Lijuan Pow!: Chapter 1

The following story is the first chapter in a Weird West serial I plan on running. I hope it will meet with the approval of fans of the genre and newcomers alike. Thanks for reading, and please comment.

Lijuan Pow!: Chapter 1

Well readers, once again I’ve returned from my travels with stories and news from the great American wilds. Whilst traveling, I met a most singular individual, with whom I had the honor of traveling with for many months. I met her traveling by rail from Iowa to California...

Maxwell Venture

Reporter for the Chicago Enquirer

Maxwell was exceptionally foul-tempered that day. After nearly four weeks tracking down leads for the so called “Ghost of Morris” in some backwater Iowa County, he found out it had been a hoax perpetrated by a pack of local hooligans. Alone, he sat in his train compartment and fumed.

He was broken from his reverie by the sound of the compartment door sliding open. A Chinese woman dressed in men’s clothes several sizes too large, with rolled up sleeves and cuffs. Her long black duster trailed on the ground behind her when she walked. She entered and took the seat opposite him.

Her clothes combined with her small stature, five feet at best, should have made a comical figure. A child dressed up in her father’s clothes, but one look in her eyes said something very different. They were hard eyes. They were eyes that didn’t miss a thing. She had eyes that belonged to seasoned bounty hunter or a hardened bandit. Maxwell had no doubt her duster concealed at least one shooting iron.

Being a friendly sort, and smelling a possible story, Maxwell attempted to interview her. With his best winning smile he said, “Maxwell Venture, reporter for the Chicago Enquirer. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

The woman didn’t even look up. She affected a bored expression. Then produced a chap book from her duster pocket and studiously ignored him. Undaunted, he tried a different tact, “I’m doing a piece about folks who ride the rails. Care to share your story?”

The woman continued to read, her lips moving silently as she went. The silence dragged on. Maxwell eventually gave up. Instead he focused his attention on the country passing by his window. The train sped by open prairie populated by herds of five-horns. The massive, quadrupedal reptiles were guarded by trail hands mounted on the lighter and faster three-horns.

They spent the morning in uncomfortable silence, Maxwell staring out the window and the woman reading her book. Eventually, the herds were left behind and the only thing to see was the largely uninhabited wild lands of the American Midwest.

Just as Maxwell was nodding off, the sudden screeching of brakes and abruptly arrested forward movement served to wake him up. He was violently thrown from his seat. Surprised yelps and the sound of a great deal of luggage slamming together could be heard ahead and behind

“What the Devil is going on?” exclaimed Maxwell as he staggered to his feet. Wordlessly the woman got up and stuck her head out the window. Maxwell quickly followed suit. The cause of the sudden braking was obvious. A gigantic oak tree had somehow grown on the tracks.

“Ghost Shirts!” cried a panicked voice from the next car. Sure enough, at least seventy Lakota Ghost Shirts were riding forward. Mounted on brightly feathered Raptors and followed by a pride of Rexes, they filled the sky with arrows as they rode forward. A disorganized mix of rail employees and armed passengers returned fire with surprisingly little effect. Those unable or unwilling to fight closed their iron window shutters and started praying.

“Shouldn’t we close the shutters?” asked Maxwell nervously.

The woman shook her head. “You wanted a story,” she replied absently. “Now you’ll have one.” Brazenly, the woman stepped in front of the window and produced a Colt Peacemaker from her duster. She held the gun at hip level, pulled the trigger, and then slammed the hammer six times in rapid succession. The gun fired six times with almost no gap between shots. Each lightning fast shot struck home, dropping a rider or mount. Without hesitation she dropped her gun and drew another. She emptied a half dozen guns, and left more gaps in the front line than in an old man's mouth. Both the roar of gunfire and smoke filled the compartment rendering  Maxwell nearly senseless. Finally, a heap of spent guns at her feet; the woman ceased firing and took cover. Dozens of arrows poured in the window like torrential rainfall.

His ears still ringing, Maxwell shouted, “Could I at least learn your name before you get me killed?” He huddled just outside the range of the arrows, his suitcase clutched before him like a shield.

Calmly she slammed closed the shutter and collected her guns. “My name is Lijuan Chao.” Now properly introduced, she picked up her saddle, pack and headed for the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” asked Maxwell.

“I’m leaving, while I still can,” she answered brusquely.

“Why?” he asked, confused, “the train can still be saved.”

“In about five seconds a pride of rexes is going to descend on this train like it was a Christmas feast. I intend to be gone by then.”

“What about me?” asked Maxwell.

“Come, if you can keep up,” she said callously.

 On their way to the front of the train, they pushed through the panicked throng of passengers. Towards the caboose, the cars started bucking and shaking as the rexes rammed them. There was a terrible screech and crash as one of the rear cars was torn open like a can of beans. The screams of those trapped tore at Maxwell’s ears as he fled. “Where are we going?” he shouted as they ran.

“The cattle car,” replied Lijuan, “we’re going to need mounts to outrun those rexes.” Thankfully their train car was closer to the front than the back. Terrified passengers could be seen leaping from the train and fleeing as fast as they could across the prairie. Parents carried their children, or in some cases, children carried their parents. 

The two of them reached the unguarded baggage car and passed through to the cattle car. The Three-horns and horses inside were kicking up a racket. In the confined space, it sounded like a full blown stampede. Thankfully, none had broken from their stalls, yet. “Saddle one up and get the hell out,” said Lijuan, leading by example.

