“Guard the men and the children apart,” K’uang said. “The women are yours. Butcher a sheep. We will sleep here.”
He spurred his camel to the trough, and let him drink.
What fool would cache the kegs in these hills? It made no sense. Perhaps they had sorted the nails, kept only the gold, and transferred them to saddlebags.
Foreigners and their wily ways! Their schemes! This one he would track. This one he would close with. This one would talk: the words would pour forth like rain.
Struggling with Sergeant Shih, the woman cried again, “We only want to live!”
27
The stableboy’s name was Hui-te, which probably meant Bright Virtue. He spoke understandable Chinese. Jake asked him where he hailed from, and the boy pointed to a stall.
“Before that,” Jake said. “When you were a small boy.”
Hui-te glanced at the sun and carefully pointed west. Jake nodded. West was least likely. Salt marshes and desert. Mirages and bleached bones. Bright Virtue’s nose ran copiously.
He was slow-witted but enjoyed Jake. The chain was a fine joke.
They were silent for some time, only the boy humming tunelessly as he did his chores. Jake helped him. Nine or ten feet of chain gave him a dog’s range. He could sit in the sun, and that was a comfort; to be a slave in winter would be death. He could pace, or enter the stable and chat with the ponies, or use the straw and chips for a latrine.
The ponies fattened quickly, and were sleek in a matter of days. Jake was chained to a hitching ring set in the wooden wall. The chain was light but strong, and ended in a snug necklace. He was not in pain.
One day he cleaned weapons: again a tarp, patches, ramrod, the bowl of kerosene. It was not kerosene; it was a resinous liquid, cousin to turpentine. Momo showed a knife and opened his mouth to speak.
“I know,” Jake said. “Tomorrow.”
“Today,” Momo promised, “if you foul those weapons.” He squatted in the shade, smiling at Jake like a venomous toad; his hand snaked inside his shirt, and Jake tensed, but Momo drew forth a flute, only a wooden flute, and played dreamily. Jake enjoyed the Oriental melodies; the music sneaked into his soul, or his blood, and he felt his eyes slant, and worked patiently, and thought of flood and famine, and knew that all things were written.
It was a peculiar peace: a new world, the sun comfortable, ponies shifting and blowing, Jake’s hands were sure and busy.
The stables lined two sides of the courtyard, bandits on the west, Tibetans and Kashgaris on the east until they set out for China proper. One of the bandits stood—or sprawled—guard. The Tibetans lurked, and Mouse would ignore them, or Momo and Hao-k’an smile with the glittering delight of devoted murderers. The Kashgaris ignored squabblers: they were easygoing men who chattered and chaffed, and walked spitting, as Hui-te said; only fearful men walked with dry mouths.
Jake ignored his guard as a rule, the more so if it was Momo. He had expected small freedoms if not acceptance, after killing, and now he was leashed and guarded.
“We wait for the new moon,” Momo said.
The ponies were three bays and two browns. “What do you call this?” Jake asked the boy.
“The hoof.” Bright Virtue’s goofy grin vanished, and he was grave.
“And this?”
“Ma-lieh.” The mane. His answers were quick and solemn. It might be that he knew only ponies, but it might also be that he knew them well. So Jake learned the parts of a horse in Chinese: coronet, pastern, fetlock, cannon, knee. Girth and saddlecloth. And a phrase for potato that he had never heard, and almost did not believe: ma-ling-shu, the horse-bell tuber.
The bandits slept in the courtyard, a sentry awake always. Ugly transacted mysterious business here and there; the goods diminished. Flies buzzed; a low hum hung over the town; Jake heard shots one noontime; skinny sparrow-like birds pecked at the feed.
Hui-te taught Jake that ma-shih and ma-fen were equally correct for horse manure. Jake’s hair was crawling down over his ears, and on his nape, for the first time in his life. He thought of having his head shaved but decided against it: they would nick him, or otherwise play games, and in the end he would look craven and villainous. If they allowed it, he would rid himself of his three-week beard. Bright Virtue said that Ili horses were not the same as Ili ponies: Ili horses were large and awkward and lacked endurance. They were not seen much here. They lived in the west, where men rode stallions. The men of China did not like the fuss and danger of stallions, and mares were not dignified. Geldings were best.
