Two-Gun & Sun

by June Hutton

  Two-Gun & Sun

  June Hutton

  Copyright © 2015 June Hutton

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright, the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, www.accesscopyright.ca, 1-800-893-5777, info@accesscopyright.ca.

  Caitlin Press Inc.

  8100 Alderwood Road,

  Halfmoon Bay, BC V0N 1Y1

  www.caitlin-press.com

  Edited by Marnie Woodrow

  Typset by Vici Johnstone

  Cover design by Derek von Essen

  Caitlin Press Inc. acknowledges financial support from the Government of Canada and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publisher’s Tax Credit.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Hutton, June (Heather June Hutton), author

  Two-Gun & Sun / June Hutton.

  ISBN 978-1-987915-10-5 (EPUB)

  1. Cohen, Morris Abraham, 1887-1970—Fiction.

  2. Sun, Yat-sen, 1866-1925—Fiction. I. Title. II. Title: Two-

  Gun & Sun.

  PS8615. U88T86 2015 C813’.6 C2015-904040-X

  For Tony

  for the idea

  “Two-Gun Cohen is essentially a piece of historic fiction. Each page, like many of the stories that he relayed to the press over the preceding thirty years, contained inaccuracies and outright falsehoods.”

  Daniel S. Levy, author, Two-Gun Cohen, a Biography—commenting on the Charles Drage version of Cohen’s life, as told to Drage by Cohen himself

  April 1, 1923

  HONG KONG—Preparations are underway to launch yet another campaign against China’s notorious warlords, according to a representative of Generalissimo Sun Yat-sen.

  Mr. Morris Cohen, a former banker and financier from Montreal who currently serves as bodyguard to the national leader, told travelers and news correspondents gathered in The Hong Kong Hotel lobby that his first priority is a rail line to cross the country to facilitate the movement of goods and troops. The second, is to straighten out China’s finances.

  Furthermore, teaching the troops to box and shoot will be Mr. Cohen himself, once a sergeant with the Canadian Railway Troops in Europe during the Great War. In his new capacity he will be given the title of Acting-General. “It’ll be a force such as China has never seen,” he said.

  Accompanying Mr. Cohen was by all accounts a handsome woman who declined to be named, simply insisting to all who asked that she was here for the drama and that no, she was not “the betrothed of Mr. Morris Two-Gun.”

  Recently he earned the name Two-Gun Cohen for the second pistol he packs as added protection, and because it was in the Wild West of North America where he first met the national leader . …

  Contents

  I—Black Mountain

  In the Wild West of North America

  Accursed Creatures

  The Famous Man

  Crooks, Cowboys and Idiots

  II—The Bullet

  Whoa!

  A Saloon, a Woman and an Outlaw

  Shoot the Both of Them

  Bluebottles

  Next to Nothing

  All Night

  Meet Two-Gun Cohen

  The Small Man

  Rifles Firing at Once

  III—La Fanciulla

  Manchurian and Mustached

  That Pistol-Packing Fool

  Ten Minutes Past Seven O'Clock

  Half-Past Eight O'Clock

  A Quarter Past Nine O'Clock

  Nearing Eleven O'Clock

  Finale

  Acknowledgements

  I—Black Mountain

  In the Wild West of North America

  Midnight, and no stars, no moon. I stood alone on the deck, gripping the rail, waiting for a glimpse of this town that would be my new home. The rusted prow cleaved the bank of fog in two, grey foam folding rapidly to either side as the ship motored up the inlet, a dizzying presence that pressed against my face, rendering me sightless. The stink of it was up my nose, a mix of outhouse and crushed barnacles and rotten eggs—and damp, too. Hair that I had combed flat and clamped in place with my silver pin had gone haywire, I could feel it, had absorbed the wet and sprung to life, unwinding and loosening from the knot, coils of it dangling over my ears, tapping onto my shoulders and the back of my neck to drip and dance and bounce back up to drip again. One lock fell over my nose, a russet curl I snuffed away as a horse might. If I were made of metal I’d be hearing the bolts and screws clattering to the ground as I came undone.

