El Paso Way

by Steven Law

  He grabbed Sai Min by the arm and jerked her to him. She gasped with fear and tried not to show her face.

  Pang wanted badly to stop this humiliation, but his arm was locked in his father’s grasp, and he could only vent his fury by exhaling large breaths of air.

  Valdar laughed again and pushed Sai Min toward his comrades. Baliador grabbed her and shoved her to the ground.

  The bandit leader picked up Sai Min’s pillow and tossed it away. She bowed her head toward the table as he plopped down next to her. He grabbed her chin and turned her head toward his face, drawing a gasp of fear from her lungs. Without looking away he took another drink.

  Hingon addressed the men, with the calm grace that Pang had always admired.

  “What do you want from us?” Hingon asked. “We have no opium”

  “Aye, there is more to life than opium, viejo,” Valdar said, rubbing a knuckle down Mun Lo’s cheek.

  Hingon maintained a steady composure, breathing heavily in through his nose while he continued to hold Pang’s arm.

  Valdar snapped his fingers, and Baliador rose and came to him with a long and narrow box. Valdar placed the box on the table and opened it, revealing a silver-and-porcelain opium pipe. Though handsomely made, the pipe represented all that was bad in this world. From a tailor’s perspective, it was like a needle of destruction, and the smoke it created the thread that sewed seams of ruin through the blood of those who inhaled it.

  Valdar removed the glass globe from the oil lamp and stuck the end of a chopstick into the flame. The dry wood ignited quickly, and Valdar brought the flame to the pipe and inhaled. He removed his fingertip from the porcelain damper and held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds, then blew it toward the roof of the tent. He took several more tokes, and before long his eyes became gray and rheumy.

  He handed the pipe to Mun Lo, and she accepted it with trembling hands. He tipped back the tequila and watched her. His eyes peered over the bottle as if he were in a trance. When he removed the bottle from his lips, a trickle ran down his chin. He looked at Mun Lo with a befuddled smile then grabbed her by the arm and jerked her to him.

  As before, Pang wanted to go to her aid, but his father continued to restrain him. Pang did not understand, with their special talent for self-defense, why they could not stop this atrocity. Kung fu was something that the people of this country did not know, and Pang had always believed it was their special weapon. But Hingon continued to hold back, and even when Pang looked at him, he responded only with a discreet shake of his head.

  Pang just stood there, his muscles as tight as piano strings while these men invaded their home and challenged their integrity. He watched them all carefully, especially Baliador, who kneeled and clutched the arm of his fiancée.

  Baliador looked back at him through black, squinted eyes. A long, narrow mustache hung over his chin at both ends, and his thin face, like the others’, was sweaty and dark from many days in the sun.

  Unlike Baliador, Beshkah paid no attention to Pang. He sat on the floor beside Sai Min. The silver of his shoes and spurs reflected the dull light as he held the ivory end of a bamboo pipe to his lips and sucked in the smoke. Then Pang watched the bandit’s hand as it moved under Sai Min’s robe.

  Mun Lo screamed as Valdar ripped open her robe and licked her neck. He let out a coarse laugh then took another drink. This time Pang could feel a different tension in his father’s grasp, as if this wise old man had reached the peak of his tolerance. But when Valdar stood and pushed Mun Lo away, Hingon kept his stance.

  Valdar called out to his men. “Vayamos, hombres.”

  Baliador stood quickly, but Beshkah was a little more hesitant and kept kissing Sai Min’s ear. Valdar walked to him and kicked one of his shoes.

  “Vayamos!”

  Beshkah grunted angrily and pushed Sai Min away.

  Valdar came back to Mun Lo, grabbed her by the arm, and lifted her to her feet. Beshkah grabbed Sai Min in the same manner. The two women screamed and cowered.

  Hingon stepped in front of his son and confronted Valdar. “Why do you do this to my family?”

  “What is wrong, viejo? Do you not like to see us enjoy ourselves?”

  “Please, leave our home. We have done nothing to you.”

  “Maybe we will leave. And maybe we will take something with us.”

