The Coyote's Cry Page 6

  Out of self-preservation, his thoughts segued from Jenna to the Colton Ranch, and the contentment living there gave him. It had been home since his birth, and occasionally he thought of talking to his siblings about buying everyone out so it belonged only to him. And yet no one ever interfered with his use of the place, or gave him unwanted and unneeded advice simply because he or she owned as much of the land as he did.

  He remembered growing up happy in a loud and boisterous household, with parents who laughed a lot and openly adored their five children. He thought of his brothers and sister, each one of them, and suffered again the agony of learning that their parents had been killed in a plane crash. It had been a terrible time, and he’d had to downplay his own shock and grief to comfort the others.

  All in all, though, his life had gone relatively smoothly. He’d learned to live with grief and an ache for a woman he couldn’t have, but it was funny that he had rarely thought of his Indian blood until falling for Jenna. There were so many mixed marriages and relationships between Native Americans and whites that most of the population in and around Black Arrow paid scant attention to ancestry. There were a few pure whites, like Carl Elliot—or so they claimed—and there were also a few pure Comanches, like his great-grandfather.

  But George WhiteBear was the only pure-blooded Indian in the family. And he was one of the handful of Comanches who proudly clung to the old ways, to teachings handed down from generation to generation. It was George who had educated his offspring and their offspring in Comanche history. Bram remembered most of what he’d been taught.

  The Comanche, like the Arapaho, Blackfeet, Cheyenne and Sioux, were considered Plains Indians. In the old days sign language permitted different tribes to communicate, and George had even shown his progeny some of the signs. George also boasted about the Comanches’ amazing horseback-riding abilities and their ferocity in battle. Then there was the subject of counting coup—the act of touching a live enemy and getting away from him—which brought great honor to the brave warrior who managed that feat. That had always fascinated young Bram.

  But then George would speak in a quieter voice, a sad monotone, about the Comanche people being forced onto the reservation in Oklahoma in 1867. “The government developed what might be called a conscience in the early 1900s and gave each Comanche still living—not many by then—160 acres of land. Many did not like farming, and sold or leased their land to whites. My father kept his and it is still my home,” the old man declared.

  But the stories Bram had always liked best were about the traditional vision quest that was so important to most of the Plains Indians, as their religion centered on spiritual power. Everyone had to find his personal guardian spirit, and would go off alone with a little food and water to search for it. George WhiteBear had stayed alone in the wilderness for eight days and nights, and then he’d heard coyotes communicating with each other all around him. One had entered the circle of light from his campfire and looked directly at him with eyes glowing amber from the fire, and it was at that moment that George had known that the coyote was his guardian spirit. To this day, George listened to the cries and calls of coyotes and knew what they were saying to him.

  Sometimes, when life became more drudging than satisfying, Bram would cynically wonder if he should undress down to a breechcloth, find some wilderness and look for his personal guardian spirit. But he was more white than Comanche, if not by blood then by lifestyle, and he wondered if he would have a successful vision quest. After all, he’d been raised almost as white as Carl Elliot had raised Jenna, with a few notable exceptions, of course, mostly brought about by Great-grandfather George WhiteBear.

  The sun was just beginning to bathe the landscape in a peachy-orange light when Bram reached the turnoff from the highway that led to George’s acreage. It was a dirt road with a row of power poles along the side, accommodating George and Annie McCrary. Annie had become widowed only two short years after she and her husband, Ralph, bought their land. Annie and George weren’t bosom buddies, by any means, although Annie acted as if she wished she were. She kept an eye on her neighbor and dropped by George’s place about once a week with something from her garden—fresh or canned—as an excuse to check on him.

  Annie’s place was farther down the dusty washboard of a road than George’s, and Bram didn’t anticipate seeing her today. He felt sure George would want a ride to town to see his daughter, which meant an immediate return trip to Black Arrow.

