The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor: Chapter 5

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery

A meeting in Chinatown brings a new task

Fong Leung San, as he was known when he arrived on the shores of California, lived above a druggist shop on Clay Street in the heart of Chinatown. Some months back I had stepped in after a swarm of out-of-work loafers, “scuppers awash with cheap hooch,” as Henry would describe them, went after Fong with pickaxe handles and bats. Fong was using a strange, but simple contraption of chains and metal balls to hold the rabble at bay, and I watched, entranced, for several seconds. Each time Fong flicked his hands, out from his long sleeves an egg-sized metal ball attached to a thin chain spun a tight circular path. An impenetrable iron curtain formed around him that sent the bats and clubs flying out of the hands of the mob.

In truth, it was the gang that was in more danger than the Chinaman, for the ancient art of chain fighting is more deadly than clubs or knives. John, as I came to know him, was bouncing around on his toes as quickly as a dancer. If he had had it in mind, Fong could have crushed the heads of his attackers, or broken their arms and legs. But he was using only enough force to keep the gang from doing him injury.

I pulled my revolver and fired in the air.

“Stand back,” I roared, “or the next shot will be the last thing you hear on this earth.” That brought the cowards up short. They muttered threats as they skulked away.

The iron balls and chains disappeared up John’s sleeves and, after a few bows and smiles, he and I retired to a nearby tea house. There I became acquainted with this most singular of men. His English was near perfect, his manners genteel, and his knowledge vast. In the ensuing months, the two of us met on a weekly basis as he introduced me to the sights, sounds, and smells of his city within a city. In return, I told him stories and tales of the Blackfoot Nation. He seemed to never tire hearing of a people who had much in common with his own culture, irrespective of outward appearances.

So, despite Henry’s misgivings, it was to John Fong that I decided to bring the poster. I knew he would be able to translate it for me.

Jumping into an open hack right outside my door, I sped away. My cabbie clattered his rig down Montgomery, took a hard left onto Clay and swung into the bustling business district of Chinatown. Lined with open shops, the narrow streets were packed with men dressed in shapeless black jackets, the meen ap. But few women could be seen.

I had the cabbie drop me off a few blocks short of my destination, for I wanted to check my back trail for anyone overly interested in my movements. A sense of being followed was with me whenever I entered Chinatown.

No one was trailing me as I strolled along Clay Street toward Pike Avenue and crossed Dupont Street. Nowhere did I see the danger Henry had warned me of. Children ran in the street, twirling long, green, red and blue scarves on sticks as they whirled and spun in the spring sunlight. I examined the shops and booths, two and three deep with paper banners advertising their wares. After crossing Dupont, storefronts with pyramids of oranges, cabbages, and early season pale melons piled outside their doors caught my attention. Further on, dark brown crisp fowl and strips of smoked pork smelled of exotic spices as they hung from racks. I inhaled odors of grilled duck with orange glaze. Over all lay the scent of incense from the joss houses. I loved the exhilarating confusion of colors, odors, and noises, that bustled with an energetic humanity in the sunny morning light. But, as an investigator of all things evil, I wasn’t unaware of the shadows and sin in the back alleys once the sun sank below the sea. What couldn’t be seen were the tunnels and underground connections between buildings, more, I had been told, than could be counted.

With a nod to a Soothsayer sitting at a small table counting out his yarrow sticks, I ducked between carts to cross the street and entered the wide open door of Wong Yuen’s Drug Shop. After a brief nod to Wong, who was busy grinding white powder with a large glass pestle, I climbed the carpeted back stairs and strode down the long hallway to the red lacquered door with black and gold trim.

As I raised my fist to knock, the door swung open.

Much to my surprise, it wasn’t John Fong himself, or his charming daughter Fa Soo who greeted me. Instead, I found myself looking into the smiling face of a young lass of remarkable beauty, complete with elegant figure enhanced by a gown cinched around her narrow waist.

She was perhaps twenty-four or five, I thought, with a heart-shaped face, ringlets of dark hair touched with bronze, and striking black eyes that shone with humor. The lady was properly dressed in a blue satin ensemble with white trim.

“You must be Mr. Goodfoote,” she said, with a smile that showed even, white teeth. She opened the door wider, bidding me to enter. “Mr. Fong said you’d be along directly.”

