"That's it?" Warner caught and tossed the heavy medicine ball.
"This is all I know."
"They'll never extradite for that," Downey huffed, struggling for air. He caught the ball, set it between his legs, and sat on it, ending everybody else's workout. "It's the rest of it that worries me. Shooting a Russian prince is no small matter, even in defense of a fellow American. We do have a mutual defense treaty with the czar. He won't like this one bit." He stared at Mikhail, as if blaming him for the whole mess.
"Mike didn't shoot that arrogant bastard." Warner stood over Downey, ready to punch his red nose. "I did."
"We did," said John Drury, poking a thumb toward Coleman. Coleman, Drury, and Warner had all put bullets into the grand duke. "Mine was the headshot." By blaming himself, John Drury brought calm. Soft-spoken and deliberate was the always-powerful John Drury.
Warner sniffed and wiped his arm across his nose. "I'm in for a steam."
"Already?" Downey smiled up at Warner. They were still friends.
Warner pulled Downey to his feet and led him into the steam room. Mikhail, Drury and Coleman followed them in.
They undressed, wrapped themselves in towels, and filed onto benches in the steam room. There was nobody else around.
"I am glad you are all here. I need to know some things about the laws."
"That'd be me," said Downey, always ready to boast. "Ask away."
"If a physician comes here from another country, is he allowed to practice medicine?"
"No laws against it. Why, you a doctor on top of everything else?" Downey chuckled at his little joke.
Mikhail did not like his joke. This was not about him.
Downey sensed this. "No. Foreign doctors are free to practice in this state. No restrictions. Of course, if he causes a death from malpractice, he can be criminally charged."
Abe said, "Tell us about it, Mike. What's going on?"
Mikhail took a minute, getting his thoughts aligned. "Aboard Silent Mistress, on my way here from Vladivostok, I was near to death. The ship's captain, Captain Rawlings, he put me in the care of a Chinese doctor and his daughter.
"This doctor extracted the ball put into me by the Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaievich and stopped the bleeding. It is only because of this man and his daughter that I was able to reach this shore."
"I see no reason why he shouldn't be free to practice here, providing he can find patients willing to trust a Chinese doctor." John Downey had again found a way to offend.
Mikhail thought to drop the whole discussion.
Warner said, "Downey, you are the most irritating nitwit God ever created."
"Just trying to help." Downey instinctively leaned away from Warner.
John Drury said, "Where are they now?"
"A place called Weaverville."
All four of Mikhail's friends sat erect, looking at each other, at Mikhail. They all knew of this place.
"This is a big city?"
"No," said Coleman. "Had some rich gold strikes a few years back. Now there's a sizable Chinese community camped outside the town, or so I've heard."
"Are there any special licensing fees for doctors in this state?"
"None," said Downey. "The state does, however, charge Chinese miners an annual twenty dollar fee for mining gold. Seems they have a knack for finding the stuff when regular folks have given up."
"So . . ." said Mikhail. "A local sheriff has no authority to charge one hundred dollars per month for Chaing Po to practice medicine?"
"Absolutely not." Downey smiled at the others, ready to make another joke. "Why, is this sheriff a member of our Law and Order Party?"
Nobody laughed.
Mikhail said, "It gets worse. The sheriff will waive these fees and allow Chaing Po to practice in exchange for his daughter, SuLin. Is this buying and selling of people legal here?"
"Yes," said Coleman, matter of fact. "Children can be purchased away from their parents, adults can be enslaved for non payment of debt, slaves from other states can be purchased from their owners and brought here, or criminals can serve a term of slavery in payment for their crimes."
"There's a lot of talk in the legislature about this." Downey stood and paced, holding his towel in place with his left hand, and waving his right arm about like a wind vane. "Back in Washington, there's talk of abolition. If all men are created equal, how can any person be born into slavery?
"Some of the northeastern states are declaring themselves free states, meaning no slavery of any kind. California is aligning itself with these states.
