Night of the Coyote (The Coyote Saga Book 1)

by Ron Schwab

  “Nope.”

  “Wouldn’t get more than a dozen votes, if that, I’d say. Don’t know as I’d vote for you myself. Nothing personal.”

  “I’m not running for office. I’m representing a client. Tell me, Enos, why do you think the Circle W’s so interested in this? Do you have any idea why the Circle W would hire on a bunch of gunslingers all at once?” Ethan asked, baiting the old man.

  “Where you been hiding out, Ethan? It don’t take no weasel to figure that out. Old Gid’s been mad enough to kick his own dog this past year. Rustlers been runnin’ off his cows like they had a bill of sale on the whole damn ranch, and he ain’t been able to nose up even a hint of who’s doin’ it. You mean you ain’t lost no cows yourself?”

  “No, but a herd the size of mine isn’t exactly prime for rustling. Stolen cows would be missed too soon. A spread like the Circle W can have cows cut out a few at a time, and it might be weeks before they’re missed. In fact, if the rustler doesn’t get greedy, the rancher might never catch on.”

  “Well, Gid caught on to it, all right. Hiring gunslingers ain’t his style, but I guess he saw no other way. According to Joe Hollings, he laid out a roll as big as a wagon hub to get these fellars in from Cheyenne. Been here over a month, but story is there ain’t been no work for them. Seems the rustlin’ stopped soon as they showed up.”

  “I think they finally found a little work,” Ethan said. “But doesn’t it strike you strange that this many of Gideon Webb’s hands would be in the Cottonwood Palace this time of the day in early June? They’re not here because they’re short of work. I’m sure there are other ranchers that might see things Gideon Webb’s way, but they aren’t sending half their crews in to drink away the day.”

  “Yep, it’s strange all right. There’s some stranger things goin’ on, too.”

  Ethan waited for the old man to enlighten him, but when Enos did not, he spurred him on. “What kind of ‘stranger things’ are you talking about?”

  “Well, what’s Clete Webb doing here, for one thing? Old Gid might be crooked as a snake, but he’s got more sense than to send that squirrel-brained whelp in here to do the dirty work.”

  “Clete’s here?”

  “Yep, nursin’ a bottle over in the corner. The kid’s got a temper hot as a branding iron fresh from the fire. This is the last place Gid would want him to be. It’s a good bet he’s here on his own.”

  Ethan cast a glance over his shoulder, and his eyes fastened on Clete Webb slouched at a table in a shadowy corner of the room, his own smoldering eyes boring in on Ethan. Clete looked younger than his twenty-two years, Ethan thought. Boyishly handsome, with curly, flaxen-blond hair, he was a heavy-boned man, standing a good six feet four inches, but his bulk had a mushiness about it that confirmed his reputed aversion to hard work and his ruddy face seemed fleshed with baby fat. He had a sullen look and his lips were frozen in a scowl.

  Ethan turned back to Enos. “I’ve got a hunch Mr. Webb is one of those men who turns mean with his liquor.”

  “Mean enough without it. But you’re right, his disposition don’t improve none with whiskey in his belly. You know, Ethan, them strange things I was talkin’ about . . . there’s another thing. Might mean somethin’—might mean nothin’.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me and let me decide.”

  “Ethan, you recollect telling me to keep my eyes open about the Harper killings?”

  ”Yes. Did you hear something I should know about?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, go on, Enos.”

  The grizzled man cleared his throat as if he had a bad cold. “I don’t know, I think I got me a busted talk box.”

  Ethan got the hint. “I don’t have any cash with me, but if it’s good information, it’ll be worth two cartwheels next time I stop by.”

  “Well, now your credit’s good with me, Ethan, but I ain’t too crazy about waitin’ to file a claim against your estate. And the way thing’s been around here lately, that prospect's a little more than likely. How’s about I stop by your office this afternoon to collect?”

  “That would be fine, Enos. Just tell Miss Wyeth I said to pay you. Now, why don’t you tell me what I’m getting for my money. I hope it’s worth two dollars.”

  “You know a fellar by the name of Joe Hollings?”

