Chapter 1

The cryptic telegram had read:

Emil Malik, Waypoint, Aren 11Dec1888

Stone missing. May exchange RR Prexy. Need help.

Tsosie, La Paz, Calif

Mid-morning two days later, Malik was in the large main cabin of a private K&ASR railroad coach, the Lincoln Falls Loop, coupled to the end of a Santa Fe passenger train, crossing from the State of Arenoso, headed into the Territory of Arizona. Their eventual destination was La Paz, California, at the southeast corner of the San Francisco Bay, home of La Paz University.

Also aboard the Kansas & Arizona Southern Railroad private coach was Chen Ming-teh, Chairman and President of the K&ASR Board of Directors. Though not currently present in the coach, two other K&ASR men were traveling with them: Captain Bill McCroskey, the thirty-nine year old Superintendent of the K&ASR’s security division, and Wayne DeWitt, a twenty-nine year old railroad police detective-sergeant, whom McCroskey sometimes described as his “problem solver.”

Malik sipped the slightly spicy green tea favored by Chen, while his eyes watched the wintry desert terrain moving rapidly past the windows. The Acheson, Topeka & Santa Fe express, to which the coach was attached, hit its top speed of sixty-five miles an hour as it approached Holbrook, Arizona Territory. They had departed Fort Birney late the night before via an AT&SF local, then spent the latter part of the night and early morning on a depot spur at Cabot, Arenoso. The Lincoln Falls Loop had been coupled to the Santa Fe main line express about an hour-and-a-half earlier.

Chen, who had also been watching the passing scene, said “This winter landscape brings to mind loved ones no longer with us.” He turned toward Malik, who had been peering out the window, in silence, for the better part of an hour.

Malik turned his head and refocused his eyes on Chen. The railroad chairman, now one year shy of sixty, had seemed to age noticeably in recent months.

“It does,” Malik replied. “Are you thinking of Fred?” Frederick Urban, one of the K&ASR’s founders, had been killed in a gun battle with kidnappers nearly two years before.

Chen nodded. “Among others,” he replied. He took a sip of his tea. “I left loved ones in China.”

After a moment, Malik asked, “You’ve been unable to contact them?”

Chen shrugged. “When the Taiping Rebellion was brought down, my status became that of a traitorous outlaw. Were I to return to China while it is under Qing rule, my life would be forfeit. Nor is there anyone willing to risk the same fate by helping me gain information, not that I would ask anyone to do so.”

“Who would you most like to see?”

Chen’s response was immediate. “My sister.” He paused, then went on, “Our parents had died in a cholera epidemic when we were young. Well, maybe not so young. I was eleven, she was sixteen. We went to live with an uncle in the country. He was an aging widower, so my sister was the one who raised me through adolescence. It was she who insisted that I stay in school when I said I wanted to become a farmer, like our uncle.”

“What is her name?”

“Niao (neeyow). If she is still alive, she will be sixty-five this year.” He smiled to himself and his eyes drifted toward the windows. After a silent moment, he turned back toward Malik and asked, “How are the little ones?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, they’re great. They’re all learning to talk, or at least, we think they are. When they’re together, they jabber away in some form of uncertain communication. Aspen seems to lead things when they play out-of-doors and Emily appears to direct indoor activities. Luke just does what the ladies want. Still, we do hear the occasional English word. French and Spanish, too, for that matter.

“French?”

“Matilda, Cowboy’s widow. And Hannah, her mother. Hannah is from New Orleans. Well, they both are, though they left before Matilda started to talk. They both speak French, and some Spanish, too.”

“And you speak Spanish, as I recall, learned from your mother.”

“Yes. We spoke as much Spanish as English when we were growing up.”

“Do you know any other languages?”

“Some Polish.” Malik chuckled. “Mostly prayers and cuss words.” He reflected a moment. “Well, that’s not strictly true. I can do better than that. I’d just hate for my life to depend on me seeking help po Polsku (in Polish),” he said, lapsing into a softer, slightly guttural accent for the last two words.

Chen gave a mild snort and grinned. After another minute of silence, he asked, “How is Missus Tsosie?”

Malik looked back out the window before answering. “Getting along.” He moved his gaze back to Chen. “She seems, oh, content, I suppose. Running the bakery at Ranch Home keeps her busy. At first, they weren’t going to open it, but she finally decided she’d rather have her time fully occupied. Especially after Jacob Baylor and her mother were married. That, and she wanted to get out of Waypoint. I think she felt that the ranch was home. It’s where she grew up, the same as Cowboy.” His eyes had drifted back toward the window as he spoke, but he looked back at Chen. “I reckon she’s waiting for it to get easier to bear.” He sighed. “As am I. It finally gives me an inkling of what it must have been like for Gabriela, losing her first husband, and then her daughter.”

