The Chinese Bandit

by Stephen Becker

  The night was cold, and Jake was hungry. His pony neither wheezed nor complained in any manner, but trotted on happily, a frisk of the head from time to time. Jake shivered, but his freedom warmed him. The north star was on his right hand and a fraction behind. He saw a paved road to the south, and when the vision had percolated through his frozen brain and shocked him awake, he peered again. It was a narrow river, silver and calm in the moonlight. The Su-lo. West! Who would have believed that!

  Hours passed. He heard only the slap and creak of leather, and the clop-clop of many hoofs; he dozed in the saddle.

  Ugly led them south to the river. Men and horses rested and drank. “I thought it would be dry here,” he said, “but it looks good for some miles more. This is luck. You will not touch the skins or canteens until I say so.”

  Nobody argued.

  “You see,” Ugly told them, “it is two hundred and fifty miles to fresh water. Or so I believe. I have not come this way before. Mouse has, and he says it is about that distance, but you know Mouse. And even when we arrive the wells may be dry. So we are in the hands of the gods, and will give them all the help we can.”

  In midmorning they halted, boiling. Jake was sweating, and thanking those same gods for an insignificant item like his coolie hat. Ugly led them to what remained of the river, a sluggish brown creek. Without shade they sprawled, and lapped up muddy water. The ponies grazed on tufts of reed until Mouse broke out nose bags and dried peas; then the ponies seemed to say, Aha!, snorting as they champed.

  Ugly’s rucked face fattened like a full moon; he was merry. “A new life. If we live.”

  “If not, I will return in spirit and give you boils,” Momo said.

  “We eat,” Hao-k’an said.

  They built a small fire of tamarisk boughs and heated a desert stew, tea and flour and dried mutton. “A long time since rice,” Jake said.

  Nobody moved to punish him for speaking. They lay on the moist sand of the riverbank, cooler than desert sand. They were tired and peaceable. They slept. There were no flies.

  Before dark the river vanished. A creek, a brook, a rill, a patch of mud. Then sand. “Speed is important,” Ugly reminded them. “Not so fast as to tire the ponies, but a good steady clip. To reach water quickly is everything. Five days exhausted beats seven days weary.”

  “And if the wells are dry?”

  “Ah. If the wells are dry.”

  They made speed. These ponies were something; Jake admired them, spanking along on a handful of dried peas and forty winks, but without water they would dry up and die as a man would, only quicker. He settled into his pony’s rhythm and slept most of the second night, covered twenty or thirty miles dozing in the saddle.

  Ugly woke him once. “To the north are salt marshes. If you are lost and find yourself riding on a sharp crust of salty earth, you are too far north. Also your pony will cripple himself, and the crust will slash his legs.” He and Jake rode side by side for a time. The bandits took the point in a regular rotation, no word or signal needed, each man doing his three or four hours. “North of the marshes is a true salt desert, where nothing grows. It was once a great sea. Mouse has crossed it on a camel. It is malevolent and thronged with imps.”

  Jake shivered, not at the words but at the desert night. He called on his inner fires, and remembered sweat shirts, and rich, oily woolen sweaters, and the sheepskin jackets of his youth.

  “Along its shores are the White Dragon Mounds.” Ugly described them: mesas, they were. “Dunes to the south, marshes to the north. This is a very old track. The old Mongols used it, but they came with plenty of supply wagons.”

  Jake wondered if Ugly was cheering himself up with this chitchat. The moon sailed high, and south of them the dunes were a heaving sea. “Cold,” Jake said. He remembered a chubby, docile girl, his first, half a lifetime ago; but those fires were well banked for now, and the image faded fast. He dozed; Ugly fell silent; the ponies trotted on.

  Dawn again, and Momo’s arm sweeping toward the southeast, and Ugly saying, “I saw. Not good.”

  Jake saw a faint pink-gray blush oozing up ahead of the sun.

  “Early in the year,” Mouse said.

  Jake said, “What does it mean?”

  Nobody answered; he did not exist. Hao-k’an scowled.

  They were scruffier now, and Jake took comfort in that. Ugly’s silky black whiskers grew in tracks between ridges of scar. Hao-k’an sweated plenty. Momo remained small and tidy, but his eyes were duller and his teeth asleep. Mouse had contracted, and tiny lines of weariness aged his sharp face. Jake himself was doubtless no beauty. His beard itched; he stank in his own nostrils. He remembered the luxury of a toothbrush; he would give a lot to brush his teeth.

