The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 42

Goodfoote returns to his Blackfoot roots

For some time now, I had gathered clues, much like sticks for a campfire. I now had all the wood necessary, but my campfire was without structure. It was time to put my twigs of information together to ignite the fire that would bring light to the dark shadows of this complex case. To do this, I knew I had to set my mind free to wander, see the patterns, reveal what I knew was hidden in the maze inside my mind. And for that, I needed wild places, such as they were, near San Francisco. It was time to reconnect with my Blackfoot blood.

I saddled a mare in the corral outside Byron’s Stable, left an appropriate rental fee, and rode into the hills beyond the lamplight of town. I gave the horse her head and she took me to an area where I found a sycamore tree near a circle of pines. The field fell away to a tree-lined ravine, darkness hiding its depth. Dismounting, I loosened the mare’s cinch, tied her lead to a sapling, and eased myself to the ground, my back against the tree. I took a deep breath, loaded and lit my pipe, and leaned back as I listened to the night.

To the People, knowledge has an existence independent of human beings. A person doesn’t seek information but rather, “comes to a knowing,” as Keeps-the-Lodge often said. So I was sitting, miles from the city, to “come to a knowing” of a way through the dark twists and turns of this case.

Drinking in the blaze of stars that filled the sky, I surrendered to my surroundings. Across the deep darkness of the wide ravine before me, a barred owl called to her mate, his answer coming from far away. I listened carefully, for to my People, Owl brings messages to humans who listen deeply, and respect, the language of the winged night-warrior.

Chirping night insects, the whisper of a panther’s soft pad on dry needles in the nearby pines, and the snuffling of a bear working his way along the bottom of the crevasse helped put me into the world of wild creatures. I pulled my blanket closer around me and drew in a mouthful of fragrant pipe mixture, then blew it slowly upward. Bear and panther held no fear for me, for they were part of the sacred world of Napi, The Old Man, as was I, this night.

Here on Earth, man and beast moved in their own patterns, for good or evil, putting down sign for the skilled tracker to read. Occupied with gathering clues, I had not seen the whole trail. But now, with the help of the Old Man, the patterns of this case would reveal themselves.

Every man or woman who lives by reading the manuscript written on the ground has their own way of teaching their art. Keeps-the-Lodge, my mentor, was no exception, and he taught in a way that involved the entire universe.

First, Keeps-the-Lodge had me study the positions of the sun and moon, and how their light played with the shadows in the track.

Where was the light in this case? Eyes closed, I let my mind drift back to the police bulls-eye lantern that had showed the tracks on the roof of the hotel where the Administrator had lost his head. Barefoot prints of a man with wide feet, a splayed big toe on each foot. Kick-ups in the dust meant a quick moving man, up on his toes as he ran. I watched in my mind’s eye as he scampered across the roof, tossed the Administrator’s head down the chimney, and clambered down the black rope to the alley below. His footprints gave me the vision of the man.

Another lamp showed me the tracks of three men left in our office after the fire. Hobbs, and two others. Another stick of information for my fire.

I remembered how Keeps-the-Lodge got my senses working by having me smell the track. How the musty odor of a Shoshoni track made with a buffalo rawhide boot differed from the tanned scent of a Cree moccasin. From that faint scent, I could see the track-maker, friend or enemy.

How did this case smell? What odors came to mind? The spilled beer and old urine of the Bull Run pushed to the front of my brain, along with the fear in Big Willy’s sweat. Gunpowder from my revolver and from Jubal’s Colt when we were ambushed. The blood of Administrator Dillman on the walls of his hotel room. More sticks for me to work with.

“When you track,” Keeps had said, “listen for the song of the winged-people, your cousin the breeze, the many-legged crawlers, the leaf crushed by the moccasin of an enemy. They will tell you what you need to know.”

