Coyote (23 page)

Coyote Jack, god or not, was going to have a little nap.

It was early evening by the time I stabled my girls and then headed for the Little Sisters Hotel. I was cursing as I went. The last thing I remember was preparing the tranquillising dart for my blow gun, then the next minute I was waking up and it was close to sunset … and Coyote Jack was long gone.

The wily bastard must've drugged my coffee.

Damn it to hell! I had a blinding headache, my tongue tasted like the floor of a lumber camp outhouse and I had the temper of a grizzly bear dragged out of its cosy condo in the middle of ski season.

Where was that son-of-a-bitch Hector Kershaw! If I found Hector in the next five minutes I was just gonna shoot him in the leg and frisk him like a drug mule coming through Customs.

Get a grip, Kannon! Get a grip, the more angelic side of me warned. Don't drive mad.

Stuff that, bellowed the rest of me. I'd suffocated in sand storms, climbed through caves with crazy gun-toting nuns and been chased by vengeful Apache
warriors. If that fool Hector had a diary then I was gonna squeeze it out of him like toothpaste out of a tube.

Then I noticed the plaza was strangely deserted. I glanced around. People were hurrying away from me.

I looked down; I had both pistols out. I had to calm down or I'd blow this mission out of the water!

I slid the pistols back into their holsters and sucked in a deep breath.

As I stalked into the hotel foyer the blast of noise from the Hen's Coop Saloon pounded in my tender, throbbing head. Too many voices yelled over the blistering polka the piano player was belting out.

Hands covering my ears, I scowled over the saloon doors.

Everyone was smiling and slapping each other's backs like it was Christmas, New Year and their birthdays all at once. Someone bellowed out Hector's name and an almighty cheer went up …

I restrained myself from sticking my fingers in my ears.

Hector Kershaw must be getting a hero's welcome home.

The whole bar was packed with eager drinkers, but in the middle of it I could see the Big Swede shouting into the ear of some poor timid victim who was recoiling from him. Blix and his cohort of rich Anglo businessmen and ranchers surrounded their target, jostling him in a hearty, quasi-good-natured way.

It reminded me of big dogs shouldering the runt to remind him of his place.

I studied their victim's back. He had fair hair, a little too long, wore prissy city clothes and had a dusty but expensive leather bag slung across his hunched shoulders.

The squarish build and fair hair were about right …

I lunged through the saloon doors and aimed for Hector Kershaw like a sniper looking through her scope. The expression on my face got me through the packed crowd of sloppy drunks and onto the bar in the minimum time.

I'd left a little space between me and my soon-to-be best friend, so I could observe and decide on a strategy.

Yep, that poor schmuck was Hector Q. Kershaw all right. With his Boston city clothes and drooping-daisy posture he stuck out in this saloon full of toughs like a virgin at an orgy.

I shook my head. The Big Swede was gazing down at Hector like the kid was raw meat shoved into a circus cage.

Hector Kershaw was strange looking. He had a narrow, high-cheeked face, all edges … but softened by big pansy-blue eyes, now wide open in cornered disbelief. And, like Coyote Jack, it was impossible to tell his age. Kershaw could've been in his late teens or even ten years older. But his clean-shaven face in the middle of so many rough beards and long moustaches made him look juvenile. This was highlighted by the frightened way Hector kept his shoulder bag clutched to his chest … it looked like he was afraid of being beaten and mugged.

Yep … Hector was the picture of a greenhorn Boston banker's kid, in way over his slicked-down, hair-parted-in-the-middle head.

I eyed the shoulder bag with interest. What exactly was he keeping safe in there?

The Big Swede kept slapping Hector on the back with ham-hock-sized hands, which pressed him closer and closer into the bar, pinning him there like
an insect. There was no doubt who was in charge of Hector in this town — Blix and his rich mates owned him.

I signalled the bartender and ordered a whiskey. ‘What's going on over there?' I jerked my head at my target.

The bartender poured my drink into a glass and leant in. ‘That idiot went into hostile territory looking for Coyote Jack.'

‘Oh yeah?' I slurped in a mouthful, rinsed my teeth with it and swallowed. At least the whiskey was dissolving that God-awful coat off my furry tongue.

