Season of the Coyote Secret

By Kenn Sherwood Roe

W hen a family of coyotes – the species, eliminated from the area by extensive trapping and poisoning – settles on my Grandfather’s ranch, the neighbors become alarmed for fear that their poultry and livestock will be killed. After two powerful ranchers (Mr. Henderson and Mr. Diego), demand that he take action to destroy the animals, Grandfather refuses unless necessary, believing that most predators are condemned by the deeds of a few. I and my friend, Amy Lou Henderson, a talented wildlife artist, who was crippled in a car accident, become involved, not only against the neighbors intent on annihilation, but, involved in secretly observing the family’s fascinating growth and interplay from an old shed suggested by Grandfather. Ultimately, it is I, supported by Amy Lou (Granddaughter of Mr. Henderson), who must confront the armed intruders on our ranch, who have illegally placed poison and traps on our land, when Grandfather is forced to halt because of a chest pain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491860076

Kenn Sherwood Roe

Kenn Sherwood Roe is a retired Shasta Community College instructor. He has been a high school teacher, a college administrator, a rancher, a seasonal park ranger, a Navy Reservist, a public relations man for TV, and an author of nine novels some with G.P. Putnam’s and Random House. In addition, he has had over 250 articles and short stories accepted by historical, outdoor, inspirational, children’s, nature, general, and literary magazines. He once worked at CBS Television City, Hollywood, where he became involved in production with many of the illustrious and legendary personalities in show business. An amateur naturalist and western history buff , Roe had ancestors who crossed the Isthmus of Panama to reach the California Gold Rush. As a teenager, he was blessed with parents who divided their time between a vacation cottage on the rugged Pacific Coast and a home in the Mother Lode country of the Sierras. Roe has a B.A. from Stanford University, a Fulbright Exchange Scholarship, a Masters from University of Nevada, and has traveled extensively. He is married with children, grandchildren, and a toy poodle, who loves the seashore as much as his master.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Sometimes in life one must stand alone; one must defy popular beliefs and even friends to hold firm the conviction that one is morally right. In the spring and summer of that year long ago, I developed a lasting fondness and a respect for the coyote, so often misunderstood and maligned in popular legend. But mostly, I discovered in my grandfather the courage of a man who believed that everything in nature has its place and its purpose.

I can see clearly the young fox twisting in the trap; the downed quail bloated by poison, a life-glow ended. I see the hunters tramping over the hills, searching; and, in the village, the people angry, their faces like knotted fists. I see them cursing and spitting upon the coyote carcass that hangs limp from the tripod. I hear and feel once more the taunts at school, and I see Grandfather squaring his frail shoulders as Mr. Henderson threatens him. And I know again that sinking hurt, the emptiness one feels with the world closing in.

I see my mother, her lips puckering with fear. And I experience then that terrible day with my grandfather stricken, and I walking up the hill against those, who, with their dogs, their traps, and their guns, dared invade our land. And always beside us is the image of my friend, Amy Lou—strong despite her crippled body.

But, too, from our hideaway, I see coyotes frolicking in the sun-warmed grass: I see the pups growing and learning. Amy Lou and I are nearby, almost a part of them. Everywhere, always, is the presence of my grandfather; for these impressions I am indebted to him, who shared for a time a secret of the heart.

(1)

Why, it’s a coyote, Grandfather exclaimed, pointing in surprise. Wide-eyed, I looked up from hoeing weeds. A collie-like animal trotted toward us, down the county road, directly in front of our white ranch house. A heavy one, Grandfather observed. Carrying young, I think.

There in the April sunshine, with the hills green and the tall gum trees nodding in the sea wind, the impression was indelible: the rough grizzled coat, the long thin face, the bushy tail, the alert ears. I’ll get the gun, I said impulsively, thinking of the twenty-two in a cabinet by the kitchen door.

Wait, said Grandfather, touching my arm. Just watch. Seeing us then, the coyote burst away. With ears laid back on its outstretched head, its tail curled behind, she skimmed over the ground, her loping run carrying her through the chicken yard and up the hill toward the redwoods beyond.

