Day of Reckoning Read online

  “Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

  The jury foreman stood. “We have, Your Honor.”

  “What is your verdict?”

  The jury foreman, who owned a wagon freight company, pointed at Callahan and Manning. “We find both of those low-assed sons of bitches guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  The gallery laughed, and Judge Butrum brought his gavel down hard, the loud banging of the gavel rising above the sound of laughter.

  “This is a solemn moment,” the judge said gruffly. “There will be order in my court. Counselor for the defense, please bring the two defendants before the bench.”

  “Let’s go,” Gilmore said to his two clients, and he, Callahan, and Manning moved to stand before the judge.

  “Clay Callahan and Zeke Manning, you have both been represented by council, supplied to you by the state. Your trial was heard and your fate decided by a jury of your peers. This means that you have both been accorded all the rights provided you by the Constitution of the United States, and because of this, there can be no appeal based upon any denial of rights or court procedure. Do both of you understand that?”

  “Yeah, yeah, we understand it,” Callahan said. “Get on with it, you fat-assed bastard.”

  There was an audible gasp from the gallery.

  “Oh, I will, Mr. Callahan, I will,” Judge Butrum said. “Clay Callahan and Zeke Manning, you have both been found guilty of murder in the first degree. It is, therefore, the ruling of this court that you be remanded to jail, where you will remain to await the construction of a gallows. Then, two weeks from this date, at the hour often o’clock in the morning, you will both have a hangman’s noose put around your necks and be placed upon a platform that is so constructed that it can be opened under you, thus allowing the two of you to drop into eternity.

  “May God have mercy on your souls, for I have none. Sheriff, return these two men to the cell.” The judge brought his gavel down sharply. “Court is adjourned.”

  When Callahan stood, he turned to look back to where he had seen Cooper and Morris, but they were no longer there. He was glad they weren’t, because he didn’t want there to be a chance that Manning might see them.

  Callahan began to whistle a little tune as he and Manning, coordinating their shuffle as before, left the courtroom to be returned to jail.

  “What the hell you so happy about, Callahan?” the escorting deputy asked.

  “You like snow?” Callahan asked.

  “Snow? No, I ain’t none too particular about it. Why do you ask about snow?”

  “’Cause this here is June,” Callahan replied.

  “What?”

  “This here is June, ’n I’m about to be hung. That means I won’t be here this winter, ’n I won’t have to be puttin’ up with all the cold and the snow like you will.”

  “You are as crazy as a loon,” the deputy said. “Come on, get a move on it. I want to get you two back in your cell so I can go eat my lunch.”

  “Why don’t you take these ankle shackles off, ’n maybe we can walk a little faster?”

  “Ha! You are a real funny man, Callahan, you know that? Let’s see how funny you are once you got that rope around your neck.”

  Chapter Six

  San Francisco

  “I am most pleased to meet the esteemed relatives of my good friend Wang Chow,” Elmer said to an elderly Chinese couple. The man had a white mustache that curved around his mouth, and a long, very narrow beard that hung almost like a white string from his chin. The woman had a round face and white hair that was held in place by long, ivory pins. This was Mr. and Mrs. Yo Sinh, Wang Chow’s aunt and uncle.

  Elmer had spoken in Chinese, and Yo, with a broad grin, responded in the same language, speaking very quickly.

  “Wait, hold on there, pardner,” Elmer said, holding his hand up, palm out, facing the Asian gentleman. “I can speak a little of your lingo, but it don’t come easy to me.”

  Wang translated what his uncle had said.

  “He says that he is pleased to meet the man who has befriended his nephew.” Wang laughed. “And he says that you have the lines of age in your face and it is good that I have befriended an old man.”

  “Old man? Let me get this straight. Your uncle is calling me an old man?”

  Wang laughed again. “You are old, Elmer. But you should be proud that Yo has spoken of you in this way, for my people have great respect and honor for those who are old. They believe that with age comes much wisdom and humanity, for one must have those attributes to become old.”

