“Ha! Look at him, Swede!” Clovis said. “I think he’s going to slap us.”
“I almost feel guilty about fightin’ someone that fights like a woman,” Loomis said.
“No need to feel guilty,” Duff said. “Go ahead, teach this Chinaman a lesson.”
“Duff, I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Megan said with a gasp.
“Don’t worry none, Miss Megan,” Elmer said. “I’ve seen how these Chinamen fight before. It’s different from anything anyone around here has ever seen, but Wang will be all right.” To Wang he said, “Yjue cíxiong, Wang, pengyou.”
“What did you say to him?” Megan asked.
“I told him to fight well.”
Swede was the first to commit himself, using his size and strength in a bull-like charge.
Wang bent his knees, lowering himself so the roundhouse swing went over his head. He shot out his right arm and drove the point of his fingers deep into Swede’s solar plexus. Swede, with a sudden expulsion of air, bent over trying to breathe, out of the fight.
Wang’s right foot smashed into Clovis’s face, taking him down, while he stopped Loomis with a knife-edged blow of his hand to the Adam’s apple. All three of his attackers were immobilized in less than five seconds.
As everyone looked on in shock, Wang picked up the grocery bag. “I understand that you are having guests, Mr. MacCallister.”
“I am.”
“I will make something special for dinner.”
“That’s why you needed the brown sugar?”
“It is.”
“I appreciate that.”
Wang walked over to the buckboard, put his purchases in the back, then drove off.
“Did you see what that one little Chinaman did to them three big men? I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that in my livelong life,” someone said.
“You knew he could fight like that?” Megan asked.
“I knew.”
“And you knew as well,” she said to Elmer.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve seen the Chinese priests fight like that before.”
“Priests. Good heavens, are you saying he is a priest?” Megan gasped.
“Yes, ma’am, but not like any priest you’ve ever heard of.”
Chapter Four
Sky Meadow Ranch
That night, Duff hosted a dinner for Megan, her sister Melissa, her brother-in-law Jason, and her nephew Timmy. Elmer was there with his “personal” friend, Vi Winslow. Biff Johnson and his wife Rose came, too. Rose was a first-generation American, the daughter of Scottish immigrants. Duff was a Scottish immigrant, which had helped establish an immediate friendship with Biff.
“This is absolutely delicious,” Duff said. “What is it called?”
“Tian Suan Rou,” Wang replied.
“Sweet-and-sour pork,” Elmer translated. “That’s why he needed the brown sugar.”
“When I hired you, you told me you couldn’t cook.”
“I can cook Mandarin. I cannot cook American,” Wang replied.
“I’ll have ’im cookin’ American in no time atall,” Elmer said. “But I had almost forgot how much I liked Chinese food.”
“I’ve had it in San Francisco,” Biff said. “But I’ve never had it any better than this.”
For the next several minutes all the diners enjoyed their food, especially Elmer, who enjoyed showing off by eating his meal with chopsticks.
Vi Winslow, a widow in her mid-forties and still quite attractive, owned Vi’s Pies, and she had brought a couple pies for desert.
After desert, they moved into the parlor, where they enjoyed a glass of scotch, which was Biff’s contribution to the evening seeing as he owned a saloon.
“Well, ’tis a happy occasion for us all, what with the three of us, Duff, myself, and Sheriff Bowles winning prizes as we did at the shooting match today,” Biff said.
“I’m Sheriff Bowles when I am at work in Texas. Here, among friends and family, the name is Jason.” He smiled.
“Jason it is then,” Biff continued. “And you know what I liked best about winning? It was sending Mr. Carter and Mr. Wilson home with nothing to show for their efforts but a handful of spent cartridge casings.”
“You were magnificent, all of you,” Megan said.
“And shouldn’t we be drinkin’ to that?” Elmer asked, holding up his glass.
“Why should you be drinking?” Vi asked. “You didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Why sure I did,” Elmer insisted. “Who was cheerin’ for ’em the loudest, I ask?”
