Be sure to read last month’s prologue before beginning here with Chapter 1: Crow and Coyote
Night covered Los Cuellos like a quilt draped over a child’s pillow fort, allowing only needle-point stars to shine through. Even the faraway moon had turned its face from the earth and the nocturnal predators who roamed out into the dark streets to eat one another.
The parking lot was empty, save for the two struggling men. It was lit by the neon hues of high-up signs. The cracks of flesh meeting bone rang in the night air, nearly rhythmic with the muffled country music emanating from within the Eland Brew House.
Nathan drove his fist down for the fourth time, and still, the brute of a man attempted to get to his feet. Dan Camp bellowed angrily from his hands and knees with drunken ferocity. Nathan released two steadying breaths from beneath the ski mask and hit him a fifth time. He was letting pride get to him and knew it.
Camp was big enough to make Nathan feel uncomfortable confronting him under anything but favorable circumstances. He was a mountain of thick muscle, densely packed and hateful in equal measure. Standing a head taller than Nathan’s six-foot frame hardly made Camp a fair fight — which made things simple: Nathan didn’t waste time on fairness.
He planned accordingly with an appropriately sized baseball bat that Nathan transferred from his off hand into a light grip. He knew he’d taken too long to beat the big bastard down and didn’t need someone seeing anything they shouldn’t.
Before Camp was up, Nathan drove the knob of the bat straight into his broad chin and heard the distinct wet snap of bone breaking. The large man fell backward, his body twisting and flexing as he went unconscious. He was left wheezing, seized, and contorted on the pavement.
Over time, Nathan had become acutely aware that most problems were solved by predominantly three things above all others: a good plan, quiet footsteps, and a thirty-three-inch-long wooden Louisville.
Despite his time away from prizefighting, Nathan was still accustomed to cheers as someone went down, addicted to it; the dopamine still spiked within him, and he endlessly chased that feeling. He missed that part — the winning, but what felt the best, if he were honest, was hurting someone else.
Still, Camp was easily two weight classes north of him, and the big man was a piece of shit, one even Nathan accepted as worse than himself. He grinned beneath the mask.
Despite being drunk and blindsided, Camp had landed a wild elbow sharply to his ribs. Nathan felt the slightest bit of kinship for a fellow brawler, but that quickly evaporated.
He was left with the quiet night air, the condensation of his breath clinging to the threads of the mask, and the pain in his knuckles and ribs. He breathed euphorically, letting the moment sit in his stomach; this part was hard to share with others. A very few understood.
He bent down and searched Camp’s pockets. He kept an ear open to the deserted parking lot in case anyone came around the shadowed corners to find them. He found a small bag of white pills in the man’s jacket and looked at them, squinting in the dim neon light. He hoped they weren’t painkillers or sugar pills and stuffed them back where he’d found them.
From around the corner, he heard the door from the Eland Brew House knock open with a clang, and laughing voices poured out into the night. Nathan moved quickly, leaving Dan where he’d fallen and disappearing between lines of cars in the parking lot.
He was maskless, gloveless, and in the driver’s seat of his Plymouth before the group of drunkards rounded the corner. The bat was safely away in his trunk as he pulled up next to the group, successfully cutting their line of sight from the unconscious man on the pavement.
Nathan’s window was down halfway. He waved and smiled at the group. It was a friendly, unassuming, genuine smile that soothed people’s fears when combined with a handsome face and a nose that was just a bit crooked from one too many rounds. His eyes were pale blue, the color of a cloudless sky, and he used them with every bit of flirtatiousness he could muster.
“Ya’ll need a ride home tonight?” he asked, inviting the group of two women and a man. “Cops are out in force.” His voice trickled like honey-coated gravel. One of the women smiled. The warm ‘my night just got better’ kind of smile.
…
The morning burned bright. Nathan nudged the front gate open with his hip. He yawned, ignoring the sting of his ribs as they expanded. Its hinges creaked obnoxiously, protesting the chilly morning. He balanced a tray of three coffee cups in one hand with a tucked bag of cake batter donuts under his other arm. He wore a new pair of gas station sunglasses; the string and tag still hung from one of its arms over his ear, and its clear sticker was stuck to the corner of the lens. It was a cheap pair. In Nathan’s line of work, it was highly likely that they’d be broken soon, so he made sure the wayfarers were cheap.