Grandfather stood in silence for a time. That was a rare sight, boy. A real pleasure. There hasn’t been a coyote in this area for fifteen years, he said, smiling, his eyes taking on a faraway look. The rolling coastline of Northern California, fog-cooled and carpeted with thick grass, was a natural for raising sheep, calves, and poultry. Here for decades the ranchers had waged relentless warfare against all predators. As a producer of high-grade wool, milk, and eggs, Grandfather could have feared and hated coyotes, as did his neighbors. But he was a man apart, I was to learn shortly.

Later, while the afternoon sun washed the hills with liquid gold, Grandfather, his dog, and I relaxed in the shade of a chicken house where we had been repairing loose boards. It was nice there, with the big house nestled below and the barn and numerous storage sheds interlaced by whitewashed fences. The huge walnut trees around Grandmother’s rose garden and along our creek were tender green with new leaves. Beyond stretched the fertile valley divided by the Estero, a brackish stream that emptied into the ocean a few miles west. Where the shallows narrowed, marking the southern extension of the ranch, Indians and pioneers had established a popular crossing. Through those narrows, my forefathers had first looked upon this welcoming valley, following their failure to make it rich in the Gold Rush.

We could see numerous neighboring ranches, some in the flatland, but most wedged in small side canyons, sheltered there by feathery cypress and stately blue gum. My parents lived over the hills, beyond the valley, in a tidy home on a cramped lot. That’s why I spent every available moment at my grandparents’ home, where I could roam freely, as I had been doing most of this Easter vacation.

Grandfather breathed deeply and surveyed the gentle land-sweep that he loved. He had never been out of the state, nor more than several hundred miles from home. The fields and the vales and the seascape, populated with his friends and family, seemed quite enough.

He was tall, with thin angular arms and a sharp ruddy face that he claimed was a Scottish trademark. He had pale blue eyes and high cheekbones, with gray hair along the sides, which gave him a dignified look. His long, graceful hands might have been better adapted to the playing of a violin or to the repairing of watches than to the rigors of ranch work.

Do you think the coyote is still around? I began hopefully, for I was excited still and struck by a feeling that we had not yet seen the last of the animal.

Oh, it probably just kept going, he said, staring at clumps of gray fog building over the horizon. Probably was just passing through. I’m guessing that it got chased out of its territory by hunters or dogs. It probably came from down around Point Reyes. There’s coyotes down there still. Point Reyes was a wild peninsula that thrust sharply into the ocean. The thick forests and isolation afforded protection to many animals.

But if it’s going to have puppies, won’t it have to hole up somewhere? I questioned.

There was a sudden twinkle in his eyes. Well, you never know, he hedged. A coyote is funny. From my observation, they often do just the opposite of what you expect. I guess that’s why they survive. He smiled at me knowingly. You’re probably very right. That coyote did have a den somewhere, all set up for her little ones. And, because she is expecting, she’ll have to hole up again someplace soon.

Around here?

She could. There’s lots of old badger dens around, some squirrel colonies, too; you know that. He considered the facts. Yes, there’s a chance that coyote stayed, at least somewhere in the back hills. But don’t put much hope on it. For all concerned, it’s best she kept going. Believe me.

Around us a flock of white leghorn chickens clucked and pecked; some paced constantly back and forth before a high wire fence, seeking a way out. Grandfather had hundreds of birds scattered in pens across the ranch. Before day’s end, we would feed them all and gather their eggs. What havoc could a coyote cause among those birds, I wondered. Coyotes are pretty mean critters, I guess, huh? I asked.

Not at all, he replied. Most coyotes are timid and retiring. In fact, they do lots of good by eating mice, gophers, and even grasshoppers—those things that chew up gardens and crops. There are bad ones, of course, real bad ones that kill sheep and chickens; and, I must say, they’re like mad outlaws that should be destroyed. I think of the whole problem, like I think of Grandma’s garden. If you don’t remove the real nasty weeds, they’ll take over. But Grandma would never think of pulling up all her roses to get at the weeds. He shook his head. But that’s what people want to do with coyotes—get rid of them all. However, that would be mighty unhealthy and, I think, impossible.

