Let Sleeping Gods Lie

by David J. West

  “No, he doesn’t,” said Porter. “He wants that dragon bone.”

  Dawg came up to Porter wagging his tail.

  Porter looked at him and whispered, “Judas.”

  They laughed for a spell under the stars then went back inside the Round Tent.

  “Awful peculiar,” said Jack, picking up the strange book and turning it over in his hands, “Fei Buk saying something about the stars would be right in two days.”

  “Two days? So what?”

  “It’s going to be a night of a grand conjunction. I read about it in the almanac.”

  Porter argued, “I’ve seen the stars all my life, they’re just stars, no such thing as a night when they are right.”

  “Well it seemed real enough to them.”

  “Just superstitions.”

  “I hope so.”

  Porter rolled his eyes in disgust then circled back to the present situation. “We can’t let anyone know we have this. I need to get it to some people, have them look it over. Maybe someone else back in Salt Lake can translate it.”

  “And in the meantime?” asked Jack.

  Porter shrugged. “Business as usual I suppose. I can meet up with some men that know more about this kind of thing than I do. I’m gonna be paying a visit to Sam Brannan about his receipts soon enough.”

  “And for tonight?”

  Porter looked behind him at the bar. “We leave it locked up with the weekly take. It will be safe enough, I think. We’ll have MacDonald on watch all night.”

  “Good enough.”

  It wasn’t long after that when the night watchman, Moses MacDonald, a skinny Scot, came by and set himself up for the nightly ritual. Being that the saloon was just a tent and unable to be locked securely, Porter had taken to always having someone stand guard to keep track of his product. He used to do it himself, but it’d been enough of a hassle with the handful of thirsty miners, that he had given up and hired out a night watchman just so he could get a good night’s rest.

  After they bid MacDonald good night, the men went their separate ways to get some sleep. Bloody Creek Mary had her own spot too, though no one was sure exactly where that was.

  ***

  The moon rose above the clutching canyon walls and ghostly light filtered down among the black pines. Something stalked warily between the shadows, and blood ran hot on hard-packed earth.

  Something crawled inside the round tent saloon and made just enough noise for the dozing old man to twitch aware, but it was too late.

  “Who’s there? I got my scattergun, so you best skedaddle!”

  Something stood, blacker than the night, and blocked the stars beyond the open tent flap.

  Macdonald tried to bring the gun to bear but something took the wind and water from his guts.

  Sharpness tore him open. Moses MacDonald somehow had enough life left in him to gasp out as his throat was slashed. A terrible, near-silent gurgle. But he did find the strength to pull the trigger on his shotgun even with horrifying hands writhing over him. That warning woke the others and the murderer fled.

  No Respect for the Deceased

  It didn’t feel like he had been lying there for more than an hour to Porter. He’d just drifted off to sleep when the gunshot broke his reverie. It sounded an awful lot like MacDonald’s shotgun; the report echoed across camp from that general direction, too. He didn’t have time to put more than his britches and gun belt on before he raced down the moonlit path for the saloon, shirtless and barefoot.

  “Get down there,” he told Dawg, who raced quicker than him down to the saloon.

  When he got there, Bloody Creek Mary was already sticking her head into the tent and wincing her nose in displeasure. One hand clutching that big bowie knife of hers behind her back.

  Dawg came padding out of the tent.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Someone killed MacDonald,” she said.

  “Any idea who? Anybody see anything?”

  “No,” she answered. “I got here first and didn’t see or hear anyone.”

  “You didn’t see anyone? Hungry ghosts maybe?” asked Jack as he strode up.

  Porter frowned.

  Bloody Creek Mary shook her head. “Ghosts did not do this. It was a man.”

  “How can you be sure?” asked Jack.

  Mary pointed toward the back wall. “They took the book and a bottle of whiskey. Ghosts wouldn’t do that.”

  “Just one bottle?” asked Jack.

  Mary held up one finger.

