by Tom Lin
A mosquito alighted on his arm and he held it out before him so he could see the insect silhouetted against the flame. The creature had an odd, almost birdlike beauty to it. He smacked it where it was perched and then wiped the flattened mosquito off on his trousers. There was a smear of blood on his arm.
“You’re aiming to kill someone,” Notah said matter-of-factly. “Who?”
Ming scratched at where the mosquito had bitten him. “Man by the name of Jeremiah Kelly,” he said. “A judge.”
Gomez whistled. “Man’s aiming to kill a judge!” he said. “Good luck.”
“It ain’t no harder to kill a judge than any other man,” Ming said with a grin. “A bullet gets em all the same.”
At this both Notah and Gomez laughed. The Navajo pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it over the fire to Ming. It was the ringmaster’s purse. “I believe the man owed you some money,” Notah said. “Take what’s yours.”
Ming unclasped the purse and pulled out a wad of banknotes, counted out four hundred dollars, then shook his head and returned the notes to the purse. He tossed it back to Notah, who caught it, surprised.
“It ain’t time yet,” Ming said. “Half up front, half on safe delivery. That was the deal.” He gestured with his head to their surroundings. “This ain’t safe delivery, not yet.”
“You reckon trouble will find us tomorrow?” Hazel asked.
“No telling,” Ming said.
“No,” the prophet interjected. He had been doing his periodic tuneless humming, his eyes closed. Now he opened them and they seemed to glow in the firelight. Blind as ever.
“Old man says it won’t, so it won’t,” Notah said, and waved a mosquito from his face. But when Ming made no move to reclaim the ringmaster’s purse he put it back in his pocket. “Suit yourself.”
“Come now,” the prophet said, “let us sit and remember the dead.”
He began to hum something that Ming recognized as the same elegy the old man had sung so many weeks and towns ago. It was a song lacking both melody and language, and yet as its lower harmonics resonated in the prophet’s thin chest Ming felt a vast exhaustion in his bones answering the old man’s song. A pattern of voice and silence, the barest outline of rhythm.
At length the prophet’s humming subsided. It was a way of marking time, he said, and so it was a way of remembering.
Notah muttered that he hadn’t much liked Proteus anyway, and at this the old man closed his eyes a little in thought and told Notah he did not recall this Proteus of whom the Navajo spoke.
They went to sleep ringing the fire, which they let burn itself out. It was almost cold and the smoke kept some of the mosquitoes at bay. Ming lay on his bedroll and gazed up at the stars and began to dream: of walking an endless path through a desert that swam under his feet but for where he stepped, of loading and unloading and reloading his gun. He dreamed of killing the same man again and again and then of burying him over and over, a thousand thousand graves dug in an endless row.
46
In the morning he woke with his skin and hair smelling of smoke. Hunter was already awake, digging at the last ash-shelled embers in the firepit with the rib bone he had found so long ago, blackening its tip with creosote. Little fragments of ash drifted into the air in the dim dawn and landed on Gomez’s face, waking him. The Mexican sat up and scrubbed his face with his hands, momentarily disoriented. Then, seeing Hunter working away at the firepit and the ash floating in the air, he leaned over and swatted the boy’s rib bone out of the firepit and tossed handfuls of sand over the embers he’d uncovered. He noticed Ming watching and grunted a wordless greeting.
“Morning, Gomez,” Ming said from his bedroll, leaning on an elbow. Hazel stirred at his words and in the warming light he couldn’t help but stare at her face. He reached over and tapped her on the shoulder and she woke. The prophet stirred too, and awoke, sitting up smoothly and blinking sightless into the warming day.
Notah was the last to arise, stretching and groaning and rubbing his eyes. Thankfully it was too early for mosquitoes. They all stowed their bedrolls in the coach and set off. The pass through the range was nearly flat, the peaks to either side pushing black and bodied up from the earth. They crested a slight rise in the path and then as they descended its other side the lake disappeared under the beveled horizon behind them. At last they entered the long valley down to Reno. Clouds dragged themselves across the crooked peaks of the mountains and opened above them sending down willowy shadings of rain that sublimated in the air as they fell. The light was broken and soft.
