Return of the Coyote (The Coyote Saga Book 2)

by Ron Schwab

  11

  They did not have to wait for One Ball. When the trail feathered out onto the steep, rocky banks of the Powder River, Ethan smelled the sweet smoke of venison roasting over a cooking fire. His nose led him fifty paces up the river bank, where he found the old mountain man, sitting in front of the fire holding a forked stick draped with meat over the hot coals beneath the low flickering flames.

  "Venison from a fresh-kilt doe hanging in the trees back there. Ain't along to do the cooking, but you're welcome to the meat." As they dismounted, One Ball's eyes fixed on Running Fox and then turned to Ethan. "Where'd you find the papoose?"

  "He's from the village I told you about. He followed us."

  "Send him back. I didn't sign on to nursemaid no papoose."

  "He's not your responsibility. I'll look after him. He stays."

  "Bad luck. He talk American?"

  "His English is passable. His name's Running Fox."

  "Some kind of a rescue troop we got here . . . a law wrangler, a darky, and a papoose. I didn't bargain for this. I'm thinking maybe I ought to pull up stakes and head home."

  "You've been paid in advance. Will Bridges said you were an honorable man . . . that you could be trusted. He also said you were not a coward." Of course, Bridges had not given that strong of an endorsement.

  McLarty seemed taken aback by that. "Don't believe everything that old fart tells you." He pulled his venison steak from the coals. The meat was charred but dripping blood. He sniffed it, blew on it and bit off a chunk, chewing vigorously as red rivulets rolled down his chin.

  Ethan took this as dismissal, and he nodded to the others to unsaddle and get settled. Soon they had their horses staked out, and after cutting their own cooking implements, joined McLarty at the fire. Ethan noted that Running Fox stayed as far away from McLarty as possible. The boy was evidently afraid of the man and was likely wishing he had stayed at the Lazy R.

  "We'll have company by morning," McLarty said.

  "What do you mean?" Ethan replied.

  "Well, Mr. Puma, you're some kind of a cat. You can't smell them?"

  "Smell what?"

  "Sioux. The papoose's kind. Headed our way. Allowing for rest, about a half day behind us, I'd say. I'd guess a half dozen, more or less."

  "How do you know this?"

  McLarty wiped his mouth with his tattered, buckskin shirt sleeve. "I know. And you don't want to bet against it."

  "We'll need to post lookouts," Jeb said. "I can take first watch."

  "Don't need no lookouts," McLarty said. "I'll know when they're within an hour's ride."

  "I don't doubt it," Ethan replied, "but it won't hurt to keep watch."

  "Suit yourself. Just don't be waking me up."

  12

  Skye dePaul sat in the darkness, her back resting against a towering pine. She shivered occasionally when she became aware of the night's damp chill. The three girls from the village seemed to be sleeping now and were wrapped in the two buffalo robes that had been tossed into their shrub and tree-shrouded natural enclave. Skye would share one of the robes later, but now she had to think.

  She had to sweep her mind of the hate that crowded out clarity, but it was a challenge. Repeatedly, throughout the past several days of their encampment here, the barbarians, as she thought of them, had dragged the sixteen-year-olds, Prairie Flower and Antelope, and eighteen-year-old She-Bear, from the little clearing and passed them among the men, like so much food or drink, for satisfying their carnal pleasures. Only Skye had been left untouched, and it perplexed and troubled her. She felt guilty, in a way, that she was not sharing the depredations of her companions, and even though she was an old one-armed woman of twenty-one, she had seen no pickiness in the tastes of these lowly animals when they pillaged the village.

  A coyote howled in the distance, followed by excited yipping of others of his pack. It made her think of her uncle, Lame Buffalo, and his vision on what he called "the night of the coyote." She wondered if he had survived the attack on the village. She had watched with sickening horror as an axe split the skull of her mother, Singing Lark, but she had not seen her uncle during the melee. The coyote, of course, turned her mind also to Ethan Ramsey. She knew he was going to ask her to marry him when she had cut him short at their last meeting. And she had wanted to see him again when she left him an unsigned bank draft for his legal fees, hoping he would see she was sending him an excuse to seek her out.

