Feeble illumination from a lone bulb flickered above thirty feet of dark mahogany, giving the deeply polished wood of the Montana Bar a reverent glow. Rows of bottled spirits trembled with the electric energy of the back bar lights. An odor of disinfectant jeopardized the scent of aging wood and leather, spilled beer and cigarette ash. A few locals chatted in a corner booth. With Thanksgiving mere days away, the townspeople held onto their weekly alcohol allowances.

I stood at the bar, turning a cold beer in my fingers, waiting for an answer to my question. The sweat on the bottle made unsanctioned promises of warmer climes. Wilbur Thompson rinsed glassware in a tiny sink behind the shining stretch of oak. 

Thickly muscled triceps rippled, and his tiny head glowed under the accent lights. Nimble fingers danced over the rims of bar glasses, giving them a renewed polish and a pristine shine. His bison-sized chest resonated with laughter at private jokes. 

He might have been stalling. Or maybe my inquiry had him reminiscing. Whatever the reason, he was certainly taking his time with that glassware. 

Uninvited thoughts of a misspent youth swam to the surface. Wilbur saved my reckless teenage ass from a bar brawl that would have put me in a hospital. Standing up for a punk kid in this town was inconceivable, but Wilbur believed no man deserved an ambush. Maybe he saw his own youth behind my bitter attitude and stepped in with his unique brand of kindness. I owed him reluctant allegiance. And he took odd pleasure in these nerve-wracking reminders.

One longhorn steer thrust its head through the wall behind me and held a steady gaze on my drink. He apparently didn’t realize I could see his reflection in the mirrors, held rock solid by carved oak arches. No wobble in them.

I took a hearty swig. Renée’s phone call was paying for this round. Time and energy. That’s what makes a thing right. Not chasing off to the mountains with your lover the way Sis had, leaving your poor, sad-sack brother to dig the grave for the family business.

“It’s a fine time of year to be roaming north,” Wilbur declared without raising his head. “Rough bunch, them that lives in those mountains.”

“Can’t be much different than any others,” I responded. “Spent time in the Appalachians a few years back. Friendly folks out there.”

The burly old man huffed. “That ilk ain’t got a border crossing peeking over their shoulder every mornin’.” He moved down the bar to look me in the eye. “It’s a mighty temptation, that black market money. Specially if you live a hard-tack life, paycheck to paycheck and ye ole Uncle Sam wants to take what little you can scrounge legitimate like.” Wilbur’s squint said volumes on his dissatisfaction with the government. 

I squinted right back with righteous skepticism. “Can’t be all that bad, Wilbur. Most people want to do the right thing. Hell, I’m a cynic myself, but every man for himself? Sits a bit side-saddle for me.”

He shrugged those massive shoulders and went to wiping the bar. “Believe it like you want. I spent near ten years out there, trying to make good. Either you had your hand in sneaking stuff across, or you lived with someone who did.” He tilted an eye towards me. “Course, the lawmen was another story. Them that wanted a cleaner Montana worked hard against the flow. But if a body had a mind,” he raised a thick finger to make the point, “he could find hisself a crooked cop to grease the wheel.”

With a shake of the head, I grumbled, “So chances are well against finding a missing kid up there.” A swig on the beer proved it had gone tepid waiting on this bad news.

The comment got Wilbur’s attention. “That what this is about? Some kid went missing?” His voice pitched up revealing a note of fear. “That ain’t good, son. That ain’t a bit o’ good.”

“Why you saying it like that, Wilbur? You’re breaking me out in a sweat.”

“Well now,” he said with the hushed level of dangerous secrets. “It’s more than black market trinkets or Canadian whisky what rolls across that border. It’s people. And young ones at that.”

His words had me barely breathing. I twirled the bottle on an edge, keeping it upright with a cupped hand. “Renée wants me to run up there ‘cause a little girl went missing. She thinks the Sheriff isn’t paying enough attention. Says it happens on the regular with this family. I phoned an officer up there, and he seemed a little unsure about the whole thing.” I stopped the spinning to look hard into Wilbur’s gray eyes. “You wouldn’t bullshit me about a thing like this?”

His back straightened with indignation. That tiny head of his still projected a lot of menace. But then the old bartender let his face settle into an easy smile. “It’s been a minute, Connor. Maybe memory exaggerates the story a might. I ain’t sayin’ it wasn’t so when my feet traipsed those parts. Could be a whole new game since those days.”

“So I shouldn’t worry?”

“Ain’t sayin’ that, son. Could be a hell of a lot to worry about, situation where a kid goes absentee. Damn sure needs someone righteous on top of that kind of mess.”

“You’re not making this any easier, Wilbur.”

“Life was easy we’d all stay another hunnert years longer.”

I tossed the remainder of the beer down my throat. The crisp consolation of the first swig was long gone.

“All I can say, Connor, is that’s a bad story only fixin’ to get worse. Never heard a story like that with a happy ending.”

