by Sharpe, Jon
Fargo did as the man wanted. After, he wiped the blade on the blacksmith’s shirt and stepped back and stared at the limp remains.
Sounds in the distance brought Fargo out of himself. Bending, he slid the toothpick into its sheath and pulled his pant leg down. Drawing the Colt, he made sure all six chambers were loaded. Then he stepped from the cell.
The sounds grew louder. More than one person was coming down the stairs.
Fargo shut the cell door as quietly as possible and melted into the shadows.
Light splashed the bottom of the stars. Two Tong materialized, one holding a lantern. They were talking and smiling. They went to the door and one peered in.
“American,” he called out in bad English. “How are you?” He made a remark in Chinese to the other Tong and both laughed.
Fargo saw a hatchet on the hip of the man holding the lantern. Switching the Colt to his left hand, he glided up behind them. He didn’t shoot. He yanked the hatchet free, whipped it high, and sheared it down into the crown of the Tong’s head. It went in deeper than he expected. Wrenching it out, he shoved the Tong out of the way.
The other one spun. He saw his friend falling and the bloody hatchet in Fargo’s hand, and pressed back against the cell door, bleating, “No!”
“Where’s Han?”
“Where he always is,” the Tong said.
Which Fargo took to mean on the throne in the audience chamber. He nodded at the cell. “Were you one of the ones who did that to him?”
“Me?” The man was breaking out in a sweat. “No. Others do it.”
“You’d be piss-poor at poker,” Fargo said, and arced the hatchet up and into the Tong’s groin. The man screeched and clawed for his own hatchet but it was too little, too late.
Fargo cut him across the throat and stepped back to escape the spray.
It took a full minute for this last one to die.
Fargo holstered the Colt and helped himself to the other hatchet. With one in each hand, he climbed. He stopped below the first landing and peered over. Strangely enough, he didn’t see Tong anywhere.
Fargo resumed climbing, faster now, taking two steps at a stride. There were no Tong at the second landing or the landings after that.
The doors to the audience chamber were closed.
Fargo put his ear to one but it was too thick to hear anything. Holding both hatchets in his left hand, he gripped the handle and pulled the door out a crack. From within came voices: Han’s and Lo Ping’s. To his surprise, they were speaking English.
“Has it been arranged?” Han was quietly asking.
“Your wish is always my command, great one,” Lo Ping said in the same hushed manner.
“No one knows except you and me and the four men you have chosen?”
“No one,” Lo Ping said.
“You are certain they can be trusted?”
“They are your most devoted servants,” Lo Ping said. “Have no fear. The parents will be taken below, and the men I picked will take the daughter to your private quarters.”
“Excellent,” Han said. “Some might think me a hypocrite and I cannot have that.”
“Never, great one,” Lo Ping said.
They switched to Chinese.
Fargo had listened to enough. They must have been near the doors for him to hear them so clearly. Fate had given him a golden opportunity; he mustn’t let it slip by.
He only hoped that most of the Tong were out searching for Mai Wing and him.
Taking a deep breath, Fargo hauled on the handle. The door swung wide, and there, not twenty feet off, walking away, were Han and Lo Ping, Han with his hands up his sleeves, Lo Ping in the perpetual half bow he assumed when in his lord and master’s presence.
Behind them, in silent ranks, were twenty or more Tong.
Both turned.
Han recovered from his surprise first, and smiled his superior smile. “What a pleasant surprise. How delightful that you have paid me a visit.”
“Master!” Lo Ping exclaimed.
Han ignored him. “Are you considering joining our benevolent society? Is that why you hold hatchets?”
Fargo had misjudged. He thought they were close enough to the doors that he could split their skulls and get the hell out of there before anyone could catch him.
“Cat have your tongue, as you Americans quaintly say?” Han taunted. “I don’t know what madness has come over you, to attack me in my Pagoda. But I thank you for making this so easy.” His smile widened. “As another of your expressions has it, you should make your peace with your Maker.”
22
Skye Fargo was used to high odds. Sioux war parties, Apache war parties, outlaws, banditos, he often found himself pitted against more than one enemy at a time.
The Tong were poised to rush him, hands on their hatchets or hatchets in their hands. All they needed was a word or gesture from their master.
Fargo didn’t wait for the word to be given. He whipped his right arm and threw the hatchet at Han. There were frontiersmen who excelled at throwing an ax or hatchet; he wasn’t one of them. He seldom used an ax, save for chopping wood, and unlike backwoodsmen, he never carried a hatchet. So he wasn’t surprised that he missed. Not by much, though. The hatchet flashed past Han’s head, and for an instant stark fear animated those inscrutable features.
Almost in the same breath, Fargo threw the other hatchet at Lo Ping. It was only to delay the two and free his hands to use the Colt. But this time the hatchet streaked end over end and buried itself in Lo Ping’s right shoulder.
Lo Ping screamed and clutched himself as blood spurted.
Han roared in Chinese.
Fargo whirled and ran. He had come in the back way and he figured to go out that way, too.
