Chapter 22

“I wanted to get together right away because we have a few problems to try to solve between here and Texas, and our possible other destinations in Texas.

“Our first and major concern is the arsonist and murderer who set fire to the Old Courthouse Inn early Tuesday morning. The means of ignition appear to be three piles of scrap lumber and some dried branches and sticks set against the east side of the building. The ignition was aided by lamp oil poured on that fuel and, we’re speculating, on the side of the Inn, as well.

“While all the guests escaped, two members of the staff were killed. Hilary Elgin, the front desk manager and night shift clerk, had his throat cut before the fire and his body was left in the manager’s office behind the front desk. The other fatality was the food service manager and head cook, Joe Collins. Joe had an apartment in the basement and died in his sleep from suffocation from inhaling smoke and fumes. Those of you from Fort Birney may remember that Joe was the head cook at the Officers’ Mess before we stole him away about five years ago.

“These were two good men, Hilary Elgin of twenty-two years, and Joe Collins of fifty-two. They were hard-working and loyal, and were exceptional at their jobs. Joe Collins was a part owner of the Inn. And they were my friends and I want to get the sonuvabitch,” Malik slapped his palm against the table top and Daley and Flores flinched, as Malik continued. “ ... who callously killed them, likely to get back at me for some unknown reason, by burning down the Inn.”

Malik took a couple deep breaths, before resuming. “Let me describe the problems we’ve had with various factions in Texas.”

He went on to describe the involvement of the Banks and Ranford families in 1885 and later the Nestors, as well as the various misadventures with the Texas Rangers, who had associations with all three families. He spoke of the strong-arm crew from the Labor Pioneers and their boss, Boris Volkov, and the various crimes they had committed. In sadder tone, he told the story of the supposed K&ASR policeman, Martin Doyle, and the death of his own best friend. He recounted the gun battles and those who had died, but he did not mention that he had personally dispatched Boris Volkov, Sheriff Barnabas Banks, Judge Edwin Nestor, and Senator Paulus Ranford, as well as several others who had been connected by blood or association and who had been preying on his family and friends. Finally, he described Yancy Webber and Stanislaus Ivanov and the odd case of Hiram Abernathy.

“It has been difficult to determine if any of these prior involvements have been resolved or if there are still family bent on revenge. When both of the Banks brothers had been killed, I thought that ended the problems, but then the captain of the invading Texas Rangers turned out to be a Banks, and the fake cop, Martin Doyle, whose real name was Petrus Ranford, Senator Ranford’s brother, was an uncle to the Banks brothers.”

Daley had been taking notes as he spoke and now asked, “But you have no idea why they blew up the diversion dam on the Sonora reservation?”

“Not unless Marshal Lonegan has something more recent.” He glanced at Lonegan who was shaking his head, then he turned back to Daley and said, “Thinking about your question makes me wonder if blowing up that diversion dam might have been a mistake. I mean, if those people were not familiar with common irrigation structures, they may have misunderstood what a diversion dam is and thought it was something grander. Maybe they thought it would flood Waypoint. Maybe they thought they were paying Chet Fisher to blow up the Isabella Canyon dam.” Malik began nodding his head, “In fact, as I think about it, the combination of that sort of ignorance and Chet’s naïve slow-wittedness could explain exactly that.”

Lonegan asked, “You really think so?”

“Why not? It’s as plausible as anything else, considering that no one could see the sense of blowing up a pile of rocks that diverted water toward an irrigation canal gate. The Sonora had it fixed the next day. And, if it was a major misunderstanding between Chet and Ivanov, it might also explain why Chet was killed,” Malik paused a second, “though they might have done that in any case.”

Lonegan shrugged. “I suppose it does make as much sense as our other explanations.”

“Let me add to its likelihood, then. The communication between Ivanov and Chet was mostly through a third person, that Yancy character. That’s just one more opportunity for misunderstanding to creep in.”

Lonegan raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips in a speculative gesture. “I’m starting to like your story.”

There was a clatter of tracks as they ran across the switches at Kylie Junction.

Malik said, “We’ll be at Dorado Springs in about fifteen or twenty minutes. Let’s take a break and we’ll get back together when we get underway, again. Mister Delvecchio said he’d have some sweet rolls done about then. I know they’re keeping the coffee urn fresh.

The conductor, Jimmy McGillycuddy, came into the lounge, having come from the far end of the coach.

“There was a message for you on the company wire at Kylie Junction, Mister Malik.”

“Hey, this is a first-name crowd, Jimmy. None of that ‘mister’ stuff, now.”

