Twilight of the Coyote

by Ron Schwab

  Starling’s face had turned crimson, no doubt horrified by this breach of security, with the president seated in the middle of a horde of unvetted strangers. I was not Secret Service, so I determined to let the agent figure out how to gracefully extricate the president from this situation. Then the president got out of his chair, accepted a fresh glass of lemonade, and strolled toward me.

  “Trey,” he said. “There are a few folks you should meet.” He waved at the white-haired man. “Owen, come over here. I would like for you to meet my budget assistant.”

  The man joined us under a ponderosa pine, the largest of a dozen scattered about the ranch house. “Trey,” Coolidge said, “this is Owen Connolly. He owns this ranch and has been the gracious host for my visit here. We have a bit of disagreement over the farm bill, but we’ve discussed it without rancor. Owen, meet Trey Ramsey.”

  Connolly seemed to flinch at the mention of my name. I shook the rancher’s hand. It was like sticking my hand in a vise, but I persevered until he released me, and I did not cry. He was a big man with beefy shoulders and a thick torso, but no beer gut. He stood a good six feet. I was taller by two or three inches, but, somehow, I felt smaller. He was the kind of man who had what Gramps called a ‘dominating presence.’ The ruddy-faced rancher studied me with pale blue eyes that said he disapproved. “You’re sure as hell no Irishman,” he said.

  “No sir. Pure American mongrel.” I smiled, but he frowned, evidently finding no humor in my response.

  “Where you from?”

  “Wyoming, I guess would be where my roots are.” He just stared at me.

  The president interrupted. “Here she comes. The young lady who saved my life.”

  I turned my head and saw a copper-haired girl strolling my way. The hair was shoulder-length and pulled back in a ponytail. She was dressed like a man. Boots. Denim britches that were indecently snug but hinted at nice gams. The green cotton shirt didn’t stretch much at the chest, so her bubs were modest at best. I know I shouldn’t have been undressing her in my mind, but I couldn’t help it. I swear she was the most stunning creature I had ever seen. My infatuation with Grace Coolidge died at that moment. I think the president was taken with her, too. I’m certain I saw a smile when she approached. Poor Grace. Her stock was sinking by the minute.

  When she reached us, I saw she had a sprinkling of freckles on the flesh below her green eyes and across the bridge of her nose. Without her boots, she was probably a foot shorter than I am. She stared at me inquisitively, no doubt wondering what this stranger dressed in suit and tie was doing here.

  The president introduced us. Her grip was firm, but we did not engage in a squeezing match. “My pleasure,” I said. I was much more verbal with the floozies I tended to run with.

  Coolidge said, “Why don’t the two of you get acquainted while Owen introduces me to the folks I haven’t met yet? I suspect Agent Starling wants us to be on our way to the lodge.”

  Owen Connolly tossed me a suspicious glance and joined the president.

  I suppose it was only seconds, but it felt like the two of us stood there tongue-tied and looking each other for an hour. Thank God, she broke the silence.

  “So, you help President Coolidge with his budget?”

  “Uh, yes. I’m good with numbers.” That no doubt impressed her.

  “Why does a budget assistant carry a gun?”

  Shit. She must have noticed the bulge beneath my shoulder where my .45 Colt Government Model was cradled in its holster. “Well, in light of the attempt on the president’s life, it was thought we should all be prepared.”

  “That makes no sense. You don’t just put a weapon in the hands of a numbers cruncher on a whim. I think you’re Secret Service.”

  “I’m not Secret Service.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  “You seem hostile toward me for some reason.”

  “I’m sorry. This has not been a happy day. I had to fire my rifle at some men.”

  “Let’s walk. Tell me about it.”

  We strolled slowly away from the gathering, and she told me the story of her encounter with the President of the United States. “I feel so foolish I didn’t know who he was,” she said. “I was quite brusque with him. And I’m angry he didn’t tell me. Well, I guess he tried to tell me, but I thought he was crazy.”