As he crossed into Gray’s cozy front yard, the gate clattered behind him. A rusted sprinkler snaked from the side of the house; it sputtered and sprayed water droplets into the fresh-cut grass. The yard was neat and orderly; it played starkly against the reservation desert surrounding it on all sides. In the east, from where the craggy mountains met the desert valley, the sun began to peak over the horizon.
Gray had apparently woken up after Nathan left and decided a good way to appreciate his freedom was to cut and water the lawn. The sprinkler sent arcing droplets into the morning air, producing a faint mist and rainbow between him and the small adobe home.
Nathan’s right hand ached. Though the morning cold did it some good, he’d still wrapped it in a thin bandage and planned on icing it more when he got home.
Nathan spent the remainder of the night after dealing with Dan Camp on Gray’s porch under a thick blanket, nursing his hand with a bag of frozen carrots, until it became numb — then deciding to eat the carrots as the sky began to lighten.
He let his hand hang by his side; dull throbs of pain crested and receded as it swung. His side pinched sharply with every breath that came too confidently. If he were still in his twenties, his body wouldn’t hurt as bad as it did, but twenty-five was ten years ago. The pain was here to stay from now on.
Nathan spent the better part of that morning waiting for the sirens, hoping they’d show up after the frozen carrots had done their work. He expected them to speed down the long dirt reservation road before sunrise and thought he’d already be in a holding cell with his hands zip-tied behind his back and a cop catching his breath after beating him. He didn’t trust his mouth to shut up for the sake of his aching bones.
He was genuinely surprised when the sun peaked over the hills, shone onto the porch, and into his eyes. Unlike Gray, Nathan felt that a better way to celebrate their freedom was with donuts.
He hugged the path’s edge to the front door, avoiding cascading arcs of water, and held up one wing of his black bomber jacket to shield the donuts. The mist hit him in the face like a sheet of ice particles, and he felt the cold on his scalp as the mist coated his wavy, brown-red hair. He fought a shiver as cold drops hit his jeans and soaked quickly down to the skin.
“Afraid you’ll melt?” chuckled a gruff voice from the shady side of the porch.
Nathan let out a puff and then shrugged. “Watering the sidewalk?”
A thin, lanky man stepped up into the light. His trim body made him look taller than he was, though he stood just shy of Nathan. Gray wore a blue flannel tucked into weathered jeans. His skin was dark, aged to the likeness of leather. A brilliantly white and mischievous smile lit his wrinkled face. His silver hair hung down the center of his back in a neatly brushed ponytail. On his right hand, a tarnished silver and turquoise ring glinted.
Gray sidled up to one of two rocking chairs next to the front door and took a slow, measured seat. His worn leather boots resided beside his chair as his sockless toes tapped on the wooden porch.
“You could’ve slept on the couch, not on these rigid bitches. You look tired, Coyote,” said the old man. He pronounced Coyote like actors did in spaghetti westerns, splitting the word into two syllables.
Nathan tucked his head closer to his shoulder and waded through the sprinkler’s arcs. He hopped onto the porch, regretting it as his side seized momentarily and shook his jacket with a critical glare at Gray. Nathan held out the cardboard carrier to the old man.
“You’re excuse?”
“Them old Indians always look tired, and I’m an old Indian now.” Gray pried one of the coffee cups from the carrier and nodded in thanks with a large grin.
Nathan sat in the remaining chair with a harsh sigh. His lids were heavy, and he let them close over his eyes in exhausted relaxation.
“Them donuts,” Gray took a sip from his coffee cup, “They up for grabs too?” he asked, his hand outstretched, expectantly. Nathan handed over the bag, and Gray unraveled it excitedly like a child might’ve. He peered inside at the dozen-in-a-half donuts waiting.
“How’s the hand?” Gray nodded down at his bandaged knuckles, then took a bite of a donut.
