Coyote and Caesar had been renting a room in the Lily Pond boarding house for several years now, and it was their home away from home. The landlady was like a member of their family, the mother figure that Coyote had missed for many years.
“You are very practical,” Caesar said, shaking his head. She knew he didn’t really care what she wore; her partner had no expectations of her social etiquette.
“I just don’t want the old man to give me grief again, like last time, and I can’t be bothered to stop off in a hotel just so I can change into something more ladylike. He’s very adamant about women wearing dresses.” Coyote bent down and rolled the legs of her jeans up to her knees so that they couldn’t be seen under the dress. “Which is rather funny, because he has no problems with my profession, or the fact that I know how to shoot a gun. I would go as far as to say that he encourages it.”
“Mister Roberts is a curious man,” Caesar said. “He seems to have adapted a world vision all of his own. However, he is a knowledgeable ally to have.”
“Old Man Roberts is one of my father’s old friends. They all have a quirky world vision. Some of them are a few eggs short of a basket, so to speak.” Coyote tucked a loose strand of hair under her derby and shot Caesar a miserable look. “Well, let’s get on with it and give the man his gun back.”
They walked through an unkempt and dense garden, making their way through the thick brambles and patches of nettles. There was a path through the underbrush, though not an official one, made by many feet treading over and over again on the plants that sprang from the fresh earth. Underneath the tangle of shrubs, remains of a slowly rotting picket fence could be spotted. Old Man Roberts purposely made the path to his home unwelcoming. He cared little for company. The wooden house was a sorry sight. Once, it had been painted white and the picket fence had surrounded a pretty garden filled with rosebushes and violets. Coyote had loved the garden when she was a child, but when the old man’s wife died, the house perished with her, as if the wooden structure had a soul that wasted away without its favorite owner.
The porch was as overgrown as the garden. Rotting wood filled the air with the taint of mildew. Coyote maneuvered her way around the black holes that spread across the veranda, testing the floor with each step she took.
The door hung loosely on its hinges, too broken to close. A gust of wind ran through the leaves of the trees and bushes, sounding like a thousand whispering voices. The noise reminded her of her father telling ghost stories around the campfire when she was a young girl. Her skin broke out in goose pimples at the memory.
She knocked on the open door, the wood rattling with each rap of her fist.
“Old Man Roberts?” She was a young girl again, standing there waiting for his response, and she cursed herself for falling into old habits. From inside the house, someone coughed, deep and raw. Moments later, a man appeared in the doorway. His grey hair hung in thin strands down to his shoulders, yet he was almost bald on top. His face hid within a mass of sagging wrinkles, from which watery grey eyes stared out. When she was younger, he had been a giant of a man, muscular and tall, but Coyote had grown, and his advancing age had bent Old Man Roberts into a permanent stoop. She towered over him now, but there was still something intimidating about the way he stood, the way his eyes glanced over her, and the way his voice sounded like he ate iron for breakfast.
“You took your sweet time, Girly.” He spat a large greenish dollop of mucus on the porch. Coyote suppressed a shudder. “Thought the Outlander had gotten ya.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and made a hacking sound. “Come in.”
“We’re only returning your weapon.” Coyote took a deep breath, but remained still.
“Come in.” It was more commanding this time, and he walked into the house, beckoning her to follow. Coyote exchanged a glance with Caesar, who shrugged, but his face was tense.
They followed the old man into a house that appeared as disheveled inside as out. Dirty furniture, worn with age, stood around in random, and somewhat nonsensical, order. The dusty interior smelled of cheese and body odor. It took all of Coyote’s willpower not to hold her nose. She grimaced at Caesar, but she knew the scent didn’t affect him in the same way. He’d been born and raised in slave quarters at an infamous plantation where he’d suffered in the squalor of too many people in close quarters. There was little in the known universe that could offend Caesar’s dulled senses.
“Sit down.” Old Man Roberts pointed at a table with four wooden chairs. “I’ll make some coffee.”
“That’s okay. We really need to be going soon.” Coyote forced a smile.
