Night of the Coyote (The Coyote Saga Book 1)

by Ron Schwab

  “She’ll adjust,” Ethan said, “or more likely, she’ll make everyone adjust to her. She’s one hell of a women, Henry. You could take both arms, and she’d still be the most beautiful woman in Wyoming. That wild, indomitable spirit of hers. Her keen intelligence. Her way of looking at life. They’re just as much a part of her beauty—more so, maybe—than all of the fine physical qualities she’s blessed with. And she’s tough as nails, Henry. She won’t quit. She won’t die.”

  Ethan caught the bemused smile that crossed Dr. Weintraub’s lips. “Have you admitted it to yourself yet, Ethan?”

  “Admitted what?”

  “That you are in love with Skye dePaul?”

  31

  “ENOS,” ETHAN SAID, “how many men in this county would own a Russian model Smith & Wesson?”

  “Hell, how should I know? I ain’t no gunsmith. I don’t keep no count of what kind of sidearms these jaspers carry around here.”

  “But you know some men who own Russian models?”

  “You just never quit asking questions, do you, law wrangler? Still paying for answers?”

  Ethan sighed. “If that’s what it takes.”

  Enos swiped a dribble of tobacco off his cracked lips with his forearm and squinted his right eye. “Five names come to mind. I can give you five names for a dollar.”

  “Put it on my bill, Enos.”

  “Well, there’s Horace Allgood out at the Diamond A, Clem Wilkins is another. And Bart Lewis. Then there’s Grant Richards and Clete Webb.”

  “Richards and Webb both have Russian models?”

  “Gid got a matched pair out of the first issue—gave one to Grant and one to Clete. Joe Hollings said Clete whined for a week afterwards. Thought he should have had the pair.”

  32

  WILL BRIDGES TUGGED at his frosty-gray mustache as he leaned forward on his desk. “You look a little more respectable this morning, Ethan,” he said. “Did you get any shuteye last night?”

  “Some. A shave and bath helped most, but, yes, I got a few hours sleep. Henry put me up in one of his hospital rooms—that’s what he calls them. Near as I can tell, they’re just spare bedrooms.”

  “I guess a hospital’s anyplace a sawbones works,” the sheriff said. “You know we’re going to have to do better by Doc. He’s getting quite a reputation. Wouldn’t it be something if this town could have an honest-to-God hospital?”

  “That’s a good thought, Will.”

  “How’s Miss dePaul this morning?”

  “Henry’s quite optimistic now. She’s gained consciousness, but he has to keep her so doped up no one can carry on a conversation with her. She knew me ,though, when I stepped in to see her.”

  “Did Doc Weintraub tell you about the bones you sent back with Red Horse?” Will Bridges asked.

  “I didn’t even think to ask. I had too many other things on my mind, I guess. What about them?”

  “Doc thinks the poor devil was shot. He was hard put to think of anything else that would have made a hole like that in the fellar’s skull.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “There was something else. Doc said the man had a broken leg once—left leg, above the ankle.”

  “A lot of men have had broken legs,” Ethan replied.

  “Yep . . . including Grant Richards. Left leg above the ankle . . . about three years ago, I recollect. Got thrown trying to bust a bronc. I got a damn good hunch there ain’t no use looking further for the Circle W foreman.”

  “But why?” Ethan asked. “And who?”

  “Can’t say, but I just got some information I think you’ll find mighty interesting.” Will Bridges had a smug look on his face that told Ethan the old lawman was bursting with news.

  “What kind of information, Will?”

  “Well, it was your idea. You asked me to check out the bank records with Clyde.”

  “Yes.”

  The sheriff pointed to the sheath of papers on his desk. “Clyde wrote up what he had on Jake Harper. But it wasn't so much what Clyde had, as it was what he didn’t have.”

  Ethan had to restrain himself from prodding the sheriff to get to the end of his tale.

  “It seems Jake quit doing business with the bank about six months back. He marched in one day and paid off his mortgage—it was better than a thousand dollars at the time—with a draft from a Cheyenne bank. He closed out his account with Lockwood State, and Clyde never saw him again after that day.”

  “Did he say where he got the money or why he was closing out the account?”

  “Said he got an inheritance but didn’t say who from. He didn’t act like he was mad or nothing, just said he decided to do his banking in Cheyenne.”

