Coyote

by Rhonda Roberts

  BACK AT HECTOR’S

  HOTEL ROOM

  It was dawn.

  I’d spent last night thrashing Santa Fe like it was a rug full of fleas, looking for that insect Kershaw. But no luck … So I gave up, and once more climbed the stairs to the top floor of the Little Sisters Hotel. I banged on Hector’s door, sledging it with my fist and forearm, wishing it was his head. Again, no answer. I picked the lock once again.

  No, Hector still wasn’t in there. I ground my teeth. Where was the SOB?

  I went in, relocked the door, and went through his stuff all over again. But there was no hint of where Kershaw could possibly be, and certainly no shoulder bag and diary.

  Starved for answers, I flung open Hector’s suitcases, rummaged, and came up with the two silver-framed Kershaw family portraits. One was the American gothic: hatchet-faced Mama, grim old Dad, Lysander the tough, little mutineer-in-the-making and dreamy baby Hector, who just longed to escape them all.

  The other was the mutilated photo of Mama Kershaw as a dying monster …

  I compared them. It felt like the Kershaws were a code I had to break. Mama was an overprotective she-dragon, Lysander had turned from a rebel into a good little soldier who’d died in the line of duty, and Hector …

  The same cycle of thoughts kept chasing through my head. What’d just happened in the Prickly Cactus? What exactly had brought out the savage in that dreamy-eyed little boy in the photo?

  And what the hell was in that bloody diary?

  The lock jiggled, a key slid in …

  In one fluid motion I rose from the open suitcase to hide behind the door. I was getting some answers to my questions no matter what …

  Then I softly cursed. A woman’s royal-blue skirt-flounce swayed past the edge of the door. I narrowed my eyes. That flounce was the same hallucinogenic blue as Rosita’s dance costume from the can-can number.

  I peered around the door.

  The woman had lustrous black hair just like the wounded dancer, but she was far too tall to be Rosita. She swayed around the room, giving me just a brief glimpse of her profile as she came to a halt in front of the chest of drawers. The woman was gorgeous but her skin didn’t look quite right … it’d been powdered as white as a corpse. She had to be a friend of Rosita, come for vengeance on Hector.

  She yanked open a drawer to search … or she was here to rob Hector.

  I slid out from behind the door.

  The woman stiffened and turned. There was a cocked pistol in her hand.

  My eyebrows hit the rim of my top hat.

  No … in his hand.

  I gulped. That was Coyote Jack in Rosita’s blue show dress.

  He was shockingly beautiful.

  Last time I saw him, Coyote Jack had been a wild outlaw emitting enough testosterone to send half the female population within a hundred-mile radius into heat. Now he was a sultry, golden-eyed maiden of mixed heritage and too many promises.

  We studied each other with too much excited interest.

  I in my crossed bandoliers, with guns on my hips. He, now a lushly sexy senorita with red lips and liquid gold eyes. It was confusing. Well, for me anyway. From the amused curl to his crimson lips, Jack was enjoying the tinge of both uncertainty and danger.

  ‘What are you doing here? Are you mad?’ But I already knew the answer. He was wearing Rosita’s dress and he must’ve talked to Brother Buenaventura.

  ‘The same as you — looking for Kershaw and his diary. Did you find it? Do you know where he is?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. And I’ve searched every damned inch of this town — and this room — for both of them.’

  Coyote Jack sank down on the bed in a frothy mound of blue to think.

  I couldn’t stop looking at her … er, him.

  His kohl-rimmed coyote eyes widened as he focused on something next to the chest of drawers, straight across from the bed.

  I looked. He was studying Hector’s boots.

  Coyote Jack lunged up again to grab the shiny pair sitting there.

  He rounded on me in a cyclone of blue froth. ‘Do you know what these are?’ he accused, shaking the leather in my face.

  ‘Gimme a break, Jack. They’re just Hector’s riding boots.’

  ‘No,’ he grunted with disgust. ‘These are US army boots … a cavalry officer’s boots.’

  ‘What?’ I leant in for a closer look.

  He turned them over, soles up.

