by Tom Lin
Hunter stood before Ming panting, his hand still clutching the bloodied rib bone he had used to kill the Indian. His eyes were blank. Ming leapt to his feet but there was only one Indian left standing, fighting with the ringmaster. The warrior lunged and the ringmaster parried and then plunged the blade of his cane into the man’s chest.
“Let’s dance, let’s dance,” the ringmaster proclaimed, the cane gripped firmly in his hands, its blade still stuck in the Indian’s chest. He took a step forward and the man took a step back, gurgling blood and foam. The ringmaster smiled cruelly. “Two-step, boy,” he said, and slid to one side, then the other.
The warrior’s face was pale and beaded with sweat and as the blade in his chest shifted left and right his bare feet dragged in halting half steps over the dust. His eyes were bright with pain and the muscles of his jaw drew sharp shadows across his gaunt cheeks as he ground his teeth together, dancing with the ringmaster. It was all but silent save for the ringmaster’s voice. He had begun humming a song to himself.
At last he seemed satisfied. “Pleasure dancing with you, boy,” he said. He gave his cane a sharp twist and pulled it from the warrior’s chest and the man went down. Ming’s stomach twisted hard and he bent to one side and retched, a thin and bitter bile dribbling from his mouth. His head was still ringing.
Now it was quiet. The horses, free of their riders, had turned and run. All around them were strewn the Paiute and Shoshone dead, their blood already drying to black. The ringmaster strode over to Ming and the boy. He tapped Hunter on the shoulder and the boy flinched, snapping out of his reverie. The ringmaster smiled warmly at him and looked at Ming. “Good work, Mr. Tsu,” he said.
“Thank ye,” Ming said. He drew his gun and began to reload. Smell of powder and hot metal. Hunter was still beside him, sharpened rib bone in his hand, watching closely. “Don’t know how I’d be if the boy hadn’t killed him for me,” he said to the ringmaster. He bent so his face was level with the boy’s. “Thank ye,” he said, and the boy nodded.
The prophet came over by the three of them, his face serene. “Go to the river, my child,” he said, “and wash your face. This war is ended.”
Ming said that he would and turned to the ringmaster. “What’s the sign for ‘good’?” he asked.
The ringmaster touched his right hand to his lips and then brought it down into his left hand. “Good,” he said. He did it again.
Ming looked down at Hunter. Good kill, he signed. Good kill.
“Thank you, sir,” Hunter spoke in Ming’s mind.
Ming went down to the river and let the water run cold over his hands for a moment. His head was throbbing. He dashed water on his face and when he opened his eyes the boy was squatting beside him.
“Hazel told me to wash my hands,” Hunter said.
Good, Ming signed.
The boy set his rib spear down and lowered his small hands into the water and the blood lifted from his fingers and ran like ink. His fingers were shaking. When his hands were at last clean Hunter withdrew them from the river and wiped them dry on his trousers, inadvertently smearing them again with blood. Seeing his hands dirtied once more he plunged them back into the water. His brow was knitted with worry.
Ming reached into the water and took the boy’s hands in his and helped him with a few remaining stubborn bloodstains. “Don’t wipe em on your trousers this time,” Ming said, as though the boy could hear. He finished washing his own hands and dried them on the cleanest patch of his shirt he could find.
“Did I do a good job?” asked the boy, looking as though he might cry.
“Aye.” The boy was staring at him, through him. Ming touched a hand to where the Indian had struck him on the chin and winced. “Listen, kid,” he said, but remembered Hunter’s deafness. He thought for a moment and closed his mouth. No point talking to someone who couldn’t hear him. His head was hurting something awful. He wanted to tell the boy what Silas had told him after he killed his first man. Ming reckoned he had been about Hunter’s age, a little older perhaps. It hadn’t been as noble as what the boy had done, not even close. Just a revolver that was too big and heavy for his clumsy young hands and a man Silas had already beaten so badly that he scarcely cried out when Ming pressed the revolver to his temple and did what Silas had told him to do. Of course he had wanted to cry afterward too. And then Silas had bent low to level his gaze with Ming’s and wiped the tears from his face, said that Ming was a good kid. That it was all right to be troubled, and that as he grew older it would trouble him less and less, and that this hardening was their aim. Silas was right, as he always was. Ming had indeed long forgotten the face of that first man Silas asked him to kill.
