The Road to Hellfire Page 13

  Once every pair of eyes was looking at him, Cane raised his voice. “The Golden Lotus is now closed!” he roared. “Get on out or you’ll catch a bullet!”

  The bartender came up with a sawed-off shotgun in his hand. Cane dropped to his knees, feeling a barrel’s worth of buckshot rip just over his head. He fired back, planting a slug in the barman’s chest. The Tong slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor in a bloody heap. Some of the bottles on the shelf above the bar tumbled down, shattering musically on the wooden floor.

  What the gunshots hadn’t done on their own, the killing accomplished. The Golden Lotus emptied in a rush, as drunks and gamblers scrambled for the door. Even the opium addicts managed to leave, staggering their way outside without looking back. Cane continued down the stairs, the rifle still resting his hands. He heard footsteps behind him and turned around. Another Tong gunman was there, this time going for a revolver. Cane cracked off a shot and hit him first, blasting him right through the skull. Brains spilled into the hallway as he tumbled back.

  No one else raised iron against him. Cane walked down to the first floor of the Golden Lotus and then headed to the basement. He slammed open the door and looked at the stacks of boxes. Cane couldn’t handle them alone. Then he heard a low moan behind him. He turned around and saw that one of the opium fiends hadn’t fled, but simply lay on the ground, reaching towards his pipe.

  Cane kicked the pipe away and hauled the fiend up. He was a rangy white man, with yellowed fingernails a little too long and strings of unkempt dark hair, stubble covering his chin. “Get those boxes outside,” Cane ordered. “Haul them out or I knock your teeth out. Then you can stay in here and suck back the smoke to your heart’s content.”

  “Hmmm?” the fiend asked. He nodded slowly. “Yes, sir,” he finally agreed and got to work.

  While the fiend worked, Cane stepped outside. His heart was pounding. It wasn’t a new thing, to disobey his masters – but rarely with such ferocity and rarely a man as powerful as Mr. Lo. It was still dark in Frisco, but the sun was rising quickly. Mr. Lo would be returning, with his army of Tong Hatchetmen. They wouldn’t be happy about what Cane was doing.

  Outside the alley, Cane saw a single buckboard wagon heading down the open main street. He hurried down the alley, his rifle raised. “Hey,” he shouted to the driver. “Keep your hands raised and hop down from your perch!”The driver was a Celestial in a checkered coat and straw hat, who shook in terror when he saw Cane’s rifle. “Come on down here!” Cane ordered.

  The driver hopped down, his arms raised. Cane reached into his pockets and pulled out a few rolls of folded money. He stuffed it into the Celestial’s pockets. “Go on and run,” Cane said, still keeping the rifle aimed at the man. “Run like the devil’s at your heels!” The Celestial took his advice and hurried away, just as the opium fiend came out with the first box of bones in his hands.

  They worked together and loaded up the buckboard wagon as fast they could. The sun rose while they worked, the first rays of dawn creeping down and reaching the cluttered streets. Cane cursed every passing moment and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the Tong gunmen heading down the street. The opium fiend was shaky on his feet and seemed like his limbs were weighed down. But he hauled the crates to the wagon and stacked them as best as he could. Finally, they were finished.

  Cane pulled himself onto the driver’s seat and grabbed the reins. Two tired mules glanced up at him and he gave their reins a crack to get them trotting. He looked back at the fiend. “You want payment?” he asked, but the addict had already wandered back into the Golden Lotus. There were unattended pipes and he wanted the comfort of his stupor again.

  That was never an option for Cane. He’d been drunk more times than he could count, but even the heaviest vintage couldn’t help him face what he was in the morning – and couldn’t make him feel like anything more but a wandering ghost. Maybe what he was doing now would help. Cane cracked the reins again, doubling the sluggish pace of the mules. The sun was bright overhead, the morning fog just drifting in from the bay. Frisco was going to get a lot more dangerous.

  It was still dawn when Clayton Cane reached the port. He headed down the long rows of docks, passing sailors and stevedores working around their vessels. His face brought him a few odd glances, but not his cargo. It was just another pile of crates, to be sent to some foreign shore. Cane asked around a little and soon found the name of a vessel going to China – a Yankee schooner named the Matilda. Cane rode down the docks, heading down the broad causeway of rough wood that stretched into the ocean.