They arrived in Reno in the long hours of the afternoon, when the sun threw their shadows sidelong like marionettes as they moved. The clouds had cleared and the sky was a faultless gradient from white-blue to red, east to west. Darkness overtook them as they watered and fed their horses, and by the time they had paid for rooms in a boardinghouse the world beyond their grimed windows had gone to black. The stagehands took a room for the two of them, another for Hazel and Hunter, and a third for Ming and the prophet. Notah pulled the ringmaster’s purse from his pocket and counted out the night’s rent for the three rooms.
Ming eyed the shelves of liquor behind the innkeeper and inquired as to the price of whiskey.
“Two bits a glass,” the innkeeper said. He turned and lifted an amber bottle from the shelf and uncorked it, set it down on the bartop. “How many glasses?”
“Four, less the old man wants a drink.” He glanced at the prophet, who declined. “Four glasses, then.”
The innkeeper produced four scratched-up glass tumblers and poured drams. “That’ll be a dollar,” he said.
Ming took a handful of coins from his pocket and thumbed out the money. With their glasses in hand they sat down round a table in the empty saloon. An odd group. Two Chinese, one murderous and the other ancient. A Navajo, long black hair down by his shoulders. A Mexican with skin so suntanned it seemed to shine in the dim lamplight. A slight-framed white woman and a young boy whose feet did not reach the floor.
Ming raised his glass to eye level. “To safe delivery,” he said.
Notah smiled and raised his glass. “Aye.”
Gomez and Hazel raised their glasses as well and together the four of them drank. Hunter mimed raising a glass and with a great smile on his face he tipped back the contents of his imaginary glass. The whiskey snagged in Ming’s throat and he began coughing.
“Maybe you got consumption too,” Hazel teased. “I reckon there’s space to bury you out back by the horses if you pass.”
Ming waved his hand and caught his breath. “If I pass it’s this whiskey what did me in,” he said.
The boy prodded Hazel until she looked at him and he mimed drinking again, more dramatically this time. She signed something to him and he laughed silently. Then he pretended to cough.
“Is he mockin me?” Ming asked with feigned seriousness, pointing at Hunter as he raised his glass to his lips. “He better not be.” He tossed the rest of his whiskey back and swallowed it without so much as a grimace. Gloating he opened his mouth wide at the boy. All gone.
Hunter clapped his hands, a gleeful smile on his face.
“Safe delivery,” Notah said, interrupting. He reached into his pocket, removed the ringmaster’s purse, and slid it across the table to Ming. “I asked the prophet if this sufficed and he said it did. Go on. Get paid.”
“One, two, three,” Ming said, counting out the bills, “and four. Four hundred on safe delivery.”
“There’s more than that in there,” Notah said. “Prophet says you ought to take it.”
“I may be a murderer,” Ming said, “but I ain’t no thief.”
“Dead men have no need for coins,” Notah said. “But it’s not up to you, anyway. Rest of us agreed on it last night. None of us aim to take that money.”
“It’s the end of our little traveling performance,” Hazel said.
“We ain’t puttin on the show no more,” Gomez agreed.
Notah’s
plan was to head up north to Oregon and pan for gold. In the morning he would strike out in the stagecoach on his own. As for Gomez, he reckoned he would have a rest right here in Reno, sit around a little while and take stock. Hell, he might even do some gambling. He knocked back the rest of his whiskey.
“Don’t you need none of this money?” Ming asked Hazel. He held up the ringmaster’s purse still laden with bills and coins.
“These men will find easy fortunes,” the prophet said. “Worry not.”
“Besides,” Hazel added, a coy smile coming over her face, “I already got my share.” She reached across the table and tapped the old man on the arm. “Prophet,” she said, “what about me? Easy fortune?”
“I do not know,” came the old man’s reply.
“Seems awful convenient when you do and don’t know things,” Hazel joked. “Go on, tell him.”
