Side Story #10: Kohaku’s Rodeo (Male Version)

<Author’s note: This story takes place before the events of Book 1.>

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Side Story 10: Kohaku’s Rodeo (Male Version)

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■■ Western Hyuga ■■

Kohaku had always been among the first to rise and start his morning duties back in Shima, but here on his family’s ranch in the Westlands he was the last one up. The horses were already grazing and the cows were getting milked by the time Kohaku had finished his first kata.

Kata was a pattern of swordsmanship footwork and strikes, memorized and drilled to the point of perfection. The samurai preferred doing his early—when the day was still quiet—but finding quiet on a ranch was like finding a chopstick in a barrel of hay. Even so, Kohaku took comfort in having the weight of his armor against his shoulders and the feel of stingray skin in his hands.

“If only I wasn’t unarmed and wearing that silly silk kimono,” Kohaku grumbled, “I would’ve put an end to that horsethief there and then!” The samurai funneled his frustration through his katana, which he swung with enough force to make a loud whistle as it cut through the air.

Last night had been Kohaku’s birthday party, an event his mother had used to find him a suitor and settle him down on the ranch. When the wayward son pieced it all together he stormed off, leaving her old friends-turned-strangers to their merriment, seeking the only true friend he had: a warhorse named Tatsuya.

He had found him but also someone else, too: a Kondo savage making off with one of the ranch’s prized horses. With Tatsuya’s reigns tied in knots, the samurai was unable to give chase. That feeling of helplessness did not put Kohaku in an agreeable mood. But theft was a matter for the law, not him. He was a samurai and he had to train like one.

“Mornin’ Koha-kun,” said one of the older ranchers. “We’re down a hand since that Yuuta boy never showed. Wonderin’ if you could help us herd this next batch of steers.”

Kohaku wiped the sweat from his brow. Even this early in the morning the heat was immense. “I’m sorry...but I’m not a rancher any longer. I have to focus on my training.”

The older ranch hand shrugged. “Ain’t no shame in gettin’ your hands dirty. Even for a sam’rai, I reckon!”

Kohaku’s mood went sour as the rancher went on his way. He had trouble focusing on his kata with all the distractions both outside his head and otherwise. “It’s not sam’rai it’s samurai! You people can’t even talk correctly!” He was so upset he didn’t hear Susumu approach, and after a backswing of his katana he sliced the sheriff into pieces!

*rip*

Or at least, his hat. The sheriff jumped back well too late and stumbled, ending with a thump on the ground. After catching his breath Kohaku lowered his hand to help him up.

“Awh gosh darnit,” Susumu mumbled, “just bought me this hat last week! You’ve got to watch where you swing that knife o’ yours, Koha-kun.”

The sheriff was here to ask questions about the horsethief to help identify him. Kohaku gave all the information he could: that it was a tall, Kondo male. Though the detail of him dropping a wado—an old-style coin—was one Kohaku kept to himself. It didn’t feel relevant at the time.

“Gotta say that don’t help much: one dirtskin looks the same as any,” Susumu chuckled. “Where’s Lady Nanbu? Like to ask a few questions about the horse if I could.”

Kohaku looked around and saw his mother in the distance, carrying a couple buckets of feed for the calves. Even from afar she didn’t steady on her feet. After calling out to her, the older woman staggered and then finally, collapsed.

“Mother!”

■■■■

Kohaku was standing at his mother’s bedside. The irony was that this was where the samurai had expected to find her, at least according to the letter that brought him to the Westlands in the first place.

Etsuji, the family’s doctor, made the final diagnosis. “Doesn’t look like heatstroke to me, Ai-chan. Even still, I’d take it easy out there all the same. Might be from stress? I know you’re hosting that big race come next week, could that be—”

Lady Nanbu waved the white-haired doctor off. “Much obliged for you comin’ out here for a house call, Etsu-kun. But I’ll be fine...just had me a trip is all. Go get yourself home before it becomes an oven out there, you hear?”

The doctor heard and bowed before letting himself out. Etsuji was rarely wrong in his examinations, and his mother’s curt dismissal was enough for Kohaku to be concerned.

“Are you worried about the stolen horse, Mother? I am certain Susumu will—”

“That was no simple stallion that dirtskin hooked, Koha-kun. That was a racehorse, one of the finest I ever raised. Quick enough to give Bullseye a run for her money back in her prime,” Lady Nanbu shook her head and looked outside the window where the race track was.