  Porter and Jack stepped inside the tent, raising their lanterns to survey the grisly scene. The copper scent of blood hung thick in the air along with stale cigar smoke. Crimson pooled around the body of MacDonald, he lay flat on his back across the table. The shotgun was still in his hands, a broken finger wedged beside the trigger where someone had tried in vain to steal the weapon from his death grip. The final blast of which had torn a few pellet holes in the far side of the tent allowing just a hint of torchlight to creep inside from the others in camp that were now roused and heading that way with bobbing orange lanterns.

  Porter sniffed. “Did MacDonald smoke?”

  Jack shrugged. “Not that I know of, but we could be smelling anything.”

  “I don’t see a cigar anywhere.”

  “That don’t mean nothing in the camp,” said Jack.

  Porter glanced over MacDonald. He was still warm, but his eyes were glazed over. There were no signs of footprints nor any other clue as to who had done it. As Mary had noticed, the whiskey racks were relatively untouched, even the small box of money which was sitting inside a beer cask remained untouched. The only thing really missing was the peculiar book.

  “What happened up in here,” asked one of the miners starting to congregate near the front flaps of the Round Tent.

  Porter slammed a fist into his hand. “Those double-crossing bastards!”

  “Who?” asked a miner.

  “Fei Buk and his folk,” answered Jack.

  “Those coolie bastards!” shouted someone behind. “Let’s string up all the Orientals!”

  “Enough of that,” growled Porter. “Only the guilty should pay. But if they think they can sell me a book then steal it back to sell again in San Francisco, they are in for a rude awakening.”

  Another miner piped up, “Always knew that Fei Buk was up to no good.”

  “Yeah,” agreed a pack of miners crowding closer.

  “Weren’t them neither,” said a man named Zeke who pushed his way forward. “They’re dead, too.”

  “What?” Porter tilted his head, not sure he heard right.

  Zeke continued, “I was heading this way from Buckeye Flat and came upon Charlie “Bart” Boles, and we found those Chinese fellers dead beside the trail just up by the forks. Someone kilt them dead jus’ a little bit ago. They was all stabbed and bled out. I recognized your mule and cart and said we should be bringing it back for ya. We heard the gunshot when we was about to the top of the road above. Same killers I’d reckon.”

  Porter grimaced, looking at MacDonald. He had been slashed open. But it wasn’t a clean cut. It was jagged and awful, more like from a beast than a blade. Blood covered the table and dirt floor beneath where he had presumably been dozing. “Jack, get a blanket and cover him up.”

  Zeke asked, “You want maybe me and Bart should send for the sheriff in Sonoma?”

  Porter shook his head. “Not till daybreak anyway. This isn’t an emergency. Till then everyone can go back on to bed. We’ll get this sorted out in the morning.”

  “What happened?” A rather agitated, big miner named Stoney pushed forward to see.

  “Someone carved up Moses MacDonald,” said another.

  “And the Chinese too? All three?” asked Stoney.

  “All three,” agreed Zeke out loud, he then turned and whispered to Porter. “Bart Boles wanted to know what was legal and such. I told him I didn’t know, but reckoned we better bring ‘em back into town on that cart before we j
ust go looting their wares.”

  “Looting their wares?” asked Porter. “Nobody robbed them?”

  “That’s right. Somebody cut them up real bad but didn’t take nothing that I could see. Maybe they saw my lantern coming one way and Boles coming from behind the other and they busted a hump out of there, don’t know why they didn’t jump me too, lessen it was maybe just a robbery because they was Chinese, or were Chinese, formerly Chinese. You know what I mean. I’m trying to respect the dead, I am.”

  “Nobody took anything from them?” asked Porter again.

  “Not that I could see,” said Zeke. “Looks like they still have all their gear and even a big wallet with some money. It was in that floorboard in the front of the cradle.”

  “How much?” asked Jack.

  “Well,” stalled Zeke, scratching his neck, “more than a hundred dollars, I’d say.”

  “Not a robbery,” agreed Jack.

  The crowd grew angrier and pressed forward, many trying to get a look at MacDonald despite Jack having covered him up with a blanket.

  “Get them outta here,” said Porter.

  “Nothing more to see or do here, kindly leave now,” said Jack. “We’ll still be open tomorrow once we get everything cleaned up and figured out.”

