Coyote

by Rhonda Roberts

  The whole table chuckled at the thought.

  ‘Yeah,’ chipped in the impetuous grey-haired rancher, glad of the opportunity to stoke the conversational fire. ‘Lucretia was Noah Magurty’s second wife and Wayland hated his stepmother —’

  ‘Some stepmomma!’ snorted Blix. ‘She was five years younger than Wayland … Noah Magurty married der pretty little Lucretia a month after Wayland’s own goot momma was lowered in her cold grave …’

  He gave another snort and eyed the saloon doors that Wayland had left swinging. ‘Wayland ran off, swearing he’d never come back.’ The Big Swede took a careful sip of his whiskey. ‘But he came back all right. Guess he couldn’t pass up his inheritance. The Magurty’s Flying D is a goot piece of land.’ He laughed. ‘Now Wayland don’t have to share der Flying D with no younger stepbrother …’ He nodded to himself. ‘Yep, he’s come out of this very goot indeed.’

  The table sniggered, as though that kind of rationale was obvious to any reasonable man. I eyed them, thinking I wouldn’t want to turn my back on this pack of hyenas any time soon.

  The saloon doors squeaked open again.

  Like everyone else, I checked the doorway.

  Three fine-looking caballeros clinked their spur-clad way into the Hen’s Coop Saloon. The Hispanics looked familiar. Then I remembered I’d seen them standing around Signor Montoya outside the Palace of the Governors while he berated Captain Bull … like they were his backup. The three wore expensively tailored riding suits embellished with embroidered strips at the neck and shoulders, matching hats and gleaming Cuban-heeled boots. These weren’t your average vaqueros, they had to be hidalgos — the cream of the local Hispanic landed gentry.

  And there was too much resemblance in their stern faces for them not to be brothers … cousins at the very least.

  Whoever they were, they were looking for trouble. The three caballeros spread out to pose in front of the doorway, as though to say, ‘No one leaves without getting past us first.’ They scanned the converted nuns’ chapel with open disgust.

  The air in the room dropped at least ten degrees. I could swear I saw puffs of mist blow out of the mouths of the cowboys at the table closest to the door. The singer broke off halfway through a long note, as though someone had stuck her with a fork.

  From the way the three had positioned themselves to control the room I got the feeling they were the real deal. Wayland Magurty had been an out-of-control drunkard, but these boys looked like they’d be serious contenders in a real fight.

  The cowboys at the table nearest the door had the same impression. They slowly and carefully rose, keeping their hands away from their guns, and backed to the rear of the room.

  The singer and her accompanist both hid behind the old piano.

  Yep, these three were definitely trouble.

  The caballeros scanned the old nuns’ chapel with angry repugnance. The youngest one pointed an accusing finger and the three brothers zoomed in on the broken stained-glass window — at the recently decapitated Saint Custodia. Their three faces lit up with righteous fury, as though someone had struck a match at a gas leak.

  The eldest one, sporting a carefully manicured goatee, eyed the room full of wealthy Anglos with loathing. These pagan Americanos had disgraced their venerated old convent. The youngest one sauntered over to the bar, his polished spurs clinking, and demanded three whiskeys.

  Blix, keeping his face carefully turned to the front, whispered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Damned Mexs … they know they’re not welcome in here.’

  ‘Who are they?’ I whispered back.

  ‘That’s der Montoya brothers. They think they still own this town. Der one with der wispy hair on his chin is Diego … he and der middle brother, Jose, are hot-blooded but not as stupid as most.’ Using one hand, carefully hidden from general view, he pointed at the youngest Montoya waiting impatiently for the bartender to attend to his command. ‘But it’s der other one — Fidel — that you have to watch.’

  Fidel?

  I grimaced. Why did I have to watch anyone at all? Bloody hell, now Blix expected me to clean up this mess too.

  If I knew where Hector was I’d just leave!

  I eyed Fidel Montoya with simmering resentment. He was tall and dark with a slim, muscular body, no doubt honed from years in the saddle. His hands were strong too, with long tapering fingers.

  Actually he was kinda sexy …

  ‘Stop that!’ I told myself.

