Coyote (10 page)

The afternoon light was yellow, tinting everything shades of gold and blood amber. The dust kicked up from the unpaved street leading onto the central plaza hung in a choking cloud. Sweat beaded on my forehead, plastering the few loose strands of my fire-red hair to my tanned face. The dust cloud carried with it the gritty stench of decaying horse manure and unwashed humans.

The humans smelt worse.

Imperial Spanish buildings, all softened by being adobe, enclosed the spacious plaza that was the beating heart of Santa Fe. This town had been here for more than two and a half centuries before New Mexico became another piece in the expanding jigsaw of the United States of America. There was a magnificent Catholic cathedral at the eastern end of the plaza and a busy merchant's market at the western end. In between, on the northern side, stood the Palace of the Governors, a long, one-storey adobe building, which had been the Spanish
centre of government and was now the American one.

I melted into the shadow of a building at the very back of the densely packed plaza. Fortunately all eyes were forwards, on the Palace of the Governors. I climbed to the top of the stone steps so I could see over the crowd and waited for my cue.

It was twelve days since the massacre at Dry Gulch had rocked Santa Fe back on its haunches. And ten days since Captain Uriah Bull and his men had left Santa Fe, bellowing for Coyote Jack's head. But earlier today, Captain Bull's forward scout had brought bad news. Now, the whole population of Santa Fe, several thousand strong, had turned out to witness the Americano soldiers return from their failed mission.

And — from the shouted complaints — demand an explanation.

The seething crowd gathered before the long, deep porch in front of the Palace of the Governors was fried to a crisp from hours of waiting in the blistering sun. The faces were overwhelmingly Hispanic, from richly dressed landowners surrounded by their spur-clad vaqueros to poor farmers standing with their families huddled at their side, brought into town for safety.

Under the shady porch packed in like sardines stood all the Anglos.

Well-dressed American ranchers, supported by their well-armed, grizzled cowboys, flanked the new governor of New Mexico to the left and right. In the very middle stood Governor Carvil Gortner, his face bloated with a defensive impotence. Clustered around Gortner was a handful of suit-clad, middle-aged Anglos who berated him, their body language urging swift and stern action.

Governor Gortner was a morbidly obese man of below average height with such a short neck that his bullet head appeared to sit directly on his well-padded shoulders. Instead of a gun he wore a huge black leather bullwhip. He stroked the handle angrily with short pudgy fingers, as though itching to use it. Gortner was known to lash out with it at the slightest provocation and the rumour was that he'd personally horsewhipped one of his enemies into an early grave.

Carvil Gortner would die of a stroke in three years' time, after being arrested for corruption and removed as governor of New Mexico. The details of his scandalous case were murky, mainly unproven allegations as he would die on the way to the courthouse in an indignant rage … which, of course, put an end to the investigation.

It seemed everyone wanted to keep his skeletons buried.

I'd gathered what details I could in what time I'd had, but I knew better than to ever completely trust the history books. The winners write them and even authentic historic documents can lead you up the garden path.

A huge block of a man with winter-sky-grey eyes, greying butter-yellow hair and the shoulders of an ox leant down to whisper in the governor's much lower ear. From their shared expression they were talking tactics. I didn't recognise the big man, but then my sources for this time were incomplete. The Wild West hadn't been that big on paperwork. My sources had been excellent on some topics; scarce or non-existent on others.

There were enough serious gaps to keep me sweating, heat or not. This mission was going to take
some major guesswork and a whole barrelful of good timing. That or just sheer good luck.

Governor Gortner listened to his huge ox of an adviser intently. He looked like a mouse being given the address of the nearest cheese shop by the local tomcat.

There was the sound of galloping hooves …

Raising a fresh plume of dust, a boy on a paint pony raced up to the very edge of the crowd and flung himself off, shrieking, ‘They're here! They're here!'

The crowd groaned, as though in anguish that now the bad news would finally be confirmed, and turned to search the street from whence the boy had raced.

They fell silent as the US cavalry came into sight, their blue uniforms a dusty grey-brown. The Stars and Stripes at the front was drooping in the still air. There were more than one hundred and fifty horsemen, all armed with rifles. They filed down the street towards the silent plaza in two reluctant, wobbly lines.

