“I been thinkin’ that same thing,” Elmer said. “What was Slocum doin’ in Chicago? ’N how is it that he just happened to know that you was here?”
“He didn’t just happen to be here. He was sent here to kill us, and it didn’t have anything to do with revenge for his brother,” Meagan replied.
“What are you sayin’, lass? Why do you think he was here?”
“I told you he was one of the two men I saw getting on the train?”
“Aye.”
“I have remembered who the other man was. It was one of the C and FL railroad police, the one named Dixon.”
“I’ll be damned,” Elmer said. “It wasn’t just you they come after. They found out we was comin’ to New York ’n they come after all of us to keep us from talkin’ to Pete Poindexter.”
“If Mr. Poindexter doesn’t know what is going on back home, I can see why his son might go to great lengths to prevent it. Even if it means murder,” Meagan said.
“Yeah, well, that’s figurin’ that the man we been callin’ Jake Poindexter actually is Pete’s son. I’ve been doubtin’ that he is for some time, ’n now I’m near ’bout sure it ain’t really him.”
“If the person we have been calling Jake Poindexter isn’t him, then where is Jake Poindexter?” Meagan asked.
“I’d say he’s more ’n likely dead,” Elmer said.
* * *
Clete Dixon saw MacCallister, Gleason, and the dress shop woman board the train to New York. He didn’t see Slocum again, and that left only two possibilities. Slocum kept the money and ran away, or Slocum was discovered by MacCallister, and killed.
Either way, the problem remained. MacCallister was still alive, and Dixon had to keep him from seeing Preston Poindexter.
Chapter Nineteen
Chugwater
The Wild Hog had become the de facto headquarters for the C&FL railroad police, and at the moment Pogue Flannigan and Roy Streeter were having a beer.
“You think they’ll be able to take care of MacCallister’n Gleason?” Flannigan asked.
“Yeah, I think so. MacCallister’n Gleason won’t be expectin’ nothin’, bein’ as they’re so far from home. Dixon ’n this feller Slocum who’s with ’im will have the edge, ’n I figure they’ll ambush ’em somewhere.” Streeter chuckled. “Hell, I wish the boss woulda sent me instead of Dixon. I’d love to be the one that kills MacCallister.”
“I don’t think he’s goin’ to be all that easy to kill. They say he’s just real good with a gun.”
“Is he? Well, what difference does that make?”
“What do you mean, what difference does that make?” Flannigan replied, surprised by Streeter’s comment. “If you face him down, you might not be the one left standin’ when it’s all over.”
“Who said anythin’ ’bout facin’ MacCallister down? If you shoot someone in the back, they’re just as dead as iffen you shot ’em in the front. ’N I expect that’s exactly how Dixon ’n Slocum plan to do it.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“You damn right, I’m right,” Streeter said with a smug chuckle.
“But it ain’t goin’ to do us no good just to get rid of MacCallister’n Gleason, you know,” Flannigan said.
“Why not? You don’t think any o’ these other ranchers will be able to step up ’n take MacCallister’s place, do you? ’N if none of the ranchers can do it, you know damn well there ain’t no sodbuster who can.”
“No, I’m talkin’ about the Chinaman. We’re goin’ to get rid of the Chinaman, too.”
“What Chinaman?” Streeter asked.
“The one that works for MacCallister. Wang Chow.”
“Are you kiddin’, Pogue? What kind o’ trouble are you expectin’ a Chinaman to give us?”
“This here ain’t no ordinary slant eye. He’s got some kind of special way o’ fightin’ that there ain’t nobody never seen before. Why me ’n Clete had the drop on ’im, ’n the next thing you know, me ’n Clete was both down, ’n when we come to the guns was back in our holsters, only there didn’t neither one of ’em have the cylinder in ’em. Somehow that Chinaman had took ’em out.”
“Yeah, well, if we take care of MacCallister, there won’t be anybody left to be givin’ the Chinaman orders on what to do, so I wouldn’t worry about it,” Streeter said.
“That may be, but I’d still like to see the Chinaman took care of.” Flannigan said.