“Nonsense. I don’t see you often enough, Girly. So when you are here, you will sit down and drink coffee with me. Just like your pa would have done if he were alive.” He narrowed his watery eyes at her, and one of the corners of his mouth pulled up. His half smile revealed brown teeth. “So sit down, and your coon friend too.”
Coyote flinched, taking the word coon as a personal affront, but she knew the old man had no more problems with Caesar than he had with white people. He despised black and white alike and had colorful names for everyone. Were he any other man, she would have called him out on his hateful words, but Old Man Roberts was one of the rare people she didn’t feel comfortable standing up to. In a way, the old man had the same effect on her as her father had when he was alive. She felt forced to respect him, as she had done when she was a child.
Caesar sat down first and Coyote followed his lead. He seemed to melt into the shadows as he often did when he was uncomfortable, his gaze turned to his worn boots. Old Man Roberts scooped some coffee from a pot that dangled in the hearth. He handed tin mugs to Coyote and Caesar. She sniffed it; something didn’t smell quite right—probably the lack of cleaning—and she put the mug on the table in front of her, planning not to drink from it. The old man sat down, leaned back, and noisily inhaled a wad of phlegm. A moment later, he leaned forward and looked Coyote up and down, squinting at her.
“Do you still work for them ninny agents?”
“The Pinkertons hire my services, yes,” Coyote answered curtly. “They’re the experts on Outlanders.”
He rubbed his chin with his full hand, lost in a moment of thought.
“You look like your momma, Girly,” he finally said. A shadow crossed over his face and Coyote wondered what the man’s expression meant. “Beautiful woman, Anthalia was. I never understood what she saw in your pa. They were an odd couple.” He shrugged, and Coyote raised her eyebrows. Her father had been a handsome man in his day, she knew. There had been plenty of women who wanted to be his wife when Coyote’s mother had passed away. Old Man Roberts had never spoken of Anthalia, and it surprised her that he mentioned her now.
“I remember the day she died. You were just a little kid.” He tapped his lip with a bony, tobacco-stained finger. “Your daddy came to see me, holding you in his arms, his face covered in tears. Your old man was devastated.”
Coyote felt a lump grow in her throat. She remembered that day too, remembered seeing her father cry for the first time.
“It was Outlanders what took her,” Old Man Roberts said. “Probably because we knew they were out there.” He took a sip from his coffee and glared at her over the mug. “That’s when we started hunting them proper, he and I. To avenge your mother.” He spat on the floor, and Coyote closed her eyes.
“My father hated Outlanders for what they did to my mother,” she said, her voice soft and cold. “He was going to make them all pay. I believe that’s what got him killed.”
“And you followed in his footsteps.” He beamed at her, but Coyote felt her stomach tighten.
“In a manner of speaking, I have.” She pulled at the rim of her derby. “Though I don’t hunt Outlanders as revenge. I may have started out that way, but that’s not what I do today.”
“I don’t care what your reasons are. Outlanders are scum.” There was anger in his voice now.
“Not all of them are.
I only hunt those who are a threat to humans. Unlike my father, who hunted and killed everything with Outlander blood.” She knew this wasn’t what the man wanted to hear, but she didn’t care. Her morals were her own, and she was proud of them.
“All of them have committed crimes against humanity merely by existing.” His eyes were round and his nostrils flared as he spoke. “They’re an abomination, and it’s our job to send them to the maker.”
He sounded like her father, and Coyote remembered his rage so well. For years, she had shared the hatred, but as she grew up, she came to realize that the world simply wasn’t as black and white as her father had made it out to be. Coyote knew a thousand things to say to Old Man Roberts, but he would never listen to her, just like her father hadn’t listened when she was a teenager. Instead she just shook her head.
“Outlanders killed your ma and your pa, Girly,” Old Man Robert spat. “You owe it to them to avenge them.”
