Power of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Unprotected, the internal organs suffered great damage. Sometime while Beal worked on Harper’s liver, the man died. The first Beal and his henchmen knew of it was when the body, relaxed in death, voided. The outhouse stench rose around them.

  “He’s gone, Mr. Beal,” Spencer said quietly.

  “Then drag him outside. Let that be a lesson for the others. The rest of us are going to torch this place.”

  * * *

  It did not seem like much of a plan to Smoke Jensen. Tai Chiu had described to them the dens habituated by the Tong soldiers. One was an opium parlor. There, the wretched individuals in the thrall of the evil poppy idled away their lives, many filth-encrusted and never off their rude pallets, where they smoked the black, tarlike substance that gave them their life-sapping dreams. That is how Tai Chiu described them.

  At least they sounded incapable of putting up any resistance, Smoke speculated. That still left some two hundred Tong members. Tai Chiu had been quite certain of the number. The count varied from time to time, though never exceeding a hundred members for each of the three Tongs. Tai Chiu had named them the Iron Fan Tong, the Blue Lotus Tong, and the Celestial Hatchets. Smoke considered the names odd and a bit pretentious. Louis had explained the reasoning behind them.

  “These Tong members choose a name based on the power a Tong has. Some of them go back centuries. Anything with ‘Celestial’ in it is most powerful. It is likely that Xiang Wai Lee is from this Tong.”

  “Quite right, Mr. Longmont,” Tai Chiu confirmed. “You know much about the darker side of our ancient culture.”

  “There were, for a time, some Tongs in New Orleans.”

  Tai Chiu’s eyes danced with interest. “Might I ask what happened to them?”

  “Myself, and some of my friends, ah, persuaded them to depart.”

  “I presume you did not use gentle persuasion on them?”

  “Right you are, Mr. Tai. We used six-guns and some rope.”

  Tai Chiu’s white eyebrows rose. “I think we have the answer to why they so readily came after you. No doubt some of the survivors came here, to San Francisco. You might have been recognized the first time you were seen.”

  Louis considered that. “Sounds reasonable. Now, as I understand it, each of the three of us will take on one of the Tongs. When one of their meeting places has been pacified, those of us who fought there will go on to another location.”

  “That is correct,” Tai Chiu verified. “The Celestial Hatchets are currently the strongest of the three. You do not feel uncomfortable assuming that task, Mr. Jensen?”

  “Not too much. Considering I’m going to have only fifteen of your student-fighters along,” Smoke answered dryly.

  “Be advised that it is your prowess with firearms that will tip the balance. The Tongs are not loath to use modern weapons.”

  Smoke looked hard at the old priest. “Thanks very much, Mr. Tai. If I thought I was goin’ up against fellers armed only with hatchets, I couldn’t live with myself.”

  Tai Chiu studied Smoke’s face a moment. “Your face tells me you are serious, yet your eyes speak of a jest. You are having fun with me, yes?”

  “It’s that or walk away from this whole thing. Sixteen against a hundred is mighty long odds.”

  “Bear in mind, not all of them will be there at one time. You must deal with them as they come in answer to the rallying call. That will make your task simpler, I think.”

  Smoke checked the loads in his right-hand six-gun. He slid a sixth cartridge into the usually empty chamber. Then he did the same for the second revolver. “All together, I have about thirty rounds. After that, it’s going to get quite interesting.”

  “We go now,” Tai Chiu answered simply.

  * * *

  To their surprise, Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont found Chinatown brightly lighted even at the midnight hour. Families streamed in and out of restaurants, many with sleepy-eyed little tykes tugged along by their small hands. Westerners as well as Chinese thronged the shops, clutching their purchases by the strings that bound the gaudy red-and-gold or green-and-silver tissue paper. Musical bursts of conversation in Cantonese and Mandarin filled the air. All of that added an unexpected complication for Smoke Jensen. Their small force had divided before entering Chinatown and Smoke felt uncomfortably exposed.

  His target, the Celestial Hatchets, had a building on the far side of the market square, near the Chinese opera house. He and his volunteers would be in the open the longest. Quo Chung Wu took the lead as they rounded the corner. Two youthful Chinese lounged against the wall outside the door to the Tong headquarters. One of them roused himself when he caught sight of Quo in his saffron temple robe. He stepped out to block the walkway and raised a hand to signal that Quo should halt.