  “He’s not upset, I assure you. I’d guess he enjoyed the entire adventure.”

  “Before I came to meet you, I spoke with a Mr. Starling. He seems very upset. He said I am not to speak with the press, and I am not to tell anyone else what happened this morning.”

  “He’s embarrassed. He’s the agent-in-charge. But he’s also right. They need to track these men. Publicity probably would not be helpful.”

  “That suits me. I don’t want any publicity.”

  “Think about anything you may not have mentioned about those men. I would like to speak with you again about this.” I was grasping for an excuse to see this woman again.

  “Why would a numbers cruncher want to ask me questions about what happened? Mr. Starling said I should talk to nobody but him. That’s what I’ll do.”

  I may have to kill Starling. “We don’t have to resolve this right now.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Trey Ramsey. Just like President Coolidge said.”

  “But who is Trey Ramsey?”

  “Perhaps you would find out if we met again.”

  “I don’t have time for games.”

  She veered away and headed toward the president, presumably to render her good-bye. I didn’t think she liked me.

  Chapter 5

  TREY

  Rapid City, with a population approaching ten thousand inhabitants in 1927, sits in the southeastern corner of South Dakota as the gateway city to the Black Hills from the east. I was told it was the third or fourth largest city in the state. I had visited the city, about a half hour’s auto trek from the State Game Lodge, immediately before the president’s arrival and almost daily since. The president’s executive offices had been set up in the Rapid City High School building, and that was where most of his official business was done. The annoying budget project was an after-hours endeavor. Calvin Coolidge was probably the only president since the founding of the Republic to review and edit every line of the federal budget. His penchant for a balanced and frugal budget bordered on obsession.

  Tonight, I was enjoying a late supper at Dog’s Restaurant, an off-main street hash house specializing in hamburgers, which were gaining ground on hot dogs for claiming the title as the All-American sandwich. Strange, when you thought about it, since the Krauts concocted both. The hamburger was a little on the bloody side for my taste, but the apple pie looked promising. I sucked without enthusiasm on a bottle of Coca-Cola. Elsewhere I might have sought out a speakeasy. Because of my unilateral break-up with the first lady, I was in the mood for something stronger. Panther piss from a home whiskey still would have suited me just fine. Since the Bureau of Investigation was leading the war on hooch, it would have been unseemly, though, for a couple of BI agents to get caught in the net of one of J. Edgar’s raids.

  A lanky Negro man slipped into the opposite side of the booth. He was attired in work boots and bib overalls with the straps pulled over a faded red shirt. I had dressed in my well-worn blue jeans and scuffed-up cowboy boots, so we should have looked like a couple of working stiffs. From the curious looks directed our way by the other patrons, it appeared we were not blending well into the general population, however. I wondered if that might have something to do with Gabriel Riley being the only black man in the entire city, possibly even in the whole state.

  “What the hell are you supposed to be?” I asked.

  “I’m a farmer, and you’re a cowboy.”

  “I think we’re both clowns.” I could talk with Gabe like this. He was my best friend in the Bureau. He also kept me on the straight and narrow. He was the senior agent on this mission, where the BI had assigned a m
assive force of two. He had served as a sergeant with the Buffalo Soldiers, Ninety-second Infantry Division during my father’s war. He was married with three children, morally upright and responsible. In short, he was everything I was not.

  Gabe ignored my remark. “Tell me about your day and an attack on the president that I heard about first in a call from Washington.”

  I gave him a short version of the aborted assassination attempt and the rescue by the cowgirl.

  When I finished, Gabe observed, “About the only thing I got out of this is that you met this dame who has a nice butt, small bubs and terrific gams, none of which you have viewed in raw flesh.”

  “Well, no. But it’s not for lack of willingness.”

  “What about the president? How is he handling the scare?”

  “Stoically, of course. But I’m keeping an eye on him. I think he’s my main competition.”

