Blood Ties

by Quincy J. Allen

  The company cleared the trees at the base of Jackinaw only to discover a smokescreen between them and the top of the ridge. So much for hope. He had no doubt that scouts had been able to notify the rebels somehow, and it occurred to him that they probably had one of those new, wireless talkie rigs he’d heard about. If they did, then there was a hell of a lot more than just a bunch of irregulars dug in atop that hill. He didn’t have time to do more than give it a passing thought, so he swallowed his fear. He was under direct orders from his commanding officer, and the Union hanged traitors and cowards alike.

  Jake was neither.

  He pulled his weathered ball and cap pistol and nodded to the man beside him. Clark, his bugler, caught the motion and pulled a gleaming loop of brass off the horn of his saddle. A clear peal rang out, and as one the entire company pulled their pistols and spurred their horses to a breakneck pace. Jake’s company was a thundering wall of Union blue spread out to his left and right as they raced up the hill.

  The acrid smell of smoke filled his nostrils. The world went hazy gray, with swirls arcing around his horse’s head like water around a keel. They were only in the smokescreen for a few seconds, but those blind moments felt like an eternity. A single bullet screamed over his head, probably fired prematurely by a nervous recruit or hapless farmer. He looked quickly left and right, satisfied that each rider he could see through the smoke had nestled in behind his horse’s head. The smoke thinned before him like the parting of a gray curtain.

  As Jake looked up the hill, his heart sank. He knew in an instant that his entire company was doomed. The dark muzzles of a half-dozen cannons poked out from a sparse tree line, spread out in a wide fan, and each of them pointed down the hill at Jake and his men. In a clearing behind the cannons stood a gleaming Confederate assault unit, its hull a blazing pillar in the morning sunlight.

  At fifteen feet tall, the machine towered over the troops ranged around it. The driver stood safely encased within a heavily armored cylinder that jutted up from a long chassis. Its power plant grumbled in an even more heavily armored compartment that bulged out behind the cockpit. The thing roughly resembled a man, but without a head to speak of, and its three squatty legs were designed to easily traverse uneven terrain and keep the heavy machine upright. Assault units were equipped with two thick, heavily jointed arms that could swing and twist in virtually any direction. Rather than hands, they had wide, vicious claws that Jake had seen cut through boilerplate. A large-bore anti-personnel cannon adorned its left forearm and could fire about twenty pounds of buckshot with each volley. The right arm supported a chain-driven Gatling gun. Jake had seen such assault units wreak havoc with infantry and cavalry alike.

  Its arms rose, spreading wide as if to welcome Jake and his company like the God Almighty.

  In the few seconds he had, all Jake could do was watch.

  With a staggering BOOM! the assault unit opened up on the right flank with a blast from its anti-personnel cannon. Men and horses screamed. With a sharp staccato of repeating gunfire, the Gatling chewed into the left flank. A burst of white-gray smoke blossomed from the muzzles of all six cannons, and a deafening, multi-rifle report washed down the hillside. Jake felt the concussion hit his chest. He heard the whistle of incoming shells and the popping of rifles like kernels on a griddle. He closed his eyes, but he didn’t have long to wait.

  The earth erupted around him. His mouth filled with the taste of black powder as his whole world turned upside down.

  O O O

  Jake couldn’t hear himself screaming.

  He knew he was screaming. He felt his chest heaving, felt the rasp in his throat as he cried out in blinding anguish. The bloody, charred stump of his left arm flailed, and little remained of his legs below the thighs other than burned fabric, shreds of flesh, and the white glisten of exposed, shattered bone. Raw, seething horror tore at him, heart and soul. He felt his gorge rising in his throat and spilled what little he’d eaten upon green, dew-covered grass.

  The sound of his screaming and heaving never made it past the cacophonous hiss that filled his ears. That one sound filled his world, wrapped itself around him like a soothing balm, and he was grateful for it.

  The strange thing about battlefield trauma is that the mind plays tricks on a man. It does its level best to take him out of the moment, distract him from the reality of charred, bloody stumps, shattered bones, and an agony so intense it makes him vomit. That’s how Captain Jake Lasater found himself pondering whether history would care that a pig-butchering war profiteer named Cromwell had ended his life at the battle of Jackinaw Ridge.

