DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way

by Thomas Holladay

  Several Chinese serving girls in colorful pajamas carried pitchers of beer to tables where soot-covered men talked and drank. He did not see SuLin.

  The sheriff left the bar and climbed the main stair.

  The deputy and the other man found chairs at two separate tables. The deputy acted friendly with the firefighters. The other man did not smile.

  Mikhail took out his revolver, let it hang at arm's length, and entered into the warmth of the hotel lobby. He ducked under the saloon door window and climbed the narrow front stair.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Both wall lamps on the second floor of Hocker House had been trimmed low. There was barely enough light to see the sheriff. He sat near the potbellied stove in the center of the long hallway, his chair back leaning against the wall, watching the main stair at the far end of the hallway.

  Mikhail quietly walked to the nearest lamp and turned it up.

  Bartow pushed off the wall and stood and turned in one motion, quick for man the size of John Drury. "Well, ain't you the quiet one." He didn't seem worried about the Colt hanging in Mikhail's right hand. He spread Mikhail's sable coat to display a holstered Navy Colt at the center of his belt, turned right-handed. He reached slowly to the inside pocket, pulled out Mikhail's letter of appointment, and turned toward the light. "Judge Heydenfeldt, huh?" He offered the letter to Mikhail.

  Mikhail shook his head. Not right now. He'd been warned of Bartow's trickery.

  Bartow dropped the letter to the floor. "What can I do for you, mister?"

  Mikhail cocked his revolver but did not raise it. "You can take off my coat and cap. Place them on the chair." He nodded toward the chair.

  "Yeah." Using his left hand, Bartow slowly unbuckled his belt and slid the holstered Colt off. He set the weapon in the chair, buckled his belt, slid out of Mikhail's coat, and laid it over the gun. He adjusted Mikhail's cap, keeping that on, and squared up to Mikhail. "Russian, ain't you?" No fear in this one.

  "I am American citizen."

  "Russian." He said this with contempt.

  "I once lived in Sevastopol, in Crimea."

  "Russia, like I said."

  "Ukraine."

  "Russia." His grin offended. "After they took down Joaquin Murrieta and Three-Fingered Jack, the Rangers was disbanded. What you and that Jew judge trying to pull?"

  "You are well informed. You knew these men, Murrieta and Three Fingers Jack?" Mikhail would not be surprised by this.

  "You got no right to ask, you foreign piece of pig."

  "Any disputes with my authority can be stated in the governor's office in Sacramento."

  "Mister, this is my town. Sacramento's got no business here."

  Mikhail elevated his Colt and aimed at the bigger man's nose. "You will be taken to Sacramento on charges of illegal slave trafficking and extortion."

  The gun seemed not to matter. "I got a bone to pick with you, mister. You roughed up both of my deputies, even shot one in the foot and beat on him to get him spewing a passel of lies. So, unless you're going to shoot me down in cold blood, let's get after it."

  His grin must be removed.

  Mikhail lowered the hammer on his Colt and holstered it, assessing this bigger man. He let his jacket slip to the floor, slid it against the wall with his foot, unfastened the shoulder harness, and lowered the holstered Colt onto his jacket.

  Bartow looked at the knife on Mikhail's belt.

  Mikhail smiled, pulled the knife, and bent to lay it on his jacket.

  Bartow's boot rushed toward Mikhail's face and he flinched. The boot cracked into his ear with stinging, ringing pain and Mikhail tumbled backward.

  Bartow marched toward him. "You little piece of puke."

  Stunned, ear ringing, Mikhail rolled onto his hands and knees and struggled to focus on his outstretched hands.

  Bartow's unseen boot caught Mikhail between his legs, but the pointed toe missed his genitals and slammed into his pelvis. The force lifted Mikhail ass over shoulders and he skidded down the wooden floor on his back.

  Anger instantly replaced pain. Mikhail spun onto his belly and pushed up.

  Bartow lifted his right leg and aimed his boot heel at Mikhail's face.

  Mikhail turned and caught the boot under his left arm, locked onto it, and stood. He walked Bartow backward, forcing the bigger man to lean forward and hop to keep from falling. Timing it with Bartow's hop, Mikhail delivered a hard right to the side of Bartow's head. He threw Bartow's booted foot to the floor and let his arms hang, turning sideways to Bartow, the way Raul had taught him.