  Pang broke loose from his father’s grasp, and this time Hingon did not stop him. Valdar pulled a revolver from under his serape and pointed it at Pang. No one moved.

  “Ah,” Valdar said. “You know that no one can stop us, right?”

  “My daughters have done nothing to you,” Hingon said. “Leave them. I will give you everything I have.”

  “That is very kind of you, but these fine young women are worth more than anything you have.”

  “Please, I beg you.”

  “Do not beg, viejo. It’s something I cannot bear to watch.”

  Valdar and his comrades laughed wildly as they dragged the screaming women out of the tent. Hingon and Pang ran after them, but Valdar turned and shot his revolver, forcing them to refrain.

  Hingon fell backward and collapsed into his son’s arms. Pang lowered him to the ground, observed his narrowing eyes, then a spot of blood that grew on the white cotton robe over his chest.

  Pang put his hand on the side of his father’s face.

  “Father?”

  Hingon’s jaw quivered and his mouth opened. “Have faith, my son. For the justice you desire, do not pay with blood, but with service to your people.”

  After a lengthy exhale between his lips, Hingon’s eyes closed, and Pang looked up into the sky and from the bottom of his lungs cried for the soul of his father.

  *

  The gunshot had brought out the neighboring Chinese from their homes, one of them a special friend to the Los, Vin Long, who came quickly to Hingon’s side. Pang embraced his father, reciting a Chinese prayer that asked for protection of Hingon’s spirit.

  Vin placed a hand on Pang’s shoulder. “Peace will one day belong to us, but by the grace of He who is more powerful, your father will never know the wicked again.”

  Pang looked up at him with a bitter stare. “Take his body and prepare it for burial.”

  “You do not need to ask twice. I will be at your service.”

  Pang looked out to the end of the street, to where the gaslights faded away. “And if it kills me, I will be a service to my people.”

  The Chinese had been in Tucson less than a decade, and little had changed other than that they now had the ability to form a separate community. Pang’s father, like Vin, had once worked for the Southern Pacific Railroad, and during a shutdown period in the severe heat of July, he came to Tucson rather than waiting out the downtime or returning to Mother China.

  He and Vin went into business, his father starting a tailoring trade and Vin a restaurant. The start-up was difficult, as they weren’t welcome anywhere they tried to settle. They were thought of as filthy heathens and faced humiliating and often brutal resistance wherever they landed. But Hingon and Vin were clear-minded and knew that because of the poverty back in the Guangdong Province, made worse by the Opium Wars, they could not have a better life than what they could gain here. If possible they would make their fortune and take it back with them, or else they would send for their families. When the time came, they would do whichever seemed more feasible.

  But now, to Pang, it all seemed to have been in vain. He remembered how happy he was when his father had arranged for his sister to join them in this place called America. They could not afford to bring their mother for another year, and the special gift was to be that she would be there for Pang and Sai Min’s wedding.

  Pang had to be the one to deliver the sad news of his father’s death to his mother, and by letter, not in person. With all that he now faced, he feared he would never see her again either.

  He left his father’s body to Vin and walked steadily toward the railroad tracks, out of the Chine
se district. He was certain that the gunshot was heard on the other side, but no attention was ever given to their part of town, their people, unless it was to the gain of the whites.

  No gaslights were near the tracks, so he walked a short distance in total darkness, destined to the street ahead, where lights on the poles glowed again and where the saloons gave off the only signs of activity.

  He walked up onto the planked sidewalk and under the awning, past two doors to an adobe building with windows guarded by iron bars. The door was locked, so he gazed down a ways and across the street at the glow that came through the windows and above the batwing doors of the saloon. Laughing, hollering, and music from the building polluted the serenity of the night. Chinese weren’t allowed to enter the saloons. Havoc sure stirred if ever it happened, and it rarely did. Pang credited the wisdom for the avoidance of such trouble to his elders, but there were those stray few with a death wish. Pang wondered if he suddenly had one of his own.

