James Axler – Keepers of the Sun

“Meat, foolish old gaijin grandmother? Meat is for warriors. For men. You may have water and cold rice.”

Doc uncoiled from the ground, his knees cracking, towering over the scar-faced second-in-command. He drew the first couple of inches of the rapier that was concealed in the ebony cane. “You have got a peculiarly large mouth to counterbalance that amazingly small mind, Yashimoto,” he said quietly.

The man had been strutting away, laughing, but he swung around at Doc’s measured insult, hand gripping the inlaid-ivory-and-jade hilt of his sword.

“I could slay you with a single breath, but you are the guest of Lord Mashashige.”

Doc smiled at him, bowing slightly. “First truthful thing you said. Your breath stinks so much of garlic and rotting fish that it could slay anyone at fifty paces. Bring the birds dead out of the branches of trees as you ride by.”

“What?”

“I am sorry. I am probably speaking too fast for you. I have noticed that your grasp of American is poorer than the most foolish geisha.”

Yashimoto had gone crimson with anger, the knuckles on his hand holding the sword as white as wind-washed bone. Ryan had been sitting watching, and he realized that Doc had pushed the man over the brink. That no social command was going to stop Yashimoto from attacking Doc with his longer, heavier sword.

He stood, drawing the SIG-Sauer, stepping in close to the enraged samurai and holding up the automatic where he couldn’t fail to see it.

“Another move and you’re dead,” he said quietly. “Sheathe the sword and walk away from it.”

For a heart-stopping moment he thought that the man’s crazed sense of lost face and dishonor was going to make him go ahead and slash at Doc, which would mean that Ryan would squeeze the trigger and blow the side of Yashimoto’s head into a mist of blood and bones.

But the Japanese pasted on a smile, looking as convincing as a friendly coyote, and bowed to Ryan. “So sorry there has been trouble between us. I am sure that it will soon be over.” He bowed again. “Yes, very soon over.”

Chapter Fifteen

It was one of the best-defended night camps that Ryan had ever known. Even Trader at his best, with the resources of both war wags to draw on, couldn’t have done any better. Taker Yashimoto was in charge, and Ryan grudgingly admitted the second-in-command of the force had done a good job.

There were three layers of sentries, the first of them nearly a half mile off toward the north, in the direction of the ocean and the supposed camp of the ronin.

The second circle of guards was between two and three hundred yards off.

And a third ring of sec warriors was within one hundred paces of the heart of the camp. Some of the samurai had their own tents, but Mashashige himself slept on the floor along with his men, wrapped in a single simple blanket. There was a black banner of silk flying at the center of the camp, with a stark symbol embroidered in white, that Hideyoshi told Ryan was simply the name and rank of the shogun Mashashige.

“I’ve never known a baron who was humble as he is,” Ryan said. “Nothing flash about him. No pearl-handled matching Colts. No tent bigger than the others. No silver-inlaid saddle. The only thing that makes him stand out from his followers is that nothing makes him stand out.”

“This is a part of the code of Bushido. Some flaunt their wealth and power. But there are men like Mashashige who choose the opposite path.”

Doc had been eating from a wooden bowl of shredded beef cooked with sliced chilis and he wandered by, hearing the tail end of the conversation.

“It puts me somewhat in mind of the two great war leaders who faced each other at the famous battle of the Little Bighorn,” he stated.

“That was General Custer,” Hideyoshi said, beaming broadly. “We learn of him in our schools. He was the most famous loser in American history.”

Doc nodded. “Can’t argue with you there. Unless we take Tricky Dicky into account But General George Armstrong Custer was the boy hero. Star-touched Autie. Tailored buckskins and fancy guns. Matched hunting dogs. Golden hair tumbling over his shoulders. Always out front, showing off his wealth and power. He was up against Crazy Horse. War leader of I think it was the Oglala. Similar age and reputation. But Crazy Horse owned only one horse. Gave the others away. Wore the simplest clothes. Carried plain weapons. Custer believed honor came from outside. Crazy Horse thought it came from within.”