The Highbinders

by F. M. Parker

  The American Wanderer became lost in the vapors behind them and yet the shore could not be seen. Boxes, packing crates and heavy burlap sacks full of freight were piled here and there in mounds on the borders of the pier. Sufficient space had been left clear for two wagons to pass coming and going with loads. Tarpaulins were tied over the tops of the piles to keep the rain off.

  Pak stopped abruptly. Ahead fifty feet or so two men had stepped from behind a stack of cargo. He saw them draw long bladed knives from inside their clothing.

  Pak pivoted around to look for other danger. Two more men had come out into the center of the pier behind him to prevent his retreat. One held a knife, the other a hatchet.

  He surveyed his opponents. They were all his countrymen. Why would they want to harm him? They should all be friends in this alien land.

  The tong fighters began to close on Pak. He measured the lithe and sinuous menace of them.

  A tingle touched Pak’s spine. Next would come that wave of fear that all intelligent men have in a dangerous plight. Before that dark animal of fright could spring into full existence, Pak walled it off in a far deep recess of his mind. A man who must do battle can slay more enemies if he has conquered fear.

  Pak swiftly planned his strategy for the killing that was soon to come.

  The dark visages of the tong men evidenced no worry or nervousness, only a cool wariness as they approached the empty-handed Pak. They shifted their weapons to a more ready position.

  Pak saw them evaluate Lian with a covetous eye. Then he understood the reason for the assault.

  He pushed Lian back against a stack of goods. “Do not move from there,” he ordered. “If they kill me, scream as loudly as you can and jump into the water. That may delay them so that if someone hears, they can come to your rescue before you are caught.” He was sorry for the frightened expression on her face.

  Pak jerked off his coat and tossed it aside. He coiled his queue on top of his head and bound it down tightly.

  The tong fighters slowed, stiffening with suspicion as the man they thought most likely a farmer bound his hair in preparation for battle. The lone man reached to the back of his neck and a short, two-edged sword flashed into view.

  One of the tong men laughed a brittle little laugh. “We have maybe cornered ourselves a tiger with a long tooth. But there are four of us and our blades are almost as long as his. Let us show him the points of our weapons.”

  The four men moved upon Pak. The ring closed to a radius of five strides. The man who had spoken had advanced more boldly than his cohorts and was a step nearer.

  Pak knew he dared not let them come closer. For then, while he fought one, the others would rush upon his back and slay him.

  He leaped at the nearest man. That person dodged aside and slashed out with his knife.

  Pak cut off the outstretched arm at the wrist. With a reverse stroke, he severed the front of the man’s neck. The mouth came open, howling soundlessly in death, and a great gout of blood spouted.

  Pak whirled instantly. His arm with the sword was extended to its greatest reach. The three had charged in as Pak had known they would. The keen tip of his blade sliced the cloth covering a man’s chest, and deeper, into the flesh, chipping off a flake of the white sternum bone to send it flying.

  Without the slightest delay, the swing of the sword arced upward and then down. Pak had stepped in, shortening the distance to his adversary. Now the sword slashed through the top of his opponent’s shoulder, and onward, cleaving the ribs to the waist.

  A horrible expunging of air jetted out as the blade bit into the man’s lungs. He retained his feet for a brief moment, an unbelieving expression on his visage. He toppled to the side.

  Pak saw the courage of the tong fighters breaking. But he was too wise in the ways of war to let one foe escape to return and threaten him another day. He sprang at the man on the left.

  The man stabbed out with his knife. He was slow and Pak easily struck the knife hand, severing the fingers. The knife fell to the deck of the pier. Pak took the man’s head with a level cross swipe of the sword.

  The tong man put out his stump of a hand as if seeking support from the air, found none and collapsed.

  Pak looked at his last adversary. Fear was in the man’s eyes, moving below the shiny black surface like water slugs. The man hurled his hatchet at Pak and tried to bolt past. The hatchet missed.

