Twilight of the Coyote

by Ron Schwab

  Bullock asked, “Did you find out who the babe was?”

  “Yeah. Kathleen Connolly. Her old man owns the ranchland where Coolidge was fishing. The Shamrock Ranch. My snitch says she just happened to be there.”

  “She and Coolidge weren’t up to funny business?”

  “Doesn’t seem likely. No reason to think he ever knew of her before.”

  Bullock had a thought. “What if we nabbed her?”

  “What do you mean? What would we do with her?”

  “Hold her for ransom. She saved the president. Government would pay some serious money to get her back. They’re trying to keep the whole thing quiet it seems. Her family would yell if Uncle Sam didn’t foot the bill.” Also, her old man could probably scrape up a few bucks.

  “I don’t know why you think you got to kidnap somebody. This is another dumb idea.”

  “We wouldn’t give her back. But we’d get rid of a witness, if nothing else. We’d take her and sell her in Chicago or bump her off. After we take our turns with her, of course.”

  “Well, I heard she’s looker. But it’s still risky business. It’s not like taking some reservation kid nobody will miss.”

  “But she needs to pay for what she did to us.”

  “I’ll ask Max to check her out. Keep an eye on her. We need to wait till the president thing cools.” Max Waters was half-blood Lakota. He rarely spoke to Boss, but he was Many Knives’s trusted ally and key reservation contact. Boss knew where the squatty man’s loyalties lay, and he did not like it.

  “And cut off your pigtails.”

  George glared. “They ain’t pigtails. Why?”

  “In case the cow-babe saw you. Change your look. Get a suit.”

  “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Figure out a way for Solly to change his look, too. She wouldn’t have seen Max. He stayed with the Ford. Right?”

  “Yeah. But the agents saw all three of us.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that. Tell him he needs to do something. Shave his moustache and chin whiskers, for sure. Dump those Chicago-style duds he likes to wear and turn Indian till this blows over.”

  “Nobody’s seen Bull. He doesn’t have to lay low.”

  “That’s a blessing. There’d be no way to disguise the big ox.”

  Chapter 7

  KATE

  Kate walked into the kitchen, carrying the day’s mail, and dropped envelopes and a Montgomery Ward’s catalog on the table. “Grandma. I don’t know what to do. I’ve been invited to the State Game Lodge to celebrate Independence Day and President Coolidge’s birthday. I am to stay over and join the president and first lady and attend the Tri-State Roundup rodeo at Belle Fourche the next day. They would like me to stay at the lodge three nights.” She handed Beth Ridgeway the invitation which had been handwritten and signed by Grace Coolidge and delivered by a Secret Service agent a few minutes earlier.

  Her grandmother examined the invitation. “Impressive. What a nice gesture . . . and opportunity for you.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “Go, of course. There is a phone number here for you to call with your acceptance.”

  “But it’s just three days away. And I won’t know what to wear or how to act.”

  “You just be yourself. And I’ll help with the clothes.” She plucked another tiny slip of paper from the invitation envelope. “You missed something. Who’s Trey Ramsey?”

  She remembered Trey Ramsey. The numbers cruncher. “He works for the president. Says he’s a budget assistant, but I think he really does something else. He’s arrogant and kind of standoffish.”

  “I remember him. That handsome young man who came with the agents to pick up President Coolidge that day. What do you call men like that these days? A sheik? He almost made me swoon. That thick black hair and light Mediterranean complexion. Those dark, bedroom eyes.”

  “Grandma, you’re disgusting. You are reading too many of those magazines. I’ve seen the stacks of Ranch Romances and Parisienne in your cottage. I’m surprised Stretch doesn’t take them out to the burn pile.”

  “Stretch reads them, too, but he’d never admit it. And I know who else has been helping herself to my old issues of Parisienne,” her grandmother responded. “Don’t pretend you’re a bluenose with me.”