“Aye, not-Mister Malik. The only one I’ve heard usin’ your given name, even if just referrin’ to you, is Marshal Lonegan. So I’ll just be goin’ along with the majority.”

Malik flashed a friendly grin, “Have it your own way, Jimmy. Just remember, the invitation stands.” He reached for the telegram McGillycuddy had held out to him, but hesitated. “Unless you’d rather me call you Mister McGillycuddy, rather than by your given name.”

“I’m ‘Jimmy’ to you, boss, an ‘at’s how it ought to be. Your brother, now, ‘at’s a different story. I’m sorry ‘e knows me name at all.”

Malik took the telegram. “Are you and Andy still feuding?”

McGillycuddy said, “Somehow, our sugar canister, in the baggage car, got filled with salt when we stopped at Waypoint a couple weeks ago. An’ I’m the only one usin’ sugar in me coffee, so I was the only one caught. I didn’t see your brother, but there was a horse jumpin’ around, drew everyone’s attention when we were there, it did. Someday, you might be gettin’ a telegram from El Paso, your brother askin’ you to wire enough money for clothes and a ticket home.”

Malik grinned. “I’ll be ready.”

He opened the telegram

Emil Malik, company coach, K&ASR SB, Ft Birney Div 8Aug1891

Missing guest name Clancy Webber. Reference Yancy Webber. Siblings? Similar age, hair, eye, skin color.

Juanita Garcia, Old Courthouse Inn, Waypoint, Aren

Malik reached for one of the printed wanted posters that they’d made up from Flores’s description: “About 5 foot 7 inches, early to mid-20s, slight build, red hair, fair skin, freckles, blue eyes, clean shaven when last seen.”

Malik took the wanted poster and the telegram and went looking for Lonegan. He found him slumped in one of the coach seats with his Stetson over his face. Malik stood there for a moment, then turned away.

Lonegan said, “What d’ya need?” as he moved the hat and sat up straight.

Malik said, “Sorry. This can keep ‘til after the Springs.”

“Nah, now you got me curious, I’d never sleep anyhow.”

“Well, it’s a long shot. Do you still have your notes from when we were chasing after Yancy Webber?”

“When was that?”

“Late January.”

“And this is August. So no. I only hold onto six months of notebooks in my bags. The older ones go in a drawer in my desk. Why?

“Here, look at these,” and Malik offered him the telegram and the handbill.

As Lonegan read the telegram, he breathed a quiet, “Sonuvabitch.” Then he looked at the wanted notice after which he looked up at Malik, still standing in the aisle. “And you want to see a description of Yancy, just to be sure.”

“Yeah, just to be sure.”

“I brought copies of the arrest warrants for both her and Ivanov with me,” he said, as he stood from the seat. “There are descriptions of them in the warrants, from my notes.”

Malik stepped further away as Lonegan moved into the aisle, then turned to the overhead shelf, from which he brought down a beat-up portmanteau. He set it on the coach seat, opened the clasp, and began rifling the contents. “Here we go,” he said, and produced a leather folio carrier. He opened that and, among the papers, he found two cardstock envelopes, open on their shorter edge. Inside of each was a folded sheet of foolscap. He drew one partially from its envelope, read the front, and said, “Nope.” He pushed the paper back down into the envelope, returned it to the briefcase, then picked up the other, and drew the paper out. He handed it to Malik.

Malik unfolded the legal-size sheet and found, in the midst of the legal jargon:

Description of subject.

Race: White

Gender: Female

Age: 21-25

Height: 5 foot 3 inches (approximate)

Build: Thin

Hair: Red

Eyes: Blue

Skin tone: Light with freckles

There were more lines, for birthmarks, scars, tattoos, and deformities, but they were all blank.

Malik handed it back and Lonegan read it. He said, “They’re both a tad on the short side.” He looked up. “They could be twins.”

“Especially with those treacly names.”

Malik had wired ahead, and there were two re-purposed fruit cartons waiting at the Dorado Springs depot. each containing a generous selection of wax paper-wrapped items from the sisters food stall. Malik carried them through the length of the coach, leaving delicious smells in his wake. Like the Pied Piper, he drew a following as he passed, including the Delvecchios, who knew of the lunch plan in advance. Malik made his way to the lounge, where he set the cartons on the long table. He began rummaging in one of the boxes, then looked up at the expectant faces. He said, “Oh? Should I have gotten enough to share?”

Lonegan said, “Wayne, you flank him from the other side, I’ll go in from here.”

