by Sharpe, Jon
“I’d best get back,” Fargo said.
“Listen. If Tom doesn’t show, you and the ladies are welcome to stay at our house for the rest of the night.”
“I’m obliged.” As Fargo turned he thought he spied movement a few houses away. He stopped and peered intently but saw no one.
The walk back seemed to take forever. A sense of unease crept over him, like the time he was being stalked by a Sioux war party, and more recently when he was being hunted on the plains of Texas by a man with a Sharps.
He saw no one, heard no one.
The blacksmith’s shop was quiet but it should have been. The women wouldn’t want to draw attention. He opened the door and went in and said, “Mai Wing? Where are you?”
“I am here, Skye,” she answered from the back.
Something in her voice wasn’t right. His hand on his Colt, Fargo moved toward Bannon’s living quarters. He was halfway there when a lucifer was struck and applied to the wick of a lantern.
Lo Ping was holding it. “Before you do anything rash, American,” he said in his oily manner, “consider the consequences.” He held the lantern higher.
One of the Hu brothers had hold of Mai Wing’s hair, his hatchet to her throat. All it would take was a swipe of his hand and she was as good as dead.
Near them, on their knees, were the Pou sisters. The other Hu was behind them, his hatchet raised to strike.
“That is not all,” Lo Ping said, and gestured.
More lanterns blazed, revealing twenty or more Tong. Two were armed with rifles, pointed at Fargo’s chest.
“You are quick enough that you would kill some of us,” Lo Ping said, “but you would assuredly die, and the women, as well.”
Fargo fumed at his blunder in walking right into their little trap.
“Nothing to say?” Lo Ping taunted.
“Go to hell.”
“I am Chinese. I do not believe in what you would call fairy tales.” Lo Ping smiled. “In case you are wondering how we knew to find you here, you have the blacksmith to thank.”
“Bannon told you I was bringing them?”
“Reluctantly. You see, after you shot so many of our Tong brothers, we left no stone unturned in trying to find you.” Lo Ping came closer. “We discovered Mr. Bannon loading his buckboard. My master ordered that he be brought to the Pagoda and after some . . . persuasion . . . he told us how you had stopped by and asked him if he would take the women.”
“You tortured him.”
“Not I personally,” Lo Ping said. “I am, I am sorry to admit, squeamish about blood. The Hu brothers were the ones who loosened his tongue.”
“What now?” Fargo demanded.
“I should think it would be obvious,” Lo Ping rejoined. “You will unbuckle your gun belt and set it on the floor. Then you will raise your arms in the air and we will take you to Master Han.”
Fargo glanced at Mai Wing, and hesitated.
“Come now,” Lo Ping said. “It is not as if you have a choice. Give us trouble and the women die. Do as we say and you, and they, go on breathing.”
“For how long?”
Lo Ping shrugged. “That is for my master to say. He is the one you have wronged. He is the one you must answer to.”
Fargo dearly wanted to put a slug through the smug snake’s brainpan. Instead, using two fingers, he removed his gun belt and placed it at his feet.
“There,” Lo Ping gloated. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Bastard,” Fargo said.
“You are most indiscreet in your comments,” Lo Ping criticized. “How you have lived as long as you have is a mystery.”
A Tong cautiously came over and snatched the gun belt off the floor.
“Let Mai Wing go,” Fargo said to the Hu holding her.
“I am afraid he doesn’t speak your barbaric tongue,” Lo Ping said. Reverting to Chinese, he must have translated because the Hu glared and said something that made a lot of the other Tong smile. “He says that he doesn’t take orders from a white cur.”
“What harm can it do?”
Lo Ping didn’t bother to translate. “She is our insurance that you will not try anything. The sisters, too. But I suspect Mai Wing means more to you.”
“We are friends, nothing more,” Mai Wing said, and the Hu brother holding her shook her savagely.
“Not another word out of you, woman,” Lo Ping said. “You have not only disgraced your grandfather—you have insulted Master Han. While the first is perhaps forgivable, the second is not.”
Mai Wing wasn’t intimidated. “He intends to kill us, doesn’t he?” she asked in English.
“It is not for me to pretend to know the thoughts of the inscrutable one,” Lo Ping said. “But if I were you, I would make peace with myself.”
“What about me?” Fargo said.
“For you, American, there will be no peace. For you, very soon, there will only be oblivion.”
15
Han sat on his throne with the regal air of an emperor. Or as Fargo liked to think of him, a shrunken praying mantis. His thin fingers a tepee in his lap, the lord of Hunan smiled a benign smile as Fargo and the women were shoved and manhandled to the dais.
The Pou sisters fell to their knees and broke into sobs.
Han said a few words in Chinese and wagged a finger, and they covered their mouths with their hands and the sobs subsided.
“As you commanded, great one,” Lo Ping said in English, evidently for Fargo’s benefit. “Here are the buckskin and the runaway.”
“The scout can wait,” Han said, and focused on Mai Wing. “What do you have to say for yourself, young woman?”
She glared in defiance.
“You are a disgrace to your family,” Han intoned. “Your grandfather placed you in my care and you rebuff my kindness at every turn.”
