Coyote

by Rhonda Roberts

  The priest shrugged hopelessly. ‘But it will do you no good, signor. No one has been able to decipher what —’

  ‘Just get it!’ snarled Tiny. Then he beamed across at his pa, as though asking for a pat of approval for getting his lines straight for once.

  The priest threw up his hands in surrender then hurried away.

  ‘What’s the letter about, Pa?’ asked Tiny.

  ‘Don’t know,’ grunted the Big Swede. ‘But if der Mexs keep it hidden, it must’ve some clues in it.’

  I eyed the long-dead conquistador. Clues to what?

  The Franciscan priest raced back, no doubt afraid to leave his precious mummy in the vicinity of these two thugs. He was carrying a framed picture elaborately embossed with gold leaf.

  He got to within arm’s length of Blix then suddenly hugged the frame to his chest, as though he couldn’t bear to expose it to such a villain.

  The Big Swede ripped it out of his arms and scanned it.

  It held a glassed-in piece of paper … no, make that pieces of paper. Just fragments really … Faded ink writing covered each piece.

  Damn! I couldn’t read any of it from this angle.

  ‘I can’t read this nonsense!’ The Big Swede shoved it back at the priest. ‘Translate it!’

  The priest, now shaking, grabbed the frame back with relief.

  ‘Go on, read it!’ yelled Tiny, now relishing his supporting role as Thug No. 2.

  ‘Yes, yes …’ The priest nervously ran his fingertip over the glass as he read aloud, ‘As prophesised the dream has been made real …’ His finger skipped down to the next fragment of paper. ‘This world will be saved by God’s grace and the great …’ He stumbled for the right word. ‘And the great extinction avoided.’

  ‘Go on, go on,’ demanded the Big Swede, obviously waiting for his own personal punch line … a clue of some kind.

  The priest gulped but continued. ‘The cross is now swallowed by the stone circle held up by four living trees … and protected by the Great Hound who stands guard over all.’

  The cross is now swallowed by the stone circle held up by four living trees … It sounded like something out of the Book of Revelations.

  ‘Keep going!’ urged Blix.

  ‘As my Empress commanded, it now waits in the City of Gold.’

  ‘That’s it.’ Blix rubbed his big hands with glee.

  Hmm. A city of gold. So that was what this was all about.

  Ever since the Spanish struck it rich looting the great Incan and Aztec capitals, they’d scoured North and South America looking for more such golden honey pots. That was why they’d colonised New Mexico in the first place.

  Hmm. So Blix had caught gold fever while making his fortune in California, and now, rich as he was, he was continuing his greedy addiction.

  The priest eyed Blix uncertainly, but moved his finger downwards once more. ‘Heaven sent me forth with the holy cross to cast light where there is darkness and I must stand guard until the Empress sends for me to return home. That is my fate …’

  The priest looked up reluctantly.

  ‘Go on!’ demanded Blix.

  The priest shrugged hopelessly. ‘That is all, Signor Blix.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  The priest gulped. ‘Yes, signor.’

  Blix eyed the priest with venom. ‘What does it all mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure, signor … All I know is that the conquistador,’ the priest shot the mummy a quick look as though enlisting its help, ‘was sent here by God to protect Santa Fe.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t,’ snapped Blix. ‘That old bag of bones died here when he was on his way back from finding a city of gold … and then your people dug him and his letter up.’

  The Franciscan was too afraid to answer.

  Blix turned his back on the priest. ‘Son, that human-sized piece of beef jerky lying there was a conquistador, who, like all his kind, was searching for gold. And he found it but died before he could make it back home. I aim to find his treasure.’

  ‘But, Papa, is there really a city of gold out there?’

  ‘Could be a city, son. Der Spaniards have been searching for Cibola, der legendary city of gold, ever since they took over this territory. But maybe, more likely … it’s a river full of gold nuggets.’

  ‘You mean like at Pike’s Peak in Colorado, Pa?’ sighed Tiny in wonder.

  ‘Could be.’ The Big Swede sniffed. ‘I know there’s gold out there, Tiny, I can smell it.’ Blix fixed his eyes on the priest again. ‘Tell Tiny about finding this.’ He nodded dismissively at the corpse.

