Night of the Coyote (The Coyote Saga Book 1)

by Ron Schwab

  “Can the Webbs account for their time that night?”

  “You ain’t giving me much credit, Ethan. As soon as you told me about the Webb name coming up when you and Miss dePaul were jumped in the mountains, I chased their stories down. Gid’s time is pretty well accounted for. He was playing poker over at Charlie Langford’s place most of the night. Calm as could be and holding good cards the whole night, Charlie told me.”

  “I see.”

  “And three or four Circle W hands will vouch for Clete. They say he rode with them from the home place when they saw the flames at the Harpers.”

  “What if the hands were in on it?” Ethan asked.

  “It’s possible, I suppose. But you’ve got to ask why, and I come up with nothing for motive.”

  “Killings take place without motives.”

  “Sometimes. Not often . . . not in these parts. And as for the Webbs’ hostility towards Indians, there’s something else you might not know. Gid’s wife, Clete’s mother, was killed and scalped by Sioux not more than ten years ago.”

  “That could explain it,” Ethan said dubiously. “But I’m not buying that notion now. One more thing, Will.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When was the last time you saw Grant Richards?”

  20

  THE RANCH YARD was dark as the inside of a coal mine when Ethan rode in. Churning, ominous thunder clouds blotted out the moon and stars, and the hills that rose above the ranch buildings dropped shadows that crowded out what little light there might have been.

  The house was pitch-black. The livestock stirred in the corrals, but there was no sign of human life.

  Ethan dismounted and led Patch up to the hitching post in front of the house, his right hand stroking the butt of his pistol as he watched and listened. Where in the hell was Skye? He should not have left her alone. She was too impetuous, too reckless. She didn’t appreciate the dangers that lurked in the valley these days. He should have insisted she come to town with him. But he had, he reminded himself, and she had ignored him. He had yet to see her do a damn thing she did not want to do.

  He limped into the house, and reluctant to expose himself by lantern light, he checked out the rooms in darkness. Satisfied that Skye was not there, he went back outside and stood on the porch, surveying the corrals and ranch buildings. He checked the horse corrals and was surprised to find Razorback there, for the stallion was far and above Skye’s favorite mount.

  Then he heard the distinctive whinny of a mare from the barn, and the feeble response of a newborn colt. Skye was probably in the barn playing midwife.

  He hurried to the barn and opened the door, picking up an oil lantern and lighting it before moving to the rear where the mare was quartered in the stall. A shiver of excitement raced through him, and for several moments he stared in wonderment at the newborn. The first Appaloosa born on the Lazy R. A beauty, too. A glistening black with white splotches, like patches of fresh mountain snow on the flank and butt. A broad strip of white with little pepper flecks ran the full length of the nose and cut off sharply above the eyes. And a filly, to boot. That’s what he needed in these early years—females, future brood mares to build the herd on.

  He was so elated with his discovery, that he had forgotten about Skye for an instant. Where was she? She had been there. The bloody feed sacks that were draped over the bucket in the corner of the stall were evidence of that. She must have given the mare some assistance or at least cleaned up the frisky colt. She probably couldn’t have resisted it.

  He was gripped by near panic. She would have heard him ride in if she had been here. He could not remember the last time he had felt such cold fear. He stood there collecting his thoughts, trying to think like Ethan Ramsey, Army scout, instead of Ethan Ramsey, lawyer.

  The barn door creaked, and he whirled in the same instant that his Peacemaker leaped into his hand. But if he had been anyone other than Ethan Ramsey, he would have been too late, for Skye dePaul stood in the open doorway, her eye looking down the sights of the Winchester that was leveled at his chest.

  “Skye, for God’s sake, put that gun down. It’s me.”

  “Ethan.” She paled, lowered the rifle and ran to him. “Ethan, I did not think it was you. I recognized Patch, but you were not wearing your hat and you did not sit right in the saddle. And the way you walked.” Her eyes widened in shock when she reached him, and she gasped in horror. “Ethan, my God! What happened? Your face—”

  “It’s a short story, but let’s save it for later.” Now the pain that had been stifled by his concern for Skye returned, and his head began to throb violently.

