The Chinese Bandit

by Stephen Becker

  Jake worked his fingers. The air on his face was cold, but his body was already warm with the action to come.

  He set the pistol on the grass before him, and the grenades.

  The plan was good enough; now if they could execute. The arm is long, as the Chinese said; let us hope the sleeve is not short. It ought to be easy.

  He thought of Tha-shi and his heart swelled. I suppose I am in love with her. You would not pin her photo on the wall; Dushok would laugh. No. He would not.

  You fool. This is not a time to think of your within-woman.

  The two scouts came at a walk, their ponies breathing smoke. Through the short grass Jake sighted. They passed on. Beyond them, the white ranges, glittering in the early light; a sharp, bright morning.

  The line of seven followed. One of them was K’uang, but there was no knowing which; they rode slumped and huddled into their sheepskins, and K’uang was not one to wear the brass of rank or sport a flag.

  The pack ponies trailed the last man, who would have to cut them loose. That would take fatal seconds.

  It was too easy on the face of it, but Jake knew how much could go wrong, a missed shot, a dud. Of the line of seven, Two and Three were his, Four and Five were Ugly’s. Those four should be easy. One, Six and Seven, and the two scouts, might require some fancy shooting.

  Many months since my last shot. Like love anyway: each time the first time.

  He started at a queer, windy, gasping sound.

  He was panting.

  He calmed himself, and drew down on Two. A few seconds now.

  Major K’uang was barely awake, but already thinking how it was all gone now, all rotten and smashed. He liked to ride remembering firefights near Mukden in the early days, and skirmishing on the central plains without air cover, and the Japanese making great slaughter, so that even regular troops had to fight like guerrillas, in holes or behind walls.

  If he missed these two, he would quit. He had months of leave due, and months of worthless money.

  If he found them—ah. Negotiations. From here he could, if he chose, reach any of four countries.

  His own thoughts sickened him. How fine, once! The train at Ch’ang-sha, and the enfilade, and then the hand-to-hand!

  That he would never forget. That alone justified his life.

  Jake fired. Two sagged. Three had hardly looked up when Jake fired again. Three sagged; his pony reared. Like an echo of his own shots, two more cracked; Four and Five sagged. Whowwhowwhowwhow, the blasts bounced among the hills. Ponies whirled, men cried out. The last man sawed frantically at his lead rope.

  Jake glanced south. The scouts were pounding back, firing wildly, whow whow; they had swung low, off the saddle, on Ugly’s side. “Fire,” Jake said. “Fire, god damn you.” One and Six swung toward him, galloping; Seven cut himself free and raced after them. “Fire!” Jake said. “Fire, you son of a bitching Chinaman!” Horror froze him. The soon-to-be of it. The now-to-be of it.

  Ugly exulted and said, “A-ha-ha!” Four and Five were down, and the others showing tail. Now, he thought, we will let that scorpion’s egg sweat for a bit.

  He waited only a few seconds, but they were sweet and happy seconds. “Sweat!” he said. “Sweat!” A great joy filled him, and his heart laughed.

  They spotted Jake and veered, firing. By then he was alive again, and killed one, but the scouts were coming up on his left, and a bullet plucked at his sleeve.

  He fired, and fired. It was all he could do. He tasted bile and fired.

  One still came, and only one. The scouts were no longer shooting but there was no time to look, or even to reach for the pistol. This one too had swung low on his pony’s neck, but he was not firing. He was ten yards off and still not firing when the pony dropped, cartwheeling. Jake saw K’uang flying at him, eyes wide, mouth twisted, shouting like a madman. Jake snapped off one shot, and K’uang fell out of the sky, immense, dead or alive, and hammered Jake’s face into the frosty grass.

  Ugly had finally roared up out of his grassy nest and dashed across the field. The scouts were down, two of his better shots, no one moved, the ponies screamed and bucked and tossed their dead weights. The one survivor was bearing down on Jake. Ugly fired quickly, on the run, and cursed: he missed the man but hit the pony. The pony tumbled. The soldier flew like a bird, still clutching the rifle, and slammed to the ground. Bugger, right on top of him, and Ugly sprinted. Defile that round-eyed spawn of a misbegotten frog! Defile it! A good man who deserved better than to be crushed to death by a flying soldier! Defile it, defile it, defile it!