“Why? I told you, he don’t matter none.”
“It’s personal with me.”
“How are you goin’ to do it? You said yourself that he took care of you ’n Dixon all by his ownself. ’N the boss ain’t goin’ to let any of us take up any time just to deal with a celestial.”
“I’ve got three men that ain’t one of us, but they’ll come with me to deal with the celestial if I give ’em a hunnert dollars apiece.”
“You got three hunnert dollars?”
“No, but I thought maybe the boss would give it to me iffen he knew it was to take care of MacCallister’s Chinaman.”
“Who do you have?”
“Loomis, Pollard, ’n Muldoon.”
“Muldoon? Ain’t he a prizefighter?”
“He was, till he kilt a man in the ring. Now there won’t nobody fight ’im no more, so lately, he’s been makin’ a livin’ by beatin’ up people for money.”
“All right. Wait here. I’ll get the money for you.” Streeter chuckled. “I’d like to see Muldoon ’n that Chinaman fight. I think it would be real entertainin’.”
* * *
“Where we goin’ to find ’im?” Loomis asked after Dixon had gathered the men he needed for the job.
“It’s noon, ain’t it? Ever’day at noon, he’s been comin’ in to have his dinner at Lu Win’s Restaurant,” Dixon replied. “He’s prob’ly there right now.”
The noon traffic in the street and on the boardwalks was busy as the four men marched toward Lu Win’s Restaurant. And march it was, rather than walk. The four men were moving as if unified by a common goal and a dedication of purpose.
“What is it you think them folks have in mind?” someone asked as the four men moved toward the Chinese restaurant with such resolution.
“I don’t know, but I’d be willin’ to bet they ain’t goin’ in there for any fish ’n rice.”
Muldoon went in first, kicking the door open so their entrance was announced by a loud bang. Although some of the diners were Chinese, most of the restaurant customers were American. Startled by the abrupt entrance, they dropped their knives and forks—chopsticks for the more adventurous—and looked toward the door. What they saw was a big man with a bald head and no neck, wide shoulders, and powerful-looking arms.
“Which one of you Chinamen calls hisself Wang Chow?” the big man called out, his voice booming like thunder.
Wang Chow was sitting at a table in the middle of the room, and though he was facing the door, he didn’t bother to look up. He continued to eat, deftly picking up a small piece of beef with his chopsticks.
“That’s him right there,” Flannigan said, pointing.
“Hey you, Chinaman. They say you are some kind of fancy fighter,” Muldoon said. “Is that true?”
“Hell, let’s don’t mess around with ’im.” Immediately after his comment, Pollard threw a knife.
The action was smooth and so swiftly done that nobody realized what was happening until the knife, one that was especially designed for throwing, was flying through the air toward Wang.
He had still not looked up, but at the last second, and to the shock of everyone in the dining room, Wang held up his chopsticks and with a quick scissors action, trapped the knife between them. With a flick of his wrist, and aided somewhat by the leverage action of the chopsticks, he sent the knife back from where it came.
The entire incident happened so quickly that some of those who were prepared to see Wang die by the knife didn’t grasp the reversal of the situation until it was too late. Pollard let
out a gasp as the knife stabbed, hilt deep, into his shoulder.
“What the? What the hell just happened? Where’d that knife come from?” Loomis asked.
“It come from the Chinaman hisself,” Flannigan said.
“Don’t nobody else try ’n do nothin’ like that,” Muldoon warned. “I’ll take care of this puny little toad all by myself.
With Pollard groaning in pain behind him, Muldoon walked over to the table then stood there, looking down at Wang, who was still eating. “Hey, you, Chinaman. It ain’t polite to eat whilest people is talkin’ to you.”
“A thousand pardons, Xinshng,” Wang replied.
“What did you call me?” Muldoon bellowed angrily.
“Please, he didn’t call you anything!” Lu Win called out. “It is a term of respect. He said sir.”
Muldoon made a fist of his right hand and cocked his arm out. He held his left hand out, palm up, and began curling his fingers.
“They say you’re quite the fighter. Stand up. I’d like to see just how good you are.”
