Nevada, Silver Mine Town.
This small town, built around Saineng Mining Company, was filled with gray slag and crude wooden houses everywhere.
The cold wind whipped up sand and dust, hitting the windows and making a rustling sound.
Miller, president of Saineng Mining Company, was sitting in a modest hotel room in the town.
He had originally come to inspect the mining progress of several large silver mines in the West, but a few hours ago, the telegram sent by the headquarters via a dedicated line had completely disrupted his itinerary.
Miller slapped the telegram onto the table, his face turning livid.
"Three watering stations have been blown up, and five trains are stalled. Those bastards want to cut off our roots in the West!"
Biting on a cigar, Miller looked at Burt, the mining area's security director standing opposite him.
Burt was a stout man with a beard, holding a Vanguard Type 67 repeating rifle in his hand.
"President, I have already assembled the sixty most elite gunmen in the mining area. Bullets and explosives are more than enough."
"But the problem is that those guys who blew up the railway are riding fast horses, and the wind and sand in the wilderness are heavy. Our security team is good at positional defense and gunfights, and doesn't know much about tracking horseshoe prints in the desert."
Hearing this, Miller irritably tugged at his tie.
"What the fuck, if you don't know how to track, go find someone who does. The boss said in the telegram that he wants heads! If those scum who blew up our water towers are allowed to leave Nevada alive, I won't have to work as this president anymore, and you can go straight south to guard serfs!"
Burt swallowed a mouthful of saliva and hurriedly proposed.
"Uh... I heard that there are often wandering bounty hunters and outlaws in the town's saloon. Their noses are sharper than hounds; as long as we give enough gold coins, we can definitely find a tracking expert."
"What are you standing there stunned for? Lead the way!"
Miller grabbed the coat draped over the chair and walked out in big strides.
In the Muddy Legs Saloon of Silver Mine Town, the air was unbearably turbid.
Miners, having finished a day of labor, were gathered around tables making a lot of noise, drinking, and gambling.
Miller, leading several fully armed security team members, pushed the door open and walked in. The saloon quieted down slightly, and everyone recognized the big boss who controlled their rice bowls.
Miller ignored those awe-filled gazes and walked straight to the bar counter, sweeping his gaze across the saloon.
At a gambling table in the corner sat two people.
One of them was around twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, wearing a slightly worn yet well-tailored grayish-brown windbreaker. He had a well-defined face, deep eyes, and a hint of imperceptible craftiness. He was shuffling cards, his movements as fluid as performing magic.
And behind him, leaning against the wall, stood a teenager of only about ten-odd years old.
The teenager had a slender figure, wore a slightly oversized leather jacket, and had two extremely well-maintained revolvers hanging at his waist. His eyes revealed a wildness and arrogance that did not belong to his age.
Miller's gaze locked onto these two people.
He could tell that these two people did not have the smell of coal dust left by years of mining; instead, they carried a scent of gunpowder from years of bumping on horseback.
Miller walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat directly opposite the card-shuffling man.
"Oh~ This table does not welcome strangers without money, sir." The man stopped shuffling, a professional smile hanging on the corner of his mouth, his voice gentle yet revealing vigilance.
The teenager leaning against the wall immediately straightened his body, his hand resting naturally on the grip of his gun.
Miller didn't talk nonsense, directly pulling a heavy leather purse from his pocket, untying the cord, and lining up five gleaming double-eagle gold coins on the desktop.
"Is that so? Too bad I don't play cards." Miller looked at the man in front of him.
"Someone blew up my watering station and fled into the desert. I need someone to find them before dark."
The man looked at the gold coins on the table, a bright flash passing through his eyes. But he didn't immediately reach for the money, leaning back instead.
"That's a real pity. My name is Hosea. Hosea Matthews. This is my partner, Dutch." Hosea pointed at the teenager behind him.
"But we're just passing travelers, not sheriffs."
"Listen... I don't care who you are, nor do I care how many wanted posters are on your backs."
Miller said coldly.
"This is the deposit. As long as you can lead my security team to find those people, I will pay you five times the price after the job is done. Do you do it or not?"
Hearing this number, young Dutch's eyes lit up.
He leaned into Hosea's ear and whispered: "Hosea, this money is enough for us to buy a camp in California."
Hosea glared at Dutch, signaling him to shut up.
Turning his head back, he looked at Miller again.
"How many horses do those people have? When was the crime committed?" Hosea began to ask for details.