  I sucked in a breath. The soles had that distinctive pattern of nails that we’d last seen imprinted at Dry Gulch … in and around each of the four death sites. And exactly the same boot print that’d been marked in blood on the floor of the coach.

  It was the killer’s tracks … made from a cavalry officer’s boots. The very evidence that Coyote Jack thought convicted Captain Bull.

  We both studied the soles. It sure looked like the same pattern but there was nothing on either sole, no blood, no dirt, nothing. They may’ve been cavalry boots but they looked like all the action they’d seen was in a ballroom.

  They weren’t new, but they hadn’t tracked through Dry Gulch.

  ‘This couldn’t be a coincidence, could it, Jack? And why would a banker like Kershaw have cavalry boots anyway? It doesn’t make sense.’

  He sniffed each sole, scowled, then hurled the boots at the wall. ‘It’s not them!’

  He threw himself backwards across the bed, his skirts floating up to betray that he wore Western pants and spurred boots underneath.

  I froze; between Coyote Jack’s spurred ankles I could see another pair of cavalry boots. They’d just been tossed under the bed.

  Jack yelped as I dived between his legs and hauled the boots out; they were dusty and dirty. I flipped them over to see the soles. Holy dooley! Something brown was encrusted around the protruding nailheads in the soles of both boots.

  I looked at Coyote Jack, my eyes wide.

  He grabbed them from me, sniffed long and hard. He nodded. ‘That’s them all right.’

  ‘What?’ That just blew my whole mission wide open.

  ‘I was wrong about the massacre,’ said Coyote Jack, as though that was some kind of miracle.

  ‘But how did he —’ I stopped. I didn’t know where to even start.

  Jack lunged up and began pacing around the bed like a maniac. ‘So there was only one killer at Dry Gulch … That’s all that was needed and explains the tracks much better.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Kershaw had the drop on them all. He waited until they’d stopped for a rest, shot the driver and the guard before anyone knew what was happening, killed the governor, then picked off the unarmed woman and the two children … And then Hector took his own sweet time getting the scene ready to make it look like I’d done it.’ Jack cursed foully. ‘Goddamned chicken feathers too. Easy to come by and no whites would question them.’

  ‘Whoa there!’ This change of direction was happening way too fast for me. ‘But how could a tenderfoot from Boston like Hector Kershaw —’

  ‘Timing — all it’d take is timing. Hector picked off the armed men first then the rest of them were just target practice.’

  ‘But, but … he killed a woman and two children in cold blood, then mutilated their bodies. What on earth could make a Boston banker’s kid able to —’ I stopped.

  Rosita’s slashed cheek flashed into my head. What the hell was in that diary?

  Coyote Jack read my face. ‘Yeah, that’s right, I saw Rosita and wondered too. We gotta find that diary. Who knows what dark secrets Hector Kershaw’s brought west with him? Or even why his family really sent him out here in the first place —’

  ‘Hold on.’ This just didn’t make enough sense. ‘Why now, Jack? Why these people?’

  He started to argue. I cut him off. ‘Look, we both know Dry Gulch wasn’t some random, insane spree or a massive overreaction like what Kershaw did to Rosita.’

  Coyote Jack agreed begrudgingly, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Dry Gulch took a lot of planning, a lot of e
ffort to stage it just right,’ I insisted. ‘Hector would’ve had to know about you and exactly how to set you up —’

  ‘But it’s possible.’

  ‘Be realistic. Hector Kershaw’s from Boston; he only arrived in Santa Fe just before the massacre. How the hell could he have known exactly who to frame for it?’

  Coyote Jack brooded. ‘I don’t know. All I do know is these cavalry boots convict him.’

  This didn’t make sense. There was a big chunk of the jigsaw missing … Questions bubbled up like a hot spring through a rock. ‘Wait a minute … Why did Hector hire Ernesto to help him chase after you?’

  Coyote Jack’s beautiful face twisted into a grimace while he thought of an answer. ‘Well, the banker never caught up with me, did he? Who knows what Hector’s really been doing out there? Maybe he just wanted to keep his cover as an innocent victim going?’