  “Joe Hollings . . . ,” Ethan thought a minute. “Sure, I remember Joe. Circle W hand. I bailed him out of jail a year or so ago; he’d had too much to drink and got in a fight here at the Cottonwood. Seemed like a decent sort of guy. I got him off with a fine and sent him on his way with some unsolicited advice. He must have followed it because far as I know he hasn’t been in trouble since.”

  “Not till lately, nohow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Old Joe was in here yesterday looking for a job. He was nervous as a hen at a mass meetin’ of coyotes. I had him pull up a chair to the table and even put myself out for a drink.”

  “You’re a generous man, Enos, no doubt about it.”

  “Couldn’t begrudge him one. That boy was mighty upset and nobody to talk to . . . ’cept me, of course.”

  “Why?”

  “He don’t much like what’s goin’ on out at the Circle W these days. The place is crawlin’ with hired gunslingers, he says. Says he’d bet a month’s pay somebody done in Grant Richards.”

  “The Circle W foreman?”

  “The same. Grant’s just plain disappeared, according to Joe.”

  “Did he say when?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well?”

  “Ain’t been seen since the afternoon before the Harpers was killed.”

  “Did Hollings have any idea about what happened at the Harper place?”

  “Nope, but he saw some of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he was with some of the Circle W hands that went over to help put out the fire. You know, he said Clete was the one that drug Cynthia and her daddy out of the house. Guess old Jake was laying just inside the door and the gal a bit beyond. Clete went just plumb crazy, according to Joe. Howled and bawled over Cynthia like a nursing cow over her dead calf. He said Clete sure as hell had blood in his eyes after that. Joe knew somebody was gonna die before the night was out, just didn’t know who.”

  “Then Joe was in on the lynching?”

  “No. Hell, no. Ain’t likely that would’ve happened if Joe’d been there. He’s as gritty as eggs rolled in sand, and he’d of stood up to the others. Includin’ Clete, if need be. He slipped away though, and skedaddled it back to the Circle W to tell Gid what happened. Till lately, he’s always thought the world of old Gid and figured he’d get things in hand.”

  “What did Gideon say?”

  “He wasn’t there. Turned out he was someplace playin’ poker with some friends, Joe said. Joe decided there wasn’t nothin’ else he could do, so he just stayed put. When Gid come home later, he was just plain broken up about it all, accordin’ to Joe. Next day, when he heard Clete and the Circle W boys was in on the lynchin’ of them Indian kids, Gid got madder than a bear with two cubs and sore tits.”

  “You said Joe thought the world of Gid until lately. What do you mean?”

  “It’s all over them gunslingers. Joe don’t know what’s goin’ on, but he knows them gunhands report direct to Gid, and it ain’t just cattle rustlin’ business. Joe thinks maybe Gid is using them to clean up some of Clete’s shit.”

  “I’d like to talk to Joe,” Ethan said. “If you see him before I get around to tracking him down, tell him that, would you?”

  “Yep, I can sure enough do that. He may be too spooked, though. He don’t want to lose his job till he finds another. He’s sparkin’ a gal and hopes to marry in the fall.”

  “Tell Joe I’m in the market for a top hand, too. I’m going to have to find somebody to take Ben’s place. Maybe we can strike a bargain that can help both of us. Tell me, Enos, you’ve been around here longer than I have. Could G
rant Richards be mixed up in this?”

  “You mean, would Grant have killed Jake and the gal? I’d bet my stable against it. Not unless he had good cause, and there just ain’t no good cause for something like that. Besides, I think Grant was sort of sweet on Cynthia Harper.”

  Ethan’s eyes brightened with interest. “How sweet?”

  “Well, as far as I know, it was pretty much one-sided, but Grant went callin’ to the Harper place on a couple occasions I know of. And when he had to palaver over at the stable, he couldn’t help but talk about Miss Cynthia. Wasn’t no doubt in my mind but what he was bit good and hard by the love bug. On the other hand, you could say that about a dozen men where Miss Cynthia was concerned. There ain’t but three or four gals of ripe marryin’ age in the county, and Miss Cynthia was the class of the lot. Damn pretty gal and sharp as a bullwhip’s sting. She probably liked Grant well enough, but she weren’t ready to settle down by a long shot. She had her pick of the litter, and she was takin’ her time choosing.”

