Cryptid Frontier (Cryptid Zoo Book 7)

by Gerry Griffiths

“Yeah, as a matter of fact,” Macy said. She looked over at Ethan and saw a strange look come over his face.

  “Next time, when I tell you to mind your own business, do as I say,” Kane said and kicked the side of Macy’s chair, knocking her over onto the floor.

  “Damn it, Kane.” Ethan jumped up from the table.

  The bikers took that as their invitation to brawl.

  The one with the knife came at Ethan.

  Ethan flipped the table onto its side, spilling the bottles onto the floor. He reached down, grabbed two beer bottles by the bottoms and smashed the necks together, shattering the ends into jagged edged weapons.

  The short biker swung the sharp blade at Ethan’s face. Ethan ducked, and like a prizefighter landing multiple body blows, stabbed the biker repeatedly in the chest and belly with the broken beer bottles. Patches of blood bloomed on the front of the man’s thick denim jacket. He took a step back, dropped his knife, and fell against a table.

  The tall biker charged Kane. Even though he outweighed Kane by a hundred pounds and was six inches taller, Kane stood his ground.

  Grabbing Kane by the shirt, the biker reared back with his fist, but before he could throw a punch, Kane grabbed the man’s fingers clutching his shirt, and with one quick motion, snapped all four digits back with a loud crack.

  The tall biker let out a terrible scream.

  Kane gave him something to really scream about and jabbed the man’s right eye with a sharp thumb thrust.

  Macy heard what she thought was a fierce dog, and for a moment wondered if maybe the bartender had sent in his Rottweiler from the backroom to break up the fight.

  She could see Ethan hunched in the shadows behind the tipped-over table. The noise was coming from him. He was scratching at the hardwood floor with his nails and growling like a mad dog.

  Kane went over and grabbed Ethan, making sure his brother kept his head down so no one could see his face, and started to usher him toward the front door. Looking over his shoulder, Kane’s parting words to Macy were, “This is all your doing,” and escorted Ethan out of the bar.

  Macy watched the two hardcore bikers lick their wounds.

  The tall biker cradled his injured hand in the pocket of his denim jacket, cupping his right eye with his other hand. The short biker opened up his denim jacket and gazed at the dozen stab wounds to his torso, which even though there was blood, the punctures didn’t seem deep. He picked up his knife and slipped it back into his belt.

  Neither said anything and walked out the door.

  The bartender came out from behind the bar. He up-righted the table, put the chairs back in place, and picked up the strewn bottles like nothing had happened.

  Everyone went back to nursing their drinks.

  For Macy, it was time to go home.

  19

  LECHUGILLA

  Vera watched Felix carefully pack her recent paintings. Once a month the packaging specialist would make a trip down from Albuquerque to pick up her artwork so her agent could post images on the gallery’s website and arrange for prospective buyers.

  “I especially love this one,” Felix said, appreciating the canvas in his hands of a desert vista with the sun rising over a distant mountain range. He covered the painting with a sheet of glassine paper then wrapped it in bubble pack and placed it inside a protective foam inlay.

  “Yes. That’s one of my favorites,” Vera responded, recalling the location where she had taken the photograph she had used to replicate the image with her acrylics.

  Felix carried the wrapped painting over to a pushcart and slipped the artwork into a slot inside a specially designed crate. Instead of fastening the lid, he looked around the studio and said, “That’s it?”

  “For now,” Vera replied.

  “Gene was expecting one in particular.”

  “Really. Which one is that?”

  “The lechugilla.”

  “It isn’t ready yet.”

  “You haven’t finished the painting?”

  “I haven’t even started it.”

  “Why not? This isn’t like you.”

  “It’s not up to me. The reason I have to wait is that this particular lechugilla hasn’t been ready. It needs to fully bloom, which will be today. This plant is over twenty years old and only flowers once in its lifetime. And when it does, it dies, giving me only this narrow window of opportunity.

  “Here, let me show you.” Vera grabbed her digital camera from the table. She showed Felix the screen and scrolled through some pictures of the location in a box canyon and the actual plant about to be sensationalized in the art world.