  Bartow smiled and straightened, comfortable. He lifted both fists, hunched his shoulders, and strode toward Mikhail.

  Mikhail circled left, keeping behind Bartow's right hand. He threw a left jab, making solid contact with Bartow's jaw.

  Bartow's grin disappeared, replaced by rage.

  Mikhail stepped left and threw a hard right between Bartow's angry eyes.

  Bartow rocked back, nearly stumbling.

  Mikhail stepped in quickly; left, right, left; each punch sending Bartow backward. Mikhail followed, delivering punches and walking Bartow backward toward the main stair.

  Bartow backed against the wall, shook his head, and his confident grin returned. He wiped blood from his mouth, hunched over, and blocked Mikhail's next punch. He lowered his head and charged. His shoulder slammed into Mikhail's chest, his arms wrapped Mikhail's waist, and he lifted, trying to wrestle Mikhail to the floor.

  Mikhail leaned into the force, set his feet, and skidded backward. He lifted and slammed his right elbow into the back of Bartow's neck.

  Bartow let go and shoved Mikhail backward, shaking it off, still confident, still grinning. He lowered his head and charged again.

  Mikhail stepped sideways and lifted his knee into Bartow's charging face.

  Bartow's head snapped back, his nose spraying blood on Mikhail's new Levi Strauss pants. Bartow backed toward the main stair, stunned, trying to shake it off.

  Mikhail moved in quickly and kicked Bartow under his chin, a perfect shot.

  Bartow flew backward above the stair and landed on his shoulders four treads down. He slid downhill toward the landing, struggling to right himself.

  Mikhail followed, still wanting to feel the man's face with his fists.

  Bartow reached the landing, pulled a knife from his boot, and scrambled to his feet.

  Mikhail had expected this. He dodged Bartow's first stab and kicked his angry face.

  Bartow flew boots up over the railing and sprawled onto the main floor.

  Soot-covered firefighters circled Bartow, slurping beers, nudging each other, and smiling.

  The tall deputy pushed in to help Bartow and picked up his knife.

  Bartow said, "Cut open his neck."

  Bartow and his deputy started up the stair together.

  Four risers above the landing, no time to go for his gun, Mikhail looked for an exit.

  Directly under Mikhail, the bartender set a pick handle on the bar, nodded up at Mikhail, and stepped aside.

  Mikhail launched himself over the rail, landed on the bar, grabbed the pick handle, and jumped to the floor. He spun the handle in both hands and turned to face the sheriff and his skinny, stupid deputy. He felt good about this.

  The volunteer firefighters circled quickly and blocked all three men into the corner between the stair and the bar, excited to watch.

  The skinny deputy blinked, knowing what Mikhail could do with a piece of wood. He wanted no part of this.

  Bartow shoved him from behind.

  Mikhail shoved the fat end of the pick handle into the deputy's blinking face with all his strength. The deputy's nose cracked and his head shot back, again.

  Stupid man.

  The deputy sprayed blood, his eyes rolled back, he shuddered slightly, dropped the knife, and fell facedown, finished.

  Bartow crouched, retrieved the knife, and waved it back and forth like a wand. It was a big knife.

&nb
sp; Mikhail slapped Bartow's hand hard with the pick handle and the knife skittered onto the floor under the feet of the miners.

  Not one miner stepped aside to help their sheriff.

  Mikhail smacked Bartow in the side of his jaw with the handle, cracked bone, and Bartow dropped like a sack of sand onto his deputy.

  Mikhail set the pick handle on the bar and nodded at the bartender. Thank you. "You know Chiang SuLin?"

  "The Chinese doctor's daughter? I think she's up in the sheriff's private rooms, down at the end of the hall." The bartender motioned toward the front of the hotel.

  "Thank you."

  Smelling like soot, sweat and beer, the firefighters closed in, slapping Mikhail's back, trying to shake hands.

  I am too tired for this.

  He pushed his way around the unconscious bodies of Sheriff Randy Bartow and his deputy and walked into the angry eyes of the man he'd seen talking to Bartow earlier, as big as Bartow and meaner-looking. "You shoot my baby brother's toe off?"

