Night of the Coyote (The Coyote Saga Book 1)

by Ron Schwab

  Her dark eyes met his again, probing and evaluating, and made him slightly uneasy. “What is the horse’s name?”

  “Uh, Razorback.”

  She smiled, knowingly. Ethan could feel the heat of his embarrassment sliding down his neck. The woman moved up beside the big stallion, patted him softly on the neck and spoke to the wary animal in a low, soothing voice in what Ethan surmised was French. The stallion snorted challengingly and danced uneasily, but did not rear or strike.

  Ethan suddenly had second thoughts about his prank. He did not want to hurt the young woman in spite of her arrogance and sharp tongue. The stallion was powerful and seemingly inexhaustible. And, he was ornery as hell. He’d broken the leg of more than one rider, fractured countless ribs in his career. He was a magnificent animal, but because of his disagreeable temperament, he had been retired to what Ethan thought was the enviable task of stud service at the Lazy R.

  “Give me the reins,” Skye said, still stroking the horse’s neck and head.

  Ethan untied the horse and handed her the reins. She took them in one hand, and, in a single fluid motion, without so much as touching the stirrup, grasped the horse’s neck and lifted herself easily into the saddle. The stallion lurched forward as Skye settled into the saddle, throwing his hips sharply into Patch’s flank as he brushed by. Momentary panic seized Ethan, as the horse raced away, but before he could nudge Patch to pursuit, Razorback slowed, whirled, and Skye dePaul, firmly in control, galloped back toward Ethan.

  “He is a fine horse, Mr. Ramsey. Big and strong . . . and spirited,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “Yes, he is,” Ethan agreed, adding grudgingly, “You obviously know how to handle horses, Miss dePaul.”

  Her face seemed to soften at his compliment. “Thank you, Mr. Ramsey. I could ride before I could walk.”

  “Would you mind calling me Ethan?” he asked her. “Mr. Ramsey makes me feel like an old man.”

  A glint of suspicion crossed her eyes briefly before she replied, “All right, Ethan,” she said, “and you may call me Skye.”

  “That’s an unusual name. I've never heard it before.”

  “It is something of an adaptation of my Sioux name, ‘Sky-in-the-Morning.’ That is how I am known to my mother. My father had my name recorded as Skye dePaul in his family Bible in deference to my mother. It was a way of showing his respect for her. He never thought of her as a squaw. To him, she was a woman and a wife whom he loved and treated as an equal.”

  “Why not?” Ethan asked.

  Her face hardened again, and he had the feeling she had closed a window through which she had inadvertently let him see for just a moment.

  “I think, Mr. . . . Ethan, we had better be on our way. I am not paying you for conversation. I presume you will attend to the supplies.”

  She kicked Razorback gently in the ribs, and the big horse lurched away.

  5

  THE TWO SAT cross-legged by the fire, facing each other across the orange-red glow of the flickering flames. They ate silently, devouring with animal-like enthusiasm the tough beef jerky and the sourdough bread Skye had baked on sticks while Ethan had staked out the horses.

  Ethan watched Skye furtively as she attacked her simple meal. Somewhere along the way, as their little caravan had slowly climbed higher into the depths of the Rockies, Skye dePaul, French Quaker, was abandoned and Sky-in-the-Morning, Sioux maiden, took over. She was at home in this wilderness, at ease and comfortable, as much a part of the mountains as any deer or elk that roamed there.

  Their trek up the winding, rocky trail that followed the rippling mountain stream that skirted their campsite had been a difficult one. The late afternoon sun had first squeezed the perspiration from their bodies, soaking their clothes with sweat and baked their skins dry so that he now felt like his body was encased in a curing animal hide. The sun had continued its work on the wrapped bodies anchored on the backs of the pack horses that followed grudgingly on the trail. The stench of death seemed to be everywhere and the horses, made skittish by it, had become increasingly stubborn and hard to handle as the day wore on.

