DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way

by Thomas Holladay

  Preston Dawes had never so much as sniffed a woman before tying in with Randy Bartow.

  The rest of the week, Horace and Preston slept at the laundry across the street, always warm with clean sheets. Their regular laundry services were free.

  Just plain good luck.

  The Chinese who owned the laundry were afraid to charge more than two bits a week for bed and laundry. Preston and Horace never paid.

  If not for a late season snow, it'd be perfect. Unnatural cold for late May (maybe early June, already—not sure).

  He'd heard it happened sometimes, but he'd never before seen it snow past mid-April. In fact, back in April and early May, the weather had been real nice. Hot, even. Now he froze his tail off walking across the street.

  The small lobby at Hocker House had a potbellied stove by the door leading into the saloon, a warm place to stand and rub his hands together. The chill soon skipped off his neck and he trotted upstairs to the second floor.

  Randy Bartow occupied two rooms at the far end of the hall, near the alcove where a large stove heated the second floor, big enough to warm the rooms through transom windows. The hall stayed hot nearly all the time. Randy's Chinese slaves dumped ash and stoked it day or night, whenever needed.

  He knocked at Randy's door.

  Randy's Chinese miss opened the door in her silk robe, points pushing the robe out, breasts swaying when she moved.

  Preston craved a feel.

  Her eyes said no.

  "Preston?" Randy spoke from somewhere Preston couldn't see. He was probably at his desk. "Get in here."

  Randy Bartow stood near the window, reading something. He waved it at Preston. "This here's a contract of title for that Chiang SuLin missy." He set it on his desk and picked up another piece of paper. "This here's the unconditional license for her daddy to practice medicine. Took some doing to get the printer to print this up, so don't lose it." He handed both to Preston.

  Preston couldn't read. He looked them over anyway. "Which is which?"

  "The one with the red seal is the slave contract. It's all good and legal. You can leave that with the old man to look over, but don't leave the other one—not until after he signs the slave contract. Just let him see that one, then bring it back."

  "I don't think he reads American."

  "Yeah. Let the daughter take a look at the license and give her the slave contract to keep. She can keep reading it 'till the minute he signs her over." Randy pointed to WuMa, his current whore. Calling her his concubine somehow made her proud. "Put this one up in the nest. I want the smell of her cleared out before that little SuLin gets here."

  "What you say?" WuMa gaped at Randy, mouth twisted to one side. She'd had no idea this was coming.

  "You're a good girl, Wu. Now get along with Preston, here. He'll fix you up with your own room on the third floor."

  "Third floor? Third floor for whore."

  Randy's eyebrows pinched and his mouth turned down, angry. He propped his closed fists on his desk, leaned forward, and spoke softly. "Get your stuff together and go with Preston." He knew how to put the scare into a person.

  WuMa backed away and looked at the floor. After more than six months in these rooms, she knew what Randy could become.

  She looked sweet as ever to Preston, well kept and clean. "Come on. Gather your things." He'd be real nice to this one; get more than a feel come Monday night. He'd get to touching all over.

  A KICK AT MIKHAIL'S foot woke him.

  A man stood over him. "How'd you get in here, mister?"

  Mikhail sat up with his Colt, hammer back, prepared to shoot this man in his face. It surprised him, having done it without thinking.

  "Easy, mister." The man's bug eyes and pink cheeks pushed through a bushy, black beard.

  Mikhail lowered the hammer and set the revolver in his lap. "What time is it?"

  "Past sunup."

  Mikhail rolled out, stood, opened his mink coat, and reached into the inside pocket. "I came in on Glory Be. Captain Adams suggested I could stay here." He handed the livery man a five-dollar coin.

  The livery man looked at the coin and smiled. "You need grain or fodder?"

  "Is it more money?"

  "No, sir. This'll take care of it. Got no water, though. You'll need to water 'em on the way out of town. Plenty of nearby streams run into the river."

