That Damned Coyote Hill
That Damned Coyote Hill
by
Heath Lowrance
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Published by Trestle Press
Copyright 2011 Heath Lowrance
Kindle Edition, License Notes
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Part One: The Rider in Gray
Don’t go to Coyote Hill, they’d told him in the last town. They got they-selves some black magic out there. It ain’t natural. They’s things that hunt out in that desert, demons and what-not. And they don’t care none if it’s beast or man they kill…
He listened to the warnings, nodded, saddled up his horse and rode.
And now it was raining, a hard nasty rain that turned the world gray, and the red hills were muted under a haze of mist in the distance. Mud slid under the hooves of the horse, and the rain pounded down on the rider. He wore gray, except for the dirty white shirt under his coat and the slash of a red tie. His gray hat was pulled low over pale gray eyes, and his narrow jaw was gray with stubble.
He rode in silence and the rain was relentless. It smelled like a corpse.
Over a ridge slick with mud, the horse nearly stumbled and the rider pulled back on the reins. He caught movement to his right, something quick and black in the rain.
He pulled in tight, one gloved hand going to the revolver on his hip.
About a hundred yards away, a coyote stared at him. It was the biggest coyote he’d ever seen—so big that for a moment he thought it must be a wolf. But no, the long snout and thin body were unmistakable. The thing stared hungrily, muscles bunching along its narrow back.
The rider frowned. The coyote was five feet tall at the shoulder, at least. Impossible.
He pulled the revolver, wheeling the horse around to face the beast. The coyote yelped once, a yelp that was at once deeper and more savage than any coyote he’d ever heard.
And then the thing stood on hind legs. It stood like a man, towering at over six feet.
“…the hell…” the rider said, his words washed away by the rain.
For a long moment, beast and man stared at each other, and the rain slanted between them and the world went deathly still and silent.
The beast turned, dropping again to all fours, and loped off into the hills.
The rider stared after it, a chill playing along his spine that had nothing to do with the rain.
He spurred the horse along toward Coyote Hill just a little faster.
“Planning this goddamn fight all goddamn week,” the fat man said, “and then what happens? Goddamn rain.”
“Don’t worry.” Dan Bowman peered out from underneath the tarp. Rain pounded down, turning the street to mud, but on the covered porches of the storefronts up and down the street people huddled, waiting. Mostly men, cowboys come into town from the Triple E and the Curly Nail Ranches, but some womenfolk too, all dainty and pretty in their gingham dresses, with little children lurking around their hems.
The cowboys jostled and shouted at each other, the usual rowdy behavior. But the townsfolk… they all just stood there, not moving or talking. They looked like sad pale ghosts in the rain. Bowman felt a weird chill looking at them. Coyote Hill was a right-weird place, no question.
He shook himself out of it and said, “Don’t worry. Lookit all them people. They ain’t gonna let a little rain get in the way of their fun. Ever’body come to see some fights, and that’s sure as hell what they gonna see.”
Bowman and the fat man had set up the big tarp over the ring to keep the fighters dry, but everything surrounding the make-shift ring was flooded. Even if it stopped raining, which it wouldn’t, the spectators would have to stand in mud up to their ankles. Not a problem for the cowboys, but the townsfolk weren’t quite as rugged as all that.
Still, it looked like everyone in town had shown up anyway. Coyote Hill was clearly starved for entertainment.
The fat man looked at the weirdly silent waiting audience. They were creepy as hell, this lot, but even creepier was the old Indian he spotted, hanging back from the crowd, shielded under the awning of a doctor’s office. He looked like an Apache, but that couldn’t be right. Apaches weren’t exactly renowned for being sociable with whites, not in this part of the state. And the way the Indian stared at him, like a hungry man eyeing a fat cut of beef…
Even standing there under the tarp, doing nothing, the fat man’s breathing was hoarse and heavy, and Bowman couldn’t help but think the bastard was due to die from a heart attack any day now. The fat man said, “You see that old Indian?”
