I glanced up at the wooden rack of mugs on the wall, a few of them blank but most of them adorned with not only the Wyoming Highway Patrol emblem but also the patrolman’s name. “Has this ever happened down there before?”
He sighed and stood, going over to the counter again and leaning on it with his muscled arms folded. “Not that I’m aware of. I called Mike Harlow to try and talk with him, but he hung up on me.”
The Bear looked at him. “Who is Mike Harlow?”
“The trooper who had the Wind River Canyon patrol up until three months ago, when Rosey took it over.”
I chewed the inside of my lip. “And who had it before he did?”
“Bobby Womack.”
We all grew quiet at the mention of the man’s name. “Why do you suppose Harlow won’t speak to you?”
“Probably because he’s sick and tired of talking about Bobby Womack.” Thomas slid a hand along the old Formica. “Mike’s a little sore. I think he was hoping that they’d give him command of G, just as a figurehead for a few months before he retired.” He sighed. “But they brought me up, and I think he got a little pissed off.”
“Do you think it would make a difference if we asked?”
“Maybe.”
“Where is he?”
“He retired and bought a cabin down in the south end of the canyon. You can’t miss it—he’s got a Marine Corps flag on a pole down there.”
I raised a fist. “Semper Fi.” I lowered my hand and eased back in my chair. “Kind of odd, retiring in the place he patrolled for all those years.”
Jim nodded and smiled, his face looking even more like that poster child. “We all thought it was pretty odd. I asked him about it at the little party we had for him the beginning of February, and you know what he said?” The big captain shook his head, the close-cropped hair not moving a bit. “‘Nobody ever gets out of that canyon, so I’m not even going to try.’”
We sat there for a while, listening to the radio chatter from all over the state. “What do you think it is, Jim?”
“I wish I knew. Rosey’s a sterling officer—that’s why I invited her over when I got the command—but this thing’s got me licked. I don’t know what to make of it. I sat with her down there in that car, and we never heard a thing; three nights I did it. Nothing.”
“She says it doesn’t happen every night.”
He spread his hands, truly at a loss. “And what am I supposed to do with that, Walt? I’ve got a wife and two daughters. I can’t just go down there and sit in the canyon with one of my troopers. That’s why I have them, to do the jobs that I can’t.”
“Still, you’ve heard the stories.”
He looked at the rack of mugs on the wall. “Yeah, I’ve heard ’em. We’ve all heard ’em, haven’t we?”
“Yes.”
The trooper turned his head, surprised that the Bear had been the first to speak. “All the way up on the Cheyenne reservation?”
“The moccasin telegraph never sleeps.”
Thomas stood and walked over to the mugs on the wall, including one with his own name. “You see these? There’s one for every trooper in G, past and present.” He pulled his own from its cubby and twirled it on his finger like a six-shooter. “When a trooper dies, we turn his mug toward the wall, solid white.”
I studied the rack. “Which is Bobby Womack’s?”
He touched one at the upper left-hand corner. “This one right here.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
I glanced at Henry. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
He filled himself a cup from the urn and leaned against the counter. “When I first got here, every once in a while . . . not every day, but every once in a while, I’d come in and that mug, Bobby’s mug, would be turned back around to where you could read his name.”
“So why can’t I look at it now?”
“I superglued it down.” He turned and rinsed his mug in the adjacent sink and then carefully dried it and
put it in its cubby just below Womack’s. “You know what they call him?”
“Heeci’ecihit.” The Bear leaned back and laced his long fingers in his lap. “That is what the Arapaho have always called him. Heeci’ecihit—the Highwayman.”
“His mother liked the R & B singer. She had one of those console record players, and she used to play Sam Cooke and Bobby Womack albums all the time, so she named her only son Bobby.” The dreadfully obese Arapaho man shook his head. “Since the singer’s name was Womack, she thought they must’ve been related somehow. Couldn’t ever convince her otherwise, especially after he did a country album.”
“Is she still alive?”
“Oh no, long dead. I think sometime back in the eighties.”
“Are there any Womacks still around?”
