The Courtyard House: The Little Red Devil Returning from the Peninsula

Gardenia set off on the morning of the fourth day.

She changed into the attire of a village woman.

He wore a blue cloth jacket and black cloth trousers, and his head was wrapped with a gray turban, covering half of his face.

The mule cart was piled with sacks of salt. The sacks were made of coarse hemp, and salt grains leaked out from the seams of the hemp thread, sprinkling a layer of white frost on the cart.

There were six knives and three grenades hidden under the car.

The knife was wrapped in oilcloth and tied to the crossbeam of the axle; from the outside, it looked like a pile of tattered strips of cloth.

The grenade was stuffed into the seam in the middle of the salt bag, buried with salt grains, and could be used as soon as it was pulled out.

Zhao Weiguo stood at the entrance of the regimental headquarters and glanced at the mule cart.

"Remember, you're a salt seller. Not a scout, not a special agent, but a village woman who fled famine to the Taihang Mountains to sell salt."

Gardenia wrapped the reins around her wrist once.

"I've got it."

"Avoid revealing your weapons if possible. Just find out the location of the people and their cells; that's enough."

Gardenia nodded and climbed onto the mule cart.

All six people on the bus had changed into civilian clothes; five were veterans from the special operations company, and one was the driver.

Two of them deliberately wore their old military trousers inside out, showing the patches, making them look like refugees.

One of them had a scar on his face, which he covered with mud so it wasn't so noticeable.

The mule cart left Baimaling and got onto a dirt road heading northwest.

It had rained a few days ago, and the dirt road had been turned into deep ruts, making the mule cart bounce violently and causing the salt sacks to sway back and forth.

Gardenia clutched the willow twig, her eyes constantly scanning both sides.

The mountains are in autumn colors, and the sorghum stubble is bare in patches.

People carrying loads on shoulder poles in the distance would keep their distance from the mule carts.

They spent the night in an abandoned melon shed when it got dark.

Half of the shed roof collapsed, and the remaining half can block some dew.

The veterans of the special operations company unloaded the mule cart and tied the mules to tree stumps outside the shed.

Someone took out some dry rations and ate a couple of bites with some cold water.

"Sister Gardenia," an old soldier squatted down and lowered his voice, "I've heard of the salt road rest stop in Little Willow Village, but I've never been there. Village Chief Zhang Laowu has connections in the village. What should we say?"

Gardenia broke the dried food in half and handed half to the driver.

"They said they were refugees fleeing famine, and the salt was something they found along the way. Anyway, it wasn't all fake."

The veteran grinned.

"Where are those two Japanese bayonets?"

"That was taken from the black market."

Gardenia said, "Don't take it out on your own; wait for him to ask."

The veteran responded with a sound of agreement and then fell silent.

The dew was heavy, and the grass leaves outside the shed were covered with water droplets.

There were a few barks from a distance.

The next afternoon, the mule cart arrived at Little Willow Village.

About twenty households are scattered on both sides of the dry riverbed, with stone walls, mud cracks, and bluestone slabs on the roof.

At the entrance of the village stood a large locust tree, and several old men were watching the mule cart under the tree.

Gardenia parked the mule cart next to the well at the entrance of the village.

An old man stood up, walked over, and looked the mule cart over.

Where did it come from?

"Hebei."

Zhi Zi said, her accent slightly reminiscent of Baoding, "I came here as a refugee from famine. I sold salt to exchange for grain."

The old man circled the mule cart once.

His eyes lingered on the side of the cart for a moment, then looked at the mule.

"The mule is good."

"It's borrowed; I have to return it when I get there."

The old man pointed to the west end of the village.

"The village chief lives over there. Old Zhang. Go to him first if you want to sell salt."

Zhi Zi thanked him and led the mule cart westward into the village.

An old soldier from the special operations company walked beside the vehicle and whispered something to it.

"The old man was looking under the car."

Gardenia did not turn around.

"I know."