  “There’s nothing unusual about that,” Ethan said. “I have an account both here and in Cheyenne. Most cattlemen do. It’s convenient since they sell cattle there.”

  “I don’t argue that, Ethan. But, you see, I got Clyde to go a step further for us. I had him telegraph the Cheyenne bank and ask for information on new accounts belonging to either Jacob Harper or Cynthia Harper, or both. Clyde’s banker friend wired back right pronto. That’s where things get damned curious. Jake Harper had an account there with better than six thousand dollars in it.”

  Ethan whistled. “That’s a lot of money. Jake Harper had some inheritance, if that’s where it came from.”

  “That ain’t the half of it,” the sheriff said. “There was another account.”

  “Another?”

  “Yep. Not in the name of Cynthia Harper, but in the joint names of Cynthia Harper Richards and Grant Richards,” he grinned. “Well, what do you make of that?”

  Ethan was struck speechless. Suddenly, some things were beginning to make sense. “It doesn’t look like Cynthia Harper was going to have a child out of wedlock after all. You know what we got to do, Will?”

  The sheriff grunted. “Yeah, we’ve got to go calling on the Webbs. And I’d sure as hell rather take a whipping. Old Gid’s been a good friend—not just to me but to the whole town. Do you think I ought to deputize some men?”

  “I don’t see why. We’re just going out to talk. As a lawyer, I’d have to say the evidence is still pretty flimsy. It’s nothing but a guess who killed the Harpers. And everybody who can tie either of the Webbs directly to the killings is dead. Besides, Webb isn’t apt to try anything on his home place.”

  “You know, I can’t just accuse a man,” the sheriff said.

  “No, but you’ve got a right to ask questions. If you want, I’ll do most of the talking. I’ve got some ideas, if you’ll play along.”

  “The only idea I’ve got is retirement,” the sheriff said. “I’ll be more than glad to let you deal.”

  33

  THE CIRCLE W ranch house was a sprawling, imposing structure built with logs hewn from the ponderosa that cloaked the surrounding hills. It was a county showplace as was the entire ranch complex that included a bunk house, two large barns, granary and other assorted outbuildings, and a maze of corrals and holding pens. It was a rancher’s dream, Ethan thought, as he sat astride his rented mare and looked out over the Circle W’s home base in the valley below.

  The Circle W dwarfed Ethan’s own Lazy R which adjoined a portion of Webb’s land on the west, and which Gideon Webb would, no doubt, like to add to his own empire. On the other hand, perhaps he would someday add the Circle W to the Lazy R. It was a dream worth working for.

  He smiled to himself. Was he really so different from Gideon Webb? Where would his own quest for empire lead him? Would he leave his values behind somewhere along the road? He liked to think not, but maybe Webb thought that way once, too.

  He turned to the sober-faced sheriff on the horse beside him. “Well, I guess there’s nothing to gain by waiting.”

  “I suppose not, but I sure got cold feet for such a hot day. Gid and me go back a long ways.”

  As they headed their horses down the road toward the ranch house, Ethan noticed that word of their visit had evid
ently preceded them. A half dozen cowhands were scattered about the house and outbuildings, trying too hard to look casual. The Circle W hands should have been busy in the hayfields or riding the range looking for strays on a day like this.

  They moved slowly down the road that snaked its way to the valley where it leveled off and sliced through the greenest, lushest meadows in Wyoming, before it led into the Webb ranch headquarters.

  The cowhands watched silently and warily as Ethan and Will Bridges dismounted and led their horses the remainder of the distance to the ranch house. Ethan took solace in the fact that the men stationed there were not professional guns. They were cowboys, pure and simple. He recognized most of them by sight, if not by name. They were loyal to their boss and benefactor and would kill for him in defense of life or property. But it was not likely they would be willing parties to murder or stand by and let it happen.

  He spied Joe Hollings, the young cowboy he had bailed out of Will Bridges’ jail, standing on the front porch with his hands shoved in his hip pockets. He looked uncomfortable as hell, possibly fretting about some of the things he had divulged to Enos Fletcher.

  “Hello, Joe,” Ethan said as he tied his horse to the hitching post.

  Joe smiled nervously, and his face turned red as a ripe tomato. “Uh, howdy, Mr. Ramsey.”

