Genre Fiction
![Craig Johnson - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B001IODQEO.jpg)
Daughter of the Morning Star A Longmire Mystery
A new novel in the beloved New York Times bestselling Longmire series.
When Lolo Long's niece Jaya begins receiving death threats, Tribal Police Chief Long calls on Absaroka County Sheriff Walt Longmire along with Henry Standing Bear as lethal backup. Jaya "Longshot" Long is the phenom of the Lame Deer Lady Stars High School basketball team and is following in the steps of her older sister, who disappeared a year previously, a victim of the scourge of missing Native Woman in Indian Country. Lolo hopes that having Longmire involved might draw some public attention to the girl's plight, but with this maneuver she also inadvertently places the good sheriff in a one-on-one with the deadliest adversary he has ever faced in both this world and the next.
When Lolo Long's niece Jaya begins receiving death threats, Tribal Police Chief Long calls on Absaroka County Sheriff Walt Longmire along with Henry Standing Bear as lethal backup. Jaya "Longshot" Long is the phenom of the Lame Deer Lady Stars High School basketball team and is following in the steps of her older sister, who disappeared a year previously, a victim of the scourge of missing Native Woman in Indian Country. Lolo hopes that having Longmire involved might draw some public attention to the girl's plight, but with this maneuver she also inadvertently places the good sheriff in a one-on-one with the deadliest adversary he has ever faced in both this world and the next.
Editorial Reviews
"A mysterious adventure that spotlights the horrific experiences of Native women whose abuse is often unseen and unreported."
-Kirkus Reviews
"Longmire, a Vietnam War vet, shrugs off some serious physical knocks, including falling into a canyon, on the way to a dramatic showdown with a killer and a bittersweet if hopeful ending. Fans will hope the sheriff has no plans to retire soon."
-Publishers Weekly
"Johnson uses crisp prose and sharp dialogue to create a sense of immediacy as the investigation moves toward its inevitable, thrilling conclusion."
-Bookpage
Praise for Craig Johnson
"It's the scenery-and the big guy standing in front of the scenery-that keeps us coming back to Craig Johnson's lean and leathery mysteries."
-The New York Times Book Review
"Johnson's hero only gets better-both at solving cases and at hooking readers-with age."
-Publishers Weekly
"Like the greatest crime novelists, Johnson is a student of human nature. Walt Longmire is strong but fallible, a man whose devil-may-care stoicism masks a heightened sensitivity to the horrors he's witnessed."
-Los Angeles Times
"Johnson's trademarks [are] great characters, witty banter, serious sleuthing, and a love of Wyoming bigger than a stack of derelict cars."
-The Boston Globe
-Kirkus Reviews
"Longmire, a Vietnam War vet, shrugs off some serious physical knocks, including falling into a canyon, on the way to a dramatic showdown with a killer and a bittersweet if hopeful ending. Fans will hope the sheriff has no plans to retire soon."
-Publishers Weekly
"Johnson uses crisp prose and sharp dialogue to create a sense of immediacy as the investigation moves toward its inevitable, thrilling conclusion."
-Bookpage
Praise for Craig Johnson
"It's the scenery-and the big guy standing in front of the scenery-that keeps us coming back to Craig Johnson's lean and leathery mysteries."
-The New York Times Book Review
"Johnson's hero only gets better-both at solving cases and at hooking readers-with age."
-Publishers Weekly
"Like the greatest crime novelists, Johnson is a student of human nature. Walt Longmire is strong but fallible, a man whose devil-may-care stoicism masks a heightened sensitivity to the horrors he's witnessed."
-Los Angeles Times
"Johnson's trademarks [are] great characters, witty banter, serious sleuthing, and a love of Wyoming bigger than a stack of derelict cars."
-The Boston Globe
Readers Top Reviews
Geraldine Mathewsont
Good read. I didn't find it quite as good as his previous books.
Gerald P.D. Seaker
Certainly one of the strongest in the Longmire series. It helps to be empathetic with native issues but a great read on all counts.
Rick Clark
Won't give away the plot line or content as I just received the book 2 days ago. Suffice to say the story is timely and maintains Mr.Johnson's status as a teller of meaningful,disciplined storys. Put down your smart phones,read this book and engage your family members,friends and neighbours in discussing this book and its portrayal of relationships with First Nations and ourselves!
robin garcia
An excellent book, really enjoyed it, look forward to the next one.
