Chapter 13

Two days later, Malik was in his business car, bound for Waypoint, coupled to the K&ASR southbound leaving Fort Birney. Five minutes out of the station, with Malik at his work table making notes, there was an audible knock on the door. Sitting at the table, Malik could see conductor Jimmy McGillycuddy opening the door with US Marshal Connor Lonegan standing on the platform behind him.

As McGillycuddy came into the office, he said, “Mister Malik, Marshal Lonegan--”

Malik was already standing and said, “Bring him in, Mister McGillycuddy.” But then he called, “Connor, come on in.”

McGillycuddy said, “I wasn’t certain, Mister Malik, so...”

“That’s fine, Jimmy. Don’t worry about it. And remember: back here, I’m just Emil.” Then he looked past the conductor and said, “Sit, Connor, sit. Jimmy, do you want to sit for a minute? I just made some coffee.”

“Not this time, Emil,” McGillycuddy said, easing toward the door. “Aye, an’ I need to punch tickets before we get to Agate.”

“Well, come say howdy when you can. I’ll see you later.” Then, to Lonegan, shaking hands with the bigger man, he said, “I didn’t get in until two this morning, else I’d have looked you up.”

“Coming from Wichita?” Lonegan asked.

“Yeah. I’ve been going for almost two weeks, working things out with Chen and the railroad. “Where are you headed?”

Lonegan paused briefly and said, “Then I guess you haven’t heard?”

“I sure haven’t heard of anything requiring the attention of a federal marshal. What’s going on?”

“Let’s get some coffee and sit down. This will take some discussin’. You sit, I’ll get it.”

A minute later, both men had mugs of coffee between their hands. Malik asked, “What is it, Connor?”

Lonegan blew air out between his lips and said, “Red Salt has been shot. He’s dead.”

Malik just stared at Lonegan. Finally, with a slight shake of the head, he said, “What...?”

Lonegan looked grim. “The report we got late last night was that he was shot by that new Indian agent, Nestor, out at the silver mine. The story’s a little uncertain because it came second hand. It was a report sent by way of a conductor on one of the mine spur work trains, and he sent a wire once they reached Kylie Junction.”

Malik was shaking his head. “Red Salt,” he said to himself. “Damn.” Then he looked up at Lonegan. “Any word as to what was happening?”

“Yeah, sorry, I left the wire on my desk. It sounded like Nestor went out there to shut down the mine, or some such.”

“That man is such a horse’s ass. Anybody else hurt? Maybe Nestor?”

“Not that was said.”

“That fool acts like he owns the reservation and the Sonora are his slaves. He’s gotten little cooperation, I’m sure.” He looked down at his hands as he pressed his right thumb back and forth across his left palm. “But, damn, Red Salt. He was really figuring it out. And I know he has a couple children. This is ... this is going to go down hard for a bunch of folks.” Then he looked at Lonegan more closely. “So, what’s your mission?”

“Right now, it’s just to find out what happened. I stopped by Judge Westcott’s home early this morning on my way to the station. He just said to be thorough and cautious, as big politics were in play.”

“Yeah, that damned Dawes Act has all the white speculators chomping at the bit to get Indian land. I reckon that plenty of palms have been greased in Congress. Those dung-sucking buzzards.”

“It’s the same old song,” Lonegan said.

“That’s the problem. They’re back there singing it while people out here die to pay their piper.”

Lonegan nodded. “You’d think they’d cleaned things up after that whole Crédit Mobilier mess back in the ‘Seventies. Instead, we elect that scoundrel, Garfield, to be President while the rest of ‘em keep nosing up to the trough. Then there were all those corruption scandals during Grant’s administration. What the hell is it with folks, makes them not give a damn like that? Even more, how do they manage to keep us electing them?”