Sounds flooded my brain. “You’re a piss-ant in a buffalo stampede.” The scream of a woman who saw the decapitated body of the politician. The thunder of the team of horses racing toward Emily in the street. The bomb blasting the Mission House door. Like a swarm of stinging insects, these sounds brought feelings of peril, menace, and brutality surrounding the ladies of the Mission House

My Blackfoot blood was racing, bringing more visions. “Know who else is watching,” Keeps-the-Lodge had warned. I saw the inked picture of a knife on the left hand of a man. A seafaring man. A man I had dismissed in the saloon as an Australian sailor off a windjammer the night One-Eyed Jack Skaggs was murdered. Now I saw the picture wasn’t the tattoo of a knife or dagger. It was the drawing of a short sword.

Without warning, a smell of rot assailed my senses, and the stark image of a herd of buffalo, slaughtered carcasses strewn across the prairie, rotting in the sun, came to me. Standing in the field of dead buffalo, I saw Napi, the Old Man, sacred Child of Creator Sun. Although the Old Man takes many forms, I had been taught, he will always be recognized by the seeker. Here he came as an elderly Blackfoot, long gray hair, dressed in beaded buckskin robes, carrying a buffalo lance. He raised the lance in his hand above his head, gazing skyward in prayer or condemnation.

The Old Man doesn’t show himself often, but when he does, a powerful change is about to take place. The dead buffalo told me the change, whatever it was, would not be pleasant.

When the vision faded I opened my eyes, and I was back in my circle of pines, alone with the mare. I laid back on my blanket, my breath coming short and shallow. Above, the stars filled the sky like shimmering tears, and this time the owl called in vain for her mate.

Tomorrow would be the night of the moonless sky. If the visions I beheld came to pass, an apocalypse was about to be released that would lay waste to San Francisco. And the three women of the Mission House would be the first to be sacrificed.

I pledged that, while I still drew breath upon this Earth, I wouldn’t let that happen.

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 43

Kaya, ready for battle, feels an encroaching evil

Kaya watched the Old Man in the Pointed Lodge rise in the sky, opposite the tail of the Puma. As these star constellations slowly turned, she would know the advancement of the night. Wrapped in her wool poncho, the warrior-woman felt an encroaching evil. Her body relaxed into itself. Whatever enemy was to come, Kaya would take the fight to them. Almost without thinking, she had picked up a flint stone and was methodically drawing the blade of her scout knife across it, honing it to a keen edge.

And the Apache woman waited.

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 44

Another attempt on the life of Goodfoote

As I sat on my blanket pad, shortly after I returned to my hotel room, I saw the starlight outside my window vanish, then reappear, as if something or someone had momentarily blocked it. Then I watched as the window sash was slowly raised, and a small stick was pushed through the opening.

Just as I cocked back the hammer on my revolver I heard a gasp, and the stick dropped to the floor. Then a shadow violently jerked upward past the window. I stepped to the side of the window and peered out, but could see nothing. The alley that runs behind the hotel was empty.

Carefully, I picked up the stick and found it was a section of hollow bamboo. Only about a foot long, one end was packed tightly with a white powder. It didn’t take a Doc Thorp to know this powder was a noxious toxin, probably designed to be blown through the bamboo blowpipe for me to inhale as I slept. But what had happened to my would-be assassin?

I lit my lantern and hurried down the hallway to the stairs. Revolver in hand, I pushed open the door to the roof. At first, with the limited range of my lantern, I could see little. The sliver crescent moon had long set and the sky gave a soft luminescence of starlight, but as I swung my lantern, I saw a dark form lying near the low balustrade that overlooked the rear of the hotel. It was the body of a Chinese man, face up, dressed from head to toe in black, his sightless eyes open to the sky.

I moved toward the body cautiously, keeping a proper lookout for a trap. The Chinese cìkè are known to play dead until approached, then spring into action. From the bloated face and budging eyes of the corpse, however, I could see his springing days were behind him. A brief examination by lantern light showed the man had been garroted, a thin cord still knotted around his throat in a kind of slip knot.

Other then me, there was no one else, alive or dead, on the roof.

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 45

Hobbs resigns, and Goodfoote puts his plan into action

I spent the next hour with Sergeant Monaghan and his squad, mostly answering the officer’s questions. I told him the tracks near the body had been wiped clean, and the man was obviously a triad assassin. Monaghan showed little interest in the bamboo blow pipe, and let me retain it. I knew John Fong would like to examine such a sinister weapon.