“Care!” Mai Wing exploded. “Kindness? You intend for me to work in the House of Pleasure.”
“What other use is there for a female your age?” Han said. “I could have put you to scrubbing floors or cooking. Tiresome, monotonous work. But I did not. I offered you an easier position with Madame Lotus, and all you have done is give her trouble.”
“I refuse to sell my body,” Mai Wing said.
“You are not selling it for you,” Han said. “You are selling it for me.”
“As if that makes a difference. You don’t have the right to make me. We’re in America now, not China.”
“Dear child.” Han chuckled. “While we might be in America, we are not part of America. Here the old ways apply. Here you are in China, and Chinese ways are the only ways.”
“Like hell,” Fargo broke in.
Lo Ping nodded at one of the Hus.
Fargo tried to turn but he wasn’t fast enough. A blow to his kidney almost made him cry out. As it was, he pitched onto his left knee and doubled over in agony.
“You will address Master Han only when spoken to,” Lo Ping said. “And you will address him with the respect he deserves.”
“I did,” Fargo puffed between gasps for breath.
Lo Ping nodded again but Han held up a hand.
“No more of that, for now.” Han smiled. “These Americans do so love to bluster, do they not?”
“Exactly so, great one,” Lo Ping said.
Fargo was thinking that this made twice he owed the Hu brothers. Both times the bastards had struck him from behind.
“Take the scout below and put him with the other one,” Master Han commanded. “The girl goes back to Madame Lotus. And this time make sure she stays there.”
Lo Ping did another of his subservient bows. “Your will be done.”
Fargo still hurt like hell. That didn’t stop him from suddenly rising and lungi
ng at the throne, his fist bunched to smash the mighty Han in the face. Quick as he was, though, the Hus were quicker. Iron hands clamped on each wrist and he was slammed onto his back on the floor. Metal glinted before his eyes. Another hatchet was pressed to his neck.
Han spat in Chinese, then switched to English again. “Will you never learn? Do you have any idea how close you came?”
“You better do it now, you son of a bitch,” Fargo growled.
“And deprive myself of the pleasure of crushing your spirit before I destroy your body and mind?” Han said. “I think not.”
“Great one,” Lo Ping said. “You can see how he is. Permit me to have him hamstrung so he does not give us as much trouble.”
“Have we become weaklings?” Han countered. “Or are we stronger and more intelligent and more patient than he and his kind?”
“We are, O celestial one.”
“You will do as I say. I want him in full vigor when I break him. It will make his humiliation that much worse for him to bear.”
“As always, you think far ahead of me,” Lo Ping said.
“It is why I am sitting here,” Han said, “and you are standing there.” He waved a hand. “Off with him. Then have the sisters taken to my private chambers and strip them and have them wash. I will be there later to let them entertain me.”
“Consider it done,” Lo Ping said. He issued orders to the men in black.
Mai Wing shot Fargo a look of despair as he was seized by half a dozen hatchet men and dragged to a side passage. They held him so firmly, to resist would have been futile.
Lo Ping led the way down a narrow flight of stairs into the bowels of the Pagoda. Here and there in nooks in the walls were small flickering lamps that cast writhing shadows.
At the bottom was a circular room with heavy doors spaced about ten feet apart. Each had a barred window. The occupants had heard them coming and haggard faces peered out.
“A dungeon?” Fargo said in disbelief.
“We have many in China,” Lo Ping said. “Another of our traditions you Americans could benefit from.” Producing a large key ring, he selected a key. “I only hope my master permits me to witness your degradation. There are few things I enjoy more than to hear someone scream. It is music to the ears.”
“I’ll remember that when your time comes.”
Lo Ping sighed. “Too much bluster is childish.” He inserted the key and twisted it and pulled.
Fargo tried to drag his heels but the Tong effortlessly shoved him in and the door slammed shut behind him. He found himself in a stone-walled chamber with only a candle for light.
Lo Ping’s face appeared at the bars. “You and your friend can discuss your mutual stupidity in the time you have left.” He showed his teeth, and was gone.
“My friend?” Fargo said to the walls.
“That would be me,” Tom Bannon said, and shuffled out of a dark corner. He was a mess. His clothes were torn. His face was black and blue and spattered with dried blood and one eye was swollen.
“Hell,” Fargo said.
“I have you to thank for this,” Bannon said. “I hear you shot a bunch of Tong. They went over every square foot of this camp looking for you and found me loading my wagon.”
“So I heard.”
“I don’t hold it against you,” the blacksmith declared. “You did what you had to. Did the women get away?”
“Han has them.”
“Hell.” Bannon stepped to a wall and turned and sat with his back to it. “I reckon we’re in for it come morning.”
“I thought Han needed you,” Fargo said.
“I’m the only blacksmith for two hundred miles,” Bannon said. “But I was trying to run out on him and he’s not the forgiving sort.”
Fargo grunted. Neither was he. He moved to the opposite wall and wearily sank down.
“What about the O’Briens?” Bannon asked.
“Fine, as far as I know.” Fargo hoped they stayed that way. He had enough on his hands at the moment.
