Night of the Coyote (The Coyote Saga Book 1)

by Ron Schwab

  “I’m not surprised,” Ethan said. “There could be a lot of people who die because of what happened last night. But I don’t see what I can do about it.”

  “I have heard of you before, Mr. Ramsey. They talked of you in my uncle’s village when I visited there. You were Chief of Scouts at Fort Laramie. You were not loved by our tribe. You were said to be like a puma, wily and silent in your pursuit, springing from nowhere at the most unexpected times to bring death to our people. But you were respected as a warrior, and it was said that you could be trusted, that you killed as a warrior killed. Because war demanded it, not for the love of killing. Last night, after Bear Killer departed, I left the dormitory and walked alone into the hills. It was quiet, like death. But suddenly, as I walked, the coyotes began to howl in the woods, first one, then another in answer, until there was a chorus of them. And just as suddenly, they stopped. At that moment, your name came to my mind. I had never seen you before this morning, but I knew you were a lawyer in this town and was aware what you had done before. I took it for a sign.”

  Ethan was tempted to comment that he thought it a bit unusual for a Quaker to believe in such signs. “I’ve never had a client referred by a coyote before,” he said, “but I’m not in a position to be choosy about my referrals.”

  “Spare me your sad attempts at humor, Mr. Ramsey. I want to retain your services, not your wit.”

  Did the woman ever smile? She must be a sourpuss for a teacher. “I’m listening,” Ethan said.

  “I want to return the bodies of Screeching Hawk and Raven Eyes to the village of Lame Buffalo. I would like you to help me do this. And, I want you to help me convince Lame Buffalo that Bear Killer must return with us, to stand trial, if necessary, for the murders of the Harper family. I will employ you to be Bear Killer’s lawyer; but more importantly, I want you to assure Lame Buffalo that the real killers will be found and brought to justice.”

  Ethan shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t expect much.”

  “I am asking you only to try. I think Lame Buffalo can be persuaded to give us time; he will not believe that the murderers of Screeching Hawk and Raven Eyes are also subject to the white man’s laws. But he would like to see us fail to prove it. Time enough later for revenge. He will be very reluctant to let Bear Killer return with us, but I do not think we will get any cooperation out of the white authorities unless he does. Bear Killer is known in this area, and I have heard that he was identified by one of the men last night.”

  “When I took up law, I thought I picked a nice, safe occupation. But just for the sake of argument, let’s say I get to Lame Buffalo’s village without getting my scalp lifted. I can’t lie to him; I can’t guarantee Bear Killer’s safety. Sheriff Bridges is a good man, and I think we could give the boy protection once we got him back to Lockwood. But a jury’s another thing. The people in the county will be enflamed by that time, and I don’t know if we can get an impartial jury, whether I could win the case. We’re assuming, of course, that Bear Killer and his friends were innocent.”

  “You think so, do you not?” she asked bluntly.

  “Well, yes. Even if the boys had taken some crazy notion to go on the warpath, they wouldn’t have been stupid enough to make camp a few miles from where they massacred a family. They would have kept on the move all night and all the next day. And the boys I saw had not been painted for war; the lynch mob couldn’t have washed off all signs of it. If Sioux, or warriors from any other tribe did it, those boys weren’t very likely among them. But to find out who did it is another thing. The odds are against anybody in that mob getting more than a slap on the wrist; I don’t think Lame Buffalo is going to be happy with the white man’s justice.”

  “Will you take the job?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I am not asking you to crusade for a cause, Mr. Ramsey. I can pay your fees. My father was a merchant in Cheyenne; he knew that when he died my mother would return to her own people. I was his only child, and he left his modest estate to me. I am not wealthy, but I have enough to pay your fees. I can draw a draft on a Cheyenne bank for your retainer today. Would two hundred dollars be adequate? You can present a bill when further fees are in order.”

  “You’ve hired yourself a lawyer, Miss dePaul . . . and an Indian scout and whatever else it is I’m going to be.” Fees of this magnitude were rare as ivory in Lockwood, Wyoming.

