Return of the Coyote (The Coyote Saga Book 2)

by Ron Schwab

  "About Skye, do you think she's alive?"

  "I have no way of knowing, but I will find out. As soon as arrangements are made for the Brule band, I will be trying to find her and the other captives."

  "I will pray for her . . . and thee on your journey to find her."

  "We will take any help we can get," he said.

  "And thee wishes us to help with settling these poor people on your ranch?"

  "Yes, some of it may involve assisting Dr. Weintraub with treating patients, if they'll let him help them."

  "I will certainly do what I can. I will speak to the others, but I am confident they will be a part of this. Will thou need help at the village with bringing them back?"

  "We're working on that."

  "When are thou leaving?"

  "Noon tomorrow, if we can."

  "I have a horse, and I can ride. Where do we meet?"

  "Well, that wouldn't be necessary."

  She gave him a look that could kill.

  "Meet at Fletcher's Livery."

  5

  Ethan, after something of a fuss with Running Fox, had finally gotten the boy settled in the spare bedroom. It was a small log-walled house with a single open room that included a small kitchen with a black iron stove-oven at one end and a stone fireplace positioned along the wall near the room's center with a sprawling leather couch in front of it. Two doors at the other end led to the bedrooms. Ethan was glad now to have the extra bedroom, which had not been slept in since the murder of his senior partner, Ben Dobbs, some months back. Dobbs, a lifelong bachelor, had willed his interest in the Lazy R to Ethan. Ben had been like a father to Ethan, who had been raised in a St. Louis orphanage, where he had received a good education before catching a wagon train west at age sixteen.

  Ben was a contract scout for the army when Ethan signed on as Chief of Scouts at Fort Laramie following a scouting tour of duty at Fort Kearny. The chief's position was acquired largely because of his ability to read and write and, thus, prepare reports. Ben and the young chief formed a fast friendship over several years of scouting, and each had taken a turn at saving the other's life. Ethan aspired to be a lawyer, however, and eventually, when he read an advertisement in a Cheyenne newspaper for a law clerk placed by a Lockwood lawyer, he approached the elderly attorney, Horace Weatherby, about reading the law in his office. This ultimately led to his being admitted to the territorial bar and, upon Weatherby's retirement, the sole member of his own law firm.

  Shortly after passing the bar, the three sections initially making up the Lazy R came up for sale, and Ethan put up a down payment and contacted Ben who joined him as a partner in the ranching operation. Ben's murder by the same men involved in the lynching of the Indian boys was still painful to remember.

  Ethan sat at the kitchen table now with his young foreman, and only off-season cowhand, Joe Hollings, blond and baby-faced, who looked even younger than his twenty-five years. Fall and winter, Joe was the sole occupant of the five-bed bunkhouse, although Ethan had offered him a room in the ranch house, since he took his meals there anyway. The cowboy had politely declined.

  As they sipped at their steaming coffees, they discussed ranch affairs first. "I think it's time to take on another full-time hand," Ethan said, "maybe somebody who could double as a cook." He and Joe shared cooking chores, and neither would have been hired on to run a chuck wagon.

  "I've been thinking the same thing, but I hated to bring it up, since I don't have to pay the bills."

  "Most cowhands I know would be insulted to double up as a cook."

  "Depends on how hungry they are."

  Ethan looked at Joe suspiciously. "You wouldn't have somebody in mind, by chance?"

  Joe returned a sheepish grin. "I got a damn good prospect who's been sleeping in the bunkhouse the past few days. He dropped by while you were up to the Sioux village. Wanted to know if we had any work for some meals. Well, Boss, I said he could help out till you got back. He helped me round up strays and put up some hay. The man knows work, let me tell you. And, with all due respect, Boss, he did all the cooking, and we ate high on the hog here the last few days."

  "If he's such a gourmet chef, why the hell didn't you have him fix supper tonight?"

  "Well, I thought it might be kind of strange to have a new cook in the kitchen without you even knowing about him."

  "Tell me about this guy."