  “Where were you?” he asked. “I was worried sick. I couldn’t see a sign of you anywhere.”

  “You were not supposed to. I was out here with the mare when I heard you coming up the road. You should have been back hours ago. I was afraid something had happened to you. I guess it did. Anyway, I hid out in the trees at the far end of the yard. I am sorry; I just did not want to take any chances.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Skye. It’s a welcome switch.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she looked at him curiously for a moment before she took his hand in hers. “Let us go into the house. You are hurting and you are hungry. Perhaps I can do something about both.”

  21

  NAKED TO HIS waist, Ethan leaned forward on the kitchen table while Skye gently bathed his back with a wet cloth. The cool water soothed his aching ribs, and he began to feel drowsy. Skye was an efficient nurse, and the only thing consistent about her, he thought, was her unpredictability.

  The past several hours, she had been a perfect example of domesticity. She had prepared a tasty beef broth and hot coffee that warmed his insides, yet had not forced him to stretch his sore, stiff jaws beyond endurance.

  While he was eating, she had disappeared for an hour, returning with a sack full of herbs and plants that she promptly boiled into a pasty concoction she was now proposing to administer to his wounds. He was not about to argue with her; he did not have the strength to resist her. And no man could carry on a debate with a mule.

  Without warning, Skye slapped some of her remedy on his pulsating scalp wound. Ethan leaped from his chair, cracking his knee soundly on the table as he got up. “Damn it, woman,” he roared, “you’re pouring salt on my cut. It burns like hell. It hurts worse now than it did before. I’ve taken enough punishment for one day.”

  She planted her hands firmly on her hips and looked at him with disgust, but her gleaming dark eyes betrayed her. She was laughing at him. She placed a firm hand on his shoulder and shoved him back into his chair. “Do not be such a baby,” she chided. “This is powerful medicine. It just stings for a moment, then your pain will be gone.”

  He was not going to admit it, but she was right. The poultice had some kind of numbing effect on the wound. The initial burning had vanished, and now he could almost feel the Sioux medicine shrinking the swelling on his scalp, sucking away the pain. After that, he yielded silently to her treatment, flinching when the paste was applied to open wounds, but uncomplaining nonetheless.

  He did not tell her about his bruised and tender groin.

  When she was finished, Skye added some logs to the fire, poured herself a cup of coffee, and joined Ethan at the table while he told her about his altercation at the tavern.

  She gazed pensively at the steaming tin cup in her hands for some moments before she looked solemnly at Ethan and spoke. “It was a foolish thing to do,” she said, “going into the Cottonwood Palace.”

  He sighed. “Not again. I’ve already been told that a time or two, and I don’t care to discuss it anymore.”

  Skye shrugged. “Very well. But I want you to know that I do not consider the damages you did to Mr. Crabb’s place of business legitimate legal expenses. I will not pay any such costs that appear on my bill.”

  The woman’s tongue was sharper than a well-honed Bowie knife, and she did not know when to quit cutting. “I had no inte
ntion of including the damages on your bill.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “Look, I’m tired out. I’m grateful for all you’ve done, but we can talk in the morning.”

  He caught a spark of anger in her eyes and saw that her fine jaw was set in that determined way she had. He scooted his chair back to the table. “We’ll talk tonight,” he said resignedly. “You’ve got something in your craw; why don’t you spit it out?”

  She sipped silently at her coffee, staring at the flickering flames in the fireplace, as he studied her, suddenly being much more interested in her physical presence than in what she had to say. He wished she did not have to be so serious, that she would smile more. But even her somberness could not detract from her sleek beauty. Her skin was the color of light polished copper and just as smooth. Her features—her nose and cheekbones and chin—might have been carved and whittled by a master craftsman, yet she seemed oblivious to her splendidness, unaware of the effect she had on him. And surely upon other men.

