Utah Terror : Utah Terror (9781101606971)

by Sharpe, Jon

  “You stole it?”

  “I . . . What is word?” Chun scrunched up his grimy face. “I . . . borrow.” Unexpectedly, he spun and ran into the forest but stopped to look back and gesture. “Go!” he yelled. “Go far.” With that, he disappeared into the undergrowth.

  “Well, now,” Fargo said. He checked the Colt and twirled it into his holster. He supposed he should take the boy’s advice. But his head still hurt, and then there was Mai Wing.

  Forking leather, Fargo rode into the camp.

  4

  Fargo had been in similar gold-or-silver camps before. They sprang up all over. All it took was a few unearthed nuggets or some color in a stream, and the greedy poured in from everywhere to try to get rich quick.

  Fargo never had any interest, himself. Dipping a pan into freezing-cold water for hours on end, or picking at rock until blisters broke out, held no appeal. It was hard, backbreaking work, usually with little if any reward.

  He preferred the comforts and warmth of a saloon. Give him a friendly poker game and a bottle of Monongahela and a dove on his lap and he was as content as a bull at a feed trough.

  And a gold camp like this one was as good a place as any to find all three. Or so he reckoned.

  But no. This camp proved to be different.

  A sign had been posted at the limits. Instead of English, it bore Chinese characters. Fargo reckoned it identified the place as Hunan. But for all he knew, it might have been a warning for strangers to stay out.

  The first thing Fargo noticed was how quiet it was. The usual discordant hubbub of voices and other loud sounds was missing. It was almost as if everyone was going out of their way to be as quiet as they could be.

  The streets were narrow and dusty and packed with Chinese. Fargo had seldom seen so many in one place. The last time had been in Chinatown in San Francisco.

  He didn’t see a single person dressed in Western fashion. Their clothes, their hats, their footwear were the same as they’d wear in China. That in itself wasn’t odd but how they avoided looking at him was. Those who did glance at him quickly glanced away.

  The next thing he noticed was the lack of horses. Usually there would be hitch rails and a lot of mounts tied off. Not here. Nearly all the horses he saw were pulling wagons.

  The businesses bore signs—in Chinese.

  Here and there Fargo noticed men in black. They were the only ones to stare openly, and there was nothing friendly about the looks they gave him.

  He’d gone about a third of the way into the canyon with the stream gurgling on his right when he finally beheld a sign that read GENERAL STORE, and below it another in Chinese.

  Reining to the hitch rail, Fargo alighted and stretched.

  “As I live and breathe, a white man,” a voice boomed, and a stocky man of forty or so, with red hair and ruddy cheeks, came out. He wore an apron and was holding a broom. “As rare as leprechauns, we are.”

  “Leprechauns?” Fargo said, and grinned.

  “A nod to the Old Country,” the man said. He leaned the broom against the wall, wiped his hands on his apron, and offered his hand. “Terrence O’Brien is the name, but you can call me Terry. This would be my store, and I welcome you gladly.”

  “Irish,” Fargo said, shaking.

  “And proud of it, boyo,” O’Brien declared. “I don’t give a good damn who hears me say it.” He stared up and down the street as if defying anyone to say anything.

  Fargo’s puzzlement must have shown.

  “In these parts,” O’Brien said, “those of our persuasion are looked down on by some.” He indicated his establishment. “But come on in, why don’t you? You must have had a long ride, seeing as how we’re so far from anywhere.”

  Fargo followed him inside. A half dozen or so customers, all Chinese, paid no attention.

  The store was neat and clean, the shelves amply stocked. Many of the items were Chinese, with Chinese writing on them. There was a pickle barrel by the counter, and a jar of hard candy.

  “Nice place you have,” Fargo said by way of small talk.

  O’Brien regarded his shelves, and frowned. “I do the best I can, given the circumstances.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “This is Hunan,” O’Brien said, as if that were explanation enough.

  “Not your usual gold camp?” Fargo fished for information.

