“This is a lucrative business, Outlander hunting.” A smarmy grin spread on his face. “They fetch a lot more than human criminals.”
“They do,” Coyote agreed, “but it’s also more difficult to catch and kill the bastards.”
“Human criminals can be just as dangerous.” Dick adjusted his glasses and shot her a challenging look. There was no malice in his eyes—he just wanted to bait her a little—and Coyote didn’t mind.
“Yeah, humans can be very dangerous, but you can shoot human criminals with human guns.” Coyote adjusted her derby and smiled. She held up her hand, and Dick counted out the bills on her palm.
“You’ve earned every penny, I’m sure.” Dick winked. “Sign here.” He shoved a clipboard with a form in her direction. Coyote chuckled softly and signed the paper with her beautiful handwriting.
“Thanks, Dick. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Sooner than you think.” Dick held up a hand, indicating she couldn’t leave quite yet. “I have a message for you from Mister Pinkerton himself.” He produced an envelope, holding it up between his index and middle finger. Coyote leaned forward and plucked it from his hand.
“Thanks, Dick.” She tipped her hat to him and walked out.
The Red Rose was not the dainty establishment the name led one to believe; in fact, it was one of the more rowdy saloons Coyote knew. No surprise, since Outlander hunters tended to be a rough sort. One had to be, to be brave enough to deal with the creatures that came through the rips. Not everything that made its way through to the other side looked or acted human, and some Outlanders would give the average person terrible nightmares. The hunters tended to drown their sorrows in inappropriate humor and whiskey. As arrogant and rude as the hunters were, the Red Rose was one of the few places where Coyote felt it was safe for Caesar to go. He wasn’t the only former slave among the bounty hunters, and they accepted a black man more than they did a woman. Coyote was always on her guard when she entered the saloon.
Caesar had found them a table near the back, in a dark corner. He had a whiskey waiting for her. Coyote joined him and pulled her purse from her belt.
“Two hundred each,” she said, “And a hundred for supplies.” She handed Caesar three hundred dollars, since he was the one who arranged the supplies.
“You paid Old Man Roberts fifty dollars from your own money for the weapon.” Caesar raised an eyebrow at her. “You should at least get that fifty back.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not like I’m suffering from money problems.” Coyote waved his words away. Bounty hunting had been good to her, and since she didn’t spend much except on the necessary weaponry and low-cost boarding house, she’d saved up a fair amount. Not because she had dreams of one day retiring, Coyote loved her job too much and would most likely die in combat, but it was nice to have some money tucked away should she need it.
“Got a letter from Allan.” She waved the envelope about.
“What does it say?”
“To come see him in two days. He has a job for me.”
“One that he wants to tell you himself?” Caesar raised his eyebrows. “This must be quite some job.”
“That’s what I thought too. Unless, of course, he misses my smile and desperately wants to see me again.” She chuckled and put the letter back in her pocket. “Better go see the man. He wants to meet me in some tavern.” She winked at Caesar, who nodded. She glanced around the room. “Any good stories?” Caesar shook his head.
“Not yet, but the night is still young. I am sure your curiosity will be appeased in no time.”
The saloon doors swung open and a trio of hunters walked in. Coyote turned to face them then rolled her eyes.
“Oh joy, it’s the Anderson brothers.” She turned her attention to her whiskey, but she could feel the trio approach. All three of them got on her nerves, but the worst was Ham Anderson, who believed he was the Lord’s gift to women and that Coyote would one day fall for his charms.
“Why, lookie here.” Ham’s voice was high-pitched and rather feminine, at odds with his burly frame. “It’s our own Charlotte Webb.”
“She don’t go by that name no more, Ham,” Hugh said in his own low, slow voice. Coyote could hear the laughter in his tone. “She got some animal name now. Like puppy or poodle or something.” The three men laughed, and Coyote chuckled.
“I see you were born with an abundance of wit,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes up at them. “Leave some humor for the rest of us.”
