by F. M. Parker
The man stopped, knelt and raised his gun. The weapon cracked. Sigh stumbled sideways as the bullet punched through him. He made three steps and fell.
He raised back up and, bent far over with pain, trotted slowly up the river. The gunman on the ridge shot again. Sigh collapsed on his face and did not stir.
At last the firing stopped. Bodies lay strewn in grotesque slumped forms. A man moaned. Another sat up and dazedly looked about.
Guofeng lay down and raked dead grass and leaves over himself. He was shivering. Never had he felt so sick. But he would not leave; he must see all the horrible things that happened here so he could tell other men.
* * *
Keggler stood up from his hiding place and motioned to his men. “Let’s go down and finish the job.”
The outlaws fell in behind their chief. As Keggler moved through the wood yard of the Chinamen, he picked up the chopping ax and took it with him.
“Fan out,” ordered Keggler. “Check all the bodies. Take the live ones over there by that big rock.”
Keggler went at once up the river to where Sigh lay. He had seen the Chinaman grab something and attempt to escape with it. He had almost made it. But Keggler had made a lucky shot at a long distance.
The outlaw chief kicked the toe of his boot in under Sigh’s body and flipped it over to he face up. The golden cube lay shining on the sand.
Keggler laughed deep down in his chest. “Well, you little sonofabitch heathen, I’ve got your nugget.”
He quickly looked around at his men. None were close or watching him. He ripped a broad strip of cloth off the tail of Sigh’s blouse and knotted the yellow metal cube in the center. With the loose ends, Keggler firmly tied the treasure around his waist, inside his shirt and coat.
Again Keggler checked his men. All were occupied with examining the Chinese miners.
Keggler took up the ax and raised it above his head. He whispered at the dead man. “You damn Chinaboys liked to break my neck. Well, now I’m going to chop yours off.”
He swung savagely down on the exposed, slender neck of Sigh. Then swiftly again to complete the decapitation.
He dropped the ax, caught hold of the corpse’s clothing at chest and ankles and flung the small body into the river. He threw the head many times farther, to land with a splash.
“Feed the little fishes,” said Keggler and laughed wildly. He was still laughing when he walked with the bloody ax in his hand to join his men.
“Four men still alive,” said Ottoson and pointed at the men sitting propped against the boulder. He saw his chief’s face, saw the smiling happiness there. This was a damn bad play and Keggler laughed. The man had remained unconscious for two days after the fight with the Chinaman. His behavior had changed since then; he had become short-tempered, violent. Ottoson wondered if he was working with a crazy man.
“Did anyone see a white man or a big Chinaman?” asked Keggler.
“Not me,” responded Ottoson. “And no one escaped.”
All the remaining gang members also answered in the negative.
“Well, we’ll make these four tell us where their gold is,” said Keggler. He squatted in front of them with the ax in his hands.
“Where’s the gold hidden?” Keggler asked the nearest Chinese.
Wong, the man who had shown the nuggets in the store in Baker City, did not understand the words, but he knew what the question was. He had felt fear as the bullets had zipped past during the firing and even greater fear when one struck him. Now that fright left him. He would be dead in a minute. It would be good to die before the other injured men. It would have been much better to have been killed first of all his friends and countrymen, for he was responsible for all this tragedy.
“Where is the gold?” the outlaw chief questioned fiercely and lifted the ax up to rest on his leg.
Wong looked at the bandit and showed his teeth in a grimace of a smile.
Keggler savagely hit the Chinaman on the face with his fist.
Wong rolled sideways to the ground. When the bandit chief sprang up and raised the ax, Wong reared back his chin to fully expose his neck.
“I am sorry, my brothers, for your deaths,” Wong said to the three wounded men watching him with scared eyes. He hoped many others lying lifeless on the bar could somehow also hear his stricken apology.
“Make a clean cut,” Wong said in Chinese to Keggler.
“Goddamn heathen think their gold is worth more than their lives,” exploded Keggler.
