Flaming Zeppelins Page 3

  “Only when the last of you is gone,” Takeda said. “Think of it this way. What residue of you my body does not absorb is passed through my bowels. That is how you will escape. As turds.”

  Takeda exited the tent with his little envelope of burned, ground flesh.

  Sokaku Takeda headed back to his tent where naked women waited. He had learned from the Master of Apothecary that there was something in the flesh of the creature that, when prepared properly, served as an aphrodisiac. It gave him the energy to spread his seed among his concubines. For if there was one thing he wanted, it was a male heir. He already had several daughters. So many he had sold some of them to Chinese merchants and one American who wanted a pet. What he needed was a son. Someone to teach Daito Ryu to. Someone to hand down his kingdom to, for it was just a matter of time before the old ruler collapsed under the weight of his army and ambition. And, in the meantime, this son business, well, it was fun trying to make the little guy.

  When Takeda had departed and the soldiers had taken the monster away, the Master Physician seated himself in a corner and opened a drawer hidden in his desk. From it he took a little machine with lettered keys and extensor antenna.

  When he had the antenna pulled to its full length, he began to tap out a message on the keys.

  Inside Cody’s cabin, on the dresser, next to the jar that held his head, a duplicate machine began to snap. Cody opened his eyes, yelled through the voice tube for Buntline.

  Buntline, pinning a chair to the floor with his butt, rose, staggered to the machine, grabbed up a pad and pencil, wrote out the message.

  He read it to Cody.

  Cody spoke to Buntline. A moment later, Buntline was tapping the keys.

  Next morning was full of pomp and circumstance. The Wild West Show in all its colorful glory, paraded between the Japanese tents and soldiers, Sousa and his band playing “Garry Owen.”

  There were livestock, stagecoaches, covered wagons, buckboards, all manner of riders and rigs, and, of course, the beautiful Annie Oakley waving from the back of a big white horse. Last, but certainly not least, came the head of Buffalo Bill Cody. Cody rode in a buckboard, on the lap of Buntline, who was not overly drunk this day. From time to time, Buntline would raise the jar containing Cody’s head, lift it to the left, then to the right.

  There were cheers, but they were more polite than inspired.

  “Tough bunch,” Buntline said.

  “They only cheer when they’re supposed to,” Cody said. “Takeda runs this show.”

  “Not The Wild West Show, he doesn’t,” Buntline said, hoping Cody would remember this later and offer him a bottle from his good stock of special whiskey.

  “Not yet,” Cody said. “But he makes me nervous. This is the first show where cutting up a man was part of our arrival celebration. Cast and crew, Annie I know, were more than a little upset. Could affect their performance, and if it’s one place we want to look good, it’s here.”

  “Would you like a little crank?” Buntline asked.

  “Not just yet,” Cody said.

  They rode the rest of the way in silence.

  Parade over, The Wild West Show was quickly constructed. The show was a traveling community with carpenters, painters, blacksmiths, tailors, doctors, barbers, stock handlers, gunsmiths, boot and shoemakers, washers and ironers, cooks and prostitutes. Everyone had a job and did it with speed and precision.

  Tents leapt from the ground, poked summit poles at the sky. Corrals snapped together and the stock was thunderously yee-hawed inside. Water tanks were filled, food tents were packed with supplies and tables.

  Inside Cody’s tent, the tip of which was peaked with the American flag, the steam man was in the process of being painted so he would appear to be wearing a buckskin jacket, cream trousers, and a crimson shirt dotted with blue and white prairie flowers. Over this, colored beads and soft leather tassels would be glued in the appropriate places. The jar containing Cody’s head would be attached, different boots would be placed on the steam man’s feet; they would be dark-chocolate-colored knee-highs with bright red suns on the toes as a goodwill gesture to the Japanese empire. Last but not least, a wide-brimmed, white hat with a beaded hat band would be pushed down over the top of the jar.

  Goober, the midget, would be inside the steam man, out of sight, wearing nothing more than a g-string, fighting the heat, fighting the gears, the little steam-powered fan in the neck of the machine blowing hot air down his back.