  The realization of her love for Ethan had struck her at an inopportune time. She had just lost her left arm below the elbow. How could she be certain that Ethan's feelings were not just misplaced sympathy? How was she going to adapt to this change in her life? Love notwithstanding, she was not going to be any man's helpless wife. She loved him. Maybe he loved her. If she became convinced he truly did, she would then consider whether they could make a life together. It was all a moot question now anyway. The chances of her surviving to see Ethan again were remote—unless they could escape.

  Escape. She had thought of little else since her abduction with the others from the village. There were so many of the barbarians. Men were in and out of the camp, so it was difficult to get a count, but she thought there were at least seventeen. There seemed to always be several sentries on duty, and there was a loose military structure to the camp's activity. Clearly, the leader was the one they called "Captain." Captain Quint was a swarthy man with shoulder-length black hair and a pencil-thin moustache. She guessed he might be thirty-five years old, and his trim, muscular body and bearing suggested a man who took care of himself and might be a bit vain about his appearance. He was of average height but always stood out among this otherwise rag-tag bunch of men. She felt his eyes upon her constantly and sensed that some type of confrontation between them was coming soon.

  She would not leave without the others. They had already endured too much. They had been delivered a death sentence whether they knew it or not. She-Bear would leap at the opportunity. Tall and lithe, she was a feisty one, as attested by her name. She had not resisted the abuse by the barbarians only because of Skye's counsel to do what was necessary to survive, so that she might live free again. She had attended the Quaker school and spoke English well, which she did not even hint to her captors so that her ears might hear something that might help their escape. The other two girls were shy and frightened and spoke only a smattering of the white man's tongue. Skye feared they were too accepting of their fate and held out hope they would eventually become wives to someone among the ruthless men. Skye knew it was a foolish hope. And who would want to be the wife of any man who was a part of this sorry tribe?

  Skye started at a stirring in the grass nearby. She turned and saw it was She-Bear, who quickly moved in beside her. "I heard the Captain talking to one of the buffalo hairs who waited for his turn to mount me. He is going to take you from our nest tomorrow. He is going to talk with you. It sounds important. They are looking for something and think you know where to find it."

  "I cannot imagine what that would be. I can think of nothing I know that these men would be interested in."

  "Tomorrow is the last day at this place, I think. They will be moving north. We should make our escape."

  "Our only hope is the river. We veered east of it when we moved to this camp. I think it should be no more than a mile from here. I would like to cross it to the west side and then follow it south. It will eventually lead to a village of some tribe or of the whites. Either would be better than where we are now."

  "They will follow us."

  "If we must, we can enter the water and let it carry us away."

  "That would be dangerous. It runs fast, and it is cold. We could die."

  "Nothing could be more dangerous than remaining with these men."

  "Yes, that is true."

  "Tomorrow night. There are no signs that these barbarians are planning to move out in the morning. And if this Captain Quint wishes to speak with me, perhaps I should hear his words. I may learn something
of value."

  "He probably plans to mount you and pierce you with his spear."

  "I am prepared for whatever happens."

  "We should not tell Prairie Flower or Antelope of our plans until we are ready to leave. I fear they may tell the evil men to try to court their favor. They can no longer be trusted."

  Skye thought about this. "You are right. And I cannot fault them. They want to live at any price. I fear that if they choose to remain with these men, their path will still lead to death, or worse. We must give them an opportunity to go with us, but if they will not, we will go without them." She hesitated, "Can you fire a rifle?"

  "I have used one. My brother allowed me to use a rifle he took from a white man once. I fired the weapon with greater accuracy than my brother, and it angered him. I believe I can load the weapon and shoot it and kill these animals with it."

