“How about that whiskey, Micah Bishop?” Whip Watson’s voice finally reached me, and I realized that I still held the jug. I passed it to him, but didn’t see him, just kept looking at that celestial princess.
Whip Watson took a swig of sour mash and passed the jug on down the line.
“Hey, Jingfei,” he called out. “What’s for supper?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“You got a mighty fine cook,” I told Whip Watson after he passed me a good cigar to smoke after a great meal.
“First time we tried her out,” Whip said as he struck a Lucifer on his boot heel and held the flame out for me to fire up my Havana. “Yeah, she did all right. She’ll work out just fine.”
I didn’t know what all we’d eaten, couldn’t name or identify much of the food except for the beef and the noodles, and some of them peppers would burn you like hell’s hinges. But it was nourishing. And mighty filling. Truth be told, I hated to cleanse my palate as an educated, fancy Easterner might say, or Big Tim Pruett when he was in one of his moods, with that cigar. I found it hard to believe that the girl who’d cooked this great supper was the same one who’d served me soup that tasted like shingles.
“Tastes better than what Zeke’s been cooking,” Whip Watson said, and the fellow sitting next to him grunted, spit, cussed, and burped.
Leaning forward, I peeked over for a better look at Zeke. I thought he was wearing black gloves, only I realized his hands was the color of charcoal, and he wasn’t a black man, neither. Just dirty. Real dirty.
I leaned back. “He cooked for you?” I asked.
“It’s not his strong suit,” Whip Watson said.
I said, “It’s not even in his wardrobe.”
Whip Watson laughed and pulled the cigar from his mouth, jutting the hot end toward the Chinese girl who was now cleaning the dishes. “She’s a good cook. Had I known that before we lit out of Prescott, I’d have had her do our cooking during our journey.” He nodded his own approval at his own idea. “We’ll let her keep at it. Till we get closer to Calico. Then I don’t want her doing nothing. But looking mighty fine.”
“She looks mighty fine already,” I said.
“Reckon so. For a yellow-skinned gal. And I don’t care much for those eyes, how they slant and all.”
Zeke was standing, taking his empty plate to the wreck pan. Bug Beard was right beside him.
“You’re one to talk,” I said, “about beauty.”
Whip shot me a cold glance.
I pointed the other end of my cigar toward them two cads dropping their tinware in a basin by the fire. The Oriental princess didn’t even give them no notice, just reached into the pan, brought out Zeke’s or Bug Beard’s bowl, and went to scrubbing.
Finishing my thought, I said, “Considering the men you hire.”
He laughed then, and pulled himself up. “I didn’t hire them to look gorgeous,” he said, and extended his hand toward me. I was sore and still a mite weak, so I was grateful for him to help me stand. “And I wouldn’t say you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever plucked from the Mojave.”
He give me a motion to follow, and, being the good guest, I did. After all, the jug of Tennessee sour mash had been returned to him somewhere during supper. We went back to the wagon that had been my bed for a while. Once he’d taken a pull, he tossed the jug to me. I swallowed some. He tasted some. I drank more. He killed the last of the whiskey and pitched the empty jug through the opening in the canvas into the back of my wagon. Maybe he thought I could use it as a pillow.
Then he pointed toward the wagons, the buggies, all those conveyances that I couldn’t see but a few on account that it was pitch black beyond the campfire.
“A smart man could make a small fortune in Calico,” he said. “Maybe a large fortune.... If he can deliver what I got.”
I wanted to ask, What do you got? But I just sucked on the Havana. I’d seen that he had some fancy carriages and gunpowder and tools for miners. And a bucket load of wagons.
He looked at me. “And get there first.”
I said, “I reckon you’re right,” because I reckoned that he was. Hell, he’d know better than me. I’d never been to California until I’d crossed the Colorado River an eternity ago that probably hadn’t been more than a week.
“Got some good men with me,” he said, and his Boss of the Plains tilted over toward the campfire, where Juan Pedro and Cigar Smoker and Zeke and Bug Beard and some men I hadn’t gotten around to naming yet warmed their hands and stared at the Chinese girl still cleaning dishes. I wouldn’t call them good, but they was likely good at something. Robbing church collection plates come to mind. Rustling come to mind. Horsewhipping Quakers come to mind. Robbery, murder, and larceny come to mind. So did sodomy. I looked one or two of them over, but then my eyes lighted on the girl.
