Coyote (13 page)

I was about to march back to the Palace of the Governors to find out where else they thought Hector Kershaw could possibly be found, when on a hunch I decided to check the Little Sisters Hotel register. The gunfire had scared off the hotel clerk, so I just opened his book and went through it. Yep, there it was — Hector's moniker printed next to Room 205.

I knocked on his door and waited. Nothing. I put my ear to the door. Again nothing. I cursed. Where was he? But this could be a good opportunity. Hector's diary may be just behind that door.

I picked the lock.

There was a single bed, made with perfect hospital corners, clothes neatly hanging on hooks on the wall and a chest of drawers with a mirror and a jug of water sitting in a basin on top. Hector's room was neat, obsessively so, even if the room was a converted nun's cell. Every tiny thing was in perfect place.

On the chest of drawers Hector's two silver-handled hairbrushes were placed in an exact line, parallel
to the front of the mirror. They could've been used in a geometry class. From the wall-hooks hung two pristine white shirts, two newish banker's three-piece suits, both city-smoke-grey, of course, and a spotless short-brimmed city-dweller's grey hat. No need to worry about the sun when you spend your life inside.

The chest of drawers just held more city clothes. Why hadn't Hector been smart enough to at least bring something he could ride in?

Then I saw the two pairs of riding boots that stood at attention next to the chest of drawers. They looked a lot older than the clothes, more heavily used, but they shone with a generous coat of polish. Well, they were a start at least.

I could almost see the prissy banker's kid in my mind's eye. What the hell had Hector experienced over the past few weeks? Except for his boots, his clothes looked like they must've wanted to turn tail and head back east by themselves.

I went through the two leather suitcases standing at attention in the corner. The first one was pretty much empty except for a hand-tinted photograph in an engraved silver frame. The engraving said ‘My darling Hector, Mama will always watch over you'.

I scanned the photo with interest. It sure explained a lot.

Mama Kershaw was a beady-eyed martinet with a Hitler moustache and a high-necked, corseted dress that squashed her squarish figure into a shape that resembled a hand weight. No wonder she looked cranky … She sat enthroned in front of her standing, fish-faced husband, with her two young sons on either side of her, their backs as straight as steel girders. The two young boys both had their father's fair hair and blue eyes — but that's where the resemblances ended.

The smaller one had to be Hector, the other his elder brother, Lysander.

The Kershaw brothers looked alike but their expressions were a galaxy apart. Lysander challenged the camera, his young chin thrust forwards as though daring it to blink. Captain Bull said he was the family hero … well, he certainly looked ready to kill someone. Hector had a more boyish, dreamer's face, as though he'd rather be anywhere than in the same room as his closest genetic matches. Mama's protective claw held his little wrist too firmly, wrinkling the soft young skin. It could've been interpreted as a sign of affection but it looked more like a bony handcuff.

The next leather suitcase was full of papers all about the Kershaw investments in New Mexico, but there was no diary.

Then I found the second photograph.

From the remaining shards still wedged in the silver frame it was clear the glass had been smashed and discarded, and the picture was so mutilated with black ink scrawls that it was hard to tell who was actually in the photo.

Whoever it was, they now looked like a gruesome monster with fangs and snakes for hair. They were stabbed through with multiple daggers, knives and a sabre through the heart.

Their throat was cut with blood gushing out.

I looked closer … That was a picture of Mama Kershaw. So family relations in the Kershaw brood were not so fine and dandy?

The Kershaws may be a very strange bunch, but that wasn't why I was here. I put the picture back in, locked the suitcase and placed it next to the other one in the corner. Anyone as fussy as Hector would notice if they were a fraction out of place.

I stared around the room in frustration. If Hector kept a diary then he must carry it with him.

I heard voices in the corridor. Then a timid knock that went on a little too long to actually be polite. I got behind the door.

