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Side Story #23: Kohaku’s Plantation (Male Version)
🕑 Added 2020-06-07 16:17:36 +0000 UTC<Author’s note: This story takes place before the events of Book 1.>
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Side Story 23: Kohaku’s Plantation (Male Version)
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■■ Western Hyuga ■■
“This just feels like drinkin’ downstream from the herd, Koha-kun. It ain’t smart...and it’s leavin’ a bad taste in my mouth, too!”
Sheriff Susumu of the Westlands had done nothing but complain and drag his feet for the past two days—which was quite the accomplishment on horseback. Between his incessant whining and the heat of the summer’s sun, the journey to the Cotton King’s plantation had been a trial unlike any other.
“We’re not leaving until we find my mother’s racehorse. I can’t return to Lord Shatao in good conscience otherwise,” said a samurai who was sweating beneath his armor. His name was Kohaku Nanbu—and though he was born in these prairies, his allegiance was on the opposite end of Hyuga. Samurai and ranchers rarely saw eye-to-eye, and having the blood of both had given Kohaku no shortage of trouble.
“I know you’re insistent, but I’m sayin’ that the long arm of the law don’t reach quite this far. We’re headin’ up towards Kondo territory or close enough to it. The ranches that used to be here had no shortage of trouble, and it was only gettin’ worse ‘till the Cotton King came. He brought law an’ order to this here region, so we lawmen leave him to it.”
“Used to be you couldn’t pass by these fields without seeing a hundred heads of cattle and twice as many horses. We haven’t seen so much as a single steer so far,” Kohaku replied, bringing his hand above his eyes as to look out across the overgrown pastures. “Abandoned barns, broken fences...whatever your king has done to this place, it isn’t good.”
With the lack of livestock around, nature had been busy reclaiming its roads. The tall grass was a feast for Tatsuya—Kohaku’s horse—which meant the going was slow and interrupted by constant breaks for snacking. It didn’t help that they were burdened with a week’s worth of supplies more than they needed. Kohaku’s mother hadn’t allowed him to leave without stuffing his bags to the brim with all manners of clothing, accessories and knick-knacks.
“Times sure have a’changed out here. No denyin’ that,” Susumu said, letting out a wistful sigh. “I will admit to being curious about this plantation, though. They say it’s like an island amid a sea of white. Can you figure that?”
Kohaku only shrugged as he looked over the remains of a stagecoach by the side of the road. It had been abandoned for at least a couple years, Kohaku wagered, with its red paint chipped and faded. The only real problem it had—as far as Kohaku could see—was a broken axel and a bent wheel. “What a waste...who would throw it away instead of fixing it up? That’s not the rancher way at all.”
And while most everything was in disrepair, a sign up ahead looked as old as the morning’s sunrise. It hung from chains beneath the overhanging branch of a large oak. Trees of its size were rare this deep in the Westlands, close to the deserts and canyons the wild Kondos called home. In many ways, this prairie was like an oasis at the last stop of civilization.
That stop introduced itself with large letters painted in white on black canvas.
“You now enter the Kingdom of Cotton,” Kohaku said, reading the words from afar. It was a grand sign that marked the start of the lands owned by the Cotton King. Even Kohaku’s steed Tatsuya knew they had entered somewhere strange: the road went from near non-existent, to pounded dirt, to gravel and then stone tiles.
“Woo-wee! Look at that there fence—and a tower, too!” said the sheriff before letting out a long whistle. “Enough to make the Emperor jealous, I reckon! Ain’t no group of savages gettin’ up there. You see those barbed wires?”
Kohaku grunted in reply. He took off his farmer’s hat made of straw and replaced it with his helmet made of iron. That gesture alone spoke volumes as to how the samurai felt about the Cotton King’s defenses. “If it comes to a siege…” he thought to himself, “...I don’t like my chances.”
Tatsuya was a good jumper—especially for a horse his size—but with the barbed wire strung across it, the fence was far too dangerous to put to the test. Any hope of sneaking into the place was dashed, but that was fine by Kohaku: subterfuge and infiltration were the tools of ninja, not samurai. He would employ more direct methods.