  Skye had controlled the horses with an authority he envied, and she had done more than her share of the work without complaint. They had not stopped until well after nightfall, and he was bone-weary, but he knew also that he would not get much sleep this first night on the trail. There was an adjustment his body always had to make before it accepted the old ways—hard ground, open sky, long days in the saddle, the tension wrought of ever-present danger.

  Skye did not show any outward sign of stress, but she probably would not confess to discomfort in any case. They had spoken little since their departure from the bridge rendezvous. No casual conversation had passed between them. Surprisingly, they had communicated well without speaking—a simple nod when it was time for a pause on the trail, a gesture with the hand to warn that loose rock might be a hazard. And where before they had been inclined to argue and confront, they now worked compatibly in silence, each compensating instinctively for the other when problems arose on the trail.

  They had not conferred about their campsite, but almost simultaneously—and he truly could not say who had made the first move—they had dismounted on the trail and led the horses some hundred feet over a twisting path that weaved through the dense growth of aspen and into the cozy, grassy clearing where they now camped. It was an idyllic setting with the soft hum of the mountain stream rushing over the rocks and mourning doves cooing and owls hooting softly in the background. A gentle evening breeze rustled the leaves of the whispering aspen that fringed the camp perimeter. So peaceful and restful. It was difficult to remember that terror and death could descend upon such a place so quickly. But civilization had not yet arrived in this part of Wyoming. In ten years, or a little more, a man would be able to bring his son to these mountains for a camping and hunting trip—but not now.

  “If we start early tomorrow, can we make it to your uncle’s village before nightfall? The bodies,” he nodded toward the two stiff heaps resting side by side in the grass at the far end of the clearing, “they’re pretty bad.”

  “No,” she replied “I think not. The last stretch of the trail to the summer encampment is very treacherous, quite narrow, and the outer edge drops off into a canyon that appears bottomless. No, I am sorry, but we will not want to try it at night. Lame Buffalo chose such a location for obvious reasons. It is very easy to protect, and the valley where the camp is located is rich in game and water.”

  “I guess we’ll have to do the best we can then, but we’re going to leave a trail of turkey buzzards a mile long tomorrow. They were gliding in plenty close today. I don’t like the damned things.”

  “Oh, but that is Waconda, the Great Spirit’s way of keeping our good earth clean. The vultures remove the carrion, the stinking flesh, and make our air breathe again. The scavengers perform a great service.”

  “Waconda. The Great Spirit. I thought you were a Quaker.”

  “Not here.”

  “I thought as much. Your religion is not something of great conviction then?”

  She was quiet a moment. “Perhaps you could say that. I think of myself as very religious. I believe there is some spiritual force that we cannot begin to comprehend that created this world.” She lifted her hands in an open gesture to the sky, “One that made all of this possible. But I think we are essentially responsible for our own lives and what we do with them. Much religion, Sioux and white, is founded upon superstition, convenience and wishful thinking.”

  “Yet away from these mountains, you wear the Quaker garb. Doesn’t that seem hypocritical?”

  She did not seem miffed by his suggestion. “Probably. Are not most of us hypocritical at one time or another? In my own case, I was educated from childhood in a small Quaker school near Cheyenne. My father was Catholic, incidentally, although a rather casual one, but he felt that the Quakers would give me the best education to cope with the white man’s world. They
are a very good people, by and large, sincere in their beliefs, constructive influences in this country. I wanted to teach among my people. In this part of the West, Quakers provide almost the only outlet for teaching by someone of my blood. So, I embraced the Quaker religion, you might say, out of convenience. I try to abide by the rules when I live among them, though I must confess that my temper occasionally makes it difficult. I do not adhere very strictly to thee and thou pronouns like my sisters at the school.”

  “Do you plan to spend the rest of your life teaching?”

  “I do not know. I enjoy it, but I do not see it as an end in itself. I will do something else when and if it suits me. I like to write. I have thought of writing. I enjoyed helping my father in his business. Sometimes the world of commerce intrigues me.”