  "No." Mikhail had no quarrel with this man. "He shot himself. He was not familiar with my weapon."

  "Damn." He believed Mikhail. "I never taught him proper." He stepped aside.

  Mikhail started up the stair.

  The fat deputy's brother touched Mikhail's shoulder and stopped him. "Is he gonna be alright?"

  "He shot off his middle toe. Chiang Po is with him. He will live. I am missing a toe. It is not so bad. I have learned to walk with no limp."

  "Is he in any kind of trouble with you?"

  "Does he own slaves?"

  "No."

  "If he owns no Chinese slaves, I will not arrest him. He gave me information and we made a deal."

  "My brother!" shouted Dr. Davison. He and Hocker stood at the far end of the bar. "I will be calling a special meeting at the lodge tomorrow afternoon, in your honor, sir."

  "This is not necessary."

  "It is for us," said Hocker. They would not consider doing otherwise.

  Mikhail nodded and hiked up to the second floor. Sweat sheeted down his face, back, and chest. A good exercise session had finished.

  He found his cap and set it over his coat on the chair near the stove. He would cool down before putting them on. He picked up his knife, sheathed it, and put on his shoulder holster. The familiar weight of the Colt felt good.

  He picked up the sheriff's holstered Colt, like his own, unbuckled his belt, and positioned the weapon on the left side in front of his knife. It would be easy to grab with his right hand. He did not shoot well with his left. His left was for the knife. Two guns would be better than one. He adjusted and fastened his belt. His arms suddenly felt tired.

  The unlocked room at the end of the hall was much larger than his room down the hall. A desk and chairs sat near some windows, an armoire in the center, another door at the far end of the room.

  He turned up the desk lamp and carried it to the other door. A skeleton key had been inserted into the latch. He unlocked and opened the door slowly.

  A large bed sat under a central window, a dresser under a second window, another armoire against the interior wall.

  "SuLin?"

  The armoire door opened slowly. "Where you been, anyway?"

  VOLUNTEER FIREMEN CROWDED the bar, not waiting for girls to bring beers, slapping backs for being heroes.

  Sam didn't mind. They'd fought a very bad fire and earned the right to celebrate.

  Long time coming, if you ask me.

  Hugging and kissing girls, and getting drunk, some of these brave firefighters would be visiting the third floor tonight.

  Bartow wouldn't get any of their money.

  Horace Talpin pushed out from under Randy and stood, wiping blood from his face and looking at it.

  Randy slowly climbed to his feet and sat at the nearest table, alone, dull-eyed, and stupefied.

  Too bad.

  He'd been sleeping so nicely.

  Sam filled and delivered beers up and down the bar, keeping up, feeling good about having helped the foreigner. He dared not look at Randy.

  Henry Hocker smiled and nodded at Sam. He'd probably keep his job. Sam decided he'd hang the pick handle on the wall behind the bar later, as a reminder of what had happened here tonight.

  He slipped the handle under the bar and out of sight.

  For now.

  Sam felt it.

  After a long, angry look at Sam, eyes clearing, Randy stood, put a thumb to the side of his nose, and blew blood globs onto the floor. He rudely pushed his way to the bar and snagged a beer.

  Nobody cared about Randy Bartow now.

  Sam stopped breathing, frozen by Randy's stare.

  He's gonna kill me.

  The room fell silent, with everybody watching.

  The foreigner descended the stair in his fur coat and cap, carrying the Chinese girl, her arms around his neck.

  Randy shoved his way down the bar, braced Jimmy Dawes, yanked the double barrel pistol from Jimmy's belt, cocked it, and stared at Jimmy.

  The foreigner hadn't seen Randy. It happened too fast for anyone to cry out.

  Randy spun around, took quick aim, and pulled the trigger.

  The explosion shook the room.

  The ball struck the handrail. Wood chips flew and the ball smacked into the wall behind, inches above the foreigner's head.

  Randy pulled back the second hammer.

  The foreigner dropped the girl to her feet on the stair and dove for the landing. He stood on the landing, revolver in hand, fast as a bobcat. He took aim and both their guns reported at the same time.

