Super Chief (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 3)

by Joseph Flynn

The damn country certainly had plenty of civil engineering work to be done.

  Then, after a photographer snapped some pictures of great-grandfather with the woman who might be Marlene Flower Moon, Alan White River removed his headdress and Bodaway’s life changed forever. Great-grandfather who’d had long white hair for as long as Bodaway had known him now had short black hair. Styled just the way John Tall Wolf wore his. Cut like it belonged on a white cop not a Native American chief.

  The realization that the most revered member of his own family had helped to thwart his plan enraged and energized Bodaway. He centered great-grandfather in his crosshairs and squeezed the trigger. Doing so just a split second too late.

  As if she’d known what was coming, Marlene Flower Moon shoved the old man off the platform and stepped dead center into Bodaway’s sight picture. Her eyes burned with fury. Her mouth pulled back and her teeth flashed white and sharp. In that quicksilver moment, Bodaway believed for the first time this woman might really be Coyote.

  Then his round hit her and she went down.

  Chapter 61

  Northern New Mexico Mountain

  John and Maj had been on their way to the platform when the crack of the shot jolted what had been a peaceful setting. They both saw White River shoved into space before the bullet struck Marlene and slammed her off the platform, too. Their training and the possibility of further rounds being fired compelled them to ignore the initial victim and look for the shooter.

  John knew there was no chance a handgun could match the effective range of a rifle — Bodaway’s assumed weapon of choice — but if he could spot the assassin he could still harass and distract him with his shots. There was no telling when dumb luck might be more lethally accurate than skill. Even if fate didn’t lend a hand, taking fire that was nearby would degrade the shooting accuracy of anyone but the most hardened combat marksman.

  “There he is,” John said, pointing to a figure who’d just jumped up from a clump of bushes on a foothill maybe five hundred feet distant. Gimme range for a rifle with a scope.

  “See him,” Maj said, and that was when John realized she still carried her M-4.

  She shouldered it, the weapon looking completely familiar and comfortable in her hands.

  Maj took the shot and the small figure in the distance went down.

  John remembered DeWitt telling him that Maj had shot expert with a rifle.

  “You got him,” John said.

  Maj shook her head. “No, I didn’t. The sonofabitch fell just as I took my shot. He went down before he could be hit.”

  Sometimes dumb luck worked against you, John thought.

  Then they heard a proof of life: the buzz of a high-performance engine roaring to life.

  “That bastard has his own bike up there,” Maj said, “probably one like ours.”

  The two of them raced to get back to their Yamahas.

  John yelled, “No way the shooter will come down this way. Not after you shot at him.”

  “He’ll go up the mountain, look for another way down,” Maj shouted back.

  She flashed a good deal of her old college track form, but John ate up considerably more ground with each stride. They ran side by side as people who had been sleeping on the ground or sitting in small circles of conversation scattered in random directions, many of them screaming, all of them fearing there might be more shooting than the two rounds that had already been fired.

  Just short of reaching their bikes, a knot of four people saw John streaking toward them. His size and speed dictated that they clear a path. Doing so, they stepped directly in front of Maj. For a heartbeat, she considered trying to leap over them, but the hurdles she used to jump were never that high. She slowed and saw a small gap between the two women at the center of the group and aimed for that opening. She stopped striding and skidded past them on the dew-wet grass like she had ice skates on.

  With running room ahead of her now, Maj put on the jets, as if in a final burst for the finishing line. A small part of her mind told her she’d never run faster, not even in her salad days. But by now John was already on his bike and taking off to pursue the shooter.

  Then, as if someone were running at her shoulder, Maj heard a woman’s voice in her ear.

  “Catch him. Don’t let him come to harm.”

  Not worrying about whether she might be hallucinating from fatigue or going a bit nuts from the adrenaline overload, Maj took the woman’s words to heart. Any SOB who wanted to kill John Tall Wolf would have to go through her first. And that wouldn’t be easy.

  Maj jumped on her bike and took off after John.

  She was maybe five to ten seconds behind him, but she was a better rider.

  She could make up the difference.

  The woman’s voice in her ear urged her to do just that.

  Bodaway knew he was lucky to be alive. Maybe luck was all that mattered. But he never counted on that. Calculation was more to his liking, and in picking his shooting site he’d taken into account the chance that he might draw pursuit. Aided by Maria Black Knife’s story of how her son, Cesar, had died, he’d also planned his getaway in a fashion no one could match.

  Not unless the SOB had one-in-a-million foresight.

  If that was the case, his luck would have turned a hundred and eighty degrees.

  He might as well not have tripped and been hit by that first shot.

  No, he decided, the odds that he’d both been lucky enough not to be dead already and that any pursuer might have prepared for what he had in mind were beyond reason.

  Feeling reassured by logic, he wondered what the chances were that John Tall Wolf might come after him. The odds of that seemed far more probable. If Tall Wolf deserved his reputation as a BIA hotshot, he might even lead any pack trailing him.

  Bodaway didn’t see any reason not to play things that way.

  What the hell? He’d already gotten Marlene Flower Moon, if only inadvertently.

