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“A HORSE?” SAID LEDGER, STARING at the huge animal that stood in front of the cabin. It was as battle-scarred as the dog and the two soldiers, but it tossed its head and gave a healthy whinny.
“Peaches is a good girl,” said Sam.
Ledger laughed. “Peaches? You want us to go riding into battle on a horse named Peaches?”
“I didn’t name her.”
“Who did?”
“The teenage girl who used to own her.”
Ledger met his eyes but did not ask the obvious question. If the horse was here and the teenage girl was not, then the answer was equally obvious.
“I put out feed for her, but mostly I let her run wild. She always comes when I call, though.” He cut a look at Ledger. “Can you ride?”
“After a fashion. I guess. Maybe. But what about you?”
“I’ll run.”
“You’re nearly as old as I am and this New Alamo is how many miles away?”
Sam shrugged. “If you have a better plan, Joe, I’m all ears.”
Ledger did not have a better plan. He studied the horse, who glared down at him with a rolling eye.
“I don’t think she likes me.”
Sam shrugged. “She’s a good judge of character.”
Grimm gave a deep whuff.
Ledger scowled and shot a harsh look at Grimm. “You can keep your opinions to yourself, fleabag.”
It took some doing to get Ledger into the saddle, which was designed for a petite teenager and not a big man who was over six feet tall and better than two hundred pounds. Ledger squirmed around trying to find a comfortable position.
“There are parts of me that are going to hate this,” he complained.
“Would you prefer I rig a new saddle out of fluffy pillows? And, do you want me to cut some leafy branches and fan you while I run?”
“Would you? That would be just swell.”
Sam shook his head as he checked the straps and tugged the saddle blanket down to protect the horse. He created saddlebags out of two battered old backpacks connected by belts and slung them behind Joe. Water, food, and lots of ammunition. Then Sam trotted back inside and returned with two items that made Ledger whistle in appreciation.
One was Sam’s military sniper rifle. Not his original one, but a top-quality gun picked up along the way. The other was a katana with a gleaming lacquered black scabbard, hand-carved fittings, and silk cord tied in decorative knots. Sam held the sword for a while, took a breath, and handed it to Ledger. The old soldier gave a small bow as he received it, and bent to examine the scabbard and the tsuba—the round hand guard—as well as the various “furniture,” or fittings.
“This looks old,” he said appreciatively. “Real old.”
“It is old,” said Sam, “and it’s one of the best swords ever made. Work on it began in 1669, and it was finished in 1670 by Nagasone Kotetsu.”
Ledger gaped at him. “He was one of the greatest sword makers of the samurai era.”
“He was the greatest.”
“How on earth did you get this?”
“Look at the inscription on the blade. You were always good with languages; can you still read it?”
Joe angled the blade so he could read the delicate words the sword maker had inscribed centuries before. He read them aloud, translating as he did so. “?‘To Ichiro Imura. May your family name endure.’?” There was a signature and seal below it. “?‘Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, fifth shogun of the Tokugawa dynasty.’?”