I recovered quickly from my surprise. “And you’re not his daughter,” I joked, as I removed my hat.

“No,” the lady chuckled. “I’m not his daughter. She is preparing our tea.” The woman swept into the room, her skirts brushing the thick carpet where golden tigers swam in a blue sky dotted with white clouds.

I closed the door and advanced into a chamber that came straight out of The Travels of Marco Polo. Although I had been in this very room several times, each visit made me imagine I had stepped back into old China, at least in the storybook idea of those ancient dynasties. A variety of carved chairs and a desk made of Chinese teak made up much of the room’s furnishings, while the walls held delicate paintings of mountainous landscapes and rivers.

John Fong’s daughter, Fa Soo, perhaps eighteen years old, turned from the copper tea stove that occupied one wall. Dressed in a form-fitting Mandarin dress of green silk that reached the floor, she bowed deeply in my direction, her hands clasped in front of her.

“Uncle,” she said, with a wide smile. “How pleasant to see you again.” She picked up a teak wood tray holding a large pot and four cups, and brought the tea to a small table in front of a black carved settee with red cushions.

An elderly lady dressed in black Spanish lace was sitting on a small chair next to the couch. She was watching us with keen, gray eyes.

“My name is Emily O’Rourke,” the young woman said with a slight Irish lilt. “and this is my companion, Senora Maria De Avellaneda. You apparently already know Fa Soo.”

I bowed to the Senora, took her offered hand, and was rewarded with a tight smile.

I turned to Miss O’Rourke. “I seem to recall your name, Miss. Something to do with the Catholic Mission House, if memory serves.”

“We were about to have tea. Please join us,” Miss O’Rourke invited, as she lowered herself gracefully onto the settee.

Fa Soo poured three cups of pale tea from a blue willow teapot. “Please excuse me. My father will join you presently.” She then bowed herself out of the room by a door in the far wall.

“Yes,” Miss O’Rourke continued, “I’m the notorious ‘White Devil’ of the Mission House,’ or Bahk qwai, as the triad gentlemen call me.”

“Or Lo Ma, as the slave girls you set free have named you.” I waited until she had handed her duenna a cup and saucer before I sat on a bamboo chair, one of the few uncarved pieces in the room.

“ ‘Old mother,’ yes. You’re well informed, Mr. Goodfoote. Have we met previously?”

“No, Miss. But this city boasts thirty-five newspapers. Your activities, along with your friends at the Catholic Mission House, have been well covered.”

“You emphasize the word ‘activities’. You don’t approve, Mr. Goodfoote?” The lady took a sip of her tea.

I looked at the tea Fa Soo had poured me, saw it was more yellow than brown, and took a small sip. “It’s not a matter of approving,” I said. “You put yourself at great risk.”

Emily O’Rourke put down her tea cup and looked directly at me.

“Mr. Goodfoote,” she began. “Chinatown has some 20 to 30 thousand souls crammed into twelve square blocks. It is not only crowded, but disease-ridden and, frankly, dangerous to all women, despite the efforts of Mr. Fong and his colleagues.” She picked up her cup. “The women we harbor and protect were kidnapped in China as children, some as young as five years old, to work as house slaves in the mansions of the rich Whites in this city. They’re sold into prostitution as soon as they reach twelve or thirteen. It’s intolerable, Mr. Goodfoote. Absolutely intolerable.” She took a deep breath, her dark eyes moist. “Mr. Fong has been instrumental in helping rid Chinatown of these criminal slave-traders. Without his help, we would be able to do nothing.”

“You paint a vivid picture, Miss O’Rourke. I understand your passion. I’ve witnessed atrocities as bad among my own people.”

She smiled. “Your own people, Mr. Goodfoote?”

“I’m the son of a Blackfoot woman. It’s my Irish father who gave me my one blue eye and light skin.”

I heard a “tsk” from Senora De Avellaneda, and saw her turn her head away. To the old line Californios, an Indio is not fit company for tea. I wondered how the older lady felt about accompanying her companion to Chinatown.

Miss O’Rourke didn’t seem to notice the subtle insult. “I do apologize for the lecture, Sir. I’ve heard much about the heartbreaking treatment of the native peoples in our country. Was your childhood very difficult?”

“No, Miss. My childhood was idyllic, until the Army came a’calling. The world I had known then vanished.”

