Coyote (21 page)

‘We found two new sets of tracks.' The man pointed at me. ‘The noisemaker came up the northern stairway. We found another set, a few hours old, using the eastern stairs. They were Apache. They went all around the city …' He looked a little frightened. ‘Including into this kiva.' The man looked over at the statue of the coyote. ‘He must've been the thief.'

Coyote Jack nodded and waved his man away.

Only one set of tracks? That meant Hector had never even made it onto this damned mesa …

What a bloody waste of time! Was Kershaw still dithering somewhere between here and Santa Fe, trying to work up the courage to go through with his idiot plan? Or was he just holed up somewhere and this was all just a big cynical ploy to look like he was doing something brave?

Yeah, I'll just bet Hector was camped somewhere safe between here and Santa Fe, waiting for the right time to return and make his entrance as the exhausted but frustrated warrior.

Damnation! I had to get out of here ASAP.

I eyed Coyote Jack; he was my ticket off this mesa.

‘Did you commit the Dry Gulch massacre?' I challenged. And prayed like hell he'd say ‘no'.

‘I am capable of many things …' He appraised me. ‘As are you. But I had no reason to do it. And nothing to gain.'

I felt a rush of déjà vu. This was almost the exact same conversation I'd had with River days ago. And now here it was again, but with someone who looked like the criminologist's wilder twin brother …

Coyote Jack was watching me think, an unblinking Cheshire cat's look in his strange eyes. He was enjoying this.

‘So,' I challenged him again. ‘Are you prepared to find out who really did it?'

‘Yes.' He nodded. ‘How do you suggest we solve this mystery?'

‘Are you game to do it alone? To leave your men here? Because if you do what I suggest you can't risk taking them with you.' I made it as challenging as possible. Was he a real man or not?

The only way I was going to get off this mesa was by taking this lunatic with me …

‘Of course.' Coyote Jack almost purred with curiosity. ‘I protect my people — not vice versa.'

I almost laughed. That ‘real man' crap worked like a charm … I'd get rid of him once I'd pumped him for every last shred of information he could cough up.

I smiled, canines showing. ‘Then you and I go south to Dry Gulch, to the massacre site, and work out what really happened.'

I retraced my steps and left Spruce Tree Mesa by the same stairs I'd ascended. I was to meet Coyote Jack on the south side of the mesa, where he kept his horses. Halfway down the stairs I started whistling. As I reached the last step my three fiery beauties came trotting over to nuzzle me. They looked rested and eager to get back on the trail. I saddled up Incendio and rode around to the other side of the mesa.

Duquesa smelt them first and danced ahead; Incendio snorted with impatience.

Coyote Jack was waiting. At least I thought it was him …

I blinked at the sight.

From head to shining boot-clad toe, Coyote Jack had transformed himself into a Hispanic aristocrat.

He'd tucked his long hair up into a stiff-brimmed hat that perfectly matched his elaborately embroidered fawn riding costume. He resembled a wilder version of the Montoya brothers. No, make that
much
wilder …

His steed was magnificent, stolen no doubt, a gorgeous golden palomino stallion with white mane and tail. He was not quite as tall as my long-legged darlings but much heavier, a solid frame of muscle with strong legs.

Then I noticed the horse matched the rider — they both had golden eyes.

My girls neighed appreciatively; I wanted to too.

‘So you like my city clothes?' he said with a mischievous grin.

Coyote Jack's ageless face could've been from any continent on the face of the planet and it was now very clear that he used that fact to take him wherever he wanted to go.

No wonder no one could ever catch him.

‘Yeah. Good idea,' I said. Dry Gulch was too close to Santa Fe.

We rode south, fast, and found the dusty trail to Dry Gulch. It forked off the main track that led to Santa Fe and snaked along one side of a series of steep hills. Governor Magurty and his group had been on their way to The Flying D ranch, Magurty's big cattle spread.

We turned a corner and there it was.

The governor's private coach, still marking the site of the massacre, sat on level ground right next to the track. It overlooked Dry Gulch, an old, deeply pitted riverbed, strewn with peculiar greenish-black rocks that the locals ground up for use as dye in their pottery. From the light we had about two hours before sunset.

We left the horses over the other side of the track, in the shadow of the steep rocky hills, and circled the coach on foot. We agreed to move inwards, to the coach, in a spiral formation. No footprint, no rock,
no bush was left unexamined by me … or unsniffed by Coyote Jack.

