Chapter 9

Friday, January 23, 1891

The following morning, in Dorado Springs, Sargent said, “And you think this is what Wren wants?”

Malik and Sargent Tsosie were alone in the Manuela de Ortega. Malik had described the discussion he had had with Beatrice and Peng regarding Wren’s presumed preferences. The men’s conversation had an awkward beginning, mostly on Malik’s part, but now was settling into the basic issues.

Malik, who was leaning forward in his chair, raised his eyebrows and gave a half shake of his head. “For myself, I can’t say what she feels, Uncle. But my women tell me it is so, and, in such matters, I have not known them to be mistaken.”

Sargent looked off, out the coach window. After a minute, he shook his head and said, “Like you, Nephew, I would rather depend on my wife’s advice than my own mind, where women are concerned.”

“What is your mind, Uncle?”

“As to my daughter being with you? I would be happy, of course. As to being one of three wives...?” He shrugged. “In the old days, such things would sometimes be arranged.” Then he chuckled. “They may still happen that way. It is many years since I have spoken to anyone from the Dineh.” Dineh is one form of the term the Navajo use to refer to themselves as an ethnic group or tribe. It is usually translated, the People.

Sargent went on, “The Apache sometimes take more than one wife, though the Sonora do not.” He leaned toward Malik. “But what is in your heart, Nephew? What does it say about Wren?”

Malik scratched his head and blew air out from between his lips. “This worries me most of all. I love Wren, but I think of her as a sister, not as a wife. I want to protect her, but I am not comfortable with the notion of giving her children.”

Sargent grunted. “I thought as much. I do not know what to tell you.” Again, his gaze drifted to the window. Then he looked back and with a mild shrug and a wistful smile, he said, “I will ask Tilly. We will talk again.”

Malik sat up straight. “Les Toomey told me it is your practice that you travel together to town so you’ll be here on the first Saturday, each month. I told Les I will be here on the first Saturday of March. I will try to arrive on Friday and leave on Sunday. I will look forward to seeing you, Uncle.”

Border Wells had started out as a trading outpost on the Mexican border after the Mexican-American War. The particular reason for that location was likewise revealed in its name: an ancient well, thought to have been dug by one of the early conquistador expeditions. Other opinion had the well as being even older, a product of Sonora, Yaqui, or, perhaps, an earlier resident people, those who built the cliff dwellings. Be that as it may, the well was known for its cool, sweet water and it occupied the very center of the hamlet. Then, with the Gadsden Purchase, the border moved south, as did many of the traders who had established themselves on the US side of the former border. The trading posts operated on the new border in the shadow of Fort Mayer. With the arrival of the Southern Pacific, that community had since grown to become Junction City.

However, the army survey team, when they laid out the Military Wagon Road between Fort Birney and Fort Mayer, had followed the established trail to Border Wells, which, before the railroad, had been an important watering stop, both for the teams of mules pulling the supply wagons, and for the teamsters.

The K&ASR, however, did not pass through Border Wells. Its construction engineers had chosen a slightly flatter, more easterly route. The difference of a half percentage point of grade was of much greater significance to the iron horse than it was to the army mules.

With the closure of Fort Mayer, and with the railroad assuming most freight haulage, traffic on the Military Wagon Road decreased to a trickle. Still, the cool, sweet water of the old well was reason enough for the few people who chose to live there.

While most of the structures at Border Wells were adobe, two, the most prominent, were built with sawn lumber. They faced each other across the Wagon Road, where that trail passed on both sides of the well. They wood structures had been the original trading posts. One had dealt in hard goods, tools, horseshoes, metal stock, saddles, and the like. The other had dealt in soft goods, such as hats and fabric, as well as dry goods, such as beans, flour, and seed. Nowadays, the former served as a saloon, flophouse, and bawdy house and the latter as a restaurant and general store. They were both owned by the same man, “Whisperin’” Jim Fitz.

Other businesses included a blacksmith shop, a cantina, and a telegraph office. A service of the K&ASR, the telegrapher was available from eight o’clock in the morning until five o’clock in the afternoon, Monday through Saturday. The railroad used the location as a training assignment for new telegraphers. There was also a mission church, served by the Jesuits from Dorado Springs, and a deputy sheriff’s office, manned by a weekly rotation of Sonora County deputies.