  Pak lunged, meeting the man at right angles. He thrust the point of the sword out, plunging it deeply into the man’s side.

  The injured man screamed, a harrowing pitch. He swerved away from Pak and continued to run, blindly. He began to lean to the side and veer toward the water. The decking of the pier vanished from beneath his feet. Still screaming, he vanished into the bay.

  Pak rotated around to check for other enemies. His body pulsed with the knowledge the battle was over and he was still alive. The stench of blood and the screams filled him with a wild frenzy for killing and the strength of twenty in his arms. He sucked in a breath of cold, moist air and trembled with the sweetness of it.

  Tolman came out from behind a mound of cargo. He carried a navy revolver in his hand.

  Pak noted the movement and turned to face it squarely. He let his breath out with an audible sigh. The battle was not yet over.

  Tolman smiled. With the dead Chinamen on the dock, he could shoot this man and simply walk off. The law would think another Chinaboy had committed the murder. Tolman would take the woman to Hu himself.

  Tolman called out to Pak. “You heathen bastard, I always believed in the back of my head that I’d have to kill you myself.”

  The seaman motioned at Pak with his free hand. “Why don’t you come over here and try that little sword on me? I’ll show you how fast a bullet is.”

  Pak regarded the pistol pointed directly at him. The man held it with a skillful familiarity. Never could Pak charge across the thirty feet separating them and kill the man. He would be shot down within the first two or three paces.

  In the half darkness, he could leap into the bay and by swimming underwater have a good chance for survival. He discarded that thought, for never would he desert Lian to be taken prisoner.

  The white man wanted him nearer; that was obvious from the hand signal. Well, that was the only way Pak could use his sword.

  Pak stared at the man, trying to capture his eyes. However, the man looked past him and fastened on something there.

  Pak turned. A tall American, quite young, stood a few feet behind him. His coat was unbuttoned and the tail shoved back. A pistol was in a holster on his hip.

  Pak felt the black, cold fingers of death touch him. His enemy from the ship had a comrade. Never could Pak hope to slay both of them.

  CHAPTER 19

  The young American focused his attention on Lian. Pak saw him study her beautiful face and peer into her sloe eyes. Then the American’s intense stare skipped to Pak. He said in Chinese, “Are you Pak Ho?”

  “I am Pak Ho.”

  “Then move aside and let me handle this.”

  Pak moved from between the two foreigners. He stood prepared to rush and cut with his sword as the need arose.

  Tom called out to Tolman. “The fight is over. This man won fairly. Let the fight stop and walk away alive.”

  Tolman licked his lips. The fellow had not touched his gun while he already held his. He eased the barrel a few inches off Pak and toward the new man. Nothing had changed except that there were now two men to shoot. He swung his gun further to fire on the whiteman.

  Tom’s hand plunged down and came up with his six-gun. His thumb cocked the weapon as it rose and his finger tightened on the trigger. He fired.

  A bone-shattering blow slammed Tolman in the chest. His view of the men and the dock tilted as he fell. One last thought flashed in Tolman’s mind—how could a man be so quick? He died before he hit the planking of the pier.

  “The shots will be heard,” Tom told Pak. “We must leave this place
at once. There is always a policeman on the docks.”

  Tom grabbed up Lian’s bundles, took her by the hand and hastened her away into the fog. He heard the thud of Pak’s feet at his side.

  Tom led the girl and man away from the docks of The Embarcadero and up the hills toward Chinatown. As they climbed, the darkness thickened and congealed about them. They passed a lamplighter moving from one gas streetlight to the next, reaching up with his flaming torch to touch them off.

  They walked onward under the fog-shrouded light spills. Night strollers passed them, silhouettes without faces, who paid them no attention.

  Pak slowed and felt for the opening of the scabbard and slid the weapon into place and out of sight on his back. He said to Tom, “How did you know we were on the pier?”

  “Each evening, I came to The Embarcadero and asked the names of all the ships that had come into port during the day. A short time ago I met a group of seamen who told me they were off theAmerican Wanderer and which pier it was tied up at. I came to meet you.”

