Utah Terror : Utah Terror (9781101606971) (11 page)

20

Hunan was a beehive. Lights lit the streets and buildings. The opium den and the House of Pleasure were the most popular places in the camp.

From under a spruce at the west end of the canyon, Skye Fargo sat in his saddle, on the lookout for Tong. “I wish you'd listened to me, damn it.”

“You swear a lot,” Mai Wing said. “Do you know that?”

“Never noticed.” Fargo had tried to talk her into staying at the clearing but she refused. He sensed she was a bit spooked by the deep woods. She was also worried the Tong might come back. He'd balked at bringing her but he couldn't leave her there if she didn't want to stay. So here they were, about to bait the lion's den together.

The north side of the canyon didn't have as many cabins and shacks and tents. Fewer people meant it was safer for Fargo to wind along the side streets and cross the small tracts of woodland still standing until he came to the O'Brien place.

Once again he drew rein.

Several of the windows glowed. A shadow flitted across one.

“They are home,” Mai Wing whispered.

“So it seems.” Fargo wasn't taking anything for granted where the Tong were concerned. “You stay here. And when I say stay here, I goddamn mean it.”

“There you go again.”

Fargo swung his leg up and over. He yanked the Henry from the scabbard, fed a cartridge into the chamber, and handed it to her. “Just in case.”

Mai Wing held it as if it were about to bite her. “I have never shot a gun before.”

Fargo demonstrated how to cock the hammer and instructed her in how to work the lever. She was still nervous. “I shouldn't be gone long,” he said to set her at ease.

“Please don't be. I feel safer when I am with you. You inspire confidence because you have so much of your own.”

“If you say so.” Fargo was scanning the house and the yard.

“I have never met a man with so much force of will,” Mai Wing declared.

“If you say so,” Fargo repeated himself. He wasn't exactly sure what she meant.

“The force of life is strong in you.”

“You can stop now,” Fargo said. Palming the toothpick, he crept to the porch. He put his ear to the front door and thought he heard female voices. Checking the street, he rapped lightly. No one came. He rapped again, louder.

Suddenly the door opened and he was flooded in a rectangle of light. “Boyo!” Terrence O'Brien exclaimed.

“Keep your voice down,” Fargo cautioned. He wouldn't put it past Han to have Tong watching their place.

“What is it?” Terry asked in concern.

Quickly, briefly, Fargo gave him the highlights. “Can I put my horse around back and bring Mai Wing in?”

“Need you ask?” the Irishman rejoined. “Our home is your home.”

Fargo wasted no time. Only when the Ovaro was tied where no one could see it and Mai Wing stood in the O'Brien kitchen did he relax a little.

“You poor dear,” Noirin said, touching Mai Wing's cheek. “My husband gave us some idea of what you've been through.”

“They tortured you?” Flanna said, aghast. “How beastly can they be?”

“They are Tong,” Mai Wing said in her simple way. “They do anything they please to anyone they want.”

“They're devils, by God,” Terry said. “And to think, I've stayed as long as I have.”

“Are you hungry?” Noirin asked.

Fargo admitted he could stand a bite to eat.

Mai Wing said, “This one would be most humbly grateful to fill her belly.”

“Don't you talk cute, gal,” O'Brien said, and laughed his hearty laugh.

Fargo and Mai Wing sat at the table while Noirin and Flanna whisked about.

“It's a shame about Tom Bannon,” Terry said. “I shudder to think what they might be doing to him.” His face clouded. “And to think they had Arnold and Webber in that dungeon of theirs all this while. They deserve to die, every last one of the bastards.”

“Your language, Terrence,” Noirin scolded from over by the stove. “There are ladies present, in case it has slipped your mind.”

“I'm sorry, woman. But damn it all, this has my dander up.” Terry leaned on the table. “What are your plans, boyo?”

“To leave Mai Wing with you and go after the blacksmith.”

Terry nodded. “I'm going with you.”

Noirin stopped breaking eggs and turned. “You'd go off and leave us by ourselves?”

“Fargo, here, needs my help,” Terry said. “He can't go up against those diabolical Tong alone.”

“I suppose.” Noirin glanced at Fargo and gnawed on her lower lip.

“You're staying here,” Fargo said to Terry.

“Why? I have a shotgun and plenty of buckshot.”

