Title: NOT EXACTLY BFF's
Author: Ramos
Rating: PG-13 for language (c'mon, it's Vic!)
Disclaimer: Don't own Walt Longmire. Takes place after 'Harvest' but veers off before 'Counting Coup.'
Author's note: #LongLiveLongmire!
~Chapter 19~
Walt had forced himself to take his time getting ready for work this morning, making coffee and eating a modest breakfast, all the while resisting the temptation to drive past Vic Moretti's house and roust her out of bed at the crack of dawn. All that self-restraint was rendered moot, however, when her truck pulled in next to his before he'd even got the front door of the station open.
"Thought you were going shopping this morning," he commented, waiting for her.
Vic held out a tangle of white wire, one end a flat spade of plastic. "Didn't need to. Found an old charger in the crap Sean left behind." Flashing a grin, she cut in front of him and through the open door, taking the stairs in swift, competent clomps of her hiking boots. Walt found himself left to bring up the rear, but considering the view of Vic's derriere from this angle, he didn't entirely mind having been tricked into holding the door for her. He was a gentleman, after all.
Inside, he gave a good morning to Ruby before heading to the small anteroom outside his office and the old fireproof filing cabinet they used to store evidence. He came back out in time to see Vic climbing out from under her desk, her ponytail swinging. One end of the white wire disappeared under her desk, presumably to the power strip she shared with Branch. She held out the other end of the charger and waited while he fumbled the phone out of its evidence bag and handed it over. She mated the two together with a tiny click.
"How long will it take to charge it?" he asked.
Vic answered by flipping it open and pushing a button. The little device buzzed, then lit up with the carrier's logo.
Walt's expression turned mildly sheepish, but he combined it with a look that told her she was a smart ass. Doing a bad job of hiding her amusement, Vic forbore any comment but began scrolling through the phone's features.
"Lucky for us, he doesn't use a password," she commented. "The call history only goes back a week or so, but we can get the rest from the phone company. I'm seeing calls here from Jacob Nighthorse, Malachi Strand... huh."
"What?"
Vic glanced up, only now realizing that Walt had leaned in close while she played with the phone. "This one is a Durant number – and it looks familiar."
"That's a number from the courthouse," Walt told her. "They all start with the same exchange prefix and then the numbers are sequential for all the older departments."
"This is one of the last calls Ridges received. It's from two days ago – right before he attacked Cady and me. Walt, Cady was working that morning, but she'd gone over to the courthouse to do some more research on the casino before we met up in the afternoon."
He gave her a long look. "Someone at the courthouse told Ridges what Cady was doing."
"Who, though?" Vic wrinkled her nose. "It's after eight, right?"
Without waiting for an answer, she reached for her own phone and began dialing. "Yeah, who's this? Yeah, look – I got my personal property assessment on my house the other day, and this is totally bullshit. Who do I talk to about getting this fixed? What? Can't you transfer me or something?"
A moment later she pulled the phone sharply away from her ear and looked at it. "Apparently, Ellen Red Elk in the records department can't transfer me."
"Ellen is George Red Elk's daughter, I believe," Walt told her. "You think she knew what Cady was looking into that day?"
"Bet your ass I do," Vic answered. "I think the really important question is whether your wife went over to the courthouse to do the same thing. She never mentioned it, before she died?"
"No," Walt told her. "Martha didn't get out much. The chemo was pretty rough on her."
"I think it's entirely possible that she went to check on the records for the injunction, or the reservation, or something. And if little Miss Snippy-pants told her dad, then he or somebody else got really scared."
"It's a possibility," Walt allowed.
"We can certainly threaten her with a charge of accessory before the fact – maybe get her to tell us what she knows."
Walt removed his hand from the back of Vic's chair, stood up and looked towards the window, his thoughts ranging far from the view of the traffic outside.
"Walt?" Vic called, concerned.
"Why didn't she say anything to me?" he asked softly.