  "We should try to obtain a rifle. I have fired a rifle many times but not since I lost my hand. I think it would be difficult for me without much practice. A pistol, I could make use of, I think."

  "I will obtain weapons before we escape."

  "How would you do this?"

  "I will take them from one of the sentries. I have a knife I slipped from a sheath on a white raider's belt while he was spearing me. Men are such fools. When a woman's nest takes over their heads, they think only with their spears. You will see. I will lift my skirt for a sentry, and he will receive a knife in his belly in return. I will then help myself to his weapons."

  Skye gave a wry smile. "There is much truth in what you say. I may be able to use a similar strategy."

  13

  The midday sun was warming Skye's back when Antelope returned to the enclave from servicing some of the raiders. She was a very pretty girl and evidently gave special pleasures to her captors, perhaps even showing some feigned enthusiasm, Skye surmised, for she was clearly most in demand. She doubted Prairie Flower, a fearful, timid soul, would have been more than submissive to the rapists, and she knew that She-Bear, though a remarkably beautiful young woman, was simply passive, deliberately sending a message to her assaulter that he was tolerated only because of his power over her life. Her aura would be one of contempt, and, though the bruises on her face and body indicated she had been beaten more brutally than her friends, her spirit was undamaged.

  Moments after Antelope sat down next to Prairie Flower on one of the robes, a towering black man stepped into the clearing. His eyes immediately fastened on Skye. "Captain wants you . . . now."

  Skye tossed a glance at She-Bear, who nodded her encouragement. "I will follow you," Skye told the man, summoning up her courage to show a brave front despite the fear that danced down her spine.

  The black man led her away from the clearing and through the camp, where the raiders loitered, some playing cards, others napping. She caught their knowing leers as she walked, her head held high and her body erect. She could feel them eyeing her naked thigh and bare shoulder, where her doeskin dress had been ripped apart. She wished she could spit on them, but she focused on keeping her face stoic and expressionless. At the far end of the campsite they came to a canvas military tent, one of a half dozen set up for those fortunate enough to latch on to the shelter. She supposed there was some informal hierarchy within the barbarian ranks that dictated entitlement to the more luxurious accommodations.

  Captain Quint sat on an upright sawed log in front of the open tent. He stared at her with dark, foreboding eyes, his mouth set grim. He spoke to the black man. "Dismissed, Goliath. I'll call when I'm done with the bitch."

  Skye wondered if the man's name was a nickname or a mother's prediction of what he was to become. Perhaps, he had been a large baby. Regardless, she would be hugely disappointed if she knew the kind of man he had become.

  Captain Quint pointed at a shorter upright log. "Sit down, bitch. I've got questions."

  She obeyed, noting that her position, not more than a half dozen feet from the man, left her looking up at him, clearly subservient. Subject to king. Except, she suddenly noticed, he held a riding quirt in his hand instead of a jeweled scepter. "I cannot imagine what questions you might have of me, but I will listen and answer if I am able."

  "Goddamned right you will. Or I'll beat you to death. First, what's your name?"

  "I am called Sky-in-the-Morning by my people."

  "Don't play dumb with me, bitch. I don't give a shit what those filthy animals call you. You have another name."

  "In the white man's world, I am known as Skye dePaul,"

  "That's more like it. And your old man's name?"

  "My father's name was Pierre dePaul. He died several years ago."

  "I know he's dead. If I'd found him while he was alive you wouldn't be here. I would've got my answers from him. Of course, he'd still be dead."

  "I am sorry. I do not understand what this is about."

  "Your father was a goddamn thief. That's what it's about."

  "You still make no sense to me. You are suggesting that he stole something. I find that hard to believe. I knew him as an honest and forthright man."

  "You didn't really know him then. He was a thief."

  "What did he steal?" She could see him building into a rage at her response.

