by Len Levinson
Dawson aimed down the barrel of his gun and saw a man who wasn’t flinching. Jimmy Wing looked coldly at him, his face immobile, ready to die, and Dawson thought: He must be telling the truth, because nobody dies for somebody else. Jimmy Wing was no fool, and maybe the Indian trackers were wrong. John Stone probably was in Dumont, but not Chinatown. Somebody would betray him sooner or later, if a large enough reward was posted. There was no need to shoot Jimmy Wing; perhaps they could transact more business in the future.
Dawson eased forward the hammer of the gun. “This is yore lucky day,” he said to Jimmy Wing. “I’m not gonna kill you.”
Dawson plopped the gun into its holster and turned to Atwell. “I want fifty men in Dumont at all times, watchin’ the town— and I don’t mean gettin’ drunk and screwin’ whores—I mean on duty, lookin’ for John Stone actively, day and night—you set up the roster personally. Then have posters printed and nailed up all over town. As of right now, I’m offering five thousand dollars for John Stone, dead or alive!”
In the cellar, Stone heard footsteps heading toward the door above him, and one chorus of boots sounded like an elephant: Dawson himself. Stone thought of raising his gun and shooting Dawson through the floorboards, but there was no guarantee of success, and it would draw the attention of Dawson’s army.
The last footsteps left the office, and it became silent above him. Stone descended the ladder to the basement floor, and lay on the cot. It had been a close call. He’d been ready to push through the trapdoor and open fire, but Dawson backed off at the last moment.
Stone didn’t know why Dawson backed off. Blood never stopped him before. There must be a reason, but Stone had more important knots to untangle. He was trapped in a cellar in Dumont, and a small army was searching for him. He looked at the hard-packed dirt walls of the cellar, and it was nearly as bad as the Dumont jail. How long could he last down here, and how long before somebody turned him in for the five-thousand-dollar reward?
He heard the scraping of chairs above him, and the rug being pulled across the floor. The trapdoor opened, and Jimmy Wing descended the stairs.
“They leaving Chinatown,” he said. “You’re safe.”
“Why didn’t you tell him where I was?”
“Mr. Dawson hates to give up money,” Jimmy Wing replied, “and I make money for him. That is why he did not kill me.”
“What if you’d figured wrong?”
“I understand my opponent, and understanding is half the battle. Also, Hong Fat is the cousin of our priest, Mew Fong; so you see, when you helped Hong Fat, you were helping an important member of this community, and we are all beholden to you. I’m sure Mew Fong’ll come to pay his respects soon.”
They heard the sound of footsteps in the room above them, and legs appeared on the stairs. Three Chinese men descended to the cellar and chattered to Jimmy Wing in Chinese. Jimmy Wing replied, then turned to Stone.
“Hank Dawson is leaving for his ranch,” he said, “but many of his men are staying behind.”
“Five thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
“There will be no takers in Chinatown. You do not understand how revered Mew Fong is.”
It was dark on the main floor of the HC Ranch, and Craig looked through the living-room window at the night, his rifle in his hands.
Before him lay the barn and outbuildings. His cowboys were gone and, before departing, took all the horses in the corral. If the Comanches found out the HC Ranch was unprotected, they’d steal everything he had, scalp him, and God only knew what they’d do to Cynthia.
She held a rifle and looked out the window at the opposite side of the room, and was wearing tight jeans and a buckskin jacket, plus high-topped boots. Her view was of the open range, and the moonlight made the bushes and trees appear like an army of Comanches.
Cynthia was frightened, but had managed to hold herself under control so far. A few times she’d wanted to scream, but grit her teeth and swallowed the fear back down. If the Comanches came, she’d fight as long as she could.
Craig said, “Why don’t you lie down and get some sleep? I’ll watch for a while.”
“I can’t sleep,” she said. “Maybe you should lie down.”
“I can’t sleep either, but the Comanches probably don’t know we’re alone yet. We’ll leave for town first thing in the morning.”
