Power of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Smoke shook his head in wonder. “Is there no place you have not visited, Louis, no one’s food you have not sampled?”

  Louis produced a depreciating smile. “Oui. There are many places I have never gone. Such as Greece, the principalities of Lesser Asia, the islands of the South Pacific, with their dusky maidens . . .” He would have gone on, except that Smoke raised a hand in a warding-off gesture.

  “Enough. I get your point. I hope our gracious host hurries. That bullet I took along my ribs left a world of smarting behind it.”

  “Let me take a look at it.”

  When Louis removed Smoke’s coat, the China dolls turned away in twittering honor at the sight of the bloody shirt worn by Smoke Jensen. Louis cut away the sodden garment and Smoke swore hotly.

  “Damn, that’s the only Sunday-go-to-meetin’ shirt I brought from home.”

  Louis studied the wound. “Better it is for you that you had it along. Good, clean linen. Less chance of a suppuration. This should heal nicely. But it will leave another nasty scar.”

  Another scar, Smoke Jensen thought resignedly. His torso and limbs had accumulated a veritable criss-cross of the patterns of violence. He had received wounds from knife and tomahawk, bullet and buckshot, gouges from the sharp stabs of broken branches, flesh ground off by gravel, and painful burns. His body could serve as a road map of his many close encounters with death. He shook his head to dislodge the grim images from his mind.

  Having recovered from their initial shock, the enchanting Chinese women—hardly more than girls—hovered over their guests once more. In halting English they urged each man to eat more of the delicacies, to drink their tea. There would be a sea of rice wine afterward, they promised. Half an hour went by, according to Smoke’s big Hambleton turnip watch, before Tai Chiu returned with a black-clad, bowed older man, his lined face reminiscent of a prune in all but color. With only a perfunctory greeting he set right to work.

  From a little black bag—just like the kind a real doctor carried—he produced an assortment of herbs and lotions and a large roll of bandage gauze. He treated both Smoke and Louis, then leaned back on his small, skinny buttocks to chatter in rapid-fire Chinese at the priest.

  Tai Chiu translated for the benefit of the Occidentals. “The doctor says you must take this powder in a little rice wine three times a day.”

  Smoke eyed the packet suspiciously. “What’s in it?”

  Tai Chiu smiled deceptively. “It is better that you are not knowing,” he said through his spread lips.

  “No. I want to know.”

  The priest sighed and named off the ingredients. “Ground rhinoceros horn, dried fungus from the yew tree, and processed gum of the poppy.” He gave a little shrug. “There are, perhaps, other things, secrets of the doctor, you understand. The potion will ease any pain, strengthen you until your body overcomes the blood loss, while the unguents he put on the wound will prevent infection.”

  Dubious, Smoke responded uneasily. “I’m not so sure about all this.”

  Enigma coated the lips of Tai Chiu. “Do not your qua’lo doctors do the same? They mix roots, bark, and herbs and give them to their patients. The gum of the poppy, in your language, is called laudanum. And does it not ease pain?”

  Smoke decided to make the best of it. “You’ve got me there. And, to top it off, our croakers give everything queer foreign names, so a common feller don’t know what it is he’s getting.”

  “Just so. There are no mysteries in Chinese healing. Now, to explain why I brought you here. Your courage and your skill with weapons have been observed and have convinced the high council of our humble order, and the elders of the community, that you have been sent by the ancestors to lead a great battle against the evil dragons of the Triad Society.”

  What a flowery way to say we’re here to break up the alliance between the Tongs and Murchison’s thugs, Smoke thought. A quick, silent counsel passed between Smoke and Louis. They acknowledged that they weren’t too sure about that. The exchange also conveyed that both agreed to go along for the time being.

  “How are we to go about this?” Smoke asked.

  “You are to wait here. Men will come, young men who wish to rid Chinatown from the curse of the Tongs for all time. They are strong and good fighters. Students at the temple, for the most part. Now that your wounds have been mended, you will eat and rest and wait for the others to join you.”

  “When will that be?” Louis inquired.

