by Ron Schwab
“So, this stranger helped you plan your journey back?”
“Her name was Zelda Crocker, and I will never forget her. She made me realize there are good people in this world. Anyway, her son, Reggie, is a truck driver, and he was taking a load of furniture to Minneapolis in two days and would get me that far. Zelda said he would not leave me alone there until he found a reliable trucker to take me to another safe stop. She called it a relay. She said they would try to find good men but that I should not be too trusting and be prepared to run if I had to. She gave me a pocket knife with a long blade, sort of like one the reservation boys called a toad stabber. I stayed with her for the two days. She fed me, and I slept on her couch, and we had talks like I had never had before. When I got ready to leave with Reggie, she gave me the thirty dollars as a loan. She kept it in a jar in her kitchen cabinet, and I could see she was giving me every dollar she had in that jar. I almost cried.”
I said, “I have an allowance for information fees. When we take you to the State Game Lodge, I’ll give you the money, and you can send it with a letter to Zelda before you leave for Lockwood. Maybe you can write to her from time to time and visit her someday.”
Her eyes moistened, and, for the first time, she smiled. “Are you sure? I would love to do that.”
“I promise. It’s your money, free and clear. Now, tell me the rest. Did you have any trouble getting home from Chicago?”
“Not at all. The relay worked fine. I rode with four different Negro truck drivers. They all were gentlemen and very protective of me . . . except one. He pulled off the road and tried to fondle my breasts and thought he was going to get more until I pulled out my knife and touched it to his throat. He changed his mind. He couldn’t get rid of me fast enough after that. One of the drivers told me there might have been trouble if I had not been Indian. My skin is dark enough that it was all right for me to be seen with a colored man. If I had been blonde and white, there might have been problems along the way.”
I sighed. “Yes, I suppose that’s possible. I would like to talk to you some more and see if we can get more detailed descriptions of the men you encountered. I would also like the names of all the girls who were taken, as well. I’ll see if the Chicago office can look in to their whereabouts, but I’m not optimistic. There may be some who don’t even want to be found by now. We can go over this at the lodge, if you are willing to go with us.”
Cleo looked at Sage. “Will you get word to my grandmother? Tell her I am safe? Nothing else. It is better for her if she can just say I left. When this is over, I will contact her.”
“Of course,” Sage said. “I think you should do this.”
Chapter 27
KATE
Kate slept late the morning after the meeting at the church with Cleo Yellow Bird. Late for her was seven o’clock. She was relieved that her father had already eaten breakfast and headed out with Stretch to hay ground with their horse-drawn mowers. After the mowed hay cured for a week, they would be loading it on hay wagons to haul to strategic spots on the ranch to stack for winter feeding. It was hard work, and she felt like a slacker for not helping. Her father had asked her, though, to ride fence lines today and mend fence where she could and make notes of any places that would require replacement. He had employed a fencing contractor who would come in a few weeks to build what new fence they couldn’t handle themselves.
Grandma Beth was evidently out collecting eggs from the hen house, but she had left a few biscuits and bacon slices in the oven, which was still warm. The coffee on the stovetop was not hot but warm enough to tolerate. As she spread strawberry jam on her biscuits, she thought back to her return home the previous night. She had arrived home shortly after eight o’clock, but her father reacted like she had been out all night. He wanted to know where she had been all day, whom she had been with and what they were doing. She had fibbed a bit, saying she had been at the State Game Lodge and had dined with President and Mrs. Coolidge, which was true as far as it went. She felt her connection with the BI investigation was confidential business. He asked if she had been with Trey, and when she replied in the affirmative, his face turned beet-red.
Owen Connolly had said, “I don’t like that young man. You don’t know all there is to know about him. And he’s too much of a dandy. He’s just after one thing.”
Kate had snapped back, “And what’s that?”
Her response had flustered her father. “You know what I’m talking about. And if you want a good husband someday, you’ll save yourself.”
