Blood Ties (12 page)

“Fair enough. I just hope it don’t end with gunplay again.”

“Can’t argue with that. Besides, what are the odds that we’ll run into trouble again?”

“With you, Jake,” Cole said slowly, “I’d say the odds are pretty good.”

“I sure as hell wish I could argue with you.”

“So do I.”

Jake and Cole finished up their breakfast and headed back to their cabin where they both settled into their bunks.

“Jake?” Cole asked from underneath the hat keeping out the sunlight.

“Yeah, Cole?” Jake peered from under his own hat.

“I been thinking.”

“’Bout what? San Fran?” Jake asked slowly.

“Yeah, about how the moment we land there’s a good chance the Tong is gonna be all over us.” he offered casually.

“I must admit, the thought did cross my mind,” Jake replied a bit worriedly.

“You thinkin’ we maybe oughta just hole up here, skip the poker game, and get as much sleep as we can before we get there?”

“Yeah. It may be our last chance for a while if this goes the way I suspect it’s gonna.”

“Hard to argue with ya,” Cole agreed.

“Do you really want to? Argue, I mean.”

“I guess I gotta lay even odds this is a trap, so, no, I don’t think I do,” Jake said, smiling.

“Good. I was hopin’ you’d see it my way.”

“I usually do,
amigo
. I usually do.”

Chapter Fourteen – Big Trouble in Little China

“Skeeter has brains and guts to spare. Hell, sometimes it felt like we were working for her.”

~ Jake Lasater

Lumpy shifted underneath Jake as the big bull stepped off the loading platform beneath the
Jezebel
. Electric lights bathed the entire platform in an angry, orange light, and Jake had to carefully weave Lumpy through the throng of passengers and dockworkers that scurried about. Cole led Koto down off the platform and slid up into his own saddle. The air was chilly and damp with ocean air. Jake had on his faded Union officer’s cloak and Cole wore his tan long coat. A trickle of people drifted into a cantina that opened out onto the passenger and cargo area. Open-air windows and accordion doors revealed a bright, smoky interior, and Jake’s ear picked up a familiar song. He gazed into the cantina, and in a far corner he saw a group of three automatons playing the same song as the band he’d seen in the Colorado Brewery.

“Hey, Cole. Look.” Jake nodded towards the trio.

Cole spotted them and did a double-take. “Are they the same ones as in Denver?”

Jake peered closely and realized that the music was the same, identical as near as he could tell, but the faces and clothes of the machines were different. It looked as if all three of them were looking straight at him. “Definitely not the same machines, but they’re playing the same song.”

“Yeah,” Cole agreed. “Whoever makes them things must be making a fortune.”

“You got that right.” Jake heeled over and spurred Lumpy in the general direction of Chinatown. The sun wouldn’t be up for a few more hours, but they both knew their way to the small city-within-a-city. Electric lights would illuminate every corner along the way, right up to the edge of the Chinese quarter.

A large, steam-driven cargo carrier stomped across their path, its four thick, metal legs clanking on the cobblestones. Made of dull, brass boilerplate, it looked like a cross between a horse and a man, with four legs, a torso, and two arms. Jake and Cole had to rear up slightly, and Koto shivered nervously as the ten-foot-tall machine passed by. The man sitting in the cockpit atop the thing waved at them apologetically. He hit a lever, and with a whining of pistons the two arms rose a few more feet, lifting a stack of large crates above the folks on the street. The machine headed for the loading platform as people cleared out of the way.

Cole looked up and gazed at the landing platform above them. “They sure did a nice job with the new tower,” he said as they headed off down the street.”

“It’s pretty enough,” Jake replied and lit a cigar. “Let’s just hope they don’t have any more earthquakes.”

“Or fires,” Cole added.”

“Hell, what are the odds of San Fran getting hit again with something like that rumbler in ’68?”

“Pretty slim, I reckon.”

They rode along in silence for a while, enjoying the wispy chill that frequently accompanies the San Francisco darkness. They drifted through one section of fog after another, like spirits travelling between a daisy chain of worlds that were slightly out of focus. Roughly halfway to Chinatown the fog began to lighten up, giving Cole the gumption to ask the obvious question.

“You got a plan?” he asked as they turned a corner.

“Not a very elaborate one,” Jake admitted around his cigar. “We’ll just head on over to Qi’s Emporium and knock on the door.”

Cole turned his head slowly and stared at his partner for long seconds. “That’s some plan.”

Jake kept his head pointing straight ahead. “Took me all night to come up with it.” He punctuated the statement with a grin.

“You’re some tactical genius, no matter what those other people say.”

