Twilight of the Coyote

by Ron Schwab

  “Doc, what in the hell are you doing. The right arm, not the left.”

  “Oh, yes. I noticed there wasn’t much blood there.”

  He switched arms, and as near as Boss could tell the blood flow shut down significantly

  Kerrigan plucked the whiskey bottle from the table and took another swallow. “One more,” he said. “Blood makes me a little woozy.”

  Boss decided the situation could not get more bizarre. “What do you want me to do, Doc?”

  “I want you to hold that arm steady like your life depended on it. I’m going to shoot some stuff near the worst of the wounds, but it’s still going to hurt like blazes when I go to work, especially when I trim some bone. Before I start cutting, get me a pan of water and some clean rags.”

  Once Kerrigan had all his supplies laid out on the table and within reach, Boss pulled up a chair next to Bull and locked his hands on his brother’s wrist. “Start chewing wood, big brother,” he admonished.

  He watched while the physician commenced injecting something into the untorn flesh about the wounds on his brother’s hand. Then the doctor took a scalpel and began digging into the stump left by the departed finger. Bull struggled, trying to pull his hand free, and, for a moment, Boss almost surrendered and released his grip. Then the spatula dropped from Bull’s mouth and he screamed like a howling wolf before he passed out and his head dropped on the table.

  “That should help,” the doctor said, and continued working.

  The surgery and the stitching took the better part of two hours and an empty whiskey bottle, but Boss was amazed at the deftness of Kerrigan’s fingers, as he sliced and stitched and eventually pieced the raw flesh together into something that resembled a hand. Bull regained consciousness intermittently during the surgery, but he drifted away again after a few minutes torture.

  When he finished the procedure, Kerrigan rinsed off his instruments in the cold water offered by the kitchen spigot and packed his bag.

  “What do you think, Doc?”

  “Get him to bed. Get a good batch of aspirin at the apothecary. Get some salve, too. Tell them you want something for healing wounds, maybe something with honey in it . . . or just plain honey. Give him plenty of aspirin and lots of whiskey. He can drink it and rub it on the wounds. He’ll likely live, unless he gets infection or hydrophobia from whatever tried to eat him. You owe me a double sawbuck for this.”

  Boss pulled out his wallet. “Doc, I’m going to give you ten sawbucks for this. That stitches your lips.”

  “A hundred bucks seals them for eternity.”

  “They’ll be sealed for eternity, if word gets out about this. Understand?”

  “I understand perfectly, sir.”

  After Kerrigan departed, Boss helped his brother back to the couch, where he collapsed and faded away again. Boss did not know if he was sleeping or had just passed out. He didn’t care. He was pondering now whether he should have killed the good doctor.

  Chapter 33

  TREY

  The president had instructed the Secret Service to give me whatever I requested. Before leaving for Rapid City, I had asked Agent Starling if he could have one of his men find a good saddle horse and a pack animal from the lodge stables. I also asked that they put together provisions for several days. I did not explain why I wanted this done, and I knew it irked Starling not to be told. Fact was, the plan was still foggy in my own mind, but I would have it figured out when I returned early afternoon.

  I was in town now to meet with Bing Compton. I intended to put Bing in charge of coordinating the city investigation, while I embarked on my own search for Kate. I had hoped to meet Gramps at the railroad depot, but it appeared I would not finish my Rapid City business in time. Starling had assigned Frank Caputo to the task as my back-up, regardless, and the agent would drive Gramps to the State Game Lodge, where I could meet up briefly with my grandfather before embarking on my search.

  When I arrived at the sheriff’s office, I found the atmosphere intense and harried in contrast to its usual laid-back tempo. I caught a glimpse of Bing beyond the clustered desks in the open work area. Bing looked up from his desk and waved me back to his office, which consisted of movable partitions fashioned, it appeared to me, from gunnysacks and a few boards that separated Bing’s desk from his neighbors. He at least had the privacy afforded by a wall and exterior window to his back.

