by Sharpe, Jon
“Where’s the insult in paying him for his trouble?” Noirin countered. “He knows how much she means to us.”
“You’re suggesting he has a mercenary nature,” Terry said. “Some men wouldn’t like that.”
“That’s pride, that is,” Noirin said. “And I won’t let pride stand in the way of our daughter being safe and free.” Her eyes bored into Fargo’s. “What do you say? You could take her to Salt Lake City. It’s the nearest town of any size, and civilized. She could find lodgings and wait for us to join her.”
“It’s overrun with Mormons,” Terry said.
“Terrence O’Brien,” Noirin scolded. “Since when did you become intolerant of the religion of others? Besides, Salt Lake is to the east and well out of Han’s influence. He came here by way of San Francisco, where he still has considerable sway.”
Fargo glanced at Flanna. She studiously avoided looking at him. He reckoned it would take a week or better for them to get there. All those nights, alone under the stars. “I might be willing to,” he conceded.
“Might isn’t good enough,” Noirin said. “We need your solemn promise.”
“Might is all you get for now,” Fargo said.
“We’ve invited you into our home, we’ve fed you, and you treat us like this?” Noirin snapped.
Terry pounded the table so hard, the dishes and silverware jumped. “That will be quite enough. Keep this up and he’ll refuse to spite you.”
“Surely not,” Noirin said.
Sighing, Terry gestured at Fargo. “I apologize for my wife. She’s distraught. Normally she wouldn’t think to impose on anyone.”
“Damn it, Terrence,” Noirin said.
“As you can see,” Terry said with a grin, “between her Irish temper and her stubborn streak, she’s a handful.”
Fargo pushed his chair back and stood. “I’m obliged for the meal,” he said. “If things work out I might be able to take Flanna away before morning. But I can’t make any promises.”
“We can’t ask for more than that,” Terry said.
Noirin said, “Sure we can.”
Fargo touched his hat brim and went to leave but Flanna said his name.
“If you should decide to take me,” she quietly stated, “I’d be happy to accompany you. I know you’d be a perfect gentleman the whole journey.”
Fargo almost snorted. She knew he hankered to have her. He wondered what she was playing at, and replied, “It’s rough country. And we’d have to watch out for hostiles.”
“I would place myself completely in your hands.”
Fargo smiled. There it was, as plain as she could make it with her parents sitting there. “I’m happy to hear that. I’ll let you know.”
Terry walked him to the front door. “Whether you do or you don’t, I can’t thank you enough. You’ve given us our first real hope in months.”
“How long before you join her in Salt Lake City?”
“It’s difficult to say. We’ll have to liquidate on the sly. If Han catches on, our goose is cooked.” Terry opened the door and held out his hand. “Take care of yourself, you hear? I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’d advise you to stay away from the Tong if you can help it.”
Fargo couldn’t. He went out and Terry closed the door behind him. He walked to the Ovaro and was reaching for the saddle horn when he noticed the stallion’s head was up and its ears pricked. He spun but it was too late.
A ring of dark-clad figures had him surrounded.
Fargo streaked his right hand to his Colt. He’d be damned if he’d go down without a fight.
“That will not be necessary,” a familiar voice said, and Lo Ping stepped into the circle. His hands up his sleeves, he smiled his insincere smile. “We are not here to harm you.”
“Then why?” Fargo demanded.
“My master would like a word with you,” Lo Ping said. “Many words, actually.”
“Han wants to see me?”
“None other. Why do you sound surprised? After the incident today at the House of Pleasure, and others, it was as inevitable as the rising and setting of the sun.”
“You sure do love to hear yourself talk.”
If Lo Ping took offense he didn’t show it. “You may bring your horse if you like. But walk him. Don’t ride.”
“If I refuse?”
“We are under orders to bring you whether you want to or not and I brought more of us than there are bullets in your six-gun.”
Fargo never had liked being bossed around. Whenever someone rode roughshod over him, his natural inclination was to feed them their teeth. Then again . . . “Fact is, I’d like to meet this master of yours.”
“You should be honored,” Lo Ping said. “Not many are admitted to his celestial presence.”
“I’ve never met a celestial before,” Fargo said, taking hold of the reins. “Lead the way.”
Men in black closed in on either side.
“Not too close,” Fargo warned.
“Every one of these men would love to test his mettle against you,” Lo Ping said. “They heard what you did to Nan Kua and the others.”
“Like dogs on a leash,” Fargo said.
“Oh, our Tong are much more, I assure you,” Lo Ping said. “We are a venerable society, older than your country. In our own land we are held in great respect.”
“I’d heard it was fear.”
“That too,” Lo Ping said.
The people who were out and about gave a wide berth to the men in black. Most of the businesses were closed but the opium den was doing brisk trade. So was the House of Pleasure.
“Madame Lotus was given a reprimand, thanks to you,” Lo Ping mentioned. “She is fortunate she wasn’t punished more severely.”
“The fight wasn’t her fault.”
“The House of Pleasure is her establishment. It is her duty to maintain order.”