“It’ll be great in a couple of days,” Nathan replied through a yawn.
“You did her right by doing what you did,” he said between the pumping of his jaws as he chewed. “You get pink frosted?”
“Yeah, they’re at the bottom.”
“So, I got to dig?” growled Gray. His words were muffled by chunks of donut.
Nathan smirked, “Like arrowheads in the sand.”
Gray muttered something in his people’s language. He was a mix of two Apache tribes and Navajo. He’d never really explained the story behind his parentage. Nathan saw Gray knock a guy half his age to the floorboards of a bar for calling him Navajo trash. After an impromptu and thorough beating, Gray helped the man to his feet and explained, ‘That’s Diné trash, understand?‘
“Hey,” Nathan pointed a finger at him, “We agreed; only shit we both speak. Keep it fair.”
“You’re a smart fella. You’ll learn.” After a moment of thought, Gray shrugged and added, “Or you won’t.”
“Let’s assume I’m stuck in my ways.”
“Your loss; we could talk trash about all those bastards when we head into town. Even the Mexicans will have to wonder what we’re saying.”
“Why do you stir shit up?” Nathan asked.
“On our high horse, eh?” Gray fired back. “I’d say you’re a shit stirrer too.”
“Not on purpose,” Nathan clarified.
“That’s cause you’re cursed,” Gray stated as a matter of fact.
“I’m cursed?” Nathan pointed at his chest. “Me?”
Gray nodded, taking another massive bite of the donut.
“If I’m cursed, then so are you. Make sure you scoot your ass down if you don’t want to catch it.”
“That ain’t how curses work.” Gray dismissed. “You’re cursed; I’m fun — endearin’ — been that way all my days.” Gray rocked back and forth in the chair, then his eyes lingered on the bandage around Nathan’s knuckles. “How was Big-Dan-Camp?”
“Drunk. Didn’t take much,” Nate replied.
“Took enough,” Gray commented as he attempted to poke him in the ribs.
Nathan slapped his hand away lightly.
“Stop,” he hissed, and pain shot through his side. “Laura paid you already?” Nathan asked.
“Half,” Gray answered. “She’ll get us the rest when she knows he’s in the hospital.”
“Smart,” Nathan responded.
“Told me if he walked through that door last night, she would’ve blown a hole through him.”
“Well, knowing Camp now, it’d take about a twelve-gauge to put him down.”
“She’s a good one,” Gray commented as he looked toward the mountains. “Always thought she’d get out of here.”
“She will now — or she should.” Nathan closed his eyes and rested his head on the adobe wall behind him.
“You did a good thing, Coyote.” Gray took a long sip of the steaming coffee. The morning shone in gradients of gold, and though the air was still chilled from the desert night, the sun began to warm them. It promised that the blaring heat would evaporate any hint of night come late morning. “You probably saved two lives last night.”
“Might be just one,” Nathan replied soberly. “Didn’t stick around to check Dan’s pulse.”
Dust trailed in a swirling mass from the wheel wells of a speeding vehicle that came darting down the dirt road. The SUV was branded with the Los Cuellos Sheriff’s Department on both doors.
“So much for not going into handcuffs, Sheriff Grail?” asked Gray.
It parked behind Nathan’s faded blue Plymouth Roadrunner, and then the two waited for the cloud of dust to envelope the yard. Gray covered the mouth of his coffee cup after shoving what remained of his donut into his mouth.
Nathan opened one of his heavy eyelids. The blacked-out windows revealed little of the person within. The dirt road had covered the SUV’s clean, shiny exterior. “Deputy,” he replied. “Grail hates dirty squad cars. Bet?”
“Big time,” Gray smirked.
Nathan dug in the pocket of his dark jeans and produced a ten-dollar bill. He slapped it on the table between them. Gray fished out two fives and tossed them to sit on top of the other bill.
The door to the SUV swung open, and a Hispanic woman stepped out onto the road. Nathan recognized her.
Morales was in her late twenties, a good cop on the surface, and that meant she had an issue with him. He knew her relatively well — as well as a criminal can know a cop. She’d even arrested him once or twice.