“He’ll carve on us, you know,” Bannon said. “Or his butcher boys will. While he watches and gloats.”
Fargo touched his empty holster. They’d taken his Colt but he still had an ace down his boot.
The blacksmith was in a talkative mood. “I heard a word once,” he said. “Sadist. Never paid it much mind. But I have since Han took over. He’s a sadistic bastard. I wouldn’t put it past him to have us chopped to bits and then dance on the pieces.”
“I hope he slips and breaks his scrawny neck.”
Tom Bannon laughed. “I like you, mister. You never give up or give in.”
“Do you think they’ll bring us breakfast?”
“How can you think of food at a time like this?”
Fargo was thinking of the Arkansas toothpick.
“They might, though,” Bannon said. “Han will want us hearty and hale when the knives start on us. More fun for him that way.”
“I’d like to slit his scrawny throat,” Fargo mentioned.
“Stand in line. I was here first.” Bannon sagged, and yawned. “I was up all day, and then all that loading. I don’t mind admitting I’m plumb tuckered out. I need some sleep.”
“Good idea,” Fargo said. He’d need his wits about him come the dawn. Settling back, he pulled his hat brim over his face.
“All that counts now,” Tom Bannon remarked, “is that one of us lives long enough to do Han in.”
Of that, Fargo vowed, he’d make certain. He closed his eyes and within moments drifted into a nightmare where he was pursued by shapeless demons dressed in black. He woke in a cold sweat.
The candle had burned down to a nub.
Even without a window he knew it was close to dawn. For years his habit was to awaken at the break of day.
Fargo got up and paced. It took him past the door, and each time he looked through the bars. A lot depended on them bringing breakfast. First and foremost, his life.
Bannon had been snoring but now he sputtered and sat up and opened his eyes. “You’re up already?”
“What I wouldn’t give for coffee,” Fargo said.
Bannon scratched and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “You and me, both. I wish to hell—”
“Wait,” Fargo said, holding up a hand for quiet. There had been a faint sound. Putting his ear to the bars, he caught more: the scrape of sandals on the stairs. “Someone is coming.”
“It could be they’re just checking on us.”
Bending, Fargo pulled up his pant leg and palmed the toothpick.
“Well, now,” the blacksmith said. “Aren’t you a bundle of tricks?” Bracing himself, he rose. “Any help I can be, say the word.”
“Let’s see how many we’re up against.”
Two Tong. One carried a tray with bread and water. They came straight to Fargo’s cell and the other one spat Chinese and motioned for him to step back.
Fargo was all too happy to comply. But only a couple of steps. He held the toothpick close against his leg where it couldn’t be seen.
A key scraped in the lock and the door began to swing open.
16
Fargo wasn’t holding back any longer. The pair who entered was as good as dead and didn’t know it.
The one with a hatchet motioned for him to move farther away, and he did. Then the Tong with the tray moved to one side to set it down.
The Tong with the hatchet glanced at Tong setting the tray down.
It was all the opening Fargo needed. He sprang and rammed the Arkansas toothpick up under the man’s sternum, piercing the heart. The Tong opened his mouth to cry out but died before he could utter a sound.
Wrenching the toothpick out, Fargo charged the tray bearer. The man was unfurling. His eyes registered shock
in the instant before Fargo slit his throat from ear to ear.
Fargo stepped back to avoid the scarlet spray. It was over surprisingly fast, after some gurgling and thrashing.
“God in heaven,” Tom Bannon breathed.
Fargo wiped the toothpick on the man’s clothes, slid it into its sheath, and helped himself to a hatchet. Different from those sold in America, it was lighter and the handle curved slightly. The edge was sharp as a razor. “Grab the other one.”
Bannon nodded and bent. “What next?”
Fargo found the keys. He went out and over to the next cell and had to try three keys before he found the right one.
The prisoner who emerged was a walking skeleton, his clothes so many rags. He was missing an ear and several fingers and had deep cuts on his face and neck. He was also white.
“Good God!” Bannon blurted. “I know this man.”
“Hello, Tom,” the apparition rasped.
“This is Chester Arnold,” Bannon introduced him. “He had a claim on the creek. One of the biggest and best. One day the word went through camp that he’d been off chopping firewood and been attacked and killed by a grizzly.”
“Han’s doing,” Arnold said, and his eyes blazed with hate.
“You’ll help us?” Fargo asked.
“If it involves killing Han, I sure as hell will,” Arnold declared.
Fargo moved to the next cell. He didn’t know how long it would be before the pair he had slain were missed.
This time it was the second key, and again it was a white man, in so sorry a state it was a wonder he was alive.
“God,” Bannon exclaimed yet again. “Webber, is that you?”
“It’s me, blacksmith,” the man said. He wore a crude eye patch and his left arm was permanently bent at an unnatural angle.
“They said you left your claim and went back east,” Bannon told him. “What, two months ago?”
“They lied.”
“Are you with us too?” Fargo asked.
“Damn right I am,” Webber said.
The rest of the cells contained Chinese. They were in the same pitiable shape, and didn’t speak English. But when Fargo said the word “Han” and pantomimed slitting his own throat, they understood.