  “You’re a woman. Don’t you ever think of a home?”

  She smiled wryly. “Home? For the likes of me? There is no home for a halfbreed. Quakers accept me as a member of their religious family, but there is no true home for me among the whites. My mother never found one; that is why she returned to her people when my father died.”

  “And you have no home among the Brule?”

  “Of course not. They are uncomfortable in my presence. I am welcome as a visitor. The men look upon me as something of a witch, I fear, tainted by a world they know little of. I respect my people; we have many intelligent, brave men and women among them. But can you imagine me as a squaw in the village of my people?”

  “No, I guess not,” he conceded.

  “You have a home, do you not?”

  “I do now. My ranch. I’ll never leave it permanently. It’s not much, but it’s a place to return to, a place to sink my roots. It’s my little piece of the world.”

  “But what if someone takes it away?”

  “I won’t let them.”

  “My people say that your ‘piece of the world’ once belonged to the Sioux, to all the tribes that roamed the plains and mountains of this part of what we now call Wyoming Territory. Their piece of the world is becoming smaller and smaller as each day passes. Soon they will have none.”

  “It’s got to stop somewhere,” he said. “I’m sympathetic, but I don’t know the answer to how we reconcile the conflict between advancing civilization—that’s what we call it anyway—and the way of life of your people.”

  “It will not stop,” she said, “this thing your people call progress. It is inevitable, and some will be eaten up in the process. Unfortunately, my people are the food for the cannibals. I do not like it, but we have to accept sometimes what we do not like or we shall cannibalize ourselves. My people must accept it and eventually adapt to the white man’s ways if they are to survive as a race. It is that simple.”

  “Whites are your people, too,” he reminded.

  “True, I am not unmindful of that. I am proud of my white blood as I am of my Sioux, even though I feel it sometimes places my existence in no man’s land. Perhaps it is the white in my blood that makes me want to help the Indians become a part of the white man’s world, and it is the Sioux blood in me that makes me want to do it in a way that preserves the customs, culture and dignity of the Indian.”

  “I’ve never heard it put that way,” Ethan said. “It’s a nice thought. Altruistic, maybe, but a beautiful thought.”

  “Ethan, you said you had found a home, but you left much unsaid. Where was your home before?”

  “I had none.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As near as I know, I was a bastard.” He shivered involuntarily at the statement, realizing he had never told anyone before. “When I told you before I was half Swiss and half German, I was being sarcastic, I was raised in an orphanage in St. Louis. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but I received a good education there until I reached sixteen and the wanderlust hit me. It was rather traditional that boys at the orphanage run away at about that age. No roots, nothing to hold us there except a certain security for a few more years. Nobody cared by that time whether I stayed or went. I went. I caught on with a wagon train heading west. The wagon master hired me on as a general camp boy. No cash wages, just my meals and a wagon to sleep under.”

  “The train’s scout took a liking to me; he was one of the best. He started teaching me the trade. We worked together for a few years until the Sioux finally lifted his scalp . . . Oglala, not Brule. Then I got a job scouting for the army. First, out of Fort Kearny in Nebraska, then Fort Laramie. I got to be Chief of Scouts at Laramie, not because of my superior scouting ability, but because I was the only one in the bunch who could read or write, and somebody had to write reports. I got the job and the title that went with it.”

  “It was more than that,” she said. “I have heard stories from my people.”

  “Well, I don’t mind being held in high esteem by your people, but the price of that could be my scalp.” He noted she did not bother to deny it.

  “What turned you to the law?”

