The Highbinders

by F. M. Parker

  Tolman growled something the seaman could not decipher, stirred, then relaxed and began to snore.

  “It’s your turn at the helm,” said the seaman in a louder voice. “The Chief said you’d better relieve the watch on time.”

  Tolman did not respond. The seaman set his lantern on the deck and reached out to rip the blanket from the man in the hammock.

  Tolman instantly sat up and glared about. “Damn you, Standage, I’m going to knock the hell out of you. You don’t have any right to do that to a man.”

  “Before you start swinging at me, you’d best listen. I did just what the Chief said. It’s your turn at the helm.” He threw the blanket back to Tolman and left.

  Tolman swung out of his hammock and dressed in the dark. He went up the ladder to the main deck and headed along the passageway. He detoured to go onto the weather deck to get a fresh breath of air to fully awaken before going to the wheel-house.

  As Tolman passed through the hatch, the ship lurched and rolled steeply. His hand missed the hold on the edge of the hatchway and he was flung out onto the deck.

  He saw the figure of a man exactly in his path. Tolman fell upon the unknown person.

  Pak saw the man hurtling from the black opening of the passageway. He instantly bent forward to avoid any thrusting knife and to take the man’s weight without being knocked over. He struck powerfully upward with a flat right hand, fingers extended and rigid, into his attacker’s stomach.

  The body of the man settled heavily on Pak. Swiftly he heaved upward. The man went flying away from Pak, striking against the taut cables of the standing rigging extending down from the mast to the deck of the ship.

  The man agilely bounced off the ropes on his feet and whirled to face Pak. Without conscious thought, Pak’s hands flashed to the back of his neck and found the handle of his sword.

  “Stop! Hold up! Damnation, fellow, I didn’t mean to fall on you,” yelled Tolman. He spread his hands in a mollifying way.

  Pak did not know the meaning of the man’s words, but he understood the gesture of the empty hands. The ship had rolled suddenly just before the man had slammed into him. It was merely an accident. He released his grip on the sword and walked off along the deck.

  “Goddamn heathen Chinaman,” Tolman said under his breath as he tenderly felt his aching stomach. He looked at the ropes that had kept him from going overboard. He had been godawful close to going to his everlasting death. “Damn little bastard,” Tolman cursed and hurried to the wheelhouse.

  He relieved the seaman at the helm, repeated back the heading to be steered and began to curse.

  “What’s rankling you?” asked the chief, who stood looking forward through the large porthole of the wheelhouse.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” replied Tolman.

  “I told Standage to take your blanket if you were hard to get awake,” said the chief.

  “I know. It’s not that,” said Tolman as he turned the helm slightly to starboard to maintain the heading against the push of the sea.

  The duty officer entered the wheelhouse, spoke to the chief and took a seat at the navigation table. He began to plot on a map under the yellow glow of the gimbaled oil light.

  Ziyang, the crewman in charge of the Chinese passengers, came into the wheelhouse. He approached the duty officer and saluted, “Mr. Connel, may I speak with you?”

  “Certainly, Ziyang. What is it?”

  “One of the passengers has died.”

  “When?”

  “It must have occurred since my last round at dark, Sir.”

  “That makes three so far this voyage.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “What did he die of? Is it contagious?”

  “I do not know yet, Sir. The body is still below decks, far back in one of the corners. The death was reported to me by one of the passengers.”

  “Bring the body topside at first light. Have the ship’s doctor examine it and report to me.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Ziyang.

  “Chief, I’m going to catch an hour of sleep in the storm cabin. Wake me at four bells or sooner if anything arises that needs my attention.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said the chief.

  Connel left through a hatchway in the rear wall of the wheel- house.

  “Ziyang, who is that Chinaman with the woman in the cabin midships?” Tolman asked.

  “I only know what little I heard while we were docked in Canton. His name is Pak Ho. Why do you ask?”

  “I accidentally fell into him on the weather deck. He hit me in the gut and tried to throw me off the ship. If it hadn’t been for the riggin” lines, I’d gone deep six, that’s for sure. I’m goin” to crack that little bastard’s head as soon as we hit port in San Francisco.”

  “That will not be an easy task to beat him in a fight,” responded Ziyang.

  “Why not? I’ll pick him up by the pigtail and bash his head in.”

  Tolman saw Ziyang shake his head in the negative and remembered how quickly the small man had reacted and the pounding force of his hands. There was still a sizeable lump in his stomach from that blow. Also, he had lifted Tolman as if he were air and threw him aside.

  Tolman said to Ziyang, “Now if there is something about this man that your old shipmate should know, you’d better tell me.”

  “He is a captain in the Triad soldiers. He is a highbinder, a professional warrior. I would not want to fight him even if I had a knife and he had nothing except his hands.”

  “You exaggerate,” snorted Tolman. “And what in hell is a highbinder?”

  “He coils his queue high on his head and binds it there before he goes into battle.”

  “Well, highbinder or not, he’s going to pay for hitting me for no good reason.” I will be careful, thought Tolman. Perhaps the best way to hurt him is through the woman.

  * * *

  Pak walked the deck during the cold, late hours of the night. When daylight arrived over the water, he returned and entered the cabin.