  Sam's ears whistled as smoke filled the air between them.

  Dusty Acres pointed at Randy Bartow and shouted, "There's a glory hole, if ever I saw one."

  Randy staggered back, face twitching. A drop of blood oozed from a hole under his left eye and Randy Bartow slapped facedown onto the bar, a large, bloody hole in the back of his head. He slid from the bar and crumpled onto the floor.

  Somebody said, "He's dead."

  Gasps and whistles erupted and quickly died.

  The foreigner put the revolver into a holster at his belt, trotted down the stair, walked across Randy's body, flipped him over with his boot, and unbuckled Randy's belt. "This is mine." He removed a small leather pouch with a spare cylinder, unbuckled his belt, fed the spare cylinder onto the right side, and buckled up.

  He smiled at Sam, stepped back across Randy, and led the Chinese girl into the hotel lobby, taking her out of this place.

  Henry Hocker said, "Preston Dawes is up there in Winston Bray's house. He told the ranger about Randy Bartow cheating at cards with marked decks. If nobody objects, this is my hotel again." He blinked, thinking about it. "Even if you object, this is still my hotel. Drinks are on the house, but these ladies are going home. Hocker House is not a whorehouse."

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Mikhail took SuLin up to Winston Bray's house, where she told them how their home had been destroyed by fire. She glared at Deputy Preston Dawes. "He start fire, throw oil from lamp on floor." Tears slid down her angry face.

  Near tears, Wanda Bray spanked Dawes with her shrillness. "There are dead people here."

  Dawes glanced at the covered bodies and shrugged. "They're only Chinese."

  Chiang Po understood this, English-speaking or not. He slid the medicated hot water pail from under the deputy's foot and returned it to the kitchen.

  Dawes spread his hands, bewildered. "Why? What'd I say?"

  Mikhail blinked back his anger, remembering his own past prejudice. "If you speak again, I will not honor our agreement. If this community chooses to arrest you for arson and murder, you will be in their hands."

  Bray said, "Weaverville is the county seat, but we got no courthouse, yet."

  Wanda said, "We can hold the trial in Henry Hocker's saloon."

  Dawes ducked his head between his shoulders. There was nowhere to hide.

  Mikhail squared up to Winston Bray. "His brother will try to
help him. This community will need to stand together." They had not yet done this against Bartow and his deputies.

  Wanda embraced SuLin, stepped back, and looked into her. "Child, you and your father are staying here until this town builds you a proper home."

  Winston nodded his agreement.

  Mikhail returned to Hocker House, took a bath, set his dirty clothes in the hall outside his room, and crawled into bed, dead tired. Two wool blankets and his fur coat managed to keep him warm beside the broken window.

  Molly O'Brian smiled, slipping into his dream.

  A KNOCK AT THE DOOR woke him the next morning. Early sun filtered through the tree outside. His bare feet hit the icy floor and he dressed quickly. Someone was still knocking. He strapped on his weapons and opened the door.

  Henry Hocker waved a sheet of paper in Mikhail's face. "Found this in my desk. It's a tally of Bartow's winnings and confiscations. Figured I'd best come get you and we'll go through his papers together. There's sacks of gold nuggets, dust, and coin. It's a lot of money."

  "May I first put on my boots?"

  Hocker stepped back, grinning and nodding.

  Good.

  Mikhail's bundle of dirty clothes had been picked up.

  He pulled on clean socks, his boots, and followed Hocker down the warm hallway. "Have you spoken with Winston Bray?"

  “Not today, no.” Hocker led Mikhail into Bartow's office. The desk drawers had all been opened, papers stacked neatly on top of the desk.

  Mikhail said, "Deputy Preston Dawes started this fire deliberately. People died and property was destroyed. You need to get together and decide whether to arrest him for arson and murder. My assignment is limited to questions of illegal slave trafficking and extortion."

  "What about his brother Jimmy? He won't like it."

  "I will speak with this man before I leave, but once I am gone, I am gone. Whatever I say now will not matter."

  Hocker frowned and looked at the paper-strewn desk.

  Mikhail leaned into him to again make his point. "The good citizens of this community need to work together. If not, there will always be another Randy Bartow."