“Now, now, Sam . . . that’s no way to treat an old friend.” Her eyes skimmed across the bar. It was clean, not spic and span, but cleaner than most saloons she’d been to. Sam showed his profits by donning the place in second-hand luxury gadgets, and everything from the bar tap to the metal servant playing the piano seemed to be automated. Yet there was no consistency in the bar’s look. Everything was a mishmash of things, confusing the senses. At the same time, it suited the clientele perfectly, since they were a mishmash of people too. From rich to poor, Coyote had seen all sorts of the social ladder frequent Savage Sam’s Saloon.
“You ain’t my friend, you limey harlot.” Sam got to his feet, puffed out his barrel chest, and sucked in his drooping gut. He shot Coyote a menacing glare, but she just smiled sweetly and lit a cigar. She blew the smoke in his face and chuckled as he grimaced.
“I consider you a very close, personal friend of mine, Sammy.” She looked at him from underneath her hat. Her lips wrapped around the thick cigar and puffed.
She sensed Caesar’s presence behind her without even looking at him. She appreciated his protective stance, since there was no telling how some men reacted to a female bounty hunter or her crass manners. Coyote wasn’t exactly loved by all.
“I told you to git,” Sam spat. “And take that nigger with you.”
Coyote’s mood darkened, her smile wavered, and she scowled at the flabby bartender. She tried to conceal her fury behind a forced smile, but she couldn’t fool Sam one bit. The worry was clear in his face; his cheeks turned the same color as his hair, though his eyes burned with defiance. Her poker face failed her, and Coyote silently cursed her temper.
“That’s not a very nice word, Sam.” Coyote’s voice became low and menacing, while her hand played with the butt of her gun. “You might want to apologize to my friend.”
“I, I’m sorry,” Sam stuttered, eyeing the weapon on her hip. As a reflex, he rubbed the thumb she had wounded in the past, and he looked like a man who feared that he was going home with an extra hole in his head. His puffed-up chest deflated a little, the moment of courage evaporating before her eyes. Sam was mean spirited and sharp of tongue, but he was also a coward.
Caesar nodded at the apology. The degrading words hurt her more than they hurt him. She wondered if Caesar even really heard the insults, or if he had armored himself against people like Sam. Perhaps their opinions could not get through the impenetrable fort he had built up in his mind. It was hard to read his thoughts, as his face was a blank mask in these situations, and Caesar just appeared to make himself small when he dealt with ignorance and hatred. If only she found it as easy to let go, but Coyote struggled to let anyone insult the man she held in such deep regard. She eyed the frightened barman and felt her temper cool.
“That’s better.” Coyote forced sunshine into her smile again, as if the anger she’d expressed seconds before were just an illusion.
“What do you want, Coyote?” Sam sighed deeply, and his shoulders drooped with defeat. The lines under his eyes were more defined now, and he looked weary. Silence filled the saloon. It was early afternoon, so there weren’t too many patrons around. Coyote knew that this little encounter would have been a bigger deal to Sam if the saloon had been filled with its nightly clientele. She’d timed her visit accordingly. Coyote held no love for the man, but he was a good contact to have, so she had some consideration for his business despite the fact that she felt extremely gratified when teasing him.
She gazed at the people who sat around the mismatched little tables and realized all of them were there to conduct business that could hardly stand the light of day. The presence of a bounty hunter left everyone perturbed, and Coyote could see the flighty looks on the patrons’ faces. In reality, she cared very little for their conduct. She did not hunt human criminals, and Coyote was no saint.
“I want two things,” she said, holding up two gloved fingers. She sat back on the bar stool and sucked on her cigar, still holding up the two fingers. With a satisfied puff, she exhaled a thick stream of smoke, obscuring Sam completely behind a grey cloud.
“I need information about a man called Alfonso Martine.”
Sam flinched involuntarily, a shudder that only the keenest eye could detect ran over his body, and his lip curled slightly to reveal his loathing for her.
“You know him.” Coyote shot forward and gave Sam a wry smile. As pleased as a fox in a henhouse, she blew a smoke ring into the air, which hung still for several seconds before it dissipated. “I’m so glad.”