  Kate blushed guiltily. The Parisienne, edited by H.L. Mencken and George Jean Nathan, was a scandalous magazine in the view of self-appointed guardians of the nation’s morals. It published sex-advice columns and risqué articles and stories, as well as advertisements for lingerie and sex merchandise such as performance-enhancing tablets and breast-augmentation products. The crème she had ordered while away at school had been ineffective.

  Her grandmother continued. “Anyway, Mr. Ramsey will be arriving about five o’clock on July 3 to escort you to the State Game Lodge and dinner.”

  “Oh God. I am not going.”

  “You would insult President Coolidge?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Of course not, and all Mr. Ramsey is doing is driving you to the lodge. If you like, I’ll tell him how to take the long way.”

  “No thanks. I will show him the short cut.”

  Beth Ridgeway shrugged and gave Kate what her granddaughter called “the eye.”

  Kate took the invitation from her grandmother and went out onto the porch that stretched the length of the large log house that had been constructed in 1916, just a bit more than two years before her mother’s death. She sat down on the porch swing that was suspended from one of the thick beams that support the roof. She began swinging slowly, letting the rhythmic motion lull her just to the edge of sleep. A gentle breeze drifted down from the Black Hills, nullifying the warming efforts of the mid-afternoon sun. She gazed at the small cottage about seventy-five feet to the west, where her grandmother, Elizabeth Ridgeway, now resided with Jim Ridgeway, her husband of two years, and lover for nearly ten.

  Beth was a slender, supple woman just shy of seventy years now. Her face was lined and bronzed by an outdoor life, but she was still a striking woman, Kate thought. Stretch Ridgeway was the Shamrock’s foreman, tall and lean, as his name suggested. He was an easy-going, hard-working man, who was evidently content with his lot, and had been with the ranching operation since before Kate’s birth. He was like the indulgent grandfather to her before he became the real thing. She guessed Stretch was ten years younger than Grandma Beth.

  A widowed Beth came to take over running the Connolly household a year before the death of Kate’s mother, Coleen. She had been Chief of Nursing Staff in a Columbus, Ohio hospital for some years prior to that time and had been granted a year’s leave of absence to attend to family matters. The year expired, and she never returned. Shortly after Kate’s tenth birthday, Grandma Beth became Kate’s stand-in mother.

  Recalling Grandma Beth’s naughty remarks a few minutes earlier made Kate smile and carried her back to that night when she was barely past eleven and she had opened the door to Grandma’s bedroom in the big house to see if Grandma was still awake for some girl-talk. Thankfully, she had opened the door quietly, because she discovered Stretch and Grandma entwined naked on the bed. Grandma was moaning, and, for a moment, Kate feared Stretch was harming her. But then Grandma giggled, and Kate softly pulled the door shut and returned to her own room. She had grown up on a ranch and seen stallions and bulls doing their business on the females, so she roughly understood what Grandma and Stretch were up to that night. But it had not occurred to her that grandmas did such things. She never said a word to Grandma. But she had never erased the image from her mind.

  Kate wondered if lustiness could be inherited. She knew that righteous and moral young ladies saved themselves for marriage, but last summer, home from college, she had attended a petting party with Liam Karlsson, a ranger and firefighter with the forest service. Petting parties were the rage on college campuses and even some high schools these days. The concept was simple enough. Young men and women went to gatherings,
indoors or outdoors, where there would be refreshments, and sometimes music and dancing. But the objective was for males and females to pair off and kiss and touch and, perhaps, fondle to the point the partner would permit, short of doing “it.” She had never discovered a boy’s stopping place, and none of her friends had either.

  There was boot-legged beer at the Rapid City party, however, and she had been giddy and lightheaded just enough that she had slipped into the woods with Liam, a blond muscular Swede, hailing from Minnesota, and returned without her virginity. She was tormented by her sin, but that did not stop her. She went out with Liam a dozen times, and she never returned home without slipping into sin again. Because she liked doing it and didn’t want give up doing it, and Liam was darn good at doing it.