“Take the money,” the prophet said to Ming. “You require it more than they do.”
“If the old man says it.” Ming shrugged and pocketed the ringmaster’s purse. He spun his empty glass on the table, watching it dance on its rim, and trapped it in his tented fingers before it could topple.
They sat at the table in silence a little while, alcohol softening the world around its edges. It was getting late. Upstairs they sorted themselves each to their own rooms and as Ming was about to shut the door Hazel appeared and held it open and said that the boy had gone to sleep in the stagehands’ room and she was all by her lonesome in her own room on this their last night together. The boardinghouse was quiet. She took Ming’s hand in her own and he shut the door of his room as he left and followed her down the dim hallway into her room, the door closed and locked behind them, lamplight flickering across the walls, and it wasn’t long before his body was in hers as she moved close, shuddering upon him, the heat of their breath intermixing and burning away every last thought in his head but for a single clear thought, that he loved her, and this last thought was everywhere and endless and right.
47
When Ming woke the next morning she was still there in his arms, warm and near. Light was coming in through the window and there was the smell of dust in the air. He brushed her hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. His fingertips seemed to hum as they grazed her skin. At this she stirred and woke, her eyes still groggy. She smiled at Ming and moved closer and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and leaned his head against hers.
“Last night,” Hazel murmured, “you never asked me what I was gonna do.”
Ming moved his head back so he could see her face. “No,” he said, “I didn’t.”
“Well?” she said.
Ming thought about it for a moment. “I spose I don’t want to know.”
“You’re an odd one, Ming Tsu,” she said, and kissed him.
They got dressed and went downstairs to the saloon, where the prophet was sitting with Notah and Gomez at a booth. The men greeted Hazel and Ming as they joined.
“Fore you ask,” Gomez said, “the boy’s still in our room sleepin.”
“Good,” Hazel said. “He needs it.”
“I reckon you two do too,” Gomez said, suppressing a grin. “Don’t seem like there was much sleepin last night.”
“There wasn’t,” Hazel said flatly.
The stagehands exchanged knowing glances.
“You’re just in time,” Notah said. “The prophet here is telling our fortunes.”
“Is he now,” Ming said.
“Aye,” Gomez said. “He just foretold Notah’s.”
“There’s gold in those mountains up north,” Notah said, flashing a smile, “and it’ll be me who finds it. Prophet says so.”
“Your time is not for a long time,” the prophet said. His white eyes scanned the endless weavings of the future, separating warp and weft. “Thirty years.” He fell silent for a while.
“And?” Notah at last prompted.
The prophet shook his head. “I do not know.” He trained his blank gaze on Notah. “The future fans out from the present like a river delta. Tomorrow is easy. And tomorrow beyond, easy too. But thirty years. I cannot say. Only the duration is certain.”
“My turn,” Gomez cut in. “What about me?”
With a gnarled finger the prophet touched the center of Gomez’s forehead and then withdrew his hand, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together as though counting the beads of a phantom rosary. His eyes began the familiar search amid his blindness: ancient eyes flitting about in their sockets, sunken face of stone. “You will go to Santa Fe,” the prophet intoned, “and there your time will come to pass.”
Gomez frowned, concerned. “How long?” he demanded.
“Twenty-six years.”
“And if I never go to Santa Fe?” he asked.
The prophet smiled and clasped his hands. “Then I do not know.”
“On my mother’s grave I ain’t never going to Santa Fe,” Gomez swore, a faint glimmer of panic in his eyes. He looked at Ming. “Ain’t you escaped death before?”
“Reckon so,” Ming said.
“The man out of bounds is an oddity,” the prophet cautioned. “The world is owed a debt.”
“A debt?” Gomez said.
“Don’t ask him any more questions,” Notah said, placing a hand on Gomez’s shoulder. “Twenty-six years is a lifetime.”
Gomez opened his mouth to protest but said nothing. He sat back, troubled.
“Come now,” Notah said, rising from his seat, “let’s leave them be.”
Gomez nodded and stood as well.