“Halt! Stay where you are!” came a shout from the tower above as Kohaku and Susumu neared the front gates. The gates themselves were incredibly large and ornately designed, and opened wide enough for a dozen horsemen to ride abreast. The trick was getting them open in the first place.
The man who shouted walked down a spiral staircase to greet them. He was far from welcoming, however, as he gave Kohaku and his full suit of armor a long stare. “Samurai aren’t allowed on the premises. Cotton King’s order.”
“My name is Kohaku of the Nanbu clan. I’m here to speak to your king. It is a matter of the law—isn’t that right, Sheriff?”
“O-oh, yes siree!” Susumu replied, removing his hat and showing off his necklace: a copper wado with a string through it. It was the badge of his office. “Now I know we’re barkin’ at a knot here, but we’ve got matters I’d like to settle with His Majesty sooner rather than later.”
The guardsman wasn’t impressed. He pulled out a necklace of his own. It had the same ancient coin on it that the sheriff had. “Listen here, partner, every worker on the plantation wears one of these. We’ve got numbers of each of em’—and they’re tied to our accounts at the Company Store. So I’ll be needing more evidence than that if you really are the sheriff.”
“Why...why that’s a dag nabbit crock of cowpie and you know it!” Susumu shouted, his face growing red with anger. Being the sheriff was his greatest and only pride. “Everyone knows who I am—even out this far! You go tell your king that the Law is waitin’ for him, you hear?!”
Kohaku was thankful, on some level, that a much-needed fire had been lit beneath his usually docile companion. That said, the guardsman wouldn’t budge nor open the gates unless Susumu had official papers with the Imperial Seal on them. Which he did, however…
“Left ‘em back at the jailhouse,” he groaned in defeat. “Come on, Kohaku—we’re wastin’ daylight talkin to this mouthy son of a snake.”
Just as the two were about to leave, a large figure emerged from the road down the way they came. Though it was blurred from the heat at a distance, as it got closer it revealed itself to be a stagecoach pulled by two black mares prodding along at a gentle pace. The coach was painted white and had an older driver who smoked a pipe as he drove by.
Inside was a man—perhaps the most peculiar one Kohaku had ever seen. He wore makeup, for starters, and what little hair he had on his chin was oiled and pointed. He wore a hat with a short brim and a tall top along with a buttoned tunic made of cloth in a fashion that was hardly Hyugan.
He didn’t step foot out from the carriage, but instead pulled aside a curtain from behind the door frame to see what was the matter. He didn’t like what he saw judging from his face, which contorted to one of disgust. He raised his head and looked down upon Susumu and Kohaku—no easy task, with the two of them on horseback.
“Out of my way, subjects. My dear future wife is waiting for me! Oh, I do hope the humidity hasn’t spoiled my makeup! I knew I should’ve brought my mirror…” the man who fashioned himself as some sort of gentleman trailed off. Apparently he was here for a wedding interview with the Cotton King’s only daughter, and he was hardly the only suitor contesting for her.
“That makes you the third one today,” said the guard, who didn’t bother to check his papers or identity. He hailed the other guards at the gate to open it up, and with a long creak—it did. “Come on in, sir. May His Majesty’s daughter find you the most charming and refined of her admirers.”
The gates shut loudly after the stagecoach passed through. The sound was one of failure and dejection which echoed throughout Kohaku’s head as the two were turned away. Both Nanbu Ranch and the legacy of his father seemed destined to wither and die. Susumu had already uncorked his saké bottle and passed it to Kohaku to help drown his sorrows.
But saké tasted better after a job well done. And Kohaku had work to do.
“Well if this ain’t a sour wad of tobacco in your teeth...I sure am sorry, Koha-kun. Looks as if this is where our little journey ends.”
“Not quite, Sheriff,” said Kohaku as he rummaged through the packs on the back of Tatsuya. Knowing his mother, he must’ve packed it. “I’m getting into that plantation—one way or another. If not with steel…
...then with silk,” Kohaku grinned, holding up his birthday gift: a handsome green kimono.
■■■■
It had taken a half hour to recover the stagecoach from the ditch, a full one to repair it into working order, and then two to clean it and make it otherwise presentable. It was hard work under the sweltering summer sun, but the result was respectable.