“Goddamn-it,” Gray cursed.
A smile tugged at the corners of Nathan’s mouth, and he slid all the bills to his side of the table.
Deputy Morales maneuvered around her SUV and inspected Nathan’s Plymouth. She was short and looked stout in her Kevlar vest. Her dark sunglasses hid her eyes and any emotion solidly behind. Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her face remained a cold, unreadable mask.
“You know,” the Deputy started talking, keeping her attention on the Plymouth; she circled the car like a shark as she spoke, “this car seems to get around to all kinds of shit places.”
“It goes where the road goes, Deputy Morales,” Gray answered, standing. He took slow steps, dusting his hands of crumbs, then came to lean on one of the porch posts. He swaggered like a gunslinger, each movement liquid and relaxed.
Morales removed her sunglasses, revealing almost black irises. Her boots crunched in the pebbled dirt as she maneuvered around to the driver’s side window. She hadn’t acknowledged the old man or Nathan. “Seems to have made it up to the foothills last night,” Morales said. “Funny how the road always seems to dead-end right here at your door, don’t you think?”
“There’s a road that goes up that way?” Gray mocked.
“A few, actually,” the Deputy snapped back. She turned toward the porch. Her eyes paused for a brief second on Gray, then found Nathan sitting quietly in the rocking chair. “How ‘bout it, Nate? Where’d you and this car go last night?”
Nathan stood, taking a sip of his coffee. He snaked his injured hand into the back pocket of his jeans before taking a place opposite Gray. He kept his posture confidently aloof, presenting the kind of attitude that he knew pissed cops off.
“We’ve been all over,” Nathan acknowledged. “Where’d you think you saw it get off to?” Nathan asked with pho-innocence.
“Eland,” Morales clarified, hints of frustration clipping the word short already.
Nathan pointed his cup over at Gray. “Turns out they only serve craft beer and vegan food.”
Gray grimaced as he dug out another donut from the bag. He took an overly large bite and nodded before looking at Morales.
“Not really my kind of place,” Nathan shrugged. “I hit the drug store across the street instead — the — what’s-it-called?” He looked at Gray.
“Murphy’s,” Gray clarified through overly large munches.
“Murphy’s.” Nathan pointed down at Morales. “Eland’s not our kind of bar, Deputy.”
“It’s a brewery,” she clarified in apparent annoyance. “You run into anyone outside Eland?” She focused directly on Nathan without so much as a nod at the old man.
Nathan shook his head and turned the corners of his mouth as if he was considering the question.
“Daniel Camp got blindsided last night,” she stated.
“Well, you go ahead and let us know if there’s any damage to that car; we’re happy to watch you waste your time.” Nathan pointed at the Roadrunner. “I won’t say no to Camp’s insurance putting some money in the old thing.”
She didn’t answer. He could see her grinding her teeth.
“Dan must’ve really tied one on last night, eh? Word is the guy can put ‘em back.”
“You’d know,” Morales smirked.
“I don’t drink anymore, Morales.”
“Not since the last time?” Morales studied him for any hint that her dig at his past had done damage. It had, but he covered that with a swig from the cup, accepting the burn of the coffee as penance. She walked toward them and came to a stop outside Gray’s gate.
“Grail got you collision chasing now?” Nathan commented.
“Assaults and attempted murders, actually. Someone decided to jump Mr. Camp, hurt him badly.”
“Shit,” Nathan feigned surprise, “A guy that size wouldn’t go down easy.” He smiled and let a laugh dance out of his lips. “I’m impressed, Deputy; I’d say it’d take some horsepower to knock that boy down, too.”
“Or a shotgun,” Gray added.
“He alright?” Nathan asked.
“No, broken jaw, split right down the middle, cracked ribs. He ended up spitting his teeth out onto the pavement.” Morales stated accusingly. “Somebody good at tuning people up decided Camp was open season.”
“Damn,” Gray cursed. The old Indian’s eyes were wide as if he weren’t already aware of the assault. “Glass of milk will keep them teeth alive.”
“Tell me why you did it, Nate,” she smiled at him, and he felt the cold feeling prey gets when they know they’re in the crosshairs. “Old-Man-River put you up to it?”