  Gabe shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll tell you about my day. I drove out to the reservation.”

  “You would have made a better impression if you had ridden a horse.”

  “I don’t ride horses.”

  “I do. I’ll go next time.”

  “Twenty miles?”

  “Maybe I’ll drive.”

  “Anyway, I spoke with several chiefs. They claimed they were chiefs anyway, but it seems like everyone out there is a chief.”

  “You know what they say: ‘Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.’” I could see my attempts at humor were starting to grate, so I shifted gears. “Did they know anything about the killings?”

  “One of the chiefs had some insight and useful information. His name was John Buffalo Horn. He said one of the girls was his niece. He was the contact who had written to the Bureau of Indian Affairs last January. It only took three months to deliver the letter to the BI, a few blocks down the street.”

  “And only another two months for the BI to assign the murders for investigation.”

  Gabe and I are in the Black Hills to investigate the rapes and murders of two Lakota girls, ages fifteen and sixteen. The case was cold as Alaska, the bodies having been found partially uncovered in a dry creek bed the previous November. Lucy Eagle Feather and Nelda Two Horses had evidently been buried there and later dug up by predators and partially devoured before discovery. Freezing temperatures had preserved enough of their remains for autopsy and medical evaluation in Rapid City. Local law enforcement had no jurisdiction, since the bodies were found on the reservation, which was legally a separate nation, and the reservation police had neither the personnel nor equipment to do much more than to pick up drunks or dispose of the suicides.

  Gabe said, “I also received word from my superior that J. Edgar wants us to discreetly inquire into the assassination attempt. He doesn’t want a pissing contest with the Secret Service until he knows he can win it.”

  “Are they sending out more agents?”

  “Nope. Everybody’s either in Chicago or down South investigating the Klan. I’ll give Coolidge his due; he’s put the heat on Hoover about taking on the KKK.”

  “So where do we start?”

  “I’ll work on leads involving the Lakota girls. You focus on the failed assassins. And keep your ears tuned in when the Service guys are around. We’ll make a move if you pick up a clue.”

  “I think I need to talk to Kate Connolly . . . on an official basis.”

  “I think you need to keep your nozzle some distance from the fire. Now, I learned something new today. Chief Buffalo Horn says there are as many as twenty-five Sioux girls between the ages of fourteen and nineteen missing from the reservation. The Pine Ridge stretches across most of the southern part of the state, and the occupants are scattered, so an accurate count is impossible. The chief says some are probably runaways, but not that many. And there could be others missing who haven’t been reported.”

  “We’re on to something a lot bigger than two murders, aren’t we?”

  “I asked the chief to compile a list of any missing girls who lived on the reservation with the names of possible family member contacts. We will split up those names, which will include family members of the known deceased, interview them on or near the reservation and try to find a common connection.”

  “That’s going to take a few weeks.”

  “At least. I’ll find you on July 4 and give you your list and what background information I can put together. In the meantime, I’m hoping to identify a few locals, white or Sioux, who can help us with the lay of the land and give us a better idea of where we might look or furnish names of other people to talk to. We’re grasping at straws. But we’re going to solve this.”

  “Maybe Kate Connolly would help.”

  “Jeez, Trey. Talk to the woman, if you want. But I’m telling you now, stay out of her pants. Promise me that.”

  I don’t lie unless it’s expedient, so I did not promise.

  Chapter 6

  THE RAPID CITY OUTFIT

  Boss Bullock was outraged. The boobs had totally screwed up the job, Now the feds would be looking for them, and they didn’t have a damn thing to show for it. They could have gotten a hundred grand for a president, maybe more. Bullock, whose proper name was Claud, had spent two years with the South Side Gang, also known as the Chicago Outfit. He had worked for Scarface Al Capone, now in prison for a tax evasion conviction, and Hymie Weis, dead since last October because of his failure to recognize it was time to get out. When the North Siders or some Judas rubbed out Hymie, Boss had the good sense to beat it out of Chicago. He was tired of being somebody else’s muscle and hit man anyway, and he decided not to wait for somebody to give him his own “retirement party,” as the mob called an inside hit. He was nearly thirty-five years old, and it was time to set up his own operation.