“The ‘Westland Races’ is what we’re calling it. Lords from all ‘round Hyuga will be coming here, gambling and havin’ a good ol’ time. My hope was to peak their interest in investing in the Westlands again, but…” she shook her head. “That horse was bought by a wealthy Northern lord for the race. I haven’t ran the financials but if we don’t get that horse back…”

Lady Nanbu didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t have too—Kohaku understood that maintaining a ranch out here wasn’t easy nor was it cheap, and that there were as many ups and downs as tumbleweeds on the prairie. But this wasn’t just an issue of funding. Kohaku caught his gaze going towards the rancher’s jacket and hat that hung against the wall.

“It would dishonor Father’s name. The pride of the Nanbu clan is at stake here,” the samurai closed his eyes and nodded. While he didn’t know the appeal of being a rancher, he had a firm grasp on honor and pride. What he had to do next was clear. “What’s the name of the ranch hand who was supposed to be guarding the stables?”

His mother grinned. “Goes by Yuuta. You’ll find his like over at old Salty’s. But be careful out there...the Westlands ain’t quite the way you left her, you hear?”

“Likewise.”

■■■■

“Salty’s? Oh you mean the Salt Lick Saloon,” Susumu grunted, adjusting his seat in the saddle. The two were off on the only lead they had, towards the closest bar around. “Yeah that joint ain’t ran by him no more. Shame really, old codger kept rough crowd out. Now it ain’t a place to bring your youngins. Same could be said for all Ojika if I’m honest.”

Ojika was a town—a frontier town—which meant it was really little more than a pitstop for merchants passing through. Kohaku had fond memories of getting sweets after visiting the barber, and listening to his father tell stories at Salty’s about his battles in the Golden Era.

“You’re the sheriff, aren’t you? What’s keeping you from bringing law to this town?” Kohaku asked while looking the place over. Many of the buildings were run-down and in disrepair, while plenty of men sat about and gave the two of them stares. Though the sun was fully out Ojita never looked shadier.

“It ain’t my fault! Gettin’ a deputy to stick around these parts is like pullin’ teeth. Sure I work ‘em hard but it’s honest work. Pay ain’t great but it’s pay all the same.”

“When given the choice, folks will always seek easier means of employment,” Kohaku replied coldly, shooting an even colder glance at the woman beckoning out to him. “It don’—it doesn’t make it right. Would if only Bushido could be imported from the East and not just their silk.”

“Silk? Cotton is king out here, Koha-kun. That’s a sayin’ you better get used to hearing!”

It wasn’t until then that Kohaku noticed that everybody was wearing cotton, many in styles the samurai had never seen before. The men wore tight vests and pants while the women wore draping fabric over their legs that fluffed outwards.

“Them’s called skirts, all the rage now’a’days,” Susumu whistled and tilted his hat at a lady nearby. “I ain’t got the ryō to keep up with local fashions none, but it’s a boomin’ industry ‘round here.”

To Kohaku they looked like foreigners, not that the samurai had ever seen any. But it made him feel even more like a stranger in his own home. “Though I suppose this isn’t my home any longer.”

“Well here we are,” Susumu said as he hobbled off his horse. “Hitch ‘er up and we’ll go on in. And don’t you worry about them takin’ off with your horse: these lads shape up when I’m around. Those that know any better, anyway!”

Kohaku was the opposite of relieved as he hitched up Tatsuya. He whispered a few comforting words before parting. “I won’t be gone long, Tatsu-kun.”

Bars in the Westlands were called ‘saloons’ and aside from the wooden posts outside to hitch your horse, there was another key difference: the door. Saloon doors were nothing like their shoji counterparts: they made out of wood for starters, and had the top and bottom cut out with a crease in the middle that you had to walk into to open. The benefit was that it allowed sunlight and a crossbreeze in; the downside was that is allowed sound to pass by freely.

“Heads up—Law’s in town!”

“I ain’t ‘fraid of the sheriff. He’s a pushover.”

“That ain’t no sheriff. Don’t know nobody who steps so loudly.”

Kohaku rolled his eyes. He was a heavy stepper because under his rancher’s jacket—a blanket with a hole for your head to go through—was a suit of samurai armor. He didn’t wear the helmet due to the heat but couldn’t bring himself to wear the conical rancher’s hat, either. A bit of sunburn on his neck was a small price to pay for his dignity.

*creak*

The room went silent as the samurai pushed through the doors. All eyes were on him—there had to be a dozen pairs at least, which was a good many for a bar this time of day. These types must not have had jobs. Or at least not the honest sort.

Judging by their body language, this group of misfits was led by a pair of twins. Two girls that were women now, at least in age: the Fujioka sisters. Kohaku hadn’t seen them since they were knee-high to a grasshopper. They had certainly changed. A shame it was for the worse.

