Free Earthquake by Kathleen Duey Page B

side of Powell Street. A group of men in dark uniforms were standing outside a saloon. A sign advertising Yosemite Lager Beer was painted across the second story. A beautiful mountain scene with pine trees seemed to promise customers more than a glass of beer.
    The soldiers were trying to get past the bald man who stood solidly in the doorway. He was shaking his head and the voices became shouts. Brendan could make out part of what they were saying.
    â€œ. . . order of the mayor,” one soldier yelled, holding his rifle high, threateningly. “We have the authority to . . .”
    An automobile full of furniture rumbled past and Brendan couldn’t hear for a moment. The driver turned down Clay Street—Powell Street was almost entirely blocked with rubble about half a block up. Once the automobile had passed, Brendan strained to hear the argument again.
    â€œThat’s trespassing!” the bald man was shouting over and over.
    The soldier who seemed to be in charge had stepped back. He had shifted the position of his rifle so the barrel pointed vaguely in the direction of the saloon owner, but still angled toward the ground. Brendan stared. It would take the soldier only a split second to raise his rifle to fire.
    â€œ. . . the right to steal a man’s property,” the bald man was saying. “Who gave you the authority to do that?”
    The soldier frowned, replying in a voice too low for Brendan to hear. Then he stepped back one more pace, his eyes never leaving the saloon keeper’s. He slowly raised the rifle, holding it steady, aiming at the man’s chest. Two of the other soldiers lifted their rifles as well. The others just stood, waiting.
    After a few seconds, the bald man moved away from the door. He stood on the curb as the soldiers filed into his establishment. A moment later the first of them reappeared, carrying a heavy whiskey keg. Grunting, he set it on the curb, then went back in.
    Brendan glanced back at Dai Yue. She was sitting beside her uncle. He was still leaning back against the building, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open now. Dai Yue was watching people pass on Clay.
    â€œLet’s get this finished up quick!” the officer shouted. Brendan looked back across the street. Working hard, the soldiers had piled ten whiskey kegs and eleven or twelve larger beer barrels in front of the saloon. As Brendan watched, one of them pulled an ax from his pack.
    The bald man turned aside as the soldier stood over one of the barrels, raised the ax high over his head, and then swung, his arms rigid with effort. The ax crashed into the oaken barrel. The staves shattered beneath the blow and amber-colored whiskey flowed into the gutter.
    Men stopped to gawk as the next barrel, then the next was shattered. The blows of the ax rang out over the murmur of voices. A man called out, demanding to know what the soldiers were doing.
    â€œGeneral Funston has ordered all liquors destroyed or seized, sir,” the officer called back. “This city faces enough disorder without public drunkenness making matters worse.”
    The man nodded grudgingly. Brendan could hear the soldier’s words being repeated, the explanation passing through the crowd.
    As Brendan turned to face Dai Yue again, the streetheaved beneath his feet. The jolt was sharp enough to make him stumble backward. As he caught his balance, he saw a cart horse rearing, its driver dragging at the reins to control it. After a few seconds, the city quieted, then came back to life again once the ground had settled into stillness.
    Brendan stood motionless, his heart pounding.
    A high-pitched wailing assaulted his ears. At first he had no idea where it was coming from. Then he turned. Dai Yue was screaming.

Chapter Nine
    Dai Yue stumbled upright and whirled away from her uncle. She did not realize the high-pitched wailing was coming from her own lips until she saw two men looking at her, then the