The Loner: Crossfire

Chapter 20

Frank had the feeling he was being followed even before he reached the Golden Gate Saloon. The instincts developed over a long, hazardous life sensed the eyes watching him.

But when he glanced around on Grant Street, he didn’t see anybody particularly suspicious. The sidewalks were busy on both sides of the street, but no one seemed to be paying much attention to him. A man dressed in range clothes was something of an oddity in the big city, but not enough to make most folks stare.

Most of the people bustling back and forth on the other side of the street were Chinese, since Grant Street was the boundary line between the Barbary Coast and Chinatown, but none of those scurrying figures even glanced at Frank. Their heads were down as they went about their business.

Frank spotted the saloon up ahead. It was large and prosperous-looking, and he couldn’t help but wonder how much of it had been paid for by Pamela Tarleton’s money.

It was early in the day, but even so the Golden Gate was busy when Frank went in. Quite a few men were lined up drinking at the long, horseshoeshaped bar. To the right were tables where more men sat with glasses and bottles, and to the left were the poker tables, faro layouts, roulette wheels, and other games of so-called chance. The place was elegantly furnished with lots of polished hardwood, gleaming brass fixtures, and crystal chandeliers. The air in the Golden Gate practically reeked of money, along with the usual saloon smells of sawdust and beer.

In the rear of the room a broad, carpeted staircase led up to a second floor. Frank took note of that, but went to the bar and ordered a beer from a bartender in a red silk shirt. All the bartenders wore shirts like that, as did the men running the games. The women were clad in low-cut red gowns. The colorful getups made the workers easy to identify.

“There you go, cowboy.” The bartender set the mug of beer in front of Frank. He didn’t let go of the handle, however. “That’ll be four bits.”

Frank frowned. “Sort of expensive, isn’t it?”

With a sigh of weary patience, the bartender said, “If you can’t afford it, there are plenty of other places in San Francisco where you can get a drink, Tex.”

“Didn’t say I couldn’t afford it,” Frank grumbled. “Just said it was sort of high, that’s all.”

He dug a fifty-cent piece out of his pocket and slid it across the hardwood. The bartender let go of the beer mug and made the coin disappear.

The fella would be more than a mite shocked if he knew what this customer who looked like a down-on-his-luck grub line rider really could afford, Frank mused. He didn’t waste a lot of time thinking about the riches he had inherited from Vivian Browning, but his lawyers assured him he was one of the wealthiest men west of the Mississippi. Lawyers had been known to lie, of course, but Conrad kept a pretty close eye on the ones who worked for him and his father.

Or at least he had before all the business about the missing children had come up. Frank knew what it was like to find out suddenly that you’re a father, and couldn’t blame Conrad for being distracted after he’d found out about the twins.

Frank had never been much of a drinker. The few times in his life he had found himself crawling into a bottle had come close to being disastrous for him. A good cup of coffee or a phosphate was more to his liking. But he was able to nurse the beer convincingly as he looked around the saloon’s big main room.

His gaze lingered on the games, and the bartender asked, “Thinking about trying your luck? Our games are strictly on the up-and-up, cowboy.”

Like the little boy on the cable car, the bartender was making the same mistaken assumption that Frank was a cowboy. Frank didn’t bother correcting him. He said, “I’ve heard stories about the fella who owns this place. Rumor is he’s some sort of shady character.”

The bartender shrugged. “You can’t believe everything you hear.”

“This was in the newspaper.”

“You can’t believe everything you read, either, especially in a rag like the Chronicle.”

“Maybe not, but before I risk my hard-earned money, I wouldn’t mind meeting the hombre. I can size up a fella pretty fast and tell whether or not he’s square.”

“You really think you’re gonna just waltz in here with God knows what on your boots and meet a man like Mr. Lannigan?” The bartender laughed and shook his head. “Wise up, mister. We don’t need your business. Maybe you better just move on.”

“Hold your horses. I didn’t mean any offense. It’s just that where I come from, when you do business with a man, you get a chance to shake his hand first.”

“This ain’t Texas.” The bartender sneered and glanced around.

Frank had already spotted several big, rugged-looking gents who didn’t seem to have any reason for being there unless it was to take care of any trouble that started. He didn’t want the bartender setting the bouncers on him, not because he was afraid of the men but because he hadn’t found out anything yet. He hadn’t even laid eyes on Dex Lannigan, as far as he knew.

One of the bouncers had caught the heads-up from the bartender, and started in Frank’s direction, his craggy face hardening into a cold mask as he approached. Frank was debating whether to leave quietly or start a brawl—that might get Lannigan’s attention, he thought—when the need to do one or the other suddenly vanished.

Several men burst through the saloon’s front doors, brandishing hatchets, and letting out unnerving yells as they charged at Lannigan’s bouncers, upsetting tables and knocking customers aside on the way.

The violent intrusion brought screams from the women and startled yells from the men. The bouncer who had been closing in on Frank forgot about him and swung around to leap into action as he and his comrades met the attack.

Frank was as surprised as anybody, but he stayed coolheaded as trouble erupted around him. The intruders wore silk hoods over their heads that completely concealed their features, along with quilted jackets and loose-fitting trousers. It was impossible to tell from their yells what nationality they were, but he had a hunch they were Chinese. The hatchets told him that much, along with the Golden Gate’s proximity to Chinatown.

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.”