According to Monaghan, Doc Thorp was tied up with an injured child run down by a horse, so the body of my would-be assassin was trundled off by the men who worked for Bradshaw’s. I was finally able to return to my room shortly before morning.

Dawn brought a thick fog that pressed against my windows like a wet rag, the pale sun barely visible above the roof of the saloon across the alley. Immediately after my morning ablutions, I headed to my office noting how the gray mist muffled sound and limited sight. Even the ever present clatter of horses and grinding of cart wheels were softened.

I was surprised to see a light still burning in Hobbs’ office window. My surprise turned to caution when I found the street door unlocked. Revolver in hand, I climbed the stairs, pausing at every creak of the building.

I found Pike’s office unoccupied. Pinned in the dead center of Hobbs’ new desk was a single sheet of paper held in place by a Bowie knife. I wrenched the knife free and read the unflattering pronouncements scrawled in Hobbs’ hand. In vulgar language, the message indicated a pointed disrespect for Jubal, Henry, and me. Written in black ink, it was on a form we use when someone resigns his position with the agency. Mr. Hobbs would not be returning to his post with the Pinkertons.

The open petty cash box lay on the floor, empty. A quick check of footprints on Henry’s polished floor further confirmed Hobbs had left under his own power.

Henry arrived, went to his cubby, and quickly came down the hall to my office.

“I couldn’t but notice the pig sticker on Mr. Hobbs’ new desk, jest now, yer lordship. Yer know I ain’t a man to pry, but could this mean Mr. Hobbs won’t be comin’ aboard fer coffee this mornin’?”

“Mr. Hobbs has resigned, Henry. How much money was in the petty cash box when you left last night?”

Henry closed one eye and looked up at the ceiling. “I’d say a good fifty dollars or thereabouts.”

Jubal arrived and I took him to Hobbs’ office to show him what I had found. Jubal picked up the note.

“Looks like we scared him good,” Jubal said. “Hobbs must have thought you were going to replace him as the snitch, and he knows what happened to Skaggs and Dillman. He’ll be heading for the high country, most likely.”

“That’s the way I read it. Get a cup of coffee then check at nearby stables to see whether he rented a horse, or bought one. He probably had a stash of money somewhere. And check at his hotel. See when he was there last. Maybe you can find something, but then hustle back here. We have a lot to do before nightfall.”

“You’re acting different today, Charles, more direct.”

“You’re right, and I’ll fill you in later.”

After Jubal left, Henry came in with another cup of coffee. I was busy writing on official Pinkerton stationery. “Henry,” I said, “I need you to take this letter to Colonel Barclay at the Presidio. Hand it to him in person. Only Colonel Barclay. No one else.”

“Wal, now, Capt’n,” the old salt grinned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “yer not tackin’ to the win’ard like usual this mor’n, I see. It seems like ya caught yerself a followin’ zephyr overnight. I’ll step right along sharp-like.”

I handed him the letter and some change for a cab ride. “Before you go, get me the telegram blanks.” After Henry dropped off a pad of telegram blanks, he saluted me sharply, then clambered down the stairs.

The first telegram was to the Deputy US Marshals, for I knew I would soon need their services. Then a brief wire to Pinkerton Headquarters letting them know Hobbs had vamoosed and that a more complete report would follow. A message to the Department of the Treasury in Washington was last.

I started a report to William Pinkerton detailing my findings and my suspicions. It took nearly two hours and Henry returned just as I finished. I sealed the missive and sent Henry out again to the exchange two blocks away to mail the report and dispatch the telegrams. He was back in fifteen minutes.

A pot of coffee and a plate of small cakes appeared within an hour of Henry’s return, just as Jubal came into my office. The detective reported Hobbs had skipped town in a hurry shortly after we’d left him, riding a horse bought and paid for weeks ago.

“Yer know, Capt’n,” Henry said as he poured Jubal’s coffee, “there were a great fire over in the Trough last night.”

Jubal laughed. “This town is known for two things, Henry. Earthquakes and fires.”

“It twern’t no earthquake caused the Bull Run to burn to the ground,” Henry growled. “And put Willy Roylott in Saint Bart’s, along with near dozen o’ his mates.”

