Chapter 22

That Saturday morning, Malik learned that it was not the restaurant that was the target of the anti-Chinese agitators.

In rural towns throughout America, Saturday was market day. Farmers, ranchers, and many of their employees, almost everyone accompanied by families, would come to town first thing Saturday morning.

They came to purchase needed goods, but many came to sell commodities and home-manufactured items, as well. Some farmers would bring any fresh produce or animal byproducts, such as eggs, milk, or butter that were surplus to their family needs. Some vegetables or fruit came from gardens tended specifically for market sales. Other food may have been canned, that is, preserved in sealed jars, specifically to sell or trade. There might be a side of beef or a deer hide, or small lots of livestock: a lamb or some piglets, chickens or ducks, even puppies of hunting or herding breeds. Others brought in handiworks: quilts, furniture, home sewn dresses, or men’s shirts.

In some towns, there were areas set aside for such commerce, maybe the fairgrounds, or a churchyard. In other places, folks set up around the town square or in empty lots. In Waypoint, it was along West Railroad Avenue, opposite the commercial buildings, backing up against the railroad right-of-way. Rows of wagons, open tables, a few canvas-covered stalls, and similar displays of miscellaneous merchandise appeared every Saturday morning, usually tended by one spouse or an older child, while the others did the necessary shopping.

And shopping, “marketing,” in the local vernacular, was the primary purpose of a Saturday trip to town. Most folks came to town on Saturday, some every week, some once a month, some less often, but they all came for the supplies and services that supported the home operation: foodstuffs, cloth and clothing, farming and ranching supplies, smith, wright, or other specialist services, and the small treats and pleasures that helped make a trying lifestyle tolerable.

Shopkeepers would put on extra help for Saturday mornings and trade would be at its most intense. The main thoroughfares -- in Waypoint that would have been Wagon Road Avenue and Jackson Street -- would be lined with wagons loading from various commercial outlets, from groceries to seed corn, bolts of cloth to rolls of “bob” wire. The bank was open Saturday until noon, as were many professional offices.

Malik, almost fully recovered from the attack on Monday, had decided to remain in town this week. He had volunteered to take an extra turn covering the office that morning, since he was dealing with a bout of cabin fever, but still was not a hundred percent. Mrs. Tian was in reception while Malik was using David Lewin’s office on the first floor, a customary choice made by the partners to be companionable to the receptionist in the otherwise empty building. Tian’s young daughters were in the care of the Peng sisters for the morning.

Lee Jin was attending his father’s wedding at Ranch Home Siding. Brian Kelly was on overwatch at Molly’s Restaurant.

Malik stepped out of the office to walk down to Baylor’s store, to replenish the supply of ground coffee. Baylor purchased roast beans in ten pound lots, sealed in bags of heavy waxed paper. He also bought the green, unroasted beans, in fifty-pound cotton sacks. Malik typically bought the roast beans and Jacob, or one of his helpers, would grind the beans in their big-wheeled coffee mill. He even entertained hopes, though not many, that he might find some sweet pastry still at Hannah’s bake shop, next door to Baylor’s store.

As he started across Wagon Road Avenue, he, along with most other folks nearby, were startled by a shotgun blast inside Baylor’s Mercantile and General Store, on the opposite corner. As he broke into a stiff-legged run, he was also drawing his .38 revolver from its shoulder holster.

Inside the store, Malik found Baylor holding four men at bay, aiming a double barreled shotgun at first one, then another, as they took turns advancing toward him, alternately taunting the storekeeper or pleading their innocence. Inexplicably, there was a cloud of dust settling around Baylor, and sand laying atop everything near him.

The click of the hammer on Malik’s single-action revolver had most of the desired effect, and the three men closest to Malik stopped to look over their shoulders. The fourth man apparently did not hear the mechanical threat, for he was still trying to reach the gun-toting Baylor, who was, as was the custom, behind his counter.