Jake chuckled, which didn’t make Cole feel any better. “Just keep an eye out for them red pajamas,” he said more seriously. The red silk was the calling card of the Tong, and virtually all of their soldiers wore it. With the exception of Hang Ah—the man Cole had helped Jake kill—every member of the Tong had worn a bright red, silk shirt and slacks that really set them apart from the normal gray, blue, or black garments many of the laborers in Chinatown wore.

“Count on it,” Cole replied.

They continued on in silence, and the iron-shod hoofs of Lumpy and Koto clacked methodically across the cobblestone streets. Once they were clear of the landing platform, the streets seemed nearly empty. They saw one San Fran Marshal who eyed them as they rode by, but the man said nothing as both Jake and Cole tipped their hats.

There were a few groups of very well dressed drunks weaving slowly along the sidewalks, as well, and they eyed Jake and Cole suspiciously, but only briefly.

Things would get busier once they got closer to Chinatown, the one part of the city that never slept. As they neared it they started seeing more people. Virtually every head bore the wide, pointed hats native to their homeland. Most of the men carried mining implements of some kind, shovels, picks, pry bars, but none of them were armed. All were Chinese, as Chinatown was very much a mining settlement. They were the back-breaking laborers who frequently worked themselves to death so that mine owners could smoke cigars and eat seafood with more forks than Jake would ever know what to do with.

The Asian population was generally scorned by the residents of San Francisco, but tolerated, so long as they kept working. That circumstance had always left a bad taste in Jake’s mouth. It was also the reason he’d stayed in Chinatown during his three visits rather than in a regular hotel or saloon. He’d seen enough “superior” whites during his time in the Midwest and South to last three lifetimes. Finding the same damn thing on the West Coast only reinforced his preference for avoiding “civilized folk.”

Jake kept an eye out for anyone in red silk pajamas and hoped that he wouldn’t see any. If word had gotten round about what happened the last time Jake was in San Fran, then his eyepiece would be a pretty good giveaway as to who he was. Jake would be shocked if word hadn’t gotten round. He saw a few men in black silk pajamas but didn’t think much about it.

The crossover into Chinatown proper wasn’t hard to miss. The electric streetlights abruptly changed to oil lamps that glowed much more dimly than their modern counterparts. The cobblestones turned to dirt, and the facades of the buildings went from elaborate, Victorian designs done in a variety of bright colors to unpainted or gray boards covering simple homes and storefronts. The buildings were much closer together as well.

Jake and Cole slowed their pace to weave through throngs of Chinese miners coming and going. Jake had learned early on that the immigrants worked in three shifts throughout the day, and there was always an army of them moving to and from the mines just outside the city.

As Jake and Cole approached the last corner before Qi’s Emporium, they heard a chattering rumble and the throng of miners was somewhat thinner. They both halted their mounts in front of a dark alley that stretched away to their left. A large mining rig stepped around the corner, and this time Koto whinnied and reared up. Cole had to fight to keep his mount from bolting. Koto could handle guns. Even screaming Apache Indians weren’t a problem. But giant, clattering machines that hissed and stomped was another matter altogether.

Lumpy, on the other hand, ignored it.

The machine stood over twelve feet tall. It had a hull of polished brass and steel, a tough shell that glinted in the weak light of the streetlamps. Jake recognized the mining rig as one of Qi’s designs. He still thought the things looked like Chinese gods of war. The heavily riveted plates housed a powerful, steam-driven engine that drove four, articulated legs. The angular limbs
hiss-stomped
as they moved, and the machine’s massive, four-toed feet thumped into the earth, causing vibrations both men felt as much as heard. The machine’s joints clanged in a strange rhythm as it turned away from them and headed off toward the mines.

The thing had two partially retracted arms attached at the shoulders, its elbows bent around massively hinged joints. Brass hydraulic pistons powered the limbs, and at the end of each arm was a great, clam-shaped scoop that could hold at least two cubic yards each. A small, Chinese man had folded himself up into the cockpit set into the digger’s belly, enclosed in a reinforced cage. The copilot sat perched in a similar cage on top of the thing; his job was to operate the great arms.

Jake was truly impressed with what Qi could come up with, even on a bad day. When he had been in San Francisco last, she was the only tinker in Chinatown, and it was unlikely that had changed. She had also been the only woman treated as an equal by the men there.

“Easy, Koto,” Cole murmured as he patted the horse’s neck. “Ain’t nothin’ to be afraid of.”

“Not sure I’d agree with that,” Jake muttered. “One of those things could pull a building down if it wanted to, and squash ya flat if you weren’t looking.”

