Twilight of the Coyote Page 5

  The first lady was warm and cheery, her expert orchestration of the dinner conversation reflecting her experience and natural charm. She teased her husband when he became too serious, and she enjoyed the man’s dry wit that tended to pop up at the most unexpected times. Kate had been seated between Trey and his Grandma Skye with the first lady sitting across the table between the president and Ethan Ramsey. There was not a chair at either end of the table. She thought it strange that the president did not sit at the head of the table. Skye Ramsey and Grace Coolidge had carried the conversation, the men speaking only when specifically addressed or nudged into the dialogue by the first lady. The three men had retreated now to a sitting room off the dining area for cigars and coffee or whatever it was men did after such meals. Given these were prohibition times, she assumed there was no alcohol. Trey had looked like he was a reluctant participant.

  Mrs. Coolidge excused herself to speak with staff about Independence Day and birthday arrangements that would take place at the lodge the next day, evidently starting by mid-morning. She had suggested Kate and Skye enjoy a walk or relax on the veranda. She would join them when her tasks were finished.

  Kate and Skye strolled leisurely down a crushed-rock pathway that edged the gardens surrounding the lodge, chatting amiably about Kate’s family and the Shamrock Ranch. Kate noted that Skye Ramsey was not only knowledgeable about the cattle business but had unusual skill at turning the conversation to her companions; Kate had found herself rambling on at length about her father and grandparents. For the second time that day she told her mother’s story. It was also the second time in nearly ten years. The realization startled her.

  “Mrs. Ramsey, until today I had never spoken to anyone other than my grandmother about the circumstances of my mother’s death. The subject is verboten with my father, and I always just told friends my mother had died and left it at that.”

  “Please, call me Skye. I think we’re going to be great friends. I don’t think your experience is unusual. Some people try to pretend a tragedy did not happen by not talking about it, I think. Of course, that doesn’t work. Ethan will not mention Deuce’s name for the longest times. I get comfort from talking about his life. He is still with me, in my heart. You did know we lost a son in the war?”

  “Trey told me. I didn’t know his name.”

  “Ethan Junior . . . Deuce.”

  “I get it. And Trey is the third. That’s different.”

  “The nicknames weren’t planned. They just happened, like they usually do.”

  “I didn’t ask Trey. Do you have other children?”

  “One. And he’s been a godsend to us. He runs the ranch operation now . . . but tolerates my unsolicited advice. His name is Jacob Fox Ramsey. He is our adopted son. He’s full-blood Brule Sioux. That’s another story. He’s fifty-seven years old, married to a lovely Sioux woman, and they have given us three special grandchildren . . . two girls and a boy. Jake’s son, Clay, finished his degree at the University of Wyoming this spring and has started reading the law in Ethan’s office. Ethan is delighted. He had hoped that Deuce and Trey might find their ways to the law, but it didn’t happen. Trey tried, but he and his grandfather always seem to lock antlers, like a young buck fighting an old buck. I hope to see them make a comfortable peace before I die.”

  “They seemed civil at dinner.”

  “Yes, that’s the word. They are civil. But friendship and warmth would be better.”

  Kate thought of her father. She could relate to the situation.

  “Things will ease in few months. Late spring, Ethan becomes increasingly tense and more easily aggravated. He’s ordinarily an almost irritatingly calm and relaxed man. I cannot upset him if I try, but as we draw nearer the anniversary of Deuce’s death, Ethan grows agitated and terribly moody. It will pass after that day passes, and he will do well until the cycle commences again.”

  “When is the anniversary date?”

  “August 5.”

  Kate’s heart hammered in her chest, and she suddenly felt short of breath. She caught sight of an axe-hewn bench beside the trail and stumbled to it and clumsily plopped down.

  Skye sat down beside her and wrapped her arm around Kate’s shoulder. “Kate, what is it, dear?”

  Kate took a deep breath. “My mother, Coleen, died August 5, 1918.”