“Go ahead and shoot him, Jacob. I’ll testify it was self-defense,” Malik said, loudly enough that it gained the attention of the fourth man. It was at this point that the man realized his companions weren’t moving, anymore. He too, stopped in place.

“So, what happened, Jacob?”

Instead of Baylor, Malik heard, “Hey, we was just tryin’ to protect ourselves from those disease-carryin’ monkeys,” the fourth man insisted. Malik finally noticed two Chinese men on the floor behind a stack of flour kegs. One man was bleeding from a head wound and a keg of flour was broken open on the floor near him.

“Yeah. They was tryin’ to pick our pockets,” Number Three said.

“That one spit on me and he was pulling down his trousers so he could piss on me,” said Number Two.

Number One, whose shirt front and dungarees were coated with flour, said, “I was trying to protect my friends.”

“Shut up,” Malik growled. “To keep this civil, I’ll refer to you,” pointing to the flour dusted man, “as Asshole Number One.” Pointing to the next man, he said, “You’ll be Asshole Two, you, Asshole Three, and you, over there, are Asshole Four. And I’ll be referred to as United States Marshal Emil Malik. You boys are under arrest for assault, attempted assault, and malicious destruction of property. Now keep your face holes shut or I’ll add an obstruction of justice charge.”

He looked over at Baylor. “What happened, Jacob?

“These four came in about ten minutes ago. Refused any service, said they were just looking. As soon as those two Celestials came in, these assholes started shoving them around. When one stood up to them, Asshole Number One, there, picked up a flour keg and hit him from behind. I’m sure his mother would be proud of his bravery.”

Number One started toward Baylor, “You shut up, you nigger-lovin’ fat ass.”

Malik swung at the man with the thirty-eight he still held, connecting with the side of the man’s head. The man fell to his hands and knees. “That’s another attempted assault charge, asshole,” Malik snarled.

Sean Edwards and Antonio Vasquez, his chief deputy, came legging it up to the door.

“Emil,” Edwards gasped, “what’s going on?”

“Sheriff, these four attacked those two men over there on the floor, then they were trying to get to Jacob.”

“What’s all this sand from?” Edwards asked.

Baylor said, “I, ah, fired a warning shot, just to get them off those two over there.”

“And you were loaded with sand?” Malik asked.

“No, no. I didn’t want to shoot up the store, so I shot into my fire bucket back here. I wasn’t expecting this, ah, result.”

Edwards and Vasquez both leaned over the counter to see a bucket, now half full of sand, on the floor in the corner. Many merchants and homeowners kept a bucket of sand on hand as a first defense against fire.

By now, a small crowd had gathered outside.

Malik said, “If you can take these assholes in, I’ll find out if that man needs to see Doctor Kagan and get their particulars.”

Edwards set Vasquez, a lean, clean-shaven thirty-year-old, to putting manacles on the men, linking them in pairs. Then the deputy searched their pockets.

The injured Chinese man was able to explain to Malik that they were purchasing various items for themselves and several companions, all of whom were working on the improvements to the Ranch Home road, where they had a work camp. He refused any medical help, saying he would see Dr. Lee if he had any problems. Malik got their names and the name of their foreman.

He knew it would not really do any good. The testimony of Chinese was usually heavily discounted, especially if it contradicted a white man. Nor did he expect the four ruffians, obvious strangers to the area, to remain in the jurisdiction after they made bail.

In fact, Andy had sent a wire reporting that the two men who had attacked Malik had boarded the same train he, the Gracias, and the Rademachers were taking to Fort Birney. The bail jumpers had embarked at Texas Bend and also had been on the Santa Fe train Andy and the others took to Wichita. Malik’s assailants, however, had remained aboard the train at Wichita, a train which made connections for Texas.

Malik explained these circumstances to the two Chinese men, who accepted it without comment. By the time he was finished, Edwards and Vasquez had led their prisoners away and Jacob had Jorje Garcia sweeping up the scattered sand and flour.

Malik bought the coffee he had come for, then decided to drop it off at the office and take his notes on the victims up to the courthouse.

