Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) (13 page)

Philip ran past her, the swarm only twenty feet behind him, and as soon as he was out of her way, Coyote turned the crank of the Gatling gun. The enormous weapon shuddered under her grip, and the shots were bright as exploding stars. Coyote pointed the weapon at the black oncoming mass. No matter how loud the shots were, they couldn’t seem to drown out Philip’s hypnotic music—Coyote was sure the tunes were somehow magical—and the creatures kept coming, wave after wave.

Her teeth rattled in her skull as she moved the gun from side to side, still pushing the crank as fast as she could, and adrenaline pumped through her body. Coyote was never more alive than when she was in a gunfight, and she had never been in one as spectacular as this. A woman was roaring somewhere near her, and it took her a moment to realize it was she who was making the noise.

The Zertugl fell by the dozens each second, and the huge wave was pushed back by the gunfire. Once in a while, Coyote was forced to stop and scream “reload” at the metal servant, who filled up her cartridges in silent duty. During those times, Philip’s strange instrument would fall silent, leaving the Outlanders in a dazed and confused state. She would hear the gunshots coming from Sunshine and Caesar as they took out more of the scorpion like creatures. As soon as Victor reloaded her gun, which usually only lasted mere seconds, Philip would play his flute and Coyote would crank the handle again.

Her hand cramped and her muscles burned—there were so many of the creatures—but Coyote never lost her mirth. Shooting these creatures was the easiest and most challenging thing she had ever done, and rather than skill, she realized she needed stamina.

After what felt like forever, she could see the wave of Zertugl thinning. No longer were they a sea of moving black; instead they were only coming at her a few at a time, scrambling over the corpses of their brethren, still insanely driven by the magical tunes of Philip’s instrument. She kept shooting until there was no more movement in the masses and pure exhaustion forced her to stop.

Out of breath, she slumped down by the gun, panting and sweating. Her head was throbbing with the echoes of the weapon, and black spots danced in front of her eyes.

Something moved just in her peripheral vision, and Coyote reacted quickly. She drew her gun and pointed it at a singular Zertugl who was bolting towards her. Coyote pulled the trigger, only to hear a nerve wracking “click.”

“Damn,” she cursed, glancing across her surroundings for another weapon. She wouldn’t be able to turn the Gatling gun around in time. The creature was running toward her, its dual mouths snapping sharp teeth. It leapt, and Coyote rolled out of the way. A loud shot rang through the field and the creature veered off its course, falling down on the ground.

“Are you unharmed, Coyote?” Caesar’s voice sounded thick with concern. He ran to her, throwing the shotgun he had been holding to the side, and wrapped his arms around her. She was slick with sweat, and one of her braids had become undone.

“That was the best gunfight I’ve ever been in,” she said, her chest still heaving with fatigue, and she laughed hoarsely.

“Come on, let’s get you two cleaned up.” Sunshine Mary leaned over her, blocking out the sun.

“We need to check if we got all of them,” Coyote said.

“We got them all right. I doubt there are any left. And if there are, it’s just going to be a few individuals. Philip and I can deal with them.”

“What about the corpses?” Coyote pointed at the mass of bleeding black bodies on the ground.

“Philip and I can deal with those too. Though I may have to pay off Hank. Looks like we’ll be burning down a good bit of his cornfield for that one.”

“You can get the Pinkertons to help reimburse your costs,” Coyote said weakly.

“Might just do that,” Sunshine agreed. “This is not your responsibility, girl. Don’t you worry about it.”

Coyote nodded gratefully. She got to her feet, though all her muscles protested.

“I’m definitely going to have to get the Pinkertons in on this,” she said. “That rip is far too dangerous.”

Sunshine Mary nodded, her face looking even more disgruntled than usual. “I reckon you might be right.”