Malik said, “I give up, I surrender.” He began setting out items, guessing at their contents. He paused from that task and said, “Anyone who hasn’t had the sisters food is in for a real treat.”

Trombley said, “Those Nestors were red-haired, too.”

Goodson quipped, “So, you makin’ red hair a crime?”

“No, you dope, just wonderin’ if they was family.”

Lonegan said, “In contrast, they were also pretty big men and they had ruddy skin.”

“Yeah, true enough,” Trombley allowed.

Daley said, “It’s a good line of inquiry, though, Deputy.” She asked Malik, “Have you encountered any other redheads?”

“Unless you want to count my first wife and our four-year-old daughter, none stand out in my memory.”

Peng said, “The Texas Ranger who shot their Captains Banks and was shot and killed by Edwin Nestor had red hair.”

“That’s right,” Malik said. “They called him Rusty. I can’t remember his surname. I’m not sure I ever heard it.” He looked at her, and asked “You, Peng?”

“No, Shadow.”

Daley whispered to DeWitt, who was sitting next to her, “Shadow?”

“Later,” he whispered back.

Malik said, “Connor, are you carrying copies of those statements the Rangers gave?”

“As a matter of fact, I have the whole Texas file, well, copies, anyway.” His folio case was on the table and he reached for it. After a few seconds, he pulled out a Manila folder. From the folder, he extracted several papers and began skimming the text. From the second sheet he read aloud, “McInerney, Russel, also called Rusty.” He kept reading, to himself.

“Does it say anything else about him?” Malik asked.

“No, not that we haven’t already mentioned.”

Malik looked down the table and said, “Corporal Flores, you’re looking bewildered.”

“I suppose I am, sir. Are we supposed to make something of this redhead business or not? I mean, is it important to our investigation?”

Malik smiled. “Excellent questions, Corporal. Each of us struggling with exactly the same questions. What you may be unfamiliar with is this exercise we are involved in. We are taking advantage of a rare opportunity to tackle some perplexing and dangerous problems.

“We have been presented with a number of incidents that have threatened and destroyed life and property. On the surface, the incidents seem unrelated. What makes us suspect they are related is their frequency and their concentration around a limited area or group of people,

“Now, what we have around this table is a group of brains, or minds, if you will. And these minds, including yours, Corporal, have skills, and experience, in analyzing criminal behavior, and experience with life in general, for that matter. We’re bringing those minds together to try to understand the incidents of which I spoke. What gives this particular type of exercise its best chance at success is not just the number of minds brought to bear on the problems, but that those minds have different experiences and will look at the details in somewhat different ways.

“In fact, I have heard this type of activity described as a ‘brain storm.’ I think that’s apt, in both applications of the meaning of storm.

“Our job is to encourage it to happen, to draw out the ideas and apply our various views so that they play off one another, looking for relations and solutions that each of us may have missed on our own.

“So we throw out various ideas and then wrestle with them, see if we find something, between us, that makes sense. Hence, someone noticed the frequency of redheaded people and we’re wrestling with it, to see if something valuable comes of it.”

Flores said, “In that case, Mister Malik, I have to wonder whether we actually have an unusually high number of redheaded people or not. I mean, how many redheads are there, just walking -- the streets, compared to blondes, or brunettes, or what have you.”

“Yes,” Malik said. “Excellent point. Does anyone know?”

Moira Daley said, “About one or so in every hundred people in the United States. There are more or fewer in other countries. Ireland and Scotland are thought to be the highest, with about twelve per hundred people.”

They all sat looking at her.

“It was from an article in the American Medical Science Review.”

They still stared.

“I was doing research for a paper I had to write in college, okay?”

DeWitt said, “You wrote a paper about redheads?”

“No, it was about ... something else. The article about hair color was in the same issue.”

“Okay, enough teasing Moira,” Malik said. “But what I think this might reveal, or at least emphasize, are two possibilities: family relatedness seems especially common among our culprits, and among those families, we’ve found an unusual number of redheads.”

Flores asked, “What would that mean, sir?”

“What it means to me is that, assuming all of these incidents have not been random attacks, and, moreover, the attackers seem to be working on behalf of someone else, I might be inclined to look to their family members for the instigator or instigators.”

Daley said, “With your perspective in mind, Mister Malik, then I would add a question of motive. That combination would make me immediately suspicious of some close relative of the murdered redheaded Ranger, Rusty McInerney.”

Everyone was silent, again, looking at her.

“What?” she pleaded.