  ‘Yes, signor.’ The priest was compliant, very glad to have his precious letter back safe. ‘It was during the Great Death, well over a century ago. Our people lay in the street dying of the plague … even the Indians died of it. The last ones alive in Santa Fe, those without the great pustules, gathered here.’ He pointed at the floor of the little chapel. ‘That’s when the miracles first began. And they have continued too, signor …’ He pointed to the smoke stains on the wall next to the mummy. ‘You see the conquistador saved this very chapel from fire. The rest of the original mission was destroyed in 17 —’

  ‘I don’t care about that rubbish. Tell me about finding him.’ The Big Swede jerked his thumb at the body.

  ‘Anyway, in fear of the plague, they all gathered here and prayed to God for succour. But still they died … Then when two friars were digging a new pit to bury the dead, they uncovered a body, one that looked alive …’ He spread his arms wide in awe. ‘They had found the Conquistador of Santa Fe.’

  The priest looked fondly down at the dead soldier. ‘Our knight had come to protect us. The priest in charge said this remarkable body was a sign of divine grace. That the conquistador had come to save Santa Fe from the plague. The two friars carried his body into this very chapel and from that very day, there has not been one more death from the plague. So here he remains, unchanged and untouched even by fire.’ The priest said proudly, ‘The conquistador was sent to protect us by the Virgin Mary, his heavenly Empress.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ scoffed Tiny. Then he peered down at the body. ‘But, Pa, why does he look so alive?’

  The Big Swede sniffed. ‘Der desert sand dried him out, son. That’s all.’

  Tiny didn’t look convinced but wasn’t game to say anything.

  ‘What did you find with der body?’ demanded Blix.

  The priest nodded down at the mummy. ‘That is everything, except for the letter. The letter was inside a leather pouch that hung around his neck.’

  ‘Who is he?’ barked Blix.

  ‘A messenger from God —’

  ‘So you don’t know?’

  The priest shook his head. ‘For the past century many people like you,’ he tried to keep the disgust from his face but it still leaked into his tone, ‘people who are just after the gold, have asked the same questions. We do not know his name —’

  Blix turned his back on the priest. ‘The cross is protected by der Great Hound.’ He pointed to the shield at the mummy’s feet. ‘That’s a dog scratched on there, Tiny. Remember that, son, I’m guessing that it somehow points der way to der gold.’

  ‘Yes, Pa,’ responded Tiny dutifully.

  ‘We have to get all der Injuns onto reservations … to clear der way for us to search for that city of gold,’ stated Blix.

  ‘Yeah, Pa, now Governor Magurty’s good and dead,’ said Tiny, chuckling, ‘he can’t stop us from rounding them all up.’

  21

  CAST INTO THE WILDERNESS

  The Big Swede stalked out, Tiny trailing at his heels like an eager baby elephant. The Franciscan priest sighed and looked down at the conquistador as though asking for guidance.

  Bloody hell! Everyone and his dawg had a damned sweet motive for getting rid of Governor Noah Magurty …

  Carvil Gortner had wanted his job. Captain Bull believed he’d get more soldiers and supplies through Gortner. Wayland Magurty now inherited his father’s ranch
without any pesky stepbrothers to share it with. The Montoya family finally got revenge for Magurty hanging their grandfather … And the Big Swede wanted to stick all the Native Americans on reservations so he could search for his damned city of gold.

  All round it’d been a win-win massacre.

  And blaming Coyote Jack meant they all got rid of a troublemaker and had an excuse to rally support for the reservation system.

  Sheesh. Who did it? Who to follow first?

  I shook my head, trying to empty out all those complications. I wasn’t here to solve the murders at Dry Gulch or to prove Jackson River was right … My mission was to find Hector Kershaw’s diary.

  I groaned. But there were so many juicy leads I could follow.

  I eyed the mournful priest. It was time to get back on boring Hector’s trail. His diary had better be worth it!

  I stepped out of the shadows.

  The priest jumped back a pace. ‘What do you want, signor?’ His hand automatically clutched at the mummy’s leg as if it was a giant rabbit’s foot.