  “Still,” Ethan said, “it’s a damn strange coincidence.”

  “I already said that much, law wrangler. Hell, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Grant’ll show up here tomorrow. I know this much; it would just about do old Gid in if something happened to Grant or if he took a notion to ride off to lusher ranges—which ain’t likely, ‘cause Gid always took care of Grant real good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some say he’s more son to Gid than Clete is. Joe told me once that if Gid had to choose twixt the two, he wasn’t sure who’d come up on top.”

  “How do Grant and Clete get along?”

  “Like two stags fightin’ over the same territory. They’ve hooked antlers plenty.”

  “Hey, law wrangler,” came a slurred, belligerent voice from behind Ethan. “Where’s your squaw?”

  Enos became a statue at the bar. Ethan stiffened slightly and took his first sip of the warm beer before setting down his mug.

  “I’m talking to you, Ramsey. I ain’t used to asking questions twice.”

  This time Ethan turned his head enough to catch a glimpse of Clete Webb who was staggering his way past the table and chairs and moving in on Ethan’s right. Ethan turned back to the bar. Clete was a big man, all right. Not more than an inch or two taller than himself, but outweighing him by a good seventy-five pounds. Baby fat or not, Clete Webb had shoulders and biceps like huge hams, big chest, thick and broad like a buffalo bull’s. A little soft in the belly maybe, but there was no way Ethan Ramsey was going to lick Clete in a fair fight. And with half the people in the saloon on the Circle W payroll, even if he whipped Clete, the odds were against his walking out on his own two feet. Enos was right—he had shown lousy judgment in stopping at the Cottonwood Palace.

  “I’m waiting, Indian lover,” Clete snarled, his voice booming in Ethan’s ears.

  “Any good ideas?” Ethan murmured to Enos who was still frozen at the bar.

  “I don’t know you, mister. Never met up with you before in my life.”

  “That a yellow streak I see running down your back, Ramsey?”

  A rough hand closed in a vice-like grip over Ethan’s shoulder and spun him around. Ethan saw Clete Webb’s cocky, crooked smile for just a second before the young man’s face twisted in agony as Ethan’s knee drove into his groin like a sledge. Webb doubled up in pain, gasping frantically for breath, as Ethan’s fist hammered into the side of his nose. The crunch of bone told him he had broken young Webb’s nose.

  Taking no chances, he slipped his Peacemaker from its holster, feinted off to one side of the dazed, tottering giant, and slammed the pistol butt against Webb’s temple. The blow felled him like a slain bear, and he crumpled in a heap on the barroom floor, lying there in the stunned silence of the room, blood streaming in rivulets down his cheeks and neck, spewing from his shattered nose. It had not been a fair fight.

  Ethan spun away and moved for the door, but he was cut off by two Circle W hands who closed in on him menacingly, like wolves stalking an injured calf. Ethan slashed between them, driving his forearm down on the smaller man’s neck. The man stumbled away, and, for a moment, Ethan thought he would make it to the door, but the other cowhand, younger and quicker, rammed a fist in the side of his face, dazing him just long enough for the other Circle W hands to swarm upon him like angered bees.

  Ethan tried to tear away, taking a blow in the kidney before he rammed his head into the belly of one of his attackers. They punched and kicked and pommeled him nearly senseless, bouncing him from one to the other like a rag doll, and he fought back swinging wildly and missing two blows for every one he struck. Still, two more of the cowhands joined Clete Webb on the floor before someone smashed a table leg across the back of his skull. He reeled and pitched forward, clutching his injured head as he dropped to his knees, struggling to get up. He was only vaguely conscious of the warm sticky blood oozing between his fingers before someone drove a booted foot into his groin.

  “Take some of your own medicine, you son-of-a-bitch” he heard someone say. He was devoured by excruciating pain, fighting for breath, as he heaved and wretched, and then a dizzying blackness consumed him, and he collapsed unconscious in his own vomit.

