by F. M. Parker
“Keep good watch,” said the first man. “I will pour oil on the hinges to keep them quiet and then unlock the door.”
A man who knows the surroundings, thought Pak. One of the dock workers or warehousemen has turned thief this night.
“The key works. The door opens,” whispered the first man.
“You are a sly fellow only to look at a key and then file a new one from iron.”
“I have an eye for such things,” boasted the first man. “But keep quiet.”
The wide door swung open and the dim outlines of the men disappeared inside. Pak went forward to stop where he could peer around the edge of the doorway and into the interior.
“Here is a bundle of furs. They feel like otter pelts and are very valued. Take them quickly to the boat and hurry back.”
Pak could make out the shadowy form of a man lifting up a bulky bundle in his arms. A second figure was bending to take up another load.
Pak hissed like an angry cat. The two thieves pivoted to stare out from the murky depths of the warehouse.
Before they could unsheath their knives, Pak charged upon them. His slashing sword whistled through the air. The whistling stopped, changing abruptly to steel cutting bone and muscle.
The head of the nearest man, severed from the body, fell to the floor of the warehouse with a chatter of teeth. The body crumpled.
Pak sprang farther into the building, halted, and soundlessly went to the right a few steps. He hunched low. He heard the drip and splash of liquid puddling, and smelled the familiar, cloying odor of fresh blood.
His eyes probed the darkness, searching for the profile of the second man. There the thief was, crouched by the open door and silhouetted by the luminous glow of the lights of Canton City. He held a long-bladed knife poised to strike.
The thief was brave, but he was no night fighter to let himself be so easily seen. Pak grinned mirthlessly and sprang toward the man.
Pak’s sword cut through the blackness of the night. Struck the man.
His neck was thicker than the first man’s. Pak felt the difference in the swing of his weapon. Then the work of the blade was finished and the body fell away, slack and lifeless against the door. The man would never be rich stealing the Howqua’s furs.
Pak stepped out into the open and gave three shrill keening calls. He hesitated a moment for the echoes between the warehouses to die, then called again in the same high pitch.
Lights came alive in the guardhouse at the far end of the wareyard. In an instant, a lantern came bobbing as a man ran swiftly in the direction of the pier. Pak nodded his approval. The man who carried the lantern was the only person visible. The two remaining warriors would be far enough to the rear to be out of the light and safe until they could locate the enemy and plan the attack. It took a brave man to carry the light.
“Over here,” directed Pak.
The warrior, the light in one hand and a rifle in the other, veered and hurried up to Pak. Two other warriors came out of the dark with rifles at the ready. The guard on patrol duty raced in from the upper end of the pier. Pak noted how easily his men had adapted to firearms.
The man with the lantern held it up high to throw its yellow light across the width of the pier and into the entry of the building.
“Those two thieves broke into the warehouse,” said Pak, pointing at the corpses.
“They knew what was most valuable,” said one of the guards. He lifted up one of the packets of furs. “And also what was the lightest.”
“Had the thieves succeeded, many elegant people would have been angry,” said another guard. “There would not have been fur to line their silk robes against the winter winds.” He laughed.
“The captain took two heads in the dark,” said a warrior who had examined both bodies. “Look, they are cut off as neatly as if it had been an execution in full daylight. You will now surely be made regional commander of the Hung Society and have hundreds of fighters under your command.” He straightened and grinned at Pak.
“What do we do with the bodies of the thieves, Captain?” asked the guard nearest the corpses.
Pak spoke to the warrior with the lantern. “Sin, go to the guardhouse where there is paper and brush and prepare a large sign. Put these words on it in red ink. ‘This is the fate of all those who would attempt to steal from the Howqua.” “
“Yes, Captain,” said Sin. He set the lantern down and trotted away.
Pak motioned to the remaining warriors. “Tie the thieves in the boat, one in each end so they can be seen from the river shore. Fasten the oar upright to hold the sign.”
One man lit a torch and went to the boat and began to lash the oar in a vertical position. The other warriors lifted a headless corpse and carried it toward the edge of the river.
“Eeee! I am getting blood all over me,” grumbled one of the men as they placed the body in the bow of the boat.
“Stop complaining,” said his companion. “It will wash off. Let’s go get the second body.”
Sin came running back with his sign and it was fastened high up on the oar.
“Throw their heads in the boat and shove it out into the current,” ordered Pak. “The Howqua may have been awakened by the disturbance. I will go and tell him his possessions are safe and we have killed two thieves.”
CHAPTER 3
The dark sky lightened to gray in the east. Shortly the golden orb of the sun floated up above the Owyhee Mountains.
The bright rays of the sun struck into the valley of the Snake River, drove the night shadows into the rocks and gullies and killed them there. The placid river turned to a stream of silver, and sunbeams flung brilliant arrows glinting from the flat surface.
The heat of the rising sun penetrated the blanket encasing Tom. As the warmth replaced the chill of the night, he slept more soundly.
The sun climbed its fiery arc a hand-width. The horse grew restless and several times went off to graze, only to return to sniff at the motionless blanket wrapped body.