  At the daily halt, the sun riding up toward noon, they tumbled off like survivors. The ponies whickered and complained; one coughed.

  “To work,” Hao-k’an told Jake. The sky was clear now, and Jake wondered what the morning’s omen had meant. He and Mouse broke out nose bags and leather buckets. “Check those buckets each time,” Hao-k’an said. “No leaks, not one drop. No man knows where this Tiger’s Assistant leads us. Maybe India.”

  “Persia,” Mouse said, “where my ancestors lived.”

  Jake licked his lips and panted. The ponies whinnied and shifted; one screamed like a man in pain. They sucked noisily at the water, and wanted more.

  “No more now,” Ugly said. “A five-second swallow for each man.”

  Not enough, Jake thought. “Not enough,” Hao-k’an grumbled.

  “Another when we mount up,” Ugly said calmly. “Rest now.”

  Jake wondered if he should drape his pony’s head with a skivvy shirt, or cut ear holes as in the post cards of Italian donkeys. He decided this was not a time for imagination and initiative. If he kept his mouth shut, and his head screwed on, he would survive this. A reaction, maybe, to the parched and blinding emptiness all about him. He was too tired and thirsty for fantasies of revenge, but they stirred lazily in the back of his mind.

  He lay back against his pack and accepted food, jerky only, no fire; no tamarisks and no poplars. He smelled hot leather, and the ponies, and himself. The bandits were too tired to abuse him. For small blessings large thanks.

  He slept.

  At sunset a breeze rose from the south; Jake inhaled it like cold beer and was about to say something jolly when Ugly muttered, “Maybe trouble. Mouse?”

  “Hard to say. Early in the year.”

  “Well, keep moving,” Ugly said. “If it comes at night we tether the ponies and hole up.”

  “No holes,” Hao-k’an said gloomily. “It is well known.”

  “Stay together anyway,” Ugly said. “It will come off the mountains,” he went on thoughtfully. “A chance of moisture?”

  “None,” Mouse said.

  “Defile it,” Ugly muttered.

  The breeze lapped at them, fitfully, all night. The wasting moon rose, only a crescent; even so the desert glowed like a sheet of ice. Jake ached and was less hopeful. They could not do this forever. They were more than halfway, he figured, but halfway to what? And what were they afraid of? More heat, from the south, or sandstorms.

  Before moonrise the stars had lain like a bright mist, a great dome of silver dust, more stars than any man had ever seen; and now the crescent stood sharp, hard-edged. A full moon here would be like daylight. The emptiness was scary: not a bird, not a bush, not a desert mouse.

  Not an airplane, either. Thank God for that at least. A bad way to go, gunned down from the air, gut-shot and helpless and cooking slowly.

  At dawn the breeze was stronger and the sky to the east was rosy. Ugly cursed. In about the fourth hour of light, swirls of sand whipped off the shiny desert. Ugly cursed again and said, “Be ready. Goggles now.” In the goggles they rode like monsters, inhuman; and the ponies grew restive; and the wind whined, and the sand whipped.

  Ugly quit. “Now,” he called out, and led them off the track into a swale, hardly
a swale, a dip, no banks or walls to protect them, but still a dip. Jake saw it filling slowly with blown sand, burying them, and hoped that Ugly knew his business. They tethered the ponies, but not in the usual circle. “Let them put their backsides to it,” Ugly said. “Tie this end to the foreigner.”

  “I can’t hold back five ponies,” Jake said.

  “They will not travel,” Ugly said. “It is no time for traveling.” He hissed. “And if they do, they will travel slower with you to drag. Let them drink now, and quickly,” he told Hao-k’an. “And then ourselves, and then we huddle and rely upon the gods.” He turned again to Jake. “There will be confusion. And you will have more than one opportunity for suicide. If you release the ponies, or if you attack one of us. I hope such madness is not in your mind.”

  “It is not,” Jake said. “I am a prisoner and not a lunatic.”

  Ugly flinched from a driving gust. The wind sighed and sang. The other three were tending to the ponies. Ugly and Jake stood close, goggles gazing into goggles. “When the caravans came this way,” Ugly said, “a man would hear women singing, and bells tinkling, and he would be unsure of vision and would follow the allurements, and be lost. Sometimes a whole caravan. I suppose this is what they heard.”