  As I weaved through the narrow trail between the randomly-placed office furnishings, Bing stood and stepped out to greet me with a bone-crushing handshake, which I had decided must be a South Dakota sport. I returned my best grip, conceding I still needed practice before I took on Owen Connolly again.

  “Good morning, Bing. I’m a few minutes late. I stopped at the hospital to check on Gabe.”

  “How’s he coming?” He gestured for me to take the straight back chair next to his desk, and we both sat down.

  “He’s regained consciousness, but the docs keep him pretty doped up. I saw him for a few minutes, but he wasn’t talking any sense. Carrie was there, and she says his outlook improves every time she talks to the doctors, so she’s confident he’s going to make it. His wife and kids should be here sometime tomorrow. Hopefully, that will boost his spirits.”

  “I hope so. From all you’ve said, he’s a good man.”

  “The best. And we could use his help now. Have you heard anything that might give us a lead?”

  “Not yet. I had another deputy hand-deliver messages to all the physicians in the city about the man with the missing finger. We’re calling physicians in surrounding communities like Hot Springs and Custer and Hill City. Seems to me a man in that shape has got to show up at a doctor’s office or hospital . . . and soon.”

  “Unless he’s dead.”

  “Dog bite shouldn’t have killed him.”

  “His friends might have seen him as disposable evidence.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Have you talked to your bartender friend?”

  “Yep. Ollie’s on board. I hope you got more of those double sawbucks.”

  “I do. Uncle Sam provided me with two hundred dollars for ‘evidence costs,’ the BI calls it. Just be damn sure we get our money’s worth for the dollars.”

  “I’m to check back with him late afternoon. He thought some of this smelled like a local gang he’d heard about.”

  “Tell me about this gang.”

  “Nothing to tell right now. He said he had a couple guys in the bar a few weeks back. They were half-sozzled when they got there, Ollie said, assuring me he didn’t sell alcoholic spirits. Of course, he’s a lying bastard. He doesn’t make a living selling soda pop. Anyway, they got to bragging they were a part of the Rapid City Outfit. They sold women they said. That’s as far as they went. Ollie said they weren’t smooth and slippery enough to be pimps, so he didn’t know what the hell they were talking about and didn’t care. They weren’t regulars. One was a big, rough-spoken guy he’d seen around town, but he didn’t know his name. The other fellow didn’t look and sound like he came from around here.”

  “People from the Black Hills look and talk different?”

  “I can’t explain, but especially in small towns, we can tell a stranger from a local just by the way he looks and talks. Maybe he just sets his hat on his head a certain way or doesn’t drop enough ‘Gs’ or something. Talks through his nose. Hundreds of telltale signs.”

  “I won’t argue the point. I can pick up a deep Southern accent or a Bostonian on occasion, but it takes something obvious for me to identify somebody that doesn’t belong someplace.”

  “Anyhow, Ollie’s asking around. He told me to drop by later this afternoon and he’d try to have something for me.”

  “I’m leaving it to you to follow up in town. I’m going to saddle a horse and see if I can find where they took her.”

  “That’s worse than a needle in the haystack, unless you got an idea.”

  “I told you about the Oglala girl I interviewe
d and took into protective custody, so to speak.”

  “Yeah. You said she was held at a place called the chick coop. You think that’s where they got Kate?”

  “If she’s alive, they’re holding her someplace, and that seems a likely spot.”

  “But you don’t know where it’s at.”

  “That’s where I need some help from you. Ever heard of Steeple Rock?”

  Bing pulled open his top desk drawer and fished out a folded, parchment-like sheet of paper. He laid it on his desk, unfolded the paper, and spread it out. I recognized it as a map of the Black Hills area, probably something printed for hikers and tourists. It appeared to have undergone a few years of heavy usage. “It doesn’t have all the tourist traps on it, but you’re not on vacation.”

  “No,” I said, “but I hope you’ve got something interesting to show me.”

