Twilight of the Coyote Page 7

  “Dad and I have had trouble ever since Mom died. I don’t lie to him if silence doesn’t count.” She pointed up the slope toward the lodge. “There was a man looking down the hill at us, longer than casual. Maybe he was just curious.”

  I turned. “Was it the handyman?”

  “No. I can’t say for sure, but I thought he looked like a darkie. Dressed in bib overalls and a straw hat. Like a farmer.”

  Chapter 13

  TREY

  As we walked back toward the festivities at the lodge, I explained to Kate that Gabriel Riley was the senior agent for the BI investigation and that I doubted he would take kindly to be referred to as a “darkie.” She assured me she would never want to offend anyone because of his race. She had seen few Negroes during her lifetime, and folks she knew, who did not use the derogatory “N word,” tended to refer to black people as “darkies.”

  Gabe had disappeared by the time we returned to the chaos on the grounds. I started to escort Kate to a flatbed wagon where some ladies appeared to be making sandwiches and selling pie when the celebrants nearest the lodge veranda began clapping and cheering. Kate and I veered off in the direction of the racket but were eventually blocked by the hordes who were pressing forward. We backed away, then, for a clearer view, and I was shocked to see the president standing on the top porch step wearing a huge ten-gallon hat, a red silk cowboy shirt, a purple kerchief and a pair of white chaps with “Cal” emblazoned on them. The usually staid president was smiling like a kid at Christmas. I learned later that a Boy Scout troop from Custer had given him a bay mare with saddle and other tack. The chaps had been a gift from the cowboy band.

  “Isn’t he cute?” Kate said.

  Insane, I thought. “Well, everybody seems to be loving it.”

  “It’s nice to see him having fun on his birthday. He seems to carry a great sadness on his shoulders.”

  “Let’s go eat while everyone’s preoccupied with the president.”

  “Okay. I’m starving.”

  We made our way to the flatbed trailer, where we each selected ham sandwiches, baked beans and potato salad for lunch. We also were given a complimentary slice of chocolate birthday cake, one of hundreds on tables scattered about the grounds. As we walked away to search for a place to sit down, I caught sight of Gabe waving for us to join him at a small folding table where he sat alone with his own lunch. He stood and doffed his straw hat, as we approached.

  “Kate,” I said, “this is Mr. Gabriel Riley, the other BI agent I mentioned. Gabe, this is Kate Connolly. I may have mentioned her name when we met.” I shot him a warning look.

  “Why, yes you did. You spoke very highly of her. I would be honored to have you join me, Miss Connolly. And you can sit with us, too, Trey.”

  “Please, call me Kate.”

  “If you will call me Gabe.”

  Kate chatted amicably with Gabe about his family and military service, quickly eliciting more information about his life than I had garnered in the months I had known him. Since I was cut out of the conversation, I focused on my lunch, which was superb country fare, my kind of food. The church lady at the concession had informed us that the cake was sour cream chocolate, from a recipe for a cake presented to President Coolidge by a Rapid City resident. I had never eaten better. Finally, I was included in the conversation.

  “Trey,” Gabe said, “here is your list of families with missing daughters. There are ten for you to contact.” He handed me a folded sheet of paper.

  “Kate is going to go with me to meet a friend or two of hers who might be helpful. I’ll have her look at this list and see if she knows any of the families. I’ve informed President Coolidge that I have to give this case priority now and won’t be available so much to go over budget numbers. He understands, but if I come in before his bedtime, I’ll probably be conscripted.”

  “I have a list of a dozen families I’ll be interviewing. I don’t think we’ll have much time to devote to the attack on the president.”

  “Kate has a name for the Indian who was involved. George. She heard that name called. Not much, but it’s a start. I’ll inform the Service. There is also an employee here at the lodge who might bear watching. Willy Hobson. He’s apparently part Lakota. If nothing else, we might look for openings to find out more about him.”

  Gabe asked, “And you have a reason for singling out this man?”

