Night of the Coyote (The Coyote Saga Book 1)

by Ron Schwab

  “Well, I’d rather you didn’t stay here alone,” he had persisted. “Ride into town with us this morning. I have to take care of some things in the office. We can have dinner in town and come back to the ranch after that.”

  “There are things that need to be done here, Ethan. You do not have Ben Dobbs to check on the cattle anymore.”

  “I’ll check them when we get back.”

  “Did you notice that one of the Appaloosa mares is getting ready to foal?”

  “No,” he admitted, “I was in a hurry this morning.”

  “I was out before you got up. She was showing blood already. I think she will foal later this morning. She should be moved into the barn, and someone should be here in case there is trouble. I am quite competent at such things.”

  “I have no doubt that you are,” he had said sarcastically, “but damn it, Skye, I just don’t think—”

  “Go to town, Ethan,” she had interrupted. “Remember, I am Sioux. I will not be surprised by any intruders.”

  She had turned away and gone back to work, signaling there was nothing more to be said. He had wheeled and marched angrily out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

  He sat there now, staring at the inkwell on the desk as if mesmerized by it. Skye dePaul had sure as hell got under his skin. It was getting harder and harder not to think about her, and it suddenly occurred to him that he did not want to go back to a lonely ranch, and that he was glad Skye would be there when he returned. He did not intend to eat dinner in town; he was eager to get back home.

  Katherine Wyeth came into his office and brought him back from his musing. “Mr. Ramsey . . . Ethan,” she said, “I saw something unusual when I glanced out of the window a little bit ago. . . . I don’t know what it means.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I saw Clete Webb and a couple of Gideon Webb’s hands ride into town. They went into the Cottonwood Palace. I thought it strange they’d be in town in the middle of the morning this time of year, but I assumed they’d been sent in to get some supplies or something and just stopped at the saloon for a drink. Well, it’s been better than half an hour now, and their horses are still tied in front of the saloon. I suppose it’s nothing, but doesn’t it seem a bit unusual?”

  “You’re thinking they could have been sent in to stir up some trouble?”

  “I don’t like thinking it. I feel disloyal after all Gideon and I have been to each other. But after everything you’ve said about the Circle W’s involvement the night of the Harper killings and since, I thought I should say something. . . . I was afraid not to.”

  “I appreciate that, Katherine.” Ethan pushed back his chair and got up. “I think I’ll stop by the Palace and have a beer after I meet with the town council.”

  17

  ETHAN SILENTLY STUDIED the men who gathered in the sheriff’s office. Four of the five members of the Lockwood town council sat in the straight-backed chairs scattered about the sheriff’s office. The fifth, Josh Wilson, was conspicuous by his absence. Wilson, proprietor of the town’s only general store, was a long-time crony of Gideon Webb’s. Besides, Ethan thought, the purchases made by Circle W would be the lifeblood of Wilson’s commercial enterprises. The fact that Wilson had no competition made not a whit of difference. An outfit like the Circle W could put a competitor in business overnight.

  On the other hand, the other members of the council were not that much less vulnerable to a Circle W boycott. George Caldwell, with his funeral home and furniture store and other sundry businesses, was certainly not immune to Webb pressure, and it showed. The rotund little man fidgeted in his chair and mopped the slick, shiny dome of his skull with a wrinkled handkerchief. George would much rather be fixing up a corpse for burial right now, but he was an intensely curious man. Nosey would be a better way of putting it. He had to find out what was up before he pulled his head into the shell.

  The other three were more far-sighted. Dr. Henry Weintraub was a young medical doctor whose Jewishness was overlooked in the community because he was the only sawbones within fifty miles. A damned good one, too. Ethan liked to think that men like Weintraub were Lockwood’s future—men of intelligence and skill, with the ambition and spirit to carve places for themselves in the heart of this wilderness. And Weintraub had a personal stake in the town—a new bride from the East was expected before summer was out, an arrangement negotiated by mail, Weintraub had confided to Ethan. An Indian war would spoil those plans, wash them away in a shower of blood. At least physicians in the West were not so expendable as merchants, not that it would make any difference to Henry. Ethan could count on the good doctor.