“Go wake Hunter and bid him farewell,” Hazel said. “Before you go.”
“It ain’t needed,” Gomez replied. “We done told him so last night fore he went to sleep.”
Ming and Hazel stayed seated. Ming wished them luck and held out a hand, which each of the two men shook in turn.
Notah made to leave but stopped short. “You don’t have to go on your own, you know. Hell, you can take Hazel and the boy with you right now, and there’s not a man alive who can track you down.”
“Got people to see,” Ming said.
“I’m offering to take them off your mind,” the Navajo said. “As a friend.”
“Thank ye, Notah,” Ming said, “but I ain’t interested.”
“You sure?” asked Notah. “Last chance, man. No need for your memories to trouble you so.”
Ming met his gaze. “I’m sure.”
At this Notah pursed his lips and nudged Gomez. “Didn’t I tell you he’d say that?” He put on his hat, adjusted it slightly. “Well, good luck killing that judge, Ming Tsu.”
Ming nodded and thanked him once more.
“Perhaps I’ll see you two again,” Hazel said. “In another life.”
“Perhaps,” Notah said, “perhaps not.” A sly grin spread across his face. “See if you remember.”
48
Ming sat on the floor of his room, his weapons arrayed around him in a lethal circle. The prophet was cross-legged beside him, his eyes closed, humming low and tunelessly to himself. Hazel and the boy were perched on the edge of the bed, watching Ming as he worked. The room was hot and still. Outside the sun was setting.
Ming drew the point of his railroad spike across the whetstone, a dry, rhythmic sound that filled the air. Hunter was rapt. Ming beckoned the boy over. “See,” he said, as usual remembering too late the boy’s deafness. He held the spike in one hand, the whetstone in his other hand as he swept the gleaming point of the spike down its surface. With every draw he rotated the spike a fraction, rounding it as he went along. The boy sat on his haunches and stared. After a while Ming looped one end of his belt around his boot and pulled it taut. He ran the point of the spike up and down the length of the leather, stropping it clean and polishing it to a mirror finish. When he was finished he held it out toward the boy handle-first.
With his small hands Hunter took it and raised the point to the low sunlight coming in through the window, studying his reflection as it w
rapped around the spike, torqued and twisted. “It’s warm,” the boy said in Ming’s mind.
Ming nodded. He mimed stropping the blade again. Friction. The boy passed the spike back to him and he holstered it. Next he collected the parts of his disassembled gun and began to put it back together. As he seated each ball a little shaving of lead dropped to the floor and when he was done he gathered these fragments and rolled them together into a loose ball, which he handed to Hunter.
“He likes you,” said Hazel, still on the bed.
“Aye,” Ming said. “I like him.” He finished loading his revolver and this, too, he passed to the boy, whose face lit up with fascination as he turned the gun over in his hands.
“Ain’t that loaded?” Hazel said sharply.
“Naw,” Ming said, opening his hand to reveal a little pile of firing caps. “Thing won’t shoot without caps in.” There was an insistent tugging at his side—Hunter trying to fit the gun back into his holster. Ming took the revolver from the boy and holstered it in a single smooth motion.
“Are you going to kill someone?” the boy asked with his strange power.
Hazel nodded at the boy and signed to him. Bad man. “I don’t know the sign for judge,” she explained to Ming.
“Good enough,” he said. He rose and brushed the bits of spilled powder and lead shavings from his shirt.
The prophet opened his eyes and got to his feet. The four of them now stood in the room silent and waiting.
“Can I ask one last thing of you?” Ming said to Hazel.
“Anything.”
“Tonight,” he said, “when the moon is highest in the sky, take the horses and the prophet to the western end of town, by the courthouse. I’ll meet you there.”
“And then?” she said.
“Then I’ll say my farewell.”
Beyond the windows the sky rolled over black. Ming touched his gun, felt the reassuring chill of the metal on his fingertips.
“Are you coming back?” came a voice in his head. It was Hunter. Ming shook his head and at this the boy began to cry.
