Katana and the Peacemaker

Chapter Five
Knockin' On Hell's Door
August 5, 1883


The Jewish baker, a locally renowned man named Friedman, stroked his chin before pointing out the window of his Los Angeles bakery shop. “Farmers un Merchants,” he said with a strange accent before breaking into Yiddish again.

Billy looked out the brilliantly sunlit window, spotting the Farmers and Merchants Bank down the street. “Wait, there? You saw him there?”

Now wearing a hat, a strong tan dress and sturdy shoes more suited for the outdoors than what she was wearing on the train, Sarah lifted the couple bags she had on her person and looked out the window as well.

Friedman nodded, his skinny limbs fiddling with loaves of bread on the counter as he inspected their condition through his small rounded spectacles down his aquiline nose.

“Thanks, man. You’ve been a big help,” Billy told him.

Just as Billy was about to ask for the bread he had ordered, the baker blasted at him in Yiddish before growling in broken English vehemently, “No… No pig! No kosher!”

Billy raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Pig? No, no, I said ‘big!’”

“No pig!”

“I didn’t say ‘pig!’ I said ‘big!’”

“Trief! A kholerye oyf dir!” the baker shouted, pointing a finger at his customer.

Billy began arguing with the man when Sarah interrupted, holding her hands up between both men. Looking at the baker, she explained, “No. He meant groys. Groys is ‘big.’ Not khazer. Groys.”

The baker made an “O” with his lips in quick realization and nodded apologetically, muttering, “Zayt mir moykhl.”

Too impressed with the woman’s unexpected linguistic skills to remember what he wanted to order from the man, Billy grabbed his single carpetbag and walked with Sarah out the door of the store onto the dusty ground of Main Street.

“You know how to speak Jewish?”

“It’s Yiddish,” she corrected, “And I only know a little.”

Billy nodded and inserted a cigarette into his lips, lazily lighting it by sticking the end into the open gate of a lit lantern nearby. The sun was beginning to set over the thick forest of brick structures that comprised Los Angeles.

Billy had been looking all afternoon for his friend Arthur Hendricks, with the help of Sarah Winston, who had chosen to tag along for the time being. He had even searched through the tough Los Angeles Street and Chinatown neighborhoods, which mainly consisted of adobe apartments. He continually asked the Chinese residents there if they had seen anyone of Arthur’s description. However, they were all very mistrusting, particularly due to an infamous massacre that occurred there over ten years ago. Also, the area was notorious as a haven for criminals.

Hence, no juice until Friedman the baker.

Los Angeles was a funny city of about 23,000 inhabitants, cluttered in overcrowded brick, wooden, or adobe buildings on the muddy streets’ sides that towered high enough to evoke some intense competition for San Francisco. In fact, many high-powered businessmen, from bankers to railroad tycoons, were actively promoting the city in a direct challenge to San Francisco.

However, it was certainly a less desirable place to live in compared to the more cleanly San Francisco. The air was horribly musty from the smells of garbage, animal excrement, muddy water, leaves, and other rotting debris stuffed against the sides of the boardwalks that lined the building fronts. Even with the occasional tree planted in a hole in the walkway here and there, the place reeked with an atmosphere of garbage and urbanization meshed together.

Oddly enough, the place was getting more and more populated each year, in spite of its seeming undesirability. A census only three years previously declared the population size to be 11,200, almost doubled from the 1870 census totals of 5,730.

Recalling the vast numbers of people waiting on the platform at the train station both he and Sarah had gotten off their train from, Billy could only imagine how soon it would be before Los Angeles became a burgeoning metropolis like San Francisco. The streets of the growing city were already getting overly crowded and all it would take to really make the population boom was some lucky idiot happening on gold or some other highly profitable substance nearby.

The streets were not very crowded on this day, though. It was a Sunday. Many were at church.

“So just who is this Arthur Hendricks?” inquired Sarah, walking beside Billy on the Main Street boardwalk.

Billy took another puff from his cigarette. “Just an acquaintance I’ve known for about five years, since I was sixteen. He used to work with Tom Thumb as one o’ the freak show entertainers at Barnum’s Greatest Show on Earth. After the show I saw him perform in, I go to a bar an’ I meet him there. The bartender was bein’ an asshole an’ refusin’ him any service, so I say, ‘Let him alone. He’s with me.’

