A Superior Man (32 page)

“I helped build that road.”

“So did the men in those graves.”

“Then go get their consent. The railway is their grave-stick. It honours their passing.”

“Each man had his own marker,” Fist said. “You repainted them.”

“This iron road is so high and long, it is a marvel for the eye to see,” said One Leg.

“It swallowed your leg,” said Boss Soon.

“Some mornings,” One Leg said, “I go look at the iron road. It's a river of steel, heavy but even. It runs level and smooth. It soothes the mind. Still, I wonder, wouldn't it be faster to move things by the river instead of by the railway? Do you know?”

“Very beautiful.” No Brain went to the stove for more rice.

“You want redbeards to raid more graveyards?” said the bookman.

“When you kill people here,” One Leg said, “the police will chase you to China. They will join forces with the Emperor. You will never know a night's good sleep until you die.”

“No one need die,” said Fist. “We can explode the trestle after the train passes.”

“Or we can do it early,” I said, “before the southbound train arrives. Then it can't reach the coast. It'll be delayed for weeks. The Company loses money. All Gold Mountain will know what we did.”

“We should be better than the redbeards.” One Leg slammed the table. “Otherwise, we deserve their disdain.”

“You're angry because you can't join in.” The headman's chopsticks rattled in his bowl, chasing the last grains of rice.

“I won't leave,” said One Leg. “I will stay here.”

I cursed under my breath. Fist was a quick thinker but not fast enough for One Leg.

“Redbeards will come to kill you,” said Boss Soon.

“Then you avenge me,” said One Leg.

“You agreed to leave,” Fist cried out in dismay. “You promised to follow His Holiness's advice.”

“Not so.” One Leg brandished his axe. “I guard this place. Redbeards may return, unearth the corpses, and set them aflame.”

“Fist, it's simple.” The bookman turned to one side and spat out a bone. “You must leave these men behind.”

Fist opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.

“I told you many times to go home,” One Leg said to Fist. “You never listen.”

“You never listen to me!”

“These people should see clearly that I'm not the one stopping you,” One Leg added.

“Stinking bastard, you don't want villagers laughing at you.”

“Your uncle plays you like a cricket,” Boss Soon sneered and goaded him.

“This is a good opportunity.” Fist tugged One Leg's sleeve. “I win honour for our clan.”

“I agree. You must go.”

Fist shook his head. “We came together, we leave together.”

“You should stand up for yourself,” I said.

“Shit-hole fiend, you don't need his consent.” Boss Soon took his sack to the door. “I'll get my men to do it.”

“No!” I shouted. “It's easy to trace the explosives to you.”

“Leave the bag here.” Fist quickly grabbed it. “Give us time to talk.”

The bookman shook his head. “You'll never change the old fool's mind.”

Fist looked into the bag, and then up. “Maybe I'll kill these two old things tonight.”

The headman stormed out. No Brain started stacking the dishes.

I cursed One Leg, the brick apple. No one could get a bite of him, not even a headman who spoke English.

If I didn't take revenge, then I went home a failed man. And it would be a thousand times worse with the boy at my side.

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(1885)
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(1885)

Next morning, a gunshot awoke me.

Bright mid-morning light filled the window. Another sudden bang, then a crisp ping on metal. The boy's bed was empty.

I stumbled outside and saw birds circling overhead, afraid to land.

Sitting on a chair with his thighs wide apart, One Leg aimed his rifle over a cluttered patch of tree stumps. White smoke leaked from the gun barrel. His target was a row of tin cans on top of a tower of wooden crates. No Brain stood by him, hand on the boy's shoulder. The brat covered his ears but his eyes shone with pleasure. One Leg fired again and missed. The boy pounced on the spent cartridge.

I hurried over. “Up so early!”

“That stupid thing, Fist, has run off.” One Leg did not look at me. “Let's see if this old cat's whiskers get singed or not.”

“Run off where?”

“Spuzzum, to find someone he can trust.” He put the rifle on his lap and sat back.

My mind was already on the mission. One of us, Fist or I, needed
to stay atop the tracks to pull up the other man. Whoever it was, he needed to be strong. Fist was too scrawny. Or, we could both climb down and up on opposite sides of the trestle in order to save time. But I would be faster and he, on looking slow and weak, would lose his temper and do something stupid.

“You two must go now!” I said to One Leg. “Redbeards will come, wanting revenge.”

“Screw! Fist won't do a thing. You watch; he'll be back in time for dinner.”

I wanted to smash the rifle into his face. “No, he'll take revenge and run for China.”

“He cried like a newborn babe when he left,” said One Leg.

“Hindered by your silliness.”

“What do you know? Our crewmen took turns burying corpses. Fist's father handled one, but then he got killed. Fist got scared and refused his turn. When we replaced the grave-sticks here, Fist wouldn't touch them until I threatened to get help from Spuzzum. What a spineless coward.”

“Plenty of men won't touch those things.”

“No crewman refused. Not even No Brain.”

“I'll go to Spuzzum.” I reached for Peter, who watched One Leg raise the rifle.

“Ah, let him be,” he said, squinting through the sight. “Get your things and then fetch him.”

I wouldn't let go. The brat screamed and dug his heels into the ground. When I lifted him, his thrashing body arched into a taut bow as his fists and feet pounded me. I twisted away, but his fingers jabbed my eyes. I yelped and slapped him. The more he screamed,
the louder I yelled. I held him with one hand and spanked him with the other. No Brain tried to free him.

“Don't smack the head,” One Leg scolded. “You'll wreck his brain. You're so big; don't you know your own strength?”

The boy refused to walk. He pulled the other way, as if drawn to the north where Mary lived. He lay on the ground, arms and legs spread out, and stared at the sky. When I stood him up, he flopped down. I sang, “
Come, come sit, eat sweet bits
,” but failed to amuse him.