“Yeah, I seen him. To hell with him. We got work.”
The fat man shook his head, tried to push the weird Indian out of his head. “Well, I reckon you’re right at that. Just, we got a lot of money tied up in this.”
“And we’ll see a helluva return, don’t you worry none. My man ain’t gonna let you down.”
“We’d better,” the fat man said. “It ain’t gonna be good for us to stick around here too long. That bastard’s still trailing us, I can feel it.”
“You’re crazy,” Bowman said. “We ain’t seen hide nor hair of him in months, Card. He done give up.”
The fat man shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. I… I don’t think he’s the kinda fella that’ll give up. Not the way I heard it.”
Bowman smiled and slapped the fat man on the neck. “Listen, Card. Even if he did catch up to us, you think my man over there can’t deal with him? We got no worries, I’m telling you.”
Bowman’s man waited at the other corner of the ring. He was big, about 6’2”, and stripped to the waist. His arms and torso were corded thick with muscle, which he flexed and displayed proudly.
Bowman grinned at him and said, “You good over there, Bunker?”
The big man nodded, grinning back. “Let’s commence with the slaughter, huh?”
“Kind folks,” Bowman said. “What you are about to witness today is a miracle of God! The perfect man! A giant, shining example of virile masculinity, a man in peak physical condition and prowess!” He had to shout to be heard above the pouring rain, but the crowds had packed in tight around the ring and listened with rapt attention. While Bowman talked, Bunker stood with his massive arms crossed, scowling at the audience.
“You’ll see first-hand the manly skills Goliath Bunker has developed through years of hard training and commitment! You’ll see how a man can thoroughly best another man with fists and wile! You’ll see how—“
One of the cowboys shouted, “Well, let’s see it already! We didn’t come for no oratory!” and the other cowboys laughed. The townsfolk were silent, though, staring like upright corpses.
Bowman didn’t break stride for even a moment. He said, “Right you are, good sir! Enough talking! Let’s get right to it. Goliath Bunker will take on all challengers. If any of you men-folk got the sand for it, put ten dollar in the hand of my associate Mr. Card—” he indicated the fat man, who stood just outside the ring under an umbrella he’d shoved into the mud, “—and you can step into the ring and test your mettle against the perfect man!”
The reaction was instantaneous. None of the men from town moved, but several of the cowboys surged toward Mr. Card, money in their hands.
Events followed the usual pattern after that: the first challenger came in fists swinging, and Bunker laid him flat in less than
five seconds, smashing his jaw with one well-placed fist. That got the cowboy’s attention, but didn’t do much to dissuade any of them. Bunker gave the next challenger a bit more time, circling around and even letting him get in a shot or two. It wouldn’t do to make it look impossible.
Betting went on fast and furious, and after five minutes, Bunker reckoned enough was enough and brought down the second challenger with a gut punch and a solid blow on the back of the neck. The cowboys watching went silent for a moment, and Bunker thought maybe he’d overplayed his hand, but right away another one said, “Goddamnit, here’s a ten-spot! Lemme at that bruiser!” and jumped in the ring before his buddy had even been dragged out.
Between the fee and the betting, Mr. Card already had well over a hundred dollars in his pockets, and another round of betting started the moment the third cowboy entered the ring. Coyote Hill was going to be a profitable stop-over, no question.
The third challenger was a bit older and a bit tougher than the others and actually managed to pop Bunker a good one in the throat early on. The other cowboys whooped and hollered at that, but the townsfolk were still eerily quiet. They stood there in the rain as if they were made of stone and watched the fight as if they were watching a dying fireplace. And the old Apache never moved from his spot by the doctor’s office. He just watched with hooded, hungry eyes.
Bunker let the fight go on for almost ten minutes this time, even taking the time to wobble on his feet a bit, as if the old cowboy had really hurt him. From the corner of his eye, he saw money changing hands in the rain, Card and Bowman filling their pockets with cash. He grinned, wiped blood away from his eyes, and barreled into the challenger.
