The Coyote's Cry by Jackie Merritt Page A

from his mind.
    He drove as fast as he dared on the washboard road, and he was about half a mile from his great-grandfather’s place when he saw a plume of dust ahead, created by an oncoming vehicle. Annie must be on her way somewhere, he thought, and then frowned, because Annie’s pickup truck was red and what he was catching sight of was…white!
    â€œMy God, it’s Granddad’s old truck!” he exclaimed out loud. Had someone stolen it? To Bram’s knowledge it hadn’t been driven or even started in years. But with George gone so long, a thief could have tinkered with the engine, poured gas into the tank and just driven it away. Whoever he was, he was going to be one very surprised car thief when he was stopped by the county sheriff!
    Bram turned the steering wheel of his big SUV and parked it crosswise on the road, effectively setting up a roadblock. He took the gun he always carried under the seat and got out, tucking the weapon into the back waistband of his jeans. Then he waited and watched his poorold great-grandfather’s stolen truck, a truck George still valued highly even though he couldn’t drive it, coming closer.
    It was moving slowly, Bram realized with an angry scowl. Unusually slowly, in fact. Of course, the thief had probably spotted the makeshift roadblock and was trying to figure out a way around it.
    â€œThere is no way around it, jerk,” Bram mumbled. “This is it, the only route to the highway, and you’re going to the lockup. Count on it.”
    The pickup kept coming at the same snail’s pace, and as it got closer Bram could see the form of the driver through the windshield. Then it was closer still and Bram could see details—long hair, black hat…long gray hair and black hat. “My God, it’s Granddad!” Bram exclaimed, too shocked to do anything but stare.
    George stopped the truck and he, too, stared—straight ahead, with not even a glance at his great-grandson. Bram nervously cleared his throat and walked over to the opened window on the driver’s side.
    â€œUh, where are you going, Granddad?” he asked.
    â€œDid your car break down across the road?” George asked.
    â€œMy car’s fine. I parked it that way to stop…well, when I saw this truck I thought someone had stolen it.”
    â€œWhy would I steal my own truck?” George still wouldn’t look at Bram, and Bram was catching on that the old man was angry with him, angrier in fact than Bram had ever seen him.
    â€œI had no idea you still drove. I thought a stranger…a thief…had taken your truck.”
    â€œAs you can see, I took my truck. I suppose now you’re going to arrest me for driving without a license.”
    â€œGranddad, I would never arrest you for anything.”
    â€œYou’re the sheriff, aren’t you? I’m breaking the law, aren’t I? Go ahead and get out the handcuffs.”
    â€œGranddad!”
    â€œIf you’re not going to haul me to jail in handcuffs, please move your car so I can be on my way.”
    Bram flinched internally. He owed this old man, the eldest member of the Colton family, the highest, most sincere respect he could muster. And truly Bram did respect his great-grandfather. He always had. But this whole thing was trying Bram’s patience, which had already been pushed pretty much to the limit today. He drew a calming breath, or one that he hoped would steady his nerves.
    â€œOn your way where, Granddad?”
    â€œYou didn’t tell me which one of my family is dying, so I’m not sure I should be telling you anything,” George said.
    Bram exploded. “Dying! Where in hell did you get that idea?”
    For the first time George turned his head and looked at his great-grandson. “Are you speaking to me?”
    â€œI’m sorry, but today has just about done me in. Listen, I came by your place early this morning and you weren’t there.