  “First, it seems highly likely to me that these assassins, if that’s what they were, had to know where the president was going that morning. That suggests a leak from the State Game Lodge. Willy is a handyman here who always seems to be working near the president or Secret Service agents, or wherever there is serious conversation taking place. It could be anyone, but I think we should find out more about this man.” I did not attribute the uncovering of a suspect to Gramps, rationalizing he would not want to claim credit for his observations, but I felt a bit of guilt at taking credit. There it was again. Conscience. This stranger could become a problem.

  “Is that Willy?” Kate asked, speaking in a near whisper and nodding toward a black-haired young man with a gunny sack in his hand, stooping and picking up litter not more than twenty feet behind Gabe.

  “Don’t turn, Gabe,” I said. I glared at the young man, and when he turned his head and looked our way, our eyes met for an instant. He quickly started working his way toward the lodge. “Now Gabe.”

  Gabe turned his head and watched Hobson walk away. “How long was he there?”

  Kate said, “I don’t know. I said something as soon as I saw him.”

  Gabe said, “We need to find out about this guy. Trey, you alert the Service. We should all be asking some questions. He’s probably okay, but we’d better be certain.”

  Chapter 14

  KATE

  Kate had War Paint and Nipper, a big-boned sorrel gelding with a white mane and tail saddled and hitched to the rail in front of the house. She sat on the top porch step, dressed in boots and well-worn riding garments, her hair tied back in a ponytail that fell from beneath her wide-brimmed hat. The sun was not always a redhead’s friend. She had gotten out of bed early this morning in anticipation of Trey’s arrival. They had spent most of two days together at the State Game Lodge, and, after getting past the early tension between them, they had fallen into a comfortable friendship. At least that’s the way she saw it. But it didn’t hurt any that he was pleasant to the eye with his dark, rugged features and slender, rangy body. Liam Karlsson was physically more muscular and thickly-built and had a flawless, pretty face. But there was something about Trey’s brooding, coffee-brown eyes that pulled her into dangerous territory. She would have to be on guard.

  Yesterday, Trey had accompanied her to the rodeo and they sat in the grandstand with his grandparents and President and Mrs. Coolidge. The first couple had been alternately thrilled and shocked as the events unfolded. In one instance they had been horrified, when a steer broke its neck during a bulldogging contest and had to be shot and drug off in front of the silent crowd. Kate had been delighted to see the president roar with laughter during an event where range cows were turned loose in the arena, and cowboys competed to see who could rope and milk a jarful from a cow the fastest. Mostly, the cows won the event. Kate smiled now, just remembering those moments when this stoic, serious man let down his guard. She sensed he was enjoying his visit to the Black Hills enormously, and the residents of his host state were excited to have him there, and welcoming, except for the few who had attempted to turn the occasion into tragedy.

  Trey’s Model T pulled into the yard, and she waved at him before hurrying back into the house to grab the two paper bags she had packed for their lunches. She had included several extra oatmeal-raisin cookies to go with the apple and ham sandwich in Trey’s sack. The bread and cookies she had fresh-baked this morning to the surprise of Grandma Beth, who usually had to drag Kate into the kitchen for domestic chores.

  She was surprised that her grandmother was not here to see them off, b
ut she, for some reason, had become uncharacteristically quiet and subdued when Kate told her about the coincidental dates of deaths of Deuce Ramsey and Coleen Connolly upon her return from the State Game Lodge yesterday morning. Kate supposed it had set Grandma Beth to thinking about the loss of her daughter.

  She rushed out the door with their lunches. She had looped a water-filled canteen over the saddle horn of each mount, and there would be several icy springs to stop at for refills along the route she had planned. Trey was leaning against his car as she approached, his eyes fixed in her direction. It had annoyed her slightly, when they first met, that he seemed to be appraising her like a cattle judge looking at a heifer in the show ring. She hoped she wasn’t as obvious when she studied him. This morning, he looked like a working cowboy, attired in scuffed cowboy boots and a dusty, black low-crowned hat pulled down on his forehead. He wore faded denims and a short-sleeved cotton shirt that revealed, sinewy, muscular arms, inconsistent with her image of him as a sedentary numbers cruncher. She guessed his naturally-tan skin immunized him against the mountain sun’s searing rays.