One afternoon, late, Ugly strode into the courtyard and Jake knew that matters were taking a turn; Ugly was moving briskly, and Hao-k’an and Mouse were all but marching. “Saddle up,” Ugly ordered. “Empty yourselves.” He paused before Jake. “Clip this chain off him.”
“It was never necessary,” Jake said. “Or the guard. What have you done,” and he kept his voice level and hard, “sold me?”
Ugly slapped him angrily. “We do not sell. We ransom. And the chain was necessary and so was the guard. The Tibetans would have minced you.”
“You mean I owe you thanks.”
“You owe me nothing,” Ugly said. “I have it all. And now you shut up and listen, and if there is one more word from you Momo will split your tongue.” To all of them he said, “K’uang is west of Ansi and the Tibetans have taken that road east. They will tell him fine stories. The noise is that K’uang will level this place. God help us if they summon an airplane. I hear many things: the Communists are predominating in the east and taking cities in Manchuria. The Nationalist money is worthless. Ying guesses that the country has about a year left. These buggering bannermen like K’uang will be out for blood and looking for great victories so as not to be transferred east, and so as to keep their jobs whoever wins. If the Communists win we’re finished anyway, so we’re moving out now.
“We ride out tonight. We take stores, and all the water we can carry, skins and extra skins and more skins and four canteens to a man.”
Hao-k’an spat. “Trouble coming.”
“Not if you do what I tell you,” Ugly said.
“You tell us nothing,” Hao-k’an said.
With an edge to his voice Ugly said, “I tell you what you need to know.”
“Then where are we going?” Hao-k’an tried to puff himself up, and only looked foolish.
“You want to stay here?” Ugly asked. “You see how generous I am. You are free to stay here.”
Hao-k’an muttered.
“Speak up or shut up,” Ugly said.
Hao-k’an shut up.
“We carry feed. There will be little grazing. The hardware is sold but every man take a compass and binoculars. Now hop to it.”
He turned back to Jake. “Now you listen. You will ride in the middle but you will not be tied. If you make trouble you will be killed immediately. It is that simple.”
“Where we going?”
Ugly’s hand rose, but he checked the blow. “Bugger!” he said. “I should kill you now. I should have let the Tibetan kill you for a fair price. Now shut your orifices and make ready.”
“It is not the new moon yet,” Jake said. His chest tightened and his blood zinged, but he felt less a slave. Also this movement, this change, was exciting.
“Old man God wither your eyes,” Ugly bellowed. “What do you know about that?”
Jake raised both hands, peace, peace, and risked a brief smile. Ugly spat and stormed off. “Hui-te,” Jake said. “The bay with the notched ear. Make him ready.”
Hui-te ducked and bowed and scampered to a stall. The others were working fast; Jake saw saddlebags flung, heard the ponies whinny; he went to the well and let down the bucket. When Hao-k’an and Mouse brought skins and canteens he was filling the trough. Mouse nodded and said, “Mmm,” which was doubtless a compliment.
“I want a compass too, and glasses, and my own pack,” Jake said. Mouse relayed the message. Ugly shouted yes, and after a moment went on, roarin
g, “Why is that boy working for him? Bugger-all twice over, has no one here any sense?” Hui-te scurried out of the stall like a scared goose, and Jake laughed softly. There was much to be said for having nothing to lose. “You saddle up, pig’s turd,” Ugly shouted. “A tight cinch and snug hitches all around, you hear? And remember this, somebody will have an eye on you always. Always! Small heart, you. Very small heart!” That was the Chinese way of saying, Be careful. Jake nodded. He would be careful.
He went to his pony, found his pack and his canteens, took two more canteens from a heap and went to the well to top them off. “Four skins of water each,” Ugly told him. “They ride two before and two behind. Lash them so, necks together, and lash the tails below like a cinch. Snug and not bouncing. Bugger, they cost money but it will be worth it. Feed in the saddlebags. And in your pack if there’s room.”
“A lot of weight,” Jake said.
“These are Qara Shahr ponies,” Ugly said. “Tough little bastards from the Heavenly Range.”
“The Tien Shan,” Jake said. “I know. With those long ears up front like that, and the Torguts raise them.”