  He panted toward them.

  Jake fought for air. He heard K’uang’s breath rasping, haaarh, haaarh, and felt groping hands; Jake’s rifle was somewhere, no use, and he could not see, but he flailed with one arm and drew the curved knife, tugged it free of the scabbard, free of the folds of his jacket, tugged it loose and slashed. K’uang rasped and whimpered, he was hurt, but his hands were clamped on Jake’s throat from behind, and the knife slashed air.

  Jake drew his knees up, heaved and bucked. He and K’uang went over on their backs, Jake on top now. Jake jabbed backward, driving the blade past his own ear; it struck bone, and K’uang slacked. Jake tore free and rolled over, and for one icy moment stared down at K’uang, at the bloody face and the twisted, working mouth. Jake had slashed his right eye out, but the left eye gleamed. “We share,” K’uang gasped, “we share.” Jake sighed, a great, rushing, weary sigh of sorrow and relief, and cut K’uang’s throat.

  Ugly came pelting across just then. Jake was too drained to do more than curse. “You treacherous jackal. You defiler of crones.”

  Ugly cackled cheerfully and said, “You make a little here, you lose a little there.”

  44

  “Now this ghost is indeed hungry,” Ugly said.

  They were sitting beside K’uang’s corpse, letting their blood calm and their breath ease.

  “First we make sure,” Jake said.

  “Yes. That was a fight.”

  “It was more my fight than yours,” Jake snarled.

  Ugly’s eyes flashed with the fun of it. “Not so pleasant, a whole squad coming at you and the sentry off duty.”

  Jake avoided the bright, accusing eyes.

  “Nobody can shoot straight from a running pony,” Ugly said. “Not even myself. They should have dismounted but had no time to think, and were afraid to also: they were far from home and the ponies were their round-trip ticket.”

  In Chinese that was a come-return fire-cart document, and Jake squeezed out a small smile.

  “Well, let us make sure of them,” Ugly said, “and round up the ponies and the loot.”

  “And the bodies,” Jake said.

  “As to that, nothing will help them now.”

  “This is a pasture,” Jake said.

  “Villain that I am!” Ugly slapped his brow. “Of course. You are a man of taste and elegance. I always said so.”

  One man still breathed; Ugly shot him in the head.

  “I remember that one from Shandanmiao,” Jake said.

  “The death of old friends is the greatest sorrow.”

  They had to shoot two of the ponies and leave them in a ravine, K’uang’s and one gut-shot. The pack ponies had vanished. Ugly asked, “What can we do with seven ponies? Such wealth.”

  “So many weapons,” Jake said. “I suppose we should strip these men and sort the stuff.”

  “Luxury,” Ugly said. “Yüüü,” he said, and scowled, with something on his mind.

  “Say it.”

  “Well,” Ugly said, and looked squarely at him.

  Jake met his eyes this time, and waited calmly.

  “Well,” Ugly said, “quits?”

  Jake saw that he meant it, and did not answer for a moment, to lend himself dignity and pride. Then he nodded. “Quits.”

  Ugly clapped him on the shoulder, and turned away to busy himself with the fastenings of K’uang’s sheepskin. He hunkered, his back to Jake, and
muttered to himself as he worked.

  Jake contemplated the broad back of him. There was no evil this man had not done, and very little good that he had, but by God the balls of him! Squatting, mumbling, offering Jake this shot. So as to be dead or sure, and either way to sleep easy ever after.

  When Ugly rose and turned, Jake was sitting, back to him, gazing off at snowy peaks. Ugly nodded once, sharply. Now there was a man of good bones. Offering this moment. So as to be dead or sure, and either way to sleep easy ever after. Well, foreigners were perhaps not so different after all. They held life cheap, but who did not?

  Jake stood up and said, “I must tell them.”

  Ugly looked within.

  “I’ll be along in a while and help you with this,” Jake said.

  For another moment Ugly looked within, and then he nodded. “The old horse hankers after his stall and his beans. Go, then.”

