AT THE TOP OF THE RIDGE he reined in, let his horse catch a breath while he took in the view. Blue sky, fresh breeze, ocean smooth as glass. The kind of day that could make you forget what you had set out to do. Which in his case was kill a man.
He slipped a telescope from his saddlebag and extended the brass. The Cliff House, a rambling wooden manse near the spot where the San Diego River trickled into the sea, came into view. An American flag with thirty-eight stars fluttered from a pole in a forecourt spangled with the buckboards and horses of those gathered inside for Saturday night cards and crumpet. Among the assembled transport was the dark-red brougham of Zebulon Archer, the first among those marked for death.
Assuming he could actually go through with it. In all his days, in all his scrapes, including the rare occasions on which he had fired a weapon in anger, he had never actually killed anyone. Wounded and lamed a couple, for sure. But never sent a man to the grave. And if by some chance he had killed someone in one those dustups, he could have justifiably claimed self-defense in every instance for the simple fact that the other bastard had been the first to draw his six-shooter, knife, or in one memorable case, a harpoon (moral of that story: never taunt a drunken whaler).
Yet he now found himself on the verge of taking the life of a man he barely knew. And not by quick and easy means. Zebulon Archer was going to suffer, experience something akin to the physical and mental anguish he had inflicted upon others. And suffer now rather than in some nebulous place after death. No matter what the Good Book said, nobody could guarantee that Satan would have his due with this sinner. That left earthly retribution as the only sure-fire remedy and he the only person with the motive, means, and opportunity to exact it.
So why the doubt? Why were his hands trembling and his guts about to heave? How was it that on the day of reckoning—an event pictured countless times in his mind—he was suddenly overcome with fear?
It certainly wasn’t fear of getting caught. He was too clever, way too careful. Every detail of his plan had been mulled over, every possibility considered. He had studied Archer’s movements, calculated his strengths and shortcomings, determined the man’s vulnerabilities. He’d undertaken practice runs to ensure the feasibility of his plan in the real world, rather than just the hypothetical setting of his own mind. That’s not to say everything would go as planned; life did have a way of dealing you jokers now and again. On any given day, anything could happen. Yet in the same breath, he was reasonably sure that he could dispatch the man and disappear without being seen.
It wasn’t fear of his opponent. Archer might be larger than himself, but he was also older and much less agile, and not one to carry a reasonable weapon. Back in the day, the man always had a shotgun at arm’s reach. But in recent years, thinking himself an upstanding member of the community and immune to the sort of trouble that requires such firepower, Archer had retired his twelve-gauge in favor of a derringer concealed inside his overcoat. But that poor excuse for a sidearm would never come into play, because Archer would never get a chance to retrieve it. That’s how swift and sudden the attack would be.
Neither did he fear divine reprisal. He believed in heaven and hell, knew right from wrong, and figured that murder in most cases was not morally acceptable. But the Bible did make exceptions—for warfare and righteous retribution. And the killing of this man most definitely fell into the latter category. In modern times, the law had assumed responsibility for avenging egregious acts. But there were instances when the law found itself unable or unwilling to act, or hampered by an inability to prove guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt. That left the door open for individuals such as himself to exact punishment without offending the Almighty.
When you got to the bottom of it, his fear derived from just one thing—how taking the life of another human being would change him. How could it not?Was anything more earth-shattering than killing someone with your own hands and doing so on purpose? He’d seen it go both ways. Men who didn’t seem the least bit troubled by bloodshed, as if killing were just another bump in the road. And men who were never the same, who could not come to terms with the abolition of human life even in cases (like war) where society condoned their action. Having never taken this step before, he had no way of predicting how his own soul would go.
Watching the sun disappear and dusk settle on the land, he tried to muster his courage. If he could not bring himself to end Zebulon Archer’s life tonight, he would never be able to slay the others. And someone had to make them pay.
Dark enough now to conceal his approach, he nudged his horse down the slope and across the chaparral of the coastal escarpment. He knew the terrain well, not just from scouting it over the past few months, but from all the way back to his youth, when this lonely stretch of shore had provided an adventurous escape from schoolwork and household chores. Even in the dusky light, he easily navigated the trail that led down to Ocean Beach. Dismounting and leading his horse across the surf-splashed sand, he stole right up behind Cliff House without anyone noticing.
Through the big picture windows, he could see half a dozen men and an equal number of sporting ladies arrayed around a table in the parlor. Laughing, drinking, flirting, making wagers. And there was Zebulon Archer, alternately puffing on a stogie and sipping whiskey from a brown jug, oblivious to the fact this would be his last night on earth.
Around nine o’clock, Archer pushed back from his chair at the poker table. Making his way through swinging doors into the kitchen, he brushed past a young blonde working the scullery and onto the back porch. Down the steps he went, headed for a row of latrines behind the big house, clutching his little brown jug. As was common along the California coast, the night had taken on a damp chill. Archer almost turned back for his overcoat, but his bladder urged him onwards. Quick piss and he’d be back at the table.