“Aye,” Duff said with a chuckle. “There can be no denying but that Elmer was vocal in his support, and ’tis for sure and certain that he deserves to be drinking this toast with us.”
“Duff, give us an appropriate Scottish toast, would you?” Jason asked.
Duff lifted his glass. “Here’s to the heath, the hill, and the heather, the bonnet, the plaid, the kilt, and the feather!”
“And while goin’ up the hill of fortune, may we never meet a friend comin’ down,” Biff replied.
The others laughed.
“What a great toast!” Jason said.
“Elmer, here’s something you will appreciate,” Megan said. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that, for several years, Jason was a sailor, like you.”
“You sailed before the mast, did you?” Elmer asked. The term referred to serving as one of the crewmen, because the crew billets were ahead of the foremast.
Jason chuckled. “You won’t hold it against me if I was one of the ship’s officers, will you?”
“Nah,” Elmer smiled. “You never laid a cat across my back, so I got nothin’ ag’in you.”
“I never laid, nor did I ever order, a cat-o-nine against the back of any man,” Jason said.
“It would-a been a pleasure to sail with you, then,” Elmer said.
“I’m afraid all of my voyages were on the Atlantic,” Jason said. “I never got the opportunity to visit China, and I admire you for picking up the language as you did.”
“I don’t know all that much of the lingo,” Elmer replied. “Mostly I knew just enough to get around in the seaports.”
“I’ve never seen fighting like the kind Wang Chow did today,” Jason said. “Have you?”
“I’ve seen it a couple times.”
Timmy had not seen Wang Chow’s fight, but he had heard about it. He was listening with his full attention. “Do you think Mr. Wang could teach me how to fight like that?”
“Wang can’t teach you,” Elmer said.
“Why not? Is it because I’m too young?”
“No, that has nothing to do with it. In fact, people who learn wu shu generally start when they are your age or even younger.”
“Wu shu?”
“That’s what it’s called.”
“Well, if I’m not too young, how come he can’t teach me?”
“I tried to get someone to teach it to me once,” Elmer said. “But it’s a secret that they learn from some temple, and word I’ve heard is, if they teach it to anyone outside the temple, why, they could be kilt. You wouldn’t want Wang to be kilt, would you?”
“No,” Timmy said. “I wouldn’t want that.”
“You say it’s learned in a temple?” Duff asked. “Does that mean Wang Chow learned it in a temple?”
“More ’n likely he did. But it won’t be somethin’ he’ll talk about.”
“I wonder what he is doing here, in America?” Biff asked.
Elmer shook his head. “I don’t know, and it ain’t my place to ask.”
“You are a wealth of information, Mr. Gleason. Even if you did sail before the mast, I would almost be willing to change places with you,” Jason said. “I’m afraid I have no experiences to match yours.”
“I never did get into the Atlantic, so I ain’t never been to places like London or Paris, Rome, or anyplace like that.”
“Rome was the most fascinating,” Jason said. “Though London and Paris were
very interesting, as well.”
For the next several minutes Elmer, Jason, and even Duff entertained the others with their tales of the sea and foreign places. After a series of misadventures back in Scotland, Duff wound up coming to America as an able-bodied seaman onboard the Hiawatha, a merchant ship plying the Atlantic trade. But his sailing adventures differed from those of Elmer and Jason, both of whom had spent a few years at sea. Duff’s maritime experience was due to a set of circumstances, and he left the sea as soon as he reached America.
Biff shared stories of riding with Custer, and, after much prodding, Duff even told a few stories of his own service where he took part in the battle of Tel-el-Kebir in Egypt.
“What Duff left out was that he was awarded the Victoria Cross,” Biff said. “That’s like our Medal of Honor.”
Wang Chow overheard some of the conversation, especially the part of the conversation that had referred to him. He could understand English better than he could speak it, and he heard someone ask why he had come to America.
He’d had no choice in the matter. It was come to America or be killed. He thought back to four years ago in Shishou, Hubei Province, China.
