The Complete Adventures of Hazard & Partridge Read online

  “But the Lolos are gone—” I sprang to my feet—“and Koshinga’s still there somewhere. We can get him now. Or at least—”

  “We can try,” said Hazard. “But Koshinga may not be alone, and he always plans for an open door behind him. In this case there’s the avenue of heaped-up rocks back of the platform—and I, for one, don’t feel like following him there. No; I’m afraid we’ve had our chance at him.”

  OUR investigations but verified Hazard’s conclusions. Of Koshinga we discovered no trace; and we found the arrangement of the platform very much as Hazard had foreseen, with the added detail that very close scrutiny showed the great mirror, of the most beautifully polished steel I ever saw, to be made up of many sections very skillfully jointed together, so it could be easily set up anywhere.

  Which whole arrangement, by the way, we still believe explains the seeming miracles of the old-time Boxer leaders. Our bullets had perforated the mirror, but the Chinese jingals of 1900 were very low-powered, and would probably have affected it no more than the arrows.

  Since the Boxer society was really but an offshoot of the Ko Lao Hui, this belief also helps to explain Koshinga’s possession of the paraphernalia. But that explanation isn’t really necessary. Koshinga had man-power enough at that stage of history to create whatever his wily mind might conceive and to convey it where he would, even into Lololand, once he had made his truce. And to his immediate subordinates secrecy was a condition of life.

  The disposal of the altogether too useful mirror puzzled us until we remembered that we had another problem in the disposition of the surplus arms and ammunition. Then we got our grateful Chinese to load the extra rifles, chambers and magazines, and to pile them, together with the remaining boxes of cartridges, in the hollow of the platform just in front of the mirror. Shortly after we left it, the platform was seen to be on fire, and the ensuing-explosions left the mirror a dulled and twisted sheet of steel. It was all well; Yunnan was safer with those rifles out of the hands of the freed Chinese, and perhaps the Chinese themselves were safer.

  Then we left in haste, for there was no telling how long the terror of the Lolos would hold. But once under way we were a formidable-looking cavalcade enough, and the road cleared ahead of us to the lowlands.

  We were half-way there, Hazard and I leading, the Chinese trotting behind us on their requisitioned ponies, holding their rifles awkwardly and with slippered feet dangling well above the low-hanging Lolo stirrups, when I said to Hazard:

  “I understand pretty nearly everything. Of course Shen Yun’s story, if he lived up to it, insured that we would at least be able to communicate with the Chinese slaves. And those slaves constituted the weakness in Koshinga’s position that you referred to in the beginning. But how did you know they would be able to help us?”

  “I didn’t know it,” said Hazard. “But it was a big thing we were up against, this particular play of Koshinga’s—one worth a long chance.”

  “I can see,” I said, “quite apart from their usefulness as leaders, that with the Lolos safely Ko Lao Hui and armed as Koshinga meant to arm them, there would have been no blocking the Ko Lao Hui program in Western China. The rest of the country would have been forced into the brotherhood as a matter of self-preservation. Then the Lolos could have been taken farther east, with much the same effect.”

  “It was a big thing,” repeated Hazard, “but at least that project of Koshinga’s is ended; he’ll never make way in Lololand again.”

  “But that face—” I lowered my voice “—that centuries-old, prophesied face. Was it—”

  “Another mask,” replied Hazard, “or reality? Well, we’ll see.”

  Ming Gold

  MASKED knowledge may sometimes be useful; and Hazard and I, still seeking out the devious workings of the revolutionary Ko Lao Hui, evilest of Chinese tongs, had listening to do in the market-places of Yunnan-fu, whither we were bound from Lololand over the wilderness of mountains that is central Yunnan. So it was that to our youthful guide, Wang, who was of a family of ten generations of guides, our “Chinese hearing had not yet come,” and his talk with us was mainly limited to the four most useful English words he knew—

  “Masters, do not go.”