  Reaching the small wood house that was almost as old as his granddad, Bram braked to a stop, turned off the ignition and instantly felt the silence prickle the fine hairs on the back of his neck. George’s old pickup was parked in its usual place, rusting away since the day George had quit driving—at the stern advice of the police—after causing another fender bender. Everything about his great-grandfather’s place looked normal, but instinct told Bram it wasn’t.

  For one thing, George had three mongrel dogs that normally rushed any visitor, barking up a storm. The noise they made was their only contribution to guarding the place, for they usually wriggled with pleasure when anyone came, and they had never chased off anything bigger than a gopher.

  There was no sign of the trio today. That unnerved Bram. Frowning darkly, he got out of his SUV and walked to the front door. He turned the knob and wasn’t at all surprised to find the door not locked, as he couldn’t remember a time when any door or window of this house had been locked. “Granddad?” he called. “George?”

  There wasn’t a sound. Bram’s uneasiness grew, and he hurriedly walked through the house, checking each room. George’s possessions were simple and few, and he liked things neat and tidy. His bed was made and Bram could not detect anything out of place. And yet he knew, he sensed, that something was very out of place. What it was wasn’t visible; nothing jumped out at Bram. But he didn’t believe for a second that the old man had merely taken his three pets for an early-morning stroll. For one thing, George’s daily walks these days were pretty much conducted close to the house, close enough that he or the dogs would have heard Bram arrive.

  With his heart in his throat and suddenly beating anxiously, Bram went back outside and walked around the house, shouting every few moments, “Granddad? George?”

  Nothing but the rustling of cottonwood leaves and the clucking of hens from George’s fenced chicken coop could be heard. Bram made a run for the coop, opened the wire gate and entered the enclosure. He checked the nests of George’s five chickens and found that each contained eggs. George had been gone for days! Bram’s concern intensified tenfold.

  He left the chickens to themselves, then stood halfway between house and coop and pondered the situation. Sometimes George rode to town with Annie, but not at such an early hour and never with the dogs. Still, it wasn’t an impossibility.

  Hurrying back to his SUV, Bram climbed in, started the engine and drove from George’s yard with his tires kicking up gravel and dirt. He was alarmed and couldn’t pretend otherwise. George was always home, unless some of the family drove out and hauled him to one house or another for a holiday dinner or get-together. No one in the Colton family was doing any celebrating these days. They were all too concerned about Gran’s health to plan any festivities, and besides, Bram had put out the word that he would be the one to come out here and tell George WhiteBear about his daughter’s stroke.

  Bram turned left instead of right on the dirt road and in minutes was at Annie McCrary’s little ranch. She heard his arrival and came out of the barn to greet him.

  “Morning, Bram. You’re out early,” she called. She was a pudgy little woman with a warm, friendly face. She wore dresses to town, but on her ranch she favored bib overalls, and that was what she was wearing this morning.

  “Morning, Annie. I’ve been to Granddad’s place and he’s not there. Have you seen him recently?”

  Annie thought for a moment. “Four, five days ago, I believe it was. I brought over some onions and radishes from my garden, and also a
quart of my canned peaches. He loves my peaches.”

  “And he seemed all right?”

  “He seemed just fine. Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee? I made a pot not too long ago. It should still be good.”

  Bram nodded. “Thanks, I’d love some coffee.”

  They went into Annie’s house, and Bram sat at the kitchen table while Annie poured two cups of coffee.

  “I can see the worry on your face,” she said, joining him at the table. “George probably just went somewhere with one of your brothers or cousins.”

  “The dogs are gone, too, and the nests in the coop have at least three days’ eggs in them.”

  Annie frowned. “Well, that’s odd. I would have gone over and gathered the eggs if he had told me he was going to be gone. And where on earth would he go that he could take the dogs with him?”

  “That’s the answer I’m searching for, Annie. Did he say anything…? Let me rephrase that. What did the two of you talk about when you brought him the peaches?”

