Coyote (12 page)

Blix and his posse froze. All around me they slipped their hands down to cover the pistols hanging at their sides.

Bloody hell! I wasn't going to be any part of the Big Swede's karma. No one — and nothing — was getting in my way in this mission.

Wayland marched to our table and stood over the Big Swede. ‘You've been trying to stab my father in the back for years,' he blasted.

Magurty Junior hadn't spotted me yet, on the other side of his target. I had to fight the instinct to turn away. Wayland's breath stank of too much bad booze and rotting teeth.

Sigvard Blix didn't say a word, just kept his broad face neutral and his hand on his gun.

Wayland stuck one wobbly finger in the Big Swede's meaty shoulder and pushed. ‘My father always said you were as crooked as a dog's hind leg, Blix.'

I perused the pair with disgust. If I didn't do something soon I was going to be in the middle of a shoot-out. Wayland was sloppy drunk — which made him dangerous. Any fool with too much liquor in him and a gun strapped to his side thought he was immortal. They don't call liquor ‘false courage' for nothing. And he was too drunk not to miss Blix and hit someone else.

I shoved my chair back and stood. I put my meanest expression on — the one where I imagine some fool's just kicked my dog, Spud.

Wayland's jaw dropped as his bleary eyes focused on my red braids and top hat.

I grabbed his shirtfront, hauling him up on his toes and towards me. ‘Get out of my sight!' I blasted down into his now dead-white face.

He yelped like a kicked dog. That'd sobered him.

I dropped him back, releasing his shirt.

Wayland waited just long enough to scan around the saloon, to check whether anyone had witnessed his humiliation. But everyone kept their head down. He raced back to the bar, swiped a nearly full bottle of whiskey off the counter and ran out … leaving the saloon door swinging and squealing like a rat in a trap.

The piano player shot back into his rightful place in the middle of the keyboard and celebrated his escape from a close call by launching into a jaunty tune. The blowsy singer gave me a grateful gap-toothed leer, promising far more than I could ever want, and cranked herself up into another excruciating rendition.

I sat back down at the silent table. The boys looked like they wanted to start a fan club.

‘Well done, Mr Eriksen,' boomed the Big Swede. ‘Yep, you're der right man to get rid of that pesky Coyote Jack.' He poured himself another whiskey and threw it back. ‘That maudlin fool was Wayland Magurty, der dead governor's eldest son. There's nothing under his hat but hair.'

‘What was he talking about?' I had a good idea, but wanted to hear Blix's version.

The Big Swede exchanged a cynical look with the rest of the table. ‘Noah Magurty wasn't liked around here. He thought der Injuns should be left to their savage ways, that they had a right to this land too.'

I studied his broad, smug face, deeply engrained around the mouth and eyes with harsh lines full of malice and greed. Wayland Magurty was absolutely right. Blix and his sideshow-alley chorus of nodding clowns would've done away with Governor Magurty in an instant … if they'd had a way to hide the crime.

‘But I don't know why Wayland is carrying on like der little girl,' said Blix, sarcasm dripping off every word. ‘If anyone benefits from having Governor Magurty out of der way, it's Wayland.' He chuckled. ‘Maybe he feels guilty?'

The whole table chuckled at the thought.

‘Yeah,' chipped in the impetuous grey-haired rancher, glad of the opportunity to stoke the conversational fire. ‘Lucretia was Noah Magurty's second wife and Wayland hated his stepmother —'

‘Some stepmomma!' snorted Blix. ‘She was five years younger than Wayland … Noah Magurty married der pretty little Lucretia a month after Wayland's own goot momma was lowered in her cold grave …'

He gave another snort and eyed the saloon doors that Wayland had left swinging. ‘Wayland ran off, swearing he'd never come back.' The Big Swede took a careful sip of his whiskey. ‘But he came back all right. Guess he couldn't pass up his inheritance. The Magurty's Flying D is a goot piece of land.' He laughed. ‘Now Wayland don't have to share der Flying D with no younger stepbrother …' He nodded to himself. ‘Yep, he's come out of this very goot indeed.'