The members of his gang moved uneasily as they stared at the ax.
“Don’t chop them with the ax, shoot them,” said Ottoson. “That’s a more natural way to kill.”
Bassel spoke angrily. “Maybe they know they are all going to die regardless what they tell us.”
“Both of you shut up,” hissed Keggler. “One of them may understand what you say.”
“None of these is the one that did the talking the last time we were here,” said Ottoson. “I bet these can’t talk American. Even if they could, they won’t tell us anything.”
“You’re right.” Keggler’s voice had a shrill edge. He kicked the remaining three men onto their backs and stood over them gripping the ax in both hands.
All the Chinese miners, except Wong, tried to scrabble away on hands and knees. Keggler followed after them, the blood lust hot and red in front of his eyes. The sharp silver blade of the ax arced down, falling again and again upon one man after another.
“That’s three more Celestials without heads,” muttered Keggler.
He moved to Wong, who had not stirred during the murder of his friends. “You are the last one,” said Keggler and swung mightily with the ax. The bit sliced all the way through Wong’s neck, crashing into the rocks of the bar to send sparks flying.
Keggler pivoted about to stare at his men. “Any one of you want to make something out of this?” He tossed the ax away and let his hand hang close to his six-gun. “Come on! Speak your mind. I can outshoot any of you. Any two of you.”
He looked at Bassel and Ottoson. “You are plenty quiet. You’d better stay that way. Now, before a white man comes by and sees all these dead men, throw every one of the bodies in the river.” Keggler laughed in a high-pitched voice. “Without bodies, no crime can be proved.”
The band of men hesitated to touch the corpses. Keggler jerked his pistol and pointed it at them.
“Do what I say or I’ll send you to join them. Bassel, take hold of that man and drag him to the river.”
When Bassel did not move, Ottoson spoke. “Best we do what he says. We’ve killed our share here today.”
“When you’re finished with dumping the bodies, start searching for the gold. Break up everything usable or burn it. Leave nothing for another bunch of Chinaboys to use.”
* * *
“I’ve found the gold,” cried LeRue, running out of the cook shack and holding a leather bag up for all to see. “It was buried in the corner of the kitchen.”
“Let me see it,” said Keggler.
He extracted two pouches from the bag and opened each. “There’s dust in one and nuggets in the other,” he said.
“Where is the big nugget we saw that first day?” questioned Ottoson. “That’s the thing I want to feel in my hands.”
“It’s not here,” replied the chief. “I think these fellows were some of the smart Chinese who took their gold to town for safekeeping after they accumulated a goodly sum.”
“How much gold do you have there?” asked Bassel, motioning to the quantity Keggler held.
Keggler hefted it in his hands. “About three hundred ounces.”
“Damn little pay for the sorry thing we’ve done,” said Bassel. “You said there’d be a lot of gold. Hell, I could make my share of that gold in one night stealing horses.”
“Look again for the big lump of gold,” said Keggler. “We’ll burn the buildings when we are finished.”
Later the men congregated with glum faces. Ottoson
spoke. “Absolutely no more gold anywhere. Not one pinch.”
“We’re not going to find it,” said Keggler. “Best we get out of here. Get the horses and let’s ride.”
“Not to Boise or back to Baker,” said Ottoson.
“That’s right,” Bassel added. “We must go someplace far away. We can watch the newspapers and listen to word of what is said about this thing we’ve done to the Chinamen.”
“Right,” agreed Keggler. “Then when all is quiet here, we will come back and take this gold mine and hire a bunch of Chinaboys to wash out the ore. I say we go to San Francisco. I hear that’s a big town and has got some good doctors. Maybe one can fix my neck to stop it hurting. Burn the shanties and let’s ride south.”
* * *
Guofeng cried as he lay under the brush and watched the bandits ransack and burn the cabins, bedding, clothing and demolish the sluice boxes.