Captain Uriah Bull, a career soldier, led his company sitting his fine bay horse with unyielding military rigour. Bull had fought with great valour in the Civil War and when that finished had unquestioningly followed his commander, General William Teucumseh Sherman, into the campaign to tame the Wild West. He would bitterly regret that decision for the rest of his life and retire, his honourable record besmirched, after being named in the corruption charges laid against Governor Gortner.

Behind Captain Bull's inflexible figure trailed his demoralised men on their exhausted horses. The men scanned the silent crowd with a humiliated defensiveness.

I checked the end of the long line. Yep, Bull must've sent his Native American scouts straight back to Fort
Marcy at the northern edge of town. He was right: wearing a US uniform or not, those scouts wouldn't have been safe here.

Bull eyed the silent crowd with ill-concealed disdain tinged with anger. He wasn't used to failure … well, not yet anyway. He pulled his horse to a halt in front of the governor, but didn't dismount, probably unwilling to give up the height advantage.

That or he was worried he may need a fast exit.

Prompted by his hulking adviser, Governor Gortner marched out into the sun so the whole crowd could see him, and struck a stern pose. ‘Well, Captain, what do you have to say for yourself?'

Bull narrowed his eyes, furious that the governor was ready to make the bitter situation even more difficult. ‘We picked up Coyote Jack's trail as expected, in hostile territory west of here. But the trail dropped out.' The captain looked around, daring anyone to comment. ‘The scouts believe he set a false trail, then doubled back and is now heading —'

One of the wealthy Hispanic landowners, his posture more in keeping with a Spanish grandee and his elegant clothes and beautifully trimmed sombrero proclaiming his aristocratic bloodline, stalked forwards. ‘You mean, Captain Bull, you have spent the past ten days following a false trail and now, on the word of one of your …' he paused meaningfully, ‘Indian scouts … will now follow another one?' His voice had risen to a shout on the last few words.

Behind him the crowd roiled in fury, muttering threats.

The Hispanic gentleman turned his back on the governor and Captain Bull to appeal to the Hispanic gathering. ‘We kept this land safe before
the Americanos came and they cannot even find one small band of half-breed troublemakers!'

He swung back to shake a threatening fist at the governor. ‘I am warning you that if you let Coyote Jack and his renegades stay free and unpunished, this country will light up like a brush fire in the heart of summer. We are surrounded by hostile tribes who become more daring with each of your government's failures … and there have been many. To let Coyote Jack run free after murdering the governor, the very leader of this New Mexico, would be seen as a catastrophic sign of weakness.'

The overwhelmingly Hispanic crowd muttered menacingly, pressing closer to the porch where the governor stood.

He moved back a pace, then passed the buck like a professional. ‘Captain Bull, how can you answer Signor Montoya's —'

‘Everything is under control!' Bull spat back. ‘We found proof that Coyote Jack is heading south into Mexico.' Captain Bull glowered down at the squat governor and the aristocratic Montoya with equally stern distaste, a soldier completely disgusted by the civilians he had sworn to defend. ‘We will —'

‘I
told
you that was where he would run before you left!' riposted Montoya, the picture of an enraged grandee. ‘Coyote Jack heads south regularly. If you'd listened to me you could've ambushed his band before they reached the Mexican border.'

Bull decided it was better to ignore that. ‘Signor, we have just returned to pick up more supplies and will go south as soon as possible.' He glared at Montoya. ‘I give my word we will bring back his dead body.'

‘You mustn't fail us, Captain,' ordered the governor, making it as clear as possible who was
falling down in their duty here. ‘This troublemaker must be dealt with!'

The frantic crowd began shouting at the governor. That many had tried to catch Coyote Jack in the past … about the speed with which he was known to travel … that he could lead you one way and turn up the other.

The soldiers slumped on their tired, dusty horses behind their beleaguered captain. Their faces reflected the same disbelief as the crowd. Even they didn't believe they would catch Coyote Jack.

Signor Montoya echoed the mood of the crowd. ‘This Coyote Jack is the tinderbox that will ignite this whole territory. You must catch him!'