“There’s an aunt, I think, over in Fort Washakie, but
I’m not sure exactly where. She’d probably be in her nineties by now.” Sam Little Soldier smiled. “Hey, I heard you had lunch with Kimama—how’d that go?”
I shrugged. “She’s calling me Bucket.”
He studied me. “You are kind of beyond the pale.”
“So, Bobby was the first Arapaho trooper?”
“The very first of the people to become a flat-hat, yes. It was quite a stir for a while—he was about as famous as Sacajawea around these parts. There were a lot of people who were offended by it, though, said he’d gone over to the other side, but Bobby, he was just like that—always helping people.”
“So, you knew him pretty well?”
He nodded. “We went to school together.”
“Where?”
Sam gestured to the area around his office. “Right here. They started Central Wyoming College up in 1966, and Bobby and I got in in ’68 when they were still having classes in the basement of a bank downtown. We both played basketball for the Shaman and then transferred down to Laramie.”
Henry raised an eyebrow. “The Shaman?”
Sam nodded. “That was the name of the sports teams before they changed it to the Rustlers.”
“I think I like ‘Shaman’ better.”
Sam laughed. “Yeah, me too, but we got too many First Nations/Indigenous Peoples/Aboriginal Americans/Natives around here to go for that.”
“Was Bobby tall?”
He shook his head. “No, he was a little guy, but one of those bundles of baling wire and tough as hell.” The three-hundred-pound man reached over his shoulder, pulled down one of the numerous black-and-white photos on his wall in the Wyoming Public Radio office, and handed it to me. “Front and center, holding the ball, the one with the black socks. He was one of the most gifted power forwards I’ve ever seen. He was fast, too fast for all these corn-feds around here. Played on dirt his whole childhood, barefoot. Then the high school came along and gave him shoes and a wooden floor? He was unstoppable.”
First I studied the younger and much thinner version of the man in front of us and then the young Bobby Womack sitting in the photo, a dark swatch of hair covering one eye with the other taking all comers, looking into the camera and maybe the world. “What happened in Laramie?”
“Some guy from Arizona State side-checked him and
that’s when his knee went; walked with that limp the rest of his life. He finished his degree, though, and we all figured he’d teach and maybe coach somewhere, but that’s when he put in with the Highway Patrol.”
Pulling my eyes away from the young man in the photo, I looked at his friend. “With a bad knee?”
Sam laughed and parts of his anatomy jostled to join in. “Yeah, even with a bad knee he outdid everybody at the academy.”
I handed him back the memories. “Hard to believe.”
“Yeah, well . . .” He set the photo on his desk and studied it. “That was Bobby.” A moment passed, and then he glanced at Henry, finally resting his dark eyes on me. “So, why are you two world shakers down here asking questions about Heeci’ecihit?”
I smiled. “So, you know the legends?”
“Oh, yeah. The Highwayman of the Wind River Canyon . . . Tribal story. After the incident, the old women would threaten their children with him.” He stuck out a fat finger and shook it at me. “You don’t do what you’re supposed to, Heeci’ecihit will come and get you!” He laughed. “Bobby would’ve loved that—he was one of the worst kids on the rez.”
“What changed him?”
Sam chuckled. “He grew up—every once in a while it happens—been there, done that. Hell, you know as well as I do that young outlaws make the best lawmen.” He studied us some more. “But you still haven’t answered my question, and I’m wondering why you would come down here and start asking people about old ghost stories.”
“Jim Thomas says you’re the local radio expert around these parts.”
He shrugged and gestured to a silent young man with bristling black hair who now stood in the doorway of the office. “It’s my job supervising the station, but it’s his passion. He knows more about radios than I ever will. My grandson, Joey.”
“Is that true?”
The athletic-looking college student nodded but kept his eyes to the ground. “I do a lot of ham radio stuff, and I’ve pretty much got a radio museum at home.”
I leaned forward, taking my hat from my knee and running the brim through my hands. “Okay then, how hard would it be to break into the Highway Patrol’s radios?”
He looked at me strangely, his eyes finally finding mine. “You mean the frequency?”
