The girl had no face, as usual.

He could plainly see that all the theoretical components of a face were there: the soft brown eyes, the upturned nose, the small mouth that hung slightly agape. But somehow, those elements never quite congealed into something that could be recognized as a face. Her clothing was similarly indistinct, its only defining characteristic being that it clung tightly to her body, revealing her figure. Her hair was simultaneously vibrant and colorless, disheveled and flowing, its ends floating away into nothingness. She stood in the open doorway, backlit by an angelic light, as beautiful and shapely as she was blank and featureless.

“Please…” the girl pleaded, her arms reaching out to him. “Please...”

He wanted to go to her. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her that he loved her. But when he tried, she took a sharp step backwards, thrusting her trembling arms out defensively. Suddenly he realized he was aiming a revolver straight for her heart.

“Please.”

He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want for any of this to happen. But it didn’t matter what he wanted. Her fate had been sealed the day she’d met him. A very specific series of events had led them both to this moment, guided by the unbreakable law of cause and effect, just as a train is guided by its tracks, its destination inevitable. He felt his finger slide towards the trigger.

“I’m sorry,” he told her.

As always, this was the point when she started to cry.

“Billy... please…”

For a moment Bill Reardon felt as if he were falling, and an instant later he was awake, covered in sweat. It’d been the clanging of his cell door that’d woken him, and he was grateful for it. At least this time he’d been spared the dream’s blood-soaked conclusion. By now he knew it by heart anyway.

Reardon regained his composure and pushed himself off the stone floor into a sitting position, ignoring the throbbing of his temples and the searing pain in his limbs. A squat samurai prison guard was struggling with the locked door of Reardon’s cell, barely visible by the dim light of the oil lantern he carried. Bill Reardon wiped the sweat from his forehead, and braced himself for another exhausting medical examination. In the days since his imprisonment, he’d had a number of house calls from the local doctor Akiyama, his translator Kenshin always in tow. Despite all the poking and prodding, their visits were a welcome respite from the solitude that consumed his days.

But Bill Reardon soon realized he had an entirely new set of visitors: five authoritative-looking samurai wearing matching kimonos of slate-gray silk, which were partially covered by light hip-length jackets with broad, pointed shoulders, each dyed the same shade of deep lilac. The prison guard opened the door to Reardon’s cell, then backed away, bowing to the five purple-clad samurai. Reardon stood, concealing the pain as best he could, and grinned.

“A little late for the welcome wagon, ain’t it fellas?” he croaked.

One of the samurai stepped forward, a compact middle-aged man with cauliflowered ears and ferocious eyes. His topknotted gray hair was the only evidence of his advancing years, otherwise he looked healthy enough to overpower men half his age. It was more than just his imposing physique: this man wore an expression that Reardon knew all too well, one that implied that violence was never far from his thoughts. The samurai stopped a pace from the open doorway, and for a few moments he and Reardon locked eyes from across the threshold, a battle of wills pitting the samurai’s furious intensity against Reardon’s breezy disdain. Reardon was the first to break, laughing and clapping his hands together in mock-enthusiasm.

“Well! I see Lord Ishida’s finally come to his senses! And not a moment too soon… Y’know, a few more days in this place and my feelings might’a been hurt…”

Cauliflower Ears did not smile back. He issued a command to his men, and the four remaining samurai marched into the cell and surrounded Reardon. With a sharp shove in the back, they steered him out into the corridor.

“Alright, alright! I get the picture!”

They brought him past the other cell door, where dozens of men, perhaps even a hundred, were crammed shoulder-to-shoulder like livestock in a space no larger than your average railroad car, while the sick and the dying — and the dead, for all Reardon knew — piled atop one another in a corner like cords of firewood. Reardon never thought he’d see the day when he’d be grateful for his own private prison cell, but his own accommodations had been downright luxurious by comparison. It was clear to him that this arrangement was purely for his benefit; apparently, somebody didn’t want him to come to harm during his stay, which was a promising sign. He had no doubt that his own personal safety had come at a cost of human lives in the other cell, knowing full well the ways in which violent offenders tended to respond to being thrown into such close quarters, not to mention the increased risk for contagion and infection. He knew that some men in his position might’ve felt guilty for worsening the misery of others, but Reardon saw no point in feeling remorse over something that he had no hand in. In fact, Reardon generally saw no point in feeling remorse at all.