  Lian was awake and dressed. She reclined on her cot. As she sewed some garment, her small body adjusted easily to the roll and pitch of the ship. The tantalizing nearness of her presence was like a physical force pressing on Pak. He sat on his bunk and watched her.

  She glanced up with that peculiar, composed stillness of hers that Pak had grown so used to, and smiled a welcome to him. The beauty of the smile almost compelled him to smile in return. He looked away with a jerk of his head.

  She laid her fingers alongside her cheek with a gentle, thoughtful gesture. She believed she understood his action and shrugged a little and turned back to her sewing with a young woman’s shy smile.

  Pak lay down upon his bed and shut his eyes. He knew he could never speak of his feelings to Lian. However, he would not care if the voyage lasted to eternity as long as she was there, just across the cabin.

  * * *

  The sky cleared and turned blue and the weather warmed for three days. The Snake River began to grumble and strain beneath its thick covering of ice.

  Tom found a vantage point on top of a boulder on the shore and awaited the imminent breakup of the river ice. He sat half-dozing in the soft rays of the sun.

  A multitude of crackling, crisp and sharp, commenced. They started near the center of the river and, growing ever louder, spread closer to the banks.

  Where the current was most swift, the ice thundered apart in a great, gaping fissure. Water flooded up through the breach and air holes and flowed on top of the ice sheet.

  There was a ripping, tearing sound as the ice struggled to pull itself loose from the grip of the shore. The broad plain of the river ice shattered and became hundreds of ice blocks, churning and grinding one upon the other. In a cold confusion of water and ice cakes, the river moved, a tidal wave heading for the ocean.

  For a long time Tom remained on top of the rock, watching the river throw off its winter covering. As the day ended, Sigh’s discussion with him about going to California an
d bringing the woman to the valley, came into his mind. The world was a big place to explore. He might as well start in California. In a week the snow would be melted from the low land along the river and on all the south facing slopes. He would leave then.

  Sigh had come from the cabin and now spoke as he approached Tom. “Good morning.”

  “Morning, Sigh.” replied Tom. “Tell me the best way to go to California?”

  “A person could go west across the mountains to the ocean and take a ship to San Francisco. I do not know that way. I can describe the land route to California for I have walked it and on part of it, helped build a railroad.”

  “Tell me the land route.”

  Sigh returned to the cabin and obtained a piece of paper and a pencil and came and sat down beside Tom. He made a north indicating arrow and a horizontal line. “The length of this line is about a day’s walk’. He began to draw. “We are about here.” Sigh marked the paper with the pencil, and began to draw and make notes as the pencil moved along. “Go south beside this big river that flows just outside our door until it swerves southeast and opens up into a valley that is miles wide. From what you have told me, you have already passed over the land to this point. From there on, hold a course south to cross the Malheur River. Continue south to find the Owyhee River. Stay on the west bank and keep heading into the noonday sun.” Sigh’s pencil continued to draw a map.

  “There is a stagecoach line from Winnemucca to Silver City and Boise City along the Old Paradise Valley Road. Somewhere about here you should find it. Follow it south to Winnemucca, which I judge should be located here. California is a long distance to the southwest.

  “If you want, you can take the train from Winnemucca to Sacramento. A boat carries passengers down the Sacramento River to San Francisco. I suggest you take the train and boat for they are faster.”

  Sigh’s fingers moved over the face of the map and back to the location of the cabins on the Snake. He went over the same route, adding more details. Tom felt his desire to go exploring grow as the man talked of the high mountains and rivers and large towns with many people.

  Sigh finished describing the course of travel. “When will you leave?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow morning. It is the last of February. Though there may be more storms, they will be short. Each day should grow warmer.”

  “I have measured the gold we have dug since you have been here. This is your share.” Sigh handed Tom a leather pouch weighing two pounds or more. “When something is divided into thirty three parts, there is not much for each of us. Here is another quantity of gold to pay you to bring the woman from San Francisco. Each man has contributed two ounces. The expense of her passage over the ocean from China and lodging in San Francisco has already been paid. Only the cost of the boat to Sacramento and train to Winnemucca remain. I hope this amount of gold is sufficient.”

  “More than enough. I’m glad to do it for you.”

  “See the merchant of Chinese foods, Quan Ing on Dupont Street in San Francisco. He will know where the woman is. Most likely she will have arrived by the time you get there. Here is a message that will tell Quan Ing who you are and that you are to be trusted.”

  Tom put the letter sealed in waxed paper into his saddlebag. “I should be back here by the time the season turns to summer.”

  “We will be waiting,” replied Sigh.

  CHAPTER 12

  Tom left the camp of the Chinamen at daybreak. He was dressed in his own clothes and a coat Hoy had cut from a blanket and had sewn for him. He was armed with pistol and rifle. His black hair had grown longer and was tied behind his head with a leather thong.

  The Chinamen filed down to the gravel bar to work as Tom headed up the Snake River. He looked back at the shanties where his flight had brought him those many weeks past.

  The foreign miners were motionless near the river. Sigh and several of the others raised their hands in farewell.

