Land of Wolves Read online

  By Craig Johnson

  The Longmire Series

  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

  Any Other Name

  Dry Bones

  An Obvious Fact

  The Western Star

  Depth of Winter

  Also by Craig Johnson

  Spirit of Steamboat (a novella)

  Wait for Signs (short stories)

  The Highwayman (a novella)

  Stand-alone E-stories

  (Also available in Wait for Signs)

  Christmas in Absaroka County (four stories)

  Divorce Horse

  Messenger

  VIKING

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Craig Johnson

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Johnson, Craig, 1961– author.

  Title: Land of wolves / Craig Johnson.

  Description: [New York] : Viking, [2019] | Series: A Walt Longmire mystery |

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019014874 (print) | LCCN 2019015531 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525522515 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525522508 (hardcover)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3610.O325 (ebook) | LCC PS3610.O325 L36 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.6–dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019014874

  Netflix is a registered trademark of Netflix, Inc. All rights reserved.

  The series Longmire™ is copyrighted by Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

  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.

  Version_1

  For Frank Carlton, gentleman and sportsman—not necessarily in that order.

  CONTENTS

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Ezezaganen lurraldea otso lurraldea da.

  A land of strangers is a land of wolves.

  BASQUE PROVERB

  The flocks fear the wolf, the crops the storm, and the trees the wind.

  VIRGIL

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once, as a young man running fence for a rancher up near Dillon, Montana, I found myself stretching barbed wire over a rocky ridge, having ground-tied my horse below because his shod hooves weren’t too fond of the outcropping. It was April and still cool, but I was working hard in an attempt to get back to the line shack where I was staying. I was wiping the sweat out of my eyes with a coat sleeve when I noticed something sitting in the tree line about a hundred yards away.

  As my eyes focused, a full-grown, light-gray dog came into view and it was only after a moment I realized I was looking at a wolf. Not having had much interaction with these animals, I immediately thought about the .30-30 in the leather scabbard attached to my saddle too far away.

  I straightened, swept my hat from my head, and wiped the sweat away again just to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing, and to make sure my neighbor didn’t confuse me with a mule deer. I stayed like that, and the wolf just sat there looking at me for about ten minutes.

  Figuring the horse and I weren’t in any immediate danger, I went ahead and finished the work under the animal’s watchful eye. I gathered up my tools and supplies and looked to where the creature had been, but it was gone.

  The next day I came back and didn’t see her, having decided she was female, and was a little disappointed. The following day, though, she appeared in the tree line again in the late afternoon to watch me, just as she had before.

  Climbing over the fence I had been working on, I stood there for a moment and then took a few steps toward her, but she rose and turned as if to go away. I stopped, and she sat back down, and I’m pretty sure we established a truce.

  I never saw her anywhere but on that ridge, and after I’d moved on with my work through the summer I didn’t see her at all.

  The fall came, and I had finished my tasks on the ranch and was being cut, not because I was a bad hand but because I was young and there were a number of other, older men who needed the limited amount of jobs that there were over winter.

  After having a celebratory whiskey in the boss’s library, I spent the night and got up early for one last ride before heading east to graduate school. It was early September, but the aspens and cottonwoods had already been touched by a frozen hand and were sporting patches of gold. I rode to that same ridge, left my horse below as I climbed to the knife-edge, and walked along the fence on the jumbled rocks to look for the wolf that had been there.

  She never showed in that tree line, but I like to think she was watching me.

  I’ve developed a scenario in my mind where she had had her pups somewhere in a den nearby and was just keeping an eye on me until I’d done what I needed to do and then moved on. I would’ve liked to have said goodbye, but sometimes that’s not the way with magical things. You just have to take them for what they are.

  My knowledge of wolves was invariably increased by time spent with Jim Seeman, Wyoming game warden, and Dan J. Thompson of the Wyoming Game & Fish Large Carnivore Section Supervisor and Predator Attack Team, who kept me from chasing my tail.

  My gratitude to Bertrand Tavernier for pointing out that to see truly one of the worst Westerns ever made I should watch Thunder in the Sun—an hour and a half of my life I’ll never get back.

  Thanks to Judge Scott Snowden for all the legal counsel that otherwise would’ve had me howling at the moon, and to Dr. David Nickerson for the medical advice that kept me from being thrown to the wolves.

