Dry Bones: A Walt Longmire Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page B

Uncle Peabody bought him a museum at Yale so the young man could start the study of dinosaurs in this country. Up until 1866 there really hadn’t been all that much scientific study on the subject, although there are some who believe that fossil remains might have been responsible for formulating some of the Native American mythologies.”
    “We have to call Henry.”
    Ignoring her sarcasm, I continued with my Wyoming dinosaur history. “Marsh and Cope started out as friends, but I guess the friendship evolved into a colossal pissing contest.”
    She thought about it. “Was one of them from Philadelphia?”
    “I believe Cope was.”
    “Figures.”
    “Anyway, I guess the competition got to be too much for them. Back in 1872 down in the Bridger Basin where the two had competing digs on the same site, Cope used to go up on a ridge and spy on the Marsh group. Well, Marsh got together with his diggers and fabricated a fake dinosaur from a bunch of parts and buried it; they actually have a term for this bit of skullduggery—it’s what they call
salting
. Then the Marsh group made a big fuss, talking about this incredible find; Cope couldn’t stand Marsh getting credit, and later that night Cope and his group snuck over and dug the fake dinosaur up and then published papers about this significant find.”
    “These were grown men? I thought scientists were supposed to be above that kind of thing.”
    I shrugged. “Cope had recurring nightmares where he dreamed that the creatures he was uncovering came back to life to attack him.” I rested my elbows on the counter. “There are rumors that when Cope died, Marsh attempted to buy his bones from the Museum of Anthropology and Archeology at the University of Pennsylvania, but they said no. I guess they finally loaned his skull out to some scientist down in Boulder, and he had it sitting on his desk.”
    “Oh, gross.”
    “When Penn decided they wanted Cope’s head back, the guy in Colorado said he’d be happy to accompany the skull, but the museum told him to just send it FedEx.”
    She rested a marvelous cheekbone on a fist and stared at me. “Are you trying to ruin my lunch?”
    I smiled down at her. “Nope, I just thought you were interested.”
    “I was; the operative word here is
was
.”
    Our two open-face meat loaf sandwiches arrived, and I looked at my plate. “Since when is this the usual?”
    Dorothy glanced up at the vintage B EST O UT W EST clock advertising “Enriched Flour Tomahawk Feeds for Livestock & Poultry” that had been up there since I’d been a kid. “About thirty seconds now.” The phone beside the cash register rang and she answered it as we dug in, but a moment later she was holding the receiver in my face.
    I swallowed. “What?”
    “It’s for you.”
    I took it, fully expecting to hear the voice of my daughter, but, keeping it professional for propriety’s sake, I finally croaked, “Longmire.”
    Ruby’s voice sounded more than a little concerned. “Walter, the FBI is here in the office.”
    I thought of our sobriquet for big Indians. “Which FBI?”
    “No, the real FBI as in Federal Bureau of Investigation, a.k.a. the Department of Justice.”
    I sighed. “What do they want?”
    “I am just the lowly dispatcher, and they have not deigned to tell me.”
    I stared at my food. “Do you think they can wait until I eat my lunch?”
    There was a pause as Ruby cupped the receiver and spoke with whom I assumed was the federal government, then came back on the line. “They say they’re hungry, too.”
    “Send ’em on down.” I started to hand Dorothy the receiver but then pulled it back and asked Ruby, “It’s not Cliff Cly, is it?”
     • • • 
    It turns out it wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t recognize the suited individual with the crew cut who walked into the Busy Bee, cased the café, and then strolled over to the counter to extend a hand.
    We shook. “Agent in Charge McGroder.”
    He removed his