by Lee Clinton
Coyote
How best is justice served – by the law or from the barrel of a gun?
A family is brutally murdered and their homestead burnt to the ground. The bodies are so badly disfigured that identity is difficult to determine, but one of the daughters is known to be missing. Is it eighteen-year-old Grace Mayfield or her younger sister, Chrissy?
The missing Mayfield girl must now be found and the killers brought to justice. Some say it was the work of renegade Cheyenne. Sheriff August ‘Gus’ Ward has his doubts, but evidence is scant.
When the mysterious shooting of a stock agent on the streets of Laramie is linked to those who may have been responsible, Gus is faced with the savage reality that justice might not be served unless he is willing to take matters into his own hands. If he does, is he still a man of the law or has he crossed the line to become an executioner, and no better than those he is willing to kill?
By the same author
Raking Hell
No Coward
The Proclaimers
Reaper
Reins of Satan
The Mexican
Coyote
Lee Clinton
ROBERT HALE
© Lee Clinton 2018
First published in Great Britain 2018
ISBN 978-0-7198-2736-5
The Crowood Press
The Stable Block
Crowood Lane
Ramsbury
Marlborough
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.bhwesterns.com
Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press
The right of Lee Clinton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
For Lani
CHAPTER 1
NIGHTMARE
The Awakening
She woke with a start, in panic, as if from a nightmare of being thrown into a bottomless pit. But fourteen-year-old girls don’t have such disturbing dreams, do they? Not practical prairie girls like Christine Mayfield. Isn’t their world one of pleasing, pretty things? Of coloured ribbons and lace, a new Sunday bonnet, the birth of the bay foal she’d named Candy? Pleasant, secure thoughts of her loving family – her parents, her grandmother, little brother Ben and her adored older sister Grace.
But no, this was no momentary hallucination from a bad dream. This was a vicious awakening and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t catch her breath. A large hand pressed down upon her mouth with such force as to bend the bed boards beneath her head. A thumb and index finger clamped her nose tight and she could feel the abrasive skin upon her lips and cheeks. Panic took hold as the unshaven face above grinned.
She was being suffocated to death.
A yank on the hem of her nightdress pulled the cotton garment from between her legs. With jerks and tugs her modesty was being removed. Instinctively she gripped at the fabric to both sides of her thighs as she tried to yell for help and kick free, but she was trapped. With strength ebbing, draining and fading away, the strain in her muscles eased. Dear Lord, came the thought, may it be over soon. And with a sense almost of relief she felt the tension in her arms and legs wane as she relaxed and involuntarily wet herself.
‘Chrissy,’ came the scream from her sister. ‘No, not Chrissy.’
It was the shout of her name, distant at first, then closer, that spun her back into consciousness. Grace was calling. She must answer. She twisted her head with a jolt and threw her hands up to the wrist of her assailant, grasping and pulling just enough to free his grip, open her mouth and suck in a breath.
A finger instantly stabbed between her lips, coarse and bitter, sliding across her tongue. Without hesitation, she bit upon it with all her might and ground her teeth to chisel deep into the bone as the warm taste of blood ran down to the back of her throat.
With a sharp yelp of pain the finger withdrew, to be immediately followed by a whack to the side of her head with such force as to hurl her out of the bed and on to the floor.
‘Run, Chrissy, run.’ It was Grace calling out, half muffled, with her face pushed down upon the bed. A man straddled her, his hand pressed against the back of her neck, as he grunted like a pig. ‘Run,’ came the scream from her older sister. ‘Run, run, run.’
Chrissy leapt to her feet. Her attacker threw himself across the bed to grab at her nightdress, pulling it tight around her legs. Desperately she flung her fist back and struck repeatedly at his grip.
He let go and tried to clutch her wrist.
It was a moment of untethered freedom. She knew that she must not hesitate. It was the briefest of chances, her one and only opportunity to escape – and she took it.
‘Aaron,’ came the shout, ‘quick, she’s getting away.’
Chrissy sprinted on bare feet out of the room and down the hall towards her parents’ room, yet all speed seemed to disappear. It was as if she was running across a flooding creek in waist-deep water, an illusion of a spinning mind trying desperately to escape and survive. Chrissy was a good runner and she was now in full flight and sucking in deep breaths.
From her parents’ bedroom door came the flash and blast of a pistol shot. She smelt the burnt powder and saw the silhouette of her father tumbling to the floor. In fright, Chrissy Mayfield ran on, through the open front door, across the porch and into the night that came upon her as black as coal. But she knew every obstacle before her.
At the front gate another shot echoed from within the homestead. Dashing left towards the barn the sound of thumping boots upon the path was close behind her. She was being chased.
Racing on, turning left again, down the side of the house and past the water pump, she leapt over the horse trough and dashed towards the cattle yard. Fast pounding footsteps were gaining on her now. Then whack, thump and grunt as her chaser collided with the trough to sprawl headlong upon the ground.