“Yep.”
He thought about it. “With the proper equipment, not very hard at all, but you can get into a lot of trouble doing that shit.” He glanced back at his grandfather and then between Henry and me. “So, what’s happening?”
I smiled. “Do you know Rosey Wayman, the new HP in Troop G up in the canyon?”
“The blonde?” He registered a smile at my surprise at his knowing her. “There aren’t that many of them around here and anyway, she’s flip.”
I glanced at Henry, my go-to guy for youth speak.
“Hot.”
I turned back to Joey. “She’s been hearing things on her radio.”
He looked uninterested. “What kind of things?”
“She says she hears Bobby Womack.”
Joey didn’t move for a few seconds but then turned to Sam. “Is this a joke?” He stared at the Cheyenne Nation for a few seconds more and then turned back to me. “Tell me this is a joke.”
“I wish I could—she says that every night or so she hears him on her radio in the canyon. It’s to the point where her captain is ready to send her in for psychiatric evaluation.”
“He should.”
I was a little taken aback. “You’re not curious?”
Sam stood and interrupted. “About what? That she’s hearing radio transmissions from a guy who’s been dead for more than thirty years?” He turned back to Henry—apparently the interview was over.
Joey stepped back, clearing the way, and spoke to the Cheyenne Nation. “I can’t believe that you’re doing this.” He gestured toward me. “After what they did to Bobby?”
“Wait, who did what to Bobby.”
The young man crossed his arms over his flat stomach. “Jim Thomas, he didn’t tell you that story, huh?”
“What story?”
He took a deep breath, calming himself, and then looked at the photo on his grandfather’s desk. His fingers came up and covered his mouth, and his eyes narrowed to black slits. “Maybe you should hear it from somebody else. I’m kind of biased.”
I waited, but then Henry stood and rested his hand on Joey’s arm. “Then could you tell us, Sam?”
Sam looked at the man in the photo again and weighed whether he was going to share. “Hookuuhulu, don’t you have basketball practice?” The young man made a face, pushed off the doorjamb, and retreated without a word.
“C’mon, I’ve got another appointment, but I’ll tell you the story on the way to the parking lot.”
He gathered up a battered briefcase and a coat, and we followed him through the hallways and out an exterior door, where a vintage blue import sat behind the main building.
Henry was the first to ask. “You have still got this thing?”
The large man placed a hand on the fender. “This is my baby.”
I studied the car. “What is it?”
His hand glided up and down the fender. “This is the very first Japanese import into the United States market, the Toyopet Crown. It’s actually a Toyota.”
“It is actually a piece of crap.”
“Like you’re a judge.” The heavyset man frowned at us. “Not to change the subject, but back to the stories—you ever heard of the 1888-O ‘Hot Lips’ Morgan silver dollar?”
“I’ve heard of the Morgan silver dollar.”
He leaned against the very compact car. “Back in the early sixties there were stashes of the Morgan, the most famous coin of the Old West, that got released from some long-forgotten government vaults, and the
Treasury ran onto a bunch from the New Orleans mint that had been double-struck in error, which resulted in a doubling up of Lady Liberty’s lips, nose, and chin—hence the moniker ‘Hot Lips Morgan.’”
I fished out the coin that Rosey had flipped to me in the cruiser and tossed it on the hood of the car in front of him, where it landed flat but vibrated in a circle on the metal, finally coming to rest. “Look like that?”
He pulled out his reading glasses, guiding them onto his face, reached out with his free hand, and peered at the silver dollar. “Where did you get this?”
“Rosey Wayman gave it to me.”
He smiled. “They went up for auction, and a portion of the find ended up in storage at the Central Bank & Trust here in Riverton, headed for some collector in Helena.”
“I’m assuming they never got there.”
“No. There were a couple of fellas who worked for the Wyoming Department of Transportation and one of them part time as a janitor at the bank, and he figured a way to get into the basement and steal the damn things, ferreting them out little by little until they had more than a thousand.”
“Wow.”
