Strong Convictions: An Emmett Strong Western (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 1)

by GP Hutchinson

  Ping shifted in her chair for a better view of Li’s face. She covered her mouth, then glanced toward the chaperones and back again. “Li-Li,” she whispered, “I’m your best friend. I know you. You’ve got someone particular in mind, don’t you?”

  Li nearly let a laugh slip. Her friend was so eager for a juicy story. “What if I did?” She bit her lip.

  Ping dropped her voice even lower. “Who is he? Is he from Dayton? From Truckee?”

  Li shook her head. She too stole a glance at the cluster of mothers in the far corner. “From farther away.” She was enjoying the game.

  “From China?”

  “Uh-uh.” For some reason, her thoughts flew to Emmett Strong. Again. “From America.”

  Ping frowned. “Are you telling me you’ve got your eyes on an American? On an English American?”

  The other girls were coming out of the kitchen with refreshments. Li couldn’t decide how long to keep the deceit going. “All I can say is that I met this beautiful American man at the café the other night.”

  Ping’s jaw dropped.

  Before her friend could say anything else, Li put a finger to her lips. He was handsome, she thought. But this was just a game, right? She and an American? It would never work. For now, though, it was fun to see Ping getting so worked up.

  “He wasn’t loud,” Li said. “He was very polite. But at the same time he seemed very strong.” Then she looked Ping in the eyes. “And somehow very sad too.” That much was true.

  “You can never defy your parents that way, Li Xu. It’s the one thing you cannot do.”

  Li squeezed Ping’s arm. The game wasn’t quite over. “Promise me you won’t say a word.”

  “But—”

  Peering sternly into her friend’s eyes, Li insisted, “Not a word, Ping.”

  Everyone else was gathering for pastries and tea now. It was time to join them. Later that night she might tell her friend that she had only been teasing. Or maybe not.

  Li rose to set her pipa on a vacant table.

  At that very moment, the front door exploded into hundreds of shards of wood and glass. Another crash sounded from the back of the kitchen. Women and girls screamed as masked men pointing guns poured into the restaurant from both doors.

  Several of the men were shouting. A tall one in a blue vest waved a pistol and yelled, “Shut up! All of you, shut up right now!”

  The chaperones dashed from their table to put themselves between the invaders and the panicked girls. They shouted back in Mandarin and broken English.

  Li’s heart pounded as never before in her entire life. She huddled next to Ping and their friends.

  Four of the masked men took up spots in the corners of the room, pointing shotguns menacingly. The rest herded the girls and women into the center of the room.

  Two of the Chinese women tried to pummel the intruders with their fists. They were instantly pistol-whipped, and they dropped to the floor, blood seeping from their heads.

  Now there was more crying than yelling from the Chinese girls and their mothers.

  The tall masked man in the dark-blue vest stepped forward. “Line up the girls,” he said to his gang. “Side by side.”

  A smaller man wearing a long black duster, filthy boots, and a beat-up, broad-brimmed hat stood next to him.

  One of the teens—a sweet girl named Yan—wriggled free from her captor and sprinted for the kitchen. A terrifying bang filled the air, and Yan stumbled to the floor, the back of her smock already glistening deep red.

  A new wave of screaming and wailing erupted.

  The man with the blue silk vest yelled, “I told you no shootin’ unless the men came runnin’, dammit!”

  He strode to within a foot of the line of girls. His brow furrowed above the black bandanna that covered his nose and mouth. “You wanna live?” He shook his own revolver in the girls’ faces. “You stay put and keep your mouths shut.”

  Then he turned to his own people. “Time’s tickin’. Let’s get this done.”

  He flicked a gloved hand, signaling those of his men who were restraining the chaperones. In response, they struck the women with the butts of their pistols. One by one the chaperones slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  Li shivered, crying silently.

  The smaller man in the black duster looked at the one in the blue vest.

  “Well,” the blue-vested one said. “Get on with it. The six best ones.”