  “You are in the wrong place, shunfoo go,” he snarled insolently.

  “‘Dog of a priest,’ am I?” Quo Chung Wu rasped back.

  Then, in only the time it took Smoke Jensen to blink, Quo made his move. His body pivoted and bent backward. A weird birdlike sound came from his throat as he lashed out a foot in a powerful kick that knocked the Tong thug back into his companion, who had only begun to straighten up, sensing at last that trouble had come to their lair. Quo followed up the unconventional kick with a full swing that brought him back face-to-face with the Tong soldiers. Elbows akimbo, he formed his long-fingered hands into the shape of tiger claws and darted one out to rake sharp, thick nails across the face of the slow-awakening Tong man. To Smoke’s surprise, the youth did not scream as long, red lines appeared on his cheek. Quo’s fist closed and he smashed the injured man in the nose with a back-blow.

  His left elbow struck the chest next. Then he sent a side-kick that knocked the insulting one to his knees. A pointed toe rose under the Tong hatchetman’s chin and stilled his opposition. His companion had regained his feet and leaped into the air to deliver a flying kick that rocked Quo back, though it did not faze him. He pivoted to the right and drove hard fists, the middle knuckles extended, into the breastbone of his attacker. Staggering back until his shoulders collided with the wall, the thug drew a hatchet.

  It gave off a musical whistle as it swung through the air. When the blade passed him, Quo stepped in and drove an open palm to the already damaged nose. Bone and cartilage cracked and popped and sliced through the thin partition into his brain. He fell twitching to the ground. Smiling sardonically, Quo stepped to one side and made a sweeping gesture of welcome to the door.

  Smoke entered, his .45 Colt at the ready. Two more Tong henchmen sat on ornate plush chairs. One leaped up with a Smith American .44 in his hand. He didn’t get to use it as Smoke upset him into a heap on the floor with a fat .45 slug in his chest. Beside him, his partner shrieked curses in Cantonese and loosed a round from his .38 Colt Lightning. It knocked the hat from the head of Smoke Jensen and smacked into the wall beyond.

  Superior weapons skills put Smoke’s round right on target. Eyes bulging, the Chinese hoodlum slammed back into his chair, which tipped over to spill him onto the hall carpet. Smoke stepped over his twitching legs and advanced along the hall. A steady drone of conversation in Chinese ended with the roar of the guns. How many would be waiting? Smoke didn’t let it worry him. He stepped through the archway at the end of the hall with his Peacemaker ablaze.

  A squat, rotund Chinese with a sawed-off shotgun discharged a barrel into the ceiling on his way over backward in his chair. To his left, another hurled a hatchet at the head of Smoke Jensen. Ducking below the deadly device, Smoke popped a hole in the Tong soldier’s chest that broke his collarbone and severed the subclavian artery. Another Tong bully came at Smoke, his face twisted in the fury of his scream, at the same moment Quo Chung Wu stepped into the room beside Smoke.

  Quo gave the thug a front kick, high in his throat, that cut off the scream like a switch. Then he pivoted and delivered a side-kick to the chest and a second to the descending head. To Smoke’s surprise, he had accomplished this in less time than it took
Smoke to cock his Colt. The Tong butcher dropped his hatchet and skidded on his nose to the feet of Smoke Jensen. Quo smiled and bowed slightly.

  Stacks of coins and paper currency went flying as another Tong hatchetman leaped onto the table and jerked back his arm to unloose a hatchet. He pitched over on the back of his head when Smoke plunked a .45 slug into his belly, an inch above the navel. A scrabbling sound came from the corner of the room.

  A youthful Tong henchman tried desperately to fling up the sash of a window. When the muzzle of Smoke Jensen’s. 45 Colt tracked toward him, his fear overcame him and he threw himself through the pane. Broken glass rang down musically. One of the student volunteers rushed to the gaping frame and drew a fancy carved bow. The arrow sped down the alley and took the fleeing Tong gangster between the shoulder blades. A thin, high wail ended his life. Smoke touched a finger to his bare forehead.

  “Obliged,” he told the archer.