He picked up the coin and stared at me. “The bank was getting wise to them, so they lit out north and got as far as the canyon, but when they were pulled over, both of them got killed, and the bag of Hot Lips Morgans was gone.”
“Who pulled them over?”
He rested a hand on the car. “Who do you think?”
“Bobby Womack.”
Flipping his ponytail back and resting his hand against the side of his face, Sam studied the coin. “There was a big to-do, and a lot of suspicion fell on Bobby from both sides.”
“Why?”
“The two WYDOT guys who stole the Hot Lips Morgans were Indians and known to Bobby.” He shrugged and as he climbed in the clown car, its suspension crouched down on one side. “Everybody figured it had been some kind of inside deal with Bobby in on it, and when things went bad Bobby decided to divest himself of his two partners.”
“Did he have any history of that kind of thing?”
Sam slammed the door of the car, barely getting it closed, and began cranking the starter a few times
before it caught. He started to back away, but the import stalled. “Not once.”
“Then why would anybody suspect him?”
Sam Little Soldier continued to study the silver dollar in his hand before tossing it back to me. He cranked the uncommunicative engine of the Toyopet Crown again and then sighed in the silence. “Because he was an Indian.”
• • •
Static. “I’ve never heard that story.”
I keyed the mic with the radio preset to Jim Thomas on the HPs frequency. “Probably before your time, you pup.”
Static. “That’s Captain Pup.”
“Right.” I glanced at Henry, who was staring through the windshield of my truck as Trooper Wayman had a conversation on the side of the Wind River Canyon Scenic Highway with a motorist in an aged Diamond Rio tanker truck that she had pulled over. “Right. Anyway, can you get me the reports on the incident so I can check it out?”
Static. “Happy to. So, you guys are settled in for the night?”
“Yep.”
Static. “Well, I’ll be listening up here, but Rosey says it’s a faint signal, so if it does happen I probably won’t hear it.”
I checked the clock on my dash. “We’ve only got a half hour to go.”
Static. “Give me a report in the morning.”
“Roger that.”
Static. “Hey, Walt?”
“Yep.”
Static. “If you don’t hear anything tonight? Well, I’d really appreciate you helping me get her to talk to someone. I’m really worried about her.”
I keyed the mic one last time. “Right.”
The Bear studied Rosey, who was still engaged with the trucker. “If she does not give him the ticket soon, she may miss her call.”
I pulled the Morgan from my jacket pocket. “We can take a message.”
He reached out and took the coin from my fingers. “What did she say about this?”
“She didn’t. I was hoping to hear more tonight.”
He gestured through the windshield. “Well, it looks as if you are going to get your chance.”
The running lights of the truck Rosey had pulled over disappeared into the distance as she walked past her unit, yanked open my back door, and climbed in. “I hate that rat.”
“Who?”
“Coleman. He owns a crappy heating oil business in Thermopolis and runs the fuel down to the rez during the winter at jacked-up prices. I’ve charged him a couple of times, but I can’t get anything to stick.” She glanced over the seat at the dash. “What time is it?”
“A little after midnight.”
The Cheyenne Nation chimed in. “And only six days till Easter.”
Rosey slumped forward onto the back of my seat with a sigh. “This may be the longest half hour of my career.”
The Bear held up the silver dollar. “Care to tell us about this?”
She looked at the two of us, reached up and took the coin, and then delved into her duty shirt pocket. Pulling out an identical Morgan, she handed them both back to Henry. “That’s the second one I’ve found.”
“Where?”
She leaned back in the seat and looked at the
headliner. “The first one was near mile marker 117 about two and a half months ago. I was driving down from Thermop right at sunset, and there was something gleaming on the road. I pulled over and stopped, and there this thing was, sitting in the middle of the two painted lines like somebody put it there.”
I took the first one from Henry and examined it. “Well, that’s kind of funny. . . .”
“That’s not the funny part. About eleven that night a Jeep Cherokee hauling three kids from on the rez blew a tire and swerved, rolling the thing against the inboard rock wall at the exact spot that the coin had been.”
Henry’s voice rose from the darkness on the other side of the cab. “Did any of them survive?”