The purple-jacketed samurai opened the door to the second cell, and began extracting prisoners from the writhing aggregate of humanity within. The prisoners’ clothing was so rotted that most were in some state of undress, most wearing nothing but loincloths, a few wearing nothing at all, each looking more sickly than the last. The sole exception was a stoic middle-aged prisoner in the back of the cell, who wore a clean brown kimono with a golden chrysanthemum embroidered on each lapel, looking freshly washed and clean-shaven, his hair neatly tied in a topknot. He sat cross-legged against the back wall, the other prisoners giving him a wide berth despite the limited space — out of fear or reverence or some combination of the two. Mr. Chrysanthemum sat in silence as he watched the purple-clad samurai pull prisoners from the cell. But when he spotted Bill Reardon, the well-dressed prisoner leapt to his feet and began screaming at the top of his lungs, stabbing his finger at Reardon until one of the guards struck him in the nose with the flat of his palm. Leaving Mr. Chrysanthemum behind to quietly stew and nurse his wounded nose, the guards finally emerged with ten prisoners in tow, making no effort to shackle their captives, including Reardon. Another good sign, he thought.

The prisoners were led single-file up a long stairwell and out into a late-afternoon sun so bright that Reardon feared he might go blind. Eventually his eyes began to adjust, and he could see two-dozen more samurai waiting for them outside the prison, wearing the same gray kimonos and wide-shouldered purple jackets. They stood in a loose semi-circle, keeping curious onlookers at bay. Based on their demeanor, Reardon concluded that they had to be lawmen of some sort; one of them even sported a black bowler hat and a pair of holstered Walker Colts, a model of revolver favored by the Texas Rangers. To Reardon it seemed a peculiar combination: the familiar high-crowned derby and low-slung holsters of a gunfighter, worn jointly with the exotic kimono and swords of a samurai. The man returned Reardon’s gaze with an inscrutable smile, then tipped his hat, as if from one gunfighter to another. It was just as well that Reardon had no hat to tip back.

Cauliflower Ears shouted a command, and the purple-jacketed samurai surrounded the prisoners. Soon they were marching along the edge of town towards one of those mitten-shaped buttes he’d seen from the ridge. A sizable throng of people stood around the foot of the enormous red monolith, and as the townsfolk began to notice the approaching procession of inmates, Reardon could feel a growing sense of anticipation in the crowd, one that was all too familiar. A knot began to form in the pit of his stomach; for the first time since his arrival, he began to wonder if coming to Akaishi had been a mistake after all.

As the crowd parted to make way for the purple-clad samurai and their prisoners, Reardon caught a glimpse of something beyond the tightly-packed assembly, a sight that confirmed his worst fears. High on the slopes of the clay hill that lay at the foot of the mitten-shaped butte, looming over the outskirts of town like Golgotha itself, stood a dozen crude wooden crosses, each measuring at least eight feet tall, their transoms affixed at the top to form a T shape. Hanging from each cross was the withered remains of a human being.

“Oh Christ…”

A half-dozen filthy men dressed in ragged, undyed robes sat on the hill beneath the crosses, far from the rest of the crowd. When these outcasts noticed the captives’ arrival, they began to untie the rightmost corpse from its crucifix, its sun-seared flesh half-devoured by flies and vultures. The body fell to the ground with a thud, and began to roll down the hill until two of the wretched varlets grabbed the body and dragged it away. Cauliflower Ears barked an order to the prisoner in the front of the queue, who responded with a brief speech, first to his captors and then to the crowd, his voice full of righteous indignation. Then the defiant prisoner marched up the hill towards the newly-vacated cross, his head held high.

Reardon watched all this from the back of the queue in disbelief.

"Wait a minute now,” he insisted to the nearest samurai, “hold on, you’ve made a terrible mistake! I’ve got important business with Lord Ishida! You’d best let me speak to him first!” The samurai glowered back at him, not understanding.