The knife was wrapped in tarpaulin under the cart, but the way the tarpaulin was tied to the axle was not the way farmers usually do it.

It's too neat, like the way you strap on a gun sling.

She remained calm and continued walking forward.

Zhang Laowu's house is the largest courtyard at the west end of the village.

The courtyard wall was higher than the others, and broken glass shards were stuck on top of it.

There were chickens and sheep in the yard, and several bundles of firewood were piled up in the corner of the wall, with two empty wine jars next to them.

Old Zhang was in his forties, dark-skinned, thin, with high cheekbones and thin lips.

He moved a long bench and sat at the gate of the courtyard, holding a pipe in his hand. When he saw the mule cart coming, he took the pipe out of his mouth.

"Selling salt?"

"Salt seller."

Gardenia said.

Where did the salt come from?

"We found them on the road. The Japanese transport convoy was scattered, and sacks of salt were scattered all over the ground. We picked up a few sacks."

Zhang Laowu's eyes lit up.

"Found it?"

"I found it."

Zhang Laowu stood up, walked to the mule cart, and patted the salt sack.

I pinched a little salt between my fingers and put it in my mouth to taste it.

"Good salt. How much did you collect?"

"Just these six bags."

Zhang Laowu walked around the mule cart, his eyes scanning the people inside.

The brush swept over the mud-covered scar, over the patches on the two men's trouser legs, and finally landed on the new wooden planks of the cart.

"Fleeing refugees, daring to pick up salt from the Japanese?"

"Those who flee famine are also human beings."

Gardenia said, "Starving to death and being beaten to death are both forms of death."

Zhang Laowu smiled, revealing his yellow teeth.

"He's got that fearlessness."

He put the pipe back in his mouth and took a drag.

"The village has enough salt. Head north; there are people buying it at Black Cloud Ridge."

Gardenia tightened her grip on the reins, her face expressionless.

"Black Cloud Ridge? Isn't there one over there?"

"There is a village."

Old Zhang said, the smoke from his pipe drifting in the wind, "The villagers need salt too. If you dare go, the price will be higher than in the village."

Gardenia remained silent for a few seconds, as if hesitating.

"How far?"

"One day. We'll arrive after crossing the ridge."

Gardenia glanced back at the people in the car, then turned her face back.

"Okay."

Zhang Laowu responded and turned to go back to the courtyard, but after taking two steps, he stopped and looked back at the mule cart.

"You guys hid that knife really well."

Gardenia's fingers tightened on the reins.

"What kind of knife?"

"Under the car."

Zhang Laowu said, "The technique of wrapping a bayonet is from the military. A distant nephew of mine was also in the army and saw him wrapping a bayonet."

The area outside the courtyard was quiet for a few seconds.

Gardenia looked at him, neither admitting nor denying it.

Which team is your nephew on?

"Dead."

Zhang Laowu said, "Last year when the Japanese were sweeping through, someone's head was left hanging on a tree at the village entrance for three days."

He took a drag of his cigarette and flicked the ash onto the ground.

"I won't tell you about the knives you have. The chieftain, Xie Baoqing, is my brother-in-law; the village needs tough fighters. If you want to find a way to make a living beyond just selling salt, I'll take you up the mountain."

Zhi Zi looked at Zhang Laowu.

The old man was more shrewd than she thought.

"Sell the salt first. We'll talk about other things after that."

Zhang Laowu responded.

"Okay. Leave the salt in my yard for now, I'll take you up the mountain tomorrow."

That evening, Zhi Zi and two veterans from the special operations company stayed in Zhang Laowu's side room.

The walls of the side room were made of adobe, and there were rat holes in the corners. The wind blew in through the holes, making it feel chilly.

Gardenia leaned against the wall, placed the rifle across her knees, and closed her eyes.

But she couldn't fall asleep.

She recalled when she first arrived at the army, Zhao Weiguo asked her if she knew how to shoot.

She said she could, that her father taught her.