  Others of the young priests had fanned out through the house. The sound of breaking glass came again as a youthful Tong member made his escape. By ones and twos the volunteers began to return to this central room to report the place as empty. Smoke looked around at the havoc they had created.

  “That happened too easy,” Smoke told them.

  Their young, happily smiling faces contradicted him. “We have no objection to that,” Quo spoke for them all.

  “What I’m getting at is, there are a whole lot more of them out there. They will be coming, you can be sure of that.”

  “Then we will not be going on to help the others?” Quo asked, uncertain.

  “Not right away, Quo. We’ll have our hands full any minute now,” Smoke responded, as he opened the loading gate of his Peacemaker and began shucking out empty shell casings.

  * * *

  Louis Longmont eased his way along a dark alley in Chinatown. Close at his side came five of his fifteen volunteer priests. For all the danger they faced, these young men held uniform expressions of calm and confidence. An unusually tall, lean Chinese beside him clutched a bo stick with supple fingers. They came to a dark, recessed entrance to a cellar and the youthful martial artist tensed slightly, glided forward a step, and swung his stick.

  It made a sharp klock! against the head of a sentry and the Tong soldier went down hard. The youth with the bo stick nodded slightly and slid on past. He raised a hand and indicated first one, then a second, ground-level doorway. The other ten young men had offered to take the place from the front. Theirs would be the risky job, Louis considered. He glanced down at the unconscious sentry as he passed the steps to the basement.

  That stick, he thought. Something like a quarter-staff. Right out of the Middle Ages. Louis Longmont had been a gunfighter long enough to know that the “right” weapon did not exist. Whatever did the job when it had to be done worked. He caught up to the Chinese youth with the bo stick. Now all they had to do was wait until the rest hit the front door.

  It turned out not to be a long wait. Shouts of alarm and cries of pain came from inside the Tong headquarters less than two minutes later. At first, no one showed at the rear entrance, then the door flung open and a skinny man with a waist-long pigtail rushed out. A hatchet in his left hand reflected moonlight as he raised it defensively. One of the temple students closed on him, a halberd with an elongated tip blade held ready. The hatchetman changed his weapon from the defensive to the offensive. Metal clanged as he batted the pike head with the flat of his blade. His opponent lunged, driving the shaft of his device forward in a lightning move.

  No sound came when the slender blade drove into the gut of the Tong soldier. His eyes went wide and his mouth formed a pain-twisted “O.” His knees went out from under him and he dragged the halberd down as he collapsed on the steps. The youthful volunteer wrenched his blade free. It made a soft sucking sound as it left the dying flesh. Two more of the Iron Fan Tong warriors burst through the open doorway. Louis took quick aim and shot the first. He kept on running for enough steps to pitch headlong off the stoop. Already, the high, rounded front sight of the gun in the hand of Louis Longmont lined up on the second target.

  His revolver gave a comfortable, familiar jolt to his hand when the hammer fell on a fresh cartridge. The Tong thug broke stride and looked down at his chest. Surprise registered a moment before he keeled over to one side and fell heavily on his right shoulder. Even then, he tried to throw his hatchet at Louis, who shot him again. The sounds of a scuffle came from inside. Although the back hallway had been darkened, Louis could make out the figures of two men. They flowed rapidly through the postures of several recognizable creatures. Now a crane, now a tiger, now a snake. With each ripple, an arm or foot would lash out and strike at the other. Louis well appreciated the skill they exhibited, yet he had no time to be an interested observer.

  Two Tong members came down a wooden fire escape attached to the rear wall. One paused to hurl his hand-ax at Louis. It stuck in the siding six inches from the head of the man from New Orleans. Louis reacted instantly. His shot knocked the man from the ladder, and the scream he uttered lasted until he hit the ground. The other hatchetman flung his weapon at Louis. It struck Louis on the left shoulder with the handle. Sharp pain, quickly stifled, radiated from the point of impact.

  Louis put a bullet in the thrower’s head, ending his days of ruthlessness. When the sound of the shot reverberated down the alleyway, Louis found it totally silent inside the building. He entered to find the Tong’s nest in the hands of his young fighters.

  “We could burn this place, but it would take the whole block,” Louis informed his troops. “Five of you, stay here, in case any of the rest of the Tong comes back. The others, come with me. We’ll go lend a hand to Smoke.”

