Chapter 29

Sunday, November 29, 1891

At twenty-nine minutes past midnight, Peng rose slightly behind a sharp-edged boulder and pointed out to Malik and Consuela Vargas the two men guarding the canyon. As they watched, one of the men was lighting his pipe, the flame rising and falling as he drew on the stem.

Peng, speaking just above the roar of the nearby Rio Isabella, said, “Let’s go. He can’t see beyond an arms-length, right now.”

The three of them scuttled along the trail, crouched low, staying closer to the rocky detritus shielding them from the other guard’s view.

Once past the guards, Peng brought them to a halt. Each was wearing cotton trousers and long-sleeved shirts of dark motley, over long underwear, their faces and hands smudged with coal dust. The women carried knives at their waists and thirty-eight caliber revolvers in shoulder holsters. Malik was carrying a double-barreled, twelve-gauge Greener, cut to eight-inch barrels and with a pistol grip, holstered on his hip; his forty-four caliber Winchester carbine on a sling across his back; and the thirty-eight Lightning in a shoulder holster. He wore his gripping hook, a dark stocking hiding its polished metal surface.

Peng reminded them: “Now we must be cautious not to silhouette ourselves against the dam’s lights, as the guards often look this direction. Stay between the rocks. If you must crawl over one, keep in close contact, move slowly, do not raise above it. If they notice it at all, they will likely think the moving shadow is a trick of their vision.”

The powerhouse was at the south end of the one-hundred-twenty-foot wide, inward-curving dam. Peng led them toward the north end where only a single man was still dangling from a rope, while he drove spikes into the concrete dam face, and suspended the last two fuses from them. A second man, handling the rope from the top of the dam, assisted him to move toward the power house.

Peng’s intent was to cross the dam and to hide in place, until the fuse work was complete and the men began to prepare to flee.

Meanwhile, at two o’clock, the other members of the assault posse -- Lonegan, Trombley, Goodson, Edwards, Vasquez, the elder Palmer, both Rademachers, three of the sheriff’s deputies and Nate Vargas and Tommy Palmer -- would close in, first immobilizing the guards, then surrounding the others. At present, they were gathered just outside the mouth of the canyon.

Before finalizing the assault plan, the group had faced a fateful reckoning, but finally decided that alerting the town came with the risk that the gang members would discover the evacuation and set the charges off sooner. Instead, they determined to put themselves at greater risk.

Vargas and the younger Palmer were to slip up on the guards and attack them with rocks, aimed at their heads. As long as no shots were fired, the guards could be brought down by any means, as even shouts to their accomplices would be lost in the roar of the river. Nate Vargas and Tommy Palmer had trained with Peng alongside Consuela. Even now, they were outfitted like Peng and her companion, in dark motley, but only with knives, no pistols.

Having reached the north end of the dam, by 1:03 a.m., Peng and Consuela Vargas had immediately begun their transit of the dam, which Peng estimated should take some thirty minutes.

The ledge they were traversing was a four-inch wide concrete extension of the lower wall and had been designed to support the bottom end of the angled cypress brackets that held up the cat-walk. The concrete ledge was at grade level at the north end, near the canyon wall, but it was about forty feet above the old river bed at the concave center of the dam. The support stanchions, three-inch thick triangles of solid cypress, were placed every four feet and had to be climbed around. The cat-walk they supported was only three feet above the ledge, causing both women to either crouch or be bent over as they moved. The walkway above them was surfaced with four-inch by thirty-inch cypress planks with a half inch drainage gap between them, allowing the women regular finger grips. Against the bright lights on the face of the dam, the darkness beneath the cat-walk was near-Stygian.

Malik had set up in the shadows, between some boulders, at the north end of the dam. His job was to guard the two women from attack. He was a practiced shot, with his hook grasping the carbine’s barrel just ahead of the fore-stock, now aimed across the front of the dam. At a distance, against the background light on the dam’s surface, the women were not visible. From his low, side angle, less dazzled by the reflected light, Malik could follow their progress as they swung around each stanchion.

Eventually, though, the distance, the light, and the curving angle of the view made it difficult to determine their position.

Peng’s plan was that she and Vargas would separate when they reached the spot behind the power house where the fuses were gathered. Peng was to continue just past that point, beyond the men gathered there, while Consuela waited on the near side. At the proper moment, each was to use her pistol to shoot the man closest to her, and to keep shooting until he and any others, were incapacitated or dead. Peng would signal the start of the attack with a wave of her hand, and they would count to three and rise up, simultaneously, over the edge of the cat-walk, and start shooting.