  "Well, l he's a few years older than me. He was an army cook at some fort in Texas before he switched to cavalry. Fought Comanche for a few years and worked on a ranch down in north Texas after that for a spell, until there was some trouble."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  Hollings was quiet, like he was struggling for words. "Well, you see, this fella is a colored man. Some of the cowboys didn't like working with a 'nigger' . . . his words, not mine."

  "I see. I don't suppose that's helped him find a job in the cow business since?"

  "He didn't say as much, but I figure that's why he came north. Probably found the pickings wasn't much better."

  "Did you tell him about what's going to be happening here? The Sioux moving in and all?"

  "I did."

  "What did he say?"

  "He just said, 'that ought to be interesting.'"

  "I'd like to meet this man. Why don't you run over to the bunkhouse and invite this man in for coffee?"

  Hollings returned less than ten minutes later, followed by a lanky, sinewy man with flawless mahogany-colored skin, who wore a wide-brimmed Plainsman hat tilted down on his forehead. The cowhand removed his hat when he entered the room, and Ethan stood and offered his hand, which the man accepted with a firm grip. "I'm Ethan Ramsey," Ethan said. "Joe says you're looking for work."

  "My name's Jeb Oaks, and yes, sir, I'm looking for work." The cowhand met Ethan's eyes steadily.

  "Let's sit down at the kitchen table and talk about it over coffee . . . although from what Joe tells me, my offering's going to taste like mud."

  "No such thing as bad coffee, sir. Folks just have different tastes. Of course, when we were in the field chasing Comanche, we were just glad to grab a cup once in a while." Ethan noted a soft southern drawl in the man's voice.

  Joe and Jeb pulled up chairs at the kitchen table, while Ethan retrieved another cup of coffee. Ethan placed a steaming cup in front of Jeb and sat down. "Tell me about your army background."

  "Not much to tell. I served as a First Sergeant with Mackenzie's Tenth Cavalry . . . buffalo soldiers they called us . . . but being an Army Scout, you likely know all about that."

  "I do. A highly-decorated outfit that served with distinction."

  "We spent most of our time chasing Quanah. Never quite caught him, but, mark my word, the Comanche wars are close to being over."

  "You've worked cows, and Joe says you cook?"

  "Yes, sir. If it helps, I can read and write. My mother is Cherokee, and I was educated in Quaker schools near the village. I'm fair with numbers and know some about bookkeeping. I'm not in a position right now to be too fussy about what I do."

  "Well, Jeb, I might be able to make use of all of your skills at the Lazy R. Did Joe tell you about our immediate problem?"

  "Moving a tribe of Sioux onto your ranch for the winter . . . sort of a private reservation, so to speak?"

  "Yes, and then, after that, I'm heading north along the Powder River to look for some young women who were taken captive during the raid on the Sioux village. Joe's going to have to stay here to coordinate sheltering and feeding of the Sioux with volunteers from town. Would you consider helping with moving of the Indians down the mountain . . . and then riding with me on the search for the women? With the promise of a full-time job when we get back, of course."

  "This search you're talking about sounds a mite dangerous."

  "It is. And you've still got a job here if you don't want to take that on. We need help here at the ranch, and it wouldn't be fair for me to make my trip north a condition to your getting a job here. Your ba
ckground just suggests that you might have some skills that would help if I run into a hornet's nest."

  "Like being able to kill a man?"

  "Yes, but you might have some ideas for strategy when we catch up to these killers."

  "If we catch up," the former soldier said doubtfully.

  "When."

  "Yes, sir. I guess I'll ride along."

  "I'm glad to hear that. And you don't need to call me 'sir.' Ethan will do just fine."

  "Yes, sir."

  6

  After Joe and Jeb returned to the bunkhouse, Ethan dumped a flour sack full of mail and messages on the table. His secretary, Katherine Wyeth, had sorted the messages and mail and placed them neatly on his desk in order of importance, based upon her system, which was still mostly a mystery to him. Katherine, a matronly woman in her mid-sixties, had come with the office when he read the law with old Horace Weatherby and, later, acquired the practice. She was nothing if not efficient, and after a rocky start, they now tolerated each other reasonably well. Some days they might even approach an uneasy friendship. He had not built a stepping stone to the betterment of their relationship, however, when he appeared at the office and unceremoniously swept the organized papers into the sack.