“Susu-chan, who the hell is this bastard?” one of the twins jeered. “He’s the plumpest sap you’ve duped into being deputy yet! Huhuhu!”

The rest of the lot laughed and that included Susumu, too. The sheriff scratched his head and looked like a pushover instead of a member of law enforcement. It was little wonder Ojita had turned into a cesspool of villainy.

“Yuuta. Where is he?” Kohaku asked, unamused.

“Oh, he wants Yuuta-san? Sorry, he’s busy. Why don’t you…wait...” the other Fujioka sister quieted, squinting her eyes as she began to recall who she was speaking to. “Is that you, Koha-kun?”

An outlaw who was especially drunk staggered over to the samurai. He had his fists raised, and after spitting a wad of chewing tobacco into a spittoon—a jar on the floor that was as sanitary as it sounded—he demanded a fight. “You rice paddie-pickin’ outsider! Get them gloves up—I’mma wallop you back the way you came!”

Kohaku didn’t do anything except give the nuisance a look of disdain. He didn’t even try to dodge the punch that came right for his gut. When you wore a full samurai gosoku, you didn't have to.

*thump*

“Itai! It hurts! My hand!” the outlaw clutched his now broken fist. It was a rough way to learn that Kohaku—or his armor at least—was made of tougher stuff than the cotton these lowlifes were used to.

The samurai undid the clasps of his jacket, the wool fabric falling off his armored shoulders. Turning to the right, he let the whole saloon catch a glimpse at what he was carrying. “I am only going to ask you once more: where is Yuuta?”

Murmurs of “sam’ri” broke out from the group. There wasn’t a more definitive symbol of his station than the katana at his hip. It was what separated him from their ilk. Had he not left for Shima when he did, he could very well have been among them. Just the thought of it made him reaffirm his devotion to General Shatao. “My true service remains with you, Shatao-sama.”

One twin looked to the other and they both nodded in unison. “Alright, we’ll take you to him. Yuuta is somethin’ of a local rodeo star. Got his own gang of fans—more than even that oversized kitchen knife can handle.”

“A rodeo? How long has it been since I went to one of those?”

■■■■

The rodeo was an exhibition for ranchers to show off their skills, and was as good an excuse as any to drink, gamble and holler out here in the Westlands. Whereas horses were only used as beasts of burden or tools of war out East, here on the prairie they had far more utility: including those that were bred to toss off their riders.

If it didn’t make sense to you, well, you weren’t a Westlander.

“Yeehaw! A whole twenty seconds that time!” one of the members of the crowd shouted. He was holding a pair of buckets along with a measuring stick: a water clock, which was a crude but mostly effective means of measuring time. Very important for scoring your performance on a wild buck.

The man at the center of the fenced-in field of dirt jumped from the ground and took a bow to the small group of onlookers. This must’ve been practice for an upcoming show. By the time the rancher had recovered his hat and dusted himself off Kohaku was at the gates, sitting upon Tatsuya with his arms crossed as he waited.

“Well if this don’t take the rag off the bush. Never thought I’d see the Fujioka sisters pallin’ around with the Law. Then again, never thought I’d see a deputy suited up like a sam’rai, neither,” the rancher said, eyeing Kohaku from top to bottom.

“Yuuta, I assume. You were responsible for guarding the Nanbu Ranch’s stables last night. A horse was stolen while you were nowhere to be found.”

Yuuta spat on the ground. “Got sick n’ tired of Lady Nanbu going off on me. Pay was worse than cow feed, too. Had me a better offer...even got me Blondie over there as part of the deal. He’s a wild Palomino. A much funner ride than that old Nanbu breed you’re sittin’ on.”

Tatsuya snorted as if he understood he was being insulted. The Palomino was a pretty boy, even Kohaku would admit, with it’s golden coat and light, cream-colored mane. It was sure to be the favorite of the show, but flashiness was hardly the only aspect of a steed. Tatsuya was a warhorse: the far stronger of the two and trained for endurance. Not to mention he had a warm temperament and was good around people—an important aspect when part of Kohaku’s job in Shima was conducting inspections on the local farming villages.

“I wouldn’t recommend angering Tatsuya-kun. Or me,” Kohaku threatened. “I want to know who paid you off. That Palomino couldn’t have been cheap.”

Yuuta let out a whistle to signal for his rodeo roadies to come on in. The Fujioka sisters and their group parted as they approached. Apparently they were lower on the pecking order, and it wasn’t hard to see why: most of these rodeo watchers had an extended kama—a hand scythe—strapped to their backs. Westlander scythes were longer than the ones out East as they were used to cut hay, not rice.

“Yuuta-san is trainin’ hard for the show tonight. Don’t need distractions, ‘specially not from out of a tin can. You hear?”