  “Good. I shall give the draft to your secretary when I leave.”

  Skye dePaul had evidently not been blind to Miss Wyeth’s prejudice. In her own way, the French-Sioux woman was going to take a little of Miss Wyeth’s scalp before her departure. He hoped he could get a glimpse of Miss Wyeth’s face when the “lowly Indian woman” handed her the draft.

  “Miss dePaul, before you leave, I’ll need some instructions. Those boys have already been dead half a day. I’ve got some things to tend to before I leave town, but I’d better get on my way to Lame Buffalo’s village by mid-afternoon. My guess is I’ll be at least two nights on the trail. I know the country, but you’ll have to give me some idea where to find the village.”

  “You must not have heard me, Mr. Ramsey. I will be going with you. Otherwise, it is doubtful you would get into the village alive. And if you did, Lame Buffalo would not even give you a hearing if you rode into the village alone.”

  “I can appreciate that, Miss dePaul, but this isn’t going to be any boarding school outing, and your colleagues at the Pennock School might question the propriety of your heading into the mountains unchaperoned with a man.”

  “Mr. Ramsey, I have never cared for boarding school picnics, and as for the chaperone, the ladies at the school only know that I am taking a leave of absence. Certainly, I am not afraid to accompany you, because it would not disturb me greatly to cut your eyes out if you failed to behave like a gentleman.”

  She meant it, too. He could see it in her eyes. My God what kind of client had he taken on? She was crazy as hell.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll make arrangements for packing the bodies. I’ll have to go out to my ranch and pick up some horses and gear and leave word with my partner. What about you? Do you have a horse?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll bring one.”

  “I would prefer something spirited.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Red Horse drove me here in the school’s carriage. I shall purchase some supplies at Wilson’s General Store, then return to the dormitory and change. Red Horse will help me haul the supplies out to the McWilliams Bridge, and I shall meet you there. Do you know the place?”

  “About a mile west of the school. If you’ll get the supplies, I should be there by . . . say three o’clock?”

  “I will be waiting.” She rose and extended her hand again. “Good day, Mr. Ramsey.”

  He took her hand. “Good day, Miss dePaul.”

  3

  IT WAS AFTERNOON by the time Ethan pulled Enos Fletcher’s rickety buckboard onto the narrow trail that branched off the main road and led to the Lazy R ranch buildings nestled a half mile into the foothills. Patch, tied to the rear of the buckboard, was nervous and skittish, spooked by the rancid smell of death that rose from the two blanket-covered corpses laid out in the wagon box. It was hot for early June in Wyoming, and flies swarmed and buzzed at his cargo in anticipation of a feast. The prospect of packing the bodies into the mountains for the better part of two days was not a pleasant one. It would be cooler at the higher elevations. Perhaps that would slow the deterioration of the corpses. Ethan was beginning to have second thoughts about the retainer he had accepted. Neither his client, nor her cause, was a popular one, and he could be permanently damaging the law practice he hoped to build in Lockwood.

  Still, his office had not exactly overflowed with paying clients the past year, and the ranch was not close to carrying itself yet. Another mortgage payment would be due in September, and Skye dePaul, disagreeable and arrogant as she appeared to be, was able to pay his fe
es.

  The woman. Now, there was a different breed of cat. In spite of her drab Quaker attire, Skye dePaul exuded a beauty that seemed at once gentle and untamed, and there was a naturalness to it, an innocent seductiveness, that set her apart from all other beautiful women he had known. And, undeniably, there was something about her that stirred a man’s desire.

  But there was also something cold and forbidding about her, and he had a hunch that her threat to kill or maim was more than bluff. Despite her aloofness and the mean streak that had surfaced, however, he had to concede she was a damn smart woman, obviously well-educated, and practical enough to apply what she had learned. At this point, he could barely hope for her friendship, but, nonetheless, she was an interesting woman and he was very curious about her.