He saw the swinging ax and the mayhem the bandit chief wrought on his friends, the grisly decapitations. His countrymen had been thrown in the river, never to be returned to China and buried in the fertile black soil of the Pearl River Valley.
He had listened to the conversation of the killings, but only the name of the city, San Francisco, did he comprehend.
When the bandits were far up the river and out of sight, Guofeng climbed to his feet and wandered grieving among the burning buildings, looking at the blood-stained rocks where the bodies had fallen. Sigh and the others had been slaughtered as though they were animals. The God-cursed bandits must be punished.
His own camp was miles away to the north. There would be no help at that place even if he could return there swiftly. Only the officials of the white men could bring the murderers to justice.
He considered his own group of men. They would be leaderless without him. What of the rich gold strike at the base of Triangle Mountain?
His men and the gold would have to wait. He would follow the killers until they came to a place where men would believe him when he told of the frightful murder that had been done here on the river. An awful thought arose in his mind. Would anyone believe him?
Guofeng retrieved his small pack. It was not sufficient for a long journey. He began to sort through the ravaged possessions of Sigh’s camp.
A half-burned blanket was raked from a smoldering fire and the hot embers beaten from the cloth. He salvaged some spilled rice, raisins and other foodstuffs from the ground. Matches, another partially charred blanket and a coat that had somehow missed destruction were added to his growing mound of supplies.
Guofeng bundled all his provisions and tied them securely. He fashioned shoulder straps and hoisted the load to his back.
He fell upon the trail of the horsemen. They were heading south. Perhaps they might go to Baker City. Guofeng knew a few white men there. They might recognize the truth when it was told.
Where the road divided and the right-hand way went to Baker City, the bandits continued straight ahead.
Guofeng followed with implacable determination. Perhaps they were heading for San Francisco, the city that had been mentioned in their talk.
He began to trot, his wiry body striding easily, stepping precisely upon the horse tracks of his enemies.
* * *
The second day it stormed on Guofeng. Raking winds drove heavy snow and the temperature plunged to below zero. Guofeng would have frozen that night had he not come upon a rancher’s flock of sheep bedded in a creek bottom. He crept among them with his knife. He killed two and skinned them and lashed the thick fleeces into a sleeping robe.
He rolled himself in the thick wool covering and slept warmly. Only his bad dreams of the tragic murder disturbed his slumber of exhaustion.
In the morning he kicked the frozen green hides until he broke free of their clutch. He carried the fleeces with him, and as he walked he scraped the fat and flesh from the raw side until the skins were soft and pliable.
By noon, Guofeng found the tracks of his quarry in the snow. He broke into a steady, ground-devouring trot after them. His hate kept him warm and built a burning energy within. Never would he let the men escape him.
CHAPTER 16
Tom left the docks that extended seaward from The Embarcadero and wandered, interested and watchful, through the throng of laborers, businessmen, drifters and the ever present seamen and ship’s officers. All around him the wooden planking of the street rumbled under the hooves of a hundred horses and the iron-rimmed wheels of buggies, drays and massive cargo wagons.
He passed a five-story building on Market Street and marveled at its size. Shortly thereafter, he came to Harpenning Block and the striking Grand Hotel with its four hundred rooms.
In front of the hotel, a middle-aged man in a town suit smiled and said hello to Tom. The fellow looked as if he would be familiar with the city. Before he could move off in the crowd, Tom spoke to him.
“Please. Can you tell me where I can find the store of a man named Quan Ing?”
“I do not know the man. But practically all Chinamen live on eight or ten blocks straddling Dupont Street.” He turned to point up the hill. “Chinatown is on that high ground near Portsmouth Square. Go there and ask for more directions.”
“Thank you. Dupont Street is what I am looking for,” said Tom.
He resumed his course up Market Street and onto Montgomery. Two blocks farther and he reached Dupont Street.
A large sign that read “Chinese Foods, Quan Ing, Proprietor” hung over the sidewalk a short square ahead. The building was narrow and in need of paint. It was wedged in between two structures of like age and character. A bell tinkled as Tom entered.