“What happened?” I asked. “What caused it?”

“Steady as she goes, there, Capt’n. I know nothin’ but what the boys down the Listing Scow was gabbin’ ‘bout. Some jackanapes heaved a little banger inside the door o’ the Bull Run and blew Willy’s inclinations clean out his bum. Burned ten of his genteel clientele that we knows of. Some say ten more ran outta the back with their coats still a smokin.’ And the s’plosion conflagrated four other joints. It were a proper toastin’, it were.” He went toward the doorway carrying the coffee tray. “Yer probably heard by now thet a couple o’ Willy’s gunhands got corpsed a couple nights ago, up on Broadway. Someone’s whittl’n Willy down, piece by piece. ”

“Is Willy about to go under?” Jubal asked. He glanced at the headlines in his newspaper and folded it back to show me the story of the saloon’s bombing.

“Nay,” Henry said as he paused at the door. “But his bum is bright red as his nose. Bullump is lookin’ for Patty O’Boyle and his mates. The word is it were Willy’s Ducks dressed like Chinee that bombed the Mission House. The Fenian don’t take kindly to that bit o’ mischief. To them, the Mission House is near-like a holy place.” With that, he chuckled as he clomped down the hall.

“Jubal,” I said. “My concern here is that we were seen in the Bull Run having words with Willy, and that may be all Bullump needs to frame us for murder and arson. If we’re poking into places Bullump and his handlers want to keep concealed, it would fit their plans damned snugly to hold us in a cell where we can’t defend ourselves. Even for a night, that could be downright unhealthy.”

“Bullump would shoot us both in the back in a dark alley without another thought,” Jubal mused. “But it would be too much trouble for him coming after two Pinks when he can get a pack of Irishmen just for the taking. Besides, you were at a party with the mayor and chief of police when the bomb went off.”

I nodded and began to pace. “It wasn’t the Irish who bombed the Bull Run, Jubal.” Then I told him about the bamboo pipe with poison and the sudden demise of my would-be assassin. “Just like the attempt on my life, the bombing was a housecleaning chore. This whole thing is starting to boil like a pot of Mexican chili.”

“Glad to see you’re still upright, Bossman. I’ll go talk to Willy and see if the blast loosened his tongue any. If that bomb got him mad enough, he might just feel like palavering.”

“No time for that now, Jubal. We have other preparations to make.”

“Preparations? For what? What do you know? I’m in the dark here, Charles.”

“Trust me, Jubal. If I’m reading this trail right, Hell is about to bubble over, and it could get downright calamitous. For starters, we’ll need to keep a close watch on the church ladies tonight. A damn close watch.”

Jubal cocked his head and gave me a slight squint. “Why tonight? What are you seeing here?”

I then told Jubal everything I suspected. That Walker and Darrigan were supplying gold to Lo Ping who was smuggling it out of the country. That only one man had a railroad spur running right through his property, and that was William Darrigan.

“They bring in the gold aboard their railcars, melt it down into thin rods, and slip them into bamboo shoots. Then they run the shoots down to the docks, and get them aboard Lo Ping’s junks. The shelves and bed-frames are all bamboo, so that’s all the harbor inspector sees.”

I sat down and leaned my elbows on my desk.

“This gang moves fast, but they’re sloppy. And overconfident. That bomb was supposed to kill Willie, but it failed. Those gunslingers were supposed to murder us, but they failed, too. I think Hobbs was next on their list, but he beat it out of town.”

Jubal nodded. “But they got Hooper, Skaggs, and Dillman.”

“And they’ve been stumbling ever since. The center of this whole tangled web, JT, is that twelve word line. ‘The Golden Emperor will ride the Jade Dragon through the moonless night.’ Tonight is the moonless night. I expect we’ll finally meet The Golden Emperor. He’ll be riding a Jade Dragon, and all the fires of Hell will be coming with him.

“But right now, I need to talk to Emily.”

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 46

Goodfoote warns Emily of the danger to the ladies of the Mission House

Emily O’Rourke came down the stairs into the entrance hall of the Catholic Mission House. She smiled and cocked her head to one side, her curls swaying with the motion.