Maxwell managed to calm a cow enough to saddle it. He had picked one that’s nose and forehead horns had been capped. Lijuan had picked a fierce looking bull with battle scarred horns. With both mounts saddled they slid open the door and kicked the ramp into place. In the distance a group of passengers was fleeing from a rex on foot.

“Poor bastards,” muttered Maxwell, he turned to Lijuan, “can you help them?”

“Why should I,” asked Lijuan.

Thinking quickly, Maxwell blurted, “Fifty dollars, if you can kill that beast.”

That got her attention. “You have that on you?” Maxwell nodded his head anxiously. “Very well, I’ll do it.” Thus incentivized, Lijuan kicked her mount into motion. Maxwell followed a few paces behind. Guiding the Three-horn with her knees, she produced a most unusual pistol from her coat. Its barrel alone was a foot long. A telescopic sight was attached to the top.  Most curious of all, a rifle stock was bolted to the grip.

The rex was by itself. The Ghost Shirts and other rexes were still occupied with the remaining train passengers. Lijuan rode to intercept it. At fifty yards she fired the first shot; it slammed into the back of its skull. At forty yards her second shot struck its neck. The rex caught the third shot in the eye as it turned its head. The fourth shot, in the other eye, was for “good measure” as it keeled over.

Lijuan let Maxwell catch up and wordlessly extended her hand.

“Thank you,” he said, passing her the money.

 She slowed her mount to count the bills. “Don’t thank me. I did it for the money, that’s all,” she said as she pocketed the money, then added, “we had best get moving. They’ll be coming after us when they’re done ransacking the train.” They sped across the prairie leaving the other fleeing passengers to their fates. Maxwell said a quiet prayer for those they left behind, both living and dead.

After an hours’ ride, Maxwell journalistic spirit rekindled itself. “How was it the Ghost Shirts controlled those rexes? I thought they were untrainable.”

Surprisingly, Lijuan actually answered him, “Don’t you read your own paper? They use magic. Indian shamans can do all sorts of things, like control rexes and grow oaks in a day.”

“I thought that was all nonsense,” Maxwell said, baffled, “Some of my fellow journalists at the Enquirer have only a passing familiarity with the truth.”

“It’s all true,” said Lijuan, “how do you think the Indian Nations have held their territory so long? It wasn’t with superior technology, that’s for sure. Those magic shirts even give them some protection from bullets.”

"I had no idea," Maxwell murmured.

"Something tells me what you don't know could fill the Library of Congress," Lijuan jibed.

They subsided into exhausted silence as they rode on. Only as the sun set did they finally make camp in a copse of trees. They collapsed into their bedrolls, too tired to even make a campfire.

The next morning Maxwell woke to an empty campsite. Both Lijuan and her Three-horn were gone. Maxwell counted himself lucky that she left his mount. Terrified at the prospect of traveling in the wilds alone, Maxwell quickly broke camp and rode off. He hoped Lijuan hadn’t gotten far.

He rode his mount hard in desperation. After more than an hour of frantic searching, he found a trail. He hoped it was Lijuan’s, but he wasn’t even certain what type of dinosaur made the tracks.

After a half-hour of fruitless searching, he spied a plume of smoke less than a mile away. His hopes buoyed, Maxwell was able to reach the source in a hurried handful of minutes.

The source of the smoke proved to be a campfire set along the side of an old wagon trail. Seated by the fire was Lijuan, cleaning one of her many revolvers. Maxwell dismounted then stormed into the campsite, his face a mask of indignation. “You left me to die!” he hissed angrily.

“You’re still alive then, huh?” she said in a bored tone.

“As you can plainly see, no thanks to you,” he answered venomously.

“What’s your point?” she asked in a bemused tone.

“Why did you abandon me in my sleep?”

“Find it’s easier to do then, than when someone’s awake.”

“I could have died. With you gone, any number of vicious predators might have made me their dinner!” he raved angrily, “Have you no compassion? No care for your fellow man.”

“You’re no fellow of mine. Just a useless tinhorn who can’t even shoot a gun,” she retorted heatedly. She dropped the gun she was cleaning and drew a loaded one in one smooth motion. “Now leave, before I shoot you where you stand. I’m tired of your bellyaching.”

Maxwell raised his hands imploringly, “You know as well as I, that I don’t stand a chance out here on my own.”

“Not my problem,” she said dismissively, “I don’t take on trouble for free.”

“But you would if the price was right?” Maxwell persisted.

“What are you suggesting?” she asked suspiciously.

Thinking quickly, he blurted, “Become my bodyguard.”

Lijuan raised her eyebrows in surprise, “I never thought I’d get a job offer from someone I threatened to shoot.”

“You never know what a new day will bring,” Maxwell replied tensely, “now, are you interested?”

“What’s the pay?”

“Thirty dollars a month.”

“A hundred.”

“Forty.”

“Eighty”

“Fifty and that’s my final offer,” he declared, “I value my life, but I’m no fool.”

“Deal,” said Lijuan, extending her hand, “I suppose you’re not a complete idiot after all.

He took her hand, “Thanks, I guess.” He produced a roll of bills from his waistcoat, “Here’s your first two months' pay in advance, as a show of good faith.”

“Alright then,” she said, rubbing her hands together, “here’s my first act as your bodyguard.” She tossed him a .22 complete with complete with holster, “We’ll start with loading and cleaning and go from there.”

To Be Continued