Knowing the consequences of a catastrophic flood on Waypoint and its people, Consuela had assured Peng she was certain she would have no problem killing a man, or several, as it became expedient.

At two o’clock, the approach by the main body of the posse was made easier when the two guards withdrew to the dam and began saddling the horses. Nate Vargas and young Palmer, neither with firearms, were sent back to wait with Dr. Kagan and the fourth sheriff’s deputy at the staging area outside the mouth of the canyon.

Edwards and most of the posse had crossed south of the rio at the Wagon Road bridge and were approaching from that side while Lonegan, Trombley and Goodson had remained on the north side. When both parties finally reached the boulder field beneath the powerhouse, Edwards placed the posse members in a half circle, along the trail to the powerhouse. Lonegan and his deputies moved close to the rio opposite the trail. There, they all waited for the gang’s retreat.

In the relative quiet of the six-foot gap between the powerhouse and the dam, Peng and Vargas could hear the men congratulating each other as they gathered by the fuse block. Finally, Webber told them to go and get mounted because, once the fuse was lit, they would have only fifteen minutes to clear the canyon, and he wanted them to stay together in case they encountered trouble.

Webber, looking at his pocket watch, said, “Two minutes from now we light the main fuse. Go get mounted.”

The other five men made no bones about leaving quickly. Within half a minute, they had clattered down to the end of the cat-walk and stepped down.

Vargas leaned out to where she could see Peng, who was holding up a finger. After another twenty seconds, Peng gave a quick, downward wave of her hand, and Vargas began counting to herself. At three, she hooked her left forearm over the cat-walk and pulled her right shoulder and arm above it, while still standing on the ledge.

Her gun was already in her hand. She immediately thumbed back the hammer and fired into the back of the man standing about eight feet from her. The loud report of the shot in the narrow space caused her ears to ring. She had heard Peng’s revolver fire a heartbeat earlier. She saw that man stumble and fall on Peng, knocking her from the ledge.

The man Vargas shot had grasped at the face of the dam, struggling to hold himself up. He took the cigar from between his lips and reached for the fuses. Vargas shot once more into his back, then the next two shots she aimed as his head, and then two more shots to his back, as he sagged against the dam. All six slugs had struck where she intended, and her man went down in a lifeless heap, the cigar rolling off the cat-walk onto the rocks below.

Through the ringing in her ears, she could hear faint gunfire from the front of the powerhouse, but there was a rigid protocol she was still to follow.

She scrambled up onto the cat-walk and re-loaded her pistol.

That done, she began the second part of their assignment: pulling down the fuses from the front of the dam, where they were gathered behind the powerhouse. After several pulls, she took her knife and cut the strands, allowing the shortened fuses to scatter, out of reach, above the cat-walk. The charges, themselves, would have to be brought down manually.

Then she went to look for Peng.

Vargas soon spotted the man Peng had shot. He was sprawled on the rocks just below the cat-walk. Then she made out Peng, laying under him. Feeling approaching footsteps in the vibrations of the walkway, she whirled, pistol in hand, but saw it was Malik, running toward her on the boardwalk.

She slipped off the planking and lowered herself to the rocks, about five feet below. Like her brother, Consuela was tall and healthy, and she had little problem shifting the dead man from on top of Peng. But she found Peng unconscious and bleeding from her ear. Then Malik arrived.

“Do cholery!” Malik growled, reverting again to Polish. He climbed down and crouched near Peng. He pressed his fingers against the side of her throat, then held them just touching her lips and nose. He turned to Vargas. “Her pulse seems normal and she’s breathing regularly.” Vargas put up her hand.

“My ears are ringing,” she said, in an overly loud voice. “I can’t hear you.”

Malik nodded and leaned closer, saying, loudly, “Her pulse and breathing seem okay. Go get Doctor Kagan and tell her that. I don’t want to move Peng until the doctor says so.” Vargas nodded and made to rise, but Malik grabbed her sleeve. “Be careful going out front. I don’t know if it’s over, yet.”

Vargas nodded, rose, and clambered over the rocks to the end of the powerhouse, where she paused and peered carefully around the corner. Then she slipped from sight.

Two minutes later, Lonegan and Molly Rademacher came around that corner, stepping from rock to rock. Lonegan asked, “How is she?”