‘Kershaw says he just made it back alive.' The bartender shrugged contemptuously. ‘The Big Swede is trying to cheer him up.'

‘Where's he been?'

‘God knows.' The bartender rolled his eyes. ‘Kershaw probably doesn't either. But it wasn't anywhere near Coyote Jack or that lily-livered coward wouldn't be here now.'

We both sniggered. The bartender was dead right.

I edged closer, zeroing in on the bag; it looked just the right size to carry a diary.

‘Don't you worry, Hector my boy,' cooed Blix, in his twangy mix of Swedish and Wild West accents. ‘You did goot going out into hostile territory looking for that murdering bunch of renegades. We all know you did your best!'

Behind me the bartender softly muttered, ‘If that mama's boy made it more than twenty miles from here then I'll eat my pony raw and fully saddled.'

Blix celebrated by demanding another round of drinks at full volume; then he and his posse settled down to harangue their victim in what sounded like an extremely well-rehearsed chorus.

‘You know, Hector, we've got to protect ourselves out here,' said one.

‘This is the last frontier,' added another.

‘Son, we have our old enemies der Mexicans breathing down our necks — wanting to take back this here territory,' chimed in Blix. ‘And now there's going to be another Indian War … We have to get more support from Washington to hold on to this land. We need more troops, more weapons … and we need them to round up those red-skinned savages and herd them into a compound where we can keep an eye on them.'

‘That's right!' murmured Blix's well-trained chorus.

‘Now …' The Big Swede spread out his tree-trunk-sized arms, indicating his total incomprehension. ‘Those savages are allowed to roam free, looking for opportunities to shoot our people and steal our cattle. Mark my words …' He stuck a massive finger in Hector's bemused face. ‘More white folks won't move out here until New Mexico is made safe. And until there are more Americans here to defend it, the Mexicans will keep plotting to take this territory back!'

The Big Swede punctuated that last point with a slap on the shoulder that rocked Hector on his feet. It was like Blix was training a recalcitrant mule.

‘Yes, Hector,' bellowed Blix. ‘You've got to take your bad experience like a man, and turn it into goot. Now you know, first-hand, just how dangerous this territory is …' The Big Swede leant into the boy's face, as though checking to see if the lesson had stuck well enough. ‘It is your duty as der sole survivor to use der Kershaw family influence to secure this foothold for our great nation!'

I was impressed. First Blix used barely covered physical intimidation, and now the guilt card. Hector Kershaw was being played just as thoroughly as the battered piano in the far corner of the saloon.

The fresh drinks arrived and Blix took the moment to survey his now squirming victim through narrowed eyes. Hector was studying his whiskey like it had a quick way out of the saloon printed on the side.

The Big Swede evidently decided it was time for a change of tactic. ‘You know, son … you going out into hostile territory and trying to catch that son-of-a-bitch single-handed, done your family real proud. Your mama will be right proud of you; just like she is of your elder brother, Lysander …'

At the mention of his dead brother Hector's pansy-blue eyes had turned poisonous as a viper ready to strike. He kept his gaze lowered to his glass, so the change was missed by his tormenters.

‘Yes, son,' barked Blix, ‘it's now up to you to convince your folks to honour der very principles your brother died for. To keep this land free from those marauding savages. Don't let your brother's death be in vain, son. He was killed by those same savages.'

Hector's lowered eyes blazed a warning signal as they all kept ramming the same point home. Lysander did this, Lysander did that. How proud his mama must've been of his heroic elder brother …

I pushed my top hat back on my head and rubbed my forehead. It felt tender. It had been ever since the Abbess stuck her hand there, back in the Santa Avia Mountains.

So his big brother's heroic reputation was a little more comparison than Hector was able to stand.
Was that why he pretended to go after Coyote Jack? Was that what he was doing — trying to fill his dead brother's very big boots?

I scratched my forehead. Now it felt itchy.

Maybe the digs about Lysander also explained Hector Kershaw's dramatic change by the time he reached San Francisco? Hector must've had it up to his eyeballs with being the kid brother of a dead hero.

I looked over at the bartender. He was watching me, a strange expression on his craggy face.

‘What?' I demanded, in no mood to be scrutinised.