“You wished to see me, Mr. Goodfoote? May I assume this is not a social call?”

I played with my hat brim while I looked into her wide, dark eyes. In case I had ungentlemanly intentions, the housemother who had admitted me stood nearby, just out of earshot.

“Yes, Emily. It’s a matter of some urgency that I trouble you this afternoon.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, Charles. Perhaps you’d like some tea.”

“Thank you, no. I’ve come to warn you and your sisters to stay indoors tonight. There’s a wagonload of mischief about to come down this evening.”

“Mischief, Charles? Of what nature, may I ask?”

“Of an unknown nature, Emily. If I knew its nature, I would take steps to prevent it. But I strongly suspect it will be directed at you, Miss O’Shannahan, and Miss McMasters.”

“Rest assured, Charles, we have no plans to pursue any rescue work tonight.”

I must have looked relieved, for she smiled again. “In fact, we have been invited to dine at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Walker, so we’ll be safely engaged all evening.”

I tensed, and my voice was louder than usual when I asked, “Can I convince you to postpone your evening plans for a day or two, until this danger is past?”

“Why, Mr. Goodfoote. Mr. Walker is thinking of endowing this Mission House with substantial funding, more than double our current budget. I wouldn’t think of rescinding our acceptance of his invitation. Miss O’Shannahan and Miss McMasters will be with me, and we are a formidable trio, as you well know.”

I squared my shoulders, and my heart sank a bit as I noted she had slipped into calling me by my surname. “I’m afraid I must insist, Miss. You name the very ladies who are most threatened. This is not an affair to be taken lightly.”

A frown-line appeared between Emily’s eyes. “The work we do in this House is not to be taken lightly, either, Sir. And a generous offer to keep us afloat will not be set aside because you have some vague notion we are in danger. The work we do puts us in the face of danger daily, yet we do not shrink. No, Sir, we will attend Governor Walker’s dinner this evening.” She turned to go.

“One moment, then, Miss,” I said. “Allow Mr. Bedford to accompany you on the road. If you require, he will ride far enough behind so as not to intrude on your journey.”

She thought for a long moment. “Very well, Mr. Goodfoote. Send the entire Army to ride in our wake, if it will please you. But, mind, I don’t wish my sisters to know of his presence and unduly alarm them. Please be discrete, and instruct Mr. Bedford to remain unseen.”

So that was the best I could do.

I then met with Jubal and arranged for him to follow the ladies’ carriage from the Mission House to Walker’s Castle. “I have some business in Chinatown,” I told him. “But I’ll be at the Walker’s before dinner is finished. I don’t know what that scorpion is planning, but I don’t like him inviting the ladies over for dinner on the very night I suspect he’s planning on bringing his scheme to a violent close. He may have some devilment I haven’t yet figured out.”

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 47

The Mission House ladies are captured and JT suffers a gunshot wound

The nighttime streets in Chinatown swarmed with people bustling to get either home or to one of the many noodle shops. Colorful lanterns lit balconies and lamp light spilled out of shop doorways, but in alleyways between buildings, shadows were dark and deep. The cacophony of handcarts’ wheels rumbling over cobblestones, high-pitched cries of street vendors, and a thousand conversations in Cantonese greeted me as I hurried down Clay Street to John Fong’s lodging where I had arranged to meet him. Hatchetmen stood in small groups on street corners, nonchalantly smoking cigarettes and pointedly ignored me. I brushed past them. Tonight, they were not the menace.

I found John just outside the door to Wang’s Apothecary. He was listening to a Chinese man dressed as a worker who scurried away as I approached.

“John,” I said, dispensing with the preliminary greetings and bows, “I have little time. Tonight is the moonless night, but to do the job you hired me for, to see to the safety of Miss O’Rourke and her sisters, I need more answers.”

“Of course, Charles. I won’t detain you. I know of the assassin of the Yi Hu Hui sent to your hotel to poison you.” He had answered my question before I asked it. “Fortunately, he was not successful.”

“Was the attempt on my life Lo Ping’s doing?”

“ Lo Ping is involved, but the full nature of his treachery must wait until we have more time. You must go now, Charles, for the young women of the Mission House are in grave danger. We must both do all we can to protect them.”

