Chapter 15 #3
Slowly, Grey Coyote crept up to and around each of the post’s buildings, three in all. The horses were gone, and the corral gate hung open with the wind blowing it back and forth.
Grey Coyote examined the parched ground around the corral, trying to piece together what had taken place. A large man, a very large man had been here…about three days ago.
Bending down, Grey Coyote traced one of the moccasin prints with his finger. The particular shoe was made from one piece of rawhide that had one seam that ran from ankle to heel.
These were not Indian prints. These were the white-man-turned-Indian tracks. Those of a trapper.
Was the trapper still here?
Carefully, Grey Coyote listened, sniffing the air, trying to perceive any ever-expanding circles in the air that would indicate motion or life—in any direction.
There was nothing.
Coming down onto hands and knees, Grey Coyote studied the footprints further, seeking other signs which would tell the tale of this post. Placing his fingers into the print left in the dirt, Grey Coyote felt it for subtle differences.
The man walked like a beast, dragging his feet.
This would be a big man, overweight, but strong.
There was more. The man was irrational, perhaps mad.
It could be seen in the frenzied pattern of this print.
But what of the two men who ran the post? Where were they?
None of their footprints were here. If his guess were right, it indicated that they had never left. Again, Grey Coyote sent out sensory perception, feeling the air for a sign of movement.
But once again, there was nothing. Nothing but the natural motion of the air and wind all around him.
He would have to investigate.
Abandoning the footprints, Grey Coyote crept toward the buildings.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught motion in the bushes next to the hill.
A careful observation showed it to be the two women, hiding behind the shrubs.
He didn’t admonish them, even in thought. He could understand their curiosity.
With a wave of his arms, Grey Coyote gave them to understand they were to stay where they were and keep out of sight.
It was Yellow Swan who acknowledged him.
Giving a slight nod, Grey Coyote turned back to the task at hand, and, after coming around to the entrance of the building, he slipped inside. The stench of death greeted him, and he followed the smell until he found one of the two proprietors.
Slowly, Grey Coyote crept forward toward the body. He recognized the man at once. It was Acme, and he lay face down, sprawled on the floor. On his back were several knife wounds. Whoever had killed this man had hacked away at him long after it was necessary.
There had been little struggle, suggesting that the trapper had crept in on the man unaware.
But where was the other trader? The one called LaPrenier?
Once again, Grey Coyote extended his perceptions into every corner of the post. Slinking forward, Grey Coyote stole into an inner sanctum. There was a door, and he guessed this would be where LaPrenier would be found.
Though he still didn’t sense any signs of life, he opened the door carefully. As the entryway flung wide, he at once saw LaPrenier.
The man had been stabbed twice, maybe three times. He lay slumped over a table, and clutched in one hand was a quill.
Had LaPrenier been trying to write something?
Though Grey Coyote was not acquainted with writing, many times he had witnessed his brother-in-law working over papers and books very similar to these.
Taking a few steps forward, Grey Coyote moved LaPrenier’s body. Sure enough, the man had written something before his death. But what?
Though he could make no sense of what the marks meant, sitting behind some bushes, out there on the hill, was someone who very likely could.
Moving LaPrenier’s corpse farther to the side, Grey Coyote grabbed hold of the book that contained the writing, and placing it under his arm, carefully slipped away from this place.
“Ito, come,” Grey Coyote said to the two women as soon as he was within speaking distance. “Let us go back to the far side of the hill, where I originally told you to wait. It is a better location for hiding than this one is. We must talk.”
Yellow Swan scooted in the direction he pointed. Marietta made a move to follow her, but Grey Coyote caught her by the arm.
“My wife,” he said, “I have need of your talent.”
“Me?” She turned back to him, her look slightly puzzled. “What do you mean? What talent?”
Grey Coyote held out the book to her. “Can you tell me what the white man’s scratches mean?”
Mystified at first, Marietta stared at the book, then accepted and opened it. “Yes, I can read this writing. Where did you get this?”
“From the spirit of the men who traded at this place.”
“Spirit of the men?”
“They are dead. But there is something in this book that drew me to it.”
“Oh no. The men are dead?”
Grey Coyote nodded. “Three days. One man was stabbed many times in the back. One man was stabbed three times. But this man held a quill clutched in his hand, and he had been making white man’s writing.
Some of the scratches I see are different from the others.
I do not know what these mean, but I wonder, did he leave a message? ”
“I don’t know. Let’s go back to our hiding place, and I’ll have a look.”
Grey Coyote inclined his head and led her there.