The outcasts laid the emptied cross on the hillside and quickly tied the orator to it. Scattered jeers began to emerge from the crowd as they re-erected the crucifix, now adorned with its living occupant, while others in attendance watched in mournful reverence, serving as a silent counterpoint to the simmering bloodlust in the air. Cauliflower Ears barked another command, and the ragged outcasts picked out spears from a pile at the bottom of the hill, the weapons stacked against one another like the poles of a Comanche tipi. They marched up the hill with their blades, and without the slightest preamble or ceremony, proceeded to viciously skewer the crucified man in the torso and belly until his gurgled screams fell silent.

“I wanna speak to the translator!” Reardon demanded. “Kenshin, right? That’s his name?” The samurai didn’t acknowledge him. Reardon shouted up the queue at Cauliflower Ears. “Kenshin! Comprendo? I wanna talk to Kenshin!”

Gunfighter Samurai glanced back at Reardon and chuckled. Otherwise, the purple-jackets paid Reardon no mind. On the hill, the executioners had set their spears back where they’d found them, and soon a second week-old corpse was being untied from its cross. Cauliflower Ears pointed to the next prisoner in line.

“I have something of great value to your lord! Opportunity of a lifetime! Just wait until Lord Ishida learns who’s responsible for squandering his good fortune!”

The second prisoner marched towards his doom. He was fastened to the cross in no time, and the executioners once again went to retrieve their spears. It wasn’t long before the sunbaked slope was saturated with more gore and viscera, the second condemned man’s blood mixing in the clay with his neighbor’s.

“For God’s sake, if you would just—”

The prisoner in front of Reardon snapped; the man let out a panicked shriek and ran. At first he headed towards the crowd, hoping to hide himself within it, but he was intercepted by a handful of bystander samurai who’d pushed their way to the front of the pack, hands on the hilts of their sheathed swords. Upon seeing them, the hysterical prisoner changed course, making a desperate break towards the open desert.

Reardon watched as Cauliflower Ears murmured a command and reached out his hand, which was immediately filled with an enormous asymmetrical bow supplied by one of his men, nearly as tall as its owner. He reached into a quiver offered by another purple-clad acolyte, drew an arrow back onto his bowstring, and took aim at the runaway prisoner. Next to him, Gunfighter Samurai let out an involuntary yelp of excitement, drew one of his pistols from its holster, and took aim as well. With their weapons trained at the fleeing man, the two men exchanged a competitive glance, each nodding in nonverbal agreement to the rules of their impromptu contest. Meanwhile, the half-naked escapee zig-zagged across the vast desert expanse, wearing nothing but his diaper-like loincloth, still screaming in terror. To Reardon the fleeing prisoner looked like some surreal figment of a peyote-addled mind, recalling many of those fanciful visions of his youth, borne from his own encounters with that mind-altering plant and its feckless wonders.

The runaway was nearly fifty yards from them now, but Cauliflower Ears and Gunfighter Samurai let him run for a while, in the hopes of making their contest more interesting. Finally the older samurai loosed his arrow, followed immediately by two more in quick succession. As the three missiles sailed through the air, the younger samurai let out a whoop and discharged his pistol, firing six shots at the escapee’s back. The fleeing prisoner stumbled; one of the pistol rounds had grazed him, but he was still on his feet. But his good fortune was short-lived. Two of the elder samurai’s arrows found their target, one in the crook of the prisoner’s left knee, and one just below the right shoulder. The runaway fell in a heap, alive but crippled. He was no longer screaming, but Reardon thought he could hear the man sobbing into the dusty ground.

Crestfallen, Gunfighter Samurai lowered his firearm and bowed to his superior to acknowledge his defeat, doffing his hat as he did so. Cauliflower Ears nodded to acknowledge his victory, then gestured towards the felled runaway, prompting two nearby purple-jackets to retrieve him. He relinquished his bow to a subordinate and turned to the prisoner at the head of the line, who was now bowing vigorously. The compliant prisoner hurried up the clay hill, where a third corpse was being untied from its cross.