And go I did. Once again, John knew things I didn’t and it made me hot and vexed. But my initial unease over Walker’s invitation for Emily and her ‘Sisters’, now was a full-blown dread.

I ran through the crowds to Pacific Street, scattering pedestrians like pigeons, and grabbed the first carriage I found. It was a large coach pulled by two nags, but I wasn’t going to question the quality of horseflesh.

“A ten dollar gold piece if you get me to Walker’s Castle on Nob Hill in fifteen minutes,” I shouted.

The driver did his best, but his team could barely break into a trot. When the pair began to blow laboring up Nob Hill, I jumped off, threw a gold coin to the driver, and ran the rest of the way up the slope.

The gate to Walker’s Castle was wide open, and the front of the house was ablaze with light spilling out the open front door. I saw, in the light of a hurricane lamp held by a whey-faced stable lad, Doc Thorp administering to a man who lay on the drive, a short way from the front of the house.. My heart dropped when I saw the Coroner bending over Jubal T. The Pinkerton man’s coat and shirt had been removed and his light-colored trousers were awash with blood. Two bodies lay sprawled on the lawn.

As I drew closer, I saw Doc Thorp wrapping Jubal’s left arm in a swatch of white cloth that looked like strips from a bed sheet. With his free hand, Jubal gave me a wave.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Thorp said. “I already sewed up his head wound. That’s where all that blood on his face and chest came from. He caught another round in his upper arm.”

“I got two of the skunks, Boss-man,” Jubal croaked. “But they got the women.”

“What happened?” I asked.

The doc picked up Jubal’s coat and we pulled it around the detective’s shoulders.

Bedford’s voice was low. “I was too far behind. Walker already had the girls at gunpoint and tore past me in an open carriage. Must have been a dozen gunneys, dressed up like Chinese. But the two I hit weren’t any Chinamen. They were right out of the Trough.”

“I’m going after them,” I said, as I stood. “They must be heading to Darrigan’s Crag. That’s where the gold is.

“I’ll need a horse, lad,” I shouted to the stable boy who had been watching with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. “Something that can run.”

“I’ll fetch Battle,” the lad said decisively, back on familiar turf. “He’s a true courser and was in the war before the Governor bought him.”

“Watch yourself, Charles. Those are top gunhands,” Jubal whispered.

“Doc,” I called, “Colonel Barkley will be here shortly. Send him and his men on to Darrigan’s Crag. I’ll do what I can until his men get there.”

I swung onto the saddle of the Buckskin mount, and without another word, thundered down the drive and out the gate. Battle sensed my urgency and lengthened his stride. I knew within moments I was astride a good war horse, one that carried scars of many a charge across fields of cannon fire and exploding shells. He didn’t flinch as we pounded onto the rough highway, even in the faint starlight.

We galloped at breakneck speed, first across miles of clay-packed road, then quietly onto soft soil sand where the only sounds were the heavy breathing of Battle and the jingle of his harness. We finally climbed a gravel roadway that rose from the ocean into the hills. The gravel stretch took us to Hellfire Run, a narrowing of the trail maybe a mile from Darrigan’s Crag. I reined in Battle and came to a sliding sideways halt outside the massive cliffs that made up the gateway to this ambusher’s paradise.

As I sat astride Battle studying the jutting rocks, scrub oak and scarred jack pines, outlined against the brilliant celestial galaxies, the Blackfoot medicine pouch I wore around my neck shook like an aspen in a whirlwind. Even Battle, accustomed to cannon fire and saber charges, was tossing his head in anxiety, chewing his bit and blowing his lungs.

I knew the roadway ahead twisted around a jumble of boulders and cracks in the canyon walls that could hide a dozen gunmen on horseback, or a score of riflemen concealed among the rocks. I dismounted and dropped behind a loblolly pine. A quick scan of the ground showed signs that several horses and a carriage had recently traveled into Hellfire. Armed only with my revolver, and knowing the dangers ahead, I decided I had no choice. Emily and her captors were on the other side of Hellfire Run so that’s where I had to go.