  Those words had grown parrot-like to our ears, and, even though the hills through which he’d piloted us were known to be infested with robbers preying on the rich traffic from Sz-Chuen to the coast, we’d come to believe Wang’s bump of prudence overdeveloped. When he repeated them at sight of that queer gathering on the bank of the Yalung River, we laid it to a habit of caution and perhaps to a desire for “squeeze.” That last because of the tall, gently swaying mast that thrust itself above the rocks which almost barred our view of the broad, ocher-colored stream ahead of us.

  Indeed, I’m still inclined to think that the mast, suggesting the possibility of a quick passage of the river without the necessity for profitable bargaining with passing boatmen, was the real cause for Wang’s warning.

  But in any case it was too late to retreat. We were seen the moment we rounded the curve of the dry creek-bottom we’d been following, and from the cluster of twenty-odd yellow men clad in the usual disarray of provincial soldiers—loose blue blouses, ragged bamboo helmets and gaping lower garments through which the wind whistled—a rotund, sparsely bearded man in a dark-colored mandarin robe instantly started to meet us. A very dignified looking man who, as he approached us, clasped his hands together, waggled them up and down and smiled gravely in salutation.

  “An official party,” murmured Hazard. “And a lucky meeting—perhaps!” he added quickly.

  “For us?” I questioned, for I, too, had caught certain signs of recent disaster in the group back of the mandarin—a group which seemed to be watching us intently. “Well, not if one holds to the theory that luck’s contagious. I suppose, since we’re liable to meet this gentleman again, we’d better ’fess up our knowledge of his lingo.”

  The mandarin was too close for Hazard to reply, but it’s not good to deceive Chinese officials and so I took my companion’s agreement for granted. So, the next moment, with Wang glumly watching the revelation of our linguistic abilities, we were bowing, shaking our own hands and displaying all the knowledge we had of the nineteen ceremonies of introduction.

  But my solicitude in this respect did not prevent me from continuing to use my eyes and, as I used them, my wonder increased. Chinese of the official class are, for the most part, accustomed to consult their own ease before anything else, and the mere fact of finding one of this class in this wilderness was in itself puzzling.

  More puzzling, however, was the fact that across the left cheek of his plump, well-cared-for face—almost the color of old ivory—there was a wound which had apparently just stopped bleeding, a shallow furrow very like the track of a bullet. In one side of his gown there was a great rent and from three fingers of his beautifully kept hands, the long, polished nails, always the pride of his class, were broken off to the quick.

  In other words the appearance of Ko Tien Chung, for so he’d introduced himself, corresponded well with the appearance of his men, who were variously armed with rusty old rifles, pistols and sabers, and not less than seven of whom had dirty bandages wound about some part of their bodies.

  But by the mandarin’s manner he might have been receiving us in his own audience-chamber, save that now and then a sort of shadowy fear seemed to peep out from behind the curtains of his eyes. He searched the classics for complimentary terms with which to address us, and we replied in kind. His phrases were perfect, only there was a swifter pushing forward into confidences than is usual in one of his class, which habitually proceeds with indirection and hints at facts instead of openly stating them.

  “Heaven is propitious,” he was presently saying, “and surely the gods have directed your feet. Your honorable names mean much to your servant. Are you not the yang whan (foreign mandarins) who are the terror of evil-doers? Are you not even they who will yet prevail against the
false but mighty Koshinga, he who is obeyed by the Ko Lao Hui?”

  Stripped of their flattery, his words did identify us in a sense. This recognition wasn’t altogether pleasing. Hazard and I were becoming altogether too well known in China for the success of our work. It was becoming as hard for us to hide our movements as it would have been for the Yellow River ahead of us. I wondered if this overfriendly mandarin had learned somehow that we were coming this way and had for some purpose waited here for us.

  “Our insignificant efforts,” replied Hazard, “have been bent upon ridding China of that tu fei (earth evil) that is called the Ko Lao Hui. It is good that your exalted mind should recall us.”

  “One’s mind grows sharp under the shadow of the suicide rope,” said Ko Tien Chung; “but in the northern capital your names are as twin suns visible to the lowest understanding.”