"There is debate in the state legislature over what to do with all the Chinese slaves already here. For that reason, the legislation being drafted doesn't mention the Chinese. It concerns itself with Negroes brought here from southern states. If one man is the legal property of another, how can California stop the owner from selling his property here? This is a question we hope to answer through legislative debate."
Warner said, "Sit down, you stuffed hat. We're not talking about black slaves, here. We're talking about Mike's friends."
"Michael," said Coleman, an ever-thoughtful voice. "First thing we need to do is get you up to see Judge Heydenfeldt."
Downey changed direction. "Problem is, as I see it, if the doctor wants to sell his daughter, there's nothing can be done to stop him. Tell me . . ." He studied Mikhail, for once making sure he understood. "Were they Chinese slaves when they arrived in this state?"
AFTER COLEMAN AND MIKHAIL finished explaining the Weaverville problem to Judge Heydenfeldt, he reached into his desk and tossed a silver star to Mikhail. 'California Ranger' had been inscribed on a ring surrounding the star. Heydenfeldt said, "A few years back, we had problems with an outlaw band run by one Joaquin Murrieta. Him and a man names Three Finger Jack were killing and stealing from nearly every gold camp in the state. The state legislature authorized the formation of the California Rangers to put an end to this gang. A year later, the rangers brought in the head of Murrieta and Jack's three-fingered hand. Had them pickling in a two-gallon jar to preserve them. The rangers were disbanded after that, but this sounds like an extension of the same problem. This was the badge I wore." The judge stood and raised his right hand. "Stand up and raise your right hand."
Mikhail stood and raised his hand.
"You swear to follow the Constitution of the State of California and to bring outlaws to justice?"
"Da. Yes."
"Ten dollars a week plus expenses okay with you?"
Mikhail smiled. "Of course." He needed no pay for this.
"You bring these criminals to Sacramento for trial."
"If I can."
"Don't worry about your authority. I'll speak to the governor." He sat and looked at Coleman. They wanted to talk privately.
Mikhail said, "Thank you, Bill."
Coleman stood and shook Mikhail's hand. "Take care, up there. There's no law north of Red Bluff."
Heydenfeldt said, "There's no God north of Redding."
Cold, wind-driven rain pelted Mikhail as he left Judge Heydenfeldt's house on top of Russian Hill and climbed aboard Paddy's waiting taxi. "Take me to Levi Strauss."
"Where's that?"
"A new dry goods store on Clark's Point." Mikhail scanned Abe Warner's list. What would he need?
He did not need another heavy coat.
Cooking and eating utensils, a canteen, wooden matches, canvas pants, wool shirts, long underwear, riding boots, socks, canvas for a tent, hemp rope, wool blanket, and a shovel were all useful; even necessary.
A hunting knife and scabbard should have been purchased months earlier. Raul had recommended these during their exercises.
The clerk at Levi Strauss had experience outfitting gold prospectors. He'd rolled everything from Levi Strauss & Company into a tight bundle, and Mikhail carried it over his shoulder with ease. The shovel handle made a good grip to hand carry.
Boots, he would purchase from Fabrizio DiMarcello.
Mikhail carried
his bundle inside the taxi, out of the rain. "Paddy, you know DiMarcello's Bootery?"
"Over on California Street?"
"Yes." A short ride up the hill offered no time to think. He left the bundle in Paddy's taxi and went into the bootery.
Fabrizio spoke with his hands and eyes, asking what Mikhail needed.
"I need a good pair of riding boots. Something easy to walk in." It took nearly an hour to find a proper fit from boots ordered but never picked up. Fabrizio would not have to measure and make them special, time he feared SuLin and Chiang Po did not have. The boots felt comfortable for walking and would be good for riding. They covered his legs below the knees and had no laces.
HE ENTERED THE KITCHEN at the White Chapel Saloon, where Molly and her ladies had already started cooking supper.
Molly spewed her thoughts with a look.
He set the bundle on the floor near the door and stared at her back. There was no time to argue. "I need to take some of the money." They'd been saving for his planned investment in Utah Territory.