  Blix shot me a worried glance. I must’ve said it out loud. Damn!

  Fidel’s gaze kept flickering from the decapitated saint to the bartender pouring his drinks and back again to the hole in the stained-glass window as though he was stoking himself up for something.

  I frowned — just why were the damned whiskeys so important?

  The bartender finished pouring. Fidel snatched up the three drinks, rejoined his two brothers at the front of the saloon and distributed the whiskeys.

  They faced us together.

  The eldest brother, Diego, shot an arrogant glance around the room full of Anglos. ‘The Montoya family has lived in Nuevo Mexico for generations. We claimed this wilderness for God. But when your heathen army invaded our country, we, like men of honour … we Montoyas resisted your invasion —’

  ‘We are men of honour!’ spat Fidel, unable to let his brother finish. ‘Unlike you!’

  Diego continued. ‘Santa Fe was soon lost to us but in Taos, our grandfather raised a mighty rebellion.’ He curled his lip. ‘It failed — but your Americano governor murdered him for his valour! Hanged him from a gallows like a common criminal!’

  Diego looked at his two brothers and together they raised their full glasses to the silent room. ‘But now at last we have our revenge. Now our grandfather’s murderer, Noah Magurty, is dead.’

  They downed their whiskeys in one gulp.

  ‘To the end of the Magurty bloodline!’ shouted Fidel, smashing his empty glass into the wooden floor with a fury that spoke of generations of hate.

  The saloon doors squeaked open.

  Wayland Magurty staggered back in, an empty whiskey bottle in one limp hand.

  The Montoya brothers drew themselves up like snakes getting ready to strike.

  ‘What are you three doin’ in here?’ spat Wayland, eyeing the enraged Hispanics through bleary red eyes.

  All around the room hands slid guns out of holsters. Mine included.

  Fidel stomped forwards, his spurs jangling, as though to strike him. ‘We’re celebrating that your father has finally gone to hell!’

  Wayland’s face went from a drunken flush to beetroot with rage. He drew his weapon, staggering to one side from the too swift motion.

  The singer who’d been peeking over the top of the piano screamed and dived for cover.

  Wayland fired his wavering pistol, toppling over from the kickback.

  I shoved our heavy wooden table on its side for cover, scattering the whiskey glasses and playing cards every which way. Blix and Tiny got behind it before I could grab a space. I settled for crouching behind Tiny. I figured he was more solid protection than the table.

  Jose Montoya dropped to the floor, clutching a blood-red hole in his shoulder. Diego and Fidel drew their guns as Wayland crawled behind our table.

  Someone from behind me shot at Diego, catching him in the side. He spun around then dropped.

  Suddenly everyone was shooting all at once. Bullets whizzed past. Ricochets twanged menacingly around the room.

  Fidel Montoya dived behind the bar and started shooting at our table, trying to hit Wayland.

  Splinters flew off it in every direction.

  I brooded behind the cover of Tiny. The idiots behind me couldn’t shoot to save themselves … that or they were taking the opportunity to have a pot shot at Blix and his posse too.

  A bullet from behind me zapped past my head and blew a hole out of the table the size of a silver dollar.

  Stuff this! If I was going to get out of he
re uninjured, I had to bring this shoot-out to a halt.

  I cocked my modified pistol and stood.

  The poker table was pretty shredded, so Wayland Magurty took cover behind me.

  Fidel Montoya recognised me, his eyes wide, but shot anyway. He missed Wayland …

  And got me.

  I groaned at the pain. It felt like I’d been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. The shot sent me stumbling backwards and down onto one knee.

  Dead silence. All shooting ceased.

  I sucked in a breath. My chest burnt with the effort. I clutched it with one hand.

  I looked down … and removed my hand.

  There was a hole in the middle of my black shirt.

  Wayland, now crouching on the floor, looked up at me in horror. ‘Sorry, Mr Eriksen,’ he slurred.

  I got to my feet. Wayland was so surprised his eyes bugged out.

  As I rose up, the shocked murmurs started.

  Fidel Montoya froze in horror. But he’d just shot me through the heart? What was I? His pistol hung from his now limp hand.

