“Thanks for telling me ahead of time. Is there anything you don’t know?”
“There are many things I do not know,” Caesar answered, and Coyote laughed at him.
“I think we found our guy.” She pointed at one of the tables, where a man with a friendly face and a handsome moustache stared into his drink. Coyote and Caesar sat down at either side of him, and she waved at the barman to come take her order. The man hurried to their table.
“What can I get you, Coyote . . . Ma’am?” Bill asked. His freckled hands betrayed his nerves with their wringing motion. The barman made a little respectful bob, as if he were meeting a queen instead of taking an order. She turned to him and smiled.
“My friend and I would like some whiskey,” she answered. “And please don’t give us any of that stuff you’ve tampered with. I don’t want Tanglefoot or Tarantula Juice or any of that nonsense.” Bill nodded, stumbling over his large brown boots as he ran to fetch a bottle.
The barman’s hand shook a little when he poured their drinks. He tried to hide his nerves, but almost dropped the bottle. Coyote forced herself not to laugh. The barman groveled a little more, paid them a trivial compliment, and then scurried back to his bar.
She chuckled under her breath, enjoying the effect she had on the poor man. Around her, she saw the patrons glance anxiously in her direction. Coyote’s reputation had preceded her again. Her being a female bounty hunter made men nervous. Her being an official made them wary. But her being the best gunman, or in her case, the best gunwoman around, made everyone downright jumpy. The popular consensus was that women shouldn’t be allowed to be bounty hunters, but it was rare for anyone to voice that opinion around her these days. It had taken her several years to build a reputation, which started with her being the daughter of Wicked Will Webb, but a reputation was something that stuck around once you’d earned it.
Coyote turned her attention to the man at her table. “Mister Pinkerton, always a pleasure.” She tipped her derby and flashed him a different smile, one that spoke of business and courtesy.
“Miss Webb.” He nodded, but did so with respect.
Coyote noted Pinkerton’s stern face. He was a serious man, and his face was like sun-browned stone. His eyes were kind, though, and she knew it didn’t bother him that she was a woman. He was a professional, and all he cared about was working with the very best.
“We’ve been over this, Mr. Pinkerton,” she scolded. “People I do business with call me Coyote.” There was a mocking sparkle in her eye. “You have a job for us.”
It wasn’t a question. Allan chuckled and pulled a drawing from his coat. He unrolled the thick paper and handed it to her. The face of the ugliest man she had ever seen stared up at her from the page. His face looked like that of a weasel with a bad haircut.
“Handsome,” Coyote quipped. “How much is Prince Charming worth?”
“Two thousand dollars.”
“Big catch,” she said, and she pushed her derby back slightly with her thumb, as was her habit. Coyote leaned back in her chair and whistled. Caesar, who sat next to her, did not bat an eyelash.
“Very big catch, this . . . ” She scanned the printed name beneath the uncomely face. “Alfonso Martine.” She raised an eyebrow. “Unusual name for an Outlander.” Her eyes fixed on Pinkerton to see his reaction. Pinkerton met her gaze, but he flinched all the same.
She gave Pinkerton a crooked smile, a corner of her mouth pulled up, creating a little dimple in her soft, tanned cheek. Without breaking eye contact, she handed the drawing to the silent Caesar, who pulled the paper from her hand and studied the face that stared up at him.
“Caesar?” Coyote looked away from Pinkerton and tried to read her companion’s face. As usual, she found that difficult. His features lacked all forms of expression and presented nothing more than a blank stare.
Her slender fingers pulled a silver box from the inner pocket of her coat and picked out a cigar. Without much ceremony, she bit off the head. The tobacco scraped against her teeth and poured in little specks on her tongue. She spat out the head and lit the cigar.
The scent of the smoke soothed her. She liked the feel of the tobacco leaves against her lips, like being kissed by a comforting friend with rough, dirty lips. A nice cigar was appropriate for so many occasions, and one of those was the start of a profitable deal. And this, she knew, was going to be a good deal.
