This next story is a departure from my norm. I am posting the entire story in one offering, a-la-Netflix style. Netflix usually releases all of their original content episodes at once and I admit that I binge watch all of them and plan on doing the same for our Longmire! So, whether you pace yourself or read it all at once I look forward to reading your reviews and absorbing your feedback. I can't wait for Season 4 like all of you. #LongLiveLongmire
The owl stares at me with expectations, expectations of acknowledgement and respect. I have both and I do both but there is not an outward expression of either as I stare into his luminous omniscient eyes. Instead, I turn, reacting to the distinct sound of a shotgun; too loud for a sidearm and without the distinguishable echo of a rifle.
Without witness, the owl takes silent flight as I inwardly repeat the refrain that I am no longer afraid of death even if it is my own. My resolution has freed me. Jacob Nighthorse will answer for his sins: dead or alive.
Shifting the Bronco into gear, I look back at our cabin; the cabin Martha and I shared knowing this may be the last time.
Rage like mine, it never tempers, you see. It just boils hotter until the molten of emotions spill over. You are here with me, watching my tipping point. I can barely contain the pulses of energy, as I will the Bronco harder and faster down the highway, can you feel it too? My left leg bounces unwittingly in harmony with my fingers as they tighten and release around the steering wheel. My teeth clench, my jaw tightens, and I press harder on the accelerator scorching the miles on the desolate abandoned Wyoming highway.
"Walt, you there?"
Her voice breaks my concentration for just a moment as I choose to ignore the arcane magnetism. I reach down and with one simple turn of the knob, I shut her, and the rest of the world out. The worn stained leather covering my foot stretches as it eases off the pedal about a ΒΌ mile from the exit to the construction site and the Bronco slows to a reasonable pace entering the roadway. Taking in my surroundings, I am more determined than ever to end this, finally.
The 4x4 crawls to a determined stop and I note the surveillance cameras, the high points, putting four extra magazines in my coat pocket before palming my rifle. My hand molds into the frame and the rifle falls gently along my left side while I walk casually but purposefully into the business office.
The secretary, a ringer for a late 1940's brunette from central casting, is the first to see me as she frantically buzzes under her desk. She is a cross between Gloria Graham and Rita Hayworth. I think, what she is doing mixed up with Nighthorse, but I know the answer.
"Sheriff"
"Where's Nighthorse? I'm not going to ask twice."
Before she can purse her candy colored lips, Malachi sweeps around the corner with two of his henchmen. They answered the same ad for the casting call.
"What do you want Longfinger?"
He sticks his crooked finger into my chest but I don't give him a chance to open his mouth again as I bring the butt of the rifle up and catch him square in the jaw with the wood stock. He drops like a sack of potatoes as number two throws a punch that glances off of my temple. I strike the pigeon toed heavy in the gut with a short power stroke of the rifle butt. Side stepping, I slide the barrel between my thumb and index finger, rotate my hips, step forward, and bunt into the neck of number three.
The three stooges lay on the expensive Italian marble in a heap of flesh. The secretary is shivering too terrified to move.
"Where is he?" My breath is rapid but my voice is cold and steady.
Her lips quiver, "Sheriff, he's not here. I swear. I don't know where he is."
"Tell me the truth."
"I am. He left over an hour ago. I honestly don't know where he is."
"Call him." It's an order, not a request.
She doesn't answer me, she doesn't hesitate, she dials his number so fast I'm surprised the phone could keep up.
"It went to voicemail."
"Try it again." I point to her as I walk into Nighthorse's elaborate and ostentatious office replete with the crow feathers that nearly killed Branch and most certainly were involved in Martha's murder adding more gasoline to my raging internal inferno.
I turn back to face her, she holds up the phone, "Listen for yourself, he's not answering."
Nighthorse's slow and deliberate cadence echoes in my ear. I hang up the phone, "Write down his number." She complies and I walk through the other offices. Nighthorse is nowhere in sight.
I scramble back to the Bronco and spin toward the highway heading towards Nighthorse's house. My teeth grind and I shake my head as I pull the Bronco to the side of the road. Despite the overflowing volcano, burning deep inside I will not kill the bastard in front of his family. My eyes catch the colorless pattern forming across the bridge of my knuckles as the blood dissipates with the frozen clench I have on the steering wheel. My fingers peel apart and my palms strike the edge of the steering wheel, they strike harder and harder, the anger flooding from my body.
Looking down at the redness filling my throbbing palms, I flex my fingers surreally suppressing the small quiet voice inside beginning to plea. If you listen for a moment, shhhhh, you can hear him, too.
Pulling the shakily scribbled telephone number scrawled on the paper by the large eyed secretary I start to formulate my next step. I need to make a telephone call.