Dead Man Walking

by William W. Johnstone

  John Henry chuckled.

  “If you stay here, I reckon you’ll pick up even more of the lingo,” he told her.

  “There is no doubt that I will stay. There is nothing for me back in China. My mother and all the rest of our family are dead, killed by a warlord who is my family’s ancestral enemy.”

  “I’m sorry,” John Henry said.

  “Our land is a violent one at times. But the same is true here. As long as people want more than they have, there will be struggles.”

  “That’s true. But if people didn’t want more than they have, there never would be any progress, would there?”

  “In China, at least, we are more patient. We are an old, old people. We think in terms of centuries, not years.”

  John Henry was enjoying this conversation, but again he could feel impatience brewing inside him. If he found out for sure that O’Reilly had been in Los Angeles at the same time as the counterfeit money was being distributed, it would confirm what the Justice Department officials in Washington believed about him being behind this fresh batch of bogus bills.

  “How long do you think it’ll take for your father to find out if the man I’m looking for has been around here?” he asked.

  “Not long. Runners have gone out to every joss house and opium den in the neighborhood. You should know what you seek within the hour.”

  “That would be good. I appreciate the help.”

  “One thing you should remember,” Wing Sun said. “Favors come with a price. Someday my father . . . or I . . . may ask something of you.”

  “If it’s legal and within my power, I’d be glad to do it.”

  “We shall see,” the Black Lotus said with a smile.

  True to her prediction, in less than an hour Wing Ko reappeared, coming into the private room trailed by some of his men. His hands were hidden in the voluminous sleeves of his robe as he gave a slight bow to John Henry and Wendell, a bow that the two men instinctively returned.

  “I regret to tell you, Marshal Sixkiller, that I have found no trace of the man you seek,” Wing Ko said. “No man using the name Ignatius O’Reilly, or matching the description you gave me, has been seen in Chinatown in recent weeks.”

  “You’re sure?” John Henry asked as disappointment filled him. O’Reilly’s opium habit was really the only lead he had to the man.

  “If he had been here, my men would have discovered that fact,” Wing Ko replied without hesitation. “I am sorry I could be of no help.”

  John Henry sighed and nodded. He said, “Well, at least we got to meet your charming daughter.”

  Wing Ko looked over at Wing Sun and smiled.

  “Someday when I am gone, as my only child she will carry on my legacy,” he said.

  So he was grooming her to take over as the boss of all the crime in Chinatown, John Henry thought. That had to be sort of unusual for the Chinese, putting a woman in a position of such power, but like Wing Ko had said, she was his only child.

  Wing Ko went on, “Daughter, be so kind as to escort these gentlemen out.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  She led John Henry and Wendell through the restaurant, which was crowded again. The customers had filtered back in once the fight between Wing Ko’s guardians and the assassins sent by Ling Yuan was over.

  They paused on the street outside the restaurant. John Henry touched a finger to the brim of his hat and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Wing Sun.”

  “Here,” she said. “I have something for you.”

  She held out her hand, and in the light that came from inside the restaurant, John Henry was able to make out the object that lay on her palm.

  It was a medallion of sorts, an oval of jade with a ring of gold around its outer edge. Painted on the jade was a black flower.

  “A black lotus,” John Henry said.

  “If you ever have to come here again, show this,” she told him. “It will protect you and open many doors. And if you never return . . . keep it so that you will remember me, even though we met only briefly.”

  John Henry smiled and said, “I don’t think I’m likely to forget you, Wing Sun, but I’ll keep this with me from now on anyway.”

  He slipped the medallion into his pocket.

  While they were talking, a wagon pulled by a pair of draft horses had been trundling its way along the narrow street toward them. A drooping canvas cover hung over the back of the wagon. John Henry had barely paid any attention to the vehicle. With such radiant loveliness as Wing Sun standing right in front of him, it was hard to look anywhere else.