"About twelve or thirteen people, they made their move late last night. They ran from the direction of Black Stone Ridge." Burt replied quickly nearby.
Hosea tapped the tabletop with his fingers, quickly conceiving the topographic map of this desert in his mind.
"The wind wasn't big last night, the horseshoe prints should still be there. Twelve horses means they brought enough supplies. But if they want to avoid your search along the railway line, they can only go south." Hosea analyzed clearly.
Then he reached out and swept the gold coins on the table into his pocket.
"Deal, Mr. Miller. Dutch, go saddle the horses quickly."
Ten minutes later, a cavalry troop composed of sixty heavily armed security members, led by Hosea and Dutch, rushed out of Silver Mine Town and galloped towards the ruins of the Black Stone Ridge watering station.
After arriving at Black Stone Ridge, Hosea dismounted with a flip.
He squatted on the ground, carefully observing the ground mixed with snow and soil. He pinched a pinch of soil with his fingers and smelled it under his nose.
Dutch patrolled the surroundings and soon discovered some traces behind rocks not far away.
"Hosea, come take a look at this." Dutch pointed to several cigarette butts and horse dung on the ground.
Hosea walked over, carefully identifying the depth and spacing of the horseshoe prints.
"It seems they are not walking fast and didn't gallop at full speed. This means they think they are very safe, or the horses are heavily loaded."
Hosea stood up and pointed to the southeast.
"They went towards the saline-alkali land, it seems they want to use the salt crust to cover the horseshoe prints. Hahaha... Very smart move, but in this season, there is no place to camp around the saline-alkali land."
Miller, riding on horseback, asked impatiently.
"Then where on earth are they hiding?"
Hosea mounted his horse with a flip and reined in the reins.
"Go twenty miles southeast, I remember there is a canyon called 'Headless Valley'. That is the only place in that area that can block the wind and has an underground river. If I were them, after doing this big deal, I would definitely go there to split the money and rest."
Hosea shook the reins.
"Keep up, boss. We're going to send them a little surprise."
Led by two experienced outlaws, the cavalry troop silently approached the depths of the desert like a pack of wolves smelling blood.
The midday sunlight poured unhindered over the desert of Nevada, but the piercing cold wind still scraped across cheeks like a knife.
Less than two miles from Headless Valley, Hosea, having noticed something, raised his right hand to signal the horse troop to halt.
"Look~ The terrain ahead is shaped like a gourd, with only one way in. If they have any brains, they will definitely set up hidden sentries on the rocks above the canyon."
Hosea said in a low voice to Miller and Burt.
Dutch drew the revolver from his waist and skillfully spun it, his eyes revealing the excitement and arrogance characteristic of a young man.
"I will go deal with the hidden sentries, you guys wait for my signal."
"Hey... put the gun away, Dutch."
Hosea frowned and reprimanded.
"Firing from this distance, everyone inside the canyon will hear it. We're here to collect the bounty, not to act as live targets."
Miller sneered at the pair and turned to look at Burt.
"Tell the First Squad to take melee weapons, sneak up the gentle slope from the flank, and take out the hidden sentries. The remaining riflemen, spread out your formation and block the exit of the canyon for me."
Under the strict training of the Argyle Family, the tactical literacy of this mining area security team completely surpassed that of a regular army.
A dozen elite members immediately dismounted and climbed upwards, hugging the rocks.
Inside Headless Valley.
Elias was sitting by the campfire, poking at the flames with a branch in his hand.
His men were lying sprawled out in windproof tents catching up on sleep, while a few horses were tethered by the underground river drinking water.
"Boss, that bunch of railroad builders must be as anxious as ants on a hot pan right now."
One of his subordinates took a bite of hard beef jerky and said indistinctly.
"Right, when will the final payment promised by the people in San Francisco arrive in our account?"
"What's the rush? Once the heat blows over, we'll go straight to California to get the money." Elias spat out a thick glob of phlegm.
"This job was way too easy. Aside from having money, those capitalists have guards under them who are all a bunch of bloodless fools. They didn't even dare to shoot."
Just as Elias was immersed in fantasies of sudden wealth, a muffled, unusual sound suddenly came from above the canyon.
That was the sound of the hidden sentry's corpse rolling off the rocks and heavily smashing into the sand below.
As a former officer of the Confederates, Elias had sharp intuition. He abruptly stood up and grabbed the Winchester rifle placed beside him.
"Situation! Everyone get up, grab your guns!"
His roar broke the tranquility of the canyon.
