The Rowdy Coyote Rumble (Jackrabbit Junction Humorous Mystery Book 4)

by Ann Charles

  “That’s us,” Claire said, staying close to Mac’s side.

  Mac would’ve dragged Butch along with them for this very reason, but the poor guy practically had been asleep on his feet when Mac had arrived to pick up Claire. Apparently the bartender had called in sick, so Butch had bounced back and forth between the bar and the grill all night.

  Old Mr. Webber waved them toward him. “Come on down here. I need to give you a bit of advice and don’t feel like hollerin’ for the world to hear.”

  Mac gripped her hand. “If this goes bad, get behind me,” he said under his breath and led her back down the trail.

  Webber waited for them at the bottom, leaning on his metal four-footed cane. That explained the creaking sound.

  When they came to a stop in front of him, Webber tipped his hat back. “I’m gonna help you out because you’re a Morgan sister.” The shadows exaggerated his grin, making him look as crazy as the rumors claimed. “Anyone who gives the law a run for its money is golden in my book.”

  “You’d love my younger sister, Kate, then.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She’s the craziest of us three girls.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Mac muttered, thinking of the precarious situations Claire had gotten into since he’d met her.

  Claire elbowed him, wrinkling her nose at him.

  “Like how crazy?” Webber asked.

  “Like sneaking into the Sheriff’s office and locking a deputy in jail without him knowing who did it crazy.”

  “You think it’s wise to tell him that?” Mac asked.

  “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “My lips are sealed.” Webber snickered, pulling out a tin of chewing tobacco and smacking it against his thigh. “You know, I’m liking you girls more and more. Is your younger sister as pretty as you?”

  “Prettier,” Claire said.

  “I disagree.” Mac put his arm around Claire, pulling her close. Old man Webber may seem friendly, but it would be foolish to trust him completely with that Remington in his hand. Mac kissed Claire’s temple, breathing “Careful, Slugger,” against her skin.

  She nodded once.

  “This yer man?” Webber asked Claire, pointing his four-footed cane at Mac.

  “Yes.”

  “You married?”

  “Not yet,” Mac said.

  “Why not?”

  “She’s a tad skittish.”

  Webber looked Claire up and down, pursing his lips. “Not taking to being saddled yet, huh?”

  “Just the sight of a saddle makes her start bucking.” He winced at Claire’s pinch.

  Webber shook his head. “That’s too bad.”

  “Why’s that?” Claire asked.

  “I like you. I could use a feisty wife, especially one with a little marbled meat rounding out her frame.”

  “Claire does have some fine marbled meat,” Mac said, trying not to laugh. “But she’s downright allergic to wedding rings.”

  This time she poked him in the kidney, hard enough to make him grunt.

  “What about yer sister,” Webber asked. “The crazy one?”

  “Kate? She’s pregnant with Butch’s baby.”

  “No shit?” He shifted the Remington to his other shoulder. “Good. That boy needs a woman to fill that big ol’ palace of his with babies.” Webber snorted and then spit on the ground beside him. “What about the other sister?”

  “You don’t want Ronnie,” Mac said.

  “Why not?”

  After living with her, Mac’s list was long, but he went for what would probably be the most off-putting for Webber. “She’s involved with the Sheriff.”

  “Grady Harrison?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, I’ll be a pile of javelina turds. After the way that ex-wife of Grady’s left him tied up and twistin’ in the wind, I didn’t figure he’d ever want to get involved with another woman.” Webber opened his tobacco tin and stuffed a pinch under his lip. “Your sister must be mighty distractin’ to have caught that boy’s attention.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Mac said.

  Webber sighed. “Well, then I’ll just have to keep looking for a wife. But if you get tired of this one,” he directed the light at Mac’s chest, “come on by the house. You know where I live.”

  “I’ll write your name on my dance card,” Claire told him.

  “Now, back to this mine business. If you two are thinkin’ of going up to that mine,” he pointed his flashlight up the hillside, “you’re taking the wrong path.”