  The man in the black duster swaggered forward. He peered up and down the line of Chinese girls. Silently he pointed a worn glove at one of them—at Min.

  Two of the masked men pulled Min out of line. One forced a thick strip of cloth into her mouth and tied it behind her head, while the other one roughly grasped her wrists and bound them with cord. Tears flowing down her cheeks, Min’s fragile efforts to writhe free changed nothing.

  Li’s heart pounded even harder when they slipped a black cloth bag over Min’s head and escorted her out through the kitchen. What were these men planning to do to her?

  The one in the black duster was still staring at the kitchen, even after the other two had led Min out.

  Grasping the small man’s shoulder, the one with the blue vest said in a hoarse whisper, “We don’t have time for this. Hurry up and pick five more.”

  The choosing process was repeated. Ping was taken. Xia was chosen.

  Li could hear her own pulse rushing in her ears. She felt as if she might pass out, but she hung on. Then the man pointed to her.

  “Nooo,” she moaned softly, tears running down her cheeks. Leather cord bit into her wrists as they bound her. Panic gripped her as the itchy black sack dropped over her head. A vice-like hand clamped the back of her neck and guided her through the kitchen out into the cool night air.

  She sensed she was right beside a horse. Somebody grasped her foot. For an instant she was tempted to kick. But suddenly the image of Yan lying on the floor bleeding was all she could see.

  Numbly she allowed one man to place her foot in a stirrup while another lifted her. When his hand slid to her rump, she hurried to sit in the saddle. Even more tears flowed.

  The other girls were crying softly nearby.

  Someone snagged her bound hands and lashed them to the saddle horn. She was now unquestionably their captive—powerless to fight back.

  Another sound cut through her racing thoughts, faint at first, but growing louder—the sound of animated voices. Men speaking Mandarin. Was there any chance? Could they somehow overpower this gang of kidnappers?

  She jumped involuntarily at the cough of first one shotgun, then another.

  Several more shots rang out.

  Shouts turned to screams and groans. The shooting stopped.

  All around her, men rustled, hurrying, she gathered, to mount their horses. The horse next to her brushed her leg. With a jolt her own mount set off at a brisk walk. Apparently the whole band was now in motion. Rhythmic hoofbeats and creaking saddle leather were the only sounds remaining as she and her helpless friends were led away into the night.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Emmett rode into Reno at that hour of the afternoon when the first few men begin to drift into their favorite watering holes to wash down the dust from a hard day’s work. He wanted to size up the town, wanted to know whether Reno lay suffocating under the same blanket of fear that smothered Carson City.

  The transcontinental railroad ran through Reno. Railroads themselves tended to make certain folk rich and influential. With that in mind, Emmett figured McIntosh and Blaylock couldn’t be the only big men in town—powerful as they might be, running a string of high-end bed houses, saloons, and gaming parlors.

  From first impressions, he considered the general appearance of Reno to be a little healthier than that of Carson City. Lots of folks were out along the streets. A man and a woman
, arms loaded, were coming out of a dry goods store. Looked to be husband and wife. Comfortable with one another. An old codger was heading into a barber shop. Probably full of all kinds of vinegar. Three men in suits were standing on the front porch of a lawyer’s office. The Smithson Hotel just ahead looked nice.

  Not wanting to draw attention to himself by making the same block multiple times, Emmett tried to take in as much as he could on the first pass down each street. As he scanned the boardwalks for any familiar faces, one particular visage remained imprinted on his mind—Charlie Blaylock’s.

  A couple of riders coming up the street from the opposite direction gave him the once-over. Judging from their expressions and the way they carried themselves, they must’ve decided he was just another stranger passing through.

  That’s why I don’t believe in dressing fancy, he thought. Good boots and a reasonably new hat. But beyond that, ordinary works best.