  “Well, let me see.” After a moment Annie’s eyes lit up. “We talked about coyotes.”

  Bram’s stomach sank. George didn’t make small talk about his spiritual guardian. Annie wouldn’t know it, she couldn’t possible have known it, but George had been imparting seriously important information.

  “Annie, try to remember exactly what he said about coyotes.”

  “Goodness, Bram, you sound just like a cop grilling a suspect,” Annie teased.

  Bram took a breath. “Sorry, Annie. Would you mind telling me as much as you can remember about that conversation?”

  “Of course I wouldn’t mind. I was only teasing you. Now, let me see. I gave him the little cardboard box with the things I’d brought over, and he said ‘Thank you, Annie,’ as he always does and then asked if I’d like to sit a spell. He offered a glass of lemonade and I accepted, and when he brought it outside, we sat on the bench under that big tree in his front yard to drink it. I asked him how he was feeling, which now that I think about it, was unusual. But he didn’t look a hundred percent that day. Not that he looked ill—don’t let me worry you on that point. But he looked like something was bothering him. And that was when he started talking about coyotes. I was rather surprised, I remember, because I hadn’t seen or even heard a coyote in quite a while. Actually, I do believe he said the same thing, so I really don’t know why the subject even came up.”

  “Are you sure he said he hadn’t seen or heard a coyote’s cry in quite a while?” Bram persisted.

  “Very sure.”

  Bram slumped back against his chair. “There’s the problem.”

  Annie laughed. “Surely you’re not saying he wants coyotes skulking about his place.”

  “Annie, he’s very dedicated to Comanche traditions, and when he was a mere boy he left the family home and went in search of his personal guardian spirit. All young Comanches went on vision quests—it was a rite of passage and necessary to their spiritual growth. Granddad connected with a courageous young coyote, and he claims to this day to understand their language. Their cries.”

  “Goodness,” Annie murmured. “Bram, is that your belief, too?”

  “Not for myself, Annie, but I can’t doubt it for Granddad. He’s predicted or explained too many events based on his guardian spirit’s messages for me to doubt his beliefs. The last time we discussed it, his personal guardian had most recently taken the form of a big male coyote with a silver-tipped, dark gray coat. If that big fellow isn’t around anymore, or if the whole pack moved on, then Granddad is without his spiritual guardian and feeling lost.”

  With a grim expression on his face, Bram got to his feet. “He took his dogs and went looking for his guardian spirit.”

  Annie rose, looking aghast. “He’s wandering around looking for a coyote? Bram, that’s crazy. A man his age?”

  “No, Annie, it’s not crazy, not to a Comanche. But you’re right about one thing. At his age he shouldn’t be wandering around alone. Damn, so many questions! Which direction did he go? How far did he get in four, five days? Does he have enough food and water with him?

  “He did this before, about ten, twelve years ago. I was worried sick about him then, and he was only in his eighties. Now he’s almost a hundred. Annie, thanks for the coffee and information. I’ve got to be on my way. I’ve got to do something.”

  Bram hurried out, with Annie following and trying to keep up with his long stride. “What will you do, Bram?”

  “I don’t know, but I can’t just do nothing.” Bram climbed into his SUV. “Bye, Annie.”

  He drove away with his mind racing a hundred miles per hour. He turned into George’s driveway again, hopped out of his vehicle and ran to the house. This time he searched for scraps of paper, something, anything, that George might have written a note on saying in which direction he and his dogs were going in search of that silver-coated coyote.

  There was nothing.

  But Bram didn’t give up, he couldn’t, and he went back outside and slowly circled the house with his eyes on the ground. Close to the house, the grass was too trampled for him to find any clues. But as his circles became larger and larger, he finally found footprints and paw prints heading southeast. The direction made sense to Bram, for about ten miles southeast there was a forest of cottonwoods, sycamores and elms along a creek. That would provide the old man with shelter and water, although Bram hoped he had taken water with him and wouldn’t drink from the creek. It wasn’t certain the water was polluted, but he felt that people his great-granddaddy’s age shouldn’t take chances like that.