  “Cane!” He heard his name called in a familiar voice. Cane looked over his shoulder and then swung down from his seat and planted his boots on the wharf. Four of the Tong walked towards his wagon, all armed. The hatchetman he had slugged outside the Golden Lotus was leading them, his face splotched with the purple bruises that Cane had given him. More hatchetmen were behind them, some wielding swords or axes and others packing guns.

  Cane let his hands fall to his pistols. “You’d best turn tail,” he muttered. “Go on and run – or you’ll have to find someone to take your bones home.”

  “I don’t believe in that nonsense like any other Johnny Chinaman!” the Tong snarled. “And you’re as stupid as you are ugly if you think it’s true.” He reached for his revolver. “Kill him,” he ordered. “Make Mr. Lo proud.”

  They reached for guns but Cane already had his revolver in his hands. He opened fire, fanning off the revolver and pounding four shots into the four hatchetman. He laid them out on the dock, knocking their bodies back in his quick and deadly shooting. The bruised Tong managed to get a shot off as Cane’s slug whistled into his gut. His bullet kicked up the wood at Cane’s feet and he slumped down, breathing heavily as he tried to steady his hand for another shot.

  He glared up at Cane. “It saddens me…” he hissed as he died. “That the last thing I see will be your face.”

  “Yeah.” Cane’s revolver thundered again, blasting the Tong dead. He slumped back on the dock.

  Cane swung back into the seat of his buckboard wagon and cracked the reins. Already, Mr. Lo’s other men on the docks heard the gunshots and were coming, running in to see what was happening. Cane knew that they’d see their dead friends and him riding away.

  The other sailors and dockworkers began to flee, hurrying into their ships for shelter or simply running down the dock. Cane ignored them. He tried to stir his mules to go faster, and they broke into a halfhearted gallop. The wagon bucked under Cane and the bones rattled in their crates.

  Behind him, the Tongs were closing in. Cane raised his rifle and fired, driving them back with each shot. Bullets whined around him and Cane cursed himself for his idiocy. “You fellows ought to learn to rest easier!” he roared to the crates of bones. “Because you didn’t rest, I might be giving you some company soon enough!”

  A powerfully-built hatchetman wearing a sleeveless vest came closer at a pounding run, a broadsword swinging in his hands. He leapt onto the back of the wagon, landing between the crates and swinging down his broadsword for Cane’s skull. Cane didn’t have time to shoot him. He pulled back but the broadsword still kissed his chest and sprayed blood onto his coat. Cane glared up as the Tong pulled back the blade again. This time, there would no stopping the broadsword from swinging down and lopping off Cane’s head.

  But then one of the crates snapped open, the lid flying off like it was spring loaded. A long skeletal limb reached out, connected by the diaphanous thread that seemed like so many thin strands of fog. It was a mass of bones, put together with no regard for anatomy or structure and it formed a wild band that whipped around the Tong’s chest and yanked him back. The Tong cursed in Chinese and tried to free himself, but the bone’s grip was like iron. The broadsword hummed through the air in the hatchetman’s hands, slashing wildly.

  It gave Cane time to draw his revolver and take aim. “I’m obliged to you, hungry ghost,” he said and shot the hatchet
man through the throat. The broadsword tumbled down to the docks, the body of the man who wielded it following soon after. The bones slid back into their crate like a jack-in-the-box who had finished its performance. Cane cracked the reins again.

  Then he saw it – the Matilda, floating evenly next to the docks. It was still being loaded for its voyage to China, with cranes and gangplanks bringing cargo up to the deck. Now the ship’s sailors and stevedores ducked behind the railing of their boat, watching everything with curious eyes. Cane tugged on the reins, forcing the mules to stop. His wagon halted.

  “Howdy,” he called to the deck. “There a fellow in charge I can speak with?” The rifle was still in his hands. His scarred face and the blood dripping from the wound in his chest made him look even more imposing.

  A slim man in a blue pea coat stood up, white mutton chops looking like fluffy white clouds smeared against his face. “I am the officer on watch,” he said, removing his peaked cap. “Who in God’s name are you?”