Reardon’s mind raced as he watched all this unfold. He’d come here to Akaishi to negotiate, but it seemed there was no bargaining with these men. Reardon’s scheme had failed before it had even begun, despite all his careful planning. He shook his head, mentally chastising himself. He should’ve known better than to allow himself to be taken captive, to sit in some dungeon like a penned calf scheduled for slaughter, meekly waiting for powerful men to take notice of him. In the interest of showing deference to Lord Ishida, he’d allowed himself to become far too passive. It was time to rectify the error.

Within minutes he’d formed a new plan, far more straightforward than the old one. In his experience, there was no problem in the world that a modicum of violence couldn’t solve. Reardon stood in the back of the line in silence, unconsciously curling his fists, waiting for an opening.

He wouldn’t have to wait long.

* * *

Kenshin arrived at the execution grounds just in time to see Takamine Taro put a pair of arrows into a fleeing prisoner’s back. It was an impressive display of marksmanship, and he wished he hadn’t been there to witness it. He was about to have a very unpleasant conversation with Taro, and he didn’t want to appear intimidated.

How could he not be intimidated by the man? The tale of Taro’s victory at the Battle of Sanawanu had only become more celebrated in the twenty years since the Mexican War. And despite his tarnished honor of late, Taro was still considered by many to be the greatest warrior in all of Fusō. He was deadly proficient in multiple forms of armed and unarmed combat, his misshapen ears curdled from decades of constant sparring. And he was perhaps the most accomplished duelist since the legendary Miyamoto Musashi himself, having claimed the lives of dozens of brash young challengers, each dreaming of being the one to have finally bested the great swordsman Takamine Taro. To date, not one of Taro’s challengers had survived.

Meanwhile, Kenshin was a scholar and a linguist who’d never once drawn a sword in anger. How could he even pretend to be Taro’s equal? He had no choice but to try. Kenshin was no warrior, but he was still a retainer of the Ishida Clan, while Taro was a mere rōnin: a masterless samurai, having been dismissed twelve years earlier by his liege lord Yamazuki Hikogoro under mysterious circumstances. This meant that Kenshin outranked the great swordsman by jurisdiction, if not by reputation. But even with the full authority of the Ishida Clan at his disposal, Kenshin wasn’t sure he was up to the task ahead. As Kenshin worked his way through the crowd, he regretted not building his house on the west side of town, as far as possible from the execution grounds. Perhaps then, Ujimasa Osedo would’ve been the one ordered to delay Bill Reardon’s execution until Nobuhiro and his men arrived, and Kenshin would still be at home reading Voltaire. He just hoped the courier he’d sent to the castle was a swift runner.

Kenshin spotted Reardon easily, the brown wool of his jacket and trousers conspicuous among the grey-and-purple silks of the Sabakugumi. Reardon had a look of calculated malice in his eyes, directed squarely at the back of Taro’s head. Taro stood about a dozen yards from him, too busy overseeing the executions to concern himself with Reardon’s vicious intentions. At Taro’s command, a small group of ragged outcasts — eta they were called, considered sub-human by many — carried out the crucifixions with brutal efficiency. To Kenshin it was an unpleasant, gruesome spectacle. But Taro had always insisted that such public executions were necessary, to send a clear and unambiguous message to the enemies of Lord Ishida — and in turn to the enemies of their nation’s great, beleaguered ruler, the Taikō Toyotomi Hideaki. If the galvanized expressions scattered among the crowd were any indication, Kenshin was sure that the message had been received, all too well. Less certain were its repercussions. Were Taro’s executions a deterrent? Or a provocation? Kenshin was grateful that such questions were well beyond his purview.

Takamine Taro’s chief lieutenant, a tall young samurai named Hibiki, spotted Kenshin approaching, and before long he and Taro were moving through the crowd to intercept the translator, Hibiki casually reloading his pistol as they walked. Nervous onlookers scrambled out of their way, some bowing deeply to Taro in admiration, others reaching for their swords as if tempted to strike. Taro must’ve been aware of the conflation of awe, fear, and hatred he left in his wake, but the rōnin’s attention was directed purely at Ukita Kenshin, who stood and waited for the two purple-clad samurai, forcing himself to meet Taro’s withering gaze.