  Chapter Two – Battlefield

  “You have to keep in mind that I wasn’t there for everything. Some of his story came to me in pieces … over breakfast or a cup of coffee … around campfires … sometimes second- or even third-hand. But I remember it all. I owed him that from the first day I met him. We all did.”

  ~ Captain Jane Wilson

  A crowd hovered around the table—waiting and watching—wondering if Jake Lasater had finally met his match. Hushed whispers slid back and forth like wind through pines. Beyond the crowd, gamblers, travelers, drunks, and barmaids went about their business. An electric harmony floated over it all as an automaton band sang about somebody’s sweetheart on Saturday night.

  For the first time in months, an out-of-towner had given Jake a run for his money.

  Three men already lay fallen, worn down and wiped out by the two professionals who now faced each other. Everyone knew only one would walk away victorious. It was a matter of pride at that point. The money didn’t matter.

  Not as much as the pride, anyway, Jake thought, glancing around the room. The Colorado Brewery was like a second home to him, all dark walnut and polished brass. The Colorado brought in everything from dregs in dirty overalls to ladies in bright silk.

  Jake worked the end of a cigar, smoke dribbling out the corner of his mouth. After six hours, he was tired, his shoulders ached, and his butt hurt. He shifted in his chair to relieve some of the ache and glanced at the impressive pile of bills and coins on the table. He flicked a blob of ash into an already-full ashtray and cocked an eye at Quinn, the burly, half-Asian sitting across from him.

  Pale, ghost-white eyes stared back—emotionless—and Jake had never seen anything like them.

  Quinn was six feet of corded muscle topped by a jet-black ponytail that rode high upon his crown. His ashen face was as stony-cold as his eyes, giving away nothing. Layers of bronze mail stretched from a thick iron collar around his neck to spiked bracers at his wrists, and similar mail covered his thighs and shins. The bronze gleamed like reptilian scales in sunlight, and he wore heavy, black clothing underneath. He looked more like some sort of dragonkin than a man.

  Jake leaned back and fingered the smooth grip of the cavalry officer’s pistol holstered at his right hip—an old habit. For him, poker and gunfights were damn near the same thing … well, except for hot lead flying around. And he was one of the best—at both—and for the same reasons.

  He could size up courage and cowardice like normal folks read a penny dreadful. And he usually knew when the man he was up against was full of shit or armed for bear. Usually. It all came down to making the right move at the right time.

  Unfortunately, Quinn wasn’t giving up a thing.

  Jake lifted the short, black leather topper off his head and ran a gloved hand through dark, wavy curls. Replacing the topper, he scratched beneath the intricate, clockwork ocular covering his left eye. The Rebel cannons had left his eye permanently dilated—among other things—bringing to an end his tour as a Union cavalry officer. Without the ocular bright light blinded him, but he could see in the dark almost as well as a cat with it.

  He blew a puff of smoke through the corner of his mouth, and it drifted out over the money. The cloud dissipated quickly on currents dancing through the brewery, stirred by the airy rhythms of electric ceiling fans. Half of Denver was on electric, the places that had money,
anyway.

  Ignoring the smoke, Quinn’s pale eyes remained cold, his face carved in granite.

  Jake leaned back in. “Call,” he finally said in his slow Missouri drawl, dropping a twenty-dollar bill on top of the pile.

  More whispers circled the table.

  The dealer nodded. “Pot’s right,” he said, laying down the last face-up cards.

  Quinn was showing the jack and eight of clubs, ace of diamonds, and king of hearts—garbage to Jake’s eyes. But Quinn had opened the betting heavy and kept it up as the hand evolved. Jake knew Quinn had something worth fighting for, probably two pair—kings and aces—or trips of some kind. He looked down at his own garbage: ace of hearts, five and seven of spades, eight of diamonds. His hole cards were the four and six of spades. The eight of diamonds had given him a straight, and with one more down card coming, he had a fair shot at a flush. It was why he’d called on the last round. Even without the flush, though, a straight beats two pair or even trips every time.