  Cyrus Eastland would stand by young Doc Weintraub. The old gentleman with flowing white hair and a heavy mustache that glistened like the fur of a silver fox, published and edited the Lockwood Journal, the town’s weekly newspaper, and did printing jobs on the side. He was writer, editor and pressman, and like most newspapermen Ethan had encountered, was fiercely independent. His common sense opinions expressed so bluntly on the Journal’s editorial page had won Eastland the community’s esteem. One faction or the other usually hated his guts and vilified his name the day after the Journal came out, but his viewpoint always earned grudging respect, and in person he was never the hard, uncompromising voice that spoke from the Journal. On the contrary, he was gentle and friendly, almost shy in his manner. Somehow the people of Lockwood saw Cy Eastland as two men—one, the kind, subtle-humored old gentleman who was their friend; the other, an unrelenting conscience who too often told them what they did not want to hear.

  Finally, there was Herman Roebke, the massive-shouldered German blacksmith. An immigrant, blond and ruddy-complexioned, Roebke had pulled his oxen out of a wagon train heading to Oregon several years back and had driven the team and wagon into Lockwood. A few days later, he was shoeing horses on the street. In a matter of weeks, he had rented space in the back of Enos Fletcher’s livery and was doing a booming business. He was now in the process of building his own shop. Roebke, in his early forties, had an equally Teutonic wife, a physically strong, buxom woman some years younger than her husband and quite attractive, seemingly unfazed by having borne six children—or was it seven by now? Roebke, too, was Lockwood’s future, but where did he stand on this question? Roebke, perhaps because of his awkwardness in the language of his new country, rarely talked. He mostly smiled and nodded and spoke in a broken hybrid of English and German only when he had something important to say—which seemed to be seldom. Ethan liked the man, but who knew what the big German might be thinking? If he had things figured right, Herman Roebke’s vote would be crucial.

  The law required a majority of the entire five-member council to make a decision. It took three votes to commit the town to a course of action; only two could be reasonably accounted for.

  Will Bridges sat behind his desk with the town council before him, but Eastland, the mayor elected by the other council members, presided. At Eastland’s request, Ethan had taken a chair off to one side of the sheriff’s desk, and it gave him a feeling that he and Bridges were sitting on trial before the council members.

  “Will, I take it you thought it was important, or you wouldn’t have asked for this special meeting. Can you tell us what you have in mind?” Eastland asked.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Sheriff Bridges said, “I think you have a pretty good idea what I’m up to. I know the word’s out. I’ve got Lame Buffalo’s son in jail back there. I asked Ethan to be here because he’s the boy’s lawyer. Now, I’ll get to the point. We’ve got some problems. Big ones. Things have been popping faster than popcorn on a hot skillet ever since the Harpers were killed. We’ve already had a lynching in this town, and it makes me sick deep in my gut.”

  Eastland shook his head in dismay. “Barbarism. Plain, animal barbarism. That’s what the editorial in tomorrow night’s paper is going to say. But it won’t bring those Indian boys back. Innocent or guilty, they should have had their day in court. If we ca
n’t stop that sort of thing, we’d just as well close up Lockwood, pack our bags and head back East.”

  “If they killed the Harpers, that’s what they had coming,” the undertaker interjected.

  Dr. Weintraub’s eyes glowered beneath dark, heavy eyebrows. “If,” he said sharply, “but that’s what we have courts for. To decide ‘if’. In some parts of the country, they hang Jews or Negroes without taking the time to find out ‘if’. I came here because I assumed that only what a man could do was important, not the color of his skin, his religion or the language he speaks.”

  Was Weintraub trying to make a subtle point with Roebke with his last statement?