  He pushed his hat up and smiled as she approached. “Howdy, ma’am. Appears you’ve got the critters saddled and ready to ride.”

  “I do. I wasn’t sure you knew how.”

  “I assure you I can saddle a horse, but I don’t mind having it done for me.”

  She thrust the lunch bag toward him, and he took it and peeked inside. “I’m hungry,” he said.

  “Too bad. Picnic spot is about two hours from here, just about a half hour from the reservation school. You can put your lunch in the saddlebags.”

  He opened the Ford’s passenger door and reached in and plucked out his pistol and shoulder holster. “Along with these. Hopefully, it won’t be needed.”

  “I’ve got my Winchester. Do you want me to get another?”

  “No. We should be adequately armed. I can’t imagine we will need a gun for this little trip.”

  “Very well. Let’s ride.”

  Trey followed her to the horses. She patted War Paint on the rump. “This is War Paint. He’s mine. You’re riding Nipper.”

  “Why am I suspicious about that name?”

  “You’ll be fine. Just don’t turn your back to him. Or jerk too hard on the reins.”

  Trey stepped into the stirrup and swung gracefully into the saddle. They rode, side by side, across the valley in the direction of the low mountain range that overlooked the reservation that spread into the southern portion of the Badlands. Kate noted that Trey was far from the tenderfoot she had suspected him of being. He was certainly a more than competent horseman, and Nipper had evidently sensed this, for he had been on his best behavior

  When they climbed into the foothills, Kate pulled ahead and took the lead. “The trail to the top is not especially treacherous, but it’s too narrow for two abreast.”

  Trey fell in behind her. Kate looked back from time to time as they picked their ways up the shale-covered trail. Her eyes never met his because he appeared to be searching the slopes above and the floor of the canyon below. She suspected this was an instinctive thing for him, and he was probably not even aware of it. Perhaps, his Army scout grandfather had passed on more habits than Trey would admit.

  When they reached the summit, they dismounted and staked out the horses to graze on sparse grass that creeped through fissures in the granite surface of the narrow mesa. The area was treeless and offered no shade beyond the shadows cast by two enormous boulders, perched side by side like two sentinels overlooking their domain. They each chose one and sat down, with legs crossed Indian-style, facing each other as they opened their lunches.

  “That was a steep climb,” Trey commented. “Are you sure that’s the fastest route to the reservation?

  “It’s not. We can cut more than a half hour off the return trip by taking the trail on the canyon floor. But I wanted you to see the contrasts of this country from here. Look to the west, and it’s all mountains and valleys. To the east, it’s all barren wasteland that even cactuses reject. Enough grass to support a few sheep and goats in wet years.”

  “That’s the reservation, I gather.”

  “The Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. Miles and miles along both sides of the South Dakota and Nebraska borders, more on our side of the line than Nebraska’s. If you travel a short distance you will find the commencement of the Badlands, which are essentially many, many square miles of deep gullies and canyons carved by erosion, where only the toughest creatures can survive. The Sioux claim ownership of the Black Hills, including the Shamrock Ranch. They were granted the land by the Laramie Treaty of 1868, but five or six years later, gold was discovered in the Black Hills, and the government opened the land for settlement.”

  “I had read there is a lawsuit by the Sioux to reclaim the land or to recover damages.”

  “Yes, but it’s likely to go on for years. Dad’s always been a little bit nervous about where the Shamrock fits in to any settlement. Coolidge seems openminded when it comes to settlement. He has some personal support among the Sioux for supporting and signing the Indian Citizenship Act three years ago.”

  “Interesting that the Indians inhabited the country for centuries before the Europeans and Spanish settled, but it took an act of Congress to make them citizens.”