Chen nodded, slowly. “There is a traditional saying -- not Chinese, I do not remember where I heard it, maybe Mali -- but it says that, ‘It is the weight of memory that bows an old man’s shoulders.’” After a moment, he added, “Old woman’s, too, I should imagine.”

There was a slight increase in the noise of the train’s passage, momentarily, as the door to the outer platform was opened, at the far end of the coach. It was followed by the appearance of McCroskey and DeWitt, both medium-height men. DeWitt was dark haired, his boss balding, both with short, trimmed beards and clipped mustaches of no particular style. Their nondescript looks were a purposeful guise, DeWitt had explained to Malik, often allowing them to pass unremarked when working.

The two security officers were also accommodated in the K&ASR coach. Malik and Chen each had one of the modest bedrooms while the two railroad policeman shared a small bunkroom that had one bunk mounted above the other. A similar bunkroom served the porter and cook, Robert West and Simon West, two Negro cousins, who accompanied Chen on his trips. The coach’s facilities included a small kitchen, a privy closet, and a washroom with a bathing shower. The open salon, occupying the last third of the car, could be quickly converted from sitting room to dining room, or accommodate both functions at the same time, with the use of only half the dining table.

The K&ASR policemen were returning from a conference with the Santa Fe train’s conductor. Chen looked up at the men as they entered. “Ah, gentlemen, welcome back. From the aroma, I would say that Simon is brewing a pot of coffee. I think I am ready to switch stimulants, for now. Shall we enjoy it together?”

McCroskey said, “Sounds good, Mister Chen.” He sat down in a high-backed, cushioned club chair. The furnishings were well-crafted, but not ostentatious. “The conductor says they have a fairly large switch yard at La Paz and should be able to accommodate us without any trouble. He’ll send a wire at the next depot stop, which will be Holbrook.”

Malik added, “They had no trouble accommodating my car, in September.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Captain McCroskey.”

Chen and Malik were seated on opposite sides at the very end of the car, the trailing end, as the coach was coupled to the end of the train. Those two overstuffed armchairs faced forward while the other seating, forward of those, faced inward. McCroskey had sat down just forward of Malik, and DeWitt sat in the chair next to McCroskey. The seating was typical of a men’s club, rather than a railroad coach, with side tables and ottomans amongst the leather- and fabric-covered, cushioned seating.

After Simon West had served the coffee, McCroskey addressed the chairman. “Mister Chen, you said that you’d explain what’s going on after Mister Malik was with us. It certainly might help to know more, sir.”

Chen said, “Ah, yes, iI imagine it would.” Lifting the cup from the table next to him, he tested the coffee with his lip, but appeared to find it still too hot. He set the cup back in the saucer. Chen looked at the three men sitting across from him.

“In truth,” Chen said, “I am not at all certain what really is ‘going on,’ as you say, Captain McCroskey, though I will make some estimates based upon my history and experiences. But allow me to proceed with a little background information, if I may.”

McCroskey said, “Please do, sir.”

Chen sat up a little straighter, leaning forward slightly, then began to speak, in his British-tinged accent. “From the mid-eighteen fifties, I was a commercial envoy for an upstart, quasi-Christian kingdom in southern China. It was called the Heavenly Kingdom, though many now refer to it as the Taiping Rebellion. Under either title, in eighteen sixty-four, that kingdom, after fourteen years of rebellion against the Han dynasty, was conquered by the imperial Chinese army. My diplomatic status dissipated like the steam from this coffee. Had I been in China at that juncture, I would have been summarily executed. But I was in California at the time, seeking investors and trading partners to benefit the Heavenly Kingdom. Even being in America, however, was no guarantee of safety.

“There was, and still is, a large Chinese immigrant population in California, as you know, with its largest presence in San Francisco. Our physical features aside, what really sets Chinese immigrants apart from most others who come to these shores, is that the majority of Chinese do not intend to stay here permanently. They come here to make money, which they send home, to China. That is the primary reason they tolerate the squalid living conditions that are so common and so derided by most Americans: the Chinese migrants are sending their earnings home, not spending it here on their own comfort. When they have sent sufficient money home, they intend to follow it and live a better life in China. It is difficult to convey how important that life in China is to them. China is more than simply home, it is the only place that life has any real meaning. So how they live here is unimportant to them. Perhaps it is more complex than that, but it describes the situation for our purposes.