“When you throw away a camel …” Jake began.
“Shut up,” Jim said.
Ch’ing sighed again. What they call a man of cares. “Well, he is new. And he says he brings good luck. And it is my fault in the first place for even wasting talk on a big-nose. So we must teach him. Listen.” He raised a hand to Jake, palm out like a traffic cop. “Camel-pullers do not eat the meat of camels, little brother. Nor buy and sell the hides. Remember that.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Camel-pulling is not a low trade, but a nation,” Chu-chu said.
“All right, thanks,” Jake said. “I have a lot to learn.”
“Thank us later,” Ch’ing said. “Thank us after a thousand miles of desert. Thank us after bandits. Thank us after poisoned grass. Thank us after the flies that drink blood. Thank us after a winter journey through Dead Mongol Pass.”
A murmur rose again in the firelight, and men looked up at the cold stars. “Winter,” one said. “Dead Mongol Pass. There we throw away men also.”
15
They rode out at dawn after the customary slop, and pointed northwest in a cool yellow glow, Jake aboard a camel. Ch’ing’s principals had dumped some shoddy in Pao-t’ou, also wire and insulators, all at a handsome profit, so Ch’ing was less surly, fat with praise, and invited Jake to load light and be a guest. Jim and Jake contrived a lumpy hollow in the cargo and Jake clambered up and sprawled between the humps. Jim prodded Bad Smell to his feet and Jake damn near fell off in four different directions at once. He hung on and settled in, and the sky rocked.
They covered some twelve miles by early noon, and dismounted to let the camels lie down and snuffle up a ration of dried peas from nose bags.
They began to live by wells: three days to this one and seven days to that one. At the Well of the God that Injures Horses three old stone basins lay baking in the sun like altars. The water was sweet. At each well every man topped off his canteens and skins. Ch’ing would trot by to see that Jake had done right; then he would glower some and ride off.
Small businessmen popped up like prairie dogs. A leathery trader on a donkey, or two dried-up old-timers with a broken-down camel. They came shambling out of the west with a little cargo of pelts and a lump of pure jade, or a big bale of mountain wool, and a few strings of jerky like a fringe on the saddle. One wore a tall hat like an ice-cream cone. They bowed to Ch’ing and cried their wares, then watched deadpan as the rich caravan sailed past.
Jake was riding rear guard, this famous gunner with his rifle and his pistol, and clips and bandoleers woven into his cargo; he would turn to watch these traders disappear to the east, and they did disappear, shrinking to a forlorn dot and then nothing, as if they had evaporated in the dazzle. Hundreds of miles, alone on the rocky desert, with a load worth maybe a hundred dollars.
They were in a village called Shandanmiao when Jake met Major K’uang for the first time. Shandan was Mongol for a small stream, and miao was Chinese for a temple. That was the old name. On Jake’s new map it was Santemiao, all Chinesed and with a new meaning, the three something temple, maybe virtues. An abandoned monastery, some traders and some nomads, some summer yurts and cloth tents, a teahouse, a famous horse doctor, a blind Taoist priest kept alive by the traders for luck, and many donkeys. Some women and a small rabble of scruffy, snotty children.
Jake was no richer yet and somewhat gritty. Sun and flies and the stink of camels. He was also raising a crop of crabs, and they itched like hell. There were women here, and he itched that way too.
The nomads were bastard Mongols, “mixed seeds” according to Jim, and no threat, some of them hardly wandering any more but spending much of the year here, the men herding their flocks out to distant pastures for a couple of months at a time and then herding them back.
The yurts were round, made of sheepskin and felt and patched with cloth, topped by low conical roofs with a smoke hole in the middle. The tents were cotton, some of it woven and designed and some of it just patchwork.
The women were not shy, and wore funny little hats with pieces of stone and metal worked into them; also long gowns over cotton trousers. Some of the gowns had high collars, also with ornaments worked in. The children did not wear much of anything.