In the late morning, Tom awoke from a sleep of pain-filled dreams. He remained in his blanket, recalling where he was and how he had gotten there. His head felt swollen and heavy. Even though the pain still throbbed within his skull, his vision had cleared considerably.
He climbed to his feet and went to the river to kneel and drink. His thirst was old and he drank deeply. The horse followed and drank beside him.
Tom lifted the flaps of his saddlebags. His six-gun, with belt and holster was on one side. A knife in a scabbard, a small quantity of food, jerky and raisins, and a folded piece of tanned deer hide were in the other bag. Whoever had shot him had not taken all his belongings. Only his rifle and slicker were missing.
He pulled the folded section of deer hide from the saddlebag and spread the two foot width to expose a map. The neat, precise lines and symbols depicted mountains, roads, streams, and lesser features encompassing an area two hundred miles across. The most detail was portrayed for the country nearest the Black Rock Desert.
Far north of the desert and beyond the badlands, the map depicted two rivers coming in from the south to join at a sharp angle. Tom read the small writing that labeled the east stream, the Snake River and the other, the Owyhee River.
Feeling relieved that he was not completely lost, Tom returned the map to the saddlebag, retrieved the blanket and climbed astride the horse. He walked the animal upstream beside the Owyhee. Where the river riffled over a gravel bar, the long-legged mount forded the current, swimming a few yards once when it could not reach bottom.
Tom guided a course north along the western side of the wide flood plains of the Snake. As the sun passed its zenith and began the long fall toward the horizon, he came onto a heavily used wagon road.
The earth had been crushed by uncounted thousands of iron-rimmed wheels over many years. In places the tracks were eroded more than a foot deep. Fresh imprints of shod hooves and wheels were pressed into the dust.
The faraway shouts of men reach
ed Tom from the direction of the Snake. A large ferry carrying two freight wagons and six teams of horses was in the middle of the stream and heading toward his bank of the river.
Tom once again drew out his map. The much used road and the busy ferry told the importance of the route. Tom believed the road was the main traveled way connecting Fort Boise with the Oregon Country. If he was correct, the riverboat would be Feeney’s Ferry.
A man on the ferry called out again. Tom spoke to his horse and went off at a fast walk without finding out what the man wanted. Until Tom was far away from the sheriff and the three dead men in Westfall, all humans must be avoided.
The road veered away from the Snake and wound up through a low range of brush covered hills and down into the flat valley of the Malheur River. The route turned beside the river and led to a score of hot springs gushing out from the base of a tall lava butte. Tom passed among the boiling pools and the steam swirling up in white columns. Following the road, he crossed the river on a solid rib of lava.
The horse plodded onward through miles of brown grass. Tom felt the weariness grow in his weakened body. The ache in his head started to intensify and his vision became more blurred. He shook his head to clear it. At the abrupt movement, a horrible surf of pain swamped him. Earth and sky spun giddily. A series of wild disordered phantasms darted into his mind.
The impossible images commenced to merge with the reality around him. He clutched at his consciousness, straining to keep the factual sorted from the false. But they swept together, colliding and intermingling until he could not tell that which truly existed from that which did not. He grabbed at the saddlehorn to keep from falling.
* * *
The wagon master, Judson, led the line of eight freight wagons out into the shallow water near the shore of the Snake at Farewell Bend. He halted when the water rose to wash the beds of the vehicles and the bellies of the mules.
The teamsters in the high seats loosened their hold on the reins of the thirsty mules and the animals lowered their heads to drink.
While Judson waited for the teams to drink and catch their wind, he rode back past the string of wagons to inspect the equipment. Now and then he stopped to talk to one of the drivers.
At the end of the wagon train, the mounted guard shouted out to Judson, “Rider coming up behind.”
The wagon master touched his mount with spurs and waded him through the water to the guard. A fast-stepping horse had crested the hill above and was drawing near.
“The fellow rides strange in the saddle,” said the guard.
“Seems like maybe he’s hurt,” replied Judson. “Or dozing. We’ll know soon for he’s coming straight on.”
Tom approached the wagons in the shallows of the Snake. Like a sleepwalker in whose mind a distorted version of reality exists, he saw not a wagon train in the waters of a river, but rather mules and vehicles on a flat, broad road. The mules had no legs and the wagons had no wheels. Two men sat on legless horses at the rear of the last wagon. Tom grinned crookedly—he was having a damn queer nightmare.
Judson noted blood caked in the horseman’s hair and more of it crusted on his shoulder and shirt front. He spoke to Tom. “Young fellow, you look bad hurt and ready to fall from your saddle. You pull up and we’ll tend your wound as best we can. Then you can ride in one of the wagons until we get to Baker. There’s a doctor in that town.”
Tom’s grin broadened and twisted at the words of the nightmare man. “You can’t help me. You have enough work to take care of your own mules and wagons.‘ Tom laughed out loud at his joke. How could a man put legs on a mule?
Tom did not like talking to the man, an imaginary man that only existed in his head. He faced away from the bizarre gathering of deformed animals and incomplete wagons and pressed his heels into the flanks of the horse.
As he went swiftly past the wagons, Tom heard the teamsters calling out after him. He did not respond.