Vic knew he wasn't talking about Ellen. He was thinking of his wife.
"Tell you what?" she responded, playing devil's advocate. "That she had a wild hair about the casino? C'mon, Walt. That casino thing wasn't her reason for living." She winced at her inadvertent choice of words, but upon reflection, it was true.
"I figure she was probably surfing the net one day and found that article about the Florida casino. Maybe she decided to look it up at the courthouse, maybe not. But she had a lot of other things going on. I mean, really? She had cancer – taking chemo treatments. It was probably one of those barely interesting things she might have mentioned on the drive down to Denver. She just never realized how big a deal it was to somebody."
Walt remained silent, still staring out the window.
Exasperation vying with concern, Vic stood and deliberately interrupted his view, invading his personal space as she tried to derail his morose thoughts. "The point is, Walt - your wife's volunteer work wasn't the center of her life. You and Cady – that was the center of her life. Her last thoughts were for you and your daughter. The casino just wasn't that important to her. The two of you were."
Finally, Walt looks at her and nodded, accepting her premise. "Okay. Let's get started on a warrant for this phone's history. We can Judge Mayhew to sign it this morning. Then you need to take it and that coat down to Cheyenne."
"Did you find an evidence bag big enough for it?"
"Nope. Stole one of Ruby's big bags."
"What big bags?" Vic asked his retreating back. "The only big bags she keeps here are the giant Christmas bags – oh, holy shit!"
Walt returned, holding a bright red paper bag, its shiny surface littered with candy canes and gingerbread men. The top had been stapled shut, and the requisite evidence tag stapled to the crease.
"No way in hell am I walking that into the state police," she stated firmly. "Make Branch do it."
"Make me do what?" asked a different voice, and they both turned to see Branch easing his way into the office. "Isn't it a little early for Christmas shopping?"
The next twenty minutes were spent bringing Branch up to speed on what he'd missed the day before.
"So, Red Elk and Wynema realize that Martha found their loophole was bogus," Branch summed up, sipping absently at a cup of coffee that had gone cold. "I get the feeling they threw Malachi Strand under the bus after the injunction was lifted on the casino project, probably so they didn't have to share any of the money. But without him, they don't have anyone to do their dirty work.
"Yeah, I figure they're late to the party," Vic answered. "They may or may not know exactly what happened, but they're actively helping cover up the truth and confuse the picture. Malachi already had a beef with Walt – he probably enjoyed every minute of it."
Walt turned to Vic. "You think Nighthorse just went along with things, or is he an active participant?"
She shrugged. "Honestly, I think Red Elk and Wynema told Nighthorse that if he wants to keep his contract on the casino job and that honking big slice of the profits, he's got to play along or lose everything. You said he sunk a couple million of his own cash into this, right?"
Branch nodded.
"So they dangle that, and probably membership in the tribe, on his cooperation."
"Now, if we can connect Ridges to Jonas Gaitherson," Walt added, "and somehow prove that he helped set up Henry, we can clear Henry's name and close this case."
"All we need is Ridges," Vic said dryly. "Any idea on how we find him?"
"We put pressure on Nighthorse," Branch answered. "We already have him on making a false statement. That phone proves he's been in contact with Ridges, and Ridges attacking Cady and Vic can make him an accessory."
"Call him," Walt ordered. "I want Ridges, and I want him alive."
To no one's surprise, Jacob Nighthorse responded within a few hours. Ruby transferred the call to Walt's desk without asking any questions.
"Hello, Jacob," Walt answered, his voice smooth and calm. "Do you have something to tell me?"
"Once I give you this information, Sheriff, I expect you to honor your agreement," Jacob replied tersely. "I've cooperated fully, and my lawyer is fully aware of this conversation."
"Oh, don't worry," Walt assured him. "Once you tell me where to find Ridges, I'll drop that charge about making a false statement." He made no mention of the other charges he had in mind for Nighthorse.
