The Best of Penny Dread Tales (12 page)

Lasater turned back to Hang with a calculating eye. “That’s a short road, Hang. Rest assured, I’ll be able to find my way back if it turns out he’s not there … or someone else is. I’ll see you soon.” Lasater walked off without another word, made his way to the door, opened it and stepped inside.

Hang pulled a red rope hidden behind the bar, which disappeared through a hole in the floor, tugging it with three short pulls, two long and a short one. “Perhaps,” Hang said under his breath with vicious intent as he watched the red door close on Mister Jake Lasater.

The spiral of worn wooden stairs creaked under Lasater’s boots, and he made his way down them as quietly as he could. The faint, warm light of an oil-lamp shone up from the bottom of the stairwell. One rotation of the spiral presented him with a dark hallway that stretched back underneath Hang’s saloon. Lasater could smell the opium and hear the occasional giggle or moan coming at him from the dimly lit hallway of red curtains that faded away from him through the thick smoke. Another rotation brought him to the bottom and a black door. Lasater put his left hand on a Colt, the other on the doorknob, and opened the door slowly.

The hallway beyond was well lit with a lamp set on either side, each lamp set between a pair of doors along both walls. He picked up a scent of jasmine incense and old blood. Jasmine was something he’d never smelled before coming to San Francisco, but soldiers who lost limbs in Army tents never forgot the smell of old blood dried on wood and canvas. Lasater walked down the hallway and tested each door, finding every one locked. There was a door at the far end of the hall with a small iron bracket on each side bolted into the doorframe. There was no mistaking that the door could be barred from this side, but there wasn’t a plank lying around to drop into the brackets. Pulling the hammer back on the Colt, Lasater took a deep breath and twisted the doorknob, pulling the door open slowly and looking in with his good eye. He didn’t know what he was expecting to see, but the room beyond wasn’t anything he would have thought up, even in a bad dream.

The swinging door carried with it an even stronger smell of dried blood, and he could see lines, splatters and splotches of deep brown on the pine floor and walls beyond. The room had eight walls, about eight feet high and fifteen on a side, and in the middle of each was a lantern with a big, hinged lid. Under each lantern was a door just like the one he’d opened. Here and there the smooth pine walls were dotted with the splintered wounds of what could only be bullet holes. Lasater could see a railing going around what was clearly a fighting arena, and from the looks of it, these boys played for keeps. He didn’t see anyone on the upper level, but Scar was on the far side of the pit wearing black silk instead of red, and he held a slim sword in each hand. Courage and rage filled Scar’s face, and the flush of blood set off the pale line running down his cheek, looking like a white bolt of lightning in the flickering light.

Scar slowly moved into a fighting stance, his body twisted to the side, one sword held high the other low, both points aiming directly at Lasater’s heart. The bag was just behind Scar, lying on the floor, and all Lasater could do was look Scar in the eyes and sigh. He took a look at the half-inch planks of the door and doorframe and shook his head as he stepped into the room.

Clearly Lasater wasn’t the first gun-fighter to end up in that arena. “Y’all must think I got sawdust for brains,” Lasater concluded, chewing off each word like it was gristle. Stepping further into the arena, he slowly closed the door behind him with a mean smile on his face. The Colt rose up and out like it was on rails, the silver runes along the barrel glinting in the lamplight and the barrel now making a straight line between Lasater’s good eye and Scar’s head. Scar’s eyes got wide with a healthy mix of fear and hatred. “Seems I’m gonna hafta’ make a point, Scar.” He slowly lowered the hammer, dropped the pistol to his side and slid the Colt back into its holster.

The sound of a wooden board sliding into the brackets on the other side of the door sprouted a smile as wicked as a demon’s across Scar’s face, putting another kink in the white line running down his cheek. Lasater talked over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off Scar. “Don’t go far, you hear me, boys? I’ll be with you in a minute.” The gleeful laughter of two men splashed through the wood from behind the door.