“Have to hand it to you, Koha-kun. You dang well just have done it!” the sheriff shouted, slapping the stage coach and causing one of its doors to fall off its hinges. “Oops! I’ll be gentler, I swear!”
Kohaku gave his companion a glare. “You better be. Now get dressed and hitch up the horses—we need to be as convincing as possible if we’re going to make it through those gates.”
The samurai let out a long sigh as he packed up everything that made his one: his helmet, chest piece, pauldrons, armguards, and leggings. He had to hide away his katana, too, which was nearly as painful as separating a limb. “Even without this...I am still a samurai. But for now I must pretend otherwise.”
Kohaku slipped into the silk kimono like a glove...on a hand that was covered in blisters, that is. The fit wasn’t the issue—although it ran tight around his developed shoulders and chest. The problem laid in its wearer: anything lighter than armor made the samurai feel naked. And silk was as light a material as they came.
“Now if you just ain’t the most handsome feller this side of the Suijin Mountains! You might well swoon the Cotton King’s daughter where she stands, I reckon!”
The samurai blushed at the sheriff’s compliment, but seduction was far and away outside his area of expertise. He was more familiar with violence, but if all went according to plan, neither would be needed. Kohaku and Susumu would be in and out of the plantation with the racehorse in tow.
The thing about the Westlands, though, is that things never went according to plan.
Susumu took a creaky seat at the front of the stagecoach. The reigns holding his horse and Tatsuya in were flimsy to say the least, and any sudden jerk risked breaking apart the whole front of the carriage. Luckily, the horses were docile after feasting all morning and walked up to the gates without so much as a hitch.
“Halt,” said the same guardsman from earlier. This was unlucky—Kohaku had been hoping for a change in shifts. While this man hadn’t seen his face, he had seen the sheriff’s. All that was keeping them from being discovered was Susumu’s disguise—a mud moustache—as well as his impromptu acting skills.
“I say, I say, what a swelterin’ day this do be good sir!” said Susumu, in a clearly fake accent meant to mimic those of the gentleman earlier. “The gentleman is here to win the hand of the King’s daughter, now if you be excusin’ us—”
“You’re a bit late for the interviews, but considerin’ the condition of this carriage,” the guard said, scrutinizing the wobbly front wheel, “it’s a miracle you made it at all. Who’s inside?”
“Why, that do be Lord Ko—”
“Lord Ko,” Kohaku said, poking his head from out of the door. “Just...Lord Ko. I apologize for our tardiness. I hope our delay doesn’t inconvenience His Majesty. Now—please let us pass promptly so that we don’t leave him waiting any longer.”
The guard was a skeptic at first, though after seeing the kimono Kohaku was wearing, with its elaborate design of butterflies and flowers, he was convinced. “The old style has its charms, that much is true. But to wear silk in this place...you’re braver than most! Open the gates, boys!”
Only the loud creak of the gates could mask the breath Kohaku released inside the stagecoach. They entered what could only be described as a different world: the plains were flat, enough to see for miles, and each one of those were nothing but white. Rows and rows of cotton—like miniature clouds, puffed from out of the ground.
“The Sea of White,” Susumu gasped. Kohaku left the inside of the carriage to sit beside the sheriff to get a better view. “Well, Koha-kun, we’re neck deep in it now. This has to be the biggest farm the Westlands—hell, all of Hyuga, has ever known!”
Kohaku nodded, “It’s impressive...but looks aren’t everything.” He pulled on Tatsuya’s reins to stop him as they neared a field hand. The older man’s back was bent and was in pain, too, judging from the grimace on his face. He had a large sack draped over his shoulder and the same necklace the guardsman at the front gate wore.
He spared the two of them a glance but quickly darted his eyes down in shame. Though before he continued his cotton picking, he spotted Tatsuya—and the sight gave him pause. He stood straighter as his smile wide grew to reach his ears.
“Heck of a horse you’ve got there—Nanbu stock, fit for war I’d say! And look at that shine on his coat...he’s well groomed, too,” the field hand said as if he was reminiscing. In many ways he was, as he was once a rancher on the very lands he now toiled.