THE ROMANI

They freshened up at Sunshine Mary’s house. Coyote washed with cold water from a porcelain bowl. The older woman offered them a place to sleep in the barn, and they had gladly accepted her offer. In the morning, Sunshine had provided her with a piece of paper, a pen, and ink, allowing Coyote to write a short but urgent letter to the Pinkertons.

“It’s out of my hands from here, Sunshine.” Coyote handed the older woman the envelope. “But I’m sure the Pinkertons will send someone to take care of this. Or at least to guard the rip.”

“I’ll go into town in a bit and send it off.” Sunshine shrugged. “Can’t say I’m not relieved. I have better things to do than be the guardian of a rip.”

“I could send it for you. We’ll pass a few towns on the way.”

“No bother, I have some other stuff I need to do too.” Sunshine winked at her. She handed Caesar and Coyote a parcel with freshly baked bread and cold cuts. “Where will you go now?”

“Going to the Romani camp in the morning,” Coyote replied. “I need to find this weapon as soon as possible.”

“If not them, there’s always Savage Sam’s.”

“I know, but if I can avoid that man, I will.” She scratched her brow and pulled her derby forward. “He’s not good people.”

“I doubt the Romani are good people.” Sunshine wrinkled her nose and huffed.

“They’re better people than Sam,” Coyote answered darkly.

Minutes later, she and Caesar steered their horses onto their path. The sun had barely come up when they waved goodbye to Sunshine Mary and her sleepy husband. By the time they saw the banks of the Patoka River, the sun was setting behind the trees, casting the world into a gloomy dusk. Caesar had led them flawlessly toward the Romani camp, holding nothing but a clay statue in his hand. His strange, subtle magic had always impressed her.

“We need to be careful with the Romani, Coyote,” he warned her as they neared the camp. “We are not their people, and no matter how kind they are to us, we never will be.”

“Don’t worry.” Coyote fished a cigar from her pocket and lit it.

“Coyote, these people are not like the Wea. They are far less hospitable, and far more suspicious.” Caesar narrowed his eyes.

“What’s wrong with you? We’ve dealt with the Romani at least half a dozen times. Why the sudden worry?” She frowned at him, but he didn’t respond. His eyes were just focused on the camp. A cold chill ran down her spine.

“Caesar, do you see something? Are you having one of your visions?”

“I only have visions in dreams, Coyote. I am not like Tokala.” His eyes never met hers, and he seemed hypnotized by the sight of the camp.

“But you sense something.”

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

The camp had grown since their last visit. Coyote counted six wooden wagons, and there were at least eight little tents scattered around the area. The Romani would stay in this place for a few weeks, or months, until the wanderlust forced them deeper into the country. The fires were lit, creating a warm light in the dusk. Huddled figures sat on the ground around them, talking in a language Coyote couldn’t understand.

“Why are you here?” a brusque voice asked them, and Coyote turned to look into the angry face of a short man. He was thin and gaunt, probably in his late forties, and he had a large, drooping moustache. His hair was cut short in an unruly manner, some parts were longer than others. The black coat that hung around his shoulders was too big for him, and the sleeves obscured most of his hands.

“We’ve come to deal with Lasho.” She took a puff from her cigar and blew out the smoke in circles. “We’re looking for a special weapon.”

The man stared at her a little too long for comfort, but then he nodded and turned around.

“Follow me.”

He led them through the camp. Caesar stayed close to Coyote, and to her surprise, he took her hand. She shot him a quizzical look, but he never made eye contact. Coyote noticed that the Romani appeared to be thinner than when she had last seen them; their children looked positively malnourished.

“What happened here?” Coyote whispered. She had remembered the Romani to be a boisterous people, and now they looked miserable.

She spotted Lasho on a wooden stool by the fire, dressed in several layers of faded clothing. He looked ten years older than he had the year before, though even now he was a handsome man. Coyote and Caesar sat down on the ground near the Romani leader.

“Lasho, we’ve come to trade,” Coyote said.

