The Spirit of Steamboat Read online

  Also by Craig Johnson

  The Cold Dish

  Death Without Company

  Kindness Goes Unpunished

  Another Man’s Moccasins

  The Dark Horse

  Junkyard Dogs

  Hell Is Empty

  As the Crow Flies

  A Serpent’s Tooth

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com

  Copyright © Craig Johnson, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Johnson, Craig, 1961-

  Spirit of steamboat : a Walt Longmire story / Craig Johnson.

  pages cm.

  ISBN 978-1-101-63551-3

  1. Longmire, Walt (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Sheriffs--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3610.O325S65 2013

  813'.6—dc23 2013017053

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Glenn Johnson, who always made sure we straightened up and flew right.

  CONTENTS

  Also by Craig Johnson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  You don`t concentrate on risks. You concentrate on results. No risk is too great to prevent the necessary job from getting done.

  —Chuck Yeager

  Never wait for trouble.

  —Chuck Yeager

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Spirit of Steamboat is an odd little book, in that it was supposed to be a short story, but within four days had spread its wingspan to over eighty pages. After a brief conference with Kathryn Court over at Viking Penguin, we decided to bring it out as a hardback novella, not exactly a novel. Spirit of Steamboat is about half the length of one of my Walt Longmire mystery books. As usual with my shorter pieces, it’s not a mystery per se, but rather an adventure/thriller with mysterious elements; sometimes it’s not so much about the suspense of killing characters off in a book, but rather, of trying to keep them alive.

  I’ve always been interested in the World War II period aircraft, piston-driven, supercharged, nose art and all, and especially the Doolittle Raiders, to whom I pay homage in the character of Lucian Connally. I remember going to one of their reunions in San Antonio with Mary Brannaman’s father before his passing; Bill Bower was one of those valiant men. There was a flight of magnificently restored Mitchell B-25’s gleaming in the sun on the tarmac, and a group of pilots excited to take us all on a demonstration flight. As we trooped past the flight line, I happened to notice Colonel Bill watching us approach the roaring, high-speed medium bombers. “Bill, aren’t you coming?”

  He smiled as he surveyed the beautifully restored aircraft and shouted back to me, “I’ve flown those damn things and I know how dangerous they can be—you kids have a nice time.”

  Besides the usual crew members, I picked up a few hangar sweepers on this trip. There were a number of areas of expertise where I needed a little in-air assistance, and I’m glad to say that these folks helped me bring Spirit of Steamboat in for a safe landing in your hands.

  First up is pilot extraordinaire and flight legend Duane Powers of Hawkins & Powers in Greybull, Wyoming, who kept my feet on the pedals during this flight of fancy. Those meetings at Lisa’s Restaurant were indispensable, my friend. Thanks to buddy Mike Pilch and to Tom Malyurek for the debriefings at Perkins—jeez, you’d think that all I did was hang out with pilots in restaurants . . .

  Thanks to Master Sergeant Eric Grim of the South Dakota Air and Space Museum in Rapid City, South Dakota, current home of the 28th Bomb Wing and the 37th Bomb Group, the descendants of both Lucian’s and Bill Bower’s 37th Bombardment Squadron—and the current home of B-25 34030, a.k.a. Steamboat. Go by and see her and pat her hooves.

  Next in line, Dr. David Nickerson, the guy I turn to for all things medical; his pages of descriptions with handy diagrams made getting western with the assorted fiascos that attempted to thwart the flight of Steamboat remain both realistic and terrifying. Thanks to Dr. Frank Carlton for the guiding hand and steady reassurance in moments of stress—the Taylor’s bourbon might’ve helped.

  A thumbs-up to Candy Moulton and her fantastic book Steamboat: Legendary Bucking Horse for providing a true and articulate account of Wyoming’s indomitable mascot. Thanks to Mary Brannaman for providing me access to her father’s intimate knowledge and his genuine, horsehide, A2 flight jacket with 37th Bombardment Squadron patch attached.

  Steamboat was one tough hombre to handle, but I had my usual crew to help me get over the turbulence—navigator Gail “Gunny” Hochman and radio operator Marianne “Sparks” Merola, pilot Kathryn “Cockney Sparrow” Court and copilot Tara “Spanky” Singh, nose gunner Barbara “Cyclone” Campo, and tail gunner Scott “Cowboy” Cohen. When the enemy was spotted on the horizon, I knew I could count on waist gunners Carolyn “Cat’s Eyes” Colburn and Angie “Mad Major” Messina, top-turret gunner Maureen “Dizzy” Donnelly, and bombardier Ben “Pappy” Petrone, who always comes in on target.

  And finally to my wife, Judy “The Jewel” Johnson, the fuel in my tanks, the wind under my wings, and the homing signal and landing lights that always bring me in safe.