  Emmett noted that, unlike Carson City, Reno had a sheriff’s office. And he found a town marshal’s office too, just two blocks farther down the same street. As far as he could see—and he was trying hard to see just about everything—there were no roving bands of gunslicks swaggering around Reno like the ones he’d encountered down in the capital. Lucian McIntosh and Seth Blaylock must’ve preferred to keep their protection closer to their homesteads.

  He’d just about made up his mind to ride out of the city and report back to his compadres when a fellow loping along the boardwalk caught his attention.

  His chest tightened. Looks an awful lot like Charlie Blaylock. And he’s by himself.

  Emmett angled his horse toward a scene of everyday activity on the opposite side of the street. A store clerk and his customer were loading supplies from the mercantile onto a buckboard wagon. Emmett dismounted as close to the pair as he could without being in their way and tossed his horse’s reins around the hitching rail.

  The whole time he kept his gaze fixed on the man he thought might be Blaylock. Walking as briskly as he could manage without calling undue attention to himself, he hurried up the street parallel to the man in brown. The hat sure looked a lot like the one Blaylock wore the day of the shooting down in Austin.

  Now Emmett could see the fellow’s profile. He was clean-shaven, not whiskered as Charlie Blaylock had been when he had bushwhacked Eli.

  Emmett scanned the avenue in both directions. No bad eggs that he could spot.

  He cut back across the street, now making a beeline for the suspect. Just about then, the fellow turned his gaze into the traffic. Not directly at Emmett—just a bit ahead of him. That was enough. No question—it was Charlie Blaylock.

  A wave of guarded optimism swept over Emmett.

  Blaylock trudged on along a stretch of boardwalk that led to the Hyperion Saloon. The saloon had to be Charlie’s destination. Not much time to catch up to him before he’d pass through the swinging doors at the next street corner.

  Emmett rested his hand on the grip of his Colt. He snatched a quick look around and picked up his pace.

  Just a dozen steps more and he could discreetly shove the barrel of his revolver into the murderer’s ribs. His heart raced.

  Then Charlie Blaylock glanced over. Did a double-take. His jaw went slack, and he began to fumble for his own gun.

  Emmett’s was already drawn, but Charlie was only a step away from the saloon doors. Rather than face Emmett, he whirled and ducked into the Hyperion.

  Dang it! Taking a shot at Blaylock as he turned his back would’ve been a bad choice. To some folks that might’ve looked like murder.

  Pistol still in hand, Emmett pressed against the exterior wall of the saloon and eased over to the window. Before peering in, he stole another quick look at the street. No dithering now.

  Through the window he spotted Charlie at the bar, Schofield in hand. His indistinct shouting spilled out of the nearby doors. The barkeeper—a burly fellow—pulled a shotgun from beneath the counter and turned for the front exit. On his way he waved to somebody Emmett couldn’t see at that angle.

  From Emmett’s blind side, a hand clamped onto his shoulder. He recoiled and spun, ready to shoot.

  It was a smallish fellow wearing spectacles. He let go of Emmett and showed his empty hands. “Come with me!” he said. “Quick!”

  There was little time to weigh options. Emmett nodded once. “Lead on.”

  He followed hard on the man’s heels as he dashed first down the alley between the Hyperion and a tobacco shop, then down another alley that ran the length of that city block.

  At the far end, the wiry, spectacled man pushed open the back door to a tidy, white clapboard building. Emmett slipped in behind him and shut the door. Newspapers hung all around the room. Others lay folded on tables. Still others filled floor-to-ceiling shelves.

  Emmett’s rescuer wiped his forehead, took a few deep breaths, then said, “Welcome to the Reno Register—best newspaper in town.”

  Before Emmett could respond, the fellow added, “Mister, you pull something like that again in Reno, and you’ll likely be cut down in about two shakes.”

  “Where’d you come from? Why’d you stop me?” Emmett asked.

  The man took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief while he talked. “I just dropped off a stack of the afternoon edition at Dick Kimble’s mercantile. I came out just in time to see you lighting off, following somebody at quite a clip.”

  So much for being discreet, Emmett thought.