  Nothing could stop his drive. He felt no fear and walked on, diagonally across the dusty street to the walkway in front of the saloon. He peered through the window at the many patrons sitting at the poker and faro tables, with saloon girls at their side or on their lap, encouraging their bets with drink, gartered thighs, and cleavage. A man sat at a piano while a woman watched him and played a white man’s tune Pang didn’t know. He didn’t know any, and didn’t want to. All he wanted now was to find the sheriff, and he found him leaned up at the bar sharing a laugh with a well-dressed man.

  Pang took a deep breath and walked up to the doors. A man came through, bumped into Pang, and nearly fell down, but he caught himself and looked the young Chinaman over, then shook his head and said, “No, no, can’t be … ,” and turned and staggered into the street.

  Pang looked over the doors and with another breath pushed through them. The first to notice him was a dealer at a poker table, then the woman at the piano, who lost her smile and tapped the player on the shoulder. The music stopped and the player turned around. Most of the patrons looked at the player first, but then turned around to see what had captured his interest.

  All eyes looked at Pang.

  Though they were all interested in him, he was only interested in one man, the sheriff, Chas Dutton.

  The bartender, on the other side of the bar, between Dutton and the well-dressed man, reached below and pulled up a short club. Dutton turned from the bar and stood straight. The well-dressed man eyeballed Pang as if waiting for a reaction.

  “You’re not allowed in here and you know it,” Dutton said.

  Pang stood firm. “I wish to speak to you.”

  The sheriff glanced around at the crowd then back at Pang. “Yeah, and I wish every time I drank whiskey that I could piss gold.” The crowd guffawed.

  “My father was killed by Antonio Valdar. Just now, outside our home. And he has taken my sister and fiancée with him.”

  Pang knew that name would get the sherrif’s attention, and the crowd’s, and it did. They all took turns glancing at one another, and Dutton took a quick look at the floor. Valdar was not just an enemy to the Chinese, but to everyone. He would be gunned down the instant he set foot in town, but he rarely did. He usually only went to the Chinese district, where white men rarely went, and to the lone villages in the wilderness where he’d commit his vile acts and be long gone before a posse could ever form. There were wanted signs up all over Tucson for him, and for his two sidekicks—$500 for Valdar and $100 each for Baliador and Beshkah.

  “I can’t help you,” Dutton said. “Now, you go back before there’s trouble.”

  “I will not leave. Valdar is near and I know the direction he went.” Pang scanned over all the patrons. “And I know there are many of you who would like the rewards. Now is your chance.”

  He could tell they pondered his words, but no one jumped. The only movement came from Dutton as he stepped toward Pang, his spurs jingling on the wooden floor.

  “You’re way out of line here, Chinaman.” He stopped only a few steps from Pang, both his hands on his waist. “Now I said git and I mean it!”

  To Pang’s left, Deputy Bain spun out of his chair and stood. He was simply dressed, in homespun trousers, a gray band-collared shirt, and a battered derby with a star pinned to the crown. He also wore a holstered gun around his hips, the holster tied to the bottom of his thigh with a leather string.

  Dutton nodded to the deputy, who went for Pang with his arm raised. Pang reacted with a quick spin, jabbing his hand into the back of the deputy’s neck and sending him sailing into a table of patrons. Cards, coins, jewelry, and paper notes flew onto the floor as the deputy sprawled across the table.

  Pang stood there in a wide stance, his knees bent, arms raised over his chest, hands elongated, eyes glaring.

  The people at the table helped the deputy up. Now hatless, he came back at Pang, only to catch a foot in his chest and another hand across the back of his neck.

  “Enough!” yelled Dutton, who now had his gun drawn and pointed at Pang.

  The deputy lay on the floor and wheezed.

  “This is your final warning,” Dutton said. “Either you leave or you’re going down to the jail. And I promise you it won’t be a fun night after what you just did to the jail keeper.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until someone goes after Valdar.”

  Dutton nodded at two more men, who closed in on Pang. The young Chinaman held up his hands as both of them approached. The deputy rose slowly from the floor. Dutton cocked the hammer back on his pistol. “It’s your choice. You touch another one of my men, I shoot you where you stand.”

