They could hear her rummage around, and Coyote bumped deliberately into Caesar, who looked as if he were in some sort of a trance.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
Caesar nodded. “With pleasure.”
A PLEASURE DOING BUSINESS
To his dismay, Sam saw the hunter and her friend step out of the door. No matter how hard he had prayed that these two would never come out of that rip, his prayers had been left unanswered. They had been gone for several hours, and the saloon had filled up quite nicely. Their previous visit hadn’t hurt his business, Sam had noted. Even some of the patrons that had skulked off during Coyote’s visit had returned to spend their money and time in Sam’s humble saloon.
But now she was back, and Sam relived the humiliation he had felt earlier. His cheeks burned with anger as he looked at the attractive bounty hunter. Coyote walked over to the bar with a confident swagger. Her face looked less amused than it had before.
“Sorry about pulling a gun on you, Sam,” she said.
Sam huffed, unwilling to entertain her apology. “If you tell anyone what happened here, it will be the last time we do business,” he spat. He couldn’t get himself to look her in the eyes, and stared at his bar instead.
They both knew she would be back, and despite the bad rep, Coyote made a better ally than a foe. He really didn’t want to piss her off. Besides, she paid very well, and she would occasionally trade some incredibly valuable weapons. He didn’t like her, and she had an annoying habit of disgracing him, but he was still a businessman. He would never turn her away as long as she was convenient to him, but Sam knew if something were to happen to her, he would dance on her grave.
Coyote smiled. She placed a cigar between her teeth and clenched it there.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Sam.” She handed him a purse filled with dollars, something to ease his suffering.
“Not a soul,” Sam said again while his hungry fingers ran through the purse. His eyes twinkled with greed. She does always pay well, though I would have preferred the healing crystal.
“My word as a hunter,” she promised. She pulled the pistol from its box and looked at it with an appreciative eye.
“Now, Sam, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see a man about a horse.”
THE PARTICLE BEAM GUN
The late afternoon sun painted the sky a sapphire tint. Little puffs of clouds interrupted the unending blue with shocks of white, and endless emerald plains made the travelers feel as if they were riding through a jewelry box. The horses trotted languidly through the warmth of the sun. The slow walking caused the riders to sway to and fro in their saddles. With a gloved hand, Coyote shielded her eyes from the light and stared into the distance.
Caesar was quiet as always. His gaze was fixed on the little clay idol in his hand. It was a figure of a woman with a large, flat head and pointy breasts. Once, it had been painted, but time and too much handling had caused the figurine’s paint to wear off. Caesar mumbled a monotonous prayer to the idol.
“Next town, we are taking a break,” Coyote said. She continued to stare off into the distance, hoping to spot a town. “I’m starting to feel a little saddle sore, and I’m out of cigars.”
The latter comment caused Caesar to stop mumbling, and he looked at her.
“That is a bad sign,” he stated. “Really? No cigars?”
Coyote rolled her eyes, shaking her head and fixed her eyes back on the road ahead.
“We are only a few days’ ride from Angel Camp,” he added, making conversation. “Do you have a plan on how we are going to shoot your Outlander yet?”
Coyote kept her gaze straight ahead.
“Hmmm, no,” she said. “I really don’t. Getting near Alfonso Martine—or Qu’arth Slevanko—or whatever the hell his name is, won’t be easy.” She sighed and rested her hand holding the reins on her saddle.
“You will have to face James Westwood again.” Caesar studied his partner. Just mentioning Westwood’s name made her shoulders tense.
“I know,” she muttered, and a sigh stuck heavily in her chest.
“You have faced him before.” His words were soft, but they stung.
“I know.” Coyote let her shoulders hang. A bird of prey flew up ahead, silent and graceful. She envied it briefly.
“Each meeting has led to a defeat.” There was no judgment in his voice.
Her horse reared as she shifted her weight in agitation.
