DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way

by Thomas Holladay

Winston had never seen the other man. He was now close enough to see the blood on the shoulder of his long johns; his bare feet. They climbed onto Winston Bray's front porch.

  Winston stepped in front of Wanda, blocking the entry. "We don't want any trouble."

  The stranger looked past Winston and Wanda into the house. He saw something behind them and straightened his stance. He stared squarely into Winston's eyes. "Is there no hope for the widow's son?"

  "What did you say, mister?" Winston stepped outside and looked closer. "Do I know you?"

  "Is there no hope for the widow's son?" He sounded foreign.

  "Are you a mason?"

  "I am."

  Winston Bray whisked them all inside and closed the door. "What kind of trouble you in?"

  The man slumped and held his ribs, obviously in pain. "It is not I who am in trouble. It is your sheriff and his deputies."

  "What?"

  Wanda pulled the foreigner into her chair by the fire.

  The doctor and his daughter peeled the foreigner's upper long johns down to his waist. The doctor ignored a nasty gash on the foreigner's shoulder and examined his ribs. The way they looked at each other, they'd met before.

  The doctor asked something in Chinese.

  The daughter said, "Father say, you pretty bad bruise where he take out bullet. It hurt bad?"

  "I'll be better in a few minutes." He opened and looked at his left hand, missing the end of his middle finger. He leaned closer to the fire and flexed the hand, warming it.

  His missing fingertip surprised the girl. "What you do, heh?"

  He lifted his left foot nearer to the fire and flexed, missing his little toe. He smiled and shrugged. "They feel like they are still a part of me, the way they complain from the cold." He looked up at Winston and Wanda with a question he couldn't quite ask.

  "Where you from, mister?" Winston had never heard this accent.

  "I am Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky. My home is now in San Francisco. I am from Crimea in Ukraine, near Sevastopol. I am Russian. My lodge is in St. Petersburg. I am a master mason for seven years."

  "What brings you here? What's your beef with Sheriff Bartow?"

  "I am a California Ranger appointed by the State Supreme Court. I was sent here to investigate this sheriff and his deputies. We have reports of illegal slave trafficking and extortion. Chiang SuLin . . ." He smiled at the girl. "She wrote me about this. I took her letter to Judge Solomon Heydenfeldt. Now I am here."

  "Is that on the level, Mister, uh, Count?"

  "I am American citizen, now. Mike Zabel is easy American name." The Russian smiled a little. Probably a lot of folks couldn't say his name.

  Winston couldn't now remember it, having heard it only a minute earlier. "Is all that on the level?"

  The man stood and stepped up to Winston. He extended his right hand and gripped Winston with the strong grip of the lion's paw. His clear eyes left no doubt. He pulled Winston into the five points of fellowship and whispered the first part of the secret word.

  Winston whispered the second part.

  The Russian whispered the third. He pushed away and smiled. "I have a letter from Judge Heydenfeldt of the California Supreme Court. It is in my coat, which is now in the possession of your sheriff and his deputies, along with my badge and the rest of my property. Are any of these men members of your lodge?"

  "Lord, no." Winston laughed at the thought and relaxed. He turned toward a blast of cold air. The girl was leaving. He closed the door and turned back to the Russian. "What do you need, my brother?"

  PICKING HER WAY THROUGH blind darkness and freezing wind, SuLin snuck around the back of the stable, the brewery, and the drugstore, and wound her way up the hill through the trees.

  Her father needed his needles to ease pain for her count. The deputies had not taken those. They had not understood their use.

  Wanda Bray could clean her count's shoulder. It was not so bad.

  She hurried through the Chinese community, light from canvas tents lighting her path. She reached their cabin and climbed the front step.

  Inside held slight warmth from their small fireplace, embers glowing. She knelt, fanned, and blew. The fire sprang to life. She broke twigs and fed the flame. She added a log. She leaned slightly away from the heat and rubbed her hands.

  She lit a twig, stood, and lit the oil lamp on top of the mantle. She quickly located her father's bundled instruments and his incense, and put them into an inside pocket of her quilted coat. She warmed her hands for a moment more and turned toward the door.