  “Later. In the dark of night. It is our hope to catch Xiang Wai Lee by stealth and deal a death blow to his army of hatchetmen. Now, enjoy. These delightful young ladies have prepared a feast for you. And afterward, you may avail yourselves of the baths in another part of the ship. I will return with the last of our young warriors to make certain none were followed.”

  After Tai Chiu swept out of the cabin, Smoke Jensen went to one porthole to watch his departure from the wharf. Strangely, the frail old monk seemed to have completely disappeared. He turned to Louis, who pressed on him a plaguing question.

  “What was that in service of, mon ami?”

  Smoke flashed an appreciative smile. “I think we have found the key to dealing with the Tongs, and Xiang Lee in particular. For now, my stomach thinks my throat’s been slit. Let’s eat.”

  Steaming bowls and platters of exotic Chinese dishes came one course at a time, in a steady procession. Few, if any, did Smoke Jensen recognize. He enjoyed the pork and noodles, the egg foo yong, and the sweet-and-sour shrimp. He balked, though, at the baby squid in their own ink—another Szechuan delicacy, which he wisely avoided after his eyes watered from the chili oil and plethora of peppers, when he sniffed the pedestal bowl in which they were served. As was his custom, he tried to eat sparingly, yet when the parade of food at last ceased, he felt stuffed to the point of discomfort.

  “That was some feed,” he remarked, stifling a belch. “The soup was good, only why did they serve it last?”

  “It is their custom,” Louis informed him.

  Smoke sucked at his teeth a moment. “Tasty, even if it came as dessert. What was in it?”

  “It was bird’s nest soup,” Louis answered simply.

  Smoke swallowed hard, as his stomach gave a lurch. “You’re funnin’ me, Louis. Aren’t you?”

  “Not at all. Of course, they clean them first. I won’t go into how the nests are made.”

  “No. Please don’t.” Smoke said no more with the appearance of the sweet young ladies.

  “You come bath now?” one of them chirped.

  “Sounds good,” Smoke agreed, as he came to his boots. All the way to the small, humid chamber that held the bubbling wooden bath, Smoke Jensen tried to puzzle out the slightly amused, esoteric smile on the lips of Louis Longmont.

  When they reached the tiny cabin, Smoke quickly learned the reason why. “You undress now,” the charming daughter of Han told them. Both girls and Louis began to remove their clothing.

  “What! Whoa, now, hold it,” Smoke pleaded. Images of the reaction Sally would have boiled in his mind.

  Soft light glowed on the nubile bodies of the delightful creatures while Smoke Jensen continued to gobble his protests. With lithe movements, the girls became water nymphs as they climbed the two short steps and waded into the steaming water. Buck naked, Louis Longmont quickly joined them.

  “Louis? What are you doing?”

  “I have always appreciated a good bath, mon ami. You should join us. There are delights that surpass the imagination that follow the laving.”

  Smoke gulped down his trepidation and pulled a somber face. “Thanks, partner, I think I’ll pass.”

  Puzzled by this exchange, beyond their capacity for English, one of the girls cut her eyes to the other. “What is this? The barbarian will not clean himself?”

  Although the language mystified him, Louis Longmont caught the drift of what had been said. It summoned a deep, rich guffaw. “I think the young ladies are disturbed over your aversion to taking a bath.
”

  “I do have that gouge along my ribs. Wouldn’t do to get that wet.”

  Louis sobered. “You have a point. Ah, well, mon ami, I suppose I can force myself to uphold the honor of Western man.”

  Confounded at last, Smoke Jensen stomped from the room, though not without a backward, longing glance at the precious physical endowments of the giggling girls.

  * * *

  Cyrus Murchison and Gaylord Huntley took their postprandial stroll through the minute park named after St. Francis of Assisi, patron of the city, in the center of the cluster of municipal buildings. Tall marble columns surrounded them, while pigeons and seagulls made merry sport of the imposing bronze figure on horseback that occupied the center of the swatch of green. It was there that Heck Granger found him and spoiled the repose Murchison had generated from this good meal they had consumed.

  In fact, it soured Murchison’s stomach. “They whupped the hell out of ’em.”