  “Wow, that’s amazing. And Gene knows this?”

  “He does. Believe me, this painting will be worth plenty once I’m done.”

  “Aren’t you worried someone might beat you to the punch? Take pictures?”

  “No. It’s my little secret; no one knows where it is.”

  Felix fastened the lid on the crate. “So what do I tell Gene?”

  “I’m going out there today.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be happy,” Felix said, pushing his cart out into the hall.

  “When I’m finished, I’ll drive it up myself,” Vera said. “Save you a trip.”

  “I’ll let him know. Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  “And kindly remind him that Michelangelo didn’t paint the Sistine Chapel in a day. That took four years. Tell Gene he’ll have his masterpiece when I’m good and ready.”

  20

  SADDLING UP

  Astuto squatted on the porch across from Sophia while she shuffled three inverted cups in circular motions on the deck, trying to confuse the troll. He watched intently, never once taking his eyes off the swiftly moving cups.

  Sophia stopped, lining the cups in a single row. “Okay, see if you can find it this time.”

  Astuto leaned forward. He sniffed each cup. After some determination, he lifted the third cup. There was nothing underneath.

  “Ha ha,” Sophia said. “Fooled you again.” She lifted the middle cup, revealing a quarter coin piece. “That’s the fourth time in a row I’ve won.”

  The troll looked up and pointed to Sophia’s thin necklace with a topaz gem draped down the front of her neck. He repeatedly jabbed his finger at the cups and back to the necklace. Astuto patted the small wooden box by his side. He lifted the lid so Sophia could see that it was filled with more coins. He pushed the box toward Sophia.

  “You want to bet all of that against my necklace?” Sophia said. “You know you’re going to lose and it will all be mine. Okay.” Sophia reached behind her neck and undid the clasp. She placed the jewelry under a cup. “Say goodbye to all your money.”

  With a quick slight of hand, Sophia moved the three cups around, doing her best to trick the troll. This time she did it twice as long as before.

  Finally she stopped. “Ta-da.”

  Astuto sniffed the first cup, then the second. But instead of using his nose to distinguish if the third cup was indeed the one with Sophia’s necklace, he snatched up the cup and grabbed the piece of jewelry along with his coin box, and raced off down the porch steps.

  “Hey, come back here you. Momma gave me that,” Sophia said, realizing Astuto had been playing her the whole time like a pool hustler. She heard her father call out her name and figured she’d get her necklace back from the sly troll later.

  She ran down the porch steps and joined her father, who was leading the brown and white pinto out of its stall. He looped the reins around the fence post.

  Sophia reached up and stroked the horse’s cheek.

  “That’s good,” Miguel said. “He likes that.”

  “Am I going to ride Scout?” Sophia asked. She was wearing a cotton shirt, long jean skirt, a pair of cowgirl boots, and one of Camilla’s sombreros with a chin string.

  “Yeah, he’s more your size. Let me show you how to saddle him up. First we start with a fitted pad.” Miguel placed the thick, contoured pad onto Scout’s
back. “Next goes the blanket for added protection.” Miguel made sure the heavy fabric was situated evenly on both sides of the horse. He grabbed the Western saddle off the top railing. “Now goes the saddle.”

  “Is it heavy?” Sophia asked.

  “I’m guessing this one weighs about fifty pounds,” Miguel replied, swinging the saddle up and lowering it onto the pinto’s back. “First we cinch the front, then the back.” He reached under the horse’s barrel and grabbed the end of the leather strap. He ran the end through the buckle and cinched the belt. “You don’t want to make it too tight.” He fastened the other strap securing the rear of the saddle. He slipped his fingers under the pad just behind the withers. “Always leave just a little room. Go tell your mom and Abuela we’re almost ready to leave.”

  “Okay,” Sophia said and ran to the house.

  Miguel went into the stable and brought out the Appaloosa. He was almost done saddling up Poco when Sophia came running back followed by Maria and Camilla. Both women were carrying something: Maria two canteens with leather lanyards and a lunch bag for Miguel and Sophia to take on the trail; Camilla a Winchester lever action carbine in case of trouble.