“There's less chance of being spotted if there's only one of us,” Fargo said, which wasn't entirely true.

“I want to go and I'm going and that's final,” Terry gruffly asserted.

“No,” Fargo said. “You're not.”

“No one tells me what to do, by God.”

“I just did.”

Terry puffed out his cheeks and glowered but it was mostly bluff. “Damn it, boyo,” he said, and deflated. “It's not right.”

“The women come first,” Fargo said. “Or do you want your wife and daughter to go through what they did to Mai Wing?”

Terry glanced at her, and blanched. “If Han and his Tong so much as touch a hair on their heads, I'll blow them all to kingdom come.”

“With a shotgun?” Fargo said, and grinned.

“No. With the black powder I have stored.”

Fargo sat up. “The hell you say.”

“Mr. Fargo, please,” Noirin said.

“He does that a lot,” Mai Wing threw in.

“How much black powder are we talking about?” Fargo wanted to know.

“Two kegs of the stuff. I bought it early on in case any of the prospectors had blasting to do. But no one wanted to buy any.”

“Well, now,” Fargo said.

A pot of coffee had been on the stove, keeping warm, and Flanna brought him a cup. She also set down cream and a bowl of sugar. “Word is all over camp about the Tong you killed.”

“That it is,” Terry said. “It was all anyone who came into the store talked about.”

“Tell him about Lo Ping,” Noirin said.

“He stopped by to ask if we had seen you,” Terry related. “Him and those Hu brothers. I told him we hadn't seen hide nor hair of you and he must have believed me because he left without causing trouble.”

“But we're under suspicion,” Noirin said. “Now more than ever.”

“The Tong haven't liked us from the beginning, dearest,” Terry said. “What's your point?”

“That we can't afford to stay another day. As soon as Skye gets back, we should pack and go.”

“As if Han will let us leave before he's good and ready to let us.”

Once again Fargo nipped their dispute by saying, “First things first. You let me deal with the Tong. Then you can make up your minds whether to go or not.”

“You're awful confident,” Flanna said.

“That is exactly what I told him,” Mai Wing said.

Fargo poured cream into his coffee and added a spoonful of sugar and gratefully sipped. A plan was forming but each step had to be carried out just right or he'd end up in an unmarked grave.

Noirin was preparing eggs and sausage. Flanna toasted bread and brought jam to the table.

Famished, Fargo ate as if the meal would be his last. Which, come to think of it, it might.

“What I'd like to know,” Terry brought up, “is how the great and mighty Han expects to get away with his dirty deeds once the federal marshals hear about them.”

“That's just it,” Fargo said with his mouth full. “There won't be anyone left to turn him in.”

“Exactly so,” Mai Wing said. “My people will not do it, not only because they fear Han and the Tong. They do not trust your people.”

“Why on earth not?” Niorin asked.

“A lot of whites do not like us because we are not white. I have seen a lot of hatred in the short time I have been in your country.”

“The law is the law,” Terry said. “It doesn't care what color a person is.”

“My people do not know that.”

“They need to learn it, then. They're Americans now.”

“That is just it,” Mai Wing said. “They aren't.” She paused. “As much as I despise Han, I must admit he is shrewd. He has carved out a slice of China here in your wilderness. Once he has disposed of the last of the whites—”

“You mean us,” Terry said.

“—he will rule Hunan as a mandarin of old. And there will be nothing your law can do to touch him.”

“We'll see about that,” O'Brien said.

“Two things,” Fargo said. “Do you have a revolver I can use? And is your store locked?”

“I have a Colt upstairs you are welcome to use,” Terry said. “As for my store, do you think I'd go off and leave it open for every scoundrel to help himself?”

“I'd like the key.”

Terry's eyebrows met over his nose. “Have you ever used the stuff before?”

“A few times.” Fargo spread jam on a slice of toast and bit off a piece.

“It has to be done just right. You don't want innocents hurt.”

“What are you talking about, Father?” Flanna asked.

“A fitting end to Emperor Han,” Terry replied, and laughed. “I'd pay money to see it.”

“The important thing now,” Fargo said, “is that you stay with the women and not let anything happen to them.”

“Any of those bastard Tong try to come through my door, they'll do so without their heads.”

“Honestly, Terrence,” Noirin said.

“If a man can't swear on the eve of battle, when can he swear?”