Bull replied through gritted teeth, ‘Oh, I understand very well and I won't stop until I reach Mexico City itself if necessary!'

Montoya scowled at the thought of an Americano army in Mexican territory but kept silent.

That was my cue.

I descended the stone stairs to enter the brooding silence. I shoved my way through the crowd at first, then as the frightened whispers spread ahead of me, the sea of hot, sweaty flesh parted. The men arguing near the porch saw the commotion and glared angrily. Then their expressions changed to confusion when they noticed my telltale red braids and black top hat.

John Eriksen was renowned as a loose cannon, a force to be reckoned with. Both Governor Gortner and Captain Bull had enough distress painted across their faces to show they realised I could destabilise this angry crowd even further. They silently exchanged the same question: what the hell was I doing here?

The crowd backed away from the porch. The cowboys still on it fingered their pistols then
remembered in time to drop their hands inoffensively down and away.

I planted my boots between the governor and the captain. I knew how these two men would die. I knew how they thought … and I knew enough to gamble on what they'd do when shoved to the point of confrontation.

I spoke to the captain first. ‘You didn't follow Coyote Jack to the west at all. You went south first but couldn't find the trail that Montoya told you about.'

Captain Bull went a sickly white under his sunburn. He couldn't deny it.

Then I targeted the governor. ‘You ordered Bull to go no further than the Mexican border then turn back. You were instructed to do so by the US Attorney General.'

The governor scanned the wealthy Anglos at his back; they rippled with anger, furious at my words. He sought to speak but didn't know what to say.

Montoya shouted at Captain Bull, ‘Is this true — you couldn't even find Coyote Jack's trail?'

The governor shot me a fearful look then snapped, ‘Captain Bull, in my office now!'

After a white-faced glare at me, Bull ordered his men back to Fort Marcy, dismounted and followed the governor inside.

Signor Montoya gave me a cautious glance, then signalled the vaqueros behind him to move closer. They came reluctantly. ‘You're John Eriksen, aren't you?' he asked.

I nodded.

The crowd listened to our every word.

‘There's going to be war, Mr Eriksen. Very soon. Is that why you're here?'

‘No, I'm just passing through on business.' Over his shoulder I watched the Palace of the Governors, zeroing in on the doorway that Gortner and Bull had just entered.

‘Are you for hire?' he asked, eager.

‘Sir …' An Americano stepped up to me, respectful and cautious. ‘Mr Eriksen, the governor would like to speak to you.'

Bingo. I was in.

Governor Gortner and Captain Bull were supposed to know far more about the Dry Gulch massacre than anyone other than the killers. Details that they'd taken to their graves.

Details that I really wanted to know.

Inside the Palace of the Governors was a daggy mix of dark Imperial Spanish overlaid with a few American decorating touches here and there. Heavy dark wood architraves framed new and startlingly bright plaid wallpaper. You could still smell the glue. An outsized but slightly faded US flag partially hid the one wall that hadn't had a makeover yet. From the lighter squares on either side of the flag, that was the wall where the Spanish and Mexican portraits of past governors had once hung.

I studied the new plaid wallpaper; Gortner had been governor for less than two weeks and he'd already launched into redecorating.

The heavy oak door at the far end of the corridor vibrated; angry voices roared out. After what'd happened outside, I could well imagine that the governor and the captain were tossing recriminations backwards and forwards like a football full of
dynamite. The governor's assistant glanced at me sheepishly as we walked down the corridor, deafened by the echoing threats.

‘Don't try and shift the blame onto me, Gortner!' barked Captain Bull. ‘I warned you just like I warned Governor Magurty! And you swore — you solemnly promised me — you'd push Washington to do the right thing! I just can't do what I have to with the few troops and the inadequate supplies that are here.'

‘Oh, don't talk to me about your precious army, Captain! You sons-of-bitches deserted us during your war. Just left New Mexico, with less than a handful of manned forts to defend us against the Injuns you'd riled up before you rode out.'

The assistant knocked at the door, but too softly to be heard over the yelling.

‘It was civil war, for Christ's sake, Gortner. Why weren't you and your rich friends in uniform fighting for the Union, instead of sitting on your fat arses making a fortune from selling the army your beef?'

