Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 109 Chief Harrison Has Already Seeked His Own Death

Zhou Dapao was surrounded by his former comrades, and his heart was filled with pride.

He slammed his fist on his chest and roared, "Brothers! It's true! It's all true!"

He pulled out a handful of silver coins from the bulging leather money pouch at his waist.

Seven or eight gleaming Morgan Eagle dollars.

"One silver dollar! One day! Every Saturday, cash on the spot! Not a penny deducted!"

He pointed to himself, then to Erzhu.

"We're foremen now, managing thirty guys, and we make 1.5 yuan a day!"

"As for food," Erzhu quickly chimed in, "Brothers, do you know what we're having for breakfast? Unlimited white rice, plus eggs, two for each person! And meat soup for dinner!"

"Hitting people?" Zhou Dapao chimed in, "Who the hell hit us? The foreman is one of our own, and the people in charge are the gentlemen from the Huaqing Association! We're here as human beings! Not fucking animals!"

"..."

All thirty delegates were petrified.

They stared intently at the few eagle-shaped ocean lights on the ground, gleaming in the sunlight.

My ears were ringing, filled with the sounds of "white rice," "eggs," and "meat broth"...

A farmer in his fifties named Lao Chen suddenly knelt down on the ground with a thud.

Then, the old man, whose son had starved to death in the workers' shed, let out a heart-wrenching cry like the howl of a wild beast.

"There's a way out... Thank God!"

The sound of crying immediately touched everyone present.

With red-rimmed eyes, Liu punched himself in the chest: "Damn it, there's a way out! I can finally live a decent life!"

The uncles and elders from the six guild halls all fell silent.

Uncle Yu turned his back and wiped his eyes, then turned to Zhou Dapao and Erzhu, nodding slowly: "Good, good, you've made something of yourself."

……

The delegation's awe-inspiring experience was only just beginning.

Wang Dafu didn't give them much time to bask in their excitement; he led the group of eager people northward.

The carriage traveled another ten kilometers or so, and the view changed from a neat orchard to a vast, undeveloped hilly area.

"Mr. Wang, where is this?" Uncle Yu asked, somewhat confused.

“This is the land that the Huaqing Association has prepared for the new brothers,” Wang Dafu said.

As the carriage rounded a bend in the mountain valley, a bustling construction site came into view.

A group of Chinese men, shirtless, chanted slogans as they felled trees, dug foundations, and built wooden houses under the direction of craftsmen.

They are building a brand new village.

“Isn’t that…” Gap-toothed Liu, with his sharp eyes, recognized the man directing the construction site: “Is that Master Wei of Hewei Hall?”

The thirty delegates were in an uproar, some even feeling frightened.

Of course they knew He Wei! He was Wei Ye, one of the three major gangs in Chinatown, a ruthless character who killed without blinking an eye.

Why is he working here?

He Wei also saw the horse-drawn carriage team.

He was no longer as arrogant as he was in Chinatown. He wore the same work clothes as Zhou Dapao and his gang, only he looked cleaner.

He wiped his sweat, strode over, and even took the initiative to cup his hands in greeting to Uncle Yu and the others.

"Uncle Yu, everyone, you must be tired from your journey."

"Master Wei?" Uncle Yu was also stunned: "What's going on...?"

“What Wei Ye?” He Wei chuckled self-deprecatingly, pointing to the vast farm: “I’m a new immigrant now, a farmer.”

"A peasant?"

“Yes,” He Wei pointed to the wooden houses under construction, “This land, 320 acres, has been rented to our He Wei Hall by the Chinese Youth Association. We will do it ourselves and have enough to eat and wear.”

Old Chen couldn't resist again and rushed straight to the patch of land that had just been plowed.

"Gross soil! My God! This is all fertile land! Ten times better than the land owned by those landlords back home! You want to rent this kind of land to us?"

"of course."

“But,” Uncle Yu, being an old hand, asked the most crucial question: “Mr. He, this place is much further north and more desolate than the orchard we just visited.”