The conversation had taken an uncomfortable turn for her father, and he had done an about-face and stomped out of the room. Later, she wondered about his comment that she didn’t know all there was to know about Trey. Was it just a random statement made in anger, or was he aware of some dark secret from Trey’s past? As for saving herself? Sorry, Dad. Too late. As for that one thing Trey was supposedly after, she was a little insulted he hadn’t made a move for it. Of course, since she was a reformed slut, that didn’t mean he would get it.
She smiled as she devoured the last biscuit and recalled yesterday’s adventure. That’s how she was thinking of her involvement in the BI investigation. An exciting adventure. Trey had insisted he drive Kate’s Buick on the return trip to the State Game Lodge, suggesting Cleo Yellow Bird and Kate ride in the back seat and get better acquainted. Kate had no objection and assumed Trey wanted to test the vehicle, but she thought they would have made better time on horseback.
It had been fun to watch Cleo meet the president and first lady. The girl was obviously awestruck and disbelieving that this could be happening to her. Grace Coolidge quickly put Cleo at ease, however, and insisted they join the first couple for dinner. After another interview with the Oglala girl, they had enjoyed a western menu of T-bone steaks, fried potatoes and baked beans, accompanied by a variety of vegetables and fresh-baked sourdough bread topped by cherry pie for dessert. It seemed that his visit to the Black Hills was converting President Coolidge to a new diet, at least for the duration.
Cleo had eaten heartily and didn’t leave a crumb on her plate, but Kate had been mildly surprised at her poise and perfect table manners, wondering if Sage Rainmaker included such subjects in her school curriculum. It made sense. She ate quietly, speaking only when a question was directed to her, but her keen intelligence was obvious.
The president had been in good humor, a sharp turnaround from his mood when she had spoken with him that morning. Perhaps, a decision made, whatever it was, had something to do with that, Kate hoped.
Now, she had better get to work. Kate got up from the kitchen table and quickly washed and dried her breakfast dishes and then hurried out to the stable to saddle War Paint. A half hour later she was astride her gelding, saddlebags stuffed with tools, including pliers, a wire cutter, and fence tool, trailed by a pack horse loaded with a roll of wire for fence mending and bridging broken strands of barbed wire, a wire stretcher, and other tools and supplies.
They headed south along the fence line that bordered the crushed-rock road running along much of the east border of the Shamrock. The Labrador, Galahad, ranged in the lush meadow surrounding Kate, sniffing the ground, scaring up an occasional quail or prairie hen that fluttered away, but mostly stalking imaginary prey.
Kate reined in whenever she spotted a gap in the barbed-wire strands that framed the rangelands or a loose wire springing in the breeze. She would quickly repair the damage and move on. Often, she found hair on the barbs near the fence breach, indicating a deer or other critter had hit the wire causing the stress that triggered the wire break. Cattle tended to have more respect for the barrier, unless they sensed a weak spot to exploit when lusher grass was on the other side. This occurred more often in the fall when the pasture had been grazed down.
By midmorning, the rays of a full sun started to warm her back and her shirt was sticking to her skin. Perspiration was forming dark patches under the arms of her pale blue shirt, and, after dismounting to splice
two stray wires, she paused and plucked a canteen from her saddlebags. While she drank greedily from the canvas-covered metal container, she heard the chugging of a vehicle motor coming her way from the north. Probably Stretch or Grandma Beth driving the truck out to check on her. The thought annoyed and pleased her at the same time. She had been fixing fence since she turned twelve, and she was an adult who could look after herself now. On the other hand, folks checked on you because they cared. She had passed through a phase when the watchfulness upset her, and she had responded with outbursts or rebellion. She had now attained resigned acceptance.