  ‘I’m looking for Brother Buenaventura. Is he around here somewhere?’

  ‘Oh, him,’ replied the exhausted priest irritably. ‘Buenaventura’s out in the back garden.’ Then he muttered under his breath, ‘Playing with the children again, probably.’ The tone was exasperated.

  I went out the back way but there was no one in sight. So I followed the path that led behind the presbytery and into a vegetable garden. The rows yielded surprising bounty. The vegetables were huge, in bright vivid colours. It was startling in this dry dusty town surrounded by so much arid country.

  I’d just circled a tall patch of corn when I heard, ‘In God’s name, leave him alone! He’s just a child!’

  Another two steps and I saw a well-rounded friar firmly holding a small boy, maybe eight years old, behind his back. The boy had a bloody, broken nose.

  Two Anglos threatened the pair. The one with his pistol cocked ready to fire yelled, ‘Get out of the way, Buenaventura! I don’t care what you say — you’re not saving this mangy half-breed orphan too!’

  Unlike the more respectably dressed priest inside, Brother Buenaventura wore a ragged long brown robe tied at the waist and tattered leather sandals on his dark brown feet. He was almost black from the sun and the little hair he still had was cut in a wispy white tonsure. He had a kindly face, weathered almost smooth in places by too much time in the desert elements but sunk in deep cavernous wrinkles around his honey-brown eyes.

  ‘We’re sick and tired of you looking after all these dirty Injun kids. How do we know this one’s not an Apache spy sent here to tell his tribe what we’re doing?’

  Brother Buenaventura sighed. ‘Miguel is not Apache, signor, his parents were Mexican.’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ The gunman was working himself up into a fine fury.

  Things were about to get nasty.

  I stepped into view.

  The two men tensed. One automatically retreated a pace. The other one, holding the gun, tried to stand fast. But the sweat beading on his forehead gave him away.

  I eyed his drawn pistol meaningfully.

  He dropped his eyes and holstered his weapon.

  ‘Now, boys,’ I said quietly. ‘I want to talk to the good friar here. You don’t mind running along … do you?’ I growled the last two words.

  They left.

  Brother Buenaventura, his eyes wide, studied my red braids and top hat. He shuffled the little orphan behind him once again.

  I held up my hands in surrender. ‘I mean the boy no harm. I just want to talk to you.’

  The boy edged out from behind the rotund friar. ‘Signor … are you John Eriksen the bounty hunter?’

  I frowned. The boy wasn’t looking at me with fear but with … was it hope?

  ‘Yes, son. I am.’

  ‘Go inside, Miguel,’ urged Buenaventura, keeping his eyes pinned to my deepening frown.

  The boy ignored him to shuffle closer. ‘I have heard that you are heading south, signor?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I volunteered, perplexed by his now eager face. No one had looked at me with that kind of expression in Santa Fe.

  ‘I told you to go inside, Miguel,’ ordered the friar sternly.

  The boy moved closer to me. He had no fear. ‘You are going south to hunt El Chacal … aren’t you?’

  Buenaventura froze at the name.

  Why were they both so concerned with the Mexican bandito that the real bounty hunter was chasing? I looked at Buenaventura with a raised brow.

  ‘El Chacal killed his parents,’ explained the friar. ‘El Chacal swept into his village, took all their food, and then burnt it to the ground. No one but Miguel survived.’

  ‘You must catch him, Signor Eriksen,’ pleaded the boy, touching my hand. ‘El Chacal is not human … He has no mercy.’

  At that the friar grabbed the boy away from me and turned him to face a shed at the back of the garden. ‘Go, Miguel, I need you to water the flowers for the altar. They will wilt in this heat, if you don’t.’

  Miguel complied, but kept his pleading eyes fixed on my face as he went.

  I had to look away. I felt ashamed of lying to him.

  ‘You said you wanted to speak to me, my son. How can I help you?’ His voice wavered slightly as he briefly wondered what I might ask him to do.

  ‘I’m looking for Spruce Tree Mesa, I believe you know where it is.’ It wasn’t a question.

