“Tell me the feel of a gun in your hand don’t excite you, just like the touch of a woman.”
“We’re done here.”
“Violence lives in the man. It don’t find him of its own accord. My daddy taught me that. Every time he held my head down in a rain barrel to improve my inner concentration.”
“Get out.”
“Walked the rim of your pasture this morning. I’d irrigate if I was you. A grass fire coming up that canyon would turn the whole place into an ash heap.”
BUT MY MORNING INVOLVEMENT with Wyatt was not over yet. Two hours later Seth Masterson came into the office, sat down in front of my desk, and removed a Xeroxed sheet from a sheaf of documents inside a folder. “Read this,” he said.
The letter had probably been typed on an old mechanical typewriter; the letters were ink-filled and blunted on the edges. The date was only one week ago, the return address General Delivery, Missoula, Montana. It read:
Dear President George W. Bush,
I am a fellow Texan and long supporter of the personal goals you have set for yourself and our great country. I particularly like the way you have stood up to the towel heads who has attacked New York City and the Pentagon. With this letter I am offering my expertise in taking care of these sonsofbitches so they will not be around any longer to get in your hair. Let me know when you want me to come to Washington to discuss the matter.
My character references are William Robert Holland, a lawyer friend in Missoula, and Rev. Elton T. Sneed of the Antioch Pentecostal Church in Arlee, Montana.
Your fellow patriot,
Wyatt Dixon
“Is this guy for real?” Seth said. His legs wouldn’t fit between his chair and my desk and he
kept shoving the chair back to give himself more space.
“You must have pulled everything available on him. What do you think?”
“He’s a nutcase. The question is whether he should be picked up.”
“Wyatt does things that give the impression he’s crazy. At the same time he seems to stay a step ahead of everyone else, at least he does with me. Is he dangerous? When he needs to be.”
“You seem pretty objective about a guy who kidnapped and buried your wife.”
I paused a moment. “Two years ago I tried to kill him. I got behind him and shot at him four times with a forty-five revolver and missed.”
Seth looked at me for a beat, then lowered his eyes. “Got a little head cold and can’t hear too well this morning. Keep me posted on this guy, will you?” he said.
“You bet. He was just in here.”
“This is quite a town,” he said.
“Why you bird-dogging Johnny American Horse, Seth?”
“I’ve got to get something for this dadburn cold. My head feels like somebody poured cement in it,” he replied.
SOME PEOPLE HAVE no trouble with jail. In fact, they use jails like hotels, checking in and out of them when the weather is severe or if they’re down on their luck or they need to get their drug tolerance reduced so they can re-addict less expensively. But Johnny didn’t do well inside the slams.
Fay Harback called me on Thursday. “Been over to see American Horse?” she asked.
“Not since Tuesday,” I replied.
“Go do it. I don’t need any soap operas in my life.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m not unaware of Johnny’s war record. Maybe I’ve always liked him. I don’t choose the individuals I prosecute.”