Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) (7 page)

It was enough to draw her in. A familiar heat burned in her mind and flashed under her skin, warming her cheeks with anger. Her eyes aflame, she leaned toward him. She didn’t want to miss a single word he had to say. In her mind, she already had a bullet with the name Qu’arth Slevanko on it, but Coyote saw something on Allan’s face, a glint in his eyes that told her he had something to sweeten the deal, to make her really
want
this job. He sat up straight and tweaked his moustache with the tips of his strong fingers. Coyote watched the hairs roll between the callused digits.
He has the hands of a hard-working man
, she noted.

“I’m also told that Alfonso Martine is part of the James Westwood crew,” Pinkerton said in a low, conspiratorial tone. “Mr. Westwood located the Outlander and took him under his wing several weeks ago.”

The muscles in her face twitched, and he must have seen her flinch. The long dark lashes that crowned her eyes fluttered slightly. He kept his face straight, but she could almost see the inward smile of victory.
He’s got me
.

Westwood was Coyote’s Achilles heel, and she hated that it was common knowledge.

“You don’t say,” she said softly and slowly, with an edge of danger to her voice. She snapped the piece of paper from Caesar’s hand. He looked solemn, but he did not protest.

Coyote could feel Pinkerton’s eyes on her, watching her intently as she examined the picture more thoroughly. She sucked in her lips so that her mouth was nothing more than a thin line. Anger ate away at her, and her heart pounded in fast, heavy beats. She extinguished the cigar, which suddenly tasted flat and bitter.

“So he’ll be here in Indiana? He won’t have left the state?” She was short and to the point and no longer showed any of her flirty gestures or smiles. When Westwood was involved, Coyote’s blood ran cold. Pinkerton answered her question with a nod. A sigh escaped her lips, and she handed the paper back to him. Her agitated fingers played with the rim of her derby. “Has there been any evidence of rips outside of Indiana?”

Allan shook his head, and he was about to speak when Caesar stirred. Allan looked at him in surprise. It was as if he shifted in and out of the shadows, and it was difficult to remain aware of his presence. Coyote was used to this; she had a sixth sense to where Caesar was, but she could tell it made Pinkerton nervous.

“Indiana is called the crossroads of America,” Caesar said. “Many people do not know there is a spiritual meaning behind that name.” His dark hands, with skin dry as old, cracked leather, moved as if he were trying to weave his words in the air.

“The veil of reality is thin in Indiana,” Caesar continued. “There is much magic there. The rips occur easily at those thin spots in the fabric.”

“I don’t know anything about magic,” Pinkerton said. He coughed in his fist and cleared his throat. The subject of magic clearly made him uncomfortable. Coyote knew that most men found Outlanders weird enough to deal with, and magic was a subject that did not work well with lawmen like Allan Pinkerton. “But I do know that Indiana is a place of many rips, and their frequency seems to be increasing. The IAAI has been investigating a lot of them, and we have some records of the Outlanders who pass through them, but it is still unpredictable when and where a rip will appear.”

He scratched his neck, red with the heat under his thick beard, and sighed. “We know so little about the rips, and each time we find one, we find more species of Outlanders.”

“Is there any new information about the other side of the rips? Do we know where they lead to yet?” Coyote asked.

The Scotsman shook his head. “Special agents have entered the rips, but few have ever returned.” He paused a moment, his eyes darting back and forth. Coyote wondered what he was thinking about and what he was omitting from his story. “There are some small realities that we have investigated, some portal dimensions, but that’s about all. The agents who
did
return often explored rather barren dimensions that didn’t hold much threat. Only one reported a hazardous world beyond his explored rip, and he’d barely made it out with his life. The information we’ve gathered is not enough to indicate where exactly the Outlanders come from. Most rips don’t stay open long enough for
our
agents to make it back through.” His face was grave, his jaw set, and his eyes half-lidded and dark. Something in the way he said the word “our” made Coyote suspicious. She wondered if there were other agents that might know more.

“The only things we can determine are where the rips have been, and if we’re lucky, where they are at present. That’s it. Everything else is still pretty much a mystery.”