  Mikhail nodded and stepped aside, allowing the man to feed the horses while he put on his new clothes from Levi Strauss. The stitched canvas pants were stiff. It was easy to feed the belt through wide belt loops. He slid the spare cylinder pouch between loops on his left hip, easy to reach, and positioned the sheathed knife on the right, a little toward his back.

  The new wool shirt had buttons at the top and opened only halfway down. He pulled it over his head and buttoned three buttons, leaving the collar open. The stiff, unwashed wool rubbed rough against his neck. He tucked the shirt in, buttoned his pants, fastened his belt, and sat down to pull on his boots. He stood and fastened on his shoulder holster, checked and holstered the Colt, and put on his sable coat and cap.

  He straightened and rolled up both bundles, ready for travel.

  The livery man said, "I can load that pack saddle, if you want. You can get some breakfast over at the dry goods store across the street. They got bacon and beans and such, whatever you need. They're open."

  Mikhail smiled. "Yes, saddle them." He could check them after breakfast.

  The livery man seemed to buy the prospector pretext, no questions asked. Warner and Coleman had both recommended he look like a miner. It would give him time to poke around Weaverville and ask questions before introducing himself as a ranger.

  Gray mist hung five meters above frozen ground, thick enough to hide the treetops. The trail uphill disappeared into it.

  The dry goods store felt warm inside. Two customers sat at tables across the room from each other. A man behind the counter stirred a skillet of bacon. It smelled good. Mikhail said, "You have eggs?"

  The man looked at him as if he'd asked for caviar from Caspian sturgeon. He grinned and wiped his hands on his dirty white apron. "Mister, if you find some laying hens around here, I'll trade you for my wife." He looked toward the back door. He smiled. "We got flapjacks, bacon, and coffee."

  Mikhail nodded and sat at a table near the door.

  A couple of minutes later, the cook delivered a platter with flapjacks and bacon, a slab of butter on a plate, and poured a large cup of coffee. The breakfast filled Mikhail.

  After breakfast, he bought a slab of bacon, a sack of flour, a tin of lard, a sack of sugar, a sack of salt, two cans of cooked beans, and two cans of cooked beef stew. If needed, he could build a fire and cook something to eat.

  These new cans made of tin could be tricky. In Vladivostok, one of his troops had cut a finger almost off opening a tin can with a sharpened bayonet. Mikhail would use more caution.

  The convenience of preserved, precooked food far outweighed any risk of injury. Someday, some smart engineer would invent a better way to open cans. That would be a smart investment. For now, he would use his knife.

  He led the horses out of Red Bluff on foot, found a stream, and let them take water. When he tried to mount Jasmine for the first time, she moved away and kept moving away. He held the saddle horn, hopped to keep up, and jumped into the stirrup. He threw his right leg across the saddle and she bolted before he settled. He landed in the saddle on the rise and bit his tongue, not too bad.

  She stopped and stood, looking back at him, waiting for his right boot to find the stirrup.

  Mikhail adjusted his weight with caution, watching her watch him. She might jump again.

  He kicked his left leg into her side and she shifted to the right, closer to Biscuit. Mikhail grabbed Biscuit's leader and secured it to the back of Jasmine's saddle.

  Jasmine knew what he wanted and walked into the stream, finding her way across, following the wagon road with Biscuit in tow.

  About a kilometer abov
e Red Bluff, they crossed the Sacramento by ferry.

  They followed the wagon road upstream. There were not so many turns as the river.

  By midday, light snow fell on the frozen dirt road, leading them away from the river and uphill into the forest. He'd seen no other travelers.

  He reached Redding a little before dark, much higher up the Sacramento River. He ate a tasty meat pie at the local canvas tent restaurant and spent the night in the livery. The hard, frozen ground kept him awake. It was a time to think.

  He'd ruled out staying in hotels. He had not enough money for lavish living. If an affordable hotel existed in Weaverville, he might stay there.

  While buying SuLin from her father might be legal, to trade her for a fee to secure an unnecessary license would be fraud; perhaps extortion. If, however, the sheriff had actually paid money, no matter how little, Mikhail would need to buy her back and the sheriff could ask whatever price he wanted. After this business had been completed, he might like a hotel.

