The Best of Penny Dread Tales (13 page)

He saw a tinker in a fine black suit and bowler step on to the train, wearing a pair of gold and silver goggles to beat all. Even Tinker Farris’ rig hadn’t been as impressive. They had a half-dozen lenses swung on each side and a dark pair swung down over his eyes to keep the sun out. He had a beautiful black woman on his arm dressed to the nines in dandelion yellow, and Lasater picked up a darker pattern of lines and characters on her cheeks and forehead that said
witch
to anyone who knew the difference. It was pretty common for tinkers and witches to team up, and the woman who had worked with Farris was the one who’d given Lasater’s limbs the life and strength that had gotten him out of so many fixes.

Lasater heard a couple of grungy miners a few rows up from him whisper “Yank” and then proceeded to comment on the woman’s color in less than polite terms … and they weren’t quiet about it. The man with the bowler gave them a sidelong scowl as he helped the woman into her seat.

Lasater wet his whistle and started in on
Battle Hymn of the Republic
, aiming it right at the backs of the two miners to remind them who won the war. Lasater had given plenty in the name of freedom and the abolition of slavery, and he took every opportunity he could to remind Rebs of it when they spoke their mind on the subject. A dozen heads turned to Lasater, most smiling. The bowler nodded to him in thanks while the miners glared at him from twisted, craning necks. Lasater winked at the men and stopped whistling as his good eye narrowed down to a slit and he didn’t flinch, didn’t give them any quarter.

“Ain’t no room for Rebs no more, you hear?” Maybe it was the good eye looking mean and not giving up. Maybe it was the black lens looking wicked. Maybe it was that no one spoke up for the two miners. It was probably all three, but both men’s glares weakened a bit as they turned their heads and went real quiet. Lasater just grinned.

“Last call for Sacramento!” a man yelled from outside their car. The train whistle blew three times hard, and there was the sound of steam blowing somewhere up ahead.

The mahjong-playing cowboy from Hang’s was the last to enter the car. Lasater tensed as he watched the cowboy step a few rows into the car, spot an open seat and start to turn around to plop down into it. At the last second he paused, turned his head and eyed Lasater. A friendly smile spread across his face, and he waved at Lasater who returned it with a nod as the cowboy straightened and started walking back through the car. His spurs chinged across the weathered floorboards, and Lasater gave the man a thorough once-over. He was a little shorter than Lasater with a single six-shooter on the left hip, making him a southpaw. He wore faded blue jeans with trail-worn boots sticking out the bottom. The tan duster covered the paisley vest and blue button-down, and the scarf was still in place. Ancient saddlebags that looked like they’d seen better days dangled in one hand, almost scraping the floor, and there was a faded “U.S.” on the flaps. He had on a faded, blue cowboy hat that definitely belonged to a Union cavalry officer before years of sun and rain turned it into just another way of keeping the weather off. There was a subtle bulge on the inside of his right forearm under his duster that said
hide-away
. Lasater wondered if it was a pullout or one of those fancy, spring-loaded rigs that shot the small pistol into his hand in an eye-blink.

“I see you made it out,” the cowboy said, sounding like New Mexico.

“’Peers that way.” Lasater sized up the man like he was sitting across a poker-table. “I noticed you weren’t there when I come up.”

The cowboy cast a questioning glance at the empty space next to Lasater. Lasater made it clear that he thought about it a second and then nodded.

“Much obliged,” the cowboy said as he settled down into the seat with enough space between them to show respect. Then he leaned back and relaxed like he was at home. “Well, soon as you went through that door Hang barked something in Chinese to them boys sitting at my table. They jumped up like they was on fire and went running out the back door quiet as a couple of panthers. Hang come over, picked up their money and told me pretty clearly that the game was over. My mamma didn’t raise no dummies, and my daddy taught me when to fold a losing hand. I grabbed my money and walked outa there quick as you please. I felt bad and all, but I don’t know you mister, and there was a whole lotta them and not much of me.” He pulled the blue brim down over his tan eyes and folded his arms across his chest.

“No hard feelings,” Lasater said with a trace of warmth. “You played it smart. No shame in that.”

The cowboy peeked an eye out from under a blue brim. “Seems like it all worked out anyway, didn’t it?”

“I reckon. But this shit may not be over.” Lasater ran his fingers over his goatee thoughtfully and stared out the window.

“You figurin’ they might come after you?” He lifted his brow and followed Lasater’s eyes out into the hot sunshine of the station.

“My mamma didn’t raise no dummies, either,” Lasater said, and they both chuckled.

“So what the hell was that all about, anyway?”

The train whistle announced Lasater’s story, and he started in on it just as the train lurched and they headed out for San Jose. Lasater started at the beginning, with the poker game. He was prepared to finish the whole thing, but he heard the cowboy start snoring about halfway through, so with a shrug, Lasater pulled his hat down over his one good eye and followed suit.

***

The lurch of the train as it came to a stop is what woke them both up. The sun was just going down, but the remaining daylight left people enough to still see by. The gas torches of San Jose were on but not really doing much besides looking pretty. Along with most of the other folks, the cowboy stood up quickly and grabbed his gear. Lasater spotted a ragged, pale friction-scar chiseled into the dark skin of the cowboy’s neck, the bumps and ridges pink under the handkerchief. He raised an eyebrow, wondering if the cowboy was wanted somewhere.

The cowboy saw Lasater looking and figured out what was up. “Don’t worry, mister. This don’t mean there’s a bounty on my head somewhere … at least not that I know of. Some boys down in Texas didn’t fancy me courtin’ a white business girl who had a room above the saloon where I was drinking. There was a ruckus, but the sheriff broke it up and let me be. Seems he fought for the North. Them boys caught up with me the next day a half-day’s ride outside of town. They figured I belonged in a dogwood tree.”

“Damn,” Lasater said, shaking his head in disbelief but knowing such things happened throughout the territories and states alike.

“It worked out though. They didn’t tie my hands … wanted to see me squirm up there … and it seems the boy tyin’ the knots of the noose didn’t know how. The rope let loose of the saddle-horn it was tied to, and I dropped down in the middle of ’em. They were all real surprised when I come up with one of their pistols in my hand.”

“Did you kill ’em?” Lasater asked.

The cowboy paused, not certain of what kind of response he might get if he told the truth. He took a deep breath and figured he’d just go ahead and spill it. “Just two of ’em. The ringleaders figured I didn’t have the guts to pull a trigger … or they figured I wasn’t fast enough. They looked at each other and went straight for their guns … pretty stupid, really … so I shot ’em down. I had the three left over strip down to their skivvies and sent them on their way.”

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 10
^th
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 10
^th
?”

“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 Buffalos, but the 10
^th
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.