Mojave (25 page)

Made sense. I shrugged, then done some studying on more of Lucky Ben Wong's plan.

“Well,” I said, “wouldn't Whip Watson have some boys inside The Palace? When the girls started coming in?”

“Yes. He is no fool.”

“So . . . them boys . . . they'd have to get . . .”

“Killed,” Lucky Ben Wong finished my thought.

That tea didn't taste so good about then.

“Listen, my friend Micah Bishop, Whip would have four men inside. Maybe five.” Lucky Ben Wong's reassuring tone didn't comfort me at all. “We could overpower them before they knew they were dead. Then ambush the men outside when the last of the brides are inside. It is simple. It is flawless.”

Maybe, I thought, but something else had begun to trouble me.

“When you say
we
. . . you mean Slater and McCoy and the vigilantes, don't you?”

His head shook even before I was done finishing my question.

“We cannot trust Slater or McCoy,” he told me.

“Why not?”

“You mentioned that the late Rogers Canfield and Whip Watson and Candy Crutchfield had a silent partner in Calico, did you not?”

I allowed how that I'd likely mentioned that.

“What if McCoy is that partner? What if Slater is the villain? If we tipped the partner off, we would put your life, and more important, the life of my Jingfei and the lives of those other poor girls, in jeopardy.”

Now my tea was curdling. Running fingers through my wet hair, I asked, “So who'd we have inside the building?”

“You.”

“Against four men?”

“Perhaps five.”

“And outside?”

“Me.”

I couldn't recollect how many men Whip Watson had remaining, even if I didn't include Mr. Clark.

“That's it?” I didn't ask Lucky Ben Wong if he didn't have no friends here in East Calico who he could trust.

“Kill Whip Watson is like cutting off the head of a rattlesnake. Kill him, the others are as good as dead. They will leave town at a gallop.”

It didn't sound like nothing I'd bet on, but I kind of rubbed the rifle in my lap.

“What do you think of my plan?” Lucky Ben Wong asked with boyish enthusiasm for what struck me as a dumb plan, but, I had to admit, it was better than mine.

I shrugged. “Might work.” Although my plan, even if it meant having to trust Slater, McCoy, and the vigilance committee, would, in theory, mean that I'd stand a better chance of not getting killed.

“Good.” He held out his hand. “You will need more bullets, I imagine, for your long gun.”

Standing on weak knees, I somehow pitched the rifle to him. He nudged it into the crook of his arm, then his right hand disappeared behind his black silk shirt, and when it returned, it held this fancy-engraved .41-caliber “Swamp Angel” pocket revolver, and I thought he was about to shoot me dead for no good reason when the chimes outside his front door started singing.

He swung around, dropping the rifle, heading to the partition that separated his coal-oil-can building. Right before I blowed out the light, I saw him swinging back toward me, but then it was too dark to see nothing except streaks of light coming through the sides of the tarp.

The chimes sang again.

Quiet as I could, I crawled along the floor, fingers out searching, finally touched the fore-stock of my rifle, which I snatched into my hands.

“Micah?” Lucky Ben Wong whispered. “Where are you?”

“Right here,” I told the darkness.

I could hear him breathing, and the chimes sounding again.

“Could be,” I told him, “the girl with my duds.”

“No,” he said. “Not her.”

“Well, I got the rifle. Want me to start shooting?” I knowed how easy it was to shoot through what he had for walls. Doors, too.

“No.”

Another sigh, then Lucky Ben Wong slipped through the tarp and moved toward the rubber tarp. I found myself a better position, sidling over to where Lucky Ben Wong had been, sticking the Winchester's barrel through the slit between canvas and coal oil cans, and drawed a bead on Lucky Ben Wong's front door.

Soon as that chime-ringer stepped inside, I'd shoot down the cur without a call.

Lucky Ben Wong slipped the gun behind his back, but kept his right hand on the grip, then moved carefully to the tarp, put his left hand on the cloth, called out. “Yes. Yes. It late. Very late. Come back tomorrow.” He had slipped into that bad English again.

I couldn't hear what the person outside said, but it was something that staggered Lucky Ben Wong. His hand come off the grips of that “Swamp Angel,” and he was pulling open that front tarp as fast as humanly possible, and a figure stepped inside, and the front door closed.

Me? I almost dropped my rifle, then I come through the partition.

“Jingfei !” me and Lucky Ben Wong cried out at the same time.

 

 

“Micah!”

Made me forget all my aches and injuries and wounds that was going to leave some remindful scars. Jingfei run right past her betrothed and greeted me warmly. “I knew you'd make it out of that desert. I just knew it.”

I give her one of my awkward shrugs.

“I didn't know if I could trust Mister Clark,” she said.

Now my shrug wasn't just playacting awkward, it was for real. “Mister Clark?” I asked.

“Yes.” She turned back to Lucky Ben Wong, who wasn't looking none too happy at the reception I'd gotten and he'd missed out on. I mean, Jingfei didn't kiss me or nothing, but you'd expect her to greet the man who'd paid good money to get himself a wife a little better than brushing him aside to come hug a stove-up gambler dressed in a robe that was too small for him.