Susumu gulped as the group surrounded them. Kohaku placed a hand on his katana as he tallied up his opponents. They were twenty and too many, especially since he could hardly expect aid from the sisters. Or the sheriff either, for that matter.

“N-now now, hold your horses!” Susumu said, taking off his hat and wiping the sweat from his brow. “We’re just havin’ a friendly talkin’ is all. A winsome conversation, ain’t that right Koha-kun?”

Kohaku took Tatsuya by the reigns and made off like he was retreating. That got plenty of laughter and hollers from the crowd. But they quieted up when he spurred Tatsuya forth, jumping over the fence and into the arena. He had him gallop a quick lap around before returning to the gates.

“My name is Kohaku Nanbu. As a samurai I have the right to kirisute gomen. Do not make me strike you down for the shame you have brought upon my family.”

Yuuta looked around to his buddies who had each taken a step back. Apparently they didn’t like their chances against a mounted samurai who knew how to ride a steed.

The rancher spat to hide his nerves. “Kohaku Nanbu...the wayward son himself. See you mean business. Then how’s about we settle this the Westlander way. If you can ride on Blondie longer than I can ride your Tatsuya, I’ll tell ‘ya all you need to know. If you can’t, then I ain’t ever want to see your face ‘round these parts again. Sound good, sam’ri?”

It didn’t sound good. Tatsuya wasn’t a bucking horse and the Palomino was all but wild. The logical side of Kohaku was telling him not to take this bet, but the rest of him felt like his pride was being challenged. Not his pride as a samurai, but as something else.

Something he had tried to bury under Bushido years ago.

■■■■

“Tatsu-kun...you really are too polite, you know?” Kohaku let out a sigh as Yuuta rode the warhorse without much difficulty at all. If there was any issue it was that the rancher had trouble reining in Tatsu’s speed—the horse was accustomed to a heavier, armored rider. Yuuta was little more than skin, bones and attitude.

“You sure this thing has seen battle? He was so gentle I was about to take a nap up there!”

Susumu placed a hand on Kohaku’s shoulder and brought him aside, whispering in a worried tone. “Now if this ain’t a hair in the butter, Koha-kun. Why don’t we call this farce for what it is and high tail it home. No need to look like a fool out there. Drawin’ quite the crowd as it is.”

The sheriff didn’t need to remind him. Kohaku grimaced as half of Ojita came in for a midday showdown. Bets were being made and not in the samurai’s favor.

“Woah now, woah!” Kohaku had difficult even mounting the Palomino. As soon as the samurai had a foot on the left stirrup the buck reared up. The crowd had a good laugh as the samurai struggled to even sit sturdy on the saddle.

Buck riding at rodeos were done with only one hand on the reins. Two would get you disqualified. Kohaku held up his left hand and gave the flankman—the rancher holding Blondie behind the gate—a nod.

*NEEeeiiGH*

Kohaku immediately regretted not wearing his helmet, for the way this buck bucked it wasn’t a matter of it but when the samurai was going to get tossed. He couldn’t recall the last time he had fallen from a saddle—he hadn’t done any foolish stunts on horseback since the incident with General Shatao’s son all those years ago.

“Now’s not the time to be thinking of Isamu-kun!”

Blondie shook left and low then right and high, spinning around and bucking even harder than he had with Yuuta. From the way his ears flicked Kohaku knew this wasn’t an act: the steed was scared. His tail also flipped about wildly, a certain sign of stress. Though the fact that Kohaku—the rider—could see the horse’s tail at all was a poor sign for his chances. He was hardly on the saddle at all!

“Woah! Wo—AH!” The samurai let out a yell as he was yanked off with a sudden twist. He landed face up, with the raging horse still above him. It was the most dangerous spot you could be in, and he couldn’t roll out before a hoof and several hundred pounds of equine muscle came down on him.

*THUMP*

Kohaku’s body convulsed. Blondie’s hoof had landed right at the center of his chest piece—at his heart. He felt a sharp numbness go down and across the left side of his body as he gasped out for breath. His heart being weak at it was certainly didn’t enjoy the added pressure. Were he not wearing his armor, it was more than likely he’d not walk away from this at all.

As it was, he got to his knees and panted, trying to refocus and regain feeling in his limbs. The dent in his armor was larger than any arrow could cause.

“Say that tin can saved your hide, sam’rai. That rhymed didn’t it?” Yuuta asked and his goons chuckled. “Looks like I win this bet. Now get gaited.”

Kohaku gulped. Not out of fear but because the dent in his armor made it difficult to breathe. He wanted nothing more than to leave these lowlifes and the Westlands entirely. He was a samurai, not some horse jockey with a deathwish. This wasn’t what he trained for.