  “How’s it going, Joe? I haven’t seen you for a spell.”

  Hollings glanced uneasily at his comrades. “Uh, fine, Mr. Ramsey. Ain’t been in the hoosegow since that time last year. Sheriff can swear to that. I decided me and the bottle just don’t mix.”

  Ethan moved closer to the porch. “It’s a decision you won’t regret, Joe. Say, are you still keeping company with that blonde gal? Sally Winter, isn’t it?”

  The scarlet that had started to fade, rushed back. “Yeah,” he grinned. “We’re getting hitched this fall.”

  “That’s great, Joe. There’s nothing like a good woman to steady a man. I know her family. They’re good people. Congratulations to you.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Ramsey.” The young man kept his eyes on Ethan, obviously trying to avoid the hostile stares that were being sent his way by the other cowboys.

  Ethan felt badly about singling Joe Hollings out from the others, but he thought it was wise to seek an ally just in case things took a nasty turn.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Ramsey?” Joe asked.

  “The sheriff and I came to see Mr. Webb . . . the senior Mr. Webb.”

  Hollings stepped onto the porch and rapped softly on the door. “I’ll ask if he can see you.”

  Hollings rapped only twice before the heavy wooden door creaked open and a tall, lean man with thick wiry hair, the color of fresh mountain snow, stepped out. His sun-bronzed face was impassive as he studied Ethan with deep-set blue eyes for several moments before he turned to the sheriff. Ethan could understand why Katherine Wyeth would have been enamored by Gideon Webb. As Skye had said, there was a magnetism in his bearing. And his white hair was the only hint of his advanced years.

  “Good afternoon, Will,” Webb said pleasantly enough. “It’s been a spell. What brings you here?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not a social call, Gid. Mr. Ramsey and me came to palaver about all the trouble we’ve had in the valley since Jake Harper and young Cynthia were killed.”

  “Well, I don’t know what good I can do you, Will, but you’re welcome to come in and talk.”

  Ethan and the sheriff followed Gideon Webb into the house, but as they stepped inside, Ethan saw that Webb had not been alone in the house. A bulkier, taller version of the rancher, dressed like a dandy in hand-tooled black boots and an embroidered shirt, stood by the stone fireplace at the far end of the room. The young man had a sullen look, and his lips were frozen in a scowl as he eyed Ethan with contempt.

  “Hello, Will,” Clete Webb said without taking his eyes off Ethan.

  The sheriff nodded, “Clete.”

  “Are you acquainted with my son, Mr. Ramsey?” Gideon Webb asked.

  “We met a few days back at the Cottonwood Palace.” Ethan noted with mild satisfaction that Clete, as did Ethan, still bore the marks of their meeting.

  “Have a chair,” Gideon said as he gestured with a wave of his hand to a horseshoe of plush, cowhide-covered chairs. “Can I get you some whiskey, Will?”

  Ethan was not included in the offer.

  “No. This ain’t a whiskey-drinking visit.”

  As Gideon Webb took a chair on the opposite side of the bearskin rug that separated him from Will Bridges, Ethan’s eyes swept the spacious room. Clean plastered walls and an enormous fireplace constructed of rose granite. Huge, beamed ceilings carved from Missouri oak. Fine paintings on the walls. The house was indeed a showplace, but it was also functional. It was a home made to endure for generations as a monument to its founder.

  “I’m listening, Will,” Webb said. “What have you got to say?” His voice was not hostile, but it was not friendly, either.

  The sheriff tossed an uneasy glance at Clete who had remained standing next to the fireplace. “We’ve been friends for a long time, Gid, and none of this makes sense to me, but all the killing and trouble we’ve had since the Harpers were killed point to the Circle W. I ain’t accusing anybody—not yet—but me and Ethan came here looking for answers.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand what Mr. Ramsey has to do with this,” Webb said, casting Ethan a look of disdain.

  “I’d be happy to explain, Mr. Webb,” Ethan said. “You see, I’m Skye dePaul’s lawyer. You’ll recall she paid a visit to your ranch several days ago.”

  Webb’s lips curved down slightly at the corners, but otherwise he appeared unshaken. He took a cigar out of his coat pocket, pressed it to his lips, lit it and inhaled deeply. Then he removed the cigar from his mouth and looked at it reflectively before he exhaled a thick plume of smoke.