She made it to the stockyard and scrambled on all fours under the fence as a shot cracked just above her head to wallop into the railing, splintering wood and bark. Back on to her feet and hitching up the hem of her nightdress she sprinted, hunched, into the night, while a coyote called as if to say, over here, this way.
Two more shots followed in quick succession, each just inches above her head.
On and on she raced, with burning lungs, to the sounds of three more shots. Two very near, just to the right, each a crack to the ear. The last shot struck the ground near her heel, missing by only an inch. The lead bullet distorted and whizzed up to flick the back of Chrissie’s running leg. It stung like a whiplash, but while it would bruise and ache, fortunately it did not lacerate the skin.
Somehow, Chrissy Mayfield had been spared. Yet each of those six shots was fired with the deliberate intention to kill. It was as if an invisible hand had guided her to safety.
‘Did you get her?’ came the shout. ‘Did you get her, Calvin?’
‘Little bitch bit me,’ was the response.
‘But did you get her, Cal? Did ya?’
Chrissy ran on, her feet beating a rhythm to a chant, ‘Calvin, Calvin, Calvin, the other man, Aaron, Aaron, Aaron.’ On and on she ran into the safety of the night, to where the prairie lands crease into gullies and ravines that can hide and conceal, and where the coyotes
run free.
CHAPTER 2
STAINS
Two Days Later
When Grace Mayfield missed her meeting with her betrothed, Deputy Sheriff Henry Ward, and Reverend Jacob Brown of the Laramie Episcopal Church, Henry was no overly concerned. While Grace was punctual by nature and Monday was the Mayfield pickup day for supplies, life as a settler brought with it numerous uncertainties. Priorities could shift on the strength of the wind. Unforeseen tasks, big or small, often required immediate attention, especially where livestock were concerned. If she missed the appointment then there was a good reason, and that would be explained as soon as she was able.
With just the family to help, her father Abe had to depend on the women in his life. His wife, his mother, who lived with them permanently, and the children. And of those three offspring, it was Grace and Chrissy who were the fittest. Baby Ben, a late and unexpected arrival, was aged just three years, while Chrissy was maturing into a strong young woman now just shy of her fifteenth birthday. She would soon take over the chores and duties of her older sister Grace, who at eighteen was promised. Wedding plans were already well under way, even though it was still ten weeks away from the chosen date. Grace would then move to Laramie to live with Henry’s family until their new cottage could be built. Family-to-family agreements had long been discussed and settled. Grace would continue to pick up the weekly supplies from the general store and take them out to her family in the Wards’ buckboard, stay overnight and return the following day. Taking away such an able body as Grace from her family and the demands of the property was certainly going to have an impact. However, they would manage, of course. They always did.
All the Mayfield women, regardless of their age, were industrious. They could ride, rope, fix a fence and change the leather washers in a hand pump. And none more so than Chrissy. She might be young but she was capable. And like her mother and her gran, she could bake. It was their talent and proficiency, be it a pie, a tart, a cake, cornbread or sweet biscuits. All baked to perfection.
On Tuesday, by mid-morning, Henry had become preoccupied and fidgety. Grace had yet to arrive in town. Young men are known to be impatient at the best of times, especially those about to enter matrimony. His father, Gus, who was also his immediate superior as the sheriff of Laramie, on a little urging from his wife, Martha, suggested that Henry might like to ride out to the west. ‘Just to check on the settlers,’ Gus had said, which of course included the Mayfield family. And if along the trail he was to meet Grace on her way into town, well, he could turn around and escort her.
Henry immediately agreed, and with haste went down to the livery stable, selected a three-year-old Morgan of fifteen hands, saddled up and departed. He cut across the back of the cattle yards to save time and from there he picked up the road west towards the Black Hills.
The conditions supported a fast ride. The day was cool, the sky clear and the wind light. The surface below his mount was firm, well-worn from settler traffic over the past few years, and it was likely that he would come across a friendly traveller or two.
But caution was still required.
It was just the year before last that Cheyenne had stolen cattle over near Fort Fetterman and burnt out several ranches. The Army had taken the swift reprisals demanded by the settlers, which in turn had led to a truce and a treaty. Ownership of the Black Hills was given to the Lakota, forcing a peace by pushing the Cheyenne further north.
Well, almost a peace.
Some renegade Cheyenne were less than happy to abide by the agreement. They owed no allegiance to Red Cloud, the Lakota chief, even when entering his land uninvited. Still, no matter how fragile, peace was peace and most settlers welcomed the possibility.
In just over two hours Henry came to the small hill that overlooked the Mayfield homestead. He would be with his beloved in just a matter of minutes. His heart skipped a beat and he drew in a quick breath, telling himself to settle, act naturally and remember to speak slowly. And remember to call his soon to be mother-in-law Frances, not Fanny. This was on the advice of his mother, who understood not only the importance of etiquette, but also the need for respect when preparing to join a new family.