As the vehicle approached, Kate had to erase her previous thoughts. The small, battered truck was not from the Shamrock, although it was a Ford model favored by her father. The driver slowed the truck as it passed by, and she observed a front seat passenger looking at her intently. The truck kept moving snaillike down the road, and her eyes followed its movement. She noticed the truck was fitted with side panels extending from the bed, and that several tarps stretched over a few large barrels and boxes pushed against the cab’s back. She also saw what might have been a layer of full feed sacks to the rear of the truck’s bed. The vehicle’s sudden appearance had made Kate uneasy, and she relaxed only when the truck disappeared over the horizon. She supposed the truck’s load was headed toward the Lazy K, which had an entry road about five miles south, or a farmstead on one of several small, subsistence farms along the way.
Kate worked her way down the fence line for another hour, pleased to discover only a few minor breaks. She reined in her gelding when she came upon the cluster of cottonwood trees she had been looking for near a stream that cascaded out of the Black Hills to the west and sliced through the Shamrock ranch valley. She looked beyond the stream and caught sight of one of the ranch’s angus herds grazing against the shadowy backdrop of the saw-toothed granite mountains. She nudged War Paint away from the fence line and down the gentle slope toward her oasis. Then, she dismounted, removed the lunch she had packed from her saddlebags and released the horse to graze, trusting, as usual, that her friend would not wander. She staked the packhorse within easy reach of the stream.
Galahad knew the lunchtime routine, and he stopped his roaming and raced eagerly toward Kate, as she sat down beneath a mammoth cottonwood and opened her lunch bag. Before she bit into her sandwich, she tossed the dog a thick slice of roast beef, knowing he would be begging for more and holding a few more slices in reserve for when he started his begging. Sharing lunch was a tradition, and she always packed extra for Galahad.
After eating her sandwich, and several shortbread cookies, Kate leaned back against the tree’s base and dozed off. She was awakened a few minutes later by Galahad’s low, rolling growl. She lifted the brim of her hat and looked around. At first, she saw nothing, but when she got up and surveyed the landscape a second time, she caught sight of movement on the creekbank downstream. As she focused on the object, she saw it was a man, and he was walking with some speed and deliberation in her direction. She could not imagine why any man would be walking in their pasture, and she was not about to meet him without horse and rifle. She cast her eyes for War Paint, and spotted him some fifty yards distant, further than the gelding usually wandered. Then she caught sight of another man walking down the slope from the road. He was carrying a rifle. She whistled for the horse, and he raised his head and started trotting her way. She took off running to meet War Paint, and Galahad followed on her heels.
A rifle cracked, and the horse shrieked in pain, stumbling forward to his knees, and she saw rivulets of blood running down the gelding’s neck, just in front of the shoulder. She began to tremble, and her stomach threatened to heave at her fear for her old companion. She kept on running toward the injured horse until a man yelled, “Stop, or I put another bullet in the critter.”
She obeyed and turned. It was the Indian who had stalked the president, absent his braided long hair. She shot a glance toward the shady spot where she had staked the packhorse and saw that the mare had pulled loose and disappeared, likely frightened by the gunshot.
She wheeled to run west across the stream, but she was intercepted by the other man, who caught her by the wrist and twisted harshly, tossing her to the ground. This man was tall, with huge muscular arms and shoulders and fierce, stormy eyes that dared her to resist. She did not. But he suddenly released her when Galahad closed his jaws on the man’s ankle, roaring like an enraged lion. The man pulled a pistol that rested on his hip, but the dog latched on to his hand and locked his jaws and began to rip. The big man kicked at the dog and tried to pull his hand away, screaming in pain and panic.
Another gunshot, and Galahad flinched, holding on and dragging the man to his knees. With the second shot, the dog’s jaws released the mangled hand, and he slumped to the earth within a few feet from Kate. She crawled to Galahad’s side and put her hand under his head, lying down beside the still body and pressing her face to the animal’s and sobbing uncontrollably, oblivious to the two intruders.
Finally, the stocky Indian told her. “Get up, young lady. You’re coming with us. Now.” Only then did she become aware of the moaning from the other man, who had removed his shirt and wrapped it around the injured hand.
