Three silver dollars to buy him to identify a person.
The man blocked a bayonet for him and died in his arms.
His name is Liu Abacus, a bookkeeper at the mine. He has saluted the Japanese and been spat on by the miners.
The Japanese gave him silver dollars and he identified Zhao Shitou.
Zhao Shitou died for him.
He ran forty miles on the mountain road, found the guerrillas, and slapped the silver dollar on the table: I want to kill the Japanese.
The captain asked him: You are a traitor, why?
He said: Zhao Shitou died for these three dollars in exchange for me. If I don't kill ten Japanese for him, this money will be branded on my face.
No one believed him.
He stabbed himself.
Blood is red, not black.
From then on, he was called Liu Sankuai, and he carried a cloth shoe in his arms. The sole of the shoe had stopped steaming, but the railway track was still shaking.
He owed a life, and he would repay it with the life of the Japanese.
A traitor who dared not kill became a machine for killing Japanese.
Touch the whistle, blow up the grain depot, blow up the iron bridge, drill into the dog hole, and jump off the cliff.
Is ten enough?
Not enough.
Kill until death.
But he didn't know that Zhao Shitou's glance before his death was not about him, but about another thing.