“Wish to hell I knew,” Malik said. “I think they might be the type of people ... well, you remember how that so-called Doyle was. He just had a way of lying that had everybody convinced he was something he wasn’t. Those folks twist the truth just enough, and couple that with telling the people just what they want to hear, then they throw in some horse manure about somebody else to be afraid of, and lowering taxes, and we end up following them like sheep to the slaughter. Over and over again. And now Red Salt’s one of those slaughtered sheep.”

“He was a good man and getting better,” Lonegan said. “I’ll admit, I’d expected some problems from having a corps of Indian deputies. Now, I realize it worked so well because of the people that were involved. But you change one out, like that Nestor for Morton Quincy, and everything goes to hell.”

“Reckon we’ve been lucky, at that,” Malik said, leaning back in his chair.

Then he asked, “So, where’re you headed? Out to the mine?”

“Yeah. I’m hoping to catch one of the trains at Kylie junction to get up there.”

“Mind if I go along?”

“Are you kidding? Be glad to have you.”

“Mind if I drag my brother along?”

“Not in the least. Maybe, since he gave up on the idea of sheriffin’, he ought to be deputized too, especially since we lost Cowboy,” Lonegan said.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Ask him,” Malik said.

“I reckon I’ll wire Judge Westcott, first.”

Malik nodded, then asked, “You going to buy breakfast at Agate?”

“As per usual. Except I was running too late to get some lemonade before I got on the train.”

“Reckon we’ve got our own coffee.”

“Reckon we do.”

“How about you buy us both some burritos while I send a wire to Andy? I’ll ask him to get my gear together and invite him to go along.” Malik asked. “Here,” he said, dropping a dollar coin on the table. “I’m buyin’.”

Lonegan picked it up and said, “It’ll be my pleasure. And this’ll be enough for nice tips for both Pilar and me.”

Andy came aboard at Waypoint, bringing Malik’s trail packs, some trail clothing, his winter jacket and hat, and his Army Colt, the Scott Messenger gun, and his ‘73 Winchester.

The three men were seated at the table, coffee mugs in hand. Also on the table was an open but empty bakery box that shortly before had contained a half dozen pecan sticky buns that Andy had purchased at the Waypoint Bakery.

Andy was saying, “Chinese, huh? How many, do you reckon?”

“I’m not sure,” his brother replied. “Fu-Chun hadn’t worked that out with his people. Probably at least fifty, maybe a hundred, almost all men, though there are a few women and children.”

“And they won’t need anything from us? From the ranch?”

“Just access to the merchants at Ranch Home, as far as I know.”

“What about the children? Will they be in school or need winter shoes and clothes?”

“I hadn’t thought about that. If they want to send the children to the school, can we deal with it?”

Andy said, “Well, I think we’d have to. They’re children, dammit. They need a chance. Our people can adjust if they know we’re behind it. A lot of our folks have met Chen, so they’re learning that things aren’t always what the gossips say.”

Lonegan looked at Andy and asked, “If you can handle a change in subject, have you heard anything about the shooting out at the mine?”

“Only that Nestor had killed a Sonora deputy.”

“Nothing about what’s happened since?”

“No. The only talk came about after the northbound came through last evening, and there wasn’t anything more than that,” Andy said.

“Any talk about Nestor?” Lonegan persisted.

“Nothing special. Some talk wondering where he came from and what his political connections are. I overheard a couple drummers talking at breakfast at Molly’s about not knowing there were Indian deputy marshals.”

“Bad talk?”

“One of ‘em thought it was a bad idea. He said all the Indians should have been exterminated, not given soft federal jobs. The other one sounded more surprised than anything. They weren’t from around here. I don’t think I’d seen either one before.”

“Any local reaction?”

“Just some comments that the last year’s been tough on lawmen,” Andy said, glancing at his brother. Malik gave him a sad smile. Red Salt was the third federal deputy, including Cowboy and Bill Edwards, and then there was the Jackson County Sheriff, Noah Williams, who had all been murdered over the prior ten months.