“Maybe our hands didn’t leave horses, in which case we’re trapped out here, and it’s only a matter of time before the Comanches get us.”
“I didn’t see anybody turn loose the horses in the barn. We’ll get out of here, don’t worry. The Consortium won’t let us down.”
It fell silent in the living room as they both stared out their windows, looking for Comanches. Craig wondered what the Consortium would do when they found out he’d botched the job, because that’s the way they’d see it. They’d probably fire him and send a replacement. Craig would become a failure in the first important endeavor of his life.
Cynthia said, “I wonder if they’ve caught John Stone.”
“I think you’d better stop worrying about him and start worrying about us. At least he’s got a horse and knows how to fight. I don’t know a damn thing, and neither do you.”
Craig was certain he saw something move in front of the corral. He aimed his rifle at it and fired. Cynthia jumped involuntarily as the house reverberated with the blast. Craig looked into the yard and wondered if he’d killed a Comanche, or if his eyes were playing tricks on him.
“Is somebody there?” Cynthia asked, her heart pounding.
“Don’t know. Hard to see.”
“I need a drink.”
“This isn’t a time to be drinking alcoholic beverages. We need to keep our wits about us. There may be Comanches out there.”
“Perhaps we should invite them in for a drink and make friends with them, as it were. I’ll give them some beads, and you can give them a horse, if we have any horses left.”
She arose, went to the cupboard, and poured some whiskey into a glass.
“I’ll have one too,” he said in a low voice.
She poured a glass for him, placed it in his hands, and returned to her post at the window. She’d feel safe with John Stone, whereas poor Craig was probably as frightened and useless as she. She looked at him crouching beneath the window sill and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“I think the tension is unhinging my mind.”
“Try to hang on until morning, Cynthia. It’s not too far away. Then we’ll leave this place forever.”
“What if we don’t have horses?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“You know, Craig—we just might die out here.”
“We can walk to town tomorrow, if we don’t have horses.”
“What if we run into Comanches?”
“We can’t let fear control us. We must be optimistic and keep striving.”
Cynthia sipped some whiskey, and it settled her down. She knew Craig was right; they couldn’t simply surrender.
“In hindsight,” Craig said, “I guess we should’ve been more careful who we associated with, but John Stone seemed like such a gentleman. I had no idea he’d shoot people.”
Cynthia saw something move in the darkness and fired two wild shots out the window. Craig ran across the room and joined her, looking at the moonlit plains.
“What was it?”
“I thought it was an Indian!”
She pointed with the barrel of the rifle, but he saw only the dim outlines of hills and foliage.
“We’re firing at shadows,” he said. “We’d better calm down.”
He returned to his window and wanted to light a cigar, but was afraid a Comanche might see it.
“If we ever survive this,” he said, “it’ll be a helluva story to tell back in New York.”
“You have doubts we’ll survive, Craig?”
“I guess we have to realize anything can happen out here. This isn’t F
ifth Avenue.”
He wasn’t reassuring. She sat in the darkness near the window and sipped her whiskey, trying to stay calm.
Stone lay on his cot in the cellar, the lantern on, and he was smoking a cigarette. It felt like a dungeon, damp and musty, with nothing to do and no place to go. He felt restless and trapped, and sometimes it seemed as if the earthen walls were closing in on him.
He thought he’d made a mistake by coming to Chinatown, and should’ve taken his chances on the open range. He’d learned the principles of leading trackers astray from Tad McDermott, one of the best in the game. If they caught him, at least he’d die like a cavalryman instead of a rat in a hole in the ground.
He couldn’t lie still any longer, got up, and paced the floor back and forth like a caged animal, leaving trails of cigarette smoke behind him. Dawson had fifty men in town; how could he get out? Stone felt desperate, as if he might spend years in this hole. He’d look like one of those lizards who live in caves and never see the light of day. There was a possibility he’d lose his mind.