“I know.” Despite her growing show of annoyance, he would not relent. She looked right into his dark eyes. “What are you trying to tell me, Caesar?” she snapped. She grabbed the brim of her hat for comfort. “That this guy is tough? Because I know that. If Westwood hadn’t been tough, he would be dead.”
“I am merely pointing out that this man is your weakness. Your hate for him blinds you.”
In the back of her mind, the faceless voices whispered again: “Did you see it?”
“What’s your point?”
“How can you defeat an enemy if you cannot see him for who he is?” Caesar’s thick, callused thumb rubbed the idol. “People take advantage of your hate for him, Coyote. Allan Pinkerton does, and so will James Westwood himself. You need to listen to the spirits. They want to guide you. Tokala saw it, and I see it too.”
Coyote shifted on her saddle again. Something ate away at her thoughts, and memories flooded her mind’s eye. She was that young girl again, the one Caesar had met years ago, the girl who’d rescued him from a trio of angry white men. He had later told her she was the fastest draw he had ever seen, and she was just seventeen then. Her skills had improved greatly over the past six years, and even the most competent gunslingers feared her.
But she still had a weakness. Hate was something that she could not afford for herself. It was too dangerous. She had to stay focused.
“I want to get this guy so bad, Caesar,” Coyote admitted with angry passion. “I want to hurt him. I don’t even want to kill him. That’s not enough. He needs to suffer.” Her eyebrows met in an angry knot, and her nose wrinkled with anger. “I want to humiliate him.”
“I understand, Charlotte.” Caesar rarely called her by her birth name. “But you can’t make him suffer as long as you are suffering yourself. He owns you, no matter what you do.” He watched her profile as he spoke. Her face was a mask of anger. “You can’t hurt him until you find some emotional distance. Otherwise, he will be your master forever.”
A silence took hold as Coyote looked up at the sky, her eyes following the bird of prey. His words were hard for her to hear.
“I ask you again, what is your plan?”
Coyote reined in her horse and looked at Caesar. “Westwood keeps his Outlanders close, especially the ones he believes will get out of line. I have to figure he’s going to keep this guy close too.”
“That will be a problem,” Caesar said. “Westwood is a strong technomancer. Your weapons are useless near him.”
Coyote nodded, thinking of the last encounter she had with James Westwood. Her weapon had plainly refused to work. Technomancers controlled all firearms, so there was no point in using one. She’d tried fighting him in hand-to-hand combat, but he was just too strong.
Often, she felt blessed being a woman, but when it came to physical strength, Coyote wasn’t a match for even an average man. Westwood had not harmed her, but he had handed her over to the authorities. She was eighteen at the time, so she had gotten off with only a night in the jailhouse and a reprimand. Westwood hadn’t even pressed charges. He called Coyote a confused girl with a chip on her shoulder, which had only fed her anger.
“Come back when your head is cleared,” he’d said at the moment she was being cuffed. “I always have a job opening for a woman as feisty as you.”
His words came paired with a mischievous wink, which made the hair on Coyote’s neck stand on end. Five years later, that moment could still make the bile rise in her throat. That condescending bastard will get his money’s worth of
this feisty little woman, Coyote told herself time and again.
“If we are going to get to his Outlander, we will first have to find a way to distract Westwood,” Coyote mused.
She pulled the particle beam pistol from her holster and looked at it. It looked like a larger version of a Smith and Wesson. It was bulkier, and reminded her of a toy. The metal was a dull black that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Tiny copper tubes were attached to the barrel, giving the impression of gleaming veins. Dark holes dotted the barrel, almost invisible to the eye. There was something sinister about the gun, and it felt heavy in her hand.
“We can’t risk this pea-shooter not working.” She held it up proudly to Caesar.
The black man eyed the weapon with a look of contemplation. “How does it work?” he finally said.
“What do you mean?” Coyote cocked her head and looked from the pistol to Caesar. She stared down the barrel, squinting one eye. “You point it and pull the trigger, I should think.”
She could not think of any other way to use it since the weapon resembled a real pistol, after all. It was a little fatter, and the barrel had those weird tubes, but otherwise it was pistol-shaped.