“I appreciate the compliment, but I didn’t. Like I said, I just ran an errand to Murphy’s for this one.” He nodded at Gray.
“That’s a fact?” Morales asked.
“Am I Old-Man-River?” Gray smiled.
“You often make a habit of sending alcoholics on booze runs, Mr. Tall-Knife?”
“Oh, now it’s Mister? Life ain’t easy. Temptations are overcome when looked in the eye.” He narrowed his gaze on her.
“Didn’t see that in the twelve steps. Why’d you stop into the bar, Nate?”
“I thought it was a brewery?” Nathan smiled at her.
“Brewery.” Her smile seemed to sour. “You didn’t step in and talk to Camp?”
“Checked out the menu on the blackboard out front is all,” he shrugged. “Gave some people a ride home who were too drunk to be out on the road. I can get you their names.”
“Good Samaritan, shit?”
“More or less,” he answered. “So, you’re welcome.”
“The people who found him said a car matching the description of your Roadrunner pulled out about the same time they were leaving,” she pointed at his car. “Not too many of those on the road anymore.”
“I did say I was in the area, Deputy. But if I remember correctly, there were an awful lot of people there, or do you come running every time a dirtbag goes near a bar?”
“When I talked to him about an hour ago, he gave me a list of a few people who might want to hurt him; you two are on it,” she said.
“We’ve been on plenty of guys’ lists. We’re what you might call unagreeable,“ Gray offered. “Why exactly would we want to hurt him?”
“He remembers you being at the bar,” she said, narrowing her eyes and pointing at Nathan. “Knows the kind of shit you two do.”
“Talkative for a guy with a broken jaw,” Nathan chuckled.
“No shit.” Gray agreed.
“Tell me why Dan Camp deserved you two?” she demanded in a low, threatening voice and walked through the front gate. “What put you on his scent? I’m not asking again, so answer the question.”
Gray had had enough, and his easy-going demeanor shifted harshly.
“I think he has.” Gray stepped down the porch’s wooden stairs, his feet padding lightly. He stopped with one foot on the path and one on the bottommost step. The old man positioned himself between the Deputy and Nathan. “I think it’s about time this conquistador leaves my property.”
“I don’t think she’s Spanish, Gray.” He knew it was just something the old Indian called all non-natives.
Gray didn’t take his eyes from her; it was a defiant stare.
“They’re all conquistadors. Thinking they can walk this land however and wherever they want. Well, they can’t; that’s protected by their American forefathers now, isn’t it? Good decision by a couple of them fogeys. This here is my property, bought and sold, but more than that — this is rez land. Time to go, Deputy Morales; I’m done entertaining your bullshit. You have yourself a good day, and please, give my best to the other fuckin’ conquistadors.”
Wordlessly, Morales slipped her sunglasses over her eyes. The Deputy’s face never faltered or flinched. She turned, walked back through the gate, and returned to her patrol car. Gray tipped his cup of coffee at her as she drove past the house, continued down the dusty road, and finally out of sight.
“Thought you said you were above pulling the native card?” Nathan came down the steps and looked at the SUV’s diminishing dust cloud. “She’s got to know.”
“It ain’t about what you know, Coyote. It’s about proof. If Dan knew it was you, well, we would be the only people on that list now, huh? Plus, if he knows, he’ll come himself.” He pat Nathan on the shoulder and smiled. “We made sure Murphy turned off his cameras. Eland doesn’t have any pointing at that side of the lot. Sneaky Coyote, it’s how you survive. It was a good plan; trust yourself.”
“Yeah,” Nathan said, worry tinged his voice. “She doesn’t quit, though. I’d rather Grail on my ass; at least he plays by our rules.”
“Yeah, he’s a dirty piece. The only thing you have to worry about is if they acquit Dan for all them drugs he’s got.” The Indian chuckled, then made his way up the stairs and back into the rocking chair. “If that happens, you might actually have to hit him with your car. Laura’s got the rest of the oxi; she’s got to play her part now.”
