Night of the Coyote (The Coyote Saga Book 1)

by Ron Schwab

  Night of the Coyote

  Ron Schwab

  Poor Coyote Press

  Contents

  Also by Ron Schwab

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Afterword

  New Release

  Also by Ron Schwab

  Sioux Sunrise

  Paint the Hills Red

  Ghosts Around the Campfire

  The Lockes

  Last Will

  Medicine Wheel

  The Law Wranglers

  Deal with the Devil

  Mouth of Hell

  Dismal Trail (forthcoming)

  The Coyote Saga

  Night of the Coyote

  Return of the Coyote (forthcoming)

  NIGHT OF THE COYOTE

  by Ron Schwab

  Poor Coyote Press

  PO Box 6105

  Omaha, NE 68106

  www.PoorCoyotePress.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Ron Schwab

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews—without written permission from its publisher.

  ISBN: 1-943421-00-5

  ISBN-13: 978-1-943421-00-8

  1

  STIFF GUSTS OF wind whipped at the mammoth cottonwood that ignored civilization’s assault in the center of one of the two intersections on Lockwood’s main street. The tree’s branches trembled, and the rustling of its fragile leaves was the only sound in the little Wyoming town this June morning in 1875. Silent corpses, suspended by twin reatas from a sturdy limb that arched out from the tree’s trunk, swayed with the rocking of the branch, and two dark shadows danced like ghostly ballerinas on the dusty road.

  A rider, sitting tall with military bearing in his Cheyenne saddle, reined in his Appaloosa gelding and tugged the brim of his low-crowned hat forward to ward off the glare of the mountain sunrise. His face was impassive, but his steel-gray eyes smoldered as he studied the grotesque scene.

  Sioux, he guessed. But he could not tell from their dress or traditional tribal accoutrements, for they had been stripped naked, which somehow made their deaths more obscene. They were no more than boys, and the agony he read on the swollen, contorted faces left him weak. What terror, what incomprehensible fear they must have endured in those early moments of their lynching, before the rawhide ropes had either strangled them to death or mercifully snapped their necks.

  Ethan Ramsey dug into his pocket and pulled out his jackknife, opened it and nudged his horse toward the swinging bodies. The horse was skittish and whinnied nervously as they approached the Indian youths. “Easy, Patch,” Ethan said as he stroked the horse gently on the neck. “Easy, boy.”

  At the sound of his rider’s voice, the horse steadied and Ethan leaned away from the saddle, stretching to his limit as he worked the razor-edged knife through the rope strands. Suddenly, the first rope gave way, and the young man’s body dropped like a sack of grain to the ground. In a few moments, the other joined his companion. Without so much as a glance at their bodies, Ethan turned the horse away and headed at a slow gait toward the livery stable a block further down the road.

  Dismounting in front of Fletcher’s Livery, he brushed haphazardly at the dust that frosted his tailored gabardine suit and then led the Appaloosa through the open doors of the barn.

  “Enos,” he called.

  “Back here, Ethan,” came a gravelly voice from the darkness at the rear of the barn. Grizzled Enos Fletcher emerged from behind one of the stalls and hobbled toward Ethan. The silver-bearded man spat a wad of brown chewing tobacco before he spoke. “You don’t look none too cheerful this mornin’, Ethan,” he said matter-of-factly, as he accepted the horse’s reins.

  “What happened, Enos?”

  “I figured you seen ‘em when you come in. Ain’t too appetizin’, huh?” The old man spat again and shook his head gloomily from side to side. “Goddamned awful, Ethan, that’s what it is. Goddamned awful. And there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

  “You didn’t answer my question—what happened?”

  “Well, Jake Harper’s got burned out last night. Him and his girl, slaughtered like butcher hogs and burned to a crisp, they say. Talk is they saw the fire from the Webb place and some hands went over to have a look-see. But it was too late. They could see it was injun work so they sent a man to town to fetch the sheriff. Will Bridges is in Cheyenne, so that half-witted deputy of his, Rube Tatnall, went along to the Harper place. You know Rube. He don’t know horseshit from wild honey.”

  “That doesn’t explain the Sioux boys out on the street.”

  “Well, old Rube rides on out, and after he sees the mess, decides he’s gonna round up a posse and swears in the Circle W wranglers on the spot. As near as they could tell, there couldn’t have been many injuns at the Harper place, so him and his so-called posse took off like bats out of hell. If you ask me, he didn’t expect to find nothin’. But damned if they didn’t come upon these young bucks a few miles west of the Harper place—three of ‘em, just sitting there by the fire, like nothin’ ever happened. Guess they didn’t even try to make a break for it first. Anyhow, they hog-tied them and headed back to town to toss ‘em in jail till Will got back—that’s what Rube says, anyways. On the way, though, some of the boys started hitting the bottle a bit and talkin’ pretty brave. Reckoned they could save the county the money of a trial and just string the bucks up right away.”

  “You said there were three boys, Enos. What happened to the third?”