Wang stood up then approached Muldoon, standing within a couple feet of him.
“Yeah, that’s a good boy,” Muldoon mocked. At almost the same time he sent a powerful right fist whistling toward Wang.
Wang leaned back, doing it so gradually that most hadn’t even seen him move. They thought Muldoon had simply missed.
Muldoon had put so much power into the swing that it actually threw him off balance, and he had to take a couple of quick steps to remain standing. When he recovered, he tried a left jab, and Wang leaned to one side just far enough to let the fist slip by him.
With a cry of rage, Muldoon tried again and again to hit Wang. At that moment there could have been no greater picture of the two men than that which they were providing. Even though Muldoon was missing practically every blow, there was brute force and power in his movements and all could see that.
Wang, by contrast, could have been a maître de ballet, so graceful were his reactions that, with a minimum of movement, he avoided all of Muldoon’s attempts to hit him.
The big man halted. Breathing hard from his unsuccessful attempts to hit Wang, he stared at the smaller man. “You think you’re somethin’, don’t you? Well, dodge this.” He grabbed a nearby table and swept it easily up over his head with the legs of the table pointing up.
“Dodge this one!” he shouted as he swung the table down toward Wang.
Too wide to allow Wang any room to maneuver, the table made a loud crashing sound as it joined Muldoon’s shout of triumph. The others in the restaurant, nearly all of whom knew Wang, gasped in anxiety and concern.
To everyone’s surprise, they saw that Muldoon had been left holding two halves of a table that had been literally split in two. The mystery of how it was done was quickly solved by the sight of Wang standing with his right hand held up, the knife-edge of the hand forward.
Muldoon looked at the two halves of the table as if trying to figure out what had just happened. Then, tossing one of the table halves aside, and with the bellow of a bull, he raised the other half over his head, intending to use it as a club. But he was never able to start the downward swing.
Wang shot the heel of his hand toward the big man, connecting with his forehead, and Muldoon went down.
“You can keep your one hunnert dollars. I’m gettin’ the hell outta here!” Loomis shouted as he bolted toward the door.
Flannigan hadn’t done a thing since the four of them came into the restaurant, but was the only one of the four left standing—Loomis and a wounded Pollard had run away, and Muldoon was lying on his backside on the floor of the restaurant with a broken table half lying on either side of him.
“Wang, is it all right if I pick up Muldoon and go?” Flannigan asked.
“You may go,” Wang replied.
“Mister?” one of the other dining room patrons said to Flannigan. “You mighta noticed that Wang don’t never wear no gun. But I do wear one. ’N if you stick your head back inside here in the next minute, I’ll be a-shootin’ at you.”
“Yeah,” one of the others said. “Me too.”
“And me,” said a third.
On the floor, Muldoon groaned and tried to move.
“Is he paralyzed?” Flannigan asked.
“He can walk,” Wang replied.
Flannigan walked over to Muldoon, and with his help, Muldoon was able to get up.
“Come on. Let’s go,” Flannigan said.
As the two men left, Wang looked at the broken table, then toward Lu Win. “W hn bàoqiàn zhè zhng zhuzi. W huì fù qián de.”
“Do not be sorry about the table, Master Wang,” Lu Win said, responding in English to the apology Wang had given in Mandarin Chinese. “There is no need for you to pay for it.”
“Hell, Lu Win, I’ll pay for it myself,” a customer said. This is the one who had cautioned Flannigan about coming back in. “It was well worth it to be able to see this.”
The others in the restaurant applauded.
Chapter Twenty
Sky Meadow
Roy Streeter, Hank Mitchell, and Dusty Caldwell were on an exploratory scout for Collins.
“This here is part o’ the Sky Meadow Ranch,” Mitchell said. “Folks say that this is s’pose to be the most valuable land in the whole valley, with two creeks furnishin’ the water.”
“Look over there,” Caldwell said, pointing to a gather. “Are them cows or buffalo? I ain’t never seen me no cows that look like that, but they seem too little to be buffs.”
“They’re what’s called Black Angus,” Mitchell said. “They’re ’bout the most expensive cows a feller can have.”