“From where I was watching, it looked like this guy fell on her and knocked her down onto the rocks. Looks like she banged her head. Her pulse and breathing seem regular, though.”

Molly Rademacher crouched at Peng’s side, opposite Malik.

Malik asked, “How’d it go out front?”

Lonegan sighed deeply. “Bill Goodson’s dead. One of the sheriff deputies got shot in the shoulder.”

“What happened to Bill?”

Lonegan shook his head. “Right in the forehead,” Lonegan said, pointing to his own forehead above his right eye. “I’m sure he was dead before he knew it.” He shook his head, again. “But god damn son of a bitch! I am so tired of seeing good men gunned down.” Malik stood and gripped his shoulder.

Molly said, “I think she’s coming around.”

Malik crouched back down. “Don’t let her move.”

Peng said, “Why not?”

The relief obvious in his voice, Malik said, “Because you look so relaxed and comfortable, I thought we’d get a photograph of it.” He leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Doctor Kagan should be here in a few minutes,” he said. “Can you lay here, like that, or does it hurt.”

“I hurt here and there, but mostly my head. I am able to wiggle my fingers and toes. I can lay here a few more minutes, but this rock is cold.”

“Well, get up slowly, then, if you want. Likely your head will slow you down, anyway.”

“Oh, I’m in no hurry. I’ll wait.”

Malik asked Lonegan, “Do you need to go out front?”

“No. Sean Edwards has it under control. Leo’s with Bill’s body. Leo’s going to miss him. They were a good team. Damn.”

“What happened?” Peng asked.

Malik said, “Oh yeah, you were still unconscious. Bill Goodson was shot and killed, instantly, shot in his forehead.”

Peng said, “My sympathy, Marshal. I liked Bill.”

“Thanks, deputy,” Lonegan said.

Then he looked at the two bodies. “Which one of these is Webber?”

Malik said, “Don’t know. I’ve never seen him.”

Peng said, “The man who fell on me was giving all the orders.”

Malik asked Lonegan, “Did you take any prisoners?”

“Four of them,” Lonegan replied, “but I doubt whether the one will live more than a few hours. He’s lung shot and gut shot.”

Molly looked up at the fuses, now running every which way on the dam. “What were these people thinking? Did they think they could get away with this?”

Peng started to sit up and Molly reached under her to help. Once in a sitting position Peng said, “That rock is too cold.” Then she said, “Oh-oh,” and leaned over and threw up between two rocks.

Beverly Kagan, walking up, said, “A common symptom of a concussion. Let me look at your eyes.” She crouched in front of Peng and produced a large match from her medical bag. She scraped the match to life on a rock, and it burned very bright. Kagan then held it in front of Peng’s eyes, moving it about. She dropped the match among the rocks and said, “Okay. Now I want to examine your head, then your reflexes.”

Five minutes later, Kagan said, “Good enough. Take it easy for a few days. If anything gets worse, see me or Doctor Lee, right away. Ride one of those horses out of here. At a walk.” She snapped the bag closed and stood up. “I need to go check on our sheriff’s deputy. Emil, watch her eyes for the pupils to always be the same size. And, her sleep should be normal and she should be able to be awakened as easily as usual. Check it, every couple hours. Yan, if you feel anything odd, see me or Lee Wuying, tout de suite.”

At that point, Consuela Vargas returned. “Oh, you’re awake. Thank goodness. I was afraid I was going to have to carry you out of here.”

Malik chuckled. “I see you’ve been trained in rough humor, too.”

She stood proudly before Malik and retorted, “Miss Peng says that, any time you can’t laugh at a problem, you should lie down, because it means you’re dead.”

“Ah, the inscrutable wisdom of the Orient,” he said, chuckling.

Wren kissed the sleeping Malik. “It’s noon, Shadow. I just heard the train whistle. The shay is in the porte-cochère.”

Malik reached up and pulled her to him, kissing her deeply.

“How is Yan?” he asked.

“Sleeping. I’ve woken her three times without difficulty.”

“Good. And what is Beatrice up to?”

“She walked down to Molly’s. She and Juanita are discussing plans.” Malik and Mitchel Anderson had decided to make Juanita Garcia the general manager of the Inn. She and Beatrice were planning its restoration.

“The children?”

“Waiting to ambush you on your way out.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” he pronounced in a mock-solemn tone.

Then he kissed Wren once more, and swung his feet over the edge of the mattress and stood up, naked. Wren, fully dressed, stood in front of him, and he ran his hand over her distended abdomen. “Won’t be long now,” he whispered.