  It grew late, thinking about this. Sleep finally took him.

  He left Redding early the next morning and reached a dirty little settlement called Whiskeytown late in the afternoon. A hand-painted sign on the first tent announced a saloon of some kind.

  Dirty looks from fur-faced men made him feel unwelcome and he rode through town without stopping. Several kilometers later, he entered a grove of those same giant trees. He could not remember their name. He found a clearing under the trees, away from heavy snow. He made camp under the wide limbs of a tree, fed the horses, and ate cold, tasty stew from a can.

  At first light, without breakfast, he followed a narrow trail uphill into the mountains. He'd been told more than once to keep to the main trail. This narrow trail was the only trail he could find in the snow.

  They reached a ridgeline late in the day and started down the other side. An hour later, he made camp. Perhaps he would reach Weaverville the following day.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Po had been staring at the document all day. Such foolishness. Po neither read nor spoke English.

  She reminded him of their condition, slowly starving to death. He'd lost much weight and his eyes had yellowed.

  Their few patients had been chased by the deputies and they'd followed her tracks through snow to discover their secret store of herbs and anodynes.

  No hope.

  Po had told her many times during her life that nobody cares what happens to Chinese girls, not even Chinese.

  She'd believed her count would be different. She knew he was different. He must be dead or he would have come. Maybe he had not received her letters. Either way, he had not come.

  Being concubine of a powerful American would be better than starving. Her father could heal the sick and save money to buy her back before the sheriff tired of her. If he put her on the third floor with his other past concubine, her father might die of shame.

  Po's eyes focused on her. He coughed, picked up his fiber brush, and slowly painted his symbol on the document.

  She would pack tonight and go to the sheriff tomorrow.

  SNOW AT MIKHAIL'S CAMPSITE had continued through the night, making it too wet to build a fire. He would not eat another frozen meal. He could wait.

  The trail wound downhill through tall pines. It was difficult to see. Jasmine flawlessly picked her way.

  Later in the day, nearing a noisy river gorge, the rise of cold mist brought the smell of Chinese food. His stomach grumbled for want.

  The narrow, traverse trail down the steep slope toward fast-moving water turned upriver and leveled.

  Must be the Trinity.

  Trees thinned at the river's edge and Jasmine followed the trail into shallow water with a rocky bottom. He stopped in the flow and allowed both horses to drink.

  The scent of Chinese food had grown stronger, coming from somewhere across the river.

  Slues boxes lined riverbanks on both sides, upriver and down, abandoned to cold weather. Trees, icicles, steep, rocky slopes, mist, and fast moving water struck him.

  Beautiful.

  God is here.

  Jasmine picked her footing across the shallows and followed the narrow trail up the other side of the gorge onto a snow-covered plateau. White smoke rose from many locations, all less than a kilometer in front of them. He saw no dwellings. They were possibly hidden by deep snow and forest.

  He rounded a large tree into a clearing where scattered canvas tents winked through the snow on both sides of the trail, most with open fires. Many faces turned his way, all Chinese. Many children. Everybody was eating.

  A family of six shared food from a large steaming pot near the trail. It smelled tasty. He climbed down, tied Jasmine to a tree, and pulled out his coin purse. He pushed an imaginary spoon toward his gaping mouth, begging food. He showed them a tin coin.

  The woman nodded and motioned for him to sit. Two of her children scooted sideways to make room on a log near the fire.

  Mikhail sat.

  The woman gave him a bowl of soup with plenty of rice and some kind of fish, hot and tasty. She smiled. "Fish called trout. It come from Trinity. Very good to eat."

  "Very tasty." Mikhail smiled and offered the coin.

  "No pay. You weary traveler, huh? Come from long way off?"

  Mikhail smiled and nodded, held out his empty bowl, and tried to pay her again.

  She shook off the coin and refilled his bowl.

  Mikhail winked at one of her children and tossed him the coin.

  The child caught and looked at it. He showed it to his father. Both smiled appreciatively.