“How did you survive the depredation of your tribe, to become the man you’ve become? Did the Missionaries raise you? I’ve heard they’ve done wonderful work among the sav…Indians.”

I laughed. “The missionaries were elsewhere, Miss O’Rourke. In any case, an enterprising man by the name of Erastus Bean bought me from the soldiers, put me in a cage, and charged a penny to see ‘The Wild Boy of the West.’ ”

“Oh, dear me,” Miss O’Rourke said. But I knew she had seen worse right here in San Francisco.

“It was a life filled with travel to exotic places. Chicago, Cleveland, New York. And I was given a close-up view of some extraordinary events.”

“So you escaped? Or were you rescued?”

“It was a rescue. We had set up on Boston Common when a prominent physician saw me gnawing on a bone as part of my act. He threatened to horsewhip Mr. Bean unless I was cleaned up and released. I’m forever grateful to the man.”

“I’m sure you can relate to the poor children of the Chinese, then. Please have your tea. It’s made from Chinese pears and is a favorite of Mr. Fong.”

I smiled and took another sip. Although it tasted a bit sweet, it certainly was tolerable. The duenna had placed her cup and saucer on a small table.

Just then, the door in the back wall opened and Fong Leung San appeared.

Dressed in a long blue Changchun with gold embroidered tigers on the front, and a black round cloth cap on his bald head, John Fong was in his middle years, well-built and tall for a Chinese.

First, he bowed deeply to Senora Avellaneda, then to Miss O’Rourke, “Your presence, Miss O’Rourke, and that of your charming companion, is much like sunbeams shining through approaching thunder clouds. Beauty and charm in the midst of turmoil.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Fong,” Miss O’Rourke smiled. She poured a cup of tea for John.

I had risen when John entered the room. “Mr. Goodfoote,” he said as he bowed deeply, his hands folded inside his roomy sleeves “Your visit honors this insignificant person and brings happiness to his day.”

“And yet you speak of turmoil,” I said, as I returned his bow. “What darkens your horizon, my friend?” Although I had come to Fong for help, I wondered what had come into his life to cause him concern. It occurred to me Miss O’Rourke may somehow be involved.

John sat in a carved teak chair, picked up his teacup, and sipped his tea. “Fa Soo has made a fine pear tea, Charles. She has learned to add just the right amount of goji berries and rock sugar.”

Obviously, John Fong was not going to get to the nub of his trouble until the amenities were properly executed. I took another small sip of tea. “It’s delicious, John.”

I sat for a moment longer, then said, “When I arrived, Miss O’Rourke was expecting me. Even I didn’t know I was coming until moments before I left my office.”

“When you entered Chinatown, Charles, you were observed by many people. Although you left your cab near Dupont Street, runners came to inform me of your presence.”

I decided to accept John’s explanation even though I suspected he had mysterious means at his disposal other than just runners. It brought to mind my uncle Keeps-the-Lodge of the Blackfoot Nation, who read spirit rings cast by a predator to tell when and where the puma or the fox was walking. He did it by listening to the birds, insects and wind. I wondered if John employed similar abilities.

“I have also been informed that you may have something you wish me to see,” John said.

For a moment I just stared at him. I had made no mention of the placard I carried in my coat pocket.

“There was a poster hung in Ross Alley with the name of a man who is not Chinese,” John added. “ Perhaps he came to engage you in its meaning. Do you wish me to study this poster, Charles?”

Spies among the Chinese are not unusual, and the wide web of shadow people who kept Fong informed of activity in Chinatown was phenomenal. Of course, I thought, the agents he employed would have noted the poster immediately, and having a Whiteman’s name on it would stir a conversational pot. John would have been quickly informed. As in the past, I wondered what position in the Chinese power structure John Fong held. Was he a government official? A spymaster?

All I said, though, was, “Of course, John.” I removed the placard from the pocket of my coat. “But perhaps I could return when your visit with the ladies has concluded. This little puzzle won’t interest them.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Goodfoote. I am interested in all activities in Chinatown. And I assure you, I’m familiar with posters on Murderers’ Wall.” Emily O’Rourke picked up the tray and set it aside. “Senora Avellaneda speaks very little English.” Enough to catch my mention of being a Blackfoot, however. I glanced at John, but he made no objection, and the duenna had turned her head away from us. So, I spread the poster out onto the cleared table, and the three of us bent over the writing.

