Another Man's Moccasins by Craig Johnson: A Review

This was the second mystery that I've read recently that was set in Wyoming. The other was one of C.J. Box's Joe Pickett books. Both of the books had visits by characters in them to the Hole-in-the-Wall, the famous hideout of outlaws, most notably of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It wasn't a major plot point in either book, but I found it interesting and coincidental that they both mentioned the place.

Another Man's Moccasins was the fourth in Craig Johnson's Walt Longmire series, and I approached reading it with some trepidation because I had found number three in the series to be a major disappointment. Fortunately, I needn't have worried. This book finds Longmire back in Wyoming, after his sojourn in Philadelphia and in this one the embarrassing and inappropriate interactions between Walt and his sexy chief deputy, Vic Moretti, are kept to a minimum and don't interfere with the plot, so that was a plus.

The plot of the book takes us to two different locations and two different periods in time: there is present day Absaroka County, Wyoming and 1968 Tan Son Nhut, Vietnam. Both places and times are seen through Longmire's eyes.

I found it quite interesting to get some of the backstory of Longmire's - and, incidentally, Henry Standing Bear's - time in Vietnam. We learn that Longmire served as a Marine Corps investigator there and that he befriended a young prostitute in the bar that he frequented. This becomes important because, forty years later, the body of a young Vietnamese woman who had been murdered is dumped in a road ditch in Absaroka County and when he goes through her effects Walt finds a picture of that other young woman that he had befriended and in the background of the picture, playing the piano, is none other than a young Walt Longmire. What could be the connection between these two women? And what could have possibly brought the murder victim to Absaroka County? Was she looking for Walt? And if so, why?

Things become complicated when it turns out that the place where the murder victim was dumped is near a culvert where a homeless Crow Indian named Virgil White Buffalo has been living. Virgil is a giant of a man who is also a veteran and who has had a checkered history, having been imprisoned not once but twice for crimes that he did not commit. And now the sheriff of Absaroka County is arresting him again on suspicion of murder, even though Walt is unconvinced that he has any connection to the crime. His presence in the vicinity of the body and the fact that he attacked Walt at the scene is enough reason to put him behind bars.

Meanwhile, there is a subplot of Walt's daughter, Cady, recovering from the injuries that she sustained in Philadelphia in book number three, and a visit by her new Philadelphia boyfriend, Michael Moretti, Vic's brother. Moreover, we get to better know some of the other new deputies in the sheriff's department, especially the Basque nicknamed (by Vic) Sancho. He gets a fairly major role in this story.

All in all, this was a thoroughly satisfying read and I feel that Johnson is back on track now. I just hope that in the future he lets Walt stay in Wyoming where he belongs and - please! - let's have no more of the May-December romance between Walt and Vic. It's just off-putting.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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