Written for the 2016 Ponderosa Paddlewheel Poker Tournament.

Summary:  Rich man, poor man, Indian chief–what are they all doing in Sheriff Coffee’s jail during a blizzard?

Rating:   K     Word Count:  4483

Backlash

Virginia City was always a busy place, even in midwinter–even in mid-blizzard–but Adam Cartwright hadn’t expected to find much going on at the jail. He shut the door quickly to block out the drifting snow that wanted to follow him inside, wiped the ice from his eyebrows and surveyed everything in sight–not just the spartan office, but also the tiny cellblock and the back room where the sheriff slept whenever he had to stay available overnight. All the connecting doors were open; not the way things usually were, but clearly this wasn’t an usual time. At last he met the gaze of the older man behind the desk, and nodded as he took off his hat. “They said at the livery stable you wanted to see me, Roy. I hope it’s important. I just got off the stagecoach, and I won’t be able to get out of Virginia City again today if I don’t get started soon.”

“If’n I didn’t think you’d be better off not trying to go anywheres, I wouldn’t have left you the message, boy. And yes, it’s important–leastways I reckon it is, but it looks like I’ll need your help to figure out why. I’ve got three men in the other room–you can see ’em for yourself–and I can’t get a word I understand out of any of them.”

The two jail cells lined up one behind the other beyond the office door; to a casual glance, only the nearer cell was visible. At the moment it was occupied by an elderly Asian whose pose and clothing were as formal and elaborate as an oversized version of the porcelain statues Hop Sing kept on his bedroom bureau.

“You know I don’t speak Chinese, Roy,” Adam protested. “I really don’t know how I can help you here.”

“You’re a Cartwright,” Sheriff Coffee replied sourly. “That means they’ll all trust you, more’n they do me, at least. Besides, you do speak Paiute.”

Looking past the figure in the closest cell–surely one of Hop Sing’s older uncles?–Adam made out two more people sharing the cell beyond. The man perched uncomfortably on the edge of the cot was Cosmo, the second-shift bartender at the Silver Dollar, but the other one, pressing close up against the window as if finding it hard to breath…no. No, it couldn’t possibly be Chief Winnemucca.

“You’re right,” the sheriff confirmed when Adam said so aloud. “That’s his nephew, or his cousin, or something. Now that Old Winnemucca’s taken himself off to San Francisco with his two girls, Cosmo says I’d better be sure and treat Young Winnemucca like a chief himself. As if there wasn’t trouble enough already.”

Adam wondered briefly how Cosmo knew so much about the activities of the Paiute, then shrugged. A good bartender knew everything, and the ones at the Silver Dollar were better than good. “Locking the man up in here isn’t treating him much like a chief,” he said instead.

“Aw, c’mon, Adam, they ain’t being locked up, and where else can I put them? You know they don’t take Chinamen at the International Hotel, or Paiutes either, and I sure can’t try stashing them anywhere in Chinatown. That’s where the whole mess started.”

“Oh, they’re witnesses?”

“Far as I can make out, for the moment anyway. Till further notice, I suppose you could say.”

Even by Virginia City standards, a merchant from Chinatown, a bartender from C street, and a theoretical Indian chief made an unusual trio of witnesses. As for why Cosmo and a Paiute would even be in Chinatown, separately or together…Adam settled himself onto a corner of the sheriff’s big desk before asking any more questions.

Roy Coffee poured himself out a mug of coffee instead of answering at once. “All I know is it’s something to do with a crate of cheap whiskey, a payment in silver, and a missing box of something or other. A bunch of muleteers and Injuns and I don’t know what-all were having a brawl outside that Chinese fellow’s emporium, and it got so wild someone actually came up from Chinatown to fetch me. Time I got there to break it up, these three were the only ones I could find–but as soon as they saw me they all clammed up. Right about then the snow really started to fly, so I brought ’em back here for safe-keeping. At least the snow’s likely to damp down any more mischief for the time being. Just as well, with all my deputies out trying to keep the main roads clear.”

There was nothing at all to be seen out of the window by then except a thick swirl of icy flakes. Remembering how hard it had been for him to force his way forward just for the few blocks from the livery stable, Adam frowned thoughtfully. “Looks like we might all be here for a while. What are you going to do about feeding us?”

“Clem’s bringing our dinner here before he goes off-duty,” the sheriff growled. “Don’t see why he shouldn’t be allowed to sleep in his own bed tonight. He’s only sworn to help me keep the peace.”