The table sniggered, as though that kind of rationale was obvious to any reasonable man. I eyed them, thinking I wouldn't want to turn my back on this pack of hyenas any time soon.

The saloon doors squeaked open again.

Like everyone else, I checked the doorway.

Three fine-looking caballeros clinked their spur-clad way into the Hen's Coop Saloon. The Hispanics looked familiar. Then I remembered I'd seen them standing around Signor Montoya outside the Palace of the Governors while he berated Captain Bull … like they were his backup. The three wore expensively tailored riding suits embellished with embroidered strips at the neck and shoulders, matching hats and gleaming Cuban-heeled boots. These weren't your average vaqueros, they had to be hidalgos — the cream of the local Hispanic landed gentry.

And there was too much resemblance in their stern faces for them not to be brothers … cousins at the very least.

Whoever they were, they were looking for trouble. The three caballeros spread out to pose in front of the doorway, as though to say, ‘No one leaves without getting past us first.' They scanned the converted nuns' chapel with open disgust.

The air in the room dropped at least ten degrees. I could swear I saw puffs of mist blow out of the mouths of the cowboys at the table closest to the door. The singer broke off halfway through a long note, as though someone had stuck her with a fork.

From the way the three had positioned themselves to control the room I got the feeling they were the real deal. Wayland Magurty had been an out-of-control drunkard, but these boys looked like they'd be serious contenders in a real fight.

The cowboys at the table nearest the door had the same impression. They slowly and carefully rose, keeping their hands away from their guns, and backed to the rear of the room.

The singer and her accompanist both hid behind the old piano.

Yep, these three were definitely trouble.

The caballeros scanned the old nuns' chapel with angry repugnance. The youngest one pointed an accusing finger and the three brothers zoomed in on the broken stained-glass window — at the recently decapitated Saint Custodia. Their three faces lit up with righteous fury, as though someone had struck a match at a gas leak.

The eldest one, sporting a carefully manicured goatee, eyed the room full of wealthy Anglos with loathing. These pagan Americanos had disgraced their venerated old convent. The youngest one sauntered over to the bar, his polished spurs clinking, and demanded three whiskeys.

Blix, keeping his face carefully turned to the front, whispered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Damned Mexs … they know they're not welcome in here.'

‘Who are they?' I whispered back.

‘That's der Montoya brothers. They think they still own this town. Der one with der wispy hair on his chin is Diego … he and der middle brother, Jose, are hot-blooded but not as stupid as most.' Using one hand, carefully hidden from general view, he pointed at the youngest Montoya waiting impatiently for the bartender to attend to his command. ‘But it's der other one — Fidel — that you have to watch.'

Fidel?

I grimaced. Why did I have to watch anyone at all? Bloody hell, now Blix expected me to clean up this mess too.

If I knew where Hector was I'd just leave!

I eyed Fidel Montoya with simmering resentment. He was tall and dark with a slim, muscular body, no
doubt honed from years in the saddle. His hands were strong too, with long tapering fingers.

Actually he was kinda sexy …

‘Stop that!' I told myself.

Blix shot me a worried glance. I must've said it out loud. Damn!

Fidel's gaze kept flickering from the decapitated saint to the bartender pouring his drinks and back again to the hole in the stained-glass window as though he was stoking himself up for something.

I frowned — just why were the damned whiskeys so important?

The bartender finished pouring. Fidel snatched up the three drinks, rejoined his two brothers at the front of the saloon and distributed the whiskeys.

They faced us together.

The eldest brother, Diego, shot an arrogant glance around the room full of Anglos. ‘The Montoya family has lived in Nuevo Mexico for generations. We claimed this wilderness for God. But when your heathen army invaded our country, we, like men of honour … we Montoyas resisted your invasion —'

‘We are men of honour!' spat Fidel, unable to let his brother finish. ‘Unlike you!'

Diego continued. ‘Santa Fe was soon lost to us but in Taos, our grandfather raised a mighty rebellion.' He curled his lip. ‘It failed — but your Americano governor murdered him for his valour! Hanged him from a gallows like a common criminal!'

