The man went over backward, and the lantern flew from his hand and came down with a crash of breaking glass. Flames shot up as the kerosene spilled from the shattered reservoir and caught fire.
Conrad hammered punches into the sailor’s body. He knew the smell of smoke would bring more of his captors on the run, and he wanted that gun in his hand before they arrived. He closed his fingers around it and tried to wrench it out of the sailor’s grip, but the man held on to it stubbornly.
Lowering his head, the sailor butted it into Conrad’s face. Conrad turned his head in time to take the blow on his jaw and cheek rather than his nose, which would have been pulped and flattened if the head-butt had landed where it was aimed. The impact jolted him enough to set off more explosions inside his skull.
He drove a knee into the sailor’s belly, finally causing the man’s grip on the revolver to loosen. Conrad jerked it free and tried to climb to his feet, but he heard the pounding of swift footsteps and knew he might be too late. By the light of the fire that was spreading through the hold, he saw several more men rushing down a companionway toward the open door.
Before he was able to get the gun turned around so his finger could find the trigger, one of the newcomers charged into the room and swung a club. The thick bludgeon cracked across Conrad’s forearm and sent the gun flying out of his hand. The man swung the club in a backhanded blow at Conrad’s head. He ducked under it and hammered a punch to the man’s solar plexus. The sailor grunted in pain but still managed to flail at Conrad’s head with the club.
“Stop it!” one of the other men yelled. “That belayin’ pin’ll crush his skull, and the cap’n don’t want him dead!”
The knowledge that they weren’t supposed to kill him gave Conrad renewed hope. His captors had to hold back, but he didn’t. He grappled with the man who had the belaying pin, sinking his knee into the man’s groin. The belaying pin came loose.
Picking it up, Conrad launched into the other men, swinging the club right and left. One of the men yelled, “Grab him!” and another shouted, “We gotta get that fire out!”
Conrad landed a blow with the club and sent a man reeling out of his path. More running footsteps pounded, and he knew reinforcements were arriving for the sailors. The odds against him were rising by the second.
He kept battling anyway, knocking another man down with the belaying pin and fighting his way into the companionway. Men were all around him, and he was tackled from behind, dragged down, and hammered with fists. His already battered body barely felt the impacts. Acrid smoke drifted into his nose and mouth, stinging them and making him cough.
Several men held him down. Their weight pinned him securely to the deck. He still had hold of the belaying pin, but somebody stepped on his hand and made him let go of it. As he lay there struggling for breath, he heard a man say, “The fire’s out, thank God. He could have burned us right down to the waterline!”
Knowing his escape attempt had failed made a bitter, sour taste well up under Conrad’s tongue. He might not get another chance.
A moment later a voice obviously accustomed to command barked, “Get him on his feet.”
Strong hands gripped his arms and hauled him upright. Somebody had brought another lantern. Its smoky light washed over Conrad as he stood in the grasp of two sailors. Several more surrounded him, ready to pummel him into submission if he tried to put up a fight again.
The man who stood in front of him wore a blue jacket and had a captain’s cap tilted back on his bald head. His nose had been broken at least once in the past, and his eyes had a permanent squint. He was short but powerfully built.
“Try to burn my ship, will you?” He stepped closer and without warning swung a fist, sinking it into Conrad’s belly. Conrad would have doubled over in agony if not for the men holding him up. “You’ll learn. You’re nothin’ but an animal now, and I’m your lord and master. Yeah, it’s a long way to China and back. Be plenty of time to break you.”
Conrad lifted his head, spat blood past his swollen lips, and rasped, “Go to hell.”
He knew what would happen. He didn’t care. He saw the big, knobby-knuckled fist coming toward his face and didn’t try to get out of the way. There was nowhere to go.
The blow exploded on his jaw with stunning force and drove his head back. As consciousness began to slip from him, he vaguely heard the captain say, “Who’s the idiot who almost let him get loose? Sweeney? You know you weren’t supposed to come down here alone, blast it! Once we’re out to sea, you’ll have some lashes coming, mister.”