  Using my modified handgun, I took aim at Fidel. His mouth formed a perfect O.

  I shifted my aim … just slightly up. Then pulled the trigger, standing ready for the massive recoil.

  BOOM.

  In such close quarters, the sound brought everyone’s heads down and their hands up to cover their ears.

  It was like a cannon had gone off.

  The adobe wall above Fidel Montoya’s head exploded into earthy shrapnel.

  He ducked, terrified.

  Everyone, including Montoya, stared up at the wall. It now held a hole the size of a bucket.

  I glared around the room. ‘Now, if any of you sons-of-bitches decide to start shooting anywhere near me again, I’m going to put my next bullet right between your eyes!’

  The room sucked in a collective gasp.

  I swung my pistol around my finger twice and shoved it back in my holster with a click.

  Reaching into my ruined black shirt, I dug around in the bullet hole over my heart for a painful moment, then pulled out Montoya’s dented slug …

  At that, Wayland freaked out entirely and started crawling away from me on his hands and knees. Blix and Tiny had their mouths so wide open I could see their tonsils.

  I patted my chest … and the new bulletproof vest Domenico Torres had made for me. Well, at least now I knew it worked.

  I tossed the buckled bullet onto the dirty floor and stalked out.

  18

  HECTOR’S HOTEL ROOM

  I was about to march back to the Palace of the Governors to find out where else they thought Hector Kershaw could possibly be found, when on a hunch I decided to check the Little Sisters Hotel register. The gunfire had scared off the hotel clerk, so I just opened his book and went through it. Yep, there it was — Hector’s moniker printed next to Room 205.

  I knocked on his door and waited. Nothing. I put my ear to the door. Again nothing. I cursed. Where was he? But this could be a good opportunity. Hector’s diary may be just behind that door.

  I picked the lock.

  There was a single bed, made with perfect hospital corners, clothes neatly hanging on hooks on the wall and a chest of drawers with a mirror and a jug of water sitting in a basin on top. Hector’s room was neat, obsessively so, even if the room was a converted nun’s cell. Every tiny thing was in perfect place.

  On the chest of drawers Hector’s two silver-handled hairbrushes were placed in an exact line, parallel to the front of the mirror. They could’ve been used in a geometry class. From the wall-hooks hung two pristine white shirts, two newish banker’s three-piece suits, both city-smoke-grey, of course, and a spotless short-brimmed city-dweller’s grey hat. No need to worry about the sun when you spend your life inside.

  The chest of drawers just held more city clothes. Why hadn’t Hector been smart enough to at least bring something he could ride in?

  Then I saw the two pairs of riding boots that stood at attention next to the chest of drawers. They looked a lot older than the clothes, more heavily used, but they shone with a generous coat of polish. Well, they were a start at least.

  I could almost see the prissy banker’s kid in my mind’s eye. What the hell had Hector experienced over the past few weeks? Except for his boots, his clothes looked like they must’ve wanted to turn tail and head back east by themselves.

  I went through the two leather suitcases standing at attention in the corner. The first one was pretty much empty except for a hand-tinted photograph in an engraved silver frame. The engraving said ‘My darling Hector, Mama will always watch over you’.

  I scanned the photo with interest. It sure explained a lot.

  Mama Kershaw was a beady-eyed martinet with a Hitler moustache and a high-necked, corseted dress that squashed her squarish figure into a shape that resembled a hand weight. No wonder she looked cranky … She sat enthroned in front of her standing, fish-faced husband, with her two young sons on either side of her, their backs as straight as steel girders. The two young boys both had their father’s fair hair and blue eyes — but that’s where the resemblances ended.

  The smaller one had to be Hector, the other his elder brother, Lysander.

  The Kershaw brothers looked alike but their expressions were a galaxy apart. Lysander challenged the camera, his young chin thrust forwards as though daring it to blink. Captain Bull said he was the family hero … well, he certainly looked ready to kill someone. Hector had a more boyish, dreamer’s face, as though he’d rather be anywhere than in the same room as his closest genetic matches. Mama’s protective claw held his little wrist too firmly, wrinkling the soft young skin. It could’ve been interpreted as a sign of affection but it looked more like a bony handcuff.