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 48

Kaya watches unseen, then strikes an ambusher

The sound of horsemen and a carriage made Kaya-Te-Nse lie flat on a stone that overlooked the road. From down the road, an open carriage carrying four White-Eyes and a driver clattered out of the woods, pulled by two lathered horses. Two large gangs of horsemen galloped with the carriage, a group in front and another following. Three women in the carriage were dressed in fancy clothes, while the fourth person was a heavy man. The women were grabbing on to the carriage as their bonnets flew behind them, held on only by the ribbons around their necks. Kaya could see, even in the night of no moon, that the man held a pistol.

As they entered the twisted labyrinth, the horsemen behind the carriage pulled up their mounts. A large man with a flop hat gave orders and the men dismounted. Two of the men led the horses into one of the rock-enclosed trails across the road. The big leader then stationed the rest of the men on each side of the road, sending them up into the rocks. The Apache woman had to slink back behind a boulder, for the men were coming up the foot trail. She watched by starlight as the men leveled rifles at the dimly seen road.

Kaya saw one of the men had taken up a position where he could look down onto the road before it entered the maze. As silent as smoke, she moved behind this man, and waited. The sound of a galloping horse focused the man’s attention on the road. He pulled back the hammer of his rifle just as a rider came into sight, slowed and stopped short of the guardian stones. The rider dismounted and examined the ground.

Kaya didn’t hesitate, for she sensed Goodfoote was the rider. From behind, she jerked the man’s rifle from his hands and thrust the blade of her scout knife into the side of his chest. As the man screamed in pain, Kaya pulled her knife free, and, with a quick aim, fired a rifle shot just in front of the rider who had remounted his buckskin horse. As this man dove off his horse for cover, she picked up the rifleman, and heaved him over the side of the cliff. He again screamed loudly as he sailed down and bounced off a rock.

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 49

Goodfoote is fired upon, and Kaya takes the fight to the ambushers

I had swung up onto Battle’s back, cocked my Remington, and prepared to charge into Hellfire Run, depending on the darkness to ruin the aim of the gunmen.

A scream like a wounded panther froze me in my saddle and a rifle shot cracked the silence, reverberating off the rocks. The ground immediately in front of my mount exploded with a spattering of dirt and small stones, making Battle jump. I was off and behind a rock before the echo died. Battle turned and trotted off, then stopped and stared at me, ears forward.

The silence rolled in after the echo of the long gun’s report. I lay still as death, waiting. That first shot could have come from anywhere, but I felt I could locate the rifleman when he fired again.

A second scream, followed by a body sailing out of a crevice between some rocks high up on the escarpment, made little sense. The carcass bounced off a large stone and came to rest not twenty feet in front of me.

Turning, the woman warrior levered another cartridge into the chamber of the repeating rifle. As a second man came running up the trail, she shot him in the chest. A third man jumped onto a rock and aimed at a shadow. Kaya, ten feet away, fired and the man fell over backward. The Apache was now moving fast, running and leaping from rock to rock. She had picked up a second rifle and now ran toward the road. Pistol shots exploded, and a rifle cracked, but the bullets were wide of her ghostly figure that seemed to be everywhere at once. Ricocheting rounds filled the air as she headed toward the big man with the floppy hat who was racing across the road to where the horses were held. He turned and fired several shots into the dark as he shouted orders to the remaining men. Another tall man showed himself briefly when he ran in front of a rock that was white in the starlight. Kaya snapped a rifle shot from her hip and the man went down, sprawled in the dirt.

Her main concern now was to stop the men from fleeing, for she knew they would bring back many more men. As she rounded a rock, she almost ran into a short man with a wide-brimmed hat and a rough beard. He froze when he saw who his enemy was, for he had lived many years in the border country of the southwest.

“Apache”, he yelled, as he swung his rifle to fire, and the word echoed among the rocks. Kaya slammed the man in the face with her rifle butt, knocking him to the ground. She shot him where he lay.

The sound of horses galloping out of the enclosure brought her running onto the road. But it was too late. The riders were gone.

The Wicked Affair of the Golden Emperor

A Charles Goodfoote Mystery in Old San Francisco

Chapter 50

Goodfoote and Kaya reunite at last, and Doc Thorp joins them.

