Lasater laughed and then sobered a bit. He looked the cowboy dead in the eye and said as serious as a heart attack, “You should have burned them all down.”
The cowboy gave Lasater a thoughtful look. “The thought crossed my mind, I gotta admit. That worked out too, though. I headed off towards El Paso, five horses in tow, and the sheriff come up behind me a few hours later. At first, I thought he was after me. He asked me what had happened, and I told him … showed him the ring round my neck. He knew them boys pretty well. He said he was impressed I didn’t kill ‘em. Told me to be on my way and not look back … just never come back … less trouble that way, you know?”
“Yeah, I can see his point. Folks are what they are, I suppose, good and bad,” Lasater agreed.
“I reckon. Anyway, that’s where this come from.” The cowboy moved the handkerchief back in place.
“You headin’ to a saloon?” Lasater asked.
“Naw. I gotta go get my horse and the rest of my rig. Gonna find a stable. You got a horse?”
“Unh-unh.” Lasater lifted one of his pant-legs revealing a golden, metallic shine underneath. “Both legs. I’m just too much of a load, even for a Morgan. I’d feel guilty putting my golden ass on some poor horse.”
“Is it?” the cowboy asked a bit surprised. He had to be thinking how far up the gears went on Lasater’s bottom half.
“What?”
“Golden,” the cowboy specified as he turned towards the door at the end of the car.
“My ass?”
“Yeah,” he called over his shoulder, grinning.
Lasater lifted his hat and rested it far back on his head, looking up at the cowboy. “No. From the thighs down … and before you ask, I still got my gear. Still worked last time I checked.” They both chuckled.
“You headed to Sacramento?” the cowboy asked over his shoulder.
“Yep,”
“Me too. I’ll see you on the zep then, much as I hate getting on those things. I want to put as much distance between me and San Fran as I can.”
“Hey,” Lasater called, and the cowboy stopped. “I’m getting a compartment on the zep if there are any left. You’re welcome to tag along if you want. There’s plenty of room.”
“No shit?” The cowboy’s face held genuine surprise.
“No shit.”
“Much obliged,” he replied and tipped his hat to punctuate his thanks.
“I believe the Sacramento run kicks out at nine tomorrow morning. Meet me at the platform at around 8:45. I’ll finish my story on the way up.”
The cowboy smiled. “You got a deal, and I’ll try not to fall asleep this time.” He winked, hefted his saddlebags, and started walking out.
“You better not, I might take it personal.”
After loading his horse into the big cargo bay of the zeppelin’s gondola, the cowboy met Jake precisely at 8:45. As a result of the earthquake, the platform was a hastily built, forty-foot tower with ramps and stairs to allow both passengers and cargo to be loaded onto the towering zeppelins that came through San Jose to parts north, south, and east. Both men stood on the main platform and were mid-way along the gondola’s length underneath the massive tan bulk of the Pacific Line’s zeppelin airliner The Jezebel. They were lost in the gargantuan shadow of the triple cigar-shaped envelopes high above that covered most of the station and a fair portion of San Jose. Passengers passed by the two men who stood examining the hull of the airship and the great rotors spinning slowly set in five pairs on each side of the gondola. Two massive clamps, looking more like claws, anchored the zeppelin to the boarding platform that stood thirty feet above the dusty main street on the eastern edge of San Jose.
“You ever been on one of these?” the cowboy asked, his eyes and feet shifting as he pondered the uncomfortable prospect of getting on board the airship. He ran a hand along the smooth burgundy hull of the gondola that ran almost the length of the envelopes. The lower half of the gondola was dedicated to cargo, while the compartments above were for the passengers and crew.
“A few times … when I had the money … mostly trains, though. Sure beats eating trail dust for days or weeks on end.” Lasater leaned against the hull and looked at the cowboy. “You?”
“Just once. Military transport from Oklahoma to Virginia. The 10th Cavalry got shifted from patrolling the Cheyenne to assisting some of the forward Union positions during the war. I’ll tell you, that ride scared the hell outa’ me. I’ll take Cheyenne over thunderstorms in one of these anytime.”