  The next leather suitcase was full of papers all about the Kershaw investments in New Mexico, but there was no diary.

  Then I found the second photograph.

  From the remaining shards still wedged in the silver frame it was clear the glass had been smashed and discarded, and the picture was so mutilated with black ink scrawls that it was hard to tell who was actually in the photo.

  Whoever it was, they now looked like a gruesome monster with fangs and snakes for hair. They were stabbed through with multiple daggers, knives and a sabre through the heart.

  Their throat was cut with blood gushing out.

  I looked closer … That was a picture of Mama Kershaw. So family relations in the Kershaw brood were not so fine and dandy?

  The Kershaws may be a very strange bunch, but that wasn’t why I was here. I put the picture back in, locked the suitcase and placed it next to the other one in the corner. Anyone as fussy as Hector would notice if they were a fraction out of place.

  I stared around the room in frustration. If Hector kept a diary then he must carry it with him.

  I heard voices in the corridor. Then a timid knock that went on a little too long to actually be polite. I got behind the door.

  Someone swore, long and hard. The polite knock was replaced by heavy banging. A familiar voice shouted, ‘Mr Kershaw, are you in there? The governor wants to talk to you, sir.’

  I gave a sigh of relief. It was Carvil Gortner’s personal aide, the one I’d met at the Palace of the Governors.

  A deeper voice said, ‘I already told you, Hearn, he’s gone.’

  ‘Blast that idiot. What am I gonna tell the governor? He’ll pitch a right fit!’

  ‘You gotta tell him exactly what I just told you.’

  Hearn replied with a string of inventive expletives. ‘Now the kid has to grow hair on his balls? A bit late, isn’t it? And what good is a greenhorn like that gonna do by himself? Damn … there’s another rescue party in the making.’ He roundly cursed again.

  I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. Where exactly had Hector bloody Kershaw gone?

  ‘No, no, Hearn, I heard the kid took that old fleabag Injun scout, Ernesto, with him. You know the one that used to work a
t Fort Marcy before —’

  ‘You mean the one that Captain Bull kicked out for drinking too much firewater on duty?’ replied Hearn in disbelief. ‘Lotta good that mangy old Injun’s gonna be, going after a sneaky varmint like Coyote Jack.’

  I felt my jaw drop. Hector Kershaw had gone after Coyote Jack?

  I looked straight up at the ceiling. Someone please tell me this ain’t so!

  ‘Not a bad idea I was thinkin’, actually,’ replied the other man. ‘That old scout reckoned he knew Coyote Jack when he was a young ’un. I reckon Captain Bull made a mistake getting rid of Ernesto. Drinking too much be damned. He knew a lot about this territory and its secrets.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Hearn reluctantly conceded. ‘So where are they headed — south to the border?’

  ‘No, I heard north to Spruce Tree Mesa.’

  ‘Spruce Tree Mesa?’ replied Hearn with contempt. ‘Oh, that’s bullcrap. That place don’t really exist — that’s just an old Injun tale they tell to scare us whiteys out of their precious lands. Don’t they say that mesa is supposed to be cursed? And that it sits in the middle of some kind of haunted canyon?’ He chuckled. ‘I know what’s goin’ on. That sly old Ernesto is milking the greenhorn for his fortune, taking him on a wild-goose chase.’ He sniggered.

  I ground my teeth. Bloody Hector. What the hell have you gotten me into?

  ‘I’m not so sure about that, Hearn. I’ve heard too many tales about Spruce Tree Mesa for it to be just a story. I’ve also heard that’s where Coyote Jack has one of his main camps. Anyways, if anyone knew where the mesa was, Ernesto would. Ernesto may be a drunkard but he doesn’t lie —’

  ‘Well, so what if Spruce Tree Mesa really does exist?’ scoffed Hearn. ‘Coyote Jack won’t be there anyways — you know he always heads south when he’s in trouble.’

  ‘Come on, Hearn, let’s go! I gotta get back to Fort Marcy. So let’s get a drink downstairs before we —’

  ‘Naw, you go. I’m gonna stay here … I want to think what I’m gonna tell the governor.’