“It wasn’t just Outlanders who killed my father.” Coyote clenched her teeth, and she remembered the last time she saw her dad. “The man responsible for his death is very much human.” A cold hatred slid across her heart. Caesar shifted in his seat for the first time; he always got restless when she spoke about him.
“You mean James Westwood?” Old Man Roberts shrugged.
“Yes.” Her jaw clenched, and she squinted her eyes.
The old man scratched his brown fingernails under his dirty shirt. “He still collecting Outlanders?”
“Yup.” She sucked in her lips and clenched them between her teeth, fighting the tears the memory threatened to spill.
“T’was one of his that killed your pa, right?”
“It was.” Her voice rang hollow.
Old Man Roberts licked his lips and eyed her intensely. There was a slight smile on his face, but Coyote wasn’t sure if it was mirth or intrigue she saw in his pale eyes. “You were there when your daddy died, weren’t you, Girly?”
She lowered her gaze, fighting a sudden flash of anger, hoping she would seem humble rather than aggravated. Instead of answering, she just nodded.
“I remember someone telling me that. Something about you being held down and forced to watch . . . ” Old Man Roberts whistled through his teeth. “How long has it been?”
Caesar shifted in his seat and sighed. Old Man Roberts shot him a perturbed glance; he had probably forgotten her partner was there.
“Seven years.” Coyote closed her eyes, and the frightened face of her father appeared in her mind’s eye, as it had many times over the years. “I was sixteen at the time.” She tried to sound neutral, but her voice came out strangled.
“That’s rough, Girly.” The old man still smiled. “Seven years, and you haven’t avenged your father’s death yet?”
Coyote leaned back and shot Old Man Roberts a cold glance. “It’s not for my lack of trying.” She crossed her legs, the huge skirt hanging like a rag around her. “The Outlander who murdered my father is dead, though not by my hand. Westwood . . . he’s proved difficult to kill.”
“That’s horseshit.” He took out a large square piece of chewing tobacco and cut a chunk with a dirty but sharp-looking knife. He popped the piece into his mouth and chewed with a satisfied noise. “Your daddy used to go around telling everyone you were the fastest shot in the country.” When he spoke, he revealed a large wad of the soggy brown substance on his tongue. “Even when you was a little kid. Brag to anyone who would listen, he did. And you’re telling me you can’t kill one guy? He’s not even an Outlander; he’s just a human.”
“Mister Westwood is no ordinary human,” Caesar said, surprising both Coyote and Old Man Roberts. “He is a technomancer, and one surrounded by his own company of skilled and dangerous Outlanders. Any weapon Coyote would use against him would simply resist working, and without her marvelous gun skill, she stands powerless against a man such as he.” He sat back, his body once again becoming very still. Old Man Roberts stared at him for a moment and then turned to Coyote.
“A real-life technomancer, eh?”
Coyote nodded. “He’s very talented in his craft. Some say the most talented around.”
“Yeah, that means your little peashooters ain’t gonna work.” The old man scratched the thin, grey stubble on his sagging chin, pinching the folds of wrinkled flesh as he did. “Have you tried poisoning him?”
Coyote shook her head. “I don’t poison people; that’s cowardly. I won’t stoop to his level. I would rather shoot him or kill him head on.”
“Well, then you will have to wait a long time, since you can’t shoot him.” He spat a wad of the tobacco into a little brass pot and wiggled his eyebrows at her.
“I’ll find a weapon that he can’t defend himself against.” She smiled now, her voice stronger and more confident. “And I don’t care about waiting a long time. I am a very patient woman.”
Caesar coughed, and Coyote rolled her eyes.
“Okay, I’m not very patient. But I can still wait.” She stood and pushed the chair away from her, more than ready to leave the dark house with its musty smells. “Thank you for the coffee and loaning us the weapon. I couldn’t have done this job without it.”
Caesar followed her example and stood next to her. Old Man Roberts looked disappointed.
“You’re not leaving already, are you? Your daddy used to stick around when he was alive. We’d shoot the shit about Outlander hunting, share a bottle of whiskey—”
“I’m not my father, Mister Roberts,” Coyote said. “I appreciate that you help me with my hunting now and again in honor of his memory, but I have a bounty that needs claiming and more jobs to do.”