  He picked up a pencil and circled where Rapid City, the State Game Lodge, Custer, Hot Springs, and the Shamrock Ranch were located. “Steeple Rock is about here.” He marked an ‘X’ some distance north of the lodge. “Only locals know about it. My pop and me hunt up that way a lot. It’s a big old pointy rock atop a hill, and it goes almost to the clouds. Some say it’s a lost child of the Needles, formations made up of a bunch of similar rocks along the highway northeast of the lodge. It’s rough country back in there. Tough as hell to make a road to it, so it just sits there by its lonesome. But it’s a breathtaking sight. It’s also about four to five miles due west from the Shamrock home place, I’d say.”

  “It looks like the lodge is a natural starting place. I shouldn’t have to haul the horses anyplace. I can just saddle up and go.”

  “That’s true enough. But take this map and a compass. You won’t have trouble finding Steeple Rock. You’ll know it when you see it, I guarantee. But do you know where you’re going when you get there?”

  “Northwest.”

  “That covers a lot of territory. You’ll be on the back side of the Needles. That country’s all owned by the devil. Trails twist all over hell, steep slopes. There’s a creek that zigzags downslope from that way. There’s some flat along the banks that eases a horseback ride some. I trapped that country one winter. I ought to be going with you.”

  “I’d like that, but I need somebody I can count on to work this end.”

  “I’m sure the sheriff would let me cut loose another deputy to go with you.”

  “No. Thanks, but I’ll be fine.” As the agent-in-charge, I did not wish to confess I barely knew what I was doing or where I was going. Pretty much the story of my life.

  Bing and I theorized for another half hour, and then, at his suggestion, I joined him at the White Castle for an early lunch. I should not have been surprised to find that Carrie was working her shift since she had been wearing her white uniform when I saw her at the hospital. Of course, Bing knew precisely which table placed us in her service area. From the way they looked at each other, it was obvious their relationship had progressed quickly since that night at the hospital. I could not help but cheer for them.

  “You and Carrie seem to be getting along well,” I said, as we wolfed down our hamburgers.

  “Yeah. I’m nuts about her.”

  “She doesn’t seem to find you too offensive.”

  “I hope not. But I don’t think we’re going anyplace soon.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She received a call from the Kansas City Art Institute. They’re sending an application for a scholarship and want her to put together what they call a portfolio of her work to send with it. This just came from out of the blue. I don’t suppose you know anything about this?”

  “Me? No. This is the first I’ve heard about it.” I didn’t tell him I had talked to the first lady about Carrie’s heroism and her artistic talent. I made no requests or suggestions. But the result was typical Grace Coolidge. If the school authorities determined Carrie had talent worthy of development but there were no available scholarship funds, the first lady would call one of her husband’s supporters, and the scholarship would appear.

  “Well,” Bing said. “This would be her dream, and I would never get in the way of it. If we’re meant to be, we’ll find a way.”

  I had a feeling I was listening to a wise young man at that instant. Once again, Bing Compton was not the awkward kid I judged him to be at our first encounter. It made sense to me that whatever true love was, part of it had something to do with not stomping on each other’s dreams.

  Chapter 34

  TREY

  When I drove into the parking area near the State Game Lodge shortly before one o’clock, I was surprised to see two saddled geldings and a packhorse loaded with gear and supplies staked out on the front lawn. I parked and hurried to the lodge, but I stopped on the veranda when Gramps stepped out the front door. I almost did not recognize him because he was dressed for the trail, attired in a well-worn buckskin shirt and faded blue jeans and cowboy boots. A low-crowned hat was pulled down on his forehead, and, of all things, like an old west gunslinger, he carried a holstered pistol hanging from a cartridge belt on his hip.

  “Gramps,” I said, embracing him briefly and awkwardly. “Where are you headed?”

  “Wherever you are going . . . if you will permit me.”

  “That’s why there’s an extra saddled horse?”

