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“Sure.” His tone didn’t promise leads on those other hires.
But I couldn’t be too pessimistic because, at that moment, Nala Choi came in the outside doors, reminding us all that Mike’s first hire was smart, hard-working, and learning fast.
We waved her over to say hi to Mike.
After a few sentences, he started the classic meeting wrap-up. “If that’s it...”
Audrey interrupted. “One more thing. I’ll let Dale tell you.”
She gave the news aide a look that I suspected resembled the one I’d given her — the yes, I could do this for you, but I’m not going to, because you don’t really need me to look.
His Adam’s apple dropped and rose, but he didn’t hesitate.
“There’s some other news.” Speaking up was a big step for Dale, though he still flushed red into the roots of his hair. “Keif Doobie from Elk Rock Ranch died.”
Keif Doobie was how it sounded to me, anyway.
“Keith?” I asked. I didn’t recall Dale using “f” instead of “th” before, but maybe I’d missed it.
“No,” Mike said emphatically — clearly in response to the news, not my question. “That’s a shame. A real shame. Dale’s right on the first name — Keefe, not Keith. Short for Keefer. Last name’s D-o-b-e-y. It’s pronounced DUE-bay.”
“Of course it is,” I grumbled.
When I’d first encountered the fact of Dubois, Wyoming, being DUE-boys to locals, I’d balked. Though considering LAIR-ah-me came from La Ramée, I shouldn’t be surprised.
Besides, learning the pronunciation of Dubois was a rebellion made me much fonder of it. At least according to legend, locals of the time disliked it being named after a senator — not even one from Wyoming — and rejected the French pronunciation.
I liked that story so much I didn’t care if it was true.
“You know him?” I asked Mike.
“Everybody knew him.”
As I started to roll my eyes, my gaze connected with Nala’s and we exchanged a look of commiseration as Cottonwood County nobodies who hadn’t known Keefer Dobey.
“He owns this ranch?”
Mike clicked his tongue. “Nah. He’s worked there pretty much his whole life, though. Year-round, too, while most of the staff are college kids in for the summer.”
“Staff?” I’d heard ranch workers referred to as hands, help, a rider, or — most often — their familial relationship to the speaker. Never staff.
“It’s a dude ranch,” Mike said. “Has been longer than I’ve been around. And Keefe’s been there as long as I can remember, too. He’s good on a horse, decent with a rope. Mostly quiet. Real knowledgeable about wildlife. Spends a lot of time alone in the outdoors. But he did love Cottonwood County High’s football teams.” He slid to fond sorrow in those final words.
Mike had been a star of those high school teams before playing for the University of Wyoming and the Chicago Bears. Not a star in the NFL, but smart enough to invest those earnings well and to retire when his knees threatened to give out.
In his hometown, he was beyond a star — a galaxy all by himself.
“How’d he die?” he asked. “He’s not that old...”
“He was shot,” Dale said.
“Shot? Accidentally? Not Keefe. So — No, no way Keefe committed suicide.”
“They’re not being real clear.” Dale’s Adam’s apple bobbed again at not being able to answer Mike’s question. “I just picked up enough to call somebody. They weren’t talking about it openly. Shelton told them to keep it zipped on the radio and—”
“Shelton,” Mike said in a that-explains-a-lot tone.
And it did.
