A Superior Man (33 page)

“I spent part of the bride money so had to sell the furniture to make up the difference.”

Peter reached for a metal spoon, but I thrust chopsticks into his hand. Time for him to use them.

“Isn't there anyone who would take a child?” I was a child begging for an adult favour. “Uncle, the only reason I dare ask again is because we are kinsmen.”

We ate for a while before Yang spoke. “Sally the whore, she could take care of him. She saves her money.”

“But will she send him to school? Anyone else?”

“Sam's grandmother will know.”

“Last time, she made the boy cry,” I muttered. “All he did was run to her. He fears her.”

“Jane went to her all the time. Girls need the guidance of women.”

“Sam isn't here, is he?”

He shook his head. “But you should talk to his grandmother. Want me to help you talk?”

I shrugged. Earlier, on the way into Spuzzum, I had thought about asking Sam to take Peter. But Sam wanted to go to China and find his own family. He didn't want to be dragging Peter around the world. If I could stop Sam from going to China to be humiliated by the people there, then that would be my grand gift to him; indeed, it would repay all my debts to him. Too bad my words were fleas to him. Couldn't he be a better man than me and take Peter from me? They had, after all, the same mix of blood. Surely Sam felt a kinship to the boy and knew exactly what to teach him. The brat had laughed far more with Sam than with me.

What was that old saying? “
Through laugh and talk, all are equal
.” Me, I never tried once to make the boy smile. When Grandfather used to cite that proverb, I always snickered to myself. He was trying to get Mother and Grandmother to be nicer to each other, which was as likely as a rooster laying an egg.

Yang, Peter, and I set out for the Native village. The railway swerved to higher ground and crossed a stream over logs made into a cricket cage. In clearings among the bushes, great boxes and ragged banners stood in fenced graveyards. Wooden statues, carved as humans and painted in bright colours, wore western hats and clothing. I shuddered, recalling the life-sized paper servants that were burned at funerals in China to join deceased human masters. Those servants were always painted with the rosy cheeks of children.

We took the old wagon road to the village, past meadows of cattle and horses. Dusty rows of crops looped around log cabins where plump chickens scuttled for safety. An old man carried a rack of jiggling dried salmon through the maze of animal hides stretched taut on frames. My boy recognized someone and tugged to escape. A thin woman with white hair and a red blanket on her shoulders sat on the steps of a cabin, chatting with a younger woman holding a basket of potatoes.

The porch was crowded with crates, tools, and empty tin cans. Metal traps for catching animals, large woven trays, and nestled baskets were piled high. Coils of stiff rope hung from the wall. By the door was a waist-high stack of kindling and firewood. Yang squatted and spoke to the boy in Chinook. The brat kept his gaze on the ground, kicking a rock back and forth between his feet. At one point, it rolled toward me and I kicked it back. The boy looked up at me in surprise.

When we approached the old woman, the younger one hurried off. I too wanted to leave. Another China man with a mix-blood
child would only remind the grandmother of her errant son-in-law, Sam's father. No doubt she despised China men for causing her daughter's ruin. That daughter would not have had such trouble in China. When a man ran away from his wife, as my father had done, her proper place remained with his family. She would never think to return to her birth home. But Sam's mother had brought her children to this village, a burden for her own mother.

When Yang spoke to the grandmother, she listened intently. I caught words of Chinook: father, home, money, and hard work.

Home. Wasn't that what everyone wanted?

I was supposed to have provided that: plastered walls around a cooking fire, clean straw for the livestock, and a stone courtyard where chickens pecked for food and where the grandparents' scolding brought each day to an end. Withered oranges sat on the ancestral altar, awaiting an event for fresh replacements. Great urns of rice were sealed with heavy, tight-fitting wooden covers to foil the mice.

Yang's words made Sam's grandmother chuckle and she returned the favour. Then he pulled the boy forward and told him to speak to her. The brat pulled back, shaking his head. She took the furry hat from his head and brushed the fur as she spoke.

The boy answered her, and she asked some short questions.

At the end, she shook her head. Yang tried to reason with her, exaggerating his frowns and gestures, but she was firm.

“What does she say?” I demanded.

“China men must take care of their own. Their children need money for school.”

“What did the boy say?”

“He liked it when Sam carried him.”

“Let's go.” I thanked her and bowed stiffly.

“Sam had told her that the boy liked him better than you.”

I yanked my son away.

She called out words that Yang translated. “She wants to know if Sam is with his woman in Lytton.”

“Tell her a girl was born,” I said. “But the mother rejects Sam as the father and her family drove him away.”

The grandmother must have repeated her question, because Yang asked me again and repeated his answer. Her jaw quivered. She struggled to stand, but the washman urged her to sit.

“She asks, where is Sam now?”

“On his way to China, to see his father's people.”

“Crazy fool,” muttered Yang.

When the grandmother heard my news, she cried out in dismay.

Yang glared at me. “Couldn't you stop him?”

“He thinks his life will be better there.”

“You let him believe that? You stupid thing.”

Yang and the grandmother spoke at length before the three of us returned to town.

“You're in luck,” said the washman. “She thought it over and may take the boy. Her thinking is that if Sam becomes a father, then he won't go to China. But someone will need to find Sam quickly.”