Those subordinates who were fast asleep scrambled up in panic, searching everywhere for weapons.
But it was all too late.
From behind the rocks above the canyon, dozens of dark gun muzzles instantly poked out.
"Fire!"
Burt stood at a high vantage point and let out a roar.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Without any negotiation or warning, they directly opened fire to kill those bandits.
The dense gunfire echoed within the narrow canyon, continuously amplified by the rock walls, deafeningly loud.
The custom-version repeating rifles used by the security team from Vanguard Military Industry completely crushed the miscellaneous weapons in the hands of this group of mercenaries in terms of fire rate and precision.
Furthermore, the usual training of both sides was completely not on the same level, and the shooting accuracy completely crushed these bandits.
The crossfire net swept across the entire camp like the Grim Reaper's scythe.
"Ah! Damn it~"
A subordinate who had just rushed out of the tent was hit in the chest by several bullets simultaneously, and his whole body flew out like a torn burlap sack.
"God... Boss, save..."
"Bang~"
Before he could finish, his head was blown off.
Not far away, Elias hid behind a boulder. Bullets hit the stone, and flying rock fragments scratched his cheek.
Watching his men suffer heavy casualties, his face was full of ferocity.
He tried to stick his head out to return fire, but the moment he showed his head, a row of bullets flew past his scalp, smashing the campfire pile behind him.
"The firepower is too fierce, it's simply more professional than an army!"
Elias shouted.
He understood very well that this must be people from the Argyle Family coming to take revenge. At the same time, he finally realized that he had provoked a monster he could never afford to offend.
To think it was so fast, so ruthless!
"Charge towards the exit, ride out!"
Elias casually fired two shots, then desperately leaped onto his horse. Several of the surviving subordinates also leaped onto horseback one after another, attempting to forcefully charge out of this death canyon relying on the speed of their horses.
However, when they rushed to the canyon exit, they found that it had already been completely blocked by several horizontally placed mining wagons.
Miller stood behind the wagon, biting a cigar in his mouth, looking at those thugs who were like trapped beasts.
"Blow them back."
Miller gave the order coldly.
Several security team members lit the high explosives in their hands and forcefully threw them onto the only path leading to the canyon exit.
"Boom! Boom!"
The violent explosion detonated right in front of Elias's horse troop.
The huge shockwave and flying shrapnel instantly tore apart the front few horses.
Horses and men overturned, and screams echoed through the skies.
Elias's horse was startled and threw him heavily to the ground. He was thoroughly dazed, and just as he tried to crawl up to pick up the dropped rifle...
"Bang!"
A bullet struck the rock in front of him with extreme precision, and the splashed fragments hit his eyes, causing him to cover his face and wail in pain.
The one who fired was Dutch.
This teenage boy stood on the high rock, holding the revolver with both hands, the muzzle still venting blue smoke.
He blew on the gunpowder smoke from the muzzle, his eyes revealing a hint of cold complacency.
"Hey~ Don't move, cowboy. The next shot I'll shatter your kneecap." Dutch shouted loudly.
Hosea walked over to Dutch's side and patted his shoulder.
"Good job, Dutch, but he has to stay alive to fetch a bounty."
The battle ended in less than ten minutes.
Elias's subordinates were all shot to death in a hail of gunfire, leaving only him pinned firmly to the ground by two strong security team members.
Miller bit on his cigar, walked heavily over to Elias, and looked down condescendingly at the scarred man.
"I heard you think that the guards under my command are all fools who don't dare to shoot?"
Miller exhaled a puff of smoke, and the ash fell onto Elias's face.
Elias spat out a mouthful of bloody spittle.
"I am an officer of the Southern Confederacy, you can't treat me like this. I want to see the police!"
"In the desert of Nevada, I am the police, the judge, and also the gallows."
Miller squatted down and drew a sharp hunting knife from his waist, the blade gleaming coldly in the sunlight.
"Now let's talk business. Who hired you? If you answer a single word wrong, I will skin you inch by inch, and then tie you to the ruins of the water tower to feed the vultures."
The back of the hunting knife gently tapped against Elias's cheek, the icy metal touch giving him goosebumps all over his body.
"Cough, cough, cough, I... I don't know who this 'he' you're talking about is either."
Elias stubbornly held on, trying to bluff his way through.
"We all communicated through intermediaries, we just took the money and did the job!"
Mr. Miller didn't speak, just slightly tilted his head.
Burt, the security captain standing on the left side of Elias, immediately stepped forward, planted his foot on Elias's left hand, and began to twist.
