Twilight of the Coyote

by Ron Schwab

  This was a sharp contrast to the thriving, prosperous farms and ranches owned individually by the Sioux in the valleys lying east of the Powder River and outside Lockwood in Wyoming. I realized at that moment how important Gram Skye’s tireless work with the Lame Buffalo Foundation during her lifetime had been. Gramps, too, had been her silent anchor and supporter all those years. These were people who made a difference in their little corner of the world. How could I have been so blind?

  From time to time I sighted a wizened and ancient man or woman, sitting on a rocking chair or bench in front of a shack, watching the visitors, seemingly only with mild curiosity, as they passed by. Strangely, I often saw school-age children playing in the yards, but rarely young or middle-aged adults. I sidled Nipper up closer to Kate.

  “Why aren’t the kids in school?”

  “They go when they feel like it, which may be not at all, if their parents don’t make them.”

  “But why don’t they make them?”

  “Many on the reservation don’t understand the importance of education. Some don’t want their children to leave the reservation. If they don’t go to school, they’re pretty much stuck here. There are Sioux parents who demand that their children attend school and encourage their studies at home. They cling to hope for a better future. But too many here are resigned to their situation and are not motivated to improve lt. The government allotment lets them subsist, and that seems to be enough.”

  “And where are the adults?”

  “Some are working at the few jobs on the reservation. Others work for local ranchers or have jobs in town. Unfortunately, many gather at the crude speakeasies that are set up in dilapidated barns or old-time tipis for sale of boot-leg liquor. Their kids are likely the ones that aren’t in school.”

  When we rode up to the schoolhouse, we dismounted and led our horses to a metal trough that sat under a pump in the schoolyard. I worked the pump handle and filled the nearly empty receptacle while our horses drank and Kate filled the canteens. Then we hitched our mounts at one of the rails in front of the building. A half dozen horses and ponies were hitched at the several rails adjacent to the school, so I figured there must be a few pupils inside.

  Kate said, “Why don’t you wait out here? I’ll slip in and call you in after I explain to Sage why we’re here, or I’ll bring her out. It’s a two-room school, and another teacher usually has the second room.”

  While I waited, I strolled the perimeter of the school. The framed, rectangular building and two privies out back were freshly white-washed, as was another structure that looked like a ranch bunkhouse set off some fifty feet from the school. The grounds were immaculate. Someone even had a sizable flower box set up along the bunkhouse building, and it was overflowing with purple and yellow flowers of some kind. I knew roses and tulips, but flower identification was something I had never worried much about.

  I observed that neither telephone nor electric wires had made it this far yet, but that was not unusual in most rural areas. Gram and Gramps’s Lazy R had a telephone, but electricity had not yet arrived. Gramps’s Lockwood law office, though, was thoroughly electrified and even included one of the new Frigidaire refrigerators. Gram had to settle for an ice box on the ranch, but I had never heard her complain about that, or much of anything for that matter.

  I heard voices at the front of the building, so I hurried back, and, when I turned the corner, I found Kate engaged in animated conversation with a woman, whose back was toward me. I could only tell that she had short-cropped black hair and wore a gray professional-looking outfit and black shoes with short heels. Oh, she had quite a nice behind as well. When she turned toward me, her initial promise was fulfilled. She was decidedly more buxom than Kate, taller and more curvaceous, too—a bit more meat on her bones, one might say. She had flawless, bronzed skin, and her dark eyes said I’d better stop my appraisal of her forthwith.

  “Sage,” Kate said, “this is Trey Ramsey, the Bureau of Investigation agent I was telling you about.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I said.

  She seemed to consider it a moment before extending her hand. She gripped mine firmly but did not try to do harm like a certain Irishman I had recently encountered.

  “Mr. Ramsey,” she said.

  “Please, call me Trey.”

  “Mr. Ramsey,” she said pointedly, “I have an eighth-grader supervising study time while I am absent from the classroom. I will try to answer your questions, but I do not have time to waste with pleasantries. How may I help you?”