A young Chinese man sat on a chair at a low counter. Behind him were long series of shelves reaching to the ceiling and chock full of a multitude of varieties of dry goods and foodstuffs and extending rearward into the dark recesses of the store.
On Tom’s right a second Chinaman, quite large for his race, sat at a table close to the wall. He scanned Tom and his rifle and pistol and hurriedly reached to pull a small cord hanging from the ceiling.
Tom heard a second bell chime somewhere in a distant part of the building. In only a handful of seconds, two men glided into view in one of the aisles between the shelves and came speedily toward Tom. They were dressed in dark blue clothing very similar to that which Yutang and Sigh and the others had worn. The only difference was the black, round-topped hats on their heads.
Each of the two men had a hand inside his blouse and their faces were alert and hard. The large man by the wall began to close in on Tom. A half-drawn knife showed the steel of its blade.
Tom was surprised at the threatening movements. And he had httle time to decide how to respond since the men would be upon him in an instant.
He dropped his bedroll on the floor and stepped forward to lay his rifle on the counter. He lifted his pistol from its holster and placed it beside the long gun. He backed away three paces, pulled Sigh’s message from a pocket and held it up for all to see.
Tom spoke in Chinese. “I am looking for the merchant, Quan Ing. I have a letter for him.”
The men slowed and stopped. They evaluated Tom silently. Their hands came into view without weapons.
The man on the left spoke in Chinese. “I am Mingren Yang, Quan Ing’s assistant.” He bent in a slight bow to Tom. “Forgive our caution. You are a stranger to us and sometimes strangers bring undesirable—” He hesitated and then added, “Undesirable events.”
Tom bowed—it seemed a very proper thing to do—in acceptance of the apology. “I am Tom Calaway. Sigh Ho, a friend of mine, has asked me to deliver a message. Would Quan Ing be kind enough to meet with me?”
“I shall ask him. It may take a moment.” Mingren bowed again and went off, his slippered feet noiseless on the wooden floor.
Tom relaxed and watched the men. These were fighters. It was evident in the way they moved and in the complete lack of fear with which they had advanced to challenge a man heavily armed with firearms.
Why would a mere merchant have a need for such men? Quan Ing was more than the proprietor of a food store.
One of the guards positioned himself between Tom and the guns on the counter. The other man stood on Tom’s right and a couple of yards distant. The clerk had vanished. No one spoke or moved.
In the silence Tom thought he heard the click of abacus beads for a second and then it ceased as if a door had been opened and closed.
Mingren and another person approached from some unseen entrance in the rear of the store. The second man was small, a full head shorter than Mingren. He was old, ancient. Maroon silk clothed him loosely. Long, wispy chin whiskers dropped to the center of his chest.
The man’s eyes probed quickly and intelligently across the space separating Tom from him. Tom bowed to the man as Sigh had told him was the custom when youth met venerable age.
“I am Tom Calaway.”
“And I am Quan Ing.” His English was perfect. “Mingren has told me you have a message from one of my countrymen, Sigh Ho.”
Tom passed the sealed paper to Ing. Tom shifted to English, since that seemed Ing’s preferred language at the moment. “I am sorry it is somewhat dirty and bent, but it has had a long trip.”
Quan Ing fitted a pair of spectacles to his nose and tore open the message. He finished reading and looked past the paper to Tom.
“Sigh tells me of the dangerous things that have occurred in your province of Oregon and your part in all of it. I would like to hear more of this. Come with me. It is time for the evening meal and we can talk while we dine. Also, I will tell you of the woman he has purchased.”
Ing said to Mingren, “Take Tom ’s possessions to the room next to yours. Then come join us. Station the other men back at their posts.”
“Yes. As you direct, Honorable Ing,” said Mingren.
“Come with me,” Ing said to Tom.
He led the way along an aisle and out a door in the rear wall. The room entered was larger than the one just left.