  The friar’s open face creased into deep concern. ‘Many people say Spruce Tree Mesa is a myth, an old legend —’

  I caught the evasion. ‘But you know it’s real, don’t you?’

  Brother Buenaventura didn’t know how to hide the truth and he saw I wouldn’t accept less. He reluctantly nodded. ‘I believe it is.’

  I brought out my map. His eyes widened. It was much more detailed than any of this era and displayed place names unfamiliar to him but useful to me.

  Before Buenaventura could ask I said, ‘Show me where Spruce Tree Mesa is.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, my son, I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’ I insisted.

  ‘Truly, I have no idea where that mesa is …’

  Hmm. I studied him. The friar’s open face showed he was telling the truth … but perhaps not all of it.

  ‘But you know who does, don’t you?’ I prodded, still watching his expression for a sign that he was lying.

  ‘I told you, I cannot help you, my son.’

  Yep, I’d asked the right question all right. But Buenaventura wasn’t giving me that name without some well-aimed persuasion. Luckily I’d done some research before I went through the portal.

  ‘Well, let me put it this way then, Brother Buenaventura … If you tell me what you know, I won’t tell the Mexican Inquisition what I know about that secret trip you made on the last full moon.’ I winked at him. ‘You know, the one you made out to the Sulphur Desert.’

  Yes, I’d found out some very interesting details about the good friar …

  Brother Buenaventura froze.

  ‘I don’t imagine the few miles they’d have to ride over the border would stop the Inquisitors from taking you.’

  His fearful expression confirmed that he knew it was the truth.

  In 1571 the Spanish Inquisition had spread like the plague into the New World, brought by zealots infected with the desire to burn at the stake all those who didn’t agree with their sole right to speak for Heaven. They’d been officially disbanded in Mexico in 1820, but their well-trained army of loyal Inquisitors was still roving around and diligently keeping order in this unruly New World. And they were known to reach their long and punishing arm out to those they felt were worthy of their deliberate attention … Heretics, homosexuals, anyone who stepped too far outside their assigned social role could be subject to a sudden visit they’d never forget. And the Inquisitors especially liked to keep tabs on their own religious brethren.

  Brother Buenaventura had be
en doing things that would guarantee one such midnight visit. He’d been dabbling in the local Native American religions, taken part in their religious rituals … In the Sulphur Desert he’d taken peyote and communed with the spirits.

  ‘I just want to understand them,’ pleaded Brother Buenaventura. ‘If we don’t learn the Indians’ customs … their beliefs … there will never be peace in this land.’

  I held up my hand. ‘You don’t have to convince me, Brother.’ I was on his side. ‘But I do want the answer to my question.’

  The friar gulped, trying to work out what to do.

  I could see he needed a further nudge. ‘Well, there’s always your other secret.’ I shrugged. ‘You believe Coyote Jack didn’t commit the Dry Gulch massacre … because you watched him grow up. He’s your friend.’

  Well-meaning friar or not, that kind of information in this paranoid Santa Fe would put the good brother at the business end of a noose.

  Fear briefly touched the friar’s kind eyes, then was replaced by sadness.

  I could see I’d won. ‘Now will you tell me who knows where Spruce Tree Mesa is?’ I urged.

  He sighed. ‘I will but it will do you no good. The only one who could possibly know, beside the Indians themselves, is the Abbess at Our Lady of the Wilderness.’

  I kept my face neutral. A nun was the only one who would know the location of this mysterious mesa? There had to be one hell of a story behind that claim.

  ‘But her convent is in the desert. In the middle of hostile territory, north of here. So it would be certain death for you to go up there now.’

  ‘Of course it would,’ I observed sourly.

  The friar didn’t understand my reaction. ‘Even you can’t go there, Signor Eriksen. There’s going to be war.’

  ‘Now tell me, Brother …’ I studied him. ‘Just why did a convent of nuns willingly set up shop in the middle of a desert in hostile territory?’

  His kindly brown eyes shifted. ‘They didn’t volunteer. The Bishop of Mexico sent them there, many years ago, for …’ He paused. ‘For penance.’

  I blinked. He called that penance? ‘But even so, why haven’t these nuns sought shelter in Santa Fe like everyone else?’