  She was not quite hostile, but she was not going to be charmed. I must have left my charm with that floozie in Washington the night before I departed with President and Mrs. Coolidge on their Black Hills journey.

  “Miss Rainmaker, an associate and I have been sent by Washington to investigate the murders of two Sioux girls.”

  “Yes. Ruth Gray Horse and Lark Pipe Maker. They were killed, and one can assume they were raped and beaten. What has taken you so long to get here?”

  “I can’t account for that, ma’am.”

  “Government bureaucrats, I suppose.”

  “Did you know the girls?”

  “Not Ruth, but I was acquainted with Lark. Her ten-year old sister, Frannie, attends my school, off and on. She’s not here today.”

  “Do you know anything about Lark’s social life ? Friends? Anyone she was spending time with?”

  “I didn’t know her that well. I think she stayed home and cared for the children her mother produced. She had six siblings. She was the eldest and seemed to be quite responsible. Her father, Reuben Pipe Maker, was married to her mother, but I’m told he disappeared after Lark was born. This did not stop her mother, Lucy, from reproducing. The children would have increased her allotment, and I do think the children got fed. But I gathered from Frannie that Lucy is absent from home several days at a time, occasionally a week or more. I’m worried about who is looking after the children now that Lark is gone. I plan to drop by next weekend and see what I can find out. If there is a serious problem I will report it to the Tribal Police, and they will do nothing.”

  “They don’t care?”

  “They’re overwhelmed. They try. But this would not be high priority. I could take two of them here. I have three in the dormitory now, and it holds five.”

  I nodded toward the bunkhouse. “That’s the dormitory?”

  “Yes. The other teacher, Alice Potter, and I share a room at one end. We have two rooms . . . one for girls and the other for boys at the other end, and a small kitchen and eating area in between the sleeping quarters.”

  “Would this Alice Potter be helpful?”

  “I think not. She just joined me two months ago. She’s here for the summer, and then she returns to a Quaker school in Missouri in the fall. I operate this school over the summer months and close three months in the winter because we can’t cope with the wind and snow in these facilities. Most of the time I don’t have a second teacher, so I’m grateful to have Alice here now. The Quakers will send other relief when they can.”

  “Have you heard that other girls have gone missing?”

  “Yes. Young people, especially girls, frequently disappear from the reservation from time to time, some for better and others for worse. But the numbers are concerning. I do not think they are all voluntary runaways. They could be dead like Ruth and Lark. It would be easy to dump a body in the Badlands, and it would never be found. Somebody didn’t have time to do that with those girls.”

  “I have a feeling you have a theory.”

  “White slavery. I have heard that Sioux girls are either being lured away or outright kidnapped and delivered to Chicago for sale to houses of prostitution. I have been told of a girl who escaped and found her way back home. Perhaps, Ruth and Lark resisted and paid with their lives.”

  “That’s certainly a possibility. Do you know the name of the girl who escaped? Can you tell me where I can find this young woman?”

 
; “I can, but I will not. She fears her life is in danger if the abductors learn she is on the reservation.”

  “I can see that she is protected or help her leave the reservation and start a new life elsewhere. Also, if we apprehend the kidnappers, she can live here without fear again.”

  “The Sioux have endured too many broken promises for me to leap at that bait.”

  “I can understand the distrust, but she might have information that could save the lives of many others. Would you at least get in touch with her and tell her what I have said? This could be very important.”

  “I will do that much. I will contact Kate. If the girl is willing to speak with you, I will inform Kate of the conditions.”

  Sage held the cards. “I am agreeable to that. I have another question. Do you know a young man named Willy Hobson who works at the State Game Lodge?”

  She rubbed her chin thoughtfully before responding. “I do not know him personally, but I am acquainted with some of his family. His cousin, John Black Feather, is in my classroom now. He is twelve-years old. A bright and diligent student who has prospects of a good future if demon rum doesn’t catch him.”