“Kenshin-san,” Taro intoned, pointedly neglecting to bow. “I take it you’re here for the barbarian.”

“With respect Taro-san, he was not yours to take. You’ve exceeded your authority. The charter granted to you by his lordship is quite clear in this regard—”

Taro scoffed, interrupting Kenshin with the wave of his hand. “My own volition is my charter. I must do what I feel is best. If his lordship is dissatisfied, he may dismiss me from my duties.”

“Your duties are to eradicate the Shishi dissidents from within Lord Ishida’s domain, nothing more.” Kenshin nodded in Reardon’s direction. “Surely a mere trespasser doesn’t qualify.”

Hibiki chortled from over Taro’s shoulder as he holstered his pistol. “He argues semantics! No wonder Ishida sends a librarian to scold us!”

Kenshin forced a mirthless smile. He could withstand the insult to his own pride, but Hibiki had gravely insulted Lord Ishida by deliberately omitting his honorific. It was a troubling sign of the times that a great lord could be belittled so openly. Even ten years ago, had Hibiki made the same remark, he would’ve been sliced to ribbons by every loyal samurai in the crowd near enough to overhear it. Now the old ways were crumbling. Perhaps they were gone already.

“His lordship sends a librarian,” Kenshin explained, “because he was under the impression that the Sabakugumi were allies of the Ishida Clan. But if it’s warriors you’d prefer, I can certainly arrange it.”

Hibiki scowled, but Taro held up his hand before he could speak again, ordering him silent. Kenshin forced himself to stand his ground, knowing full well what was at stake. With the Shishi Rebellions gaining momentum, and the intrigue surrounding the Sanada Clan growing each day, Lord Ishida could hardly afford to acquire another powerful enemy. And yet he couldn’t simply allow Taro and his men to operate unchecked within his domain, either. The Sabakugumi had become an important ally to the Ishida Clan in recent years — and a dangerous one. Six years ago, when Taro had arrived in Akaishi to offer his services to Lord Ishida, he’d had less than thirty rōnin at his command. Now their ranks had swelled to nearly a thousand, with more arriving at the frontier each week in search of glory and adventure, every one of them loyal to Taro and to Taro alone. Outside the walls of Akaishi Castle, many secretly believed the Sabakugumi to be the true rulers of the province. Kenshin secretly wondered if they were correct.

“I see no reason for conflict, Kenshin,” Taro said, his eyes inviting violence despite the words of conciliation. “The barbarian is scheduled to be executed, yes? We are merely carrying out Lord Ishida’s command.”

“You have received no such command. Do not presume to know his lordship’s wishes.”

Taro unleashed a snarl. “Perhaps if Lord Ishida would do us the honor of clarifying his edict in person…”

Before he could complete his thought, there was a series of surprised shouts from the bulk of Taro’s men, followed quickly by the sound of two-dozen swords being unsheathed at once. Taro, Kenshin and Hibiki turned, their own conflict forgotten, and they pushed their way through the throng of startled onlookers towards the sudden bedlam. It wasn’t until they reached the edge of the crowd that they could see what all the commotion was about.

Somehow, Bill Reardon had managed to steal a wakizashi short sword from one of Taro’s men (hardly a man at all; to Kenshin he looked to be a boy of fifteen), and now Reardon stood behind the terrified young rōnin, one hand holding a tight grip on his topknot, the other holding the blade of the wakizashi to the boy’s throat. Two-dozen Sabakugumi samurai surrounded them, the blades of their katana trained at Reardon like the spokes of a wheel. Reardon slowly spun in place at the center of the circle, demonstrating to each one of the samurai that he held their comrade’s life in his hands. He stopped when he recognized Kenshin at the edge of the crowd, and he grinned.

“Ah, Kenshin! Just the man I wanted to see!”

