Dry Bones: A Walt Longmire Mystery by Craig Johnson

children.” He glanced at us and gestured toward me, and I thought that he might’ve overheard Vic. “I’d like to ask a man that’s well-known and respected by all of you, Sheriff Walt Longmire, to join me here at the podium.”
    I pushed off the wall and started forward, speaking under my breath as I passed her, “What, no smart-ass remark on that?”
    She smiled and patted my shoulder. “Just waiting till you’re out of earshot.”
    Trost pumped my hand as I joined him; he was, indeed, wearing makeup. He had stopped me on the top step to try and keep his height opportunity, but even with the six-inch advantage, I was still a couple of inches taller. He smiled brightly for the cameras and held on to my hand. “Are there any questions?”
    “Sheriff, have any criminal charges been brought against the High Plains Dinosaur Museum?”
    “Um, not at this time. We’re hoping that—”
    Trost reached over and brought the mic closer to his face. “Actually, our office has been planning an intervention to discourage this type of behavior.”
    A Billings reporter called out to me, “Sheriff, is it true that the Jen was found on Native American land?”
    “Well, it was discovered on the Lone Elk Ranch, and Danny was an enrolled member—”
    Trost leapt in again. “The Cheyenne tribe has filed an order to desist under the federal Antiquities Act of 1906 prohibiting the removal of fossils from any land owned or controlled by the United States without permit.”
    The redhead from the Casper station yelled at me, “Does the museum have a permit, Walt?”
    I shrugged again. “My understanding is—”
    The deputy attorney spoke into the microphone. “No, they do not.” He glanced around. “I’m afraid that the sheriff has other duties to attend to, but I’m glad to stay here and answer anything more you might want to know.”
    As another flurry of questions exploded, I took my leave and collected Vic, shortcutting to our office through the courthouse. I held the glass door open and ushered her in. “So, how did I do?”
    “You were a perfect little meat puppet.” She glanced back with mock concern. “You didn’t mess up his lipstick, did you?”
     • • • 
    There are signs on the Lone Elk place, but you have to find them.
    Kicking at the boards lying at the base of a post and trying to figure out if any of them might be pointing the right way, I kneeled down and turned a few over, reading the names of owners long past.
    “Are we lost?”
    I lifted my face, narrowing my eyes in the wind that had picked up, and looked at the rolling hills of the eastern part of my jurisdiction. “Never lost, just mightily confused.”
    She stood at the fork of the gravel roads and turned around as Dog took a leak on his forty-third piece of sagebrush. “How big is our county again?”
    “In square miles?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Just over nine thousand—about the size of New Hampshire.” I glanced around some more, making some calculations. “If I were to guess, I’d say we were near Hakert Draw at the Wallows, maybe near Dead Swede Mine.”
    She walked past me to the edge of the road, Dog following, and looked at the Powder River country, at the vastness of the high plains that seemed to draw your eyes further than you thought possible. “Question number one.” She turned to look at me, scratching behind Dog’s ear as he sat on her foot. “What is Hakert Draw?”
    “Well, a draw is formed by two parallel ridges or spurs with low ground in between them; the area of low ground, where we happen to be standing, is the actual draw. Hakert is the name of the rancher who used to own the land.”
    She pushed Dog off her foot, walked over, and leaned against the pole. “The Wallows?”
    “A few small lakes out here, fed by a number of creeks.”
    “Like the killer-turtle pond?”
    “Yep.”
    “Dead Swede Mine?”
    “That one is a little complicated.”
    “What, there’s a dead Swede at the bottom of a shaft?”
    I