  And she did not even love him. She liked him, but she could not see herself married to Liam, and she doubted he had marriage in mind. She had reason to suspect she might not be the only girl he was servicing that summer. It was Grandma Beth that brought her to her senses. Grandma knew, of course, and she had sat Kate down for a serious talk about pregnancy and condoms and other devices and, most embarrassing of all, how she might satisfy herself. Grandma was a registered nurse, and she was very clinical and matter-of-fact about it all, but, nonetheless, Kate had wanted to crawl under the kitchen table.

  Kate had declined to go out with Liam the remainder of the summer, and she successfully stopped short of surrendering her tattered virtue at the few campus petting parties she attended during the school year. She held out hope she had not turned into a common chippie or slut. She was determined to avoid seeing Liam this summer, but the thought of him was suddenly unsettling. Well, she had the upcoming visit to the State Game Lodge to distract her for now, and Mr. Ramsey wouldn’t be so hard on the eyes, even if he was a boring numbers cruncher.

  Chapter 8

  TREY

  When I pulled the Model T up in front of the Shamrock Ranch house, I was surprised to see an elderly couple holding hands, of all things, and standing in front of the porch swing on the veranda. I hoped I wasn’t taking grandma and grandpa with me, too. I had not seen their names on the guest list. I was not surprised to see Owen Connolly at the top of the steps with his arms folded across his chest and a scowl on his mug. I was not a suitor picking up his daughter. I was on a mission for the President of the United States. It wasn’t my fault Coolidge is a Republican. I am somewhat open-minded about politics. I’ve never taken the political wars too seriously. I confess, however, that a bit of Coolidge had rubbed off on me. I would not mention it to Gramps, though, and risk setting him up for future disappointment.

  I got out of the car and started walking up the stone pathway that led to the porch. I waved a greeting and got waves and smiles from grandpa and grandma, who was quite a tomato. She reminded me of Gram Skye in her bearing. The man I assumed was her husband appeared a bit weather-beaten, but vigorous enough. I received a glare from the Irishman. I was starting to take this personally.

  I was rescued from an awkward conversation with Mr. Happy when the front door opened, and Cinderella stepped out. I was stunned. This girl cleaned up good. I swear I had never seen such a beautiful creature. The ponytail had galloped off, and a mane of silky, red hair swirled around her neck and swept over her shoulders like an ocean wave. She wore a jade-colored dress with a soft, clingy fabric, tastefully dropping just below her knees. And standing where I was in front of the porch looking up, I confirmed my earlier judgment. She had perfect, endless gams. Then I caught her father’s eye and realized I might have been staring inappropriately at his daughter’s legs, so I worked my eyes up to her lovely face. “Good afternoon, Miss Connolly,” I said. “President and Mrs. Coolidge are looking forward to you joining them.”

  “It should be an interesting holiday,” she replied. Then she turned to her father. “I know you have met Dad.” I stepped up onto the porch and offered my hand, which he promptly crunched and crippled. Fortunately, Stretch Ridgeway and Grandma Beth inflicted no further damage and were very friendly and welcoming. I had the feeling Grandma liked me, since she gave me a tight, lingering hug. In fact, it almost felt like she was flirting with me, which, of course, she was not.

  After exchanging inane pleasantries for a respectable time, Stretch helped me load the luggage in the back of the Model T. The bags all belonged to Cinderella, who explained she did not know what wardrobe items might be needed, but she had brought her boots and riding outfit for possible rodeo attire. I thought naked in my room would be sufficient, but, gentleman that I am, I did not say this aloud. This woman had taken me to the brink of obsession. I was struggling now to remember Mrs. Coolidge’s first name.

  I opened the passenger door, and Kate Connelly climbed in. After that, I went to the front of the car and got it started with a single go at the crank. When I slid behind the steering wheel, she commented, “I expected you might arrive in a Packard or a Cadillac, being the president’s numbers cruncher and all.”

  “Model T Fords make up President Coolidge’s four-car fleet. Henry Ford’s a campaign contributor, and his vehicles are cheap. Budget concerns,” I replied.

  “Your life does not sound very exciting. Are you serious about this budget stuff?”