“His real name is Qu’arth Slevanko.” Pinkerton’s eyes darted around the saloon while he spoke, though he kept his body still and inconspicuous. Coyote admired the man and his regal posture. He’s a lot more cunning than he lets on. The saloon was empty except for the curious bartender and three drunken customers out of earshot. Pinkerton threw the barman a warning look, making it clear that the beer-slinger ought to keep his distance. From the weary expression on the man’s ruddy face, he understood what Pinkerton wanted from him. He was probably glad that this place, like most saloons, was quiet during the afternoon hours. There would be no trouble. Pinkerton was the sort of man who abhorred trouble. Most lawmen were. Coyote, though she often mingled with the law, still liked a little bit of trouble now and then. She liked to play her own game and felt no qualms about rubbing people the wrong way. Yet she respected Pinkerton and was willing to play by his rules. Up to a certain point.
“What kind of Outlander is he?” she asked, motioning in the direction of the warrant poster in Caesar’s hand. A ring of smoke freed itself from her soft, shapely lips, hovered in the air, then grew larger and larger until it dissipated.
“A different species from the ones we have encountered before.”
“Crimes?” Coyote gave him a hard stare, and her eyebrows furrowed together at the bridge of her nose. She had a rule, and was unrelenting when it came to it: She only hunted Outlanders that were guilty of a serious crime.
The Pinkerton Agency was the largest of the U.S. fronts for the IAAI, the International Agency of Alien Investigation, which killed all Outlanders, without exception. Under their cover of a prestigious private investigation agency, the Pinkertons were famous throughout the whole country. Everyone knew of the prestigious agency. They had a lot of authority and often quipped that they were the law. No one argued.
Not every Outlander posed a direct threat, but the IAAI refused to take risks. Their agencies had a lot of connections, and they were tied to several bounty hunters. There were a few special hunters the agencies particularly liked to work with, the kind who knew the ins and outs of the trade, and Coyote was one of those hunters. She never failed her assignments, no matter how tough her foe was. There was only one disadvantage to working with her: She played by her own set of rules. She knew that not all Pinkerton agents appreciated that, but she and Allan understood each other well. She was quite stubborn, and the agency knew she would turn a job down flat and charge a hefty fee for wasting her time.
Pinkerton nodded gravely. “I wouldn’t have called for you if this guy wasn’t a danger.”
“Good.”
“At first, he only killed cattle, young cattle,” Allan said. “Baby cattle.” His voice was low, and he looked from Coyote to Caesar and back again. “But it seems this creature has a craving for anything young.” He paused for dramatic effect, and then added, “Likes children too. Very young children. Anything under four.”
It was enough to draw her in. A familiar heat burned in her mind and flashed under her skin, warming her cheeks with anger. Her eyes aflame, she leaned toward him. She didn’t want to miss a single word he had to say. In her mind, she already had a bullet with the name Qu’arth Slevanko on it, but Coyote saw something on Allan’s face, a glint in his eyes that told her he had something to sweeten the deal, to make her really want this job. He sat up straight and tweaked his moustache with the tips of his strong fingers. Coyote watched the hairs roll between the callused digits. He has the hands of a hard-working man, she noted.
“I’m also told that Alfonso Martine is part of the James Westwood crew,” Pin
kerton said in a low, conspiratorial tone. “Mr. Westwood located the Outlander and took him under his wing several weeks ago.”
The muscles in her face twitched, and he must have seen her flinch. The long dark lashes that crowned her eyes fluttered slightly. He kept his face straight, but she could almost see the inward smile of victory. He’s got me.
Westwood was Coyote’s Achilles heel, and she hated that it was common knowledge.
“You don’t say,” she said softly and slowly, with an edge of danger to her voice. She snapped the piece of paper from Caesar’s hand. He looked solemn, but he did not protest.
Coyote could feel Pinkerton’s eyes on her, watching her intently as she examined the picture more thoroughly. She sucked in her lips so that her mouth was nothing more than a thin line. Anger ate away at her, and her heart pounded in fast, heavy beats. She extinguished the cigar, which suddenly tasted flat and bitter.