“Battle?” Flanna said in amusement. “You make it sound as if we're going to war.”

“We are,” Fargo said.

21

There were more Tong guarding the Pagoda than ever. Not just out front but out back as well.

On his belly in a ditch forty yards from the rear of the tower, Fargo slipped his hand into his boot and drew the Arkansas toothpick.

Guards, yes, but no lanterns or lamps had been lit out back. It was a mistake that would cost them.

Fargo had fought Apaches. Lived with Apaches. Ate and made love and hunted with Apaches. And no one, anywhere, was stealthier. Apaches had no peers when it came to stalking and to hiding in plain sight. Some folks claimed they could turn invisible, which was ridiculous. They could do the next best thing—blend into any terrain so that they appeared to be part of it.

Fargo used their trick now. He crawled up out of the ditch and snaked from one patch of ink to the next. He moved incredibly slow. Slow was the key to not being spotted. He moved so slowly, it took half an hour to cover thirty feet.

The two Tong loafing on either side of the rear door were talking in low tones. Occasionally one or the other would laugh or chuckle.

Another half an hour, and Fargo was close enough to see that they were leaning on their shoulders facing each other, and had hatchets at their waists.

Fargo girded himself. He was set to spring when the door opened and out stepped Lo Ping.

The pair of Tong snapped straight as if they were soldiers on parade.

Lo Ping spoke to them and one answered. He gazed all about, made a short comment, and wheeled. The door shut after him.

Fargo wondered what that was all about. His best guess was that Lo Ping was making his rounds and checking with the guards to see that all was well.

But now the pair was more alert. One stretched and the other flexed his legs a few times.

Fargo either had to wait until they went back to leaning and talking, or do what he did. He was up in a blur and drove the toothpick's double-edged blade into the chest of the man who was stretching. He twisted, yanked it out, and was on the second Tong before the first realized he had been stabbed. The second man turned right into the toothpick. Fargo sank the sharp steel to the hilt in the man's throat and slashed outward.

It had been beautifully done. Neither managed to utter an outcry. They thrashed a bit, and the second man gurgled and bubbled fountains of blood.

The door was heavier than it looked. The smart thing for the Tong to do would have been to bolt it. He'd never be able to bust through without a battering ram. But they were overconfident and hadn't.

Chinese lanterns hung from pegs at intervals. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, and muffled voices issued from the Pagoda's bowels.

Fargo drew the Colt. He wouldn't use it unless he had to. One shot, and every Tong in the place would be down on his head.

Finding the stairs to the dungeon wasn't difficult. Getting there was.

Twice Fargo heard someone coming. The first time he ducked into an alcove screened by hanging beads. He barely had time to steady the swaying strands when several Tong filed past. The second time he darted into a room that contained nothing but hatchets, row after row of them, hanging on the walls, enough to outfit an army.

He encountered no one on the stairs.

A single lantern cast feeble illumination over the dungeon. All the barred doors save one were open—it was the door to the cell he had occupied with the blacksmith.

Dreading what he would find, Fargo peered in. Someone was in there but he needed more light to see whom. Taking the lantern from the wall, he held it close to the bars.

Tom Bannon hung in shackles. He had been beaten about the head, neck, and shoulders to where he didn't resemble the man Fargo had left at the clearing earlier that day. Beaten so bad, he was close to death's door. His eyes were shut, his breathing labored.

“Bannon?” Fargo whispered. “Can you hear me?”

The blacksmith didn't reply.

While the door wasn't reinforced, if he tried to kick it in he'd probably break his leg before the wood gave way.

Fargo was about to turn and go in search of Lo Ping, who carried a large key ring, when he remembered that after he'd freed Arnold and Webber and the Chinese prisoners, he'd tossed the guard's keys into a corner. He wondered. Hurrying over, he moved the lantern back and forth. And there the key ring was, unnoticed in the shadows.

“Bannon?” Fargo said again when the door was open. He went over, wincing at the pulped flesh and broken teeth and bashed head. Certain the blacksmith was dead, he turned to go.

“Fargo?” the apparition croaked.

“I'm here.”

One eye was swollen shut, the other barely visible. “The sons of bitches,” Bannon said.

“I'll take you down and get you out of here.” Fargo went to try the key in a shackle.

“Like hell,” Bannon wheezed.