  That changed abruptly as Wendell let out a startled exclamation. John Henry swung around to see that the wagon had come to a stop, and the canvas cover over its bed was thrown back to reveal a handful of men and the ugly snout of a Gatling gun. Tongues of flame spurted from the gun’s muzzle as it began its deadly chatter and sent a hail of bullets sweeping toward the front of the restaurant, and toward John Henry, Wendell, and Wing Sun.

  Chapter Eleven

  John Henry’s left arm shot out and shoved Wing Sun off her feet. She let out a startled cry that was all but drowned out by the deadly sputtering of the Gatling gun. Bullets slashed through the space where the beautiful young woman had been standing only an instant earlier and crashed into the restaurant, shattering the big windows and sending millions of shards of glass spraying into the air.

  At the same time, John Henry dropped to one knee and drew his Colt with the same sort of blinding speed he had demonstrated earlier. The barrel tilted up as he fired, instinct guiding his aim so that the slug struck the gunner just under the nose and angled on up into his brain.

  The man died without a sound, falling backward as he let go of the gun’s firing handles. One of his companions sprang to take his place.

  The Gatling gun wasn’t the only danger. Several of the men pulled hatchets from under their loose coats and let fly with them. John Henry spotted one of the glittering blades spinning through the air toward him and dived out of the way just in time to keep the hatchet from splitting his head open.

  He fired again as he hit the street, and one of the men in the wagon bed spun off his feet as the bullet ripped through him.

  Wendell hadn’t reacted quite as fast and wasn’t so lucky. One of the hatchets had lodged in his left shoulder. Blood poured from the wound as Wendell lay on the cobblestone street, but the young officer wasn’t out of the fight just yet. He had been able to draw his revolver before he was injured, and now he fired it toward the men in the wagon.

  The Gatling gun had fallen silent only for a moment. As it started singing its lethal song again, John Henry grabbed Wing Sun and rolled toward the mouth of an alley, taking her with him. As they came to a stop, she cried, “Let me go!” and twisted out of his grip.

  The dress she wore was slit up the sides, and her long, slim legs flashed in the dim light as she pulled the dress up even more and reached under it. Lying in the alley’s mouth, she raised the small-caliber pistol she had taken from a hidden holster and opened fire on the wagon.

  John Henry knelt beside her and triggered off several more shots as well. Under the barrage from the two of them, and also Wendell, the men on the wagon lost their nerve, even though they had far superior firepower with the Gatling.

  They didn’t have the deadly aim of John Henry Sixkiller, though, and the shots from Wing Sun and Wendell McCormick were taking a toll as well.

  The man on the seats whipped his team and shouted at them. The horses lunged forward. The would-be killer manning the Gatling gun squeezed off a final burst, then dived for the floor of the wagon bed as bullets whistled around his ears.

  John Henry, Wendell, and Wing Sun didn’t stop firing until the wagon careened around a corner with its canvas cover flapping and vanished into the night.

  With the immediate threat over, John Henry turned to Wing Sun and asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “The dogs didn’t hit me. But this dress w
ill never be the same after rolling around in the street.”

  “Better that than catching a bullet,” John Henry said as he automatically reloaded the Colt. When he was finished, he holstered the weapon and ran along the street toward the fallen police officer. “Wendell! How bad are you hurt?”

  Wendell sat up and grimaced. The hatchet was still lodged in his shoulder.

  “I’m afraid to pull it out,” he said. “I think I’d lose too much blood if I did.”

  “Let’s get you inside.”

  John Henry bent to get his arms around the wounded young man. As carefully as he could, he lifted Wendell to his feet. Wing Sun came up on Wendell’s other side to help support him. Broken glass crunched under their feet as they walked toward the restaurant entrance.

  Thousands of rounds had smashed into the front of the building, blowing out every window and gouging great chunks from the bricks. A great deal of frantic yelling and screaming came from inside. John Henry knew the bullets that had gone through the windows must have inflicted terrible damage on the people in the restaurant.