  “Fifty,” Quinn said quietly as he threw more bills on top of the pot.

  Solid bet, Jake thought. Small enough to keep me interested, but not big enough to drive me out if I’m chasing the straight.

  Jake’s face was chiseled of the same stone as Quinn’s, but he was smiling on the inside. This is why I play poker, he thought, a test of wills.

  He pulled on his cigar and blew out another cloud. He wanted to savor every moment. He picked up the bottle of Cap’n Plat beer he’d been working and took a swig. Leaning back once again, he placed his gloved left hand on his cards and tapped a finger thoughtfully. It made a dull, solid, thudding sound, not like flesh at all.

  “Call,” Jake said, adding a trace of resignation to his voice. Gotta play this just right … he thought. He pushed fifty into the pot.

  The dealer laid down their last cards.

  Quinn reached out and lifted the corner, his eyes darting to whatever lay beneath.

  Jake watched closely, looking for any sort of tell, but his opponent’s face was as immutable as the Chinese statues he’d seen once in a Chicago museum.

  This time Quinn waited, letting the drone of the brewery fill the silence.

  Jake waited, not even looking at his hole card as he scratched beneath the edge of his ocular again.

  “Everything,” Quinn said quietly, pushing in his entire stack.

  A gasp washed through the crowd, and for the first time all night, Quinn’s voice carried a hint of emotion—victory. His face was still a blank slate, and he had pushed in what looked to be about two hundred dollars.

  Jake raised his eyebrow behind the ocular, certain Quinn’s last card had given him trips, or even a full house, which would crush Jake’s straight. The money on the table represented his whole bankroll. He hadn’t had a decent job in weeks, and his crew was eating him out of hearth and home.

  “So that’s how it’s gonna be, is it?” Jake asked around the cigar.

  Quinn nodded once, and the trace of a smile crimped the edges of his mouth.

  “I guess I better see what I have, shouldn’t I?” Jake glanced at the upturned corner of his last down card. He laid it flat slowly and eyeballed his money—about two-hundred-and-fifty dollars. If he lost, he’d still have fifty to keep his crew fed until another job rolled in … hopefully. Either way, Jake was pot-committed, and both gamblers knew it.

  “Call.” Jake sounded defeated, and he let his shoulders slump a little. Another gasp erupted from the crowd as he put in his money and laid his palms flat on either side of his cards.

  Quinn’s smile was reptilian as he flipped over his hand, pushing forward the aces of spades and clubs he’d had in the hole from the beginning—three aces. He pushed forward the eight of clubs, and with a flourish he flipped over his last down card—the eight of hearts—a full house.

  “Dead man’s hand,” someone in the crowd whispered.

  Quinn sneered. “Aces over eights,” He licked his lips as he eyeballed the pot, but he was too much of a professional to rake it in before Jake turned over his hole cards.

  Moving like a man headed for the gallows, Jake flipped over his first two hole cards. Everyone saw the straight, and most of the women gasped while a few men cheered. Jake figured the ones cheering were past losers all-too-happy to see him finally getting cleaned out. The cheer made the rest of the brewery go silent. Everyone, even the automaton band, turned their eyes to Jake’s table.

  One of the spectators spoke up with a good deal of venom. “Looks like he’s got ya, Lasater.”

  Definitely a sore loser, Jake thought. His shoulders drooped and his head hung low. “Well, I guess you’re right,” he finally said. “A dead man’s hand beats a straight every time.” Jake let loose a long, drawn out sigh.

  Quinn smiled like a predator moving in for the kill. He reached out his hands and wrapped them around the money.

  Jake’s voice was as hard as steel when he locked eyes with Quinn. “But I don’t have a straight.” He squared his shoulders.

  Quinn froze, his smile fading back to cold stone.

  “What?” the venomous spectator shouted. “You sure as hell do! I’m looking at it!”

  Jake leaned in with a grin to beat all. He flipped over his last card—the eight of spades.

  “That there is a straight flush,” Jake said. “And last time I checked, a straight flush beats a full house—even a dead man’s hand—every time.”