Ham cocked his head at her and then sat down right next to her at the table. He pushed his seat a bit closer, leaning forward close enough to give her a full dose of his sour breath and stale sweat. Coyote didn’t flinch and her smile never faltered; she wouldn’t let these men gain the upper hand.
“Still hunting, Coyote?” he asked, placing an index finger under her chin. “Why doesn’t a pretty girl like you settle down, get a good husband she can cook for?” He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m still looking for a wife.”
As quick as a snake, Coyote grabbed his fingers. He was stronger than she was, but she twisted his digits in such a way that his eyes shot open and he fell out of his chair to his knees. The pain was visible in his face, and she held him so he couldn’t retaliate. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Caesar had his hand on his weapon, while Ham’s brothers just froze and gawked.
“I do quite well with the bounty hunting, thank you, Ham,” she said, her voice filled with honey. “I don’t need a husband to cook for, because I’m a lousy cook. Now, I hear your business isn’t doing as well as mine, so maybe you’re looking for a job? I could always use a good maid.” She brought her lips to his ears, her voice no more than a whisper. “Can you clean, Ham? You look like you’d be a fantastic maid.” Then she released his fingers and Ham curled over, his injured hand held tight against his chest. He shot angry looks at his brothers, who just stood around with long, baffled faces. Coyote knew he wanted revenge, but Ham wouldn’t be stupid enough to try anything in here, not with this many witnesses and the risk of being banned from the Red Rose. A part of her wanted to egg him on, to humiliate him, but she thought of Caesar’s words, of how he had told her to be an advocate of peace, and she decided to be kind. Her partner’s face visibly relaxed as she sat back, and his hand slid away from his gun.
“Have a seat, Ham,” she said. “Let me buy you a drink.”
He glanced suspiciously at her, but when she signaled for the bar maid, his face relaxed.
“You too.” She patted the wooden seat to her other side, and waved Hugh and Reese over. Caesar scooted one chair over to make room for them, never speaking a word. When they were all settled, Coyote ordered everyone a round of whiskey.
“You’re a tough woman, Coyote,” Ham said finally. Getting a free whiskey had taken the edge off his foul mood, and he winked at her.
“Got to be in this business, Ham,” she agreed. “Got any news?”
“You were wrong about business being bad.” He looked her in the eye and rubbed his offended fingers. “Things have been picking up in the last few months. Lots of jobs to keep a man busy.”
The Anderson brothers were known to deal with the so-called “little jobs.” The Pinkertons rarely used their services, but there were other smaller agencies that also dealt in Outlander bounties from time to time.
“Been getting some decent jobs too,” Hugh piped in. “That last one was a real big job.”
“Oh yeah?” Coyote pulled her derby back from her eyes, raising her eyebrows. “Tell me about it.”
“We ran across a nest of Zertugl.” It was Reese who spoke, obviously proud.
“Zertugl?” Coyote took a sip of her drink. “Sounds like a German dessert. What are they?”
“You never heard of them?” Reese spoke with a mixture of incredulousness and disappointment.
“Never.”
“They’re vermin,” Ham said. “They can be killed with normal weapons, but you gotta know where to hit ’em.” H
e mimicked the shape of a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pretended to shoot Coyote. “They got this weak spot on the right side of the neck. It doesn’t leave much room for error.”
“I see.” Coyote nodded, her interest waning.
“They’re only little bastards.” Hugh indicated about the size of a medium dog with his hands.
“Yeah, but the problem is there’s so many of them,” Ham said darkly. “They swarm like freakin’ rats. I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemies.”
“Yeah, they got me good,” Reese said, and he pulled up the leg of his jeans. A crisscross pattern of deep, red scars marred his pale skin. “Almost lost my leg.”
“That looks pretty serious, Reese.” Coyote leaned forward to take a closer look. She ran her fingers across the scars, feeling the uneven skin. “These things did that to you?”
“It doesn’t happen fast, mind you. Not like them fish we were told about . . . what were they called?”
“Piranhas?” Coyote offered.
“Yeah, them.” Reese nodded. “The Zertugl don’t have similar sharp teeth. But when you get three of them on your leg for several minutes, they’ll do damage. And I got off lucky; they only got my leg.”