His name was Denji, though that was about as much as Kohaku could gather before he had to continue his work. If he didn’t meet his quota, he said, he was going to bed hungry. Yet there was something Kohaku couldn’t ignore.
“Your hands,” he said, grabbing the cotton picker’s arms, “what happened to them? You’ve got sores all over—almost like a leper’s.”
“It’s the chemicals,” Denji replied, pulling away and continuing his work. “Keeps the bugs off the cotton. You get used to ‘em after awhile.”
“Used to them?! Look at your copper wado—it’s damn near eroded!” Kohaku yelled. “You’re poisoning yourself, working in these fields! You have to—”
“My, my, how unbecoming,” said a man’s voice from afar. It was the same one from inside the carriage earlier. He was fanning himself off with one hand and combing through his chin hairs with the other. “It would seem my newest competitor is even more uncouth than the others, hohoho! And that kimono of yours...my good man, what daring you have to wear something so gaudy!”
As much as Kohaku wanted to ignore the man—who introduced himself as Suzuki—he was forced into something resembling polite conversation with him on the carriage ride to the mansion. Pretending to cordial and withstanding the series of poorly-hidden insults was a trial in mental fortitude. The samurai had gained a new respect for the Emperor, who had a court filled of ‘socialites’ just like this one.
The samurai all but flung himself out of the carriage when they arrived. It was mistaken for eagerness. The staff—which consisted mostly of women wearing white, frilly uniforms—bowed and escorted Kohaku to the tearoom in the east wing.
The fact that the mansion had an east wing in the first place was a testament to its size. While it was in the Hyugan style, it was only structurally so: not a single tile of tatami could be seen on the floor. That was because every inch of it was covered in carpet—of various designs and colors. The walls, too, were not immune as elaborate tapestries hung down from them. Combined with the curtains and the furniture, too, Kohaku began to feel as if he had been rolled up inside a rug.
“Quiet, gentlemen, for I have fetched our most fearsome suitor yet!” said Suzuki with a chuckle. The other men present responded in kind. “May I introduce Lord Ko—whose sense of fashion may resemble your grandfather’s!”
Kohaku bit his tongue while enduring the laughter of hyenas. He would’ve likened himself to a lion, but in truth, he was de-fanged without his katana at his side. The rude remarks mostly came in the form of backhanded compliments: the scars on his face, the muscles on his arms, the broadness of his shoulders—traits that any samurai would value were looked down upon and ridiculed.
“These men are hardly such,” Kohaku concluded, yet he still couldn’t help but grow self-conscious among them. It was a relief when the Cotton King made his appearance.
And what an appearance it was. He wore a white foreign suit, unfortunately form-fitting to the large curves of his protruding stomach. Atop his head was a matching hat with a short brim and whose height made the king look half-again as tall as he was. He had several rolls of fat beneath his chin and his complexion was a constant shade of red. His moustache was in a style unlike any Kohaku had seen: it stretched out from both sides and connected to his sideburns.
He was so peculiar that Kohaku had nearly forgotten to bow in his presence.
“Well, well, well,” he started, his voice heavy with a drawl, “you gents are lookin’ mighty dapper down here. I would apologize for leavin’ you all waiting this morning, but that there was the first test. Patience and fortitude—these are virtues of any man who wishes to wed my darling Hanami-chan!”
It seemed that Kohaku had arrived just in time, and that these marriage interviews were to be done all at once, in a competitive style. This was both an advantage and disadvantage for the misplaced samurai—he wouldn’t be scrutinized as much, but his lack of ‘refinement’ would be more evident in comparison.
The group—there were five of them, including the king, sat around a circular table as tea was served. His daughter Hanami wouldn’t be joining them, it seemed, as the king had to personally confirm each man’s quality before they were allowed in her company. With no desire for marriage, Kohaku focused on what was in front of him—namely, a plate of mochi cakes.
“A true gentleman has a healthy appetite,” the Cotton King remarked as Kohaku downed his third cake. That would be the last he’d get to eat before the other gentlemen took to them like crows on carrion. Kohaku took a sip of tea to help clear his throat but it would never get there; it was so sickeningly sweet he spat it out, nearly getting it on the king.
