“Saw him looking at you funny.”
“I wouldn’t’ve wanted to lose my blanket.”
Nat nodded soberly. “Guess I’m glad I’m Métis. Pa told me Chinamen don’t like Indians. Not even half Indians.” He paused. “And Indians don’t like Chinamen.”
“Can’t say as I care for them myself.” Yester was still looking over at the alleyway where the almost-thief had disappeared. “Why do you suppose he picked on me? Shoot, I don’t hardly have anything worth stealing.”
“Yeah, but you’re white. And a kid.”
Yester snorted. “Easy pickin’s—or I reckon he thought so. Guess I would’ve been if it hadn’t been for you. I didn’t notice him coming.”
Once past the first couple cross streets, as they delved farther into Chinatown, the buildings took a slight turn for the better. Here, too, were a few whites. But no white women. At one store, they heard English spoken. A queer sort of English, but understandable when Yester took time to ponder on it. The speech came from a man passing a bundle of some sort to a white customer.
Here, too, Yester sniffed at the odor of strong lye soap. A laundry. This was his chance to ask about Ketta. Since the proprietor did business from a counter set up right on the street, he didn’t bother to dismount but just leaned down a little.
“Yes, yes?” the Chinaman said.
“You seen any little girls? I’m looking for my sister. She’s part white . . . mostly white . . . and part Chinese.”
The man gave him a doubtful appearing stare and shook his head. “No see.”
“She’d be with a man.” Yester grimaced. “A man like you. A Celestial.”
“No see,” the man repeated.
The conversation, such as it was, ended there. Frustrated, Yester moved on, Nat trailing after him and holding his horse whenever Yester entered a business to provide his description and ask his question. Slow going with no response, until, finally, he seemed to have hit pay dirt. A slant-eyed devil, as he’d named these foreign people to himself, leaned against the outside wall of a tiny storefront chewing on some sort of straw. He wore the ubiquitous black pajama outfit and a small cap on his head. A thick pigtail reached all the way to his hips, like his hair had never been cut. Behind him, the building’s interior was so dark Yester could barely see the great many jars and canisters lining some shelves. Not that he cared about them, or the potent odors arising from inside.
Yester open his mouth to speak, but the Chinaman beat him to it.
“You look for little girl?”
“Yes.” Apparently, the news had spread.
“I know of little girl,” the feller said.
“You do? Where is she?” Yester tried not to show his excitement.
The Chinaman made a motion with his head and stood erect. “You come.” He cast a baleful glance at Nat. “Not him. No Injun. No horse. Mu qin say no.”
Yester and Nat exchanged a look. “I don’t like it,” Nat said softly. “I don’t like him. He looks shifty to me. I don’t trust him. He’s as likely to stick a knife in you as not.”
“I don’t trust him, either, but Nat, I’ve gotta take a chance. If he knows where to find Ketta—”
“Yes. I figured you’d do it. I’ll hold your horse, but if you aren’t back in ten minutes, I’m gonna take your rifle and come after you. And I’ll be riding horseback.” He darted a glance at two Chinese men who had stopped and were scowling at him. “If I live so long.”
Yester grinned. “You do that.” Dismounted, he stood a good six inches taller than the Celestial. He figured that should give him an advantage if it came to a tussle.
“Where’s the little girl?” he asked, but, instead of heading off to show him, the man stuck out his hand, palm up. Yester shrugged.
“He wants money first,” Nat informed him, like Yester was some kind of rube who didn’t know up from down.
Yester reached into his pocket.
“Don’t let him see how much you’ve got,” Nat said.
“I won’t.” He fumbled for coins and found what he figured was a dime. Pulling it out, he dropped it onto the extended palm. Fingers immediately closed over it.
“You come,” the Chinaman said and started off in a shambling trot.
Yester followed, aware of Nat’s worried eyes on his back.