* * *

It’d been easier than Bill Reardon had anticipated to turn the tables on one of his captors; feigning exhaustion, he’d simply stumbled into one the guards and grabbed hold his kimono, while he used his free hand to relieve the boy of his shortsword. It was the oldest pickpocket trick in the book, but nevertheless the young samurai was caught unawares. Probably’s got something to do with the fact they never wear clothes with pockets, Reardon speculated to himself as he held the blade of his stolen sword against the boy’s throat. His mind did tend to wander in moments such as these.

Surrounded on all sides by sharpened steel, Reardon briefly considered unsheathing the boy’s longsword as well, until it occurred to him that he didn’t know the first thing about sword fighting. He tossed the sword on the ground instead, still in its scabbard. He gripped the young samurai’s topknot with his spare hand, jerking the boy’s head backwards. Reardon had been in plenty of similar situations in the past, during the occasional robbery gone sour, and he knew from experience the value of a good hostage. But this time there was a sword in his hand instead of his trusty Remington, and to make matters worse, he didn’t even speak the language. Reardon was relieved that at least one of those problems had been mitigated, now that Kenshin had appeared.

“Mr. Reardon!” Kenshin shouted from outside the ring of purple-jacketed samurai, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd. “Just what is the meaning of this?”

“I’d’ve expected my meaning to be quite clear!” Reardon yelled from over his captive’s shoulder, waving his sword in the air. “This here ain’t exactly the sorta message what needs translation, now is it?”

Kenshin and Cauliflower Ears had a brief but intense argument in Japanese. As they quarreled, Reardon could see Kenshin holding up his hands to the older samurai, urging patience. Once they’d finished, Kenshin turned on his heels and pushed his way past the wall of armed sentries into the interior of the circle, stopping a few feet from Reardon and his frightened young hostage. There was a long silence as the two men sized each other up, their contempt for one another obvious to all. Kenshin was the first to break the silence, his voice measured but forceful.

“I suggest you unhand this man, Mr. Reardon.”

Reardon chuckled to himself, as if enjoying some private joke. He released his grip on the young samurai’s topknot and took hold of his forearm instead, intertwining one leg with his captive’s ankles to keep him from squirming free. The boy was too frightened to put up any meaningful resistance as Reardon placed his blade against the boy’s wrist.

“If you say so; one hand, comin’ up…”

Reardon raised his sword over his head. The ring of purple-clad samurai constricted, each man taking a step forward in anticipation of a fight. Kenshin stopped them with a simple gesture, his eyes never straying from Reardon’s. For a long time nobody moved; Kenshin, the ring of samurai, the crowd of breathless onlookers, they all stood frozen with apprehension as Reardon held his sword aloft, poised to sever the boy’s limb…

Reardon burst into laughter and lowered the tip of the blade harmlessly to his side.

“Eh? ‘Unhand him’? C’mon Kenshin, I thought you spoke English.”

Kenshin scowled in disgust. Reardon continued to chuckle to himself as the bewildered boy breathed a sigh of relief.

“Take it easy, I ain’t gonna hurt him.” Reardon brought the blade back to the young samurai’s throat, his laughter trickling to a halt. “Not unless you give me cause, that is.”

“If you harm this boy,” Kenshin warned, “you’ll never be granted an audience with Lord Ishida. That is why you’ve come, isn’t it?”

“Well considering Lord Ishida just tried to have me executed, I sorta figured that ship had sailed.”

“You’re mistaken. His lordship never intended to execute you. The order to terminate your life was a ruse, it was only meant to keep up appearances. Lord Ishida has many enemies, and their spies are everywhere.”

Reardon threw a wry glance towards the armed samurai that surrounded them. “I’d say the ruse was pretty damned convincing.”

“Takamine Taro and his men are not vassals of the Ishida Clan. His Sabakugumi are merely rōnin, hired jackals one and all. Suffice it to say they exceeded their authority when they attempted to carry out Lord Ishida’s execution order.”