Pinkerton wrapped his suntanned hand around his mug and brought it to his lips. He inhaled the comforting scent of the lukewarm liquid, and closed his eyes for a second to savor it, the soft foam speckling his impressive moustache with little white clouds. Placing the mug back on the table, he brushed away little flecks of foam from his whiskers with a single finger.

“IAAI is working on it, but so far with little result.” Pinkerton looked a little deflated, as if he wished he had more information to share.
He’s not telling me everything,
Coyote thought.
I wouldn’t tell me everything if I were him, either.

“Shame,” Coyote muttered instead of sharing her thoughts. “Looks like Westwood’s people might have one up on IAAI.” There was a little twitch at the corner of his nostril, and she could see she’d hit the lawman where it hurt.

“Perhaps,” Pinkerton said cautiously. “I can assume you are taking the case, then?”

Coyote sat back in her seat and pulled on her derby, trying to hide a smile.

“Was there ever any doubt?”

A WARM WELCOME

White men knew the beautiful pastures of Lafayette as “Indian territory,” a place that held much mystery for the paleskins. Most men heeded the warnings and stayed clear of the region, taking the less dangerous but longer paths. Most, but not all. Coyote and Caesar rode at ease through the green grass of Lafayette. They steered their horses fearlessly through the alluring landscape without a care in the world. In white man’s territory, they raised suspicious glances, but here in Indian country, the natives never looked twice.

Perhaps it was because they were such an odd pair, a white woman travelling with her dark-skinned male partner, that they found a common ground with the Wea Indians, the guardians of this particular piece of land.

The surroundings were beautiful, the area carpeted in waves of emerald green pastures and complemented by the light during the day. As the sun set, it cast the land in a veil of pink and orange.

A village nestled between the green slopes, a welcome sight to the weary travelers. As they drew closer, a group of grinning children ran out to greet them, jumping and shouting, running along with the horses and providing escort. Their naked bodies bumped into each other as they all tried to get closer to the woman and her companion.

Tokala himself, the much-revered shaman of the Wea tribe, greeted them. “It has been many moons since your last visit, Coyote.” There was no scorn in his voice, only warmth. He was a tall man, taller than any of his tribe, and his long, black hair flowed past his shoulders. Colorful beads and feathers adorned his ebony locks, and his robe was equally decorated.

Coyote climbed off her horse and hugged her long-time friend. The shaman’s arms were strong and welcoming. He held her eyes for a moment and gave her a warm smile, then he turned to Caesar and gave him an equally heartfelt embrace. Caesar shot the shaman a shy smile. Coyote enjoyed watching their moment together, knowing there were few people outside of her and Tokala that Caesar would hug, or even touch.

“It is good to have you in our midst again, Caesar.” Tokala’s voice was deep and kind.

The boisterous group of Wea children continued to run around the newcomers, shouting gleeful words of welcome in their native tongue. Taunting fingers touched and squeezed them, pulling at their clothes. One curious little girl with large brown eyes and a sharp nose tried to peer into Coyote’s saddlebag. She gently pushed the girl aside then undid the straps of the heavy leather gear.

“Our stay will be brief, Tokala.” Coyote grimaced, her tone resolute. She regretted being so short with her old friend, but she had no time for social engagements. “We’re hunting.”

“I see.” There was a hint of regret in the shaman’s voice. “I wish you could stay longer. Your visits are too far between.” He folded his hands together, resting them on his muscular stomach. “I assume you have come for my advice?”

Coyote nodded, pulled her saddlebags off the black horse, and handed the reins to a young Wea, who patted her mount gently on the neck. Caesar followed her lead, and a second Wea took the brown mare from him. The horses were at ease with the Wea, as they had been here many times before, and even the willful Shenanigans let the young man guide him away without trouble.

Tokala led them through the small village. Advancing age had not yet robbed him of his proud demeanor or stooped his shoulders. The air was thick with scents of fires and food cooking, and Coyote’s stomach rumbled. A group of longhouses stood in the midst of a clearing, made of poles with strips of intertwined bark to make them weatherproof. They looked a little like elongated woven baskets with colorful, strong scented flowers decorating their outside walls.