  The fat deputy and his tall friend stood between SuLin and the door.

  "Don't she look pretty, all lit up by that fire?" The fat deputy's face was swollen purple, a fresh cut across his fat nose, but no more blood.

  "My count do that? He mighty big lawman, now. You find out pretty quick."

  "Yeah." The tall deputy looked her up and down, a swollen bump and cut over his left eye; some dried blood. "Easy to see why Randy chose her."

  "What you want?"

  The grin left the fat one's face. "I saw you and your old man helping that foreigner. We're looking for him."

  "He come find you pretty quick, I think." She stepped around them toward the door. "Time for you to leave."

  The tall deputy grabbed and held her arms from behind.

  The fat deputy leaned close to her face.

  "What you want? You go now. He find you pretty quick, I think."

  "What’s this here?" The fat deputy stuffed his hand inside her quilted coat and slowly slid his fingers across her pajama top, feeling her breast. He found and pulled out the document her father had marked. He opened and turned it toward the fire. He leaned closer to the lamplight. "Got his mark on it, don’t it?" He put it into his coat pocket. "Your old man signed you over, didn't he?"

  "I free girly. He no sell." She kicked and yanked, struggling to free herself.

  The skinny deputy squeezed her arms until it hurt. "Where'd you take that foreigner? Sheriff wants a talk with him." He shoved her toward the door.

  The fat deputy picked up the oil lamp and held it high, threatening to throw it. "Where is he?"

  "He come find you pretty quick. I say already. He ranger, now."

  The tall deputy breathed stinking breath past her ear. "Yeah, that's what the sheriff wants to talk to him for. Find out what's a ranger want, hereabouts."

  "You gonna tell us?" The fat deputy waved the lamp slowly, careful not to drop the glass chimney.

  "I never tell." Her eyes narrowed, angry.

  The fat deputy smiled and smashed the lamp onto the floor in front of the fireplace.

  Fire raced across splattered oil and chased them out the door. Cold wind rushed down the mountain from behind their house and sucked fire out onto their porch.

  The skinny deputy dragged her down the trail toward the town. "Look at that, Preston. Hope you don't burn down the whole town."

  "They never ought to lent that foreigner a hand. Now the old man's got no house for his witchery."

  IN HIS NORMAL SHOW of rage, Randy Bartow stood at his usual place at the end of the bar where he could see the whole room, slow sipping Irish whiskey from a glass, wearing that foreigner’s fur coat and cap.

  Sam Carson, the bartender, didn't like doubling as a desk clerk. He liked working for Randy Bartow not at all. In six years since May, 1850, Sam had watched Weaverville grow up out of nothing, working his claim down on the Trinity River. He'd hung on a sling in cold, wet mist, chipping rock out of the canyon wall and working his suspended sluice box. In the early days, pulling up nuggets the size of wild blackberries had been common.

  By the time his claim had petered out, men like Henry Hocker and Winston Bray had moved in and built a real town; a town to be proud of; a town where men could bring their wives and have kids.

  After selling his claim to a Chinaman for a hundred dollars, figuring he'd got the better of the deal, Sam had taken a job behind Henry Hocker's bar. He'd worked
behind the bar while that Chinaman pulled gold out of his claim for the next two years, using the money to build the laundry across the street. That Chinaman now lived in a house built of brick and stone. Winston Bray hadn't built it, of course, but it was a nice house just the same.

  Sam still lived in his tent behind the livery, cold as frozen biscuits in winter.

  Before Randy Bartow, working for Henry Hocker had been a kind of partnership. The bar had filled with thirsty miners near every night and Sam had taken twenty percent of the saloon profits while Henry ran his hotel. Now, since Randy Bartow had won the place in a game of stud poker, surrounded by abundant speculation as to Randy's honesty, things had changed. The saloon no longer served as a popular place for congregating and socializing. Tonight, three men at one of the tables played poker for drinks.

  Randy Bartow standing at the end of the bar hadn't been good for business. He looked now like he'd looked back on Christmas Day, when he'd pistol whipped Bruce Hollings to death for accusing him of cheating at cards. Sam had had a feeling in his gut, that night.