  “It was very fortunate for us that you did. I owe you two lives.”

  “You owe me nothing. I was only repaying past favors done for me. Also, I promised to bring the woman safely to Oregon.”

  Dupont Street and Quan Ing’s establishment were reached. Tom rapped on the side entrance with his knuckles.

  “This is Tom Galaway. Open, please,” he called.

  A small portal slid back and a man’s face appeared. “Who is that with you?” asked the guard.

  “Pak Ho and Lian Ah. They are expected by Quan Ing.”

  “All right,” said the guard. He closed the portal and swung the door wide.

  A second guard stood farther inside the room. Both had their sharp knives drawn.

  The first man gestured for Tom and the others to come inside. He said, “Quan Ing has instructed me to tell you to see him at once. Something terrible has happened. He and several other men are in the store.”

  Tom guided the way along the hall. He heard men talking as he shoved open the door to the store.

  Ing, Mingren, and another man in dirty, worn clothing and looking gaunt and weak sat at a table. The unknown man sprang up as Tom entered.

  He cried out, “Tom, they have killed Sigh and all the other men.”

  Tom felt the shock of what was said as he recognized Guofeng. It was nearly impossible to believe this ragged scarecrow of a man was the same person he had known in the Snake River Valley. His face had a haunted look, his eyes had a fever and were sunk deeply in their sockets.

  Pak cursed. He moved up beside Tom. “I am Pak Ho, Sigh’s cousin. Tell me what happened.”

  Guofeng rushed up to Tom and caught him by the arm. “The bandits came back, seven of them with rifles. I knew them. All except for two. They hid on the mountainside in the brush above Sigh’s camp and shot them every one.

  “They chopped off Sigh’s head with an ax and the heads of four others who were only wounded by the rifles. Every person was thrown in the river.”

  Guofeng clutched Tom’s arm more fiercely. “You should have killed the bandits when you had the chance. Yutang has been proved correct in an awful way.”

  Guofeng turned around slowly to look into every man’s face in the room. “The foreign devils killed thirty-one of our people, our friends and relatives. I have followed them over many hundreds of miles and for so many days that I have forgotten the number.

  “The murderers were riding horses and I was only walking so I was far behind and lost track of them. But as I lay hidden and watched them slay Sigh and his friends, I heard them say the name of this city, San Francisco. So I went to Winnemucca where I could catch a train. There I questioned some of our people. One man told me a group of white men caught the train heading west. I believe they came here to San Francisco. They should have arrived four days ago.”

  Guofeng went to his chair and sat down. “Honorable Ing, they must be punished for the horrible thing they did. Tom, you can go among the white men and search. Find them and use your pistol as you did that day on the Snake River.”

  “San Francisco is a very large city,” said Ing. “Hundreds of white men come and go each day. It will be difficult to locate them, but perhaps it can be done.

  “Mingren, go tell our people what has happened and that we need their help. Go even to the other tong societies. In most things they are against us. In this effort they will assist. Tell everyone to listen and watch and find those men who have come from the Oregon country in the last four days.”

  “Would it not be wise to post a reward for information?” asked Mingren.

  “Yes. But do not post it as we do other notices. Say it quietly in people’s ears. The city officials must not hear of this. We must seek our own justice. Make the reward one thousand dollars in gold. That is enough to cause a man to tell us what he knows.”

  “The bandit leader holds his head back and twisted to the side,” said Guofeng. “Yutang must have done that to him.”

  “I will tell this to the people,” Mingren said. “I go now to spread the word. It is dark and not much can be done tonight. The search can start fully at daylight.”

  “I have walked the streets of this town for several days,” said Tom. “I know it better than most people and I know the kind of men these outlaws are. They will stay in only one part of town, on The Embarcadero or the Barbary Coast. I am not going to wait until tomorrow. This night is just beginning. I will start to hunt for them now.”

