Tag Against Time (12 page)

Tag slowed his pace a bit. The conversation was on safer ground now. “It must be nice to have older brothers.”

“Not when they're all grown and married, which means I get to do
all
the chores, which isn't fair either!” Michael peered over at Tag. “Do you know any of my brothers?”

Michael hadn't inherited Sean's trait of respecting other's privacy. Tag picked up his pace again. “No.”

“Then your business must just be with Pa.” Michael watched Tag out of the corner of his eye. “Must be real important business the rate you are going.”

“You said your pa was leaving on a trip.” Tag concentrated on the houses they passed. None of the houses existed thirty years ago. “Flagstaff has really grown,” he muttered.

“Pa says that when he first built our house there wasn't a neighbor for a mile. It was just a little house then. Pa added rooms with each boy.” Michael watched Tag's face. “Maybe you saw our house when it was first built.”

Uneasiness churned in Tag with Michael's statement. The remark was just like the leading comments that TV
lawyers would make in the future. Tag sensed more behind Michael's remarks than just a ten-year-old's curiosity. “What time is your pa leaving?”

“As soon as my brothers, Patrick and Jonathan, get back from Phoenix on the afternoon train.” Michael jogged to keep up with Tag. “Come on. We'd better take the shortcut.”

The shortcut sliced through an open field, across three backyards, down a road, and ended at the corner of Leroux Street and Rail Road Avenue. The railroad still ran along the south side of Rail Road Avenue, but now the many buildings on the opposite side were two-story brick buildings, instead of wood. Tag recognized some of the buildings as ones still standing in the nineteen-nineties. Horse-drawn carriages and wagons shared the rutted, dirt street with a good number of automobiles, mostly Tin Lizzies. Tag knew that this wide dirt road would be a part of the famous Route 66, the first major coast-to-coast highway. Refugees from the Dust Bowl would use Route 66 as an escape route to the promised land of southern California.

“Pa's office is just a few blocks away,” Michael said, working his way through the many people on the wooden sidewalk. “Looks like the train just got in.” He pointed to a large crowd of people congregated around the now sandstone depot across the street. “It's too crowded. Let's go the back way.” He ducked in between two buildings and into a wide, back alley. On both sides of the alley, stacks of crates, boxes, tools, and other odds and ends leaned against the backs of the brick buildings. “It will be faster going back here.” Michael hurried past a gambling hall with old tables and chairs piled high by its door.

“My pa told you to keep away from here! We don't want
you burnin' down our gambling establishment,” snarled a whiny voice. A Chinese boy, smaller than Michael, sailed out from between the gambling hall and the neighboring restaurant. The nine-year-old boy, with long, blue-black hair braided into a pigtail, landed stomach first at Tag's feet with a cry. The huge, white bundle that he clutched fell open, scattering dirty tablecloths and other restaurant linen. Tag bent down to help the boy as he scrambled to gather up the spilled laundry.

An overweight boy with coarse black hair and a long, mean face swaggered toward the Chinese boy. Michael jumped in front of the Chinese boy and Tag, his feet spread apart and his fist clenched, ready to fight. “Leave Chen alone, Horse Face. Chen has every right to be here to pick up the restaurant's laundry.” Horse Face was three inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Michael, but Michael didn't seem to notice.

“So potato-eatin' Irish scum like chop suey, too,” Horse Face said.

“That's because,” Michael suddenly acquired a thick Irish brogue, “the Irish have brains instead of horse plop.”

Horse Face lunged toward Michael.

Michael sprang to one side. Chen rolled to the other side. Horse Face's feet tripped over Chen's gyrating legs. The fat boy stumbled against Tag, toppling Tag on his back. Horse Face landed nose-to-nose on top of Tag. The air in Tag's lungs gushed out under the boy's weight. Horse Face's large brown eyes sparked anger. Tag shoved him off, trying to get to his feet. Horse Face grabbed Tag's shirttail and pulled him back. Tag swung around with his fist, but was yanked up backwards by his shirt collar.

“Leave my son alone, you stinkin' brat.” Alcohol-laced breath roared into Tag's face as he was spun around by the shoulders.

Tag stared up into a fat, square face that looked somewhat familiar. “Let me go!” Tag tried to squirm away from the whiskey-barrel-round man.

The man took an awkward, limping step to counteract Tag's tugging. He shook Tag like a weed. “I'm tired of you rotten brats snooping around my . . .” He stopped shaking Tag and stared at him. His dark, beady eyes squinted. His mouth flopped opened. His triple chins jiggled like Jell-O. “It's—it's you! You're the little rat from Walnut Canyon!”

You're the dirty little kid that broke my ankle thirty years ago. Because of you, I've been a cripple all these rotten years!” Horace roared and raised his hand to strike. Tag pulled back. Michael dove against Horace's mammoth legs and bounced off to the ground. Horace tottered, cursed, and struggled to stayed on his feet.

Tag jerked away.

“Come on!” Michael cried as he flew by. Tag followed. Chen was sprinting a few feet ahead of Michael, his bundle of laundry bouncing up and down with each step.

“Go get him, Junior! Don't just stand there like a dunce. Go get that stinkin' rat!” hollered Horace.

Tag swung his head around to see Horse Face following with his flab flopping in time with his pumping legs. Tag whipped his head back around. Michael and Chen were nowhere in sight.

“Great, just great!” Tag growled, running even faster.

“Tag, Tag!” Michael's voice whispered as Tag ran past a narrow alley between two buildings.