And not very long after that Clem did come in with a potful of soup, a basket of crispy-fried chicken, and news that the storm was overwhelming everyone’s best efforts. “Sorry, boss, but it’s coming down faster then t’shovels can move it, and there’s no more space to push the snow into anyway. Nothing we can do now until morning.”

“You go on, then. I’ll be fine here. Maybe we can get this puzzle solved now nobody’s got anything better to do.” The sheriff gestured to indicate his oddly assorted company. After the deputy was gone again, he put the soup pot on the stove, made a single pile of the papers littering his desk, and spread out the fragrant pieces of chicken. “C’mon, folks, don’t let this good food get cold!”

The others assembled reluctantly for as long as it took them to dispose of their meal, still not wasting time or breath on conversation. Once finished, they resolutely made their way back to the jail cells, where the cots were more comfortable than the office’s hard chairs. Adam put some more wood in the stove and inquired, “What about the soup?”

“Thought I’d save that for later. Soup heats up better than fried chicken, you know.” Sheriff Coffee winked up at the younger man. “Aren’t you going to try talking to any of that lot?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Already tried. They ain’t talking to me. See what you can get out of ’em, Adam; like I said, they’ll trust you. You’re a Cartwright.”

“Someday I’d like to be somewhere I matter for myself, not just because I’m ‘a Cartwright,’ ” Adam grumbled, but heaved himself off the desk and headed into the other room. Since the elderly Chinese man still refused to acknowledge his presence, he passed by the first cell to enter the next one. Cosmo, at least, was someone he actually knew.

Even the bartender refused to answer his first few questions, but finally gave in and admitted, “Somehow or other that fellow’s box has gone missing, and he won’t pay me what I’m owed until it’s been found.”

“That fellow” was not the Paiute, but the Chinaman. Adam glanced at him in hopes he was listening, sighed on realizing he wasn’t, and tried again. “What sort of box? And how did it get lost?”

“A box box. Some kind of crate, I suppose. I was hired to see it was brought here from San Francisco as quick and careful as possible. He was offering me the box’s weight in silver, and I know some mule-drivers who’ll do me a favor now and then, so it seemed like money for old rope. Only after they crossed the Sierras they decided they weren’t carrying this box all the way to Virginia City without seeing a slice of their payment first, so they arm-twisted a couple of Paiutes into sneaking it somewhere else for safekeeping, or so they told me. And the Paiutes say they hid the box away fine, but when they went back the next day it was gone. So everyone’s angry, and no one knows what to do next–and I’m out five pounds of silver or more, not to mention the money for the whiskey.”

Freely as Cosmo was talking at last, he still hadn’t mentioned any names. Adam pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath before going on. “There’s quite a few muleteers still running stuff across the mountains. Care to tell me which ones you were using?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t see what business it is of yours. They’ve done this sort of thing for me often enough and never let me down before. Can’t say the same for the Paiutes, but I know they’re pals of yours, so…why don’t you ask him?” Cosmo jerked his thumb towards the third man in the cell, who was once again draped up against the window, apparently mesmerised by the darkness.

“Never mind the Paiutes for the moment,” Adam muttered. “What possessed you to get mixed up in something like this? Doesn’t Sam pay enough to keep you out of trouble?”

“Look, Sam’s a great guy, best boss a man could have…but who doesn’t want his own business? And there’s no saving that kind of cash out of a barman’s salary, not the way Sam insists we dress. It’s as if he’s running the Sazerac…show up with so much as a threadbare cuff and he’s demanding you buy a new shirt….” Cosmo flopped back onto the cot and stretched himself out, back to Adam. “How was I supposed to know the damned booze would be going to the Paiutes?”

“Maybe you should have guessed,” Adam retorted. “Who else would take payment in cheap whiskey?”

“Half the town.” Cosmo had begun to sound thoroughly annoyed–well, that might be helpful, Adam decided. “Just about anyone who makes a habit of doing other people a ‘favor’ from time to time. You don’t seem to understand that this was meant to be a one-time thing, something Ching Ang wanted for some celebration or other. Just a box of fruit, he told me. But it needed to be a surprise, so he couldn’t use his usual channels. He said he knew I wouldn’t spill the beans, ‘specially since I don’t speak Chinese, and no one outside Chinatown would care. Guess he got that part wrong, anyway.”

“So you do speak Chinese?”

“So someone else cares. Snooping sheriff, snooping Cartwrights…snooping Sam….”

In a startlingly deep voice which nevertheless had more than a hint of amusement in it, the Paiute interjected a comment in his own language which Adam decided was intended to mean “…snooping Paiutes.”

“Them too,” Cosmo sniffed, for all the world as if he’d understood.