Baying and howling like so many wolves, the Tong gave chase, sweeping toward the doors in a body.
Fargo was a fast runner. He had once entered a famous footrace, competing against some of the top runners in the country and a few from overseas. Now he fairly flew down the long hall.
Some of the Tong were fleet of foot, too, and grimly determined to avenge the insult to their lord. Two, in particular, were human antelopes. Legs pumping, they were gaining.
Fargo focused on running and only running. His worry was that their shouts would bring someone out of the side rooms directly into his path and slow him long enough for the main bunch to catch him.
The hall seemed to stretch for miles.
He had gone half its length when the patter of slapping sandals warned him the two fastest were practically nipping at his bootheels. He risked a look over his shoulder.
The swiftest Tong was almost close enough to throw his hatchet if he wanted to. The other one was a few yards behind.
Fargo wouldn’t reach the rear door before they were on him. So he didn’t try. Suddenly stopping and whirling, he shot the lead Tong in the head. The second one abruptly halted and made as if to throw his weapon. Fargo sent a slug between his eyes.
The rest of the black-clad pack howled in fury.
Fargo ran on. He had a good enough lead over the others that he was confident he’d reach the door ahead of them. In the dark of night he stood a good chance of slipping away.
He went another fifty or sixty feet and looked back to make sure none of the Tong were closing on him. They weren’t.
He faced front—and swore.
An old woman holding a broom had stepped through a beaded curtain and was gaping at him in amazement.
Fargo started to shout, “Out of my way!” but he was already on top of her. They collided so hard, they both went down. She screamed, more in fear than pain. His left knee spiked with agony, and then he was up again.
Several Tong were dangerously near.
Fargo shot the f
irst in the chest. The hatchet man pitched forward and the others avoided him by vaulting over the body.
Fargo shot the second as he landed, shot the third in midleap.
More bellows of fury filled the hall.
Fargo’s knee hurt with every step but it didn’t slow him any. He reached the back door and burst out, and tripped over the body of one of the guards he had knifed.
He stumbled, recovered, and was off into the night before the Tong spilled through the doorway.
Fargo made north toward the canyon wall. If they lit torches and tracked him, it would throw them off for a while.
When he at last turned to the west, he didn’t head for the O’Briens’ house; he made for their store. He slipped the key O’Brien had lent him into the back door and ducked inside.
Closing the door, Fargo leaned against it to catch his breath. Some light filtered in from the window of a nearby building. Not much, but enough that he could make things out.
He was annoyed at himself for not killing Han. It might come back to haunt him later.
Mopping sweat from his brow with his sleeve, he was about to straighten when he heard the stealthy scrape of a foot. Crouching, he cocked the Colt. He couldn’t believe the Tong had gotten there ahead of him, but if they had, they’d find that cornering him and killing him were two different things.
“Skye? Is that you?”
“Damn,” Fargo said, and rose.
A lithe form separated from the shadows. The scent of her perfume was stronger than usual.
“Flanna,” Fargo said gruffly, “what in hell are you doing here?”
“Is that any way to greet me?” Flanna said, placing her hand on his chest and looking up into his eyes.
“Is your pa here?”
“No, just me.” Flanna lightly kissed him on the chin. “I slipped out when they were talking to Mai Wing. Wasn’t I clever?”
“You damned idiot.”
“Here now,” Flanna said, her feathers ruffled. “I have a perfect excuse to tell them. I came to show you where to find the kegs of black powder.”
“Your father already told me.”
“I know.” Flanna laughed. “But there are two kegs and you can’t carry both so I’ll say I came to lend you a hand.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Fargo said, and pushed her back. “The Tong are after me.”
“I’m not afraid of them.”
“You should be.” Fargo didn’t have time to argue. He remembered the conversation he’d overheard between Han and Lo Ping. “Where’s this hidey-hole of yours?”
“I’ll show you.”
The black powder was kept in their “cellar,” as they called it, a square hole about four feet deep. To get at it, they had to lift some of the floorboards and set them aside.
“Wasn’t this clever of my father?” Flanna said. “He didn’t want the Tong getting their hands on it.”
Fargo stiffened. From out in front of the store came the thud of pounding feet. Quickly, he covered Flanna’s mouth with his hand and whispered in her ear, “Not a peep if you value your hide.”
Whoever it was—and Fargo could guess who—they went on past.
He removed his hand. “From now on whisper. And don’t make any noise if you can help it.”
“Why would they look in here?” Flanna whispered. “They don’t know my family and you are friends.”
“Hell, girl,” Fargo said. “You and me walked down the main street together the other day.”
“Oh,” Flanna said. “I forgot.”
“Show me the damn kegs.”
They were stacked one on top of the other in a corner of the hole. Fargo was surprised to also find guns and ammunition.
“Father hid them so the Tong couldn’t get their hands on them,” Flanna explained. “Turns out, they don’t have much interest in firearms.”
Fargo lowered his feet to the bottom. He was bending to pick up the top keg when he heard more pounding of feet out in the street.
