Jumping wasn’t a problem for a Coinshot; Waxillium could Push off a dropped piece of metal as they fell, slowing himself and landing safely. He was also a Feruchemist, and could use his metalminds to reduce his weight far more than he was doing now, shaving it down until he practically floated.
However, Waxillium’s abilities weren’t widely known, and he wanted to keep it that way. He’d heard the stories of his miraculous survivals, and liked the air of mystery around them. There was speculation that he was Metalborn, sure, but so long as people didn’t know exactly what he could do, he’d have an edge.
“Look, I’m going to run for the steps,” he said to the woman. “If you want to stay down here and fight your way out, great. You’ll provide an ideal distraction for me.”
She glanced at him, then grinned. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. But if we get shot, you owe me a drink.”
There is something familiar about her, Waxillium thought. He nodded, counted softly to three, then burst out of the door and leveled his gun at the nearest thug. The man jumped back as Waxillium shot three times—and missed. His bullets hit the pianoforte instead, sounding a discordant note with each impact.
Lessie scrambled out behind him and went for the stairs. The motley collection of thugs leveled weapons with cries of surprise. Waxillium swung his gun back—out of the way of his Allomancy—and shoved lightly on the blue lines pointing from him toward the men in the room. They opened fire, but his Push had nudged their guns enough to spoil their aim.
Waxillium followed Lessie up the steps, fleeing the storm of gunfire.
“Holy hell,” Lessie said as they reached the first landing. “We’re alive.” She looked back at him, cheeks flushed.
Something clicked like a lock in Waxillium’s mind. “I have met you before,” he said.
“No you haven’t,” she said, looking away. “Let’s keep—”
“The Weeping Bull!” Waxillium said. “The dancing girl!”
“Oh, God Beyond,” she said, leading the way up the stairs. “You remember.”
“I knew you were faking. Even Rusko wouldn’t hire someone that uncoordinated, no matter how pretty her legs are.”
“Can we go jump out a window now, please?” she said, checking the top floor for signs of thugs.
“Why were you there? Chasing a bounty?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“And you really didn’t know they were going to make you—”
“This conversation is done.”
They stepped out onto the top floor, and Waxillium waited a moment until a shadow on the wall announced someone following them upstairs. He fired once at the thug who appeared there, missing again, but driving the man back. He heard cursing and arguing below. Granite Joe might own the men in this saloon, but they weren’t overly loyal. The first few up the steps would almost certainly get shot, and none would be eager to take the risk.
That would buy Waxillium some time. Lessie pushed into a room, passing an empty bed with a pair of boots beside it. She threw open the window, which was on the opposite side of the building from the sharpshooter.
The town of Weathering spread before them, a lonely collection of shops and homes, hunkered down as if waiting—in vain—for the day when the railroad would stretch its fingers this far. In the middle distance, beyond the humble buildings, a few giraffes browsed lazily, the only sign of animal life in the vast plain.
The drop out the window was straight down, no roof to climb onto. Lessie regarded the ground warily. Waxillium shoved his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply.
Nothing happened.
He whistled again.
“What the hell are you doing?” Lessie demanded.
“Calling my horse,” Waxillium said, then whistled again. “We can hop down into the saddle and ride away.”
She stared at him. “You’re serious.”
“Sure I am. We’ve been practicing.”
A lone figure walked out onto the street below, the kid who had been following Waxillium. “Uh, Wax?” the kid called up. “Destroyer’s just standing there, drinking.”
“Hell,” Waxillium said.
Lessie looked at him. “You named your horse—”
“She’s a little too placid, all right?” Waxillium snapped, climbing up onto the windowsill. “I thought the name might inspire her.” He cupped his hand, calling to the boy below. “Wayne! Bring her out here. We’re going to jump!”
“Like hell we are,” Lessie said. “You think there’s something magical about a saddle that will keep us from breaking the horse’s back when we drop into it?”
Waxillium hesitated. “Well, I’ve read about people doing this.…”
“Yeah, I’ve got an idea,” Lessie said. “Next, why don’t you call out Granite Joe, and go stand out in the road and have a good old-fashioned showdown at noon.”
“You think that would work? I—”
“No, it won’t work,” she snapped. “Nobody does that. It’s stupid. Ruin! How did you kill Peret the Black?”
They stared at each other a moment.
“Well…” Waxillium started.
“Oh hell. You caught him on the crapper, didn’t you?”
Waxillium grinned at her. “Yeah.”
“Did you shoot him in the back too?”
“As bravely as any man ever shot another in the back.”