Chapter 5

Monday, September 22, 1890

DeWitt:

The Security Department occupied corner offices in the K&ASR headquarters building. We were denied any remarkable window views, however, because it was a corner of the basement. It was more of a half basement, in fact. We had windows, but they were grade-level -- and closer to ceiling than floor. They were good for light, but not much for views. Seven of us shared the open area outside Bill’s private office. Besides me, there was another inspector, Marty Finnerman, a former Saint Louis copper; Sergeant Moira Daley, our intelligence officer, who was in charge of assembling and analyzing activity and observation reports from our division offices; her assistant, Private Meng Zexi; Bill’s secretary, Cheng ZhenKang; and two clerks, Wan Jingyi and Deborah Wilson.

Mister ZhenKang, an older man, ran a pretty tight ship, with even Bill listening closely to his suggestions. While the rest of us were on a first name basis, including Bill, Mister ZhenKang was always addressed by his surname -- and it didn’t seem awkward. For a fact, he offered us the same courtesy, always using our surnames. Meng Zexi was of the opinion that Mister ZhenKang had owned a large business in southeastern China. He remembered the name, ZhenKang, from when he was a child, prominent on a large factory building in Tianjing.

“Of course, when I was there,” he said to me, “the building was vacant and we used to play in it. As I think about it now, I suppose it had been burnt out. There were a lot of buildings like that, following the fall of the rebellion.”

That Monday morning, as I came through the door, at about a quarter to eight o’clock, Mister ZhenKang said, “Good Morning, Mister DeWitt. Miss Yeats wants to meet with you and Missus Daley at nine o’clock, in the executive conference room.”

“G’mornin’ to you, sir, as well. Did Miss Yeats say what it was about?” I asked as I went to my desk.

“No, she did not. When I inquired, she said it was not for general knowledge.”

Just then, Moira – thirty, brown-haired, pleasantly attractive -- came through the door and Mister ZhenKang went through much the same routine. She, in turn, asked the same question I had, to receive the same answer.

She headed for her desk, to deposit her portfolio and place her handbag in the bottom drawer of her desk. I followed her over and asked, “Buy you a coffee, Moira?”

She looked at me and said, “Sure. But I need to get onto some reports, so it can only be a few minutes.”

“Good enough,” I replied.

We made our way to the other end of the basement level, where the employee canteen was located. It was brightly lit with electric ceiling lights, with a service counter along the wall to the right. There were another twenty or so men and a few women in the dining area, most finishing breakfast, some just sipping coffee and talking. We were served coffee in mugs by Mae Gibson, a young widow, who was behind the counter most mornings.

“Mornin’, Mae. Just a mug of coffee, please.”

“‘Me, too, Mae. How does Rita like going to school? Is she still crying?”

“Good morning, Wayne, Hi, Moira,” she said as she filled a couple mugs. “Rita has decided she likes school, but I’m not sure if it’s the school she likes or being with all the other kids.”

“What about you? Have you stopped crying?” Moira asked.

“You just wait, Moira Daley. Someday that’ll be you, watching your baby walk off to be seen to by strangers for hours at a time.” Up until this year, when Rita started school, she had been cared for during the day by Mae’s widowed mother-in-law, who lived with them.

“I can only hope, Mae.”

“You need to be doin’ more than just hopin’, dearie,” Mae said, sotto vocé. Moira, obviously embarrassed, glanced toward me and then back at Mae. “Mae! How you talk.”

I had picked up enough, indirectly, to know that Moira and her husband, Michael, had been unsuccessful in producing a child in the five years they’d been married. However, the subject was not a proper one for me to comment on.

We took our white stoneware mugs of coffee to a corner table and sat down. I tested the coffee and it was still pretty hot, so I set mine aside.

“Have you any guesses as to what this meeting with Dixie is about?” I asked her, glossing over the exchange at the counter.

She glanced at me, under her brows, as she sat down. “Maybe,” she said, then pressed her lip against her own coffee, and she set it down, too. She looked up at me. “For the past couple months, I’ve been receiving copies of reports coming in from three of the branches. They’re not unusual reports, but it is unusual for them to be coming in this time of year. Usually they’re end of year summaries of the Division’s activities. I’ve only seen those having to do with safety and security, but the branch lieutenants tell me that other managers are also writing reports.”

