Utah Terror : Utah Terror (9781101606971) (6 page)

10

Fargo didn't know what he expected. The biggest and fiercest of the Tong, maybe. Or a weasel like Lo Ping.

On the throne sat an old man who must have been seventy if he was a day, and more likely older. He looked so small and frail, it was a wonder he could sit up straight. His hair was white, his face shrunken. His thin elbows rested on the arms of his ornate chair and his hands formed a V in front of him. He was smiling a catlike smile.

“
That's
the great Han?” Fargo said without thinking.

“Show respect,” Lo Ping growled so only Fargo heard. “All my master has to do is snap his finger and you will be chopped to pieces.”

The choppers, Fargo saw, were fourteen more Tong who stood alertly along the walls. By their expressions, they, too, wouldn't mind testing his mettle.

Lo Ping took a couple of steps, and bowed. “Great one,” he called out. “I bring he whom you requested.”

One of Han's slim fingers moved, and Lo Ping motioned at Fargo and escorted him across the spacious chamber. The floor was polished wood, the ceiling crisscrossed by large timbers.

Fargo stopped when Lo Ping did.

Lo Ping addressed his lord and master in Chinese.

“We will speak the American's language, if you please,” Han said in impeccable English. His dark eyes fixed on Fargo with startling intensity. “So you are the one I have heard so much about.”

Lo Ping was doubled at the waist, and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Bow to my master.”

“Like hell,” Fargo said.

Lo Ping glowered and straightened and raised an arm as if to beckon to the Tong along the walls.

“That will not be necessary, Lo Ping,” Han said. “What does our guest know of our customs?”

“But, great one . . . ,” Lo Ping said.

Han's right eyebrow arched.

Lo Ping turned to stone. His fear was almost palpable. Quickly bowing, he said, “Your humble servant begs your forgiveness. It is unthinkable that I would question your judgment.”

“Indeed,” Han said. “But this one is pleased that you are so diligent in honoring our traditions.”

Fargo swore he heard a sigh of relief from Lo Ping.

“Now, then,” Han said, focusing on him again. “You are perhaps wondering why you were sent for.”

“I've tangled with your Tong three times now,” Fargo said. “I figured you'd get around to it sooner or later.”

“Yes, three times,” Han said. “Yet you are still alive. That is quite remarkable.”

“Your boys seem to think they can push folks around,” Fargo said. “Some don't take kindly to that.”

“Nor would I, were the situation reversed,” Han said.

“You should have a talk with Nan Kua,” Fargo said. “The next time he prods me, he'll regret it.”

“We will get to my unfortunate
boo how doy
in a while,” Han said. “Right now I would rather talk about you.” Han slowly rose and descended the dais. He moved with surprising grace, taking small steps. “Will you walk with me?”

“Where to?”

“Here is fine.” Han moved past Lo Ping and began to leisurely circle the chamber. His intense eyes never once left Fargo. “Where to begin? You must have questions. Perhaps we should start with those.”

“Fair enough.” Fargo didn't know what to make of him. “What the hell are you up to?”

“You must be more specific.”

“This gold camp. Hunan, you call it. You're making it your own little kingdom.”

“Exactly so,” Han said, smiling. “I could not have expressed it better myself.”

“You admit it?”

“Why wouldn't I? There is, as you Americans say, no law against what I am doing, which, after all, is nothing more or less than reshaping this camp to reflect our Chinese heritage.”

“Is that so?”

“Phrased more simply,” Han said, “this camp will become much like Chinatown in San Francisco. Are you familiar with it?”

“Been there,” Fargo said.

“Ah. Excellent. Then you can understand. It was Chinatown that gave me the idea. Walking its streets is like walking the streets of China. When we are done here, Hunan will be the same.”

“I don't recollect seeing any Tong in San Francisco.”

“Chinatown is much bigger than our small camp. There are, in fact, several benevolent societies in Chinatown. They compete for control.”

“Benevolent?” Fargo said, and laughed.

“Scoff if you must but we are devoted to the well-being of those under us,” Han said. “Under our guidance this camp will prosper as never before.”

“So long as everyone does what you want.”

“I can see you are a man who speaks his mind,” Han said. “So I will speak mine.” He stopped. “I did not come to your country willingly. There were certain difficulties, and I was forced to leave China or be thrown into prison or beheaded.”

“Not much of a choice.”

Han sadly frowned. “No, it was not. I miss China. To be forced to leave against my will filled me with great sorrow. But if I cannot live
in
China, I can do the next best thing. I can bring China here, as it were.”