“Thanks, Wilbur,” I said, slapping money on the bar. “I guess that’s the way of it with my sister.”

“You say hi to her for me when you see her, won’t you?” The bison-shaped comedian chuckled at his own joke.

I gave a snort and a reluctant nod, leaving the stool for another. A jumble of thoughts about how to convince Johnny Martin to wait out a journey to the mountains, and how to dodge Mother’s criticisms and how to appease Nansi gave the hops and barley a lot to work with. I was as confused as a near-sighted rat in a glass maze.

The afternoon had grown a tad colder and murkier. My pickup truck always started harder when the weather was gloomy.

A half step out the front door some drunken cowboy stumbled into me, stinking of whiskey. His equally drunken partner followed suit with the grace of a blind duck. Their combined momentum resulted in a first-rate slapstick cascade of human dominoes.

I fell back and hit the doorjamb. It jolted the drunk’s name out of me with a question mark. “Dirk?”

Dirk Crenshaw. A cowpoke of the first order. Bowlegged and thin as a fence rail, he wobbled back on his heels, peering out from under the sweat-stained Stetson that always appeared too big for his head. “It’s you, Pierce. A fine howdy doody that.”

The second lush wobbled upright. “What’s up?” Before I could place him as Smitty Shanks, Dirk’s carbon copy, the first cowboy latched onto my collar.

“You’re just the gum chew I been lookin’ to bubble,” Dirk stammered. “Mother shucking con artist is what it is.”

Dirk sent a wild left hook that clipped me in the chest. Balance gave way, and my feet played hooky. I caught the sill of the oversized window behind me with an elbow, just below the famous bullet hole Wilbur left there to foster conversation and beguile patronage. I slid to the sidewalk and rolled clear to avoid breaking the frontier heirloom.

“Come on, Dirk!” I hollered from the ground. “You’re going to land us in the tank.”

The cowboy teetered above me. “You and Daddy Pierce been selling Jap-crap for too long, sir! I’m fixin’ to end that prollem right now.” He tipped backwards for a kick, but the whiskey took control and spun him on one leg like he was a horseshoe. 

“Traitors!” he shouted, as if the Pierce continuum was to blame for his lack of footing.

“This beef’s got nothing to do with Japanese cars. You’re mad about your woman sitting in prison.”

“Jus’ wanna you to find my horse,” he wailed, tears choking up the words.

On my feet again, I shuffled a step back. “I found your damned horse. It’s not on me that your crazy girlfriend killed him before I got there.”

This set him off afresh. He exploded with a couple of wild roundhouse swings.

One of them caught my chin with a spark of lightning. I twirled to the middle of the sidewalk. Shanks found his way to us and began swinging. One wild fist ticked my nose just enough to fire my belly.

The scenario presented a challenge. Stand up to these two idiots and end up in a cell next to them, just take the beating, or run, avoid legal culpability, and then try to explain the meaning of cowardice to my son.

Anger boiled the questions to a frothy broth. I sidestepped and clocked Shanks with a hard left hook to the ear. He staggered into the wall, bounced with the finesse of a crash-test dummy and hit the sidewalk with a moan.

Dirk charged in low and fast, shoving his cowboy hat into the ring I formed with my right arm. I kept him moving in circular fashion until his head made contact with the rear quarter panel of a conveniently parked 1982 Chevy half-ton four-wheel-drive. Dirk slid to the curb clutching his flattened Stetson.

“Dammit!” I said, surveying the dent in the truck. “That’s gonna cost my kids a Christmas present.”

I squatted down to search for Dirk’s wallet.

The whoop of a siren announced the arrival of local law.

I left the wallet in his back pocket and straightened to face the music.

Sheriff Ox Crandall stepped out of the tan and brown Crown Vic. Its appearance gave me one more reason to hate Ford dealer George Shumaker.

“Mr. Pierce.” Crandall’s smile warmed an already unseasonably temperate evening. “Reckon this ain’t your day.” The tan shirt that matched the color of his car was open at the neck, an indication that he’d been done with his.

“Howdy, Sheriff. You’re not going to believe what happened.”

“I suppose you can tell me in the car.”

“Come on, Sheriff Crandall. These two yahoos jumped me and started punching.”

His lip curled up at the corner. “No doubt it’s a true story. You can tell it to Chief Frieze at the station.”

“Frieze?” The name produced an appropriate shiver.

“He’ll come back in from lunch just for the chance to book you, Connor, Son of Dixon.”

I groaned.

Sheriff Crandall sat me in the back of the cruiser and told me to behave. He scooped the two half conscious cowboys up and stuffed them in beside me.

Dirk tipped his head against my shoulder, smashed Stetson cutting into my cheekbone.

I pushed him off. “That’s what you get for dating a woman who would kill your horse out of jealousy.”

His head rolled forward and ejected vomit all over my shoe. Score one major point for staying out of other people’s business.