  No acknowledgments would be complete without saying thanks to my pack, starting with Gail “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing” Hochman, and Marianne “Lone Wolf” Merola. Kathryn “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” Court would howl in attendance, as would Margaux “Wolf by the Ears” Weisman, and Victoria “Wolf at the Door” Savanh. Brian “Wolfman Jack” Tart would be there with Ben “Wolf Whistle” Petrone, and Mary “Cry Wolf” Stone.

  Most of all, though, thanks to my own den mate and the true nature of my beast, Judy “Leader of the Pack” Johnson.

  1

  It’s hard to think of a place in Wyoming where the wind doesn’t reign supreme; where the sovereignty of sound doesn’t break through the parks of the Bighorns with a hoarse-throated howl. I sometimes wonder if the trees miss the wind in the infrequent moments when it dies down, when the air is still and the skies are a threadbare blue, thin and stretching above the mountains. Needled courtesans—the lodgepole pines, Douglas firs, and Engelmann spruce—stand at the edge of the great park like wallflowers awaiting the beseeching hand of the wind to invite them to the dance floor. And I can’t help but wonder that when the sway passes and the trees are still, do they pine for that wind; do they grieve?

  “It’s a dead sheep.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a dead sheep, in case you were wondering.”

  “Yep, it is.”

  She stopped eating her breakfast PowerBar and looked straight at me. “Then why have you been staring at it for the last five minutes?”

  I swallowed and formed a few words, but they wouldn’t come out. It was like that lately, almost as if some inhibitor was kicking in every time I tried to say something.

  She studied me for a moment more, and then her eyes returned to the carcass. “Is it me, or does it seem like we’ve done this before?”

  Two men were examining the demised and doing their best to ignore us. “I guess we didn’t do a good enough job on the other sheep-o-cides.”

  She continued chewing. “Why is that?”

  “Because there’s another dead sheep.”

  “There’s always another dead sheep. It’s what sheep do—they die.” Victoria Moretti glanced around at the snow-spotted park and the breathtaking beauty of the Bighorn Mountain Range, bold faces of the granite high country rising like magnificent stockades. “Boy, we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

  I sighed and girded up some more words. “Nice, isn’t it.” I passed her the cup from my battered thermos that was covered in stickers, one of which read DRINKING FUEL. She handed me the remains of her bar, and I watched as she took a sip of the coffee.

  “Remind me again why we’re here?”

  I took a bite. “Public relations.”

  “Since when does the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department have to worry about public relations?”

  “When has the Absaroka County sheriff or any other sheriff not had to worry about public relationships? Or, more important, dealings within the law enforcement community.” I took another bite and pointed at the two men. “Aka: the Absaroka County Brand Inspector and the National Forest Service.”

  “You just don’t want to be babysat at the office.”

  I watched a random breeze push the treetops, dusting the frosted grass with a little fresh snow from the pine needles. “There’s that.” I undid the top of the thermos again and took my chrome cup back to refill it. “You mind telling me what that’s all about?”

  “What?”

  “Why everyone is treating me like a Fabergé egg?”

  “After Mexico, all parties have decided that you need a little more adult supervision.”

  I nodded and handed her the last bite. “Sancho follows me to the bathroom.”

  At the mention of our Basque deputy, Santiago Saizarbitoria, Vic smiled. “He’s taking his orders very seriously.”

  I started to lift the cup to my lips, then stopped. “Whose orders?”

  “I am not at liberty to say at this time.”

  “My daughter.”

  “Pretty much.”

  I sipped my coffee, a slight huff building. “If she’s so worried about me, why doesn’t she come up here and see about me for herself?”

  “Um, because she has a life and a career in Cheyenne.” She studied the side of my face. “She’s been through a lot, Walt.”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “What, you’re lonely? I can get Sancho to go in the bathroom with you.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” I took a deep breath, feeling the stitch in my side. “I know she’s been through a lot, and I just think we need to talk about it.”

  “So call her.”

  “I hate phones.”

  “Go to Cheyenne.”

  “I’m not particularly fond of Cheyenne either . . . Besides, after the amount of time I’ve been gone from the county, I think I need to be around here.” I turned to look at her just as the two men approached. “Well?”

  Don Butler, who had been the county brand inspector for years, gave me an unsettled look. “Difficult to say on a three-day-old kill.”

  “Could be a wolf.” We all turned to look at Chuck Coon. “Well, it could be.”

  Vic made a face. “I thought you Rabbit Rangers say there aren’t any wolves in the Bighorns.”