Reardon looked over at Cauliflower Ears, who glared back from beyond the ring of purple-jacketed samurai, barely containing his rage. So this is the famous Takamine Taro. The name was well-known, even in Texas. Supposedly the greatest sword fighter who’d ever lived, the folk tales of Taro had spread east across the border from campfire to campfire. Children with sticks pretended to be Takamine Taro when they grew tired of using their index fingers as pistols, and there was even a dreadful ballad about the man, frequently heard in many a Santa Fe saloon. As Reardon locked eyes with the famous samurai, he reflected that not one verse of the Ballad of Takamine Taro recounted a time when his sword squared off against a decent six-shooter. He wondered how the great swordsman would fare then.

“I, on the other hand, am Lord Ishida’s retainer,” Kenshin continued, “They will spare your life if I command it. But only if your captive is unharmed. Please, Mr. Reardon, release the boy and Taro’s men will stand down.”

There was a lengthy silence as Reardon considered the situation. He was certain of one thing: Taro wanted him dead. But was Taro acting without Lord Ishida’s authority, as Kenshin claimed? Or was this just a tall tale Kenshin was spinning in the hopes of saving the boy? In that case, Reardon knew he’d be killed the instant he released his hostage.

Still, he’d already gambled his life in the desert for the opportunity to speak with Lord Ishida. If there was still a chance to work out a deal, then perhaps surrendering the boy and putting his faith in Kenshin was just one more risk worth taking…

Don’t be a fool, Reardon chided himself, tightening his grip on the young samurai’s topknot. If Lord Ishida was interested in doing business, he would’ve done it by now. Reardon had hoped the bars of silver would be enough to intrigue Ishida, but the Lord of Akaishi either hadn’t seen the silver, or he didn’t fully understand its significance. Either way, Reardon could no longer count on Ishida Tadashi’s inquisitiveness to keep him safe. This hostage was the only leverage he had left.

“Sorry Kenshin, but we do this my way.”

Kenshin drew a deep breath through clenched teeth, his impatience starting to get the better of him. “Your hostage cannot protect you from Taro’s wrath, Mr. Reardon. I can.”

“Only protection I need’s a good piece of iron in my palm,” Reardon scoffed. “So if you really wanna use your sovereign influence, why don’t you start by telling Mr. Bowler Hat over there to hand over both’a his revolvers?”

He nodded towards Taro’s lieutenant, who was absentmindedly spinning the chamber of one of his Walker Colts as he watched the proceedings from over Taro’s shoulder, grinning from ear to ear like a delighted child at a puppet show. Kenshin followed Reardon’s gaze, then shook his head.

“Unlikely. Hibiki values those weapons far more than he values this boy’s life.”

“Then convince  him.”

Taro shouted a question at Kenshin, and Kenshin barked a curt response back, over his shoulder. Reardon didn’t need to speak Japanese to know that the elder samurai was anxious to intervene — like Reardon, Taro had the look of a man who preferred to solve most problems with a generous dose of violence.

“Please Mr. Reardon,” Kenshin sighed, “you must trust me. To antagonize these men any further would be unwise.”

“Well shit Kenshin, your concern for my well-being sure is touching. But what I need is a translator, not a schoolmarm.” Reardon pointed the sword at Hibiki. “Tell him.”

Suddenly, something inside Kenshin seemed to snap; his patience was at an end. He took one swift step forward, bringing him nearly nose-to-nose with the Texian outlaw.

“Make no mistake Mr. Reardon, my intervention in this matter is hardly an act of mercy. Do you really think I’d risk a confrontation with Taro over the life of a degenerate bandit such as yourself?” Kenshin waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the hostage between them. “Or some insignificant child of a rōnin? No, Mr. Reardon. I am here because Lord Ishida has seen the contents of your saddlebags with his own eyes, and he was quite insistent that you not come to any harm until he’s had a chance to question you about them in person.”

“No time like the present!” Reardon grinned. He looked up at the distant Akaishi Castle, its towers silhouetted against the reddening afternoon sky. “Let’s go see him right now, just the three of us: you, me, and our mutual friend here.” Reardon jerked the boy’s head backwards for emphasis.

“Lord Ishida is a busy man. You will have your audience in due time.”

“Not good enough!” Reardon snarled, “I’ve just about had my fill of waiting around! I’m headed back to Comancheria, if Lord High and Mighty wants to do business, he can send someone to come and find me.”

