Rudolph Wurlitzer - The Drop Edge of Yonder

"You can say that again," said the younger man. He was rail thin with a long, bushy mustache drooping over his sunken chin.

"We're lucky to have shelter," the older man said. "We threw together this pile two days ago in the middle of a rainstorm. Me and my boy aim to stay here until we put together a stake. Then it's hallelujah and off to the gold fields."

"I'll pay for the night," Zebulon offered.

The younger man looked at his Pa, as if waiting for a sign. When his Pa nodded, he threw his cards on the crate. The only card face up was the queen of hearts.

"I'll be goddamned. Lookee here. That old queen keeps floppin' up like a high-priced floozy."

"Don't mind my boy," his Pa said. "He ain't won more'n two hands all night. Him and me are Christians from the Church of the Holy Rapture. We're Pennsylvanians and proud of it. We work for the Lord and share what we have and don't gamble for money or drink hard liquor. We expect those we work and live with to help themselves to everything we got and we'll do the same.

"Fair enough," Zebulon said, and passed out.

When he woke the following morning the shack was empty. His money had disappeared, along with his boots, his Colt, and Delilah's necklace. All that remained was a half-a-pot of cold coffee.

Outside, a raw, wet wind blew off the bay. People were moving about in front of the tents and shanties, cooking breakfast and speaking in foreign tongues. Beneath the hill, beached on the shore like wreckage from a tsunami, were the hulks of schooners, brigs, paddle steamers, steamships, ferries, scows, and yawls. A few larger vessels had been converted to temporary saloons, others transformed into hotels or warehouses. One of them was The Rhinelander. All three of her masts were gone and a yellow and red sign was painted across her stern:

RHINELANDER HOTEL BEDS 75 CENTS.

He drank the rest of the coffee, then bound his feet with rags. Avoiding the still-smoldering embers, he stumbled down the bill past the charred remains of what had passed for shacks. When he reached The Rhinelander, his feet were bleeding and his pant legs were hanging in strips from his waist.

The deck was jammed with prospectors and refugees from the fires, all of them guarding their supplies. Not recognizing any of the crew or passengers, Zebulon went below.

Captain Dorfheimer lay spread out on the bunk of his cabin in a silk bathrobe, staring at the ceiling where a freshly painted galaxy displayed hundreds of stars circling around red and green planets.

Slowly, as if each cracking joint was causing him agonizing pain, the Captain gathered himself up and stumbled over to the chair behind his desk. Holding his head in his hands, he stared bleakly at Zebulon.

"How I fear and loathe the past when it arrives unannounced."

"I'm here to settle our account," Zebulon said.

Dorfheimer sighed, massaging the back of his head. "If only that were possible. My officers and crew have deserted me for the gold fields. Every last one. Left me to rot. Don't misunderstand, business will pick up. I have to hang on. Serve decent food. Provide fresh sheets. Then they'll pay double and I'll sail away from this cursed land, never, God help me, to return."

He opened his desk drawer, removing a page torn from a newspaper.

"Thanks to Artemis Stebbins, you're famous from Mexico to Alaska. My God, if I had known about the wild and violent crimes you've committed, I would have had you thrown overboard."

He handed the article to Zebulon, who glanced at it, pretending to read, then handed it back.

"Allow me," the Captain offered.

"No need," Zebulon said. "It's all lies."

The Captain folded up the newspaper and returned it to the desk drawer.

"Where are they?" Zebulon asked.

"Baranofsky ran into some trouble in a Spanish town south of here. I heard he was in jail. Stebbins will know about the woman. He hangs his hat at the Busted Flush, a cafe down the street."

"Are you going to settle up?" Zebulon asked.

The Captain shook his head. "Obviously you didn't hear me. Your passage and trip across Panama were paid for, which was far more than you deserved, given all the trouble you caused. Are you aware that there's a five-hundred-dollar reward posted on you, dead or alive? I should have you arrested."

"Settle up," Zebulon said, picking up a letter opener from the desk.

The Captain stumbled over to a chest. Pulling out an officer's uniform, he threw it at Zebulon. "My father's. A vice admiral in the Kaiser's navy. It will confuse the bounty hunters and vigilantes. Now leave. Go away and never come back, and I promise that I will never mention you to anyone, not even to myself."

Zebulon changed into a tight-fitting jacket with blue epaulets. Then he put on black pants that were six inches too short and had a broad red stripe running down the side, followed by kneehigh boots. The whole assemblage was topped off by a cockaded admiral's hat and long sheathed sword.

Zebulon removed a pearl-handled revolver from the halfopen drawer of the desk. Staring into a mirror, he blasted his image into flying shards of glass. Another bullet blew open the handle of a small wall safe.

After he removed seventy dollars in gold coins, a string of black South Sea pearls, and a gold-plated pocket watch, he shoved the revolver into his belt and yanked Dorfheimer to his feet. Dorfheimer shut his eyes, expecting the worst. When Zebulon embraced him, the gesture was so unexpected that the Captain collapsed on the floor, weeping and gasping for breath.

Shen Zebulon appeared on deck, he was greeted by shouts and applause from the assembled, everyone believing that Dorfheimer had been shot because of his overpriced accommodations and rotten food.

At the end of the gangplank, Zebulon turned to offer a salute to Dorfheimer, who was staring down at him from the bridge.

"I will see you in hell," Dorfheimer shouted.

"I'm already in hell," Zebulon replied.

Tossing the admiral's hat into the harbor, he pushed his way through the crowd on the dock.

T DIDN'T TAKE HIM LONG TO FIND THE BUSTED FLUSH HOTEL, saloon, and Sporting Emporium, a three-story brick warehouse rising above a squalid row of one-story saloons, dry goods stores, and whorehouses. Inside, the cavernous space was jammed with sailors, gamblers, and prospectors, as well as the usual variety of thieves and entrepreneurs. There was no sign of Stebbins. In one corner, a crowd had gathered around a pit in which a wolverine was fighting a half-starved wolf. Across the room, two bare-fisted fighters were slugging each other into oblivion until the larger one, a three-hundred-pound Samoan, picked up his opponent as easily as a sack of flour and threw him against the wall, breaking his back.

When challengers were called for, Zebulon stepped forward — much to the amusement of the crowd, who, by the look of his uniform and stubby half-grown hair, took him for a runaway convict or crazed East Coast Argonaut.

Stripped to his waist, he was introduced as Admiral Doom, a champion of the Maldovian navy, undefeated in over a hundred bouts. Before the introduction was finished and bets were in place, the Samoan kicked him in the groin and tried to gouge out an eye. He struggled to his feet, only to fall back again as the Samoan raised his hands in victory. Waiting for the end, he experienced an unexpected stillness followed by a rush of energy that poured through his veins like water running through an open sluice gate. The release traveled up the length of his spine and launched him in a cold fury across the ring, where he pummeled the Samoan with blows to the head and body, followed by a vicious kick to the solar plexus. As the bewildered Samoan sank to his knees, Zebulon chopped down on his head. Then he broke his cheekbone with his forearm. The assault, as Stebbins wrote later in one of the San Francisco newspapers, lasted less than a minute and was as precise as an execution.