  “Boyo,” O’Brien said gravely, “you don’t know the half of it.”

  A door at the back opened and in walked a pair of women, also wearing aprons. One was O’Brien’s age and had her hair pinned back in a bun.

  The other interested Fargo more. She was twenty, if that, a winsome beauty with flame red hair and lake blue eyes much like his own. Her complexion, her shape were flawless. She had a natural sway to her hips that Fargo found enticing.

  “Who’s this, then, Terrence?” asked the older woman.

  “He hasn’t introduced himself yet, my dear,” O’Brien said.

  Fargo remedied his lapse.

  “These would be my darling wife and daughter,” O’Brien then said. “Noirin and I have been married going on twenty-four years. And Flanna, here, is our one and only pride and joy. You’ll not find a lovelier lass anywhere.”

  “Oh, Father,” the girl said. She had a soft, husky voice, the kind that sent a tingle through a man clear down to his toes.

  “I’m a mite surprised to find you folks here,” Fargo mentioned.

  It was as if a dark cloud fell. They frowned and looked out the front window.

  Noirin recovered first, offering a smile. “Terrence, I trust you’ve invited Mr. Fargo to supper? It’s so rare we have guests these days.”

  “That it is, my dear,” the store owner said, and clasped Fargo’s wrist in both big hands. “What do you say, boyo? My wife is the finest cook this side of the Emerald Isle, if I do say so my own self.”

  “Please say you will, Mr. Fargo,” Flanna urged. “We’d be ever so delighted.”

  Fargo gave them his most charming smile. “Why not?”

  “Wonderful,” Noirin said gleefully. “I’ll start with stew and we’ll have colcannon, too. Usually we have them separate but this is a special occasion.”

  “I can hardly wait, my dear,” O’Brien said. To Fargo he said, “We close up here at six. Supper will be at seven.”

  Fargo had plenty of time to kill. It wasn’t even noon yet. “Is there a stable hereabouts?”

  “There was,” O’Brien said, and the dark cloud fell again. “But the man who ran it closed it up. Not enough business. The Chinese keep their horses out back of the freight company and never did business with him. So he left.”

  “So they claim,” Flanna said.

  “Now, now,” Noirin said, with a sharp glance at the front door. “Beware of snooping ears.”

  “I’m not scared of those Oriental devils,” Flanna declared.

  “Scared of who?” Fargo asked, although he had a notion whom she meant.

  O’Brien answered before his daughter could. “Let’s just say you should watch yourself while you’re here. Hunan, as they call it, isn’t like any gold camp you’ve ever heard of.”

  “I noticed.”

  “It’s not a camp,” Noirin said. “It’s a pri—” She looked to one side and caught herself.

  A Chinese woman was examining bolts of cloth. From her posture and the way her head was tilted toward them, it was obvious she had been eavesdropping.

  “Let’s save the talk for supper,” O’Brien said quietly to his wife, “or we might scare Mr. Fargo off.”

  “I wouldn’t want that,” Flanna said.

  It took all of Fargo’s self-control not to ogle her in front of her parents.

  “Say, I have an idea,” Flanna went on. “How about if I g
ive Mr. Fargo a tour? I’ll show him where we live and some of the sights.”

  “I don’t know,” Noirin said.

  “So long as you watch yourself, you hear?” O’Brien said. “I doubt they’ll do anything. Not when they still need me. But you never know.”

  “I’ll avoid them like the plague,” Flanna promised.

  Fargo said, “Is it me or do you always talk in riddles?”

  “All will be made clear soon enough,” Flanna responded. She removed her apron, folded it, and set it on the counter. “We won’t be long. An hour at the most.”

  Fargo was hoping for more time in her company. He held the front door open and they watched the ebb and flow of people and wagons.

  “God, I hate it here,” Flanna remarked out of the blue.

  “Then why do you stay?”

  “Because my parents can’t leave and I refuse to abandon them.”