“Hmm. Which branches?”

“Grand Junction, Ogallala, and Amarillo.”

“Huh. Are they reporting anything unusual?”

“Not that I’ve seen. And the lieutenants tell me things have been business as usual, as far as they can tell.”

I picked up my mug and blew across the surface of the coffee and tested it again. Not quite yet.

Moira said, “You do know the Board met for two days, last week, don’t you?”

“Two days? Is that unusual?” I’d only been in Wichita a couple years and wasn’t all that familiar with doings on the third floor.

“The last time it happened was after Chen Ming-teh was killed, when Mister Malik took over.” Even though he insisted he be addressed more casually, it was difficult for most of the staff to use the Patron’s first name. Heck, even I avoided it, for the most part, not even thinking his first name. Instead, I thought of him by the Spanish title I’d given him, Patron.

I said, “So, do long Board meetings mean change is afoot?”

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “Seems logical, though we’ve not much history to go on.”

I thought about it, then said, “We have this: The bosses want to know how three branches are performing and then they have a two day meeting with the Board.”

She said, “Last month’s executive committee meeting was odd, too. It was delayed until noon and they had Fergus Healy and that creepy Gerald MacNish meet with them.”

“Well, Healy’s on the Board, but MacNish isn’t.”

“No, but they both represent particular employee interests: the pension fund and that big investment club.” She pulled out a pocket watch. “Of course, in just under an hour, Dixie will be telling us what it’s about.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I asked her, grinning. Then I added, “Speaking of Dixie, we know one other thing: whatever it’s about is a big secret. For that matter, the Board met for two days and that discussion has been kept quiet, too.”

“And,” she said, “they want the Security Department involved. Two of us.”

We were both quietly thoughtful as we finally were able to sip some coffee.

Then she said, “The third floor is usually pretty quick to share good news. Instead, this last Board meeting is followed by secrets and a call for security. I think this is bad news for someone.”

“Or for a bunch of someones. It occurs to me that those three branches have problems with their linked roads.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe problem is too strong a word for it. But Bill says the roads with the same major railroad company at both its terminals are a tad less profitable. Having no option than the one other major road makes us more vulnerable to pressure by that road.”

“Sure, I could see that for the Grand Junction and the Ogallala, but the Amarillo has the Santa Fe and the Southern Pacific at its terminals.”

“Yeah, but the Santa Fe also intersects with us at San Angelo, bracketing that northern portion.”

“Okay, yeah.” Again, we sat quietly, sipping our coffee.

I think the idea came to both of us at the same time, as we both spoke at once.

“They’re going to sell ‘em,” I said.

“I think they may plan to sell them,” she said.

“Holy cow!” I said. “That’s bad news for a lot of people.”

“No wonder they’re keeping it a secret,” Moira replied.

We’d been speaking quietly throughout our conversation, so as not to be overheard. In fact, most folks had left the canteen by eight o’clock, so we were relatively isolated, in any event.

She said, “I need to get back to my desk. I really do have a couple of things that I need to get to this morning. We’ll see if we’re right in about forty minutes.”

As we walked by his desk, Mister Cheng asked us, “Did you figure it out?”

Moira smiled at him. “We’ll see, Mister Cheng.”

“Before we get started,” Dixie said, “I need you to sign these confidentiality agreements.” She slid a paper in front of each of us: me, Moira, Ethel Roberts, from the advertising department, Virginia Gray, a payroll clerk, and Karla Wodehouse, a nurse from our in-house clinic. Each division had a medical clinic with two staff nurses and a local doctor under contract.

We were all busy reading the agreement to see what we were signing. The major factor was that it warned us we could lose our jobs and be subject to damage claims if we broke our agreement.

Dixie said, “I know everyone wants to know why, but we’ll get to that in a minute. Are there any other questions?”

Virginia Gray asked, “Does this include our husbands?”