“What did you say her name is?” I heard myself asking.
He didn’t answer. Not at first. I realized I was staring at that girl, who just focused on doing her chores, and I turned to see an orange dot real close to me. Then the dot disappeared, and smoke blowed in my face, and Whip Watson said, “Don’t go getting any notions, Micah Bishop. You owe me one. I don’t owe you anything.”
I smiled, though that took some doing. “No notions, Whip,” I said. “Just wondering.”
The cigar went back to his mouth. The tip glowed once more. After a moment, he answered, “Jingfei.”
I repeated the name. As best as I could.
“Means ‘Quiet Not,’” he said.
This caused me to marvel over the man who had saved my life. “You speak Chinese?”
“No,” he said. “Not Manchu not Canton not Japanese. And damned little Spanish. She speaks English.”
I hadn’t heard her say a thing, English or nothing else. Far as I could tell, Jingfei hadn’t even burped or farted. Quiet Not sure didn’t fit her, from what I’d seen over, hell, all of ninety minutes.
“I have twenty-eight men riding for me,” Whip Watson said, which made me grin. My ciphering and guessing had been damned close. “They’re good at what they do, and that’s minding their business, doing what I tell them to do and when I tell them to do it. For that, if—and that’s likely a big if— we make it with this cargo to Calico, they’ll get two hundred dollars.”
I smoked. He smoked. He talked. I listened.
“That’s what I can offer you. Two hundred dollars. I’m a bit of a gambler, and I’m gambling that you’re good with that gun. Even if that gun isn’t worth a damn. I’m guessing that you and the law don’t always see things eye to eye. I’m guessing that you can hold your tongue. I’m guessing that you probably don’t want to be going back to . . . let’s say, Beal’s Crossing, anytime soon. I’m guessing that you don’t expect to walk the Streets of Gold when you meet your demise. I’m guessing that if Zeke or Guttersnipe Gary were to start a row with you. And they just might. Because they’re earning the same money you’ll be earning and you’ve only got a little ways to go before we reach Calico. I’m guessing that if those two blackhearts were to start a row with you, you probably could handle them both. Because they have guts, but you have brains.”
That last part, I knowed, some people would disagree with, but I kept my poker face and kept right on listening.
“I’m thinking that you’ve killed before, and likely know you’ll have to kill again. And it won’t bother you. I’m guessing that you’re like most men in this country, in that you don’t care how you earn your pay as long as you get your pay. I’m guessing that you’re also smart enough to know that if you were to try to cross me, I’d gut you like a fish.” He paused, spit out the tobacco juice that one gets smoking cigars, and stared at me.
“Am I guessing right?”
I said, “I guess so.”
He stepped closer, so I could see him better on account that now he was more in the light from the fire.
“Remember you owe me one.”
“I’m good at remembering,” I said. And I was.
I remembered cards, I remembered the little things folks did when they was bluffing, or when they had a good hand, or when they was sandbagging. I remembered words people spoke months later. That’s how come I can write all this down in the library at Folsom prison, or in my cell, or on Sundays when they make us go to hear the preacher man and I’m supposed to be writing down what the preacher is saying but instead I’m writing these here words.
“Good.” Whip Watson pitched the cigar into the desert. “Then remember this. Stay away from Jingfei.”
“Oh.” Quiet Not was his girl. That explained some things, I guess. Why she was traveling with a bunch of men—if you aren’t particular on how you define men—who could give even Big Tim Pruett fits, had Big Tim not been dead and buried already. “You don’t have to worry about me, Whip,” I said. “I was just admiring her is all. Same as Zeke and Guttersnipe Gary”—whichever one he was—“and Juan Pedro and all your boys. I’m a lot of things, but I’ve never been known to do something as low down as chase after another man’s girl.”
Which was one of the most shameless falsehoods I’d ever told.
“Especially if that man’s paying me two hundred dollars.”
Which was gospel.
“Glad to hear it, Micah Bishop.” He smiled, but he wasn’t friendly. Motioning toward the wagon, he told me, “You can sleep in here again tonight. Tomorrow, you and me will go for a ride. Get a good night’s rest, Micah Bishop. Like as not, you’ll need it.”