“Nan Kua started it,” Fargo said. He wondered why he was defending her.
“So she informed us. That, too, will be dealt with before too long.”
The Pagoda towered above them, an architectural colossus that would rise even higher in the weeks and months ahead. Lights were lit all over.
More Tong stood guard out front. Some had hatchets at their waist. Others, their hatchets were hidden.
“What do you have against guns?” Fargo asked out of curiosity.
“Our own weapons have always served us well,” Lo Ping said. “In the Triads in our own country, and now here.”
Stepping into the Pagoda was like stepping into China.
Every facet, every article was Chinese: the lamps, the furnishings, the paintings, and the designs. It was like Madame Lotus’s, only grander.
Lo Ping led Fargo up a series of stairs. At each landing Fargo gazed down a hall fit for a palace.
At the fifth-floor landing there were more guards.
“These are our master’s temporary quarters while the Pagoda is being finished,” Lo Ping revealed.
The chamber Fargo was admitted to was the most lavish yet. It included, incredibly, a throne on a raised dais.
And there, waiting for him, sat the gold camp’s self-appointed ruler.
“I’ll be damned,” Fargo said.
10
Fargo didn’t know what he expected. The biggest and fiercest of the Tong, maybe. Or a weasel like Lo Ping.
On the throne sat an old man who must have been seventy if he was a day, and more likely older. He looked so small and frail, it was a wonder he could sit up straight. His hair was white, his face shrunken. His thin elbows rested on the arms of his ornate chair and his hands formed a V in front of him. He was smiling a catlike smile.
“That’s the great Han?” Fargo said without thinking.
The choppers, Fargo saw, were fourteen more Tong who stood alertly along the walls. By their expressions, they, too, wouldn’t mind testing his mettle.
Lo Ping took a couple of steps, and bowed. “Great one,” he called out. “I bring he whom you requested.”
One of Han’s slim fingers moved, and Lo Ping motioned at Fargo and escorted him across the spacious chamber. The floor was polished wood, the ceiling crisscrossed by large timbers.
Fargo stopped when Lo Ping did.
Lo Ping addressed his lord and master in Chinese.
“We will speak the American’s language, if you please,” Han said in impeccable English. His dark eyes fixed on Fargo with startling intensity. “So you are the one I have heard so much about.”
Lo Ping was doubled at the waist, and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Bow to my master.”
“Like hell,” Fargo said.
Lo Ping glowered and straightened and raised an arm as if to beckon to the Tong along the walls.
“That will not be necessary, Lo Ping,” Han said. “What does our guest know of our customs?”
“But, great one . . . ,” Lo Ping said.
Han’s right eyebrow arched.
Lo Ping turned to stone. His fear was almost palpable. Quickly bowing, he said, “Your humble servant begs your forgiveness. It is unthinkable that I would question your judgment.”
“Indeed,” Han said. “But this one is pleased that you are so diligent in honoring our traditions.”
Fargo swore he heard a sigh of relief from Lo Ping.
“Now, then,” Han said, focusing on him again. “You are perhaps wondering why you were sent for.”
“I’ve tangled with your Tong three times now,” Fargo said. “I figured you’d get around to it sooner or later.”
“Yes, three times,” Han said. “Yet you are still alive. That is quite remarkable.”
“Your boys seem to think they can push folks around,” Fargo said. “Some don’t take kindly to that.”
“Nor would I, were the situation reversed,” Han said.
“You should have a talk with Nan Kua,” Fargo said. “The next time he prods me, he’ll regret it.”
“We will get to my unfortunate boo how doy in a while,” Han said. “Right now I would rather talk about you.” Han slowly rose and descended the dais. He moved with surprising grace, taking small steps. “Will you walk with me?”
“Where to?”
“Here is fine.” Han moved past Lo Ping and began to leisurely circle the chamber. His intense eyes never once left Fargo. “Where to begin? You must have questions. Perhaps we should start with those.”
“Fair enough.” Fargo didn’t know what to make of him. “What the hell are you up to?”
“You must be more specific.”
“This gold camp. Hunan, you call it. You’re making it your own little kingdom.”
“Exactly so,” Han said, smiling. “I could not have expressed it better myself.”
“You admit it?”
“Why wouldn’t I? There is, as you Americans say, no law against what I am doing, which, after all, is nothing more or less than reshaping this camp to reflect our Chinese heritage.”
“Is that so?”
“Phrased more simply,” Han said, “this camp will become much like Chinatown in San Francisco. Are you familiar with it?”
“Been there,” Fargo said.
“Ah. Excellent. Then you can understand. It was Chinatown that gave me the idea. Walking its streets is like walking the streets of China. When we are done here, Hunan will be the same.”
“I don’t recollect seeing any Tong in San Francisco.”
“Chinatown is much bigger than our small camp. There are, in fact, several benevolent societies in Chinatown. They compete for control.”
“Benevolent?” Fargo said, and laughed.
“Scoff if you must but we are devoted to the well-being of those under us,” Han said. “Under our guidance this camp will prosper as never before.”
“So long as everyone does what you want.”