Dixie said, “It excludes everyone not sitting at this table, except for Mister Malik and Mister Castillo. Otherwise, you can’t even hint that you have a secret.” I’d noticed even Dixie had trouble using the big bosses’ first names, too.

Virginia, looking uncertain, said, “But, I tell him everything.”

Dixie asked, “Ginny, do you really tell your husband absolutely everything that happens every day? Do you tell him everything everyone else says or does in your office? Do you tell him if you know personal information about another woman?”

“Well, no, not everything.”

“Then this is just one more thing that you won’t have to bother him with. Instead, you can tell him that you saw Wayne DeWitt picking his nose at some meeting you didn’t know the purpose of.” She looked at me, then frowned. I got the hint and shoved a finger up my nose. Everyone chuckled.

Ginny said, “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to these things. It won’t be a problem.”

“Any other questions?”

Karla asked, “How long will we have to, uh, keep the secret?”

“Good question. Until all of it becomes general knowledge, probably only a couple weeks, for most of it. But check with me first, before talking about this with anyone.” She paused. “No more questions? Then, may I have your signed forms? Thank you.”

After collecting them in a file folder, she said, “This brings us to a question I have for all of you. Will you be available to travel away from Wichita during the last few days of this month and into the first two weeks of October? This will be travel on railroad business and at railroad expense. We will not be away the full time, but will return to Wichita for at least one night, before leaving, again.”

“Where to?” Ginny asked.

“To some of our branches. It will be the five of you, plus Mister Malik, Mister Castillo, and Mister and Missus Delvecchio, a cook and porter on our Lincoln Falls Loop business coach. It will be accompanied by the Chen Niao business coach. The men will occupy the Chen Niao, the ladies the Lincoln Falls Loop. Mister Delvecchio will be on the Lincoln Falls Loop during the day to cook. Meals will be shared by all in the Loop’s rear parlor. The men will retire from the Loop immediately after dinner. Moira Daley and Karla Wodehouse will be official chaperones for the ladies and one another.

“You ladies were chosen partly because you had no young children at home to care for.”

Ginny asked, “Who’ll cook for my husband?”

“He can take his meals here. In fact, we have several single bedrooms here, in the basement. He could even move in, if he needs to. Will your travel be a problem?”

She shrugged. “No. My husband is proud of my work. I’m just not used to being away from him. I’m sure he can look after himself, though he might take some meals here. I just hate to think of the mess there’ll be when I get back.” But she was grinning.

The ladies had a few more questions about the accommodations, then we got down to the meat of the matter.

Dixie said, “We will be taking a trip of at least ten days, but plan to pack for two weeks, just in case. Six of those days will be rail travel, and I would urge you to dress comfortably and in a style you might wear at home. When I travel in our business coaches, for instance, I usually wear dungaree trousers and men’s style shirts while we are under way. Mister Malik dresses in a similar manner. However, I suspect Mister Castillo wears a business suit even to bed at night, so we won’t use him as an example.” There were acknowledging grins, nods, and a few chuckles. I believe I chortled.

“Four of the days you should plan on business dress. What everyone is wearing today is more than good enough. I’d only ask that, in business settings, Mister DeWitt might refrain from picking his nose.” This earned her more chuckles and a couple genuine laughs, including mine.

“Finally,” Dixie said, “here is the nugget of our purpose, and what must be maintained in the strictest confidence, mostly, as you will see, for the benefit of your fellow employees.” She took a breath, while the rest of us held ours. “The K and ASR plans to sell the Grand Junction Branch and the section of the Amarillo Branch between Amarillo and San Angelo.” During the surprised silence, Moira and my eyes met; her glance included a raised eyebrow.

Then I blurted out, “But not the Ogallala?”

“No, not the Ogallala. But you just cost Mister Castillo a dollar. Mister Malik bet him you’d figure it out before this meeting.”

“It was me and Moira, actually, over a mug of coffee, hardly more than an hour ago.”

“Then you might be worth keeping around, despite your disgusting personal habits.”

We worked out what everyone’s role was.