Conrad heard some pleading, but figured it wouldn’t do the sailor any good. Then the captain ordered, “Throw him back in the hole.”
Conrad felt himself hauled around and shoved. He couldn’t keep his balance. He crashed down on the deck. The place stunk of the recently extinguished fire, to go along with the sickening smell of rotten fish.
The door closed, and darkness surrounded him again. On the other side of the door, the captain laughed harshly. “We sail tonight, Browning. Once we do, you’re all mine. This voyage is gonna be a living hell for you, mister.”
Too late, Conrad thought. He was already in hell.
That was his last thought as he passed out.
Chapter 20
Frank had the feeling he was being followed even before he reached the Golden Gate Saloon. The instincts developed over a long, hazardous life sensed the eyes watching him.
But when he glanced around on Grant Street, he didn’t see anybody particularly suspicious. The sidewalks were busy on both sides of the street, but no one seemed to be paying much attention to him. A man dressed in range clothes was something of an oddity in the big city, but not enough to make most folks stare.
Most of the people bustling back and forth on the other side of the street were Chinese, since Grant Street was the boundary line between the Barbary Coast and Chinatown, but none of those scurrying figures even glanced at Frank. Their heads were down as they went about their business.
Frank spotted the saloon up ahead. It was large and prosperous-looking, and he couldn’t help but wonder how much of it had been paid for by Pamela Tarleton’s money.
It was early in the day, but even so the Golden Gate was busy when Frank went in. Quite a few men were lined up drinking at the long, horseshoeshaped bar. To the right were tables where more men sat with glasses and bottles, and to the left were the poker tables, faro layouts, roulette wheels, and other games of so-called chance. The place was elegantly furnished with lots of polished hardwood, gleaming brass fixtures, and crystal chandeliers. The air in the Golden Gate practically reeked of money, along with the usual saloon smells of sawdust and beer.
In the rear of the room a broad, carpeted staircase led up to a second floor. Frank took note of that, but went to the bar and ordered a beer from a bartender in a red silk shirt. All the bartenders wore shirts like that, as did the men running the games. The women were clad in low-cut red gowns. The colorful getups made the workers easy to identify.
“There you go, cowboy.” The bartender set the mug of beer in front of Frank. He didn’t let go of the handle, however. “That’ll be four bits.”
Frank frowned. “Sort of expensive, isn’t it?”
With a sigh of weary patience, the bartender said, “If you can’t afford it, there are plenty of other places in San Francisco where you can get a drink, Tex.”
“Didn’t say I couldn’t afford it,” Frank grumbled. “Just said it was sort of high, that’s all.”
He dug a fifty-cent piece out of his pocket and slid it across the hardwood. The bartender let go of the beer mug and made the coin disappear.
The fella would be more than a mite shocked if he knew what this customer who looked like a down-on-his-luck grub line rider really could afford, Frank mused. He didn’t waste a lot of time thinking about the riches he had inherited from Vivian Browning, but his lawyers assured him he was one of the wealthiest men west of the Mississippi. Lawyers had been k
nown to lie, of course, but Conrad kept a pretty close eye on the ones who worked for him and his father.
Or at least he had before all the business about the missing children had come up. Frank knew what it was like to find out suddenly that you’re a father, and couldn’t blame Conrad for being distracted after he’d found out about the twins.
Frank had never been much of a drinker. The few times in his life he had found himself crawling into a bottle had come close to being disastrous for him. A good cup of coffee or a phosphate was more to his liking. But he was able to nurse the beer convincingly as he looked around the saloon’s big main room.
His gaze lingered on the games, and the bartender asked, “Thinking about trying your luck? Our games are strictly on the up-and-up, cowboy.”
Like the little boy on the cable car, the bartender was making the same mistaken assumption that Frank was a cowboy. Frank didn’t bother correcting him. He said, “I’ve heard stories about the fella who owns this place. Rumor is he’s some sort of shady character.”
