Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 112 The Real Local Tyrants of Northern California

The entire low-rent building has been turned into a garbage dump.

The mattress was slashed open with a bayonet, the furniture was smashed to pieces, the few coins hidden in the jar were looted, and even the last bit of flour and potatoes were dumped on the dirty ground and stomped on.

After searching more than a dozen houses, Monroe's boots were stained with blood of unknown origin.

Damn it, I didn't find anything.

"FUCK!"

Monroe was on the verge of exploding with frustration: "These rats won't talk. Let's go find the biggest rat king!"

The "Rat King" he referred to was Declan, who succeeded Finnegan Quinn as the new leader of the neighborhood.

Monroe led his bloodthirsty henchmen straight to the Celtic Fist Tavern.

Even in broad daylight, the tavern was packed with people.

In the center of the tavern, in a deliberately cleared area, a man the size of a small mountain was shirtless, wrestling with his two henchmen.

Declan.

He is a complete beast.

His bronze skin glistened with sweat in the dim light, and his bulging muscles rippled beneath his skin like pythons with each movement.

His signature long, fiery red hair was soaked with sweat and casually tied back.

He easily locked one of his men by the neck, and the poor fellow's face instantly turned a deep purplish-red, his feet kicking wildly off the ground.

Declan growled and slammed him hard onto the floor.

"boom!"

The subordinate lay on the ground convulsing, unable to get up for a long time.

"Get up, Finney!"

Declan laughed rudely: "Didn't you eat, or did you spend all your energy on some bitch last night?"

The tavern immediately erupted in laughter and lewd whistles.

At that moment, Monroe and his twenty officers menacingly blocked the tavern door.

The laughter stopped abruptly.

Dozens of hostile eyes fixed on their blue uniforms and gleaming badges.

Declan slowly turned around.

He seemed completely unsurprised, casually took a lit cigar from one of his men, put it in his mouth, and slowly walked towards Monroe.

"Oh, look who's here."

Declan stopped in front of Monroe. He was a head taller than Monroe, and his oppressive aura, mixed with sweat and alcohol, made Monroe instinctively take a half step back.

"It's Sheriff Monroe."

Declan grinned. "It's an honor. What, want to buy the brothers a drink? Or have you cops finally come to your senses and are planning to pay some protection money?"

Monroe's facial muscles twitched as he gripped his baton tightly: "Shut your stinking mouth, Declan. We're here on official business."

"Oh!"

Declan exaggeratedly drew out his words: "Official business? That sounds fucking terrifying."

He took a deep drag on his cigar and, before Monroe could react, blew a cloud of smoke all over his face.

"Cough, cough, cough!"

Monroe was choked and staggered backward, while the officers behind him all drew their batons, and Casey even put her hand on her revolver holster.

The Irishmen in the pub also stood up, grabbing bottles, stools, and some even pulling daggers from their boots.

Tensions were high between the two sides, and a conflict was imminent.

"Don't fucking move!"

Declan roared without turning his head.

His men, though unwilling, stopped what they were doing.

Declan poked Monroe in the chest, causing him to take another step back.

“Speak, Sheriff.”

Declan's smile vanished, and he looked down at him mockingly: "What the hell is this 'noble official business' of yours?"

"We are searching for the murderer of Chief Harrison."

Monroe suppressed the urge to draw his gun and gritted his teeth, saying, "Someone saw an Irish vagrant do it. We know he's hiding on your turf. Hand him over."

Declan stared wide-eyed and covered his face, feigning exaggerated surprise: "Huh! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! An Irish vagrant?"

"Sheriff, are you fucking kidding me? There are at least 60,000 Irish people in this shit city, and you're telling me one? You might as well say the killer is a two-legged bastard, that would be much more accurate!"

He suddenly leaned closer to Monroe, his pungent odor hitting him again: "And what makes you so sure it was us?"

"Maybe it was your damned bureau chief who got some married woman pregnant, and her husband, unwilling to be cuckolded, stabbed her to death?"

"I've heard that Harrison, that old lecher, is most fond of those big-breasted, brainless women like you Germans. Maybe it was your neighbor who did it?"