Lasater raised his hand and rotated the outer lens of his ocular. The eyepiece was actually made up of two lenses, both nearly clear by themselves but polarized. When they were cross-wise to each other, they looked black and kept out virtually all light, but when they lined up just right, they allowed light to go through normally. As the outer lens clicked into place, Scar could see Lasater’s closed eye and the pink ripple of burned scar tissue around the eye-socket. “Fair warning, Scar,” Lasater said slowly. “You push that bag to the middle of the floor and step away; you just might live through this. If not … well, I might just have a surprise or two for ya.” The grin never left Scar’s face.

“SHU KAI!” Scar shouted. There was a metallic clank from the eight lanterns on the walls as the shrouds dropped down and the light disappeared. Black folded in on both men, and Lasater never heard Scar dodge left and start silently snaking his way across the arena. Most men would have drawn their pistols in the darkness and shot into the inky black hoping to get lucky.

All Lasater did was open his left eye.

His right eye was vainly trying to adjust, but his left, fully dilated open, used what little light was coming from under the door behind him. Lasater was a statue, a monolith in the darkness. He watched and waited as Scar zagged his way like a cobra. The swords rose into the air as he approached. Lasater had to admit, the man never made a sound. He was quiet right up until Lasater pulled a Colt and filled the room with a dull clap of thunder and one bolt of lightning. The slug caught Scar dead center in his chest, and he went back like a rag-doll, hitting the boards with a loud, staccato thud. The swords took a few bounces before coming to a clattering rest well outside of Scar’s reach.

Lasater stepped up to the downed man who was making harsh, sickly-wet choking sounds as his lungs filled with blood. Even to the last, Scar fought for life, but it wasn’t enough. As Lasater stepped over him, Scar made one last gurgling cough and then a death rattle left him still and silent. The Colt slid home once again.

“I warned you,” Lasater reminded the corpse without looking at it. His boots thudded across the wooden floorboards as he made his way to the money. He grabbed it, tied the pull-strings around his gun-belt and went back to the door he’d come in through, this time moving almost as silently as Scar had. Lasater stood to the side of the door, out of the line of any fire that might come through it, and placed his left hand on the door. The knob twisted easy enough, but the door didn’t open. It moved a fraction of an inch and came up to the bar that had been dropped in place. Lasater was finally pissed off and finished with warnings. He stepped in front of the door and flexed his legs, just barely hearing the gears of Tinker Farris’ handiwork do what he told them. His clockwork legs were several times stronger than the real thing had been, and Farris was, after all, a complete genius. Lasater pulled both Colts out, stepped back and then gave a mighty kick at the barrier before him.

Wood splintered and steel brackets tore free from their housing. As the door few open, the man standing just on the other side went flying. So did the sawed-off shotgun he’d been holding. The second man watched his buddy sail by and reached for a pistol, but Lasater’s Colts shouted at him twice, and he spun into a wall, dropping to the floor in a lifeless heap. Lasater didn’t even wait for the other to reach for the shotgun. Two more shots rang out, and the man stayed on the floor.

Lasater took a minute to reload each pistol, watching the hallway in front and listening for anything from the room behind. When both pistols were ready, he marched back down the hallway through the door and up the stairs. As he passed the opium hallway, he heard nothing and, guns leveled, was careful to step past it quickly.

Lasater’s Colts came first through the red door at the top of the stairs, and there wasn’t a single set of eyes in the saloon not watching him. Everyone was Chinese. Most eyes were filled with surprise, some with awe. Hang’s were filled with rage, and Lasater’s Colts never shifted away from the saloonkeeper’s head. The only sound in the room was Lasater’s boots walking up to Hang. He holstered one Colt and left the other one cocked and pointed at Hang’s face.

With eyes as cold as an undertakers, Lasater reached into his pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar coin and threw it at the Chinese salooner who caught it with a fast-moving hand. “That’s for the mess I left below. Just so you know, I’m leaving San Francisco, and I ain’t never coming back. I’ll be on the next train for San Jose and parts east. This better be the last time I see you, Hang. If it ain’t, I’ll be throwing lead at you instead of gold. You understand me?”

Hang’s face was frozen with a glare that told Lasater everything he needed to know. He backed out of the bar, backed down the front steps and then made his way down Sacramento Street amidst the throng of Chinese workers who were going to and from their shift changes. Lasater wove his way through the men as quickly as he could. Just as he reached the end of Sacramento Street, he ran smack-dab into Miss Qi.