His eyes held hers for a moment, and she saw him for the broken man he really was. She struggled to see him with the eyes of adulthood. Somewhere inside her, the child still looked at him as an impressive man and a damn fine bounty hunter. But his days of glory were done, and he had nothing else in his life but memories.
“I’ll see you around, Girly.” He scratched his balding head. “When you need some advice on hunting, come see me.” He glanced at the floor, then he looked up at her with hope in his face. “I’ll see if I can find out something about a weapon that can kill a technomancer. We’ll get that sucker who had your pa killed.”
Coyote smiled and tipped her hat at him. “I would appreciate that.” She turned on her heel and left the dark, sad house.
“I hate coming here,” she whispered to Caesar as they made their way through the dense garden.
“Is it the memories that bother you?” Caesar asked.
“I don’t know. He reminds me of the days with my father, the good and the bad.” Coyote stepped over a large cluster of nettles. “My father was a broken man after my mother’s death . . . when I look at Old Man Roberts, I wonder if Dad would’ve ended up like that too, and the thought makes me sad.”
Caesar placed a hand on her arm, and he looked at her with his dark brown eyes. Coyote admired his thick, black eyelashes and the kind smile on his lips.
“There is no shame in seeing your father’s flaws in those of another. You miss his presence, and the people from your shared past are suddenly a piece of him. You care little for Old Man Roberts, thus his presence reminds you of the less pleasant times with your father.” He squeezed her arm. “You need to remember that the bad times were also a part of your life with your father, and they make up the whole of who he was. It is good to remember the whole picture. It makes your father more alive in your heart.”
Coyote shrugged. “I guess you have a point.” She scratched the back of her neck and shot Caesar a crooked smile. “I wish you could have known my father. He was a pretty amazing man despite his shortcomings.”
“I wish I could have met him too,” Caesar agreed.
“Yeah . . . life’s a fickle lady. She doesn’t always comply with our wishes.” Coyote shrugged. “Oh well, let’s go collect our money.”
A NEW BOUNTY
The claims office was a nondescript
little room in the back of the local postal service building. The Pinkertons preferred their special bounty hunters to stay clear of prying eyes, wanting to keep the word on the Outlanders as low as possible. Different species of aggressive Outlanders had done enough damage to put rumors into the world, but the Pinkertons relied on people’s skepticism. Tall tales were told everywhere. Some folk believed them, some didn’t. The agency took care not to aid or confirm any of the rumors.
Coyote entered the small room alone. She’d left Caesar waiting for her at the local saloon, a well-known watering hole for other Outlander bounty hunters. It was her turn to deal with this part of the job—getting paid—alone. They both hated it, and thus took turns.
Dick Jones sat behind a cramped wooden desk, looking up at her from behind his glasses. He was a thin man with a pointy face and an impossibly long neck, graced with a larger-than-life Adam’s apple which bobbed up and down when he spoke.
“Miss Webb . . . ” he started then changed his mind, “I mean, Coyote . . . ” The corners of his mouth curled up for half a second and he blinked several times. “I assume you’ve come to collect the bounty for the Plzovar?”
“I have.” Coyote placed a small pouch on the counter, allowing Dick to look inside. “Brought you his teeth as evidence.” She pointed at the small bag. “Very special . . . those teeth.”
“Yes.” He looked up at her. “What did you do with the body?”
“Burned and buried. Had some help from the locals.”
“I see you didn’t have an official come by to verify it?” He looked at a file.
“That’s why I brought you the teeth.” She tapped her fingers on the counter, waiting patiently for him to finish sorting through his papers. He glanced up at her a few times, the glasses trembling on his twitching nose. He reminded her of a frightened mouse, or maybe a ferret.
“Ah,” he said with a hint of triumph as he held up a piece of paper. “Yes, the Plzovar. Let’s see . . . five hundred dollars.”
“Thank you.”
Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) Page 3