  They are a fine bunch of men, thought Tom. He turned away from his friends and spoke to the black horse. It went willingly at a trot on the winding river trail.

  The animal was soft after loafing all winter and Tom halted early in the evening. He made camp where the trail veered away from the Snake and went across the foothills of the Wallowa Mountains to Baker City.

  Each following day the horse grew harder. By the fourth day, the mustang had hit its stride and developed traveling legs.

  That night Tom camped at the hot springs on the Malheur River. There was a gray stone house of two stories little less than half a mile west of him. Tom wondered if it had been there on his trip north and he had not noticed it in his delirium.

  He heard voices coming from the house. This was the first habitation of white men he had seen for months. He thought of riding over to visit with the people. However, he was enjoying the time away from other humans and instead searched along the bank of the river until he found where the hot spring water mixed with the river and was cooled to a temperature that was pleasant. There he bathed and soaked in warm comfort for a long time before he rolled into his blanket.

  He awoke to a stiff wind blowing out of the northwest. The weather was soon to change. He broke camp quickly and headed straight south over lava hills weathered and covered with tall grass bleached by the winter to a dirty gray.

  Twenty miles later his route descended into the valley of a creek flowing east toward the Owyhee River. The wind was somewhat subdued in the creek bottom. He pulled rein and stopped to let the horse rest and graze for a while.

  Tom took his rifle from its scabbard and found a seat that allowed him to watch both ways along the creek. Snow had drifted into the gully and a mound of white remained at the shadowy base. Tom scooped up a handful, compressed it into a lump and began to eat.

  He relaxed and listened to the wind clawing its noisy way over the hills above him. The wind gradually shifted, working its way around to come directly out of the north. It gusted down into the ravine to rattle the parched reeds of grass and strum a thin whine through the lava rock.

  The wind strengthened, steadied and began to turn cold. Its whine became an endless moaning dirge.

  Then abruptly it changed. A sound unlike anything Tom had ever heard was combined with the dismal tune. He cocked his head to listen.

  The additional notes were similar to the first wind noises, and yet different, more controlled with certain resonances accented as if to bring forth emphasis in a deliberate and artful manner. The new notes were full of lament and spoke of sadness.

  Tom slowly rotated his head from side to side. He could separate out the sound superimposed on the natural wind noises. And he knew the direction of its source.

  He climbed erect and stealthily crept up the drainage. The sound grew louder. He dropped down and began to crawl.

  He stopped and parted the dry grass to peer ahead. A skinny old man with white hair sat at the feet of a bony nag of a horse. He held an odd-shaped instrument with wire strings beneath his chin with his left hand. While his right drew a flat bow of some material over the taut strands of metal.

  His eyes were shut and his seamed, hatchet-thin face was concentrating on his task.

  The wind intensified, shrieking a wild song, and the old man’s music rose to match and mock it.

  Tom was astounded. Never before had he heard a fiddle. He had seen pictures of them in books and his father had described the music such a wooden box made. However, now with the vibrations of the strings reverberating in his head, he knew his imagination had failed significantly in fully understanding the beauty of the music a fiddle could make. He wanted the man never to quit playing.

  But he did stop. The bow ceased its stroking of the strings and the fiddle was lowered. The old fiddler man climbed to his feet and leaned on the horse.

  Tom saw the man’s face. Weather and time had blown and crumpled the man into ruin. The thin body and spindly legs and arms reminded Tom of a frail grasshopper walking on the autumn frost, knowing that winter and
death were close.

  The man retrieved a battered carrying case from the ground and made to stow his fiddle in it. Tom arose from the grass.

  “Hello,” Tom called.

  The ancient fiddler man spun around. Keen blue eyes caught Tom and measured him. The man had been startled, but he had not shown fear. Tom liked that.

  A genial smile came to the face of the fiddle player. “Hello, yourself, my young friend.”

  “That thing you hold, is it called a fiddle?” asked Tom.

  “Fiddle be damned, this is a violin.” The man examined Tom’s earnest visage, then shrugged. “Yes. Let’s call it a fiddle. In this place and time, that is a fitting name.”

  “It could be called a violin in some places?”

  “When I played before the princes and crowned heads of Europe, they definitely referred to it as a violin.”

  “You make very pleasing sounds from it,” said Tom.

  “Sounds?” the man cried. “I make music. I am the best violin, er, fiddle player in the world.”

  “I meant music. I have never heard music before.”

  “You are a man grown and never heard music. You lie.”

  “I never lie,” replied Tom, taken aback by the man’s harsh words.

  “I’m sorry I said that. It is possible you have been deprived of a great inheritance of man.”

  “Would you play some more for me?” asked Tom.

  “My price is high. When I was on tour giving renditions of classical compositions, I was paid much gold.”

  “I don’t understand your rendition of classical compositions. But I have only a little gold. I will give you some of it.”

  The man smiled in unbelieving amazement. Was the youth telling the truth? Yes, for it was in his face. “Gold out here has little value. Perhaps this is something else we can barter. What direction do you travel?”

  “South.”

  “And what is the name of the place you go?”

  “California.”

  The man’s countenance brightened. “If I might join with you in your journey, I would play a tune for you all the way. Let me give you some samples.”