Which wasn’t quite the same as Sister Rocío tucking me in and telling me to have pleasant dreams and not to worry that if I died before I waked the Good Lord would my soul to take. Which Rocío never done, by the way. In some ways, she was worser than the jailers who’d made me sleep in my own vomit after a good drunk. But I certainly would have preferred that one-armed, blind nun riding alongside me than me joining up with Whip Watson and his thirty—I mean twenty-eight—hombres.
So I finished smoking my cigar, leaning against the rear wagon wheel, listening to the sounds of the desert night. Wondering what I’d gotten myself into, but, well, it’s not like I had much of a choice. Hell, Whip Watson had saved my life. I could be feeding ants and coyotes somewhere out there in the Mojave. And two hundred dollars was a right smart of money. I could handle and tolerate and maybe not even have to kill cutthroats like Juan Pedro and Zeke and Bug Beard and Guttersnipe Gary, whoever he was. Besides, it wasn’t that far to Calico, and, well, Jingfei sure was pretty to look at. Long as Whip Watson didn’t see me do it too much. Because I figured Whip Watson knowed how to handle that blacksnake whip of his.
After a spell of thoughtful thinking and staring, I decided to turn in. Started climbing into the back of the wagon, but then I remembered what all my bedchambers held. I didn’t gamble as recklessly as Whip Watson, so I pitched what was left of that Havana into the dirt. Got myself inside, tossed my hat down, and sat on a keg of gunpowder, and just looked through the opening in the canvas at that Celestial princess as she scrubbed and washed and rinsed and didn’t say one word.
Zeke had climbed into his bedroll closest to the fire. Most of the boys had done turned in. Standing in camp, just close enough to the fire so that I could make out their persons, Whip Watson was conversing with Juan Pedro, Bug Beard, and a tall gent with a silk top hat adorned with a fancy headband of colorful beads—a man I’d soon learn was no gentleman at all but a real arse called Guttersnipe Gary—gesturing here and there, pointing south-east, then northwest, then at the Conestogas, then at Jingfei.
Losing interest in watching them boys, I looked over at where the Conestogas were parked. I had to be patient, but you learn that trait when you’re playing cards for a living, or when you’re hiding out from the law or sore-losing foot soldiers from Fort Mojave. Eventually, I seen it. Another cigarette glowing in the dark. Then another.
That confirmed my suspicions. Either they was real careless, or they weren’t so concerned with some bandits or Paiutes or Mojaves or infantry soldiers from Fort Mojave attacking them. A good pair of eyes can see the light from a cigarette or cigar. So this notion hit me that those guards didn’t care about with what might be lurking around in the desert. They seemed to be protecting what was inside them wagons from men like Juan Pedro and Zeke and Bug Beard and Guttersnipe Gary.
From what I’d seen over supper, that seemed like a real smart move. I wouldn’t trust a man like Bug Beard as far as I could throw him, and I had no plans of throwing him anywhere because that would mean I’d have to touch him, and them bugs in his hair just give me the chills.
Wasn’t much longer after them thoughts had crossed my mind that I saw some boys leaving camp, grumbling, dragging their boots across camp and into the darkness. First, I decided that they were going to answer nature’s call, but they all carried long guns with them, and not newspapers or pages from magazines, but then they didn’t strike me as the types that thought cleanliness was next to godliness. They didn’t go behind the boulders. They went to the Conestogas, and as a few of the orange tips started moving, it struck me that they was just changing guards.
Which caused me to take another peek at Jingfei. She had finished cleaning the dishes, and was now drying her hands with a dirty, wet towel. Sure enough, she had also set out eight more plates and eight tin cups. I hadn’t bothered counting the number of boys who had walked out of camp, but I sure counted eight men walking back, all armed with rifles of all sorts and calibers and sizes.
They took their grub and coffee, sat down by the fire that was starting to die, and then Whip Watson was by them, pointing, and talking in whispers that I was too far away to hear. Juan Pedro was at Whip’s side, and he was translating in Spanish, I figured, for them that didn’t savvy English.
