Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) (25 page)

“Ma’am, I don’t see no Pinkertons around here. In this town, I am the law,” the sheriff bristled, his brown moustache twitching on his fat upper lip, “and we do things my way around here. My way is to hang any nigger who thinks he can shoot a respected citizen.”

Coyote sighed, and her thumb played with the safety of the pistol. Her mind searched desperately for something to say to this arrogant man of the law, but she drew a blank. He was too eager to kill Caesar, and she could see from the contempt in his face that he wasn’t about to listen to a woman either. Especially not one dressed as a whore.

There was a chance she would have to shoot people, and that was the last thing she wanted. She was a great shot, and she would take several of the armed men with her, but she couldn’t kill them all. Nor did she want to; the thought of killing innocent humans because they were led by one bloodthirsty individual made her sick to her stomach. There was nowhere for her to hide up on the balcony. She would be an easy target for any halfway decent gunslinger.

Her heart pounded in her chest. This was impetuous, and she knew it. It wasn’t like her to get stuck in a position where she could potentially lose.

“Sheriff,” a voice called from behind her, “this lady is right. Let the man go.”

Coyote did not have to turn around to know who was behind her.

“Mr. Westwood?” The sheriff grabbed his hat and held it in front of his heavy chest. His body language changed from arrogant to humble. “It was your man he killed.”

“And apparently he was a bad man,” Westwood called back. “I am sorry to hear it; I had no idea. But if Miss Webb here says he was an outlaw, I take her word for it.”

Coyote felt his strong hands wrap themselves around her waist and pull her back over the railing. For a moment, she considered struggling, but she was too afraid she would fall.

“Now, Charlotte,” he whispered in her ear. “No need for a crazy gun fight. I am not quite ready to let you die; I told you that you’re too important.”

His breath was hot and sweet, and his lips brushed softly against the tip of her ear. The cloth of his shirt pressed against her naked flesh.

“If you would be so kind as to untie the bounty hunter,” Westwood said jovially. “I would hate for our lovely town to get in trouble with the Pinkerton Agency.” There was a murmur of voices from below.

“We are the law here, mister Westwood,” the sheriff said somewhat testily, “I don’t live by Pinkerton rules.”

“I understand that, Sheriff, but I would implore you to not murder an innocent man. It would not be good for the Angel Camp reputation.” Westwood’s voice was stern now, and the sheriff slumped his shoulders.

“Let him go.” The sheriff waved his hand at a group of armed men.

Coyote rolled her eyes with relief. Below, she could see two people untying Caesar.

“Sorry, Mr. Westwood,” the sheriff called. “An honest misunderstanding.” He looked at Coyote and reluctantly added. “My apologies, Miss Webb.”

Coyote nodded mutely. Westwood’s strong arms were still wrapped around her, and for a brief moment she felt very close to him. He was part Outlander . . . like her. Something fluttered in her stomach.

“See?” Westwood said softly while he nuzzled her hair. “We can solve this with words, not bullets.”

Coyote’s temper flared, and she pushed him away, turning around sharply. “You don’t get to be my hero,” she snapped at him. And with large strides, she stormed off. She turned around once to see Westwood watching her with a sad smile on his face.

THE WISDOM OF A SHAMAN

Coyote approached the village, her mind weary and drained from accepting Westwood’s truth; she finally knew who she was. Now all she needed to learn was how to come to terms with it. She wondered if she was strong enough. All she had been taught had been a lie. It changed everything and, at the same time, it changed nothing.

She and her companion rode into the village at night. This time there were no naked children to greet them, only the solemn-faced shaman. He looked tired. His posture was not straight, and his thick, black braids were wispy, untidy.

Tokala waited for them to draw close. “I saw your coming in the smoke.”

“You knew,” Coyote said by way of greeting. Her eyes were hard.

Tokala nodded and reached out a hand to her. She took it and dismounted her horse. Her movements were tense and fast, betraying her agitation. “You have probably known from the day you met me, and you never told me.”

“I’m sorry that you had to find out this way.” His apology was genuine.

“You could have told me,” she said, her voice unkind. “I would rather have heard it from you. There were so many chances for you to tell me.” Her hand made hard sweeping motions to wipe the dust off her coat, and she took off her derby and blew on it.

