Chapter 42

Mao’s bullet had entered Chen’s head at his front hairline and there was no exit wound. Chen died of an instant. Once he was certain Chen was dead, Malik told Juniper and Stone Raven to fetch the horses. He saw that Yi and his men were dispatching the wounded.

All of the men, except Malik, had pulled bandanas up over their noses as soon as the shooting started. Malik pulled up his after he shot Mao. Neither Chen nor West had hidden their faces.

DeWitt mounted to the driver’s seat on the coach and took hold of the reins as the others mounted the horses. To throw off any unlikely pursuit, the party headed north for a mile, only to circle around to return south to La Paz via farm lanes. They split into three separate groups to make their way through San Jose, and thus traveled the last few miles to La Paz.

The bodies of Chen and the two women were taken to the Lincoln Falls Loop, where the West brothers sewed them into heavy canvas tarpaulins. The bodies were laid out on an Indian rubber-impregnated canvas sheet on Chen’s bed.

Mao’s coach, his body still inside, was left at the front of the honey processing plant, the horses released from harness. The first white-clad workers who arrived the next morning looked inside the coach, then hurried away. A half hour later, two of the gang made an appearance, and they went directly to the coach. Yi’s two men put arrows into their backs, and then left the area. No one else approached the coach or the processing building, until a passer-by went to inform the town constables, one of whom came to investigate. Looking into the coach, he realized, immediately, that a significant source of his personal income had just been cut off.

Malik visited briefly with Dean Deering, asking him to intervene with the engineering faculty on behalf of Juniper and Stone Raven for their missed classwork and attendance. He said that they had been required to assist in the identification of federal fugitives, causing Malik to finally reveal his marshal’s appointment to his mentor. Deering assured Malik that he would see to it.

Yi’s group planned to stay in La Paz another week to try to pick off a few more of Mao’s old gang. Yi admitted that the contract fee was tied to the number of gang members who were eliminated, with Mao representing seventy percent of the fee.

After assurances from the two young men that they were comfortable with returning to class and resuming the college routines, Malik asked the Santa Fe to take the Lincoln Falls Loop with their eastbound express, that night.

While waiting, both Malik and McCroskey composed telegrams to Raul Castillo informing him of the death of Chen Ming-teh by homicide, details to be delivered in person. Malik also sent a telegram to Peng:

Mission accomplished. No one hurt save Chen who is dead. I will accompany his body to Wichita and stay over for board meeting. Inform Andy and our office. I require you attend me at Wichita. Meet ATSF train No 34 at Fort Birney 1:40 AM Sunday.

Malik

Peng, of course, met the train.

At the Santa Fe depot in Wichita, as late as the hour was, there were well over a hundred mourning-clad people, people of all races, awaiting the train. There was a band, playing a mournful dirge. Castillo, Pottinger, and Yeats mounted the car’s platform and were greeted at the door by Malik, who carried a lamp.

Castillo said, “Emil, for legal purposes, we need to view the body and verify the identity.”

“Of course,” Malik replied. He led them down the hallway to Chen’s cabin door. “They’ve been sewn into canvas. You can use my knife to cut the cordage.” He held out a penknife to Castillo. “Mister Chen is in the middle,” and he opened the cabin door.

Castillo and the others stopped short. “Middle?” Castillo asked, “Who are the other two?”

“His sister, Niao, and his former concubine, Nuan.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He went to California hoping to negotiate, or ransom, Stone Raven. But Juniper had rescued Stone Raven. Then Ming learned that his sister, whom he thought was in China, had been the prisoner of a triad chief in San Francisco for nearly thirty years. The sister, and the concubine, thought Ming was dead.”

Castillo was shaking his head. “I can see this will take some time to sort out. But tell me, who died first, Ming or his sister?”

“That would depend on how you define it. The sister’s throat was cut and, immediately afterward, the other woman was shot in the head, then Ming was shot in the head, all three killed by the same man, within the span of two or three seconds. That man who died at my hand not one second later.”

“I don’t need to know who you may or may not have killed, but would you define Ming’s and his sister’s death as simultaneous demise by common event?”

“I am the only surviving witness and I would not be able to swear to the sequence of actual deaths. I would be more inclined to say it was simultaneous.”

“Are you willing to sign a statement to that effect?”

“Of course, Raul. Can we get this identification over with, please? It will not be pleasant.”

Yeats said, “We only brought one casket.”