  “Yes. President Coolidge said you were embarking on a search for the young lady. I came up here to spend some time with you, and I asked the president if he had any objection to my joining you. He thought it was an excellent idea and urged me to do so. I selected the horses and helped with packing the gear and supplies. I will stay out of your way and will try not to offer unsolicited advice. I’m a bit rusty, but I have some tracking experience, as you know. You’ve got veto power. If you say no, I’ll spend some time with the president and relax until you return.”

  I could not envision my grandfather relaxing. He probably could not define the word. Gram Skye had told me once that Gramps’s life was always one adventure after another, although many of his quests dwelt in his own head. She understood because she saw life that way, too. She and Gramps were soulmates, she said, and their relationship was an easy one that had never been challenged over the years. They were best friends, she insisted, and each always had the other’s back. I was a bit envious when I thought about that. Their bond was something to aspire to, but I doubted few couples attained it.

  So, Gramps was here now for another adventure. Who was I to deny him? And he did have experience that might be useful, even though it reached back to his frontier days as a young Army scout. I swallowed my pride. “Gramps, I would be grateful for your help and company.” I plucked Bing’s map from my jacket pocket and handed it to Gramps. “Look this over while I’m changing. I’ll be ready to ride in twenty minutes.”

  Two hours later, we reined in our horses at the base of Steeple Rock. “Well,” I said, “this is our starting place, and I’m relying on a frightened girl’s memory. It’s a longshot, but this is the best I can come up with.”

  “From what you told me,” Gramps said, “the young lady had a remarkable memory and a bucketful of grit. I’ll bet Cleo and Skye are fast friends by now and that when I get home one of the spare rooms is occupied by another orphaned calf again.”

  I had not thought about it much before, but Gram Skye and Gramps had always had other folks sharing their house: Sioux, whites, Negroes, and mixed bloods of one sort or another, and mostly children. Uncle Jake, a full-blood Brule Sioux, had been the first, Dad told me once, and my grandparents had adopted him. But Dad was their only blood child. I just always took for granted that long-term guests lived in the extra rooms, and I remember dozens of strangers, many calling my grandparents “mom” or “dad,” showing up holidays and throughout the year. It struck me then that family is more than blood ties; it’s about special connections. Why was I only now becoming aware what unique people Gram Skye and Gramps were? Something else to think about in quieter moments. I fo
rced myself to focus on my mission.

  I said, “If Cleo was right, the chick coop is northwest of here, but we’re still tossing darts at a bullseye we can’t see. Bing said the only way we’d make time in that direction is to follow that creek bottom.” I pointed downslope to the winding ribbon of water that raced from the mountains and tumbled over the rocky creek bed on the way to the valley below.

  “Makes sense. Lead the way. I’ll follow with the packhorse.”

  The steep trail to the creek bottom forced us to dismount and lead the horses at several places, and I found myself getting impatient over the loss of time. Gramps seemed unperturbed, however, so I kept my complaints to myself. By the time we reached the creek, I figured we had no more than an hour of daylight. We paused to allow the horses to drink, and Gramps reached into his saddlebags and removed a pair of field glasses.

  “I talked that grumpy Secret Service chief out of these,” Gramps explained.

  “Edmund Starling. He knows what he’s doing, but I don’t think guys or gals would invite him out to make whoopie. He wouldn’t know a good time if it hit him between the eyes.”

  “On occasion your grandmother has accused me of that. But I have been known to surprise her.” He smiled and pressed the binoculars to his eyes, obviously roaming the craggy peaks to the north and west.

  After some moments, Gramps passed the binoculars to me. “Take a look. I don’t know how anybody would access those peaks to the west. On the other hand, as you move more toward the north, there seem to be some stair-step plateaus along the mountainsides, and some of the surface is pockmarked with holes, like there might have been mining efforts some years back.”

  “Which might have left some hollow spots for carving out a chick coop.” I studied the dark mountains which had given the Black Hills its name. I could see what Gramps was talking about, but I would not have recognized what I was seeing if he had not pointed it out. “I guess that narrows the search some.”