Twenty-Three

Arn loaded new batteries into his flashlight and grabbed the Thermos of coffee from Danny. “I think you ought to rethink burning the flame at both ends,” Danny said. “Between staying out nights and working Jillie’s case during the day, you’re dragging your keister.”

Arn patted Danny on the shoulder. “Thanks for the concern. But the one night I’m not sitting on some pasture is when the Midnight Sheepherder will strike. I’ll be okay.”

He grabbed his binoculars from the nail beside the door and stepped into the cool night. As he started away from the house, he just hoped he’d be able to stay awake. For one more night.

Arn drove through the open gate into the pasture. Sheep munched on grass, glancing only briefly at the gold-colored car driving slowly through the flock. Mike Shaffer, president of the Wool Growers Association, had called him earlier that afternoon. Mike was convinced the rustler would hit either his north field or his neighbor’s south sheep pasture. “It’s been months since I’ve had sheep stolen,” he told Arn over the phone. “I’m about due.” Like most of the wool growers, Mike didn’t think that Jillie was half of the Midnight Sheepherder. He didn’t think that her death would stop the thefts. And neither did Arn.

He doused his lights and stuck his head out the window, flicking on his flashlight to see where he was going. He drove a hundred yards and came upon a slight rise where he could look over Mike’s pasture as well as the neighbor’s, so he settled back.

As Arn cupped his hand around a mug of hot coffee, his eyes closed for a moment. Movement outside his window caused him to snap awake. Sheep grazed right outside his window, and he breathed with relief. The Midnight Sheepherder was still alive, and Arn was certain it was only a matter of time before he struck again.

He thought about the homicides, and what Slade had said to him: he shouldn’t be out here at night. A retired cop sneaking up on sixty ought to be snug in front of a fire, robe wrapped around him, reading his favorite classic. Arn thought so too. Until he recalled officers he’d worked with who did just that: kicked their feet up after retirement. Took it easy. After a few weeks, could name all the popular soap opera stars. And died within a few short years from boredom and inactivity. Arn had no desire to go the way of those retired cops. His grandfather had lived to ninety-two staying active, and Arn was certain his father would have too if a train hadn’t highballed through Cheyenne and caught him passed out in his car on the tracks.

Still, he thought as he fought to keep his eyes open, there was something to be said for a warm place to sleep right about now.

He closed his eyes. For just a moment he would rest them, certain any rustler entering Mike’s pasture would awaken him.

Cold steel jammed into Arn’s ear woke him. He clawed for his gun, but a familiar female voice standing beside his car door thought otherwise. “Skin that gun I know you carry and toss it out the window or you’re a dead man.”

Arn carefully brought his leg up and took his gun from his ankle holster. He tossed it out the window.

“Now put your hands on the wheel.”

Arn wrapped his fingers around his steering wheel and turned his head ever so slightly. Karen Glass stood next to the car door. She held a Judge in her hand, a behemoth of a revolver capable of firing .45 and .410 shotgun rounds. There was just enough moonlight for Arn to recognize the look on her face: she intended to kill him. “I’m betting this little meeting is about Eddie,” he said.

“You’re smarter than you look,” she replied. “You’ve been making noise that Eddie murdered Jillie Reilly. He didn’t.”

“Because he was in the Outlaw Saloon?” Arn inched his hand lower on the wheel. “What if I told you I believe you?”

Karen laughed, but there was no humor in her voice. “I don’t believe your cock-and-bull. You’ve got it in your mind that Eddie murdered Jillie, and nothing I can do will change that.”

“And if Sergeant Slade knows what I found out—that you and Eddie weren’t in the Outlaw that night? That you’ve both been barred from entering the bar?”

“You have been busy.”

“Where was Eddie that night?” Arn asked, his hand slipping ever so slightly lower on the wheel. “Because he wasn’t at the Outlaw. Maybe giving Jillie her last ride. And where was he when Don Whales was murdered?”

Karen shoved the cold muzzle of her gun tight against Arn’s cheek. “Eddie was out of town that night,” she said between her teeth clenched tight. “At a dog show.”

“You don’t believe that. I’d bet that even you believe he followed Jillie out the Boot Hill”—hand sliding lower—“and you feel he would be good for Don’s death.”

“Horseshit—”

“Why else follow me here? Don’t you think Slade’s going to zero in on you when I’m found dead?” Arn’s hand was now close to the door handle.

Karen chuckled again. “Just say good night, Mr. Anderson.”

She jammed the muzzle harder into his cheek and cocked the revolver just as he grabbed the door handle. Arn jerked upward and threw his head to one side, away from the muzzle of the gun.

Karen fired, the deafening sound bouncing around the confines of the Oldsmobile as Arn shoved the door with his shoulder. It hit Karen on the hip, and he drove the door open all the way. She reeled back, fighting to regain her composure as she fired again. Shotgun pellets bounced off the windshield and peppered Arn’s face as Karen fell to the ground. Arn threw himself on her and pinned the gun to the dirt as bleating sheep scurried in all directions.

Karen bit his ear and tried kneeing him in the groin. “You son-of-a-bitch—”

Arn snatched her gun and tossed it aside. “Just say good night, Karen.” He doubled up his fist and laid a right cross square on her jaw.