The others gasped as if he had killed him.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Kohaku stood up and bowed. “But that tea...it is horrendously sweet. How anyone could drink it is beyond me.”
The Cotton King merely chuckled as he pulled out a handkerchief to clean himself off. “Lord Ko, you said your name was? I do believe you have passed the second test. This ‘tea’ is more sugar than water, and any honest man would tell you as much. Truth-tellin’ is a virtue that must come before all others, you see.”
Kohaku nodded even if he didn’t fully understand. Still, the spiteful gazes from his competitors was all the evidence he needed to know he had done well. The group then proceeded to take turns asking questions to the Cotton King, each more inane and trivial than the last.
The samurai had learned that the king had three brothers, all younger, with the youngest named Anzai—who was a prolific shogi player in Tonogasha. The king had a childhood dog named Tamotsu, his favorite dessert was manju made from chestnut-flavored bean paste, and his favorite color was alabaster white.
“How many workers do you employ, and among them, how many were ranchers local to this region?” Kohaku asked when it was finally his turn. The serious question caused the tearoom chatter to quiet. “The fencing at the front gate is impressive, but there’s not enough wood in the Westlands to span the acreage of the entire plantation. How is it then that you’ve managed to defend yourself against the wild Kondo tribes?”
The Cotton King chuckled though he didn’t give an immediate response. Instead he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and gestured to an ornament on the wall. It was an old coin within a golden frame.
“See that there, Lord Ko? That coin to you may be worth less than a paperweight. But to me—to a collector of such things, who can appraise its true value...it is worth as much as all the cotton picked in the world! It’s centuries old, bears a language unknown to any, and made from a copper not like any found in Hyuga. It is indeed a mystery of our past—no mere paperweight, you see!”
The Cotton King laughed and Kohaku’s competitors laughed with him. “Just like that coin, those savage dirtskins don’t know the true value of my cotton. They only care about horses and cattle—bah!”
There was something akin to wisdom in the Cotton King’s words, Kohaku thought, but common sense made him a skeptic. This land was still the most fertile and flat for miles, and even if it wasn’t a proper ranch—it housed over two hundred people, including workers, their wives and children. They had to be self-sufficient if they were going to survive so far from civilization.
“They have to be growing their own food. Otherwise they’d all starve,” the samurai concluded. “I need to see more of this plantation to figure out what’s going on.”
“Excuse me,” Kohaku said, interrupting a rival in the middle of a personal story. “But I was wondering if we could look around the plantation. It’s bound to be more interesting than drinking tea all day.”
“A tour of the grounds! What a splendid idea,” the Cotton King praised. Suzuki—the socialite Kohaku had suffered through earlier—nodded and agreed. He wore a smile that hardly reached his eyes as he gave Kohaku a sneer. It wasn’t the samurai’s fault that the gentleman’s smalltalk was so boring.
The tour began on the cotton fields closest to the mansion, where the Cotton King proceeded to go into detail on how the seeds were sown, how often the plants were watered, and then the act of picking itself. As a sort of tour group activity, each man got to pick some. The nearby workers smiled and gave their greetings, and continued their labor with a jolly humming and a pep in their step—at least when their king was around.
“This coating around the cotton,” Kohaku said, rubbing his fingers together, “what is it exactly? Some sort of chemical?”
“Why, no need to tell you,” the Cotton King chuckled, “when I can show you instead! Let’s get a move on to the warehouse!”
The second stop was indeed the warehouse—the largest Kohaku had ever seen. It had originally been the barn of a rancher though had since been expanded out several times its size in either direction. It was where the wives of the cotton pickers worked, Kohaku realized, as he spotted a group of three dozen on benches surrounded by piles of cotton stacked high enough to shadow the workers beneath them.
“These lovely ladies are responsible for keepin’ them leaves and stems out of our yarn. They comb out the tangled fibers, too, then weave them together to make ‘em nice and ready for tailorin’!”
“Why are some of them isolated from the others?” Kohaku asked.
“Oh, that there’s a motivational technique. Gals who don’t meet their quotas are separated: less chitchattin’ on the job means they can focus on gettin’ their numbers back up! Ain’t I thought of everything?”