"Do you, now?" She refused to look at him.
"I'll need a horse, a saddle, and a mule. I can sell them when I get back."
She spun and looked at him, both angry and sad. "Off to try your luck, are you?"
"Did you not read the letter?"
"Yes." She turned back to the stove.
Hopeless.
He untied his old boots from the bundle and hurried up the back stair to his room. Raul had already gone to work and Billy was still at the Bulletin. Mikhail set his old boots under his bunk and opened his foot locker. He took off his wet wool jacket and strapped on the shoulder holster for his new Colt revolver. He released and dropped out the cylinder, checked the loads, replaced the cylinder, and holstered the revolver. He checked the reserve cylinder, shoved it into the leather carrier, and slid it onto his belt. He took out the ammunition box, set it on the bed, and put on a dry wool jacket. He checked the fit and comfort of the shoulder harness under his jacket.
Good.
He put on his sable coat and cap, tucked the ammo box under his arm, and took the front stair down. There was nobody around. He walked through the dining room into Molly's bedroom, rolled up the mattress, pulled out the leather bag, opened it, and took half their money.
Should be enough.
He put the bed back into order, entered the kitchen, and tucked the ammo box under crossed tie ropes on the bundle. He turned toward her, wanting to say goodbye; wanting to hold her in his arms.
She only showed him her back. "Don't be bringing any Chinese slave girls back here. Not in my house."
"Woman!" Mikhail wanted to kick her. Of all the times she might choose, why must she pick a fight now?
Impossible.
He threw the canvas bundle over his shoulder and left. Rounding the corner from the alley, cold wind hit his face and cooled his rage. He leaned into it. Daylight had almost gone.
Would he ever understand this woman? Would he ever understand any woman?
Probably not.
He did love her. She must know this.
You never said.
He tossed the bundle onto the back platform of Paddy's taxi and climbed in. "Take me to the bay ferry."
Paddy reached the ferry landing quickly and Mikhail jumped out. He grabbed his bundle and shook hands with Paddy. "Thank you, my friend."
"Be careful out there." Paddy waited for Mikhail to walk onto the pier.
The bay ferry, El Dorado, had already nosed in, mooring her lines. It was getting dark. The wooden ramp lowered to the pier and incoming passengers rushed past Mikhail, eager to be someplace warmer.
The bay crossing was cold and wet. Twin side paddles kicked up spray, the wind blowing it across the open deck.
They reached Delta Point around midnight.
He found shelter in an all-night saloon. He and many other travelers slept on the floor.
After a breakfast of flapjacks, bacon, and coffee, he booked deck passage on Glory Be, a sternwheel, flat bottom, shallow draft riverboat bound for Red Bluff, weather and river conditions permitting.
He went aboard at first boarding and took shelter near the staircase at mid-ship where the upper deck covered a pass-through on the lower.
Cold, windblown rain came down in waves, one sweeping sheet after another. On the lee side, under the stair, the deck had remained dry. A good spot.
More than an hour later, the whistle blew, men shouted, ropes cleared, and Glory Be pulled away from the dock.
The riverboat paddled upriver, increasing speed, passing unpainted, wood-sided warehouses and scattered tents. White smoke quickly disappeared into cold wind and sheets of rain.
How amazing was steam engineering? All things could be possible.
SOMETIME LATER IN THE day, shouts from inside the stern passageway woke him. He climbed out from under the stair and stepped over a raised threshold into a gambling parlor. Two men stood across from each other at a table near the door. One, an obvious gambler, wore a white coat and top hat. Mikhail had seen such men at the Palace.
The other wore clothing like Mikhail's, more suited for business or travel. He said, "I saw you pull that card from your vest pocket."
"Sir." The gambler spread his white jacket for all to see, turning slowly. No pockets. He carried a Colt much like Mikhail's.
"I seen it." The other man leaned across the table to claim a small leather pouch. Maybe there was gold inside. Three men with belled pants and bare feet approached the table from behind this man.
Mikhail cared nothing for this, having dealt with similar situations many times at the Palace. He turned back out the door.