  HAZARD shot me just the slightest sidewise glance. I was well aware that his alert mind had missed none of the incongruities of the situation, and here were two other facts that cried out for explanation! Ko Tien Chung was from Peking; Ko Tien Chung was in some danger of being compelled to take his own estimable life. That last, it was to be presumed, was a result of the ancient law that, though annulled, still retains the force of custom in many parts of China—that an official may not survive the failure of any important government mission that has been entrusted to him.

  “Your Excellency extolls our merits beyond reason,” I replied. “It is to be hoped, as your lofty words would indicate, that we may be able to serve you with our mean abilities.”

  The slightest widening of the mandarin’s oblique eyes betrayed his pleasure at the offer with which I knew I was but facilitating the request he intended to make. I admit it was curiosity that urged me, curiosity inspired as much by the very uncharacteristic interest with which his soldiery seemed to be awaiting the result of our interview, as by the appearance and manner of the mandarin himself. And for once Hazard gave no sign that he disapproved of our departure from the straight line of our plans.

  “Your servant confesses,” said Ko Tien Chung in his even-toned, monotonous voice, “that he waited here hoping for your help, a little wind having whispered in his ears of your coming. It is not for himself that he would ask it, but for the uplifting of the Middle Kingdom and against its enemies the Ko Lao Hui, who are also your enemies. This day, with many devils assisting them, these enemies have attacked and killed my men. Furthermore, they have robbed the glorious republic of a great treasure that has come down to it through the ages.”

  At this point incredulity began to stir a little within me, and that not merely because it seemed a queer coincidence that Ko Tien Chung’s troubles should be so closely related to our own pursuit. It was the first case of which Hazard and I had ever heard in which the Ko Lad Hui had actually attacked Chinese troops or officials. Indeed, the menace of the society was the greater because of the prudence of its leaders.

  The Ko Lao Hui had crafty ways of punishing any one who refused to be bled for its war-fund, and they were recruiting right and left among the lower classes of Chinese society; but, so far, every movement had been an underground one, masked in secrecy. The time for open warfare hadn’t yet come and I felt that Ko Tien Chung must supply the Ko Lao Hui with a very powerful motive indeed before I’d believe his statement.

  Hazard’s voice matched the mandarin’s in lack of expression, but his words indicated something of my own feeling.

  “Gladly will we help you,” he said, “but, that our mean wits may work, we must first understand the matter fully.

  “It is true.” Ko Tien Chung bowed. “But there is a necessity for haste. Now, though my men have fled, yet will they attack again if assisted by the foreign mandarins of whose power they have heard much. But much waiting cools the courage. Also there is another reason for acting swiftly, which you will understand when you have heard the story. On my miserable boat there will be time for the telling of it.”

  At that Hazard and I exchanged a look and each read puzzled agreement in the other’s eyes. Fantastic though it sounded—what, for instance, was the treasure that that had come down through the ages?—this was a clue to Ko Lao Hui activity that couldn’t be overlooked. Glancing back toward the mandarin, my eyes fell on our guide, Wang, who was engaged in digging into the rocky creek-bottom with his slippered toe and whose boyish face was now stupidly non-committal.

  “On your most excellent river-craft, then,” agreed Hazard, “we will listen to it.”

  Ko Tien Chung possessed one of those passionless Chinese faces behind which a Western eye can seldom penetrate, and whatever pleasure he felt at that decision did not show by the shading of a single line. He merely bowed deeply and started back down the creek-bottom. He was a little awkward on the rough trail, but there was force and agility in his movements, too, and, when he neared the waiting group on the bank, he issued an order in a voice accustomed to command.

  Another voice repeated his order and the group dissolved instantly. Whatever they might be as soldiers, as sailors these tatterdemalions were alert and clever enough—another rather surprizing fact. In a trice they had sprung down to the river’s edge and were hauling back on a stout bamboo hawser. Almost instantly appeared the wasp-waisted junk which had so far been hidden behind the high rock wall which everywhere edged the river, save where the creek had poured into it. This junk was about fifty feet long and seemed to be a handy craft, lying low in the water and plainly built for speed rather than for cargo.

  The men leaped on board, the bandaged ones callously indifferent to their wounds. Ten of them settled to the sweeps, others stowed away the hawser and still others ran out a narrow plank bridge to the bank, all in obedience to a swift rush of guttural orders from a man who was evidently Ko Tien Chung’s second in command.