  “Wisdom, huh?” Elmer replied. He smiled, then put his hands together, prayer like, and dipped his head toward Yo. “Tell him that I appreciate his kind words and that I honor him as well.”

  During the ensuing visit and dinner, Elmer impressed the Chinese with his occasional remarks in Chinese and his dexterous use of chopsticks.

  “Mr. Gleason was a sailor,” Wang told his family and friends, explaining his use of the language as well as his expertise with the chopsticks. “He has sailed all over the world and has visited China many times.”

  Although Wang now knew much more about Elmer’s past, including the fact that he had been a guerrilla fighter for the South during the Civil War, and that after the Civil War he had, for a while, ridden the owl hoot trail, he didn’t share any of that with his family for fear they would think less of him.

  It wasn’t until the dinner was completed, and after a demonstration of wu shu by some very young students of the martial art form, that the expression on Yo’s face indicated his concern over something. The women and children left, so that only Elmer, Wang, and Yo remained in the room, all three sitting on individual rugs.

  “You are troubled, Uncle,” Wang said, speaking in English so Elmer didn’t feel left out.

  “Shi de,” Yo replied. “Yes,” he translated, then he continued in English, thinking it would be rude to speak in front of Wang’s friend without including him in the conversation. “Our little neighborhood has been threatened, and some have been forced to pay much money to prevent evil from falling upon us.”

  “Who is the person doing such a thing to you?”

  “It is not one person,” Yo said. “It is the Boo how doy of the Tong.”

  “It’s the what?” Elmer asked.

  “Boo how doy,” Wang said. “Killers, hired by the Tong to enforce their bidding.”

  “They demand that we pay money in tribute,” Yo said. “They have taken two hostages, one an old woman and one a young girl. They are both of the family of Mr. Huang. One is his mother and one is his daughter. They are asking money from Mr. Huang and all of his neighbors. If Mr. Huang, his friends, and neighbors do not pay them, they will kill Mr. Huang’s mother, and if they are still not paid, they will kill the daughter the next day.”

  “Does Mr. Yo think they will follow through with their threat?” Elmer asked.

  It was not necessary for Wang to translate the question, Yo understood and responded immediately, speaking in English.

  “In the month before this one, some men of the Tong took an old man and his grandson from the family of Mr. Chang. They demanded money, and when they were not paid on the first day they killed the child, then lay his dismembered body in front of the Quang Ming Buddhist Temple. The tribute was paid, and on the next day Mr. Chang’s father was released, but he is stricken with guilt because he could not save his grandson, and now he is unable to speak.”

  “How much money are they asking for?” Wang asked.

  “They are asking for a lot of money, ten thousand dollars.”

  Elmer let out a low whistle. “You’re right,” he said. “That’s a hell of a lot of money.”

  “Does Mr. Huang have that much money?” Wang asked.

  “He does not.”

  “What about family? Friends? Neighbors?” Wang asked.

  Yo shook his head slowly. “I do not think that much money can be raised by the Huang family or all of h
is friends. I fear the worst for them.”

  “Where can we find the sons of bitches?” Elmer asked.

  “He?” Yo responded.

  “Where are the Tong gathered?” Wang repeated the question in Chinese, eschewing the “sons of bitches” part. “Do you know?”

  “Yes, I know. They are in a building on the corner of Grant and Sutter,” Yo replied, speaking in English so that Wang would not have to translate for Elmer.

  “Wang, what do you say we pay those bastards a little visit?” Elmer suggested.

  Wang smiled. “It would bring me great pleasure to make such a visit,” he replied.

  “I do not believe you can talk them into releasing their hostages,” Yo said.

  “Oh, honorable uncle of my friend Wang, I do not plan to do any talkin’ to those low-assed bastards,” Elmer said resolutely. “I intend to kill the sons of bitches.”