“Now, the thing about Art is… he’s stubborn as a jackass. Says he doesn’t need any sympathy from me, so I say, ‘You want a drink or not? ‘Cause I ain’t offerin’ twice.’

“He took me up on my offer an’ we had a few drinks. Mostly, he whined about how he aspired to become a university professor, but that no college would accept someone of ‘diminished mental and physical capacity’ like him. Well… I knew what it was like bein’ put down by the system, so I felt for him.”

Sarah’s left eyebrow arched curiously in response to this. “Exactly why was he rejected by these colleges again? And what did they mean by ‘diminished mental and physical capacity?’”

Walking smoothly down Main Street, lined with brick buildings that paralleled evenly with the streets and each other, Billy spat the spent cigarette from his lips and crushed it underfoot. The largest building in the area was a three-storied eye-catcher called St. Charles Hotel, though its original name of “Bella Union Hotel” remained painted on its sides near the roof in bold letters, boasting large and fancy windows with exquisitely railed balconies. Built right against its side was a shorter brick building with a tapered roof front exposing the words “Bank of Los Angeles.”

Sighing, Billy stepped forward through the front doors of the bank and into the shining insides, made mostly of wood. There, while holding a door open out of courtesy for Sarah, he spotted Arthur Hendricks bickering with a banker in some dandy brown suit with a bowler hat and cane. A chandelier hung over them in the room’s center, flanked by several counters with bank employees assisting customers.

In response to Sarah’s question, Billy answered, “That’s why.”

Arthur’s appearance definitely stuck out. He was three-foot-five, half of Billy’s height, with his limbs, neck, and torso short in proportion to his body. His spine was curved slightly and he had one clubfoot, a condition where his foot was twisted in and down, making it look like he was walking on the side of his left foot a bit. It was a rare disorder doctors did not know about, so Arthur was simply labeled a midget like any other short person. His shiny shoes, dandy brown suit, gold watch, folded issue of the Los Angeles Daily Times tucked underneath his arm, finely combed black hair, and tiny top hat were all testament to the large amount of money he had made in his past career in various freak shows, most notably those of the famous showman P.T. Barnum.

Billy smirked and strolled over behind Arthur.

“Hey, Arty!”

Arthur turned abruptly as his argument with the banker was interrupted and his eyes widened upon seeing Billy, whether from gladness or unpleasantness was uncertain. He quickly turned to the banker and waved his hand in a gesture bidding him to leave.

The banker rolled his eyes and keenly walked away without a second thought.

Folding his arms, Arthur castigated Billy, arching an eyebrow upon noticing the scar damage done to his left eye, “You should know I despise being called that, Billy, because it’s detrimental to my goal of being taken seriously in the academic world.”

“Sorry. Harvard reject you again?” Billy asked, feigning concern.

“No. It was Berkeley near San Francisco and Carlisle Indian School this time. They gave the same reason as always… that ‘I’m not qualified,’” the short man scoffed bitterly, “Arrogant pricks don’t like a midget outperforming them in anything.”

The clicking of footsteps behind Billy followed by a stern but feminine “ahem” alerted the two men to Sarah’s presence, momentarily forgotten. Her annoyance was emphasized by a cross expression.

“Oh, je – I’m sorry,” Billy said, trying to remedy the situation by introducing her to his short acquaintance. “Art, this is Miss Sarah Winston. Sarah, this is Arthur Hendricks.”

Arthur’s eyes went wide as saucers. “The Sarah Winston?”

Sarah paused and then blushed the color of a tomato. “Oh, you’ve heard of me?”

Arthur noticeably spoke more rapidly, a result of his aficionado’s excitement. “Heard of – I’ve read all your books! Just absolutely amazing work! A Boy Named Bob Starrett and Debbie Edwards’ Rescue were both breathtakingly bold pieces, but I’d have to say The Choices of Marshal Will Kane was my favorite.”

Rather uncharacteristically for a woman of Sarah’s social standing, she exhibited a self-satisfied smirk in response to Arthur’s praise. “Well, that’s very flattering, Mr. Hendricks.”

