That Damned Coyote Hill

by Heath Lowrance

  Off by himself, shielded under the awning of a doctor’s office, the old Indian watched intently. Hawthorne was peripherally aware of him, had noticed him when he’d first rode in, and thought it odd that an Apache would be wandering around a white town unmolested. Even one as old and harmless-looking as this one. But he didn’t feel harmless. Hawthorne felt an odd sort of power from the old man that made him uncomfortable.

  But he had bigger matters to attend to presently. Over near the storefronts, Card had gathered himself and was making his way back, gun in hand.

  Bowman started edging back, gun still pressed against the girl’s head, and Card followed. Bowman said, “That’s it. You raise that iron even one inch and this kid shuffles off the mortal coil. Understand?”

  Hawthorne watched them as they moved off in the rain toward the livery stables. When they’d gotten a hundred yards away, they bolted.

  By this time all the cowboys were gone and the rain-shrouded street was deathly silent. Hawthorne jumped down from the ring, slid his gun back in the holster, and approached the girl’s mother. Any other woman would’ve been in hysterics, and Hawthorne was more than a little thrown off by her lack of reaction.

  He said, “The girl. What’s her name?”

  The woman licked her lips, cleared her throat, as if she hadn’t spoken in ages. When she did speak, her voice was husky and dry. “Katy,” she said. “Katy O’Dowd.”

  Hawthorne waited a heartbeat for the woman to say something, anything, else, but when she didn’t he moved on, toward his waiting horse. The townsfolk silently cleared a space for him to walk through.

  From the livery stable behind the row of storefronts, he heard the muted thunder of horse hooves in the mud, heard Bowman spurring his mount. It sounded like they were heading north out of town. He mounted up, wheeled the horse around and was about to gallop off when the woman approached him.

  She looked up at him, neutral face pelted by rain drops, and said, “You’ll bring her back safe.” It wasn’t a question.

  He said, “Yeah,” and she nodded and stepped back.

  He spurred his horse and shot off.

  The treacherous sloping hill the town was named for rose out of the land to the north. Hawthorne rode along its base carefully. The trail Bowman and Card left was easy enough to follow, despite the rain. They’d stirred up a lot of mud and brush in their wake. Thick muddy water sluiced down the hill, dropping like a waterfall at the steepest points, washing away slippery stones and deadwood.

  The ridge was some two hundred yards away and about fifty feet at its tallest point. Scrub pine and boulders lined the top and Hawthorne thought if they’re smart, they’ll ambush me there.

  And Bowman, at least, had shown that he was indeed a smart one—taking the girl, Katy O’Dowd, hostage, instead of risking a gunfight. Card was most likely an idiot, but Hawthorne wouldn’t stake his life on it. He hadn’t come this far by assuming things.

  He nudged the horse up the slope, when a voice behind him said, “Hey. White man.”

  Hawthorne whipped the horse around and in a heartbeat his gun was in his hand and pointed.

  The old Indian stood there in the rain, staring up at him with all the impassiveness that everyone in Coyote Hill displayed.

  Hawthorne holstered his gun. “You trying to get yourself killed, old man?”

  The Indian didn’t respond to that. He motioned with his head toward the ridge, said, “Best you leave off, white. Those men took one of ours, and we will see to it she is returned.”

  “One of yours? She ain’t no Apache, case you didn’t notice.”

  The Indian shook his head. “There are tribes that run deeper than redskin or white-skin. The girl is of my blood. We will see to her safe return. You ride on.”

  Hawthorne frowned. “Those men are mine,” he said.

  “Not any longer.”

  “Go back home, old man. Get yerself out of the rain.”

  He started away, and the Indian called after him, “You will see things you are not meant to see, white. And when the beast is upon them, your safety cannot be assured.”

  Hawthorne ignored him and started again up the incline. He was strongly aware of the Indian’s eyes on him as he rode, and he fought the impulse to turn around again. He tried to focus on the trail left by Bowman and Card.

  …when the beast is upon them, your safety cannot be assured…

  He thought of the strange creature he’d seen earlier, the thing that looked like a coyote but walked on two legs, and he thought about the warnings from the last town about black magic, and demons that hunt in the desert.

  And he thought of the oddly detached townsfolk of Coyote Hill.

  There were strange things afoot around this damned town, of that he felt more and more certain.

  He was about halfway up the hill, pushing the horse harder than he should have, when he spotted movement along the ridge. His hand went to his gun, rested there, and his eyes scanned the ridge for more signs.

  They didn’t keep him waiting. Almost directly above him, he spotted Card straining to push a hefty boulder off the ridge and at the exact moment Hawthorne saw him, Card managed to move it and it was tumbling down the steep hill.