“Word is,” Fargo said, “you're driving all the whites out.”

“Not so,” Han said. “Those who left did so of their own accord. They did not like what I am doing. And frankly, I can't blame them.”

“You can't?”

“This is America, not China. Naturally, by my making this camp more reflective of our country, it made them uncomfortable.”

Fargo was growing more perplexed by the minute. Based on all he'd heard, he'd taken Han for a tyrant. Instead, he was almost reasonable. “You're not at all as I reckoned you'd be,” he admitted.

“I will regard that as a compliment.” Han motioned and they walked on. “My dream, Mr. Fargo, is for Hunan to be a sanctuary for Chinese everywhere. Eventually, I hope it will be a city in its own right, with all the benefits that brings.”

“A city in the middle of nowhere?”

“On purpose,” Han said. “How do I put this delicately?” He clasped his hands behind his back. “You are aware, I should think, of the anti-Chinese sentiment in your country?”

Fargo nodded.

“Not all Americans feel that way, I know. But far too many do. They look down their noses at anyone with Chinese blood. It's all too common that Chinese are spat upon, as if they were dogs. And in some places your countrymen come in the night and drag them off and hang them from trees.”

Fargo didn't say anything. Every word was true. There were even anti-Chinese leagues devoted to running the Chinese out of the country.

“Hunan will serve as a haven from all that,” Han was saying while stroking his mustache. “In Hunan anyone who is Chinese need not fear for their life. In Hunan they will find only respect, and safety.” Han looked at him. “Noble goals, are they not?”

“What about the House of Pleasure?”

“What about it?” Han rejoined. “It is open to all.”

“I've heard tell you force girls to work in it against their will.”

“Not so,” Han said. “It would be most unwise. The girls would be unhappy and not perform as they should. You were there today. Did any of the female flowers you saw look unhappy to you?”

Fargo had to admit they didn't.

By now they were halfway around the chamber and near the double doors.

Han stopped and tapped a finger against his chin. “Have I answered most of the questions that have been bothering you?”

“Some,” Fargo allowed. “But you haven't explained
them
.” He nodded at the Tong.

“What is there to explain?” Han said. “They are in my employ and do the things I cannot due to my age.”

“And the hatchets?”

Han grinned and nodded at the holster on Fargo's hip. “As you Americans like to say, you are a fine one to talk. Many of your countrymen go around with a firearm of one kind or another.”

“Not back east,” Fargo said.

“But we are not back in the East,” Han replied, “and we need protection as much as you do.” He nodded at the nearest Tong. “In China we do not have many guns. We have swords. And bows. And knives. And, yes, hatchets. My Tong carry them to protect themselves as you carry your revolver for protection. Surely that makes perfect sense to you?”

Again, Fargo had to admit it did.

“In time, perhaps, I will have them carry guns, as well,” Han remarked. “But for now their hatchets suffice.”

Fargo was tempted to point out that hatchets were no match for six-shooters, but didn't.

Suddenly Han wheeled and made for the dais. “Follow me, if you would. I have taken up too much of your time as it is and there is a matter to settle yet.”

Fargo trailed after him. The meeting hadn't turned out like he thought it would. Maybe, just maybe, Han wasn't the ogre that the O'Briens and Bannon painted him as.

Climbing the dais, the old man sat in the oversized chair and adopted a regal mien. He addressed his underlings in Chinese.

“I am to tell you,” Lo Ping whispered, “that my master has asked me to translate what comes next.”

Han clapped his hands and a pair of Tong left the chamber. They weren't gone more than a minute. When they returned, Nan Kua was between them, his wrists bound in front of him.

“What's this?” Fargo asked.

Nan Kua was marched to the dais. He, too, bowed his head.

Han went on at some length in Chinese. Several times Nan Kua winced and once he visibly shook. Finally Han looked at Fargo. “This man is in my employ. That he attacked you without permission has brought great shame. I cannot apologize enough.”

“No need,” Fargo said. “It's over.”

“In your eyes, perhaps. But the Tong live by a code, you might call it. When that code is broken there are consequences. I must impose those consequences or be seen as weak.”

Fargo wondered what Han was leading up to. He didn't wonder long.

The venerable master of Hunan nodded at a hatchet man on Nan Kua's right. And just like that, the man buried a hatchet in Nan Kua's head.

11

It happened so fast, Fargo was caught flat-footed. Not that he would have intervened on Nan Kua's behalf.

For a few seconds Nan Kua stood still, the ax handle jutting from above his ear and blood spraying in a fine mist. Then his eyes rolled up and he collapsed. His body erupted in violent convulsions that ended with a last great exhale.

