Chapter 6

Friday, June 23, 1893

Late the next morning, Malik was standing next to the bed of a wan and exhausted Emma Watts.

“Emil?” she whispered. Watts was a woman of some forty-six years, five-foot-seven, with short, graying brunette hair, of robust manner if matronly proportions. She had been tended to, her face washed and lank hair combed, by her housekeeper, Nita Gutierrez, who had accompanied Watts on her move from Waypoint. Gutierrez had been one of the kidnap victims taken by the Doyle gang some four years prior.

Watts’s medical care had been provided by two local doctors and by the K&ASR’s San Angelo Division nurse, Georgette Meany. Meany was a graduate of a nursing program affiliated with the Saint Louis Medical College, which now operated under the auspices of Washington University.

Malik took Watts’s hand in his, as he crouched next to he bed. “Rest, Emma,” he said, quietly. “I know what it’s like; I’ve been shot,” he added, holding up his hook. “I know how it can wipe you out, and I wasn’t even shot in the lung.”

“I’m ... sorry ... let you ... down.”

“That’s nonsense, Emma. The reason I didn’t come down here sooner was that we were all confident you had things in hand. The only reason I’m here now is because you were shot. And you’re still a Kanzona employee. Your job, for now, is to fight through this and get well. We’ll take care of the Division until you can take over, again. I’m the one who should be sorry, for putting you in the middle of this without adequate protection.”

Watts gasped a quiet, “No,” and gave Malik’s hand a barely perceptible squeeze. Then her eyes closed and her moth sagged open, resuming a shallow breathing pattern.

Meany, standing behind Malik, placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “She’s worn out from the fever. We should let her rest because, even though the fever’s broken, she’s not out of danger.”

Malik rose and followed Meany from Watts’s bedroom in the substantial house provided by the railroad for the Division Superintendent.

In the kitchen, they joined Karla Wodehouse, the Headquarters Division nurse, who had arrived with Lieutenant Daley and Inspectors Frank Tremaine and Marty Finnerman. Wodehouse and Meany were working alternating eight-hour shifts, caring for Emma Watts.

“She’s been able to take some broth,” Meany said, “but we need to get her on her feet. The next threat she’ll face, with her damaged lung, is pneumonia. She’ll be better off the sooner that lung is operating as fully as possible.”

Wodehouse went to assume her shift while Meany went to bed. A minute later, Lieutenant Moira Daley came in and sat at the kitchen table with Malik.

“Have you gotten settled in, yet,” Malik asked her.

She nodded

Nita Gutuerrez came into the kitchen and asked, “Would you like me to make some coffee, Mister Malik?”

Malik said, “Do you have anything cold?”

“I have some lemonade.”

“The lemonade sounds good. Moira?”

“Yes, please. Is there enough, Nita?”

“I always have it on hand, in the summer.”

Malik said, “My cooks make an iced tea. I like it with a squeeze of lemon and some sugar.”

“Iced tea? That sounds interesting,” Nita said. “Maybe I’ll try that for tomorrow. Missus Watts likes tea.” She was pouring the lemonade as they conversed and she set two full glasses and a half-filled pitcher on the table. She said, “I’ll be in the dining room, if you need me,” and she left the kitchen.

Daley said, “All of our police are in uniform, now, save for Frank and Marty,” referring to the two Inspectors, “who are in plain clothes and wandering about, trying to assemble the pieces into an understandable whole. I sent Mike Jefferson to the RAIL Brotherhood’s headquarters in Galveston and Meng Zexi is working at a laundry in Del Rio.

“The laundry serves the boarding house where Abernathy and another union man, Makar Ivanovich, are staying. Ivanovich also answers to ‘Mark.’ We’re pretty sure Ivanovich is who shot Emma. Meng found a scoped rifle in a case under his bed.

“Mike’s only been in Galveston for about eighteen hours and I haven’t heard from him, yet,” she concluded her report.

Malik asked, “Are those two the only union organizers here?”

“It depends on what you mean by ‘organizer.’ There are a half dozen other men who apparently came with them, but the only thing we know they’ve done is picket. We’re pretty sure they’re all using assumed names, unless they are all brothers or cousins with the last name of Portman.”

“Portman? As in, ‘man from a sea port?’ Like a stevedore or longshoreman?”

“That’s our best guess, too.”

“What about the guy who started the fire?”