“I can't leave you like this.”

“You know what you have to do.”

“Hell,” Fargo said.

“Do it.”

“Bannon, I—” Fargo stopped. Words were useless.

“Do I have to beg? Is that it? If it was you hanging here I wouldn't like it but I'd do it for you. Do it for me.”

“I'd have to use my knife.”

“Do it, damn you.” Bannon's voice broke and he begged in a whisper, “Please.”

Fargo did as the man wanted. After, he wiped the blade on the blacksmith's shirt and stepped back and stared at the limp remains.

Sounds in the distance brought Fargo out of himself. Bending, he slid the toothpick into its sheath and pulled his pant leg down. Drawing the Colt, he made sure all six chambers were loaded. Then he stepped from the cell.

The sounds grew louder. More than one person was coming down the stairs.

Fargo shut the cell door as quietly as possible and melted into the shadows.

Light splashed the bottom of the stars. Two Tong materialized, one holding a lantern. They were talking and smiling. They went to the door and one peered in.

“American,” he called out in bad English. “How are you?” He made a remark in Chinese to the other Tong and both laughed.

Fargo saw a hatchet on the hip of the man holding the lantern. Switching the Colt to his left hand, he glided up behind them. He didn't shoot. He yanked the hatchet free, whipped it high, and sheared it down into the crown of the Tong's head. It went in deeper than he expected. Wrenching it out, he shoved the Tong out of the way.

The other one spun. He saw his friend falling and the bloody hatchet in Fargo's hand, and pressed back against the cell door, bleating, “No!”

“Where's Han?”

“Where he always is,” the Tong said.

Which Fargo took to mean on the throne in the audience chamber. He nodded at the cell. “Were you one of the ones who did that to him?”

“Me?” The man was breaking out in a sweat. “No. Others do it.”

“You'd be piss-poor at poker,” Fargo said, and arced the hatchet up and into the Tong's groin. The man screeched and clawed for his own hatchet but it was too little, too late.

Fargo cut him across the throat and stepped back to escape the spray.

It took a full minute for this last one to die.

Fargo holstered the Colt and helped himself to the other hatchet. With one in each hand, he climbed. He stopped below the first landing and peered over. Strangely enough, he didn't see Tong anywhere.

Fargo resumed climbing, faster now, taking two steps at a stride. There were no Tong at the second landing or the landings after that.

The doors to the audience chamber were closed.

Fargo put his ear to one but it was too thick to hear anything. Holding both hatchets in his left hand, he gripped the handle and pulled the door out a crack. From within came voices: Han's and Lo Ping's. To his surprise, they were speaking English.

“Has it been arranged?” Han was quietly asking.

“Your wish is always my command, great one,” Lo Ping said in the same hushed manner.

“No one knows except you and me and the four men you have chosen?”

“No one,” Lo Ping said.

“You are certain they can be trusted?”

“They are your most devoted servants,” Lo Ping said. “Have no fear. The parents will be taken below, and the men I picked will take the daughter to your private quarters.”

“Excellent,” Han said. “Some might think me a hypocrite and I cannot have that.”

“Never, great one,” Lo Ping said.

They switched to Chinese.

Fargo had listened to enough. They must have been near the doors for him to hear them so clearly. Fate had given him a golden opportunity; he mustn't let it slip by.

He only hoped that most of the Tong were out searching for Mai Wing and him.

Taking a deep breath, Fargo hauled on the handle. The door swung wide, and there, not twenty feet off, walking away, were Han and Lo Ping, Han with his hands up his sleeves, Lo Ping in the perpetual half bow he assumed when in his lord and master's presence.

Behind them, in silent ranks, were twenty or more Tong.

Both turned.

Han recovered from his surprise first, and smiled his superior smile. “What a pleasant surprise. How delightful that you have paid me a visit.”

“Master!” Lo Ping exclaimed.

Han ignored him. “Are you considering joining our benevolent society? Is that why you hold hatchets?”

Fargo had misjudged. He thought they were close enough to the doors that he could split their skulls and get the hell out of there before anyone could catch him.

“Cat have your tongue, as you Americans quaintly say?” Han taunted. “I don't know what madness has come over you, to attack me in my Pagoda. But I thank you for making this so easy.” His smile widened. “As another of your expressions has it, you should make your peace with your Maker.”