“So he’ll be here in Indiana? He won’t have left the state?” She was short and to the point and no longer showed any of her flirty gestures or smiles. When Westwood was involved, Coyote’s blood ran cold. Pinkerton answered her question with a nod. A sigh escaped her lips, and she handed the paper back to him. Her agitated fingers played with the rim of her derby. “Has there been any evidence of rips outside of Indiana?”
Allan shook his head, and he was about to speak when Caesar stirred. Allan looked at him in surprise. It was as if he shifted in and out of the shadows, and it was difficult to remain aware of his presence. Coyote was used to this; she had a sixth sense to where Caesar was, but she could tell it made Pinkerton nervous.
“Indiana is called the crossroads of America,” Caesar said. “Many people do not know there is a spiritual meaning behind that name.” His dark hands, with skin dry as old, cracked leather, moved as if he were trying to weave his words in the air.
“The veil of reality is thin in Indiana,” Caesar continued. “There is much magic there. The rips occur easily at those thin spots in the fabric.”
“I don’t know anything about magic,” Pinkerton said. He coughed in his fist and cleared his throat. The subject of magic clearly made him uncomfortable. Coyote knew that most men found Outlanders weird enough to deal with, and magic was a subject that did not work well with lawmen like Allan Pinkerton. “But I do know that Indiana is a place of many rips, and their frequency seems to be increasing. The IAAI has been investigating a lot of them, and we have some records of the Outlanders who pass through them, but it is still unpredictable when and where a rip will appear.”
He scratched his neck, red with the heat under his thick beard, and sighed. “We know so little about the rips, and each time we find one, we find more species of Outlanders.”
“Is there any new information about the other side of the rips? Do we know where they lead to yet?” Coyote asked.
The Scotsman shook his head. “Special agents have entered the rips, but few have ever returned.” He paused a moment, his eyes darting back and forth. Coyote wondered what he was thinking about and what he was omitting from his story. “There are some small realities that we have investigated, some portal dimensions, but that’s about all. The agents who did return often explored rather barren dimensions that didn’t hold much threat. Only one reported a hazardous world beyond his explored rip, and he’d barely made it out with his life. The information we’ve gathered is not enough to indicate where exactly the Outlanders come from. Most rips don’t stay open long enough for our agents to make it back through.” His face was grave, his jaw set, and his eyes half-lidded and dark. Something in the way he said the word “our” made Coyote suspicious. She wondered if there were other agents that might know more.
“The only things we can determine are where the rips have been, and if we’re lucky, where they are at present. That’s it. Everything else is still pretty much a mystery.”
Pinkerton wrapped his suntanned hand around his mug and brought it to his lips. He inhaled the comforting scent of the lukewarm liquid, and closed his eyes for a second to savor it, the soft foam speckling his impressive moustache with little white clouds. Placing the mug back on the table, he brushed away little flecks of foam from his whiskers with a single finger.
“IAAI is working on it, but so far with little result.” Pinkerton looked a little deflated, as if he wished he had more information to share. He’s not telling me everything, Coyote thought. I wouldn’t tell me everything if I were him, either.
“Shame,” Coyote muttered instead of sharing her thoughts. “Looks like Westwood’s people might have one up on IAAI.” There was a little twitch at the corner of his nostril, and she could see she’d hit the lawman where it hurt.
“Perhaps,” Pinkerton said cautiously. “I can assume you are taking the case, then?”
Coyote sat back in her seat and pulled on her derby, trying to hide a smile.
“Was there ever any doubt?”
A WARM WELCOME
White men knew the beautiful pastures of Lafayette as “Indian territory,” a place that held much mystery for the paleskins. Most men heeded the warnings and stayed clear of the region, taking the less dangerous but longer paths. Most, but not all. Coyote and Caesar rode at ease through the green grass of Lafayette. They steered their horses fearlessly through the alluring landscape without a care in the world. In white man’s territory, they raised suspicious glances, but here in Indian country, the natives never looked twice.