  “The president is, so I am. And I like working with numbers, and I like and respect the president. Did you know that six years ago the federal budget was over five billion dollars?”

  “That’s exciting.”

  I ignored her sarcasm. “The president’s next budget will be about three billion dollars. He’s run surpluses every year of his administration, and that’s making serious income tax reductions possible.”

  “Dad says we don’t pay income taxes. He loses money every year.”

  “That’s not a recipe for long-term financial success.”

  “Our conversation is going to take a nasty turn if we keep talking about money.”

  I concluded I was a long way from getting this lady naked in my room. “Okay, let’s talk about family. I really liked your grandmother and grandfather.”

  “Grandma obviously liked you back. You didn’t say you liked my father.”

  “He seems to be a fine gentleman.” Maybe I should have been a lawyer like Gramps wanted. Those weren’t bad weasel words.

  “You don’t like him.”

  “He doesn’t like me.”

  “He only approves of prospective young ranchers who will provide him with a grandson.”

  I thought I could meet half of the expectations. “He wants you to marry a rancher?”

  “Yes. And I might, but I don’t like him pushing it.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She died when I was ten. Grandma Beth raised me since I was nine.”

  “I’m sorry. She had a long illness?”

  “She died in 1918 in France during Wilson’s war. That’s what Grandma calls it. Dad would never speak ill of Woodrow Wilson.”

  This was spooky. A chill raced down my spine.

  “What was she doing in France?”

  “She served in the Army Nurse Corps. She was a registered nurse, like Grandma Beth. She was discharged from active duty a dozen years earlier, just before she married dad. But she volunteered for the Reserve Corps and got called up after war was declared. Because she was married and had a child, she could have applied for an exemption. Dad says she would have received it automatically, but she refused to request an exemption. So, they sent her to France. I don’t think Dad’s ever forgiven her. I’m not sure how I feel about it. We don’t know how she died. Nurses supposedly weren’t sent to the front, and the Army claims no nurses died in combat. She was in Paris the last we heard. We received word she died ‘doing her duty for her country.’ She’s buried in a military cemetery in France. That’s all we know. God, I don’t know why I’ve jabbered on like this.”

  I turned the Ford onto the main road. I didn’t know what to say, and I remained silent for several minutes, reaching for the right words. Finally, I blu
rted, “My father died in 1918. In France. Infantry officer. He’s buried in a military cemetery there.”

  Neither of us spoke for the next ten minutes, but as we neared the lodge I broke the silence. “My grandparents will be joining us for dinner tonight. They’re friends of the Coolidges. They came from Lockwood, Wyoming by train. Arrived in Rapid City this noon and were just getting settled in when I left for your place. They’re my father’s parents. You’ll like Gram Skye. Your Grandma made me think of her, for some reason.”

  “I won’t like your grandfather?”

  “Oh, yes, you will. He and I just have an uneasy relationship.”

  “Your grandparents are friends of the president and first lady? Is that how you got your job?”

  “I guess you could say that. Indirectly.” It stung to admit it to this woman.

  “But you’re more than a numbers cruncher, aren’t you? That’s a bunch of bushwa. You’re packing again today, and I don’t think I’m considered dangerous.”

  Of course, she would have noticed the bulge caused by the gun under my jacket. I had a feeling she never missed much. “I’m an agent with the Bureau of Investigation, and sometime during the next few days we’ll talk business.”

  Chapter 9

  KATE

  Dinner with the first couple had been a surprisingly informal and intimate experience. Kate had anticipated a formal occasion and a dining room filled with dignitaries and public officials. But the only diners had been President and Mrs. Coolidge, Ethan and Skye Ramsey, Trey Ramsey, and herself. The fare had been simple: baked trout, beef sirloin strips, roasted potatoes and an assortment of vegetable dishes. Dessert had featured a multi-layered German chocolate cake. Mrs. Coolidge said it was a birthday cake, but the president would have scolded her if she arranged for just one candle. He did not like fusses, Kate learned, and he would have declined to blow out a single, lighted candle.