  19

  ETHAN’S NEXT AWARENESS was of awakening on a narrow cot in an austere and sterile room with gray walls. As his eyes tried to focus, he made out the blurred outlines of the framed certificates on one wall, and he saw the crude wooden surgical table that told him he was in Dr. Henry Weintraub’s office. He heard footsteps move across the floor toward the bed, and he winced at a dozen stabs of pain when he tried to shift his weight and turn toward the sound. There were three men, their forms shadowy and ghostlike. As his vision began to clear, he made out Sheriff Will Bridges and Enos Fletcher, and the bushy-browed Dr. Weintraub, the latter whose calm, stoic face inspired confidence, but told Ethan nothing.

  “I won’t even ask you how you feel,” Dr. Weintraub said as he and Sheriff Bridges moved two chairs in next to the bed. “You’re going to hurt like blazes for several days. Just answer some questions for me. Are you nauseous?”

  “No. My gut hurts like hell, but I’m not sick to my stomach—not now.”

  “Your vision. You seemed confused when you regained consciousness. Can you see all right?”

  “Now I can. Everything was fuzzy at first. My head feels like a horse stomped on it.”

  “Table leg,” Enos said. He leaned over the table, studying Ethan like a curious cat and scratched his whiskers thoughtfully. “Harley Stafford swung it. Didn’t mean nothin’ personal, though. But you acted like you was going to whup the lot of them.”

  “No help from you, that’s for damn sure, Enos.”

  Enos chuckled. “If the Lord intended me to fight like a dog, he’d have given me longer teeth and sharp claws.”

  “Enos came and got Will and me,” Dr. Weintraub said.

  “Not while the Circle W crowd was around, I’ll bet,” Ethan retorted.

  “If it helps any,” Enos said, “old Clete looked worse than a calf with slobbers when they drug him out of there. You didn’t make no friends at the Cottonwood Palace this morning.”

  Morning. It suddenly occurred to Ethan that he had no idea how long he had been out. “What time is it?” he asked.

  The sheriff tugged at the gold chain that was looped on his trousers and pulled out a gold pocket watch. “A mite past five-thirty,” he said.

  “Five-thirty.” Ethan raised himself gingerly, futilely trying to evade the soreness that seemed to be everyplace. “I’ve got to get back to the ranch. Skye’s out there all alone. She’ll be worried, and it’s not safe for her to be out there.”

  “You’d better stay here overnight,” Dr. Weintraub warned. “You’re in no shape to travel. You’ve had a concussion. These things are unpredictable as the devil, and I don’t want you taking any chances. Will can send someone out for Miss dePaul.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Henry, but I’m going
home. I’ll need your services tomorrow, though.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I want you to take a look at the remains of Jake and Cynthia Harper. If Will can spare him from the jail tomorrow, I’d like to have Red Horse take us out for a look-see.”

  “Things seem quiet enough since the Circle W crew rode out. I can get along without Red Horse for awhile. I’d planned to get out there myself, but there’s no way me and Red Horse can both stray away from town. And I’ve had other priorities today.”

  “It’s been almost a week,” Dr. Weintraub said. “I don’t know how much I can tell. It won’t be a pleasant experience, I assure you.”

  “Nothing about this has been pleasant, Henry, but we’ve got to find some answers before more innocent people get killed.”

  Will Bridges and Dr. Weintraub assisted Ethan to his feet and helped him put on his tattered shirt and coat. Enos trailed behind as Ethan limped stiffly toward the door. “I’ll saddle up your horse if you can ride, Ethan, or you can use one of my buggies. No charge this time—if you bring it back in the morning.”

  “I can ride,” Ethan said, although the agony in his groin made him less confident than he sounded. Before he went out the door, Ethan turned back to the sheriff. “Will, we haven’t had time to really pore over everything that’s happened, but doesn’t it strike you that the Circle W’s activity these past few days goes a long way beyond ordinary Indian hating?”

  “I can’t deny that, but I can’t prove anything criminal yet.”

  “You know Clete Webb and some Circle W hands were involved in lynching those boys. Have you considered making arrests?”

  “By the time they got to Lockwood, there were a dozen people in on that lynching, but they were all spectators,” the sheriff said sarcastically. “Nobody will say who did what. The truth is, nobody probably remembers. Folks go loco in a mob. Nobody has a mind of his own at times like that.”