He heard furniture being moved above him, and then the trapdoor opened. He faced the stairs and saw a slim figure in a pale blue silk dress descending. It was a young woman with long, straight black hair to her shoulders, and she was carrying a tray with dishes and bowls.
“I am Mai Wing, daughter of Jimmy Wing, and I have brought you something to eat. You are hungry?”
“I was about to start chewing on my boots.”
He sat at the table and she placed the tray in front of him. He knew what rice was, but the rest was unfamiliar.
“It is only chicken and vegetables,” she said. “I think you will like it better than your boots.”
Stone placed food in his mouth, and it tasted new and exotic, making him want more. He ate heartily and looked at Mai Wing, who sat pertly on her chair, and he figured she was seventeen. Her dress was high-necked and she had a simple friendly manner, not seductive and not the least bit nervous about being alone with a man.
Stone realized a little Chinese world existed in Dumont alongside the rootin’ tootin’ American frontier town. When Stone had arrived in Dumont, he’d had no idea it was just a few hundred feet away, opium dens and Chinese whorehouses, tea parlors and beautiful young girls with the most extraordinary eyes.
“Do you ever go out?” he said.
“Not very often. It is dangerous.”
“What do you do with your life?”
“I take care of my father, and I study with Mew Fong.”
“What do you study?”
“The Buddha.”
“Don’t know much about that.”
“If we pray to the Buddha, our lives will become pure.”
He looked at her and realized that’s what she was: pure and innocent, a child in the body of a young woman.
“Tell me about Mew Fong.”
“He is a very wise priest trained at a great monastery in China. Everybody places great weight on what he says.”
“What does he say?”
“Depends on what you ask him.”
“You must know your neighbors well. Do you think there’s anyone who might betray me for the five-thousand-dollar reward?”
“If someone took it, he would be banished from the community, and no one wants that.”
“With five thousand dollars, he could go to another community.”
“I think you will be safe. No one would want to make Mew Fong mad at him, because Mew Fong has great powers.”
Stone finished eating and pushed back his chair, lighting a cigarette as Mai Wing loaded the dishes on the tray.
“I will see you tomorrow,” she said.
She walked toward the stairs and climbed them, and the trapdoor was closed. Stone sat alone again, thinking there must be at least one person in Chinatown who’d betray him for five thousand dollars. He looked at the walls and low ceiling. There was only one way out, and if Dawson set fire to the building, Stone would roast to death.
He’d have to live cooped up in the cellar, in constant fear someone would betray him, and it wouldn’t be easy. He wondered how much he could take before going stark raving mad.
Hank Dawson sat before a table cluttered with plates of food in the Presidential Suite of the New Dumont Hotel. He’d decided to spend the night in town and go home in the morning.
A maid had given him a bath, and he wore clean clothes. He sliced into a huge slab of venison, which was tender as newly fallen snow, and placed the meat in his mouth, chewing contentedly while cutting a potato in half. Before him were dumplings in gravy, slices of cheese, an assortment of vegetables, a loaf of bread, a plate of beans, and a rhubarb pie.
He ate steadily and systematically, stuffing his great stomach and making it sag low over his belt. He’d been troubled about losing John Stone, but now felt better as great gobs of food were passing down his throat and into his gut. He’d spend a peaceful night in Dumont, and tomorrow would ride to the HC Ranch, settling his account with the Delanes. They, more than anyone else, were responsible for Stone still being on the loose. Dawson didn’t know what he wanted to do with them, but whatever it was, it’d be exquisitely horrible, because he couldn’t let them off easy after what they’d done.
Meanwhile, outside in Dumont, his men were prowling the streets and back alleys, looking for John Stone. Stone would have to show himself sooner or later, and Dawson was willing to wait him out.
Someone was hiding him, and Dawson wondered who it was. Probably some well-intentioned idiot who went to church every Sunday and believed the foolishness about The Good Samaritan.
That might work for a few days, but then the reality of five thousand dollars would sink it. The average cowboy would have to work fourteen ye? to earn that much money. It was a tremendous stake and a person could literally live on it for the rest of his life by investing in cattle or some other business.
