Coyote Rising by Allen Steele Page B

looked around, found Chris Levin behind her. Two other Proctors were with him; one had already twisted the drunk’s arm behind his back, and the other booted him in the ass. He fell facedown into the mud, muttered an obscenity, then hauled himself to his feet and wandered away.
    “Sorry about that.” Chris paid little attention to what was going on behind them. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
    An odd question, considering what his men had just done to the drunk. “You didn’t need to . . .”
    “Sorry, but I think I did.” He turned to his officers. “You guys continue patrol. I’ll walk her home.” They nodded and headed away. “And keep an eye on the creek,” he called after them. “If you see anything, let me know.”
    That piqued her curiosity; he obviously meant Sand Creek, the narrow river that bordered the two settlements to the east. Chris saw the puzzled look on her face. “Nothing for you to worry about,” he said quietly. “Look, if you don’t mind, I’d like for you to stay with my mother tonight. You may have to skip the fiesta, but . . .”
    “That’s all right. I wasn’t planning to attend anyway.” From what she’d already seen, the last place she wanted to be was at the community hall.
    “I was hoping you’d say that.” He seemed genuinely relieved. “If you want, I can have dinner brought over to you. . . .”
    “I’d appreciate that.” They sidestepped a couple of more drunks swaggering down the street, their arms around each other. One of them bumped shoulders with Chris; he turned and started to swear at the Chief Proctor, then realized who he was and thought better of it. Chris stared them down, then ushered Allegra away. “One more thing,” he murmured, reaching beneath his jacket. “I think you should keep this with you.”
    She stared at the small pistol he offered her. A Peacekeeper Mark III flechette gun, the type carried by the Union Guard. “No, sorry . . . that’s where I draw the line.”
    Chris hesitated, then saw that arguing with her was pointless. “Suit yourself,” he said. He reholstered the pistol, then unclipped a com unit from his belt. “But carry this, at least. If you run into any trouble, give us a call. We’ll have someone out there as quick as we can.”
    Allegra accepted the com, slipped it in a pocket of her catskin vest. “Are you really expecting much trouble tonight?”
    “Not really. Things might get a little out of control once people start drinking hard, but . . .” He shrugged. “Nothing we can’t handle.” Then he paused. “But there’s a small chance that Mama might . . . well, someone might come to see her that she doesn’t want to see.”
    “Rigil Kent?”
    She smiled when she said that, meaning it as a joke, yet Chris gave her a sharp look. “What has she told you?” he asked, his voice low.
    His question surprised her, although she was quick enough to hide her expression. Until that moment, she’d assumed that “Rigil Kent” was a manifestation of Sissy’s madness, an imaginary person she’d created as a stand-in for everyone she distrusted. Certainly there was no one in the colony who went by that name; she’d already checked the roll to make sure. But Chris apparently accepted him as being real.
    “A little.” Which wasn’t entirely untruthful. “Enough to know that she hates him.”
    Chris was quiet for a moment. “He may come into town tonight,” he said. “This time last year, he led a small raiding party up Sand Creek. They broke into the armory in Liberty and made off with some guns, then left a note on the door signed as Rigil Kent.” He shook his head. “You don’t need to know what it said. But before they did all that, he stopped by to see Mama. He wanted her to come with them. She refused, of course . . . she despises him almost as much as I do.”
    “Of course. Can’t blame her.”
    That caused him to raise an eyebrow. “Then you know what he did.”
    She