“I don’t know anything.” Sam spat on the floor. They stared at each other for several silent seconds, and she could see his air of bravura crumble for a moment, but he regained himself quickly after shooting a nervous glance at the patrons who stared at their conversation.
He has to stand up to me; otherwise, he will lose his shifty clientele. He doesn’t want to be seen as a snitch. Sam can’t uphold with the likes of me. The law has no business in this saloon.
“That’s a real shame,” Coyote leaned forward again. “You see, friends tell each other everything, especially best friends like us.” The smile on her face froze, showing not a hint of mirth whatsoever. Not going to play with you anymore, Sammy boy.
“I ain’t your friend,” Sam repeated. His voice weak, and his Adam’s apple wobbled behind the fatty flab of his throat.
“That would be a shame too,” Coyote said, taking another long drag of her cigar. She pretended to be contemplating his words. Her face cocked to the side when she spoke to him again.
“You see, I thought you were my friend,” she mused, “and I would never betray a friendship.” She placed her empty hand on her chest to emphasize her words. Her eyes were large and round, and she feigned her face into a mask of heavenly innocence.
Sam clutched onto the bar with his hands, his eyes bulged slightly, and he looked at her with the expression of a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
He’s bracing himself. Coyote smiled inwardly, but outwardly she kept her expression cool, with a hint of disappointment.
“For example, I would never tell the Pinkertons that Savage Sam’s is the place to find Outlanders. Or that Sam Savage deals in Outlander weapons and artifacts, even though he knows that it’s illegal to do such a thing without a license.” A wicked smirk played on her lips. It was crooked, and she knew others found it either completely terrifying or attractive.
“But if you say that you’re not my friend, well . . . ” She held up her hands, her cigar dangling between her gloved fingers, and her face was a calculated expression of innocence and martyrdom. Their eyes locked in silent battle. A bead of sweat dropped down from Sam’s red hairline and disappeared into a thick sideburn.
Sam relented, and lowering his head, he whispered, “Alfonso Martine is Westwood’s man. They are in Angel Camp. Westwood is setting up shop there.” He leaned on the bar, his face pained. Then he looked up at her, his thick brow furrowed, and he spoke between clenched teeth. “Now get out of my bar. I told you all that I know.” He pointed toward the door, his finger trembling. There was a nervous eagerness in his gestures to get her out of his saloon, but Coyote wasn’t done with him yet.
Coyote wagged a finger at him. “Not quite ready to leave, my friend. Our business isn’t yet complete,” she purred. “There is a second thing that I need from you.”
Behind her, Caesar stood still as a statue while a few of the patrons made their silent exit, most likely hoping they wouldn’t be noticed. Coyote was aware of their retreat. In fact, she preferred it if they left, since that would keep Sam’s attention focused on her. Fewer watchful eyes would give him the opportunity to speak more freely, so if it were up to her, everyone would make their way out.
Sam’s eyes followed the fleeing customers, the corners of his mouth sagged, and his brow furrowed in frustration.
“You’re killing me here, Coyote,” Sam begged. “You’re chasing away my clientele. This is not the place for a bounty hunter. Yo
u’ll put me out of business.”
She put the cigar back in her mouth and leaned over the bar. With her gloved hand, she patted his cheek with a condescending tap. She couldn’t feel his scruffy cheek through the warm leather, but his eyes blinked at her touch.
“I’ll be out of your hair in no time, Sammy darling,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
“What do you want?” Sam threw up his hands, whining with frustration. The stink of his body odor assaulted Coyote’s nostrils.
“I need to know where to get a particle beam pistol.”
There was that twitch on his face again, and Coyote could barely contain her mirth.
“Why, Sam . . . ” Coyote’s voice was high with unexpected delight, “it looks like you might know where I can find one.”
“Damn you straight to hell, woman,” Sam cursed. His flabby cheeks wobbled in indignation. The flat of his hand banged on the bar. More pearls of sweat glistened along his flaming hairline, and his bushy sideburns looked all tangled, giving him an unkempt appearance.
“I can pay.” The smile on her face faded. “I can pay more than it’s worth.”