Accompanied by a dull cracking sound of bones and a spine-chilling scream, several of Elias's fingers were brutally crushed into a bloody pulp.
"Ah!!!"
Elias frantically twisted and rolled, but was held down tightly and unable to move.
"It seems the bones of Confederates officers are indeed quite hard."
Mr. Miller leisurely pressed his hunting knife less than an inch above Elias's right eyeball.
"That last blow was for the old station master whose leg was broken. This next cut is for my five stalled freight wagons."
The tip of the knife pressed down extremely slowly, even touching Elias's eyelashes.
The fear of death broke this former officer.
In the face of absolute cruelty, the so-called mercenary creed was nothing more than a joke.
"I'll talk! I'll talk! Don't gouge out my eyes!"
Elias roared at the top of his lungs.
"His name is Cobb, Nathaniel Cobb! He came to me with the bank's cashier's check!"
The action stopped, the hunting knife suspended in mid-air.
"Where is he?"
"San Francisco! He is currently directing from San Francisco! Every few days, he waits for telegrams reporting progress in the top-floor suite of the Palace Hotel. I swear that's all I know, all the operation funds were provided by him!"
Having obtained the desired name and address, Mr. Miller put away his hunting knife and stood up.
He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped the sand and soil stuck to his hands, and then casually threw the handkerchief onto Elias's face.
"Deal with him, and take the brothers back to the mining area."
Mr. Miller turned his back, his tone as casual as if he were instructing someone to clean up trash.
"You promised not to kill me! I am a prisoner of war!"
Elias shouted desperately.
Burt drew his revolver and aimed it at the back of Elias's head.
"The president only said to skin them if they answered wrong, he didn't say to let them go if they answered right."
"Bang!"
The gunshot rang out, and the screams abruptly stopped.
Mr. Miller walked towards his horse, while Hosea and Dutch were standing aside watching all this.
Although a flash of shock crossed Dutch's eyes, there was even more yearning for this kind of absolute power.
Mr. Miller pulled the heavy leather money bag out of his saddlebag and threw it directly toward Hosea.
Hosea reached out and caught it steadily.
"Inside are fifteen hundred dollars in gold coins, more than I promised you." Mr. Miller swung onto his horse, looking at the pair of partners.
"I can tell the two of you are very talented. If one day you can't make it in the wilderness, you can come to New York to find me. The Argyle Family needs useful hounds, and we never default on wages."
Hosea weighed the money bag, a signature sly smile appearing on his face.
"Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Miller. But we prefer the free air of the wilderness. As for being hanged, that's a matter for the future."
Mr. Miller didn't say anything more, shook his reins, and led the mighty security team away from the canyon.
Dutch watched the departing horse team and touched the grip of the gun at his waist.
"Hosea, that family called Argyle is truly a terrifying monster. Killing people is just like doing bookkeeping."
"That's why we need to stay away from them, Dutch."
Hosea tucked the gold coins into his pocket.
"We are bandits, and they are Leviathans that devour everything. Let's go, to California, this money is enough for us to live carefree for a while."
The two future western bandits rode their horses in another direction and disappeared into the horizon.
...
A few hours later, in the basement of the San Francisco intelligence branch.
A special telegraph machine began to wildly spit out paper tape.
Victor Sullivan grabbed the paper tape and looked at the plain text translated on it.
[Target: Nathaniel Cobb. Location: Top-floor suite of the Palace Hotel. Execute Red Order.]
A bloodthirsty light instantly burst from Sullivan's eyes.
"Damn it~ We found him."
Sullivan turned around and looked at the twenty agents already fully prepared in the basement.
These people were all elites selected from the Operations Department, each exuding a strong murderous aura.
"Palace Hotel, top floor. Block all entrances and exits."
Sullivan drew the short-barreled shotgun from his waist, cocked it with one hand, producing a crisp metal clashing sound.
"Go cut off that damn head."
Late at night, the Palace Hotel in San Francisco was still brightly lit; this was a den of debauchery where high officials and nobles reveled night after night.
Cobb had just received news from the beach area.
Garrick was dead, the dockworkers were completely shattered by a horrifying machine-gun strafing, and the strike was forcibly dismantled.
He angrily smashed his wine glass to the ground, the red wine splashing onto the expensive carpet.
"A bunch of useless trash! Couldn't even hold out for a week!"
Cobb paced anxiously back and forth in the room.
The maritime blockade had failed, and now the only bargaining chip was the paralyzed railroad in Nevada.