Lonegan and Malik stopped first at the sheriff’s office. The deputy on duty was just finishing out his week. He knew of the red-headed woman called Yancy, and recommended that they ask about her at the saloon, where she worked.

The saloon was hardly big enough to deserve the name. It was a shallow room across the front of the former trading post display area. One side had a short bar, a couple wide planks laid across two large, upended barrels. Three tables occupied the remaining space, two of which appeared to be old cable spools, tipped on their ends. The third table, the largest, was another span of planks, these supported by two crossbuck trestles. It was set up as a faro table.

The only person in the room was behind the bar: a tall, thin man with a bald head and a wide, waxed mustache. He spoke with a low, gruff voice, the result of a horse’s kick some two decades earlier.

“Help you, Marshal?” the man rasped.

The two of them walked to the bar and Lonegan said, “I’m United States Marshal Connor Lonegan, out of Fort Birney. This is US Marshal Emil Malik, from Waypoint.”

“Malik? Ain’t you the one the Injuns call ‘Shadow’?”

“Most times,” Malik allowed.

“Where’s my manners? My name is Jim Fitz. I’m the proprietor of this place and the store across the street. Can I get you something’ to wet your whistle? It’s on the house.”

Lonegan said, “That’s good a’ you. Reckon I’ll have a beer.”

Malik said, “Sure, I’ll have a beer. Thanks. Unless you have a coffee pot on.”

“I do,” Fitz said. “Should be hot. It’s over there on the stove.” He pointed to a big pot-bellied stove in the far corner, behind the faro table. There were several cups and mugs on that table, nearest the stove. “Pour one for me, too, would ya’?” Fitz said.

Fitz drew the beer for Lonegan, then said, “What say we sit down?” He came out from behind the bar and took a chair at one of the spool tables. Malik, with two mugs of coffee, and Lonegan, with his beer, joined him.

Fitz, his voice like glasspaper, said, “Let me guess. You’re here about Yancy Webber.”

“That’s right,” Lonegan said. “How’d you know?”

“‘Cause she lit out a’ here yesterday mornin’, after we got word about that Sonora water works gettin’ blowed up. An’ because this mornin’ we heard that that poor, dumb cow puncher Chet Fisher was shot dead, an’ she and Chet had been thick as thieves.” Fitz shook his head in a sorrowful way. “It’s too damn bad. He was a gentle cuss. He deserved better’n he got. Who shot ‘im?”

“We don’t know. He was dead when we found ‘im,” Lonegan admitted.

Malik asked, “You got any idea?”

“Well, if he was shot up in Jackson County, like they said, it wasn’t her. But I’d not be surprised she knows somethin’ about it.”

Lonegan asked, “What can you tell us about her?”

Fitz wrinkled his face in thought, then said, “She came here back in November, with a dude dressed in this loud suit an’ a orange bowler with a green band. I thought the circus’d come to town. He didn’t hang aroun’, but he come back a coupl’a times, stayed overnight, gone the next day. They was thick as thieves, too.”

“Did you get a name?” Lonegan asked.

“I heard her call him ‘Stan.’ That’s all I got.”

“Any idea where they’re from or goin’ to?”

“Her drawl sounded Texican, but she never would say. I asked her, she just said, “Here an’ there.’ Neither of ‘em shared their travel plans with me.”

“When’s the last time you saw this Stan?”

“He came by at New Years. Ain’t seen ‘im since.” Fitz smacked the table top with his palm. “Yeah, I ‘member now. He was talkin’ to Chet. Both of ‘em was. Sittin’ right at this table.”

“Did you hear what they were talkin’ about?”

“Nah. That was New Year’s Eve. I had a dozen other people in here, that night. That’s my busiest night of the year, usually.”

“What’s this Stan look like?”

“Oh, maybe about Marshal Malik’s size, ruddy skin, had sort a’ reddish hair, himself, though not much of it. Spoke with little bit of a foreign accent, not French, or Spanish. Maybe German?”

Malik asked, “Could it have been Russian?”

Fitz shrugged. “Hell, for all I know, it could a’ been Abyssinian.”

Malik said, “Tell me about the loud suit.”