"Hahahahaha!"

The tavern erupted in vulgar, maniacal laughter once again.

Declan's vulgar joke was the greatest desecration of the police chief's death and the most direct insult to Monroe, a descendant of Germans.

Monroe's face had turned from red to ashen, and he could even feel his blood pounding wildly in his temples.

"You son of a bitch."

Monroe roared suddenly.

"I don't know if my mother is a dog's son, but if you don't get out of here, your dog mother will be collecting your corpse tonight!"

Declan's face suddenly darkened, and he grabbed Monroe by the collar.

“Listen up, you uniformed pig. First, I have absolutely no idea who killed your fat pig chief. Second, even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you.”

"Finding the murderer is your job, it's a job we taxpayers pay to hire a bunch of useless people like you to do! And now, you're coming to my territory, a legitimate business, to harass my customers and disrupt my business?"

"I'm giving you three seconds to get out of my tavern with your men. Otherwise, I'll shove your badges up your asses one by one!"

"three!"

Monroe's mind went blank.

He looked around.

His men were surrounded by nearly a hundred Irish thugs armed with weapons.

If he dares to make the slightest move, a bloody massacre will immediately unfold.

He will die, and his men will die.

And that damn Barkley would only call him an incompetent idiot.

It's better to admit defeat than to die.

"……two!"

Declan is still counting down.

"let's go!"

Monroe glared at Declan, then turned and left with his men.

"Nonsence!"

A glob of thick phlegm landed precisely on his back, which he had just turned around in.

Monroe stiffened for a moment, but still did not turn around.

"Go back to your mother's belly, you pig cop!"

Monroe returned to the police station, seething with anger.

"That newly appointed bastard, his name is Declan!"

He reported to Barkley: "He's completely uncooperative, a hundred times more difficult to deal with than that old fox Quinn. He's a madman and doesn't respect us at all."

Inside the tavern, Declan wasn't particularly happy after the police left; he just stared coldly at the still-swaying door.

Minutes later, the Irish civilians who had been beaten with batons during the search poured in, weeping and wailing.

Among them were men and women; some were clutching severed arms, some had faces swollen like purple sweet potatoes, and one young woman had her clothes torn to shreds.

"Mr. Declan, you must do us a favor!"

The old man whose kneecap had been broken by Casey was carried in, crying out, "Those damn cops, they don't treat us like human beings at all!"

"They smashed up my house and stole the money I had for my child's medical treatment!" A woman knelt on the ground and wailed.

After they had finished crying, Declan slowly spoke up: "So?"

The crying stopped abruptly.

“Mr. Declan?” The old man with the broken leg looked at him in confusion: “They can’t just let it go like this!”

"Why the hell can't it?"

Declan kicked over the table next to him: "Of course they can! They can smash your houses and beat your people today, and tomorrow they can sleep with your wives and kill your children!"

He knelt down in front of the old man with the broken leg, staring into his eyes: "I'm asking you, old man. How many people were there when they stormed into your house?"

"two."

"And you?" Declan pointed to another man with a blood-stained headband.

"Uh, two!"

"what about you?"

"There were only four of them! They only had four people, yet they dared to storm into our entire floor!"

Declan stood up and looked around at the group of weeping victims.

"Four cops and they've got you twenty-odd men kneeling on the ground? Don't you fucking have knives? Don't you have axes? Don't you fucking have any strength?"

Why don't you kill them?

“We…we don’t want to cause trouble…” a man muttered softly.

"waste!"

Declan spat at the man's feet: "You fucking trouble! You think they'll let you go if you cower? You think they'll show mercy if you kneel on the ground and beg for mercy?"

"You bunch of idiots, this wasn't caused by the death of that fat pig Harrison at all!"

Declan grabbed the crumpled copy of the San Francisco Chronicle from the bar and slammed it to the floor.

"it is this!"

He roared, "That bastard hiding in the office using ink as bullets told those cops they could fuck us however they wanted! He told them we Irish are just a bunch of animals to be slaughtered at will!"

"You want the cops to stop kicking down your doors? To stop beating your wives?"