  ‘That’s a whole lotta assumptions —’

  ‘Look, I just don’t know why!’ snapped Coyote Jack. ‘But I plan on finding Hector and asking him personally.’

  I stared at the boots. They were the ones from Dry Gulch all right. ‘Well, one thing is for sure — we have to find that diary.’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘If it says what I think it will, then it’s the only proof about the truth of Dry Gulch that a white court might believe.’

  Coyote Jack hiked up his skirts and drew a knife out of his pants.

  I watched him, concerned.

  He grabbed my arm and hauled us both in front of the mirror on top of the chest of drawers. We stood there looking at the reflection of the weirdest couple you’d ever seen. Coyote Jack cut into his left palm. Blood welled up. With one finger he used it to draw on Hector’s mirror. It was the coyote’s unblinking eye from the side of Spruce Tree Mesa.

  He placed my hand palm down over his cut palm, holding it in place with his other. ‘We both swear to see justice done. Even if it takes to the end of this world.’

  Quick as lightning he snapped up his cut hand to place the wound over my temple. My head throbbed.

  He pulled it away and the mirror reflected back to me a sight that made me shiver …

  The sunburnt cross on my forehead now sat inside a yellow circle.

  On the way down the stairs I could hear the governor’s assistant questioning the desk clerk.

  ‘If Kershaw’s not here then where the fuck is he?’ The tone implied there’d be consequences if the answer was less than the truth.

  The desk clerk answered, resigned, ‘I don’t know, I’m not his personal servant.’

  ‘Keep well behind me,’ I warned.

  Coyote Jack’s eyes gleamed. ‘I like it when you want to protect me.’ He swayed his hips. ‘It makes me feel so … cared for.’

  I strode through the lobby, eyes straight ahead, and made it out the door, fast. Impatient, I glanced back. Coyote Jack, hobbled by his petticoats, was still swishing past the desk …

  ‘Whoa there, pretty senorita — who are you? Rosita’s sister?’ The governor’s assistant had caught sight of the luscious Jack and liked what he saw.

  In one graceful movement Coyote Jack evaded him, but as he sailed past the man grabbed for an arm. He got Jack’s bodice instead.

  Jack jerked away … There was a loud ripping sound.

  The man gaped at Coyote Jack’s now exposed torso — and the yellow birthmark on a flat and very masculine chest.

  The desk clerk yelped, ‘That’s a man.’

  ‘That’s Coyote Jack,’ grunted the governor’s assistant. ‘He must be searching for Hector Kershaw to kill him and complete the job.’

  Jack hiked up his skirts to pull out his handgun. He held the men at bay while he ripped the blue dress off, flicked his black hair down his naked back then dashed past me and out the front door. He threw himself into the saddle of a great bay mare that was tethered out the front of the hotel. He winked at me and took off in a cloud of dust.

  The governor’s man launched himself into the street, screaming, ‘Coyote Jack is here! Coyote Jack is escaping!’

  Every man with a horse mounted up.

  As Coyote Jack reached the edge of the plaza, he gave a great whooping war cry that raised the hair on the back of my neck …

  And galloped out of Santa Fe with half of the town after him.

  40

  STAGECOACH HOLD-UP

  I stood in the courtyard next to the Torres Weapons Emporium and said my farewells. Domenico and his four burly sons stood around me, all frowning.

  ‘But, Signor Eriksen, surely we can assist you in some way?’ Domenico’s eyes were bright, full of life. He didn’t look like the same despairing drunk I’d met on my first day in Santa Fe. I’d released Domenico from the prison of his guilt and for that, he’d made it clear that I’d gained his — and his sons’ — undying loyalty.

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘But thank you, you’ve done all you can.’

  Domenico didn’t know how to respond.

  I ducked his honest gaze, wishing that I could warn him. Domenico would die in a year’s time of cirrhosis of the liver … from his drinking. But his fine sons would carry the Torres name forwards into wealth and fame. His youngest boy would become an engineer in the US army and invent the first effective bulletproof vest.

  But that was not due to my intervention.