  I said, “I don’t think Willy is full-blood. From his name, I assume his father is white.”

  “Yes, the relationship with John would be through the mother’s blood. There would be many cousins because there were nine children in his mother’s family. John’s and Willy’s mothers are sisters. I appreciate that you did not refer to Willy as a ‘breed,’ like so many whites do.”

  Her eyes seemed to soften a bit. I had almost forgotten a card I could play that might help me here. “Well, I’m mixed-blood myself, but my Sioux is diluted some. My grandmother is half Brule. She’s president of the Lame Buffalo Foundation. You may have heard of it.” Her hostility evaporated noticeably at that remark. Perhaps I was wrong and I am devious enough to make it as a lawyer.

  “Yes, I have read a great deal about the foundation and its founder. I never connected you with Skye dePaul Ramsey. I have always wanted to visit Lockwood, Wyoming and see firsthand the work that has been done there. I am Oglala, and the Brule, of course, are part of our Lakota family and speak the same dialect.”

  “I would be honored to arrange a visit so you could meet with Gram Skye. She and my grandfather were just in the Black Hills visiting President and Mrs. Coolidge. Unfortunately, they left for Lockwood on the morning train. I will make her aware of your interest. I know she would love to have you visit.” This elicited a smile, a quite engaging one, and I decided I should not overdose with the sugar.

  “I would love that. And I will talk to the girl who says she was kidnapped.”

  “I mentioned Willy Hobson. Do you know anything else about him?”

  “No, not really. Just his family. It is probably a recommendation of sorts that I don’t know much. I tend to hear about the troublemakers and the tormented. I think he pretty much grew up in Custer. His father, Luke, is a skilled mechanic and contracts vehicle maintenance work with both the state and federal governments.”

  “Just one more question. We’re looking for a Sioux man with the first name of George.”

  “I could quickly come up with a dozen Sioux males with that first name.”

  “It would be helpful if you could make a list of any you can think of.”

  “I could do that, I suppose. I will give my list to Kate when I report back about my contact with the girl.” She paused. “You asked about Willy Hobson. He has an uncle named George.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes. George Many Knives. A man of less than stellar reputation.”

  “Could you explain?”

  “He is said to be the source of most boot-legging on the reservation. Those who want to sell alcohol must go through Many Knives to buy their stock. His competition has a way of turning up dead or disappearing.”

  “If you know about this, why doesn’t the law?”

  “Most find it safer not to get involved. Many do not want to jeopardize their supply. And if it does get to the tribal police, money talks.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, Miss Rainmaker. You’ve been very helpful and given me much to ponder.”

  “You may call me Sage, and, if you like, I will call you Trey.”

  “I would like that, Sage.”

  She gave me a quick smile and turned to the door. “And now I must return to the classroom.”

  When I looked at Kate, her eyes were shooting little daggers at me. “Nice lady,” I said.

  “You have no shame when it comes to sweet-talking someone, do you? She was actually starting to flirt with you before she went back in the school.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. She’d just decided I wasn’t such a bad guy after all.”

  “And you were undressing her with your eyes when you met. That’s a bad habit that could get you in lots of trouble.”

  I couldn’t deny it, so I said, “I’ll work on that.” I thought that was noncommittal enough.

  Chapter 16

  GABE

  Gabriel Riley sat at a corner table in the new White Castle restaurant, one of over a hundred springing up across the Midwest over the decade since opening of the first in Wichita, Kansas in 1921. The structure was boxlike and cramped with stools in front of a long counter, and no more than ten small dining tables were squeezed into the building. The exterior design attempted to present the image of a miniature medieval castle. Its specialty was a hamburger smothered with cooked onions for a nickel. Gabe had ordered two.