  “Clayton Cane. I’m a bounty hunter by trade.” Cane hopped down from the wagon. “You and your men load up these crates and you be careful. Take them back to China and see that they’re buried or burned or however the Celestials care for their dead.” He let his hands fall to the trigger of his rifle. “You don’t do as I ask and I’ll find out about it. Then the perils of the ocean will be the least of your worries.”

  The officer hurried down the gangplank, nodding to several of his men. “We’ll see them safely home. There’s ample room in the hold. Have you payment for their passage and interment?” If he thought a scarred bounty hunter ordering him to bring Celestial bones back to their home was odd, he didn’t mention it. Cane wasn’t surprised. Having a rifle pointed in one’s direction can do wonders for their understanding and acceptance.

  Cane reached into his pocket and pulled out another roll of bills. He gritted his teeth as he handed them over. This job was becoming worse and worse by the minute – but he wouldn’t turn back and leave the hungry ghost to wander any more. “This ought to cover it,” Cane said, making sure that the officer saw his hand on his rifle. “If it don’t, I can always pay in lead.”

  “It’s m-more than sufficient,” the officer muttered, gratefully taking the money. He shouted to his men. “Load these up!” he ordered. “Double time, boys! We won’t let Mr. Cane down.”

  “Damn right,” Cane agreed.

  “And, ah, there appears to be some other people interested in meeting you…” The officer pointed down the docks.

  As he spoke, Mr. Lo and a few other men were walking down the docks, heading straight for him. Cane ignored the shallow cut in his chest, slung his rifle over his shoulder and reloaded his revolver. “Keep on loading,” he said. “I’ll deal with them.” He walked down the dock, feeling an ocean breeze rush over his scarred face. It was like the touch of the hungry ghosts, but infinitely lighter. Cane passed the wagon as the stevedores began hauling the crates aboard.

  Mr. Lo had his two hatchetman bodyguards by his side, both armed with heavy axes. A white man, expensively dressed in a pearl gray frock coat, top hat and waistcoat, stood next to Mr. Lo, looking somewhat perplexed to be sharing the Celestial’s company. He had gray whiskers over a slight smile and he shared Mr. Lo’s cold eyes. He held a Malacca cane between gloved hands.

  “Mr. Cane,” Mr. Lo said, giving the bounty hunter a glowering bow. “You have fled the Golden Lotus, gunned down my men and stolen my property.” Mr. Lo’s hand drifted to the dagger on his belt. “If you have an explanation, I suppose I would care to hear it, before I slaughter you.”

  Cane’s eyes darted to the white man. “Who’s the swell?”

  “E.W. Dalton, sir – entrepreneur, magnate and – to those sniveling snakes in the newspapers – robber baron.” Dalton held out his hand, but Cane did not take it. “Mr. Lo and I are business partners. I supply him with connections and political protection. He supplies me with workers.”

  “I’ll bet.” Cane turned back to Mr. Lo. “And I done what you asked. You wanted the hungry ghosts gone? I found the only way to stop them from haunting you. I’m sending their bones home, so they can finally rest. You won’t have no more hungry spirits floating around and bothering you – just their blood staining your hands.” Cane folded his arms. “And I’m entitled to be paid for my job.”

  “You want me to pay you?” Mr. Lo’s lips curled back. “Gweilo scum!”

  “Now, now.” Dalton waved his finger at Mr. Lo like he was a naughty child. “We don’t want trouble, Mr. Lo – of any variety. And an argument between you and a white man? Well, even if that white man is a scar-faced freak, that’s just bad for business. Need I remind you what can happen if rumors spread? Instead of arguing with a white man, you may have been revealed to be harming a white woman. And what will happen after that? The noble defenders of Christendom shall swarm upon your Chinatown in a cleansing wave.” His smile grew. “And perhaps some other Tong will emerge as my new business partner.”

  “Gweilo…” Mr. Lo whispered. He pulled a leather bag from his belt and tossed it to Cane. It was stuffed with gold dust. “Payment enough.” Mr. Lo then reached down for his dagger. “But you’d better watch behind your back, Cane. You will never sleep easy, knowing that my Tong demands vengeance for what you have done!” His fingers curled around the handle.