  Maybe he could goad Tall Wolf into making a fatal mistake and get him, too.

  John found that the road up the mountain was a thrill ride designed by nature, moderated by man, but amplified by years of neglect. The two narrow lanes — one up, one down — were paved in asphalt. No doubt this was a great improvement over the dirt track that had preceded it. But potholes of varying sizes and depths afflicted the pavement like a bad rash.

  John hit one as he started his climb and the jolt nearly unseated him. Not a happy prospect as he got a close-up view of a drop-off that was already more than fifty feet. Guard rails were not an amenity the rez’s road builders had included in their plans. He regained his place on the Yamaha and brought the bike back under control, knowing that going over the edge as he ascended the mountain would be a fatal event.

  He might have made allowances for the driving conditions and slowed down.

  Instead, he chose to go as fast as he could while swerving around the holes and staying on a relatively smooth surface. This obligated him to make full use of both lanes, from the precipice on his right to the bruising rock face on his left. One small mistake on either extremity and he was done.

  A part of his mind warned him that he was behaving irrationally.

  He should slow the hell down.

  After all, Bodaway, or just maybe somebody else, had shot Marlene Flower Moon.

  His nemesis. Coyote. The beast who had almost devoured him as an infant. The shape-shifter he’d felt compelled to go to work for as a man so he could keep track of her while she, no doubt, watched his every move.

  Perverse though the thought was, he felt possessive about Marlene/Coyote. Conniving woman or creature of legend, she was his antagonist. If anyone was going to best her, it would be him. An outsider who interfered in their competition would answer to him.

  For a fleeting moment, John wondered if it was even possible to kill Coyote.

  With a bullet anyway.

  He pushed his dirt bike even harder, and that was when he first heard the engine note of M
aj’s bike. She had to be right behind him. He heard her shout. The sound and tone of her voice were clear, but he couldn’t make out her words. He could guess what she wanted, though. To take the lead.

  There was no way John could look back. Taking his eyes off the cratered road for even a moment would likely mean disaster. Even lifting a hand from the handlebars to wave her back would be risky. He had to content himself to give a measured shake of his head.

  Maj didn’t back off, not at first anyway. John could feel her riding his bike’s rear end. That made things even more tense. Most times, he didn’t care who got the credit for solving a case or making an arrest. This time, he did. It was as personal as if his mom or dad had been the victim.

  In that very moment, as they approached a sharp turn to the right, Maj eased off, giving John some space. He thought somehow she’d come to understand the importance of what he was doing. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  No sooner had the gap between them increased and John had slowed to take the turn than he heard Maj’s bike roar as she opened her throttle wide. She didn’t try to take the curve in the road at top speed. She jumped her bike over the interval, shooting over a drop of thousands of feet, landing on the far side of the road, just ahead of John now, before gravity could swat her out of the sky.

  John was stunned by the suicidal recklessness of the maneuver. But he had no way to voice his disapproval except to follow Maj around the next sharp turn in the road, this one breaking to the left, and let her know when they finally stopped how mindless she’d been.

  Making the turn, John was the one who had to dial it back, easing off the gas and slowing abruptly. Maj had all but stopped just ahead of him. They were two-thirds of the way to the crest of the mountain now. She held up a hand and stopped.

  John might have tried to race past her and take the lead again.

  But this time the cautionary voice in his head held sway. He stopped.

  Maj turned her head and he saw her mime a word. Listen.

  John did just that. Over the soft buzz of their idling motors he could hear the engine note of another bike just up ahead, around the next bend. Someone — Bodaway — waiting to ambush them?

  Bodaway heard their bikes, too. He’d timed things perfectly. Allowed his pursuers to get close to him just before he’d spring his trap. He savored the moment for a heartbeat and then revved his engine to the redline. Whoever was behind him would have to think he was making one final, desperate effort to get away. Any lawman worthy of the name would feel compelled to give chase.

  Maj was sure John was about to do just that. She shared the impulse to race forward, too. But the woman’s voice in her ear said, “Not now.” She spurted ahead, but stopped her bike before the blind curve and turned it sideways on the road.

  If he’d dared to do it, John could have skirted her barricade, but he’d have been on the thin, crumbling edge of the pavement. Blacktop that looked like it would dissolve if given a dirty look. John chose not to risk it. He stopped his bike and dismounted. Crept forward to where Maj was about to peek around the curve.

  Heard her say, “Jesus Christ!”

  John looked over her shoulder and felt his heart rise into his throat.

  The road ahead had fallen away for a stretch of at least fifty feet. A jump of that distance on a dirt bike likely would have been impossible coming down a straightaway at top speed. Taking a sharp turn at reduced speed and finding it right in front of you would have meant certain death.

  Unless you were wearing a parachute. Like the guy who’d tried to sucker them into following him. He had a ram-air elliptical rig. The high maneuverable design was used by sport chutists. The would-be killer was riding the currents, making his escape toward the forest below.

  If he hit a tree, he’d be in trouble.

  If he was any good, though, and that looked to be the case, he’d find an open patch of ground, land safely and be on his merry way. John and Maj couldn’t follow, and once he was under the cover of the forest they wouldn’t be able to see which way he’d fled.