“You were with the 10th?”
“Yessir,” the cowboy said proudly.
“Y’all have a hell of a reputation,” Lasater said, genuinely impressed. He’d figured the cowboy was probably with the Buffaloes, but the 10th was something special.
“We did what we had to,” the cowboy said quietly, and he got a distant look on his face that spoke of heroism and fear and regret.
“From what I hear, y’all did a hell of a lot more than that.”
“Well, truth be told, maybe us Buffalos had a bit more at stake than the rest of you Yanks.”
“No doubt,” Lasater conceded, “but I’m not just talking about the war … out on the plains … facing the Cheyenne and Comanche. Like I said, y’all have a hell of a reputation.”
“Thanks, mister.”
“None necessary. You earned it.”
The cowboy was quiet for a while, running his eyes over the great, floating bulk of the zeppelin above him. “Come on. Let’s get to that cabin.”
“After you.” Lasater ushered the cowboy up the last flight of stairs, their spurs jingling and boots thumping. They bumped together as they stepped through the portal and made their way down a narrow aisle between benches packed with travelers, and the cowboy gave Lasater a curious look.
The interior of the zeppelin was done in smooth walnut, and every window, handle and accent was polished brass. Both men had to weave their way through affluent travelers, including a few families, the children laughing and darting around haphazardly like frightened fish in a pond too small for their numbers. Lasater reached the end of the narrow corridor and faced the last door on the right.
“This is it.” Lasater opened the door and motioned for the cowboy to step in.
“Damn! This is a hell of a lot nicer than that military transport.” He walked between the two richly padded benches done in red velour and looked out the wide center window set in a row of three. As with the rest of the gondola’s interior, the wood was a pale walnut, and all of the fittings and frames were polished brass. A shiny, brass hand-crank at the top of the window called to him, so he grabbed it and started turning. The middle window started sliding up in its frame, letting in the warm, fresh San Jose morning air. He took a deep breath and looked down at the town spreading out before him. The cowboy grinned like a kid at a carnival.
“I’m glad you like it,” Lasater said with a smile in his voice.
“I really do appreciate it, mister. This is about as nice as I’ve ever seen.”
Lasater stepped into the cabin and grabbed a brass handle set a few feet above the middle cushion of the right-hand bench. With a gentle tug, he pulled and swung down the recessed bed. “There’s one on that side too, you just pull on this lever, see?” He patted the down pillow to see how soft it was. “Nicer than a Kansas City hotel.”
“Yeah. Pretty slick,” the cowboy said, turning fully to face Lasater. “Don’t take this wrong, mister, but I gotta ask you a question.”
Lasater lifted the bed back into place, pulled his hat off and sat down, leaning his head against the window and stretching his legs out across the seat. He hung the hat on a hook above his head. “Why am I being so nice?” he offered, beating the cowboy to the punch.
“You nailed it. I ain’t never done nothing for you, and when a deal seems too good to be true, it usually is.” The cowboy sat down across from Lasater and hung his own hat on the hook above him, but he sat fac
ing Lasater with a look of curiosity tainted with a blurry haze of mistrust. “What I owe you for all this?”
Lasater smiled. “Not a thing. I consider it paid in full, and I sorta still owe you.”
“How the hell you figure that?” Disbelief filled the cowboy’s voice.
Lasater tapped his right leg with his knuckles. “These.”
“Hunh?” The cowboy couldn’t have looked more surprised if Lasater had told him that the sun was made of honeydew.