“Oho,” Ugly said. “So you know something. Yes. And those good heavy necks and shoulders,” he went on fondly. “They will take the weight. Bugger!” he said suddenly. “Horse talk later. Be quick, man. In minutes we ride.”
But there had been a new look in his eye, and one that Jake liked. He went to work like a free man. He bore no evil intent for the moment and worked cheerfully. He would be happy to leave the Yü-men Kuan behind, wherever they were headed. He paused to go to a corner of the stable and wet the straw. For this hour he was in no danger; life was better and not worse. He almost whistled. Momo chucked him a compass. It was an expensive United States navy compass, mounted in oil, with sighting vanes that snapped up or lay flat. He rammed it into his pack, and hung cased binoculars around his neck. What else was in his pack? He groped: cloth shoes. Goggles. Flashlight. Other stuff. No time now to check. His map.
K’uang! Well, he would be glad to see K’uang if it came to that. Could he slow them up? Maybe. Small heart, small heart. And where was Ugly taking them? North was impossible, more desert. South, maybe, to Ch’ing-hai and the mountains. Not east because every man’s hand would be against them, and every man’s mouth too, saw them here, saw them there, and K’uang twisting to follow. And not west because west was murderous salt marshes and impassable desert, Lop Nor, the Takla Makan.
Who could tell, with Ugly? I owe him a little, my life maybe. But it should never have been his to save. I owe him nothing. Quits.
Bugger him. He owes me two camels, laden.
Jake was suddenly furious.
Just as suddenly he stopped being furious, and realized that he had been thinking in Chinese. God damn, he thought. There was no way to say God damn in Chinese. He would remember that. Keep ahold of the mother tongue, and when he thought he might be going Asiatic he would say God damn, and it would break the spell.
Jake used a long stirrup. No help for it, legs like his. He rechecked every line and strap. Set. It would be a pleasure to ride free, unbound, back straight. He ought to tip the stableboy, hey? He mounted. The others were almost ready.
“Hui-te,” he called. The boy came shambling out, eyes wide, full of the men’s and ponies’ excitement. “I will tell you a secret,” Jake said. “A story that you can tell, and a most unusual thing.”
Hui-te’s eyes loomed like fried eggs.
Jake bent lower, and whispered.
“Ah no,” Ugly called, and strode to them. He pushed Jake back up, and shoved the boy away. “What did he tell you?”
Hui-te gibbered.
“What did he tell you?” Ugly took the boy by the throat.
The boy screeched and said, “He said he is your father.”
Ugly released the boy and slumped. For a long moment he stared at the ground; he looked up wearily, shook his head, pointed the bone at Jake and said, “Tomorrow.”
28
At the great western terminus in Gurchen, Ch’ing supervised the sorting and stacking of his tons of goods. The men sweated and shouted; the vast field of camels, like the field in Pao-t’ou, swarmed with camel-pullers, traders, owners, clerks. Ch’ing shuttled between his camels and his office, a small bare room in a low stone building.
In late afternoon, when he had begun to think of relaxing, of riding into town to see his wife and children, Ch’ing received a visitor: a small, neat gentleman in a gray gown and a wide-brimmed straw hat. An elderly gentleman, of fine features and obvious style. Ch’ing did not know him.
Mastering his weariness, Ch’ing said, “Sir,” and bowed tentatively.
The gentleman returned his bow. “Have I the honor to address Master Ch’ing?”
“I am that unworthy one,” Ch’ing said. “May I know your estimable name?”
The gentleman flapped a fan, dismissing the thought. “Of no importance. I know how busy you must be, and will relieve you of some minor burdens: I bear written instructions and receipts for the goods consigned to you by Kao Hu-tsuan of Peking. I am to receive them of a foreigner.”
“Hsüüüü,” Ch’ing said. He shifted his gaze to the field of camels, and thought back to the desert. “I think we should sit down.”
“Ah.” The bland face altered; the old eyes blinked swiftly, twice.
The two men sat at a wooden table. “A cup of wine,” Ch’ing suggested.
“With pleasure.”
Ch’ing poured; they sipped. “You must prepare yourself,” Ch’ing said, “for bad news.”