Though just as he was about to turn in, he spotted a rider up the hill overlooking the arena. He couldn’t tell who the rider was from this distance, but he didn’t have to, because Kohaku could’ve recognized Lady Nanbu’s black and white-spotted mare “Bullseye” anywhere.

The samurai took another look at Blondie. Though they had only spent several seconds together, the rider had learned more than a little about the golden coated steed. Though whether or not it was enough remained to be seen.

“I want another chance,” Kohaku declared. “This time, I want us to take the horses out at the same time. Unless of course you’re scared, Yuu-chan.”

“Don’t you ‘Yuu-chan’ me! You want a second chance? Fine! But you fall off again and I’m gettin’ a new warhorse. An old Nanbu stock. Got it?”

Kohaku gulped. He looked at Tatsuya, who didn’t seem interested in the conversation in the slightest. To wager his best friend in a bet like this…

“...all right, rancher. Got yourself a deal. Saddle up.”

The crowd—which had grown to the point of vendors showing up—let out a collective gasp and began to cheer. Betting your horse on a race or a rodeo was like gambling your farm on a game of Chō-Han: it wasn’t smart but it was always entertaining.

Sheriff Susumu was sweating several buckets worth down his forehead, all of it collecting into his curly moustache. “Koha-kun, you’ve gotta back out!”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Susumu-san. Now if you would be so kind,” he turned his back to the sheriff, though not out of contempt. “Please untie the clasps of my armor. I need to take it off.”

“Y-you sure about that? Reckon you had one foot in the grave when that hoof came down! You don’t know what Lady Nanbu’ll do to me if I let her boy get hurt!”

Kohaku repeated his request. He had faced and killed armed warriors before on request of his lord General Shatao. Compared to fighting bandits and Kondo savages, this was nothing.

“My weight was too much for you, wasn’t it boy?” the samurai patted the stallion who neighed wildly in response. “But it’s more than just that. You’re in pain—let me see if this helps.”

With a quick undoing of a few buckles, Kohaku freed the saddle from the stallion and tossed it aside.

“Bareback?! You’re gonna ride it without a saddle?!” Susumu yelled and the crowd repeated the sentiment. It did sound like a terrible idea, but Kohaku could already tell that Blondie was settling down. That saddle wasn’t the proper fit: it had been pinching it’s sides, and if Kohaku’s suspicions were correct…

“You want to be mounted from the right and not the left, don’t you?” the samurai petted the Palomino and hopped on from its right side—the way Kondos did. It turned out this wasn’t a bucking horse at all: instead, he had been raised by the Kondos Who Don’t Bow. They rode bareback, and though doing so made the samurai feel like a savage, it had practically turned the stallion into a docile pony.

“Begin!” the flankman shouted after the two ranchers gave them the signal. Blondie came out first—with a steady trot, not a wild jerk. Kohaku kept one hand on its mane of cream-colored hair and rose the other high, showing full control over the steed.

The same could not be said for Yuuta.

“Woah! Hey! Slow down, kuso!”

There was something Yuuta didn’t know about Tatsuya: he was extremely jealous. Seeing his owner riding another horse made his attitude shift from friendly to hostile, and the jerking motions only grew wilder as Kohaku petted and praised the other steed. When Tatsuya saw him reach in his sash for a carrot—the warhorse’s favorite treat—the show was over.

“Ahhh!” Yuuta screamed as he fell behind Tatsuya who sprinted ahead to get at the carrot. Kohaku grinned and tossed the treat high into the air, which the horse jumped for and engulfed in a single bite.

The crowd loved it.

■■■■

“Kuso...so I got paid off with a dirtskin’s steed. Well he’s still a looker at least,” Yuuta sighed and took off his hat. Then he bowed—or rather, gave a stiff head nod. “Ridin’ a buck bareback...never knew a sam’rai could get his hands dirty like that.”

“He ain’t no typical swordslinger,” Susumu grinned and gave Kohaku a pat on the back. “He’s a Westlander samurai, yesiree.”

The talking then turned to business, and business was apparently soft, white and fluffy.

“I was paid off by the Cotton King,” Yuuta admitted. He elaborated when Kohaku gave him a blank stare. “You know, the new farmer ‘round buyin’ up plots of land from wranglers. More than a few ranchers have turned in their stirrups ‘cause of him.”

“Not this one,” Kohaku replied, looking back up at the hill though no one was there. With nothing more than a nod and a pull on the reigns, the samurai headed out to the farms where cotton was king.

“Giddyup, Tatsu-kun! We’ve got a horse to find.”