Kylie Junction was not a town. Rather, it was a place which the K&ASR had chosen for the expansion of railroad functions, primarily freight transfer for the trains coming from the mines in Long Valley, but also for coaling the trains on the Long Valley spur, the main trunk line, and the planned Kylie Loop. As such, Kylie Junction had no services or facilities for the general public. Other than some business cars, bunkroom cars, and commissary mess cars for railroad employees and contractors, there were no accommodations. Because of those circumstances, Lonegan and the Maliks found themselves having to cadge a ride on one of the work trains that went past the silver mine. This was made considerably easier with Malik’s credentials as a director of, and attorney for, the railroad.

Two hours after disembarking the southbound on the main trunk, they found themselves crowded into a crew car along with the train’s conductor, a brakeman, and a half dozen construction laborers on their way to end of track. The train itself was hauling creosoted wooden ties, or sleepers, sufficient to finish the line to the north end of the coal seam.

Lonegan wore his US Marshal star-in-a-circle and Malik wore a similar deputy marshal star. Lonegan had deputized Andy for purposes of their particular mission that day.

The narrow-gauge locomotive pulling the train was a Shay type, using geared shafts and axles rather than piston rods to turn the drive wheels. It was a more powerful arrangement, suited for heavy loads over steeper grades, but Shays tended to be relatively slow. This particular engine’s top speed was only thirty-five miles per hour. Even so, with having to negotiate the grades and curves of the two ridges and a stop for water at the Rio Isabella, the trip actually averaged less than twenty miles per hour. So it was already sundown by the time they reached the Sonora Mining Corporation siding. There, Lonegan and the Malik brothers disembarked for the mile walk along the ore cart track to the Sonora silver mine.

They had covered about half the distance when they heard several gunshots from the direction of the mine. The three men immediately dropped their baggage and checked their weapons. Malik left his rifle, electing to carry the sawed-off coach gun. Both the others were carrying Winchester carbines. All three had revolvers holstered on gun belts, each opting for a military-style flapped holster positioned for a right-handed cross draw.

The Maliks were wearing lace-up work boots while Lonegan wore cavalry-stylr riding boots with a medium heel, footwear that allowed them to move swiftly along the cart track. Their approach was something less than stealthy, however, as they had not prepared themselves and their accouterments for such performance.

Eventually, the ore cart track led them to the now-enlarged and graded clearing in front of the Sonora’s mine. Andy and Lonegan drew their pistols and Malik took the messenger gun in a two-handed grip. They slowed down, moved several yards apart from one another, and began looking carefully for possible threats. They immediately saw Long Hand near the entrance to the mine, kneeling beside a man’s body on the ground.

Long Hand turned toward them and called, “Nestor just rode off to the east.” Then he called out, “Help me. Red Salt is still alive.”

Lonegan said, “I’ll go make sure Nestor’s not lurking around. Be back in a bit.”

Andy said, “I’ll go with you.” Both men headed up the ridge. Malik jogged over and knelt next to Long Hand.

Half of Red Salt’s head was covered in dried blood and gore, and that was then crusted in sand. His breathing was shallow, barely perceptible. Long Hand pointed at the unconscious deputy’s face and said, “It looks like the bullet went in his left eye and came out near his left ear.”

“How long’s he been laying here, Long Hand?”

“Since yesterday afternoon, Shadow.” Long Hand shook his head, and, regret obvious in his voice, said, “I was sure he was dead. Nestor was hiding in the mine and took shots at me when I tried to get to Red Salt. But I saw him get hit in the head and thought it killed him. He fell as soon as he was hit and didn’t move.”

Malik was silent for a minute, then he said, “Forget it, Long Hand. He looks shot dead to me, too. Besides, Nestor kept you at bay,

“Let’s wrap his head in some clean cloth, then let’s see if we can get some water in him. I think we should move him over to the rail siding, take him to Doctor Kagan in Waypoint.”

Long Hand said, “I have a clean shirt. I’ll bring it and a canteen.” He hurried off in the direction of the deputies’ camp.