Someone swore, long and hard. The polite knock was replaced by heavy banging. A familiar voice shouted, ‘Mr Kershaw, are you in there? The governor wants to talk to you, sir.'

I gave a sigh of relief. It was Carvil Gortner's personal aide, the one I'd met at the Palace of the Governors.

A deeper voice said, ‘I already told you, Hearn, he's gone.'

‘Blast that idiot. What am I gonna tell the governor? He'll pitch a right fit!'

‘You gotta tell him exactly what I just told you.'

Hearn replied with a string of inventive expletives. ‘Now the kid has to grow hair on his balls? A bit late, isn't it? And what good is a greenhorn like that gonna do by himself? Damn … there's another rescue party in the making.' He roundly cursed again.

I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. Where exactly had Hector bloody Kershaw gone?

‘No, no, Hearn, I heard the kid took that old fleabag Injun scout, Ernesto, with him. You know the one that used to work at Fort Marcy before —'

‘You mean the one that Captain Bull kicked out for drinking too much firewater on duty?' replied Hearn in disbelief. ‘Lotta good that mangy old Injun's gonna be, going after a sneaky varmint like Coyote Jack.'

I felt my jaw drop. Hector Kershaw had gone after Coyote Jack?

I looked straight up at the ceiling. Someone
please
tell me this ain't so!

‘Not a bad idea I was thinkin', actually,' replied the other man. ‘That old scout reckoned he knew Coyote Jack when he was a young 'un. I reckon Captain Bull made a mistake getting rid of Ernesto. Drinking too much be damned. He knew a lot about this territory and its secrets.'

‘Maybe,' Hearn reluctantly conceded. ‘So where are they headed — south to the border?'

‘No, I heard north to Spruce Tree Mesa.'

‘Spruce Tree Mesa?' replied Hearn with contempt. ‘Oh, that's bullcrap. That place don't really exist — that's just an old Injun tale they tell to scare us whiteys out of their precious lands. Don't they say that mesa is supposed to be cursed? And that it sits in the middle of some kind of haunted canyon?' He chuckled. ‘I know what's goin' on. That sly old Ernesto is milking the greenhorn for his fortune, taking him on a wild-goose chase.' He sniggered.

I ground my teeth. Bloody Hector. What the hell have you gotten me into?

‘I'm not so sure about that, Hearn. I've heard too many tales about Spruce Tree Mesa for it to be just a story. I've also heard that's where Coyote Jack has one of his main camps. Anyways, if anyone knew where the mesa was, Ernesto would. Ernesto may be a drunkard but he doesn't lie —'

‘Well, so what if Spruce Tree Mesa really does exist?' scoffed Hearn. ‘Coyote Jack won't be there anyways — you know he always heads south when he's in trouble.'

‘Come on, Hearn, let's go! I gotta get back to Fort Marcy. So let's get a drink downstairs before we —'

‘Naw, you go. I'm gonna stay here … I want to think what I'm gonna tell the governor.'

Silence.

‘What are you saying, Hearn? I know you. If the governor catches you stealing from Hector Kershaw he'll kick you out on your fat, calloused hide. You know he wants to sweet talk that city fool.'

‘Oh, leave me alone!'

The other man muttered something unfriendly in reply, but his footsteps led away.

A key rattled in the door.

I felt in my vest pocket and quickly drew out the little wooden pipe Domenico Torres had fashioned for me with his own hands. It was only eight inches long, but at this range would do the trick nicely. I loaded it and waited.

Hearn crept into the room and immediately started rifling through the chest of drawers.

I eyed the two suitcases in the corner. Hearn would be sure to go through them. When he did there was no way he wouldn't see me behind the door.

I stuck my head out.

Hearn was still sifting through the clothes in the chest of drawers. Any second now he'd look up and see the suitcases.

I put the pipe to my lips and blew.

The little dart hit him in the back of the neck. He started to turn, groaned and clutched for the dart, then fell in a spiral to hit the floor with a resounding thud.