“We saw some of the damage they did. Ate the flesh clean off a person.” Ham drained his whiskey. “Unpleasant little monsters, they are. Pretty harmless by themselves. Can give a nasty bite, like a dog, but that’s it. Get them in a swarm though . . . they get really dangerous. We got lucky, was only about twenty of them. But I hear told that they can come in swarms of hundreds, maybe thousands . . . like locusts.” His eyes were wide and ominous as he spoke, but Coyote knew he was exaggerating. She would have heard of these creatures if they were that dangerous. If they were truly that destructive, they could destroy a whole town. There was no doubt that these creatures could do harm, but she also knew that if they had been a serious threat, no one would have hired the Anderson brothers.
“So . . . ” Ham cocked his head and looked at his empty whiskey glass. “How about you? With the increase in Outlanders lately, you must be pretty busy yourself.”
“I keep myself occupied,” she answered, reluctant to talk too much about herself. “Nothing special though. Last job was a Plzovar.”
Ham whistled between his teeth, obviously impressed. Coyote laughed inwardly. She considered hunting a Plzovar to be a mediocre job, with no real challenge to it. The Pinkertons hired her to deal with the real dangerous Outlanders. The challenge made her feel more alive.
“Made good money on a Plzovar too, I reckon?” Ham squinted at her.
“Why do you ask?” Coyote leaned back and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Planning to rob me?”
“I would do many things, Coyote,” Ham said, his face serious. “I’m not a good man. But I ain’t stealing money from nobody. Especially not from any woman.” She knew he wasn’t lying. There was a code among the bounty hunters. You simply never put your hands on another man’s earned money. Ham wasn’t decent, and he often broke the other code, which was never to hijack another man’s bounty, but he wasn’t a thief.
“Calm down, Ham. I wasn’t accusing you, I was just messing with you,” she soothed, and stretched her arms over her head. “Yeah, I made decent money on the Plzovar.”
“Maybe one day we can catch one of them too,” Ham said wishfully.
“Maybe, Ham . . . maybe.” Coyote stood up, Caesar following her lead, and threw a few dollars on the table for drinks. “It was nice talking to you gentlemen, but I’m going to turn in. I got a busy day ahead of me.”
THE OUTLANDER
Barman Bill, a fatty man with a ruddy face and freckled hands, spotted trouble from the moment it walked through the swinging doors of his saloon. A few of the regulars sat at little round tables, staring into their glasses, ignoring the newcomer. The stranger wore a long, dark coat, and his suit underneath looked pristine. His reddish-brown moustache and beard were neatly trimmed and showed wisps of grey. Two sharp, blue eyes peered beneath his Stetson, drinking in his surroundings with a solemn, serious glare. His eyes scoured the patrons and the bar, marking the locations of all the exits. Everything about the man screamed “trouble” to Bill, whose regular patrons lacked both the air of authority and the immaculate grooming of this newcomer.
The thin layer of dust on the man’s coat and hat told a silent tale of a long journey.
Strangers always bring strange dealings with them, Bill thought.
Barman Bill felt nervous because the man looked like some sort of official. Maybe a Prohibition Party Officer, what with that trouble over in Michigan regarding the nonsense Chairman John Russell was trying to set up. The man was taking quite a stand against producing and selling intoxicating beverages, and those happened to be the main source of income in Wild Bill’s Saloon. Bill hoped it would all blow over soon, and in the meantime, he would fill his pockets with profits. He slapped the dishrag over his shoulder and walked to the table where the newcomer took a seat.
“What can I get you, stranger?” Bill asked. He wiped the table and smiled courteously at the man, who in turn ignored him and removed his hat. With a gloved hand, he gently wiped the dust off the top and the brim. Bill watched, hypnotized, following his new patron’s every movement. There was something about this stranger that irked him; he was just too damn neat and too damn cocky. Bill fidgeted with his apron, forcing a jovial smile, and waited for the man to speak.