He was surprised when he did not find Mrs. Tian at her desk, but decided she must have gone to the privy. He went in to leave the coffee on her desk in the hope she would take the hint.

But when he walked up to her desk, he was puzzled by the bundle of cloth she had left on the floor, until he suddenly realized that it was the young Chinese mother who lay there, unmoving, on the floor between the desk and the wall.

Quickly circling the desk, he was able to see the blood that had leaked onto the floor from the deep gashes on her face and skull. Fearing the worst, he knelt at her back and leaned forward to press his fingers into her neck, searching for a pulse. Though he moved his fingers several times, hoping that he had simply missed the right blood vessels, he finally concluded that, though her body was still warm, Tian was dead.

Without further disturbing it, he covered her body with the shawl she had worn into work that morning. Then he went out the front and locked the door behind him. He went into Eve Palmer’s dress shop, next door.

The shop was busy and it was a minute before Palmer could tend to him.

“Good morning, Mister Malik. How can I help you?” Palmer was using her customer-in-the-shop manners while her helpers tended to the patrons

Malik turned so that his shoulder was sheltering their conversation from the others. “Eve, did you see anyone unusual or remarkable around here in the past half hour?”

“In my shop?”

“No, no, I mean outside.”

“Not really. Well, there was that rascal Volkov. But he was over sitting on the courthouse steps for, oh, I don’t know, maybe an hour.” She looked out the window. “He must have just left. He was there a few minutes ago.”

“Did you hear anything unusual?”

“No, Emil, I didn’t. What’s this all about?”

Malik had been leaning over her and now he stood tall and sighed heavily. Then he leaned in again. “I’m about to tell you something shocking and distressing, and I’d like you to be able to temper your reaction.”

Now her face was drawn in concern. She gave a quick nod and said, “Go ahead.”

He took another quick breath and said, “I just returned to the office from an altercation down at Baylor’s. While I was gone, someone killed Missus Tian.”

Despite her intentions, Palmer gasped. “She’d dead?” she whispered, urgently. “But who?”

“Well, who was maintaining an overwatch on both my office door and my possible approach on Jackson Street?”

“You don’t mean...? Oh, but no. Missus Tian has two little girls. They wouldn’t, surely not. Oh, I can’t believe it. And they call the Chinese animals. What are you going to do?”

“My office is locked and I’m on my way to see Sean. Then, I don’t know. I’ll have to inform people, I’ll have to tell...”

“But what about Volkov?”

“He was sitting on the courthouse steps. We can’t arrest him for that.”

“Oh, Emil, I’m so sorry.”

“Have you a gun?”

“Two.”

“Keep them handy, especially if any strange men come into the shop. Best see that your helpers are escorted home, too.”

“I will. If you see Tommy or one of the messenger boys, send him over here, please.”

“I can see Nate, over there. Huh. Maybe he saw something. But I’ll tell him you want a messenger.”

By the time Malik reached the courthouse steps, Tommy Palmer had jogged up and taken a seat next to Nate. Malik said, “Good morning, gents. Is business good?”

“It is, Mister Malik,” young Palmer replied.

Nate said, “I noticed you locked your office door, Mister Malik, even though Missus Tian is still in there. Did that man frighten her?”

“What man, Nate?”

“Oh, a big man went in there a while ago, stayed for maybe five or ten minutes. Odd thing was, when he came out, he was wearing different trousers.”

“Did you notice anything else about him?”

“Only that he was wearing his coat when he went in, but was carrying it on his arm when he left. Oh, yeah, his hat was on backwards, too. He had one of those flat caps, where the cloth lays out over the front brim. He had it turned around when he came out the door. Oh, and he nodded toward Mister Volkov, like he knew him. Mister Volkov had been sitting on the steps over there, so he might be able to tell you more.

“So, is Missus Tian frightened? We could have one of the fellas stay with her, for a very reasonable fee.”

“I think I might have some other business for you fellas. Tommy, your Aunt Evie needs a messenger at the dress shop. Nate, I could use your help with some business in the sheriff’s office.”

