Page 15 of Three-Inch Teeth

That was the problem with Wyoming, she’d said. Everybody knew everybody. One degree of separation still existed in a state with less than a million people in it. If she got a job as a waitress in Jackson, say, somebody would recognize her as that Bobbi Johnson from Gillette, the one who had worked in a local diner and deliberately urinated in the soups of four members of the city council because they’d opposed a petition to legalize weed.

She’d been caught when a fellow employee ratted her out, and her name and photo had made all the news outlets in the state and had been picked up by the New York Post and the UK Daily Mail.

While in the Campbell County jail, Johnson had discovered meth. She’d followed the case of champion rodeo cowboy Dallas Cates from her cell, and she’d begun writing him letters.

The rest was history.

Dallas had an even tougher row to hoe, she’d said. His name was infamous everywhere in the state because of the saga of his family.

There was only one place the two of them could go, she said: California. The state was tolerant of people like them, she claimed, because it no longer had rules and many of the cities were no longer even civilized. The social welfare system would reward them until they could get on their feet, establish themselves, and start fresh. Maybe Dallas could get a job in the movie business, she said. She certainly found him charismatic and attractive, and all those rodeo buckle bunnies who used to follow him around on the circuit did as well.

They’d pick up Bobbi’s sister, Carmin, along the way and take her and her two fatherless babies with them, she said. Carmin needed a new start, too.

“Yeah, sure,” Cates had said. California it would be. He’d competed there many times at rodeos up and down the coast and the weather was good.

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“YOU ASKED ME about my list,” Cates said as he held up his hand and displayed the tattooed series of boxes. They were in the process of recharging, which meant drinking Jim Beam and eating M&M’s and pork rinds.

“These are the people who ruined everything for me. They took away everything I’d ever accomplished, they killed my dreams and my future, and they destroyed my family,” he said.

Johnson listened intently with her head on his bare chest, her eyes glued to his face.

“They were the only reason I was able to go on day after day in that place. This list was pure motivation to rise to the top and run my pod. Because I knew someday I was going to get out and go after them one by one for what they did to me and my family.

“My dad was first,” he said. “They broke his neck and left him to die in a sewer pit. They crippled my mom and turned her into a quadriplegic. I couldn’t even go to her funeral when she died last year. She died alone in the women’s prison and I don’t even know where she’s buried. And they were responsible for killing my two brothers, Bull and Timber.”

“My God,” Johnson said. “That’s terrible.”

“There was a time when folks coming to the Cates place used to pass by a sign that said DULL KNIFE OUTFITTERS, C&C SEWER AND SEPTIC TANK SERVICE, BIRTHPLACE OF PRCA WORLD CHAMPION COWBOY DALLAS CATES.”

As he said it, he used the thumbs and forefingers of his two hands to frame the memory of the sign.

“We were a close family,” he continued. “My momma was so damned proud of me that she had that sign made. That was before everything went to shit.”

“That’s her face on your shoulder,” Johnson said.

“Yes, God bless her.”

Cates was silent for several minutes as he stared at the flickering images on the television that was bolted to the wall. Then he said, “I made a promise when they sent me away, a promise to my momma and to myself. I swore I’d go after the people who went after us.”

“Who are they?” Johnson whispered, stroking his hand and the empty boxes.

“You wouldn’t know ’em,” Cates said. “Let’s just say they all contributed to me being here right now and my family being in the ground.”

Then he shifted to look at her fully and said, “The sheriff, the prosecutor, the judge, a crazy falconer and his wife, and a game warden.”

Then he gestured at the pen-drawn box: “And now a CO who disrespected me inside for five years and stole my championship buckle. I’ll deal with him first. The others won’t see me coming.”

Johnson cooed and burrowed into him. “You’re making me hot,” she purred.

“I like that,” he responded.

“You like me, don’t you?” she asked.

“You know I do.”

He also liked the fact that she had a valid driver’s license, some cash, and a truck. His license had expired while he was in prison.

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