I was worse than vermin. If I offered Peter to Sam, he would never take him. Far too much bad blood ran between us. He would do me no favours, and I expected none from him. Between men, that was fair. What was not fair was getting a kinsman to sneak me through the back door to approach Sam's grandmother and gain this
leverage. It was like kicking a sleeping man in the mouth, smashing his teeth, and letting him bleed. It was not what a superior man did.

Fist leaned by the door of Yang's laundry, chewing tobacco. “Cookhouse man said you asked for me,” he said.

I put on my gambling face and quelled my excitement. “One Leg sends you good wishes: obliging winds all the way.”

“Stinking bastard said no such thing.” He walked off. “Let's not talk here.”

I went with Fist along the railway. Neither of us carried tools, store goods, or baggage. When a horse pulling a wagon rumbled by, I averted my face from the driver and its riders. Two China men, strangers in a rough town, were strolling in the afternoon like scholars pondering a poem. We should have tried harder not to be noticed.

I asked where the explosives were.

“Safe.”

“Did you get ropes?”

He nodded.

“Strong ones?”

“You're not the boss!” he snapped.

I folded my lips in to keep quiet.

The town broke apart at the edge of the forest where the wagon road and railway emerged. We avoided the trees that hid nosy spies and climbed the ridge over the river. Fishermen had driven a line of wooden stakes into the water and now men crouched on shore with
spears and nets. The roiling river thrashed the bushy tree branches tied to the stakes. Many times Sam and I had seen men in the middle of the river replacing the branches, but I never asked about them.

“Know what that is?” Fist pointed. “Branches churn the water into foam so that fish can't see the net.”

“But their eyes are on the side, not the front.”

We stood like mourners at a funeral.

“You changed your mind about One Leg and No Brain,” I said.

He spat out brown tobacco juice. “One Leg had many chances to leave. This is my big opportunity.”

“Now you trust me?”

“The man I wanted, he left town. He got lucky at the game table.”

“My boy and I are going to China.”

“You saw the Company bigwig in Lytton, no?” Fist grabbed my arm. “He arrived here yesterday, and tomorrow he takes the train to Yale. The station master's cook heard them talking.”

“You told him everything?”

“I'm not stupid!”

A sudden whistle raked the air. An eagle with a white head and white tail feathers plunged from a high branch and spread its wings. It swooped to the river, legs outstretched, talons open, then hung in the air between sky and water with no effort at all. The fishermen shouted and pointed. The bald eagle flew away without a fish, cawing with sharp, shrill sounds, as though annoyed. I recalled Grandmother telling me that once she had seen a black eagle fly off with an entire nest of baby birds in its clutch.

Fist's gaze followed the eagle. “When you were small, did you play Eagle Fights Mother Hen?” he asked.

“Yes. I was always the eagle.” I recalled playmates shrieking and running from me. “I ran and grabbed the chick all the time. Nobody could beat me.”

“They never let me be the eagle.” He took a breath. “What will you do with your son?”

“Sam's grandmother will keep him.” If she didn't, then I would tell Yang everything and leave the boy with him. He was an upright man.

“You said you were taking him to China.”

“This is more important.”

A sly smile crossed his face. “I saved you from taking him to China. You should pay me.”

“Shut your mouth before I change my mind.”

We returned to town, each walking on a different side of the railway.

I kicked a pebble and watched it roll ahead. Fist had done nothing to prove his mettle; he had no righteous claim to lead. By chance, he lived near the graveyard; only that happenstance had brought him here. He held that bag of explosives only by default: his kinsmen were both crippled while Bookman Soon needed to stay safe.

Me, I had been sent here by the gods. One Leg and Fist knew I had not planned on returning to his camp. But odd events had led me there. The stagecoach had an accident. Then, by another miracle, Sam had travelled quickly enough to catch up and give me the news that had swayed his grandmother. I was by far Fist's best chance for success. I had trekked extra miles to his camp, after a week travelling up and down this canyon.

I shut my eyes. The trestle had evenly placed ties. Late-afternoon
light flashed between them. The heavy steel gleamed like a silver roof beam but stretched higher and longer. Fist needed to tie ropes to the iron track, the strongest part of the trestle. But knotting the rope required dropping it and then pulling it up. One of us needed to bend over the edge of the track and reach for the dangling length. That involved looking at the ground below. I hoped Fist had strong ropes that had been used lately, even though they had been cast off from other work and salvaged for re-use.

We agreed to leave as early as possible the next morning. I told Fist to lie down and get some sleep. I sighed at his departing back. Fist was a strange one. What if he changed his mind again?

In the washhouse drying room, the boy was sitting on the floor by the open door with a deck of playing cards, sorting them by colour. Every now and then he held up a card and called out to Yang, who was busy hanging wet clothes onto the lines. Yang came over and pointed to one of the piles, either red or black. It was one of the face cards; its colours weren't clear to the boy.

I told the boy to stop bothering Yang's work, but he paid me no attention. He kept calling for the washman. Even when I pointed out the right stack to the boy, he insisted that Yang come over. Having noticed that Yang kept his boots clean and brightly polished, I asked to borrow his brush, cloth, and blacking. He obliged.