I threw him over my shoulder like a sack of rice and staggered along the railway. When I released him, he darted away and shouted to people at the river. The words were gabble to me and I doubted that anyone could hear him over the wind and rushing river. Still, I clapped a hand over his mouth and dragged him away. The last thing I needed was a worried fisherman hurling a spear through me.

It took all morning to return to the bridge. We spent our energy bickering, not making time. The brat dawdled to poke at bugs, pick wildflowers, and collect round pebbles. When we entered the forest to squat, I finished first and shouted for him to hurry. As he ignored me, I thought again of my original plan to dump him here. Fist didn't want him on the mission, he had made that clear. But this time, I would act with more thought, as a superior man should. This time the hand of Heaven was stroking my back, egging me on.

At the bridge, the boy knelt and watched the whitened river shoot through the narrow chasm of high rock. Dark bullets of fish
fought the current, driven upriver to spawn and ensure the survival of their line. I was just as determined to charge ahead on this task. It was more important than life itself: it provided honour to otherwise meaningless lives. I saw myself under the trestle, dangling by a rope with nothing but death below. Were Fist and I strong enough? By now, that fool could have reached the trestle. Would he know where to install the dynamite? He could go to the middle of the bridge, or stay close to one end. An explosion meant confronting angry redbeards. Better hurry to Yale, where more Chinese lived.

Good thing Fist had finally left One Leg. If not, nothing would happen—not for me, not for the bones churning in that graveyard. Maybe Fist had pounded his pillow and wept all night. Maybe his father visited him in a dream. Maybe the idiot finally realized that an ugly face such as his required more dressing up than just a few years of work in Gold Mountain. Too bad he had no use for me. If he got caught, then he would bring disaster to the bookman and everyone, and have only himself to blame. His dislike of me was childish, worse than silly. I had brought him the very answers he wanted from His Holiness, yet he turned against me.

In the afternoon, we reached Spuzzum, where I visited the Chinese stores and asked in a carefree manner for Fist. Wary eyes stayed on my back. Any China man who was still kicking around after the railway needed a strong reason to stay. And if he was seeking others, then some plot must be in the air and everyone wanted to know more. People said they had not seen him.

Good, he had left no trail. But I was stupidly drawing attention to his name. I was the fool who might betray Boss Soon. At the cookhouse, the owner put out a chipped porcelain vase filled
with yellow and purple wildflowers. The boy reached for it, but I knocked away his hands.

“Didn't you and Sam go to Lytton?” The cook recognized me. “You saw the fire?”

I nodded.

“The stagecoach stopped here with Boss Joe. Then the local men who were thinking of home decided to go too.”

“Didn't I tell you?” exclaimed Blue Smock. “Sam is as useless as a fart.”

“Is he here?” I hoped to hear “no,” and relaxed on hearing that very answer.

The two customers from before were sitting as if they had never left. They rolled three small dice between them, using pebbles for cash.

“In Lytton, didn't you ask Old Yang for help?” asked Knitted Hat. “He knows people.”

“No Yangs lived there.”

“Where does the boy go?”

“You want him?”

The men snorted, not caring if I was serious or not.

“Did Fist pass through?” I asked. “The one who brings wild meat to sell.”

“He ate here. He was looking for a kinsman but couldn't find him.”

“When was that?”

“Mid-morning. Those three donkeys talk in circles. Won't they ever go home?”

I breathed easier. If Fist hadn't found a helper, then I still had a
chance to join him, unless the fool had run ahead by himself. In that case, a blast could go off at any time.

“Is the washman still here?”

“Of course, his daughter came back. What, you need a bath?”

A small hand-pulled wagon stood by the washhouse door. The air inside was thick with the smells of cooking as Yang served a Native woman at the counter.

“Eat rice!” Peter called out in Chinese, grinning.

I slapped the back of his head for being rude. When Yang paid us no attention, I recalled how he talked against himself. He would waste my time, but I needed help.

The woman, likely a servant in a redbeard household, was pulling laundry from a big cloth bag. Her hair was coiled behind her neck, and a white apron covered her dark skirt. She counted the pieces along with Yang, mouthing the numbers silently.

As the washman wrote out a ticket, she called to Peter, who bantered shyly with her. Then she ran her fingers through his hair and waved goodbye. I wished she was his mother.

“Boy still follows you!” remarked Yang. “Four days aren't enough to find someone.”

“I got robbed and had nothing for the mother.”

He shrugged. “A woman would rather have her son than a pile of cash.”

“It's worse. With no money, how can I feed another mouth in China?”

“Get a job.”

“China men are finished here.” I leaned in close. “Is there a Native family that can take him?”

Yang shook his head. The boy was trying again to set the toy soldiers upright. This time, Yang wasn't helping.

“The boy can strengthen his people,” I added. “Isn't that what you said?”

“He needs at least one trueborn parent. I raised my Jane after her mother passed.” Yang squatted to watch the boy, which gave me faint hope.

“Your daughter came back! You raised her well. Do I get to see her?”

“She went to help with the fishing. Those ghost-rat China men called her a demon when she was really a goddess. She and Wee-yum didn't cheat me. Jane went to her people, to a young man there. She wanted me to take the bride money from Wee-yum and go to China. I returned it to him.”

“You were right all along.” I squatted and slapped his back. “How about raising a boy?”

“This old thing? I'm going home.”

He led us to the back room. The table and high-back chairs were gone, replaced by wooden crates. He brought out potatoes cooked with fatty pork and bean sauce, saying, “I cooked enough for several days, so there's plenty.”

“Where's the fancy table?” I asked.