Tokala straightened his back and met her gaze. “You know it is not my task to tell you things. I can only show you the way, but you have to walk your path all by yourself.”

“But you let Westwood tell me . . . of all people.”

“He is your destiny, my child.” Tokala looked at her with his grave eyes.

“Horseshit.”

Behind her, Caesar dismounted his horse. The small man looked different. He’d had a brush with death, and it showed on his face. The shaman and the bounty hunter embraced, and Caesar’s rough hands gripped the shaman’s back.

Quiet nighttime made the village appear abandoned, but nothing was less true. Curious faces peered through the openings of the longhouses, though none dared to come out. Tokala had no doubt forbidden it. He led Coyote and Caesar to his private hut and gave them water to quench their thirst. Caesar drank his fill, his dark eyes looking over the rim of the bowl, his expression weary.

“If you will excuse me,” he said. “I would like some solitude.” Coyote looked at him and mouthed “go.” Caesar glanced toward Tokala, who nodded with approval, and he left the small hut.

Tokala turned to Coyote. “You must find the truth about who you are within you,” he said.

“Horseshit,” Coyote mumbled again. Her words made Tokala smile.

“Your obsession with animal feces will not change that which is true, Coyote,” he chuckled.

She stuck out her tongue to him in lack of a better response. Coyote drank the water and spat on the ground. Her whole body was tense, and she fought the anger that threatened to overwhelm her.

“I can’t believe what happened.” She ran her fingers through her hair, but they became entangled in her matted locks. She grunted softly. “I hightailed it out of that stinking town. I couldn’t wait to leave. I can’t believe I was rescued by
James-bloody-Westwood
.”

She kicked the dirt with her leather boot. “Didn’t even take the time to change out of this ratty outfit. I left all my things at the last hotel.” She opened her coat to show a torn, revealing skirt sticking out from underneath a wide shirt. “I need to put on some trousers.”

Tokala nodded and laughed softly, hiding his mouth behind his hand. “Caesar is alive and well, and so are you. See it as a blessing.” His long fingers played with a beaded necklace that lay heavy against his chest. “Worry about you now, not about Westwood.”

Coyote shot him an angry glare. “I’m going to kill that Westwood,” she grunted. “He damn near broke me emotionally.”

“You needed to know the truth,” Tokala scolded. “Are you still mad at him for saving your life? Twice? Not only now, but when you were younger?”

“I’m not sure that he did,” she scoffed. “He killed my father. There was no proof that my father was going to kill me.”

Tokala looked stern, searching her eyes, but she looked away from him like a naughty child. She knew she was only fooling herself, but she was too proud to admit it.

“He would have, Coyote,” the shaman said, gripping the beads and making them rattle softly. “When you were big enough to be a threat to him, he would have killed you.”

Coyote stared at him, her gaze incredulous. “Oh, now you can tell me things straight out?”

“You already know them. I am no longer bound by rules.”

She knew he was right, but she couldn’t believe he would be so harsh.

“You will learn to deal with this,” Tokala said. “This hatred will pass with time.”

“I can’t hate my father,” she said, her voice sounding childlike and fragile. “He was so good to me, taught me everything I know. He was all I had.” She stared at the clay bowl she was holding. A little remnant of water offered a shadowy image of her reflection. “I don’t believe he killed my mother.” She spat on the ground again.

“You don’t believe, or you don’t
want
to believe?” he asked her.

She thought about his question for a while, thought about the man her father had been. She thought about the cruelties he’d displayed that she had always forgiven because she loved him. And then she answered.

“Don’t
want
to believe.”

“He did not kill you because he loved you, Coyote,” Tokala said. “No matter what you believe, you must know that. You are alive because of his love. He even loved your mother, but his hate was greater than his affection. He would have vented it on you eventually.” He bent toward her. His soft fingers touched the skin of her face and brushed some of the stray hairs away from her eyes. There was something fatherly in his gesture. “And you are far too important, dear girl.”

“Westwood mentioned that as well.” She pushed his hand away. “Care to tell me why?” Her eyes held his, but he didn’t respond. “Thought not,” she muttered.