  When the show was over, Goober would be hosed down, laid out and fanned by four assistants. Cooled, Goober would be hosed again, dried, fed, then allowed to sleep.

  The steam man would be cleaned with turpentine and soap, dried, ready to be repainted. Cody had discovered long ago that, with the exception of the boots and hat, dressing the steam man made him look too bulky. This method kept him streamlined. From a distance, even relatively close, no one could tell it was paint and showmanship instead of clothes.

  That night, electric lights powered by the show’s steam generators, as well as strings of bright Japanese lanterns strung on high poles, illuminated the scene. Around the field The Wild West Show had thrown up rows of bleachers as well as concession stands where taffy, popped corn, parched peanuts, cotton candy and American beer could be bought.

  Once the show started, the crowd, though not particularly loud or rowdy to begin with, went stone silent. Soon Annie was at work doing her trick shooting. Her husband and helper, Frank, was gone, but now she had Hickok to assist her, keeping her guns loaded, her props in place. She started by having Hickok release four clay pigeons simultaneously.

  The moment they were sprung, she ran toward the bench where her guns lay, leapt over it, grabbed up a Winchester, and burst all the launched targets before they could touch the ground.

  A roar went up from the crowd. They were not only amazed at her marksmanship, but at the rifle itself, as Japanese exposure to fine firearms was limited.

  More clay pigeons were released and burst. A playing card was cut. Strings dangling from a hat were picked off one by one at a great distance. One impossible shot after another was made.

  Finished, Annie raised her arms, slowly bowed. The normally sedate Japanese warriors broke into a cheer. Takeda, sitting on a stool at the front of his tent, stood and bowed to Annie.

  A rider burst out of nowhere on a black horse, galloping toward Annie at full speed. He extended a hand. Annie grabbed, swung onto the back of the saddle, and away the horse thundered. Again the crowd cheered.

  Shortly thereafter came a horde of cowboys, doing tricks on horseback, roping and shooting at targets. Cattle were released. The cowboys roped, threw, and tied them.

  Stagecoaches thundered around the makeshift arena, pursued by Indians who leapt onto them from their horses. Mock fist and knife fights took place, cartridge blanks snapped and exploded.

  Scouts of the Prairie, a play, was performed in the center of the arena with Hickok, Captain Jack and Cody. It was translated by the interpreter who called out the words in Japanese over a megaphone. His words were in turn passed throughout the crowd by other Japanese armed with megaphones.

  It was not an entirely successful moment. The play was bad to begin with. There was the language barrier. And every time Cody moved there was hesitation as Goober responded to orders tossed down the pipe. The interpreter sometimes mistook these words as part of the play, presented Cody’s commands, curse words and oaths to the perplexity of the crowd.

  The next act bought the crowd’s enthusiasm back. A small log cabin was fastened together quickly in the center of the arena. Thatch was tossed over the top to serve as a roof. A clothesline was hastily erected, a wash pot and scrub board were placed nearby. A woman and her children, a boy and a girl, appeared. The woman pretended to do her wash in the wash pot. She hung a couple of items on the line.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere came a horde of Indians. The mother and her children retreated inside the cabin. A window was opened. The mother poke
d a rifle out, shot at the Indians as they circled the cabin on their horses, hooting and hollering and firing off blanks.

  Then a torch was thrown on the cabin’s roof. The prepared straw and kerosene sprang to life. It looked as if the woman and her children would be burned alive. An Indian leapt off his horse, grabbed at the cabin door.

  The lock snapped free, the Indian rushed in. The woman and her children were pulled into the yard. The roof of the cabin blazed. An Indian in heavy war paint pulled a tomahawk from his belt, and just as he was about to cut down on the woman, there was a bugle blast.

  Twenty men in cavalry uniforms, Cody at their head, his steam man torso mounted on one of Frank Reade’s shiny steam horses, rode into view. The steam horse hissed clots of vapor, its metal hooves stamped the ground. The Indians released their captives, bounded onto their mounts and fled, the cavalry and Buffalo Bill Cody in hot pursuit.

  Saved, the women and children ran out of the arena. A steam-powered fire engine chugged up. The cabin’s roof was doused with water from a large hose. Men dismantled the cabin, and away it went, providing room for the next feature.