“I can see you are a man who speaks his mind,” Han said. “So I will speak mine.” He stopped. “I did not come to your country willingly. There were certain difficulties, and I was forced to leave China or be thrown into prison or beheaded.”
“Not much of a choice.”
Han sadly frowned. “No, it was not. I miss China. To be forced to leave against my will filled me with great sorrow. But if I cannot live in China, I can do the next best thing. I can bring China here, as it were.”
“Word is,” Fargo said, “you’re driving all the whites out.”
“Not so,” Han said. “Those who left did so of their own accord. They did not like what I am doing. And frankly, I can’t blame them.”
“You can’t?”
“This is America, not China. Naturally, by my making this camp more reflective of our country, it made them uncomfortable.”
Fargo was growing more perplexed by the minute. Based on all he’d heard, he’d taken Han for a tyrant. Instead, he was almost reasonable. “You’re not at all as I reckoned you’d be,” he admitted.
“I will regard that as a compliment.” Han motioned and they walked on. “My dream, Mr. Fargo, is for Hunan to be a sanctuary for Chinese everywhere. Eventually, I hope it will be a city in its own right, with all the benefits that brings.”
“A city in the middle of nowhere?”
“On purpose,” Han said. “How do I put this delicately?” He clasped his hands behind his back. “You are aware, I should think, of the anti-Chinese sentiment in your country?”
Fargo nodded.
“Not all Americans feel that way, I know. But far too many do. They look down their noses at anyone with Chinese blood. It’s all too common that Chinese are spat upon, as if they were dogs. And in some places your countrymen come in the night and drag them off and hang them from trees.”
Fargo didn’t say anything. Every word was true. There were even anti-Chinese leagues devoted to running the Chinese out of the country.
“Hunan will serve as a haven from all that,” Han was saying while stroking his mustache. “In Hunan anyone who is Chinese need not fear for their life. In Hunan they will find only respect, and safety.” Han looked at him. “Noble goals, are they not?”
“What about the House of Pleasure?”
“What about it?” Han rejoined. “It is open to all.”
“I’ve heard tell you force girls to work in it against their will.”
“Not so,” Han said. “It would be most unwise. The girls would be unhappy and not perform as they should. You were there today. Did any of the female flowers you saw look unhappy to you?”
Fargo had to admit they didn’t.
By now they were halfway around the chamber and near the double doors.
Han stopped and tapped a finger against his chin. “Have I answered most of the questions that have been bothering you?”
“Some,” Fargo allowed. “But you haven’t explained them.” He nodded at the Tong.
“What is there to explain?” Han said. “They are in my employ and do the things I cannot due to my age.”
“And the hatchets?”
Han grinned and nodded at the holster on Fargo’s hip. “As you Americans like to say, you are a fine one to talk. Many of your countrymen go around with a firearm of one kind or another.”
“Not back east,” Fargo said.
“But we are not back in the East,” Han replied, “and we need protection as much as you do.” He nodded at the nearest Tong. “In China we do not h
ave many guns. We have swords. And bows. And knives. And, yes, hatchets. My Tong carry them to protect themselves as you carry your revolver for protection. Surely that makes perfect sense to you?”
Again, Fargo had to admit it did.
“In time, perhaps, I will have them carry guns, as well,” Han remarked. “But for now their hatchets suffice.”
Fargo was tempted to point out that hatchets were no match for six-shooters, but didn’t.
Suddenly Han wheeled and made for the dais. “Follow me, if you would. I have taken up too much of your time as it is and there is a matter to settle yet.”
Fargo trailed after him. The meeting hadn’t turned out like he thought it would. Maybe, just maybe, Han wasn’t the ogre that the O’Briens and Bannon painted him as.
Climbing the dais, the old man sat in the oversized chair and adopted a regal mien. He addressed his underlings in Chinese.
“I am to tell you,” Lo Ping whispered, “that my master has asked me to translate what comes next.”
Han clapped his hands and a pair of Tong left the chamber. They weren’t gone more than a minute. When they returned, Nan Kua was between them, his wrists bound in front of him.
“What’s this?” Fargo asked.
Nan Kua was marched to the dais. He, too, bowed his head.
Han went on at some length in Chinese. Several times Nan Kua winced and once he visibly shook. Finally Han looked at Fargo. “This man is in my employ. That he attacked you without permission has brought great shame. I cannot apologize enough.”
“No need,” Fargo said. “It’s over.”
“In your eyes, perhaps. But the Tong live by a code, you might call it. When that code is broken there are consequences. I must impose those consequences or be seen as weak.”
Fargo wondered what Han was leading up to. He didn’t wonder long.
The venerable master of Hunan nodded at a hatchet man on Nan Kua’s right. And just like that, the man buried a hatchet in Nan Kua’s head.
11
It happened so fast, Fargo was caught flat-footed. Not that he would have intervened on Nan Kua’s behalf.
For a few seconds Nan Kua stood still, the ax handle jutting from above his ear and blood spraying in a fine mist. Then his eyes rolled up and he collapsed. His body erupted in violent convulsions that ended with a last great exhale.