"You should go find that bastard who wrote this piece of crap, shove his ink bottle up his ass, and stick his pen down his throat!"

"If it weren't for their instigation, the Irish wouldn't be in such a passive position!"

……

Unlike the chaos in San Francisco, a torrent was slowly flowing along the dusty avenues of the North Bay.

More than 20,000 Chinese laborers, along with their families, left the Gold Mountain that had swallowed up so many of their compatriots.

They resemble a blue-gray river, meandering for over ten kilometers.

This large group of Chinese immigrants immediately attracted the attention of white farmers around the town.

On the small hills lining the road, a few dozen local white people stood scattered about. They stopped what they were doing, crossed their arms, and scrutinized the silent group. "Look at these yellow-skinned monkeys."

A farmer wearing a straw hat spat on the ground: "How the hell are they? Ten thousand? Or twenty thousand?"

“I heard they’re here to work for the Parker family, or rather, for that new Anderson guy, and for that apple orchard up north,” said another coachman-looking man. “They’re all laborers.”

"FUCK".

The straw-hat farmer's face darkened: "If they come to work, we'll have nothing to do. These rat-eating bastards don't even pay me enough for two beers a day. These damned capitalists are always finding ways to exploit us."

The discussions weren't loud, but they still reached the ranks.

The already tense nerves of the Chinese laborers were now on edge.

They clenched their fists, not daring to look up, but quickened their pace, urging the child and woman on.

Their experience in San Francisco left an indelible mark on their hearts.

"The foreigners are watching!"

"Don't make a sound, just go."

Will they kick us out?

"If we go back to San Francisco, we're doomed."

The atmosphere in the group remained heavy.

They were such a large group, yet so fragile, like a flock of sheep being targeted by wolves.

But what you fear most is what happens.

Three drunken white thugs staggered out of a roadside pub.

They were clearly local thugs, used to running rampant and bullying others because of their white skin.

"Hey, you bunch of braided bitches' sons!"

The lead drunkard, a redneck, spread his arms and blocked the mule cart.

"Go back inside, understand?"

"Northern California doesn't welcome you shit-eating Chinese! Go back to your smoking, broken-down ship!"

"Yeah, get back!" The other two thugs chimed in, picking up horse manure from the ground and throwing it into the line.

A filthy horse manure landed on a middle-aged woman holding a child. She was so frightened that she hugged the child tightly, tears welling up in her eyes.

A procession of over 20,000 people was stopped by three drunk men.

"Oh dear, what should we do?"

Uncle Yu was sweating profusely with anxiety. He quickly pulled out a heavy leather money bag, ready to spend money to avoid disaster.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please do me a favor."

Just as he was about to force a smile, a strong hand pressed down on his shoulder.

It's Wang Dafu.

"Uncle Yu, we don't need this here."

"Ah? But..." Uncle Yu was almost frantic: "Mr. Wang, even a powerful dragon can't suppress a local snake."

Wang Dafu shook his head: "They will soon find out who the local bully is."

Before Uncle Yu could understand the meaning of those words, a sudden change occurred.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Three dull, resounding strikes.

Suddenly, three burly men dressed in Strawberry Town police uniforms rushed out from the crowd of white onlookers.

They are not here to mediate; they are here to enforce the new order.

There wasn't even a single warning.

The lead officer struck the redneck drunkard hard across the face with his oak baton.

"Crack!"

The drunkard didn't even have time to scream before he fell backward like a pile of rotten flesh, his face a bloody mess.

The other two thugs were also terrified.

"Officer, we..."

Their response was an even more brutal beating.

This was not an arrest; it was a brutal act of violence.

The batons slammed into their knees, elbows, and ribs.

The three officers were extremely ruthless, striking the most painful spots with each blow without immediately killing the target.

"Please spare us! Ah!"

"My leg! My leg is broken!"

The Chinese laborers were all dumbfounded.

In San Francisco, batons are always used on them. When have these uniformed foreigners ever beaten up white people for their sake?

The lead officer stopped after beating the three thugs until they were barely alive.

"Listen up, you fucking idiots!"

