Dry Bones: A Walt Longmire Mystery by Craig Johnson Page B

afoot was a daring feat this far out.
    I eased to a stop and rolled my window down; I could tell the young man thought about making a break for it but then realized that he might’ve waited a little too long—he might outrun two cops, but he wouldn’t outrun the Bullet. “Howdy.”
    He shifted the backpack on his shoulder as if it were the weight of the world, and maybe it was, at least to him. His voice didn’t carry much enthusiasm as he studied the hills, one eye swollen, the skin underneath blackened. “Hey.”
    “Where are you going?”
    He shrugged.
    “Just headed out for the territories, huh?”
    He turned his head, the long tendrils of black hair whipping across his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Vic snickered as I explained. “Oh, just something the old-timers used to say.” I watched him some more—one tough cookie, as my father would have said. “Reno’s nice; ever been to Reno?”
    The eye that wasn’t damaged narrowed, and he was unsure if I was poking fun at him. “Where’s that?”
    “Nevada.”
    He took his time answering. “Is that where you’re headed?”
    “No, we’re headed for your house.”
    He sighed and kicked at a chunk of red shale in the road with the toe of a Chuck Taylor sneaker. “That’s the one place I don’t want to go.”
    I nodded and glanced at my undersheriff. “Well, we’re lost and were hoping you could help us out.”
    He lip-pointed over his shoulder. “S’that way.”
    “We might miss it.”
    He sighed again, bigger this time, and then trudged in front of my truck and around to Vic’s side like a condemned prisoner. She opened the door and got out, forcing him to the center. He climbed in, setting his backpack on the transmission hump as Dog swiped a tongue as broad as a dishwashing sponge up the back of his head. “’The fuck?”
    Dog sat back and looked at him the way dogs have looked at boys for centuries—half-feral kindred spirits.
    “That’s Dog; I’m his.”
    The kid nodded toward Vic. “Are you hers, too?”
    “I’m not so sure that’s an appropriate question for you to be asking.” I pulled out. “Where’d you get the shiner?”
    “The what?”
    “Black eye.”
    He touched his face. “What did you call it?”
    “A shiner. The term can be traced back to a couple of origins; some say it was an Irish term for the beating you’d get if you didn’t keep your equipment shiny, others that it was because the discolored, swelled tissue appears to have a shine to it.”
    He shrugged. “All I know is that if you make a smart remark to my uncle, you get one free of charge.”
    I drove, and he continued to study us; then he turned toward Vic, even going so far as to shift in the seat.
    She stared back at him. “What?”
    “You’re hot.”
    “Um, thanks.”
    “My uncle Randy and me were talking about you . . . he thinks you’re hot, too.”
    Vic glanced at me. “That’s nice.”
    “We watch TV, and he always says that the TV cops are too pretty, that making them look like that is bullshit, but he said you were an exception.”
    “Oh.” She smiled at him. “So, what are cops supposed to look like?”
    He nodded my way. “Like him.”
    I nodded. “Thanks.” I drove and thought it might be prudent to change the subject. “You know, I used to run away a lot when I was a kid.”
    “I’m seventeen, and I’m not runnin’, just goin’.”
    I nodded. “Does your family know you’re going?”
    “No.”
    “Well, then, within the narrow purview of the law, that would be termed as running.”
    Crossing his arms, he slumped in the seat. “What, and that’s against the law?”
    “Pretty much.” I rested an elbow on the sill. “So, why are you running away?”
    “I’m not so sure that’s an appropriate question for you to be asking.”
    Vic snickered some more as we made a small rise; at the base of one of the many draws, where the two ridges met, a large, Dutch-shouldered house sat nestled against one of