  As the wagon rattled into the ranch yard, his eyes scanned the corrals and barns for some sign of his partner, Ben Dobbs. Instinctively, he sensed that Ben was gone, that there was no human presence on the place.

  He pulled the team to a stop near the hay barn that dominated the ranch’s building site and then got down from the wagon and untied Patch, leading the big gelding to one of the corrals where he released the horse. “Take it easy a spell, Patch,” he said. “You’ve got to go back to work in a while.”

  As he strode across the yard toward the weathered frame house, Ethan caught sight of a little whirlwind of dust that was working its way up the draw that nearly split the ranch from north to south. It was almost a mile away, and Ethan could see neither rider nor horse, but he could tell from the speed and tempo of the powdery shield that it was Ben Dobbs and his black mare.

  Ben Dobbs had partnered with Ethan on the small ranch for two years now, and before that the old mountain man had scouted for the army out of Fort Laramie. It was in the army that Ethan and Ben had formed their fast friendship. Their business arrangement was a loose one. Ethan owned three sections that comprised the ranch—small by any standard—having made the down payment with the money squirreled away from his years of scouting for the army. He also owed the note and mortgage that a Cheyenne bank held against the ranch.

  Ben had made the investment in the Hereford cattle that grazed the range, maintaining that he wanted no roots in the land, that a time would come when he would get the urge to drift on, and when that time came, Ethan could buy him out or they could sell enough cattle to settle the partnership.

  Ethan waited in the ranch yard for his partner’s arrival. Poor Ben. He was a relic from the past, nearer Indian than white in many ways. He was like a wild creature spawned from the mountains, constantly on the run from civilization. Ben was increasingly restless these days as Lockwood grew and new ranchers established themselves in the surrounding valleys. Calving season was just about over, and Ethan had a feeling Ben would not be around for another one.

  Ben Dobbs rode in, his wide-brimmed Plainsman hat casting a dark shadow over his face. Ben was a good half foot shorter than Ethan’s own six feet two inches, but his barrel-chest and powerful arms and shoulders gave him the appearance of a much larger man in the saddle. Closer to 70 than 60, Ben moved with the grace and ease of a man half his age. A black patch concealed Ben’s naked left eye socket where Cheyenne torture had left its mark some years earlier. But when he dismounted in front of Ethan, his good eye was fastened appraisingly on the buckboard across the yard. The buckskin-clad man rubbed at the thick, gray stubble on his chin before he ambled up to Ethan. He said nothing, but the quizzical look on his face expressed his curiosity.

  “They’re Sioux, Ben,” Ethan said, answering his partner’s unspoken question. “Boys. They were lynched in town last night.”

  “Them jackasses looking for an injun war?”

  “That’s what it looks like, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re goddamned right.” Ben nodded toward the wagon. “You starting a collection or something?”

  “Worse than that.” He told Ben about Skye dePaul and the job he had agreed to take on. When he was finished, Ben stared at him in disbelief.

  “There ain’t no changin’ your mind, is there?” the crusty old man asked.

  “I’ve already made it up. I’ll be pulling out this afternoon in an hour or so.”

  “Want me to ride along?”

  “Why? You think I’m crazier than hell for doing it.”

  “Yep, but I’ve saved your scalp more than once.”

  “I won’t deny that. But we’ll be riding right into the middle of Lame Buffalo’s camp. He’ll either let us in or he won’t, and once we get that far, your being along won’t change the outcome. Besides, somebody’s got to watch the ranch. And I’ve got something else I want you to check out while I’m gone.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want you to go over to the Harper place, see what you can find out about how those people were killed. Look up Red Horse, the Pawnee who’s kind of a handyman over at the Quaker school. He might be able to give some help . . . especially if you need to do some digging.”

  “Digging?”

  “Yeah. I understand the so-called posse buried the Harpers last night. I think somebody ought to take a look at the bodies, and Will Bridges won’t be back for a few days. Rube’s just hiding out trying to decide whether to cut and run. By the time anybody else makes an investigation, it may be too late to learn anything.”