The stranger placed the hat on the table and took off his gloves. The smell of the road, the scent of dirt, rain, and fresh air, clung to him like a pungent cologne. He produced a white handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe the dust from his face.
A little muscle twitched in Bill’s face and caused his cheek to tremble ever so slightly. Who the hell did this prissy stranger think he was, acting so disrespectful?
The stranger replaced the handkerchief in his pocket, and his large hand patted his thinning hair. “Just get me a beer,” he finally said. His voice was deep, with a hint of a Scottish accent.
Bill nodded, relieved and agitated at the same time. With slumped shoulders and a heavy tread, he walked back to the tap with an instant feeling of fierce dislike for the stranger.
With his back turned, Bill dropped the jovial barman charade. His smiling eyes looked sour, not friendly at all, and the corners of his mouth twisted with contempt. He didn’t like it when someone looked down on him as a lesser creature. Bill could have made a big deal out of the stranger’s demeanor, mocked him in front of his customers or treated him with equal indifference, but he’d been in the business long enough to not let his temper get him into trouble. He considered spitting in the stranger’s drink but thought better of it. Instead, he tried a charm offensive. With an inaudible sigh, he twisted his face back into a pleasant smile as he returned to the table and set down the beer.
“You’re not from around here.” A thick layer of foam spilled over the rim of the cup in thin, long streams.
“I’m not,” the man said. “I come from Dundee, Illinois.” He put the mug to his lips and looked at Bill.
“You don’t sound like you’re from around there either.” Bill saw the man’s lips curl into a smile behind the mug, and could tell the man was warming up to him. No one could resist a good barman.
“I was born in Scotland,” the man confessed. He put the mug down. “The name is Allan Pinkerton.”
Bill nearly swallowed his tongue. He knew this man was trouble! A lawman. And not just any lawman, like a sheriff or a deputy; this man was the law everywhere in the whole country.
“I’ve heard of you, friend.” Bill shot the man a sickly smile. “I hope you’re here on pleasure rather than business. This here’s a quiet town. We don’t want no upset.”
“If you don’t cause upset, I won’t come looking for it,” Pinkerton answered in earnest, brushing his moustache with his fingers. “I’m just here to talk to someone, that’s all.”
Bill nodded and returned to his bar.
<
br /> He prayed Pinkerton was telling the truth, because he remembered the last time things went dreadfully wrong.
“This is the place.” Coyote pointed at the sign that read ‘Wild Bill’s Saloon.’ “Does the name sound familiar to you?” She scratched her chin then shrugged. “Have you noticed how we spend a lot of our time in saloons, Caesar?” Her partner smiled and nodded.
“They are good places to deal, Coyote. Safe because of the crowds, and there is often information to be gained.”
“And they have whiskey,” Coyote added with childlike excitement. “Don’t forget about the whiskey.” She winked at Caesar, who shook his head, still smiling. “Wild Bill’s saloon it is.” She pushed the batwing doors open and stepped inside. There were a few patrons inside, and she looked at the pudgy redheaded man behind the bar.
“Oh, look,” she whispered at Caesar, nodding toward the soft-looking barman. “Must be Wild Bill himself.” When one of the patrons called the man over by his name, which was indeed Bill, Coyote snorted. Caesar just shook his head in disapproval.
The barman glanced nervously at her, and she realized she had been in his saloon before. A year ago, maybe a bit longer. There had been some trouble at the time. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten the freckled barman so quickly.
One of the patrons at the time had challenged her to a duel. At first, she had declined. She had no need to prove herself anymore. But things had gotten out of hand, and the man had threatened Caesar. That’s when Coyote had lost her temper.
In the end, the man had to see the surgeon for a bullet hole in his drawing hand. She hadn’t killed him—she didn’t want to kill a human—but she made sure he wouldn’t soon draw a gun again. The barman himself had been terrified, and Coyote saw in his pale eyes that he had remembered her better than she did him.
“Saloon used to have a different name,” she muttered absentmindedly. “Something with a woman’s name.”
“Crazy Annie’s,” Caesar replied. “The lady who owned the place died last year. Bill inherited the saloon.”
Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) Page 4