“You deserve the flattery. I haven’t read such fine works of penmanship by a woman author since Jane Austen and Mary Shelley. Have you ever considered teaching literature?” That star-struck look still had not left Arthur’s eyes.

Sarah shook her head and reminisced, “Well, I did meet this truly smart little girl once on my travels through Webster County in Nebraska. Name of Willa Cather. Though, all I did was give away some of my books to her. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to teaching.”

Rolling his eyes and tapping his boot on the hard floor impatiently, Billy looked around and it did not go beyond his notice that several people in the bank had been staring at him when he was not looking, though most turned away when he had raised his head up. That was quite disconcerting for him.

“So, Art, when’s that ship you telegrammed me about gonna leave for Japan?”

Arthur turned to his friend. “A couple of hours, Billy. Relax and take it e –”

Billy leaned down and whispered into Arthur’s ear, “Everyone in this whole goddamn place is lookin’ at me an’ I know I ain’t got jackass ears on my head.”

The short gentleman shoved his newspaper into Billy’s arms, saying, “Read it and weep.” He turned to Sarah to continue their small chatter.

Groaning and opening the folded Times, Billy took significant notice of the large photograph displaying train wreckage being inspected by officers of the law. He proceeded to skim through the article below, his face falling the moment his name and an exact description were both mentioned.

A swirl of questions bounced around his head as he read on more. How had they found out his name? The train had been dynamited? All 32 passengers and crew dead? Eastwood vanished without a trace? Why was there no mention of Trigger?

Click!

The sound of a gun cocking right behind Billy’s right ear reverted his attention to full alertness as he raised his head, pinched his eyelids shut, and thought in a self-loathing response to his own idiocy, Oh, shit…

A chuckling voice proudly declared from behind, “I got him, George! I got me Billy Ringo!” while Sarah and Arthur looked on in shock.

“Good work, Buford… The bank manager’s already wired the police to come on over here,” the one named George responded from behind as well, cocking a pistol and pressing the end of the barrel into Billy’s left cheek.

“Billy… Ringo?” Sarah muttered in disbelief.

Billy gave a nervous chuckle. “Guess now’s a bad time to tell you I actually rob trains for a livin’, huh?”

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Outside the bank, five policemen mounted on horses halted in front of the building. Over average clothing, each man wore a regulated hip-length blue serge coat and a felt hat. Only three of the men had eight-pointed silver stars pinned to their coat breasts, the reason being the badges were optional and bought with the officers’ own money. Their moustached French leader dismounted and the rest followed his example.

They were immediately followed by another posse of Pinkerton agents, with a handcuffed man in tow on his own horse.

As their cold-eyed leader dismounted, he was approached by the French officer. “Monsieur Buchanen, I presume?”

“Correct. Is he in there?” Buchanen asked, not even looking at the officer. He wanted to get directly to business.

His men and their captive, Trigger, all hastily dismounted and followed him through the front doors of the bank, weapons drawn and ready. The policemen followed as well, drawing their service pistols as they went in.

Bang!

Bang!

“Put your guns down!!”

Everyone blinked in surprise. Billy had apparently shot both men in the legs, as they were both writhing in excruciation as smears of blood formed by their knees on the floor. He had his arm wrapped around a woman’s waist from behind while aiming his pistol at her cheek without touching it.

Buchanen gritted his teeth upon the realization there were too many witnesses and variables for him to just simply shoot the woman and then him. Law enforcement… They never wanna get their hands dirty, he thought angrily.

Breathless with terror, Sarah could just barely make out the shape of the gun barrel pointing at her in her peripheral vision. Her eyes snapped forward again and she shut them. Come on, Sarah. Don’t look at it. Don’t look. Be a big girl now. Big girl, she thought frantically.

Billy’s eyes darted back and forth between her and the officers. She was certainly handling the situation better than he had thought a woman could. Leaning closely to her ear, he pleaded in a desperate sounding whisper, “Sarah, relax. I’m not gonna hurt you. Just play along, please, so I can get outta here. Please, trust me on this…”

Sarah squeezed her shut eyes in a glaring expression as she thought sarcastically, Oh, sure, Mr. Smooth. Trying to comfort a woman while pointing a gun at her… Like that’s going to work.