Her father was a hunter, a hunter in the Taihang Mountains, who spent his whole life hunting wild boars and pheasants.

Later, when the Japanese came, her father took a hunting rifle to block their way and was riddled with machine gun bullets.

She was twenty-seven that year.

She didn't cry.

She buried her father's hunting rifle, took a Type 38 rifle, and followed the group.

She hasn't cried since then.

The other three people did not enter the village; they stayed in a dilapidated temple by a dry ditch outside the village to provide backup.

The side room was small, with an earthen bed, a water vat, and dry straw piled in the corner.

Gardenia sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), took off her boots, and her feet were covered in blisters.

The mule cart ride was bumpy for two days.

An old soldier squatted by the door, pressed his ear against the crack in the door and listened for a while, then turned around and whispered.

"No movement. He drank three bowls of wine in the courtyard and then went back inside."

Gardenia didn't say much.

"We're going up to the village tomorrow. You two come with me."

"And then what?"

"It depends. If Xie Baoqing takes on more people, you can stay."

The veteran paused for a moment.

"And what about you, Sister Gardenia?"

"I'll go back to Little Willow Village and wait for news. You stay inside, and I'll stay outside; we need to keep in touch between the two."

The veteran nodded.

Gardenia took out a cloth bag from her bosom, opened it, and inside were two pieces of dry food and a roll of paper.

The terrain of Black Cloud Ridge was drawn on the paper.

The orientation of the village gate, the location of the main village, and the approximate direction of the prison were all things that Zhao Weiguo and his intelligence agents had previously investigated.

She folded the paper and tucked it back into her bosom.

The next morning, Zhang Laowu took Zhizi and two veterans up the mountain.

The mountain road is difficult to travel.

Go around the back of the village, first you see terraced fields, then mixed forests, and then rocky mountains.

The road was too narrow for mule carts to pass, so people had to walk.

The two veterans each carried a bag of salt, while Zhizi carried dry rations and water.

Zhang Laowu walked ahead, leaning on a cane. He didn't walk fast, but every step was steady.

"The chieftain's surname is Xie; he used to be a soldier."

As he walked, he said, "Later, the group disbanded, and we returned to Black Cloud Ridge to set up a village."

How many people?

"About four hundred. There were old people and children, some with families. They weren't all bandits as you might think."

Gardenia didn't respond.

Zhang Laowu continued.

"The chieftain cares about his reputation. If you speak to him sweetly and call him 'Big Boss,' he'll be pleased."

"I've got it."

After walking for more than an hour, a stockade wall appeared ahead.

The wall was made of stone, more than two meters high, with sharpened wooden stakes stuck on top.

The gate was made of thick wooden planks and covered with sheet metal. You could see people walking around through the cracks in the gate.

Zhang Laowu stood at the door for a moment and called out to the wall.

"It's me, the fifth son of Little Willow Village."

The guard on the wall peeked out, glanced at Zhang Laowu, and then at the people behind him.

"Did you bring people?"

"A salt seller. And two others who want to join."

The guards retreated, and after a while, the bolt clicked, and the gate opened a crack.

Zhi Zi and Zhang Lao Wu walked inside.

The village is not big.

There was a dirt road directly in front of the door, with stone houses on both sides of the road.

Some houses were inhabited, while others were filled with grain and miscellaneous items.

At the end of the road was a large courtyard with walls higher than the surrounding houses. Two flags were planted at the entrance, one black and one red.

A person was standing at the entrance of the courtyard.

He was in his forties, of medium height, wearing a gray cotton jacket with a pistol tucked into his waistband.

Her face was thin, with sunken cheeks, but her eyes were very bright.

Xie Baoqing.

He saw Zhang Laowu, nodded, and then looked past him to Zhizi.

"This is?"

"Salt seller."

Zhang Laowu said, "They were refugees who picked up a few bags of salt from the Japanese."

Xie Baoqing's gaze shifted from Zhi Zi to the two veterans behind her, settling on their hands.