  It was Tuesday, the day before Christmas, and I wasn’t expecting visitors. I stared at my archnemesis, the little red light on my phone that connected me via the intercom to my dispatcher, Ruby, in the other room. If I raised my voice through the open door—even over the drone of the lite-jazz Christmas carols playing in the background—the reception would be better, but Ruby is a stickler for procedure, so I push the button except for emergencies.

  I stared out the window at the fat, heavy flakes falling like in a snow globe; it had been windy in the morning, but there hadn’t been too many accidents on the county’s snow-covered roadways, and with the updated weather reports, it was looking more and more like it was going to be a peaceful and quiet Christmas—something I rarely got in my business. I had no plans—my undersheriff, Victoria Moretti, and her mother, Lena, had decided to go to Belize for Christmas, and my daughter, Cady, was expecting my first grandchild in January and was too pregnant to travel. I was looking forward to the postholidays when Henry and I would fly to Philadelphia to meet the baby, whose name was to be Lola. I had thought her name was to be Martha after my late wif
e, but Cady had decided on Lola and that was, as they say, that.

  I placed my book flat on my desk, words up, the weight of the sentiment holding it open. Taking a sip from my chipped Denver Broncos coffee mug, I punched the button. “Do I know her?”

  There was a pause, and then Ruby came back on. “She says probably not.” I waited, and I guess she felt prompted to add, “The young woman is carrying something.”

  “Smaller than a bread box but bigger than a subpoena?”

  “Walter.”

  I glanced up at the old Seth Thomas on the wall and figured I had another twenty minutes of daylight on the taxpayer’s dollar. “I’m doing my annual holiday reading; where is Saizarbitoria?”

  “Checking on a drive-off at the Kum & Go.” Or, as Vic liked to call it, the Ejaculate & Evacuate. “I’ve also got Lucian on line two; he wants to know if you are still playing chess tonight.”

  I thought about the old Doolittle Raider as I reached down and petted Dog, who was sleeping, lying low in hopes of avoiding the reindeer antlers Ruby sometimes attached to his head. “Why, has he succumbed to his usual blue Christmas?”

  “Possibly.”

  I thought about how chess night had evolved from Lucian’s poker games of yore, how the old Raider’s companions had died off one by one, and how he’d been left with only two regular visitors and Dog and I didn’t play poker. “Isn’t that what old widowers do? Sure, tell him I’ll be there.”

  It wasn’t what I really wanted to do with my Christmas Eve, but with both Cady and Vic away, I was without female companionship for the holidays. Normally I would’ve headed out to the Red Pony Bar & Grill to spend the evening with my good friend Henry Standing Bear, but he’d been spending time up on the Rocky Boy Reservation with a young divorcée these past couple of weeks—the dog who wouldn’t stay on the porch.

  The season was taking a toll on all of us as it usually did, but I told Ruby to send the woman in. I glanced down at my book and read the line “. . . no space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunity misused. . . .” I patted my ancient copy of A Christmas Carol and stood to accept the visitor.

  A dark-haired woman dressed in jeans and a long, elegant black wool coat stood in the doorway—she was clutching a garment bag and smiling a nervous smile, and was small and delicately boned with pale skin and what looked like a hairline crack in the porcelain of her forehead, almost as if she’d been made of china and at one point dropped.

  “Please, come in.” She nodded, stepping through the doorway, and studied Dog, who rose, stretched, and yawned. “Won’t you have a seat?” Her hand rested on Dog’s head as he sniffed her. I didn’t have a lot of time and figured that since it was Christmas Eve, she didn’t either. “How can I help you?”

  “Are you the sheriff of Absaroka County?”

  “I am.” I spun my hat, which, when not on my head, was in its usual spot on the edge of my desk. “And you are?”

  She glanced around my office, her eyes lighting on the Dickens. “You haven’t finished that book yet?”

  An odd question, but evidently she didn’t want to give out with her name. I glanced down at the small, hand-bound copy with the gilt lettering, a Christmas gift from my father to me when I was fifteen and he thought I needed to understand the goodness of charity and humility. “Holiday reading; a tradition of mine.”

  “I know.” I thought I could discern a slight whistling noise within her voice as she spoke.

  I stepped around my desk and extended a hand. “I’m sorry, but have we met?”

  The smile returned, but her hands still clutched the garment bag’s black vinyl like talons on a branch; I noticed it had the name of a San Francisco dry cleaning service with an address at Taylor and Clay printed on the front. “You don’t remember me.”

  The whistling was there again, as if some wind from another time and place punctuated her speech. Studying her face, I could see something familiar there, something from a while back maybe, but nothing I could really identify. “I’m sorry, but not really.”

  She looked at her feet, a small puddle of melted slush from her shoes surrounding them, and then back to me. “How long have you been the sheriff?”

  It was an odd question from someone who purported to know me. “Almost a quarter century—”

  “Who was the sheriff before you?”