Malik, still kneeling next to the unconscious Red Salt, gently gripped the man’s shoulder and, leaning over him, said, “This is Shadow, Red Salt. I’m here with Long Hand and Marshal Lonegan and my brother. We’ll get you some water, then we’ll take you to the train and to the doctor in Waypoint. Thank you for your bravery, my brother.”

Long Hand soon returned with two canteens and several strips of red flannel cloth that had been his clean shirt. He also had a small leather pouch that he emptied into his hand. He held out the fragmented and shredded vegetation and looked at Malik. “I would put this as a poultice against his wounds. It is effective against the putrefaction.”

“Fine with me, Long Hand. Get it ready, then I’ll hold his head up. You can rinse off the sand and blood, then can wrap the wounds.”

After they completed the rough bandage, they dribbled some water into Red Salt’s mouth and were reassured to see a swallowing motion in his throat.

Just then, Andy and Lonegan reappeared, accompanied by Owl Eye and Long Hand’s brother, Stream-In-Winter. Both men were special deputy marshals. Lonegan said, “These men just showed up. Stream-In-Winter says that Corn Eater and Talks Softly are trailing Nestor.”

Stream-In-Winter said, “We came as soon as we got word. We heard Red Salt was dead.”

Malik said, “He’s in a bad way, but not dead.”

Long Hand looked up and said, “I thought he was dead. I only reached his body after Nestor ran off.”

Stream-In-Winter rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

Lonegan asked, “What exactly happened here, Long Hand?”

Owl Eye knelt next to Red Salt and began singing, very softly, a Sonora healing chant.

Long Hand and Malik both stood up. Long Hand said, “Nestor rode in yesterday, just after mid-day. He rode past our camp and we followed him down. I don’t think he even saw us. He was very drunk. When he reached the mine, he started shouting that this was federal property and that the mining had to stop. Everyone ignored him until he took a pistol from his holster and shot it into the mine entrance. Then the miners stopped and asked their foreman what they should do. Red Salt walked over toward the miners and Nestor shot him without warning. Nestor told the miners to pack up and clear out. This they did.”

“Where’d they go?” Lonegan wanted to know.

“They told me they’d look for work at one of the other mines.”

Long Hand continued his story. “I asked Nestor if I could tend to Red Salt and he took a shot at me. Then he went into the mine. I could not see him.

“I thought he might fall asleep, but every time I moved from cover, he’d shoot at me. It was like that all night. The moon was not yet full, but it gave enough light that he could see me ... Then, shortly after your train arrived, he ran out of the mine, firing his revolver. I was not certain that I should return fire, so I held off and let him go.”

Lonegan said, “That was probably a good decision, Long Hand. Nestor seems to have some powerful friends somewhere. No telling what the reaction would be if a Sonora shot him, even a federal deputy.”

As the late winter dusk was gathering, Talks Softly and Corn Eater rode in. Stream-In-Winter looked up at them and said, “Red Salt lives, but is hurt bad.”

Long Hand said, “He was shot in his left eye and the bullet came out near his ear.”

“Corn Eater asked, “He is blind?”

Malik said, “It looks like his left eye was destroyed by the bullet. He is still unconscious and we don’t know how badly he has been hurt. He has been able to swallow a little water.” Then Malik said, “I’d like to get him to Doctor Kagan, in Waypoint. We’ll carry him to the mine siding and get a ride on the next train headed toward the junction. Unless someone has a better plan?”

No one said anything. Finally, Andy asked, “How should we move him? A travois? Or just carry him?”

His brother said, “I was thinking we’d rig a pallet on one of the ore carts. Is that track very rough?”

Corn Eater snorted. “Rough? Have you forgotten who was in charge of building it? Rockeye has it smoother than the trunk line.”

“Rockeye?” Malik asked.

Long Hand said, “It is what we have come to call Friend Quincy’s nephew, the mining engineer. The Welsh miners were saying he must be able to see through rock.”

“Come to think, where are the Quincys? I’d thought one or both would be out here,” Malik said.