  “Well, only two of them made it to town. One broke his pony loose from the bunch and high-tailed it out before they got to town. Old Rube, he wasn’t about to go after the injun hisself . . . he’s yellar as a gold nugget . . . and the others was so liquored up by that time, they wasn’t much help. Anyhow, they never got as far as the jail. You seen what happened. They say old Rube didn’t even try to stop them. Just stood there with his hands in his pocket playin’ with his pecker. The others stripped the injuns bare-ass naked. Then, as one fellar said, gave them baths in the water troughs and hung ‘em up to dry.”

  “None of it adds up,” Ethan said, “and even if it did, those boys were murdered. When’s Will Bridges coming back?”

  “Day after tomorrow, and he’ll be mad as a stirred-up hornet. If I was Rube Tatnall, I don’t think I’d stick around these parts.”

  “Where’s Rube now?”

  “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him this morning, but I expect he’ll show up over to the sheriff’s office soon
er or later. He usually leaves his horse off here. Want me to let you know when he shows?”

  “I’d appreciate it. I’d like you to do something else, too.”

  Fletcher squinted one eye and looked up at the taller man. “And what might that be?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I’m already late for an appointment and I’d like to get those bodies off the street. Would you check with George Caldwell and see if he can pick them up? Maybe keep them at his place until the sheriff decides what to do?”

  “He won’t do it,” the old man said flatly. “I already mentioned it when he was in here. He says nobody’d want to be buried by an undertaker who worked on redskins. Besides, he’s got a load of furniture coming in today.”

  Ethan knew it would be hopeless to argue with George Caldwell who ran Lockwood Funerals & Furniture, as well as half dozen other enterprises out of the same frame business building. Caldwell posed as a pious, God-fearing man, yet made no move without serious contemplation of the potential consequences to his business interests. It mattered not that he had no competition in the little community.

  “All right,” Ethan said. “What about you, Enos? Can you get a buckboard down there and get them off the street and covered up?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Fletcher said skeptically. “By whose authority?”

  “Mine. If Rube Tatnall says anything, send him over to me.”

  “You ain’t the law.”

  “I’m a lawyer, and that’s about as close as this town’s got to law right now. And don’t worry, I’ll foot the bill for your trouble.”

  Fletcher’s eyes brightened noticeably. “Well, I suppose I can take care of it as soon as my stable boy gets back. But what do I do with them?”

  “Just bring them back here for now. I’ll think of something. I’ll be responsible.”

  Fletcher shrugged. “It’s your money. Damned fool way to spend it, if you ask me.”

  2

  ETHAN LEANED FORWARD at his desk and thumbed through the hornbook, gazing at the fine print as he flipped the pages but not seeing what was written there. He supposed he should draft Mrs. Thomsen’s will, for the elderly widow had indicated before her departure a few minutes earlier that she was eager to have her new will completed. He knew that his sole competitor, Charley Langdon, had prepared Mrs. Thomsen’s previous will; it would be just his luck that Effie Thomsen would die before she signed the new one, and crafty old Charley would get to probate the estate. And Effie Thomsen had land holdings that would make probate worth a lawyer’s while.

  But his thoughts kept returning to the hangings. He had seen death in his 30 years, rendered his share of it in the three years he served as Chief of Scouts at Fort Laramie. But this was 1875 and the Sioux bands that occupied this part of Wyoming had been at peace since Spotted Tail, when their Chief had signed the treaty of 1868 at Fort Laramie. He could not quite swallow the notion that Sioux boys had murdered the Harpers. He had a gut feeling that told him that the unfortunate boys whose lives had been so brutally snuffed out on the main street the night before had had nothing to do with the killings. It was not only the obvious youth of the lynching victims that triggered his doubts. What Sioux male, young or old, would have carried out such a raid, and then set up camp a few miles away to await capture?

  They were two days’ hard ride from Fort Laramie, and Lockwood was an island of semi-civilization at the base of the Laramie Range of the Rocky Mountains. The town was dangerously vulnerable to Sioux attack, and a full-scale uprising could wipe out the town and the surrounding ranches in a matter of a few days. If the Sioux were not on the warpath now, word of the hangings could set off a major Indian war. Ethan seethed at the stupidity and barbarism of the men who had murdered the Indian boys in the name of justice.

  The door to Ethan’s office opened and his secretary came in. Her eyebrows were arched high and her nose uplifted like she smelled something unpleasant. Ethan wondered if he had horse manure on his boots but discarded that notion, reminding himself that she acted that way half the time. She was competent and efficient as a secretary, but she tended to be quarrelsome, and he was frequently irritated by her ability to intimidate him. Katherine Wyeth had been something of an institution in the office before he had commenced reading law with Horace Weatherby a few years earlier. After Ethan passed the bar, Weatherby had been in a hurry to sell his practice and move on, and Ethan had inherited Miss Wyeth in the process. He had wondered more than once whether his predecessor had headed for California to elude his problems with the bottle or to escape Miss Wyeth.