  “I’m an accidental lawyer. I observed that lawyers tended to be the trailblazers in establishing communities, setting up the structure and organization to make things work. A town without lawyers is a town without law. And a town without law is anarchy where nobody’s person or property is secure. But beyond that, I was an opportunist.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “There aren’t many lawyers in the territory. Like I said before . . . I don’t even know who my parents were. No home, no roots. I wanted a home and roots. I think most people do. Deep down, you do, too. I can tell as much about you by what you haven’t said as by what you have. Anyway, I could see that by the time I was forty, there’d be no career as an army scout, and I’d end up swamping out bars someplace. I thought about it a lot. I had fallen in love with this country, and I wanted to stay here. I just had to find the best way to make a place for myself. I concluded there was something I could do that a lot of people out here couldn’t—that was read and write. I always could write quite well. I thought back to the people I had heard about in St. Louis who were successful financially, those who were influential early in our country’s history. Think about the men in the East who were the country's movers, the people who set the course. Hell, three-fourths of them were lawyers.”

  “That’s true enough,” Skye agreed.

  “Lawyers are going to run Wyoming someday, too. And we’re in cattle country here, so I thought law and cattle wouldn’t be a bad deal. I purchased some law books and when my last tour of duty as an army scout was up, I approached my predecessor in Lockwood about reading law in his office. He was eager to leave, and saw a chance to sell out if he could get me through it. He left two weeks after I passed the bar.”

  “And you got in the cattle business?”

  “When I knew I was going to stay in Lockwood, I took the small savings I had accumulated as an army scout and made a down payment on the ranch. My partner’s an old army friend of mine.” He smiled and shrugged. “That’s the story of my life. I’m afraid my motives aren’t quite as noble as yours. I want a home. I want roots. Along with that, I’d like to have influence and some money. I thought it might be nice to be Governor after statehood.”

  “Why not a United States Senator?” she asked teasingly.

  “Very simple . . . I don’t ever want to leave my mountains.”

  “If you are so guided by pragmatism, what are you doing here tonight? Why are you risking your life to take two dead Indian boys back to their Sioux village?”

  “It’s still pragmatism. You paid me a good retainer. I said I want to have money; I don’t have it now. I’m flat broke and in debt up to my neck. Contrary to what some people think, and to what I once believed myself, lawyers don’t get rich overnight. A lot of them die broke; plenty die drunkards. There’s as much failure and unhappiness among members of the bar as anyplace else. Maybe more, because the expectations tend to be so much greater. No, I’m here for the money,” he insisted.

  “But helping the Sioux is not goi
ng to enhance your career.”

  “Oh, you never know how things might turn out. People aren’t as narrow-minded as they used to be. But it still comes down to the fact that I need fees now; I’ll worry about next year’s mortgage payment next year.”

  “I do not think I have you figured out yet, Ethan.”

  “Nor I, you. But at least we’re talking.”

  “Yes, at least we are talking. Ethan?” she said softly, her head unmoving, a flash of alarm in her eyes.

  “I noticed. It’s too quiet; birds have stopped calling.”

  “It has just been a few seconds,” she said. “Whoever is coming is still down the trail, five, ten minutes away.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “What do you think?”

  He noticed her hand had clutched the bone handle of her skinning knife. “One of us has to stay as a decoy,” he said, “until we find out who it is. If they see a woman here, they’ll expect a man to be somewhere else. But not the other way around. Can you handle the Winchester you have wrapped in your bedroll?”

  Her eyes turned to cold steel. “Trust me,” she said simply.

  “I’ll have to.” He reached for his own rifle and pulled it close, then slipped his Colt Peacemaker from its holster and spun the chamber into position before he re-holstered it. “You head for the trees then, and we’ll wait it out, see what happens. I’ll try to stay on this side of the fire, so consider anybody on the other side fair game if there’s trouble.”

  Without a word, she snatched up her rifle and in a few moments disappeared into the darkness.

  6

  ETHAN WAITED IN front of the fire, his shoulders slouched, and his head slumped on his chest, as though enjoying an after-supper doze. He could hear footsteps on the path that led from the main trail to the campsite. There were two of them, but they weren’t Indians. He would not have heard the Sioux.

  “Hello, campers,” came the thundering voice from just outside the clearing.