  “What’s to stop them from closing down and opening a new store somewhere else?”

  “We’ll tell you about that tonight, I expect.”

  Flanna made off up the street and he went with her. Staying close to the buildings, she constantly craned her neck to see over the people.

  “Looking for someone?”

  “To avoid someone is more like it,” Flanna responded. “Hunan isn’t healthy for our kind.”

  “By our kind you mean white?”

  Flanna shook her head. “By our kind I mean Americans.”

  “Last I looked at a map,” Fargo said, “Utah Territory was part of the United States.”

  “The man who runs Hunan doesn’t see it that way.”

  Flanna opened her mouth to say more, and froze.

  Two Chinese in black were strolling down the middle of the street toward them.

  Moving into a gap between a building and a tent, Flanna beckoned.

  Fargo stood in front of her so he blocked the view of anyone who passed by. “Why are you hiding?”

  “I like to think of it as playing things safe,” Flanna said. “There have been a few incidents. I’d like to avoid another.” Rising onto her toes, she peered over his shoulder.

  The pair in black were going by. Neither had noticed her.

  “If you know what’s good for you,” Flanna said anxiously, “you’ll avoid anyone who looks and dresses like those two.”

  Fargo refrained from mentioning his two previous run-ins. “Why should I do that?”

  “Because if you’re not as careful as can be,” Flanna said, “there’s a good chance you won’t leave this camp alive.”

  5

  Fargo was going to ask her to explain but he saw Lo Ping and an elderly Chinese man emerge from a long building that flanked the stream.

  Lo Ping looked mad. He poked the oldster in the chest and gave him a tongue-lashing and the old man stood there and took it, his head bowed, his hands folded at his waist.

  “What do you see that interests you so much?” Flanna O’Brien asked, her shoulder brushing his. “Oh. That so-and-so.”

  “You don’t sound very fond of him.”

  “If I thought I’d get away with it,” Flanna said, “I’d slit his damn throat.” She paused. “How is it you know Lo Ping?”

  “I ran into him earlier,” Fargo said, and let it go at that.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t try to convince you it was in your best interests to stay away from Hunan.”

  “He did.”

  “Yet you’re still here?” Flanna placed her hand on his arm. “I admire grit, as they call it in this country. But there’s a lot to be said for prudence.”

  “And for not beating around the bush.”

  Flanna bit her lower lip. “I suppose I am, at that. With good cause. My parents will explain everything tonight.” She brightened and looped her arm with his. “Why don’t I give you that tour?”

  Fargo was more interested in her than in Hunan. She was lively and bright and had a body he would love to explore.

  Her tour was instructive. In addition to the prevalence of Chinese, the camp was different in other respects. There were no saloons, which shocked him, but there were gambling dens, where the Chinese played games of chance like those in China.

  “Does that mean whiskey is hard to come by?” Fargo keenly wanted to learn.

  “I’m afraid so,” Flanna said. “Rice wine is what most of the Chinese drink.”

  “God,” Fargo said.

  “The high and mighty Master Han, as they call him, likes everything to be Chinese. Chinese clothes, Chinese food, Chinese drink. Whiskey is considered an American vice, and frowned on.”

  “I’ll have to have a talk with him,” Fargo half joked.

  Flanna gripped his arm so tight, her nails dug into his flesh. “You don’t want to do that. Not unless you’re fond of baiting a rattlesnake in its den.”

  They passed businesses with Chinese signs that sold Chinese goods. They passed a barbershop that was boarded over. They passed a blacksmith’s shop, the door open but the interior quiet and still.

  They were near a bend in the canyon when Flanna slowed and started to turn as if to go back but must have changed her mind because she said, “You need to see it all.”

  In a few moments the high canyon walls resounded to hammering and the sounds of saws biting into wood.

  Fargo reckoned a building was being constructed but he never in a million years would have guessed what kind. Ahead loomed a structure unlike any other in the camp. It reminded him of buildings he’d seen in Chinatown. Already it was several stories high, and rising, the workers swarming over it like ants.

