“Can a press conference be considered impromptu if you’re wearing pancake makeup?”

Looking at the crowds of people in green and white SAVE JEN T-shirts, who were protesting the perceived jackboot actions of the feds by holding signs that read SAY BYE, FBI!, I leaned against the red brick of the courthouse and sighed. It appeared to me that Skip Trost was facing an uphill battle.

I studied the side of his face. “You’re kidding.”

Vic smiled. “And just a touch of rouge to give him that ruddy, cross-dresser-of-the-people look.”

I glanced at the hundred or so trampling the newly sown grass on the hill leading to my office and spoke out of the side of my mouth: “Hush, this is bad enough without a running commentary.”

“Thank you for being here today for this off-the-cuff announcement, and thank you for the pleasure of being here with all of you this morning.” The acting deputy attorney continued talking over the shouts of the crowd. “It is a privilege to see my friends, colleagues, and local leaders assembled here today for this momentous event—it is a wonderful opportunity to thank them for their dedication in serving as faithful stewards to the people and the wonderful place we call home, Wyoming.”

“Do you think he thinks they don’t know what state they live in?”

Trost adjusted the microphone on the podium and studied the onlookers. “From its earliest days, this state has been bound together by a set of laws and values that define it—equality, opportunity, and justice.”

“For all.”

“Shhhh . . .”

“When is he going to start talking about the dinosaur?”

“Shhhh . . .”

“These traits are codified in our great state, and there are those of us who are called upon to settle disputes but also to hold accountable those who have done wrong. I have long held the opinion that I am a custodian of the law.” He turned around and looked at the courthouse to validate his worth.

“How long has he been in office?”

I mumbled under my breath, “He hasn’t been confirmed yet.”

He gained momentum. “I hope to give a clear and focused message to those who would take advantage of our great state’s magnificent bounty.”

She bounced the back of her head against the wall. “Oh, brother.”

“Yes, a treasure trove of state antiquities that should not be allowed to fall into any single individual’s hands but should be shared by all the people of Wyoming in a communal dedication to the cause of justice and the common good.”

“Coming off kind of William Jennings Bryan, isn’t he?”

Feeling he’d captured the throng, Trost decided to get literary. “Salus populi suprema lex esto.”

She looked at me. “What the fuck was that?”

“Cicero—the welfare of the people is the ultimate law.”

Vic studied the telejournalists, all of them looking a little perplexed. “Think they’ll subtitle him?”

Warming to the subject, Trost nodded his head. “It is time; in fact it’s well past time to address the persistent needs and unwarranted disparities by considering a fundamentally new approach toward the federal Antiquities Act of 1906, which includes a clear prohibition against removing fossils from any land owned or controlled by the United States.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I myself would prefer to see Jen remain, if not here in Absaroka County, then within the confines of the state.” He raised a fist. “Save Jen!”

There were cheers on that one.

“This is our solemn obligation as stewards of the land so that these antiquities might be preserved for our children . . .”

Vic mumbled, “And our children’s children.”

“And our children’s 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 picked up one of the boards and stood. “There’s a legend . . .”

She laughed. “What is it with you westerners? There’s always a legend.”