Castillo replied, “We’ll remove the others later. It would simply confuse everyone now.” He leaned over the canvas-wrapped bodies and began searching for the sewn seam, which West had tucked into a fold.

“Here, give me that knife,” Malik said, obviously annoyed. He folded open the seam and began slicing stitches.

Castillo said, “I apologize, Emil. I did not intend to be so officious. I know your experience must have been harrowing. The situation here has been tense, ever since we received word. There is much at stake and everyone is worried.”

“Relax, Raul, we’ll figure it out,” Malik said, as he worked. “The Kanzona is neck-deep in excellent people. If we can’t carry on, we’ll have no one to blame but ourselves.”

A putrid odor assailed the room. Malik asked, “Is this good enough?”

Chen’s gray face and dry, open eyes were visible in the light of the lamp Malik had been carrying. Castillo looked, then quickly backed out of the way for Pottinger and Yeats to view the remains. As they all backed out of the cabin, Malik tucked the edges of the fabric back together into the fold.

In the hallway, Castillo had presented a clipboard to each man, in turn. All three signed their names.

“What’s that?” Malik asked.

“Verification of identity.” Then he asked, “Is that the bullet hole, at the top of his forehead?”

“Yes. If, I’d been a half second faster...”

“I received a telegram from your brother. He said you would blame yourself and I was to kick you in the posterior when you did.”

Malik released an abbreviated, grim chuckle.

Pottinger had opened the freight door, which was positioned midway down the car. Two men, undertakers, slid a coffin into the parlor, and then walked to mount the steps at the end of the coach.

Ten minutes later, Chen’s body was removed with due ceremony, and to much genuine grief among the men and women on the platform. After the hearse drove off into the night, the people dispersed. The undertakers returned within the half hour and removed the women’s remains.

Yeats, Pottinger, and Castillo wanted to hear the story. Malik suggested the Wests serve brandy and coffee. The men made themselves comfortable in the parlor.

They were there for another hour, as Malik summarized the events and conversations of the past few days.

As Malik’s tale wound down, Pottinger asked, “Do you think we’ll have any more trouble from the Tiger Poppy Society?”

“It looks like the troubles we had were not with the Tiger Poppy Society, itself, but with that small rogue group led by Mao Wuying. He had an old grudge against Ming. But now Mao’s dead and almost all of his henchmen were dead by the time we left La Paz. The last few were being pursued by a team of Chinese bounty hunters. None of those gang members were acting on behalf of the Tiger Poppy Society. They were Mao’s puppets, and Mao is dead. Even more, Ming, the object of Mao’s wrath, is also dead. I’ll be surprised to run across any Tiger Poppies, again.”

Pottinger turned to Malik and said, “So all those attacks, on you, those around you, the Fort Birney branch, it wasn’t about you at all.” He looked down and shook his head. “It was about Ming, all along.” He looked at Malik, again. “Do you think he knew?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I think Mao wanted to hurt Ming, and he picked targets that were important to Ming and were vulnerable, in areas where the railroad was having its greatest success. I thing Ming began to suspect when we first learned how Arenoso State Senator Aldecott was murdered, in May. He did tell me that he had men watching our wires for messages concerning possible threats from the Tiger Poppies.”

“That fox,” Castillo exclaimed. “He told me those Chinese men were being made available for translation services. He has had them at every branch’s head telegraph office since mid-June.”

“Have they been doing any legitimate translating?” Yeats asked.

“We’ll have to find out,” Castillo replied.

“So it looks like he knew,” Yeats observed.

Malik said, “I really don’t think so. Mao was purposely toying with Ming, and he had it planned so Ming could never have been sure, so that Mao could prolong Ming’s torture. And I know Ming was taken totally unaware to learn his sister was in the country. No, I don’t think he knew, else he would have acted on it sooner. The reason he went to California, this time, was to ransom Stone Raven. I suspect he would have been willing to trade himself to free a young Sonora he’d met only once.

“No, Arnie, I think Mao wanted Ming dangling from a limb, not knowing how he got there. Only then did Mao want Ming to witness the deaths of his sister and his qie. Even had Ming survived that experience, I doubt he would ever have been the same again.”

“You think he loved this concubine?” Yeats asked.

“The few times he spoke of her it was in tender words and he displayed a sense of yearning. I think the relationship was a loving one. Beyond that, he told me the person he most wanted to see in China was his sister, if she was still alive. I think he loved them both, but he knew nothing of either. And I imagine both women lost hope thinking Ming had been killed.

Yeats was shaking his head. “That’s just ... tragic beyond saying.”