Diego looked at his two brothers and together they raised their full glasses to the silent room. ‘But now at last we have our revenge. Now our grandfather's murderer, Noah Magurty, is dead.'

They downed their whiskeys in one gulp.

‘To the end of the Magurty bloodline!' shouted
Fidel, smashing his empty glass into the wooden floor with a fury that spoke of generations of hate.

The saloon doors squeaked open.

Wayland Magurty staggered back in, an empty whiskey bottle in one limp hand.

 

The Montoya brothers drew themselves up like snakes getting ready to strike.

‘What are you three doin' in here?' spat Wayland, eyeing the enraged Hispanics through bleary red eyes.

All around the room hands slid guns out of holsters. Mine included.

Fidel stomped forwards, his spurs jangling, as though to strike him. ‘We're celebrating that your father has finally gone to hell!'

Wayland's face went from a drunken flush to beetroot with rage. He drew his weapon, staggering to one side from the too swift motion.

The singer who'd been peeking over the top of the piano screamed and dived for cover.

Wayland fired his wavering pistol, toppling over from the kickback.

I shoved our heavy wooden table on its side for cover, scattering the whiskey glasses and playing cards every which way. Blix and Tiny got behind it before I could grab a space. I settled for crouching behind Tiny. I figured he was more solid protection than the table.

Jose Montoya dropped to the floor, clutching a blood-red hole in his shoulder. Diego and Fidel drew their guns as Wayland crawled behind our table.

Someone from behind me shot at Diego, catching him in the side. He spun around then dropped.

Suddenly everyone was shooting all at once. Bullets whizzed past. Ricochets twanged menacingly around the room.

Fidel Montoya dived behind the bar and started shooting at our table, trying to hit Wayland.

Splinters flew off it in every direction.

I brooded behind the cover of Tiny. The idiots behind me couldn't shoot to save themselves … that or they were taking the opportunity to have a pot shot at Blix and his posse too.

A bullet from behind me zapped past my head and blew a hole out of the table the size of a silver dollar.

Stuff this! If I was going to get out of here uninjured, I had to bring this shoot-out to a halt.

I cocked my modified pistol and stood.

The poker table was pretty shredded, so Wayland Magurty took cover behind me.

Fidel Montoya recognised me, his eyes wide, but shot anyway. He missed Wayland …

And got me.

I groaned at the pain. It felt like I'd been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. The shot sent me stumbling backwards and down onto one knee.

Dead silence. All shooting ceased.

I sucked in a breath. My chest burnt with the effort. I clutched it with one hand.

I looked down … and removed my hand.

There was a hole in the middle of my black shirt.

Wayland, now crouching on the floor, looked up at me in horror. ‘Sorry, Mr Eriksen,' he slurred.

I got to my feet. Wayland was so surprised his eyes bugged out.

As I rose up, the shocked murmurs started.

Fidel Montoya froze in horror. But he'd just shot me through the heart? What was I? His pistol hung from his now limp hand.

Using my modified handgun, I took aim at Fidel. His mouth formed a perfect O.

I shifted my aim … just slightly up. Then pulled the trigger, standing ready for the massive recoil.

BOOM.

In such close quarters, the sound brought everyone's heads down and their hands up to cover their ears.

It was like a cannon had gone off.

The adobe wall above Fidel Montoya's head exploded into earthy shrapnel.

He ducked, terrified.

Everyone, including Montoya, stared up at the wall. It now held a hole the size of a bucket.

I glared around the room. ‘Now, if any of you sons-of-bitches decide to start shooting anywhere near me again, I'm going to put my next bullet right between your eyes!'

The room sucked in a collective gasp.

I swung my pistol around my finger twice and shoved it back in my holster with a click.

Reaching into my ruined black shirt, I dug around in the bullet hole over my heart for a painful moment, then pulled out Montoya's dented slug …

At that, Wayland freaked out entirely and started crawling away from me on his hands and knees. Blix and Tiny had their mouths so wide open I could see their tonsils.

I patted my chest … and the new bulletproof vest Domenico Torres had made for me. Well, at least now I knew it worked.

I tossed the buckled bullet onto the dirty floor and stalked out.