  “Of course, there were ways to acquire citizenship before. Marriage. Military service. Owning property and residing off the reservation for a specified time. But it was all very complicated.”

  “You seem to be a student of history.”

  “I do like history, but I’m not all that good with dates. I suppose you would be.”

  “Maybe. If I studied it. Frankly, I spent most of my college years focusing on good times.”

  “Good times?”

  “Parties and drinking, for instance.”

  “Petting parties, too, I suppose?

  ”Not so much.”

  Trey appeared reluctant to talk about his past, so she decided to shift the subject. “Are you uncomfortable talking about your father’s death?”

  “Not really. It’s been so long ago, I don’t dwell on it now. I used to, though. I was angry at him for leaving me like that. Stupid, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think it’s unusual. I felt the same way about my mom. She was in the Army Nurse Corps reserve, but she could have claimed exemption. She was not career Army like your father. She wasn’t subject to the draft. She had a choice. The war or her family. I resented that for a long time . . . I suppose until I got out of high school and started to see the world a little differently. We all make choices every day that change the directions of our lives. But we often cannot even imagine the consequences of those choices. Mom didn’t go off to war planning to be killed. She had valuable training that was needed there, and Grandma said she was always a free spirit, looking for the next adventure. I’m not certain, but I can remember her and Dad quarreling a lot when I was a child. I just lately started to recollect those times, and I’ve wondered if she was running from him. Yet, that meant leaving me, too.” It occurred to her she had never spoken to anyone of these thoughts, not even Grandma Beth. It made her uncomfortable now, to think she had spoken the words to a young man, who was still a near-stranger.

  Trey spoke softly, “Before the war, we moved a lot from post to post, but Lockwood, Wyoming, near Gram Skye and Gramps, was always home base. We had a cottage on the ranch property where Mom and I stayed when Dad was away on short assignments, and that’s where leave time was spent. I worshipped Dad, and we played baseball together and enjoyed each other’s company when he was around. But he was gone a lot and always a little distant . . . just his nature, I guess. I was closer to Gramps before Dad’s death. He was easy-going and fun and always made time for me. Until Dad was killed. Then he changed and turned sad and withdrawn, when I needed him most. I was angry at him, too, until recently. I’ve just started to re-think things. Gram always says not to judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his
moccasins. When a man loses a child, I guess he’s got some ghosts of his own to deal with.”

  “Forgiveness. Grandma Beth says it’s a powerful force. It lets you put stuff behind you and start fresh. Why waste away our lives fretting about some wrong, perhaps, even imagined, that we think somebody’s done to us? It gets in the way of enjoying the now and anticipating the future with enthusiasm.”

  “Sounds like we both have wise grandmothers.”

  “Maybe they’ve just learned from years of living.” She hesitated. “Speaking of grandmothers, Grandma Beth seemed upset when I told her about your father dying on the same date as my mom. I thought it was kind of strange.”

  “Probably just reminded her of her own loss. Like I said, we both know about losing a parent before their times, but we can’t relate to the death of a child.”

  “I think there’s something else.”

  Trey looked at her expectantly. When she said nothing, he finished the cookies in his paper sack. “These are scrumptious. So was the fresh bread. Did your grandmother bake them?”

  She feigned insult. “No. I baked the bread and cookies. Why would you assume Grandma did?”

  He raised his hands defensively. “I apologize. I just thought it would take many years’ experience to make something this perfect. My thanks for an excellent lunch.”

  He was overdoing it now, but she didn’t mind the fuss. “We’d better be on our way.”

  Chapter 15

  TREY

  As we rode onto the reservation lands, headed in the direction of what I assumed was the faint outline of the school building in the distance, I was struck by the dismal scene that unfolded. Scattered helter-skelter over the parched, brown prairie were indistinguishable bleached-out, unpainted shacks, many with spaces between warped boards that would not bar snow, let alone wind drafts. Most of the occupants owned at least several half-starved dogs, it appeared, and an occasional cow or a few head of sheep or goats occupied the yards of some residences.