“Ah.”
Ch’ing tried to read this gentleman, but the elder’s eyes were opaque. “Very bad news,” Ch’ing said.
“Please. Continue. I am prepared.”
“Well then,” Ch’ing said. “Kao’s goods were indeed in the care of a foreigner. A roughneck. Outside Ming-shui the caravan was attacked by scurvy bandits. The foreigner and his camels—my camels! leased!—were taken. Also I lost one of my best men and had another wounded.”
The gentleman blinked, and sipped at his wine.
Aha, Ch’ing almost said aloud. The old one sustains a shock. His hand trembles. “The foreigner is doubtless dead. The goods are gone.”
“All the goods?”
“All the goods.”
“So,” the other said. With a white kerchief hemmed in yellow, he dabbed at his brow. “And these bandits?”
“The Tiger’s Assistant and his sheep-defilers. Gone.” Ch’ing waved. “Lost. Vanished into the desert.”
“Ah,” the other breathed, as if in pain.
Another crook, Ch’ing thought savagely. Another of these buy-sell gangsters. Well, now he will take a loss. Now I have some news for him. “I am sorry to tell you also,” he went on smoothly and sympathetically, “that Kao Hu-tsuan is no longer among us.”
“No longer …”
“He was hanged the day we left Peking. You have not heard?”
The fan was still; the eyes glazed. The gentleman spoke with obvious difficulty: “I have not heard. I correspond—corresponded—with none in Peking but Kao. Ah, the lord of all under heaven is a cruel master!”
“He is,” Ch’ing said sullenly.
The other quaffed his wine and extended the cup. Such rudeness! But the man was under strain.
“So that is why I have not heard from him,” the gentleman said. “I confess, I was worried.”
“And with reason,” Ch’ing said. “If I were you I would not chatter about that connection.”
“Connection?” The fine, smooth hands showed palm. “I am merely a businessman. I never had the pleasure of meeting Kao.”
“Nor will you in this life,” Ch’ing said.
“How violent are the alterations of fate,” the gentleman murmured. “You are quite sure that none of Kao’s goods were overlooked? That none made their way, by inadvertence, into your own general cargo?”
Ch’ing exulted, suddenly and fiercely. “They did
not. And if they had, you would be in no position to squawk, would you?” Then he relented: “No. I give you the word of the House of Wu. The goods are gone. The contraband, by the way, was not taken by the bandits. It was taken by the army after a somewhat more than routine search in Shandanmiao.”
The fan flapped; the eyes blinked. “Contraband? Shandanmiao?”
“The foreign medicines,” Ch’ing said.
“Foreign medicines.” The gentleman seemed numb.
“You may of course apply to Major K’uang, or Captain Nien, in Qomul, to verify my account.”
“Captain Nien. Major K’uang. No. Of all this I am ignorant.” The old man was somewhere between stammering and stupefied.
“Crooked courses! Evil communications!” Ch’ing released his anger.
“Nothing was salvaged?”
“Nothing. There is more here than I know, and now I do not want to know! I have been swindled! My eyes befogged!”
“The construction materials, wires and nails and such?”
“Nothing. Diddled! And I lost a good man, and two camels!”
“Then I must not intrude upon your grief.” The gentleman drew a deep breath, tossed off his second cup of wine, and smacked his lips in melancholy. He rose, and bowed.
Ch’ing nodded dourly, and waved him off. The gentleman fanned himself, bowed again and scurried away, flimsy and aged.
“Diddled!” Ch’ing said again, and poured wine. He raised his cup in toast: “Defile all liars, thieves, fat men and foreigners! Diddled!”
29
West.
Jake’s bay danced, insolent; Jake twisted the notched ear, and the pony settled down.
But west!
He tried to remember the magnetic variation hereabouts: doubtless small, east a few degrees. Ugly knew the road. And for Jake there was no dodging, no flight; he had to take his chances with these highwaymen.
They rode through a valley maybe twenty miles across, while the last light pricked out the low peaks of pink hills. Ugly called no halt, not for hours, while the dark fell and the moon rose, the waning quarter, sailing along like a small boat: Jake imagined a helmsman, and the hills towered like giant waves.
The Chinese Bandit Page 18