His implication was quite clear.

“I’ve heard Northern California is a mess,” Uncle Yu lowered his voice, “Irish bandits, Mexican robbers, and those white cowboys who kill when they’re drunk. Is it safe for you to clear land here?”

This question brought the delegates, who had just become agitated, back to calm.

Yes, it's certainly good to have money to earn and food to eat.

But what if you don't live to enjoy it?
Instead of being nervous when faced with this question, He Wei smiled calmly.

"Uncle Yu," he said, taking out a folded document and handing it over, "take a look at this."

Uncle Yu took it with a puzzled look and opened it.

Another contract.

Unlike the management contract for the apple orchard, this contract was headed in bolder font and read: Baihu Security Company.

"This is?"

“White Tiger Security,” He Wei said with reverence, “the most powerful security company in California.”

“They are partners of the Chinese Youth Association,” He Wei pointed to the last amount in the contract: “Uncle Yu, you see, in order to take care of us compatriots who have just come to reclaim the land, Baihu Security only charges one silver dollar for the first year’s security fee for this 320-acre farm, along with the lives of dozens of us!”

"One silver dollar?"

Uncle Yu's hands began to tremble uncontrollably.

He wasn't an idiot; he was a shrewd man who, through cunning and connections, secured his position as the head of one of the six major gangs in San Francisco, a place rife with white gangsters.

He immediately understood the devastating power that this piece of eagle-shaped ocean represented.

Baihu Security and Huaqing Association are essentially one family.

This is an armed group owned by Chinese people.

A behemoth powerful enough to protect its own kind.

“With this,” He Wei patted the contract, “no son of a bitch will dare to cause trouble on this land.”

He turned and pointed to the dozens of Winchester rifles standing neatly beside the wooden houses.

"Besides, we're not pushovers ourselves!"

……

The carriage remained silent on the return journey.

The thirty Chinese laborers were speechless.

Their worldview has been shattered and then pieced back together today.

At this moment, Gap-toothed Liu was tightly clutching a piece of black, oily soil that he had secretly dug out.

So shocking.

Northern California and San Francisco are like two different worlds.

San Francisco is bustling, but that bustling prosperity is like a roast chicken in a shop window—fragrant and delicious, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the stray dogs lurking outside the glass.

They were just barely surviving in that can, waiting to mold and rot.

And here, it is wilderness.

But in this wilderness, they found a daily wage of one silver dollar, with no deductions allowed.

They had meat broth and white rice at every meal; there were no white overseers, and no dignity of being whipped.

Land that can be cultivated by oneself and is extremely fertile.

And a powerful organization called White Tiger Security, so powerful that even big shots like the He Wei Tang have to obey it and provide them with protection, is a Chinese organization of its own.

"Heaven...that's heaven!"

Liu with the gap-toothed mouth muttered to himself. Suddenly, he looked up sharply and grabbed Wang Dafu's arm.

"Mr. Wang! We have to go back! We must go back immediately!"

Tell all the brothers in Chinatown!

"Don't fucking squeeze into that can and wait to die!"

"Come to Northern California! Here... here there's a fucking way to survive!"

……

San Francisco, California Police Chief's Office.

"FUCK!"

Police Chief Harrison, the de facto king of San Francisco's underworld, was panting like an enraged bull.

"That Jewish rat! Solly Ross!"

He's very angry right now, extremely angry.

Solly Ross, the arms dealer who had been on friendly terms with him just two weeks ago, sharing Cuban cigars, had suddenly disappeared without a word.

“Damn it, I’m his son David’s godfather!” Harrison spat wildly at the trembling Sergeant O’Brien in front of him. “Is this how he treats his son’s godfather? He sold everything! Ross Precision! Ross Chemical! And that mansion of his on Nob Hill!”

“Sir,” Sergeant O’Brien said carefully, holding up a document, “we’ve verified it. The city hall clerk has a record that Mr. Ross legally signed the transfer contract at 6 p.m. the day before yesterday, and it’s all legal.”