“You are not sure, though.” Caesar wrinkled his nose. “You have never shot a weapon like this before.”
“Well, no.” There was doubt in Coyote’s voice. Shooting it had seemed so simple before, but now she felt a little insecure.
“Do you not think it wise to test this weapon first?”
Coyote noticed a patronizing edge to her companion’s tone.
“Coyote, you may have some experience with Outlander weapons, but you have none with this one. Do you know what the effect will be? You can’t just randomly fire weapons at people. I expected you to know better than that.”
Coyote sighed, holstered the gun, and steered her horse to the side of the road.
“Fine, Chatty Cathy.” She shot her words at him. Usually, Caesar was a quiet companion, but lately he had an awful lot to say. She had to admit that Caesar was right, but she was not about to take his advice gracefully.
“We’ll test it on a tree first to see what it does.” Coyote pulled a face and jumped off her horse. With big strides, she walked to a large, gnarled tree, kicking up dust as she moved along. Caesar slid off his horse and followed suit.
“I wonder if there are bullets in this thing.” Coyote said. She inspected the weapon, “I don’t even know how many shots I can fire with it. Let’s just hope one shot is enough.” She aimed the weapon at the tree. With one eye closed—her tongue protruding from the right side of her mouth—she pulled the trigger. There was a small trembling sensation and a gentle humming sound as the pistol zoomed to life. Blue light illuminated the holes in the barrel, and Coyote began to fear nothing else would happen. Then a ray of light shot out with such force that it pushed Coyote back a few steps, and she stumbled over her own feet. The light engulfed the tree and then faded. For a moment, the tree looked unscathed.
“Sam Savage, that bastard,” Coyote cursed. “Him and that crazy Oriental woman.” She moved as to throw the pistol away, but Caesar stopped her, pointing at the tree.
It wasn’t very clear for the first few seconds, but there was a smell of decaying bodies in the warm sun. Another moment, and a black stain spread along the bark of the tree. It started from the point where she had hit her mark, and every inch of it rapidly turned black. It looked as if something were digesting the tree before their eyes, breaking it down into tiny particles. The whole thing disappeared in about two minutes, leaving nothing but a strange, mushy substance that both Coyote and Caesar were to afraid to touch. It was difficult to get away from the smell. Coyote uttered a sound of disgust, and Caesar’s dark eyes were round as teacups.
“That is one hell of a particle beam gun,” Coyote said, mimicking the accent of the Chinese woman. Caesar shuddered.
After the test with the tree, Coyote refused to keep the particle beam pistol at her hip.
ANGEL CAMP
Angel Camp was not the sleepy little town Coyote and Caesar had visited five years earlier. Buildings had sprung up everywhere, and they were not the same wooden shacks as in most small towns. These were proper houses.
Every corner of Angel Camp smelled of urban living, machinery, and money. All around, life buzzed and shifted; it breathed. Merchants peddled their wares in the streets, a paperboy shouted the latest news, and a group of children followed an uppity-looking schoolmarm. There was movement everywhere.
A large, expensive-looking saloon sporting the name “The Golden Hound” welcomed patrons with open doors and pleasant tunes. Next to the saloon stood a large, beautifully maintained building, which was obviously a brothel. Painted in golden letters above the door stood the name “Sassy Sally’s,” and young ladies in skimpy outfits on the balcony greeted passers-by with waves and blown kisses.
Across from the saloon stood the Lucky Chances casino, another hotspot in Angel Camp. Lucky Chances was no more than a gambling bar five years ago, but here it was, as big and as fancy a building as anyone could hope for.
It wasn’t the large, primped-up buildings that made this town smell rich, but the technology. Horseless carriages could be spotted everywhere on the streets, driven by reckless drivers who watched the world speed by through their thick goggles.
There were steam-powered bicycles that wobbled through the crowds. Big signs, adorned with glass bulbs that lit up at night, advertised the names of different shops and establishments.
