walt.”
    “You bet.”
    I walked to the booth and knocked on the table to get Lonnie’s attention. “You ready to go?”
    He nodded enthusiastically but kept reading. “They switched the electrical system over to twelve volts.” He looked up. “I don’t know why people do that; the six-volt system is a good one. Um hmm, yes, it is so.”
    *   *   *
    I loaded Lonnie, folded up his wheelchair, and let Dog out. I watched as the beast relieved himself and memorized every smell between the lamppost and the truck, then let him in the back and fastened my seat belt. Lonnie was still reading the
Shopper
, and it was beginning to worry me. “You all right?”
    He didn’t look up but continued reading. “Yes.”
    I waited a minute. “I apologize for that.”
    He still didn’t look at me. “For what?”
    “The deputy in there.”
    He finally turned his head. “Why should you apologize for him?” I stared through the windshield and started backing out. “Where are we going, Walter?”
    I thought Lonnie must have been getting forgetful. “Well, we were going to your doctor’s appointment, but it’s so late, we’ll have to go home and reschedule.”
    He looked back at the paper. “Oh, I thought you might want to go get the young man who robbed the café.”
    *   *   *
    It was a rundown trailer park on the outskirts of Hardin, the kind that attracted tornados and discarded tires. We