  “Here’s some sandwiches and snacks,” Maria said, giving Miguel the bag. She walked over to each horse and hung the canteens on the saddle horns.

  Camilla handed Miguel a box of .357 cartridges and the rifle. “That’ll stop anything that tries to mess with you.”

  “Well, I hope I won’t have to put it to the test.” Miguel stood beside Poco and slipped the rifle into the scabbard strapped behind the cantle. He opened the flap on the saddlebag and stuffed in the box of ammunition along with the sack lunch.

  Miguel turned to Sophia. “Here, let me help you up.” He waited until Sophia had her left foot firmly in the stirrup and hoisted her up into the saddle. He draped the split reins on each side of Scout’s neck then handed the ends up to Sophia. “Wrap each rein around your first three fingers and make a fist. If you want Scout to go left, tug on the rein in your left hand, but not too hard or you’ll hurt his mouth. The same goes with the right one. If you want to stop, pull back on both reins. Got it?”

  Sophia did as instructed. “Got it!”

  “Spoken like a true cowgirl,” Camilla said, clapping her hands.

  “Promise you two will be careful out there,” Maria said. She stepped over and patted Sophia’s leg.

  “We will,” Sophia answered.

  Maria looked over at Miguel. He gave her a slight shrug and smiled. “We won’t go far. Be back before supper.”

  “Tread softly,” Camilla said.

  “Always,” Miguel replied and climbed into the saddle. He grabbed the reins and steered the Appaloosa through the gate. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Sophia was right behind, riding Scout like a natural.

  Maria and Camilla waved as though Miguel and Sophia were setting out on a cattle drive and wouldn’t be back for a real long time.

  Miguel made Poco sidestep so Sophia could ride up beside him. “How does it feel?” he asked.

  “Good,” Sophia said with a smile.

  “Great. Let’s go.” He used his boot heel to nudge Poco into a slow trot. Not wanting to be left behind, Scout quickened his stride until both horses were cantering side by side.

  Miguel laughed when Sophia—bouncing in the saddle with both hands around the horn—let out a joyous girlish cheer, “Yahoo Scout!”

  Worried his daughter could be thrown before they had even set out, Miguel pulled back on the reins. As soon as Poco returned to a walk, so did Scout as the pinto had a bad case of being a buddy sour horse, which meant that Scout suffered separation anxiety whenever he wasn’t able to be with Poco. It was good to know that Scout would always follow Poco’s lead.

  “I was having fun,” Sophia protested. “How come they slowed down?”

  “You keep bouncing up and down like that you’re going to have saddle sores the size of pancakes.”

  “For real?”

  “Oh yeah,” Miguel said. “Trust me. I know.”

  “So where are we going?” Sophia asked.

  “To a special place.” Miguel could tell by the look on Sophia’s face that she was excited to see where her father spent his time when he was her age. It was times like this Miguel cherished the most when he could share moments of his youth where they could relate, knowing this is when he truly connected with his daughter instead of letting their relationship drift apart with her attention consumed by computer games and constantly chatting online with her friends.

  Miguel figured coming to Camilla’s was going to be a nice little break from all of that and looked forward to a good time bonding with his daughter.

  21

  WOLF IN LLAMA’S CLOTHING

  Roxy parked the Mustang Interceptor by the front entrance of the animal rescue and climbed out of her car. She could hear bleating and baying and the steady barking of dogs coming from behind the building.

  She spotted Ben’s Tahoe next to a pickup and a deisel truck with a long livestock trailer attached to the rear bumper. The pickup had large wire cages in the bed big enough for transporting not only domestic strays but also smaller neglected farm animals. There was also the local veterinarian’s SUV with the clinic’s template on the driver’s-side door.

  She walked down the side of the building to an eight-foot-tall cyclone fence that stretched around a five-acre parcel filled with a hodgepodge of animals common to New Mexico. A few cattle, some horses, mules, and donkeys all feeding off of hay bales that had been dumped randomly from the back of a truck to allow the animals plenty of space.