  Once I left this era the time warp I’d created by my presence would disappear and everything would return to its original state. That meant, unfortunately, that Domenico would never be relieved of his guilt and he’d drink himself to death.

  Time travel had its downside.

  That’s why we were supposed to stay detached, to stay focused on the mission …

  I gave Incendio one last brush, slid the blanket in place over her back and then slapped the saddle over it, reaching for the cinch to buckle it tight. Domenico held Azucar’s and Duquesa’s reins. They gazed over at me accusingly. They knew that wherever I was headed they weren’t coming along.

  I moved over to say goodbye to my two girls. They nuzzled their great heads into my chest.

  Yeah, sure I was detached. I rubbed an unmanly tear away on Azucar’s neck.

  But at least when I left this era, I knew the Galindo mares would be safe and live long and happy lives … Azucar and Duquesa would stay in New Mexico and give birth to a line of champions. Incendio would become a national treasure, prized as the embodiment of selfless loyalty.

  She would make the legend of the Galindo mares echo across history.

  Next year, in 1868, Incendio would be given as a gift to the new president elect, General Ulysses S. Grant. The newspapers would call the gift ‘A Warhorse for a Warhorse’. Grant would ride Incendio through Washington on the way to his presidential inauguration. The general had led the Union army to victory during the Civil War, but not everyone had voted for him. On his way through the capital, an assassin would slide out of the cheering crowd and shoot at him.

  Battle-trained, Incendio would rear over the assassin, taking his bullet in her mighty chest and fall … crushing him to the ground. But she would survive and remain Grant’s cherished companion to the end of her life.

  I mounted Incendio and patted her neck, proud to have known her.

  Azucar and Duquesa fought free of Domenico and crowded around us, begging to come on one last adventure.

  At my signal he gently pulled them away.

  I turned Incendio for the gate and left.

  I couldn’t look back.

  Incendio and I waited in the deep shade, directly opposite the stagecoach depot.

  Governor Gortner and the Big Swede were pleading with Hector to go on a later coach. There was no talk of charges concerning Hector’s attack on Rosita, they weren’t trying to prevent him from leaving for that reason — they were just concerned for his safety.

  Captain Bull was due back later today and he could escort Kershaw on his trip north. They were worried that that fiend, Coyote Jack, would have another shot at trying to kill
their carefully trained rich boy. But Hector fended off their protests and got in the stagecoach, the shoulder bag still firmly strapped across his shoulders.

  With the governor’s permission, the stagecoach driver whistled up his drowsing team, flicked their reins to get them moving and took off.

  I curled my lip.

  Hector would take the diary with him to San Francisco, while Coyote Jack was chased in the opposite direction by every able-bodied man in Santa Fe. And once Jack had outdistanced them he’d head for the trail to Boston, thinking that’s where Hector Kershaw had gone.

  But Hector and his diary were actually going west … in the opposite direction to home and hatchet-faced Mama Kershaw.

  Despite what Hector had told the governor, further north he’d change coaches and head for San Francisco. That must be why he didn’t want the cavalry along to see him safely onto the eastbound stagecoach.

  I checked my fob watch. It doubled as my transponder, the instrument that’d send me back through the portal. I was due back from this mission in twelve hours. If I was even ten minutes over Daniel Honeycutt would do what he promised. He always did. But if he burst through the portal like an avenging angel he’d lose his career and go to gaol for the rest of his life. But I still had those hours left to use … and my surveillance target and his diary were speeding away.

  I felt a pulse of excitement — I was going to break a very big rule … I was going to intervene big time!

  I just had to know what was in that diary.

  I found out which trail out of Santa Fe Hector’s stagecoach would follow and checked it on my map. I took a short cut across rough country to the narrow gorge they had to use. I harnessed Incendio to a fallen tree and pulled it across the trail.

  I waited behind the barrier with my modified rifle ready.

  The stagecoach galloped around the corner only to be pulled to a screaming halt by the driver. His guard recognised me and whitened. That was enough to keep his hands off the rifle lying over his lap. The driver shot him an angry look but obviously felt it was wiser to keep quiet.

  ‘Drop the rifle over the side,’ I ordered. ‘And your gun belts.’