“It doesn’t matter who I think you are; it matters what you decide. It’s your turn to build your own future. Another piece of a puzzle has been handed to you, changing your perspective on your father’s lessons. You have lived with his hatred for a great many years, yet even so, you have done different things with your life by not following in his footsteps, not killing out of vengeance. Using your mind rather than what you have been taught makes you divergent to who he was.”

He looked down and traced little shapes in the dirt floor, then he turned his attention back to Coyote. “You picked a life that suited you. You hunt dangerous Outlanders and protect those that need your protection, like me. That’s who you are. Life is all about the choices you make.” His hand caressed her temple, and there was a warmth to his presence.

“I guess my days as an Outlander bounty hunter are over,” she sighed, pulling at the broken garter belt which clung pathetically to the ripped stockings.

“Are they?” Tokala raised an eyebrow. “That is up to you. You could tell yourself you have no right to hunt those from beyond the rips, being half-Outlander yourself. Or you could learn more about yourself and claim that right. There is much to find out about your past, Coyote. And you have the means to find the answers. New introductions have been made, new alliances have been forged. You don’t strike me as the kind of person who would give up in the face of adversity.”

For the first time since she arrived, that old mocking smile appeared on her face. It lit up her features like the sun lights up a meadow at dawn.

“No, I’m not the kind of person who would give up, am I?”

“There are many experts out there who could help you answer your questions. All you need to do is find the right ones.”

“Experts?” The question was cynical.

“Quite.” Tokala’s face was stone.

“Experts like James Westwood?” Coyote pursed her lips together. With a weak hand, she punched the shaman in the shoulder.

Tokala tried to hide a smile, but failed. “When you have learned to deal with your hatred,” he chuckled. His smile melted into a sad look, and he pulled a small pouch from his robe.

“I know you are upset with me, Coyote,” he said. “But I need to ask you for a favor.”

Coyote frowned. “You’ve never asked me for a favor before. Is everything okay?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Tokala’s long, brown fingers played with the strings of the pouch. “That’s why I need you to keep a hold of this.” He pulled out a strange, pointed crystal that resembled a small star.

“What is it?” Coyote took the stone from his hand and looked at it. “It’s beautiful.”

“They call it a soul-stone in my world.” Tokala took the crystal back and returned it to the pouch. “I need you to guard it with your life. Never let this out of your sight. It’s the most important thing I have.”

“Why do you want to trust me with it?” Coyote pulled away as Tokala handed her the pouch. “You already gave me that other heirloom of yours.”

He took her hand and forced it open.

“Because you are the only one I
can
trust with it.” He placed the pouch on her palm. “This is not a gift; you are doing
me
a favor.”

She nodded and pushed the little black bag between her breasts, for lack of a better place. “I will find a safe place to keep this, and I will guard it with my life,” she promised.

NEW BEGINNINGS

If it had been up to Coyote, she would have stayed longer with the Wea people, but she worried about Caesar. Something had changed about her partner. He’d grown even quieter. His brush with death had been an eye-opener, to both her and him. Coyote glanced at Caesar. He looked sad. His eyes were heavy-lidded, and his mouth showed his grief. The incident in Angel Camp had scarred her companion, but it was more than the near-hanging alone.

Coyote suspected that it was the change in her that bothered him more than anything. She had been more solemn since her confrontation with Westwood. The knowledge of her Outlander heritage weighed heavily on her heart. She felt as if she betrayed Caesar by not telling him what happened between her and Westwood, though she wasn’t ready to spill the beans yet. That would mean she had to accept she was an Outlander, and that was too much to bear right now.

Yet it was only logical that the little man had his own thoughts about what must have gone on in the brothel. Many years ago, Coyote told Caesar the story of how Westwood shot her father. She wanted him to understand her blind hatred for the man, and he had listened to her tale with sympathy. Then, just a few days ago, she spent some time alone in a room with Westwood, who then saved both their lives, and Coyote refused to talk about it. Caesar would be a fool not to have suspicions, and he was no fool. She saw the way he looked at her, that there were questions he wanted to ask, but she knew he would never say them out loud. He was too kind and too patient for that.