No one, not Han, not Lo Ping, or any of the Tong, so much as batted an eye. They took the death with the same detachment they would the swatting of a fly.

“Are you satisfied?” Han asked Fargo.

“You did this for me?” Fargo said.

“It was you Nan Kua and his companions tried to slay. It is only fitting you witness his punishment.”

Fargo watched a pool of scarlet spread under the body.

“What about those friends of his?”

“They, too, have been punished although not as severely,” Han said. “Since he was the instigator, his was the most severe.”

“What did you do to them?”

“Each of them has had a hand chopped off.”

Fargo stared.

“You act surprised,” Han said. “They were a party to the insult. They had to atone.”

“I wasn't insulted—” Fargo began, but Han cut him off with a wave of a hand.

“Oh, the insult wasn't to you. When I give orders they are to be followed. After I learned of your fight with Nan Kua and the others over the boy who took the ax, I gave word that you were not to be interfered with in any way. By defying me, Nan Kua insulted me. And insults cannot be borne by a man in my position.”

“I reckon not,” Fargo said. The blood was within inches of his boots.

“I ask you again,” Han said with a smile. “Are you satisfied? Have I redeemed my honor and made my sentiments clear?”

“I savvy you down to your bones,” Fargo said.

“Excellent. Then there are no hard feelings between us?”

“Why would there be?”

Han appeared enormously pleased. “Our business is concluded. Lo Ping will guide you out.” He waited until Fargo started to turn to add, “I should imagine you have no reason to stay in camp. A prudent man would be on his way in the morning.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Fargo said.

Han smiled. “Please do so. And if your travels should ever bring you near Hunan again, you are welcome to pay us a visit.”

Fargo started to turn, but stopped. He'd had a troubling thought. “What happened to the boy?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The boy who was chopping wood. What happened to him?”

“Do you remember his name, by any chance?”

“He never told me what it was,” Fargo lied.

“Ah. Well, stealing is discouraged, most strongly. When I find out who he is, he will be punished.”

Fargo looked at the hatchet sticking out of the dead Tong's head. “He's just a kid.”

“His age is irrelevant. It is the insult. I trust I have demonstrated they are not to be borne.”

Fargo got out of there before he uttered one.

They were almost to the bottom of the stairs when Lo Ping said, “If I were you, I would take my master's advice.”

“I don't aim to stick around any longer than I have to,” Fargo said.

Lo Ping's cat smile widened. “You are being more reasonable than I gave you credit for.”

“I can be reasonable as hell every blue moon or so.”

“Blue moon? You Americans have the most peculiar expressions.”

Fargo strode out. Climbing on the Ovaro, he reined in the direction of the O'Briens', and when he had gone forty or fifty feet, he stopped and looked back. Near as he could tell no one was following him.

“Reasonable, my ass,” Fargo said to himself, and gigged the Ovaro to the bridge.

Every window in the House of Pleasure was lit. A pair of painted dolls stood out front, enticing passersby.

Fargo reined on up the street to an open grassy space between cabins. Halting the stallion next to a spruce, he tied the reins. He sat and removed his spurs and placed them in his saddlebags.

Loosening the Colt in its holster, Fargo glided around the cabin and on to the rear of the House of Pleasure. He was worried the door might be bolted but it creaked open. He waited in case someone had heard and when no one investigated he slipped inside and eased the door shut behind him.

A long, narrow hallway stretched ahead. From off in the distance came the murmur of conversations.

Fargo crept forward. He was moving past a flight of stairs that led down when he heard sounds from below: a harsh voice, and rattling, and what might have been a whimper. He ducked down the stairs.

There wasn't much light at first. He reached a landing, and crouched. Below was a storage area stacked with crates and containers, nearly all with Chinese writing or symbols on them. An aisle had been cleared through the center, and from behind a high wall of crates rosy light filtered in.

A man barked in Chinese. A woman mewled as if in pain. Chains rattled, and there was the unmistakable sharp crack of a slap.

Palming his Colt, Fargo continued down. He peeked up the aisle. All he could see was a Tong with his back to him.

There were more barking and more blows.

Fargo moved on silent soles. He was about ten feet from the Tong when he came to another aisle at a right angle to the first. It ran along the wall of crates. He moved along it until he spied a gap between two of the crates.

One look, and his blood boiled.

Three young Chinese women were bound to chairs; one was Mai Wing. They had been stripped to the waist and their bodies bore scores of bruises and contusions. Their faces, though, hadn't been touched. Each sat slumped with exhaustion, their heads hung low.