A huge fist to the eye, another one to the solar plexus, and a last straight to the jaw, and the third challenger dropped.
A roar of anger from the cowboys, and then two of his pals were pulling him out of the ring. Bowman stepped up and said, “An almost worthy adversary for our perfect man! He fought well, but not well enough, it seems! Who thinks they can best our Goliath? Anyone? Is anyone man enough?”
No one stepped up. The cowboys glared, but not a single one of them took up the challenge.
“Oh come on,” Bowman said. “After three fights, surely some starch has gone out of Goliath! Just ten dollars, and you can be the man to finally lay him out, once and for all! Anyone?”
No one said a word, and the rain pounded down on the muddy street.
Card shot a glance at Bunker, and then at Bowman. He looked annoyed. Bunker knew he’d hear about it later, his coming on too strong, scaring off the money. But what would they have him do? Just stand there and let himself get pummeled?
Bowman said, “All you strapping young bucks and not a single one of you got the gumption to face down Goliath? Is this what the young men of America have come to?”
Still nothing, and after a moment Bunker started back toward his corner and Card began pulling the umbrella up and Bowman got ready to give the ‘so-long suckers’ spiel. He didn’t know how much they’d netted, but it wasn’t nearly enough. There was always the next town, though.
From behind the rain-soaked crowd of townsfolk, a hard iron voice said, “I’ll take him.”
Everyone turned to look.
The rider in gray had stopped his horse in the middle of the muddy street. Rain bounced off his hat and his broad shoulders. He dismounted, patted the beast on the flank, and started through the crowd. They parted before him in silence.
Bowman jumped immediately back into his barker persona. “Finally! At long last, a real man to take up the challenge! Step right up, partner!”
The man hoisted himself up into the ring, out of the rain. He was tall, maybe an inch or so shorter than Bunker, and lean. His soaked clothes were spattered with mud. He looked to be somewhere in his mid-30’s, but the stubble on his jaw was prematurely gray. His eyes gleamed gray under the brim of his hat. Bunker stepped toward the middle of the ring, grinning, and Bowman said, “That’s gonna be ten dollars, mister, payable to the fat man. And I’m gonna need you to take off the gun for the duration of the fight.”
The stranger reached into his coat, pulled out a crumpled bill, and reached down to give it to Card. Immediately, the cowboys came to life, swarming over the fat man, placing bets. The stranger took off his gun belt and draped it over the rope-post.
He took off his hat, dropped it on the mat, and the cowboys gasped.
A dull white scar in the shape of a cross cut across his forehead. The arms of the cross went from brow to brow, and the bottom of it extended half-way down his nose.
He didn’t react to the crowd, only stared stonily at Bunker, hands at his sides.
The scar threw Bunker for only a split second. He quickly gathered himself, grinned at the stranger, thinking he didn’t look like much. The cowboys seemed to agree; most of them seemed to be betting on Bunker.
Bowman stepped between the two fighters, said, “No rules, gentlemen, and no time limit. Last man standing, that’s the winner. Got it?”
The stranger nodded once.
Bowman said, “All-righty, then. Go to it!”
He stepped back, and Bunker moved in immediately, slamming his right fist into the stranger’s face.
The stranger stumbled back, almost lost his footing, and Bunker pressed the attack. He swung again, catching the stranger on the chin, and the stranger fell.
The cowboys whooped, more money changed hands. Bunker glanced at Bowman, who was glaring at him. Too fast, his eyes said. Make it last.
Bunker stepped back, waiting. On the mat, the stranger looked up at him, the white cross on his head seeming to glow in the dimness under the tarp. A strange smile touched his lips. He stood up very slowly and faced Bunker.
This time, Bunker moved in for the ribs, but the stranger sidestepped to the left, popped out with a fast right that connected against Bunker’s temple. Bunker staggered back a step, surprised but not hurt much. He hadn’t even seen the fist coming at him.