  The carnage was even worse than he expected. The inside of the place looked like a war had been fought in it. Blood was everywhere, on the floor, the walls, the overturned and broken tables. Bodies chewed to pieces by flying lead littered the floor. The screaming and crying sounded like something you’d expect to hear in the bowels of hell, John Henry thought.

  With several of his guardians surrounding him, Wing Ko rushed through the devastation. He stopped short at the sight of his daughter and cried, “Wing Sun!”

  She went to him and embraced him.

  “I am unharmed,” she assured him, “thanks to Marshal Sixkiller.”

  “Marshal, you have my eternal gratitude,” Wing Ko said fervently. Then he exclaimed, “Wendell! You are hurt!”

  The pale-faced young officer nodded as he clutched at his shoulder with the hatchet embedded in it.

  “I’m not the only one, though,” he said. “You’ve got a lot of injured to take care of—”

  The loss of blood caught up to him then. His eyes rolled up in their sockets, and his knees unhinged. John Henry still had hold of him, though, and kept him from falling.

  Wing Ko gestured to his men, several of whom hurried forward to take Wendell from John Henry.

  “He will receive the finest of care,” Wing Ko told John Henry as the men carried Wendell out of the wrecked dining room. “Did you see who committed this . . . this atrocity?”

  “I did, but I’m afraid I didn’t get a good enough look at any of them to know for sure if it was the same bunch who left here earlier.”

  “They had to be Ling Yuan’s men, Father,” Wing Sun said. “Who else would have done such a thing?”

  “Who else indeed? Ling Yuan shall pay dearly for this. Earlier tonight, I was merciful to his men.” Wing Ko’s face was as hard as stone now. “Never again. There will be no mercy, there will be no peace in Chinatown until this bloody savagery is avenged.”

  It sounded to John Henry like war had broken out tonight. He was glad that Captain Sawyer and the rest of the police force here in Los Angeles would have to deal with it, not him.

  Wing Sun asked, “Where would Ling Yuan get a gun such as that one, that fires so much and so fast?”

  “That was a Gatling gun,” John Henry said. “The army has them, but they’re supposed to be the only ones. So I reckon Ling Yuan stole it from an armory somewhere.”

  Now that he thought about it, the theft of a weapon belonging to the United States Army did sort of give him jurisdiction here. That was a federal matter.

  But he already had a job to do, and while passing counterfeit bills didn’t strike him as being nearly as important as mass murder, he couldn’t go against his orders, no matter how much he might want to strike back at Ling Yuan.

  A couple of police wagons arrived outside the restaurant, and uniformed officers led by Captain Sawyer swarmed inside. The captain’s teeth clamped down harder on the usual unlit cigar in his mouth as he burst out, “Good Lord! This looks almost like Gettysburg!” He spotted John Henry and went on, “Are you all right, Marshal?”

  “I’m fine,” John Henry told him.

  “If I had known all hell was going to break loose, I wouldn’t have sent you down here tonight. Where’s Wendell?”

  Wing Ko said, “The young officer was injured in the attack, Captain. His wounds are being tended to. As soon as possible, you can take him to the hospital.”

  Sawyer nodded and said, “I’m obliged to you for that, Wing Ko. Do you know who’s responsible for this?”

  Wing Ko glanced at John Henry for a second, then told Sawyer, “I have no idea, Captain.”

  John Henry knew what Wing Ko was asking of him. He wanted to deal with Ling Yuan himself, in “suitable fashion.” But in order to do that, John Henry had to keep quiet about what he knew.

  Wing Sun was looking at him, too, obviously waiting to see what he would do. John Henry supposed it wouldn’t hurt anything to bend the rules that far.

  “How about you, Marshal?” Sawyer asked. “Did you see the men who did this?”

  “Yeah, I did, but . . .” John Henry shrugged. “You know how it is.”

  “Yeah,” Sawyer said disgustedly. “All these Chinamen look alike.”