The people dressed in the latest fashions, more colorful than either Coyote or Caesar were used to. Even the men dressed in red, bright green, and purple from the heels of their boots to the tops of their tall hats, which were as unique as the rest of their outfits. The hats of the ladies and the gentlemen sported brass goggles, cogs, and gears, as if technology were a fashion statement.
Coyote felt dusty and old fashioned as she maneuvered around the streets of Angel Camp. She nearly fell off her horse when a man with a metal contraption strapped to his back actually flew past her. For Coyote and Caesar, the noises of hissing engines, clanking metal, and honking horns became a sensory overload after the silence they’d enjoyed on the road. Her breath caught in her throat, and her face was stern in the effort to hide the marvel she felt. Even Caesar looked around in amazement, his mouth agape. They were used to technology, but not in this quantity.
“We should find a hotel first,” Coyote said in a futile attempt to sound aloof, “get settled.” She could not keep her eyes off all the bustling in the streets. It was difficult to concentrate on her own words. Her mind was far away and her voice distant. Caesar nodded, but Coyote barely noticed.
The Silver Swan was one of three hotels in Angel Camp. A large, swan-shaped sign creaked on its hinges over the door, waving back and forth in the light breeze that swept through the town.
“These folks sure like their animals,” Coyote quipped. “They’ve got a hound, and a swan too.” She tried to sound like one of the locals, putting on a terrible accent that sounded more Texan than Hoosier.
The hotel made her a little uncomfortable. It was very narrow and everything about the décor was dainty. It was a feminine establishment, and Coyote sensed her stark contrast against the porcelain flowerpots and the frilly white curtains with little bluebells. The hotel was everything a woman ought to be, elegant and humble, which made it everything Coyote was not.
Caesar undid the saddlebags, and Coyote decided the best course of action would be to go on ahead and get them some rooms. She wondered how people would respond to the color of Caesar’s skin and dreaded a potential confrontation. It was best if she kept a low profile for now, but that wasn’t easy being a famous female bounty hunter who travelled with a black companion. People talked.
Inside, the moderate establishment appeared to be clean and very neat, which was all Coyote could hope for. The lobby had been freshly scrubbed and smelled of lemon and lye. A stern-looking woman with a plain
, long face and eyes that drooped slightly in the corners welcomed her from behind a counter. Her hands ran down the light blue dress with vertical white stripes that looked matronly and out of date but pristine. Strawberry-blond hair, done up in a neat but modest style, framed her face. There were no gadgets adorning her rosy locks, nothing modern or fancy. Everything about her said “old-fashioned lady.”
Other than the sign outside, nothing moved or made noises in the quiet hotel lobby. The silence was a somber contrast to the rambunctious life outdoors.
The lady behind the counter shot Coyote a disapproving look. Coyote rolled her eyes, as this was nothing new. Most women who considered themselves ladies disapproved of… well, everything about her. Her lifestyle and manner of dress were not exactly respected by most people.
“We would like two rooms, if you would be so kind, please,” Coyote said, putting on an angelic face and her most proper English accent. Her heart-shaped lips spread in a darling smile, one of her greatest weapons, and her eyelashes fluttered ever so slightly. It worked. The woman’s face changed, and she reciprocated Coyote’s warm smile with one of her own more modest ones.
“You are from the old country?” the woman asked. Her accent was thick. She pronounced every word slowly and properly, yet Coyote detected a slight hint of Cockney well-hidden under the carefully studied accent.
“Yes, my parents were from the old country. Well, my mother was half New Yorker,” she said. “We moved here when I was eight, but my father never let me forget the accent.” Coyote winked at the woman, and they shared a little laugh as if they understood a joke that no one else could. The woman beamed with pleasure, folding her hands to her chest. Then her eyes widened and her smile froze as Caesar walked through the door. Coyote felt her own shoulders tense. This was the moment she’d been dreading.
“Caesar,” Coyote said, hoping she could convince the pristine British lady to lay aside her judgment, “I see you have tended to our horses. I was just inquiring after two rooms with this fine lady.”
Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) Page 13