Down the river the telltale haze of a steam locomotive approached, accompanied by a mournful blast of its whistle that shook Ming from his thoughts. Presently a shining brass-tank Central Pacific train passed before them, pulling a load of iron and wood.
“I helped build that,” Ming said, turning to the boy. But he was already gone. It made no difference, Ming thought. Either way his words would have vanished unheard into the dry heat.
He stood as the train receded eastward toward Carlin. Then he walked up the bank and rejoined the others. No one spoke. Ming mounted his horse and Gomez helped the prophet back up onto his weary pinto and in a moment they were off again.
21
They arrived in Battle Mountain weary and hungry more than a week later, their progress slowed by terrain and remnant aches from the ambush. They found a short, squat town, now full only of the detritus that remained after the railroad had moved on, peopled with sallow ghosts pulled from another life who moved silent and listless through the streets, crossing through pools of light thrown from windows, passing traceless over thresholds. The sky was white with stars and the moon not yet risen. The stagehands built a fire, lit lanterns, raised the grand tent of the magic show. Proteus in his cage sat mute and dark-eyed, watching.
The ringmaster came over to where Ming sat by the fire and held out his flask. “Whiskey?”
Ming took the flask and drank deeply, the raw spirits hot in his throat. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and passed the flask back to the ringmaster, thanking him.
“Will we lose you to a saloon tonight?” the ringmaster asked, half-joking.
Ming shook his head. “Ain’t nothing in all creation can move me tonight.” He lay down in the dirt, resting his head on interlaced fingers.
The ringmaster smiled. “Looks like you were a good investment,” he said. He took a sip from his flask, coughed a little from the whiskey. When he caught his breath again he prodded Ming with the toe of his boot. “Come now. Show’s starting soon.”
Ming got to his feet and dusted himself off. He looked at the ringmaster. “Know what?” he said. “I reckon I’ll swing down to the saloon and pick myself up a bottle of whiskey. Ease this aching head of mine.”
The ringmaster reached out and turned the point of Ming’s chin to one side, whistled at the mottled bruise still painting Ming’s face. “Those Injuns got you good.”
“Just the one,” Ming said.
He left the circle and walked a short way to the nearest saloon. It was nearly devoid of patrons, save for the town drunk with his head down on a table, his hand still loosely holding an empty tumbler. The bartender was polishing glasses when Ming came in and placed a handful of coins on the bartop.
“Bottle of whiskey, if you please,” he said.
The bartender stuffed the rag into the pocket of his apron and fetched a bottle from the shelf behind him, made to put it on the counter, and, seeming to see Ming for the first time, hesitated.
“How much?” Ming asked.
“Two bits,” the bartender said.
Ming counted out the coins.
“You ain’t from these parts,” the bartender said.
Ming glanced up from the coins at the bartender. He was a boy, not more than sixteen, clean-faced and scarcely beginning to grow a mustache. Ming slid th
e coins across the bar and tapped them. “Two bits,” he said. He swept the remaining coins into his hand and pocketed them.
“Was—was you building them railroads?” the bartender asked. He was still holding the bottle of whiskey. His eyes flicked between the coins and Ming’s face.
“I was,” Ming said.
“And was you—where was you before you came to Battle Mountain?”
Ming stared at the boy. “I was in Carlin,” he said.
The bartender lowered the bottle of whiskey. “You’re that Chinaman what’s been killing folks, aren’t you?” he whispered.
“You’re mistaken,” Ming said.
“No—no, I ain’t.” The bartender shook his head. “You come up here from Carlin. Traveling along the railroad. I know it. Sheriff says he seen you sitting by the river when he come in this afternoon on the train. Shown me the bulletin. I knowed it soon as you walked in here, I said that’s that Chinaman—”
“Listen to what I’m telling you, boy,” Ming said. He placed his hand on his holster and angled his body so the bartender could see. “I’m saying you’re mistaken.”