Harrison snatched the document, glanced at it, crumpled it into a ball, and slammed it into O'Brien's face: "Legal? Six o'clock in the afternoon? You fucking tell me, that Jew will sign a contract at six o'clock in the afternoon when the city hall is closed?"

“But that’s what the witnesses said, Chief,” O’Brien was almost in tears, “many people saw him board a ship with his family that very night, saying they were going to Germany.” Harrison laughed in anger, “That bastard! He’d rather go back to his sauerkraut-smelling hometown! Does he think German money is easier to earn than American money?”

Harrison's anger was not solely due to being betrayed by his friends.

Solly Ross's escape meant that his most lucrative and secure source of tribute had been cut off.

The "consulting fees" he received each month from Ross Precision and Ross Chemical were more than the police station's annual salary combined.

Now, it's all fucking gone.

Harrison tugged at his collar in frustration, feeling like he was about to have a stroke.

“Quinn!” he roared. “That Irish potato vendor! Finnegan Quinn O’Malley! Where is he?”

“It’s been three days! Patrick Callahan’s hand was chopped off on his own turf! I fucking demand he hand over the killer! Where is he? And what about this month’s fees? Is he trying to run away like that Jew?”

“This…” O’Brien’s expression was even more unpleasant than before.

"Say it!"

"Quinn O'Malley... he can't come."

"He dares not to come?"

"No, sir, he's dead."

Harrison's ferocious face froze instantly.

"Dead?" It took him several seconds to react. "How did he die? Did he drink too much cheap whiskey and fall into the sea to feed the fish?"

“No, sir,” O’Brien swallowed hard, “it was a shootout, sir. Our men went to the Clover Bar to find him, and the bartenders said that Boss Quinn was hacked to death by another group of Irishmen in the basement last night.”

"Hacked to death?" Harrison repeated incredulously.

"Yes, sir. They say there's a traitor within 'Celtic Fist'."

Chief Harrison, the underground emperor of San Francisco, was shocked for the first time.

Quinn, the Irish bastard who was in his office just two days ago, stuffing five hundred dollars into his hand while patting his chest and promising to catch the murderer, is dead just like that?
"That's not all." O'Brien was genuinely afraid the chief would pull out a gun and shoot him on the spot.

"What else? What the hell is wrong with that?"

"The other two families, Barbery Coast and North Beach, the Dutchman Van Coe and Luigi of the Latin Quarter, are also dead."

"Vanco died in his Siren Song, reportedly by having his throat slit by his confidant. Luigi fared even worse; his body was seen in the backyard of the Golden Palace, his head smashed."

O'Brien finished speaking in one breath, awaiting the director's wrath.

A deathly silence fell over the office for a full minute.

Harrison, however, did not roar this time.

Overnight, all three of San Francisco's underworld bosses were fucking dead?

“Quinn, Vanco, Luigi.” Harrison chewed on the three names, then gave a cold laugh.

"So what?" He glared fiercely at the dumbfounded O'Brien.

"So what? Who the hell cares?"

"Sir?"

"This is San Francisco! These bastards! They're fighting, hacking each other to pieces, killing each other! Isn't this fucking commonplace?"

He has recovered from the shock.

"Their territory is like the bedsheets in a brothel, changing hands like a revolving door! You sleep in it today, he sleeps in it tomorrow!"

“I don’t care who sits in those dirty seats, O’Brien. I only care about one thing: whether the money can still flow in.”

O'Brien nodded quickly: "Sir, that's the strangest part."

"what happened again?"

"Quinn is dead, and a new Irishman named Declan has taken over 'Celtic Fist'. Van Coe is dead, and a new Dutchman named Geese has taken over 'Siren's Song'! Luigi is dead, and a new Mexican named Matteo has taken over 'Golden Palace'!"

Harrison paused for a moment, then burst into deafening laughter.

"Hahaha! Perfect!"