  “What?”

  “Those two, Jensen and Longmont, blasted their way through twenty-seven of my men and flat disappeared.”

  Murchison’s visage grew thunderous. “That is impossible. I will not accept that. No two men can outgun twenty-five plus.”

  Fearing the outburst that would be sure to follow, Granger answered meekly, “These two did. They ran into a Chinee temple and when my men got in there, they were nowhere to be seen.”

  “They went out a back door,” Cyrus Murchison suggested.

  “There weren’t none. No side doors, either. There was . . . no place for them to escape.”

  “Nonsense. I want you to take more men, go there, and tear that place apart until you find how they got out of there.”

  “That—wouldn’t be wise, Mr. Murchison. That temple is in Chinatown. Even the Tongs would turn on us if we did. We only got them behind us a little while ago. It’s touchy, I say.”

  A ruby color suffused the angry expression on the face of Cyrus Murchison. “Damn the Tongs. I never approved of allying ourselves with them in the first place.”

  “I hate to mention it, sir. But there are more of them than there are of us. I won’t risk my men for that. We’ll find those two. And we’ll do it our way.”

  It was blatant defiance, and Granger all but quailed at the boldness he had displayed. To his surprise, it worked. Murchison’s expression softened. “All right, Heck. I understand your anxiety. Do it the way you see best. Only... don’t fail this time.”

  * * *

  Brian Pullen appeared before Judge Timothy Flannery in the judge’s chambers. Aware of Flannery’s aversion to wasting time on small talk, he came right to the point.

  “Your Honor, I have reliable information that several powerful men in this community have conspired to wrest control of a building owned by a client of mine from him. In furtherance of this conspiracy, they have made false representations to the police of this city that the property had been sold for back taxes, which it had not. Also regarding acts committed by my client and an associate. These acts were, in fact, self-defense. The result is that the police are looking for my client and his associate as fugitives from justice.”

  Judge Flannery steepled his fingers. “What is it you wish me to do, Counselor?”

  “Inasmuch as these persons are actively engaged in an attempt to seize my client’s property and using police pressure to accomplish their goal, I have here a petition for a restraining order, which will relieve my clients from the loss of said property until such time as the matter can be resolved. It also asks that the police be restrained from hunting down my client and his associate, and to prevent agents of the conspirators from doing the same.”

  “I . . . see.” Judge Flannery considered that a moment. “I’ll see your brief and make my decision within two hours. By the way, who are these men you allege are co-conspirators?”

  Brian Pullen swallowed hard. “Cyrus Murchison and Titus Hobson. Also Gaylord Huntley.”

  Flannery’s eyebrows rose. “Your client picked some big enemies, I must say.” Brian asked, “Will that have an effect on your decision, Your Honor?”

  A frown creased Flannery’s brow. “Certainly not. Come back in two hours.”

  * * *

  Shortly after sundown, slim, hard-faced young Chinese men began to drift aboard the Whang Fai. Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont inspected them critically. They exchanged worried glances over the odd assortment of weapons these volunteers possessed. Some carried pikes with odd-shaped blades. Several had swords with blades so broad that they resembled overgrown meat cleavers. A few had knives of varying blade length. More than half bore only stout oak staffs.

  Smoke cut his eyes to Louis. “They expect to use those to fight the Tong soldiers and any of Murchison’s railroad detectives we come across?”

  Louis sighed. “It is a most discouraging prospect, mon ami.”

  Tai Chiu merely smiled and bowed. “Honorable warriors, it is my humble duty to introduce you to Quo Chung Wu.” He indicated a fresh-faced youth who could not be past his twentieth year. “He is the leader of these students that it is my humble privilege to instruct.”

  “Students? Are they studying to be priests?”

  “Yes, that, too. What I teach them is kung fu, which are our words for what you would call martial arts. The Way of the Warrior. Since they are destined to follow the religious life, most of what they learn is unarmed combat. Yet I believe that when you see Wu and his young men in action, you will both marvel at what can be done. Now, the time draws near. We must lay a course of action.”

