J.A. Johnstone - The Loner - Crossfire

One of the bouncers pulled a gun from under his coat, but as he brought it to bear, one of the attackers leaped in and swung his hatchet. The bouncer screamed as Frank saw the gun fly into the air with the man’s hand still clutching it.

The razor-sharp hatchet had chopped it off cleanly at the wrist. Blood spurted from the stump where the hand used to be.

The customers scattered as they tried to get out of the way of danger. Chaos erupted all through the saloon. One of the bartenders reached under the bar and brought up a sawed-off shotgun.

Frank was ready to dive to the floor, knowing that buckshot was about to spray all over the place, but before the bartender could fire the scattergun, one of the hatchet men threw his weapon. It spun glitteringly through the air and hit the bartender in the forehead, knocking him cold. The bartender dropped the shotgun and collapsed as crimson flooded over his face.

Guns began to roar. It wasn’t Frank’s fight, so he knelt between a couple overturned tables to let the violence ebb and flow around him. One of the saloon girls was on her hands and knees nearby, trying to crawl through the madly charging horde. She was about to fall down and probably get trampled to death when Frank reached over, took hold of her bare arm, and hauled her to relative safety next to him.

She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him. “Oh, my Lord!” she gasped. “Mister, help me!”

“Hang on,” Frank told her. “We’re gonna stay right here until things settle down.”

“They’re crazy! They’re going to kill us all!”

“Who?”

“Those Chinamen! Diamond Jack’s men!”

The girl’s words confirmed his guess that the attackers were Chinese. He knew the tongs, the criminal societies ruling Chinatown’s underworld, often warred with each other and with the white hoodlums from the Barbary Coast.

The daring, broad daylight attack had to be part of some ongoing hostilities between Dex Lannigan and one of the tongs, Frank decided. It was the only explanation that made any sense. He hoped Lannigan didn’t get killed in some tong skirmish before he could find out what had happened to Conrad.

Most of the saloon’s customers had made it to safety, either fleeing up the stairs to the second floor, piling out through the doors—or in some cases the windows—or huddling behind the bar. The battle continued, however, between Lannigan’s men and the hooded invaders.

The girl shrieked and clutched at Frank as the body of one of the bouncers landed on the floor close to them. The man’s throat had been laid open by a swipe from one of the hatchets, and blood poured out of the gaping wound.

The shooting stopped, and Frank risked a look. He saw that all of Lannigan’s men were down, and so were a couple of the tong warriors. Some of the other hatchet men picked them up and carried them toward the doors. Somewhere outside, whistles blew shrilly as policemen rushed toward the scene of the bloody battle.

One of the remaining hatchet men suddenly strode toward the overturned table where Frank and the girl had taken cover. He was a big man, and the outlandish garb made him seem even bigger. Blood dripped from the hatchet he held.

Frank pushed the trembling girl down so he could shield her better with his body and reached for his Colt. It might not be his fight, but he sure as blazes wasn’t going to just sit there while some loco hombre chopped him up with a hatchet.

The man stopped him by saying in a deep, powerful voice, “Please, Mr. Morgan, you must come with us. Your son’s life depends on it.”

Chapter 21

Frank was so surprised by the words he heard that for a couple seconds all he could do was kneel there and stare at the hooded figure in front of him. Then he closed his hand around the butt of the Colt and asked harshly, “What do you know about Conrad?”

“There is no time to explain. You must come with us.” The hatchet man reached for the girl. “And this one, too, since she heard me speak your name.”

The girl screamed in terror and tried to scramble away. Frank saw the hatchet man’s hand tighten on the handle of his weapon, and realized the man might kill the girl rather than leave her behind to talk.

Frank had no doubt he could draw his gun, fire, and kill the hatchet man before the hooded killer could strike. But there were more of them, and if he gunned down one, the others might chop him up, along with the girl. Besides, they knew who he was, and they knew something about Conrad. He realized he had to play along in order to find out what that was.

“Come on,” Frank told the girl as he grasped her arm again. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

“No! No!” She tried to pull away.

With a sigh of regret, Frank closed his other hand into a loose fist and struck a short, sharp blow to the girl’s jaw that stunned her. As a Westerner, every part of his being rebelled at hitting a woman, but she didn’t understand that if she didn’t cooperate, the hatchet man would take the easy way out and kill her.

Frank would have to rely on his ability to take care of her. As she sagged against him, he lowered his shoulder and let her weight drape over it. As he came to his feet, his powerful muscles taking the burden of the girl without straining, he told the hatchet man, “Let’s go.”

As they started toward the door, he heard a voice he recognized as belonging to the bartender who had served him. “Hey! Hey, that crazy cowboy’s kidnapping Connie! Somebody stop him!”

Nobody got in Frank’s way, though. Not with the hulking figure beside him gripping a bloody hatchet. They passed through a lane created by the other hooded men, then suddenly were outside in the sunlight.

The hatchet man led the way across Grant Street toward a throng of people on the opposite sidewalk. That crowd opened like magic before them, and they trotted into an alley. Gloom closed in around them, as on the sidewalk the crowd came back together as if there had never been a gap.

Frank was confident none of those folks would ever admit to seeing anything unusual if the police questioned them. The grip of the tongs on Chinatown was strong.

Instinct warned him that by going with the hooded hombres he might be waltzing right into a trap, but he didn’t know of any reason why those powerful Chinese gangs would have any grudge against him. He had never clashed with the tongs during any of his rare trips to San Francisco in the past.

Except for the big hatchet man at his side and another who trailed behind them, the men who had launched the improbable raid on the Golden Gate had scattered. If they took off those hoods and hid their weapons under their jackets, they wouldn’t look that different from all the other men in the Chinese quarter. They could blend in and disappear in a matter of moments.

The girl on Frank’s shoulder began to stir. He stopped and let her slide down onto her feet. She was unsteady and pressed both hands against his broad chest to steady herself. As her wits returned to her, she lifted her head, stared wildly around her, and opened her mouth to scream.

“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Frank told her before she could make a sound. He put his hands on her shoulders, which the low-cut dress left bare. “You don’t want to annoy these fellas.”

He felt her trembling like a bird as he took his first good look at her. She was on the small side, only a couple inches over five feet, and slender although her body had the sort of mature curves that made the red silk dress look good on her. Thick, dark brown hair fell to her shoulders. Her gray eyes were wide with fear.

“Your name’s Connie, right?” Frank asked, remembering what the bartender had yelled as they were going out.