As Fargo watched, another Tong came into view and cupped Mai Wing's chin. He raised her head and grinned and said something.

Mai Wing spat on him.

The Tong punched her in the gut and she sagged, gasping.

A third Tong, out of sight to Fargo's left, voiced a comment that brought a chuckle to the hatchet man who had hit her.

Fargo debated. Shots were bound to bring more men in black. The quieter, the better, then. Sliding the Colt into his holster, he hiked his pant leg, dipped his hand into his boot, and slid the Arkansas toothpick from its ankle sheath.

Retracing his steps to the main aisle, Fargo peered around. The first Tong still stood there with his back to him. He heard the other two talking.

Quickly, with no wasted motion, Fargo reached around and clamped his left hand over the man's mouth even as he thrust the toothpick in to the hilt into the side of man's neck. The Tong stiffened and clutched at his arm but was dead within heartbeats.

Catching the heavy body as it fell, Fargo dragged it behind the crates and quietly placed it on the floor. He moved to where the man had been standing and craned his head out.

The other two Tong were facing the three young women.

The same one who had cupped Mai Wing's chin before cupped it again. This time she didn't spit on him. Her eyes were dazed, almost glassy. From her bruises, they had been hurting her a good long while.

Fargo crept to a point directly behind her tormentors.

They were enjoying themselves, these two. The one on the left was slightly behind the other, and Fargo took him first. In a long bound he reached him and did as he had done with the first: hand over the mouth, cold steel in the neck. Fargo knew exactly where to stab so that death was near instantaneous. He didn't bother trying to catch this one as the body collapsed. He sprang at the other, seeking to dispose of him just as quickly.

The last man spun. He snarled in Chinese and suddenly an ax was in his hand. He sidestepped Fargo's thrust and swung his ax at Fargo's head.

Fargo caught his wrist. The Tong caught his. Locked together, they struggled. Fargo was strong but so was the Tong. Fargo used his advantage in height to slowly bend the Tong back. The man did more snarling. Without warning, he drove a knee at Fargo's groin and wrenched to break free.

Fargo let go, and drove his boot at the Tong's knee.

The man cried out and staggered. Fargo slashed him across the wrist but the Tong held on to the hatchet and aimed a blow at Fargo's neck. Dodging, Fargo cut him across the other leg. The man tottered and retaliated. Fargo ducked, shifted, and rammed the toothpick into the Tong's jugular. He grabbed the man's wrist and held it as life ebbed. Defiant to the last, the Tong tried to gouge out his eyes. Then he went limp.

Fargo let him drop. He wiped the toothpick clean of blood on the dead man's shirt and moved to Mai Wing.

“You,” she croaked in some amazement.

“Can you walk?” Fargo asked as he cut at the ropes with short, swift strokes.

“You came to find me?”

“I'm here,” Fargo said, listening for sounds from above. More Tong might show at any moment.

“You hardly know me.”

“I can go and leave you tied to the chair if you want,” Fargo said. He sliced through the last loop and put an arm around her shoulders. “Can you stand?”

“I think so.” Wincing, Mai Wing stiffly rose. The first thing she did was bend and pick up her top, which had been shoved under her chair.

“How long have they been working on you?”

“After you were struck down, Lo Ping and the Hu brothers took me to Han and then here,” Mai Wing related as she painfully slipped an arm into a sleeve. “The Pou sisters were already being tortured. They, too, do not want to be whores.”

“Lean on the chair,” Fargo directed. She was terribly weak. He made short shrift of the ropes on the other two and helped them to stand. They were weaker and had more contusions and black and blue marks.

Mai Wing helped them put their tops on.

“I've got to get you out of here,” Fargo said when she was done. “Are the three of you up to it?”

“I am,” Mai Wing said. She addressed the Pou sisters, and after a brief exchange, she frowned. “They have not had food or water for three days. They do not know if they can.”

“They have to try,” Fargo said. “I can't help them and protect you at the same time.”

Mai Wing said more to the sisters and both responded with what sounded to Fargo like
she
or
shi
. “They say they will try their best.”

“Stay behind me.” Fargo drew his Colt. With the six-shooter in one hand and the toothpick in the other, he led them to the foot of the stairs.

Mai Wing could move fairly well but the other two were turtles. One wobbled every few steps and her sister had to steady her.

Fargo frowned. It was a long way up. “Is there another way out?”

“There is the ramp. It is how they bring things in.” Mai Wing motioned at the front wall.

“Show me.”

They turned and had no sooner taken a couple of steps than voices wafted down from the top of the stairs.