Coyote (11 page)

By the time I'd made it out of the Palace of the Governors the crowd had largely dispersed. No doubt they'd been eager to get out of the boiling sun while they ruminated on the progress that hadn't been made in solving the problem that was Dry Gulch.

The Little Sisters Hotel was a two-storey adobe building near the merchant's market, over on the western side of the plaza. The sign engraved into the dried mud wall over the doorway read in Spanish: ‘Santa Custodia, Enclosed Convent founded 1698'. That was crossed out in dark blue paint and to one side, scrawled in the same paint, was another, more recent sign: ‘Little Sisters Hotel & Hen's Coop Saloon'.

An enclosed order … that meant they couldn't leave their convent. What'd happened to the nuns? Had the switch from Mexican to American rule been too difficult?

In the convent foyer a pinch-faced clerk fussed behind his reception desk, shuffling papers and looking busy. Behind him an austere wooden
stairwell led up to the next floor. Immediately to his right, raucous noise poured out over a set of wooden saloon doors with the sign ‘The Hen's Coop' painted in dark blue on them.

I pushed through the swinging doors.

A bar ran the full length of the opposite side of the room, and tables and chairs covered the rest of the scratched, polished wood floor. It was packed full of Anglos playing cards, drinking and talking up a storm. Many of them had been standing around Carvil Gortner, on the porch outside the Palace of the Governors, earlier today.

From the high, arched ceiling and the stained-glass windows at the far end, the saloon had once been the Mexican nuns' private chapel. The stained-glass windows depicted an ecstatic female saint in a maroon and cream habit, with a heavy metal chain looped twice around her neck. She was kneeling in prayer at the foot of a waterfall and a large golden halo hovered over her bowed head. It had to be Santa Custodia.

Maybe that was why there wasn't a Hispanic in sight? It wasn't class — because I'd seen even better-dressed Hispanics supported by their entourage of vaqueros glaring at Captain Bull from the plaza rather than the shady porch.

Or was that just the way things were in old Santa Fe? Were the minority Anglos being exclusive?

In the far corner a well-endowed blonde singer wearing a low-cut, flouncy dress gyrated next to a piano player who was thumping the hell out of his rickety-looking instrument. Unfortunately his vigorous honky-tonk playing only partially drowned out the woman's off-key bellow. She was trying to make up for lack of talent with sheer volume.

As the doors squeaked back in place behind me, everyone darted a cursory glance at the newcomer. It was that kind of town. As one, the eyeballs froze in place, fixed on my face as I strolled towards the equally on-guard bartender.

‘Gimme a whiskey. And make the glass clean.' I'd had every vaccination I could before I came through the portal but still …

Behind me was dead silence. Even the music had disappeared into the void at my back.

The bartender hurriedly washed a glass, polished it with a dirty piece of cloth he'd picked up off the even dirtier floor, then sat it down on the counter in front of me with a nervous click. I muffled a less than masculine sigh, but gave up on the urge to give the bartender a lesson in hygiene. He swung an unopened bottle of whiskey off the shelf, uncorked it, filled my glass to the brim, left the bottle nice and handy and then retreated as far out of firing range as he possibly could.

Still complete silence at my back.

I turned around in time to see everyone trying to look busy at whatever they'd been doing … playing poker, drinking, drooling over the blowsy singer … but every single one of them kept me carefully in their peripheral vision.

I finished the whiskey in one gulp and fought down a cross between a choke and a heave. The bloody stuff burnt all the way down, though I hoped it'd stop before it reached my boots. At least it'd sterilise the dirty glass. I turned my tearing eyes into a mean scowl as I slapped the empty shot glass down and lounged against the bar. Now where was my target?

In my breast pocket, I had an original, hand-tinted photo taken of Hector Kershaw two years before he
left Boston. It showed a fair-haired, blue-eyed man of squarish build, in his twenties. His body language spoke volumes. The photo was taken in front of the Kershaw family bank and he seemed … well, terrified wasn't the right word — maybe petrified was closer. Hector looked like someone could snap him over their knee and he wouldn't even protest.

What was someone like him doing out in this neck of the dangerous woods?