The rest of the tour group agreed with him, showering him with praises for his ingenuity. Kohaku thought it was cruel—but not so bad as the sores all on their fingers. He reminded the king about the chemicals and the tour continued to a room with giant vats that smelled like the spray of a wet skunk.
The gentlemen each held handkerchiefs to their noses as the Cotton King proceeded to explain. “This here’s my ole secret weapon against fleas! It’s a pesticide—a fancy way of sayin’ that it keeps my cotton safe from bugs and other critters, too. The recipe’s a family secret: if you’re anxious to know it, then you better win my girl’s favor!”
“Coating your crops with some kind of acid...wouldn’t that harm your workers, Your Majesty?”
“Hmph!” Suzuki replied, giving Kohaku a scowl. “I declare, what a foolish supposition! His Kingship is as wise as his heart is kind—a truly refined man we all look up upon. Now, dear king, let us move on towards a more...pleasant part of the tour.”
And with that, the group moved on to the Company Store. It was the largest general store Kohaku had seen, fastened with stalls that seemed to stretch on forever. They were filled with a remarkable amount of meat, produce, essentials and sundries. Everything from blankets to booze was stocked on the shelves.
As for the employees, there was a butcher on staff as well as a blacksmith and a tailor, too, along with a team of clerks working the counters. It was like a miniature town complete with a bar, a medical ward, and even a barber shop. It was an impressive establishment and the king’s flatters certainly let him know it.
But as they were singing his praises, Kohaku was more concerned with the prices. “This box of nails is priced at two. Two ryō is awfully expensive, don’t you think?”
“Hoho! An eye for prices—a shrewd businessman is always a welcome addition to the family!” the Cotton King said with a chuckle. “But that there price ain’t in ryō. We use wado here—the currency the rest of Hyuga has forgot! Considerin’ the average wage of one of my workers, at or about ten wado a day, the prices here are more than reasonable!”
“If you pay them in wado instead of ryō...then their money is useless everywhere else. What if they need to buy something this store doesn’t have?”
“Why, but they can always convert to ryō, of course! Ain’t that right, Beppu-kun?” the Cotton King asked a young clerk, slapping the fellow on the back. The clerk held back a grimace and smiled.
“T-that’s exactly right, Your Majesty.”
The tour was to move to the mansion’s gardens though Kohaku lingered behind. He had a question to ask the clerk but couldn’t do so in the Cotton King’s presence.
“What’s the conversion rate between ryō and wado?”
“Er, I, uh...that is…” the clerk hesitated, looking around for any and every excuse to be elsewhere. Before he found one, however, Kohaku grabbed him by the collar and pulled him halfway over the counter.
“Gold to copper! Tell me how much they’re really making!”
“A...a thousand!” the clerk gasped out. “A thousand wado, to one ryō. That’s the conversion rate. Nobody actually exchanges their currency, though.”
Kohaku released the young man and brought his hand to his forehead. He had a growing headache from calculating just how little these people were earning. Ten wado a day meant one hundredth of a ryō, which made for less than four a year. That was practically poverty—making it no surprise that no one opted to convert.
Which meant the Cotton King had a monopoly over every product they bought and every service they used. “This is slavery, though with a few extra steps involved,” Kohaku thought to himself. “I need to free these ranchers from this prison, but how?”
That thought occupied Kohaku all through the gardens where the other gentlemen were busy admiring the Cotton King’s collection of irises, roses, morning glories and lavenders. They were pretty, the samurai supposed, but he personally preferred wildflowers: those not grown by human hands, that sparkled their bright colors across the golden fields of the Westlands. The thought was more romantic than it had any right to be, but it was fitting considering the Cotton King’s next test.
“The art of flower arrangin’ was one of my late mother’s dearest passions,” the king said, wiping a tear that threatened to fall from his eye. “My daughter Hanami-chan always looked forward to receiving her gifts. So too, then, will you gentlemen give her yours. You are tasked with fixin’ up a display that shows just what sort of man you are. You have free range of the grounds for the next hour—then the judgements will be held!”
Kohaku resisted the urge to roll his eyes. While the other competitors rushed to the flowers like dew to grass, the samurai couldn’t care less. He snuck out at the first opportunity with the excuse of ‘seeking inspiration’ from within the Cotton King’s mansion.