A large man crouched under the stair, bent over Mikhail's bundle, casually sliding out his polished wood ammunition box. Mikhail stepped up behind the man, watching him untie rope, planning to help himself. Yet unseen by the thief, Mikhail took aim and planted the sharp toe of his new boot into the man's tailbone.
The man yelped, jumped from under the stair, and grabbed his back, grimacing in pain and anger. "Well now, ain't you the fancy one." From somewhere unseen, the big man brandished a knife.
Mikhail took one step back and pulled his revolver.
The bigger man froze when Mikhail pulled back the hammer.
Someone close said, "What's this about?"
Mikhail turned to face a man in a white cap and black bill, maybe the captain. Two barefooted men behind him held the gambler. The captain dangled the gambler's Colt at arm's length, not threatening.
Mikhail said, "I found this man helping himself to my property."
The captain squinted at the other man. It was dark under the upper deck, still raining. "Well, Smiling Jack. How'd you manage to get on my boat?" He raised the Colt and motioned with his head.
Smiling Jack stepped toward the side of the boat and carefully sheathed the knife in the scabbard at the small of his back.
"Come on," said the captain, motioning with the revolver.
"Please wait a minute." Mikhail bent and quickly checked his bundle, slid the ammunition box back inside, and stood. He nodded at the captain.
Jack followed the two crewmen and the gambler to the rail. The two crewmen picked up and tossed the gambler over the side. They turned for Jack.
Jack launched himself over the side into near-freezing water and both men swam for shore.
The gambler quickly drifted thirty meters downstream. He was not a good swimmer.
Mikhail said, "Thank you, Captain. I would not want to shoot him over an ammunition box."
The captain smiled. "I've seen men shot over a glass of warm beer. Where you headed, mister . . ."
"Mike Zabel." He stiffened and bowed slightly, honoring the captain's position of authority. "I have business in Weaverville."
"Weaverville." The captain frowned and shook his head. "You got a horse? There are no roads to Weaverville."
"I will buy a horse and saddle in Red Bluff."
"Better to buy your livestock
and such in Sacramento. We spend the night there. I can't navigate this river at night. I'm Captain George Adams." They shook hands. "After we tie off and get something to eat, I'll take you to a livery. I know the owner."
THEY SAT UNDER A TENT at a long plank table with several other men. The captain called it a hash house. This restaurant had no name, but the food smelled and tasted good. Adams called it chipped beef on a biscuit. There was plenty of meat in tasty white gravy with a large, separated biscuit underneath.
The captain said, "You from Russia?"
"Da, yes. I am from Crimea."
"Ah, the Black Sea." The captain slurped white gravy with a spoon. "Thought you sounded Russian. Name of Mike Zabel threw me off."
"I am Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky. I am American citizen, now."
The captain chuckled. "Mike Zabel'll do." The captain probably couldn't pronounce Mikhail's name. "I used to sail the oceans. No more. Even with steam, she's too unpredictable."
Adams finished slurping and stood with a long belch. He wiped gravy from his mustache with his coat sleeve. "Best be getting on over there before he goes to bed for the night."
Mikhail sucked down the last of his supper and followed the captain outside. It was still raining, still cold. He washed his hands and mouth in the rain, walking across the muddy, wheel-rutted road. His boots no longer looked new.
A lamp hung near the open door of a barn under a high gable roof. The deep overhang protected a center beam and loading winch to a loft. The captain stepped inside, removed his hat, and slapped it against his pant leg, loud enough to hear in the back.
A lantern moved from one of the back stalls toward the front, a tall, skinny man carrying it. "Captain George." He came close, smiling through furry, yellow-red whiskers. The fan of hair somehow made him look less skinny. His bald head added to the illusion of a fuller face.
The captain said, "Sandy Stone, this here's Mike Zabel. He needs a good horse and tack. He's headed up to Weaverville."
"What? Why would anybody go to that God-forsaken hellhole?"
Mikhail said, "I have business in this place."
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 22