  * * *

  Tai Chiu found most of the Blue Lotus Tong at home. They boiled out of the dilapidated godown they used as a headquarters like a swarm of aroused bees. Passersby looked away and scurried for safety as their hatchets flashed in the red-and-yellow light of lanterns strung from post to post. Without hesitation, Tai’s pupils waded in.

  One avoided a hatchet blow with a rising forearm block, then kicked the Tong member in the gut. Air whooshed out of a distorted mouth, only to be battered back inside by an open palm smash to the lips. Blood flew black in the colored illumination. Two of the hatchetmen came for Tai Chiu.

  Their weapons did no harm as the old man melted away from in front of them. Crouched low, Tai lashed out with a side-kick that knocked the legs from under one of his attackers. Chiu’s robe fluttered like wings as he spun on the ball of one foot and delivered another kick to the exposed chest of the second thug. The Tong hatchet swished by just an inch short of Tai Chiu’s extended leg.

  Without a blink, he took a crane stance and snapped extended fingers at the face of the hatchetman. Blood sprang from four fine lines along his face. He tried another swing with the hatchet, only to have his nose smashed by a backhand blow. Before he could recover, the elderly monk kicked him three times under the chin. The hatchetman dropped to the ground to twitch out his life. Tai Chiu moved on to engage a short, stout thug with a revolver in his hand.

  His first attack kicked the gun from the startled gangster’s grip. The Chinese thug had not even gotten off a shot. Tai knocked him senseless with a smooth routine of fist and elbow blows and well-aimed kicks. Beyond him, two of the Blue Lotus members sprinted away from the center of the melee. There would be more coming soon, he realized regretfully.

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen considered it better to fight in the open, so he led his volunteers out of the Celestial Hatchets Tong headquarters to take on the reinforcements who had arrived during the past five minutes. Several of them carried swords similar to the ones with which the student priests had armed themselves. One of these darted forward and made an overhand swing at a Tong thug. The sword in the hard case’s hand rose swiftly to parry the swing.

  The edges met with a ring. Like lightning, the young student’s left hand flashed out and slammed i
nto his opponent’s face. At once, another Tong member leaped toward the volunteer. He never made it. Breaking the engagement of their blades, the supple youth made a horizontal slash with his sword and all but decapitated the Tong thug. The last hatchetman, with an oversized cutlass, raised his weapon and set himself for a blow to the back of the exposed head of the young student.

  Smoke Jensen shot the Tong member between the eyes. A shout came from down the street and Smoke looked that way to see some ten railroad detectives. In their uniforms of brown suits and derby hats, they rushed toward the scene of conflict, pick handles in their hands.

  11

  They were in for it now, Smoke judged. A moment later, the yard bulls crashed into the line of students. The fighting spread out, two of the enemy on each one of the students. When one of Murchison’s gunhawks pulled iron, Smoke Jensen stepped in. The Colt Peacemaker bucked in Smoke’s hand and spat a slug that pulverized the gunman’s right shoulder.

  He howled and staggered off, only to be given a kick to the head by a young Chinese. Down he went, limp and unmoving. More of Heck Grange’s henchmen poured into the narrow side street in Chinatown. They went after the allies of Smoke Jensen, only to be knocked down and out time after time. Three closed in on Smoke. The one in the lead, a thick-chested brute with a snarling face, drew a pocket pistol and fired hastily.

  His bullet cracked past Smoke’s head and the last mountain man pumped a round into the man’s chest. He shook himself and came on. He cocked his pistol again and took aim at Smoke. The .45 Colt in Smoke’s hand bucked and a second slug ripped into his attacker’s chest. Still the man remained on his feet. Smoke shot him once again.

  This time, Smoke noticed that not a drop of blood flew from the wound. Smoke raised his aim and put a round in his opponent’s forehead. Quickly he swung his Peacemaker to another of the armed thugs. They traded shots. The yard bull missed. Smoke Jensen didn’t.

  Facing only a single enemy, Smoke leveled his .45 Colt and fired the last round in the cylinder. The thug took it in his belly, an inch above his hipbone. Quickly Smoke changed revolvers. He made it just in time. A lance of flame spurted from the Merwin and Hulbert the hard case carried. His bullet punched a hole through the body of the coat worn by Smoke Jensen and exited out the back. Too close a call.