“This Samuel Clemens is your client,” John noted. It wasn’t a question.

“The poster is very clean,” Emily added. “It hadn’t been up long. Most of the placards I’ve seen are dark with grime. This one is nearly pure white.”

“What does the Chinese part of this say?” I asked. “Are there names of other men who are targeted for murder?”

John ran his finger over the calligraphy. “No,” he said. “There are no other names here. In fact, this is a page copied from the Chinese book called Huangdi Neijing.” Fong sat back and pulled the poster onto his lap. ‘The Golden Emperor’s Inner Canon of Medicine.’ ”

“Who is the Golden Emperor?” I asked, while noting how keenly John was studying the Chinese writing. “Or, more likely, who was he?”

Fong said something softly in Chinese, then stood and went to his desk where he removed a large magnifying lens. Returning to the tea table, he began to scrutinize the calligraphy. Finally, a few moments later, he laid down his lens and looked at us.

“My humblest apologies for keeping you waiting in silence. This calligraphy closely resembles a form of ancient writing seldom seen in these modern times. It is called bird-track grass script. Further study is essential. May I keep this poster for a few days, Charles?”

“Of course, John. But, I ask again, who was the Golden Emperor?”

Emily picked up the teapot and looked at Senora De Avellaneda who had her head bowed, seemingly asleep. Miss O’Rourke then refilled our remaining three cups.

John spoke quietly. “The Golden Emperor was one of the founders of China whose origins are lost in the mists of history, probably around four or five thousand years ago. He taught the Chinese people how to tame animals, how to grow the five grains. And how to cure illness.”

“So he was a legend, not a real person?”

“It is said he was the first emperor, and much evidence of his life has been found.”

“What has an emperor from thousands of years ago to do with Samuel Clemens?”

“Nothing at all, from what I can see. The writing is difficult for any but the most educated Chinese to read. It is not a reward poster. And Miss O’Rourke is right. This poster was hung early in the morning, shortly before it was taken down. Mr. Clemens has nothing to fear from the bu hao dui.”

I put down my teacup. “I’m pleased to hear that, John. But I still view it as a threat. If it had been left up for long, someone may have taken action, despite the difficulty in reading the rest of the message. I’ll gladly leave the poster with you for your further perusal.”

“Thank you, Charles.” Fong bowed his head slightly. “There is another matter, however, that we need to discuss.”

I sat up straighter and studied John’s face.

“Charles, we Asian people of this city are threatened each moment of our lives. You know this. The police are feared here as much as in the Heavenly Empire, and for many of the same reasons.” He studied his tea cup. “The torture inflicted by the courts in China to get confessions is matched by police methods in San Francisco. Beatings of Chinese by many of the police China Squad are common.”

I nodded. This was the first time in our friendship this reticent man had broached the plight of the inhabitants of Chinatown. Miss O’Rourke was sitting on the edge of the settee, staring straight ahead.

“Chinese are not allowed to testify in court against any Whiteman,” John continued. “Therefore, we rectify our difficulties among ourselves, when it is within our ability to do so, and bring harmony to many painful situations.”

He took another sip of tea. “It is quite rare when our own actions are insufficient to relieve the suffering of the innocents among us, when harmony cannot be reached by the efforts of those who wield power in DuBan Jie.”

I knew DuBan Jie was what he often called Chinatown. “If I can help in any way, John, I am happy to do so.” This is a serious matter, I thought, and wondered what would require my aid that he, with his vast resources, could not accomplish.

John Fong smiled. “I was certain of your willingness to be of service. The Six Companies would like to employ your agency at your usual fee for a delicate matter.”

I was aware The Six Companies was a group of prominent Chinese businessmen who, for the most part, looked out for Chinese immigrants. They arranged for passage to and from China for workers, kept a bank for the wages people earned, and stepped in when conflicts arose. But outside of Chinatown, they were pretty much ignored.

Although I had come to Fong for help, it now seemed evident I had been expected, and that Pinkerton’s Agency was about to be hired by its first Chinese client.

“I know Fa Soo worked for the Six Companies as an interpreter,” I said. “but I was not aware of your association with the firm.” It explained why Miss O’Rourke had come to John for advice, for the support of the Six Companies was of immense importance to the success of her work.