  Chapter Twelve

  John Henry stayed there at the restaurant to help out any way he could in the aftermath of the deadly attack. Eleven people were dead, another two dozen wounded. As he told Sawyer, he estimated that he, Wendell, and Wing Sun had killed or badly wounded five or six of the attackers during the gunfight in the street, but that was impossible to confirm because all of them had still been on the wagon when it careened away.

  “It’s not like we’d have been able to identify any of them anyway,” Sawyer grumbled. “People down here are the most closemouthed bunch you’ve ever seen. They won’t tell you a damned thing, even when you’re just trying to help them.”

  “Sounds a lot like the hillbillies back where I’m from,” John Henry commented. He smiled slightly. “And I can say that because I’m sorta one of them.”

  “Well, I expect that blood will be running in the streets for a while,” Sawyer said with a sigh. “Old Wing Ko won’t let whoever did this get away with it. And no matter what he says, he knows who’s responsible for it, don’t think for a second that he doesn’t. But what can the police do? Come along afterward, cart away the bodies, and mop up the blood, that’s what we can do. And that’s about all.”

  John Henry waited until they got word from the hospital that Wendell McCormick was in stable condition and was expected to recover, then he went back to his hotel, weary and frustrated because it seemed that O’Reilly’s trail had petered out before he could even find it.

  He had taken off his shirt to wash up but still wore his boots and trousers when a soft knock sounded on the door. He had already coiled his gun belt around the holstered Colt and placed them on a chair next to the bed. A quick step brought him to the bedside, where he reached down and slid the revolver from leather. With his thumb over the hammer as he held the gun ready, he moved to the door and called, “Who is it?”

  “Wing Sun.”

  He was surprised to hear her voice. Relaxing slightly, he lowered the gun and reached for the doorknob. He remained vigilant as he opened the door, however, wary of some trick.

  There was no trick. The beautiful young woman known as the Black Lotus was alone in the hotel corridor. She wore a different dress now, but it fit her as sleekly as the other one had. A jacket was draped around her shoulders. Her head was bare.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again tonight,” John Henry said.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Wing Sun asked.

  “It’s not really proper. An unmarried young woman, in a hotel room with a strange man. A strange man with no shirt on, I might add.”

  She said coolly, “We just met this evening, Marshal, but if you believe that I worry a great deal
about what is proper, then you really do not know me.”

  John Henry had to laugh at that. He stepped back to let her in and tucked the Colt into his waistband. He picked up his shirt from the end of the bed where he had tossed it and shrugged into it, but he left it unbuttoned.

  “So, what does bring you here?” he asked.

  Wing Sun eased the door closed behind her. She said, “If you believe I’ve come because of some immediate, irresistible romantic attraction I feel for you, Marshal, please do not flatter yourself.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” John Henry lied. He was as human as the next man. Of course the thought had crossed his mind.

  “My father feels a great debt of gratitude toward you. Not only did you save his life this night, but you saved the life of his only child as well. So even though he has much to occupy his mind right now, he made inquiries about this man you seek, Ignatius O’Reilly.”

  John Henry frowned a little and shook his head.

  “Wing Ko already put out the word. There’s been no sign of O’Reilly in Chinatown.”

  “No . . . but he was curious what your interest in the man is. He assumed it must be serious to put a federal lawman on O’Reilly’s trail. Though in Chinatown my father’s word is law with most, his contacts and influence extend far past the boundaries of one small neighborhood. He discovered that this man O’Reilly is known to be a criminal, a counterfeiter.”

  John Henry didn’t see any harm in admitting that, so he shrugged and said, “That’s true.”

  “Armed with that additional piece of information, he sent word to all parts of the city. Counterfeit bills have made their way to Chinatown, but from only one source: a gambler who indulges in our games of chance. A man named Quentin Ross.”

  John Henry felt his pulse speed up. He had thought the trail was at a dead end, but Wing Sun had just given him a potential new lead.

  “What do you know about Ross?” he asked.

  Wing Sun smiled.