"Good. David called me a while ago. He wants to meet with you. There's a small valley, about a mile from the casino building site, just off Horse Creek."
"He wants to meet with me," Walt echoed, his voice tinged with skepticism.
"Yes. David said to tell you that he does not have a gun. He just wants to bring this to an end."
"He's planning on surrendering?"
"No," Nighthorse said succinctly, and hung up.
After repeating the conversation to his deputies, Vic and Branch exchanged dubious glances. "Suicide by cop?" Vic ventured.
"Trap," was Branch's opinion.
"Probably," Walt agreed. He turned towards Branch. "You want to take this one? I know how much you were looking forward to arresting Ridges."
Branch glanced away, but grinned before returning his frank, blue gaze to his boss. "Nope. But I got your back."
Walt nodded, then turned to Vic. "You know how to spot?"
"Well, yeah, in theory – I took a seminar in the academy, but it was like a two hour lecture and that was years ago."
Branch looked at her. "We're both good shots, but I've got more experience hunting."
Their eyes locked with mocking intensity, then Vic held out a fist. Branch matched her, and a three-count later Vic's rock had been wrapped by Branch's paper.
"I'll spot, you shoot," he told her.
With a shrug, Vic headed for Walt's office and the glass-fronted rifle case that held the departments long arms. Branch dug through his desk drawer to find his binoculars.
"Give me ten minutes," Walt tossed over his shoulder as he grabbed his hat and headed down the stairs. Once in the stairwell, he made no effort to disguise the wry twist at the corner of his mouth. Technically, Branch didn't cheat, but anyone who knew Vic at all would have known she'd throw a rock.
A short time later, the Bronco bounced and shuddered over the prairie a half-mile from the county highway. The ancient ruts of horse-drawn wagons still scarred the land in places, but Walt followed the track of a little-used dirt road through the undulating tans and browns, the grass dry and nodding in the wind. Occasional clumps of scrub dotted the landscape, but trees were few and stunted by the weather.
The land rose a bit, and soon they crested the top of a rolling hillock. Walt braked immediately, perched on the edge of a wide, shallow bowl of grassland, and took in the sight of a man in full Dog Soldier regalia standing in the center of the valley.
His skin had been painted white, rendering the bandage under his left arm nearly invisible. A headdress of black feathers cascaded down his naked back. His brilliant crimson breechclout was held to his body by a heavy leather belt, and the tail of the red fabric danced in the wind. A second sash was tied around his waist, but it was so heavy and long that the wind was unable to do more than flirt with the edges.
More troubling, however, was the lance he held in one hand and the large knife he held in the other.
"Here we go," Walt said quietly to Vic, who sat shotgun – although, not literally, since she held a .45-70 Marlin next to her leg. She steadied it against the jouncing while Walt descended into the valley a short distance, then pulled a u-turn to head the nose of the truck back towards the distant highway.
Without a word, they both exited the truck and met at the back, where Walt dropped the tailgate. Making his actions deliberate, he shrugged out of his bulky leather coat and laid it in the corner of the cargo area. Pulling his weapon, he placed it on top of the coat.
"I still don't like this plan," Vic told him in an undertone. She parked one hip on the tailgate and propped the rifle across her knee, not even trying to be subtle as she stared down slope. Ridges recognized the challenge in her stare and began to sing in Cheyenne. His voice came in incomprehensible snippets on the breeze, which also plucked at the blue chambray shirt Walt wore, making it obvious he wasn't wearing any kind of body armor.
From the other corner of the cargo area, Walt picked up a pair of worn leather gloves and a heavy white coil. The coil was clamped under one arm as he pulled on the gloves. "I know," he replied. "Just stick to the plan, and shoot wherever Branch tells you."
Vic huffed, still unhappy, but willing to follow orders. "What is that, anyway?" she asked.
"Twenty-five feet of seven-sixteen nylon core waxed hemp rope. Just bought it at the hardware store," he answered, slinging it through his fingers to find the working end and warm it up. He opened the loop a bit, swinging it to get the feel of the lariat.