The bartender stopped dead and his eyes went wide.
“Two bits for my whiskey right here,” Ming said. He tapped the coins on the bartop again. “Take the money.” His voice was low and dangerous. The bartender did not move. Ming reached into his pocket and produced more coins, some bills. He placed these beside the two bits. “A man needs his drink, boy,” he growled, “and a man’s willing to pay top dollar for it.” He counted the money on the bartop. “That’s three dollars. Now gimme the damn bottle.”
The tension hung between them for a long moment and at last the bartender reached out and swept the money into the register. Then he placed the bottle on the bar and all but flung himself back.
“Thank ye,” Ming said. He took the bottle of whiskey and grinned at the bartender, who shuddered as though he’d seen a mouthful of pointed teeth. Ming tipped his hat and left.
He passed through the deserted streets with the bottle tucked under his arm and before long arrived at the magic show again. He ducked in through the canvas door and made his way backstage. There he greeted Hazel and the boy, who were sitting in the wings, by Proteus’s cage.
“Is that all for you?” Hazel asked, gesturing to the bottle.
“Reckon so,” Ming said.
“A good Christian is generous and kind,” she said.
Ming chuckled. “Good thing I ain’t no Christian,” he said, and made to leave.
“Won’t you stay to watch the show?” she called out after him.
“I seen it already,” he replied, and went into his tent.
The prophet was already inside, sitting cross-legged on the ground, and the old man nodded almost imperceptibly in greeting.
Ming sat down on his bedroll. He uncorked the whiskey bottle with his teeth, pulled his notebook from his pack, and between small sips he began to pore over a crudely copied surveyor’s map he had traced by firelight long ago in the Sierras. Sixty miles and change, as the crow flies, from here to Charles Dixon in Unionville. Any possible route would be at least double that. From there it was another hundred miles or so in a straight line to Jeremiah Kelly in Reno. It was hard to tell precisely. In places his hand-drawn map was too smeared to read, the paper worn too thin to trust. At the current pace it would be a good while before he could see to Dixon—to say nothing of the time they would spend in towns, putting on the show.
“Patience, my child,” the prophet said, as though he could hear Ming’s thoughts.
Ming glanced at the old man. “We’re wastin time. Dixon’s all the way in Unionville, and Kelly’s even farther than that.”
The prophet shook his head. “These men you seek will die. But their times are not yet come, and will not come soon. All men are invulnerable before their time. Trust in me, my child.”
Ming heaved a sigh of resignation, closed the notebook, and stowed it away. “If you say so, old man.” He stretched out on his bedroll and set to drinking until the dull ache in his head abated some. He was already three-quarters of the way through the bottle when he heard Hazel call his name.
“Come out,” she whispered.
Ming wobbled to his feet and glanced at the prophet, still seated, his eyes closed, as if turned to stone. “What is it?” he whispered back.
“Come and see.”
She was standing outside his tent naked as the day she was born, her skin crisscrossed with soot. Her eyes were shining. He tried to speak but could not, struck dumb by the sight of her, hard-edged and suddenly unfamiliar, entirely unlike his girl waiting for him beyond the Sierras. She bade him follow to her tent and he did. She placed a small hand on his chest and with a gentle push she sat him down on her bedroll. Above him and all around on the canvas walls the lamplight swam heady and graceless, a sea of dots playing through the lantern screen. Painted with light she began to dance, a slow rotation of hip and thigh, the speckled light smearing where it met the curves of her body. Ming’s head was thick with liquor and utterly unable to speak he lay looking up at her dancing. She smiled and sat by him on the bedroll and began to tug off his shirt and his trousers and when she was finished he looped his arm around the small of her back and they lay down together. Her kiss tasted of ash and char and she reached down and took him in her hand and gave a little gasp when she slipped him inside and they moved together and together and together and but for her little gasp they were quiet, and happy.
