“Was Bobby tall?”
He shook his head. “No, he was a little guy, but one of those bundles of baling wire and tough as hell.” The three-hundred-pound man reached over his shoulder, pulled down one of the numerous black-and-white photos on his wall in the Wyoming Public Radio office, and handed it to me. “Front and center, holding the ball, the one with the black socks. He was one of the most gifted power forwards I’ve ever seen. He was fast, too fast for all these corn-feds around here. Played on dirt his whole childhood, barefoot. Then the high school came along and gave him shoes and a wooden floor? He was unstoppable.”
First I studied the younger and much thinner version of the man in front of us and then the young Bobby Womack sitting in the photo, a dark swatch of hair covering one eye with the other taking all comers, looking into the camera and maybe the world. “What happened in Laramie?”
“Some guy from Arizona State side-checked him and that’s when his knee went; walked with that limp the rest of his life. He finished his degree, though, and we all figured he’d teach and maybe coach somewhere, but that’s when he put in with the Highway Patrol.”
Pulling my eyes away from the young man in the photo, I looked at his friend. “With a bad knee?”
Sam laughed and parts of his anatomy jostled to join in. “Yeah, even with a bad knee he outdid everybody at the academy.”
I handed him back the memories. “Hard to believe.”
“Yeah, well . . .” He set the photo on his desk and studied it. “That was Bobby.” A moment passed, and then he glanced at Henry, finally resting his dark eyes on me. “So, why are you two world shakers down here asking questions about Heeci’ecihit?”
I smiled. “So, you know the legends?”
“Oh, yeah. The Highwayman of the Wind River Canyon . . . Tribal story. After the incident, the old women would threaten their children with him.” He stuck out a fat finger and shook it at me. “You don’t do what you’re supposed to, Heeci’ecihit will come and get you!” He laughed. “Bobby would’ve loved that—he was one of the worst kids on the rez.”
“What changed him?”
Sam chuckled. “He grew up—every once in a while it happens—been there, done that. Hell, you know as well as I do that young outlaws make the best lawmen.” He studied us some more. “But you still haven’t answered my question, and I’m wondering why you would come down here and start asking people about old ghost stories.”
“Jim Thomas says you’re the local radio expert around these parts.”
He shrugged and gestured to a silent young man with bristling black hair who now stood in the doorway of the office. “It’s my job supervising the station, but it’s his passion. He knows more about radios than I ever will. My grandson, Joey.”
“Is that true?”
The athletic-looking college student nodded but kept his eyes to the ground. “I do a lot of ham radio stuff, and I’ve pretty much got a radio museum at home.”
I leaned forward, taking my hat from my knee and running the brim through my hands. “Okay then, how hard would it be to break into the Highway Patrol’s radios?”
He looked at me strangely, his eyes finally finding mine. “You mean the frequency?”
“Yep.”
He thought about it. “With the proper equipment, not very hard at all, but you can get into a lot of trouble doing that shit.” He glanced back at his grandfather and then between Henry and me. “So, what’s happening?”
I smiled. “Do you know Rosey Wayman, the new HP in Troop G up in the canyon?”
“The blonde?” He registered a smile at my surprise at his knowing her. “There aren’t that many of them around here and anyway, she’s flip.”
I glanced at Henry, my go-to guy for youth speak.
“Hot.”
I turned back to Joey. “She’s been hearing things on her radio.”
He looked uninterested. “What kind of things?”
“She says she hears Bobby Womack.”
Joey didn’t move for a few seconds but then turned to Sam. “Is this a joke?” He stared at the Cheyenne Nation for a few seconds more and then turned back to me. “Tell me this is a joke.”
“I wish I could—she says that every night or so she hears him on her radio in the canyon. It’s to the point where her captain is ready to send her in for psychiatric evaluation.”
“He should.”
I was a little taken aback. “You’re not curious?”
Sam stood and interrupted. “About what? That she’s hearing radio transmissions from a guy who’s been dead for more than thirty years?” He turned back to Henry—apparently the interview was over.
Joey stepped back, clearing the way, and spoke to the Cheyenne Nation. “I can’t believe that you’re doing this.” He gestured toward me. “After what they did to Bobby?”
“Wait, who did what to Bobby.”
The young man crossed his arms over his flat stomach. “Jim Thomas, he didn’t tell you that story, huh?”