Tommy stood up, put two fingers to his lips, and blew a loud, shrill whistle. Malik could see boys at three different intersections look toward the courthouse. Tommy pointed at a boy up on the corner of First Street and Courthouse Avenue and gave a broad, beckoning wave of his arm. Once that boy started toward him, Palmer sat back down, apparently the sign that his message was complete, because the other boys turned away to watch the streets near them.

“Impressive, fellas, nicely done,” Malik said. Then he turned to the Vargas boy. “Mister Vargas, my business is rather urgent. Can you come with me now?”

“Can we determine the fee, first, Mister Malik?”

Malik hesitated only briefly. “I’ll pay you two bits an hour, a dollar minimum guaranteed,” Malik said, reaching into his pocket. He handed young Vargas a dollar coin and said, “This is good for four hours, though I doubt this will take more than one hour. Agreed?”

“Gladly, Mister Malik. You know you’re being more than generous, even for you, sir.”

“I do, but this is of extreme importance to me.”

“Then let’s go, sir.”

Having heard Nate’s statement of what he had seen and Malik’s description of what he had found, Sheriff Edwards and Chief Deputy Vasquez were determined to view the scene. Malik gave them the key to the office and said he would be along in a few minutes.

After the county lawmen left, Malik asked Nate to take a message to his partners’ homes, asking that they attend an urgent meeting.

When Nate agreed to do so, he also held the dollar out toward Malik. “I don’t want this, Mister Malik. I wouldn’t have asked for a fee if I’d know what it was about. We carried messages for Missus Tian. She always gave us an extra penny, and usually some candy or a cookie. She was a very nice lady. Please take this back.” Nate was near tears.

“Nate, I want you to take that dollar and give it to somebody who is having an honest struggle with life, and life’s got the better of them. Somebody that really needs a dollar right now. Do you know someone like that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then give it to them, but give it in a way that doesn’t hurt their pride.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

“Just think of how you might receive such a gift without being made to feel small about it.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mister Malik. Shall I tell your partners what the meeting is about?”

“If you want to, say this: ‘Mister Malik is sending a sad message. Missus Tian Wu has been killed. He would like you to come to the office, if you can.’”

Vargas repeated, “Mister Malik sends a sad message. Missus Tian Wu has been killed. He would like you to come to the office, now, if you can.”

“Excellent, Nate, on your way, then.”

A little over an hour later, the sheriff’s investigation of the scene was complete and the partners had discussed the situation in its immediate effect. They approved covering the expense of undertaking, church, and burial services. They so informed the undertaker, who had arrived to remove the body. The idea of a stipend for the two little girls was mentioned, but Lewin wanted more time to research the possibilities. Malik volunteered to go to Tian’s home and inform the Peng sisters. As that seemed most urgent, they postponed further discussion until Monday.

And so, Malik found himself on the east side of the tracks, walking up Jefferson Avenue, past the Catholic church, finally stopping in front of a small adobe house of, maybe, three rooms.

He knocked on the door and, a moment later, it was opened a crack to reveal an eye peering out. It was quickly opened the rest of the way and Peng Delan was standing in the doorway. Tian Wu’s six- and seven-year-old daughters were peeking around the long skirt of her navy blue cheongsam.

“Mister Malik? If this is about Yan--”

“It isn’t, Miss Peng. I would like to speak to you privately.” He made an eye gesture toward the little girls.

“May we speak out here, sir?”

“If you wish.” A curtain fluttered briefly in a window to Malik’s left.

Tian bent down to the girls and said something in Mandarin, then she left them inside as she stepped out and closed the door behind her.

“What is it, sir?”

“Miss Peng, I have some ... devastating news for you. This is disturbing in the extreme, but there is no way I know to reduce the impact, so I must tell you that Tian Wu is dead. She was killed at her desk while I was out running an errand.”

Peng Delan stood in place, staring at him, unblinking. She appeared to have stopped breathing. Malik took half a step closer and held a hand out, near her arm, offering support.