Sooner or later somebody would step forward, Dawson thought, his mouth full of food. Nobody could resist five thousand dollars for long.
Chapter Twelve
In the morning the trapdoor opened and Hong Fat climbed down the stairs, followed by a gnome in a black robe lined with white silk.
“This is Mew Fong,” Hong Fat said.
Mew Fong’s head was shaven, he wore glasses, and had a friendly smile. “Thank you for helping my cousin, Hong Fat,” Mew Fong said with a bow. “One wins merit when one stands up for the good and the right.” Mew Fong held out the tray. “ Your breakfast.”
Stone lifted the lid off the plate and saw bacon and eggs with biscuits and coffee. Sitting at the table, he wolfed it down.
Mew Fong and Hong Fat sat silently and watched him. The coffee was especially delicious, and Stone felt new life surging into him. He’d slept well, and there’d been no trouble all night. He was beginning to feel safe in the cellar.
They waited until he finished the last morsel and was rolling his after-breakfast cigarette. Then Mew Fong said, “We will make everything here as comfortable for you as possible. I will visit every day, and so will Mai Wing. You will have the best food, and someone is collecting things for you to read. One day you will leave this place.”
“Dawson’ll never give up.”
“Everyone gives up sooner or later. Even you, one day, will give up.”
“Dawson might live another twenty years. I don’t want to spend that long in this cellar.”
“Charging ahead in a time of danger only hurries the catastrophe. You must be patient.”
They were interrupted by the sound of feet running on the ceiling overhead, and then somebody shouted a warning in Chinese. Hong Fat and Mew Fong arose from their chairs.
“Dawson’s men are coming!” Hong Fat said. “We must go!”
Hong Fat and Mew Fong scurried toward the ladder and climbed to Jimmy Wing’s office. The trapdoor closed, and Stone sat at the table, pouring another cup of coffee. Heavy footsteps approached the room above, and Stone figured they were the boots of Dawson�
��s men.
“What the hell’s goin’ on in here!” demanded Finch, followed by four gunmen.
“A business meeting,” replied Jimmy Wing.
“Search the closet, boys.”
Stone heard footsteps move toward the closet, and something fell to the floor. In his imagination, he saw them throwing dynamite into the cellar.
“Nothin’ in the closet,” Burkers said.
“We’ll shoot anybody who’s hiding John Stone,” Finch said, “but you tell us where he is, and it’s five thousand dollars in yore pocket.”
Stone heard the cowboys leave the office, and there were several minutes of silence. Then the trapdoor opened again and Mew Fong came down the stairs.
“A brief unpleasantness,” Mew Fong said, “but nothing dangerous. You are very tense—I can see it in your body. You must relax and let your Buddha mind speak to you.”
Mew Fong took a small statue of the Buddha out of his robe and held it in the palm of his hand. The Buddha’s diamond eyes glittered and gleamed in the light of the lamp, and Stone felt sleepy.
“Lie down,” Mew Fong said gently.
Stone felt himself arising and stumbling toward the bed. He sat on the edge of it, didn’t have the energy to pull off his boots, and stretched out, closing his eyes.
Mew Fong sat on the chair beside the bed, held the statue up, and said, “Time is precious, but truth is more precious than time.”
It was morning at the HC Ranch, and Cynthia was trying to light the stove. She stuffed in the newspaper and wood, lit it, and it smoked pitifully for several seconds, then went out. She was dusted lightly with ashes from head to foot and getting angrier every moment.
Bernice had lit the fire every morning, and Cynthia cursed herself for not watching and learning how it was done, but she’d never dreamed a day would come when she’d have to light a fire.
Muttering, she pushed the remaining newspaper into the firebox, but her hand hit a hot surface. She shouted, pulled back suddenly, and slammed her hand unintentionally against the stove door. A small cut had opened on the back of her hand, and she covered it with her handkerchief as she looked out the window at Craig walking toward the barn.