  He shuffled through the mail first since there was not a lot of it. There were not any bills since Katherine had authority to write checks on his office bank account and took care of payment of the accounts, unless there were insufficient funds on deposit to cover the checks, in which event he heard from her immediately. Unfortunately, this was more than an occasional occurrence. Horace Weatherby had surrendered his practice because he was dying of consumption. Otherwise, the venerable, silver-maned lawyer had informed Ethan he would have hung on. Small town lawyers did not retire, Weatherby warned—they survived, until death knocked. Sort of like ranching, Ethan thought.

  Ethan noticed a thick legal-size envelope with a return address indicating it was from "Johnathan David Jordan, Esquire, Attorney and Counselor" of Cheyenne. Of course, the title was just a fancy way of the man calling himself a lawyer. Ethan supposed it impressed a few, but he always found the self-designation a bit pompous. He brushed some of the clutter aside, opened the envelope, and pulled out the contents.

  There was another smaller envelope inside, sealed with wax, no less. There were also some yellowed parchment sheets that appeared to have crude maps of some kind scratched on them. He plucked out a crisp white sheet that turned out to be the lawyer's letterhead and began to read.

  Dear Mr. Ramsey: I am the attorney for the estate of the late Pierre dePaul, and I was also appointed executor of his will. Mr. dePaul died several years ago, but his estate has been held open pending his sole beneficiary, Miss Skye dePaul, attaining the age of 21 years. That significant event occurred in June. I last received correspondence from Miss dePaul approximately one month past when she informed me that you are her personal legal counsel and that I should send any future communications regarding her business to your office.

  Mr. dePaul owned a small ranch, containing no more than 160 acres on the outskirts of Cheyenne. While the property presently produces mostly scrub trees and wildlife, the location is directly in the path of Cheyenne's growth, and, in the years ahead, it will likely prove to be a sound investment. Mr. dePaul also claimed to own another property in Northern Wyoming on which he operated a trading post at one time. Unfortunately, I have uncovered no evidence of recorded title for any such real estate, and I suspect it was just something he claimed based upon that nebulous term some settlers have called 'squatter's rights.' The maps enclosed with this letter purport to establish the location of the property, although I confess I cannot make sense of them. Miss dePaul would succeed to her father's interest, whatever that might be. She should have no great expectation, however.

  I will now close the probate and transfer the Cheyenne property to Miss dePaul's name. I will make appropriate provision in the court decree to cover any property that may be hereafter discovered. The livestock, personal effects and other chattels have been liquidated, and, after payment of my fees and court costs, there should be about $5200 in the estate account. Miss dePaul previously provided me with her banking information, and I will transfer the funds in the estate account to her personal account in the First Bank of Cheyenne.

  While her inheritance does not make her a wealthy woman, it should provide her with a nice stake, and, if prudently managed, can be helpful to her in the years ahead.

  Finally, I should mention the sealed envelope. Pierre dePaul wanted this to be opened only after his daughter attained the age of majority. Since she designated her own legal counsel, I did not feel comfortable opening the envelope. Thus, I place it in your hands for disposition at your discretion.

  Please advise if I can be of assistance, or if you prefer I proceed in some other fashion. In the meantime, I am your Obedient Servant. Most sincerely, Jonathan David Jordan.

  Ethan picked up the sealed envelope and examined it thoughtfully. He guessed Skye still thought of him as her lawyer since her contact with Jordan had occurred subsequent to their parting at his office in Lockwood. Of course, at this moment he had no idea whether his client was alive. Should he open the envelope or not? Somehow, to do so seemed an invasion of Skye's privacy. On the other hand, if the contents had legal implications, they might disclose something he should be aware of. And if Skye was dead, as seemed quite likely, what difference did it make?

  He opened the penknife he'd set on the table, and, after a moment's hesitation, slipped the blade beneath the envelope's flap and carefully sliced it open. He eased the stiff sheet of paper from the envelope, unfolded it, and then tried to decipher the crude, thick-inked letters spread almost haphazardly across the page and began to read:

  Deer Skye. I be dead if yu see this. I hav many egels and duble egels at old treding post. For yu. Get trusty person to help fin. Rememer bager? Luv. Papa.