“The clown suit? Sure. It was almost orange, too, but darker, not quite brown. An’ it had these crisscross lines a’ differ’nt colors, made up a bunch of squares.”

Malik said, “There’s a pattern called window-pane plaid that sounds like what you’re describing. Ever heard of it?”

“Nope. Fancy clothin’ ain’t somethin’ I go in fer.”

After a moment, Lonegan asked, “How we’re they travelin’?”

“I reckon by train. They came and went by Bert’s wagon.”

“Who’s Bert?”

“Bert Ramsey. He’s got a light freight wagon he’s fixed up with a coupl’a sprung seats. He hauls folks o’er to Romulus an’ back. Carries freight for my store, an’ parcels for others, now an’ again. An’ he hauls bags a’ coal in the winter, what he sells, himself.”

“Is he in town?”

“Not right now. He’s over to Romulus. He heads o’er there ‘bout seven-thirty, gets back here three-thirty or four.”

“Both Yancy an’ Stan came an’ went by this wagon to Romulus?”

“Yep. Far’s I know.”

Malik asked, “Did the two of them look like they were close, you know, like there was real affection between them, or were they just workin’ together, you reckon?”

Fitz looked off toward the far corner of the room for a moment, then turned back to Malik and said, “Seen ‘em talkin’ and laughin’ together, never saw no lovey-dovey stuff. Reckon they shared a bed, but she shared a bed with other men. Come to think, she din’t bring me my cut after he’d be here, so I reckon she weren’t chargin’ ‘im, like she did t’ others.” He shook his head and, with a rueful expression, said, “Even that dumb-ass Chet had to pay her. Stupid sod. He was in love with her. She’d laugh at him, after he’d leave. What a Jezebel.”

Malik asked, “Did Stan wear other suits, or just that one?”

“Saw him in a green one, same type a’, what’d you call it? Window plaid?”

“Window-pane plaid. What shade of green?”

“Ah, maybe like summertime aspen leaves, the top side. Had stripes a’ orange an’ light blue. Do they really dress like that in the city?”

Malik said, “Oh, a few do. Seems more popular with drummers. Maybe it brings them attention.” Malik shrugged and shook his head.

Lonegan leaned back and pulled out his watch, then said to Malik, “I want to talk to the stationmaster over at Romulus. We could catch Bert on his way back an’ talk to him.”

Malik, looking at his own watch, said, “That should work. -- I’ll have ‘em bring my coach and a stock car up to Romulus. Save us from polishing those saddles, so much.”

They reached Romulus just after six o’clock. It was near full dark.

The stationmaster, Miguel Obregon, was waiting for them at Malik’s special train on the depot siding. The special had turned at the wye at Micah Spring and had backed the train to Romulus.

“Miguel, good to see you again.”

“Mister Malik, Marshal Lonegan, it is good to see you again.”

“Miguel, it’s Emil, or Shadow, if you so prefer. Seems like we’ve had this conversation before.”

Obregon grinned sheepishly. “Only every time you stop here, Shadow. How can I help you?”

“Have you someone watching the telegraph?”

“I’ve signed off, temporarily.”

“Come aboard, then, have some coffee. We’d like to ask about some passengers we think used your station.”

A few minutes later, having disposed of small talk and with their purposes explained, Lonegan asked, “We’re interested in a man and a woman. We think they got on and off here, and took the wagon to Border Wells, maybe as far back as November. Sometimes they traveled together, sometimes separate.” Lonegan went on to describe Yancy Webber and the sartorially-bold Stan.

“Well, sure, she was in here just yesterday. Bought a ticket to Waypoint. Him, I’m not so certain. He sounds like a lot of drummers that come through.”

Malik said, “Jim Fitz said he had an almost orange bowler with a green hat band.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember him.” Obregon made a sour face. “Made my eyes water just to look at ‘im. I’m pretty sure I saw the two of ‘em together at least once, but I couldn’t say when.”

Lonegan asked “Do you have any recollection of where he was headed when he left here?”

“Yeah, Marshal. He was goin’ back and forth between here an’ Waypoint.”

“You remember anything else?” Lonegan said.

“She asked me the fare, somewhere. I remember it was Texas, but I can’t ... Yeah, now I remember. It was Galveston.”

Malik and Lonegan exchanged looks.