  10

  Tyrone Beal and six thick-muscled railroad detectives sat their horses outside the small, wooden frame building that had been sided with galvanized tin. A pale square of yellow light slanted to the ground from the window in an otherwise blank wall to their left. An angled layer of shingles formed a roof over the narrow stoop that gave to a door, the top third of which was a lattice of glass panes. A hand-lettered sign rested at the junction of porch roof and building front. It read in dripping letters: CENTRAL VALLEY FREIGHT. At a nod from Beal, the thugs dismounted.

  “Don’t look like much,” one hard case grumbled.

  “Heck Granger said Mr. Huntley don’t want the competition, so we take care of it,” Beal told him. “The sooner, the better, I say. This is my last job up here in the nowhere, then it’s back to San Francisco for me.”

  A local tough glanced at Beal quizzically. “You don’t like it out here?”

  “Nope. It’s too wide open for me. I grew up with buildings all around me. This kinda country makes me feel like I’m gonna fall right off the earth.” Beal motioned to a pair of the local gang. “You two take the back. Make sure no one gets away.”

  Beal and the other four climbed the open, rough-hewn plank steps to the stoop. Beal took the lead, his big hand smacking the door hard enough to slam it against the inside wall. From behind the counter a man with the look of a farmer gave them a startled glance.

  “Wh-what do you gentlemen need?” he asked shakily.

  “You’re out of business, Harper,” Beal growled.

  Gus Harper backed away from the counter that separated him from the hard cases. He raised both hands in protest. “Now, see here . . .”

  “No, you listen and do as you are told.”

  “Who are you?”

  Beal gave Harper a nasty smirk. “Names don’t mean a lot.”

  “Then who sent you?”

  “I think you know the answer to that. We come to give you a different outlook on what’s what in this world. There ain’t gonna be any competition in the freighting business.”

  “I have every right,” Harper blustered. Then he weighed the menace in Beal’s expression. His next words came in a stammered rush. “N-now, let’s not do anything hasty.”

  Beal pointed at the counter and rolltop desk behind. “We’ll not, just so long as you put an end to this crazy notion of yours. You’re a farmer, Harper. Go back to clod-hoppin’.” He glanced left and righ
t to the thugs with him. “Spread out, boys. This place needs a little rearrangin’.”

  Harper made a fateful mistake. “Stop right there. There’s law in this valley, and it’s on my side.”

  Beal nodded to a pair of thugs. “You two take ahold of him. Now, Mr. Farmer-Turned-Freight Master, for the last time, go back to your plow. There ain’t gonna be another freight company in the Central Valley.”

  Harper made one final, weak effort to make reason prevail. “But the railroad and Huntley’s Dray Service have raised rates twice this year already and harvest is three months away.”

  “Don’t matter how many times the prices go up, you and all the rest are going to pay and keep your mouths shut.”

  Beal moved in then, through the small gate at one end of the counter. He balled his big fists while the two thugs grabbed onto Harper. They spread the former farmer out so his middle was open to the vicious attack Beal leveled on him. Beal worked on Harper’s belly first, pounded hard, twisting blows into the muscle of the abdomen, then worked up to the chest. A severe blow right over the heart turned Harper’s face ashen.

  For a moment he went rigid and his eyes glazed. Slowly he came around in time for Beal to start in on his face. Knuckles protected by leather gloves, Beal put a cut on Harper’s left cheekbone, and a weal on his forehead. Beal mashed his victim’s lips and broke his nose. Harper went limp in the grasp of the hard cases.

  Beal showed no mercy. He went back to the gut. Soft, meaty smacks sounded with each punch. Harper hung from the grip of strong hands. Beal aimed for the ribs. He felt two give on his third left hook. It gave him an idea.

  “Let him go,” he ordered.

  Harper sank to the floor, a soft moan escaped though battered, split lips. Beal toed him onto his back and began to methodically kick Harper in the ribs. The bones broke one by one. When all on the right side had been broken, Beal went around to the other side and began to slam the toe of his boot into the vulnerable ribs. They, too, snapped with sharp pops. When the last gave, Beal went to work on Harper’s stomach.