Chapter Fifty-One: The Sharpshooter

Still, the same thought echoed in Yang Xiaolin’s mind: he knew he was now a thief, so he accepted his place as one. No matter who was pursuing him, he would always turn back and fire a shot—even if he knew perfectly well that the bullet would never reach its mark.

A skirmish broke out right in the Ma family’s village.

Why call it a skirmish? Because General Akberil had always believed that Yang Xiaolin was heading north with the intention of attacking the Sixty-Fourth Settlement. That place had become a crucial Russian supply base, not only sustaining ten thousand soldiers along the northern front in their campaign against Feng Delin, but also storing a vast reserve of provisions intended for the construction of fortifications.

The Sixty-Fourth Settlement could not be lost! Over two thousand Russian civilians lived there. If Yang—the ghost beater—were to break through, the scene that played out last year, with corpses clogging the riverbed of the Liao River, might repeat itself.

General Akberil was in a hurry; he never imagined he’d encounter that band of bandits here! So, when the two forces suddenly came face to face, not only was Yang Xiaolin caught off guard, but Akberil himself was filled with dread.

He had overestimated Yang Xiaolin; Yang had no idea how important the Sixty-Fourth Settlement was to the north! If he had, he would have gone straight for it; as it was, he hadn’t even considered heading further north.

Akberil was a cautious commander, and he worried that Yang Xiaolin had lured him into a trap—a calculated ambush, waiting for him to stumble in.

Both sides were uneasy. So what did they do? They each sent scouts to probe the enemy’s position.

As it happened, Biaozi’s men had barely finished their hasty preparations when a hundred-strong Russian detachment advanced slowly toward them.

Ergandzi was still preoccupied, torn between buying two oxen and settling down with that Russian woman on a few acres of land, or carrying on as a squad leader. There was one thing he was certain of: he really liked that Russian girl. He had locked her in a trunk when he left, and the thought gnawed at him.

Was she hungry? Was she cold? Why hadn’t he left a blanket and some food in the box for her?

Ergandzi berated himself, still lost in these pointless regrets as the Russians drew ever nearer—clinging to a pain that no longer needed to be his. Sometimes, the slow-witted are simply more stubborn than others, whether they’re right or wrong.

His fifty men followed close behind. There were no trenches yet—they hadn’t the time to dig any—just a makeshift, flimsy barricade thrown together in haste.

For some, this was their first real fight; it was the first time the unit faced Russian troops head-on, the first time they’d fought the enemy openly in daylight.

Between them and the Russians stretched a sparse woodland. The trees were few, but the Russians hunched over, advancing cautiously from trunk to trunk.

The Russians didn’t open with artillery fire. First, because the sudden encounter had caught them off guard, too—they hadn’t had time to set up their guns. Second, General Akberil wanted to test the bandits’ mettle with the simplest means available.

Right beside Ergandzi were Biaozi’s men, and Biaozi himself felt the tension mounting as the Russian line crept closer. Suddenly, he turned: “Ergandzi!”

Ergandzi glanced over. “What is it?”

Biaozi asked, “What does your foreign mare really taste like?”

The question infuriated Ergandzi. “Get lost!”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the Russians opened fire. A single bullet struck the man beside Biaozi, dropping him without a sound. Biaozi looked down, gently closed the dead man’s unblinking eyes, and shouted, “Fire!”

Bullets whistled through the woods. Most of these bandits had only just learned how to shoot; some hadn’t even fired a single round before. Their barricade offered scant protection, and their shots mostly went wild, while the Russians’ aim was deadly accurate.

After only two exchanges, Biaozi’s squad lay in ruins—over fifty men cut down, and Biaozi himself pinned by enemy fire, unable to lift his head. Through the hail of bullets, a figure dashed toward him; it was Ergandzi, bringing a fresh torrent of Russian gunfire in his wake.

Biaozi yanked him down. “What are you doing here? Where are your men?”

Ergandzi’s face was stricken. “I’ve got no one left! Maybe a dozen brothers scattered somewhere. Biaozi, let’s run!”

Biaozi thought for a moment. “No, the boss said to hold for half an hour—only retreat when the Russians bring up their artillery!”

A bullet struck the dirt just above Ergandzi’s head, showering him with earth. He shook it off. “If we don’t go now, we’ll never get away!”

Biaozi glared, pressing his gun to Ergandzi’s skull. “Say that again and I’ll shoot you myself!”

Ergandzi stared back, bewildered—he couldn’t understand why Biaozi, usually just like him, had changed so much. After a long pause, he muttered, “Fine, we’ll stay—no need to be so fierce about it.”

Biaozi grunted, lowering his weapon. In those few moments, the Russians had advanced another several dozen paces. Biaozi risked a glance over the barricade.

The poor marksmanship of the bandits had emboldened the Russians, who now charged forward, not even bothering to seek cover. The officer at the rear, brandishing his saber, was especially fired up, howling as he drove them on.

Biaozi raised his rifle. “Damn it, I’ll take him out first!”

The muzzle lifted, and Ergandzi saw the Russian commander’s head snap back as a bullet struck him dead, sending him face-first to the ground.

Ergandzi was dumbstruck, gazing at Biaozi with awe. “Biaozi, you’re incredible—you didn’t even pull the trigger and still got him!”

Biaozi shot him a glare, then shouted, “Machine gunner!”

The machine gunner fell immediately as well.

Now Ergandzi saw clearly—neither shot had come from Biaozi. Next to him crouched a man in his thirties, smoke curling from the barrel of his rifle.

Biaozi grinned at the man. “Brother, can you hit two with one shot?”

The man said nothing, only took careful aim and squeezed the trigger again—sure enough, another two fell to a single bullet.

“What’s your name?”

“Tihui.”

Tihui fired again, dropping the lead Russian, but now the enemy realized the threat from his position, and a hail of bullets forced him to duck for cover.

With the Russian commander and machine gunner dead, the enemy’s charge faltered. Those at the front hesitated, while those in the rear, deprived of leadership, halted entirely.

Biaozi shouted, “Machine gun—sweep them down!”