Gold Mountain Blues by Ling Zhang Page B

something akin to a genial smile.
    Red Hair set off up the mountain carrying the bottle of Yellow Water and the tin tube with the gunpowder packed in it. Ah-Lam started after him: “Mind your step, Red Hair,” he called. Red Hair turned and smiled: “Don’t pull such an ugly face,” he said. “Just you wait till my wife’s here to serve you porridge with preserved eggs.” Ah-Fat tried to say something too, but the words stuck in his throat. His eyes smarted as he watched Red Hair proceed up the slope.
    Red Hair was walking very strangely, like a lame antelope, with one leg long and the other short. The short leg was clamped firmly to the ground while he stretched out the long one and made a circle. Ah-Fat realized he was testing the firmness of the terrain. Stepping slowly but surely, he made his way to the hole in the cliff face. His blue cotton jacket fluttered formoment at the entrance and then disappeared. Ah-Fat began counting to himself.
    One, two, three, four, five. He should have put the bottle of Yellow Water down by now.
    Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He should have stuck the tin tube into the bottle.
    Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. He should have set the tube in position inside the hole in the mountain.
    Ah-Fat counted to fifty but still there was no sign of Red Hair. Some of the men began to panic. “Send the dog into the hole to look.” The words were hardly out of their mouths when there was a muffled thud, like a miserable fart, and something shot out of the hole in the cliff face. The explosives had not ignited properly.
    When the dust settled, Ah-Fat and Ah-Lam raced up the mountainside and brought Red Hair back. Half of Red Hair’s face had been burned black, and there was something else odd about it too—he had lost an ear. Blood gushed out of a hole the size of a copper coin on the side of his head. Ah-Fat tore off his jacket and pressed it to the wound. In a little while, the cotton cloth was soaked through. Red Hair’s body was as limp as a rag doll.
    â€œGet the foreman to ride for a doctor! Quick!” Ah-Fat yelled at the record-keeper. The foreman was the only one who had a horse, apart from the supply team.
    The record-keeper went and spoke to the foreman. His words were brief—just one sentence. The foreman launched into a long preamble. The men grew impatient. “What the hell’s up? This is a matter of life and death!” The record-keeper came over and mumbled: “He says there’s no doctor for a hundred miles. Besides, it was arranged with the contractor that in case of illness or injury, you look after yourself, the company’s not responsible. It’s clearly laid down in the contract that.…”
    The record-keeper did not finish what he was saying. He swallowed it back because Ah-Fat got to his feet and walked over to him. Ah-Fat walked up close and the record-keeper could see the axe in the boy’s hand. This was the axe Ah-Fat used for felling saplings for their tent. The axe blade had been nicked in a few places but was still an excellent tool for chopping trees.
    â€œDown in the valley there’s a Redskin tribe with a medicine man,” said Ah-Fat. There was a gleam in his eyes which made the record-keeper tremble. The last time he had seen that kind of a look was one early spring. A brown bear had come down from the mountain after a winter of starvation—it had eyes like that.
    The record-keeper went back and told the foreman what Ah-Fat had said. The foreman gave Ah-Fat a sidelong glance and launched into another long, incomprehensible speech. This the record-keeper did not translate. He knew the best he could do was take the rough edges off the man’s words, but there was no way he could blunt the knife blade. And now there were knife blades on both sides. He went back to Ah-Fat: “You do what you want. It’s none of my concern.”
    Ah-Fat shoved the