  They sat silently for some minutes, as Kate regained her composure. In the hills above the lodge, a coyote howled. Another responded. And then a pack began barking in the distance.

  Kate said, “Dad hates coyotes. Shoots them whenever he gets the chance. I never could. I love to listen to them at nights. They give me peace somehow. I miss my coyotes when I’m away at school.”

  Skye said, “The coyote is my spirit animal.”

  “Really. Is that like a good luck charm?”

  “I suppose you could say so. It comes from a vision my uncle, Lame Buffalo, had. It was during the period I met Ethan and had the spill from a horse that cost me my hand.”

  Kate would never have inquired about the infirmity, but it would have been impossible not to notice the pinned-up sleeve on Skye’s blouse. It appeared she had lost her left arm a few inches below the elbow. “Can you tell me about the vision?”

  “It is a long story. It involved a tragic lynching of two Indian boys near Lockwood. My uncle Lame Buffalo’s son rode with the boys but escaped to the village. I taught at a Quaker school near Lockwood and employed Ethan as a lawyer for my cousin. We went into the mountains to convince my uncle to send my cousin back to stand trial. He was obviously reluctant, and at night Lame Buffalo went off into the hills alone, seeking a sign from the Great Spirit. When he returned the next morning, he ordered my cousin to return to Lockwood with us. He explained that while waiting for a sign, he heard a male coyote calling for his mate from the far-end of the valley. The female answered from somewhere above the cave where Lame Buffalo sat. He closed his eyes, and the vision came.”

  “You’re giving me chills.”

  Skye continued. “In his dream, my uncle saw a river, the flat water . . . the Platte, it is called today. On one side stood warriors painted for war and armed for battle. On the other were soldiers of the U.S. Cavalry, who were also prepared for war. My uncle raised his arm to signal attack, but suddenly Ethan, known among the Sioux as the Puma, appeared from the mass of soldiers. He waded into the shallow flat water and crossed it to where the Sioux warriors waited. Standing before my uncle, he held out his arm and cut his own wrist with his knife. My uncle said blood flowed like milk from the teats of a nursing mare. And then, seemingly from the river’s mist, I appeared next to Ethan. I was known as Sky-in-the-Morning among my Brule family, and I was dressed in the doeskins of a Sioux woman.”

  Spellbound, Kate asked. “Go on. Please.”

  “I took Ethan’s knife and cut my own arm and pressed my flesh to his until our blood mixed. And when my uncle looked across the river, the soldiers were turning their horses away from this place they had chosen for battle. Then, the Puma took my hand, and we walked away, crossing the river to follow his people. Lame Buffalo turned to the Brule warriors and said, ‘Return to your lodges; we shall fight the white man no more.’”

  “Were you and Ethan in love already at the time of the vision?”

  “No, he was my lawyer. And, I must say I found him rather annoying at times. Some days later, even after he saved my life and was going to ask me to marry him, I cut him short and returned to my people. It was months later, and after much bloodshed that we reunited and were married.”

  “And the vision. Somehow I think there is more to your story.”

  “Ethan does not believe in visions or prophecies, but I am open to such possibilities. Many people in my village were later massacred by raiders seeking ill-gotten gold bullion that had come into the hands of my trader father. He had hidden the treasure near his abandoned trading post in Wyoming’s Powder River country. I, and several other young women, had been taken captive by the renegades. Et
han and several of his friends tracked the raiders and obtained our release, although he was seriously wounded and nearly died. We found the gold and established an organization called the Lame Buffalo Foundation. All the money was used to purchase ranch and farm land, which would be sold first to survivors of our Brule village and then to other Indians who chose to establish lives outside the reservation. The foundation carries the mortgage. After operation of the ranches or farms for at least five years, the mortgage debt is cancelled, and the operator owns the land free and clear. It pleases me that many of my people became very successful and productive over the years and that most of the land remains in the hands of their families. They have prospered and become a part of the fabric of America far beyond those of my people who have remained on the reservation.”