During the 1861–65 Civil War, the northern states had pulled out soldiers from every frontier fort they possibly could in order to win. And that had been the start of a whole new wave of conflict.

‘Don't talk high and mighty to me, Captain. We lost our best Indian fighters in your war. If Kit Carson was still alive we wouldn't be in this mess. We need some real men here. Home-grown fighters who aren't afraid to get their hands good and dirty. Not like your lily-livered army —'

A hammer-hard fist hit a wooden surface with a boom. ‘Don't try and shift the blame to me and my men, Gortner. You worked for years behind Magurty's back to take his job away from him. Now you've got it.
You're Governor, so do your job! Go to Washington and demand more men. I told Magurty and I'm telling you that we have to have reinforcements!'

‘I can't perform miracles, Captain,' growled the governor. ‘You know as well as I do that the government is still bankrupt after paying for the War. No, siree, it's up to you boys in uniform. You have to start doing your job and showing you've got some backbone in those fancy uniforms!'

‘You mangy son-of-a-bitch! You swore to me over Magurty's rotting corpse you'd get me more men … You swore that —'

‘Shut up! I already told you that Hector Kershaw's family is the solution to both our problems. They have enough influence in Washington to get whatever we want done —'

The governor's assistant decided it was high time we interrupted. He banged once before just swinging open the door and strategically retreating. The captain and Gortner were standing there, snarling at each other over the governor's fancy new desk like junkyard dogs over a juicy bone.

They shut up as soon as I entered.

‘Ah, Mr Eriksen, I believe,' said the governor with a careful smile.

I nodded once.

‘Please sit down.' The governor motioned me to a chair. He sat down behind his big desk and grinned maliciously at the captain. ‘It's always good to meet a man of your calibre and … backbone.'

Captain Bull sat too, his back rigid with frustration and arms folded across his chest. ‘What are
you
doing here?' he demanded.

‘I'm just passing through; I'm on my way to Mexico.'

The real Eriksen was already down there, lured by a massive bounty offered by the Mexican government for the apprehension of their Public Enemy No. 1, some bandito called El Chacal. In English — The Jackal. He'd just added insult to a long line of infamy by plundering a town called Juarez, just south of the border, and then burning it to the ground. The Mexican government had tripled their reward for his capture to nearly US$200,000. It was the largest single reward ever offered in this century. Every bounty hunter in the United States was down there now, on the trail of this El Chacal.

Bull tried again. ‘How did you know I tracked Coyote Jack south?'

‘I know a lot of things … I make it my business to.'

Captain Bull was getting worked up. It irked him to have to treat anyone, and particularly someone on the shadier side of the law, with kid gloves. ‘I want a straight answer —'

‘Mr Eriksen,' interrupted the governor. ‘I want to hire you … We can make it worth your while. We have rich men willing to contribute.'

‘Hire me to do what, exactly?'

The governor took that as encouragement. ‘To find Coyote Jack. You obviously know that he and his band savagely slaughtered Governor Magurty. We need all the help we can get to bring the renegades that did this to justice as soon as possible.'

‘This is not the way, Governor!' blustered Captain Bull. ‘Do it right! Get me reinforcements, more guns, more supplies …'

The governor ignored him. ‘Coyote Jack leads a band of the worst half-breeds and malcontents that crawled out from under every rock in this territory. If
there's trouble Coyote Jack usually started it. Even the other savages stay clear of him —'

I cut in. ‘Give me details.'

Gortner blinked at my rudeness but still answered. ‘Governor Magurty and six of his people were on the way to his ranch, The Flying D. It's about a day's ride north of here. They were ambushed at a bend in the trail, a place called Dry Gulch.'

The governor's face curdled at the thought. ‘I've never seen anything like what that savage did to those poor people.' He stole a look over at the cavalry officer. The captain's face was carefully blank but, war-hardened as he was, you could tell he didn't relish the memory. ‘You tell him, Captain. Tell him what you found there at Dry Gulch.'

The captain eyed me wearily but complied. ‘We came around the bend and found the empty coach next to the dry riverbed. There was blood everywhere. Even the horses had been …' he swallowed, ‘destroyed. There were six bodies. Six whites, all dead, including a woman and two children, a boy and a girl. Or what was left of them.' His furious expression said it all.