  Captain Quint stood up. "You're playing dumb with me, bitch. I warned you not to do that." His arm swung down, and the tentacles of the quirt struck her face full force, tipping her backward, and the log toppled over and tossed her on the ground. She clumsily got on her knees and balanced herself on her hand as she struggled to get up, but before she could get leverage, the quirt came down harshly on her bare shoulder and flattened her on the earth. Then a booted foot dug into her ribs, sending a shockwave through her body. She made no further effort to move, trying to recoup her strength and deciding to wait for a cue from her attacker.

  The man's rage seemed to abate after the outburst. He had been breathing heavily, and his face had turned scarlet, but she sensed his breathing slowing, and a calming force seemed to be taking over. He righted her log stool and took his throne again, she noted, and as she lay there on the ground, she observed he seemed to be pondering something.

  "Get up," he said, his voice softer now. "Sit down. Now that you see I am a serious man, maybe you'll tell me the truth."

  She touched her face, and her hand came back blood-coated. Her cheeks and shoulder stung like hot coals were pressed against her flesh where the quirt had left its marks. She crawled to her crude seat, and, with no small effort, finally took her place.

  "Now, I want you to tell me about the gold," he said, his face masked with a gentler, pleading look.

  "Captain, I have no reason not to help you. I am totally at your mercy." She took a deep breath. "I know I must please you if I am to have any hope of living. I will try to answer your questions, but you may have to guide me. I will also pleasure you later, if you desire. I know Sioux secrets of lovemaking that make a man never content with a white woman again." She saw the rise in his britches and the lust in his eyes and quickly returned to the questions that were troubling him. "But, first, I must satisfy your curiosity about the matters you want to know about. Please, tell me what it is you seek from me. I will try to answer."

  "You know that ugly stump of an arm you got puts a man off at first, but, otherwise, you're a delicious-looking woman. When I look at you now, it don't take long to get past that. None of the other boys have had you yet. I like the notion of being the first. You play your cards right, and maybe I'll let you be just my woman for a spell."

  Skye gave a small, seductive smile and fluttered her eyelashes just a bit. "You're the only man here I would let touch me without a fight. I think we can come to terms . . . now your questions."

  "I want to know about the gold."

  "Gold?"

  "The gold your father stole."

  "I will help you if I can. Perhaps there is something in my memory that I can connect to this gold. I seem to be an important link to this gold. It does you no good to
kill me, if you need me to help find it. And I cannot enjoy any gold if I am dead. Can you tell me about it?"

  He seemed to be studying her, probing for the truth. "This gold was in a strong box. Fifty thousand dollars of gold eagles and double eagles. A fortune. Me and a friend by the name of Scully Patton was a part of Quantrill's raiders back in Missouri, but we broke off with some of the bunch and rode west to Colorado to fight the Yankees there. We mostly took out supply trains, payroll wagons and the like. Then we got wind of a strongbox of gold coins being shipped east out of Laramie. How in the hell the gold come to be at Fort Laramie I could never figure. Made no sense."

  She was reluctant to interrupt, but she had to keep him on course and appear interested if she was going to discover what she expected him to know. "But I don't see what any of this has to do with my father. He wasn't even involved in the war."

  "Hold your damned horses. I'll come to that. Anyway, the army hid the strongbox with a supply wagon headed to Fort Riley, Kansas. Stupid shitheads. Why would a supply wagon be moving east from Laramie? Every goddamned fool knows that supplies moved from east to west in those times . . . mostly true today. They had a ten-trooper escort. We had twice that many armed men who'd seen the bloodiest fighting of the war. Three days out of Laramie, we overrode those bastards like a swarm of bees. Left all the troopers for buzzard food, and we didn't lose a man. Our problems came a week later when we was camped along the Platte. Things turned nasty when everybody got to arguing about dividing up the gold. The war had pretty much petered out by this time, so it wouldn't do no good to give the money to the Confederacy. Me and Scully planned the raid and decided we was entitled to most of it. The rest of the bunch could hardly wipe their asses without being told to."

  Skye said, "Some men lead; others follow. It's that simple. You're a leader. I can see that here in the camp. Nobody would question who's in charge."