“The battle where I lost em. I was tore up bad enough to be left for dead … in fact, the white boys in my regiment did just that. There was Rebs coming over a hill after that canon volley tore me up … well … from where I lay screamin’ and bleedin’ on the grass … all I seen was the backs of a bunch of blue coats and the bottoms of their heels. I figured I was all done, you know? Gave it up.” Lasater raised a gloved hand and rubbed the side of his face as he thought about the battle. “The Rebs musta’ been about forty or fifty yards away, running and whoopin’ and hollerin’ like they was about to win the war. All I could do was stare at ‘em. Then we all heard it. Horses … a lot of em…. They burst through the trees off the left flank of the battlefield. Forty or fifty riders … black as night and the sweetest sight I ever seen.” Lasater closed his eyes, remembering. “They came straight for the Rebs … and they didn’t make a sound. They held their fire, they didn’t yell … there was just the thunder of them horses … they were black too. The cannons let into them, and some of them fell, but not one of them slowed down. The Rebs had time to get into lines and started shooting, and they dropped a few, but you know most of them boys couldn’t hit shit when the heat was on. Then those Buffalo Soldiers opened up … they dropped most of the first line with their first volley, from horseback I might add, and then half tore into the Reb infantry like dogs into a carcass while the other half rode up that hill and took the cannoneers apart piece-by-piece.” Lasater smiled, reliving something he still couldn’t believe. “In the middle of it, two of them Buffalos, they saw I was still moving, so they dropped off their horses, grabbed me and pulled me outa’ there, quick as you please and got me to the doctors. I never saw ‘em again. Never thanked ‘em.” Lasater sighed and sniffed a bit, barely controlling his emotions. “Without a doubt, I’d be dead if it weren’t for them. I figure my life is worth a hell of a lot more than a few days in this thing, so you just enjoy the ride, you hear?” He never opened his eyes.
The cowboy looked at Lasater for long seconds, looking for words but coming up short. “Don’t know what to say, mister.”
“Don’t need to say nuthin’.”
The sound of the gondola rotors revving up filled the morning calm and broke the silence that had taken up a perch between them. With a gentle shift of weight rearward, the zeppelin pulled away from the ground slowly and began a gentle ascent away from San Jose. Then they heard the whoosh of the big propellers at the back of the ship kick in, sending them sailing into the air with a lurch. A church steeple in the distance disappeared from view through the open window, and the zeppelin banked around in a long curve, pointing its nose towards the well-risen sun. The cowboy slid up to the window on his side of the cabin and cranked that one open to, sniffing in the fresh air and watching a flock of birds fly by at eye-level. As the birds disappeared behind the gondola and out of view, headed for the coast, the cowboy finally broke the silence.
“So … uh … where’s the head? This morning’s coffee is looking to make a getaway.”
Without opening his eyes, Lasater pointed towards the door. “You’ll find a pair of ‘em fore and aft, one pair just around the corner from our cabin, and the other all the way back past where we got on board, just this side of the dining cabin.”
“Much obliged,” the cowboy said and stood up.
“And remember to put the seat down when you’re finished.” He punctuated the directive with a chuckle. “There’s proper women-folk on this crate, and we wouldn’t want to offend their delicate sensibilities, would we?”
The cowboy let out a guffaw. “Don’t you worry. I’ll be sure to tidy the place up for ‘em.” The cabin door closed on their laughter, and Lasater folded his arms in his lap. After a few minutes, he dozed off into a light, dreamless sleep.
It was the cabin door opening that woke him up, but he didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t even open his eyes when he heard footsteps come in and approach him. When he heard the second set come through the door, he opened his eyes and his right hand was already moving towards his pistol, but it was too late.
In the span of a heartbeat, three things happened. First, Lasater spotted Hang Ah in a black, coat-tailed jacket over a red paisley vest, the ensemble topped by smoldering eyes shadowed under a short bowler hat the same color as the jacket. Hang held a long dagger in his hand that was closing in on Lasater’s face. Second, a shuriken thrown by the man behind Hang hit Lasater in the right arm, and the poison that coated it instantly paralyzed his arm, causing the limb to drop down uselessly at his side. Then, as he reached with his left hand for the pistol on that side, another shuriken hit home and his left dropped motionless to his lap. By that time, the dagger was inches from his face, and he could even see small nicks and scratches in the polished steel.
Lasater looked down at both motionless arms and shook his head. “I was hoping I’d seen the last of you, Hang,” he said calmly. His breath fogged the blade as he spoke. “I figured friends could walk away from a mess like that and just go their separate ways. Guess I figured wrong.”
