Wild horses couldn’t drag me away. – The Rolling Stones (Sticky Fingers 1971)
(Just a little background here. I’m stepping out of my comfort zone and writing a little fan fiction short story! I am absolutely obsessed with the Netflix original series: Longmire. The show is set in Wyoming, near the Cheyenne Reservation and follows the story of the widowed Sheriff Walt Longmire and his deputies. There is interaction with the Cheyenne Tribal Police and conflict often arises between the 2 law enforcement agencies. Sometimes, the sheriff’s best friend, Henry Standing Bear gets caught in the middle. I hope you enjoy this story based on the series! And I strongly encourage all of you to check it out!)
Sheriff Walt Longmire crushed the beer can in frustration. The man who killed Julia Wyndham was free. Julia had been only 16 years old. She’d had her whole life ahead of her. But it had been cut short when Frank Taylor took a fancy to the pretty young woman and she turned him down. Her battered body had been found in a ditch while Frank was getting drunk with his buddies at The Red Pony. He had been bragging about it. Walt’s best friend, Henry Standing Bear overheard.
If Walt had just kept his cool. His deputy Vic Moretti had been the one to process the body, describe the ripped clothes, the bruises, the blood. Walt had gone into the Red Pony breathing fire. He beat and kicked Frank Taylor in front of at least 30 witnesses before hauling him off to jail. That’s what had done it. Frank was able to claim police brutality and walk away a free man.
Walt threw the crushed can into the trash and stood. This was going to cost him. Maybe his job, maybe even his life. He loaded his rifle and his service revolver. Shrugging into his coat and donning his hat, he shut the door of his cabin and strode resolutely to the truck.
After driving the lonely road for about half an hour, he turned down a rutted track and pulled over. Lights were visible from the old mobile home. Walt left the truck far enough away that the occupants of the trailer wouldn’t have seen him approach. It sounded like a party was in full swing. He could see maybe six or seven motorcycles parked in front. Frank’s scumbag friends.
Walt felt him before he heard him. He turned to face his best friend. “Henry, what the hell are you doing here?”
“I am here to help,” Henry replied in his serene, matter-of-fact way.
“This is my fight, Henry, not yours,” Walt growled.
“Perhaps not,” Henry said, inclining his head. “However, might I point out that you appear to be severely outnumbered, my friend.”
Walt cursed under his breath. “I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?”
“Wild horses could not drag me away,” Henry said. He swept his hand toward the road ahead. “Shall we?”
Walt nodded grimly. The two men moved stealthily down the dirt road. When they were about halfway there, suddenly there was a whoosh and a bang. The trailer erupted into a huge fireball, with flames leaping into the night sky. Walt and Henry were thrown back from the shockwave of the blast. As they picked themselves up from the ground, Henry put a hand on Walt’s shoulder. “Look.”
Through the smoke, backlit by the fire, a lone figure walked toward them. Walt unholstered his handgun and leveled it at the approaching stranger. “Hold it right there!” he ordered.
“Easy Walt! It’s me!” Deputy Vic Moretti called out.
“Vic? What the hell?”
“They were in there cookin’ meth, Sheriff. One of those jackasses must have lit up a smoke and blown themselves to Kingdom Come.”
“Vic…” Walt growled.
“What? It could’ve happened that way,” she said with a shrug.
Henry cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Walt. I believe our aim has been achieved. I think it would be a good idea if we found our way out of here.”
“Where’s your truck, Vic?” Walt asked.
She grinned wickedly. “I caught a ride with Henry.”