“I bribed Mister Clark one hundred dollars.” Back at me, she said, “For not killing you.”

He hadn't killed me, and now I knowed why. I also knowed that he was not a man to be trusted. He'd told me that I owed him, but I didn't owe that swindler nothing. He'd been paid a lot of money for not killing me. Hell's bells, the law in Las Vegas, New Mexico Territory, had put up only seventy-five dollars for my capture—and that was for murdering (it was self-defense, I swear) a fellow and busting out of jail before they could hang me.

“My Jingfei,” Lucky Ben Wong said, and she faced her husband again. They spoke in Chinese, softly, and done some bowing at each other. Then they approached each other, studying the other's features. Jingfei was a good four inches taller than Lucky Ben Wong. Prettier, too. They spoke some more Chinese, then Lucky Ben Wong was looking past her and at me, and it wasn't no friendly look.

He said something in a most unpleasant tone.

She said something right sharp back at him, which caused him to step back toward the wall of cans.

“Maybe I should leave.” Actually, I had no intention of going nowhere.

“No.” Jingfei looked back at me. “We haven't much time.”

“How did you escape Whip Watson, Future Wife?” Lucky Ben Wong asked.

“I bribed Mister Clark with another hundred dollars,” she answered, “but I must go back to camp.”

That caused my heart to jump. Lucky Ben Wong's, too. He sang out, “Why?” I cried, “No!”

“If I'm not back, the other women will be in danger,” she said. She give Lucky Ben Wong one of them soulful stares, and turned to me with my own personal pleading look that nobody could resist. “I must be back before morning. I just came to find you, Future Husband, my savior.” No, she wasn't talking to me. Back looking at that little dude in his black silk with his head shaved except for that queue. “They will be bringing the girls to town . . . tomorrow.”

I cussed.

“What time?” Lucky Ben Wong asked.

She sighed. “I do not know. Afternoon would be my guess. But it could be morning. They have been very busy getting the girls . . .
ready.
” The last word she spit out like poison.

“Then we could get the vigilance committee and have them ambush the camp.” I come back to my original plan. “Where is Whip's camp?”

She give me a look that wasn't soulful, and wasn't incredulous, nor pleading, but was kind of, well, horrified. Her look had me deciding that Lucky Ben Wong was right all along, so I changed my tune in a hurry.

“No, no, that's a bad idea. Women could get killed. We'll have to think of another plan.”

Which got me an evil glare from Lucky Ben Wong.

“I have a plan,” Jingfei announced.

A wave of exhaustion overtook her, and she had to sit in a wicker chair in the corner by me. Lucky Ben Wong hurried to the teapot and poured her some tea, and I dipped back behind the tarp, fumbled my way through the dark, found a washcloth that I hoped wasn't too dirty, and brung it back to the other room, wringing it out as I walked, catching another one of those mean looks from Lucky Ben Wong. Hell, the floor was dirt. Wasn't like I was ruining some fancy rug or nothing, dripping water, and maybe some blood on it.

I handed the cloth to Jingfei, who stared at me, then smiled. Then set the rag on the table beside her, and sipped some tea.

That's pretty much when she saw where she was. She looked around this part of the room, Lucky Ben's personal quarters, and then she looked at the walls, and the doors, and she handed me the teacup, then turned to her betrothed, and she said, “
This
is where
we
will
live?
”

 

 

“How many gunmen will be with Whip Watson?” Lucky Ben Wong asked.

By that time, we was all sipping tea again, in the front parlor room. From a pocket in my robe, I pulled the watch I'd taken off one of the dead men—kept real good time—and seen that it was 12:25. Jingfei said it had taken her two hours to get from Watson's camp in the canyons to town, and another half hour to find Lucky Ben Wong's place in the dark.

“Seventeen,” she said.

“Is that including Mister Clark?” I asked.

“No, he's on our side.”

Which likely had cost her another hundred dollars, and that got me staring at her suit of
moiré,
and I figured she had to have a money belt. I mean, I didn't think Mr. Clark would take a letter of credit or nothing like that. Most men of his poor upbringing and low morals dealt in cash.

“And Doctor Kent,” Jingfei said, “he will help us, too.”

Wasn't sure I trusted either of them sidewinders. If she mentioned Juan Pedro as an ally, I'd have to speak up.

“Whip Watson will be in town first, to get the people ready,” Jingfei told us. “They plan on parading us up the street, one at a time, in those dreadful carriages. Do you know what he plans to do with us?”

We both did, but she didn't give us time to answer. “He says the contracts you”—she nodded at Lucky Ben Wong—“and all the other husbands signed had a clause that if the matrimonial agent died before delivery of the brides, the contract was null and void.”

“So the husbands would be out of the money,” I said.

“Yes.” Her tone got real steely. “But we women will be out of something much. . . .” Her lips and eyes tightened.

Which meant that Whip Watson was going to force twenty-five of them—the twins from Savannah sharing a room—into prostitution at The Palace of Calico. The others, the more homely ones, I figured, would be auctioned off as brides.