  “I think I should make it very clear, gentlemen,” Bridges said, “That Indian boy is in jail for protective custody. He hasn’t been charged with a damn thing yet. Frankly, I don’t see how he can be. The only thing against him is that he’s an Indian, and maybe we’re not past the day when that’s a hanging offense. The reason the boy came back was because Miss dePaul down at the Quaker school realized that if he didn’t, we could be facing a new Indian war in these parts. Miss dePaul—she’s Lame Buffalos’ niece—and Ethan somehow managed to convince Lame Buffalo of the same thing. I don’t know how the Chief can show his trust any more than by turning his own son over to the white man’s law. Not sure I could do that if I was in his moccasins. Now, the way I see it, the only way we can keep the Chief’s trust and stop a war is to protect his boy. If we can show we mean business, we can save a lot of lives and maybe make some new friends out in those mountains.”

  “So why are we here, Will?” Eastland asked.

  “I want two emergency resolutions from this council. As you know, Rube Tatnall’s done as my deputy, done in this town as far as I’m concerned. I’ve got the Pawnee from the Quaker school, Red Horse, holed up in one of the cells in back. He’s an important witness in this case, but he’s also agreed to help me guard . . . maybe I should say protect . . . the prisoner. I want you to pass a motion to make him deputy with all the rights and duties appertaining.”

  The undertaker’s mouth flopped open in horror. “An Indian deputy in this town? The people won’t stand for it. They’ll be up in arms.”

  “I’m afraid some of them are going to be up in arms anyway,” Bridges said. “I need a deputy. Do you want to volunteer, George?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m no hand with a gun.”

  “Seems like the men who would handle a gun are few and far between right now,” the sheriff said cynically. “But I want something else, too, gentlemen, before you act on my request. I want general authority to deputize as many citizens as necessary to uphold the law and protect the prisoner. Just so there’s no misunderstanding, I want you to know that I take the resolution to mean that this council’s going on record saying that in Lockwood, we’re going to have the same law for red men and white men, or black men and green men for that matter. That’s why I’m here, gentlemen. If you say otherwise, I’ll stick things out till this job’s over, but then I’ll be moving on.”

  Eastland turned to Ethan. “What have you got to say about this, Ethan?”

  “Will thought he needed a lawyer present,” Ethan said, “but I couldn’t put it any better than he has. I would like to add something, if I may, though.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Those Indian boys didn’t kill the Harpers. I can say that positively. I don’t know who did yet. . . . Not for sure. . . . But in just a few days’ time, we’ve come up with a lot of evidence to bring us damn close to an answer. Think about that. Then think about this, too—the men who lynched the Indian boys committed murder just as much as whoever killed the Harper family. I don’t think it would hurt to pass the word that anybody who harms Bear Killer is going to be held accountable to the law. . . . I’ll see to it. That’s a promise.”

  “You’ve got two promises on that one,” Will Bridges said.

  “Now, gentlemen,” Ethan continued, “I’m sure you know the temperament of this town better than I do. Everybody’s on edge. There are certain people, some of them well-meaning, a lot of them not, ready to raise hell. And what they call hell is killing Indians. Any Indians. I’m not just shooting at shadows. I passed the saloon before I came over here. I could hear the rumblings. I can’t tell you why just yet, but keep an eye on the Circle W riders. They’re trying to provide the match to light the fuse, and it won’t be that hard to get the job done. I think you could do some good with personal contacts on your own, talking to a few of the fair-minded people, the folks who swing some weight with their common sense. It’s amazing what one reasonable voice can do to throw water on something like this. Right now, we just need time. Two or three days maybe, and we’ll have some answers that should satisfy folks. But, in the end, that’s not important. We either believe in the law or we don’t; we can’t have it both ways. What kind of a town, what kind of a country do you want to live in? What kind of place do you want your kids to grow up in? That’s your choice, and you could be making it by what you do today.”

  “Ethan,” Eastland said, “if you and Will don’t mind, I’m going to plagiarize a little and rewrite that editorial of mine. The two of you have said some things that need saying.” He turned to the other council members. “What do you have to say, boys? Speak your piece and let’s vote.”

  “I don’t know,” the undertaker said. “I think we should table this for a day or two and see what happens. Folks will be madder than hell if we make an Indian deputy. I don’t think we should go on record yet, not till we know what folks think. We can’t do this just for ourselves, you know. We’re representatives of the town.”