He passed through a ballroom, a music room, several large halls and libraries, too. These were all grand displays of wealth—a hundred times so, considering that luxuries were so rare in the Westlands. It was impressive but less so knowing it was made off the backs of ranchers, paid in coins that didn’t have a real value.
“Speaking of coins,” Kohaku speculated, “I need to find where he’s keeping all the wado. To make it the local currency, he must’ve collected them from all over Hyuga.”
The samurai expected the vault to be difficult to find and near impossible to enter without taking down a squad of guardsmen. But he found it within the Cotton King’s coin museum—and the only one else present was, well, something of a friend.
“Susumu!” Kohaku shouted in a whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, it’s you!” the sheriff said, much louder, seemingly jolly and definitely drunk. “Me ‘an the other drivers have been shootin’ the breeze with a bit of—hiccup—booze. Did a lot of reminiscin’ on their ole ranching days—you know it is. They’re full time riders, now, makin’ all manner of deliveries to keep this here mansion afloat!”
“I’m sure that’s interesting, but I need your help right now. Where’s Tatsuya-kun and the stagecoach?”
With more than a little hassle, Kohaku was able to rope Susumu into bringing the horses around the back of the mansion and help him load up barrels filled with the ancient, copper coins. They were incredibly heavy but there weren’t as many as Kohaku expected; it seemed that the workers rarely saved their earnings, which meant the coins were in constant circulation.
But more surprising was the lack of security. If the samurai had to guess, it was because of the accounts each worker had at the Company Store. Knowing the earnings of each of his employees, it would be a simple matter for the Cotton King to detect if someone was spending above their means. His security force was nothing more than diligent paperwork.
“The Cotton King is the sort of foe these ranchers could never have prepared for,” Kohaku said to the sheriff, both of them driving the half-broken stagecoach to the warehouse. It was nearly fully broken by the time they got there—what with the weight from all the coins in the carriage—but it had done its job. “He exploited good and honest folk...sold them the very dreams he stole. I have no regrets in doing this!”
‘This’ being the destruction of thousands of wado coins. They were collector’s items: a part of Hyugan history, and it was with no small amount of grief that Kohaku resigned himself to their destruction. What he was doing was dangerous and foolish, and his companion said as much though with many more Western idioms and slang.
“Your balderdash is diggin’ us into a right hole—one deep enough to be our graves, I reckon! I do think you’re a right feller, Koha-kun, but I ain’t a-plannin’ on gettin’ buried with ya. The Cotton King may be bellying through the brush, but that don’t mean I want to get my neck sized up for a noose! Reckon this is where we part ways.”
“...I understand,” Kohaku said, unhitching the sheriff’s horse. He pretended not to be affected by the loss of his companion—though in truth, it hit him like a blow to gut he hadn’t seen coming. Susumu was a self-serving coward and the opposite of what a sheriff should be, yet he offered nice company and good conversation. Speaking to him had been like a glimpse into Kohaku’s past, and that included his father.
Alone but undaunted, the samurai unloaded the barrels of coins and rolled them over to the vats where the pesticides fermented. The acid that the Cotton King was spraying on his fields was strong enough to erode copper; Kohaku recalled as much from when he had spoken to the ex-rancher in the fields earlier.
“Hyeeeeh!” the samurai grunted, heaving the first barrel into the acid. The liquid burned when it splashed against his skin, and the silk kimono he was wearing was certain to be ruined. “Mother will never forgive me for this,” Kohaku thought, as he continued to dump one barrel in after another.
His eyes began to burn along with his throat and lungs, too, as a gas shot out from a chemical reaction. Difficult as it was to see, he didn’t notice the cotton picker until he was right behind him.
“What in tarnation are you doin’?!” he yelled. Kohaku turned right into a punch and earned a busted lip to show for it. The worker was familiar: he was Denji, the ex-rancher who had complimented his horse earlier. He proceeded to stuff his kimono with coins, grabbing them by the fistfulls. “This here’s enough to feed me for a lifetime! You’re a damn fool for tossin’ it away!”