He pointed at my head. ‘What happened to your …' He stopped at my expression.

I looked over in the mirror behind the bar and froze.

In the middle of my forehead there was a mark, sunburnt in like I'd been branded.

It was in the shape of a cross.

Sensing that he'd somehow pissed Hector off big time, the Big Swede produced another diversion. ‘Ever heard of Der Hue & Cry, sonny?' he growled.

The other men hooted and guffawed.

Blix motioned impatiently to the bartender and demanded something he called ‘his lovelies'. The bartender leant under the counter and then handed the Big Swede a stack of oversized and well-handled postcards. I caught sight of the top one.

It was a hand-tinted photo of a girl wearing little more than this era's equivalent of Victoria's Secret. She was topless.

They were porno postcards.

Blix's posse went through the stack of cards with Hector, pointing out their favourites and providing a nasty amount of detail. Seems the Big Swede'd taken them all back to his old hunting ground, San Francisco, on an educational excursion.

The postcards were their souvenirs — as close
to bringing home the girls stuffed and mounted as legally allowed.

‘These girlies are all from Der Hue & Cry. That's der raunchiest bawdy house in der raunchiest city in these United States,' gloated the Big Swede. ‘Women with der faces of angels who do der most down and dirty things you could possibly imagine!' He winked. ‘Or ask for.'

Hector went through the cards by rote, as though he knew he wouldn't get out of here until he did. He stopped at one in particular. His pathetic expression reassembled itself into a … er … more mature one.

The photo was of a teenager. A Native American maiden with the blackest, wildest eyes I'd ever seen. She wore nothing more than doeskin boots and a short beaded skirt, her straight black hair cascading down her back. But, unlike the other pictures, she dared the viewer to even think about coming closer. There was no coy invitation in her fierce expression. The lethal-looking green bow clenched in one fist and the red quiver full of sharp arrows that hung over her naked shoulder said that violating her territory came with a deadly risk.

Hector stared down at the girl. He wet his lips. That snaky look was back … overlaid with another emotion I couldn't quite read.

‘Son, you like that dirty squaw best?' jeered one of the ranchers. ‘What would your dead brother, Lysander, say —'

Blix elbowed his crony in the chest, before he could finish the blunder. ‘Why that's der famous Princess Prairie Rose,' he cooed patronisingly. ‘She's der main girl at Der Hue & Cry now.' Blix rolled his eyes. ‘Just fifteen years old … she's something very special.'

Hector looked at him intently. ‘Is she the one that was in all the newspapers last year? The one they
called the warrior … something?' He licked his lips in an unsettling way.

‘Yep, that's her all right! Prairie Rose — der Warrior Princess. She was der eldest child of der chief. She killed eight soldiers in the battle that wiped out her tribe,' Blix gloated. ‘Her stage act at Der Hue & Cry is called der Circle of Death.' He called for backup, ‘Remember it, boys?'

On cue, Blix's posse all murmured how amazing seeing Princess Prairie Rose had been.

‘Yes, sirree,' said the Big Swede. ‘We saw her Circle of Death act while we were there. She may be just a simple savage but she could shoot der eye out of a needle at fifty paces.'

A sheen of sweat seemed to swim over Hector's now unattractively reddened face. ‘How do they keep her …' He licked his lips. ‘How do they keep Prairie Rose … under control? She looks so savage. Why doesn't she escape?'

‘Her masters already thought of that.' Blix laughed. ‘She and her eight-year-old sister, Running Deer, were der only members of their tribe to survive der battle. When der newspapers made them famous der Indian agent sold them both to der Corsairs. They own Der Hue & Cry so —'

Hector nodded, immediately understanding. ‘And the Corsairs use Running Deer to keep Prairie Rose well behaved.'

‘Goot plan, eh?' Blix's posse hooted at the cunning of the Corsairs. ‘Every year der Corsairs have a Virgin Auction.' Blix kissed the tips of his fingers at the delicious thought. ‘They put together the very freshest blossoms that San Francisco has to offer. The Corsairs told Prairie Rose they'd put her little sister in it — if she wasn't a goot girl.'

They all chuckled.

I ground my teeth.