Laughing Raccoon
I absolutely loved this book. First of all, it shined a light on MMIW, which is a cause near and dear to my heart. I love the way these books are so sensitive to Native Spirituality. So many others just chalk everything up to myths and bullcrap and that is simply not the case. It was great to see Virgil still playing a part. Out of all the characters in these books, I will have to say Virgil is the most memorable, and if I'm being honest, my favorite. And Bear....he finally got to release some of his inner bada** this go around. Henry made Vic look like a Sunday School teacher this go around....and that is something I thought impossible. But these books are all about making the impossible very possible. I will have to say this is my very favorite book series and if the books coming are as great as this one, Longmire will be my #1 forever.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
"Play me."
Sometimes I drive to the borders of my county and look for the end of the world and sometimes I see it, or I think I do, but maybe what I see is myself, and that's enough to send me scurrying back the other way.
I like to think I used to be braver, but maybe I just didn't know any better.
When I was young, all I wanted was out. I was pretty sure that the only reason I participated in sports was to do that, to go on those endless bus rides even if it was just more of Wyoming, with maybe a little Montana and South Dakota mixed in.
Along the way, with a little size, speed, muscle, and brains, I was able to land a spot as one of the top-ten, teenage offensive linemen in the country. The University of Southern California took note and offered me a scholarship where we even won a Rose Bowl for the red and gold against Wisconsin 42-37.
I graduated, lost my deferment in doing so, and found myself wearing the khaki and olive drab for the United States Marine Corps. The Corps taught me a lot of things that college hadn't-like how to shine my shoes, say sir a lot, and take other people's lives. The biggest thing it did, however, was pin a star to my chest, something that's still there to this day.
I am the sheriff, the final letter of the law in Absaroka, the least populated county in Wyoming, the least populated state in America. Kind of a period, if you will, in the great sentence of justice. But right now, I was retrieving a basketball from dead, frozen grass and tossing it back to an eighteen-year-old phenom. Luckily, I didn't have to do that very often because she didn't miss very often. "Not my game." My words clouded the air as I threw the ball, and she caught it with long, nimble, artistic-looking fingers.
"Chickenshit." She turned and dribbled through her legs, then circled out to the top of the key where she half turned and flipped up a three-pointer, all net.
Or whatever net was left with the red, white, and blue nylon strands that had been faded by the sun, rain, and incessant wind of the high plains, the unraveled threads like a horse tail swishing at a fly. It was a fitting banner for the Northern Cheyenne, a people ravaged by unemployment, alcoholism, drug abuse, domestic violence, inadequate health care, and substandard housing.
I passed the ball back. "So, you got another note?"
She turned, dribbled to the baseline corner, and flipped the ball up again. I watched its arc as it slipped through the net, the ball caressing the nylon with a swirling sound-like hope-and then bouncing on the pockmarked asphalt before rolling to a stop near the ragged chain-link fence.
Flipping the dark hair from her face, she stared at me with polished-magnetite eyes.
"You don't answer my questions, I don't retrieve the ball."
Her head kicked sideways in disgust, but I was unfazed-I have a daughter.
"Yes."
I walked over to the fence to get the ball and bounced it to her. "Care to elaborate?"
She rolled it behind her back and then took a few quick dribbles before hoisting the ball skyward in a reverse layup. The momentum carried her toward me, where she stopped and looked up. She's six feet tall and doesn't like looking up at anyone in any way, but I'm taller than she is. "No."
I watched as she turned and retrieved the ball herself, dribbling toward the half-court line painted on the asphalt, reminding me of the prints on the parking lot at Parris Island back when I first became a Marine.
She shot, and it floated through, landing in my hands. "Do you think your life's in danger?"
She waited for me to give her the ball. "I am a young woman in modern America, living on the Rez-my life is always in danger."
I tossed her the ball. "Can you think of anyone specific?"
She circled the three-point line. It's where she earned the nickname Longbow, Jaya "Longbow" Long: the hands went up, the ball came down, three on the board.
"No."
The suicide rate for Native teenagers is two and a half times greater than the national average.
I tossed her the ball. "No enemies?"
She dribbled in the key just below the foul line and pivoted, tipping the ball up in one hand in a reasonable impersonation of a Kareem Abdul-Jabbar-style skyhook.
I held the ball.