  Or did he see her through clouded eyes? He had an uneasy feeling she was getting some kind of a hold on him that he would have to face up to soon.

  He was scrutinizing the firm swell of flesh that rose from above the scooping neckline of her buckskin shirt when she jolted him back from his musings. “I would like to know what your plans are,” she said.

  He looked up and saw the reprimand in her eyes.

  “I presume you are already formulating some strategy. I certainly did not employ you for your dubious skills as a fighter.”

  He sloughed off her jabbing remarks. “Yes, I have some ideas. I’ve already told you, though. I’m riding out to the Harper place with Henry Weintraub in the morning. There’s a chance we can turn up some evidence that will exonerate Bear Killer and his friends.”

  “It will be too late to help Screeching Hawk and Raven Eyes, and it will not keep white idiots from lynching Bear Killer. Why are not the men in custody who murdered those boys?”

  “Skye, you’re being unreasonable. It was too late for Screeching Hawk and Raven Eyes when you came to me, and Will Bridges and other good men are prepared to protect Bear Killer—with their own lives, if need be. I understand your frustration. I share it. Often, the law moves too slowly . . . sometimes unfairly. But it’s all we’ve got. Without it, we’re just a bunch of animals trying to kill and feast before we’re killed and feasted upon. The law is the only hope we’ve got for people to occupy the same space without stomping all over each other. You believe that, too, or you wouldn’t have come to me in the first place. Maybe the law isn’t the only problem; maybe you need another lawyer.”

  Skye was silent, and it was only then, when he saw the tears glistening in her eyes, that Ethan realized how deeply troubled she was.

  “Skye, it’s not my handling of the case that’s bothering you; it’s something else. What is it?”

  She bit her lower lip, straightening before she spoke. “There is nothing bothering me, Ethan Ramsey, that cannot be resolved by you doing your job and ending my need for your legal services as quickly as possible.”

  He reached out and took her hand in his. “I don’t believe you,” he said softly. She tried to pull away, but he gripped her hand and got up from his chair, pulling her up to him. Again, she tried to slip away from him, but his arms closed around her.

  “Ethan,” she protested, struggling against his unyielding arms. “No, don’t—”

  His lips sought hers. She tried to evade his kiss at first, but when their lips touched, Ethan found no resistance, only soft, moist eagerness. Her fingers began to gently rake his back and her body relaxed and became pliant, molding to his own. He released his hold on her and began to stroke her back and firm round hips, but she did not break away. His quick, frantic breathing was matched by her own, and he knew that her willing body was ravaged by the same fire that consumed his own. He wanted her as he had never wanted any woman.

  His hands slipped beneath her shirt, working upward and slipping over the taut flesh that sheathed her ribs, before coming to rest on her breasts. Suddenly, she flung herself back as if he had stabbed her with a knife. He moved to take her back into his embrace when her hand shot out, whacking him sharply across his mouth, opening the cut on his lips. He backed off and saw the panicked, petrified little girl before him, her eyes wide as a frightened doe’s. Her face was a mask of terror.

  “Skye, damn it. It’s all right. I wouldn’t hurt you. What’s the matter with you? I thought—”

  She shook her head repeatedly as if denying something to herself. “This cannot be, Ethan,” she said, her voice husky. “This cannot be.” She backed away from him.

  “Skye, I’m sorry. I lost my head. Sit down with me at the table; we’ll talk. Calmly and sensibly.”

  “No, I cannot talk right now.” Tears began to stream from her eyes and race down her cheeks. Then she turned away and rushed off to her bedroom.

  Ethan felt utterly defeated when he sunk in to the feather bed on the cot near the fireplace. He could hear Skye’s uncontrollable sobbing in the next room, and he was torn by the urge to go to her, comfort her. It was a rarity—a lawyer at a loss for words. He did not know how to deal with Skye dePaul. At this moment, he did not know how to deal with himself.

  Mercifully, sleep took him quickly.