“That is not the contract I signed,” she said.

“Invisible ink,” I said.

“And Watson likely has a copy of that contract,” Lucky Ben Wong.

“It wouldn't hold up in court,” I said, having some experience in courts and trials and things of that nature.

“There is no court in Calico. No law. Not even a jail.” Lucky Ben Wong had to remind me of all the bad things about this burg.

“But I made a copy of the contract,” Jingfei said. “I had my attorney look at it. It's in his office in Trinidad.”

“You went to an attorney?” Lucky Ben Wong turned pale.

“Of course,” she said. “I am no fool, Future Husband.”

“But this . . . is America . . . it is . . . the West . . . A man's word is his bond.”

“I am no man.” She might have had to remind Lucky Ben Wong of that, but not me.

I got smart. “So, all we got to do is get a copy of the contract you signed. Show it to a circuit judge. Then when they see the contracts with the invisible ink, Whip Watson will go to prison for a good long time. That's your plan?”

Lucky Ben Wong spoke up. “It will take weeks to get that contract to Calico.”

“Then we must fight,” Jingfei said. “Tomorrow.”

Now, I wasn't keen on that fighting idea, not with the odds we faced, but Jingfei . . . well, all she had to do was look at me, and so I dealt myself in the game. That's when Lucky Ben Wong rose, bowed toward his beloved, and turned to me. “Your rifle, Micah Bishop. I have cartridges.”

I stood, give him a real formal nod, and tossed him the Winchester. He caught it like he was used to catching rifles, and bowed at Jingfei one more time. My mouth dry from the thought of what might happen come daylight, I taken the teacup in my right hand. While I was sipping tea, Lucky Ben Wong tossed the rifle behind him, and his right hand come up with that “Swamp Angel” in his fist.

The little pistol was aimed right at my belly.

“Future Husband!” Jingfei jumped to her feet. “What are you doing?”

But I knowed. I'm slow, but every now and then I get struck with genius.

“It's you. You stake everybody,” I said. “Including Rogers Canfield.”

He smiled. “And Whip Watson.”

“Candy Crutchfield, too.”

The arrogant little peckerwood grinned even wider, and I felt sick. Hurt even. Hell, I'd told Jingfei that her Future Husband was a good man. Turns out, he was a real peckerwood.

Jingfei took a step toward him, but I reached over with my free hand, and grabbed her shoulder, reined her in. No, I did not use her body to shield my own. I eased her to my side, but she was still mad, so angry she begun shaking.

“Future Husband,” she said, “I agreed to be your wife. Not a . . .” I reckon she used the Manchu word for soiled dove.

“You will be my wife,” he said. “All of the women who will work in The Palace of Calico will be married. To me. To Whip Watson's men. And you know, as brides, you must do as your husbands command.”

That caused me to snort. He didn't know the women I'd knowed. Especially Jingfei.

“You're mad,” Jingfei told him.

“But this is America, Quiet Not,” Lucky Ben Wong said. “Ask him. Ask Micah Bishop. Ask him if not many gamblers have concubines who also sell their bodies to strangers. It is America. Capitalism. The Gilded Age. It does not mean that the husbands do not love their wives less. It is all for . . . money.”

She was going after the cad, and once again I had to pull her back.

“I won't be a prostitute,” she said. That was in English, and Lucky Ben Wong cringed, but he didn't lower the .41.

“Tell her what I say is true!” He raised the gun at my head.

Of course, what he said was true. Not that I'd ever had no concubine, or any “wife” who worked the tenderloin, but, sure, there were men who done such things. Women, too. But I told Lucky Ben Wong, “Only a son of a bitch would do such a thing.”

He sighed. Shook his head. Give Jingfei one of those loving looks. “You are a beautiful woman. The Americans would find you exotic. The Chinese would—”

“I don't want to hear it.”

I'd heard enough. Jingfei yelled at him in rapid Chinese, and when Lucky Ben Wong dropped his head at the insults, that was all I needed. Since my left hand gripped Jingfei's shoulder, I jerked her back, and she fell—right through the tarp. Still holding the China teacup, I flung it at Lucky Ben Wong, who flinched, the craven coward, and rushed his shot. I was also moving, through the partition, and into the dark bathhouse.

A bullet punched through the tarp. Banged off one of the coal oil cans.

“Micah!” Jingfei called out.

I reached toward her voice. Grabbed her hand. Another bullet sliced lower, banged off the tub. By then we was up and running right toward the new wall that had replaced the one I'd torn through during my last visit to Lucky Ben Wong's.

Hit hard, smelled the kerosene, and the cans give, and dirt was falling and we went through, bouncing off the ground in the moonlit night. Behind us, still in his home, Lucky Ben Wong cussed, screamed, and shot.

Rolling over, I saw light from the hole in the wall. Lucky Ben Wong had grabbed a lantern, was holding it in his left hand. There was a flash, and a bullet zipped past my ear. Jingfei screamed—not out of fright, but anger—she was cussing her Future Husband in English and Chinese. All around us, dogs barked, hens squawked, roosters crowed, and Chinese men, women, and kids yelled.