  “Han’s Pagoda,” Flanna informed him. “It’s where he lives. When it’s done it will be the tallest building for a thousand miles. Or so Han likes to boast.” She motioned. “And what do you think of that?”

  A bridge had been built over the stream. Directly across from the Pagoda stood another Chinese structure, three stories high, with ornate carvings and inclined roofs.

  “A gambling den?”

  “Not quite,” Flanna said, and her cheeks grew pink. “It’s Madame Lotus’s House of Pleasure.”

  Fargo recollected the madame’s name from his talk with Mai Wing. He wondered if that was where she had been brought.

  “Hunan’s very own house of ill repute,” Flanna was saying. “It says something that it’s one of the first buildings Han had built.”

  “Have you been inside?”

  Flanna gave him a withering look. “Please. I wouldn’t be caught dead in there.”

  Just then five Chinese men in black came out of the House of Pleasure. Smiling and laughing, they walked to the bridge.

  “More of those damnable Tong,” Flanna said. “Killers, every one of them. They carry hatchets and aren’t shy about using them. Take my advice and stay away from them if you can help it.”

  A little late for that, Fargo almost said.

  “Think of Han as a king and the Tong as the power behind the throne and you’ll have a good grasp of the situation,” Flanna said angrily.

  “Where do you and your family fit in?”

  “Us?” Flanna said, venom in her tone. “We’re the peasants.”

  “This isn’t China,” Fargo said. “No one has the right to lord it over anyone else.”

  “Someone forgot to tell Han. He does as he pleases. Another year, and Hunan will be his, bottom to top. You’ve never met anyone like him.”

  Fargo doubted it. He’d met all kinds in his wide-flung travels.

  “He was friendly when we first arrived. The nicest person you’d ever want to meet. Little did we know it was all an act. He was playing us and every other white for dunces.”

  “I get the idea you don’t like him,” Fargo joked.

  �
��I hate him,” Flanna said emphatically. “He’s to blame for the deaths and the disappearances. I’m sure of it.”

  “Who died and disappeared?”

  “Father will tell you all about it tonight,” Flanna said, yet again. She tugged at his sleeve. “Come. Let’s go back.”

  Fargo turned, and stopped short.

  Lo Ping was a few yards away, regarding them with eyes of ice. “What do we have here?” he said cordially. “The man who interferes where he has no business interfering and the woman who doesn’t know what is best for her.”

  “Go to hell, Lo,” Flanna said.

  To Fargo’s surprise, the Chinese man smiled.

  “I do not believe in your silly Christian afterlife, Miss O’Brien. When I die it will be the end of me.”

  “Thank God,” Flanna said.

  Lo Ping’s smile widened. “No wonder the great one is interested in you. You have a fine wit for one of your kind.”

  “For a woman, you mean?” Flanna said.

  All Lo Ping did was smile.

  Fargo cut in with, “Where do I find the Hu brothers?”

  “Why would you want to do that?” Lo Ping rejoined.

  Touching the side of his head, Fargo said, “I owe them something.”

  Lo Ping chuckled. “I cannot think of anything more foolish. You do not know when you are well off, as the saying here goes. You were given a warning and were too stupid to take it.”

  Now it was Fargo who indulged in an icy smile. “They’re not the only ones I’ve been looking for.”

  “Oh?”

  Fargo balled his fists and took a half step and Lo Ping flinched and took a step back.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “You put them up to jumping me, you son of a bitch.”

  Lo Ping fearfully gestured. “All I have to do is yell and there will be a dozen Tong here, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “If you don’t believe me, ask Miss O’Brien.”

  “By the time they got here,” Fargo said, “you’d be spitting teeth.”

  “I warn you, American,” Lo Ping said. “Harm me and it is the same as harming my master. He would take it as an insult.”

  “Ask me if I give a damn.”