A gunbattle with more thugs ensues, as the trio gallop toward the Craig

I didn’t have time to consider this unexpected turn of events, for a series of shots sounded inside the Run. No lead hit anywhere near me, or near anything I could see. Men’s voices, three or four at least, were raised in curses and orders. Then came a flurry of rifle shots and the dull thud of pistol discharges. A short silence was followed by the jingle of harnesses and the pounding of hoof-beats as three men, their wide-eyed faces frozen in panic, thundered out of Hellfire gateway past me. I recognized two of them as Sydney Ducks.

Battle trotted back to where I lay and gave a soft whinny. I heard a night insect start his chirp, and then the normal sounds of nature began to fill the unnatural quiet. I rose cautiously from my sanctuary, revolver at the ready, when a familiar voice called out an Apache greeting.

“Ya-Hey,” came the call and I saw, in the starlight, a vision I could hardly believe. A woman I knew well stepped smoothly down a rocky pathway between two round boulders.

Here was a sight. Far from the mountains and deserts of her homeland, Kaya-Te-Nse of the Red Paint Apache people was walking toward me, just a couple of jumps from the city of San Francisco. When I stood, I must have looked thunderstruck for her smile was just short of a full blown laugh.

“Goodfoote,” she said as she approached. “I have killed the bone-witches in the rocks.” She carried a rifle in each hand, wore a large knife in a sheath on her belt, and a pistol by Mr. Colt was in her waistband. Her hair was the same long, raven-wing black I remembered, bound with a blue cloth wrapped around her forehead. A yellow band of war paint stretched across her eyes.

How this remarkable woman had traveled over a thousand miles and arrived here just in time to save my hide was a tale I would need to hear. Right now, I had an urgent mission to complete.

“Kaya.” Apaches weren’t noted for showing their emotions, but we threw our arms around each other for a quick embrace. Their were tears in both of our eyes, something out of character for Blackfoots as well as Apaches. I grabbed Battle’s bridle. “No time now for proper greetings. Hand me one of those rifles.”

In the distance, up the road the hardcases had just fled, came the sound of a horse being ridden hard. Kaya leaped behind a stone, and I moved with her. I listened intently, then recognized the gallop of Triumph. It couldn’t be Jubal, so who was riding his mount? I stepped out of hiding, the rifle cocked.

“Doc,” I shouted, once I saw he was the rider. “Over here.”

Doc Thorp pulled up in front of me. “I was nearly run over by three men riding hell bent for leather. I know you’re a fearsome man, Charles Goodfoote, when you get cranky, but they looked like they had seen Old Nick himself.”

I looked over my shoulder and Kaya stepped out, rifle held across her chest.

Doc leaned down from his saddle, his eyes fixed on the Apache woman-warrior with the yellow war paint across her eyes.

“Kaya,” I said. “I’d like you to meet Doc Thorp.”

“Hell’s Bells, you got an uncommon taste in women, Goodfoote. But this is no time for formalities. Let’s get on with it,” he thundered.

“Hold on, Doc.” I shouted back. “Between here and the Crag are probably half a dozen gunneys intent on stopping us. Kaya got one gang, but there’s more shooting ahead and the people of this town can’t lose you. This is as far as you go.”

“Damn your eyes to Hell,” Doc roared. “I’m going on!” He pulled his custom designed revolvers from under his coat and spurred his horse into the gateway, coattails flying. I grabbed Battle’s halter and swung up into the saddle. Kaya jumped aboard behind me and the three of us flew into Hellfire Run.

Within less then a quarter-mile, a gang of riders blocked our trail. Doc was a few yards ahead of us, and didn’t pause for us to catch up. With his six-guns blazing and a curse on his lips, the Coroner of San Francisco charged right at them, his reins clutched in his teeth. I heard his Colts discharge twice before I opened up with my rifle, and Kaya fired her carbine. The gunnies in front of us shot wildly trying to bring us down, but our charge and gunfire sent their horses jumping and twisting, causing their lead to sail above and past us. Our accuracy prevailed and six more bloodied hardcases lay on the ground as we thundered past.

The odds, when we reached the Crag, were turning in our favor.