He couldn’t say what made him do what he did next. Premonition, maybe, a gut feeling that the Tong would leave no stone uncovered.
Grabbing Flanna, Fargo pulled her down next to him.
“Hey!” she squawked.
“Quick,” he said in her ear. “Help me cover the hole.”
The boards weren’t heavy but they had to be placed just so. As Fargo was sliding the second to last into place, a fist hammered on the front door and a voice called out in Chinese.
Fargo pushed Flanna low to the dirt, grabbed the last floorboard, and settled it over his head just as wood splintered at the front of the store.
“They’re kicking in the door!”
Fargo clamped his hand on her mouth and held her tight as feet thumped on the floor above.
A lot of Tong were up there, going down every aisle. Voices rattled in Chinese.
Shouts outside apparently drew the Tong back out. The front door slammed and the store fell quiet.
Fargo eased his hand off Flanna’s mouth but touched a finger to her lips so she would know not to say anything. It was nearly pitch-black. He became conscious of her warm body against his.
From the commotion in the street, the Tong were going from door to door.
Eventually Fargo felt safe in whispering, “It’s all right. We can talk.”
“My father will have a fit when he sees they broke the door in.”
Fargo almost said they had a lot bigger worries than the damn door, but didn’t.
“I reckon we’re stuck here a while,” Flanna said, not sounding the least bit upset about it.
“Until the coast is clear,” Fargo said.
“Oh well,” Flanna said, and snuggled closer. “We might as well make ourselves comfortable.”
Fargo didn’t see how. There was barely enough room for him to stretch out his legs.
Flanna shifted so her bosom was on his chest. “Nice, isn’t it?”
“Behave.”
“Whatever are you talking about? I’m not that kind of woman, thank you very much.”
Fargo was glad shut-in places didn’t bother him. He had a friend who couldn’t stand to be hemmed in and wouldn’t even enter a closet.
“Listen!” Flanna whispered. “Do you hear that?”
Fargo did. The creak of the front door. Some of the Tong must have been sneaking back in. Maybe they suspected something.
Feet shuffled to a stop overhead.
Fargo felt Flanna’s fingernails dig into his arm.
Then one of the boards was lifted out and a hand gripped his shirt.
23
Fargo gripped the wrist above the hand and cocked his other fist.
“It’s me!” Mai Wing whispered.
Flanna blurted, “What in the world?”
Fargo let go and removed more floorboards. Mai Wing helped. Standing, he pulled Flanna to her feet and boosted her out of the hole. Only then did he ask, “What are you doing here?”
“I came to tell you,” Mai Wing said. “The Tong came to the house. They took Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien.”
“What?” Flanna gasped in horror.
Fargo guessed what she would do and was out of the hole and had his arm around her waist as she took her second step toward the front door. “No, you don’t.”
“Let go!” Flanna struggled, pushing against him. “They’re my parents, consarn you.”
“Do you want to be thrown in the dungeon with them?” Fargo said, knowing full well that wasn’t the fate Han had in store.
“Please,” Flanna said. “I have to go help them.”
“The only thing for us to do,” Fargo said, “is to get them out of there. But we have to do it smart.”
Flanna subsided, and
trembled. “Why would the Tong take them? What have they done?”
“I heard some of what they said,” Mai Wing said. “Your father heard them coming and your mother rushed me to the pantry and had me hide.”
Flanna let out a soft sob. “I wish we’d left this terrible place weeks ago.”
“Han thinks your parents have been helping Fargo,” Mai Wing went on with her account, “so he wants to question them.”
“If that’s only all he does,” Flanna said.
Fargo thought of how much Han delighted in torture, and held his tongue.
“I stayed hidden until the Tong were gone,” Mai Wing related. “I knew Skye was to come here for the powder so I came to warn you.”
“You did right fine,” Fargo said. “Stay put, both of you.” He crept to the front and peered out the window.
People were moving up and down the street but he didn’t spot Tong. He returned to the women. “They’ve already searched here so it should be safe to stay a while.”
“And my parents?” Flanna said.
“I’m going after them,” Fargo said. “But first I rig a few surprises for Han and his boys.” He gazed about the shelves. “I need empty bottles.”
“I’ll fetch them,” Flanna offered.
“She is most upset,” Mai Wing commented as the redhead hastened down an aisle. “I am sorry I brought sad tidings.”
“O’Brien should have lit a shuck long ago,” Fargo said.
“You wouldn’t have, I bet, if this was your store.”
“I don’t have a family.” Fargo dropped into the hole and lifted the first keg out, grunting from the exertion. He placed the second keg beside it.
“Is that enough for whatever you have in mind?”
“It’s enough to blow this whole camp to hell and back again.”
“You sound eager to do so.”
“Han has it coming.”
“Do you need a light to see by?”
“If I don’t want to blow us to kingdom come,” Fargo said. But a light would be seen out on the street. Either they covered the windows with blankets, which would arouse suspicion, or they did the next best thing: they hung blankets on the nearest shelves to form a sort of indoor tent.