  “What do you mean?” Mac asked.

  “There’s another way in.”

  “Where?”

  “Around the side a ways. But you need to be careful.”

  “Is the climb steeper?” Claire asked.

  “No, but the trail is used every now and then.”

  “By what?”

  “Goddamned coyotes. They’ve been using this mine off and on over the years.”

  Hell. Mac had heard of problems closer to the border further south but not up in this area until now.

  “Coyotes?” Claire asked. “Are they using the mine for their den? I thought most of them were afraid of humans.”

  “Not that kind of coyote.”

  “He’s talking about the drug and people smuggling kind of coyotes who come across the Mexico border,” Mac said.

  “Ohhhh.” Claire peered up at the mine. “Those nasty sons of bitches.”

  “Exactly. Come on, follow me back to your rig and I’ll show you the other way up.” Webber turned and creaked off into the shadows.

  “Should we go?” Claire whispered to Mac.

  “Might as well.” He took her hand. “Although there is the chance that he may try to shoot me and drag you off to be his wife.”

  “I might just let him, too,” her tone was ringed with laughter, “after the way you ran your mouth about my allergy to matrimony.”

  “In that case, maybe I should offer to trade you. That Remington of his is an antique, but it’s still in great shape.”

  She grabbed his shirt and hauled him closer. “Just try it, MacDonald Garner, and you’ll feel the error in your ways when I go Tasmanian devil on your ass.”

  “I think you’ve already done that and then some.”

  Patting his cheek, she said, “Face it, there’s no easy way of getting rid of me. I’m dug in like an Alabama tick.”

  “Yeah, but you’re a sexy Alabama tick with a tool belt, so I guess I’ll have to make do. Come on, he’s waiting.”

  They caught up to Webber, who was moving more slowly with a cane. According to the crusty old timer, he’d taken a fall recently and had a hitch in his giddy-up ever since. When they got to Mac’s pickup, Webber’s beat-up old 1967 Chevy truck was parked behind them, blocking any retreat.

  A half hour later, with Webber leading the way in his truck, they’d backtracked a couple of miles and turned down what looked like more of a four-wheel trail than a road. Part of the time, they used a dry wash for a road, which was smoother than the washboard up above on the hard and bumpy flats. Finally the old guy came to a stop and waved them forward.

  Mac idled alongside his Chevy while Claire rolled down her window.

  “You can park over there behind that grove of mesquite. If you walk north about a hundred yards or so, you’ll see a square-ish boulder as tall as an outhouse. Take a left at the boulder and you’ll find yourself on an animal trail like the one you were planning to follow back yonder. Follow the trail until you cross a runoff, then take another right for about fifty yards and you’ll come to a vertical wall. Slide along it to the north for a short bit and you’ll come to an unmarked tunnel that leads into the mine. But be careful. Like I said, the coyotes use it.”

  “How do you know?” Claire asked. “Have you run into them?”

  “Not face-to-face, but I’ve seen a flashlight beam bouncing around inside the entrance several times over the years.�
�

  “Why don’t you turn them in to the Sheriff?” Mac asked.

  “They don’t bother me, so I don’t bother them. Besides, in my experience, law dogs are like bedbugs. Once they get inside yer walls, nothing short of Hell’s fire will get them to leave.” He patted his door. “I’ll be headin’ on home now. Need to rest my bum leg.”

  “Thank you for helping us, Mr. Webber,” Claire said.

  “Any chance I can help a pretty girl, I take it.” He pointed at her. “Remember, if you get tired of fooling around with this boy, I have a fancy new mixer at home and a double-wide jetted tub.”

  Mac covered his mouth, blocking his laughter.

  “Wow, tempting, but I’m sort of hooked on this guy.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s he got that I don’t?”

  She glanced over at Mac. The dash lights making her eyes sparkle. “The patience to put up with my mother.”