Ethel Roberts was on board for her writing skills. She was to help prepare a pamphlet, to hand out, that would explain things to the employees on the affected branches. The pamphlet would be distributed at each work location and also with the payroll following our visit. Then, on the trip itself, she would help write answers to the employee’s telegraphed questions. With both the Patron and the Jefe being attorneys, they knew they might have a difficult time writing things that weren’t filled with legal-sounding words and phrases. They were counting on Ethel to keep their responses gracious and understandable.

Ginny Gray was to keep records of which employees attended, first for payroll purposes, since everyone who showed up would be paid for their time, but also to have a record of who had heard things first hand. The bosses wanted to know if their approach was more effective than simply distributing a written announcement.

Karla Wodehouse, a formally-trained nurse, would serve as a chaperone companion. However, beyond that, Karla had attended a series of lectures in psychology at Johns Hopkins University Hospital and would make general observations of employee reactions. Again, the Patron and the Jefe wanted to know if they did something that made things worse or if there was some way to handle things better.

Moira and I were to provide security. She would see to the ladies, while I watched out for the Jefe and the Patron. We’d split night watch between us. All of the K&ASR’s private business coaches had arms lockers with rifles, shotguns, and ammunition. On a daily basis, Moira and I both carried thirty-eight caliber revolvers, she in her handbag, me in a shoulder harness. I’d also take along a forty-five caliber single action Army Colt revolver. On the trip, while on security duty, I’d wear the forty-five in a belt holster. As it turned out, Moira had a shoulder rig for her thirty-eight, which she wore under a jacket when doing field work.

(Monday, September 22, 1890)

Tuesday, September 30, 1890

We arrived at Silverton, Colorado late the night of September twenty-ninth.

Silverton was the southern terminus of our Grand Junction Branch, where our standard gauge track met the Denver & Rio Grande’s San Juan Extension, a narrow gauge road. The D&RG’s San Juan Line was over two hundred miles of rugged mountain railroad from Alamosa, Colorado to Silverton, crisscrossing the border between Colorado and New Mexico Territory in the San Juan Mountains, and passing through several mining districts, including Durango. Our K&ASR branch provided a connection to the D&RG’s main east-west route through the Rockies, one hundred twenty track miles to the north, at Grand Junction.

Silverton itself, central to a rich mining district, was situated in the narrow Animas River valley, surrounded by twelve- and thirteen-thousand-foot peaks. The town was on the valley floor, but that valley was still at an elevation of over nine thousand feet; as a result, the temperature was below freezing when we arrived, following a thirty-seven hour trip from Wichita. That time didn’t see us always in motion, however. A number of hours were spent in waiting to make connections with various passenger trains on other railroads.

The Patron had acted the gracious host as we traveled, although it was obvious both he and the Jefe were distressed by the nature of their mission. But, as the Patron described some of their concerns for the future, even I could understand the long-term benefits of the choices they had made. That didn’t make it any easier, however, and I admired them both for coming here to face the music themselves.

The process of notifying all of the division’s employees had begun several days ago, when the Jefe sent a notice, via the inter-railroad express mail system, to the division superintendent. He was to notify all division employees of the series of whistle-stop meetings that we were here to conduct and advise them the meetings would address an important topic affecting the employees.

We had picked up the division superintendent, a tall, blonde-haired, friendly man named Felix Post, and brought him along when we left Grand Junction, at six fifteen the prior evening. Post’s affability was put to the test as the Patron explained the purpose of our visit.

Shaking his head, he said, “I can’t believe it. We built this branch. Hell, I was on the tie crew one summer between school terms.

The Patron was nodding. “I know,” he said. “It feels like I’ve reached beneath my skin to break off a rib and tear it out.” Now the Patron was shaking his head. “Finally, Raul and I decided we had to lay the sentiment aside, no matter how we felt. Pete Pottinger reminded us that we didn’t build this branch to be married to it. He said that building it was a tough business decision and that now we simply had another tough business decision to face with its sale.”

“How does Pete feel about losing the Loop?” Post asked.

The Lincoln Falls Loop -- for which their private railroad coach had been named, -- was a celebrated piece of standard-gauge railroad engineering.