  The midnight ship, blinded as well by the fog, came upon the wharf so suddenly its sides ground and shrieked against the wood and its engines reversed, sending a shudder up the sides.

  Hands clenched on the railing, legs braced, I rode each pitch and roll. I was not about to get tossed overboard, but if I had been I was prepared, my travel outfit a split-skirted, leggings style of get-up, lavender-grey to take the dirt, the one sensible piece of clothing I owned. I could ride a horse in it if needed, swim to shore if I had to.

  The ship settled at last, rolling gently in its own wake. Lights flickered on down below, and the mist seemed to thin. I breathed in, then out, as though I were swimming.

  There would be no one on shore to meet me. That was how I’d wanted it. Who would meet me anyway, except a stranger, and I saw no purpose in that. I had been eager to leave home, the stifling prettiness of the orchard, the suffocating heat, the long distance to town, the likelihood that I would die there without ever having lived. It was in that very orchard, at the very moment I was inspecting the branches of budding fruit, looking over my shoulder, bear scat in the grass and any shadow the possible bulk of a bear that, far away in Black Mountain, Uncle died. I learned this only later. At the time, I never thought the shadows could be him, come by one last time to say farewell before leaving for good. A foolish thought, but it soothes me now. At the time, all I thought was: bear. It was too early for them, but it had been an early spring.

  And there it was: Uncle was dead, and I was here to take over. He could have picked one of my brothers to run the newspaper, but his Last Will and Testament named me, the only girl, his only niece. Still, I almost said no, sitting in the lawyer’s office back home, our horse, Ruby, tearing and chewing at grass outside the window while I listened to the details and contemplated a life in some desolate mining town on the coast. The bank agreed to a small loan for start-up costs if I could guarantee results in one month. If not, it would seize the newspaper, already in arrears.

  I said yes, for all of the above-noted reasons.

  Whistles and shouts erupted from the ship’s crew. A rope was tied and the men began to fling crates onto the boards below. The lights that marked the edge of the wharf revealed two dark figures emerging from the swirling mist. I squinted. Chinese, one with his hair in a single braid down his back, like the old coolies who worked on the rail beds. They rummaged through the pile, unmindful of the falling freight, neither dodging nor ducking as parcels landed all around them.

  I watched intently. My leather bags were in that pile.

  One of the ship’s crewmen materialized next to me.

  Miss, he said.

  Sinclair, I said, Lila.

  He didn’t introduce himself, but he must have been a navigator of some sort because he hung over the railing, barking directions about the crew, the ship, the ropes, the lowering of t
he gangplank, the moving of cargo.

  I’m going down now, I told him.

  He wrenched his grizzled head around. We’re not done yet, miss.

  I grabbed the rope railings anyway and lurched down the descending gangplank, its tip still inches above the wharf. I jumped and landed neatly on the boards below. Everything I’d thought essential to my new life here I’d packed in those bags. Clothes. A black, beaded evening bag that was all I could recall of my mother: her arm, and the beads sparkling from it. Favourite photos and books. A whisky bottle, full, so it wouldn’t slosh around and give me away.

  The handle of one of my leather cases jutted from the side of the pile and I ran for it.

  That one’s mine, I shouted.

  I seized the handle and pulled.

  There’s another just like it, I said.

  My words were wasted on the scavenging men. They were arguing back and forth in their language, flinging other people’s goods aside while they searched.

  The navigator must have followed me down because he pushed past me, now.

  You two, he said. Watch it. Let the lady find her things!

  Their digging had unearthed my second bag and the navigator plucked it for me. I grabbed it from him and clutched it against my chest, triumphant, but the one with the braid was equally victorious. He pulled out a package, long and slender like a rifle, and raised it high above his head. It was only then that I saw his face, his dark brows curved as though surprised, and a wide mouth that also curved downward, and realized that he was young, my age. He wedged the package under his arm and, with the other man behind him, vanished into the grey air.