Taking one last sip of whiskey, Archer carefully placed his jug on the ground and stepped into the nearest jake. Unlatching his trousers, he answered nature’s call. He was in a grand mood, merrily humming as he relieved himself, calculating in his mind what sums he would ask of the banker, the judge, and the deputy mayor arrayed around the table tonight. Much later, of course, after the poker petered out and the gents had their turn upstairs with the ladies hired to provide “light entertainment” for the evening. It wasn’t out-and-out bribery, merely how business was conducted these days. Booze, gambling, and quim in return for venture capital … and an understanding that anything that happened at Cliff House on Saturday night never got spoken of again.
The leak completed, Archer shook his member and tucked it back inside his trousers. He nudged the latrine door open with an elbow and stepped outside, leaning over to retrieve his whiskey.
“What the hell,” Archer grumbled. The jug was missing. A long evening of drink had left him more than a little tipsy, yet not enough to forget where he’d placed his beloved hooch. He had most definitely brought his drink along for the piss. Had to be here somewhere….
Squatting down on his haunches, Archer felt around in the dark. He heard footsteps and looked around. “Careful!” he shouted thinking the person might accidentally kick the jug.
When the person didn’t answer, Archer looked up. “Who’s that?” he asked as something hard clipped his left ear. Someone had taken a swing at Archer with his own jug.
More surprised than wounded, Archer scrambled back to his feet. “You sonofabitch!” he barked, charging at a shadowy figure.
The attacker took another swing. Archer lifted an arm to deflect the blow, but the move came a moment too late. The jug found solid purchase this time, slamming against the side of Archer’s head and knocking him sideways. His legs wobbly, Archer managed to snatch a momentary grip on the outhouse door before blacking out.
When he came to, he was being dragged along the ground by a horse, his ankles bound and his arms trailing behind like a raggedy doll. He could taste blood in his mouth, and the side of his skull hurt like hell. Even in his muzzy state, without the faintest idea what his assailant’s motives might be, Archer sensed mortal danger. He reached for the pocket where he kept his derringer, only to remember that he’d left his overcoat back at the house. He tried to bend forward and grab the rope wrapped around his ankles, but age and girth thwarted the effort.
Twisting his body sideways, Archer frantically reached out for the blur of sagebrush and manzanita whizzing past his face. But he could not achieve a firm enough grip to free himself or slow the horse’s progress. When all else failed, Archer began to shout. Petition his companions, his peons, his whores—whoever might be within hearing distance—to rescue him from the phantom attacker. But it was all for naught. The sound of the surf muffled even his loudest appeals.
The dragging eventually stopped on a patch of smooth sandstone. Archer figured they were somewhere on the cliffs that stretched south from Ocean Beach towards the tip of Point Loma. He still had no inkling of his assailant’s intent, but no desire to hang around and find out. Archer rolled over, tried to rise to his feet. He managed to prop himself up on his knees when a boot to the side of the head sent him sprawling to the ground again.
In silence and with measured speed, the attacker flipped Archer onto his stomach, drove a knee into the man’s back, and tethered his arms in the same manner as his feet.
“What do you want?” Archer cried out.
But the attacker saw no need to respond. He was busy with other tasks, disconnecting the towline from the saddle, making sure it was still tight around Archer’s ankles, and then disappearing into the dark.
“What do you want?” Archer’s shouted again, louder this time. And once again his plea provoked nothing more than silence.
He could hear the attacker fussing over something in the distance and then coming back, his boots clacking on the clifftop.
“I’ve got money!” Archer pleaded, his panic rising.
Lifting him by the armpits, the attacker dragged Archer across the sandstone shelf to the edge of the precipice.
“Tell me what you want! Just let me go!”
His head hanging over the rim, Archer could taste the salt on his lips, feel the spray in his eyes, hear the waves crashing on the rocks below.
“I’ll give you anything! Anything you want! Just tell me!”
And finally the attacker spoke, whispering “Sam Ah Choy” into Archer’s ear.
Archer exuded a startled gasp. He knew the attacker’s voice. And in the same breath realized the motive—revenge for something that happened so long ago he could barely recall the details.
“It was an accident!” Archer shouted as the attacker pushed him over the edge of the hundred-foot-high cliff. He braced for a crash landing that would surely end his life. But it never came. Instead, Archer felt himself being slowly lowered down the sandstone face to a point where the top of his head hovered about a foot above the rocky shore.
Dangling upside down in midair, moaning from the pain and panic, Archer was fully aware of his predicament, but unable to escape. Above the sound of the surf, he could hear his assailant ride off and leave him to fate. A wolf moon peaked over the crest of Point Loma. The tide would soon rise to its highest level of the month. The cove would flood and so would Archer’s lungs. His death would not be slow, and it would not be easy. But even Zebulon Archer knew it was just.