Hang spoke quietly, his accent making it that much more difficult for Lasater to understand. “Honor must come before friendship, Mr. Lasater. So, yes, you did.” Hang’s eyes narrowed down to slits. “Gravely.”
Lasater nodded his head and tried to fix an ‘I’ve learned the wickedness of my ways’ look on his face. Then he slowly leaned sideways and awkwardly adjusted his position so that his back was against the seat cushion rather than the outward-facing wall. The dagger maintained its inches-away position, keeping pace with Lasater’s good eye, but Hang did not otherwise hinder his prey. “So, umm … what happens next?” Lasater asked. He tried to rub his itchy nose on his shoulder, but he couldn’t quite put the two together with the numbing poison in his arm. When Hang made no move to help him, he wiggled his nose like a rabbit sniffing to try and make the itch go away. The motion did at least prompt a reaction from Hang and the assassin standing silently behind him. They both got subtle smiles as they watched Lasater suffer.
“What happens next, you ask?” Hang finally replied. His smirk turned to a beaming smile of pure delight. “Why, we wait.” Although the dagger never moved, the rest of Hang’s body appeared to relax a little, and the assassin’s shoulders actually lowered slightly as he leaned back on his heels. “Are you familiar with the ancient Chinese proverb on patience?”
Lasater’s features drifted into a desert of sardonic boredom. “Can’t say that I’m familiar with any Chinese proverbs, Hang. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
Hang’s tone took on a taint of formality, like he was quoting scripture. “One moment of patience may ward off great disaster. One moment of impatience may also ruin an entire life.”
“Hunh….” Lasater blinked his eyes a few times, not really getting where Hang was going with it. “That’s really interesting and all, but I think you lost me there.”
“What I find interesting is that the reverse is also true.”
Lasater drew out his response, as if he were talking to a lunatic, “Right….” Before he could add anything, the cabin door opened and the cowboy stepped in.
“Run for it!” Lasater shouted, trying to warn the man off. Lasater was the only one in the room who was surprised.
“Why would I want to do that?” the cowboy asked as he closed the door quietly behind him.
Lasater felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. He wanted to kick himself for not seeing it coming. He was normally such a good judge of character, but he clearly missed
the mark with the cowboy.
“So, you sold me out, did you?” Lasater accused through gritted teeth.
“It certainly appears that way, don’t it?” the cowboy replied like he was talking about the weather. He stepped past the Chinese assassin, and just as he was behind Hang, he winked at Lasater with a serious look on his face. “Guess it’s like them Buffalo Soldiers you was talking about before … this old Buffalo’s gonna be your undoing.” The cowboy put his back to the windows and faced the assassin. “You catch my drift, mister?”
Lasater looked at the cowboy with steely eyes. “I believe I do. You know how I hate them Buffalos. You go right ahead and do what you gotta do.” Then he turned his face and stared down the Chinese Tong boss who held the dagger. “You sure you don’t want to rethink this, Hang? Last chance.” Hang and the assassin chuckled at the impertinence of a man about to die. “Well, Hang, I guess this is it.” And then Lasater did something that actually widened Hang’s eyes with surprise. Despite the poison, despite the dagger, despite being outnumbered three to one … he smiled, and it was a mean, bloodthirsty smile. It shook Hang, if only for a moment, and the Tong leader licked his lips and swallowed.
The kick from the cowboy hit the assassin square in the balls and lifted him up off the floor a couple of feet. The boot took the wind out of the little killer with a grunt of pained air blowing out of his lungs. Lasater’s left hand flashed in a motion too fast to follow, the gears of his artificial left arm screaming like the peal of a falcon, and it wrapped a leather glove around Hang’s dagger-hand and squeezed. Hard. The cowboy was grabbing the assassin before he came down and pushing him towards the open window with a twist of his body. Hang yelped like a little girl as the bones in his hand were crushed against the steel hilt of the dagger. He tried to thrust, but his hand moved forward only a fraction of an inch. With Lasater’s shoulder against the wall, Hang would have had to push like an ox to get Lasater’s arm to give way. The assassin went sailing quietly out the open window, still gasping for air.
Out Through the Attic Page 11