  Jake sweet-talked up to a sound pony, and stroked its neck. He mounted, and rode down the meadow, leaving his rifle and pistol, and the grenades.

  When he reached the northern edge of the home pasture, he saw them all gathered; he picked out Tha-shi’s face. He thought they had gathered to thank him and to praise him. But soon he saw that they stood in the clear light confused, like sunflowers on a cloudy day.

  He rode to the Doctor and dismounted. “It is well,” he said. “They are gone, and will not return.”

  No one spoke. Not the Doctor, not Tha-shi, not Khu-lat or Mong-chen; no child smiled up at him. Beyond them the pasture lay, early green, and the flocks grazed and whispered.

  “It is well,” he said. “I tell you it is well.”

  “It is not well,” the Doctor said. “It is not the way. The snow leopard and the lamb do not share water.”

  Jake seemed to shrink and cool. He met the Doctor’s flat, dark eyes and saw strength in the calm face, his thick straight brows, the small hawk’s nose.

  “But I rid you of—”

  “No. You summoned it.”

  Jake looked for Tha-shi, and found her. They shared a long glance, level, heavy with all their days and nights.

  “We do not curse you,” the Doctor said. “But it cannot be.”

  Jake saw then that Mong-chen was wearing the blue hat, and his heart shriveled and cracked.

  Tha-shi came to Jake and opened his jacket; he could not speak. He looked into her eyes and saw nothing. He touched her cheek; she felt nothing. She would not meet his eye, and seemed to be looking with no interest at his chin. She slipped the silver and turquoise necklace over his head, and carried it to Mongchen.

  The Doctor held forth both open hands.

  His throat tight and his teeth hard together, Jake freed the scabbard from his belt and surrendered the curved knife.

  The Doctor drew the blade; it was rich with muddy blood. Finger-cymbals clashed. The flat jingling went on for some time.

  Jake stared off at the distant tents, at the stretched hides, the yaks, the sheep, the goats he loved, the valley in green bloom. Smoke curled, and he remembered warmth on winter nights, buttery tea, the gentle comfort of charas and the gentle love afterward.

  He drank in Tha-shi’s face, strong and sweet and a bit worn, the shining eyes doleful now, the full lips grim; never again would he count her one hundred and eight braids. This woman, who had taught him all he knew that mattered: to love, to look upon death with sorrow, to milk a goat.

  In a moment she looked away, and stepped closer to Mong-chen, downcast and submissive.

  Soon they moved away, all of them, turning from him and trudging down the slope. He was left alone. No one looked back.

  “Ah no,” he said, and stood like a man of marble, wanting to curse them aloud. You’d be dead without me, and your flocks too, and your tents burned and your women raped—no no no. Without Jake Dodds these nomads would live forever in peace and plenty.

  “Tha-shi!” he called. “Tha-shi!”

  They halted then, and Tha-shi turned, but none other; he saw the vague bloom of her face, and already her features had blurred.

  “Tha-shi,” he called, “may it always be spring with you!”

  A moment more, and they were dispersed to their tents, Tha-shi and Mong-chen to Blue Hat’s, and there was no human being in sight: only the long sloping valley, the inching herds, the tents and stretched hides and curling smoke.

  They had left him his pack, and some smaller bundles. He squatted. They had left him slabs of yak meat and strips of dried mutton, and a white cheese and a sizable ball of charas with a small pipe, and some tens of barley cakes.

  Now he wanted to curse himself, or God, to run howling from valley to valley—

  He sucked at the cold, thin air. He had been awake all night. He had gone without breakfast, and fought on an empty stomach, and a man could not live through the day eating bitterness only.

  He packed and mounted. Far down the valley kids leapt and dashed like silver fish.

  Ugly was hunkered beside a heap of rifles, pistols and canteens. Jake saw a compass, a pile of silver coins, a skein of bandoleers.

  “These two bays are the best ponies,” Ugly said, gesturing with a fist. “The others we will lead and sell.”

  Jake dismounted, and said, “You knew.”

  Ugly nodded. “I knew.”

  “It is the way, I suppose.”