KETTA
Sunlight blazing down on Ketta’s back burned through her thin dress. It felt like she was on fire, the welts from the old witch’s whip growing more painful with every degree of heat. The very air around the moving horse seemed to spin, making her dizzy. She clung to Kuo even though from the way he swayed in the saddle she thought he was half asleep.
When the horse they were riding stumbled, it caught her unaware. Kuo, too. When he slid forward, she slid forward, the saddle skirt pinching a bit of skin on her thigh between leather and horse. Unable to stop herself, Ketta squeaked.
“What the devil is the matter with you now?” Kuo groused. “Sit up and watch where we’re going.”
As if he weren’t as guilty as she. Stung, Ketta said, “How—” catching the rest of her words back just in time. She wanted to ask how she was supposed to watch the trail ahead when her view was blocked by his body. Thankfully, prudence stopped the retort in time. She knew what would happen if she said such a thing to Big Joe. Kuo was probably no different. But then, she thought, she already hurt so badly, what difference would a few more bruises make?
“How what?” Kuo looked over his shoulder at her, even though he probably couldn’t see much of her. She was small enough to be hidden.
“I can’t see around you,” Ketta said. It came out much more meekly than she intended.
“Huh. I suppose not.”
Ketta’s eyes opened wide at his agreement. And because he’d sounded almost amused.
“We’ll stop soon,” he said. “We’re almost through the shortcut. The river is just ahead. We’ll rest a while and eat before we go on.”
“Eat?”
“I had the old woman pack us some food.”
He couldn’t know how much this relieved Ketta, who welcomed even a small respite from the constant motion of the horse. She’d be glad when they crossed the area between bends of river, too. It was cooler by the water, and she liked hearing the sound as the stream tumbled over rocks and rills.
“Where are we going?” she asked after a while.
He shrugged, body moving under her hands as she gripped.
“My home.”
“You have a home?” She froze, thinking he might take offense.
“Of sorts,” he said after a pause. “I thought we might ought to hole up for a while. Until the hurrah dies down about what happened at the Noonan place. And the other.”
“Stealing horses, you mean?” Ketta knew she dared punishment with the question but couldn’t hold the words back.
Kuo’s answer was slow in coming. “Yeah,” he said after a while. “Among other things.”
Ketta wanted to ask, “What other things?” but on second thought, maybe she didn’t want to know.
They plodded on.
Her legs were unsteady when at last Kuo lifted her down. “May I go down to the water?” she asked, gazing longingly to where the river bank sloped in a steep pitch.
“Go. Fill this while you’re there.” He handed her his canteen. “I’ll water the horse.”
“All right.” Ketta’s heart lifted. He was letting her go by herself. No one to watch as she relieved herself. She’d wash, while she was there. Maybe cool her feet and clean the pinched part of her legs. If only she could take off her dress and bathe her back. But no. She didn’t quite dare do that.
Searching out the path of least resistance, she found a way to the river. While still some distance away, she squatted behind a rock, then went on. Remembering something Big Joe had said, she filled the canteen where she saw no trace of animal tracks and where she was certain the water was clean. She secured it in a shallow eddy to stay cool while she washed.
<
br /> Removing her shoes and stockings, she waded out a little, hanging on to an overhanging bush in case the bottom suddenly dropped off beneath her. Farther and farther she went, until the water closed around her waist, and then, when she was sure of her footing, dipped down until her shoulders were covered.
Ketta shuddered with relief and pleasure as not only the dirt of four days travel with outlaws washed downstream, but all—well, some—of her collective pains went along with it. She wished she could stay there forever. Closing her eyes, she splashed water over her face and scrubbed.
“Ketta.”
Kuo’s voice roused her.
“Ketta? Child, where are you?”
“I’m here,” she called.
“You’re taking too long. Get up here. We need to eat before we go on.”
“I’m coming.” Already? The habit of instant obedience being ingrained, Ketta stood up, water sheeting from her body and shivering a little in the sudden cold.
That’s when she saw it, coming right at her.
Horror froze her. She wanted to move. Wanted to move in the very worst way, if only her limbs hadn’t refused to take action.