Jake had been nervous when they first marched into Shandanmiao. He thought it might be women so near, and him not knowing if they flopped for nickels and dimes or if their men would stick you for looking. That was at dusk; next morning he understood. It was the straight lines. He watched the sun strike the village, and the light and shadow made straight lines. There were paths worn into the sand and rock, streets and alleys almost. It did not seem right. Citified. Jake resented it. He had become a man of horizons.
After breakfast he asked Jim if they could buy a woman.
“Indeed,” Jim said. “The men are mostly away. These people don’t care much anyway. In the old days they offered visitors a spare wife for the night.”
So they bought a couple of women and burrowed into a small yurt at the edge of the village and it was like having your hat blocked. Like a shack outside a mining town. Jake supposed she was comely by local standards.
Then they went back to their camels and Hsü-to saw the cloud of dust.
Hsü-to rose up on his hind legs, made some thoughtful noises, shaded his eyes with a dark hand and called out, “Hungry ghosts!”
“What’s a hungry ghost?” Jake asked Jim.
“An unexpected visitor.” Jim squinted out at the rocky flats. The air shimmered. “Camels,” he said.
“About a dozen,” Hsü-to said.
The land was empty. Jake peered again and it was still empty. “Where? Help the blind. Pity the aged.”
Jim laid a priestly hand on Jake’s head and said to the others, “I told him many times, I did indeed. Over and over I warned him. Self-abuse, I said, leads—”
“What a dirty boy you are!” Chu-chu said, and to Jake, “Now you can see. That cloud of dust to the left of the red hill.”
“Hill,” Jake said. They had played no tricks on him yet, these were men and not boys, but maybe the time had come. In boot camp Jake had been sent for water grenades, rubber ramrods and other such items. “Red hill, is it. If this is a joke, it’s a bad one. If it’s true, you’re blowing the cow.”
Insulted, Chu-chu said, “Camel-pullers never brag.”
Jake would not lie. Even ten minutes later he would not lie: “I see nothing.”
“It comes of reading,” Chu-chu said. “Slowly the small hole in the center of the eye is filled in.”
“They’re at a walk,” Jim said. “They’ll be here in two hours.”
“Soldiers,” Hsü-to said. “Two scouts riding before, out wide.”
“You joke,” Jake said.
“Bandits approach at night,” Hsü-to explained, “so as not to be shot to death. And caravans are longer.”
“Maybe it’s just some travelers from the next town.”
Hsü-to said, “There is no next town.”
Jake went to his pack and came back with binoculars.
Jim cried, “Ha! A four-eyed person!” and they laughed fit to bust, Chu-chu booming and Hsü-to shrieking.
“What’s funny?” Jake asked sourly.
Chu-chu caught his breath and whacked Jake on the shoulder. “It means a pregnant woman.”
With warm interest Jim asked, “Who is the father?”
“I ignore this,” Jake said. “The rude nattering of ruttish rams.” He focused the glasses.
He saw a low red hill where none had been before, and a light plume of dust.
“Soldiers coming,” Jake said softly to Ch’ing. The sun was high and merciless. There was no shade out of doors and there was no indoors without an invitation.
“The patrol, no doubt,” Ch’ing said. “You too are a soldier, I think.”
“I think so, too. Will you find out quickly if this patrol hears gossip of the east? By wireless, or aircraft, since we left.”
Ch’ing squinted. “Indeed,” he said, in shrewd good spirits. “If they take you off my hands, the goods are mine.”
“You’re a cold-blooded one,” Jake said.
“A realist,” Ch’ing said. “What could they have learned from Peking?”
“These are Kao’s goods. If the manner of his dying was scandalous, the goods may not be left to either of us.”
“Bugger,” Ch’ing said. “You think well for an outlander. Wait by your camels. Hide your pink face until I come.”
“Shall I hide altogether?”
“No. If this is who I think it is, he is a tough egg. Major K’uang. He hates foreigners, bandits and Communists in that order. Some foxy townsman would kowtow and tell him of you, and the rest of the day would be snakes and scorpions. Conduct yourself normally and in silence, like a good middle soldier.”