  Webber groaned. “I forgot about mother-in-laws. They’re deal breakers.”

  “Mine’s a real doozy, too.”

  Doozy? Mac could think of a few more accurate adjectives.

  “Well, good luck to you both.” Webber rolled up his window and rumbled off, his taillights bouncing into the distance.

  “You know,” Mac said, parking behind the grove of mesquite, “old Mr. Webber has a valid point about mother-in-laws being deal breakers.”

  “You were the one running your mouth about rings, dear hobbit. Now that the Eye of Mordor is locked onto you, don’t think you can escape her deadly wraiths and orcs that easily.”

  “Well, at least there are no flying monkeys.”

  “Says who?” She faked an evil cackle as she climbed out of the pickup.

  They gathered his gear and flashlights and headed out again, following Dick’s instructions as well as they could remember up the hillside. When they reached the entrance, Mac hesitated, sniffing the air.

  “What do you smell?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” And that was a good thing. He got his gas detector out anyway and checked the air. All clear. “Ready to go inside?”

  “Try to stop me.”

  Mac led the way, one hand holding his flashlight, the other with a firm grip on Ruby’s shotgun, Claire tiptoeing along behind him. They wound deeper into the mine, keeping an eye out for booby-traps as they trekked but encountering nothing more than vermin droppings and animal tracks. If any drug runners had been in this place, they’d either covered their footprints well or had floated in and out.

  Several turns later, they came to a short passage on the left that led into a large cavern about as big as Mac’s living and dining room put together.

  “Holy shit,” Claire whispered, following him into the cavern. She shined her flashlight along the high-ceilinged room. “Is somebody living here?”

  “I don’t think so, but it looks like they might be using it to camp out now and then.” Dick Webber was right, somebody came up here periodically. He walked over and shined the flashlight on the two cots leaning against the wall. Army supply store specials from the looks of it, he thought, along with the containers of rations packed away in an alcove carved out of the wall between them.

  “Look,” Claire whispered. “There are three drifts leading off from this.” The tunnels spoked from the main room, each filled with shadows.

  Mac scanned the room with his own light, feeling more and more like they’d walked into a trap. “We need to get out of here.”

  “Why?” Claire walked over to a pile of rocks littered with rusted old cans and other garbage remnants. She started nudging each piece with her toe, making small clinking sounds. “You think someone else is in here?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not.” He took a couple of steps into one of the drifts, the darkness swallowing his beam about thirty feet ahead. The other two were the same, leading off into the blackness. He’d brought rope, spray paint, and other precautions, but his internal alarms were tripping left and right. “But something just feels wrong.”

  He looked over at Claire, who was squatting down, picking up a rusted old can that looked like it had been opened with a knife. She shook it lightly. A rattling sound echoed around the room.

  “What are you doing?” He joined her. “Why are you going through the garbage?”

  “I don’t know. It seems like hidden treasures are often tucked away almost in plain sight, at least in Joe Martino’s world.”

  Something clattered from the dark depths of one of the drifts.

  Mac stood, aiming his beam down each tunnel in turn. He waited, clutching Ruby’s shotgun tightly—watching, seeing nothing.

  After several seconds of silence, Claire turned the rusty can upside down, emptying it into her palm.

  Mac saw something shiny fall into her palm. “What is it?”

  “A key.” She held it up. The shiny piece of metal reflected his flashlight beam.

  Shouldn’t it be as rusty as the can?

  The clattering of stones falling onto the floor came from the drifts again, this time closer. He guessed the middle drift as the source.

  His chest tightened, his pulse throbbed in his ears. “Someone is in here with us,” he whispered.

  Standing, Claire said quietly, “I don’t think I want to find out who it is.”

  “Or how many there are,” he added. He raised the shotgun, aiming it at the center drift.

  Claire pocketed the key and grabbed his shirt, pulling him back toward the main spur. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You lead the way.”