  Ing nodded in agreement. “This is the best time of day to see them walking about. Mingren, go do as we have discussed. First though, send our off-duty guards to me. I will send them out onto the streets to ask questions and help Tom to search.”

  “At once,” said Mingren. He bowed and left.

  Pak spoke to Tom. “I too shall seek the killers of my Cousin Sigh. Since I do not know my way about the avenues of this city, may I walk with you? You question the white men for information. I can ask the men of my race. Each of us shall get truer answers that way.”

  “That is a good idea,” Tom said.

  Ing spoke to Pak. “We have not yet been introduced. I am Quan Ing. You have arrived in San Francisco at a bad time. However, I welcome you to my home.”

  Pak bowed. “Thank you. Even in faraway Canton, I have heard of your hospitality.”

  Ing turned to Lian. “And you also are welcome, Lian. The women of my family will be pleased to have your company.”

  Lian bowed. “You are most generous.”

  “We should go,” Tom said to Pak.

  “I am ready.”

  “Do you want a weapon?” Ing asked Pak.

  “I have a sharp blade,” replied Pak.

  “I can certainly vouch for that,” said Tom.

  Pak and Tom went from the store onto the street.

  * * *

  The singsong chanting of the Chinese crib girls rang eerily along the dark, foggy block with many doorways. Men slowed to look through the latticework of the windows and talk with the women. A man consented to the price and entered one of the narrow portals.

  Tom and Pak stood at the end of the square. They had searched down Market Street, making detours into the Barbary Coast on Pacific, Kearny and Broadway Streets. Every saloon, gambling hall, hotel and bordello they encountered had been entered, and to the extent possible, examined for the presence of one or more of the outlaws. Questions had been asked. Always the answers had been in the negative.

  Several hours had passed since they had left Quan Ing’s and now they were at the end of Market Street near The Embarcadero.

  “What kind of place is this?” asked Pak, indicating the numerous doorways opening onto the sidewalk.

  “The women are whores,” responded Tom. “Each has a little room of her own.”

  “Yes. I understand. They are chinoises, daughters of joy.”

  “Many men come here,” said Tom. “The bastards we look for could also have visited. One of these women may remember se
eing the crooked-neck man and have some information about him. You begin asking questions here and I’ll go to the opposite end and work back to meet you.”

  “Good, let us hurry.”

  Tom and Pak discovered no woman recalling the men that were sought.

  They walked west on Market Street, checking the faces of the male pedestrians they met.

  Both men heard the patter of slippered feet as a man came out of an alleyway and fell in behind them. When the steps increased in tempo and drew nearer, Pak and Tom whirled to face the unknown person.

  The man stopped abruptly. He flinched back and raised his arm protectively as the two men bore down on him.

  “Wait! Wait!” he exclaimed in Chinese. “I mean you no harm.”

  “Then why do you follow and hurry close to our backs?” questioned Pak.

  “I have heard a Canton man and a white man together would be on Market Street, or perhaps the Barbary Coast, looking for men from Oregon, one of them a crooked-neck man.” He lowered his arm. He was old, yet still looked strong.

  “We are those men and you speak correctly,” said Pak. “Do you have news of such a man?”

  “There is a reward? I have also heard that whisper.”

  “One thousand American dollars in gold if we locate them all.”

  The man chuckled gleefully. “Then give me the gold, for I can tell you where to find them.”

  “We must see them first and then you get paid,” replied Pak.

  “How do I know you won’t cheat me?”

  “Do you know Quan Ing? He is the person to pay the reward. I am Pak Ho and I also add my promise.”

  “I know Quan Ing. He is an honorable man and lives by his word.” The man looked craftily around. “My name is Tan Ying. Remember that. I work on the docks loading the big ocean ships. New guards were hired to patrol the pier opposite Shipley Street and protect the warehouse there. They are men from Oregon and one has a crooked neck. He is mean and hates Chinese people. Remember, I alone have shown you the path to the men.”