The town was on the Yangtze River. Carp jerked and flopped as Wang Chow drew in his nets.
“You have had much luck today, Wang Chow.” The speaker was Ching Ji, a member of the warrior society Taiyang. Although the town had a shizhang—mayor—and city government, Taiyang and another warrior society, Yuequi, actually ruled the city, levying heavy taxes, which they called, “tributes for protection.”
“We will be good to you and take only one half of what you have caught. You may put our half in these baskets.” Ching Ji nodded to another man and he brought four straw baskets down to the river and lined them up along the river’s edge.
“We will return for the fish when the baskets are full.”
Ching Ji and the man left. Wang Chow recovered all his fish and put none in the baskets Kwan Li had left.
“It is good that you paid no tribute to the Taiyang,” Chen Mai, a member of the Yuequi, told him that evening. “Come, be a warrior for the Yuequi, and you will not have to labor. You can live on the tributes given by the others.”
“I do not wish to join a warrior group,” Wang said. “I want only peace.”
“Then you will have to pay tribute.”
“I will not pay tribute,” Wang insisted.
What no one in town, except Wang’s family, knew, was that he was a priest of the Shaolin Temple of Changlin. He had entered the temple as a boy of nine, and left when he was twenty-eight years old, a master of the Chinese martial art of wu shu.
When Wang Chow returned to the river to cast his nets the next day, the Taiyang went to the fish market to kill Wang’s father. The Yuequi went to the house to kill Wang’s mother and sister. In both incidents, they left their mark, a red card representing Taiyang, and a black stone for Yuequi.
Wang buried his family, then went to the Changlin Temple to burn incense in their honor.
“Seek no revenge,” he was told.
“But Master Tse, am I to do nothing to honor my family?”
“Changlin is your family. If you spill blood, you will bring dishonor to the temple.”
After leaving the temple, Wang cut the topknot to his hair, which was his spiritual connection to Changlin. Then, donning a changshan and arming himself with a sword, he went to the tong of the Taiyang.
“Stop. You cannot enter,” said the guard at the door.
One quick slice of his sword opened the stomach of the guard, killing him before he could call out a warning.
Wang went into the hall where six men were drinking wine and laughing about having killed the father of the fisherman Wang.
“Arm yourselves,” Wang said calmly.
The men looked at each other in surprise, shocked that a mere fisherman would challenge any of them, let alone all of them.
Within less than a minute, all six were dead.
A visit to the tong of Yuequi left nine dead, though he gave all nine the opportunity to arm themselves, then form into a group for their battle with him.
Upon hearing about the carnage caused by Wang, the Changlin Temple expelled him from their order, and the Empress Dowager Ci’an issued a decree ordering his death.
Disguised, Wang left China with a group of laborers who were going to America to work on the railroad.
When the railroad was completed, Wang supported himself in a number of menial tasks, never disclosing to anyone that he was a Shaolin priest.
Now he was cooking for the man who had saved his life. Still lost in thought, Wang made a personal vow to be ever loyal to the man who had saved his life and, if required, to give his life in defense of Xiansheng MacCallister.
“Wang?” Duff’s call interrupted Wang’s rumination.
The Chinaman stepped out of the kitchen and through the door into the dining room.
Duff held up his glass of wine. “Join us, Wang. Someone who could cook a meal such as the one we have just enjoyed should be able to bask in the compliments of appreciative diners.”
Wang put his hands in a prayer-like position and dipped his head slightly. “I thank you a thousand times, Xiansheng.”
“What does that mean?” Rose asked Elmer.
“I think it’s either sir, or mister, or something like that.”
“Yes,” Wang replied. “It is a word of respect.”
Later, as Biff and Timmy were playing a spirited game of chess, Duff stepped out onto the porch and watched the last rays of light play on the Laramie Mountain Range. As he expected she would, and as he hoped she would, Megan came out onto the porch a moment later to join him.
“It was very sweet of you to host a dinner for my sister and her family.”