  The boulder bounced and thudded, and Hawthorne dove off his horse and into the mud. The boulder smashed into the horse, breaking its spine, and horse and boulder slid down the muddy hill.

  Hawthorne clambered to his feet, gun drawn. He wiped mud out of his eyes and fired two rounds at the spot where Card had been, but the distance was still too great. Card looked like he was laughing, but Hawthorne couldn’t hear it over the rain.

  He glanced down the hill long enough to see his mangled horse sliding to a halt in the mud. The Indian was nowhere to be seen.

  Cursing, he started up the hill faster.

  A few yards ahead of him, bullets pounded thickly into the mud, and then he heard three gunshots echoing down the incline in quick succession. At the top, Card had a rifle, was busy re-loading. Hawthorne let off a few shots at him, just to keep him on his toes, and Card panicked and dropped the rifle. Hawthorne charged up as fast as he could, slipping and sliding, and the fat man grabbed up the rifle again, tried desperately to push a few shells into its breech.

  Bowman appeared behind Card, Katy O’Dowd’s arm gripped in one hand and his revolver in the other. He aimed carefully, squeezed off a shot.

  The bullet thunked into the mud less than two feet from Hawthorne’s boot. Hawthorne dropped, got a bead on Bowman, then changed his mind at the last second—the angle was no good, and even the slightest chance of hitting the girl was too much of a chance. He shot instead at Card—the fat man had the rifle, anyway, and was a more immediate threat.

  Hawthorne’s shot careened against the rifle, knocking it from the fat man’s grip. He heard Card squawk like a bird, saw him abandon his post on the ridge and scamper off out of sight.

  Bowman fired once more, a bad shot, before following Card, dragging the girl behind him.

  Hawthorne knew the lull would be temporary. He holstered his gun and scrambled up the hill.

  Five minutes later, he’d made it to the top, breathing hard and covered head to toe in mud. He drew his gun and peered through the gray slanting rain for any sign of his quarry. Just ahead was a cluster of dead pines, and a mish-mash of foot and hoof prints led into it. Hawthorne followed.

  It was not a place to ride—the ground was soft and gnarled with dead branches, and he could tell from their tracks that they were leading the horses. He had the advantage now. If he moved quickly and silently, he could catch up in no time.

  Not far in, he saw the other tracks. They looked like coyote trail, but bigger. Much bigger. He felt a cool chill of apprehension, and thought again of the unnatural creature he’d seen earlier. He wasn’t a man accustomed to fear, but he also wasn’t particularly anxious to face down a monster.

  Jaw tight, he half-trotted through the dead gray undergrowth, as stealthy and fast as one of the Ap
aches that used to roam these hills.

  After less than a minute, he could hear them. Bowman was saying, “Move your fat ass, Card, or I’m leaving you here, goddamnit!”

  “Please! I’m not as fast as you! Please wait for me!”

  Bowman barked a command to the girl and Card sobbed, “Wait!”

  “You’re dead weight, you fat piece of shit!” Bowman said, and his voice sounded farther away.

  Hawthorne kept moving, and seconds later he saw Card.

  The fat man had fallen and was rolling around on the wet ground, crying and pleading to Bowman, who was nowhere to be seen. Hawthorne saw Card’s horse, wandering off some distance away.

  Card didn’t notice Hawthorne until he heard the click of the hammer being pulled back. He sat up quickly, his eyes wide with fear.

  “No,” he said.

  Hawthorne shot him in the face, and Card jerked once and fell back, blood and brains draining out into the mud.

  With the echo of the shot reverberating through the sparse pine, Hawthorne re-loaded. The rain pattered down on Card’s still body. Hawthorne thumbed bullets into the revolver’s cylinder and eyed the way ahead of him. The trail was clear and unmistakable. Bowman had cut a swath through the scrub so clear a child could see it.

  Intersecting Bowman’s trail were more huge coyote prints. Fresh ones.

  And then the crack of a gunshot from somewhere off to the right, and a bullet caught the brim of Hawthorne’s hat, spinning it off his head. He dove and landed flat just as another three shots rang out, tearing up tree bark and sending wood splinters cascading.

  Bowman was about forty yards away, half-hidden by a large gray tree. He gripped Katy O’Dowd by the hair, but the girl still didn’t seem to be struggling. He fired again, kicking up mud in Hawthorne’s face.

  No choice. He’d have to risk it.

  Hawthorne fired once, and his bullet hit home in Bowman’s right shoulder. Bowman grunted, staggered back, fired a shot that went wild, and then Hawthorne was up and moving fast toward him.