“Friend Quincy has gone to Meseta,” Corn Eater said. “Rockeye’s wife is ill and he is with her. He wanted to come with us, but Sheriff Ulney talked him out of it. He said to wait until we could find out what happened.”

Andy asked, “So, where did Nestor go?”

Corn Eater replied, “He was headed toward Isabella Canyon. Since we were not authorized off the reservation, we came back.”

Long Hand said, “I’ll go with Red Salt to Waypoint. Owl Eye, you and my brother can go back to town, let folks know, especially Red Salt’s family. But tell them he is still at risk of dying or of other injuries from the head wound. Corn Eater, you and Talks Softly can stay here on watch. Stream-In-Winter and I will relieve you on Sunday.” The Sonora deputies were all nodding in agreement.

Stream-In-Winter said, “We’ll leave in the morning. We pushed the horses pretty hard coming over here.”

Lonegan said, “Then we should go over and wait by the siding, in case some late train comes through.”

They flagged down the first train just before six the next morning, still an hour from sunrise. It was the same train they had ridden on the day before. Today, though, it was less crowded and was pulling empty cars that had been loaded with railroad building materiel. They laid Red Salt on one of the bunks in the crew car.

Red Salt had yet to regain consciousness. They had been able to dribble an appreciable amount of water into him but, other than the swallowing, he had shown no reaction.

At Kylie Junction, the yard master offered one of his switch engines to pull a crew car to Waypoint so that Red Salt could be transported to the doctor sooner. Malik would have been surprised by the gesture, were he not aware of the high caliber of the men and women that the K&ASR recruited.

Red Salt was being tended by Dr. Beverly Kagan before noon.

An hour later, she explained Red Salt’s injuries to Malik, Andy, Lonegan, and Long Hand.

“The bullet burst his eyeball and exited through the sphenoid bone just an inch or so past his eye. That bone is here,” she pointed to a spot midway between her eye and her ear, “It’s a part of the skull that helps contain and protect the eye. It also shelters some nerves. Some of those have been destroyed, too. I am encouraged by the fact that he can swallow, but I suspect Red Salt will lose sensation in parts of his face and scalp.” She cupped her hand along the left side of her own head and face to demonstrate the area affested. “But that all remains to be seen.

“I cleaned out the bone fragments and other tissue and then I washed the wound with an anti-sepsis fluid. I’ve stitched together the remaining tissue, but there will be a noticeable depression over his eye socket. He may want to wear an eye patch, unless he enjoys scaring people.”

“He just might,” Long Hand chuckled, recalling Red Salt’s style of humor.

Kagan continued: “His brain took a blow when the bullet went through parts of his skull, though I did not find any indication that his brain was pierced directly. I think it is simply the effects of the concussion. I did find a small swollen area on the back of his head, so I would surmise his head hit a rock when he fell. In other words, his brain likely suffered two opposing blows within a few seconds. It is known that concussive injuries can cause the brain to swell. The swelling will likely be reduced as he heals and I expect he will regain consciousness within a day, maybe even within a few hours. None of that is guaranteed, however. I would say that I am cautiously optimistic, but I suggest we not raise anyone’s hope beyond his basic survival, at this point.”

Long Hand stayed at Red Salt’s bedside in Kagan’s small infirmary.

Lonegan and the Maliks went looking for Nestor. Lonegan went to the sheriff’s office. Andy checked with some of the merchants. Malik visited the saloons.

At the Isabella, Lucius Gibbons told Malik that Nestor had shown up just after he had already closed and locked the front door.

“He was banging on the door and I just ignored him,” Gibbons explained. “That guy just rubs me the wrong way. But you might try the Golden Spike. Heinz sometimes stays open later.”

The Golden Spike Saloon was on East Railroad Avenue, across the tracks and directly opposite the site where Malik’s car was spotted, behind the depot. Adolphus Heinz, the proprietor, was a short, round man with brushy sideburns.