Calluses on the tiger's mouth are the hands that hold a gun.

"I'll take the salt. I'll pay the market price."

He then looked at the two veterans.

What about these two?

"He was a refugee who had served as a militia member in Hebei for several years and was looking for a place to make a living."

Xie Baoqing didn't say anything, but walked around the two veterans once.

"You served in the military?"

"I did it for half a year."

"What can you do?"

"I know a few sword techniques."

Xie Baoqing glanced at them and then smiled.

"Come with me."

He led a few people into the courtyard.

There was an earthen platform in the courtyard, on which were several knives, some old, some new, and some with rolled blades.

Xie Baoqing picked up a knife from the table and threw it to one of the veterans.

"Let's see how it goes."

The veteran took the knife, examined the blade, then took two steps back and swung it around the area a couple of times.

The movements weren't fancy, but they were steady, and the wrist was strong when sheathing the knife.

Xie Baoqing hummed in agreement and then looked at the other one.

Another veteran took the knife and, without any tricks, chopped it directly at the wooden stake on the ground.

The knife struck, and a crack appeared in the wooden stake.

"He's quite strong."

Xie Baoqing clapped his hands.

"Alright. You two stay. You two go to the prison ward and help watch over the prisoners for a few days."

The prison team was located at the westernmost part of the village.

A stone bungalow with thick walls, small windows, and two guards at the entrance.

The prison was divided into two cells: the inner cell held serious offenders, and the outer cell held minor offenders.

The two veterans were assigned to the outer guard post, responsible for patrolling the prison at night and delivering meals during the day.

They did not see the monk on the first night.

The next evening, during the shift change, the foreman said, "Don't get too close to that bald monk inside. He tried to break the chains twice, and the chieftain drugged him before he behaved."

The veteran listened but didn't ask any further questions.

On the third night, it was finally their turn to patrol the prison.

The cell was dark.

The oil lamp in the corner had burned down to a sliver of light, casting a dim yellow glow on the stone wall and stretching the shadow of the iron chain long.

The monk sat against the wall.

He was thinner than normal, with high cheekbones, sunken eyes, and a scar on his cheek that stretched from his ear to his chin.

There were chains on his wrists and feet, and the joints of the chains were worn shiny.

That was evidence of his attempt to break free.

But his eyes didn't change.

Still waiting, still calculating.

Two veterans went inside; one stood guard at the door, while the other squatted down, pretending to check the chain lock.

The monk raised his head and glanced at him.

"New here?"

"The new guy."

"Here to persuade them to surrender?"

The veteran took a small piece of dry rations from his sleeve and placed it on the ground.

The monk looked at the dry rations but didn't touch them.

"Xie Baoqing's men come to persuade me every week. First they bring food, then they say nice things, and finally they threaten me. I've seen it all."

The veteran spoke in a very low voice.

"I am not one of Xie Baoqing's people."

The monk narrowed his eyes slightly.

"So who are you?"

"The Baimaling Independent Regiment. The regimental commander's surname is Zhao."

The monk narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Zhao Weiguo?"

Have you heard of it?

The monk did not answer.

He was silent for a few seconds, then reached out and picked up the dry food on the ground, broke off a piece and stuffed it into his mouth.

"Go on."

"The commander asked me to pass on a message: A true hero refuses to collude with bandits."

The monk paused for a moment as he chewed his dry rations.

He said, "He asked if you wanted to go out and fight the Japanese."

The monk's lips moved slightly, but he didn't make a sound.

He swallowed the dry rations, making a gurgling sound in his throat.

"I've been locked up here for two years."

His voice was soft. "Xie Baoqing came once a month, saying he wanted me to work for him and make me his second-in-command. I said no. Then he drugged me and chained me up."

He looked up at the veteran.

"It's been two years. You're the first person to tell me to go out and fight the Japanese."

The old soldier took something out of his pocket and handed it over by the dim light of the oil lamp.

A short knife.

The knife was short, about the width of a palm, and its blade was sharpened, giving it a slightly cold hue in the dim light.