The tribe gathered in a cluster of curiosity to see the outsiders. They parted for them, calling out melodic greetings and waving with enthusiasm. The children walked with them, holding their hands or clinging on to the hems of their shirts. A little boy with a naked bottom and a coarse shirt pulled on one of Coyote’s long blond braids. She shot him a scolding look, but followed it with a friendly wink. After they had passed, the children still in tow, the adults fell in line and followed.

Tokala led the jolly procession to the center of the village, where Coyote and Caesar were greeted by Chief Little Fox, the Wea’s patriarch. He appeared frail—a small man with a worn face—but Coyote knew looks were deceiving. A few years ago, the chief had traded his traditional headdress for a bandana and a top hat. His appearance always made Coyote smile; it was a pleasant mixture of tradition and modern fashion. Chief Little Fox was clearly glad to greet them. He was one of the most hospitable people they had ever met.

He wrapped his wrinkled hands around their shoulders and embraced Coyote and Caesar, welcoming them once again to his tribe.

“You don’t come see us enough,” he scolded, his wrinkled face spreading in a wide smile. He spoke to them in his native tongue, which Coyote spoke fluently but Caesar could not understand.

“We’re only here for a short visit, Chief. Our business is urgent, I’m afraid.” She squeezed his bony shoulder. “We leave come morning.”

The chief hung his head and put the palms of his hands up in a dramatic expression. “It saddens me that your stay will be so short.” He looked up at Coyote with mournful eyes. “If only I had known you were coming, we would have held a feast in your honor. Alas, your arrival was so unexpected. Tokala had not the foresight to warn me of your visit.” He shot the shaman a dirty look.

Coyote laughed at his lament. “We have no time for feasts, Chief. Our next visit will be a social one, and I promise I’ll send word that we’re coming.”

This seemed to appease the thin Wea, and he beckoned them to enter the largest and most decorated of the longhouses. Little red flowers adorned the outside, which made the house look like it itself had bloomed. The inside smelled of straw, fire, and flowers. Coyote and Caesar took a comfortable seat on a pile of warm furs, grateful to stretch their limbs after the long journey. A group of women brought them food—large chunks of bison, cobs of corn, cubes of squash, and even slices of fruit. A fire was lit, and while they ate, the chief spoke.

“What is he saying?” Caesar asked her with a soft voice.

Coyote swallowed the bit of corn she was chewing on. “He is complaining about the progress of the white man. He says he has seen haunted carriages ride across the plains, complete with rider but drawn by no horse.”

Caesar smiled and Coyote chuckled behind her hand. To them, it was difficult to imagine a world without the horseless, steam-powered carts. They were a status symbol, and anyone who had money wanted to own one. The streets of larger cities were filled with them. Technology was evolving rapidly, and the Indians’ old living habits were nothing but a shaded memory to the modern townsfolk.

The wrinkled man lowered his voice, and his face betrayed the anger he felt. Coyote nodded and listened to him.

“The chief is appalled that the white man demonizes his people.” Her smile faded from her lips. She had heard the stories too. Tales of Indians scalping innocent travelers told by the light of campfires or in cozy saloons.

“Our tribes are always portrayed as the bloodthirsty villains. They whisper of giant, red-skinned warriors appearing out of nowhere, sharp spears balanced in their hands, torsos dripping with blood,” she translated, and thought of the men who told each other these stories. Fearmongers. Coyote had other, much less polite words for them as well.

“It is not we who are the monsters.” The chief held up his crooked finger, his wrinkled eyes open wide as he spoke. “Look what the white man brings us? Metal horrors walk around as if they were creatures of flesh and blood.” Coyote tried to hide her amusement as she translated the chief’s words, but she wasn’t sure if she succeeded. There was a sparkle in Caesar’s eye, and they shared a moment together.

The shrunken man talked, gesturing wildly with his arms, growing more upset with each passing moment. He pointed in the direction of the road outside his village, and spittle escaped his aggravated mouth. Coyote took in all his words patiently, and when he was done, she turned to Caesar.

“He really doesn’t like the metal servants,” she chuckled. “Thinks they are demons.”

The chief spoke about the progress he had seen the white man make, yet he followed their every move with a grizzly fascination. He placed his gnarled hand on Coyote’s shoulder and cocked his head.