  All of the way out, Mac kept checking behind them, expecting to see a snarling pack of coyote drug runners pointing machine guns at them. The sight of the star-littered sky was a relief.

  They made their way back down the hill in silence. It wasn’t until he was behind the wheel of his pickup that his chest loosened.

  “What do we do now?” Claire asked as he reversed onto the weather-beaten trail.

  He shifted into drive and hit the gas. “We go home, lock the doors, and crawl under the covers.” At least that was his plan after nearly having a heart attack twice tonight—first down in the desert when old Mr. Webber was sneaking among the mesquite and willows, and then up in the mine.

  “And then what?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  He grinned. “Whether you’re naked or not, of course.”

  She looked over at him. “I’m serious.”

  “You think I’m not?” When she squeezed his thigh hard, he laughed and tried to pull away. “Okay, okay. Next, I think we need to come up with a plan on how to sneak Sheriff Harrison up to that mine without letting Dick Webber know.”

  Her grip on his thigh loosened. “Right. The law.”

  He covered her hand with his. “Then we get you naked.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Saturday, November 17th

  Kate woke up screaming, her left calf knotted in a muscle contraction. After frantically massaging the charley horse away, she flopped back on the bed. The bedside clock showed that it wasn’t quite six, which explained why it was still dark outside the window.

  Her focus darted around the bedroom of her grandfather’s R.V., from the dark wood paneling to the vintage pleated orange curtains. The world on the other side of the window was silent, the birds not even warming up for their morning recital yet.

  Something wasn’t right. Unease lurked in her, spurring her senses into high alert, but she couldn’t figure out the source. Was it something to do with Butch? Ronnie? Claire? Or maybe the baby?

  At the sound of footfalls on the gravel outside the Winnebago she scrambled out of bed, grabbing the baseball bat Claire had insisted she keep next to the bed. She tiptoed out into the living area, her breath fast and tight in her chest.

  A knock on the door nearly made her pee her pants.

  She didn’t move, didn’t answer. Who would come knocking this early in the morning? Her pulse thumped in her ears like a flat
tire.

  Her visitor knocked again, harder. “Kathryn?” a low, muffled voice spoke.

  Manny!

  She tiptoed over, turned on the porch light, and opened the door a couple of inches. She kept the bat still clutched in her hand in case someone was holding him at gunpoint.

  Manny stood there alone, wrapped in her mother’s hot pink satin dressing gown which barely reached his knobby knees, looking up at her with wrinkled salt-n-pepper eyebrows. “Are you okay?”

  After peering into the darkness behind him and seeing no sign of goons or mobsters or big burly guys with the nickname Polar Bear, she opened the door wide and waved Manny inside.

  He took a seat at the table while she got two cups of water heating in the microwave. “I heard you scream, mi querida. Did you have a bad dream?”

  She dropped into the booth seat opposite him, yawning. “My leg cramped in my sleep. Where’s Mom?”

  “Sleeping off last night’s cognac fiesta.” Leaning back, he crossed his arms over his chest. The lacy cuffed sleeves inched up his hairy black forearms. “What are you doing, Kathryn?”

  She looked over at the microwave, then back at him. “Making tea?” she asked back.

  “What are you doing sleeping in this camper all alone?”

  “Ronnie got first dibs on the spare room at Ruby’s.”

  She had an idea what Manny was really asking but wanted to avoid thinking about that right now, let alone discuss it with her mother’s lover. Never mind that he’d known her since she was in diapers.

  He reached across the table and took her hands in his. “Do you like the boy?”

  Her cheeks warmed and she lowered her gaze, suddenly feeling shy. She thought about trying to redirect the conversation to her mother’s drinking problem, but the affection warming Manny’s brown eyes made hers rim with tears before she could stop them.

  “Dang it, Manny. Stop being so nice to me.” She pulled her hands free, moving over to the counter to grab a napkin. She dabbed her eyes. “These pregnancy hormones are turning me into a big crybaby.”