I listened to his soft voice and watched him stroke the floppy ears of his dog, Barney, a black and orange retriever. He was a no nonsense animal, not dangerous, but independent and select in whom he befriended. As a constant companion, he had a way of lying at Grandfather’s feet, aloof and indifferent to everyone but his master. He would eye people without emotion, or would simply glower ahead at nothing. Stray dogs and drifting hobos usually departed shortly following his guttural snarl and bared fangs.

That old coyote will probably hide her family in some faraway spot, said Grandfather. His strong, callused fingers probed the sensitive area behind the ears and round the neck that gives dogs such endless pleasure. Barney closed his coal-dark eyes and leaned into the caressing hands. Anyway, Grandfather concluded, if there is a coyote still roundabout, Barney will let us know.

That evening, as we devoured Grandmother’s golden biscuits and roast beef and I eyed the wild berry cobbler, we heard the first wail. Few sounds, I am certain, are more memorable than the cry of the coyote. Grandfather looked up, his eyes sparkling. Grandmother stopped in the middle of the kitchen floor, straightened, and dug her hands into the gingham apron, crumpling it against her. Thrilled, I sat high on my hand-carved chair, an excitement surging through me. It’s stayed, I whooped. There in the spring twilight, with the electric lights off, the last sun rays laced through the room, dappling the purple shadows. The lone wail came again, drifting over the ranch and the highlands and out into the valley, penetrating every crevice in the room and in my being. There could be no escape. The howl made chills along my spine. And I knew I would never forget the moment or the sound.

In a kitchen warmed cozily by a wood stove, I sat shivering. The sound, long and drawn out and hauntingly sad, seemed to come from nowhere, yet somehow everywhere.

She’s calling a lost mate, said Grandfather at last.

How do you know? I asked, amazed.

Coyotes have their own language, just like most creatures do, he explained, listening. What she’s telling us, I heard once before.

Grandmother and I looked at him. Where? she asked.

Years ago, over on the Palucio Ranch; the men killed a female and dug up the den. Afterward her mate mourned for days.

Were there pups? I inquired.

Grandfather hesitated. Yes.

What happened?

The men killed them.

How?

Just killed them.

Again came that quavering cry, but from farther away it seemed; and I was glad. To the northeast, behind our bare, grassy hills, the woods began, thick with mighty redwoods and Douglas fir. In the canyons and steep ravines, the coyote could hide forever and have her babies undisturbed.

In the yard, Barney then answered with sharp irritated barks. He began prowling nervously, back and forth, his chain rattling on the run-wire. Shortly he erupted again, this time with a high baying that was edged with fear.

It’s got Barney shook up, said Grandfather, chuckling. Don’t think he ever heard his ancestors before.

That coyote’s on our ranch somewhere, isn’t it? Grandmother asked with a frown. She turned on the lights as if the show and the serenade were over.

I’m afraid so, he replied.

What difference does that make, Grandpa? I asked.

If the howling continues, the men will organize, Grandmother said. She began clearing dishes and carrying food to the pantry. She was a plump woman with a puffy, but pretty face. Her short curly hair had only a trace of gray, despite her sixty-four years. Her words were often blunt and to the heart of any matter. I waited for Grandfather’s explanation.

Obviously others in the valley will hear it, too, he offered.

Once more the coyote sounded, a short yodel that trailed into silence for the remainder of the night.

And people don’t like coyotes, Grandmother added. They got their chickens and calves to think about. Times are hard enough without a coyote eating one out of house and home.

You see, said Grandfather to me, his eyes intent, back before your time, we had some dry years; the grass stayed brown and the ground got like brick and started cracking. It was terrible on livestock. Was terrible on everyone. Wells went dry and the springs in the hills petered out. Suddenly we had a big influx of coyotes looking for water and game to eat. About the only water they could find is what we had for our animals or for irrigation. They banned together at times, just like little wolves. They’d come right down in the yard at night and yap at you. You could see their eyes glowing in the dark.

Wow, I shuddered.

Oh, we’d had an occasional coyote around before, but not like that. They scared people a lot, not that they ever did much harm. It was the idea of them being around, I guess. They did get a couple of chickens and ducks here and there, but I don’t recall any cows or sheep that got hurt or any so-called slaughter. They apparently fed on the mice and rabbits that got to congregatin’ in our pastures and grain fields.

"Did they bite