  “And you see this as the prophecy from the night of the coyote fulfilled.”

  “Yes, and I think it is a harmless enough thought, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry to be so late, ladies. The arrangements for tomorrow are starting to overwhelm.”

  Kate looked up and saw Mrs. Coolidge stepping carefully down the path, which was shadowed by darkness now. She also caught a glimpse of a Secret Service agent a few steps back and off the pathway. It must be awful to have someone trailing you all the time, Kate thought. Rarely a private moment to be yourself. Perhaps, she should have her own agent to keep her away from the likes of Liam Karlsson.

  Skye said, “We’ve had a nice time getting acquainted. The coyotes are howling and barking this evening and gave me a wonderful opening for my storytelling. And you didn’t have to listen to the tale again.”

  “Oh, but I would love to hear it again. You and Ethan had quite a harrowing adventures in your early years. Have you ever considered writing about them? It would be such a gift to new generations.”

  “I would have to tell our stories as fiction. No one would believe the truth.”

  “Regardless,” Grace Coolidge said, “You should think about it.”

  The women moved along the path back to the lodge, Kate trailing along behind a few paces, the Secret Service agent behind her. In the soft moonlight glow, she caught a glimpse of a man stooped over next to a bucket in the garden. He appeared to be pulling weeds. What a strange time to be engaged in such a task. She supposed, though, with guests arriving tomorrow, the staff was working overtime to spruce-up the grounds.

  Chapter 10

  TREY

  President Coolidge had excused himself for the evening. He was a creature of undeviating habit, and an early bedtime was deeply ingrained in his routine. Unfortunately, for me, he would be awake with the sunrise, and he told me he would like to work a few hours on budget details before preparing for the day’s festivities.

  Gramps, on the other hand tended to be a night owl, like he was looking for reasons to avoid bedtime. I wondered if it had to do with ghosts who visited when his eyes closed and he surrendered to sleep. Gram had mentioned she worried because Gramps often moaned and tossed and turned in their bed and occasionally cried out and awoke in a cold sweat. Peace increasingly eluded him as the years slipped away.

  Gramps and I remained in the room, seated in cushioned leather-covered chairs and overseen by walls of elk, deer and buffalo heads. A stuffed black bear stood on its back legs in one corner, and a bobcat crouched on the mantel above the fireplace. This room had not previously been opened to presidential guests, but I assumed it was a private meeting room of sorts. When the president left the room, I thought of getting up and following, but I didn’t see any way I could do that without making it obvious I was avoiding Gramps, which, of course, was precisely what I had in mind. I would have given my last nickel for a bottle of corn bourbon right now.

  “A drink of something stronger than coffee would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, if we’re law abiding, we can’t. Besides, I’m BI.” I thought these were careful statements. Gramps was known for his aversion to liquor, although he had opposed prohibition. I remember him saying, “A free man has an inalienable right to be a fool. Just leave folks alone.”

  “Well, Mr. BI man, I have a shot or two of giggle juice every evening these days, and the feds are toothless to do anything about it. Prohibition has tripled crime of all kinds in this country. Legalize booze and half the Chicago mobs will collapse.”

  Gramps shocked me with his words. Straight-laced Gramps, drinking illegal hooch every night. At the same time, it strangely concerned me.

  “I concede that too many BI resources are committed to the unenforceable.”

  “Tell me, how are you liking your work with the BI?”

  “It’s interesting enough.” I said noncommittally.

  “I was wrong to push you to take the job with Hoover. I realize now, it’s dangerous work. I thought they’d put you in an office working numbers. I understand you are on an assignment here that involves murderers . . . and now there is the matter of the attempted assassination.”

  I bristled. “You don’t think I can handle a dangerous assignment?”

  “I know you can. And I’m certain you will do so more than competently. I’m selfish. I don’t want to see your life at risk. Losing Deuce was something I will never come to terms with. It troubles me that I placed you in harm’s way. My God, you lost your father, and all you’ve ever got from me was platitudes. I’ve felt so sorry for myself, I haven’t had your back the way I should.”