The bartender shrugged. “You can’t believe everything you hear.”
“This was in the newspaper.”
“You can’t believe everything you read, either, especially in a rag like the Chronicle.”
“Maybe not, but before I risk my hard-earned money, I wouldn’t mind meeting the hombre. I can size up a fella pretty fast and tell whether or not he’s square.”
“You really think you’re gonna just waltz in here with God knows what on your boots and meet a man like Mr. Lannigan?” The bartender laughed and shook his head. “Wise up, mister. We don’t need your business. Maybe you better just move on.”
“Hold your horses. I didn’t mean any offense. It’s just that where I come from, when you do business with a man, you get a chance to shake his hand first.”
“This ain’t Texas.” The bartender sneered and glanced around.
Frank had already spotted several big, rugged-looking gents who didn’t seem to have any reason for being there unless it was to take care of any trouble that started. He didn’t want the bartender setting the bouncers on him, not because he was afraid of the men but because he hadn’t found out anything yet. He hadn’t even laid eyes on Dex Lannigan, as far as he knew.
One of the bouncers had caught the heads-up from the bartender, and started in Frank’s direction, his craggy face hardening into a cold mask as he approached. Frank was debating whether to leave quietly or start a brawl—that might get Lannigan’s attention, he thought—when the need to do one or the other suddenly vanished.
Several men burst through the saloon’s front doors, brandishing hatchets, and letting out unnerving yells as they charged at Lannigan’s bouncers, upsetting tables and knocking customers aside on the way.
The violent intrusion brought screams from the women and startled yells from the men. The bouncer who had been closing in on Frank forgot about him and swung around to leap into action as he and his comrades met the attack.
Frank was as surprised as anybody, but he stayed coolheaded as trouble erupted around him. The intruders wore silk hoods over their heads that completely concealed their features, along with quilted jackets and loose-fitting trousers. It was impossible to tell from their yells what nationality they were, but he had a hunch they were Chinese. The hatchets told him that much, along with the Golden Gate’s proximity to Chinatown.
One of the bouncers pulled a gun from under his coat, but as he brought it to bear, one of the attackers leaped in and swung his hatchet. The bouncer screamed as Frank saw the gun fly into the air with the man’s hand still clutching it.
The razor-sharp hatchet had chopped it off cleanly at the wrist. Blood spurted from the stump where the hand used to be.
The customers scattered as they tried to get out of the way of danger. Chaos erupted all through the saloon. One of the bartenders reached under the bar and brought up a sawed-off shotgun.
Frank was ready to dive to the floor, knowing that buckshot was about to spray all over the place, but before the bartender could fire the scattergun, one of the hatchet men threw his weapon. It spun glitteringly through the air and hit the bartender in the forehead, knocking him cold. The bartender dropped the shotgun and collapsed as crimson flooded over his face.
Guns began to roar. It wasn’t Frank’s fight, so he knelt between a couple overturned tables to let the violence ebb and flow around him. One of the saloon girls was on her hands and knees nearby, trying to crawl through the madly charging horde. She was about to fall down and probably get trampled to death when Frank reached over, took hold of her bare arm, and hauled her to relative safety next to him.
She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him. “Oh, my Lord!” she gasped. “Mister, help me!”
“Hang on,” Frank told her. “We’re gonna stay right here until things settle down.”
“They’re crazy! They’re going to kill us all!”
“Who?”
“Those Chinamen! Diamond Jack’s men!”
The girl’s words confirmed his guess that the attackers were Chinese. He knew the tongs, the criminal societies ruling Chinatown’s underworld, often warred with each other and with the white hoodlums from the Barbary Coast.
The daring, broad daylight attack had to be part of some ongoing hostilities between Dex Lannigan and one of the tongs, Frank decided. It was the only explanation that made any sense. He hoped Lannigan didn’t get killed in some tong skirmish before he could find out what had happened to Conrad.