Adam gave up on learning more from Cosmo and turned his attention to Young Winnemucca. “What can you tell me?” he asked in Paiute.

“What do you want to know?”

Well, that was a good question, Adam confessed to himself. He hadn’t actually met Young Winnemucca before, but he knew of him, as anyone must who spent much time in the camp of his uncle, Old Winnemucca the antelope-shaman, so often named the Chief of the Paiutes. Like most of his kinfolk, the nephew had been at Pyramid Lake at the time of the so-called War; while Adam had been tied up in Old Winnemucca’s nobee, Young Winnemucca had been pleading the cause of peace with fervent desperation up to the very moment all hopes for peace had been dashed. After that he had fought (so every witness, white and Paiute, agreed) bravely but not foolishly, and brought his band away in better order than most, keeping the Paiute women and children safe from the invading American forces. He and his uncle between them had negotiated a truce with the army not long after, and while the peace of four years since then had been disturbed from time to time, blame never had fallen on Young Winnemucca or his band, any more than on Old Winnemucca himself. On the other hand, while Old Winnemucca and his band often pitched their nobees on or near the land of their old friend, Benjamin Cartwright, Young Winnemucca’s normal territory was well away from there, at Pyramid Lake or even as far west as Honey Lake in California. Why he should have come here, now, and among such company, baffled Adam completely. “Were they really paying you in whiskey?” he finally asked. Somehow he had never thought Young Winnemucca would sink to taking refuge in drunkenness.

“Must that be so terrible?” the Paiute answered, a little amused again. “I have emptied a bottle, now and then, of your people’s firewater, and enjoyed it, and felt little worse for it the next day. It is something like the rattlesnake, I find; it only poisons if you let it strike you. But those mule-packers know what it is we truly need. They would have paid us, not in bottles, but in flour. And meat. There is no living off the land any more for us; we must beg for work, or starve. And I do not want my people to starve, Adam Cartwright.” The amusement was quite gone from his voice by that last sentence.

“No more do I,” Adam responded at once. “Is hunger so near a danger now?”

“Perhaps. My uncle, and his daughters, and many of his band have gone to San Francisco–” he pronounced the foreign name slowly, with exaggerated care–“to see if reminding our ‘white cousins’ there of our existence will bring us the supplies we were promised. They performed in here Virginia City also, before they left to go west. Perhaps you saw them?”

“I have been in Sacramento,” Adam said, hoping the other man couldn’t see him flush.

Young Winnemucca’s eyebrows rose in an expression not so unlike his companion’s. “I suppose you have no need to see a play-acting of our simple wandering life. Let us hope most of your people have less knowledge and more curiosity.”

“Will it help, these stage shows?”

The Paiute shrugged. “It does no harm. My good uncle does like his moments to strut and preen a little, and there are still many who feel kindly towards him among your people. Maybe they will find some crumbs for him, and poor Sarah can be easy a little longer. Maybe the agents at the reservations will finally distribute all the goods which they have promised us. Maybe the dead antelope and the fallen pine trees will rise up again to feed us.” He chuckled, strangely without bitterness. “But whatever happens we will struggle on and do the best we can. What else is there?”

Adam nodded in agreement, and waited a long moment before asking, “Where did you put the box?”

“I did not,” Young Winnemucca corrected him gently. “Two of my band, men that I trust, were the ones who bargained with the mule-drivers. They told me they put it on Ponderosa land, in your big nobee-of-ice. And when they went to find it again it was gone.”

“Our ice-house?” Adam echoed in surprise.

“So.”

“And there was no one else…no one who might have stolen from there?”

“Only the Paiutes venture onto the Ponderosa without permission, Adam Cartwright. And none of the Paiutes would take from you something you did not give them first.”

“There must be some explanation, then,” Adam said, half to himself. “Hop Sing might have rearranged things, or something got shifted around somehow…I need to go look for myself.”

“Not in this weather, at night,” Young Winnemucca pointed out, amused again.

Despite himself, Adam smiled back. “Not tonight,” he agreed.

With grave deliberation, the Paiute changed to English.”So now, what else would your sheriff have you learn? You make a fine stalking-horse for him.”

“He wants to understand for the same reason I do–he wants to resolve this matter peaceably, to satisfy you all.” Adam noticed that Cosmo, and even the silent Chinaman, were watching him closely now they were speaking in English again.

“To satisfy us, he will have to charm this box from its hiding place somehow,” Young Winnemucca commented. “I do not see how he can.”