  I didn’t like this conversation a bit, and it was making it tougher for me to blame my problems on Gramps. It’s tougher to go through life without scapegoats, isn’t it? “I haven’t always used good judgment,” I said.

  “Well, that’s true enough. After you got your business degree from WU, I was wrong to have pushed you into law clerking to prepare for the bar. That’s not to say you wouldn’t make a fine lawyer. But we all must choose our own paths. I say this as a man who has made a wagonload of mistakes a six-horse team couldn’t pull. I blame myself for your father’s death because I always thought he applied for an appointment to West Point to get away from me and do things his own way. No father was ever prouder when Deuce graduated and got that officer’s commission. But I never told him that. I never told him I loved him, but no man ever loved his son more. These are just a few of the mistakes in my wagon. Thank God, I did one thing right when I convinced your grandmother to marry me.”

  Tears trickled down Gramps’ cheeks. He had left me struggling for the right words, but I could not come up with them. “I’m sure Dad knew those things.”

  “Well, it’s too late to change it. But I vowed before we left Lockwood, I wouldn’t make that mistake with you. Trey, I’m proud of your graduation from WU with highest honors and that unbelievable numbers brain of yours. I wanted you to read law in my office because I thought you’d be a great lawyer. But I also hoped that it would give me a chance to get closer to you and know you better. Rectify past mistakes. I just want you to know I love you, Trey. I always have. And I always will, whatever course you take in your life. I do understand you’ve got to blaze your own trail. And I will have your back if you need me, so long as I can take a breath.”

  Frankly, I had had enough of this, and I just mumbled, “I love you too, Gramps.”

  “How’s Zoe?”

  Gramps was prone to shifting topics in an instant, but I figured he had spat out the words he had probably rehearsed in his head many times and was pressed to make a quick escape. This was fine with me.

  “Mom’s doing very well. She and Ted love San Antonio.” Three years after Dad’s death, Mom remarried. After seven years, she remained deeply in love with the Texas wildcatter she married, as near as I could tell. It was a rags-to-riches and back again sort of life, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “She’s a fine woman. I’ll always be grateful she brought you with her to Wyoming after we lost Deuce. She and your Grandma Skye became close during that time and I know they still write.”

  “Yes, Mom’s a writer. I’m a little sl
ow getting back to her and have to answer three or four letters sometimes.”

  He shifted again. “Can I ask you something about the assassination attempt?”

  “Yes. I may not know the answer to your question.”

  “How did assassins know the president was going on a fishing outing?”

  “I suppose they had someone watching the lodge from a safe distance. But that’s conjecture. I can’t answer your question, and the Secret Service isn’t keeping me in the loop on their thinking. It’s a good bet they resent a BI agent being anywhere near the case. Gramps, these agencies are as territorial as mountain cats.”

  “They wouldn’t have a crew of three killers watching just on the chance the president would leave the lodge. And from what the president told me, they seemed to know exactly where he and his agents were headed. He said the destination is always reported to the agent-in-charge whenever he or the first lady depart for any purpose.”

  “I see what you’re getting at. You think there is a leak from the staff.” I had to give Gramps his due. He never missed much. He saw things that others did not with some consistency, a carry-over, perhaps, from his days as an Army scout.

  “Who’s that young man I see scurrying about the property? He’s always sweeping or painting or tinkering with some damned thing. And he’s always working where there’s a gathering of people, usually not far from the president or first lady. Before dinner, he was hammering on the floor just outside the dining room, but I noticed he didn’t have any nails.”

  “That would be Willy. I don’t remember his last name. Now that you mention it, he does seem to be everyplace. I guess we’re so accustomed to him being around, he’s become invisible.”

  “Exactly. Somehow this man doesn’t feel right to me. I assume he’s not a part of the presidential contingent?”

  “No, he’s an employee of the State Game Lodge. But I’m sure all of the staff members were checked out by the Secret Service.”