Most of the saloon’s customers had made it to safety, either fleeing up the stairs to the second floor, piling out through the doors—or in some cases the windows—or huddling behind the bar. The battle continued, however, between Lannigan’s men and the hooded invaders.
The girl shrieked and clutched at Frank as the body of one of the bouncers landed on the floor close to them. The man’s throat had been laid open by a swipe from one of the hatchets, and blood poured out of the gaping wound.
The shooting stopped, and Frank risked a look. He saw that all of Lannigan’s men were down, and so were a couple of the tong warriors. Some of the other hatchet men picked them up and carried them toward the doors. Somewhere outside, whistles blew shrilly as policemen rushed toward the scene of the bloody battle.
One of the remaining hatchet men suddenly strode toward the overturned table where Frank and the girl had taken cover. He was a big man, and the outlandish garb made him seem even bigger. Blood dripped from the hatchet he held.
Frank pushed the trembling girl down so he could shield her better with his body and reached for his Colt. It might not be his fight, but he sure as blazes wasn’t going to just sit there while some loco hombre chopped him up with a hatchet.
The man stopped him by saying in a deep, powerful voice, “Please, Mr. Morgan, you must come with us. Your son’s life depends on it.”
Chapter 21
Frank was so surprised by the words he heard that for a couple seconds all he could do was kneel there and stare at the hooded figure in front of him. Then he closed his hand around the butt of the Colt and asked harshly, “What do you know about Conrad?”
“There is no time to explain. You must come with us.” The hatchet man reached for the girl. “And this one, too, since she heard me speak your name.”
The girl screamed in terror and tried to scramble away. Frank saw the hatchet man’s hand tighten on the handle of his weapon, and realized the man might kill the girl rather than leave her behind to talk.
Frank had no doubt he could draw his gun, fire, and kill the hatchet man before the hooded killer could strike. But there were more of them, and if he gunned down one, the others might chop him up, along with the girl. Besides, they knew who he was, and they knew something about Conrad. He realized he had to play along in order to find out what that was.
“Come on,” Frank told the girl as he grasped her arm again. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
“No! No!” She tried to pul
l away.
With a sigh of regret, Frank closed his other hand into a loose fist and struck a short, sharp blow to the girl’s jaw that stunned her. As a Westerner, every part of his being rebelled at hitting a woman, but she didn’t understand that if she didn’t cooperate, the hatchet man would take the easy way out and kill her.
Frank would have to rely on his ability to take care of her. As she sagged against him, he lowered his shoulder and let her weight drape over it. As he came to his feet, his powerful muscles taking the burden of the girl without straining, he told the hatchet man, “Let’s go.”
As they started toward the door, he heard a voice he recognized as belonging to the bartender who had served him. “Hey! Hey, that crazy cowboy’s kidnapping Connie! Somebody stop him!”
Nobody got in Frank’s way, though. Not with the hulking figure beside him gripping a bloody hatchet. They passed through a lane created by the other hooded men, then suddenly were outside in the sunlight.
The hatchet man led the way across Grant Street toward a throng of people on the opposite sidewalk. That crowd opened like magic before them, and they trotted into an alley. Gloom closed in around them, as on the sidewalk the crowd came back together as if there had never been a gap.
Frank was confident none of those folks would ever admit to seeing anything unusual if the police questioned them. The grip of the tongs on Chinatown was strong.
Instinct warned him that by going with the hooded hombres he might be waltzing right into a trap, but he didn’t know of any reason why those powerful Chinese gangs would have any grudge against him. He had never clashed with the tongs during any of his rare trips to San Francisco in the past.
Except for the big hatchet man at his side and another who trailed behind them, the men who had launched the improbable raid on the Golden Gate had scattered. If they took off those hoods and hid their weapons under their jackets, they wouldn’t look that different from all the other men in the Chinese quarter. They could blend in and disappear in a matter of moments.
The Loner: Crossfire Page 12