Middle soldier was a Chinese way to say sergeant. Ch’ing was clever and Jake decided to follow orders. Major K’uang hated foreigners, did he. God damn. Race prejudice from a Chinaman!
As the patrol drew near, the population of Shandanmiao vanished. Jake had never seen Nationalist troops in action but had heard many stories, too many, all shameful. Of divisions that disappeared overnight, flanks left exposed because everybody lit out for home, payrolls embezzled by oily generals, brisk trade with the Japanese, rank bought and sold, villages looted and burned, enlisted men beaten and executed on some officer’s whim.
When the troops rode in Jake vanished, too, huddled among camels and stacks of goods.
He peered out at the riders, and the two scouts out before. They were all lean, dirty and tired, and looked like fighters. Their shirts were crusty with dust and sweat. Three were bandaged. They wore crossed bandoleers and clip boxes, and their rifles rode in leather scabbards. They seemed to be one officer and thirteen men, but there were no signs of rank and they were dressed alike, alike hot and alike grim, faces shadowed under the bills of their fatigue caps.
Beside him Jim said, “These are rough buggers. These kill with both hands.”
Jake believed him but was unimpressed. “Those are handsome camels.”
The camels were of a rich reddish color, with dark rings around the eyes and a haughty flare to the nostrils.
“Tushegun camels,” Jim muttered. “The best.”
Jake said, “When I have my own string, they will be Tushegun camels.”
Ch’ing was smiling when he strolled up with the leader, so Jake jacked himself upright. Ch’ing was carrying his camel whip like a swagger stick. “Major K’uang,” he said airily, “this is our Tartar.”
The Major was a large, handsome man with thick brows, big brown eyes and beautiful teeth. For a tick Jake was disgusted: a movie-star soldier.
But the brown eyes were cool and hard as the two men shook hands. “An unusual Tartar,” the Major said.
“Major K’uang has been patrolling in the west for eight weeks,” Ch’ing said.
“With success, I hope,” Jake said.
“I lost four men,” K’uang said, “and have three wounded. But we killed some dozens.”
“Communists?”
“There are no Communists out here. No. Bandits.”
“Then we owe you thanks,” Jake said. “How far east does your beat run?”
“To Pao-t’ou,” K’uang said. “All within the Wall could float to sea and I would not know it.”
“Or care?”
The Major snorted. “This is most unusual. A foreigner so far west.”
“All that is common was once unusual,” Jake said. He noticed with annoyance that he was slumped, and half bowing, as if he did not want this man to feel shorter than himself, or to think badly of him. He straightened.
“Master Ch’ing tells me you are a military man.”
“I am. I am also a merchant.”
“Are you on active duty?”
“To an extent,” Jake told him. “Let us say, detached.”
“Ah. And perhaps sightseeing?”
“Surely sightseeing.”
“And what is—or was—your exalted rank?”
“But a lowly sergeant.”
“In time you will rise higher,” the Major said. “You speak well. Do you speak English as well?”
“No.” The Major was not fat. A good light-heavy, no waste motion, cool. He would not need to repeat orders, or to verify that they had been executed.
“I believe protocol requires that you call me sir,” the Major murmured.
Jake said, “Yes, sir.”
“You fought the Japanese?”
“Several times, sir.” This was familiar ground, password and countersign. Jake stood easier. “I have few scars but they were painful at the time.”
“I too. You will forgive my curiosity. It is my business to know.”
“How not,” Jake said courteously.
“Your superiors will reward your skills. I can tell.”
“The last few I spoke to,” Jake said, “seemed to respect me.”
The Major nodded absently. He was scanning the caravan. “The House of Wu,” he observed. “Your own goods?”
“Right here, sir.” Jake pointed.
“I wish these kegs were beer,” the Major said lightly. “U-S-N-C-B. You see, I too speak languages. Government supplies?”
Jake said, “Much of my freight was supplied by the military authorities. Those are nails.”
“And the rest?”
“Cloth, wire, a few bricks of tea, cigarettes, cameras and so on. My papers and goods are yours to inspect.”
“Papers?”
