Out Through the Attic

by Quincy J. Allen

  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 ha
d 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 his 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. Whiskey 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 mid-day 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.

  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 lota’ 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 shru
g, 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.”