 

The saloon doors slammed open. Governor Gortner, followed by a pistol-packing entourage, burst through. His chest puffed up like an obese bantam rooster about to crow, he made straight for Hector, ruthlessly using the handle of his oversized stock whip like a bat to clear his way through to the boy-banker's side.

‘Hector,' bellowed the governor, as though proclaiming a new national holiday. ‘Your blessed mama just sent me yet another telegram, son. You'd better reply, my boy … before she sends in the army. Mrs Kershaw, bless her, wants to know when you're comin' home.'

I studied Hector's face. He looked like an admonished choir boy. It didn't fit so well with the snaky expression he'd worn while drooling over a half-naked, fifteen-year-old sex slave called Prairie Rose.

‘I'm leaving on the stagecoach tomorrow, Governor,' replied Hector, his tone indicating he was well aware of his filial duties. ‘I'll be back in Boston in a month.'

Hector looked and sounded genuine but I knew he was lying his slicked-down head off. Hector Kershaw would get on that stage as though he was heading back east, but he'd switch coaches at the next interchange and hightail it west — to San Francisco and the history books.

And freedom too, I was betting.

It sounded like Mama Kershaw kept a tight leash on her baby … and only remaining son.

‘Well, in that case, my boy, we need to give you a proper send-off tonight!' The governor slapped
Hector's still hunched shoulder hard enough to make him wince.

After seeing him drool over Prairie Rose, I wanted to slap him too.

Governor Gortner glanced around. ‘What do you reckon, boys? Juno and Rosita are performing at the Prickly Cactus tonight. Let's introduce them to our hero. Let's give him a night to tell the folks back in Boston about.' The governor guffawed. ‘Well, maybe not your blessed mama, boy.'

The governor wrapped a beefy arm around Hector and hauled him towards the saloon door like a sack of potatoes he was about to deep-fry.

I pushed my top hat firmly down over my itchy forehead and stepped straight into their path. ‘Governor, I want to talk to you about that job offer.'

Gortner smirked, delighted at the thought. ‘Good, Mr Eriksen, very good. We need the likes of you. Come with us, we can talk at the dance hall …'

At my name, Hector shot me a startled deer-in-the-headlights look. But before he could react the governor marched him off, bellowing in his ear about federal duties and how the Kershaws' powerful friends in Washington had to ‘save' white New Mexico from extinction. The Big Swede acted like a fanatical schoolteacher, echoing every one of the governor's points.

They all wanted to make sure Hector had his lines right for Mama.

 

The dance hall was in the seedy red-light district to the southwest of the Palace of the Governors. It had that rough, lived-in look that heavy trade gives such zones. The entrenched squalor made me bet it had serviced the Spanish settlers for the past two hundred
and fifty years and now the Anglos were lined up for more.

Unfortunately that also looked about the average age of most of the damsels plying their trade on the darkened streets.

As we walked past they offered us their favours and the use of the dusty alley behind them for only a couple of pennies. Just looking at them made my teeth hurt. Most of them smelt of liquor and, under all that calloused, wrinkled skin, they could've been teenagers for all I could tell. It made me sad and angry, all at the same time.

The Prickly Cactus was at the more up-market end of the street. It was a fine building that, according to the sign carved in Spanish over the door, used to be a government official's quarters. The cactus insignia that now stood outside looked more like a male body part than any succulent I'd ever seen. The protruding spines were a bit disturbing, but if the girls inside were in the same state as the ones we'd just passed in the street then it was an upfront health warning.

In the lobby we were all forced to park our guns. Past that it opened into a grandly ornate reception hall complete with a heavy crystal chandelier hanging from the high roof. There were awkwardly patched bullet holes in a circle around the heavy light fitting. Now I could see the reason for the cloak room: management must've been sick of fixing the roof from overexcited patrons deciding to publicly prove their marksmanship.

The once-grand ballroom had been converted into a smoke-filled gambling den full of card tables arranged around a fancy roulette wheel. On the right side there was a crowded bar running the full length of the wall. The rear wall held a stage, complete
with heavy red velvet curtains, now closed, and a connecting runway that extended out into the middle of the gambling tables.

The owner, a sleazoid with oiled curly black hair, a thin moustache and an ornate waistcoat with outsized aces embroidered on it, sauntered up to greet the governor. He conducted us to a round table tucked into the corner where the stage and the runway met. The orchestra sat waiting in the opposite corner.