Arthur had already stepped away from Billy with his hands up in indication that he was not associated with the situation in any way whatsoever.

Looking to Buchanen’s right, Billy noticed a handcuffed Trigger limping forward.

Returning Billy’s gaze, Trigger gave a sarcastic little wave of the hand.

Hands on his hip and pistol butt, Buchanen spoke authoritatively, “We’re here to place you under arrest, Billy Ringo… for murder, robbery, an’… well, a lot of other things.” He gave an annoyed sigh, since he knew that what he was about to say next would be a waste of time and breath. “So just let the lady go an’ we’ll take you in to await a trial, where we might grant you some leniency for cooperating in your arrest.”

Looking around desperately for an alternative exit, Billy noted two back doors and a side door with the words “HOTEL ENTRANCE” written on it. The Pinkertons would more than likely have them all covered, but Billy knew his best bet was the hotel door.

In a rough threatening voice, he hollered, “I told you to put your fuckin’ guns down! DO IT!! I will shoot her!”

Buchanen sighed in a low voice, “Typical.” Nodding to his men and the policemen, he said, “Lower your guns, boys –”

Billy took advantage of the lowering weapons immediately, shoving Sarah forward in their direction and bolting pell-mell, with his bag clutched tightly in his fist, for the door to the hotel, firing once at Buchanen’s feet to rattle the lawmen as they raised their weapons again.

Bashing his way through the door to find a Pinkerton man pressed against the wall to the right and another behind the door to the left, the force with which Billy rammed the door open hit the man behind it and caused him to fire his pistol by accident right into his partner’s leg.

“DAGH!!” The man on the right screamed while tumbling to the floor.

Moving fast, Billy slammed the second man with the door into the wall hard enough for the wooden surface to break his nose and the doorknob to injure his hand before he could fire his pistol, which dropped from the pained hand to the floor.

Then he sped up the stairs to the second floor hallway with some stumbling on the way due to how frantically fast he was moving in heeled boots up the steps.

Then the firing from the pursuers commenced with a couple bullets whizzing by his head and embedding into the wall on Billy’s left at the top of the stairs.

The adrenaline pumping through his system permitted Billy to zip down the hallway like a hare. Hearing the men chasing him nearing the top of the stairway behind him, he turned right and fiddled with the door handle to a room. It was unlocked. He wasted no time in barging in and slamming it shut behind him, pausing to take a brief breather.

The pause of relief was quickly interrupted by loud creaking and moaning sounds behind him. Turning, he found the source of the sounds to be a naked fat man in his fifties roughly taking a young woman who appeared to be in her early teens from behind on a bed, causing it to shake and creak and her to moan very loudly.

Turning her head to the side, she spotted Billy and gave a little shriek.

“What the fuck?!” The man turned his head and wasted no time in reaching for his gun in its holster on the seat of a chair next to the bed.

Billy cocked his pistol and aimed it directly at the man before he could touch his gun, saying quietly, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Cautiously, the man recoiled his hand away from his gun and held it up in a gesture of cooperation.

Suddenly hearing boots reverberating throughout the hallway and doors opening outside, Billy pressed his back against the wall with his gun still pointing at the couple as the door to their room opened, hiding Billy from the view of the lawman who had entered.

“Oh, my – oh, shit. Sorry. Um…” the lawman stuttered upon viewing the sight of the couple naked and in their current position.

“Do you mind?!” the man barked angrily, his eyes darting back and forth between Billy and the lawman.

“Yes, of course,” the flustered intruder said, leaving and shutting the door hastily.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Billy headed for the window at the end of the room, keeping his gun trained on them. Lifting the window up and poking his head through it, he spotted a conveniently placed buckboard wagon filled with a massive amount of harvest hay below.

Throwing his leg over the windowsill and holstering his pistol, he told the bewildered couple still staring at him, “I was never here, so, uh… go ahead an’ keep fuckin’.” He quickly threw his other leg out the window and dropped about thirteen feet until he landed safely in the bundle of hay.

The driver looked back and shouted, “Hey!”