Perhaps it was because they were such an odd pair, a white woman travelling with her dark-skinned male partner, that they found a common ground with the Wea Indians, the guardians of this particular piece of land.
The surroundings were beautiful, the area carpeted in waves of emerald green pastures and complemented by the light during the day. As the sun set, it cast the land in a veil of pink and orange.
A village nestled between the green slopes, a welcome sight to the weary travelers. As they drew closer, a group of grinning children ran out to greet them, jumping and shouting, running along with the horses and providing escort. Their naked bodies bumped into each other as they all tried to get closer to the woman and her companion.
Tokala himself, the much-revered shaman of the Wea tribe, greeted them. “It has been many moons since your last visit, Coyote.” There was no scorn in his voice, only warmth. He was a tall man, taller than any of his tribe, and his long, black hair flowed past his shoulders. Colorful beads and feathers adorned his ebony locks, and his robe was equally decorated.
Coyote climbed off her horse and hugged her long-time friend. The shaman’s arms were strong and welcoming. He held her eyes for a moment and gave her a warm smile, then he turned to Caesar and gave him an equally heartfelt embrace. Caesar shot the shaman a shy smile. Coyote enjoyed watching their moment together, knowing there were few people outside of her and Tokala that Caesar would hug, or even touch.
“It is good to have you in our midst again, Caesar.” Tokala’s voice was deep and kind.
The boisterous group of Wea children continued to run around the newcomers, shouting gleeful words of welcome in their native tongue. Taunting fingers touched and squeezed them, pulling at their clothes. One curious little girl with large brown eyes and a sharp nose tried to peer into Coyote’s saddlebag. She gently pushed the girl aside then undid the straps of the heavy leather gear.
“Our stay will be brief, Tokala.” Coyote grimaced, her tone resolute. She regretted being so short with her old friend, but she had no time for social engagements. “We’re hunting.”
“I see.” There was a hint of regret in the shaman’s voice. “I wish you could stay longer. Your visits are too far between.” He folded his hands together, resting them on his muscular stomach. “I assume you have come for my advice?”
Coyote nodded, pulled her saddlebags off the black horse, and handed the reins to a young Wea, who patted her mount gently on the neck. Caesar followed her lead, and a second Wea took the brown mare from him. The horses were at ease with th
e Wea, as they had been here many times before, and even the willful Shenanigans let the young man guide him away without trouble.
Tokala led them through the small village. Advancing age had not yet robbed him of his proud demeanor or stooped his shoulders. The air was thick with scents of fires and food cooking, and Coyote’s stomach rumbled. A group of longhouses stood in the midst of a clearing, made of poles with strips of intertwined bark to make them weatherproof. They looked a little like elongated woven baskets with colorful, strong scented flowers decorating their outside walls.
The tribe gathered in a cluster of curiosity to see the outsiders. They parted for them, calling out melodic greetings and waving with enthusiasm. The children walked with them, holding their hands or clinging on to the hems of their shirts. A little boy with a naked bottom and a coarse shirt pulled on one of Coyote’s long blond braids. She shot him a scolding look, but followed it with a friendly wink. After they had passed, the children still in tow, the adults fell in line and followed.
Tokala led the jolly procession to the center of the village, where Coyote and Caesar were greeted by Chief Little Fox, the Wea’s patriarch. He appeared frail—a small man with a worn face—but Coyote knew looks were deceiving. A few years ago, the chief had traded his traditional headdress for a bandana and a top hat. His appearance always made Coyote smile; it was a pleasant mixture of tradition and modern fashion. Chief Little Fox was clearly glad to greet them. He was one of the most hospitable people they had ever met.
He wrapped his wrinkled hands around their shoulders and embraced Coyote and Caesar, welcoming them once again to his tribe.
“You don’t come see us enough,” he scolded, his wrinkled face spreading in a wide smile. He spoke to them in his native tongue, which Coyote spoke fluently but Caesar could not understand.
“We’re only here for a short visit, Chief. Our business is urgent, I’m afraid.” She squeezed his bony shoulder. “We leave come morning.”
Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) Page 5