I very cautiously retrieved the wooden dart and stored it in its special container, then slipped it, together with the blowpipe, back into my vest pocket. The dart was tipped with a little something Domenico's youngest son had stolen for me from the hothouse of one of the local Hispanic aristocrats.

The man's highborn Spanish grandfather had spent most of his illustrious career as a proud military
commander in the New World empire. When he retired to Nuevo Mexico he brought a few bizarre trophies home with him … talking points that he used to relive his greatest adventures in the steamy jungles of Central America.

One such exotic trophy was a liana, an innocuous-looking jungle vine whose Latin name was Chondrodendron Tomentosum — also known as Pareira, Grieswurzel or, most commonly, Curare.

Yes, Curare was very useful indeed. Enough of it would kill a charging bull stone dead in its tracks … but the tiny amount I'd used would just put Hearn out for a little well-deserved afternoon nap.

I'd dump Hearn's body in the hallway. He could decide what'd happened for himself when he woke up.

‘Now what do I bloody do?' I muttered to myself.

I must've pulled on the reins because the well-bred, high-stepping gelding Domenico Torres had given me came to an obedient stop. I urged him forwards again. I was on my way back down the hill from Fort Marcy, after a worse than useless attempt to hire myself a Native American army scout.

If I had to catch up with Hector and Ernesto then I'd need all the help I could get. Especially since I had no idea where they were headed except that it was somewhere vaguely to the north. I couldn't find anyone who knew where Spruce Tree Mesa was … and I couldn't find anyone who'd even seen them leave town together. That meant I had no fixed place from which to start tracking them.

Blast them!

Most of Hector's drinking pals thought he was still in Santa Fe.

I pondered that. Exactly why were Hector and Ernesto sneaking out of town? I'd have thought
Hector would've shouted his heroic venture from the rooftops …

At Fort Marcy Captain Bull had taken a great deal of pleasure in telling me that he wouldn't even allow me to question his Indian scouts, let alone hire one. He was getting ready to take off after Coyote Jack again and had put all his scouts in the lock-up. He said it was to keep them safe from the vigilantes who were picking off every Indian, friendly or not, within raiding distance of Santa Fe.

And, he said with an icy smile, to protect his precious scouts from the likes of scoundrels like myself. After his humiliating meeting with the governor — the one that I'd witnessed — Captain Bull was keen to prove he was still the master of this territory.

So I had to try Plan B …

And I was hoping that it'd damn well work because Plan C was that I'd just damn well track them myself. Not an option I contemplated with a lot of pleasure. I had some skills from years in the Outback but this was an unfamiliar landscape. I wouldn't go it alone unless there was no other option.

I clattered into the Torres compound, dismounted, hitched the gelding to the railing and strode into the bustling workshop.

Domenico Torres, surrounded by all his beefy sons, was working, full speed ahead, on one of my very special projects. His back was straight, his eyes were clear … He was unburdened by his past and immersed in his favourite pastime — making advanced weaponry. Yeah, Domenico was having a ball.

He looked up as I entered. His face fell. ‘Ah, Signor Eriksen, I'm afraid I haven't finished off the —'

I shook my head. ‘I need to talk to you.'

Recognising my serious intent, he dropped what he was doing, ordered his sons to continue as planned and followed me up the stairs to his office.

‘What is it, signor?' To Domenico, I was now a puzzling cross between the Grim Reaper and the Good Fairy. He was determined to serve me in whatever capacity he could.

We sat.

‘Domenico, Hector Kershaw has left town.' I'd told him a little about my mission before — just what he needed to help me. ‘I don't know exactly when and I don't know where from … but he was heading north. I need to hire a tracker, someone who can help me catch up with him.'

Confusion moulded his craggy features. ‘Signor Kershaw has gone out by himself?'

‘No. He's hired his own guide, Ernesto. The one who used to be a scout at Fort Marcy.'