  “Christ on a crutch. You always got a way of gettin’ out of the messy jobs,” Ben grumbled. “If there’s shit to clean out of the barn, old Ben always gets stuck doing it. Now you got me robbing graves.”

  Ethan knew Ben would be happier if the task was his own idea, and decided to change his approach. “I’m sorry, Ben. It’s not fair for me to pull you into this. Things could get pretty hot before this is over, and I wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble. It might be better if you sort of stay neutral, sit this one out, maybe.”

  “You don’t want my help?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just suggesting that maybe this isn’t your fight.”

  “A man that straddles the fence usually gets sore balls,” Ben growled.

  “Well, it’s up to you, Ben.”

  “Oh, what the hell. I’ll find old Red Horse, and we’ll mosey out that way before sundown. The grave diggin’ though, that’ll have to wait till after dark.”

  “Thanks, Ben. I appreciate it. Now, I’ve got to change and get my bedroll together. Uh, Ben . . . those Indian boys . . . I can’t take them into the mountains in that buckboard.”

  Ben grimaced and squinted his good eye in displeasure. “Why, shit no. I’ll get a couple of pack horses, wrap ‘em up nice and pretty for you. Maybe even put ribbons on them.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “Think nothin’ of it. I always wanted to be a goddamned undertaker.” Ethan moved toward the house. Then he stopped and turned around to face Ben who had not budged an inch. “Something else I can do for you, Ethan?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah. I’ll need an extra packhorse for gear and food. And I want Razorback.”

  “Razorback? That half-broke stallion? What do you want him for?”

  “Skye dePaul, the woman who’s going with me. She needs a horse, too.”

  “You don’t want that crazy stud horse for no woman.”

  “She said she likes a spirited horse.”

  “Old Razorback ain’t just spirited, he’s goddamn loco, that’s what he is.”

  “Tell you what. Pick out one of the gentle mares, too. If our Miss dePaul can’t handle Razorback, I’ll leave him tied at the McWilliams Bridge. You can pick him up there when you go by the Quaker school to get Red Horse.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re up to devilment with that woman.”

  “Just taking her at her word.”

  4

  ETHAN CAUGHT SIGHT of the supplies stashed in the brush as he dismounted in front of the wooden bridge that spanned the clear creek. He stood quietly beside his Appaloosa searching the trees and undergrowth that lined the creek, seeking out Skye dePaul, whom he sens
ed was secreted there.

  Then silently, like a cat, she emerged from a grove of aspen upstream and moved toward him. She looked more Indian than French now, Ethan observed, with her straight black hair tied back by a leather thong before it cascaded over her shoulders to the middle of her back. Her feet were clad in a pair of well-worn doeskin moccasins, and she wore a hip-length buckskin shirt that exposed an ample portion of the smooth brown skin of her neck and shoulders. The faded, denim trousers that clung to her legs and hips, which confirmed the curves he had earlier guessed would be there, were of the white man’s world. He suspected that the bone-handled skinning knife sheathed at her side was more than decoration.

  As Skye approached, she cast her eyes upward, squinting into the bright afternoon sun. “At least you are prompt, Mr. Ramsey. I like that.”

  “I try to be,” he replied. “Were you hiding from someone?”

  “I was just avoiding trouble. After last night, I would think it the better part of discretion for an Indian to stay out of sight at this time. I might not be taken for a teacher from the Pennock School.” She looked at him with appraising eyes. “No more than you would be taken for a law wrangler.”

  “I guess you’re right,” he said, suddenly realizing they might have been dressed as twins were it not for the boots he preferred for long days in the saddle.

  “Is that my horse?” Skye asked, nodding toward the tall, thickly-muscled sorrel that was saddled and tied behind Patch.

  “Yes, unless you prefer the mare,” Ethan said, pointing to the smaller, finer-boned gray that stood docilely behind the three pack horses.