"There's another one in the food bag. I'll hide it on my person this time."

The monk took the dagger and weighed it in his hand.

"When will you make your move?"

"Half a month. Three arrow blasts will serve as the signal."

The monk tucked the dagger into his waistband and covered it with the hem of his clothes.

"Where are the chains?"

"You think you can break it open?"

The monk looked at him, and the iron chain on his wrist swayed slightly.

"I could have smashed it open long ago."

He said in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, "Before, if you smashed something, there was nowhere to go. Now there's a place."

The veteran stood up, walked to the cell door, and glanced back at him.

"Then you'll make the first move. Once the south gate opens, the Independent Regiment will come in."

The monk nodded.

As I left the cell, a night wind swept by, and the chill of the mountains seeped into my collar.

The two veterans walked to the vicinity of the south gate and pretended to squat down in the corner to rest.

The bolt for the south gate was a thick wooden bar, secured with iron rings on both sides.

There was a night watchman next to the door bolt, dozing against the wall. His snoring wasn't loud, but you could hear it every few steps.

An old soldier used the tip of his shoe to mark the location of the door bolt on the ground, his gaze sweeping over the stone blocks on either side of the door.

Another veteran leaned against the wall, his eyes scanning the room.

The patrolling bandits come about once every ten minutes, with two people on each patrol.

They took the information to heart, stood up, and started walking back.

On the sixth night, Gardenia received the coded message in Little Willow Village.

The code was written on a tattered strip of cloth and stuffed into the seam of the salt bag.

Several lines were drawn on the strip of cloth.

The location of the prison cells, the structure of the south gate latch, the patrol intervals, and two more words:

"See the knife."

After reading the strip of cloth, Zhi Zi threw it into the stove.

The flame flickered, and the ashes were carried away by the wind.

She returned to the side room, lit an oil lamp, and pulled out a piece of paper to draw a circuit diagram.

She remembered Zhao Weiguo's map very well.

She filled in the information she brought back from the coded message, including the main structure of Black Cloud Ridge, the orientation of the south gate, and the relative positions of the prison cells, and drew the route while tracing it with her finger.

Then she wrote a short message.

"The location of the prison has been confirmed. The south gate is secured with a thick wooden bar and iron rings on both sides. Patrols will be conducted every ten minutes. The monk has taken up his sword. The south gate will be rotated in fourteen days. Xie Baoqing will go down the mountain to collect grain, leaving the village with the most scattered manpower. Three whistling arrows will serve as the signal."

She folded the letter and tucked it into her inner pocket.

Tomorrow morning, have the veterans outside the village ride horses to take us back to Baimaling.

It was still dark at dawn on the seventh day.

Zhi Zi stood at the entrance of Little Willow Village, watching the old soldier who delivered the message ride his mule south.

The sound of mule hooves faded into the distance on the dirt road, until it could no longer be heard.

She turned and walked back. As she passed the big locust tree, the wind blew from the direction of Black Cloud Ridge, and the smell of dry grass and stones brushed against her face.

Fourteen days.

She counted on her fingers.

This date was determined by tracking patrol routes, troop rotations, and grain transport routes.

If it had been a day earlier, the old sentry post at the south gate would still be there; if it had been a day later, Xie Baoqing would have returned to the village.

Fourteen days later, three arrows were fired, and the village was no longer a village.

She returned to the side room, bolted the door, took the dagger out of the bag, touched the blade with her fingers, and then put it back.

The knife is short, but it's enough.

On Black Cloud Ridge, in a prison cell.

The monk leaned against the wall, his fingers reaching for the short knife at his waist through his clothes.

The chain was still on my wrist; it was chilly at night, and the chain felt like ice against my skin.

But it's cold, so be it.

He closed his eyes, listening to the patrolling footsteps outside, approaching and then receding, counting the days in his mind.

It's been two years.

He hadn't touched a gun, left the village, or seen the sun for two years.