  A cheer rose from the women, and Jake heard a few of the sore losers shout, “Unbelievable!”

  Quinn’s fists clenched on the table, his knuckles white. His face remained frozen, but Jake saw fury in the dragon’s eyes.

  “You’re a hell of a good card player, Quinn,” Jake said in a friendly tone. “I guess lady luck just wasn’t with you tonight.” He reached out and pulled back what he figured was over fifteen-hundred dollars. It would keep his crew afloat for a while. “Now, if you boys will excuse me, I need to get on home.” Jake pulled a blue bag out of his burgundy vest, kept there for just such occasions, and scooped the money into it. He stood, fluffed the emerald cravat at his throat, and adjusted his gun belt, making certain Quinn saw both pistols holstered there. The bag went back into his vest, leaving a noticeable lump, and he took one last swig from his Cap’n Plat. Tipping his hat, he said, “Y’all have a good night.”

  He turned his back on the table and caught his riding partner’s attention. Cole, his mulatto skin deeply shadowed under a weathered, Buffalo Soldier’s hat, was waiting for the gentleman next to him to bet. Cole raised bright blue eyes and spotted Jake, who thumbed towards the door. Cole nodded, motioning that he’d finish the hand and follow.

  Chapter Three – Sore Loser

  “Trouble finds Jake like flies find corpses. Hangs around the same way, too.”

  ~ Cole McJunkins

  Jake stepped out into a late summer night, the air scented by cut hay, boiling hops, and machine oil. He heard the faint gurgle of Cherry Creek only a block and a half away. As usual, the cobbled length of 12th Avenue lay empty. Anyone up at that hour on a Thursday was either in the Brewery or one of the whorehouses along Larimer Street around the corner. Decent folk—a group Jake did not consider himself a part of—had already chewed their way through a fair bit of a good night’s sleep.

  The doors swung closed behind him, changing the buzz of bar patrons and automaton music to a muffled thrum. A row of horses stood hitched outside, their tails swishing quietly as horseflies tried to burrow deep and drink their fill. There were two steam-driven carriages parked nearby, brass fittings and copper pipes gleaming dully in the lamplight.

  Jake pulled out his father’s pocket watch and clicked it open. It showed just shy of 11:30, so he figured he and Cole would be home a little after midnight. Clicking the watch closed, he turned towards the stables off to the left. A soft pool of electric lamplight cast the doors in an orange glow. Several more steam carriages sat parked beyond, nearly lost in darkness. Jake headed towards the stables but paus
ed, caught in the harsh landing lights of an incoming zeppelin. Its motors filled the empty street with the sharp drone of reversing propellers, and he looked up at a stocky cargo carrier. As the light moved past him, Jake flicked the stub of his cigar into the street.

  He had taken two steps past a gleaming steam carriage when a voice from behind hissed, “Raise your hands and go into the stables.” The point of a blade poked hard into his lower back. Jake hadn’t heard anyone come up behind him, but he knew who it had to be.

  “Boy, you sure are a sore loser, Quinn.” Jake’s voice held no fear, simply disappointment. One man with a short sword frightened him about as much as a kid with a broom handle. Jake raised his hands and looked over one shoulder … and then the other.

  A knot of fear tightened in his guts.

  There was no sign of Quinn. Instead, Jake found himself looking at three strangers in black, their heads topped with black bowlers, their faces covered by strange looking goggles whose opaque lenses glowed faintly green.

  The man directly behind him stood close enough for Jake to smell sour breath. The other two flanked behind about five feet. The flankers twitched their right wrists. With metallic clicks, eighteen-inch blades popped out from their sleeves.

  Oh shit, Jake thought. He’d seen such weapons before. The pit fighters and generally unsavory sorts who used them called them slashers. Each of the flankers stepped in, pulled one of Jake’s pistols, and tucked it into his black sash. The knot of fear in Jake’s guts turned to pure dread. Three against one was long odds anytime, and now they had his pistols.

  “Shut up and move!” the first man whispered in Jake’s ear. He shoved hard into Jake’s back.