Kenshin raised an eyebrow. “And exactly how do you plan to get there?”

“On the back of the horse you’re about to bring me. Preferably my own horse, if it’s still alive. Plus a loaded revolver and enough food and water for the trip back east oughtta do it. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make the arrangements.”

“Or you’ll kill the boy, you mean?”

“Yer goddamn right!”

There was a long moment when Kenshin didn’t respond. He just stood there nodding to himself, an faraway look in his eyes. Reardon studied his expression, hoping to glean some insight into his chances. Gradually, Reardon was certain he could see defeat creeping into Kenshin’s eyes.

“Very well, Mr. Reardon.” Without another word, Kenshin turned, parted the drawn blades of Taro’s men, and exited the ring of samurai. Reardon grinned in triumph.

“Smart man. Oh, and bring me a decent hat while you’re at it! Don’t dawdle now, I told you I’m tired of waiting around!”

Kenshin walked over to Taro and spoke to him at length, occasionally stealing a glance over his shoulder at Reardon. Once in awhile Hibiki would chime in from a few feet away, a malicious grin plastered on his face. Reardon strained to listen in on their conversation from afar, knowing that although he wouldn’t be able to understand the words, their tone of voice would speak volumes. Unfortunately, most of their discussion was being lost in the murmurs of the crowd, who were beginning to realize that this altercation was about to come to an end, one way or another. Even the condemned prisoners were craning their necks for a better view.

Eventually Taro brought their conference to an end with a brusque nod. Kenshin bowed in return and took a deferent step backwards, as Taro walked towards the ring of armed samurai and shouted a command to his men. They seemed hesitant to comply at first, until their commander bellowed the same command again, this time with an intensity which could not be ignored. The ring of purple-jackets reluctantly lowered their swords and re-sheathed them. Reardon watched them stand down with smug satisfaction, chuckling to himself all the while. A handful of Taro’s rōnin stepped aside, reshaping their circle into a horseshoe. Taro stepped into the breach, a sullen look in his eyes, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword, just aching to draw the blade from its sheath. He stopped a few yards from Reardon, who sneered at Taro from behind his young hostage.

“Don’t feel too bad, Cauliflower Ears. You ain’t the first lawman let me slip through his fingers, and you sure’s hell won’t be the last.”

Taro looked back at Reardon with unrestrained scorn, waiting for the outlaw to finish gloating. Then Taro looked the young hostage straight in the eyes and began to speak, quietly at first, but with a growing urgency that put Reardon on edge. He could feel the boy tensing up at Taro’s words, and soon there was a barely-perceptible trembling in the young rōnin’s knees. Taro asked a question, and the boy nodded back as best he could. Reardon grabbed the boy’s topknot tighter and shook.

“Hey! Knock that off!” Reardon growled. “Kenshin! If these two are planning something, you better tell ‘em to forget it! I’m pretty good with a knife, and I won’t think twice before—”

The young rōnin grabbed the blade of the sword with his bare hands and plunged it into his own throat.

Reardon let out a shout of surprise and stumbled backwards while a geyser of blood cascaded down the boy’s forearms and onto the front of his purple silk jacket. Losing his grip on the sword’s hilt, Reardon fell onto his back as the young samurai slumped to his knees, continuing to drive the blade deeper into his own jugular, his face contorted in excruciating pain. Then the boy doubled over and braced himself on the ground with his hands, letting the bloody sword fall. Reardon watched from a few feet away as the boy bled out like a slaughtered calf.

Stone-faced, Taro strode into the interior of the semicircle, a white-knuckled grip on the hilt of his katana. He glared down at the two men, one writhing on his belly in the throes of death, the other scrambling across the ground on his back, away from the imposing old samurai. Taro planted his feet between them and slid his sword a few inches out of its scabbard, just enough to expose the steel. Reardon raised his hands in an instinctive plea for mercy.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa! Wait! I didn’t—”

Taro silenced him with a single word of Japanese, bellowed with such intensity that it left even Bill Reardon speechless. Then with terrifying speed and precision, Taro drew his sword, spun, and cut off the dying boy’s head.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3