  Boss went back home to Rapid City and began putting his own gang together. His enterprises were small-scale compared to Chicago, but there was no serious competition, thereby increasing his life expectancy. He had already made deals with local moonshiners and booze-runners to service Rapid City’s two preeminent speakeasies, as well as the dumpsites he had set up on the reservation for marketing the cheap hooch to the Indians. He still had his Chicago connections, and that was where he sent the reservation girls for stocking the whorehouses in the Windy City. Some signed on voluntarily for a future in the “entertainment industry.” Others were just captured like wild animals and hauled like so many cattle across the plains. He had marketed at least thirty now at two grand each, and he couldn’t keep up with the demand. The Sioux girls had evidently become novelties in the Chicago bordellos. He would have to up his price.

  Boss leaned back in the swivel chair and swung his feet up on the desk. That’s what bosses did. He didn’t do much of his own killing anymore, and he only occasionally raped the female captives. He missed that. A man of his stature did not pay for pussy. He liked the idea of having a special moll to service him, but two had run out on him already, evidently rebelling against the rough stuff. He had found one and strangled her. The other was still in hiding, but the boys had their eyes out for her. He feared she knew too much for him to just shrug off her disappearance.

  He gazed out the window of the unpretentious house he had acquired on the outskirts of Rapid City for a headquarters. It was a clapboard, two-story structure that would not attract undue attention, but the interior was elegantly finished and decorated. His office was the former parlor, and his expansive oak desk was placed so his back would be to the wall, allowing him to keep guests sitting in any of the cluster of upholstered chairs in front of the desk within his sight. He trusted no one, not even his older brother, Bull Bullock, who was as huge as his namesake and half as smart.

  Bullock tensed at a rap on the door, and he lifted his feet off the desk and opened the top drawer to reassure himself his .35 Smith & Wesson was there. He did not close the drawer. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “George.”

  “You alone?”

  “Yep.”

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sp; “Come on in.” Bullock slipped his hand in the desk drawer, and his fingers closed on the butt of the pistol. He was there when Hymie Weiss was taken out, and the scene at that bloodbath was burned in his memory.

  He relaxed when George Many Knives entered the room alone. He nodded for George to take a chair in front of the desk. “What do you hear from the State Game Lodge?”

  “My snitch says they don’t have any suspects. Their only interest is in protecting the president. We will not have another opportunity. Good news is they don’t have enough people with the Secret Service to look for us and stay close to the president, too.”

  Many Knives thought Bullock did not know the identity of the snitch, but Bullock knew the spy was Willy Hobson, a handyman at the lodge. His job would make him invisible throughout the facilities. Willy was half-blood Lakota and a nephew of George’s, and always open to picking up an extra sawbuck or two. So far, his intelligence had been reliable. He had called George the morning of the president’s fishing sojourn. He had also informed George later about the young woman who had intervened to remove the president from harm’s way.

  “I can’t believe you and Solly were chased off by a young babe.”

  “We weren’t expecting anybody else, and young babe or not, she could shoot. I told you we should have stayed away from the president. Too risky. It was a dumb idea.”

  Only George could talk to him this way. He was the outfit’s connection to the reservation. He also had more brains than the other three of the outfit’s core combined. Unfortunately, George Many Knives was a serious capitalist and would sometime try to squeeze Bullock out and take over the reservation business for himself. Of course, he would have to kill George before that happened, and he would take care of that personally. But, first, he needed to find another connection to the Sioux. Bull had told him about a younger Pine Ridge Indian who could take over the reservation business. Bullock was going to talk to the young man within a few days to check out his potential. He was skeptical because Bull usually had zero ability when it came to judging people. But he might get lucky.