No one in the saloon wanted to meet my gaze.

I scanned each table. There was no sign of the fair-haired Hector Kershaw, boy-banker extraordinaire.

I was just about to beckon the bartender over for an answer when the huge man that'd coached the governor in tactics on the porch at the Palace of the Governors strolled up. He was a solid block of a man with winter-grey eyes and greying yellow hair. He was accompanied by an even bigger, but younger, replica of himself who watched me like a baby mammoth with teething problems.

‘Are you der famous bounty hunter … John Eriksen?'

I gave a faint nod.

‘Goot, goot.' He thrust out one meaty paw for a shake. ‘We need people like you with that hellhound, Coyote Jack, on der loose.' The older mastodon had a weird accent — the remnants of a Scandinavian one submerged under a Wild West twang.

I considered the paw.

He kept it thrust out, a now rigid smile stitched to his broad face. Despite his outstretched hand, his winter-grey eyes watched me with a calculation more often found in a predator stalking its prey. This was no hearty chump.

I felt the room hold its collective breath.

This guy had to be a mover and shaker in this town … I'd pump him for information like a petrol bowser.

I shook.

He introduced himself as Sigvard Blix but told me to call him what everyone else did — the Big Swede. His younger copy was his son, Tiny.

I told him I was looking for Hector Kershaw. That elicited a dismissive chuckle. Hector was a greenhorn and rich enough to make his cowardice a joke in this town. I was guessing if he'd been some poor wrangler the reaction would not have been so indulgent. The Big Swede, now my new best friend, said Hector should be in soon for his usual afternoon liquid refreshment. He bought me a drink and invited me to wait for Hector at his table.

I took the seat opposite the door, all the better to spot my target as soon as he arrived. Blix shuffled the man next to me down two seats. He was a determined son-of-a-bitch.

The table was filled with the same group of suit-clad middle-aged Anglos that'd surrounded the governor on the porch. The Big Swede did the introductions, making it very clear that he was the leader of his elite posse of wealthy ranchers and businessmen.

The Big Swede told me, with booming pride, that he'd left his starving village and sailed to San Francisco in the Gold Rush of 1849 … where he'd made his fortune. When the gold ran out, Blix had cashed in his nuggets and moved here. He bought the biggest spread in the territory and settled down to raise cattle and build his family's inheritance. He slapped his son, Tiny, on his tree trunk of a thigh and swore that the Blix family had made New Mexico their new homeland.

His political buddies sitting around the table hailed the well-honed Blix family fable with carefully faked enthusiasm.

‘And that,' confided the Big Swede, ‘was why I'm so pleased to see your famous red braids.' He nodded encouragingly. ‘My family were Vikings too.' Blix gave me a wink.

I gave him back stony silence. It was obvious that Big Dog Rules applied here. Any sign of weakness and they'd all attack …

‘Maybe we can do a goot deal to get you to help us?' asked Blix, angling for a commitment. ‘It's high time der Injuns were made to understand who's der master here now. All our goot Injun fighters — like Kit Carson — died in der War Between der States and der army is worse than useless. They let them Injuns think they can just wander round this territory like they own it. We gotta round them up and put them on reservations where we can keep an eye on them … like der goot Lord intended.'

It was easy to see who wrote Governor Gortner's political script.

I grunted non-committally.

The Big Swede took that as encouragement. ‘But first we have to get rid of that half-breed Coyote Jack. And if we could hire you to catch him … by golly, that'd shame der army into doing its job with der rest of those redskins.' Blix was about to give me a hearty slap on the back when he caught the narrowed look in my eye and thought better of it. He settled for patting the air above my shoulder. ‘Will you do it? If anyone can catch der villain, John Eriksen can!'

I shrugged, feigning boredom. ‘Who is this Coyote Jack anyway?'

The whole table groaned at the question.

‘He's a low-down, sidewindin' viper who thumbs his dirty red nose at all us whites,' snarled a grey-haired rancher opposite. He thumped the table with his fist.

Blix raised an irate brow at the interruption, which wilted his too vocal buddy, then replied, ‘Coyote Jack has plagued us all for years … He's raided our ranches, stolen our goot horses to keep that wild bunch of his racing beyond our reach, and rustled our cattle to feed his starving hangers-on.'