  It was a moment before I found my tongue.

  They just up and took it, I said.

  The navigator squirted tobacco, then wiped his chin. Most likely theirs, he said. Had Chinese writ all over it.

  His stained fingers directed me to turn from the cargo pile. A luminescent mass had appeared behind us, undulating in the mist and growing closer. Could there be such a thing as fireflies in fog? Surely one extinguished the other. Pinpricks of light bounced madly in the air, as though whatever was holding them up perambulated on wheels over rough ground, while amongst the lights gleamed metal heads bobbing along with every bump as though each would snap right off. But strangest of all were the outstretched limbs that groped the fog, reaching perhaps, searching.

  People! I declared.

  Come to get their freight, too.

  Are those miners’ helmets on their heads?

  Hats, helmets, he said. All fashion of headgear worn in Black Mountain. But strapped onto each is a light such as the miner’s wear. Here’s one for you, courtesy of the General Store.

  In his other hand, I noticed only now, dangled a strap.

  You can settle your account later. Just say where you got it.

  I dropped one bag and took the offered strap by my fingertips.

  If the ship docked in the daytime we wouldn’t need these, I said.

  Every hour that calls itself day is dusk in Black Mountain, he said. Dirt and smoke from the coal mine for starters, and the fog, and them hills, particularly the largest. It’s why the name. Throws the whole place in shadow. Sometimes you’ll need the light, sometimes you won’t.

  I haven’t heard any fog horns.

  You won’t, miss. It’s always socked in to some degree, so why bother?

  His eyes dropped to my wrist where I’d wrapped the strap of the lamp.

  Wear it like they do so’s it frees up your hands for carrying. I could have one of the boys assist you.

  No, I said. I’ll be fine. Thank you.

  I took up the second bag and waded amongst the citizens, their pale beams piercing the grey, probing the pile for their things, not a hello from a single one of them.

  Behind me, now, waves chopped as the vessel slipped from the dock. I let go of the handle and turned to wave uncertainly—was the navigator even looking?—and the light at my wrist danced crazily. Yes, I might have strapped the lamp onto my head, but I didn’t want to look like one of them.

  I struggled up the empty road, shoulders burning from the strain of the two heavy bags. In a short while I’d be glad of that bottle, but at the moment I cursed the bloody weight, I cursed my suffering self for dragging it along, I cursed my Christly insistence that I could make the walk unassisted. The lamp continually slipped behind my hand, my sleeve blocking half the light, making me stumble. In my pocket were the directions and they were straightforward enough: Walk down the road to the building at the end. I hadn’t factored in the weight of my things, or the length of the road, or the dark.

  I came to a standstill. Those Chinese hadn’t worn headlamps.

  Men sneaking about in the dark, carrying rifles, wouldn’t want lights blazing. They could be around the next corner, for all I knew, ready to shoot me. I forced myself to keep walking, and quickly. The navigator didn’t seem concerned about them. No business of mine, was the implication. Steal from their own if they want. Break their necks in the dark. Shoot themselves in the foot.

  A golden light burned in a shop window just ahead, outlining the bent head of a dark-haired woman, busy stitching. I could use a friend, here. Before I could approach she reached up and pulled down the blind, done for the night I supposed. I was close enough now to see the words painted on the glass: The Bluebell Shop ~ Dressmakers, Hats, Gloves, Alterations. I could also see my own rumpled reflection. I would come back another time, when the shop was open and my outfit was pressed.

  A scrum of wranglers whooped just ahead, the light of my lamp gilding them, their own lights bobbing on their hats as they strained and sweated and pulled on ropes, boot heels churning in the dirt to steady some lumbering beast lost in the dark. Between their dancing legs and the rows of buildings behind them, all corrugated tin, I caught a glimpse of an image, flickering like a moving picture show, of a black-haired man in white, hands tied behind his back, prodded along by a posse. I waded into the mist only to find the cowboys roping nothing more beastly than a boulder, and the man in white, gone, swallowed up by the grey.