"Nice," Branch commented from his prone position in the back of the Bronco. The colorful native blankets covered most of his long body and any movement he made while he got his binoculars up and ready. "You get shot, can I have it?"
"Sure," Walt replied easily. "Don't count on it, though – I got no plans on dying today." He began walking towards the figure in the grass, still working the rope loose in his hands.
Vic stood up again, merely leaning against the tailgate as she scanned the surrounding grassland. Although she knew the new casino was less than a mile away, this valley was so isolated that the only sound that reached her was the swish of grasses as Walt walked towards the lone man standing in the field. Watching him, one knee began to jig with nervous energy as she waited.
"This truck stinks."
"He keeps drunk clowns back there," Vic quipped sourly. "See anything yet?"
"Nope," Branch answered, distracted. "You know, if Ridges does have someone else out here, they're most likely gonna shoot you first."
"No shit," she replied. "And my vest is gonna do jack against a rifle round."
Branch gave her an mmm-hmm of agreement, still searching the scrubby edges of the valley. "Got him," he announced triumphantly a moment later.
Vic ceased fidgeting, but resisted the urge to look around. "Where?"
"'Bout one o'clock – by that smaller clump of sage and about ten yards from that bigger bush."
"Got it," she told him. Pretending to pop her neck, she snuck a better glance and then faced several degrees away from the man who lay in the shadows, waiting to ambush them. "Ten bucks says it's Wynema," she commented.
"You're on. Ten spot on Red Elk," Branch replied.
"What if it's Nighthorse?"
"Then Walt gets the pot."
"You're a hard man to find, David," Walt called out, his tone nearly conversational as he walked towards the man in the center of the valley. "I'd introduce myself, but I think you already know who I am."
Instead of replying, Ridges sang louder and began to dance from one foot to the other, keeping a beat with his song. Now that he was closer, Walt could make out the white of a second bandage wrapped around David's left bicep.
"Looks like Vic got you pretty good there," he commented, still working the stiff rope in his hands. "You shouldn't have underestimated her. She may be a bit short, but she's tougher than she looks."
Swinging the rope, still some twenty-five feet from Ridges, Walt threw out the lasso towards a tuft of grass a short distance in front of him. It fell neatly over the grass, and his lips pursed in grim approval as he reeled it back in.
"Traditions," Walt stated. "You're all about traditions, and history. Sometimes, out here, all folks have to hold onto is their history. Take this lasso, for instance. Traditionally, a rope was more valuable to a working cowboy than any gun."
He threw another lasso, this one coming within a few feet of Ridges and then slithering back towards Walt as he coiled it again.
"I learned to use a rope from working with my dad. See, he was a farrier. He used to take me along to help on the rough jobs, horses that had never been shod or just hated to have their feet messed with. Sometimes we had to catch 'em and be insistent about things."
Walt's casual amble halted a good ten feet from where Ridges stood, still singing. The sheriff carefully sized his loop and gave it a tentative swing. "Now, here's the thing, David. You've done some things that are illegal, and I plan to arrest you for them. In fact, I'm gonna have to insist you surrender yourself."
David Ridges finished the stanza of his song, and drew himself up proudly. With a defiant glare, his right hand raised the lance and stabbed it deep into the earth behind him, impaling the sash tied around his waist. It left him a leash of no more than a few feet, tying him to the ground. Without another word, he transferred his knife to his right hand and gave Walt a beckoning gesture with his left.
Walt rubbed his tongue on his front teeth. "Yep. I figured we were gonna do it the hard way." Whirling his lasso, Walt let the rope fly out towards Ridges' knife.
With a yipping cry of defiance, Ridges dodged, the rope falling past him. Reeling it back in, Walt carefully sized the loop once more and swung it out. This time it caught on Ridge's knife hand, but he shook the rope from his fist before it could close around his wrist. His face split in a fierce grin, which lasted only a half-second.
