Bitterroot (Billy Bob Holland 3)

"We don't need cyanide in the river. Does that answer your question?" Xavier said.

"It surely does. I'm glad that's been explained to me. Thank you very much, sir," Dixon said. "Sir, could I ask you-"

A woman librarian picked up the microphone from the podium and, her lips brushing against the mike's surface, hurriedly said, "Mr. Girard will be signing books at the table in the back. In the meantime, everyone can help himself to the punch."

After the line had thinned out at the refreshment table, Wyatt Dixon and his young friend filled their cups. Except Dixon did not drink his. He smelled it, inhaling the strawberry bouquet and seltzer water approvingly. Then he removed his hat and dipped his pocket comb into the bowl and combed his hair in a wall mirror.

While people stared at him openmouthed, he fitted his hat back on and got in the line for a signed book.

"Just make it out to my friend Carl Hinkel, a Virginia gentleman and patriot," Dixon said.

"I can't do that," Xavier said.

"I can see you are a man of your convictions. Just sign your name and I will treasure it always. Sir, I'd also like to shake your hand."

Xavier rose and placed his hand inside Dixon's.

"It was good of you to be here. But you shouldn't try to jerk people around," he said, then his mouth stiffened involuntarily when Dixon began to squeeze.

"Lamar Ellison and me shared the same house inside Quentin," Dixon said. He continued to grin, his vacuous eyes staring into Xavier's. "On the West Coast, people inside call a cell a 'house.' You don't know that, 'cause you ain't never been inside. So that ain't to be held against you. But you might brush up on the details for your next book."

"Let go of my hand," Xavier said, his words spaced out, as he tried to retain any dignity the situation would allow him.

"You didn't set fire to my bunkie, did you, Mr. Girard? Just 'cause he busted out a window in your car and laid open your lip? You can't do that to a Berdoo Jester, sir," Dixon said, his hand catching fresh purchase.

The blood had drained out of Xavier's face. He felt with his other hand for a weapon, for the thermos on the book table, but Dixon pulled him forward, off balance.

"I don't mean to mock you, sir, but for a man who has just warmed up all these women's secret parts, your eloquent vocabulary has flown like a flock of shit birds off a manure wagon," Dixon said.

Xavier's knees were buckling now, tears running without shame down his cheeks.

Suddenly Dixon released him.

"Somebody get a mop. This man has done wet hisself," he said.

He picked up his cup of punch, and, with one gartered arm across his young friend's shoulders, walked out of the room.

The next morning I heard the story from the owner of a local bookstore who had come out to see Doc and Maisey. At noon I drove to the sheriff's office and was told where I could find him.

I parked my truck in the leafy shade of cotton-woods on the Clark Fork, only three blocks from the courthouse, and walked down the embankment to the water's edge. The sheriff was casting a Mepps spinner in a high arc out into the middle of the river, letting it swing taut in the riffle before he began retrieving it. In the sunlight the scars on the backs of his hands looked like thin white snakes.

I went through the account about Wyatt Dixon's behavior at the university reading. He waited for me to finish, reeling in his line, casting it out again, then said, "I know all about it."

"Why's a guy like Dixon care about this gold mine up on the Blackfoot River?" I asked.

"Carl Hinkel uses these morons to run various kinds of scams on the government."

"What kinds of scams?"

"Hinkel finds old mining laws on the books that allow him to file mineral claims for next to nothing. Then he starts bulldozing the mountain away and washing the rock with cyanide. The tree huggers go apeshit and hammer their tallywhackers on their congressman's desk till the government buys out the claim and makes a millionaire out of a pissant who wouldn't recognize gold if you pulled it out of his teeth and stuck it up his nose."

"I think Dixon wants to put suspicion for Ellison's death on Xavier Girard," I said. "He knows Doc didn't do it, and he figures eventually you're going to be looking at him for the murder."

"In other words, just about anybody in Missoula County could have killed Lamar Ellison except your friend?"

I hesitated before I spoke again. His physical size was huge, his level of tolerance unpredictable.

"You told me you'd like to pinch Ellison's head off with a chain. You drove a log truck. Whoever killed Ellison knew how to use a boomer chain," I said.