doesn’t it? How about we trade photos, and I’ll get this one back to you after we find her?”
I was about to add more when the bar door swung open to the accompaniment of an attached jangling bell. The middle-aged man in the doorway was pale and painfully lean, with red hair and a sharp face half-hidden under the bill of a black John Deere ball cap. His clothes, an off-white nylon dress shirt and a powder blue blazer, were rumpled and hung off him like a bad hanger. Slung over his shoulder was an expensive, spacey-looking tactical shotgun with a small flashlight mounted underneath the barrel.
Eleanor’s voice sounded behind me. “Can I help you?”
I leaned to my right to see around Vic, who gave him a quick look and immediately dismissed the odd character as Ichabod Double-Ought Buck. She sipped her beer. “What, were you born in a barn?” She placed the bottle back on the bar and murmured to herself. “Yeah, you probably were.”
He didn’t move for a moment, then half turned as if to leave—evidently he wasn’t happy to see the greater portion of the off-duty Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department seated at the bar. He stood there in profile and then cleared his throat as if he was about to make a speech, but it was a short one: “Mr. Lynear would like to talk to you.”
Eleanor looked puzzled. “Who?”
He looked even more surprised at her response and took a step into the bar with a vexed look on his face, as if he shouldn’t have to be bothered with repeating, let alone explaining, himself. “Mr. Roy Lynear, owner/operator of the East Spring Ranch, would like to talk to you.”
I stood, tucked the photo of Sarah Tisdale into my shirt pocket, and took a step toward him. “And who are you?”
Perhaps hoping for a prompter, he looked back out the door again. “George.”
“Are you quail hunting at this time of night?” He glanced at me, but his eyes returned to Eleanor; evidently his one-track mind was always in danger of derailment. I pointed at the shotgun on his back. “It’s against the law to bring a gun into an establishment that serves liquor.”
The eyes switched to Vic and then back to me, and his voice and manner changed, telling me a great deal about him. “She’s wearing one in this Godless establishment and so are you.”
I took another step, bringing myself within arm’s reach of him. “She’s my deputy, and maybe I should introduce myself. I’m Sheriff Walt Longmire—and your full name is?”
“George Joseph Lynear.”
He stood there looking back and forth between us again with a kind of wildness in his eyes. I thought for a moment that he was going to do something stupid, but he didn’t; instead, he took a step back onto the boardwalk. “There, are ya happy now?”
I reached over and closed the door in his face.
Vic barked a laugh as I spoke to him through the glass pane. “Go tell your family you can come back in here when you learn some manners.” He stood there looking at me with a blistering hatred, then turned and walked off the boardwalk toward a large, decked-out one-ton dually parked perpendicular to mine.
I turned back to the proprietor. “Who’s Roy Lynear?”
She shook her head. “I guess he’s the one everybody’s been having trouble with the last few weeks. Some of his men . . .”
She was interrupted again by the sound of the door behind me, and this time I turned with my hand resting on my Colt, just in case. The sack-of-bones trapshooter wasn’t there, but in his place was another odd-looking individual who was a hell of a lot more impressive in both stature and dress. He was a tall, well-toned Hispanic man in black jeans and a dark suit jacket, his pork-chop sideburns sticking out almost as far as the brim of his black cattleman’s hat.
He quickly slipped it off to reveal full locks of curling, dark hair. “
Hola
.”
I stood there looking down at him. “Hey.”
“I would like to apologize.” He gestured with the hat.
I was about to add more when the bar door swung open to the accompaniment of an attached jangling bell. The middle-aged man in the doorway was pale and painfully lean, with red hair and a sharp face half-hidden under the bill of a black John Deere ball cap. His clothes, an off-white nylon dress shirt and a powder blue blazer, were rumpled and hung off him like a bad hanger. Slung over his shoulder was an expensive, spacey-looking tactical shotgun with a small flashlight mounted underneath the barrel.
Eleanor’s voice sounded behind me. “Can I help you?”
I leaned to my right to see around Vic, who gave him a quick look and immediately dismissed the odd character as Ichabod Double-Ought Buck. She sipped her beer. “What, were you born in a barn?” She placed the bottle back on the bar and murmured to herself. “Yeah, you probably were.”
He didn’t move for a moment, then half turned as if to leave—evidently he wasn’t happy to see the greater portion of the off-duty Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department seated at the bar. He stood there in profile and then cleared his throat as if he was about to make a speech, but it was a short one: “Mr. Lynear would like to talk to you.”
Eleanor looked puzzled. “Who?”
He looked even more surprised at her response and took a step into the bar with a vexed look on his face, as if he shouldn’t have to be bothered with repeating, let alone explaining, himself. “Mr. Roy Lynear, owner/operator of the East Spring Ranch, would like to talk to you.”
I stood, tucked the photo of Sarah Tisdale into my shirt pocket, and took a step toward him. “And who are you?”
Perhaps hoping for a prompter, he looked back out the door again. “George.”
“Are you quail hunting at this time of night?” He glanced at me, but his eyes returned to Eleanor; evidently his one-track mind was always in danger of derailment. I pointed at the shotgun on his back. “It’s against the law to bring a gun into an establishment that serves liquor.”
The eyes switched to Vic and then back to me, and his voice and manner changed, telling me a great deal about him. “She’s wearing one in this Godless establishment and so are you.”
I took another step, bringing myself within arm’s reach of him. “She’s my deputy, and maybe I should introduce myself. I’m Sheriff Walt Longmire—and your full name is?”
“George Joseph Lynear.”
He stood there looking back and forth between us again with a kind of wildness in his eyes. I thought for a moment that he was going to do something stupid, but he didn’t; instead, he took a step back onto the boardwalk. “There, are ya happy now?”
I reached over and closed the door in his face.
Vic barked a laugh as I spoke to him through the glass pane. “Go tell your family you can come back in here when you learn some manners.” He stood there looking at me with a blistering hatred, then turned and walked off the boardwalk toward a large, decked-out one-ton dually parked perpendicular to mine.
I turned back to the proprietor. “Who’s Roy Lynear?”
She shook her head. “I guess he’s the one everybody’s been having trouble with the last few weeks. Some of his men . . .”
She was interrupted again by the sound of the door behind me, and this time I turned with my hand resting on my Colt, just in case. The sack-of-bones trapshooter wasn’t there, but in his place was another odd-looking individual who was a hell of a lot more impressive in both stature and dress. He was a tall, well-toned Hispanic man in black jeans and a dark suit jacket, his pork-chop sideburns sticking out almost as far as the brim of his black cattleman’s hat.
He quickly slipped it off to reveal full locks of curling, dark hair. “
Hola
.”
I stood there looking down at him. “Hey.”
“I would like to apologize.” He gestured with the hat.
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