“Sure ’n twas glad I was to do it, lass. Your sister is nearly as pretty as you are, ’n Jason is a fine man.” Duff chuckled. “And Timmy is a fine young lad as well, though he should have more manners than to beat his elders in chess.”
“Timmy is a very smart boy.” Megan smiled. “Who knows, he might be president of the United States, someday.”
“And if he is, will he be forgetting the friends he made here in Wyoming?”
“Och, but ’tis more than a friend I am, Duff MacCallister. ’Tis the aunt of the president I’ll be.”
“Och? Och?” Duff said, laughing as he spoke the words. “Sure now Megan Parker, ’tis mocking the brogue you can do, but there could be heather flowers in your hair, ’n ye would still nae be Scots lass, would ye?”
“Maybe not, but you have taught me to love the pipes, and I promised Melissa that you’d play for us before they go back. Now would be the best time.”
“All right. You talked me into it.”
Megan laughed. “I didn’t have to talk much. You’re always ready to play the pipes, with but the slightest suggestion that you do so.”
“Aye, lass, but ’tis my mission, don’t you see?”
“Your mission?”
“Aye. ’Tis honor bound I am, to teach the rest of the world to enjoy the music of the pipes.”
“Duff . . . and in your kilts?”
Chapter Five
A short while later, Duff came into the parlor wearing his kilts and carrying the bagpipes. The kilt of the Black Watch was a plaid of dark green and blue. The tunic was blue with brass buttons, a gold braided loop over his left shoulder, and the Victoria Cross pinned to his chest. The uniform was completed with a black cockade, and the sgian dubh, a small, ceremonial knife stuck down in one of his knee-high socks.
“Megan.” Melissa then leaned closer to say something to her sister, speaking so quietly that nobody could hear her.
Duff saw her asking the question, and from the humorous expression on both sisters’ faces, knew what it was.
“Would ye be wantin’ Megan to check for herself if ’tis true what they say about the wearin’ o’ kilts?” he asked in a jocular voice.
Melissa
gasped, then blushed as the others laughed. By Duff’s comment, and Melissa’s reaction, they all knew she had just asked if men wore anything under their kilts.
Duff played “Scotland the Brave” and as he did so, Timmy, with a broad smile, marched around the room.
Duff finished playing the pipes to polite applause, then Wang Chow came into the room bearing a platter of Nian Gao coconut rolls. Everyone, especially Timmy, enjoyed them.
After the rolls and coffee, Jason, Melissa, Timmy, and Megan returned to town in one four-passenger trap. Biff, Rose, and Vi followed them in another. Duff and Elmer stood out on the front porch to tell them good-bye and to watch them drive away.
“It was a fine evenin’, Duff,” Elmer said. “As fine as I’ve enjoyed in a long time.”
“Aye, ’twas that,” Duff agreed. “And due in no small part to Wang Chow. What was that he served us tonight?”
“Tian suan rou,” Elmer said. “Sweet-and-sour pork.”
“I never knew I could like Chinese food so much.”
The Drew farm, southeast New Mexico Territory
Mickey Drew held his head under the spout and worked the pump handle as cold, deep-well water cascaded over him. The water washed away the dirt and sweat from an afternoon of hard work in the field. Although he was only fifteen, he did a man’s work around the place, and he swelled with pride when his father bragged on him to the neighbors.
He reached for the towel he had draped across the split-rail fence, but drew his hand back, empty, when he couldn’t find it. He heard a girl’s giggle.
“What are you lookin’ for?” the girl asked.
“Jean Marie,” he said angrily. “What are you doing? Give me that towel.”
“What towel?” she asked.
Mickey rubbed the water out of his eyes and saw her holding the towel behind her back. She was smiling at him.
“What towel? That towel.” He pointed to the towel she was holding.
She pulled the towel from behind her back. “Oh, you mean this towel? Why didn’t you say so? I wasn’t sure what towel you talking about.” She passed the towel over to him.
MacCallister Kingdom Come Page 3