  “Figured out?” asked Stoney as he pushed forward. “I heard someone say it was a knife that killed Moses, and you got that squaw of yours here always carrying her big knife. I think we know who done it. I say let’s have some justice, just like we Mountain Hounds done for Sutter’s injuns!”

  That statement brought up Porter’s hackles. The Mountain Hounds were an infamous gang of robbers that had murdered a number of the Indians in the area a year or so earlier just because they were Indians and got the blame for someone else killing some prospectors. That they were innocent never mattered to the Mountain Hounds. “I have it handled,” said Porter gruffly. “You can all leave now.”

  Stoney was a brawler and mean as a bull. He was covered by short bristly brown hair over his head and face with only his lips and the tight patch of skin about his eyes and nose visible. From the appearance of his flattened nose, he’d been in plenty of fights before. “You’ve kept that squaw to yourself long enough, Brown. I think maybe the rest of us would like a taste. Especially if she has just killed a man.”

  Porter challenged him. “Well she didn’t. So back off.”

  Stoney smirked and took a step closer, puffing on his cigar.

  Dawg bared his teeth. Stoney’s smirk vanished.

  Porter stroked Dawg’s head. “No.” Dawg acknowledged his master and loped away to the rear of the saloon.

  Stoney squinted his beady eyes down at Porter. He stood more than a head taller and thick as a full-grown stump.

  “I said you can leave,” repeated Porter.

  Stoney, ever the brawler, even snorted like a bull. “Yeah? Did we interrupt something between you and that ugly squaw?”

  “Why are you shirtless and shoeless, Brown?” jibed one of Stoney’s rat-faced comrades.

  Porter disliked the rat-faced man named Thorne. He figured he would smash his face in first after Stoney, if they didn’t leave.

  “You gonna sic your dog on us, Brown? Or are you gonna be a man?” taunted another one of Stoney’s pack.

  “Let’s have some respect for the dead, and everyone go on home to bed,” said Jack, trying to be as diplomatic as possible.

  “Jump in a lake, Smith,” snarled Thorne.

  Porter chewed at the edge of his beard, he knew where this was going, and it was difficult to see how he could get out of it without a little more blood being spilt. “None of your business why I’m shirtless. Get out of my saloon,” he said, straining to not let his voice crack and betray emotion.

  “But I want a drink. And I think you’re gonna get it for me.”

  “We’re closed. Now go.” growled Porter.

  “Go? Or what?” challenged Stoney, poking a finger toward Porter’s bare chest.

  “Or it might get messy,” Porter took off his gun belt and handed it to Jack.

  Jack took the belt with one hand, but still had a firm grip on what was once MacDonald’s shotgun. “Just say the word,” he whispered to Porter.

  Porter shook his head. “They’ll go.”

  “All right, we’re going,” said Stoney softly. “We’re not welcome after hours. It was an honest mistake.”

  His trio of toadies echoed, “An honest mistake.”

  Stoney made like he was turning away, but Porter had seen this kind of feint before. The big man turned to the left, winding up his massive right to come barreling back at Porter like a thunderbolt.

  Porter dodged right then left, meeting the man’s bearded chin with a left hook that staggered the bull and had him stepping back, blinking awake. When those eyes opened, they blazed with a hellish fury. Stoney charged like a man possessed, swinging his fists like hammers.

  They struck one another like titans, crashing the tables and benches apart. It was a miracle they didn’t hit poor MacDonald’s table and topple the dead man over.

  Dawg danced near them, barking mutely and nipping at Stoney’s calves.

  Porter took a good strike to the jaw, but he hit the brawler in the nose and blood poured from the man’s face like a fountain. They came together, slamming at one another’s ribs and bodies. Something had to break as they careened to the ground.

  Porter tried to get a hold of the bigger man, to twist or break an arm, but the brawler was up with tigerish intensity and flung him away, kicking Porter in the nose. They separated for an instant then slammed together with a pummeling of fists, knee kicks, and jabs.

  The brawler caught hold of Porter’s long hair and yanked his head back. Porter slammed a finger into Stoney’s eye and the brawler let go.