‘Ah, Ernesto …' Domenico knew the name. ‘Yes, yes, if he doesn't drink he is the best tracker in this territory.'

‘Okay,' I said firmly. ‘I need a guide to help me chase them. I tried to hire a scout from Fort Marcy but Captain Bull won't even let me near them. Who else can you suggest?'

Torres frowned. ‘It won't be that easy, I'm afraid. No white tracker will be able to find them.'

‘What? Why's that?'

‘Because Ernesto will cover their tracks. He will take the old Indian routes and use the old methods to hide their trail. He'll have to … because if any of the vigilantes see him they'll kill him on sight. It won't matter what Hector Kershaw says or does — he won't be able to protect Ernesto.'

‘Bloody hell!' I pulled my top hat off and hurled it with savage satisfaction at the floor. The damned thing itched my scalp. ‘Well … what about other native trackers? There must be someone I could hire to —'

‘No, signor. All the wild Indians, all the ones who would be able to help you, are hiding in the mountains. It would take weeks to find them and even then I don't think you could persuade them to go with you.'

I stared at the floor, trying to come up with another option.

‘May I ask where Hector Kershaw was headed?'

‘Spruce Tree Mesa. Have you heard of it?'

‘Yes, of course, signor. It is an old legend in these parts. And if that is where you want to go then I can say with great certainty that not one of the Indians would guide you there.'

‘Great!' I kicked my top hat into the far corner. ‘And why not?'

‘Because Spruce Tree Mesa is supposed to be cursed.'

‘Damn it to hell!' I was so frustrated I could've chewed through rope. But I couldn't just wait here twiddling my thumbs. I had to find a way to go after Hector and his damned diary.

Domenico studied me, wanting to help. ‘Then, signor, perhaps your only choice is to meet them at Spruce Tree Mesa.'

‘But I thought it was only a legend … Do you think it really exists?'

‘Ernesto may be a drunkard, signor, but he is not a liar. If he agreed to take Hector Kershaw there … then, yes, it does exist.'

‘Is that so?' I narrowed my eyes. ‘And just how do you suggest I find it?'

‘Signor, I believe there may be one man in Santa Fe who could know the location of Spruce Tree Mesa.'

‘Really.' I sat up. ‘Who?'

‘There is a Franciscan friar who has spent a lot of time with the tribes. He used to live out there in the desert with them. He's not popular in Santa Fe for it, but he may be able to help you.'

A Franciscan friar who was friendly with the local nations? That rang a pretty loud bell … Before I left I'd called River and asked him about the friar in old Santa Fe, the one who was Coyote Jack's friend. The one who'd written the letters about the diary. If Coyote Jack camped on Spruce Tree Mesa then surely the friar would know where it was.

‘Are you talking about Brother Buenaventura?'

Domenico nodded. ‘Yes.'

I rubbed my hands with glee. Maybe my luck had turned after all.

 

The St Francis of Assisi church dominated the eastern side of the central plaza, standing as an imposing reminder of the place of God in this town. It was adobe, big with stained-glass windows and sat in the middle of the only substantial green space in this hot, dusty town.

The church precinct was a grassy park with rolling attractive gardens shaded by tall trees. A lot of people would've had to put in a lot of work to keep this oasis going. I could hear a multitude of voices, sonorously chanting, as I climbed the church steps. Once across the threshold a heavy cloud of frankincense rose up. I coughed and waved it away from my face.

The church nave had the usual double row of pews in front of the main altar, but they were all empty. As I moved further in I could see the voices were coming from a smaller chapel off the main one on the far side.

The little chapel looked like the surviving remnant of a much older church, around which this newer one had been built. The roof was much lower and, unlike the main body of the church, had bare tree trunks running across the ceiling. There were even smoke stains running up one wall.

Why had no one whitewashed over them?

The chapel was crammed full of kneeling devotees, all Hispanics clad in their Sunday best, spilling out of the pews and into the nave; many were kneeling on the bare floor.