22
Ms. Lockewood!” came the ringmaster’s sharp voice at the tent door.
Ming awoke blinking. Daylight outside. Hazel was still pressed near to him. She stirred at the sound of her name.
“Ms. Lockewood! Good morning!” the ringmaster barked again.
Hazel propped herself up on an elbow, a smile on her lips. “Yes?” she called, facing Ming.
“Is Mr. Tsu with you?”
“I’m here,” Ming said.
“Get dressed and come out,” the ringmaster commanded. “We have urgent matters to discuss.”
“You’d better go,” Hazel said, and kissed him.
Ming rose and pulled on his clothes and left the tent. The whole party, including the prophet, was outside waiting for him.
The ringmaster fixed Ming with his gaze. “Some folks came looking for you this morning,” he said, his voice level.
“What sort of folks?” Ming asked.
The ringmaster’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “Men with guns, Mr. Tsu. Fortunately, Notah was able to head them off.” He turned back to Hazel’s tent. “Ms. Lockewood!” They heard the rustle of clothes being put on and shortly Hazel appeared at the door of the tent, yawning. “Morning, Ms. Lockewood,” the ringmaster said.
Ming asked what the men had wanted.
“You,” the ringmaster replied. “And though Notah’s miracle is great, he can’t scour you from the memories of six violent men forever. This matter is surely not yet finished. I reckon they will return before long.”
“Six hours,” Notah predicted.
The ringmaster reached into his breast pocket and produced a pocketwatch. “Six hours, an hour ago,” he said. “There remain some five hours before they return. I hired you to provide us with protection, Mr. Tsu, and I’ve paid you some already. But I didn’t realize you have such a following out there. Perhaps—as some of my employees have suggested—well, perhaps we’re safer traveling without you than we are with you.”
There came the sound of knocking on metal. It was Proteus, rapping at the bars of his cage. He opened his mouth and poured out a string of unintelligible syllables. The ringmaster walked over to the cage and extended a hand through the bars of the cage. Proteus took it and in an instant he had changed form.
“I reckon,” the transformed pagan said in the ringmaster’s voice, “we go on alone, without him.” He looked at Ming. “I ain’t fixin to quarrel with you,” he said, “but you ain’t told us nothin of your crimes. And the old man, neit
her. We ought to quit traveling with some murderer who ain’t told us what he’s done. Specially so if he brings danger wherever he goes.”
“Maybe he’s right,” the ringmaster said after a moment’s thought. “I’m content to walk alongside a murderer and to pay him his due. And I suppose it’s no great surprise that lawmen are out here looking for you. Hell, I reckon it’s the mark of an excellent pedigree. But perhaps we’ve been a little hot on the draw, Mr. Tsu, and ought to have learned your reasons for traveling west before we took you on to guide us.”
They were quiet for a little while.
“I have scores to settle,” Ming said at last.
“People to kill,” the ringmaster said.
“Aye.”
“And you,” the ringmaster said, turning to the prophet. “What compels you to guide him?”
“He is a man out of bounds,” the old man answered. “His time is come and gone. Yet he lives and breathes.”
“How many?” Hazel asked. “Scores, I mean.”
“Four more,” answered Ming. “One in Unionville, another in Reno, and two in Californie.”
“Cut him loose,” Proteus said. “He ain’t worth it.”
“What do you reckon?” the ringmaster said to Ming.
“Don’t!” Hazel blurted out. The others looked at her and reddening she stared down at her feet. After a moment she regained her composure and met their gazes. “We would’ve died a dozen times over without him.”
“I don’t want Mr. Tsu to go neither,” came the boy’s voice in their heads. His eyes shimmered with tears even as he balled up his small fists and tried to keep himself from crying.
“The boy likes him, sir,” Gomez said. “As does the lady.”
The ringmaster considered this. “Do you vouch for him, Ms. Lockewood?”
She avowed that she did.
“And you,” the ringmaster said, bending low to Hunter. He signed something to the boy.