"This group of Chinese people came to build up Northern California. They are hardworking workers, not fucking laborers! With their participation, our land will be cultivated, our apple orchards will be harvested, and Northern California will get better and better!"

"Anyone who dares to harass them is a traitor to Northern California, an accomplice of the Irish gangsters!"

He stepped on the redneck's hand, and the latter let out another scream.

“We’ll beat him half to death, then kick him out of this town, out of Northern California! Do you all understand?”

The white farmers around them all turned pale.

They weren't stupid; they could tell that these officers weren't enforcing the law, but rather establishing their authority.

They all nodded, and some were even so frightened that they took a few steps back and hid in the crowd.

The three police officers put away their batons, turned to Wang Dafu, and said, "Sir, the road is now clear. Please continue."

There was a deathly silence in the ranks of Chinese laborers.

Immediately, an uncontrollable commotion erupted.

"Oh my god, the cops helped us?"

"Am I seeing things? They attacked the white people."

Uncle Yu's mouth dropped open, and he didn't even notice the money bag in his hand fall to the ground.

He finally understood the meaning of Wang Dafu's words.

This land has truly undergone a complete transformation.

The team started moving forward again, but the atmosphere was completely different.

The Chinese laborers kept their heads down, but felt a sense of unprecedented peace of mind.

Just then, the rhythmic sound of horses' hooves came from the hillside to the side.

A cavalry unit of twenty men appeared on the ridgeline, their black silhouettes looking particularly grim under the harsh California sun.

They were all wearing black trench coats and wide-brimmed hats, with a gleaming white tiger totem embroidered on their chests.

"White Tiger Security Company!"

Someone in the crowd gasped.

This cavalry unit is the same heroic force that saved the town of St. Raphael and routed the Irish bandits.

The White Tiger Guard cavalry didn't greet them; they simply followed the column at a leisurely pace, like a pack of silent sheepdogs, maintaining a distance of about three hundred yards.

Their Winchester rifles were laid across their saddles.

This is a silent deterrent.

Those white farmers who were just talking amongst themselves are now too afraid to utter a single word.

Those scoundrels who had been hiding in the shadows, intending to extort money from the Chinese laborers when they were separated from their groups, were so frightened that they retreated back to their dens.

Are you kidding me? Go and mess with the team that Baihu An is protecting?

Unless they think they've lived too long and have a neck harder than the Irish bandits.

With the police clearing the way and the threat of Baihu's death, more than 20,000 Chinese laborers entered Northern California without hindrance.

……

In the San Francisco Chronicle offices, editor-in-chief Martin was smugly smoking a cigar.

His inflammatory report doubled today's newspaper sales.

He could imagine those foolish Irish drunkards being beaten to a pulp by police batons right now.

"Serves them right, those filthy potato vendors."

He exhaled a puff of smoke with a sense of relief.

Just then, the newspaper office's glass door was suddenly smashed to pieces with bricks.

"You son of a bitch Martin! Get your ass out here!"

A dozen or so young, burly Irish men rushed in, carrying sticks and iron bars.

They dared not provoke the police, but Declan's anger needed an outlet. This group of intellectuals with their pens became the perfect targets.

"You bunch of lying Protestant bastards!"

"How dare you discriminate against the Irish?"

Martin jumped up from his chair in fright: "What are you doing? Security! Security!"

His response was a bottle of ink flying straight at him.

"Fuck your mother!"

An Irish youth rushed up and knocked him to the ground with a stick.

"You like writing, don't you? I'll fucking make you write!"

He straddled Martin and punched him hard in the face.

"Ah! Stop it!"

"Oh, God!"

The office was in complete chaos.

Editors and reporters scattered and fled, while Irish youths began a frenzy of vandalism and looting.

Burn these sons of bitches!

I don’t know who shouted.

A young man grabbed a kerosene lamp and threw it onto the mountain of newspapers.

"No! Don't!" an older editor tried to stop him.

"Get out of here, you old piece of trash!"

In an instant, flames leaped up.

"Fire! Fire!"

"Quick! Call the police!"

(End of this chapter)