12
A moment after the stranger's feet hit hardpan, Ken comes bounding down the stairs, all wide-eyed and eager. He leaps off the side of the staircase and goes skidding across the dirt, already fumbling at the scattergun in his scabbard.
Ichikawa lets loose a pained sigh. It's a good thing he and Hiroshi have the dude covered, or else Ken's flailing might have seriously queered the deal. They'll have to sit down and have another talk about this—after they've scored, of course. Nimble fingers and a whole heap of enthusiasm, Ken, but far from the ablest hand with a gun. Now that he actually has a future to consider, Ichikawa toys with the idea that Ken might need a new calling.
Ah—but there. There we go. Ken's got his scattergun out, barrel wavering as he brings it to bear on the stranger.
The traveler just stands there, looking gormless and defeated. He raises a hand and scratches at the red-gold tangle covering his chin. His sullen inaction drives shards of frustration under Ichikawa's skin. A person really should have the wherewithal to know when he's being robbed.
The dude attempts a smile and says, "Now, I have a great idea! You guys and I should walk into town together. We can get to know each other on the way, and then I'll buy you all a round at the first tavern we hit. No grudges—just good times all around. What do you say?"
Ichikawa raises his pistol and slips a finger over its trigger. He says, "I got a better idea. You give us everything except yer clothes. Purse, pack, whatever you got hidin' under that fancy coat o' yours. You do that and we don't put a whole cylinder o' bullets in yer skull."
"I really can't do that, man."
"I beg to differ, greenhorn. You see this here pistol?" Ichikawa tilts his wrist, letting the light shimmy down the wheel-gun's barrel. "I pulled it off o' someone just like you. Came from a dude who thought he were pretty smart—just like you."
(In point of fact, Ichikawa lifted the pistols from the Ozu Barracks' weapons locker the night before he slipped out of town for good. One thing you learn quick as a yakuza—never let the truth get in the way of a good story.)
"Point is," Ichikawa says, "if you don't get a little more cooperative here soon, I'll kill you the same way I killed that particular nancy-man. Drop the pack, stranger."
Can he really afford to waste this dude? Daigo will talk, of course. There he is now—peeking out of his front door like a rodent. Having a reputation as a bandit is one thing, but Ichikawa suspects that graduating to murder could rouse some mighty unpleasant folk back in Dokusei.
The glare of the sun and snowballing junk sickness are making Ichikawa's bones ache like they're full of broken glass. Hiroshi and Ken glance back at him compulsively, both shivering despite the pulsating afternoon heat. Daigo watches from his spot behind the doorjamb, face impassive and lips working at a fresh twist of chaw.
The stranger takes off his hat. The gesture reveals a lunatic mane of blonde hair. He holds the hat between his hands, examining the fine stitching beneath its patina of filth.
"Fine," the dude says. "Fine fine fine. Fuck it."
The stranger half-turns and lightly tosses the hat to the foot of the shop's steps. A maneuver far more graceful than necessary. He gestures to Daigo and says, "Hey. Watch my hat for me, okay?"
Daigo nods uncertainly.
The stranger slaps his palms together with a sound like a cracking whip. His eyes train on Ichikawa and his crew with glacial displeasure.
Wait. This is . . . what is this? Ichikawa can feel sweat begin to seep from his hairline. Suddenly, something's not right about all of this—and for the life of him, he doesn't know what it is.
Without looking back, the greenhorn calls back to the shopkeeper once more. "And another thing! You got any coffins in that stockroom of yours, chief?"
When Daigo says nothing—just goggles at the whole scene like a pithed amphibian—the stranger lets loose a snarling chuckle and says, "Because you might get want to get a couple of 'em ready."
Oh, shit.
Ichikawa's finger spasms against the wheel-gun's trigger. The pistol bucks in his hand. A black-powder roar punches against his ears. The sound echoes and echoes over the scrub-crusted face of the Chiba Hills.
Ichikawa blinks.
The stranger is gone. Absolutely nothing of him remains. All that indicates he even existed in the first place is a faint twist of white dust, already settling back to earth.