  “I suppose,” Jake said.

  They were just two travelers, hatted and goggled and not much human about them, just two riffraff, two of the world’s scum, on a bleak, indifferent desert.

  “You were right,” Ugly said. “In a bad spot sergeants are best.”

  Jake did not know what he meant, and did not ask.

  They contrived a low wall of packs and saddles and goods; it was not much use, and they sat with the wind driving sand at their backs. Around Jake’s ankle a rein was tied snug; beside him a pony snuffled and tugged. The men had drunk, and were chewing sandy jerky. Otherwise, there was nothing to be said or done. Like the ponies they huddled, and waited, while the wind shouted and the sand stung. The ponies remained visible; Jake was surprised that the world was not blotted out. The yellow world. The five goggled men sat like gods from another planet. Jake dreamed that this sandstorm was everywhere. Peking disappeared under sand; and Tokyo; places Jake had never seen, like New York and Paris and Moscow; places Jake knew too well, like Guantánamo and Saipan. In the end only these five men would survive. There would be no caravans to plunder or towns to sack. There would be no women. There would be an endless lonely trek. Jake would slay them one by one, and then the world would be his.

  The ponies tugged; Jake grasped the rein and hauled. “No foolishness,” Momo muttered. The ponies strained and leapt, and dragged Jake sideways. One neighed, a shrill scream; others answered. Momo and Hao-k’an joined Jake and reeled in; the ponies, shadowy now, stamped but quieted. Sand flew thicker. The yellow faded to a swirling brown. The men huddled, and bowed their heads.

  “It could be worse,” Ugly said.

  “It will be,” Hao-k’an growled.

  “I have experienced worse,” Ugly said. “I think we are far enough west here. Mouse says that between us and the mountains to the south is mostly gravel.”

  “Then it will blow gravel,” Hao-k’an said. “And pebbles and then stones, and the mountains themselves.”

  “It will blow itself out,” Ugly said firmly.

  “I wish—”

  “Shut up,” Ugly said. “You begin to distress me.”

  Sand whipped at Jake; a pony screamed. Jake’s eyes were safe and sheltered, yet he felt them grow gritty; it was all in his mind, but fat grains of sand lodged beneath the lids, and his vision dimmed. He was parched. He felt his body drain and dry, and his skin turn papery. He felt sand in his joints, in his mouth. He wanted to sleep. Exhaustion shook him suddenly and left him limp. He was not weak, only tired. He was paying for his sins. God mocked. A lonely Baptist, paying for his sins in the desert. Like that John. He remembered Sunday School, and the smell of hot pine planking when the wind came off the desert, and he saw his father, a face from the dim past, a lined old man, yellow-toothed and hot-eyed. I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came. Yea. Indeed. And how. By the blast of God they perish, and by the breath of His nostrils are they consumed. Odd what a man remembered. But he would not pray. Better a dead shitbird than a live beggar.

  He laughed aloud.

  “Tell us the joke,” Hao-k’an said.

  “The weapons will be fouled,” Jake said, “and I just cleaned them.”

  Ugly said dryly, “A sense of humor is invaluable.”

  The storm blew out slowly, diminished, and they were croaking their relief when Ugly said sharply, “Look at Weep-and-Snivel.”

  One of the ponies stood there on three legs.

  The men were up like a shot, and left Jake sitting. It was some seconds before he understood that he was in trouble.

  “The knee,” Hao-k’an said. “Wrenched and badly torn.”

  The four men turned to pity Jake, and at first he thought they were blaming him, and then he saw what they would have to do, and his marrow froze.

  30

  Ugly’s shot exploded across the plain. Weep-and-Snivel pitched sideways and died with a thud. Jake died some, too.

  Hao-k’an was lashing the saddle, leathers and irons to his own pony. He asked Ugly, “Horse meat?”

  “I’m tired,” Ugly said. “I want a bowl of boiled rice and some of those little shrimp from the southern ocean. No. No meat.”

  Jake sat on the ground, in the shade of his hat, and waited. Ugly met his eye but the other three were very busy. Momo frowned and muttered about luck.