The thing bumped into her.
Ketta opened her mouth. Opened it far enough for a noise such as she’d never made before in her whole life to come rushing out.
She screamed. Caught her breath and screamed again and splashed wildly at the water.
Kuo’s shout answered. She didn’t know—and never did learn—what he answered. But there he was, plunging down the steep embankment toward her.
“Ketta,” she heard him say. “Child, what—”
And then he reached her, and he saw it, too, and, after a brief moment, pushed it away to continue turning and tumbling down the river.
“Come,” he said, taking her hand and giving a little pull.
She didn’t budge. Couldn’t. Her feet remained planted in place.
“Child.” He picked her up, and, for the first time, she was glad of his arms around her. He didn’t hurt her, not even her back unless she had lost all feeling, but he seemed gentle even when he stumbled on the way up to the trail and almost fell.
He didn’t even get mad when he had to make another trip down the slope to retrieve the canteen and her shoes and stockings. Meanwhile, she rested her head on her knees and trembled.
After a while, the shaking stopped, and Ketta found her voice. “That was him, Snaggletooth, floating down the river.”
“Snaggletooth?” The corner of Kuo’s lip turned up. “Yes. It was Frank.”
“He’d been shot,” Ketta said.
“Yes.”
“In the head.” She shuddered again. “He only had part of his head.”
He nodded.
Ketta thought Kuo appeared kind of sick himself, just like she did. “Why was he so white?” she asked.
Kuo hesitated. “His blood all drained out, I guess.”
“Would I turn white like that if all my blood drained out?”
He hesitated even longer. “Probably. Put your shoes on. We need to go.”
She did as told, fumbling with the laces so her usually precise bows were all scraggly looking with a bigger loop on one end than on the other.
Looking up, she asked, “Do you know who shot him?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “I can guess.” And then, as though talking to himself, “This calls for another change of plan. He’s bringing those witless bastard sons of his. I can’t take—”
Sons? Ketta wondered. Who did he mean? Milt? Did he mean Milt had killed Frank? His partner?
But he didn’t say, only closing his mouth and looking grim.
When it came time to mount, Kuo flapped his coat a few times and made a pad for under her thighs before they started moving again. The relief to her abraded legs was immediate, though she found the coat a bit scratchy. But at least it didn’t pinch.
It was only some time later that Ketta remembered they hadn’t eaten.
Before traveling many miles down the trail, Kuo changed direction. He avoided speaking to the few travelers they met. At a cutoff only visible if one knew where to look, they traveled away from the river and higher into the foothills. His unhappy expression grew more pronounced.
My fault? Ketta wondered, afraid to ask.
Kuo wasn’t forthcoming. A long silence passed before he spoke again.
“Here we are,” he said.
CHAPTER TWELVE: YESTER
The Chinaman led Yester between buildings, in his opinion shacks being a more accurate description of the rundown structures. They dodged garbage and avoided mangy dogs and rooting pigs, until they came to an overgrown woodshed. Overgrown, because instead of a simple open lean-to, it had boards covering the sides and boasted a door. A new padlock hung loose on a freshly installed hasp.
“What’s this?” Yester’s voice slid up a tone. “She’s locked in? I want—”
“You want? Girl here.” The man was firm.
Yester glanced around. The area smelled of hot grease and frying food, all mixed up with the rot of garbage. An unsavory place, for sure, even aside from the man lying up next to one of the buildings. He couldn’t tell if the man was dead or not.
Wishing he had more than Pa’s old jackknife folded up in his pocket, Yester called out, “Ketta? You in there?”
Nobody answered, but a rustling noise indicated somebody was inside. Figuring he didn’t have any choice, Yester stepped to the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. “Don’t you lock me in. Try anything, and my friend will come in shooting.”
The man flipped his long braid, “queue” Yester guessed they were called, over his shoulder, barred the door with an arm, and held out his hand. “Twenny-fi cents.”