From underneath her coat, she pulled out the necklace Tokala gave her, and she dangled it in front of Sam. The barman’s chin rested on his thick neck, and he stared at the crystal. His mouth went ajar, showing parts of his yellow teeth. It clearly took the barman a few seconds to compose himself.
“Is that . . . a . . . a healing crystal?” Sam asked, his voice breathless with awe. “That would get you a trade, no problem. That little item you have there is in big demand.”
There was hunger in his eyes. Coyote recognized the emotion. Greed. The healing crystal could fetch a pretty penny. They were very rare; Coyote didn’t have to be a dealer to know that. He reached out a calloused hand to grab it, but Coyote pulled it away.
“Particle beam pistol,” she said.
Sam hesitated and then nodded. “George,” he called to a young man with a pale complexion, “take over.” George nodded and took Sam’s place behind the bar. He was tall and very thin. Despite his youth, his light blond hair looked almost grey in the lights of the saloon.
Sam waved to Coyote to follow him. Caesar kept a sharp eye on them both.
“I can help you,” Sam said, a gleeful mischief showing in his face, “but it’ll be dangerous.”
Coyote eyed him suspiciously. He’s looking a bit too happy about being helpful.
Sam grabbed a gas lantern and walked to the stairs that led up to the second floor. To the side, set in the wood, was a large metal wheel that he turned with a sweaty grip. To Coyote’s surprise, the stairs creaked loudly and moved slowly to the side, creating a large gap between the top of the wooden steps and the balcony above. The thin layer of sawdust that covered the floor dispersed with the movement, giving off a strong wood smell. Coyote looked at the gap and wondered if anyone up there could be warned in time not to use the stairs.
The hole revealed a door, sturdy and painted black, at the bottom of the stairwell. The side of the stairs cast shadows on the door. Holding up the lamp, Sam illuminated the entrance.
“Your gun is behind here,” he smirked, “Well, most likely, anyway.”
“What’s the catch?” she asked suspiciously. “Why do you look like a cat with a big fat fish all of a sudden?”
He giggled a little, and his stomach and cheeks swayed to the rhythm of the sound.
“Because I can’t let you in unless you roll the dice,” he said. “No dice, no entrance.”
“What unusual rules.” Her eyes narrowed, and she examined him closely.
“There is a rip behind that door,” Caesar said, causing Sam to jump with a start. Her partner had been quiet up until then. “Opening it requires magic.”
“You’re hiding a rip?” Coyote sounded incredulous. The tips of her finger stroked the butt of her gun. “How long has it been here?”
Sam swallowed. There was fear and loathing in his eyes, and his bottom lip trembled. Coyote knew he hated her and was afraid she would expose his lucrative little secret. “This rip has been here for ages,” he said quickly, “longer than I’ve owned this saloon. Savage Sam’s was built around it.” He waved his hands in the air, as if he were apologizing.
“I can’t believe a permanent rip has been under my nose the whole time,” Coyote marveled, thinking how she must have visited Sam’s at least a dozen times in the past years.
“This rip is different. It has rules.” Sam wiped the sweat of his brow with his sleeve. “If you want to enter, you have to roll the dice. You may only enter if you roll snake eyes.” He half turned to face Caesar, who was standing behind them. “That is all I know, I swear. I never went in or nothing.”
Caesar nodded. “Rips can be very magical.” He spoke with a wisdom beyond that of the chubby barman.
“Rolling dice?” Coyote glared at Caesar, hoping he would reveal the secrets behind the dice, but he just returned her stare stoically. A nervous tug to her hat betrayed that she wasn’t as confident as she had been a few moments earlier. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Sam nodded, a little too eager, a little too fast. He almost laughed.
“Yes, you need to roll snake eyes.” With a maniacal grin, he bit his bottom lip and sucked the soft, meaty flesh into his mouth.
“And what happens when you don’t roll snake eyes?” Coyote asked. Sam is playing a dangerous game with me, a deadly one.
Sam contemplated lying, but his pudgy face and his weak, watery eyes betrayed him. Coyote wasn’t about to fall for his tricks. She saw him glance at Caesar, and Sam’s eyes narrowed as he met her partner’s stare. There was no expression on the black man’s face, but his eyes gleamed in the lamplight. There was something mystical about Caesar, something magical, and at that moment, he had a frightening aura surrounding him.