But the crime scene was a wreck …

The blood-encrusted coach was still there, so no one must've wanted to claim the ill-omened vehicle, and there were still scattered areas of red-brownish soil to indicate where the wounded bodies had fallen. But the cavalry had stomped all over everything and there were big ruts in the soft earth from the carts brought in to haul the bodies away.

As a teenager I'd watched Australian indigenous trackers at work on the Nullarbor Plain, and more recently I'd been trained by the NTA to dissect a crime scene, but it was going to be hard work to make anything useful out of this one.

I stood back and let Coyote Jack do his thing first. I wanted to watch his reactions as much as his technique. He spent half an hour slowly going over every inch of blood-drenched dirt and then the coach. He was particularly fascinated by something on the floor of the coach. He kept coming back to it again — then he'd go off over the whole site once more as though he couldn't quite believe his eyes.

The light was fading so I said, ‘My turn.'

He stood and watched.

There were four specific bloodstained sites.

Six people had been killed over those four areas. Governor Magurty and his wife Lucretia, their five-year-old daughter, Millicent, and three-year-old son, Harland, the driver Angus Treehorn and the guard Sylvester Slattery.

I'd sketched out a map of who died where from the Dry Gulch Memorial outside the de Vivar Library and now compared it to the ground. It was an exact match … All except for the scale, of course … and
except for Hector Kershaw being a heroic saviour. He must have taken off before any of them even hit the ground.

‘The two children died over there.' I pointed to a blood-splattered rock about twenty feet from the coach and on the very lip of the incline down to the old riverbed. ‘Their mother died here.' I pointed to a dark stain midway between the coach and the rock. ‘Governor Magurty died here,' I pointed again, ‘about five feet from the coach, and the driver and the guard died right next to it.'

I studied the blood-encrusted vehicle again. ‘The inside of the coach is clean of blood — it's all out here. And there are only four bullet holes in the whole coach, appearing in two pairs. Those bullets must've killed the driver and the armed guard and, from the height of the holes, I'm guessing the pattern was one shot to the stomach to disable and one to the head to make sure.' I nodded to myself. ‘That means the killers were very disciplined, very experienced; no random shooting, just what was needed to get the job done.'

I eyed Coyote Jack for confirmation, but he volunteered nothing.

‘The lack of bullet holes also means the coach wasn't chased here by armed attackers who were shooting at it.' I walked over to where the woman had died. ‘Governor Magurty and his party had already stopped and dismounted when they were attacked.' I nodded down at the reddish-brown ground. There was a small pile of kindling and an iron pot next to it. ‘The governor's wife had started to build a fire to make some coffee when the attack started.'

This time he responded. ‘You're right, they were professional killers.' Then he muttered under his
breath, ‘Their only mistake was to pick me as their scapegoat.'

Careful not to disturb the crime scene even further, he came over and stood next to me. ‘They killed the driver and the guard first — they'd have both been armed with rifles. Then they shot the governor next — he certainly would have drawn his handgun at the very least.'

That sounded right to me. ‘That left Lucretia standing over her coffee pot … No,' I changed my mind, ‘Lucretia sent her children to run for cover in the old riverbed while she stood between them and the killers.'

We both looked over at the bloodstained rock where the children had cowered.

We both knew that once the three armed men were dead, the killers could take their time …

I shook my head, trying to shed the thoughts that bloomed there like toxic algae. Captain Bull had gone into too much detail of what was done to the victims for me to dwell on it and not start howling like an animal.

I straightened up my spine.

It was too late to save those kids; all I could do was find the real killers.

I gritted my teeth. ‘So whatever scumbags did this, they knew the governor was on the way back to his ranch and were waiting for him.' I gazed around the site. ‘This river bend was the perfect place to ambush the coach. The driver had nowhere to turn it around.' I nodded up at the hill. ‘And I'm betting they had a lookout up there waiting to give the signal.'

‘Yes.' He nodded over to a pile of charred sticks I'd missed. ‘This place has been used as a resting place before.'

‘Yeah and probably by the governor. They must've been having lunch.'

‘So whoever did this knew that was the governor's habit.' He frowned. ‘Not common knowledge perhaps?'

I eyed him. Not common but easy to find out if you made it your mission to watch him and look for the perfect trap. I still wasn't convinced of Coyote Jack's innocence.