On an impulse, Adam twisted around to face the one man he had not yet questioned. Ching Ang, Cosmo had said–another name he knew of, rather than knowing the person. One of the wealthiest merchants in Chinatown, he’d been told; perhaps one of the richest men in all Virginia City, even though the Chinese mostly had but a low reputation among the city’s white residents. Adam was certain Hop Sing knew everything about his countryman; unfortunately, Hop Sing, like the missing box itself, was all too far away.

Not many things could intimidate Adam Cartwright any more, but this fragile, inscrutable old man, with his air of secret ceremony and easily injured pride, achieved it. Just to look at him made Adam feel unlettered, crude and clumsy. All the same, he had to make the effort. “Honorable sir,” he began, pleased at least that his voice kept steady as he scrambled for the proper words, “I beg you to explain why this box is so precious in your eyes.”

“You mistake.” The merchant folded his arms, tucking his hands into the broad sleeves of his densely embroidered silk tunic. “It is of absolutely no concern to me now.”

“No concern?” Cosmo howled. “A week ago you said you’d pay whatever it took to get that box safely here from San Francisco!”

“A week ago was before…before a certain person confused my unworthy  establishment with an opium den.” His face remained mask-like, but Adam sensed a bitter pain in the elderly voice.

With a sudden jolt of comprehension, Adam inquired as gently as he could, “Was the box intended for that…person?”

The merchant remained as motionless as one of Hop Sing’s porcelain idols for a long moment before making a barely perceptible nod.

“All the same,” Cosmo said with a subdued sort of persistence, “the muleteers have to be paid, and the Paiutes who brought the box on from the pass….”

One hand came back into view to make a dismissive wave. “They have the box for their pains.”

“They’d rather have what they were promised,” Cosmo muttered stubbornly. “And I’m not swapping a crate of whiskey I can sell back to Sam for a box of heaven-knows-what, I can tell you that.”

Sam might have, Adam thought, which probably explained why Sam was the one who owned a prosperous business and Cosmo was the one working for Sam…something about that suddenly triggered a dim memory.”Hold on a minute,” he said softly to the bartender, and turned back to the elderly Chinese man. “Can’t you tell me anything more? Before I left for Sacramento, Hop Sing tole me you might be starting a new business venture selling to stores in Chicago–was that anything to do with this box?”

“Hop Sing tell you that? Not keep silent?”

“He meant no harm; he was just so happy for you he wanted to share the news, and he knew I wouldn’t spread it anywhere. Just as you trusted Cosmo not to talk.”

“That is so,” Ching Ang admitted slowly. “Yes, it was the white man from Chicago I meant to give what was in box. It seemed an auspicious way to seal our business arrangement. A risk, of course–the fruit might spoil on the journey here, or he might dislike it, though I never heard of anyone who did not like fresh lichi nuts. It is too far to ship them from Canton or Foochow, but I had heard a man in the Sandwich Islands had planted a little tree and was harvesting fruit. When I asked, he wrote he would send this year’s whole crop to San Francisco by the most fast ship he knew, and I had it brought here with speed and secrecy, as you have learned. But in the meantime that man from Chicago came to visit my humble house and offered such insults to my wife and her maid that…that I cannot in honor speak to him again. To be taken for a peddler of opium and a…a seller of women….”

It was the Paiute who broke the horrified silence after the old man’s voice trailed away. “When strangers abuse a good man’s friendship, all the shame is on the strangers. Do not blame yourself, even though this ends badly. With all my people have suffered, we still keep our word to the white man–not just to our friends. But we are even more grateful to our friends because we know not all white men are like them.” He turned back, almost shyly, to Adam and said in his own language, “I am called Young Winnemucca by the agents and officers when we talk. But you may call me Numaga, as my cousin Sarah does among ourselves.”

“Thank you,” Adam replied, also in Paiute. “Your good name travels before you; I have often heard of your wise words and honorable actions, from Thocmetony herself and from many of my own people.”

After another silence, a little less uncomfortable than the previous one, Sheriff Coffee said heavily, “Nothing more to be done tonight, I reckon. Why don’t we all go to sleep and hope for better things in the morning?”

**********

The blizzard had been the first of the year, and, as sometimes happens after early snowfalls, a change in the wind direction together with a sharp steady breeze and the morning sun quickly melted away most of the drifts it had produced. On the following morning, the castaways in Sheriff Coffee’s office were still finishing up his coffee and the leftover soup when there was a brisk knock on the door. Adam opened it to find Hop Sing, bundled up and burdened down like Santa Claus, stamping his feet in the slush.

“I go to Mister Ching shop; there they say come here. Is all right? I have parcel for him.”

Adam hastily made room for him to come in while still fumbling to answer. “You have Ching Ang’s box?” he finally blurted out.