  “I presume you don’t deny Miss dePaul visited here?”

  Webb’s eyes seemed to turn ice blue, and he replied coldly. “Ramsey, I don’t have to answer your goddamn questions. You may be a lawyer, but you’re not the law.” He turned to the sheriff. “If there’s to be any talking, Will, it’ll be with you.”

  The sheriff shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Ethan persisted. “No, you don’t have to talk to me, Mr. Webb, but I know all about you—everything you’ve done—and I’ll take it to a court of law, if that’s the way you want it. But when it’s in court, it’s public record, and that makes it fair game for the newspapers. I think you’d rather hear it now than read about it.”

  Ethan saw Clete’s hand inching toward his six-gun. “Think hard before you go for your gun, Clete,” Ethan warned evenly. “You can’t get by with killing a sheriff.”

  “Pa, goddamn it,” Clete whined, “you going to let him come here and talk like that to us?”

  “Shut up, Clete,” his father snapped. Webb’s face had paled noticeably, and the cigar trembled slightly in his fingers. “Mr. Ramsey, I think you’re farting in the wind, but I’m a prominent man in this state, and I’m fair game for the press. I don’t want our good name soiled by irresponsible charges, so I’ll hear you out. If you have questions, perhaps I can clarify things for you.”

  “Back to Miss dePaul, then,” Ethan said. “Will you acknowledge that she paid a visit to the Circle W?”

  “Yes, I believe she stopped by here.”

  “She asked you about something she found at the Harper place, isn't that right, Mr. Webb?”

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe so, but she was very irrational, and I didn’t get her point.”

  “Perhaps I can help you. The sheriff and I picked this up at the Harper place.” Ethan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tarnished gold watch. “Miss dePaul said she told you she found a watch in the ashes, Mr. Webb. This watch. Do you recognize it?”

  Ethan caught a flicker of panic in Webb’s eyes. The astonished look on Clete’s face told Ethan that Gideon Webb’s son recognized the
timepiece. “It has the Circle W brand engraved on the case,” Ethan said. “I’d say that would give us good reason to look here for the owner, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re driving at, Ramsey.”

  “Miss dePaul told you about finding this watch, and after she left this ranch, some gunslingers chased her into the mountains and tried to kill her. They almost got the job done. As it is, she lost an arm. But I expect you’ve already heard.”

  Webb was noncommittal. “A most attractive young woman. Tragic. Very tragic.”

  “How do you explain your watch being at the Harper’s?”

  “My watch?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Webb tugged at the watch chain that was suspended across the front of his vest. “My watch is right here.”

  “I’m certain that a man of your means has more than one watch, Mr. Webb. But let me explain further. Cynthia tore this watch from her killer while she struggled for her life. A struggle she lost. A cowhand wouldn’t wear a watch like this, Mr. Webb. If he did, it would be stuffed deep in his front pocket. A man like yourself, though, wears his watch where it’s easy to grab.” Ethan saw the animal fear in Gideon’s eyes and read the truth there. The gamble had paid off.

  “Ethan,” Will Bridges said, a perplexed look on his face, “what are you saying?”

  “I know what he’s saying,” Clete roared. “Pa, you can’t let him get away with that. He’s trying to say you killed Cynthia and her pa. Let me take care of the son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Webb said. “Ramsey, you’re bluffing. I’m not a lawyer, but I know enough to be damn sure that what you just said isn’t evidence. It’s just speculation.”

  “Maybe, but I have evidence, and the law’s going to turn up more when I lay it all out. I’ll tell you something, Mr. Webb. I’m sure enough of what I’ve got that I’ll just show you all my cards. I assume you remember a gentleman by the name of Ramon Sanchez? He was on your ranch payroll. We can find a half dozen ranch hands outside to testify to that. I killed Sanchez, but before he died, he told me you were the one who sent him to kill Skye dePaul. That’s enough to cause you a lot of trouble. At first, I thought that didn’t prove anything about who killed the Harpers.” Ethan looked up at Clete who appeared numb with shock. “In fact, I thought Clete had killed the Harpers. I could think of a half dozen possible motives. I figured you were just trying to protect your son. Inexcusable, but not unnatural. None of the pieces of that puzzle seemed to fit, though. Then it hit me this morning and everything came together, and now I know how it happened. Want me to tell you?”