Sam could feel it too. She could almost hear him think the words, He would know, wouldn’t he? That little black bastard? Whatever went on in Sam’s head, he seemed to decide it wasn’t a good idea to pull a fast one on her. Lucky for him, because she was an expert in spotting liars. The barman turned his eyes to her again and the look of smug satisfaction was gone.
“If you don’t roll snake-eyes . . . you die,” he said flatly. The tiniest of grimaces crossed Coyote’s face, and she hoped Sam hadn’t noticed.
“That’s harsh.”
“Only people with a real need throw snake eyes.” Sam chuckled to himself and his body relaxed a little. His hands rubbed against his apron.
“So, you should ask yourself, Coyote . . . is my need big enough to throw snake eyes?” She knew he had added that last part to scare her even more. His expression grew harsh, and cruelty shone through in his smile, but the arrogance backfired on him and Coyote saw through his façade.
There’s a loophole, she thought, there’s always a loophole to these things. She considered the problem for a few seconds, and then she realized what it was. Coyote’s face broke out in a big smile. It wasn’t a kind smile; her heart felt like ice. She could see the fear in his eyes again, and she wondered if he was even more afraid of her because she was a woman.
“So one only throws snake eyes when one is in real need?” She pulled her gun from the leather holster with a disturbing speed. “Your ‘need’ to open that door just became very real.” She aimed the gun at his temple. She wasn’t kidding; if he wouldn’t comply, she would blow him away, they both knew it. Her resolve hardened, and she switched off her empathy.
This is a job—nothing more, nothing less. If I can shoot Outlanders, I can shoot this man.
Fighting tears, Sam trembled and tried to pull his head away from the gun.
“That’s not how it works,” he whimpered. “You’re supposed to roll your own dice. You can’t force someone else to do it.” He waved his hands as if they were strong enough to stop bullets.
“Anyone ever try?” she asked with a smile playing on her lips. He didn’t speak, so she said the answer sh
e saw written across his trembling face, “No.” Coyote rolled her eyes.
“Come on,” Sam begged. “You can’t do this to me. You’re supposed to be the law.”
“You got that all wrong, Sammy, my boy,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I collaborate with the law, but I’m my own agent. Do you really think the Pinkertons are going to give a hoot whether or not I kill a lousy bartender?” She shook her head. “They just want their Outlander.”
“This isn’t fair. I’m an American citizen. I have my rights.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “You can’t just come in and threaten my life.”
“Looks like this could be a bad day for you, Sam,” Coyote said.
Behind her, the last of the customers ran out of the bar. Coyote doubted any of them would alert the local sheriff to come to this man’s aid. This was the kind of place where no one saw a thing if you got shot, even if they looked you straight in the eye as you took the bullet. At this moment, Sam emanated nothing but hatred for the place.
Coyote almost felt sorry for him, but then she thought of the Outlander who ate small children, and of Westwood. Her heart turned to stone. If she could avoid shooting this man, she would like that. But if this rip could only open with magic, there would be rules. And in order for him to have a real need, Sam’s life would have to be in danger. She had to mean it. She had to be willing to shoot him. And she was.
“George?” Sam’s voice quavered, and the depth of his fear sent chills running down Coyote’s own spine. George was no longer standing behind the bar, but she did spot a door to what she assumed was a private room, and there were the shadows of movement inside.
“George, where the heck are you?” Sam cried, and this time the nervous man appeared in the door opening.
“Yeah, Sam?” His voice was high and a bit squeaky.
“Bring me the dice.” A droplet of sweat fell from Sam’s brow and mingled with his tears.
George stood perfectly still for several seconds, frozen in a traumatized trance, like a hare caught in a beam of light. Then something changed in his countenance and curiosity replaced his fear. His mouth curled in a cruel sense of glee. She realized he wouldn’t be coming to Sam’s aid, either. In fact, judging by the wide-eyed expression, paired with a little smile on the lanky man’s face, Coyote had a strong suspicion George was rooting for her to shoot him. There was a grim satisfaction in his eyes. Maybe he’d be in charge of the saloon if Sam died? Again, she felt a pang of pity for the red-haired saloon owner.
Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) Page 11
