Coyote Read Free

expression implied we’d better pay attention because there’d be a quiz at the end. ‘I’m going to tell you what transformed Hector Kershaw.’ He changed to the next picture. ‘The answer is here …’
    The new image on the screen shallowed my breath. It wasn’t even a photo, just an ink drawing from a newspaper. But way too detailed …
    Scalped heads, mutilated bodies, dead children …
    The audience instinctively stiffened in their seats. We all recognised the drawing. It was infamous.
    â€˜Is that the Dry Gulch massacre?’ Eddie Melnick squinted at the screen. He wasn’t wearing his heavy-rimmed glasses.
    â€˜Yeah,’ replied Klaasen, sitting forwards — now curious.
    â€˜Earlier in 1867, long before his friend’s murder, Hector Kershaw stopped at Santa Fe on his way west from Boston. There, Hector was to have an experience that would change the rest of his life …’ The professor eyed the now attentive audience with a cynical satisfaction. ‘Invited to visit the ranch of the governor of New Mexico, Hector Kershaw accompanied the governor, his wife, young son and daughter and two others. All but Hector were savagely slaughtered in an unprovoked Indian attack north of Santa Fe. The culprit who instigated the massacre, Coyote Jack, was never brought to justice.’
    Professor Wauhope stared up at the huge, lovingly detailed images of wanton savagery. ‘For more than twenty years Coyote Jack was the most wanted criminal in America. And the US army followed every trail, every clue possible to hunt the mongrel down —’
    â€˜I’ve told you before — you’re a fool, Wauhope. Coyote Jack is innocent!’
    We all turned.
    At the very back of the room, an extraordinary-looking man wearing jeans and a white T-shirt lithely uncurled from his seat. No unfit slouch this one — more like a hunter than the prey.
    â€˜This injustice has continued long enough,’ he snapped.
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    The man was a dangerous mix of too many warrior nations, at least one of which could be Native American. Fierce blue eyes set over aggressively edgedcheekbones blazed out of tanned skin. His spiky, midnight hair was streaked at the tips with red, white and blue.
    The dyed tips looked like feathers.
    All eyes swung back to Wauhope, keen with the promise of confrontation.
    Professor Wauhope pompously sucked in his gut. ‘Sit down, River! There’ll be question time at the end …’ He turned back to the screen. ‘Now, as I was saying, Coyote Jack was the most infamous, depraved killer of innocent women and children the West had ever seen —’
    â€˜Don’t patronise me, Wauhope!’ River stalked up the aisle and mounted the podium. ‘I’m Professor Jackson River and I’m in the same Criminology Department at Berkeley as Wauhope,’ he declared. ‘I’m here to demand that the National Time Administration send back one of their marshals to right this injustice. Coyote Jack is innocent!’
    â€˜If you people feel so strongly,’ replied Wauhope snidely, ‘why don’t you just hire one of the new Time Investigators?’
    The audience tittered.
    River shot a derisive eye at the three of us. ‘Hired guns … Paid too much to do their jobs. Let the National Time Administration pay for their own government’s mistakes!’
    As River locked his gaze with mine, his startling blue eyes widened. As though he was surprised. No. It was more like he recognised me …
    â€˜If you can’t afford to hire a Time Investigator then it’s case closed, River,’ snarled Wauhope. He shot a meaningful look at his assistant in the front row. The assistant jumped to his feet and headed for the rear exit.
    â€˜Not by a long shot,’ snapped River. ‘I have evidence …’ He stumbled over the last word. ‘Or at least I will have it soon. There’s a