Damn! Why did we have to be right next to the orchestra?

I gave the orchestra leader a squinty glare, but they were all too busy tuning up. Courtesy of Coyote Jack, my head was still throbbing like a temple gong on a feast day. If they started playing anything louder than a nursery song I could be tempted to go back out and get my guns.

The governor preened himself with self-congratulation. He was sure his influential little friend, Hector Kershaw, was getting a memorable send-off … One that Hector would probably take note of in a few months' time — when the prickles started to erupt from somewhere intensely private.

We sat as the smarmy owner fussed over our drinks.

Despite the Big Swede's best jostling and blocking tactics, I swiped the chair next to Hector, on the opposite side from the governor. I studied the shoulder bag now inches from my itching fingers. If they managed to get him drunk enough I was going to see just what our boy had been hugging so protectively in there.

Ignoring the Big Swede's comment that we'd already met, the governor introduced me around the table like another one of his prized possessions. Blix's
posse showed varying degrees of trepidation and cold, hard interest — an enforcer-for-hire being their favourite kind of guy. But when it came to Hector Kershaw I was frankly stumped.

He stared at me fixedly, as though I was some kind of puzzle he was trying to work out.

It made me uneasy.

I shook his hand. It was icy cold and the grip was way too hard for politeness — as though a shark had just latched onto my fingers.

‘So you're
the
John Eriksen, the famous bounty hunter?' asked Hector. His words expressed awe but a fleeting expression crossed his face that was far more calculating.

I didn't answer, waiting.

‘So you were the one who took on the Clements gang at Oxbow River? All by yourself.'

‘No.' I studied Hector. ‘I caught up with them at Hawks Summit and I had help.' I sipped my drink. ‘There have been a lot of lies told about me, Mr Kershaw.'

‘I thought you did everything by yourself,' he said with a sneer.

The governor shot Hector a startled look. His lambkin had grown teeth.

Yes, that was strange. Everyone scared the crap out of Hector and I scared the crap out of everyone. Why was Hector giving me lip?

‘Just call him Hector, son,' said the governor soothingly. ‘We're all on the same side here.'

The egalitarian buddy-buddy talk elicited a lightning flash of pure hatred from Hector. If I hadn't been watching closely, I'd have missed it. Hmm. So this fine Boston boy was reaching the end of his timorous patience with his hick friends?

Hector switched back to me, like a terrier refused their bone. ‘But I heard the famous John Eriksen was down in Mexico? Chasing after that bandito — oh, I forget the rascal's name … The one who looted that church in Juarez, just south of the border.'

‘El Chacal,' I said begrudgingly. I didn't like where this was headed. ‘That was El Chacal, The Jackal.'

Now how would a city boy like him know all that?

The governor, picking up on the tension between us with alarmed self-interest, gave a fake hearty guffaw. ‘No, no, Hector, our friend here
was
on his way south … but I managed to persuade him to stop and help us.'

Hector eyeballed me with venom.

Now what was twisting his tail?

Hector opened his mouth to continue my interrogation when the orchestra on the other side of the runway launched into frantic action. Cripes, it was that ghastly can-can music — the kind that makes you want to burst into manic star-jumps.

Rowdy cheers erupted from the roomful of gambling cowboys behind us. The whole place started stomping their boots in time.

I clutched my sore head with both hands. Bloody Coyote Jack! Now I really wanted to shoot someone.

The governor slapped Hector on the shoulder one more time. ‘You're in for a real treat, son. The first act is Rosita. She's the most talented dancer in all of New Mexico.' He wiggled his bushy eyebrows to indicate he wasn't talking about the vertical kind of dancing.

The Big Swede launched into a detailed explanation of her well-known — and generously distributed — talents. Apparently Rosita was both flexible and innovative.

The curtains opened to reveal a chorus of scantily clad dancers who high-kicked their way out onto the runway, exposing more than a little of their red stocking-clad limbs.

Ah — so it wasn't just the men who had bowed legs here.

The fiddle player began a fast-paced solo, but he was so badly out of tune that it sounded as though he was running his nails down a blackboard.