Blake stumbled out, one shoulder soaked with blood. He barley held the shotgun with one hand, blasted it straight over our heads, the buckshot not even coming close. It was enough to distract me, and Harris sprang, one hand going to my throat, the other to my pistol. We tumbled to the ground together rolling in the dust, raising a cloud. Each of us kicked and twisted trying to get some kind of advantage.

The gun ended up between us, and we rolled and he ended on top and I pulled the trigger. The Glock barked, and Harris’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling open, saliva dripping. He strained to say something, but only managed to heave out this sad croak.

“Here’s one for the road,” I said.

I squeezed the trigger again, and he convulsed on top of me. His eyes closed, and I pushed him off. I got to my knees and saw Blake stumbling for me. He was trying to swing up the shotgun into his other hand, so he could pump in another shell, but the twelve gauge just dangled from his grip. He finally managed to pump in a shell. I brought up the pistol, and we faced each other. He looked like he could barely stand, might fall over any minute. He’d lost a lot of blood, and his face looked like chalk.

“Drop it, man,” I warned. “You’re all used up.”

A yellow smile spread across his face. “Toby Sawyer, you dumb half-assed musician pinhead bastard. You’re small time … you’re nothing. You’re walking around dead with a tin star on your chest.”

“I’ll last longer than you.”

He swallowed. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

And then the Mexicans were there. I don’t know how long they’d been silently moving up to encircle us, but they closed in, made a ring around us, men in front, the dim faces of women beyond. Even in the darkness I could feel them, the thick mass of humanity all bearing down like a single thing with one mind focused on Blake.

He swung the shotgun in a circle, stumbled. Not one of the Mexicans flinched. Didn’t even blink. Blake shook the scatter gun at them. “You get back, you wetback fuckers.”

“Who you going to shoot, Blake? They’ll be on you before you can pump in another one.”

“Maybe I’ll save the last shot for you,” Blake said. “That’d be some satisfaction anyway.”

“Big mistake. I can take you into custody, get you patched up. Or you can take your chance with these folks.”

“Listen at you,” Blake said. “Talking like a for real law man. Well, you can shove your protective custody straight up your ass, you ass … hole …” His eyes rolled up, and he toppled forward, his face bouncing off the hard-packed dirt.

We gathered around, watched to see if he’d get back up. He didn’t. I thought he might have kicked it, so I knelt, put a hand on his chest, felt a heartbeat. He was breathing.

“Can you guys try to patch him up?” I asked. “Just until I can send somebody back for him. There’s probably some towels or something in the concession stand. Just staunch the bleeding if you can.”

The kid and Enrique looked at each other, then back at me.

“This man.” The kid gestured to Blake. “He try to kill you.”

“Yeah.”

“Leave him. He will bleed to death. Rats and buzzards need food also. It is justice.”

I shook my head. “That would suit me. I’ll admit it.

But I can’t do it that way. Truth is I think I’d get more satisfaction seeing him hauled back to prison.”

They jabbered at each other some more, and the kid said, “We understand. We are not doctors, but we will do what we can.”

I knelt next to Blake and took his wallet from his back pocket. He had sixty-two bucks, and I handed it to the kid. “I don’t know how far that’ll go, but maybe you can feed everyone. I went back into Blake’s wallet and found a Visa card. What the hell. I handed it over.

“I don’t normally condone this sort of thing, but I suppose Blake owes us.”

“We are grateful,” the kid said, “but we still have no way to contact our people.”

I thought about that a moment then said, “Follow me.”

I went back to Jason’s motorcycle and hopped on, I motioned for the kid to get behind me. He looked at Enrique who nodded, and the kid got behind me, put his arms around my waist. He kept fidgeting.

“Stay still.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll take you to a phone, okay? After that, you’re on your own.”

He told his friends what he was doing, and they all wished him God speed or whatever. I couldn’t translate it, but there were a lot of worried looks on brown faces.

I cranked the bike, and we headed back to town.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I parked the Harley Davidson in front of the police station and climbed off.

“Take this bike down Highway Six,” I told the kid. “There’s a payphone at the Texaco station. They’re not on the same grid we are, so it should be okay. You’ll need to dump the bike as soon as possible. Anyway, call your people, get out of here soon as you can, because in a while this place is going to be crawling with the law. You understand?”

He nodded and offered his hand. We shook.

“Thank you.” He revved the bike and shot away down Main Street. I listened awhile until I couldn’t hear the Harley rumble anymore.

I stood there in the last bit of dark. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to the sudden quiet. Coyote Crossing could seem like a ghost town in an eye blink. Even in the middle of the day. I’d seen it. Two or three people on the street walk inside, no cars. Not a sound, not even a dog barking. And you could stand there and look in every direction and not see a sign of life nor a hint of movement, like even the breeze had died and gone to hell. That’s how it seemed now. Quiet and strange, the thunder of the gunshots and the roar of the motorcycle already fading from my ears. I could almost imagine it had all been a long, bad dream. Quiet.

It didn’t last long.

I heard the voices coming down the side street, two of them. They weren’t talking so loud, but the voices carried. It’s like that at night. Voices will carry a long way, echo off the buildings. I didn’t go for my guns. I knew the voices.

Roy and his pal Howard turned on to Main and ambled in my direction. They were having some kind of lazy conversation about fishing and the new resort over to Lake Skiatook and whether or not they’d be able to borrow a boat from somebody Howard knew. I’d heard about the new resort too, but I didn’t know anybody with a boat.

The conversation cut off suddenly as Roy passed his Peterbilt parked in front of the station. If I’d been one of those nasty kind of guys, a mean son of a bitch at heart, I’d have started laughing. The look on Roy’s face. Like his heart was breaking into little pieces. He stood in front of his battered truck, mouth hanging open, eyes growing bigger by the second. His face convulsed, like maybe he couldn’t decide to sob or scream.

“What. The. Hell.” Roy stepped forward, put a tentative hand on the hood. Almost like he was feeling for a pulse.

I stepped out of the shadow near the station door. “Sorry, Roy. We had some trouble earlier.”

“Some trouble? That’s my Goddamn rig! What the hell happened?”

“Settle down, Roy.”

He wasn’t so drunk anymore and gave me a look like he didn’t want some snotty kid with a badge getting all tough cop. I met his gaze, and he took it. He wasn’t happy, but he took it. I was the law. Whatever hardass thing he wanted to say, he kept it inside his mouth.

“Don’t worry about your rig. We’ll get it reported, and your insurance will handle it.” I didn’t know if that was true, and I sure as hell didn’t know what kind of insurance Roy had or if they’d pay a dime. But I said it all like I meant it. And Roy didn’t need to know quite yet I was the one behind the wheel of his truck when it plowed through the motel.

“Where you gents going?” I asked.

“We figure Wayne’ll open up for breakfast soon,” Roy said. “I need something on my stomach.” He looked at his truck again. “Jesus.”