Henry glanced down and began to brush the dust from his sleeves to make himself look presentable. With his horse now riding easy, he cleared the crest to where he could see the Mayfield property and the miles of prairie beyond. He looked up, hesitated, and stopped his brushing and fussing. His brow creased with confusion; the homestead had gone. He knew exactly where it should be, but it wasn’t there. Nor was the barn.
‘What the—?’ was Henry’s bewildered response.
He pushed high in the saddle and glanced around. Was he on the right road? He felt disorientated. The homestead had vanished as if into thin air. He leant forward and all he could make out, where it had once stood some mile and a half ahead, were the water pump and the trough by the trees, and two dark stains upon the ground.
‘Oh, no, please. Please God, no. No, no.’
His heels thrust back hard and his mount took off down the slope, kicking dirt and dust high from galloping hoofs. And all the time Henry continued to call to himself, ‘No, not this, not this, please God. Not this.’
CHAPTER 3
THE LAW
Later That Same Day
When Henry’s father, August ‘Gus’ Ward, saw his son, it was at the end of a hard twenty-mile ride back from the Mayfield property in just over ninety minutes. His horse had done forty miles in all that day, and was spent to the point where it looked ready to drop. Henry was in no better shape; he was close to being incoherent. Tear streaks cut tracks in the dust on his cheeks, and he was so distressed and inconsolable that his mother had burst into tears when he was finally able to convey to her what he had seen. It was something Gus had never observed before. His wife was stoical by nature and also practical in character, but he knew why she was so upset. The future of her son’s planned life with Grace had also turned to ashes.
When Gus was finally able to settle his son, the news was devastatingly clear. With the fire, the homestead had been totally razed and there was no sign of life. ‘Gone,’ Henry repeated over and over, ‘All of them, gone,’ while shaking his head in disbelief.
Gus went straight to the livery, returning Henry’s horse and saddling up a fresh mount for the ride out to the Mayfield property. It was in the middle of this familiar act, as he was pulling up on the cinch, that he decided to take Henry with him. To leave him with Martha in both their current states would do neither any good. Henry had missed the horrors of the war by the skin of his teeth, turning eighteen on the day after President Lincoln’s killing. He had also been spared the violence that comes with a brutal death. Since his swearing-in as a deputy almost two years ago, his experience had mostly been of the mundane, with just a few fist fights in between. Yet it was inevitable that the reaper would come close sometime soon. Especially if he remained in the service of the law, although that profession had never been a foregone conclusion.
Gus and Martha were proud of their son and only child, but both knew that on the surface, Henry seemed like a poor fit for the law. He was polite and quiet in manner, and at first glance, his appearance could easily be mistaken for that of a young clergyman. Yet he had always been diligent and self-reliant. He could track, shoot and skin with effortless efficiency, and he could be determined; he had shown that when pursuing his duties as a deputy. But what his father valued most was his son’s honesty and loyalty. In many ways, he was his mother’s son. She was a woman who was resolute yet forgiving, and that was what was needed more than anything in these times when the wounds of war remained deep and raw. Gus knew that time healed, but five years on from the cessation of fighting was nowhere near long enough. It would take generations, and Henry and Grace were part of that next new generation.
Grace Mayfield would make the perfect wife for his son. Gus and Martha had discussed it at length. She may have been five years younger than Henry, but sh
e was mature beyond her years and as tough as a man in mind and spirit. She was a daughter from a true family of the West. That their son had found her, particularly in this territory dominated by men, was more than a minor miracle.
Gus rode back from the livery to the office with two fresh horses and left instructions, businesslike as always, before departing. He told Ivan Davies, his senior deputy, that the Mayfield property had been razed and that Henry had found no sign of life. He confirmed that Joel, the second deputy, was due back later that day from doing his rounds down south. Both Ivan Davies and Joel Ferber were experienced and capable lawmen whom Gus felt at ease to leave in charge. It was Henry, the third deputy, and the youngest, who had the least experience. However, any time that Henry spent away from the job would impact on the other two deputies. Gus advised Ivan that he was taking his son back out to the Mayfield property to assist him, before saying, ‘This has knocked Henry hard, he’s going to need a little time.’
Ivan understood and nodded before asking, ‘You want me to notify the mayor?’
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Gus. ‘Best to get the word out via the mayor before the rumours start.’
‘Indians?’ questioned Ivan.
Gus shrugged. ‘Would seem so, but I don’t know. It was either an accident or deliberate and that’s the first thing I need to determine.’ Gus turned to go, then stopped. ‘Better let Barrows know as well. We’ll be needing their services.’
J. B. Barrows & Son was the town undertaker.
Ivan nodded again as Gus left. He then took the key from the wall to lock up the office before leaving to find the mayor down at the rail yards where his principal employment was that of station agent. And on his walk towards the station, Ivan mulled over what Henry must have found. He thought it best that Gus kept his boy under his wing. This was not going to be an easy day for Henry.