The well-fed businessmen sitting around the table gave Blix cautious murmurs of agreement.

‘Two years back — during der Great Drought — we had to fight to stop him … and his people … from stealing our water.'

‘Yeah, dirty thieves! We needed every drop to keep our stock alive and he helped every Injun and every beggar in this territory get their sheep onto our land,' volunteered the same foolhardy, grey-haired rancher.

Blix ignored the insolent interruption to his monologue. ‘But he's sneaky. You only know Coyote Jack's been on your ranch when you count your belongings and find something's missing.'

I studied Blix's prosperous posse carefully. No one had mentioned Dry Gulch or the murder of Governor Magurty once. All this lot cared about was preserving their cattle and property.

‘But now Coyote Jack's finally branched out into cold-blooded murder,' said the grey-haired rancher, clearly pleased at the thought. ‘And the army has to chase the varmint down.'

‘So Coyote Jack has never killed before?' I asked. He had to be mighty clever if he'd got away with all they claimed without having at least one deadly confrontation.

The grey-haired rancher squirmed in his seat, searching around the table as though looking for an answer he'd prefer.

Blix cut in. ‘There're lots of rumours about what Coyote Jack gets up to out in der desert … This is just der first time his misdeeds have been discovered.' He gave a cynical laugh. ‘Only problem is der army can't catch him … and they won't. He's like the wind. And he's got accomplices all over the territory who look after him —'

‘And some of the dirty traitors are even white!' interjected the grey-haired rancher, furious at the betrayal.

Blix ignored him. ‘That's where you come in, Mr Eriksen. We all know you won't let a little …' He paused to wink. ‘… messiness get in your way.'

A figure in the entranceway caught my eye. A man with tangled blond curls, my age or older, glowered at us from over the top of the saloon doors.

I stiffened. I knew a gargantuan chip on the shoulder when I saw it.

Blondie pushed the squeaky doors open to scowl around the saloon, daring anyone to meet his gaze.

The table nearest the door saw him and instantly turned away to whisper amongst themselves. They knew him but didn't want to.

Sick of being ignored, Blondie stalked up to the bar.

The Big Swede was still blathering on about the number of cattle Coyote Jack's band had swiped from his place over the years, so I sipped my whiskey and waited for the newcomer to do his thing.

‘Hi, Wayland,' said the bartender nervously. ‘What are you doin' in town so soon after the funeral? Didn't think we'd see you for a while.'

Wayland sent him a look so full of daggers, the bartender clamped his lips firmly shut and poured him a drink.

Wayland chugged back his whiskey, grimaced and then turned to survey the saloon. As though he was organising a firing squad and wondering who to line up first. ‘So which one of you sons-of-bitches has the balls to say it to my face? Come on … say it straight to my face — I dare you.' His hands were down and over his twin pistols as he hurled his challenge.

It was my turn to scowl. I knew he was trouble on the hoof.

I winced at the screeching sound of chairs scraping on the polished wood floor. No one even pretended that they wanted to have their back to the newcomer.

Realising what was happening, the singer stumbled in her hideously raucous song but valiantly kept belting it out, her eyes now pinned to Wayland's like a fly watching a fly swat. The piano player, however, wasn't made of such resilient stuff. He edged his stool to the far end of the piano, forcing the singer into a higher key than she could possibly reach in this lifetime.

‘You're all sure glad Noah Magurty's dead, aren't you?' screamed Wayland at no one in particular. ‘You're celebrating that now you can make all the dirty deals my father wouldn't do. That now you can steal all the free land you want with that fat slug, Gortner, running the shop.'

Wayland hurled his empty whiskey glass at the poor female singer, as though he couldn't stand her high-pitched shrieking one minute longer.

An experienced professional, the singer ducked her feather-bedecked head in time — but the whiskey glass sailed straight through the stained-glass window
behind her, beheading the pious Saint Custodia as it went.

Wayland focused in on the Big Swede and his table full of wealthy movers and shakers. He ground his teeth in fury.