The guard spoke to the wagon master. “Looked like he needed help. Yet all he does is laugh and tell us to take care of our mules.”
Judson watched the rider. The man’s wound had bled a lot and could be serious. Yet the man spoke logically and appeared to be in good spirits.
“The fellow has left the road,” said the guard. “He’s heading down the Snake instead of taking the trail up the Burnt River to Baker City.”
“I see he has,” said the wagon master. “He’s hurt and should have let us help him. There’s nothing down the valley of the Snake for a hundred miles except maybe some renegade Indians.
“I’ve heard there’s some gold miners on those big gravel bars where the Imnaha River and some smaller streams dump into the Snake.”
“He’ll never make it that far for he had no grub bag or gun that I could see.”
“He may be out of his head. You think I should rope him and tie him in one of the wagons?”
“No. Sick or not, he’s called his play. We offered our help and he turned us down. He’ll live or die same as other men who have had bad luck. Now let’s move the wagons out.” Judson loped his mount up out of the water of the river and onto the shore. He shouted a command at the lead wagon.
The wagon drivers popped their long bullwhips and the mules leaned into their harness. One by one the wagons crawled away from the Snake River and strung out to the northwest beside the Burnt River.
* * *
Tom rode north with the current of the Snake River. As the miles were traversed, the land became steep and rose above him, soaring to tall mountains capped with pine forest. The flanks of the mountains became walls, crowding the river, funneling the large flow of water into a rushing torrent.
Tom did not know the number of days the faithful cayuse carried him beside the Snake. When the animal stopped to drink, he would dismount and drink with it. When the darkness arrived, he slept at the feet of the animal.
At times hunger gnawed at the pit of his stomach and he tried to eat some of the jerky and raisins. Each time he chewed on the food, a surge of nausea killed his desire.
Tom’s head wound became infected and pus formed in the torn, mutilated flesh. Flies buzzed about and laid eggs in the corruption. Maggots came to life and fed on the rotting matter.
The periods became less frequent when his mind was clear and knew the true world. Most of the time, there was an echoing drum inside his head, the percussive beats jarring and thunderous. Images were often out of focus. In these bad times, there was only an awareness of pain and no thought. He rode by instinct, clamping the back of the horse with his legs and holding to the pommel of the saddle.
In his master’s disorientation, the horse selected its own path. Once the course had been started downriver, the cayuse continued in that direction, walking steadily, making long treks each day. Neither man nor horse noted the Snake swell to a giant river as tributary after tributary added its flow, and all the tremendous volume hurried seaward.
* * *
Lian Ah swung the sickle to cut the weeds and grass in the small orchard of orange trees on the hillside above the Pearl River. Her arm was weak and a fine film of perspiration dampened her brow. She halted and leaned to rest against one of the aged fruit trees.
Her eyes ranged overhead to the hard green fruit hanging on the stiff branches. She examined every fruit within sight. A few showed a slight tinge of yellowish orange; however, many long days of growth and ripening must pass before the fruit could be eaten. She did not believe her starving body could last that long.
She stooped to her labor again. A step to the left and two strokes of the curved, hook-like blade. Then another step left and two swings. One swath after another of weeds and grass fell dead behind her as she worked the sharp sickle across the orchard.
Lian piled the wilting plants and measured the mound with a calculating eye. Two armloads at most. The plants had grown only a little since the last time she had cut them. The farmer Liexing Lip who owned the pig would give her no more than a handful of beans from his gar
den in exchange. Still, even a few warm beans and their broth would feel wonderful in her empty stomach. Her mouth watered at the delicious thought.
She gathered up a portion of the pig feed in her arms. Holding it tightly so not to lose one blade of grass, she carried it from the orchard and around the hill.
As she returned from the second trip with her treasure of beans, her father came into sight on the hill road. His shoulders slumped and his step was slow. His skinny body seemed to have shrunken within itself.
Lian stopped and stood motionless at the corner of the house. The expression of failure and dejection incised in her father’s face squeezed her heart. He went inside without noticing her.
She moved to the window and looked inside. Her father crossed the room to the pallet on the floor where his wife lay. He brushed her pale cheek with his hand. She reached up to touch him in return.
“I found no one that needed a worker,” said Gee Ah. “I offered to work a full day for just one small copper coin or a little food and still all the answers were no.”
“These are terrible times,” said his wife. “The drought of last year nearly destroyed the orchards on the hills. Many of the rice farmers in the valley could not get water from the river for their crops. No person has money except in the city.”
“Yes. That was a bad time. But our trees that survived have fruit this year. Not a large amount because they are still weak and did not fully blossom.”
“This will be a better year. We must not despair,” said the wife of Gee Ah.
Lian moved away from the house. “We must not despair,” her mother had said. Yet she lay starving, too frail to stand. Lian brushed at the tears that had formed and looked down from the hill toward the valley.
Hundreds of tiny orchards of closely packed trees, pear, oranges and other fruit dotted the hillside. On the bottom land of the flood plain of the Pearl River, the patchwork of rice paddies and garden plots stretched away as far as she could see.
She gazed at the location where Canton City lay. People who lived there had money. Some of them.