  It wasn’t till I was half-way across the bridge to the junk that I caught a fair view of this last individual. When I did, I started without exactly knowing why. It’s true his face was most villainous-looking—a broken, brutal nose, an undershot jaw and thin, cruel lips that curved downward at the corners, suggesting the mouth of a shark. One of his eyes was gone, leaving an empty socket, and a great, reddish-black scar slanted across his narrow forehead. But it wasn’t his sinister appearance that startled me; rather it was my memory that stirred disagreeably. His face vaguely connected itself with something very unpleasant, and yet I was sure I’d never seen it before.

  However, I was too busy with conjectures concerning what Ko Tien Chung was to tell us to give that impression more than a passing thought. I followed Hazard and the mandarin on board, Wang trailing behind.

  At Ko Tien Chung’s invitation, Hazard and I unslung our knapsacks and seated ourselves on a narrow bench just in front of the small cabin that sat aft of the junk’s single mast. Wang immediately lay down on the deck near us and seemed to go to sleep. Ko Tien Chung took a seat facing us on the low hatch between the cabin and the mast.

  The men gave way on the oars and so, without song or chanting—a strange omission for a Chinese crew—we swung off up that river which, since the beginning of China, has poured its yellow flood from western Sz-Chuen to the Yangtze and thence to the Coast.

  “The honorable ghost-mandarins of the ocean will hear a strange story,” began Ko Tien Chung with his first touch of hesitation. “It is a story of the past and one of which I hope your exalted minds have heard the beginning—the story of the great treasure of Li Tzu Ching.”

  II

  IT WAS indeed as well for our credence in the remainder of it that Hazard and I did know the first part of that story to be sound Chinese history. Moreover, we’d heard it retailed from storytellers’ stands in market-places so often that even its details were familiar to us, and we’d also picked up certain corroboratory facts in the monastery in which Li Tzu Ching had died.

  All in all, it was a story which would naturally stick in the imaginations of a people, being really an unfinished mystery of exceedingly great loot
—such vast loot, indeed, that I reflected it might well account even for the unprecedented aggression which Ko Tien Chung had laid at the door of the Ko Lao Hui.

  “All who have ears have heard of the great emperor-for-a-day,” I replied more carelessly than I felt.

  “Will you tell me,” requested Ko Tien Chung, “the extent of your honorable knowledge?”

  Hazard, sitting quietly beside, pressed me twice lightly with his elbow. It was the first intimation he’d given me that he sensed in Ko Tien Chung’s talk something more than appeared on the surface. In our slight code it was a signal to me to do whatever talking needed to be done, leaving his wits free to study the conversation and whatever else might come under his microscopic observation.

  Of course I couldn’t see his face as he leaned back lazily against the wall of the cabin, but I could imagine how quiescent seemed his incessantly watchful eyes and how slack and sleepy-looking were his almost mediocre features, suggesting carelessness, indolence, inanity even—anything rather than the unrelaxing vigilance and swift, subtle reasoning for which all this was the perfect mask.

  “My poor memory retains these facts,” I replied to Ko Tien Chung: “Li Tzu Ching was a rebel against the Ming dynasty, also he was the last of the noble Chinese race to occupy the Throne of Heaven. It is said that the reason for his rebellion was that the once glorious Ming dynasty had grown corrupt, its court being ruled by false advisers so that the Mongol barbarians were pressing in from the north without fear. Wherefore Li Tzu Ching rose against the traitors that would have surrendered the northern capital, drove them from its walls and then turned like a lion against the invaders. Is that not according to your exalted understanding?”

  “It is true. But my friend has not told all that he knows.”

  “It is known by the naked children in the streets,” I replied, willing enough to go on. “Wu San Kuei, who should have been Li Tzu Ching’s mainstay, turned traitor and united with the Manchu Mongols, and their combined forces came down against Peking like ravening wolves. Seeing that there was no withstanding them, Li Tzu Ching fled, carrying with him the wealth of Peking, first making a vow to the gods and to his ancestors that none other than the Chinese should ever possess that wealth.”