  Sam had that same feeling in his gut right now. Somebody would surely die here tonight.

  Maybe that foreigner already had. There'd been a gunshot upstairs and Randy now wore the foreigner's elegant fur coat and cap. The way he'd whipped up on Preston and Horace, he'd soon be dead, if he wasn't already.

  Sam had hoped the saloon crowd would grow with the sheriff's Chinese whores working on the third floor. When busy, Bartow put girls down in the bar to sling beer and deliver drinks. If miners took them upstairs, other girls came down to work the tables. Most nights had gone dead quiet, like now.

  Since Randy Bartow and his deputies had come to town, Sam had been selling more bottles for takeout than he'd drained from behind the bar. Everybody now did their drinking house to house, tent to tent.

  The door to the hotel lobby squeaked and Randy turned his back to the bar, watching his deputies drag in another pretty Chinese girl, this one prettier than most.

  Horace Talpin wore his hat cocked back, away from a bruised bump and cut over his left eye.

  Preston Dawes wore a swollen purple face, eyes puffed near shut over a broke-looking nose. "She won't tell." He shoved the girl toward Bartow.

  "What you do, huh?" She showed no fear of Bartow, only anger. "I free girly. Why you burn my house, huh?"

  Randy glanced over his shoulder at Sam, like Sam might have an answer.

  Not me, Boss.

  Randy turned back to his deputies.

  Preston's nose sounded plugged up. "They ought never have lent that foreigner a hand." He handed Bartow a sheet of paper.

  Randy glanced at the paper and set it on the bar. He leaned toward Horace and the girl. "Take her upstairs and lock her in my bedroom. Bring me the key. We have her, my guess is he'll come to us."

  "He come find you pretty quick, I think."

  Horace yanked her toward the stair and shied from her tiny fists. He laughed at her jabs.

  Sam strolled to the end of the bar and looked.

  Randy didn't mind.

  The slave document had been marked with a Chinese symbol. She now belonged to Randy Bartow, same as the others.

  "Fire!" shouted a voice from outside. "Chinatown's ablaze."

  Firelight flickered through the high window facing the road.

  PAIN SURROUNDING MIKHAIL'S missing toe and fingertip had been replaced by itching memories of what once had been parts of his body. His ribs still complained from deep breathing.

  Chiang Po paced near the front door, worried for the safety of his daughter. She'd been gone too long. He looked at Mikhail and Mikhail nodded. Not to worry. The sheriff would not benefit by harming her.

  Wanda Bray sat near the fire under the lamp, looping stitches into an old pair of her husband's trousers. She did not look up. "Winston, go and check on her. She should be back by now."

  Winston wanted to help. He'd been pacing. He shouldered into his winter coat, donned his hat, smiled at Mikhail, and left.

  "Stand up." She held up the trousers and motioned to Mikhail.

  He stood.

  She tossed him the trousers. "Put those on. I'll go find a shirt and some boots." She left the room.

  Mikhail climbed into the trousers, pulled them up to his chest, and buttoned them.

  Ridiculous.

  He rolled the pant cuffs up two folds and readjusted. Still high on his waist but good enough. Nobody would care.

  "Here." Wanda marched back into the room. "This is one of mine." She handed him a wide leather belt, not much used.

  Mikhail threaded the belt through the belt loops of Winston Bray's altered trousers and buckled it. The trousers stayed up.

  She handed him a wool shirt and dropped a pair of well used boots onto the floor. "Here. Try these with two pair of socks. Winston's feet aren't so big as the rest of him." She handed him a wad of wool socks.

  Mikhail slipped into the shirt, buttoned it and sat, tugging on two pair of socks.

  The front door burst open with a cold gust of wind. Winston closed the door and handed a burlap bag to Po. "Here, Dr. Davison had this. Said he should have carried it back to you. Sheriff gave it to Davison." He looked at Mikhail and thumbed toward Po. "His stuff." He shook his head. He had something more to say.

  Chiang Po opened the bag and looked inside. He smiled at Mikhail, nodded at Wanda, and hurried into the kitchen.