Hopping off the wagon onto the ground, Billy held up a hand and said, “Sorry…” He looked up at the window, from which the loud moaning could be heard continuing. “Angry wife. Had to make a quick getaway.”

The driver’s angry expression faded and he nodded in understanding, chuckling a bit. “I know how you feel. Women, huh?”

Billy nodded in return, lowering his hat over his face enough to overshadow his bad eye so it would not give him away. “Yeah. Women.”

Looking down, Billy grumbled upon noticing he was still carrying the newspaper Arthur had given him in the same hand that was carrying his bag. He was about to tear it up when he noticed handwriting on the side of the headline article, which read, “Cerberus; Long Beach, Pier 14; 8 o’clock sharp.”

Tearing the paper up, Billy was laughing in amusement. Arty, you clever midget bastard, he thought with amusement and appreciation for his friend’s forethought.

He scattered the torn pages to the winds and slunk into an alley on the side of the street opposite the bank before he was noticed.

Bang!

The sound of gunfire alerted Billy to the sight of Trigger firing his rifle at his captors while dashing, with a highly noticeable stumble in his step, across the street from the bank, still handcuffed. Though the lawmen pursued, no one was hit. Still, Trigger managed to escape and vanish from sight into another alley further ahead.

Billy retreated into the dark recesses of the narrow alleyway without further delay, sprinting through a labyrinth of houses, streets, and alleys to find Trigger. His feet ached painfully, as though he had been running barefoot over rough rocks. Cowboy boots were not made for running.

Barging through a door into a house and exiting through another door was quickly dropped as an option for Billy’s escape. It was causing an unwanted amount of commotion and attention.

The first four houses were empty, probably because their inhabitants were at church.

Billy was bolting toward the back door of the fifth building, an adobe apartment, when a small part of the earthen wall by the doorjamb exploded into flying dusty pieces from a gun blast meant for his head.

He turned his head for only a brief glimpse of a furious Mexican woman in a Sunday dress aiming a double-barreled shotgun at him.

“Salga el jode fuera de mi casa!” she barked.

He did not stop running and had barely bashed his way through the door to the alley outside when another blast followed, spraying the wood with buckshot and causing it to fall off its already weak hinges to the ground.

He sprinted around a corner to another alley before the woman could chase after him, halting with his back pressed firmly against the wall behind him to catch his breath. On instinct, he reached into a coat pocket and retrieved a cigarette, placing it between his lips and patting around his other pockets for any remaining matches.

Suddenly, a lit match was held directly in front of his face. Leaning forward so that the cigarette’s end touched the flame and lit up, Billy inhaled once and said, “Heh… For a minute there, I thought you were a lost cause, Trigger.”

Dropping the match to the ground, Trigger leaned with his back against the opposite wall of the alley, smoking away. He slung his rifle back over his shoulder.

“You sound like you’re outta shape, Billy. You should take it easy.”

“I’ll take that advice when I’m thousands o’ miles away from here.”

Trigger exhaled in pause. “So… you still plan to keep on runnin’.”

“Yeah… ’Course.”

“Well… I might as well go with you now.”

Billy gaped at his friend in shock, letting the cigarette drop from his lips to the dirt. “Wha? You… What about your kids?”

Trigger turned his far-off gaze downward so the brim of his hat hid his eyes from view. “They’re with my old man. He’ll take care of ’em… at least till this mess gets cleared up.”

Sighing, Billy started walking. He was smiling slightly the instant he had his face turned away from Trigger’s view.

“Well, we’d better get movin’, then. My ride outta here leaves in a half-hour.”

Trigger dropped his smoke to the ground, crushed it underfoot, and followed Billy posthaste.

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“Yes, that’s the entire story,” Arthur sighed in exasperation, hoping that whatever merciful deity existed would pity him and end Sarah’s frenzied barrage of questions concerning Billy and him.

The Long Beach piers under the darkened evening sky were illuminated in the glow of streetlamps and any lighting emitting from the ships and establishments that lined the ocean’s edge. The area was heavily crowded now that most church services were over and waves of churchgoers were heading back to their homes.

Arthur held two bags under his arms while a hired man carried the rest of his luggage across the creaking and groaning wooden dock toward a ramp that led up to the deck of the massive handysize steam-powered tramp freighter anchored beside the dock. The wood’s sounds unnerved him enough to ask the man if it was sturdy, to which he answered, “Yes! It’s perfectly safe!”