  Still feeling as if I should recognize her, I answered, “A man by the name of Lucian Connally.” I watched her face, but there was no recognition there. “Do you mind telling me what this is all about, ma’am?”

  “Is he around?”

  I smiled. “Um, no.”

  “Do you have a photograph of him that I could see, please?”

  I stood there, looking down at her, and stuffed my hands in the pockets of my jeans. There weren’t any warning bells going off in my head, but the fact that she hadn’t given me her name or a specific reason why she was here was keeping me off balance. I didn’t move at first but then stepped past her toward the doorway; Dog padded after me, his claws making clacking sounds on the wide-wood-planked floor of the old Carnegie library that served as our office. I motioned for her to accompany us.

  Ruby watched as we walked past the painting of Andrew Carnegie himself to the marble landing. I took three steps down and turned so that I could look straight at the young woman, who had maintained a two-foot distance behind me, gesturing toward the wall where the 8×10s of all the sheriffs of the county since its inception in 1894 hung diagonally in a rogue’s gallery.

  Mine was last, with a chocolate-brown hat and the ridiculous mustache and sideburns I’d had in the eighties when I’d first been elected. The photo was a color monstrosity that looked garish and déclassé next to Lucian’s classic black and white.

  His had been taken in the late forties a few years after the war—the good one, if there was such a thing. It was right before he lost his leg to Basque bootleggers, and he wore his traditional light-colored Open Road Stetson, a dark tie, and an old Eisenhower jacket, star attached. He was looking straight at the camera with an elbow resting on a raised knee, the other hand drawing the wool back to reveal the .38 service revolver he’d carried all those years, the one with the lanyard loop on the butt.

  He wore a slight smirk with an eyebrow cocked like a Winchester, which gave the impression that, if unsatisfied with the resulting photograph, he was fully prepared to shoot the photographer.

  I gestured toward the portrait in the cheap filigree discount-store frame. “My predecessor, the High Sheriff, Lucian A. Connally.”

  “High Sheriff?”

  I glanced up at Ruby, who was watching us intently. “An old term they used to use.”

  One of the woman’s hands disengaged from the garment bag and rose to the glass surface to rest a few fingertips there. Her head dropped a bit, but her eyes stayed on the image of the old warhorse.

  I felt something pull at me again as I studied her profile, sure that I had seen her before. Drawing on my experience in Vietnam to help me discern Asian features, I could tell she was not Vietnamese or Chinese—Japanese maybe. “Miss?”

  She shuddered for an instant, as if I’d shocked her by reminding her of my presence, and then turned with tears in her dark eyes. “He’s dead?”

  I laughed. “Oh God, no . . .” I glanced up at Ruby, who continued to study the woman with more than some interest. “Even though there are times we wish he were.” She didn’t seem to know how to take that remark, so I added, “He can be kind of a pain in the butt sometimes.”

  She swept a finger across the eyelid that was nearest me and looked back at the photograph as Dog, concerned with the tone of her voice, nudged her with his broad muzzle. “I seem to remember that.”

  “You know Lucian?”

  She petted Dog in reassurance. “Does he live here, in town?”

  I waited a moment before responding, just to be clear that she knew I knew she was not answering my questions. “He does.”

  “I need t
o see him.”

  Not I want to see him, or I’d like to see him, but I need to see him. Checking in with my ethical barometer, I glanced at Ruby—she looked puzzled but not worried, so I took a step up, leaned a shoulder against the corner of the wall, and stuffed my hands back in my jeans. “As I’ve said, perhaps if you tell me what this is about?”

  She took a deep breath and hugged the garment bag closer to her chest, and there was that moment of silence when all the air goes out of the room. Her voice whistled with her breath again as she spoke. “I have something . . .” She looked down. “Something that I need to return to him.”

  The gentle snow was still falling as we drove the short distance to the Durant Home for Assisted Living—flurries really, adding a fresh thin layer of white onto the tired gray furrows that had been plowed to the sides of the road. The Currier & Ives scene had a Dickensian feel, with the cottonwoods frosted in white like the hard sauce on top of a plum pudding and the dirt on the side of the road reminding me that in Dickens’s time, Londoners had only a gallon of clean water a week on average—drink or bathe, your choice.

  As we’d come out of the office, I’d noticed the Honda with out-of-state plates parked in the guest spot. “You’re from California?”

  “Not originally.” Her face was turned toward the passenger-side window of my unit, her words fogging the glass in bursts. “I live in San Francisco now, but I was born in Wyoming, in Powell, near Heart Mountain.”

  I immediately thought about the World War II internment camp that had been there and connected the slight epicanthic folds at the corners of her eyes to her heritage. “You’re of Japanese ancestry?”

  “A quarter. My grandmother was Japanese, and my grandfather was a rancher in Park County.” She turned and looked at me. “Not too many stayed in the area after the war, but my grandfather was a guard there, and they fell in love; he used to sneak her art supplies . . .”

  “Your grandmother was a painter?”