Sheriff Scarpelli found Chief Carter’s car parked in front of the Conestoga Bar and Grill when he pulled up.

“You apprehended those bank robbers yet?” Scarpelli teased Carter.

“You got your dick dislodged from your ass yet?” Carter retaliated. Nick took the verbal jousting in good spirits. Despite the differences in their ages, Nick Scarpelli and Ben Carter had hit it off pretty well.

Scarpelli briefed the chief on the incidents at the Travis ranch. Of course, the county sheriff was under no obligation to apprise the city police chief of his investigations, but he found that keeping each other informed made for a better working relationship and sometimes led to a useful exchange of information. Besides, criminals didn’t always respect legal jurisdictions.

Nick further explained that he was about to interview the Conestoga staff about the mysterious man that Vernon Wooten said he had seen talking with Carl Pipkins. “You’re welcome to stick around for that if you’d like,” said Scarpelli.

The Conestoga Bar and Grill resembled the set of a 1950s TV western. An old-fashioned butter churn and several antique farm implements adorned the wooden porch that stretched the full length of the building, which was covered with weathered wood slats. A large horseshoe hung over the equally weathered swinging doors that squeaked when disturbed. Though it was midday, the interior remained as dark as a moonless night, the only light escaping from faux kerosene lanterns apportioned around the dark walls. Wagon wheels sawed in half accentuated the wide panel that hung above the knotty pine bar. Spittoons filled with sand served as ash trays atop knotty pine tables surrounded by knotty pine chairs. A juke box, the rare concession to twentieth-century style, balanced the large empty expanse that filled up with tight-jeaned, boot-clad line dancers on adventurous nights. As Nick Scarpelli surveyed the anachronisms, he half-way expected to see Miss Kitty fluffing her petticoats as she descended the sweeping staircase to greet Marshall Dillon at the bar.

Neither the owner nor the employees of the Conestoga provided much useful information to the sheriff and the police chief except to confirm that Carl Pipkins and the other boys from the Travis Ranch had been there the previous Saturday night.

Then, Patty Murano, cute and petite as a prairie dog, whizzed through the bar just like one of the little critters. With auburn hair, green eyes, and a disarming smile, Patty was the Conestoga’s most popular waitress, but it wasn’t due to her looks alone. She flirted with the boys just enough to get them to keep buying drinks—and leaving big tips—without letting them cross the line. She carried herself with an air that advertised, “Look, but don’t touch.” Miss Kitty had nothing on Patty Murano, and Nick Scarpelli was intrigued. No, he was smitten.

“Sorry I’m late, Sheriff…Chief. Had to wait for my mom to come over to look after the kids.”

“No problem,” said Nick.

“Yeah, sure, they were all here. This one,” she sneered at the photograph of Carl Pipkins…not much of a tipper.”

“Did you notice anything else about him? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“I dunno if it was out of the ordinary or not, but I did see him talking to some guy out back…by the dumpsters.”

“Did you recognize the other man?”

“No.”

“Patty,” asked Chief Carter, “do you think you could draw us a picture of this fella?”

Patty took note of the dubious look on Sheriff Scarpelli’s face.

“I may just look like nothing more than a two-bit whiskey slinger, Sheriff, but there’s more to Patty Murano than this saloon. I’m only working here to pay my way through college.”

“She’s majoring in commercial art,” added Chief Carter with a smirk, stretching out the syllables of the word com-mer-cial before accenting the word art, which he stopped barely short of turning into a two-syllable word.

“Looks an awful lot like Ned Beasley,” said Chief Carter when Patty had finished her sketch.

“You know him?” asked Nick.

“I don’t think anybody really knows Ned Beasley. Pretty much a loner. Even a hermit, you might say. But, yeah, he’s got a place down by Harriman. Patty can draw you a map if you’d like,” grinned Chief Carter.

Just as Nick was about to retaliate with a gesture of the middle finger, the police chief’s cell phone beeped. “Hold that thought,” he told Nick, stepping away to take the call. He returned less than a minute later. “We’ve found the getaway car. It’s just off the interstate by Horse Creek Road. I believe that puts it in your jurisdiction, Sheriff.” The police chief was correct. The Cheyenne city limits ended at Laughlin Road.

“Well, since you allowed me to interview witnesses in your jurisdiction, I guess I could allow you to investigate an abandoned vehicle in mine.”

*******

“Stolen,” reported one of the chief’s detectives when Carter and Scarpelli arrived on the scene. “We’re dusting for prints, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. Looks like they wiped it pretty clean.”

“If they ditched the getaway car here, they must have had their own car waiting when they got here. Canvass the area,” barked the chief. “See if there were any witnesses. And check out any other tire tracks in the area. Let’s see if we can find a match.”

“Looks like they’re headed north,” observed the detective.

“Maybe,” replied Chief Carter. “Maybe.”

*******

“You want me to go with you over to Ned Beasley’s place?” the police chief asked as he drove Sheriff Scarpelli back to the Conestoga to pick up his car.

“Thanks, but I need to take care of a few things first.”

Instead of getting into his car, though, Nick Scarpelli headed back toward the squeaky swinging doors of the Conestoga.

“She’s mighty pretty,” called out the police chief as he drove away. “Maybe she’ll show you her etchings,” he laughed.

“Murano,” said Nick quizzically. “You don’t look Italian.”

“I’m Irish. Murano was my husband’s name.”

“Was?”

“My husband was a soldier,” she replied. “He was killed in Iraq 18 months ago. Never even got to see his son.”

“I’m sorry,” said Nick.

Finally, Patty broke the tension. “What about you, Sheriff? You married?”

“No,” sighed Nick. “I was married, but she….”

After an extended pause when Nick seemed to drift into a trance, he finally snapped back and asked Patty about her family and her college studies.

“I’m afraid I don’t see what any of this has to do with your case,” said Patty Murano as she poured the sheriff a second cup of coffee.

“Who said it has anything to do with the case?” he smiled very, very tentatively. After another pause that seemed like an eternity, Nick felt a surge of relief when Patty finally smiled back.