Lincoln Creek fell, in a sheer drop, from the mouth of a hanging canyon to the floor of an intersecting canyon, ninety three feet below. But for that ninety-three-foot leap, following Lincoln Creek Canyon promised the shortest and most sensible route for that section of any railroad passing between Ouray and Ironton on the way to Silverton. That stretch of mountains is what had discouraged other railroads from building a northern access route into the rich mining territory, and the drop at Lincoln Falls was the crux of the problem. Construction engineers had deemed the route impossible.

Pickax Pete Pottinger saw otherwise. Pottinger’s approach -- utilizing a progression of natural terraces and excavated shelves, combined with a braced cantilever, two bridges, and two high, curving trestles -- took the right-of-way past the falls and into a fifty-six hundred foot, three hundred ninety-five degree spiral that afforded a one hundred twenty-foot rise in elevation, the extra thirty feet to assure a purchase in the hanging canyon well above Lincoln Creek’s flood stage. The track ascended up and over itself to gain sufficient elevation to climb out of the lower canyon and into upper Lincoln Creek Canyon, never exceeding a two-and-a-half percent grade.

The Lincoln Falls Loop, along with another remarkable piece of construction engineering, the Malouf Cut, on the Tucumcari branch, had made Pottinger famous as a civil engineer.

In reply to Mister Post’s inquiry, the Patron said, “A few days after the board meeting, I heard Arnie Yeats ask him that same question. Pete told him, ‘I’m not losing anything. I expect that bit of fluff’ll be there long after I’m in the ground. And if some railroad construction engineer comes up with a better way to do it, then I’ll rejoice with him in the sheer pleasure of a difficult job done in extraordinary fashion. I would dearly love to see a better approach. I’m sure it would be fascinatin’.’

“Fact is, Felix, it never came up in the board’s discussion. The only thing we really talked about was the employees.”

“Well, it’ll be a big turd for everyone to swallow, but I have to admit, you sure sugar-coated it as much as possible.”

The Jefe said, “Keep in mind why we are selling this Division. You should prepare yourself and advise your employees to prepare for a difficult future.”

“You’re going to have to give me some suggestions for that. That whole notion confounds me.”

“Why don’t we talk about that tomorrow? It’s getting late; we need to turn in. Felix, you’re in with Wayne. Giuseppe’s gone back to bunk with his wife, with the approval of the ladies.”

(Tuesday, September 30, 1890)

Wednesday, October 1, 1890

At seven the next morning, there were nearly three dozen men and a few women waiting in the chill air at the Silverton depot, including a few trainmen from the Denver & Rio Grande. The women remained on the depot’s decking, while most of the men had gathered on the tracks, at the rear of the Lincoln Falls Loop. Quiet, murmured conversations prevailed.

I had positioned myself at the back of the group, on the depot platform, near the doors into the station house. I wore my thirty-eight in the shoulder harness and my forty-five in a cross-draw holster on my belt. Tucked under my right arm was a fifteen-inch maple nightstick, although it had been called it a billy club by our instructor, a former chief constable from the Royal Hong Kong Constabulary. All three weapons were concealed under my overcoat. I’d set a shotgun just inside the door, as I knew the Patron didn’t want a show of force. My K&ASR Police badge, however, was pinned to my coat.

Moira was aboard the Lincoln Falls Loop, watching through the curtains on the rear window. She had her thirty-eight and a coach gun at hand, as well as her own nightstick, which was part of our standard patrol equipment.

At straight-up seven o’clock, Felix Post stepped out the back door of the Loop and stepped down the treads to the station platform. After greeting the women and men there, he hopped down onto the tracks. Immediately, the men began asking him what was going on.

All I heard him say was, “Yes, men, it’s a serious matter. Let’s let Mister Malik tell it his own way.”

The Patron and the Jefe, both in business suits, had stepped out of the door onto the coach’s rear platform, while Mister Post had been greeting the local employees. The Patron came forward and took a grip on the brake wheel that was just beyond the platform’s safety handrail. The Jefe stood at his right shoulder, just behind him. All eyes turned their way and conversations ceased.