  The brawler picked up the single chair in the establishment and smashed it against a table, turning it into kindling. He kept hold of a leg and swung it like a club.

  Porter backed away to a table and kicked the charging man full in the chest, flinging him back toward his comrades.

  His eyes nearly swollen shut, Stoney whirled about, wildly striking out. He hit one of his friends with the chair leg, knocking the man senseless.

  Porter came in low, struck the brawler’s kidneys, and kicked a knee out from under him before slamming fists into his jaw until Stoney dropped the chair leg.

  On the floor and on his back, Stoney strained to get up but Porter pounced on top of him and continued to pummel his face.

  Dawg rushed in and bit down on one of Stoney’s heels, tearing the boot away, where he then savaged it.

  “Yield,” growled Porter.

  “Never.” Stoney sneered like a wild animal.

  Porter clenched his teeth and smashed his fists into Stoney’s face until his knuckles bled and several of the brawler’s teeth came loose. Stoney ceased moving after the second hit, but Porter was fired up and struck several more times.

  Dawg had torn Stoney’s boot into ribbons.

  “Get him outta here,” Porter growled to the man’s comrades. “And he owes me for the chair.”

  The agitated pack of Stoney’s friends picked up both of their unconscious wards and carried them away, murmuring their half-hearted apologies. Only one of them, Pickax Pete, spoke, saying, “You shouldn’t ought ta done that. The Mountain Hounds don’t forget and forgive.”

  “It was an honest mistake,” reminded Jack.

  “Get out!” thundered Porter.

  The bulk of everyone but his friends had cleared out of the Round Tent when Porter noticed one more man, an old miner with a big drooping mustache hanging above his lop-sided grin. He watched Porter with deep, penetrating eyes, examining him like a man might an insect.

  “We’re closed,” growled Porter, irritated simply at the man’s firm gaze and smirk.

  The old man tipped his hat and walked out.

  “You should have let me shoot Stoney,” said Bloody Creek Mary, as she handed Port
er a wet towel for his bloodied face.

  “No, not you. I never want to give those devils an excuse on you,” he said. “But Jack could’ve jumped in sooner.”

  “It was one on one. I wasn’t letting anyone else get in on it,” said Jack. “It was a fair fight.”

  “He had a chair leg.”

  “You had Dawg and you still won anyway. If I had helped in any way that would have been cheating and then all of his men might have jumped in and really torn the place apart.”

  “The place is torn apart. It’s a wonder MacDonald still has a seat.”

  “No respect for the dead, those bastards,” said Jack.

  “Woowee,” said Zeke. “I ain’t never seen anyone give Stoney a beating like that. Have you, Boles?”

  Boles agreed with a slight stutter, “No sir, never, that man is a monster. He is, he is, almost as big as the hairy wild man, he is, I told you I saw, yes sir.”

  Zeke interjected, “Don’t start with those hairy wild man stories.”

  Boles paused, apparently pained that Zeke didn’t like his wild man story. He continued unabated a moment later, “But Stoney, yes sir, he ain’t never had a beating like that. He is probably gonna, probably gonna want to jump you now for that one, yes sir.”

  Porter rolled his eyes, muttering, “All I need.”

  “And your dog, Dawg! He done ate that man’s shoe! Woowee!” shouted Zeke.

  “No respect for the dead anywhere,” lamented Jack.

  “Is my nose crooked?” Porter asked.

  “A little,” said Mary, putting her hands up to adjust it.

  “No.” Porter pushed her hands away and did it himself. “Get me a drink.” Jack handed him a whiskey bottle and Porter took a long pull. He wiped away the blood from himself and then remembered of MacDonald’s passing. He pondered a long moment, collecting himself. So much had happened in such a short time that his head still reeled, but he needed answers. “You sure nothing else was taken? From any of them?”

  “Nothing,” affirmed Jack.

  “Or from Fei Buk?”

  “Not that I could tell,” said Zeke.

  Jack read Porter’s mind. “Is there a big bone in any of their sacks?”

  Zeke furrowed his brow. “A big bone?” He looked to Boles.