Emily O’Rourke’s deep sigh interrupted my train of thought. “Mr. Fong, I hold the opinion that the presence of another person would increase complications, not lessen them,” she said. “While I greatly appreciate your concerns for my success and well-being, I don’t see why my simple meeting is more dangerous than the many rescues I, and my sisters, have performed successfully in the past.”

Ignoring her, John dropped his eyes and, gazing at the teapot, said, “Charles, are you familiar with the League of Righteous Tigers, the Yi Hu Hui?”

“No, never heard of any group called The Righteous Tigers. It sounds like a martial arts group, or a tong perhaps.”

“It’s an early Triad Society. The tongs, like the Six Companies, are benevolent groups formed to aid the Chinese people. The triads are secret criminal organizations, and the Yi Hu Hui is the most evil of them. They are responsible for most of the crime committed against the Chinese in San Francisco.”

“Is this gang a threat to the Catholic Mission House? Is that why you’re concerned about Miss O’Rourke’s safety?”

“Up to now, the Yi Hu Hui have only made threats when Miss O’Rourke and her sisters at the Mission rescued children from the Willow Quarter. But I fear her actions of late may bring attacks against her person.”

“That does sound dangerous, John. I know many of the officials in San Francisco are corrupt, but there must be someone in the white power structure who could help protect her from this gang.”

John gave a slight nod. “We believe we have found just the man. He is a State Administrator and has spoken out against this criminal element in our district.”

Quickly, Miss O’Rourke spoke up. “I have a meeting with State Administrator Michael Dillman tomorrow evening at his hotel. Mr. Fong thinks I need a male escort.” Emily raised her chin slightly before continuing, “I have met the Administrator on several occasions. He is not, shall we say, a formidable man.”

“Miss O’Rourke,” Fong said. “I have great respect for your skill in protecting yourself. But it is not Administrator Dillman who causes concern. It is the Yi Hu Hui.”

“How could the criminals have heard of this meeting? The Administrator assures me he has told only his closest advisors. Other than the Administrator and the people in this room, few know of it.”

“And yet, I knew of your appointment within minutes after the arrangements were made. The Yi Hu Hui will also be so advised by their spies.”

“I’ll be adequately chaperoned, Mr. Fong. Miss O’Shannahan and Miss McMasters will accompany me. We have faced hoodlums in the past and bested them. Most are cowards and a show of force is usually all it takes for them to back down.” She again lifted her chin just a bit. “If the situation requires more force, we can supply that as well.”

John looked at me and I spoke up. “It certainly can’t hurt to have me along. I’ll keep my mouth closed and will even wait outside the door, if you so require. I won’t intrude. In fact, you won’t know I’m there.”

I was rewarded by a tired smile from Emily. “Thank you, Mr. Goodfoote. You are so understanding.” She gave a resigned sigh. “I suppose a discrete Pinkerton detective will be acceptable. Does that satisfy your unease, Mr. Fong?”

“Most certainly,” answered John with a smile and nod of his head.

Emily stood and gathered her bonnet and gloves, so John and I quickly rose. She gave Fong a slight curtsy which he returned with a bow. Senora Maria Avellaneda, who had not seemed to be listening during our conversation, joined us at the door.

“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Fong. And your wise counsel. Good day to you, Mr. Goodfoote. If you call at eight tomorrow evening at the Mission House, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement that will include your presence.”

“Where does the Administrator reside?” I asked.

“The Concord Hotel.” She tied her bonnet and pulled on her gloves. “He has the third floor suite. Now, Gentlemen, we’ve a carriage waiting so there is no need to escort us to the street.”

With that, she followed her duenna out the door. John Fong smiled, his hands folded in the sleeves of his gown. “She is a wonderful woman with an unconquerable spirit, but she is dismissive of the danger in which she puts herself.”

I picked up my hat and started to leave. “She seems to know her own mind, John, but I’ll either be with her or not far behind. No harm will come to her.”

“Thank you, Charles,” he said, bowing deeply. “I will rest well knowing you are engaged in Miss O’Rourke’s protection.”

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

Chapter 6

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery

Kaya awaits the battle with the ‘Dark Men’

The Mexican soldiers in their blue tunics with white slacks could be easily seen from a mile away. Kaya-Te-Nse and the war-chief Natchie watched the long line of horsemen as they wound their way among the boulders and cacti of the desert valley. They were on a direct course to the village of Oje Caliente, the Apache encampment on Bear Creek.