Having taken advantage of David's distraction, Walt charged two steps in, swinging the lariat in a furious arc – not the lasso end, but the heavy coils in his left hand. The multiple loops beat at Ridges' face and upper arm, scraping off stripes of the white paint and leaving behind parallel welts and scrapes.
Cursing, Ridges twisted to the side and staggered before catching his balance with his back heel. He stabbed out towards Walt, aiming for his chest. The sheriff caught the blade on a backswing, fouling the edge with the nylon and hemp, and following it up with a right roundhouse.
The force of the blow propelled Ridges backwards, his heel tripping in the grass and on the sash that tied him to the ground. Using the momentum to his advantage, Walt pressed forward and continued to beat at him with the lariat until he knocked the knife loose. It went spinning off into the grass, and Walt punched him again and knocked him to the ground.
Hampered by the sash tied around his waist, Ridges tried to roll free. The air was broken by the harsh ripping of the fabric, which sent Ridges into a fury. From his knees he launched an attack, driving his shoulder up into Walt's midsection and knocking him back. The brown O'Farrell hat went spinning off, lost in the sea of dry prairie. Walt grabbed at the man's shoulder, twisting his momentum to the side, but Ridge's grappling sent them both rolling into the grass.
While he was a younger man, Ridges lacked the experience of all-out brawling Walt had developed over the past twenty years. His long arm wrapped around Ridge's neck while Ridges did his best to hammer at Walt's ribs. The tattered end of the sash entangled their limbs as they struggled, while Walt used his greater bulk to keep Ridges from sending them towards his lost knife.
When the opportunity presented itself, Walt did not hesitate. With full knowledge of what he was doing, he dug an elbow into Ridges' wounded side. It might have been underhanded, but he was determined to end this fight before any shooting started.
Ridges hissed in pain, his body flexing like a snake against his larger opponent. The change in balance was all Walt needed to shove his opponent over once more, pinning him to the ground. Ridges could only snarl as Walt pulled back his fist for another, heavier blow to end the fight.
A gunshot rang out, and they both froze. Ridges looked up at the sheriff, feral triumph stealing across his features, just in time to receive the knockout strike.
Breathing heavily, Walt glanced around in time to see a middle-aged man some twenty yards away, coughing and cursing as he backpedalled from matted dent in the grasses. A hunting rifle lay on the ground before him, but more interesting was the fresh divot of torn earth only inches in front of where he'd been lying.
When he looked in the other direction, Walt saw Vic standing tall, with the Marlin held to her shoulder. Her expressionless face was half obscured by the black scope that gleamed in the sunlight. Branch was already out of the truck and running towards the man, his own weapon held at the ready.
Rolling the semi-conscious David Ridges over, Walt pulled out his handcuffs and cuffed the white-painted wrists behind the man's back. The lance took some muscle to remove from the ground. As it came up, it released the remaining scrap of fabric, which rolled away in the gusty breeze, taking with it the remains of Ridges' attempted martyrdom.
By the time Walt had the man on his feet, Branch had done the same with the sniper and was hustling him over to the Bronco despite his attempts to break free. From the far side of the valley, Chief Mathias Little Fox skidded down the slight incline to meet Branch and gave him a hand controlling the resisting sniper. When the man realized who had taken hold of his other arm, he abruptly ceased flailing about, his tightly bunched arm slackening in Mathias' hold. The man's short black hair was laced with silver, and a heavy silver bolo tie at the throat of his shirt looked familiar.
"Howard Wynema," Mathias announced as he and Branch pulled the older man towards the back seat of the Bronco. "You pull the short straw?"
The middle-aged man scowled, but said nothing.
"Maybe he threw scissors," Branch joked. "Guess I owe Vic ten bucks."
Author's note – Purely for research's sake I went my local tack store/feed store/you name it store and played with their lariats. When I slapped them against my leg and my hand to see how effective it would be, I gotta tell you those suckers HURT!