  Small herds of sheep and goats congregated together, all of them rescued from one bad situation or another. Many times farmers and ranchers were unable to care for the animals due to a death of a family member critical in running the operation or a foreclosure on the property and were forced to relinquish their livestock.

  Roxy could hear chickens clucking from a large coop. Dogs yelping from kennels that weren’t out wandering about.

  Besides the normal animals one would expect to see at a rescue, there were also exotic ones as well. She spotted llamas, and their smaller cousins, alpacas, roaming about along with a handful of ostriches. It was definitely a sight to see. She often wondered why different species of animals could coexist without any problem where humans always had trouble getting along.

  Roxy spotted a small group of people gathered by the fence a hundred yards away inside the enclosure. She opened the gate, stepped in, and shut the gate behind her. She strode through the field. Every time she came close to an animal it would take one look at her and shy away. She did her best to ignore them and kept on walking.

  Finally she was close enough and recognized Ben standing with the rescue’s owner, Clay Lansford. They were staring down at the town’s veterinarian, Tanya Campbell, crouched over a large furry animal lying on the ground.

  “I got here as soon as I could,” Roxy said. “What happened?”

  “Something attacked my guard llama, Mimi,” Clay said.

  Roxy watched Tanya inject a needle into the shoulder of the four-hundred-pound llama that was breathing shallowly. Parts of its back and flank had been slashed leaving red ribbons of exposed flesh in its brown fur.

  “I saw her take down a wolf once and stomp out its guts,” Clay said. “Whatever did this had to be one mean son of a bitch.”

  “She’s lucky the cuts weren’t any deeper,” Tanya said. “I’d like to get her to the clinic as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll get some of the volunteers to help load her into the back of my truck.”

  “Great,” Tanya said. “I gave her a tranquilizer so she’ll be out for a while.”

  Roxy looked around expecting to see a hole in the fence where the predator might have used to crawl through and attack the llama. She gazed down the fence that bordered a grove of hackberry elms but didn’t see any breach where it might have gained entry. “How do you figure it got in?�
�� she asked.

  “Don’t rightly know,” Clay said. “Short of climbing the fence.”

  “Is it possible someone left a gate open?” Ben asked.

  “Maybe but not likely. All of our volunteers are highly trained.”

  “Want me to scout around?” Roxy asked Ben.

  “See if you can spot any tracks. I’ll lend a hand here,” Ben said.

  While the others were preparing to transport the injured llama, Roxy went back the way she had come. She walked along the outside perimeter of the fence line and entered the copse of elms, keeping her eyes on the ground. She glanced over her shoulder and could no longer see the fence that protected the grounds of the animal rescue.

  She heard a moan and stopped. The sound was directly ahead. Roxie looked down and saw scuff marks in the dirt.

  Again she heard a groan. She couldn’t tell if it was human or an animal.

  She cupped her palm around the handgrip of her service weapon, ready to draw in a split second if she had to.

  Taking a few cautionary steps, she saw a pair of bare feet then the hairy legs of a man partially hidden behind a tree trunk. Roxie took another step and froze. “You stupid shit!” she cursed.

  “Sorry. I know, I know,” Ethan said, lying naked on the ground and writhing with pain. His chest and the skin around his navel were purple bruises from the pummeling hooves of the guard llama.

  Roxie knelt to examine her brother’s injuries. “I hate to say it.”

  “What?” Ethan said, clutching his stomach.

  “You’ll live. Give it a minute.” She couldn’t contain her anger any longer and punched Ethan in the shoulder.

  “Hey! I’m in enough pain.”

  “What were you thinking?” Roxie said. “You know better than to hunt so close to home.”

  “I couldn’t wait.”

  “You better get out of here,” Roxie said.

  “Or what? You’ll call the cops,” Ethan replied, obviously feeling better, the pain slowly dissipating.

  “Not funny. Go, before Ben sees you.”

  Ethan got to his feet, the healing process already taking effect and changing the coloring of the bruises to yellow. Soon they would be gone altogether. He looked at Roxie with that same apologetic look she had seen so many times before.