  * * *

  After staying long enough that their departure would be neither too early, which would be discourteous, nor too long, which would be an infringement upon Yo’s hospitality, Elmer and Wang left. It was dark outside, though Bush Street was well illuminated by gaslights at the corners. There were few people on the streets, and those who were, were engaged in avocations that were best not pursued in the light of day.

  Elmer and Wang took a trolley to an area close to, but not directly at, the address Yo had given them for the location of the Tong. There were no gas lanterns in this area of town, the only light being that which was cast in small squares from the buildings they passed. The aroma of incense hung heavily in the air, and they passed a small building that had the large front door rolled up on a track, thus disclosing the interior of the building. This was an opium den. The room was redolent with the perfume of burning incense sticks, and dimly lit by a few, flickering candles. There were in the room four Caucasian users in semiconscious stupors, lying on the couches. One of the men looked directly at Elmer as he and Wang passed by, but Elmer was certain the man wasn’t seeing him.

  When they reached the building that Yo had said would house the Tong, the ground floor was dark. There were lights coming from the second floor, and loud and animated conversations could be heard through the open windows.

  “What are they talking about?” Elmer asked. “Are these the people we are after?”

  Wang listened for a moment, then he nodded. “Yes, it is as my uncle said. They are holding an old woman and a young girl as hostage, and they expect to get ten thousand dollars for the hostages.”

  “The evil bastards.”

  Wang listened for a moment longer. “There are eight Tong in the room.”

  “What? How the hell do you know that? You got some secret power that lets you see through walls or something?”

  Wang smiled. “I counted the voices.”

  “Ah, then you don’t know that there are only eight, do you? What you mean to say is that there are eight who have spoken. Hell, for all we know there could be twenty in there,” Elmer said.

  “Yes, only eight have spoken, but there could be more.”

  “Well, hell, Wang, you didn’t have to agree with me,” Elmer said. He drew his pistol, then, because he always carried it with the firing pin resting on an empty chamber, he slid a bullet into that chamber as well. That gave him six rounds to be used when the ruckus started. If there were only eight of them, and of course he had only Wang’s estimate of the number, he would still be two bullets short.

  By coincidence, Wang took out two throwing stars. The throwing stars weren’t Wang’s only weapons. He also had two knives, but Elmer knew him well enough to know that Wang’s hands and feet were as formidable as any weapon. Wang had been trained in the martial arts in a Shaolin temple and was a priest of that movement, a kung fu master.

  “How do we want to play this?” Elmer asked.

  “We will kill all in the room except the woman and the child,” Wang said.

  Elmer chuckled and nodded his head. He cocked his pistol. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he said.

  The ground-level door was locked, but Wang picked it as quickly as if he were using a key. Immediately inside the door was a stairway, dark except for a bit of ambient light at the base of the stairs, while at the top of the stairs a tiny sliver of light slipped under the door.

  Without a word, Wang went up the stairs, climbing slowly and quietly. Elmer went up behind him.

  There was no landing at the top of the stairs; the steps ended right at the door. There was a large guffaw of laughter from the other side of the door, just as they arrived.

  “Are you here?” Wang asked in a low voice.

  “I’m here and ready,” Elmer replied.

  Wang lifted his leg, then kicked the door, right next to the doorknob. The door lock gave way with a large smash, and the door swung open.

  “Ya!” one of the occupants of the room shouted in surprise. If he intended to say anything else the words died with him, because with a rapid flip of his wrist, Wang buried a throwing star in his forehead. Almost as quickly a second man went down with another throwing star buried in his neck.

  Elmer began shooting. He fired three times in quick succession, and three men went down.

  Wang had been correct in his assessment as to how many Tong had been in the room, because five were now down and three remained standing. Elmer shot two more while Wang took out the last man with a knife to his heart.

  With eight men down, Elmer walked around checking each man. All were dead.

  From the moment they entered the upstairs room, neither Wang nor Elmer had spoken a word. Wang recovered his throwing stars and knife, wiping the blood from the blades on the clothing of the victims.