‘Why would I do it?' He'd read my face. ‘I have nothing to gain and everything to lose from Governor Magurty's death. He was all that stood between us and the greedy ranchers. This Gortner fool will give the rich men everything they want. We'll be herded onto reservations so they can take our land.'

Hmm. I tapped my chin. Then who had done this? Who had so carefully trapped the governor and ruthlessly destroyed his whole party? I'd studied the scene but the only thing clear was that there was no sign of moccasins. Every single track I'd seen was soled Western-style.

‘So you think it was a rancher, someone in league with the new governor?' I asked.

‘Maybe they will profit,' he replied. ‘But I don't think their men pulled the triggers.' He looked around with certainty.

I studied Coyote Jack's face. ‘You know who did it.'

He nodded. ‘Check the coach floor again.'

I did.

I lifted up the mat this time and found a partial boot print outlined in dried blood. There was a distinctive pattern of nails in the sole. It had to be one of the killers. Everyone had died outside and the rescue party didn't make it here for another two days — only one of the killers could've stepped in the drying blood and made that mark.

But what was the killer looking for in the coach? And did he find it? I did a quick search — nothing …

I shot Coyote Jack a look and then rechecked the four bloodstained sites. Sure enough that same distinctive boot print was in and around each site. They'd been checking their victims were dead and laying out the false clues that pointed to Coyote Jack …

‘Okay, tell me,' I said.

‘That boot print is made by only one kind of person …'

‘You're that sure,' I snapped.

‘Oh yes,' he replied, ‘I've been unfortunate enough to see that kind of track before … outside villages full of dead bodies. That's the boot print of a US cavalry officer.'

‘You mean Captain Bull?'

‘It has to be. He's the only one of that rank in this area.'

It made sense. Bull hated Magurty for refusing to demand more reinforcements and supplies for Fort Marcy. Bull also believed Gortner would give him what he wanted. In fact, Bull was the person who actually identified the killer as Coyote Jack and his band.

‘Captain Bull wants a licence to wipe us all out,' said Coyote Jack. ‘And he's wanted to personally get rid of me for ages. This kills two birds with one stone.'

I looked over at the bloodstained rock. ‘But children?'

‘You don't think Bull has killed children before?' he scoffed. ‘I've seen what he's left behind in villages across the territory.' Coyote Jack swept his arm around. ‘This was done by selected members of the US cavalry; they lay in wait and killed everyone.'

A death squad …

Wait a minute …

‘They killed everyone,' I said, ‘except the one survivor, Hector Kershaw.'

Coyote Jack didn't register any surprise — so he already knew there was a survivor.

‘If Bull did it,' I made it a challenge, ‘then why does Hector say it was an Indian attack?'

Coyote Jack gave me a contemptuous glare. ‘It's obvious this was a setup to incriminate me.'

‘Go on,' I demanded.

‘See that.' He pointed to a clump of bedraggled feathers that had been partly stomped into the ground.

‘Yes.'

‘Those were supposed to have been worn by whoever attacked the coach.'

‘So?'

‘I would never wear them … nor would any of my men. Those are chicken feathers,' he growled, ‘plucked from some poor hen.'

Chicken feathers? ‘Okay.' I got the inference. He was angry that I'd associated it in some way with him. ‘Yes, it sounds like someone playing dress-up.'

‘What I don't understand,' he said, ‘was why Bull went to so much trouble setting up this ambush and yet he let one lone survivor make it out alive. Who is this Hector Kershaw?'

‘This wasn't just an ambush,' I said, piecing it together. ‘This was a carefully timed piece of playacting. That must be why a greenhorn like Kershaw escaped so easily. The killers probably chased him off — they always meant to let him go. They didn't want to kill him and incur either the wrath or interest of the powerful Kershaw family.
And now, Hector Kershaw will go home, filled with venom about the savagery of the local nations and how the army must be supported, at all costs, in exterminating them!'

Coyote Jack nodded. ‘So Bull and his men dressed up in buckskin, war paint and chicken feathers — all except for their boots.'

‘Yeah, and that greenhorn banker wouldn't have known who or what he was running from. The perfect witness …'

Jack gazed off into the distance, south towards Santa Fe. ‘So.' He narrowed his golden eyes. ‘This Hector Kershaw is the only witness and he and his family are very powerful … Will your government believe what he says?'

‘Yes,' I replied. ‘I believe so.'

‘If the Kershaws find out their son was put in danger in this way … then he's my only chance of stopping another war. I think this man needs to see my face.'