Wren reached for his penis but Malik grabbed her wrist and said, “Nah-ah. I need to get down there before the dust settles.”

He strapped on the prosthetic and dressed hurriedly in neatly-pressed, ranch-style work clothes. Then he made a less-than-sincere effort to creep down the hall and steal past the playroom. Tom saw him first, yelled, “Daddy,” and, giggling, ran uncertainly from the play room. Paul was close on his heels.

Malik scooped them both up and carried them back into the playroom with its thickly-padded carpet. He lay on his back and let twins crawl on him and try to keep his right hand from tickling them. When they thought they had him under control, he’d reach up with the hook and touch one or both of them on their bare skin with the cold metal. Their squealing retreat would start the game over again.

Aspen walked in, wearing a pinafore over a dress, and clutching a book, with her index finger inserted between pages, holding her place. She displayed an aloof air, though she was standing markedly close to the action on the floor.

Suddenly, Malik’s left arm reached out and wrapped around Aspen’s waist. The book fell from her hand as she was drawn into the melee.

“No, Daddy!” she shouted. “I’m dressed up! I’m reading! You made me lose my page.”

“No, your page isn’t lost. It’s right there with all the other pages.”

Aspen was the first victim of the bare-belly raspberries.

The armored train coach had been left on the depot siding. When Malik arrived, Sean Edwards, Connor Lonegan, Tony Vazquez, Tom Palmer, and Dick Schroeder were all aboard, sitting at the big, permanently mounted, dining table. The car had bunks for ten men, two of them in a separate cabin, plus the necessary facilities to support those men, including a galley. The fixtures were constructed of angled steel, with only the chairs at the table not fastened to the floor or the steel bulkheads.

Palmer noted, “We should put a claim on it with Webber’s estate, pending payment for its shipping and the repairs to the dam. I doubt we’ll ever see a penny.”

Malik said, “Not unless they have a burning need for this monstrosity. Maybe we could sell it to the Rio Grande, for their next war with the Santa Fe.”

Edwards said, “Connor was just saying it would be ideal for prisoner transport.”

Lonegan explained, “We wouldn’t have to bring them to a local lockup when we have a connection lay-over. And we wouldn’t have to worry about meal stops. This would be ideal. They could just stay locked up on the coach.”

Malik held the interior door open and pointed. “If you ran a row of bars or a strapping grid along here, you could have an eight-man cell, and it wouldn’t require more than one man to watch them at night.”

“So you’d consider it?” Lonegan asked.

Malik shrugged. “Well, I can’t see how we’d have much use for it. Engineering already has that gang coach pair, and it’s a lot more comfortable that this. And we don’t need to be paying the shipping on this much weight, whereas, for you, the weight would allow other efficiencies, in reduced costs for guards and fares.”

Lonegan said, “How much would you want to lease it?”

Malik shrugged. “For the Arenoso District US Marshals? How about the cost of its maintenance and insurance?”

Lonegan and Schroeder attended supper at the Maliks’ that evening.

Over dessert and coffee, after the children had gone to bed, Schroeder was describing his experience in Junction City.

“The Kanzona stationmaster told me that Webber had his own coach and that it was booked for the next morning’s northbound passenger consist. He said they were expecting ice and grocery deliveries in the early morning. He pointed the coach out to me, so I walked over, climbed up, and knocked on the door.

“A voice asked who I was, and I identified myself, saying that I was a Ranger responding to orders from Austin to report to Mister Webber. The door opened and the man invited me in. He directed me to the parlor, saying he had to lock up. Next thing I knew he had a gun pointed at my back.

“He offered me a choice: a bullet to the hip or I shackle my left wrist to one of the bunks. I figured, if he were going to kill me, I’d already be dead, so I decided to wait and see what developed. At the time, I thought Webber was still there.

“After he had me shackle my wrist to the bedframe, he offered another choice: a four-point restraint and a gag, or I promise not to call for help. So I made the pledge, and it was only the one shackle.

“And that was it, until the Kanzona police and the town marshals showed up, an hour or so later. The man -- he said his name was Jake Endicott -- surrendered without a fuss. He told us Webber had left on Thursday, headed to Ranch Home. Then he quit talking.

“I slept in the armored coach last night, signed for the groceries and ice in Webber’s name, this morning, and rode in somewhat noisy style back up here.”

Beatrice asked, “Are you still going back to Texas?”