  Ugly came to squat beside Jake. “This canteen will last you three days, maybe more. I would leave you another but the important thing is the ponies. Without the ponies we are all dead, and we are stretching them even now.”

  Jake had nothing to say.

  “You must continue big west small south. You will not have much moon so small heart to the trail. Rest in the heat of the day. Here also is jerky: chewed slowly it is satisfying and will keep you alive. Do you want fresh horse meat?”

  Jake said, “No. Only the thirst matters. Will you leave me a weapon?”

  “No,” Ugly said, “because there is still a chance. Suppose in a day or two I come back with two ponies. You are too good a shot.”

  “Hsüüü, I would never do that. I give you my word.”

  “You have no word,” Ugly said.

  “A knife, then. Leave it on the trail as you ride.”

  “Yes. That, good. But,” and he gestured sternly, a jab of the forefinger, “you will not take your own life with it.”

  “Bugger no,” Jake said. “I have enough trouble without that.”

  “I would not be the cause of such a monstrous act,” Ugly said. “Now listen, we are headed for a sometimes inhabited place called Abdal, near Miran, and also near the Cha-han-sai, a stream sometimes, though I am bound to say unreliable. If that is dry, we go on to a small oasis called Charklikh, unfortunately a day’s ride past Abdal. At least. If we find water, we rest the ponies and one of us returns with a mount for you. If we find no water, we have no choice: we go on.”

  “Find water,” Jake said.

  “There are nomads in the area, some shepherds and unbelievably fishermen called Lopliks. They are not warlike.”

  “Ready,” Momo called.

  “In a little,” Ugly called back. To Jake he said, “Do not follow women’s voices, or the sound of musical instruments. Remember the Tibetan, cold and dark, and do not give up. Above all, keep your direction. If we come back it would be foolish to miss you. Keep the trail.”

  “Keep the trail,” Jake said.

  “This is the will of old man God,” Ugly said, “and not my doing.”

  “I know that,” Jake said. “I am somewhat depressed all the same.”

  “Yüüü, it chills the blood,” Ugly said. “If it is not now it is later, and nothing can alter fate. Though we seldom know what fate promises. If you want, I ca
n shoot you now.”

  “That is a kindness indeed,” Jake said, “but I am unworthy.”

  “Remember, then. Big west small south. You have the compass. Water. I’ll drop the knife up ahead. No hard feelings.”

  “Bugger yourself,” Jake snarled.

  “No need for harsh talk,” Ugly rebuked him. “We do not want to throw you away. And we will find you again if we can.”

  “When a horse grows horns.”

  Ugly shrugged. “Old man God be with you.”

  “We move out,” Hao-k’an called.

  “Yes!” Ugly rolled up into the saddle. Hao-k’an, Momo and Mouse sat their horses facing Jake. No one spoke or gestured, they only stared at him; finally Jake pointed and said, “Tomorrow,” and they liked his spirit, and they wheeled and trotted off.

  Ugly lingered. “Well. You have fallen upon a bad time. Be a sergeant.” He looked into the past: “I was a sergeant once myself.” For a moment he sat straighten; his chin rose a fraction and his chest swelled. “All things can be done, man. Be strong.”

  Jake tipped the hat back and squinted up. “Listen: who is old Tu?”

  Ugly’s great grin creased his scars again. “Yes. I will tell you that. His full name is Tu Hsia-k’u, and he is a foreigner like you and a sergeant like you, and by a happy accident I had a word from him only weeks ago. Otherwise, you would probably be dead.”

  “Defile him,” Jake whispered.

  “You owe him much,” Ugly said. “See you again.” He trotted off.

  “I god damn well hope so,” Jake said in English, and then in a rage that purified the blood and bile, “Dushok!”

  He saw Ugly pause, toss a knife to earth, and go on.

  Jake rose and followed, like a beggar or a holy man.

  In an hour they were gone from his sight. The sun was westering and in his eyes. The heat diminished, as if the sandstorm had fanned the desert cooler. Jake was thirsty. He knew some of his thirst was thirst, and some the expectation of thirst. He should be resting now, but he was walking off the insult, the bad luck, one million years of people, with glaciers and earthquakes and volcanoes, and continents drowned and oceans drying up, all leading to this moment, Jake Dodds, the boy genius of the horse marines, finally getting a little privacy. It was all his. Thousands of square miles. An emperor!