Actually, Peng hadn’t been staring at her, nor had she previously. And now she said. “Excellent thinking, Lieutenant. Not only have you shown us our first line of investigation, but you’ve also demonstrated for Corporal Flores how this process works, at its best.”

Malik said, “To be fair, Peng, Deputy Trombley and Corporal Flores had a hand in moving that along, too. I even played a modest part.”

“As you say, Shadow.”

“But, for the benefit of all, allow me to point out the process can be encouraged, as Peng just did, or it can be discouraged, as the rest of us did to Lieutenant Daley when we stared at her after her comments. I know it was in jest, but her reactions revealed a bit of discomfort. Inspector DeWitt’s reaction, in particular, caused discomfort.

“I might say the same about Deputy Goodson’s comment to Deputy Trombley, but those two have been working together so long that I think they could be firing their pistols at each other without taking offense.

“While the same could be said about the Inspector’s collegiality with the Lieutenant, there is another factor in play. Namely, women’s positions in what is decidedly a man’s world is typically more tentative and deserves fostering to balance the scales.

“In any event, none of these exhibits were intended to offend, nor were most of you aware of what might be called the only guideline of this sort of exercise: do not discourage the process.

“How about we refill our cups and come back in ten minutes?”

Daley was filling both her and DeWitt’s coffee mugs, while complaining to DeWitt that, “He talks about the difficulties of women working among men, but he won’t respect Miss Peng with even that minor honorific, let alone call her Deputy Peng.”

Lonegan, walking up, said, “That’s by her own choice. She insists that, in the field, using titles can delay critical communication.” He allowed Daley to fill his mug, as DeWitt explained. “We talked about this on the trip to California. Apparently Deputy Peng lived in and was trained by a strictly militaristic triad in China. By the time she was twenty-five, she had risen to the equivalent rank of captain.”

Daley asked, “Aren’t triads criminal gangs?”

DeWitt said, “According to what Mister Chen told us, a few are. Most, however, are mutual benefit groups, more like the Americans United, or the Knights of Pythagoras, or this new one out of Minnesota, the Pioneer Woodsmen. The group Peng belonged to, the Dawn of Justice Society, exists specifically to oppose the criminal triads, often by force of arms. She’s been in any number of pitched battles and she knows what she’s doing.”

After Lonegan headed for the privy, Daley asked, “And what about ‘Shadow?’”

DeWitt flared his eyebrows. “Apparently our big boss is not just the lawyer and boardroom business man. In fact, from watching him in California and chasing those rustlers in New Mexico, and from some of the stories I heard, it’s a miracle he hasn’t lost a hand, or worse, years ago.

“‘Shadow’ is the English translation of his Indian name, earned because he is such a silent stalker, of both animals and men. Shadow is what all the Indian tribes around here call him, the Sonora, the Apache, and the Navajo, and many of the other folks, too. I’ve heard he can walk right up to an antelope without being noticed. Some say he can do it to mountain cats, too. There’s even a story, told by the Sonora special deputies, of how he was trailing a couple killers and he rode his horse right up between them without them even noticing. They pulled their guns, anyway.”

“What happened?”

“A deputy named Red Salt told me Shadow left their bones to rot in the desert.

“I’ll say this, when we went after those rustlers that night, he didn’t hesitate a second. I was the one trying to keep up.”

“What really happened to those rustlers?”

DeWitt shook his head. “I’m not sure I want to know. Peng went after them, on her own. They’d maimed the man she worships. I’ve tried to avoid using my imagination.”

As the train pulled out of Mesilla (meh-SEE-yah), New Mexico Territory, Lonegan said to Malik, “Last chance. We’ll be in Texas in an hour.”

“I’m ready.”

“Much as I hate to remind you, last time you had both hands.”

“They won’t be catching me off guard, this time.” He patted the forty-four Colt Army in a cross-draw holster in front of his left hip, and then the thirty-eight Lightning in a left-side shoulder holster. “Besides, I’ve got these two,” and he gestured toward Daley and DeWitt.

“No disrespect to them, it’s Peng I’d rather not tangle with.”

“Then I have defense in depth.”

“Yeah, Judge Westcott and I talked about this. I know railroad coppers have no jurisdiction in Texas.” Lonegan brought two flat leather wallets from his folio case. Looking at the two ranking police officers he stood and said, “You two, on your feet.”

Looking uncertain, DeWitt and Daley made eye contact with Malik. He simply nodded. They stood and faced Lonegan, from across the table.

Lonegan said, “Raise your right hand, and repeat after me.”