  “Then I will go to your jail. I will not leave your presence until you do what you’re sworn to do.”

  “Now, you listen here and you listen good. I won’t tolerate that kind of talk out of no one, I don’t care who they are or where they come from. You try any more of that fancy dancin’ around me or my men, or keep talkin’ that smart talk, and you’ll be growin’ old in my jail. You hearin’ me?”

  Pang stood straight and crossed his arms. The two men grabbed him, one at each side, and the deputy punched Pang’s stomach. The young Chinaman winced and curled to the floor. The deputy drew a fist and hit him across the jaw, and while he lay on the floor, he kicked Pang in the chest.

  “All right, that’s enough,” Dutton said.

  The deputy looked angrily back at the sheriff, but the men picked Pang up and dragged him out the door. Dutton holstered his gun, and his spurs clanged as he followed them. They had no more than stepped into the street when all the musical sounds of the saloon played again and made Tucson seem like a town of innocence.

  Enrique Osorio

  Darkness covered the desert when Enrique woke, and he wondered if it all hadn’t been a bad dream, but then he smelled the blood of his parents on his hands. He felt hopeless, and though he had never experienced anything so frightening and painful, he always thought of his grandfather during times of loneliness. The father of his mother, a resourceful man, who built their adobe and with a two-wheeled cart brought the pine logs down from the mountains to make their corral. He was the one who taught Enrique most of what he knew about the wilderness and how to hunt, and who always had the right thing to say about anything that troubled the boy. His abuelo, Isidro Jesus de la Rosa, was the greatest man Enrique had ever known, and he wished for the warmth of his presence.

  Enrique had been told stories of curses on people and that things like this had often happened to those cursed, and he wondered if now his family were suffering such consequences. No, they had done nothing to deserve this. They were good people, who made friends with the Tohono O’odham and certain bands of Apache, and the gringos that came through to California or had now settled in nearby Tucson. Enrique’s family were farmers, who irrigated the land to grow their crops and raised livestock that not only fed their families but helped feed others. They were even blessed by a priest, Father Gaeta, from a mission in Tumacacori, who visited oft
en and helped in the fields and took back with him gifts of food from Enrique’s mother. They lived a peaceful life, and it was unjust that such tragedy should fall on the family.

  A coyote howled and then a pack of them yipped. The coyotes had long been neighbors to Enrique and his family, and their cries were like nighttime music. It was nice to have that familiar sound, but it was not nearly enough to ease the hollowness he now felt.

  The boy lay on the cool ground and tried to imagine what he would do after this great tragedy. He kept thinking about Amelia and wondering if she had escaped that ugly man. Maybe she got away and ran back to their home and found their parents dead, and the dead Apache. Did he really kill him? Maybe she got scared and was now out in the desert hiding or looking for him. But what if the ugly man killed her? The thought made Enrique close his eyes tight and hold his breath, trying to keep back the emotion that swelled in his chest.

  It had been more than two years since his grandfather had left for El Paso, where he went to care for his ailing brother. He told Enrique that he would return very soon and that he would take him up to the mountains to camp and hunt the black-tailed deer. He had anxiously awaited his elder’s return, wanting to show him how accomplished he had become as a man of the wilderness. But his longing was different now. Because he did not know the fate of his sister, his grandfather might be his only living relative, and he was so far away.

  Enrique drifted to sleep again and in his dreams saw the faces of the desperate, merciless men. He saw them so clearly, as if he were nose to nose with each of them, the sweating face of the man who hurt Amelia, the man with shiny shoes who chased him with a knife, and the bare-chested Apache with his rounded eyes and screaming, blood-soaked face. It was that man in his last, dying breath who grabbed the boy by the throat and squeezed until he could not breathe. Enrique grabbed the man’s wrist, but it was as if an iron claw had hold of him and the only existence in the world was blood, fear, and death.

  He woke sitting upright and holding his throat with his own hands. He let loose quickly and stared at his hands as if they were something not to be trusted. He backed against the rocks in fear and crossed his arms over his chest, hugging himself and wondering when this all would end.