  The Reno Register man continued, “The reporter in me said to follow you for a bit. See what you were up to. Along the way, I spotted Charlie Blaylock across the street.”

  “Wait a minute. You know Charlie Blaylock? He’s only been here a few days at most.”

  The newspaperman nodded. “Saw Seth Blaylock giving him the grand tour of town. Overheard him introducing Charlie to some friends as his brother. So just now when I noticed it was Seth Blaylock’s brother you were after—”

  “You risked your neck to pull me out of the line of fire. But how’d you know I wouldn’t shoot you before turning my gun on Charlie?”

  “History’s taught me,” the newspaperman said, “if somebody’s in cahoots with a Blaylock, he’s probably on the wrong side of the law. You chasing down Charlie’d put you on the right side of the law…most likely.”

  Emmett pulled back the lapel of his vest and showed the newspaper fellow the Texas Ranger badge pinned to his shirt.

  “Had a hunch you might be wearing one of those…from one jurisdiction or another.”

  “Charlie Blaylock’s a fugitive—a murderer.”

  “I’m not surprised. Seems to run in the family.”

  “Knowing as much, you took a big gamble.”

  “No love lost between me and Seth Blaylock—nor between me and Lucian McIntosh. By the bye, Stanley Cromarty’s the name.” He stuck out his hand.

  “Emmett Strong. Much obliged, Mr. Cromarty.”

  They shook.

  Emmett glanced through the doorway leading to the front office. “If anybody saw you pull me away from that little exchange out there—”

  “Yep,” Cromarty said. “This is just a quick stop. I’m going to send you packing now that you’ve caught your breath.”

  “Even so, won’t they show up here any minute? And won’t they come down on you with a heavy hand?”

  “Nope, they won’t touch me. I’m a regular thorn in their side.”

  Emmett tilted his head. “Now that’s a story I’d like to hear.”

  “Wish we had time, Mr. Strong, but I’m afraid you need to move along now.”

  “Left my horse over by the mercantile.”

  “I’ll send someone for it. Deliver it to you over at the livery stable. You’ll be safe there till nightfall. Then you’d best hightail it out of town.”

  “I don’t suppose you could meet
me outside of Reno somewhere to fill me in on the Blaylocks. I don’t have any business with McIntosh.”

  Cromarty seemed to ignore Emmett’s request. He stepped to the back door, cracked it open, and strained to see what he could. “Looks OK, but give me a second.” He slipped outside.

  When he came back in he said, “You just hurry along the alley to your left. You’ll likely smell the livery stable before you get there. Let yourself in through the back gate. Look for a big redheaded fellow—goes by Bridger. Tell him I sent you.”

  “What about filling me in on the Blaylocks?” Emmett asked, hand on the door.

  “I’ll get you an answer by nightfall.”

  Emmett tugged on the brim of his hat, then dashed out and down the alley.

  Bridger himself, the strapping fellow who ran the livery stable, went and fetched Emmett’s horse.

  “They’re crawlin’ all over town, still tryin’ to find you,” Bridger said. “Asked me a dozen times whose horse this was and why I was takin’ it over here to the stable.”

  “What’d you tell ’em?” Emmett asked.

  “Said it belonged to a miner from Virginia City, a fella who was late for his train to San Francisco a couple hours ago.”

  Emmett glanced at the big barn door on the street side of the building. “I was really hoping to hear something from Mr. Cromarty before I cut dirt.”

  Bridger rubbed the mustang’s muzzle and handed the reins to Emmett. “Oh, I saw him.”

  “Everything OK?”

  “Oddly enough, he don’t think anybody saw him pull you into the alley—not anybody that matters anyway.”

  “That’s good news. By any chance did he give you a message for me?”

  Bridger said, “Matter of fact…” He pulled a piece of folded newsprint from his shirt pocket. “You best tuck that away and read it later.”

  Emmett took the paper. “I’m beholden to you, Bridger.”

  The big man shook his head. “Not at all.”

  Emmett stepped into the stirrup.