  Ethan slept several hours past sunrise. When he got up, his head was groggy, and there was some stiffness in his chest and shoulders, but he did not feel all that bad considering the beating he had taken. He gave credit to Skye’s Sioux liniment for that.

  He observed that the fire was crackling in the fireplace, and that the coffee pot was brewing on some coals near the edge. Skye was obviously up, but he had not even heard her activity in the room. He could have sworn he felt her soft lips touch his gently as he slept. Perhaps it had not been a dream after all.

  On the table, Ethan found a jar with a chunk of comb honey in it and a loaf of bread Skye had apparently baked the day before. He also found a note. As he would have expected, her handwriting was clear and steady and fine.

  Ethan: I will be staying in the dormitory at the Pennock School. I hope you do not object to my borrowing Razorback until the case is settled. I do wish to have you continue to act as my lawyer. I apologize if I implied otherwise. Skye.

  It was the kind of note you might expect from Skye. Cool, terse, to the point, yet mysterious and distant. For the sake of his own sanity, he had to get this case concluded and chase this crazy woman out of his head once and for all.

  22

  IT WAS A half hour before Ethan had to meet Dr. Weintraub and Red Horse at the sheriff’s office, so he decided to stop at his own office and check with Katherine Wyeth. A look of horror formed on his secretary’s face when he walked in the door, and he realized that his bruised and swollen face must be nearly unrecognizable.

  “It looks worse than it hurts,” Ethan said.

  She got up from her chair. “I should hope so, or I don’t think you’d be able to walk into the office on your own accord. The story’s all over town. It must have been terrible.”

  “Not a very good way to drum up business, is it Katherine?”

  She smiled uncertainly. “I would have said so a week ago, but already this morning I have made two appointments for you for next week. Ray Stearns wants you to make a new will for him, and Clem Dawson wants you to handle the purchase of a small ranch he’s planning to add to his holdings. Mr. Dawson said he didn’t know if he agreed with what you were trying to do, but—these are his words, not mine—’Ramsey’s got more guts than you can hang on a fence.’” She smiled.

  “I wonder if I’ll ever see the day when I’m hired for having a good legal mind. I guess I’ll just have to tell myself they want the right lawyer for the wrong reasons.” Then he turned serious. “Why don’t you sit down, Katherine? I’d like your help on something.”

  He let himself down into a chair in the reception area opposite Miss Wyeth’s desk. “I’d like to know a few more things
about Gideon Webb,” he said. “I don’t like to keep putting you in this uncomfortable position.”

  “I’m uneasy talking about Gideon, but I can’t imagine anything you would ask that would have to do with our . . . our personal relationship. So why don’t you just tell me what you need to know? I’ll help if I can.”

  “Either the Circle W is trying to stir up an Indian War, or somebody out there doesn’t want the truth to come out about the Harper killings. Has Gideon Webb ever said anything to you that would point to his involvement?”

  “No. Gideon’s wife was killed by the Sioux, of course, but I never noticed that he was especially bitter about it. He rarely spoke of her death. If he did, it was in the way one might speak of a loved one who died of smallpox or cholera. Besides, an Indian uprising wouldn’t be good for business for the Circle W, and with Gideon, business always comes first. Always,” she added meaningfully.

  “How did Webb and Jake Harper get along? Webb built an empire gobbling up small ranches, and according to the county plat map, the Circle W adjoins the Harper place on three sides.”

  “What you say is true,” Miss Wyeth agreed. “He’s bought up ranches after the owners went broke, but there’s never been a hint of violence surrounding his land acquisitions. He’s always used his money for leverage. And Gideon always spoke very highly of Jake Harper. In fact, Jake was usually hired on by the Circle W during roundup. If Gideon had wanted to squeeze Jake out, he certainly wouldn’t have been helping him earn extra money. I know it sounds like I’m being defensive about Gideon, but I’m trying to appraise him honestly. He’s arrogant and vain, ruthless where business is concerned, but I think he’s also basically law-abiding. I recall him saying one time ‘violence breeds violence.’”