Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) (6 page)

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.

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.”

“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.”