  Butler pushed his stained hat back and scrubbed a hand over the lines on his face. “Of course there aren’t, which is why we’re collecting DNA.”

  Coon sighed. “Anyway, there aren’t supposed to be.”

  “Are you saying the wolves aren’t cooperating?”

  “Like any other adolescent, they have a tendency to wander . . .”

  Butler glanced back at the remains. “If it is a wolf, it’s a young one, I’d imagine.”

  “I’m betting a two-year-old.” Chuck leaned against the tailgate of my truck, the official mantra spilling from his lips like a teletype machine. “It will be dealt with swiftly.”

  “You’re gonna kill it?” Vic shook her head. “Doesn’t the Fed just pay for the sheep?”

  “Yeah, but once they get a taste for mutton, they usually keep hitting the herd and it becomes a problem—besides, it’s a predator zone, so they’re not supposed to be here.”

  She glanced at me. “What’s a predator zone?”

  “Neither protected nor trophy, they are considered to be in an agricultural area and a nuisance or predator, and you’re allowed to shoot them at any time, like coyotes.”

  She looked back at the ranger. “They were here before we were.”

  I changed the subject. “More important: whose herd?”

  Don cocked his head with a grim look. “Extepare. Abarrane Extepare.”

  Vic looked confused.

  “Son of Beltran Extepare, the man who blew Lucian’s leg off.” The sheep rancher’s father had been the Basque bootlegger back in the late forties who had relieved my predecessor of an appendage.

  Her tarnished gold eyes sparkled the way they always did at the mention of mayhem. “Ooh, shit. This is getting interesting.”

  I looked past the two men at the hundred or so sheep grazing a good fifty yards away. “So, I don’t suppose the old man is up here?”

  “Not that we’ve seen.”

  “How ’bout the herder?”

  “Haven’t seen him either.”

  “Well, who called in the sheep?”

  Coon thumbed his chest. “I did.”

  “Then first you need to find the herder and talk with him. Then we can go have a little chat with Abarrane and hope we don’t get shot.” I watched as Coon, in search of a needle, looked behind him at the expanse of haystack mountains. I turned and looked at Butler. “Any idea what Extepare’s permits for grazing are?”

  Disgruntled, Don started off toward his truck. “Got ’em on my computer.”

  I threw out the rest of my coffee and, slowly sliding off the tailgate, limped after him with Vic and Chuck in tow. Coon pulled up beside me.

  “How are you doing, Walt?”

  “Good—a little stiff, but I’m fine.”

  “That sounded like some pretty hairy stuff down there in Mexico.”

  I nodded.

  “Sure you’re okay?”

  “Yep.”

&nb sp; He continued talking as I opened the passenger side door. “You lost a lot of weight—I guess you can count that as a positive.”

  The brand inspector had a nice truck with carpet, a leather interior, and all the electronic gizmos, including a swinging table that held a laptop computer. “Jeez, Don, the Cattleman’s Association is making way too much money.”

  He grumbled as he climbed onto the seat. “I practically live in the thing.” After tapping a few keys, he stared at the screen. “Extepare all right. One section—looks like it’s mostly west of here.” He peered through his windshield. “Odd, those sheep scattered this far east and nobody checking on ’em.”

  Studying the large meadow, my eyes followed his. “Maybe the wolf spooked them?”

  Don pulled the brim of his hat back down, low over his eyes, still seemingly puzzled. “Maybe, but hell, we’ve been here for an hour and you’d think somebody would have shown up . . .”

  I turned, looking at the expanse. “How big would you say this park is?”

  “At least a couple square miles.”

  Vic studied the large, open space. “Why do they call them parks?”

  “Bastardization of the French term that the trappers used when they first came to this part of the country.” I sighed, seeing the lunch I’d planned at the Busy Bee Café going up in grilled smoke. “All right. We can split it up—you take the right, Don. Chuck, you take the middle, and Vic, we’ll work the tree line to the left. I don’t think there’s much of a chance that he’d set up camp out in the middle, but you never know.” I glanced back at Butler. “Does the herder have a name?”

  “Miguel Hernandez.”

  “Chilean?”

  “Yeah.”

  Walking back to the Bullet, I called over my shoulder. “Our standard frequency.” Climbing in, I was met with a copious fog of Dog breath as he hung his bucket head over the seat and whined. “I know you want to get out, but you can’t—like the butler, they might think you did it.”

  Vic pulled the passenger door closed behind her. “Chile?”