“Mining rigs are not what you should worry about, Mister Lasater,” a tense voice with a thick Chinese accent called from the alley. Two lever-action rifles being chambered punctuated the warning.

“Oh shit,” Jake mumbled and lifted his hands. Cole followed suit and they both looked to their left to see four men step out of the alley. All of them wore black pajamas, and the miners who had been thin before had suddenly disappeared, all of them heading quickly away from the scene.

“I thought you said the Tong wore red,” Cole accused quietly.

“I thought they did.” Jake was defensive.

“Seems you thought wrong,
amigo
.”

“Sure looks that way,” Jake admitted sourly.

“Get down,” one of the men ordered. “My men will shoot if you reach for your weapons.”

“Look,” Jake said smoothly, “seems like there might be some sort of misunderstanding.”

“No misunderstanding. You come with us. Now, please.”

“At least they’re polite,” Cole said wearily.

“Yeah, right before they kill you,” Jake pointed out.

“I coulda done without that,” Cole replied.

“
Now
please,” the man repeated tersely.

“All right, all right,” Jake said and swung down off Lumpy. “Look, if this is about Hang Ah, he came after me.”

“You, too,” the man ordered, glaring at Cole.

“Cole, come on down,” Jake said, keeping his hands in the air. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a tall figure in a dark dress step out from the shadows up along the street from the direction they’d come from. The figure was up against the wall of a building, and she tipped over a large suitcase on the ground at her feet. The men in black had their backs to her. “Cole, hold up,” Jake said quickly, and Cole froze in his position. “Listen, friend, Cole ain’t got nothing to do with all this. It’s me you want, and I’ll come along quietly.”

“This has everything to do with
both
of you,” the man said. “Now get off the horse!” he shouted.

Jake watched the woman open the suitcase, reach in, and pull out something about the size of a large apple. She fiddled with it and then raised her arm as if she was going to throw it.

“DOWN GUYS!” a familiar voice shouted. Jake was on his way to the ground in an instant and Cole dove over Koto’s back as the four men turned towards the shout. She threw the thing and dodged back into the shadows. A rifle shot echoed in the streets, the spark of a ricochet flashed against the wall near her, and then there was a dull, thudding explosion amidst the Chinese gunmen. Jake felt the blast that sent all four men flying. Koto reared. Two men bounced off the walls of the alley and two went flying into the street to land near Jake. Lumpy, of course, never moved.

The gunmen never had a chance.

Jake rolled on his back in a flash and yanked his pistols. His Colt and Peacekeeper barked at the four, stunned assailants at the same time Cole’s own pistol hammered a staccato report from below Koto’s neck. The gunfight, if you could call it that, was over in seconds. All four men in black lay motionless where they’d landed, one of them had his hand outstretched for the rifle that had fallen just out of reach.

“What the hell was that?” Cole shouted, looking up the street.

Irritation filled Jake’s words to overflowing, as he replied, “Didn’t you recognize the voice?”

Cole stood silent for a few seconds as Jake watched the small figure in the dress step once again out of the shadows, buckle the case and start walking towards them. The large case rolled behind her on small wheels underneath. Cole stepped around a shivering Koto, his pistol pointing toward the approaching woman. Jake holstered one pistol and reloaded the other.

“You know her?” Cole asked, still confused.

“Think,
amigo
,” Jake said. “Think of the voice. It can only be one person … and I think you can hang that up,” he added, nodding to Cole’s pistol.

Cole gave Jake a hesitant look.

“Trust me,” Jake added confidently, although the look on his face was stern and very not happy.

As the weak streetlight shone on the tall figure, Cole saw that it was the veiled woman in the maroon dress.

“What the hell?” Cole said.

Jake holstered one pistol, pulled the other, and loaded it just as the woman stepped up and stared quietly at both of them.

“I seem to recall telling you pretty clearly that you weren’t coming to San Francisco,” Jake said, sounding like an angry father.

“I just saved your ass, Jake,” the tall woman said defensively.

“Language!”

“Skeeter?” Cole said, bewildered as he finally recognized the voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Skeeter lifted the veil from her face and stared up at Cole, a determined look on her face.

“Saving your a—” she started and then glanced sheepishly at Jake’s scowling face. “Butts,” she amended.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Jake growled at Skeeter. “Cole, mount up and grab Lumpy’s reins.”

“We’re still going in?” Cole blurted, his eyes going wide? “Qi set us up.”

“I thought that, too, when them boys first showed up. But think about it. If she wanted to lay a trap, why do it out here in public. Why not wait till we’re inside where they can get the drop on us when our guard is down?” Jake sighed. “I still gotta give her the benefit of the doubt.”