“Wooee, there sure is a lot of ’em,” Caldwell said. “This MacCallister feller must be rich.”
“They say he is,” Mitchell replied. “Wait a minute. Look over there. Ain’t them celestials s’posed to be workin’ for us? What are they doin’ here, workin’ for MacCallister?”
“Damn if I know,” Streeter said. “Why don’t we just ride down there ’n find out?”
* * *
Wang Chow was watching as Cong Sing and two more of his countrymen were stretching strands of barbed wire between two of the fence posts. Wang looked up as the three riders approached.
“Here, what are you heathens doin’?” one of the three asked.
“Can you not see? We are erecting a fence,” Wang Chow replied.
“Well, seein’ as we are about to take over this here part of the ranch, you ain’t got no right to be a-doin’ that, so I’m tellin’ you now to stop it.” As he made the demand, Streeter pulled his pistol. The two men with him pulled theirs as well.
Wang stepped up to the fence line and took one end of the strand of barbed wire from Cong Sing.
“Xiansheng MacCallister asked that this be done in his absence, and until he says otherwise, we will continue to do so.” He held up the end of the wire to illustrate his point.
“Yeah? Well, how is it you’re goin’ to be able to do that with a bullet in your head?”
Without saying a word, Wang snapped the hand that was holding the end of the barbed wire back down quickly. The result was an arch that appeared in the strand then traveled down the wire so that it encountered all three men, striking each of them in the hand that held the pistols, causing all of them to drop their guns.
“What the hell!” Streeter shouted in surprise, alarm, and some pain, for the barbs of the wire had cut through the skin. He, Mitchell, and Caldwell were all three holding painful, bleeding wrists. Cong Sing moved quickly to recover the dropped weapons.
“Why, you little—” Streeter shouted in anger. He slid down from the saddle, pulled a large knife, and charged toward Wang.
Wang stepped to one side then brought the side of his hand crashing down on the back of Streeter’s neck. Streeter went down like a poleaxed steer.
“Streeter!” Mitchell called. He glared at Wang. “Did you kill him?”
“He will live. But
if you do not leave now, and take him with you, I will kill him.” Wang spoke the words as if he were talking about the weather. “And then I will kill both of you,” he added, the words calm but bloodcurdling.
“Let’s get ’im up on his horse ’n get out of here,” Mitchell said.
Mitchell and Caldwell got down and helped a groggy but conscious Streeter onto his horse.
Mitchell held his hand out toward Cong Sing. “Gimme our guns back.”
“No,” Wang said. “You may get your guns from the marshal’s office.”
Mitchell pointed his finger toward Wang. “Look here, you yellow-skinned creeper! One o’ these days I’m goin’ to catch you when you can’t do none of them Chink tricks you been pullin’ on us. ’N when I do, I plan to shoot your ass dead.”
“Leave now, please,” Wang ordered.
Mitchell continued to glare at Wang.
“We better go, Hank,” Caldwell said. “Ole’ Streeter here is barely able to stay in the saddle.”
Mitchell glared at Wang a moment longer, growing even more agitated by the fact that the expression on Wang’s face remained totally calm. “Them guns better be at the marshal’s office today,” he said with a growl as he and the other two men rode away.
* * *
“I tell you, that Chinaman ain’t quite human,” Mitchell said after he and Caldwell had returned to the C&FL office in town. They had brought Streeter with them, and though he was able to walk on his own, he was sitting on a chair against a wall, greatly disoriented.
“Of course he is human,” Collins said. “He is just skilled in the art of fisticuffs.”
“Yeah, well it ain’t exactly fisticuffs,” Mitchell said. “I don’t know what you call it, but it ain’t fightin’. Leastwise, it ain’t nothin’ like no normal man does.”
“I heard of another feller that can fight like that,” Jalen Nichols said.
“Another Chinaman?”
“No, this is an American named Zack Clark. And from what I’ve heard, he learned how to fight like that while he was in China. I heard tell that oncet three men took ’im on at the same time, ’n he kilt all three of ’em with his bare hands.”
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