As the special hauled the Manuela de Ortega toward Waypoint, Lonegan said, “Why do the folks in Galveston seem to have it in for us?”

“Even more,” Malik opined, “that Stan sounds like he could be the twin brother of that Boris Volkov who disappeared, right down to the clothes and the accent.”

“Yeah, I thought that sounded familiar.”

“Well, that Judge Nestor died last fall, so, it wouldn’t be him,” Malik said.

“What about those boys that worked for Volkov, those dockworkers that did his dirty work?”

“I knew of eight men,” Malik began to tick off on his fingers. “The two who jumped me, the three in Baylor’s store, the one who killed Tian Wu, and two of the four who tried to blow up the tunnel; the other two were from the store incident. Of that eight, three were killed up by the tunnel, and one went to prison. The big guy who murdered Missus Wu was killed up in the freight yard at Fort Birney. That leaves three wandering around loose.” Malik shook his head, “But two of ‘em are likely crippled, and I don’t remember any of ‘em looking like Volkov or having a European accent.”

“Do you think it might be Volkov?” Lonegan asked.

Peng, who was standing near the passageway opening, behind Lonegan, shot a look at Malik.

Malik said, “Maybe. But I don’t think Volkov was bald-headed. Otherwise, it does sound like him.”

Peng said, “Perhaps looking at the arrow’s target rather than the archer would be enlightening.”

Malik smiled at Lonegan. “Wisdom of the Orient,” he said.

“Good point.” Lonegan agreed. “Exactly what was blowing up that dam supposed to accomplish? It was just a low diversion dam made of loose rock. It’s easily fixed. And the headgate, once they get a few pieces of lumber, can also be easily fixed. Besides, it was designed to keep high water out, so the irrigation ditch was still getting water. For all the real effect blowing it up had, someone could have just stood on shore a yelled curses at it.”

Malik said, “If someone had it in for the Sonora, trying to destroy their irrigation system is not the way to do it. It’s too simple and can be repaired too easily. The only real difficulty was in surveying its layout, and once that’s done, it’s done.” He shook his head. “Why Chet had to die over it is beyond me.”

Peng said, “Perhaps there was another reason for the attack.”

“Or,” Malik said, “it could have been a mistake, a miscalculation.”

“What other reasons?” Lonegan asked.

Peng said, “A message or a warning, to the Sonora or to someone else. A diversion from some other activity. An act meant to cause fear or uncertainty.”

“A diversion from what?” Lonegan wanted to know.

Peng said, “You and Shadow are here rather than where you would be, normally.”

“You think something is going on somewhere else?”

“No, Marshal Lonegan. I was only suggesting a possible answer to your question.”

“Oh, I get it. Your Oriental wisdom has me spooked, Peng.”

At a noisy clatter in the otherwise steady clickety-clack of the rails, Malik looked out the window. “We’re at Utica Switch. We should be in Waypoint in about twenty minutes. We’ll see what Missus Watts has to tell us.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Malik asked Emma Watts. She had come aboard the Manuela de Ortega at Malik’s invitation. Meanwhile, the coach was being shuttled onto its covered parking spur, behind the depot.

“This morning. He and that woman you described got on the northbound, with tickets for Galveston.”

Lonegan grumbled under his breath, then asked, “Did anyone meet him on his other visits?”

“I only noticed one time. Arthur Coates picked him up in his buggy.”

“Did anyone else ever meet him?”

“I never noticed the other times.”

Peng asked, “Missus Watts, do you remember Boris Volkov?”

“The man who supposedly disappeared?”

“Was this the same man?”

“You mean was Boris Volkov masquerading as this Stan fellow? No. Stan looks to be years younger. Now that you mention it, there was sufficient resemblance that they could be family. But two different men, most assuredly.”

Malik asked, “Did you notice anything else remarkable about either of them?”

“If you’re comparing him to Boris Volkov, this man’s accent was more pronounced. Not that he was difficult to understand, mind you.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

Malik said, “Thank you, Emma.”

“Of course, Emil.”

Later, sipping Besada el Cielo brandy and smoking Guardia Real cigars, Lonegan said, “Arthur Coates, next?”

The men were in the coach’s parlor, relaxing in the club chairs. Peng, sipping tea, was in a straight-backed chair near the door to the rear platform.