  “That’s right,” Eastland declared. ”We’re the representatives of the town. They picked us so we could use our judgment on their behalf. Represent. That’s the key word. We don’t go out and take a poll or get a vote of the people to see if the mayor can go out and take a crap. We’ve got information they don’t have. We have the responsibility to lead; that’s part of representing.”

  “Maybe we ought to see what Gid Webb has to say about this,” Caldwell ventured lamely and wiped his forehead which was slick with sweat now.

  “Horse shit!” the Journal publisher snapped. “What’s he got to do with any of this?”

  “Well, he has good judgment about these things,” Caldwell responded. “And he has a lot of influence with the people in Lockwood.”

  “You mean he has a lot of money he spends here.”

  Ethan had never seen the newspaper editor so feisty.

  “I just don’t want us to do anything we’ll be sorry for,” Caldwell whined.

  The editor shot Caldwell a scornful look and turned to Dr. Weintraub. “What about you, Henry?”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind. We have to back the sheriff. We’re paying him to uphold the law; we have to give him the tools to do it with. I fail to see why there should be any question of it.”

  Eastland looked at the German blacksmith whose face was sober and lined with worry. “Do you have anything to say, Herman?”

  “Nein. Let us vote. Ich must gehen.”

  “All right,” Eastland declared. “I suggest that this be considered as a single resolution, and I entertain a motion that Red Horse be appointed a lawful deputy to the sheriff of this town with all the power and authority appertaining thereto, and further, that the sheriff be empowered to deputize such other citizens as may be necessary to uphold the law. Is that good enough, Will?”

  “Good enough for me.”

  Eastland looked at the Council members. “Is there a motion?”

  “I so move,” said Dr. Weintraub firmly.

  “Is there a second? I suppose I could second it myself; I’d rather not.” There was silence as all eyes fastened on Herman Roebke. The blacksmith flushed and nodded his head affirmatively.

  “Ja. I second.”

  Ethan looked at Will Bridges and grinned. The sheriff winked in response. They had the vote.

  “All right,
on the motion,” Eastland continued. “Shall this resolution pass? I vote yes. Councilman Weintraub?”

  “Yes.”

  “Councilman Caldwell?”

  “No.”

  “Councilman Roebke?”

  “Ja.”

  “The resolution is passed and adopted,” Eastland declared. “I think I can speak for the majority of the Council members; we’ll try to talk to some of our friends and neighbors. I’ll do what I can with my newspaper, but we can’t wait for that. There’s work to be done, so let’s get at it.”

  “Thank you, Mayor,” the sheriff said. “I’m very grateful for your support.”

  Ethan was more than grateful. He was proud that he had picked Lockwood as the place to sink his roots.

  18

  WHEN ETHAN WALKED through the swinging doors of the Cottonwood Palace, he caught sight of Enos Fletcher hunched over the bar, sucking at a stein of beer, his eyes half-closed and his head bobbing as if he were on the verge of dropping off to sleep. Ethan knew better. The salty old-timer was not missing a thing that was going on in the noisy saloon.

  Ethan ambled over to the bar and eased in next to Enos. “Make it a beer,” Ethan said, when Max Crabb, the mustachioed, portly proprietor nodded a nervous greeting.

  “Don’t you think you got enough trouble without lookin’ for more?” Enos grumbled without moving a muscle.

  “I’m not looking for trouble,” Ethan replied. “I’m making a study of my fellow man.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ worth studying in the Cottonwood Palace. Anything you’d learn about your fellow man here would be damned disappointing.”

  “You said I was looking for trouble, Enos. What kind of trouble might I find here?”

  Max Crabb slid a beer toward Ethan, and Enos remained silent until the bartender moved away. “Circle W trouble, and that’s the worst kind in Lockwood. If you have eyes in the back of that rocky skull of yours, you’d see there’s better than half a dozen Circle W hands swilling booze here this morning. A couple of others come in with them. They got hired gun written all over them. Till you come in, they was gettin’ damn loud and big-mouthed about the injun hanging. You wouldn’t win no election in this county, Ethan.”