  Now the woman did not mind.

  Mikhail ate the second bowl slowly, enjoying the flavor of Chinese seasonings. It had been a long time. "Do you know of Chiang Po and his daughter, Chiang SuLin?"

  They recognized the names, nodding and smiling. The man said, "He is doctor from Canton. Very good doctor. They live up there." He pointed uphill into the forest. "Have house under trees. You find okay. Everybody know. Go in town, then go up there." He pointed up the trail Mikhail had been following, then hooked his thumb sharply back. "No way from here."

  Mikhail said his goodbyes and followed the trail into Weaverville, a small town of brick, stone, and wood buildings—no fleeting settlement like Whiskeytown or Redding.

  Steam rose from a large tent near the center of town, the only tent in sight. Shirtless Chinese men stirred pots of boiling water and women scrubbed soapy laundry with brushes on long wooden tables.

  A three-story brick building stood at the apex of a fork in the road. Two men sat in bentwood chairs on a raised porch under a deep overhanging roof. Both drank what looked like whiskey from small glasses. Both watched him ride past. The sign on the wall behind them read, "Hocker House." It looked like a hotel, with evenly spaced windows on the second and third floors.

  The unpainted, wood-sided livery across the street stood next to a red brick pharmacy. A circular steel stair in front led to a second floor of whitewashed wood.

  Mikhail dismounted and led his horses under a canvas awning into the livery barn. Steep rafters sprang from over a loft stacked with burlap bags and bundled hay. A large, potbellied stove in the middle warmed the whole barn.

  A man brushing an Arabian horse in a stall near the entry saw Mikhail and stepped out with a friendly smile. "Howdy, mister. Here for one night?"

  "I do not know, yet. How much to feed, water, and stable my horses?"

  "Feed, water, and cleaning comes with the stabling. Fifty cents a day, three dollars a week, or ten dollars a month."

  "Per horse?"

  "Can't keep 'em for any less."

  "Is okay." Mikhail pulled his coin purse and gave the man a newly minted twenty-dollar gold piece.

  "I got no change for this."

  "A month is okay. Maybe longer. Maybe less. You can return something when I leave? Yes?"

  "Ah, a foreigner." He nodded his agreement. "They got heat over at the hotel and you can get a hot bath
and shave."

  Mikhail scratched his whiskered neck and thought about this; how filthy he must look, how filthy he felt. His back and legs suddenly itched.

  Yes, he would buy a hot bath and shave. He smiled at the memory of his arrival in San Francisco, and another offer for a bath and shave.

  CHIANG SULIN PICKED up her small bundle of possessions and kissed her father goodbye. He stared into the fire as if she had already gone.

  She picked up the slave document, folded it into her quilted coat, and left.

  She hugged her coat around herself, already shivering in cold, light snow, very cold for late in the day. She would not look at their neighbors. They all knew her where she would live.

  SuLin lowered her head under the canvas drape and carried her bundle into the rear of the laundry, slipping a little on wooden floor pallets. She snuck through the steam, the workers looming out; looking at her. She would survive her shame.

  She opened the front flap of the laundry and stopped.

  Her count crossed the street from the livery, turned his back, and walked toward the porch of Hocker House. He had not seen her and she dared not cry out.

  The deputies sat at the table with their whiskey, watching her count, in his elegant fur coat and cap, climb the front steps.

  MIKHAIL LUGGED THE canvas roll carrying his clothes and ammunition case up the front steps of the hotel and smiled at the two men drinking whiskey, both watching him watch them.

  The hotel lobby warmed his face. A small stove sat against the wall near an etched glass door, a saloon on the other side. A slender stair ran up the opposite side of the narrow lobby, with a small front desk tucked underneath. Mikhail rang the bell.

  Nobody responded.

  He opened the glass door and stepped into the saloon. A long bar ran underneath a larger stair at the far side of the room. Five men played cards at one of four tables between. The bartender saw Mikhail, nodded, pulled off his apron, put on a derby, and hurried across the room.