  Off-stage Cody was lifted from his horse with a crane. When the steam man was on the ground and the cowboys had unfastened the harness, Buntline appeared with a screwdriver, and removed Cody’s head from the torso.

  While he was doing this, Goober opened the door in the steam man’s ass and slid out backwards like a plump white turd. He got up with dirt sticking to his sweaty body, and without a word, wandered off to be hosed.

  Annie and Hickok were nearby, cleaning the weapons Annie had used in her act. A cowboy rode up. He said to Cody’s head, “You heard them yellow men got them a fella they’re cuttin’ up?”

  “What?” Cody asked.

  “A fella. They’re cuttin’ on him. And he ain’t no Chinese or Jap neither. I think he’s a white feller.”

  “Say he is,” Cody said. “Where did you hear that?”

  “That boy, Tom Mix.”

  “The elephant handler,” Cody said. “Well, it’s most likely a damn lie. But I’ll look into it.” Then to Buntline: “Get my head inside the tent. These electric lights are making me hot. I feel hungry, too.”

  The cowboy rode away.

  “You don’t eat,” Buntline said.

  “I know that, you idiot. How in the world did you ever write my adventures?”

  “Hell, I just do what you do. I make them up.”

  Buntline picked up Cody and started for their tent.

  Annie said to Hickok, “They’re cutting up a man? You mean like those poor Chinese?”

  “I don’t know,” Hickok said. “It wouldn’t surprise me to discover they’re cutting on someone most of the time. But I won’t lie to you. My curiosity is getting the better of me.”

  Hickok laid the Winchester he was cleaning on the bench, wiped the gun oil from his hands, headed for Cody’s tent, Annie walking alongside.

  Hickok threw back the flap on Cody’s tent, peeked inside. Cody’s jar had been placed on a crate. The lid of the jar had been removed, and Buntline, with a long straw, was poking through the liquid into a hole in the top of Cody’s head.

  “Oh, yeah. That feels good. I feel like I’m eating something.”

  “What’s it taste like?” Buntline asked.

  “Anything and everything,” Cody said, “but I’m going to think it’s a big buffalo steak with a burnt potato. And beer. Plenty of beer.”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt you at mealtime,” Hickok said. “But we overheard that cowboy out there, and since it’s none of our business, we thought we’d ask what that was all about…a man being cut up and all.”

  “Come in,” Cody said. “That Annie with you? Why sure, come in, darlin’. Good show. You’ve never been better. Scouts of the Prairie certainly went over like a lead balloon, didn’t it, Wild Bill?”

  “Far as I’m concerned, it always does.”

  “What exactly is it you and Ned are doing?” Annie asked Cody. “Or should I ask?”

  “I’m eating. Sort of.”

  “Doctor Chuck Darwin came up with it after the accident,” Buntline said. “Him and Morse. Darwin discovered that if you stimulated certain parts of the brain in rats, they thought they had eaten. You could do this until the little buggers died of starvation. But they’d think they were full. Having worked on rats, Darwin thought it would work on Buffalo Bill, his ownself. And it does.”

  “Won’t you starve to death too?” Annie asked.

  “Not in this fluid,” Cody said. “And Morse is taking care of the body. Someday, we’ll reconnect them. And I’ll be slimmer to boot. Morse told me last time we talked that he’d allowed the body to shed a few pounds.”

  “About this man being cut,” Hickok said. “Know about it?”

  Cody was silent for a moment. He said, “Ned. Put the lid on the jar, then I want you and Annie to listen, Bill. I know who it is being cut up. It’s why we’re here.”

  “I thought we were here for a Wild West Show,” Annie said.

  “I thought we were here on a kind of diplomatic mission,” Hickok said.

  “Yes and yes…and no,” Cody said. “President Grant thought after the disaster at the Little Big Horn, all those Japanese warriors being slain under Custer’s fool command…well, we needed some diplomatic work. But there’s more.”

  “I don’t keep up with politics,” Annie said. “Enlighten me.”