  Hell, what could he do? Charley Langdon’s wife was Charley’s secretary, and other legal secretaries just weren’t to be had in Lockwood, Wyoming. Besides, Katherine Wyeth was dedicated. She had to be a few years past child-bearing age by now, so it seemed unlikely someone would marry her and spirit her away.

  “Mr. Ramsey?” Miss Wyeth said.

  “What is it, Miss Wyeth?”

  “There’s a . . . uh . . . a young woman here to see you. I told her you were busy, but she’s very persistent. She insists she’s going to stay in the office until you see her.”

  “Well, I suggest you send her in. I’m not all that busy anyway, Miss Wyeth.”

  It annoyed him that Miss Wyeth always took it upon herself to determine whether or not he was too busy to see a prospective client. Often he felt like he was working for her instead of vice versa.

  Miss Wyeth stood by the door, stiff and unmoving, like a statue, her thin lips pursed. “I said you could send her in, Miss Wyeth.”

  She appeared deaf to his instructions. “There’s something else, Mr. Ramsey. The woman dresses like she’s from the Quaker school . . . but I’m certain she’s an Indian.”

  “So?”

  “Well, we’ve never represented,” she hesitated, “those kind of . . . people in this office.”

  He fought the urge to get out of his chair and kick the pompous woman in the butt. “Miss Wyeth,” he said, enunciating his words slowly and clearly, “I will represent anyone who can pay a fee, and some who cannot, if it suits me. I think it behooves both of us to see that I don’t starve out of this town. So, if you don’t mind, send in my client . . . please.”

  Miss Wyeth shot him a killing glare and did an about face, opened the door and marched out of the office, her skirt swishing loudly. “Miss dePaul,” came Miss Wyeth's voice from the reception room, “Mr. Ramsey says he can see you for just a few minutes.”

  Ethan stood when his visitor entered the room and closed the door softly behind her. She wore a drab, gray dress and matching bonnet, and her simple attire belied the fact that she had to be the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Tall for her race, the woman, who was perhaps a half dozen years younger than himself, hesitated a moment, appraising him with dark, intelligent eyes before she approached his desk with her hand extended.

  “Mr. Ramsey, I am Skye dePaul. Thank you for seeing me . . . although I really did not give you much choice.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Miss dePaul. Won’t you be seated?”

  Skye dePaul moved easily into one of the oak chairs in front of Ethan’s desk. He stared at her in spite of himself, for Lockwood was not over-populated with young women, and, as the town’s most eligible bachelor, he had encountered none who could hold a candle to this woman’s physical beauty—smooth, bronzed skin; long, silky black hair; delicate features. He speculated that there was a lithe, full figure beneath her cotton dress.

  “I am not a horse,” Skye dePaul said.

  He could feel the hot crimson spreading over his cheeks and down the back of his neck. He was both embarrassed and angered by her remark, although he detected neither mischief nor bitterness in her voice.

  “I’m not certain I know what you mean,” Ethan replied, knowing exactly what she meant. He gathered his composure quickly, “I assume you have some business with me this morning, Miss dePaul.”

  “Perhaps. I need a lawyer, one with your background . .
. if I decide you are suitable for the job I have in mind.”

  “Well, then, I suggest we get right to the point, Miss dePaul. I, too, have to decide whether you and your job are suitable for me,” he replied sardonically.

  This meeting was going to be a waste of both of their times. They were off on the wrong foot, approaching each other like two feisty bobcats, wary and guarded, spoiling for a fight.

  “Mr. Ramsey,” she said, “I have lived in your community for slightly over one year. I am a teacher at the Pennock School.”

  “I assumed as much from your dress.”

  “I am a Quaker, Mr. Ramsey. We prefer to be called Friends. I am also a half-breed. My mother is Brule Sioux; my father was French. Does that bother you?”

  “I think it bothers you,” he said. “If you want to call yourself a half-breed, then I guess I’m one, too. My father was Scotch and my mother, Swiss. And as for you being a Quaker, I could not care less. I’m a lawyer who would like to help you with your legal problem . . . if I am suitable.”

  Her face was emotionless and he could read nothing into the cool eyes which still seemed to be evaluating him.

  “Mr. Ramsey, I understand you were responsible for removing the bodies of the Sioux boys off the street this morning. I thank you for that.”

  Ethan shrugged, deciding he would keep his mouth shut while he figured out how to converse with this woman.

  Miss dePaul continued. “The boys’ names were Screeching Hawk and Raven Eyes. They were of my mother’s village. They could not have been more than 16 years old. There was another with them who escaped.”

  “That’s what I was told at the stable.”

  “The boy who got away is my cousin, Bear Killer. He came to our dormitory last night and tapped on my window. He told me what had happened and then rode away to his village. Bear Killer’s father, Lame Buffalo, is Chief of the village and the brother of my mother, Singing Lark. He is a man of honor, but he has not always agreed with Spotted Tail’s efforts to make peace with the white man. He is still a relatively young man and capable of counting many coups before he dies. When Bear Killer tells him about the death of his friends, my uncle will call for a war council.”