In Craig Johnson's latest novel, WAIT FOR SIGNS, which is part of the Longmire Mystery series, you get many different wonderful short stories featuring our favorite sheriff. One can easily fall in love with this character as his soft side is often more visible than what Walt Longmire would like for people to see of himself. These short stories are cover many years of Longmire's life and are part of a collection of stories that Craig Johnson had previously written. There is even one new story never before published included as well.
It is refreshing how Craig Johnson writes each one that seems to portray the uniqueness about Longmire. He is funny, serious, compassionate, and lovable all at the same time. These are qualities that not every author can successfully give a character in equal balance. In WAIT FOR SIGNS, not all of the stories are mysteries, but I felt it is a more intimate view of Longmire and his personal relationships and friendships with those that are close too him. If you have never read any of these short stories before, which I had not, then the mystery will be in the unknown stories that you are about to explore. How exciting to read a little bit extra about a beloved character and to learn something new. This is a special addition to a novel series when an author includes extra short snapshots.
I highly recommend reading WAIT FOR SIGNS by Craig Johnson you will not be disappointed. It will leave you anticipating the next novel!
Twelve Longmire short stories available for the first
time in a single volumeโfeaturing an introduction by Lou
Diamond Phillips of A&Eโs Longmire
Ten years ago, Craig Johnson wrote his first short story,
the Hillerman Awardโwinning โOld Indian Trick.โ This was one
of the earliest appearances of the sheriff who would go on
to star in Johnsonโs bestselling, award-winning novels and
the A&E hit series Longmire. Each Christmas Eve
thereafter, fans rejoiced when Johnson sent out a new short
story featuring an episode in Waltโs life that doesnโt
appear in the novels; over the years, many have asked why
they canโt buy the stories in book form.
Wait for Signs collects those beloved storiesโand one
entirely new story, โPetunia, Bandit Queen of the
Bighornsโโfor the very first time in a single volume,
regular trade hardcover. With glimpses of Waltโs past from
the incident in โMinisterial Aide,โ when the sheriff is
mistaken for a deity, to the hilarious โMessenger,โ where
the majority of the action takes place in a Port-A-Potty,
Wait for Signs is a necessary addition to any Longmire
fanโs shelf and a wonderful way to introduce new readers to
the fictional world of Absaroka County, Wyoming.
EXCERPT
UNBALANCED
She was waiting on the bench outside the Conoco service
station / museum / post office in Garryowen, Montana, and
the only parts of her clothing that were showing beneath the
heavy blanket she'd wrapped around herself were black combat
boots cuffed with a pair of mismatched green socks. When I
first saw her, it was close to eleven at night, and if you'd
tapped the frozen Mail Pouch thermometer above her head, it
would've told you that it was twelve degrees below zero.
The Little Big Horn country is a beautiful swale echoing the
shape of the Bighorn Mountains and the rolling hills of the
Mission Buttes, a place of change that defies definition.
Just when you think you know it, it teaches you a
lesson-just ask George Armstrong Custer and the Seventh Cavalry.
I was making the airport run to pick up Cady, who had missed
her connection from Philadelphia in Denver and was now
scheduled to come into Billings just before midnight. The
Greatest Legal Mind of Our Time had been extraordinarily
upset but calmed down when rd told her we'd stay in town
that night and do some Christmas shopping the next day
before heading back home. I hadn't told her we were staying
at the Dude Rancher Lodge. A pet-friendly motor hotel that
was assembled back in '49 out of salvaged bricks from the
old St. Vincent's Hospital, the Dude Rancher was a Longmire
family tradition. I loved the cozy feeling of the weeping
mortar courtyard, the kitschy ranchยญ brand carpets, and the
delicious home-cooked meals in the Stirrup Coffee Shop.
Cady, my hi-tech, sophisticated, urban-dwelling daughter,
hated the place.
In my rush to head north, I hadn't gassed up in
Wyomingยญluckily, the Conoco had after-hours credit card
pumps. As I was putting gas into my truck with the motor
running, I noticed her stand up and trail out to where I
stood, the old packing blanket billowing out from around her
shoulders.
Looking at the stars on the doors and then at me, she paused
at the other side of the truck bed, her eyes ticktocking.
She studied my hat, snap-button shirt, the shiny brass name
tag, and the other trappings of authority just visible under
my sheepskin coat.
I buttoned it the rest of the way up and looked at her, exยญ
pecting Crow, maybe Northern Cheyenne, but from the limited
view afforded by the condensation of her breath and the
cowlยญlike hood of the blanket, I could see that her skin was
pale and her hair dark but not black, surrounding a wide
face and full lips that snared and released between the
nervous teeth.
"Hey." She cleared her throat and shifted something in her
hands, still keeping the majority of her body wrapped. "I
thought you were supposed to shut the engine offbefore you
do that." She glanced at the writing on the side of my
truck. "Where's Absaroka County?"
I clicked the small keeper on the pump handle, pulled my
glove back on, and rested my elbow on the top of the bed as
the tank filled. "Wyoming."
"Oh." She nodded but didn't say anything more.
About five nine, she was tall, and her eyes moved rapidly,
taking in the vehicle and then me; she had the look of
someone whose only interaction with the police was being
rousted-she feigned indifference with a touch of defiance
and maybe was just a little crazy. "Cold, huh?"
I was beginning to wonder how long it was going to take her
and thought about how much nerve she'd had to work up to
approach my truck; I must've been the only vehicle that had
stopped there in hours. I waited. The two-way radio blared
an indiscernible call inside the cab, the pump turned off,
and I removed the nozzle, returning it to the plastic
cradle. I hit the button to request a receipt, because I
didn't trust gas pumps any more than I trusted those robot
amputees over in Deadwood.
I found the words the way I always did in the presence of
women. 'Tve got a heater in this truck."
She snarled a quick laugh, strained and high. "I figured."
I stood there for a moment more and then started for the
cab-now she was going to have to ask. As I pulled the door
handle, she started to reach out a hand from the folds of
the blanket but then let it drop. I paused for a second more
and then slid in and shut the door behind me, snapped on my
seat belt, and pulled the three-quarter-ton down into gear.
She backed away and retreated to the bench as I wheeled
around the pumps and stopped at the road. I sat there for a
moment, where I looked at myself and my partner in the
rearview mirror, then shook my head, turned around, and
circled back in front of her. She looked up again as I
rolled the window down on the passenger-side door and raised
my voice to be heard above the engine. "Do you want a ride?"
From WAIT FOR SIGNS by Craig Johnson. Reprinted by
arrangement with Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA)
LLC, A Penguin Random House Company. Copyright ยฉ Craig
Johnson, 2014.
© 2003-2026