For three days, ever since the Federales had left Fort Alameda and traveled north across the Rio Mimbre, Kaya had had an uneasy feeling. But she had passed it off when she saw the vision of Goodfoote in the sweat lodge. Later, her hands and arms began to tingle when she moved them in the direction of Mexico. Her Sunrise gift from Changing Woman of locating the enemy was became stronger as the column of cavalry was joined by nearly a hundred civilian vaqueros from rancheros scattered along the border. Never before had her little band of Red Paint People faced such a large force of heavily armed enemies.

The women and children of Oje Caliente were sent into the Black Mountains for safety, but the warriors were determined to fight this incursion deep into their stronghold. Because of Kaya’s warning, riders had gone to three different Apache villages for aid, and a council of chiefs had sent many warriors to Oje Caliente to await the soldiers.

The Mexicans rode two abreast, with three wagons carrying supplies. In front of the long column were the trackers. Kaya and Natchie watched as the scouts from the Odlam tribe, traditional hated enemies of the Apache, sought tracks that would lead them to the village of the People. The trackers were dressed in dun colored blouses, and each wore a sombrero as protection from the desert sun. Kaya knew their keen eyes had discovered the traces of the comings and goings of many feet, and an attack was now only hours away. But the Mexican leader would not commit his troops until he knew the exact location and number of the lodges of the Apache, so he would delay his attack until his scouts were sent to the village and returned.

Kaya hurried to the camp and dressed in a woman’s long purple gown. She joined Dashante by the fire and stirred a pot suspended over a campfire. They pretended not to notice the three enemy scouts. The Odlam were good trackers, but taking handouts from the Mexicans had made them clumsy and careless. She could actually smell the hot sauces in their sweat as the breeze blew their odor to her. An Apache would approach an enemy downwind, Kaya thought with contempt. For several minutes, the scouts watched the two women doing women’s chores, and only two men warriors were in sight, sitting in the sun, dozing. Making as little noise as they could, the three Odlam scouts returned to report to their commander.

Natchie signaled when the scouts had reached the Mexican column. The fighting was about to begin. Kaya and Dashante pulled off their dresses revealing the shirts of the Apache warrior men. Dashante dipped her hand into red face paint made with ochre. She impressed a crimson handprint on her face . Kaya used yellow to paint a broad band across her eyes, temple to temple. With their legs bare but for a breech cloth and high Apache boots, and with flowing black hair, the woman-warriors were difficult to distinguish from male Apache fighters. Kaya checked her Henry Repeating Rifle, then swung it by its rawhide strap over her shoulder. This time, she would attack with the lance, a traditional weapon of the Red Paint People. Cartridges for the rifle were scarce. If she survived this battle, she would need the long range of the rifle in future battles. Kaya had a leather-wrapped war club held to her left wrist by a thong, and a large Scout knife was in a sheath on her belt. Today, the Mexicans would feel her wrath.

Colonel Ignacio Zaragoza Morales knew he had an easy victory. His orders were to kill all Apaches, men, women and children. After this battle, Colonel Morales told his aide-de-camp, the Apache would no longer be a problem for the rancheros or the towns and villages of Mexico. A bounty was paid for each scalp his soldiers took, one hundred pesos for a man and fifty for a woman’s scalp. Children’s scalps would only bring twenty-five pesos, but he planned to take many this day. The sun was now in the west and would be behind his soldiers when they attacked, right in the eyes of the savages in the village. Colonel Morales was a thorough military tactician who had fought many battles against the French and the Austrians. These ignorant Indio’s were of no consequence. Even the Holy Father in Rome had given his blessing for their extermination.

To ensure that none of the vermin escaped, the Colonel sent fifty civilian riflemen on foot to each side of the village, up among the rocks to hide until the cavalry attacked. Then, any Apache who tried to flee would be cut down by the vaqueros on the sides of the village.

From behind her pony, Kaya watched these preparations with interest. The Mexican flankers were putting themselves between the warriors hiding in those very rocks further up the slope, and the village itself. She watched the horse soldiers gather at the entrance to the camp.

With a resounding cry, the Mexican cavalry charged.