Lasho looked down at her, his dark eyes glinting in the light of the fire. “You’re too late, bounty hunter. There are no trades to be made.” He threw a log on the fire, pushing it in place with a long stick. The flames licked hungrily at the new log, spitting bright orange ashes into the air.

“I don’t understand.” Coyote leaned closer toward the gypsy.

“What is there to understand? I don’t trade the weapons that you seek anymore.” Lasho’s eyes shot toward three figures on the other side of the campfire, his face unsure as if he were seeking their approval. Coyote glared at them through the smoke.

Three women sat across from them on a large log. The first was a beautiful young woman with skin the color of walnuts, and her long, black hair lay over her shoulder, decorated with tiny golden coins. In her long, delicate fingers, she held a hand spindle covered in a multi-colored thread. She worked the thread and handed it to the woman next to her, who looked like she could be her mother. This woman was older, the same walnut-colored skin showing signs of age, and her body had lost its slender grace. The long, black locks showed a peppering of grey, and she didn’t wear any fineries in her hair. The face was still attractive, though it had lost its youthfulness and the eyes were weary. The second woman was measuring the spun thread, and she in turn handed it to a third. The final person was most likely the grandmother of the first, Coyote decided. The resemblance between the women was striking, as if she were looking at the same person at different stages of her life. The third was a handsome old woman with silver locks that were as long as those of the first two. Where the second woman was a little plump, the third was bone thin. In her crooked hands, she held a large pair of scissors, and she examined the thread, looking for a place to cut.

Coyote turned back to the leader of the gypsies, unsure what his glance at the three women had meant. She’d never seen them before in her previous visits, and wondered if they were new to the camp.

“The trading business has always been lucrative to you, Lasho.” Coyote shrugged. “Why stop?”

Lasho’s eyes shot toward the women again, and this time the fear in them was very clear. For a moment, the man was silent.

“We are a hunted people, Coyote,” he said finally. “Selling Outlander weapons attracted the wrong attention.” He sighed and poked his stick into the fire.

“Has someone threatened you?” Coyote’s temper rose. Lasho glanced at the three women again.

“Not yet,” he muttered, rubbing his nose. He sucked in his lips and stared back into the fire. A gust of wind blew the smoke in their direction, pushing it into their eyes and lungs. Coyote and Caesar coughed, but Lasho only closed his eyes. She waved her arms around, as if she could somehow disperse the smoke, and got to her feet. With a few strides, she made her way to the other side, where the three women were spinning their thread, and she sat down next to them.

“I hope you don’t mind the company, ladies?” Coyote asked in loud innocence. “The wind was blowing the smoke in my face.”

All three looked at her, and in the fading light, she could see they had the same bright green eyes. There was something about them that made her skin crawl.

“The young pup complains about the wind being in the wrong direction,” the old woman said with a cracking voice. Her smile revealed that she was missing a few teeth, which made her face less handsome.

“Does she indeed?” the middle woman, whom Coyote thought off as the mother, asked. “I don’t think she realizes what a storm is brewing.” The woman looked at the thread in her hands, holding it up against a colorful wooden stick.

“The winds have always blown your way, bounty hunter,” the young woman spoke. “Though sometimes they’ve brought you rain.” All three women chuckled.

“I’ve had my fair share of bad weather,” Coyote said, pushing the derby further up her head.

“Even the rains have been in your favor, pup,” the old crone sneered. “You just can’t see it because you don’t want to see it.”

Can you see it?
The words from her vision echoed through her mind, and Coyote wrapped her arms around her as the wind suddenly blew colder.

“She will learn soon enough,” the mother said. “The winds are changing, and the truth will soon be revealed.”

“Is that what you told Lasho?” Coyote rubbed her arms, and despite her discomfort, she felt defiant.

“Lasho’s winds have never been kind to him. The gypsies need to be strong to be who they are. His prophesy is different to yours, little pup.” The crone leaned forward and snipped her scissors at Coyote.