  Bram returned to his vehicle, got in and drove home to his own ranch, deciding what to put in his backpack for a ten-mile hike and possibly an overnight sleep-out. Of course, he’d have George’s stubbornness to contend with, that was certain, and if the old man wasn’t ready to go home, Bram knew he couldn’t force him. But what if he’d taken a fall during that long trek, or gotten ill and was in dire need of help? Bram had to find him.

  He went into his house and saw the door of the master suite closed. Recalling Jenna’s rule, but wondering if maybe she’d shut the door just to avoid seeing him, he sat at the kitchen table and used the telephone to call the sheriff’s station.

  Sergeant Lester Moore was the day’s duty officer, and Bram asked if anything was going on that required his attention.

  “That insurance investigator is in town, Bram. He came in and introduced himself, then went over to the courthouse. He said he wants to talk to you.”

  “Hell,” Bram muttered.

  “Something wrong, Bram?”

  “I don’t know. There could be. I was going to find out for sure, but now… I guess I can take the time to go by the courthouse. What’s his name?”

  “Just a sec, I’ve got his card here…. It’s Robert Kirby. He said to call him Bob.”

  “Okay, I’ll go and talk to him, but then everything’s in your hands, Lester. I’m going to be out of touch for the rest of the day and possibly tomorrow.”

  “What the heck’s going on? You on the trail of that arsonist or something?”

  “Wish I were, but it’s something else. Just hold down the fort, okay?” Bram could tell that he’d aroused Lester’s curiosity, but except for family, this really was no one’s business. “Did Bolling’s report come in yet?” The state fire inspector’s written report might be of some assistance to the insurance adjuster’s investigation, Bram figured.

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay. I’ll probably see you late tomorrow afternoon.” Hoping that was going to be the case, Bram hung up, and was getting to his feet when Jenna walked in with an armload of bed linen and towels.

  “Good morning,” she said, and went on through the kitchen to the laundry room.

  Bram swallowed hard and mumbled, “Mornin’.” Just the sight of her had always made him a little crazy, and now that he knew what kissing and holding her felt like, his former torment was small potatoes compared to what he
felt now. If he had deliberately set out to inflict unbearable emotional torture upon himself he could not have done a better job. What on God’s green earth had made him behave so heedlessly last night?

  Jenna’s hands shook as she put the bedding and towels in the washer. She’d been busy with Gloria and hadn’t heard Bram come home. Walking into the kitchen and seeing him like that, without any warning whatsoever, had been a shock to her system, which wasn’t functioning all that well to begin with. Where had he gone so early? Not work, for he wasn’t in uniform. And why hadn’t he gone to work? Why was he back home again? What if…what if he made another pass? What if he’d thought it over and decided that he shouldn’t have been so hasty last night? Maybe he wished now that he hadn’t put the brakes on during that runaway kissing session, and maybe he’d like her to know that.

  With the washer running, Jenna returned to the kitchen, expecting to see Bram again. But the room was vacant, and an overwhelming disappointment instantly destroyed all of the foolish hopes she’d formed while taking care of the laundry.

  Sighing heavily, and reaching for the composure that she always found so readily with anyone else—with everyone else—Jenna headed back to Gloria’s room. But Bram was in there. The door was open and Jenna could see him sitting on the bed next to his grandmother. He was holding her hand and talking to her, and tears suddenly filled Jenna’s eyes, emotional tears from seeing Bram’s love of his grandmother so clearly. If only he could love her like that, Jenna thought sadly.

  Why had he never married? She’d heard very few stories about Bram and women. Whatever he did in his private life must be conducted very discreetly, for she’d never heard any gossip being bandied about. For the most part, Sheriff Bram Colton was liked and respected by the community, with the most prominent exception being Jenna’s own father.