‘The woman was Lucretia Magurty,' added Gortner, ‘the governor's wife. The children were Millicent and Harland, their two children. Millicent was five and Harland was three.' He paused as though unwilling to go on. ‘They'd all been scalped. The males were castrated and the two females —' He stopped. ‘It was Injuns all right, no doubt of that. But the three men must've put up a hell of a fight … their attackers' feathers were scattered all over the —'

I cut in again. ‘How do you know it was Coyote Jack?'

‘Oh, he wanted us to know who did it all right!' growled the captain.

‘He certainly did!' added the governor. ‘That dirty half-breed carved a C for Coyote on the sole of every victim's foot. He branded the governor and his family like they was cattle.'

C for Coyote?

I stared at them, stunned. That last detail had never been made public. And River had certainly never mentioned it. ‘But why do you think Coyote Jack killed the governor?'

‘To stir up more trouble, to incite the tribes to overrun us,' replied Gortner with complete certainty.

‘But you just said even the local tribes steer clear of him?'

‘That's because that Coyote Jack's always stirring up all the young ones, all the troublemakers,' said Captain Bull impatiently. ‘He sits out there in the desert cooking up new ways to hypnotise people into doing what he wants. And what he wants is war. A war that will wipe out all the whites.'

Half to himself, Bull said, ‘As horrible as this was, at least we're going to finally get rid of this troublemaker for once and for all.' The thought cheered him up.

I eyed the army captain cynically. For a man who'd had to retrieve six mutilated bodies from a massacre site, the captain seemed to be looking on the bright side.

‘You said there were seven people,' I stated, ‘but only mentioned six bodies.'

The governor and the captain exchanged a cynical glance.

‘There was one survivor — Hector Quale Kershaw.' The captain gave the name a mocking tone.

‘And how exactly did he escape Coyote Jack?'

The governor smothered a smirk. ‘Hector Kershaw was riding his own horse, so he —'

‘Kershaw escaped,' spat the captain, ‘because he has a yellow streak a mile wide running down his back. No matter what the snivelling fool claims, he must've run at the first sign of trouble and didn't stop. Kershaw killed his own horse trying to escape and almost killed himself too. He only survived because one of Magurty's ranch-hands found him on the side of the road. He just sat there dying of thirst next to his dead horse.' The captain cursed. ‘Why do these greenhorn Easterners bother to come out here? They only cause us trouble.'

The governor objected. ‘That's not fair. How could Hector have saved them?'

‘By not running like the yellow-bellied coward that he is!' spat the captain.

‘That's not what Hector says happened,' replied the governor.

The captain scoffed. ‘He's a damned liar.'

‘Now, now, Captain Bull,' abjured the governor. ‘The Kershaw family has a proud reputation —'

‘You mean Hector's elder brother, Lysander Kershaw, had a proud reputation. The rest of the family are all white-faced, city-bred Boston bankers.'

‘Yes, siree,' mused the governor. ‘Pity they didn't send Lysander Kershaw out here instead. From all accounts he was just the kind of soldier New Mexico needs. A real Injun fighter.'

‘Well, he's dead,' replied Bull curtly, stung by the comparison being made. ‘Killed in the line of duty.'

‘So I heard,' muttered the governor. ‘Well, maybe the wrong brother died …' He smirked. ‘Still, their remaining son's life must be worth something to the Kershaw elders. With a little careful work this horrible incident could turn into a real boon for New Mexico. That family has a lot of power in political
circles and now a real reason to help us get revenge on the savages that threatened their only remaining son.'

The two of them pondered that particular happy thought for a blissful moment.

Hmm … So Dry Gulch had given them both their own little silver lining.

‘Where's Hector Kershaw now? I want to talk to him about what happened,' I demanded.

The governor's face lit up. ‘So you'll do it.'

‘I want to talk to Kershaw first,' I insisted.

Captain Bull curled his narrow lip. ‘Kershaw's probably over at the Hen's Coop Saloon, drinking himself into a stupor and retelling his version of the story.'