Her goggles were perched on her forehead, and her ponytail draped over her shoulder, making an ebony cascade down her left breast. The image brought Lasater back to their night together, only then there weren’t blue coveralls between him and her pale skin. She looked at him with those pools of jade that many a man had lost his heart in, and he smiled, taken once again by the beauty.

Lasater pulled his hat off, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her—a long, passionate kiss that got her arms around him and even got her left foot up in the air behind her. The kiss was long enough to make every man for ten yards stop and stare. Whispers filled the street. Finally, slowly, regretfully, Lasater released her.

“You are the sweetest little lady I’ve ever tasted.” She smiled, knowing what was coming. “I’m off, Miss Qi. It’s not too likely I’ll be back San Fran way, but I wanted to tell you that I’ll never forget you, and I’ll take that last kiss there to the grave. I can die happy now.” He gave her a wink with his good eye, and she placed a hand delicately upon his bearded cheek.

“Nobody knows the future,” she said in a smooth Chinese accent. Then she winked back and stepped past him, walking briskly to her shop. Neither of them looked back at the other.

Lasater made a beeline for the train station, keeping an eye over his shoulder to see if any red pajamas were following him. He never saw a pair. He had to wait three edgy hours at a saloon next to the station, waiting for the train to San Jose. The place was full, and plenty of men and women were coming and going. Back to the wall and eyes peeled, he even saw a handful of Chinese men go by. Some of them noticed his hands slide to his Colts, but nervous glances and blank stares were all they gave him. Not one seemed to be interested in him, which was how he hoped it would be till he made it to San Jose.

He figured that if he could just get on a zeppelin he’d be home free, but San Jose was the closest place for that. The big earthquake a couple months earlier brought San Francisco’s original landing platform down like so much kindling. Word had it they were taking their sweet time rebuilding it to make it pretty and expand it to be a stop between the U.S. and the Orient. There were ferries to cross the bay, but Lasater wasn’t one to cross open water if is life didn’t depend on it. His artificial limbs were more anchor than anything else in liquid surroundings, so a short train ride to San Jose and then a zeppelin from there was his best option.

He figured fifty-fifty odds or worse that Hang would come after him. The salooner had lost face, there was no doubt about it, and what little Lasater knew about the Chinese, they didn’t take to that sort of thing very well. With a zeppelin between him and Hang, he could put San Francisco behind him forever, and good riddance.

While he waited, several of the barmaids tried to convince him that they could make a tumble upstairs worth his while, and under normal circumstances the money in the bag still tied to his belt would have been burning a hole through his pocket. With each lady prettier than the last, he politely declined, ordered another glass of water and shooed them on their way. He at least had the decency to pay a dollar for every water, which was ridiculous. Whisky was only four-bits, but he wanted them to know he appreciated the attention.

He heard a whistle blow outside and made his way cautiously out of the saloon. The Number 13 chugged its way through the midday sunshine, billows of steam and smoke pouring into the sky. It took twenty minutes for the passengers and cargo to be off-loaded, and then Lasater boarded his assigned car. They didn’t have any private compartments left when he’d gotten his ticket, so he had to make do with sitting on the far side of the car in a corner seat away from the platform. At least he’d be able to keep his eyes on both doors from there.

After thirty minutes of boxes and people getting loaded onto the train, a long whistle split the sunshine, and someone shouted “All aboard!” from just outside the car behind him. Folks shuffled into their benches on the train, and the car was nearly full. Lasater smiled at the mix of people who were coming out of San Fran. Most of the passengers looked like upstanding couples, men dressed in tails and paisley vests and the women on their arms in bright, billowing dresses full of lace and sporting huge bustles and matching parasols. There was a smattering of grizzled, smelly miners whose new clothes and untrimmed beards spoke volumes.

Lasater had seen a handful of such coming out of Sacramento when he was on his way in weeks before. The gold rush brought plenty of men who lived harsh lives on the brink of poverty. Some of those—the smart ones Lasater thought—would quit while they were ahead after hitting a major load and head back home to buy farms or cattle. The dumb ones pissed their dust and nuggets away like sparkling rain at saloons and whorehouses around the boomtown, staying just one step ahead of broke.