Or the Chinese might poison them on purpose.
They made him mad sometimes with their passivity, and on those occasions he found himself wanting to just beat the living tar out of them-which he often did. But that didn't seem to make any difference. Even with bruised and bloodied faces, they still stared at him blankly through those slanty eyes, and it made him want to beat them all the more. Every so often, though, he thought he saw something else behind the submissiveness, an inner hidden fire, a desire for revenge, and he thought that maybe the Chinks would like to poison all the rest of them.
Or maybe it was just his imagination.
The one he'd just kicked into unconsciousness lay unmoving on the ground, and his companions stood by watching impassively. O'Hearn motioned angrily for ihcm to pick him up and take him away, and four of them did so, looking at him all the while with those unreadable eyes, their fellows standing behind them motionless. Some of them had to have wives back home, he thought. He wondered, if he fucked their wives in front of them, whether that would get a reaction out of the passive sons of bitches.
It had been a long time since he'd had a woman, and even an Indian one or a Chinese one sounded good at this point. The railroad had promised to provide women when they were recruiting workers, but they'd gone back on their promise, and the men were getting restless. It wasn't right to live like this; it wasn't natural. They weren't priests.
Nearby, he heard the crack of a whip as one of the hands tried to make a recalcitrant horse team pull a load of ties to the track. That gave him an idea. Maybe tonight, for the men's amusement, he could arrange a little wager. To cheer them up. He could take out the Chinese translator, tie him to a post and whip him. The men could place bets on how long the Chink would last before passing out.
They were going to be in this pass for the better part of a week, so there wouldn't be much variety in the work. Besides, everyone knew their jobs by now. They needed the translator only under special circumstances. If he was out of commission for a few days, it shouldn't pose a hardship.
It might even teach the translator to be a little bit more of a man in the future.
O'Hearn grinned.
And the men always liked a little sport.
March 1868
Although he still kept the house in Chicago, as well as an apartment in New York, for the past five years, Chester Williams' primary residence had been in the small town of Bear Flats, California. It was near there that he had made his fortune in gold, and it was there that he had made his home, using California's finest builders to construct a house he had designed with one of New York's top architects. He felt at home here, and in this backwater village, away from the prying eyes of his peers and the gossiping mouths of their wives, he had set up a virtual fiefdom, a community in which the constabulary existed to do his bidding and the other homeowners lived in fear of his wrath. Several of the local businesses had been set up specifically to serve his needs-he was the only customer of the bookbinder, for instance, and if it had not been for him, there would be no haberdasher in town-and not only did he notice the deference the locals showed to him; he expected it.
It had been known for quite some time that Crazy Merle, the miner who lived up in Hells Canyon foolishly insisting that there was an undiscovered vein of gold running through Dodge Mountain, had taken on a Chinese wife after killing her husband in a drunken rage back in Colima. He and the woman had even had a half-breed kid a while back, and though no one had bothered them until now-afraid that Merle might shoot them on their way up the canyon, more than likely-Williams decided that that had to change. It was an abomination, a man consorting with a Chinese, and after returning from his most recent meeting with Harrison, he decided that such behavior would no longer be tolerated in Bear Flats.
Williams sent his new servant, Eton (an Englishman, no more of the darker peoples for him), to fetch Lane McGrath, the sheriff, and twenty minutes later the old man was in his study, looking warily about. This was the first time anyone from the town had been allowed within his private domain-meetings usually took place outdoors-and Lane was understandably uneasy. He knew this was something important.
Williams dragged it out, amused by the sheriffs discomfort. "Would you like something to drink, Mr. McGrath?"
"No, sir," the sheriff answered.
"I think I'll have a brandy. I always find that brandy soothes my nerves. Are you sure you wouldn't like to join me?"
"Uh, sure. I mean, thank you, Mr. Williams."
Williams smiled, poured the drinks, then sat down in the smoking chair opposite Lane's. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his brandy. "I asked you here because I would like to discuss a situation that I believe has become intolerable. I am speaking, of course, of the miner in Hells Canyon. Merle, I believe, is his name. People call him Crazy Merle."
"Yes. I'm aware of Merle."
"Are you also aware that he consorts with a Chinese woman, against the laws of California and the laws of nature?" He leaned forward. "They have a half-breed child, an abomination under God, and they are flouting their sin right under our very noses!"
Lane was obviously at a loss. "Merle's crazy but he don't cause no trouble. At least not that I'm aware of," the sheriff added quickly. "He mostly keeps to himself and we don't hardly see him except when he comes down for supplies every few months."
"That is not the point I'm making, Mr. McGrath."
The sheriff was silent.
"It is no longer tolerable to me that this evil and depravity exist in our fair corner of the world. We are abetting this wickedness by allowing it to continue and pretending we do not know what is going on."
"You want me to evict Merle?" Lane asked, starting to catch on. "From his own legal claim?"
"I want more than that," Williams said.
And smiled.
They went up Hells Canyon on horseback and on foot, the sheriff and his two deputies in the lead, Williams marching right behind, rifle in hand. A goodly portion of the town tromped behind them as they made their way up the winding road, and Williams was gratified to see such a response. There'd been nothing but support yesterday at the town meeting, but talk was easier than action, and sometimes what people said they'd do and what they did were two different things.
The miner could have shot at them from his cabin, but the throng was dozens strong and even Merle wasn't that crazy. Besides, the sheriff announced their arrival at the head of the canyon by shouting out, "Merle! We need to talk!" as though this were some sort of mobile town meeting and they'd all come this far just to palaver.
The crazy bastard fell for the lie.
He wasn't stupid enough to meet them unarmed, but with one blow to the head from the butt of his Winchester, Lane knocked the miner to the ground while one of his deputies took the man's weapon.
There was no sign of the Chinese woman or the daughter, but Williams and a host of townspeople searched in and around the cabin until the two were discovered huddled in a corner of the small mine that Merle had dug out of the cliffside.
When all three of them were subdued, Williams^ stood on the front porch of the cabin and explained' the situation, speaking loudly enough for even those; in the rear to hear.
He sentenced the Chinese to death.
Merle put up a fight, so crazy now that he seemed to think he was actually in love with the woman. He kicked backward, then thrust himself forward and broke free of the sheriffs grip. His rifle had been confiscated and was well beyond his reach in the hands of Cole Blackman, the grocer, but Merle was quick and wiry and scrambled away from Lane, grabbing rocks from the ground and throwing them as hard as| he could at everyone around him.