Clamping his jaw with the thought that searching for his little sister was an expensive proposition, Yester dropped the coin into the other’s palm. Taking a deep breath and receiving a whiff of the wood stored in there, he sidled inside.
“Ketta?” he called again. A broken ray of sunshine touched upon a small form sitting atop a pallet. She was struggling to rise. Ketta. Intent on helping her, Yester stepped forward. The door slammed shut behind him, shutting off the light.
“Dammit,” he said. At least he didn’t hear the click of the padlock, so maybe he’d be all right. But the dark was intense. “Where are you?” he called out.
A girl’s small voice answered. “Here.”
Disappointment . . . more, make that anger . . . swept over him. That wasn’t Ketta. He’d been suckered.
“Who are you?” He peered through the gloom at the girl. “Where’s my sister? Where’s Ketta?”
“Don’t know,” she said. “Father take.”
“Father?” What did she mean? Confused, Yester wondered how in the world Big Joe had gotten here before him and found this place. Then he realized this couldn’t be. Did she mean . . . “Ketta’s father?”
“Yes. Kuo.”
Voices spoke outside, drawing his attention. The Chinese man protested something, and there were a series of grunts. The door opened. Sunlight flooded in.
“What’s taking so long?” Nat demanded from outside. Yester’s rifle was tucked under one arm in a position where he’d be able to snap it up in a hurry. “You find Ketta?”
“No. But I found somebody who’s seen her.” He turned back to the girl. “Where—” He got not further as the girl rose from her pallet.
She was tiny, but not as tiny as Ketta. Older, too, and—Yester’s breath caught in sympathy—crippled.
The girl didn’t seem to notice his dismay. She shuffled past him into the sunlight, picking up a bucket on her way out. “Need water,” she said to the Chinese man standing outside, at which he nodded.
Yester followed her as she clumped out, glad to escape what was evidently her crib. Not an entire innocent—he’d accompanied Big Joe on his toots too often for that—he realized the girl’s place in life.
Nat stared at her as she went past him on her w
ay to a water pump placed in the middle of the street behind the houses. Her stilted gait proclaimed what an effort it was for her to walk. She couldn’t have run away had it been her dearest wish.
Glancing at Nat, she sniffed in disapproval.
“What happened to your feet?” he asked baldly.
The Chinese man started forward. “No talk,” he said, adding, “Injun.”
Nat faced him, eyes narrowed. “Chink.”
Yester stepped forward. “When did Ketta and her . . . father . . . leave?”
The girl, he observed, was careful of her answer. She shrugged. Gripping the pump handle, she started levering it, best she was able, up and down, to start the water flowing. Both Yester and Nat, who pushed the Chinaman aside with the rifle barrel, trod over to help.
“When?” Yester persisted, taking the bucket from her.
“Morning,” the girl shook her head but muttered, mouth hardly moving, “One, maybe two, hours.”
She called it “mowing, and wan and ows.” Funny.
The news made Yester mad enough to chew leather. Close. They’d been so close. If they’d gotten here just a little sooner they would have had her. Providing he could’ve taken her away from the Chinaman who’d kidnapped her, anyway.
Well, he just would’ve. That’s all.
“Where’d he take her?” he spoke softly, too. With his back turned, he was sure the Chinaman couldn’t hear. It was obvious the girl was scared of the man and didn’t want him listening to what she said.
She made another of those tiny shrugs. Her eyes swiveled, and her head, topped by shining, blue-black hair, tilted a mere half inch toward the east. “There. Somewhere there. In hills.”
“Is she okay?” he asked.
The girl hesitated. “Mu quin beat.” Then she added quickly, “But okay. Father good to her.”
Yester’s eyes opened wide. “What?”
But apparently their conversation was over, his twenty-five cents used up. The Chinaman grabbed the girl and pushed her toward the shed. He started speaking fast and loud, drawing other men from the shadows. Yester thought maybe they appeared out of the cracks in the very boards of the houses, kind of like termites.
Yester's Ride Page 12