  “It is the way. You see,” Ugly said kindly, “they have their way and we have our way. One is what one is.”

  “And cannot change?”

  The sweep of Ugly’s arm took in corpses, dead ponies, loot.

  Jake persisted: “All my life?”

  Ugly showed palm. “Who can say? We did a good thing today.”

  “I thought I was paying for my sins,” Jake said sadly.

  “Nothing can be paid for. What is done is done.”

  “Still,” Jake said, “I am not what I was.”

  “That can only be an improvement,” Ugly said.

  “I feel lighter within, yet full of pain. And listen: no more making ghosts and widows.”

  Ugly did not speak.

  “Defile it!” Jake cried. “This hurts! This is indeed pain!”

  “She was a meritorious woman,” Ugly admitted.

  “There was a harmony,” Jake said, “and I believe my heart is now a cracked bell.”

  “A bitter music in the blood,” Ugly said. “That happens once or twice.”

  “I suppose time and diversion will mend me,” Jake said.

  “As to that,” Ugly said, “I have a thing to show you.” He opened his fist.

  In his palm Jake saw a double-headed nail. “Hsüüüü.”

  “I found it in K’uang’s shirt pocket.”

  “A souvenir,” Jake said, “that he took from me in Shandanmiao.”

  “In Shandanmiao,” Ugly said. “Well. Look one look.” He tossed it to Jake.

  Jake looked idly, and then sharply. Along the shank some of the iron had been peeled away, and beneath it the nail gleamed gold.

  “Four kegs,” Ugly said. “Two hundred pounds.”

  Stunned and breathless, Jake said softly, “Old Kao.”

  “That old bandit,” Ugly said. “Do you know how much money that is?”

  “If,” Jake said, “they were all like this.”

  “If half were like this!”

  Jake said, “It is no wonder that K’uang was persistent.”

  “I believe he told no one,” Ugly said. “He thought we had them, or had cached them.”

  “As in a way we did,” Jake murmured.

  “Indeed,” Ugly said, and they speculated in silence.

  “Well,” Ugly said, “first things first. I am still hungry. Shall we eat a pony?”

  “They gave us food,” Jake said, “and even charas.”

  So they ate yak’s meat and cheese, and drank water from a canteen. They kept all the weapons because weapons were, after all, an item of trade. “Lash the corpses tight,” this one said. “I pity the ponies,” that one sai
d. They sorted gear, and secured their packs for a long journey. They snugged their sheepskins and their hats. They mounted, and their feet found the stirrups. They reined in tight, and sat for some seconds preparing the soul.

  They started down the mountain then, side by side; and watching them ride off, both on bays, no man could have said which was the one, and which the other.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Far East Trilogy

  1

  There were many bodies in the street that winter, and Aunt Chi reported an unusual number of virgins sold into the penny brothels. Men and women starved and froze in Chicago too, and Paris, and Moscow, but they were often drunk or sick and could be counted by dozens or scores, while in Peking they were men, women and children of all talents and aspirations, though naturally of low degree, and they had to be stacked on corners, and wagons were dispatched to remove the corpses.

  The enemy was driving down from the north and east to ring the city.

  The yellow wind had long since come and gone. Each year in November there was a yellow day, when a blast from the northwest blew Mongolia’s yellow dust far south of the Great Wall and tinted the sky, and brought frost. Measured against the phases of the moon, the yellow wind might be an early yellow wind or a late yellow wind, and the severity of frost was important: this year a late yellow wind and heavy frost indicated, according to the astrologers, a long and cold winter. In Small Palisade Street, and under Cattail Bridge, low scamps and vagabonds huddled and cursed. It was necessary now to steal garments from the freshly dead.

  There were more bodies on the street that winter than nature made.

  It was not true that men raised cats for meat. Dogs, however, were eaten. That was only fair. They were fat on corpses.

  The organized beggars congregated in ill-heated sheds or disused shops; lone wolves and amateurs skulked and shivered.

  The ricksha men bundled up, and bound cloth across their faces when the wind cut too shrewdly.

  Students rioted, and the unemployed. The police and the army vied in suppressing them.

  The rich made plans to flee; but where?