“My card of identity, with a true photograph.”
“Please.”
Jake stepped to his pack and fished out the card.
The Major looked from Jake to the photo. “What service is this?”
“The United States Marines.”
“Those I know,” said the Major. “Those I have heard of. Men of great resource. Still,” and he smiled a thin smile, “we shall inspect your goods. But after the noonday meal. Come along.”
The elder invited them into the large yurt. Ch’ing threw the camel whip in before him, and once inside, ignored it. He and the Major went to sit by the cooking fire in the center of the yurt, between the tent poles fore and aft. Warm, but doubtless the places of honor.
Jake edged around to the left among wicker buckets and skins of water. Across the yurt from him were stacks of wooden bowls and metal pots.
The old man sat with Ch’ing and the Major. Nobody paid Jake any mind so he shuffled around between the old man and the after tent pole, headed for a patch of empty floor where he could sit still and learn something.
The old man screeched at him.
“Fool!” Ch’ing said. “Never step between the fire and the rear tent pole.”
“And how was I to know that?”
“Too late now,” Jim said, with a great dirty grin.
The old man jabbered in Mongol; Ch’ing translated. The Major sat bored.
Jake gathered that he had contaminated the yurt and let in the spirit of clap or some such. He tried to look sorry and humble, like a stupid foreigner.
The Major spoke sharply. More quietly he said to Jake, “These are silly people. They would like to extinguish this fire and build a new one; to throw away this tea and brew a new pot.”
“It is my fault,” Jake said. “Can I make up for it?”
“They are primitive and superstitious,” the Major said wearily.
The old man had tottered to the front door with a cup of tea in his hand. He flung the liquid to the sands.
“He is appeasing the demons that prowl empty spaces,” the Major said.
“The guardians of the yurt,” Ch’ing added.
“All is well now,” the Major said.
Ch’ing spoke to the old man, who poured another cup of tea and brought it to Jake. He smelled like a bale of hides.
Jake bowed his thanks. The old man spat and turned away.
&nbs
p; Jim said quietly, “Ch’ing told him that you were a foreigner so the bad luck would fall upon you. The demons will pursue you.”
“Thanks,” Jake scoffed. “Not much of a sin. One wrong step like that.”
Jim cackled softly. “The longest journey begins with one wrong step.”
Jake cursed him.
The Major had spread a map. “Now. Here we are, here is Shandanmiao. How do you propose to proceed?”
“We thought the northerly road,” Ch’ing said, “but will first hear you.”
“Northerly is best,” the Major said. “The present concentration of bandits is in Kansu. They fear the true desert. Most are scum. There is the Mountain Weasel, who is better organized, but he is never far from Yü-men.”
Jake could not absorb all of this, so sat quietly and sipped tea. K’uang’s men lounged in corners of the yurt, and one at the door, and one outside, and it seemed to Jake that they were not at rest but standing guard, as if the caravan were under a kind of house arrest or temporary detention. He was suddenly uneasy about his goods. That was foolish, with all these soldiers around.
Though these soldiers were some bunch. They looked more like outlaws. Scarred and surly. They moved like big cats, and their eyes were never still.
Ch’ing was asking about the northern road.
“I cannot tell you much of value. I last took that road six months ago. One of my men froze to death. A few bandits may come down from Outer Mongolia, from the hills near Noyon. The Tiger’s Assistant is out there somewhere. He vacations in Lanchow twice a year, you know. But I hear he plans to head west for good after this season.”
Jake spoke: “Who?”
“The Tiger’s Assistant. A Manchurian, and a bad one.”
“A crazy name for a bandit.”
Ch’ing said gravely, “He was killed by a tiger years ago.”
“Well now,” the Major said.
“His full name is the Tiger’s Assistant Demon,” Ch’ing said stubbornly, “and he was killed by a tiger.”
“Hu Ch’iao Kuei,” Jake repeated.
“The legend is,” said the Major in some amusement, “that one killed by a tiger comes back in spirit form to assist him, and also acquires some of his qualities.”
The Chinese Bandit Page 11