Chapter Thirty: The Donkey of Qian

He and Tang Yulin hit it off instantly; all that remained was to deal with Zhang Zuolin. At this point, getting rid of Zhang Zuolin was a simple task—the men led by Gu Tianming had already arrived, their forces were positioned, and Zhang Zuolin remained utterly unaware. Perhaps Zhang Zuolin would take some precautions, but he could never suspect that he and Big Blade Jin were on the inside, ready to coordinate with their brothers. Even if Zhang Zuolin were clever enough to be wary of him and Big Blade Jin, he would never imagine that, at the crucial moment, Tang Yulin would choose to stand aside and merely observe. One could say that they now had the advantage of knowing themselves and their enemy, with time, place, and people all in their favor.

Zhang Zuolin’s militia of two hundred men seemed like a small dish just within reach, and Yang Xiaolin felt he could devour it with ease. There was nothing to fear; bereft of Tang Dahu’s support, Zhang Zuolin was, at best, a braying donkey out of tricks. The only question left was whether Yang Xiaolin could execute the plan to perfection. As he walked, his mind turned over every detail, determined that each step of the operation be flawless.

In the October mountains, the wind stirred the leaves, sending them drifting silently to the ground. The dry, yellow foliage fell soundlessly in the night, blanketing the earth in a lonely desolation that evoked a sense of melancholy. Yang Xiaolin favored the deep night, for its darkness could conceal things he could not hide by daylight.

His steps pressed softly into the carpet of leaves, creating strange rustling sounds. Ahead, all was blackness; nothing could be seen. As Yang Xiaolin reached the base of a towering tree, more than twenty feet high, a sudden voice called from above, “Who goes there?”

Yang Xiaolin looked up. “It’s me. Is that Duan Qiang up there?”

A voice responded, “Oh, Third Brother? Still up so late?”

Yang Xiaolin snorted, “Just checking to see if you lot are slacking off, especially you! All day yawning—you’re the one I trust the least.”

Duan Qiang chuckled from the branches, “Third Brother, don’t judge me by my yawns in daylight. I’m sharp at night. I tell you, I’m the owl in this tree—no one gets past me as long as I’m here.”

“Come down for a moment,” Yang Xiaolin called, “I brought you half a jug of wine. If you get cold at night, take a sip.”

Duan Qiang replied with delight, “Thanks, Third Brother!”

Duan Qiang was a typical Northeasterner—nimble as a monkey climbing up and down trees. Yang Xiaolin saw a dark shadow swoop down from the branches, landing as if it had fallen from the sky.

“Third Brother, where’s the wine?” Duan Qiang rubbed his hands together, grinning.

Yang Xiaolin retrieved a small gourd from his back. “Don’t overdo it—pace yourself.”

Just as Duan Qiang reached out to take the flask, he suddenly sensed something cold and hard pressed to his forehead. His hand froze inches from the wine, and he looked up to see the black mouth of a pistol aimed at his brow, still not comprehending. “Third Brother! What’s this about? You can’t joke like this—I’ll turn on you!”

Yang Xiaolin chuckled softly, swiftly seized the rifle slung over Duan Qiang’s back, produced a prepared cord, and forced Duan Qiang against the tree, tying him firmly. “Sorry, brother, but you’ll have to bear with this for a while. Be calm, and don’t worry—I won’t hurt you.”

Yang Xiaolin had personally arranged all the sentries and knew everyone’s position precisely. Duan Qiang was the first post; heading outward from within, he would be the last. The four brothers ahead of him had already met the same fate as Duan Qiang. This road, at least, was now secure.

The men were still as bewildered as Duan Qiang, unaware of what was happening. Duan Qiang watched as Yang Xiaolin lit a bundle of dry grass and twirled it in his hand. Soon, the sound of hurried footfalls reached his ears, and shadows began to emerge from the darkness.

“Brother Gu, is everyone safe?”

Yang Xiaolin embraced Gu Tianming upon seeing him, immediately asking that question. This moved Gu Tianming, for Yang Xiaolin’s first concern was for his men—a warmth suffused his heart.

These past days, they had been skirmishing with the Qing army. It sounded easy, but only they knew how many perils lay between the lines. How many nights had they pushed on, exhausted beyond endurance, yet forced themselves to trudge on along invisible paths? How many times had they been roused from dreams by shadows flitting ahead, compelled to leap from their beds without knowing if it was friend or foe?

In guerrilla warfare, when the enemy advanced, they retreated; when the enemy withdrew, they pursued—it was a contest of endurance. Gu Tianming and his men persevered because they could withstand hardship even more than the Qing soldiers. It wasn’t so much superior training as the fact that the Qing soldiers hunted them out of obligation, while these “rabbits” ran for their very lives.

Hearing Yang Xiaolin’s concern for his brothers, Gu Tianming felt sure he had chosen the right leader. He nodded quietly, “All’s well. Except for a dozen or so who’ve gone missing, we haven’t suffered at the hands of the Qing troops.”

Missing men meant only two things: they had either fallen behind or deserted. So be it—let them go. Yang Xiaolin knew the road ahead would be harder still; if they couldn’t endure now, they wouldn’t survive later.

“I understand. Tonight, we’ll take out this militia. Once Zhao Yansun loses his nerve, it’ll be over! I’ll lead you into their main camp. They have two hundred men in total. A few days ago, Sui Bing and the others took down several, and with the sentries posted outside, there should be around one hundred and seventy left inside the camp, and they’re all asleep.”

The bandits were overjoyed at this. Sui Bing even snickered shamelessly, “Asleep, are they? Perfect—I love fighting men in their sleep.”

The others chuckled quietly at this, but Yang Xiaolin quickly hushed them, “Keep it down! Listen, when you follow me in, make no noise whatsoever. Try to reach Zhang Zuolin’s tent in one go. And remember, those militia men are poor folk too—don’t be too harsh on them!”

These words showed how confident Yang Xiaolin was; at least now, he believed sneaking into Zhang Zuolin’s camp would be effortless. If he weren’t sure, he would never have told his men to hold back.

With that, Yang Xiaolin prepared to lead his men into the camp. Just then, Duan Qiang cried out, “Third Brother! Third Brother! At least leave me the wine for a sip, will you?”

Yang Xiaolin paused. That Duan Qiang could think of this at such a moment meant he was either a fool or possessed of remarkable composure. Yang Xiaolin brought the flask to his lips, “How will you drink it? Wait until later, all right?”

Duan Qiang craned his neck longingly. “Just place the gourd to my mouth—I’ll manage. And Third Brother, remember to send someone to untie me later, or else I’ll freeze to death come morning.”

Yang Xiaolin laughed, set the gourd at his mouth, and then, leading more than a hundred men, followed the path he’d just cleared, heading straight for Zhang Zuolin’s camp.