“Found in ice-house right before snow begin. Shingles blown off ice-house roof, so move it to back porch. Come here as soon as cart able to drive up mountain.”

“Did you open it? Is the fruit safe?” Ching Ang snapped.

Hop Sing drew himself up very straight. “Did not open–not mine to open, Mister Ching. Box meant for you, so I bring to you chop-chop.”

The merchant closed his eyes for a long moment. “In truth, it should not matter to me now,” he murmured to himself before opening them again. “You, Hop Sing, are an honorable man and a loyal servant. I shall give my poor misguided tribute to you instead of to that unworthy man. And you, sir–” this to the startled Cosmo–“I give you the fee we arranged before. Will this satisfy?”

There was a brief exchange of glances and nods. Ching Ang slowly rose to his feet and addressed Sheriff Coffee. “Am I free now to go?”

In response, the Sheriff opened the door with a flourish. The merchant acknowledged this courtesy with a dignified nod and made his way slowly down the slushy boardwalk back towards Chinatown and his store, looking fragile and lonely despite his straight back and proud manner.

“Well, after all that I’m just a mite curious to see what’s in your box, Hop Sing,” Sheriff Coffee said as he closed the door. “Mind giving us a little look-see?”

Hop Sing frowned down at the little crate in his arms. “Not sure I understand. Why did he give to me?”

“I’ll explain later,” Adam reassured him. “Go ahead, open it up, why don’t you?”

Still shaking his head, Hop Sing pried open the crate, releasing a small cloud of wood shavings as he reached inside. Carefully he lifted out a much smaller box covered in glittering brocade, its splendor only slightly diminished by the ominous dark stain spreading along one side.

Sheriff Coffee wrinkled his nose. “Can’t say that smells too nice to me.”

Hop Sing brushed aside the slivers of ivory that held the box closed and cautiously lifted its lid. Adam found himself holding his breath.

“Lychees,” Hop Sing said in wonder. “Many broken, but not all. Some plenty good left. I share.” One by one, the little cook brought out the handful of survivors, mopping each one dry with his handkerchief before placing it delicately on the sheriff’s desk. Everyone else crowded closer around.

They looked a little like oversized raspberries, Adam decided, or–better yet–those candies Hoss liked that were molded to look like raspberries; except these things had no translucent glow. Instead their dull surface was mottled dark red and dingy brown, and in the meantime the smell of molding fruit from inside the box was becoming harder and harder to ignore. “You quite sure they’re safe?” the sheriff asked again.

“Shell keep inside all safe,” Hop Sing said firmly. “Shell no break, fruit be very good.” He picked up the smallest of the fruits, weighed it in his hand, then pinched up a bit of its papery husk and began to peel it away. Underneath was something that blossomed like a pearl, and wept; Hop Sing lifted it to his lips and sucked up the juice enthusiastically. “Many, many years since I taste lychee. Never thought I do it again.” He popped the naked thing into his mouth; Adam saw his cheek bulge for a moment before he spat out a glossy, bean-shaped seed. “Very safe, very good. Eight left now. You eat, my friends.”

The sheriff, the bartender, and the tall young Paiute accepted their shares in turn, but when he held the last pair out towards Adam, Adam shook his head. “No, you have these, Hop Sing. You earned them.”

Hop Sing frowned a moment, then nodded. “Very good, Mister Adam. I thank you.”

For a moment, as Cosmo smacked his lips and Roy Coffee made soft grunts of surprised delight, Adam regretted his impulse. Then he looked again at that familiar drab figure peeling the next fragile morsel so painstakingly, and knew that no exotic novelty could give him as much pleasure as watching Hop Sing enjoy this fleeting taste of home.

The End

Author’s note–My original hand in the 2015 (yes, 2015) poker tournament was:
jail, Chinatown, chief, merchant, snowstorm

Almost at once this hand inspired me with an opening scene, but I was totally unable to come up with a explanation for why such an odd collection of people should have assembled in Virginia City’s jail during a blizzard, or find a way to develop the scene–more accurately, vision–into a proper story.

As a result, I did not write anything for that year’s Poker Tournament. That odd first scene lingered, though, and I resolved to continue trying to find the story to which it belonged whenever an opportunity presented itself.

My 2016 poker hand was:
shingle, opium den, ice house, Cosmo, thoughtful

To my delight, the added character and other new elements were finally able to resolve my unanswered questions about the mysterious situation inspired by the earlier set of words.

So in fact my Poker Tournament story for 2016 incorporates not one but two poker hands!

Tags:  Roy Coffee