An exaggerated sigh as her shoulders dropped. "I'm in high school-I've got nothing but enemies."
Native women are three and a half times more likely to be raped or sexually assaulted than the national average.
I tossed the ball. "You want to tell me about Jeanie?"
There was a brief pause, a nanosecond when I pierced the otherwise stoic reserve. Jaya began dribbling again, punishing the as...
"Play me."
Sometimes I drive to the borders of my county and look for the end of the world and sometimes I see it, or I think I do, but maybe what I see is myself, and that's enough to send me scurrying back the other way.
I like to think I used to be braver, but maybe I just didn't know any better.
When I was young, all I wanted was out. I was pretty sure that the only reason I participated in sports was to do that, to go on those endless bus rides even if it was just more of Wyoming, with maybe a little Montana and South Dakota mixed in.
Along the way, with a little size, speed, muscle, and brains, I was able to land a spot as one of the top-ten, teenage offensive linemen in the country. The University of Southern California took note and offered me a scholarship where we even won a Rose Bowl for the red and gold against Wisconsin 42-37.
I graduated, lost my deferment in doing so, and found myself wearing the khaki and olive drab for the United States Marine Corps. The Corps taught me a lot of things that college hadn't-like how to shine my shoes, say sir a lot, and take other people's lives. The biggest thing it did, however, was pin a star to my chest, something that's still there to this day.
I am the sheriff, the final letter of the law in Absaroka, the least populated county in Wyoming, the least populated state in America. Kind of a period, if you will, in the great sentence of justice. But right now, I was retrieving a basketball from dead, frozen grass and tossing it back to an eighteen-year-old phenom. Luckily, I didn't have to do that very often because she didn't miss very often. "Not my game." My words clouded the air as I threw the ball, and she caught it with long, nimble, artistic-looking fingers.
"Chickenshit." She turned and dribbled through her legs, then circled out to the top of the key where she half turned and flipped up a three-pointer, all net.
Or whatever net was left with the red, white, and blue nylon strands that had been faded by the sun, rain, and incessant wind of the high plains, the unraveled threads like a horse tail swishing at a fly. It was a fitting banner for the Northern Cheyenne, a people ravaged by unemployment, alcoholism, drug abuse, domestic violence, inadequate health care, and substandard housing.
I passed the ball back. "So, you got another note?"
She turned, dribbled to the baseline corner, and flipped the ball up again. I watched its arc as it slipped through the net, the ball caressing the nylon with a swirling sound-like hope-and then bouncing on the pockmarked asphalt before rolling to a stop near the ragged chain-link fence.
Flipping the dark hair from her face, she stared at me with polished-magnetite eyes.
"You don't answer my questions, I don't retrieve the ball."
Her head kicked sideways in disgust, but I was unfazed-I have a daughter.
"Yes."
I walked over to the fence to get the ball and bounced it to her. "Care to elaborate?"
She rolled it behind her back and then took a few quick dribbles before hoisting the ball skyward in a reverse layup. The momentum carried her toward me, where she stopped and looked up. She's six feet tall and doesn't like looking up at anyone in any way, but I'm taller than she is. "No."
I watched as she turned and retrieved the ball herself, dribbling toward the half-court line painted on the asphalt, reminding me of the prints on the parking lot at Parris Island back when I first became a Marine.
She shot, and it floated through, landing in my hands. "Do you think your life's in danger?"
She waited for me to give her the ball. "I am a young woman in modern America, living on the Rez-my life is always in danger."
I tossed her the ball. "Can you think of anyone specific?"
She circled the three-point line. It's where she earned the nickname Longbow, Jaya "Longbow" Long: the hands went up, the ball came down, three on the board.
"No."
The suicide rate for Native teenagers is two and a half times greater than the national average.
I tossed her the ball. "No enemies?"
She dribbled in the key just below the foul line and pivoted, tipping the ball up in one hand in a reasonable impersonation of a Kareem Abdul-Jabbar-style skyhook.
I held the ball.
An exaggerated sigh as her shoulders dropped. "I'm in high school-I've got nothing but enemies."
Native women are three and a half times more likely to be raped or sexually assaulted than the national average.
I tossed the ball. "You want to tell me about Jeanie?"
There was a brief pause, a nanosecond when I pierced the otherwise stoic reserve. Jaya began dribbling again, punishing the as...