  Bray took a deep breath, not sure how to say this. "Tent city's on fire out there. Wind's pushing it into town. Hocker and Davison are out there forming a fire brigade. It's threatening the drugstore and the lodge, not to mention the laundry." He glanced toward the kitchen, worried that Chiang Po might hear. "Hocker saw the deputies take the girl into the hotel. The fire started up near the Chinaman's house."

  Mikhail stood and stomped down into Bray's boots.

  Po came from the kitchen with a bowl of soup, pushed Mikhail back into the chair, and handed him the soup. He went back into the kitchen and returned with some kind of patch, motioning toward Mikhail's painful ribs.

  Mikhail set the bowl on the floor, stood, unbuttoned his shirt and long johns, peeled down to his waist, and lifted his arm. Po's medicated plasters had helped Mikhail heal, aboard Silent Mistress.

  Po pressed on the plaster, helped Mikhail back into his long johns and shirt, and Mikhail buttoned up. He sat and picked up his soup, eagerly slurping some down.

  The livery man burst in, grimy with wet soot. "I need help getting the horses out."

  "My horses are in there."

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  SuLin stripped the blanket from the bed, wrapped herself in it, and sat on the floor of the sheriff's locked bedroom. She'd paced back and forth, looking up at the high window over the door, thinking to break the glass and escape.

  Someone will hear.

  Too high off the floor.

  The larger room where the sheriff worked stayed warm with a small stove. She might break the glass over the door to bring in heat.

  Someone would hear.

  At least the Tongs paid for slaves. This sheriff did not.

  She would not sleep in his bed. She would not even sit on his bed.

  The only light came from an outside window, too high from the frozen ground to jump. Flickering light from outside grew brighter. Very strange.

  She stood and drew back the curtain.

  Down the road past the laundry, fire leapt from treetop to treetop, pushed by strong wind. Burning embers swirled through the night sky toward the town.

  Chinese workers rushed in and out of the laundry, throwing buckets of water onto the tent roof and walls. There was plenty of water in their wooden tubs.

  Chinese families huddled downhill from the laundry, trying to be safe in the middle of the road. So quick, tents and wood shacks burst into flames on both sides of them.

  Trees exploded in the heart of the raging fire, burning limbs flying in all directions.

  Squatting families scrambled
from the rush of fire, too slowly.

  Oh no.

  Shrill screams pierced through the windowpane as human torches ran from the fire. Some fell onto the muddy road, while others spun into piled snow to put out the fire.

  Her eyes blurred, unconsciously blocking the horror. Cold tears ran down her cheeks. She did not wipe them away.

  The fat deputy had done this.

  Chiang Po ran downhill from the laundry, gathering and packing snow onto the victims. He motioned to others, who were slow to help, but help they did. None of them knew exactly what to do.

  She could not hear them.

  Uphill, beyond the laundry, fire had crossed the road above the pharmacy.

  Yes!

  Her count carried rope up the circular stair in front of the pharmacy. He slung the rope over his shoulder and climbed a tree onto the roof of the Americans' secret club, a place no Chinese could enter.

  Dr. Davison pulled and pushed men on the road below, forming a line between the laundry and his drugstore.

  Buckets filled with water passed from man to man uphill from the laundry.

  Dr. Davison jumped onto the raised porch of his pharmacy and hooked the first bucket to the end of her count's rope.

  Her count pulled the bucket up, threw water over the wood shingle roof, and lowered the bucket to be refilled from another. He pulled it up and tossed more water onto the roof. No fire there. Why would he waste water where there was no fire?

  He tossed several buckets of water onto the roof.

  Fire neared the building and windblown embers showered from burning trees. Most embers stopped burning on contact with the roof's wet shingles. Her count walked across the roof with a full bucket and dowsed larger burning embers. She smiled.

  A wet roof will not burn.

  Wind had swept snow off the wood plank roof over the brewery, where flaming embers landed and flames grew quickly.

  New flames and embers rushed toward the stable and changed course, swirling down to the ground.

  The wind died suddenly and heavy snow fell—snow so thick it blocked the other side of the road. What she could still see of the fire winked and disappeared. Even the nearby laundry had vanished behind a thick curtain of white that quickly covered everything.