  Cane drew his second revolver and fired, gunning down Mr. Lo before the dagger could be drawn. Mr. Lo toppled back as his two bodyguards charged for Cane, rushing past Dalton. Cane blasted down one of the hatchetman and then reached out and grabbed the axe handle of the other, stopping the blade from reaching his chest. He cocked his revolver and fired again. The third Tong died on his feet.

  As the gunsmoke cleared, Cane looked down at Mr. Lo’s body. He grabbed the Tong boss’s arm and hauled him to the edge of the dock. “Come back and haunt me if you want, like them others,” Cane said, as he pushed the body into the green sea. “Don’t matter if you’re ghost or flesh —you won’t get your vengeance on me.” The body toppled down and splashed into the water. It sunk in seconds.

  Then Cane looked up at Dalton. The robber baron simply clasped his hands and nodded. “I understand you may be compelled to put a bullet into my heart,” Dalton said. “But I urge you not to. I have many friends – far more than Mr. Lo – and I guarantee you won’t leave this city alive if I perish. Furthermore, I hold no grudge against you for killing the Chinaman.”

  “That a fact?” Cane asked.

  “Oh, indeed.” Dalton tipped the brim of his hat. “I can easily acquire new business partners and another supply of coolies. The Chinamen are like animals anyway. Sometimes slaughtering them is the only option.”

  Cane slugged Dalton, ramming his fist deep into the robber baron’s jaw and knocking him hard onto the docks. Dalton sputtered and coughed and Cane kicked his chest, rolling him over until he neared the edge of the wharf. While Dalton spat up shattered teeth and blood, Cane left him and walked alone down the pier.

  Behind him, the remaining crates of bones were loaded onto the Matilda. They’d be taken home and their owners could finally rest. That was not the case for Clayton Cane. But even so, as he looked back and watched the rest of the crates being hauled up onto the ship’s deck, he felt a small spark of happiness. He’d helped those hungry ghosts find peace. For Clayton Cane, that would have to be enough.

  The town of Santiago was burned and its ashes still smoldered when Clayton Cane arrived. Cane rode on the back of a thick-legged palomino mare as he scanned the thin lines of smoke drifting skywards from the charred bank, saloons and houses of the little New Mexico town. There were bodies too, more than Cane could count, sprawled in the dirt. The fire had caught them and they were as blackened as the buildings.

  Clayton Cane was no stranger to harsh sights. His face alone told that story. It was crisscrossed by countless scars and stitch-marks, all surrounding two cold eyes of different colors. The rest of his body was similarly harsh, with broad shoulders an
d thick muscled limbs under a tattered duster. A broad-brimmed hat topped his head, shading the scarred face that gave him his nickname in the bloody border country where he plied his grim trade. Because of his face, he was known as El Mosaico.

  Two revolvers rested on Cane’s gun belt, a rifle was on his back and a Confederate cavalry saber was wrapped up in the bedroll behind his saddle. The weapons were a familiar and comforting weight. Cane reached down and gripped the handle of his revolver as he surveyed the ruined town.

  He supposed it could have been Apaches who destroyed Santiago, but there didn’t appear to be much looting. Goods stayed in their houses and burned with them. Besides, rumor had placed the nearest Apache tribe — a band of Chiracahua under feared warrior Pablo Rojo — further east. And rumor had said that another group of armed men had been spotted around Santiago.

  They were patchwork men, with scarred faces sewn together and body parts that seemingly didn’t match-up. They had been wearing some kind of uniform, a little like Confederate gray, and armed to the teeth. Prospectors and drunks told stories about sighting these monsters in every saloon and inn in the territory. That’s why Cane had come to Santiago– he wanted to see these patchwork men himself, because he believed that they might be related to him.

  Cane had always thought of himself as alone in the world of men. He had not been born, but created, built on the operating table of an insane Southern occultist, scientist and plantation-owner named Dr. Adolphus Angell, near the end of the Civil War. Dr. Angell had lost all three of his sons to the war and desired a Rebel victory at all costs. He knew that the Confederacy didn’t have the manpower to win, so he took corpses from various battlefields, chopped them up and created the monstrosity that was Cane. Dark Germanic magic, Voodoo gleaned from his slaves and mad science brought Cane to life.