  “Mrs. Huang, we have come to return you and the child to your family,” Wang called out. When he didn’t get an answer he tried again, this time adding a phrase Yo told him to use, to prove to Mrs. Huang that Wang actually did represent her son.

  “The red and yellow roses honor the spirit of your husband.”

  “We . . . we are in here!” a woman’s voice called back from beyond a second door.

  Wang frowned at the response, perceiving a sense of fear. Of course, under the circumstances, some fear was obvious. But he was certain that the words Yo gave him to use would ease her fear. Unless there was still someone in there with her.

  Pulling both knives and holding one in each hand, Wang stepped up to the door. This door opened outward, toward them, and he nodded toward Elmer, indicating that Elmer should open it.

  Elmer put his hand on the knob, turned it, then jerked it open. Wang stepped through the open door, then with a knife in each hand threw his arms out beside him, with the blades of the knife pointing to the rear. He thrust both knives backward and felt the blades bury themselves into flesh. With an audible groan of pain and surprise, the final two Tong, who had been standing on either side of the door to surprise him when he went into the room, were themselves surprised. Wang pulled both knives free as he let the two men tumble to the floor.

  Elmer, with his gun reloaded, stepped into the room just behind Wang. Learning quickly that there was no need for the gun, Elmer looked across the room to see an elderly woman and a young girl, tied back to back. The older woman’s eyes grew wide in fear when she saw an armed white man coming into the room.

  “It is not to worry,” Wang said with a calming smile. “This man is a friend of mine, and he will help me take you home to your family.”

  Overcome with joy and relief, the woman began spewing an almost unbroken stream of words. Wang cut the ties that bound them, and both got to their feet quickly to bow to Wang and Elmer in their thanks.

  “I think we need to get these people back home, don’t you?” Elmer asked.

  “Yes, but first I will leave a note for the Tong.”

  “All right,” Elmer said. “What are you going to say to them?”

  “I will read it to you when I have finished,” Wang promised.

  Finding a pen, paper, and ink,
Wang prepared the note, in beautiful Chinese calligraphy.

  To the Tong

  We, the Shaolin Temple of the Dragon, have put the Chinese people who live in this city under our protection. We tell you now that for every innocent person who is taken or killed, we will kill five Tong. Today we rescued two whom you had taken, and as a way of illustrating our commitment to this vow, we leave behind ten dead Tong.

  We have eyes everywhere and will be watching you closely.

  “What is the Shaolin Temple of the Dragon?” Elmer asked after Wang read the note to him.

  Wang smiled. “You and I are the Temple of the Dragon,” he said. “I hope the Tong are convinced that the message is truthful.”

  Elmer chuckled. “Ten bodies ought to go a long way toward convincing them,” he said.

  Chapter Seven

  From the Cheyenne Defender:

  CALLAHAN AND MANNING TO BE HURLED INTO ETERNITY

  On the morning of Thursday, but two days from now, the bank robbers and murderers Clay Callahan and Zeke Manning will, for the last time in their lives, be treated to the beauty of a rising sun, which, in its morning transit, will turn the mountaintops golden. For the last time in their lives, they will hear the sweet trilling of songbirds, the clarion call of roosters greeting yet another day, and the communal sound of mankind engaged in conversation, both convivial and commercial.

  The two condemned souls will be offered one last chance to break the fast of the night before, after which they will be extended an opportunity to, with the help of clergy, come to peace with their Maker. Then, shortly before the hour of ten o’clock, they will be led from the cell they now occupy to a gallows recently constructed for just such a purpose, and there, before the eyes of a hundred or more witnesses, the noted hangman Mordecai Luscombe will once again ply the profession, which over the last few years has earned him a well-deserved reputation.

  After the hanging, a reception will be held in the Souls of Heaven Church in the memory of its late pastor, the Reverend Nathan L. Pyle, and his wife, Anna Marie.