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
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
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