“He’s still her husband,” Nathan pointed out. “Love makes people do stupid shit, Gray.”
“Love: that’s why Camp beat her up? They’re his drugs,” Gray retorted. “Guy went to Eland to sell that trash. All she’s got to do is point deputy-do-gooder there, in the right direction, and it’ll lead her down that road. Any idea who’s supplying him?”
Nathan shook his head. He took a worried breath inward through his nose. The morning air filled his lungs; his nerves propelled his heart faster in his chest. It ran, padding like desperate footsteps.
“Dan would’ve killed that poor girl eventually. You saw her as good as I did; looked like she’d been hit with a hammer — broke her up, outside and in. You did the right thing, kid.”
“We do it for money,” Nathan said absently.
He remembered her walking through the gate and up to the porch. The giant hoodie she wore covered up the way her body was bruised and cut. One of her eyes was tightly closed, swollen, and purple-yellow from a bruise. She was a tiny thing, short and thin and vulnerable. Nathan thought it would’ve killed her to be hit at all, let alone by someone of Camp’s size.
“Money is money, it ain’t bad or good, and we can’t do what we do without it. I certainly ain’t bagging any more groceries for clean money, whatever that is. You did a good thing; leave it at that.”
“You’ve never bagged groceries.”
“Fair. Don’t worry,” Gray laughed at him as he dug in the bag for another pink donut. “People here know we look out for them.”
“Yeah, I can feel the love,” Nathan retorted sarcastically. He scratched the top of his head. He’d learned to be honest about when he wanted to retreat into drunken numbness with Gray. His stomach swirled like a nervous sea.
“I’m thinking about drinking again, Gray.” The comment was stilted and practiced. They weren’t Nathan’s words; they were just ones he repeated.
“Well, drinking ain’t thinking of you,” croaked Gray. “It’s got others in the phone book to call. Take a breath.”
“You’re not worried, like, at all?”
Gray swallowed, then raised both upturned palms toward the sky. He mockingly closed his eyes and hummed deeply before saying, “The cosmos told me to chill.” He opened his eyes and laughed full and loud.
“Keep making jokes.” Nathan shook his head annoyingly. “One of us needs to be concerned.”
“No, idiot, I don’t worry. Them weights don’t need carrying, they don’t make you stronger, they just wear you down. People know that Dan Camp is a prick who sells poison; he hurts everyone he knows — beats them with those heavy hands he got — and he’s probably killed more than his fair share, too,” Gray argued.
“Isn’t that what I do?” Nathan questioned seriously. He met the old man’s eyes, and the two let the comment sit between them.
“Good point.” Gray smiled and chuckled.
Nathan looked down at the darkened dots of moisture flung onto the concrete walkway. If Camp deserved to eat through a straw and live behind bars, what did he deserve?
He heard the screen door creak open, and his heart sank. He didn’t look up and didn’t turn around. He couldn’t.
“Morning, sweet girl,” Gray shifted in his seat. “The kid brought donuts, look here.” There was no response, but Nathan could feel the searing heat of her eyes on his back. “Come on, how long will you two gonna be at each other’s throats?” Gray asked.
Nathan heard the door close, then the shift and click of the deadbolt. Memories of pain came rushing in on him — those of guilt and screams. He shoved them back down into the box they’d burst from.
“Well,” Gray said after long moments of silence, “the universe might be saying run back home, though, eh?” He stowed the bag on the table and walked down the stairs. “Don’t worry about Ana; she’ll come around.”
“Been almost two years, Gray. Somehow, I doubt she’ll put the guns away,” he replied.
The older man grasped his shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll get in touch with Laura for the money. I got her a junky ol’ Subaru, but it should get her out of the state.” He and Nathan walked to the Plymouth together. “And don’t you worry about Ana either,” Gray said.
Nathan turned back to see him jutting a thumb behind him and back to the house.
“She always drinks the coffee when you’re down the road. You got a good heart now. Got to live that way.” He poked an aged finger into Nathan’s chest and smiled warmly. “I’ll be calling you, Coyote, don’t run too far.”
To be continued next month in…
Chapter 2: A History of Drowning