  Just ahead, at last, loomed a two-storey tin box with a wooden false front and veranda, a sight so welcome I didn’t stop in at the hotel restaurant that appeared to be open, spilling green light onto the black dirt. I wasn’t hungry after a ham and cheese sandwich on the ship. All I wanted now was a swig from my bottle. I walked past the hotel and up the steps onto the veranda, dropped a bag and fished in my pocket for the key, all the while studying, in the dim, grey-green light, the empty frame screwed to the tin siding by the door. Ragged strips of old news fluttered from its edges, all that was left from the front page, the torn masthead that left off the last two letters, The Black Mountain Bullet--

  I liked that, Bullet instead of Bulletin. Fast. As though news could be shot from a gun barrel right into the minds of its readers. Not tomorrow, but soon, soon.

  I slid the long key into the lock, turned it, and kneed open the door. I used an elbow to flick on the switch next to the doorframe.

  Light fell onto a sheet of paper that had been slipped under the front door. I snatched it up and read quickly. It had the bold print of a wanted poster but announced, instead, the upcoming performance of Puccini’s opera La Fanciulla del West.

  Here, in Black Mountain. I’ll be damned.

  There was a whole series of names under the title, and a swirl of colours, velvet curtains or something. I clapped it under my arm—I’d have a closer look later—and picked up my second bag, edging through the doorway, kicking the door shut behind me. A hallway led to stairs and the promise of a bedroom above. To my right, a front counter where I set down the intriguing poster; to my left, a darkened doorway. I stepped over and slid my elbow up that doorframe, too, until it hit the switch and light flooded the room.

  And there it was, confronting me in a way I’d never anticipated. Pipes bent in half, studded wit
h bolts, clamps that bit into congealed grease and rust, drooling brown at the edges. I let my leather bags drop to the floorboards in a double thud of astonishment, reckless of the fragile contents.

  The old printing press was bolted to a raised platform reached by three steps. A regal setting for a tangle of metal dredged in dust. It twisted itself up into the likeness of a huge creature from one of my brothers’ action books. Incredible and awful at once.

  Surely a month was not enough. Had anyone from the bank even stood in this doorway?

  An oval brass side plate gleamed like a single eye, daring me to unlock the limbs of this contraption. The press filled the room all the way to the ceiling, was twelve feet high at least, and must have set the walls shaking once, a deafening resurrection that marked the start of each news day. Now, corroded and jammed with crud, the monstrosity was made stillborn by neglect.

  Dare accepted.

  Hanging from a hook on the doorframe was a pair of ink-stained coveralls. I slung them over my shoulder and carried my leather bags out into the corridor and up the stairs, flicking more light switches with my elbows as I climbed.

  At the top of the staircase I turned and looked down the long, narrow room that was half the width of the space downstairs: a bathtub set in the middle of the floor, its claws gripping the raw boards, and a toilet, mercifully in its own closet, door agape, fitted next to the staircase. A bachelor’s room, not even a sink, just a hole in the blue-painted boards where one had been intended. At the far end, underneath the window, was a bed. I didn’t feel the need for sleep, not now. I wanted to get back to that press. I tossed my jacket onto the bed and stepped into the pair of coveralls. I unbuckled one bag, pulled out the bottle and took a long swig, then corked it and dropped it back in. I smoothed my sleeves and looked down at myself, dressed like a garageman.

  So I was. So what?

  I buttoned up as I clomped down the stairs.

  An instruction booklet lay face down on the top step of the platform, its corners rounded from constant thumbing. Some comfort there. I wasn’t the only one who’d puzzled over these parts. I flipped through the pages, circling the platform as I read.