The stranger took two steps forward, faking his right. Bunker moved to block it, and got caught in the throat with a left. Again, he stumbled back, clutching his throat, and the stranger laid into him with a three punch combination—jaw, gut, jaw again.
Bunker was dazed, only vaguely aware of the cowboys yelling and laughing. He swung wild, and the stranger swooped under the heavy fist and planted a hard left into his ribcage. Bunker grunted, almost doubling over, but was straightened up again by another brutal jab at his throat.
He choked, fell back against the ropes. He felt rain slanting in under the tarp, soaking his bare back, and the stranger was a blur of gray in front of him. He tasted blood.
The stranger moved in close, shot his knee up into Bunker’s mid-section. The sound of the cowboys whooping merged with the sound of the pounding rain and rang in Bunker’s ears. He started to fall, and the stranger grabbed his crushed throat, held him up long enough to head-butt him right in the nose.
Bunker fell.
He couldn’t hear anything now, not even the roar of rain. He stared straight up at the tarp, unable to move, and then the stranger loomed above him.
It was him, he thought. It was the mean bastard who’d been chasing them. It had to be.
As if reading his thoughts, the stranger leaned over him, spoke softly. “My name’s Hawthorne,” he said. “But I don’t reckon that name means anything to you.”
Bunker tried to speak, couldn’t.
The stranger said, “But maybe this name does—Lily Colfer. She’s the woman you and your friends raped and murdered in New Orleans.”
Bunker was praying. Not that God would forgive him, because he knew that wouldn’t happen, but praying that Bowman and Card would do something, praying that they’d step in and stop the stranger before Bunker had to pay, at long last, for his sins.
Hawthorne said, “You’re gonna take that name to your grave, Goliath Bunker. I don’t know if she’s in Heaven or Hell or El Paso, but Lily Colfer is avenged.”
He reached down, took Bunker’s head in both hands, and twisted hard.
Bunker didn’t hear the snap of his neck breaking.
Part Two: Mud, Blood and Rain
Now the cowboys were as silent as the weird townsfolk. Hawthorne stood up, walked across the ring to where his hat lay. He put it on, and his iron gaze latched on to Bowman.
Bowman had vacated the ring in panic when Hawthorne snapped Bunker’s neck, and now stood in the rain between the ring and the spectators. Off to Hawthorne’s left, the fat man called Card stood dumbly, not sure what had just happened.
He reached for his gun belt, strapped it on as if he had all the time in the world. It would’ve been the right time for either Bowman or Card to draw down on him, but neither of them did; they clearly weren’t thinking straight. Hawthorne pulled his revolver and aimed it carefully at Bowman.
He said, “Dan Bowman. Jeb Card. I’ve come to kill you.”
And finally the two of them began to fully grasp the situation. From the corner of his eye, Hawthorne saw Card dodge off through the rain and toward the covered porches at the far end of the street. He let him go for the moment, focusing on Bowman, who was reaching in his coat for his gun and at the same time grabbing the dress collar of the nearest town person.
It was a girl, red-haired, about eight years old. Bowman swooped her up, clutched her tightly around the waist, and pushed his gun barrel against her head.
Hawthorne frowned. He’d expected Bowman to take a shot at him, but Bowman had apparently decided the odds of hitting his target weren’t good enough to risk it. He was actually a bit smarter than Hawthorne had reckoned.
“Don’t you move, you sonofabitch,” Bowman said. “Or I’ll put a bullet in this brat’s head sure as Sunday.”
Hawthorne lowered his gun. The cowboys scattered. Hawthorne had half-expected one of them to rush Bowman, but it seemed heroics weren’t on the agenda for the day. The citizens of Coyote Hill looked on impassively, and even the girl’s mother just stared, doing nothing, her face a white stone mask, and it occurred to Hawthorne that, since he’d arrived in town he hadn’t heard any of them speak at all. There was definitely something off about this place.