As long as Elias wasn't captured, he could continue asking Barings Bank for money.
"As long as the railroad is broken, we haven't lost yet."
Cobb comforted himself.
Right at this moment, outside the heavy oak door of the suite, several extremely faint unusual sounds suddenly came through.
That was the sound of the two trusted aides responsible for standing guard in the corridor falling to the ground.
Cobb's nerves instantly tightened to the extreme.
Like a startled wildcat, he pounced towards the nightstand to grab the loaded pistol inside.
But his hand hadn't even touched the drawer.
"Boom!"
A deafening roar.
The door of the entire suite along with the door frame was directly blown to pieces by explosives, and wood chips and dust swept through the entire room like a storm.
Two young women screamed, holding their heads and hiding behind the sofa.
Amidst the thick smoke, several figures wearing black trench coats rushed in.
Cobb had just raised his gun.
"Bang!"
Sullivan's short-barreled shotgun fired first.
A large patch of steel shot instantly tore apart Cobb's right arm.
The pistol flew out, and Cobb let out a miserable scream as he fell to the ground, blood spraying wildly.
Several agents quickly stepped forward, smashing their rifle butts fiercely onto Cobb's head, completely stunning him. Then they pinned him tightly to the carpet.
Sullivan walked up to Cobb, looking down at this maniac who had tried to stir up trouble over the family's head.
"Nathaniel Cobb?"
Cobb panted in agony, his eyes filled with despair.
The Argyle Family's revenge was even faster than he had imagined, and they had found him with such precision.
"You... cannot kill me in the hotel... this is..."
"This is the boss's gift."
Sullivan ignored the plea for mercy and drew a sharp machete from his waist.
The blade flashed.
The shrill screams were abruptly cut off in his throat.
Early the next morning, on a royal mail steamer bound for London, an inconspicuous wooden package was added.
The recipient of the package was written as Barings Bank Senior Partner, Charles Sterling.
Meanwhile, in the port of San Francisco, two ocean-going cargo ships of the Argyle Family sounded their steam whistles in the sunlight.
On the dock, a large number of laborers were orderly loading cargo onto the ships.
Felix leaned back in the spacious leather carriage, closing his eyes to rest.
The cold morning wind of Manhattan sneaked in through the gaps of the carriage, carrying the distinct salty and fishy smell of the Hudson River.
He had just emerged from the villa in the suburbs where six women brought back from the Qing Empire lived.
The lap of luxury was indeed wonderful.
But for Felix, it was merely a brief respite in a long war; when the sun rose, he had to return to the driver's seat of this massive capitalist machine named the Argyle Family.
The carriage stopped smoothly in front of the Empire Bank Building.
The carriage door was opened, and Felix's leather boots stepped onto the stone pavement that had been cleaned just last night. Security Director Mark had already led a dozen expressionless guards waiting on both sides of the steps.
Then he took the Otis elevator all the way to the top floor of the building.
The fireplace in the office was burning brightly, dispelling the chill in the room.
Chief Secretary Edward Frost was standing beside the desk, holding several freshly translated telegram transcripts in his hand.
Seeing Felix walk in, he immediately went up to greet him.
"Good morning, Boss."
Frost took off Felix's coat and hung it on the coat rack by the door.
"Tell me about it, Edward."
Felix walked behind the desk and sat down, picked up the hot black tea prepared on the desk, and took a sip.
"How is the mess on the West Coast being handled?"
"Very cleanly, and very efficiently."
Frost pushed up the glasses on the bridge of his nose and handed over the topmost telegram.
"The strike at the San Francisco port has been completely quelled. However, Sullivan used the security team's Gatling Gun to clear out those troublemaking Italian union members on the periphery of the pier. Garrick, who led the provocation, was also killed on the spot."
Felix gently tapped the tabletop with his fingers.
"How many people died?"
"One hundred and forty-two people were killed on the spot, and those heavily injured were not counted. Some rioters also died from trampling each other while escaping. The rest were completely frightened out of their wits, hiding in the slums of the beach area and not even daring to step out of their doors."
Frost's tone was steady, as if he were reporting how many machines were scrapped in a factory.
"In just two days, the poisonous tumor of the port was squeezed out. It seems that after O'Neill left, Sullivan's control in California is still acceptable; he hasn't disappointed me."
Felix nodded with satisfaction.
"What about the railway side in Nevada?"