"See that, Brian! This is the rule of this world: dogs fight dogs, Irish kill Irish! Mexicans kill Mexicans!"

"This saves me so much trouble!"

He began to vent his anger with a string of curses: "Damn Irishmen! Potato vendors! All they do is drink and fight! Mexicans are a bunch of greasy bastards! They can't do anything but rape and steal! And those Dutchmen, go eat your damn snow peas! Oh, and those damn Chinese! They're all heretics, they don't believe in God, they have pig tails, they're yellow-skinned monkeys! They're the most disgusting maggots in this city!"

After venting, he felt much better.

"Alright, O'Brien."

"Sir!"

“Go,” Harrison ordered, “and give a message to these three new mice, these three new kings.”

“Tell them that I, Chief Harrison, want to see them.”

"Tomorrow at noon, in this office."

Harrison lit another cigar and gave a sinister smile.

"I want these bastards who just crawled out of the gutter to know this clearly."

"In this city, Harrison is their god!"

"If I don't let them breathe, they fucking can't breathe!"

……

Harrison had no idea that while he was throwing a tantrum over the money, the real king of the California underworld was coldly watching him from the Northern California sun.

In North Beach and the Barbary Coast, the businesses that Harrison was so concerned about—casinos, brothels, opium dens, and bars—were not affected in any way by the loss of three gang leaders; on the contrary, they operated even more efficiently.

The bloodstains from last night were washed away before dawn.

When the first group of drunks and gamblers pushed open the bar doors in the morning, everything was the same as yesterday.

The bartender is still the same bartender, and the croupier is still the same croupier.

The only difference is that the boss has changed.

The new boss is more than a hundred times better than the old one.

Lawson's 150 parachuted assassins—Declan, Geese, Matteo, and their key lieutenants—have firmly taken control of all the key positions in the three gangs.

They are the new managers, accountants, top enforcers, and regional supervisors.

These people come here to do only three things: carry out orders, collect money, and kill.

The hundred or two hundred Irish thugs, Dutch villains, and Mexican gunmen in the area were sly under their old boss. They could slack off, cheat, and hoard their earnings.

But in front of these new bosses, they are nothing but dogs.

Within an hour of taking over Clover, Declan broke all ten fingers of a dealer who was trying to smuggle gambling money, right in front of everyone.

Matteo then threw the three disobedient pimps into the basement of the Golden Palace, letting them experience firsthand the skills of a "butcher."

One hand holds a ruthless stick, while the other hand offers timely and even more carrots than before.

This group of thugs was easily subdued.

Through these 150 assassins, Lawson now indirectly but absolutely controls over a thousand Irish, Dutch, and Mexican men.

More than a thousand cannon fodder.

Lawson was very satisfied with the results of this battle.

What great material for filling in the gaps.

At this time, news also reached his ears that Harrison wanted to summon the three major underground leaders.

"He wants a commission?"

As Lawson listened to the report from the assassin Adams, he learned about Harrison's vampire role in this dark industry chain.

A significant portion of the profits from San Francisco's black and gray industries goes to this fat pig of a bureau chief.

Now, he wants to leech off us again?
"Ah."

Lawson sneered.

"You're a fattened white pig. Others might spoil you and treat you like royalty, but I won't."

He had a thought in his mind.

An instruction was delivered precisely.

……

San Francisco.

In a cheap rental house near Sacramento Street.

The Irish vagrant who had cut off Captain Patrick Callahan's right hand and then vanished without a trace was now sitting on a broken bed, wiping a dagger.

He had been lying in wait here for three days.

Suddenly, he stopped moving.

A clear instruction echoed in his mind.

The lifeless blue eyes finally lit up with a murderous glint once more.

He walked to the window and pushed aside the tattered curtains.

From here, he could see a few blocks away the gray building that symbolized law and order: the San Francisco Police Department.

He narrowed his eyes, then turned and picked up the revolver on the table.

A Colt was quickly loaded with bullets.

(End of this chapter)