  Ethan got up and tossed a few more logs in the fireplace where the fire had nearly burned itself out, leaving only a few smoldering coals. Then he sat back down at the table and picked up the letter again and studied it before he looked at the maps. A treasure hunt now, too? The "egels" in the note were obvious references to the ten dollar-eagle and twenty dollar-double eagle gold coins minted by the United States government. The mystery was intriguing but low on his list of priorities. He guessed that the maps were essentially intended to show the reader how to find the old trading post, which seemed to be located on what most called the Powder River. Everything came back to the river, and Ethan decided at that moment the search for Skye would start on the Powder River.

  7

  Ethan sat astride Patch surveying the village that was coming to life on the brown grass of a pasture less than a quarter mile from the Lazy R ranch buildings. The barn had been converted to a headquarters and warehouse for supplies, and Joe Hollings and Rachael Cooper had teamed up to run the operation. Joe had obviously been instantly enamored with the young Quaker woman, and, while she seemed equally attracted to Joe, Ethan hoped she did not end up breaking his heart. Sometimes Joe was a man who seemed too gentle and good for this rugged country.

  Rachael had acquitted herself well on the journey to and from Lame Buffalo's village. She had not overstated her skills as a horsewoman, and her empathy and tireless caring for the old and ill had been critical to moving the mass of people down the mountain trail. His new cowhand, Jeb Oaks, had proved his worth as well. Not only did the man have an uncanny way with horses, he showed signs of being a natural leader. He did not wait for orders to attend to an urgent task. If a problem came up, he set about solving it, and where help was needed, he recruited. Ethan found it interesting that the whites on the mission did not resist Jeb's gentle urging to a task. Somehow competence had a way of winning out over prejudice, it seemed. Occasionally, Jeb and Otter had bumped heads, but they soon carved out their own niches in the order of things.

  Ethan had been amazed to find more than a dozen Lockwoo
d men at the livery when they rendezvoused for the trek to the village. More than half were volunteer firemen recruited by Sheriff Will Bridges, but others were local cowhands sent by their ranch bosses. There were those who disapproved, of course, and some of these watched with scorn and frowning faces when the rescue party rode out. But Ethan's pessimism about his fellow man was abated for a time.

  As makeshift shelters of canvas and salvaged skins began to rise on the grassy floor of the valley, Ethan felt comfortable leaving the Brule refugees in the hands of the team of volunteers. It was time to find Skye or, at least, learn about her fate. He saw Jeb riding away from the buildings on a spotted Appaloosa gelding, with two pack mules in tow, along with a thickly-muscled, sorrel stallion called Razorback. The latter was for Skye. He was a contrary animal, who would bite if given the chance, and was prone to throwing a rider who let his guard down. As a prank, Ethan had once challenged Skye to ride the animal, and, of course, Razorback had been docile as a house kitten in her hands and earned his way to becoming her favorite horse.

  His toughest job had been a pint-sized one—Running Fox. The boy still did not want to let Ethan out of sight. He had insisted upon joining the relief party to the Brule village, even though Ethan argued to have him stay at the Lazy R with Joe. Since that mission did not seem likely to be dangerous, Ethan had relented, and he had to admit the boy had been useful in cajoling and reassuring younger members of the Brule band during the course of the journey.

  But Ethan conceded he had been less than adept at asserting his adult authority over the boy. Having been raised in an orphanage, perhaps he had not learned how to exercise fatherly discipline. Of course, the boy was not his son. Surely someone in the band would take him in, if he just stayed behind. Regardless, this trip was no place for a boy, and he explained that to Running Fox this morning. He needed to pick up the maps and Pierre dePaul's letter at the house where the boy was to stay with Rachael during Ethan's absence. He seemed to get along well with the young Quaker woman, and although Skye had taught him the rudiments of English with a limited vocabulary, Rachael was determined to recruit him as a pupil for the Pennock School when things were more settled. She would start the polishing, she said.