"It was also fast. President Miller led people to handle it personally. The group of mercenaries who blew up the water tower were completely annihilated in Skull Valley in the desert. They pried the name of the behind-the-scenes agent from the mouth of the leading Confederates veteran."
Speaking of this, a cold expression appeared at the corner of Frost's mouth.
"It is a guy named Nathaniel Cobb. Sullivan's men blew open the suite of the Palace Hotel late last night and cut off his head. Right now, that 'gift' packed in a wooden box has probably boarded the express mail ship heading to London, and the recipient is Sterling of Barings Bank."
Felix let out a light laugh.
"Ha... Well done. Now those gentlemen in London should feel a chill in their necks while having afternoon tea. Has the loading and unloading of cargo at the port resumed?"
"It has fully resumed."
Frost opened another report.
"The two ocean-going cargo ships of the Metropolitan Trading Company are stepping up unloading. Moreover, Sullivan conveniently took over the Pacific Ocean Shipping Federation that attempted to cooperate with Cobb and halt inland river transport. That boss named Higgins was scared away directly, not even daring to claim all his money."
"Fine..." Felix leaned back in his chair.
"Therefore, in a place like the West, talking about law and business ethics does not work. Guns and blood are the only hard currency. Tell Sullivan to double the compensation for the dead security guards and give everyone who participated in the action a bonus. Sooner or later, this account will be recovered with principal and interest from Barings Bank."
"Understood, Boss. I'll go handle it right away."
Over a hundred vibrant lives were merely a few brief reports in this room.
But unfortunately, this era was just like this.
Meanwhile, at the San Francisco port thousands of miles away from New York, the aftermath of that bloody suppression was just beginning to spread among the underlying laborers.
The morning fog gradually dissipated, and the deep-water wharf of San Francisco regained its hustle and bustle.
However, besides the salty and fishy smell of seawater, the air was faintly mixed with a pungent smell of blood.
The sprinkler truck of City Hall quickly washed the pier, but dark red traces still remained in the gaps of the stone slabs.
On the wharf, thousands of Chinese workers and Irish porters were pushing heavy flatbed carts, like worker ants carrying piles of wooden boxes onto the cargo ships of the Metropolitan Trading Company.
"Have you heard, Li?"
A burly Irish worker with a red beard wiped the sweat from his forehead and lowered his voice to speak to a thin Chinese worker beside him.
"Early this morning, those usually smug Italian fellows were mowed down like wheat by the company's security guard team."
The Chinese worker named Old Li was carrying a burlap sack. Although he didn't quite understand the overly complex English slang, he understood the other person's meaning through gestures and guessing.
He grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth.
"Serves them right! Those Italian fellows blocked the wharf and wouldn't let us work the past couple of days. If we don't work, what will our wives and children eat?"
Old Li replied in halting English.
"Company boss, good man! Pays wages and helps us beat up bad guys!"
"What a damn good man. Perhaps the boss doesn't care whether we live or die, only about his cargo."
The Irish worker O'Reilly curled his lips, but his eyes revealed a complex sense of security.
"However, you're right. As long as we work honestly, he will never allow anyone to smash our rice bowls. Looking at how that security guard team fires their guns, they're even more ruthless than the regular army."
O'Reilly looked left and right, leaning in closer.
"It's spreading like wildfire in the beach area. They say the security team not only has rifles, but also those big guys with a crank that can turn people into sieves with a single spin. Those Italian union people originally wanted to force the company to drive away all of us Irish and you guys, monopolizing the work at the wharf themselves. Now it's great; their leader Garrick had his head blown off."
"This is called... provoking a big shot who shouldn't be provoked."
Old Li threw the burlap sack onto the pushcart and patted the dust off his hands.
"We just exert our strength; with the company around, no one dares to bully people who work."
In a mixed-bag gold-rush city like San Francisco, the underlying logic was extremely simple and crude.
Whoever could give them food to eat and protect them from exploitation by other gangs was their God.
The tragedy of the Italian union did not arouse the sympathy of these Chinese workers and Irishmen.
On the contrary, what they felt was strong elation.
Because in this place where the law of the jungle prevailed, an iron-fisted, protective, and wealthy boss was more useful than any weak law.
"Get to work, guys. The supervisor said, after unloading these two ships today, everyone gets an extra dollar for beer tonight!"
The foreman shouted loudly not far away.
The laborers on the wharf burst into enthusiastic cheers, and the speed of pushing carts noticeably accelerated.
Blood did not make this capitalist machine stagnate; instead, like lubricant, it made it run even more crazily and efficiently.