  Tonight, Gabe was dressed in a blue suit and matching striped tie. He was comfortable in this attire and was glad he had abandoned his farmer charade of the past week. He had flashed his badge enough times that he was certain he was fooling no one.

  A frosty mug of root beer and a plate nearly covered by two hamburgers with steaming onions drooping over the edges were placed on his table by a young, blonde waitress with a cardboard crown perched precariously on her head. “Anything else for you now, sir?” she asked.

  “No ma’am. This should be fine. Thank you.”

  She seemed like a nice young lady. Reminded him of Clara the first time they met. Of course, Clara was just as black as this girl was white. But where it counted, underneath the skin, this young lady came across as chipper-dispositioned and kind. He missed Clara and his two little girls, Chloe and Jessie, and baby Gabe. His family was everything to him, and he wouldn’t mind a desk job if it would keep him closer to home. He just wanted to get this case solved. But he would chase clues for as long as it took, and he would not give up for the sake of a quick trip home. Fellow agents had nicknamed him Bulldog for his tenacity and persistence.

  As he ate, his mind turned to Trey Ramsey. He hoped his meeting with the Indian teacher turned up something helpful today. Trey was smart as hell, and what made him so likable was that he didn’t even know it. It annoyed Gabe sometimes that Trey didn’t appear to take his job as seriously as Gabe did. But he suspected much of Trey’s seemingly flippant attitude was a façade, covering up a hurt inside. Perhaps, the loss of his father had something to do with it. But Trey must get a handle on his drinking and partying. It wasn’t just a matter of sowing wild oats; a stage Trey should have passed by now. Prohibition was the law. And Trey was a law enforcement officer. Beyond Gabe’s notion that Trey had a responsibility to carry on his life as a model for others, his career would be over if the young man was caught up in the net of a speakeasy raid.

  As he ate, Gabe chided himself for eating too many hamburgers since his arrival in South Dakota. But they were cheap, besides being darn good-tasting. He’d go off the wagon when he got home. Clara would see to it. He looked up when the door opened, and two rough-looking types, with guns holstered at their hips, walked into the restaurant and sat down at a table at the opposite end of the room. They might have been twins the way they dressed, with cowboy boots and leather vests and crumpled hats, which they did not bother to remove. But they were Mutt and Jeff, one tall a
nd string-bean thin, and the other short and on the stocky side. He pegged the shorter man as Sioux. They both glared at him like movie outlaws. Perhaps, they had watched too many of the old silent westerns, which were starting to be quickly displaced by the new talkies.

  The men ordered from the blonde waitress, evidently giving her a rough time over something. This was not a time or place for a solitary Negro to butt in, but he could pull his badge if forced to. Fortunately, she got the order and left to place it with the cook. These guys spelled trouble, and he had a hunch they had more than a casual interest in Gabriel Riley.

  Gabe finished his hamburgers, pretending he did not see the glares directed his way by the two men. When they were served, he decided it was a good time to hightail it out of the place. He didn’t want a distracting incident to flare up, and he sensed the pair across the room were primed for trouble. He dropped a generous tip on the table and got up and made his way to the door, watching the men warily out of the corner of his eye as he passed their table. They seemed to be absorbed in their meals when he stepped out the door.

  He decided to return to his hotel and place a call to the State Game Lodge, hoping to get a preliminary report from Trey on his visit to the reservation school. As he strolled down the new sidewalk, he heard a woman’s voice scream, “Mister, behind you.”

  He reached beneath his jacket for his .45 Colt, as he spun around, but he heard the cracks of gunshots and crumpled to his knees from the force of slugs that drove into his body before he could place his fingers on his weapon. Fumbling, he finally grasped the butt of his pistol and pulled it out. The forms were hazy in the dusk, but he could make out the attackers. The weight of the pistol was almost more than he could lift with his fading strength, but he got off two shots before he collapsed on the concrete. Clara and the kids. What is going to become of them? That was his last thought as blackness descended and shrouded him in its blanket.