  “Ever since the Japanese discovered America’s West Coast, and the Europeans discovered the East Coast, there’s been tension. In the last few years our expansion has outdone that of the Japanese, and both nations have crushed the Indian in the middle. We’ve even worked together at doing it. Now, well, frankly, after the Civil War and the founding of Texas as a Negro state, it seems the U.S. is interested in removing the Japanese from our continent. The recent annexing of Canada as the twentieth state, and with all the western territory we now own, Grant would like to see us own all the land to the western coast.

  “But the Japanese won’t sell. Takeda, he’s the most powerful ruler in Japan. With our help, or without it, he will eventually rule all of Japan. But with our help it would be easier. That’s why I presented him with firearms. To give him some idea of their usefulness. Japanese firearms are so primitive.”

  “He’s going to use a rifle and a couple of handguns to rule Japan?” Annie said.

  “If he likes what he sees,” Cody said, “President Grant will supply more. And the guns will, obviously, make his conquest easier.

  “In fact, on this trip, I have secretly had a case of Winchesters presented to him, along with a case of ammunition. For our assistance, he is supposed to sign a pact with our country offering us the West Coast. Only, there have been some recent flies in the ointment.”

  “Such as?” Hickok asked.

  “Such as Mexico. They’re still mad about San Jacinto. For the last thirty years or so they’ve been looking to stick it to us. They’re offering the Japanese the same guns, but they’re not asking them to give up land. They merely want them as allies.”

  “Didn’t our country just give Mexico guns they didn’t have a couple years back?” Hickok asked. “Some kind of diplomatic gift?”

  “We did,” Cody said. “Now they make their own. And good quality, too.”

  “So why are we here wasting our time?” Hickok said. “If they can get the guns from Mexico without having to give up land, then we’re kind of done in, aren’t we?”

  “We didn’t know that when we set out. I received the information by telewire this morning. The Verne satellite beamed it in.”

  “We seem to have lost our fella that was gettin’ cut up,” Hickok said.

  “We’ll come back to that,” Cody said. “I came here as a diplomat for our president, but I had an ulterior motive.”

  Cody paused as a cheer resounded in the arena.

  That would be the stagecoach trick, thought Cody. It made him feel good to hear that cheer. It a
lways did.

  Hickok offered Annie a camp stool, folded out one for himself, sat down. Cody suggested they break open a bottle, and Buntline was quick to grab it from Cody’s private stash. Whiskey was poured for Hickok and Buntline. Annie declined. Cody, of course, was forced to pass. He said, “Drink a bit for me.”

  “You betcha,” Buntline said.

  “Give me a crank, Ned. Give me two.”

  Buntline complied. Cody’s hair stood on end and the jar glowed. When the moment passed, Cody’s hair collapsed in the fluid to float. And Cody began to talk.

  “Once up a time I had a body with this head. Pretty damn good body, I might add. I’ve told many tales about how I ended up this way, but, as you might suspect, they are all lies, some of them concocted by my friend Buntline here.

  “My head was not cut off with a tomahawk, as has been reported, nor did I have an accident learning to fly an airplane or drive one of those horseless carriages. Nor was I in an incident with a herd of swine. That’s one I didn’t make up, I’m quick to admit. That was one of Buntline’s. Turn the crank, will you, Ned.”

  Ned took hold of the crank and went to work.

  “That’s better. It all happened back at my place, The Welcome Wigwam on the North Platte. Christmas of two years ago. It was a great night at home. It was cold as a castrated pig’s nuts in a tin basin, and it was snowing. Louisa and I had guests. Sam Morse and his wife. Their friends Professor Maxxon, his lab assistant, B. Harper, and his lovely wife Ginny. Also present was the beautiful young stage performer, Lily Langtry. They were spending the night with us. The Morses and Maxxons in the guest house, all others in the main house. There had been much playing of the piano and singing aloud around the Christmas tree. The usual holiday frivolities.

  “Truth was, Morse, Maxxon and Harper were there to do scientific work in my outbuildings. They were trying to bring a cadaver back to life. A horrible thing, I assure you, but fascinating nonetheless, and I was anxious to have them there because they were such good company, and because Miss Langtry was a dear friend of Sam Morse’s. A lovely woman, clothed or unclothed. Wonderful as a spring morning, only a lot more fun.