  Maj had saved their lives but —

  She said to John, “Give me a little room.”

  He took a step back, asking, “What are —”

  Maj yelled, “Stop, federal officers!”

  The chutist was unable to effect a mid-air arrest of motion.

  Maj raised her M-4 and fired two rounds before John could say a word.

  She hit the parachute, tearing and partially collapsing its canopy. The fabric drooped on one side and gaped on the other. The man beneath the chute accelerated toward the earth at a far greater speed, with a seeming lack of directional control.

  In a matter of moments, the chutist disappeared beneath the leaf cover of the forest.

  John wondered if Maj was really that cold-blooded or if she’d momentarily lost her mind.

  She responded to the unasked question by saying, “A little voice in my head told me to do that.

  Now, John felt sure he understood. Maj had fallen under the spell of a bruja. A witch. He knew who had influenced Maj’s over-the-top behavior and why. His mother had been responsible, and there was no question how ruthless Mom was.

  “We’d better get going,” John said. “Get a search started.”

  “Sure. But we’ll take it easy getting back. Even going downhill, this road won’t be a picnic.”

  Chapter 62

  Northern New Mexico Forest

  The first tree branch that hit Bodaway made him think he’d broken his back. Things only got worse from there. He kept getting slammed. His arms, his legs and the back of his head all took blows. His headdress got ripped off by a branch. Somehow, he managed to think of pulling the three-ring release system on each of the risers of his chute harness. The last thing he wanted to do was to have his rig get snagged on a branch and leave him hanging to die of exposure, thirst or getting picked apart by crows while he was still alive.

  Better to take a big fall and embrace oblivion in a single burst of agony.

  The release rings worked just as they had been designed to do. Gravity yanked him free of the harness just as the chute did catch on a branch. He fell faster now. But not nearly as far as he thought he would.

  And then he hit the ground feet first.

  Bodaway felt bones and tendons in his ankles, knees and back give way as he slammed into the earth. Despite all that, he still remained self-aware. He couldn’t even manage to close his eyelids. He also was unable to keep from hearing something ferocious approach him.

  With all the pain occupying his mind, he still felt his bladder let go.

  A sense of shame joined his suffering, but not for long.

  Soon terror left room for nothing else.

  The face of the largest coyote he’d ever seen looked down at him.

  It’s eyes were red and its fangs dripped blood. Worse, it seemed to bear him a personal enmity. The animal took his throat in its mouth and growled. Bodaway felt death was more certain now than when he was falling out of the sky. He was also sure the agony he was about to endure would be worse than anything he’d suffered already.

  His hair stood on end as he recognized that within the vibrato of the creature’s growl he could recognize words. The animal was talking to him. Logic told him this was the product of a traumatic brain injury. His heart told him he was trying to deny reality.

  The coyote said to him, “You shot me, you vile speck of mouse shit. I should disembowel you. Let you watch as vultures feed on your entrails.”

  Bodaway began to twitch in terror.

  The involuntary movements only deepened the beast’s hold on his throat.

  “You tried to kill White River, a man so much better than you that —”

  The animal pissed on him. Its stream scalded him, added to his own stink. He wanted to scream but couldn’t produce the slightest sound. Fear and a vise of lacerating teeth prevented it.

  “Worst of all, you tried to kill Tall Wolf — and his fate belongs to
me.”

  That was when Bodaway knew: Coyote was real.

  And had saved the worst news for last.

  “You will live, Bodaway … and now I own you.”

  He pleaded for mercy and tried to curry favor.

  Told Coyote of Maria Black Knife’s part in the plan to kill Tall Wolf.

  And her intention to kill her grandson, Arnoldo, too.

  Coyote released his throat. It proved no balm for his suffering.

  Especially when the creature told him, “I know all that.”

  Chapter 63

  Maria Black Knife’s House

  Arnoldo decided to pay his grandmother one final visit. For the first time in his life he didn’t knock before entering. He shoved the door open hard enough to make it slam against the wall. It bounced back at him and he kicked it out of his way. The imprint of his boot left a mark of his contempt.

  Under normal circumstances, some menial would be called on to remove the stain. Maintaining appearances was one of the pillars of holding on to power. You let the way people viewed you slip, your days of domination were over.

  Arnoldo waited for Grandmother to appear. He hoped she would try to berate him. Scold him. Diminish him. He would throw her every word back in her face. Or maybe he’d throw her through a window. When she didn’t appear, he felt disappointed. But only for a minute.

  He improved his mood by breaking things, starting with an oil portrait of his grandfather, Cesar Black Knife. A truly vicious bastard, as Arnoldo remembered him. Arnoldo put a fist right through the canvas. “How you like that, old man?” he asked. The he tore the frame apart and scattered the pieces throughout the living room.

  Still no Grandmother.

  He continued his rampage, smashing a Tiffany lamp, its leaded glass shade commissioned specifically for the Black Knife family, showing the occasion of Grandmother and Grandfather’s wedding against the background of a mountain landscape. Arnoldo thought it had never looked better than when he smashed it into a thousand pieces.

  That felt so good he destroyed everything that came to hand.