Sarah, carrying her own baggage, asked Arthur, “So you lied to those officers back there?”

Arthur groaned under his breath. Sure, he admired the woman as a writer, but the constant hail of questions was giving him a headache. “Yes. I couldn’t let them know I was associated with Billy in any way. I’ve waited too long to take this trip to be detained.”

Recollecting everything Arthur had told her, after a lot of insistent prodding on her part, from the robbery to what had happened in the bank, she asked him, “And what’s going to happen to Billy? Are you going to leave him to those corrupt lawmen after him?”

Arthur shook his head. “Nope… Billy’s like a bad penny. He always turns up.”

A voice from behind concurred, “Thanks for givin’ that some acknowledgment, Art.”

Sarah and Arthur spun around and were approached by both Billy and Trigger, who were disguised in dark raincoats and hats they had obviously stolen. Their weapons were hidden from view beneath the coats.

Fixing up a stern expression, Sarah stomped in Billy’s direction with a frown and, as he opened his mouth to speak, slapped him across the face to the point where his head could have spun around if he were an owl.

Rubbing the reddening spot, he groaned, “Ohh… Jesus, woman –”

Whap!

She slapped him again across the other cheek with equal ferocity.

“The first one was for pointing a gun at me. The second was for blasphemy,” she explained with an indignant huff.

“Yeah, you might want to watch her, Billy,” Arthur warned with some amusement.

“Speak for yourself. You’re the womanizer here,” Billy retorted.

“Well, Mr. Ringo… now that we have that straightened out…” Sarah spoke, at which Billy gulped, figuring she would turn him in. His surprised gawking was not unimaginable when she thrust her two bags into his arms. “Be a gentlemen and carry my luggage onboard while I speak with the captain about letting an extra passenger on.”

“Uh, two, if it’s no trouble, ma’am,” Trigger added.

Flashing a smile Trigger’s way, she made a beeline directly for the captain, who was busy directing the sailors at the end of the dock.

Jaw still dropped in disbelief, Billy asked Arthur, “Hey, when’d we ever figure on lettin’ her tag along?”

Arthur shrugged and proceeded to clamber up the ramp. “Not sure. I’m just as stumped as you are. But, trust me, Billy, she can be a real mouton enragé, so I suggest not arguing with her. Almost choked me to death trying to get me to explain everything to her.”

“So why ain’t she callin’ any police over?”

“Beats me. Ask her yourself.”

Once on deck, Billy scrutinized the massive ship over with his eyes, laden from bow to stern with mountains of massive wooden crates. Some parts of the ship were still under some construction, giving the impression it was not originally a freighter.

Setting Sarah’s bags down and waiting by the ship’s railing, he was suddenly spoken to by Trigger, “Hey, Billy… wouldn’t be wise carryin’ them pistols around on you. Let ’em over an’ I’ll stash ’em someplace saf –”

Billy shook his head, patting his revolver butts. “I got it, Trigger.”

Trigger heaved a sigh and muttered, “Alright.” Then he walked away.

As soon as Sarah had arrived on deck a minute later, Billy wasted no time in asking her, “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

Frowning at him, she said, “Make it quick, Mr. Ringo. I’m still quite furious with you and I need time to process this.”

“So… why’re you comin’ along, then? Why didn’t you have me arrested?”

Smirking, she held up a notepad and answered plainly, “Because I have my story now, Mr. Ringo.” Then she walked off in Arthur’s direction across the deck.

Billy groaned, pulled out a cigarette, and muttered, “Sorry I asked.”


Author's Notes
* For those who didn't recognize the physical signs or have limited medical knowledge, Arthur Hendricks' dwarfism is not caused by achondroplasia (the most common cause of dwarfism) but by a highly rare genetic condition called spondyloepiphyseal dysplasia congenita. Medical science didn't know about it back in 1883, however.
* The titles of the books written by Sarah that Arthur referred to are references to other Westerns: Shane, The Searchers, and High Noon.
* I am a little rusty with my linguistics, so if anyone would like to correct my mistakes, feel free to.