Malik sighed. “It was,” he agreed. “But, at the same time, for a few seconds, they were all reunited and you could sense the emotions they shared, the joy of that discovery. I think their feelings for one another were what drove Mao to kill them just then. That, and the man was a monster.”

The men were silent for a few moments, then Pottinger said, “A couple grueling days coming up, gents. I’m headed home, to bed. I’ll see you fellas tomorrow, at the funeral parlor.”

Yeats followed suit.

Before he left, Castillo said, “Will you stay at my new house while you are here?”

“I don’t know. Does it have flush toilets and hot and cold running water?”

“Even more. It has electric lights.”

“Then I suppose I could be persuaded. Peng Yan is with me.”

“Well, I am not running a hotel. You two will have to share the one room.”

“Fine,” Malik chuckled. “We’ll bring our things over tomorrow.”

Castillo looked around. “Where is Yan?”

“In our cabin.”

“Why has she not joined us?”

“Oh, she’s been tied up with some personal business.”

On Monday, the offices of the Kansas & Arizona Southern Railroad were closed from noon and all of the next day, allowing staff an opportunity to join their colleagues in mourning and remembrance of their leader.

At the funeral home, there were visitation hours throughout the afternoon and early evening. Due to the condition of the body, the coffin had been closed and sealed with wax. A painted portrait of Chen was placed on an easel near the head end of the coffin. Hundreds of people came to mourn, from rail-setters to U.S. senators.

But, after the crowds of railroad employees, most of those who stopped in to pay their respects were other businessmen: executives from other railroads, livestock shippers, steel mill operators, quarry owners, Grange officials, bankers, the heads of law firms, mill operators, men who had done business with the Kansas & Arizona Southern Railroad. Chen’s honest and sustainable business practices had made him widely popular and appreciated throughout the southwest. The outpouring of respect was even more remarkable because of his race. But people knew that it was Chen who made certain that, when you dealt with the K&ASR, everybody made money. There were no losers when making a deal with Chen’s railroad.

To forestall any rumors surrounding his death, the railroad’s official explanation was that Chen had been caught up in an encounter with road agents in California and that he had died trying to save two women who had been kidnapped.

Peng managed to look both somber and happy as she stood at Malik’s side. She had brought along the mourning dress that she had purchased at Eve Palmer’s dress shop in Waypoint. Malik took her shopping for another such dress before the visitation. When Peng asked why, he said, “No woman of mine is going to show up in the same dress two days in a row.” But he said it with a grin.

Malik tried to stay in the background at the funeral parlor, allowing Castillo, Yeats, and Pottinger to act as official hosts. But Castillo kept bringing people over for Malik to meet. Finally, he gave up the idea of sitting in the back of the parlor and he stayed near the front with the others.

Chen was commemorated at a Roman Catholic ceremony the next day, at St. Alfonse Church. St. Alfonse’s was the temporary seat of the newly designated Diocese of Eastern Kansas, pending the construction of a dedicated cathedral. The Bishop, R. Joseph Kelly, conducted the solemn service. St. Alfonse’s was the largest Catholic church in that part of the state and could seat a thousand people, but Chen’s funeral overflowed the church, even with people standing in the aisles. Malik sat in the front pew with the other directors, including Pauline Jones and Lincoln Hawksclaw. Unnoticed by the others, Malik had Peng standing in the isle, nearby.

Scanning the congregants, Malik recognized many railroad employees, some of whom had brought spouses and some younger children, as their older children would have been in school. And not just billing clerks or civil engineers from the headquarters, but stationmasters and brakemen, section hands and conductors from the various Divisions. Fergus Healy was there and Malik got to meet his wife. The trains were still running, so Healy represented some of those who were keeping the railroad operating on the Fort Birney branch.

The board had rented a large dance hall for a post-interment reception. While there was no dancing, many a railroad tale was exchanged, and most everyone had a story of meeting Chen Ming-teh, sometimes in the most peculiar of circumstances: while cleaning out a livestock car, or riding a snow plow through the deep prairie drifts, or manning a telegraph key in the wee hours. Chen Ming-teh never caught anyone not doing their job, because he was never there to catch anyone. He was there to see how they were doing.

Malik shook hands until his wrist got sore, then he shook some more. He learned to add his left hand to the grip to try to restrain the enthusiastic pumping of some individuals. But he smiled throughout and had no trouble doing so. The warmth expressed by so many was naturally buoyant for the board directors.