All faced forwards, watching the spectacle before them with fixed gazes.

A tonsured Franciscan priest, wearing a coarse brown robe with a cowl under a more formal white tunic, was solemnly conducting a Latin ritual. He was attended by two well-disciplined altar boys, who revolved around him like little moons, anticipating his every move. The priest finished his chant and, taking up the lit incense burner hanging on a heavy chain proffered by one of his little assistants, began to circle an intricately carved marble altar bearing the supine sculpture of a human figure.

The priest waved the incense burner in a pendulum motion as he paced. The incense wafted over the sculpture, onto the devoted flock and towards me.

I held back a violent sneeze as best I could.

At each slow step the priest uttered a short chant in Latin and the devotees echoed it with a convincing longing.

Whatever was going on here, they all took it deadly seriously. I hadn't programmed my translator for Latin, but it was clear they were entreating God for something.

As I moved closer I could see the supine sculpture
was of a soldier, an armour-clad Spanish soldier lying in state.

Wait a minute … That was real armour, not carved stone. Had they dressed a sculpture in real armour? How was that even possible?

The pale-faced soldier wore a crested morion helmet with pointed brim, front and back, and a complete suit of body armour including a full metal skirt that covered him from his waist to his thighs. There was a Toledo sword strapped to his side and his left gauntleted hand clutched a ragged old pennant that partially drooped over the side of the altar. It showed a strange kind of gold cross that emitted a golden light. His right hand held a lethal-looking cavalry lance. At his feet sat a small oval shield but the crest carved on it was smoke-scarred and difficult to decipher. There was a rough outline of an animal scratched into the shield, maybe a dog or a hound.

The indicator on my curiosity meter shot into the red zone. The soldier they were venerating was a conquistador …

The conquistadors were the ruthless assault troops Imperial Spain had used to invade vast tracts of North and South America — the same troops that laid waste to the powerful Aztec and Incan empires, who were no slouches at making war themselves.

But why on earth was this weird statue of a conquistador the object of such heartfelt veneration?

Then I got a better look at the haggard face …

This wasn't a stone sculpture at all; it was a mummified man, lean to the point of emaciation with high cheekbones like blades, a hawk's nose, a black pointed beard and eternally staring black eyes. He looked like he'd just passed his last breath.

But that was impossible. The suit of armour he was wearing was old. Very old. Even for 1867. It dated back centuries to the first Spanish conquests in the New World.

I knew that because it must've weighed at least sixty pounds. This conquistador would have scared the hell out of the natives as his armour made the wearer appear invincible. It was the kind of heavy armour the first conquistadors had used before they realised that the native people of the Americas didn't have armour-piercing cross bows or steel swords. The later conquistadors wore the much lighter chain mail.

But why on earth did Santa Fe have a centuries-old mummified conquistador on a church altar?

The priest finished his circumnavigation of the altar and, with the dead warrior before him, faced the devotee-filled pews once more. He waved the incense burner one last time over the mummified body, handed it to one of his miniature acolytes, then clasped his hands together in prayer position.

Speaking in Spanish the priest said, ‘Mighty Conquistador, we ask you to intercede once more for Santa Fe with your own liege lord, the Empress of Heaven.' He bowed his head. ‘May God protect us in our hour of need … Amen.'

‘Amen.' The devotees' reply resounded through the church.

Everyone bent their heads, crossed themselves and then rose. They silently filed up the aisle to kiss the oval shield lying at the conquistador's feet, the image of the hound scratched into it. Gradually the chapel emptied.

The priest and his altar boys retired to disrobe.

I let them go as I wanted a closer look at the conquistador.

Heavy footsteps behind me … The Big Swede's grating mix of Scandinavian and Western accents boomed out. Instinct made me duck behind a pillar.

What was a rabid anti-Hispanic redneck like Sigvard Blix doing in this so-very-Catholic church?