He turned and saw Michael crouching next to a stack of wooden crates piled high against the building.

Michael waved. “Hurry!”

As Tag reached the crates, Michael disappeared behind them. “Hurry, before Horse Face sees you!”

Tag crouched down beside the crates. Michael's head and shoulders now protruded from a narrow hole at the base of the building. He disappeared into the dark opening. “Be sure and slide the crate over the entrance.” He sounded like this was an everyday occurrence.

“Just shut the door behind you, he says,” grumbled Tag, trying to slide the heavy crate over the low, narrow aperture. The crate slid into place and darkness swallowed everything. Tag's heart raced. “Michael!” He heard a match strike and a small light penetrated the claustrophobic darkness. Chen's and Michael's faces stared over the candle.

“Don't you know how to fight any better than that?” demanded Michael, one hand on his hip. “You'll never last a day in Flagstaff with a punch like that. Pa better teach you some good old Irish swinging and jigging.” He pointed his thumb at Chen. “Tag meet Chen. He's only nine, but Chen can read better than anyone in all eight grades at school, Horse Face included.”

Chen bowed from the waist. “Honored to meet you, Mr. Tag. Thank you for helping me.” The shadow of the candlelight swayed and danced with his movement.

Tag bowed the best he could in the already crouched position he was in.

“You lead the way, Chen. I'll make sure he doesn't get
lost.” Michael grabbed Tag's shirtsleeve. “Watch your head. When the Chinamen dug this, they didn't plan on anyone as tall as you using it.”

Tag bent his shoulders over more as the tunnel's ceiling dipped lower. The candle cast just enough light to make Tag nervous. The walls of the narrow tunnel were braced here and there with lengths of lumber. The ceiling had even fewer supports than the dirt walls. Tag's palms started to sweat in the dark, cool, but stifling, air. Visions of being buried alive blurred his already poor vision. He stumbled forward and bumped into Michael. “Sorry.”

“You're not afraid of small dark places, now are you?” Michael teased.

“No.” Dirt pelted Tag's face as his head scraped the top of the tunnel. He brushed the dirt out of his eyes and mouth. “When was the last time the mine commission inspected this tunnel?”

“This isn't a mine! You're worse than a greenhorn,” Michael snorted. “It's just an old tunnel that the Chinamen dug under the street so that they can get from one end of town to the other.”

“It might be easier if they just used the sidewalks.” Tag's back ached from hunching over. His chest felt like big hairy bats were flapping around in it. How could he be doing this?

“Not safe,” Chen's voice came from ahead. “Too dangerous.”

“This tunnel is safer? Why can't you use the streets like everyone else?”

Michael answered in an intense rush. “Prejudice is why. Plain and ugly prejudice, and I hate it. And I hate the people who keep it alive, like Horse Face and his whiskey-smelling
father. The fools blame the Chinamen for the town's fires way back in 1886 and '88. If you ask me, they just want a reason to be mean.” Michael yanked on Tag's sleeve. “Bigotry, pure and simple, is what it is.”

Tag's feet got tangled up again. He bumped up against the side of the tunnel. Dirt trickled into his shoes. If only he could see better. No, maybe it was better if he couldn't see. He didn't want to know what was crawling or slithering in this dark hole. “How much further?”

“Not far. We're under Brannen's Store. Aren't we Chen?”

“Mr. O'Farrell's building is not far now.”

“Your pa knows about the tunnel?” Tag asked.

“Oh, sure. He helped provide the lumber for the beams. He's the only white man that knows about the tunnels. Pa says he knows all about hatred and bigotry.”

“Does your ma know you use the tunnels?”

“Grace be saved and heavens no, and don't you go telling her either.” Michael sounded nervous. “The tunnel takes a jut to the left here. Watch your . . .”

Tag clunked his head. Dirt showered down around him. He gritted his teeth and stifled the scream swelling in his throat. He felt like an old man all hunched over with time. His heart raced and sweat poured into his eyes. “I can't believe I'm doing this,” he muttered under his breath.

“You best stay right close or you'll stray off into one of the smaller tunnels that branch out under the other streets. You'd never find your way out. You'd spend the rest of your days wandering under the streets of Flagstaff.” Tag didn't appreciate the tone of Michael's voice.

They traveled in silence for what seemed like an eternity
before Michael stopped without warning. Tag bumped into him.

Sunlight burst through the tunnel's entrance almost blinding Tag.

“Slide the crate back where it belongs,” Michael instructed Tag as he emerged from the tunnel. “Hurry before anyone sees you.”

Michael waved to Chen, disappearing into the back door of the building across the narrow alley. Tag couldn't read the sign over the door, written in Chinese characters. “Come on, before my pa leaves.” He rushed toward a door near the crates. “Wait till Pa sees you!” The door slammed behind him.

“O'Farrell and Sons, Surveyors,” Tag read the words painted on the door. His knees started shaking.
Please, Taawa let this be the right thing to do
. Tag put his hand on the brass doorknob.
Please don't let Sean ask too many questions
. He pulled the door open and slipped in.

The small back office overflowed with desks, chairs, and a long table piled with books, rolls of papers, and maps. A medium-sized man was hugging Michael, while another man sat at a desk nearby. Tag sat down in a chair close to the door. Neither of the men noticed him.

“Michael T. you look like a gopher! Where have you been?” The man ruffling Michael's dusty hair also had curly copper hair and intense blue eyes. He was in his early twenties.