  Bowman’s gun clicked on an empty chamber and Hawthorne covered the distance in a split second and launched himself. He caught Bowman in the chest and both men went down in the mud. The girl was knocked away and sprawled to the ground.

  Hawthorne had him by the neck, slammed his head into the ground three, four times, then punched him in the face hard enough to break teeth. Bowman sputtered blood down his jaw, tried to hit back with his right, but the wounded shoulder kept any power out of it. Hawthorne brought his fist down on Bowman’s nose, heard the satisfying crunch of cartilage. Bowman said, “Guh—“ and went still.

  Hawthorne stopped with his fist poised for another punch. There was no fight in left in Bowman, and so no point in continuing to pummel him.

  But Bowman had one last trick. Hawthorne was just standing up when Bowman’s left hand latched on to a chunk of heavy rotted wood and swung it around with all the strength he had left and smashed into Hawthorne’s temple.

  Hawthorne stumbled back, lost his footing in the mud, and fell. Bowman pushed himself up to hands and knees, tried to stand but couldn’t quite pull it off. He began to crawl away.

  Katy O’Dowd stood near the closest tree and watched. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her pale face.

  Hawthorne got to his feet, swaying slightly. His vision had gone blurry and it took him a moment to spot Bowman, pulling himself through the mud and rain. Hawthorne raised his gun, aimed.

  But he never fired.

  Three huge beasts, dark fur bristling, fangs bared, came loping out of the cold mist. They descended, snarling, upon Bowman.

  Bowman never even saw them coming. He screamed as the coyote-like creatures tore into him, ripping him apart with fangs and claws. Blood sprayed high in the air, spattered the dead trees, stained the muddy ground. The creatures jutted their long snouts into him, tearing out chunks of flesh, eating him alive.

  He lasted longer than Hawthorne would have thought possible, screaming and screeching for what seemed ages as the coyote-things devoured him. But eventually his screams died away, and as Hawthorne watched he became nothing more than a ruined mess of blood and meat. A carcass.

  The girl watched with hungry eyes. In a low voice, Hawthorne said, “Girl,” and she looked at him. “Come with me.” He held out a hand. “Move toward me slowly.”

  She looked again at the feeding monsters, then shrugged and stepped toward him.

  Hawthorne took her hand, and the coyote-things all stopped at once. The blood-soaked snouts came up and all three looked at him with cold slanted eyes.

  He gripped his revolver tight but didn’t raise it. The girl’s hand felt cold in his.

  He said, “I’m taking the girl home,” not knowing if they could understand him, or if they even cared.

  One of them growled, very slightly, but the other two went back to their savage feast. Katy O’Dowd said, “It’s okay, mister. You can take me home now,” and the one who’d growled dismissed them and re-joined the meal.

  “It’s that scar on your forehead,” the girl said. “A cross. They don’t know what it means, but they reckon it means something. They won’t do nothin’ to you. It’s okay.”

  She tugged at his hand, and the two of them started back toward Coyote Hill.

  He carried her most of the way, and she didn’t speak anymore, just hugged her arms around his neck and stared curiously at the ugly jagged cross on his forehead. He was glad she didn’t speak.

  The rain had begun to let up by the time they made it back, and the people of Coyote Hill were waiting in the street. The old Indian stood apart again, and he nodded at Hawthorne as they passed. Hawthorne didn’t nod back. He carried the girl through the crowd and to her waiting mother.

  In the fight ring, still covered by the tarp, four or five townspeople were hunkered over Goliath Bunker’s body, feeding. Blood and gore ran down the sides of the ring, dripping into the wet ground.

  Katy O’Dowd’s mother had clearly already fed. Her pretty gingham dress was stained red.

  Hawthorne set the girl down, and her mother gently touched her head. Hawthorne was keenly aware of the press of townsfolk around him. They looked human, but now that the rain had died away he could smell the animal stink upon them. He could smell the blood hunger.

  He looked down at the girl, and she smiled up at him, showing long, savage canines in her small mouth.

  He turned and walked away from them, headed for the livery stable. With any luck, he could find a horse there and get the hell out of this damned Coyote Hill.

  The old Apache caught up with him. He said, “You’ll ride away from this town, white. But you’d be wise to consider on how lucky you are to be doing so.”

  Hawthorne stopped and glared at him. “And you, old man,” he said, “would be wise to consider on how lucky you are I don’t stay here and kill every last one of you demons.”

  The Indian’s eyebrows jumped slightly. And then he smiled, showing off impressive fangs. He said, “Maybe we’re all lucky, eh, white?”

  Hawthorne didn’t answer. He walked a little faster toward the livery stable, and hoped to high holy hell he’d find a horse there. A goddamn fast one.

  *****

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  Heath Lowrance; we hope you enjoyed it.

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