“This money ain’t real, Denji!” Kohaku yelled, his anger bringing out his local accent. “You’ll never get rich using these coins. You’re a slave for the Cotton King—you’re just too damn stupid to see it!”
The two collided like a pair of bucks butting heads. Kohaku was the younger man and certainly fitter, but he was without his katana and his armor as well. He also didn’t want to hurt Denji—though the same couldn’t be said the other way around. Though he wasn’t a rancher anymore, Denji still fought like one, using every underhanded trick possible to get an edge.
“Aaah!” Kohaku shouted in pain as his opponent stomped on his foot. It was enough of an opening for Denji to push Kohaku back—and with his back turned against the vat of pesticides, it was a dangerous spot to be in.
Kohaku could feel the chemical burns at the tips of his hair, now partially dunked inside the acid. Denji lunged forward to grab at his throat and then to lift the samurai up, trying to push him up and over. Embracing the rancher within him, Kohaku jammed up a knee in between Denji’s legs, sending him howling in pain.
Denji retreated, though not for long: he picked up a rake that was leaning against the wall and proceeded to swing it wildly. Kohaku’s long sleeves made for a tempting target and were shredded as he tried to defend himself. He shouted at the rancher to listen to reason, but Denji was out for blood.
Years of pent up frustration and humiliation from cotton picking on the very fields he once owned were all released in an untamed fury. He swung the rake down upon Kohaku’s head with rage in his eyes. All the samurai could do was hold up his arms and pray the rake’s teeth didn’t become nails in his skull.
*THRACK*
The blow landed—but it wasn’t the rake and the target wasn’t Kohaku’s head. It was a jitte: an iron club used by lawmen, and it had struck across the broadside of Denji’s neck.
“S-Susumu!” Kohaku gasped, before coughing from all the gas in the air. He nearly tripped over the floor as it was now littered with copper coins. Denji tripped as well—though he wasn’t so lucky, and the rake he held in his hands latched onto the top of the vat he was under. When he fell, it did, too, and the screams he gave would haunt Kohaku for the rest of his days.
“No! No!” the samurai yelled, trying to go back into the gas-filled chamber to save the man who had just tried to kill him. But he was pulled back—not just by a sheriff, but by a king as well.
The Cotton King was there, a look of disbelief on his face. The guards arrived shortly thereafter, trying and failing to put out the smoke and recover as many coins as possible. Only a handful of wado had survived at best. The job was done...but Kohaku was dead.
He closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate.
“Lord Ko,” the king said, his heavy accent now absent, “arigato gozaimasu. Thank you for stopping this villain in the middle of his heinous scheme! The sheriff alerted me as to what was going on...but I fear we got here too late. I had spent two decades of my life gathering these wado from every corner of Hyuga, and now...they’re nothing but smoke and ash.”
It was Kohaku’s turn to be amazed. “I...that is, I only did what any gentleman would do.”
“Don’t sell yourself short!” said the Cotton King, who then turned to the other competitors—each of which held bouquets in their hands. “To fight and place oneself in danger for the sake of me and this plantation...that is the quality of a man I wish to marry my daughter! Lord Ko has won the hand of my Hanami-chan, as well as any dowry he asks of me.”
“Anything at all?” Kohaku asked, not at all interested in marriage. “Then I would like a racehorse—the fastest in the Westlands. I want to win the ‘Westland Races’ next week at Nanbu Ranch.”
The Cotton King let out an audible gulp. His fake accent had made its return, too. “Well, see now that puts me in a right pickle. I did own such a horse, not but a few days ago, but I sold it away.”
“To who?” Kohaku demanded.
“To, er...well, a Kondo,” the king said, with more than a little reluctance. “The chieftain of the Stranded Stars, to be precise.”
Kohaku said nothing but nodded before letting out a whistle. Tatsuya came running to his master, who hopped on him and reared him up high. The horse let out a powerful neigh—he was eager to get a move on. “That makes two of us, Tatsu-kun.”
“W-wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute! Going into the savage lands will get you killed! As your future father-in-law, I demand you—WAAH!” the Cotton King cried out as Tatsuya knocked him aside during his charge. His rider secured his katana at his hip and ventured forth.
“Come, Sheriff! We’ve got a chieftain to find!”