My eyes followed Jingfei as she left camp. She disappeared in the dark, too, but she wasn’t alone. Guttersnipe Gary and Bug Beard walked with her, though they kept a respectful distance. The dark swallowed them, and the two men wasn’t smoking, so I didn’t have an orange tip to follow once I couldn’t see them no more. But from the direction that had taken, I had a pretty good idea where they was bound.
They were making a beeline for one of them Conestoga wagons.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hopeful that I’d dream of Jingfei, I lay myself down to sleep, but my luck wasn’t changing none, though I was alive and not dead. Nope, I didn’t dream of that porcelain face and them long, slender, wonderful, flexible fingers. I dreamed of Whip Watson and Mojave rattlesnakes and getting my hide peeled off me by a blacksnake whip. That whip lashed me good, and pain blinded me, got me to screaming my head off. Dreams are funny things. Sometimes you know you’re dreaming, especially if it’s a real bad nightmare. This nightmare, I knowed that nothing wasn’t real, that Whip Watson hadn’t flayed off my hide, that I was dreaming, but I thought that I was screaming in my sleep, and that I’d wake up yelling and everybody in camp would know I’d been having a real bad nightmare, and then Bug Beard and Zeke would likely be mad as hell at me for waking them up.
That’s when I jerked myself wide awake. Sitting up. Expecting to hear myself scream. Only I woke up in a cold sweat, certain-sure, but I wasn’t yelling nothing, and I hadn’t woken nobody up because it was already daylight.
Outside of that wagon, however, somebody was yelling. Real, real loud. Next, I heard something else. The sound of a blacksnake whip cracking in the morning air.
Grabbed my hat, pulled on my boots, fetched the Spiller & Burr, and climbed down out of that wagon. Didn’t see Jingfei, and I didn’t look over toward the Conestogas. I must have been the last one to wake in camp, because twenty-six hombres had made a wide loop around the camp. One of them was Juan Pedro, who grinned and motioned me to hurry and join the morning circle.
The whip spoke again. I caught a glimpse of it above the hats of the burly men.
A man screamed.
Juan Pedro motioned me and mouthed the words Muy pronto.
I didn’t exactly run, but I stuck the .36 in my waistband, pu
lled down my hat tighter, and moved toward the men who wasn’t saying nothing. Juan Pedro and Cigar Smoker made room for me.
Feet wide apart, hat lying on the ground, Whip Watson was retrieving the blacksnake.
Cigar Smoker wasn’t smoking that morning. Nobody was. And nobody had started coffee or breakfast. Cigar Smoker whispered, “They don’t call him Whip for nothin’.”
The whip had been gathered up again, and flew again.
The man lying beside the remnants of the fire shrieked.
The man? I hadn’t gotten around to naming him. He was on his hands and knees, his hat off, blood and saliva dripping from his torn lips, pooling in the dust underneath him, him crawling around like a dog. The whip lashed out again. He yelped, collapsed, and brung his hands up to cover his head. His hands were bloody heaps. The whip struck again, and he flipped over, arms now stretched out in front of his sweat- and blood-drenched long blond hair. His fingers flexed, pulled at the sand. What fingers he had left anyway. By my count, three was missing, recently sliced off by that blacksnake whip.
“I warned y’all in Prescott that the merchandise is forbidden,” Whip Watson yelled. “Didn’t I? I warned every single one of you sons of bitches what would happen. Don’t you remember? Conrad here . . . he didn’t listen. Didn’t believe . . . me.”
The whip cut into Conrad’s back. He got up, tried to crawl away, but he wasn’t making much progress. Fell on his face once when his arms collapsed, and it taken the strength of Hercules for him to lift his bloody face back off the ground. His clothes? Well . . .
It’s like this. The shirt he was wearing hung in shreds. Sleeves drug behind his wrists, dirt caking on the bloody cloth as he crawled. And . . . well . . . well . . . you couldn’t really tell if what now hung from his back and side was the remnants of his shirt—or slices of flesh.
Again, the whip struck. The man, all screamed out, groaned and fell into the dirt, and rolled over, faceup, eyes closed.
His britches had been cut to pieces, too. They was dragging behind his boots, and his dirty underwear had gotten ripped apart and hung in bloody tatters. Thankfully, the man now seemed to be unconscious.
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