Kate got up, trying to put aside her grief for the moment, realizing her own survival was at stake. “Who are you? What do you want?” she asked.
“Shut up, bitch,” the big man yelled. “Just do what you’re told.”
“I’m going to finish off the horse,” the Indian called George said.
“No,” Kate pled. “Not if he’s got a chance.”
“What horse?” asked the big man.
Kate turned to where War Paint had gone down. He was gone.
“He must have got up and wandered off,” George said. “He won’t get far.”
Kate prayed the Indian was wrong. Anyway, War Paint’s fate was out of her hands—and theirs. And she was grateful for that.
“Now, listen girl,” George said in a raspy voice. “You’ve seen we can kill when we got a need. You’re either coming along with no trouble, or I can put a bullet in your brain and leave you to rot with the damned cur. Your choice.”
All she could do now was buy some time and hope she had an opportunity to escape or someone caught up to these animals. “No trouble,” she said.
George said, “We’ve got the truck parked on an access drive to the pasture.” He pointed south, and she knew the spot, well-sheltered from the north by a thick patch of cedar trees.
George grabbed Kate roughly by the arm and yanked her forward. As they walked up the slope, she looked over her shoulder at the prone form of Galahad and, pulling up her dwindling reserves of determination, fought back the tears that threatened to erupt. When they reached the truck, she was surprised to see Willy Hobson leaning against the front fender. He smiled when he saw her and went over to the gate, released the latch, and swung it open to allow Kate and her captors through. Bull Bullock was still moaning and staggered to the truck cab and opened the door on the passenger side and climbed in.
“What’s the matter with him, Uncle George?” Willy asked.
“Dog chewed up his hand. Made a mess of it.”
“I heard gun shots. Did you kill the dog?”
“Yep. Shot a horse, too, but the damn thing still got away.”
“What are we doing with her?” Willy asked, nodding toward Kate.
“The chick coop.”
The place Cleo talked about. Kate reminded herself that this at least gave her a temporary reprieve. They didn’t intend to kill her yet. But why did they choose her?
“Willy, help me get this dame in the back of the truck.” George jerked Kate’s arm and started dragging her to the rear of the vehicle. Willy followed, looking at Kate with puzzlement.
“You know she’s cozy with the president and a BI agent, don’t you?”
“That’s why she’s here. Boss wants to get back at her for helping Coolidge get away.”
&nb
sp; “Do you think that’s smart?”
“You ask too many questions. But no, I don’t. But Boss is still ramrodding the outfit . . . for now.”
“You taking over the outfit?”
“Not yet. Now, shut up and do what you’re told.”
“Climb up there, girl,” George said, when they stood behind the truck.
Kate pulled away. “No.” She kicked George sharply on the shin, but his grip was a steel manacle. His fist drove into her eye like a sledge, and her knees buckled, but he still held on. Her head spun, and relentless pain stabbed her cheek and temple.
“Willy, toss her on the truck bed,” George said.
He responded literally, and she had a brief sensation of flight before her body slammed on the hardwood bed. “How you going to keep her up here?” Willy asked.
She sensed that the men were now in the truck bed, standing near her.
“Take the lid off the barrel on the right. It’s empty.”
“You ain’t going to put her in the barrel?”
“Damn right, I am.”
She flailed, trying to get up and run, but George launched several booted kicks to her ribs, and the agony made her forget about her head. She was only vaguely aware of their arms lifting her and the rough hands stuffing her into the barrel. And then the lid came down, leaving her cramped in blackness in an upright fetal position.
George said, “Pull the sacks of feed to the front and stack them around the barrels to keep them in place. It’ll give me a place to sit, too. I’ll ride back here. You keep on driving.”
“What about Bull?”
“We’ll leave him with Boss. He can take care of big brother.”
Kate heard the truck start up and groaned as the pain shot through her body when it bounced onto the lip of the road. She was twisted like a pretzel and when she thought she could take the torment no longer, she slipped away into unconsciousness.