“Yeah, Gerard ‘Ropey’ Taylor. He’s gone. He bought a ticket to San Antonio. After we heard your advice to the local prosecutor, we didn’t think the man was worth following.”

“Did he ever say who put him up to it?”

“No,” Daley replied. “He finally admitted to his name, which they already knew, but that was it

“Abernathy represented Ropey at the arraignment hearing. I believe you heard that the judge set bail at a thousand dollars, if you can believe it. Well, that Ivanovich character paid it in cash. It seems they have a letter of credit from a Galveston bank.”

“If they have access to that kind of cash, why are they over here trying to squeeze blood out of turnips?” Malik wondered.

“Maybe it’s not about the union dues,” Daley said.

“Then what?”

Daley shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe they want to start a union.”

“The last time I encountered men of this ilk, they were the thugs and agitators who went in before the union organizers, trying to stir things up. Then the union people were to show up to get the authorization cards signed, though they never made an appearance. Now, it looks like the thugs are the union reps.” He shook his head. “This doesn’t make sense.” He looked at Daley and asked, “Is anyone signing up with them?”

“A couple section men from Christoval say they signed when they were drunk. Two yard men from Del Rio, supposedly, but no one will say who and Captain McCroskey told us not to press anyone.”

“No.” Malik said. “We decided not to fight the union. We figured our employees are smart enough to figure out the best course of action. And either we’re right, or these union recruiters aren’t trying very hard.” He paused briefly, frowned, then asked, “Who was it that signed them up?”

“Ivanovich, in Christoval, and we think he signed up the men in Del Rio. He was seen down there with a couple of our men who are Russian immigrants. We suspect it was them.”

“Are Marty and Frank coming back here?”

“Frank will be here tonight. Marty’s working out of Del Rio and keeping in touch with Meng Zexi.”

“Then let’s have supper on my coach. We’ll have you, me, Peng, Nate, Frank, and Dick Schroeder. We’ll have a brain storm session. What about Lieutenant Fosse? Should we bring him in?”

Daley said, “I’d rather see the man go home and get a long night’s sleep. From what I’ve heard, he’s been burning the candle at both ends since the first fire.

“Yeah, you’re right. He looks like he’s about to fall on his face. But we need someone from the Division’s Security crew.”

“We could bring in Sergeant Israel Soriano. He seems to be a quick study.”

“Okay, then invite him. Do you know where Lieutenant Fosse is, right now?”

“Probably down at the depot, by the telegraph. What are you going to do?”

Malik smiled. “If I have to, I’ll suspend him until nine o’clock tomorrow morning and threaten to have him arrested for trespassing if he’s seen on railroad property before then.”

Daley grinned. “That might work,” she said.

Nate Vargas greeted Moira Daley as she stepped up to the coach door. They had already met, since Vargas had been at Malik’s elbow since they had arrived.

Inside the coach, after greeting Malik, she added, “Mike Jefferson’s on his way back. He’ll be here about noon, tomorrow.”

“Coming back already? Did he say why?”

“Not much in the way of detail, only that he’s collected some papers from their trash cans and burn barrel. He said he’d have a full report when he got here.”

“Hm? That makes me wonder if we’re wasting our time here, this evening.”

Daley grinned. “Judging by how delicious it smells in here, I can’t imagine this will be a waste of time under any circumstances.”

Malik smiled, in turn. “Mister Fei tells me it’s called Gong Bao chicken. It’s a spicy dish, from the Sichuan Province of China. He says he had to use some local chilies, but it should still be good.”

The others arrived in short order. Sergeant Israel Soriano was a forty-two year old, average-height Mexican man, with dark hair, and with a bushy mustache. He wore the summer Kanzona police uniform of tan cotton trousers and blouse; Malik had relegated the black trousers to winter use.

The seven of them -- Malik, Daley, Tremaine, Vargas, Peng, Soriano, and Schroeder -- sat around the half-size table, Peng and Vargas opposite Malik, sharing the end nearest the rear coach door. As Zou Lei brought out the serving bowls, Malik said, “This dish is called Gong Bao chicken. Besides the chicken, it features cut up vegetables and peanuts cooked with a chili sauce. The spicy dish is from the northern province of Sichuan, in China. Be advised: you might want to save room for dessert. Mister Fei has a lemon sherbet for us.

“We’ll have a moment of silence if anyone cares to say grace to themselves,” he finished.

Then, thirty seconds later, he said, “Shall we eat?” He reached for the bowl of rice and scooped some onto his plate, acting to demonstrate the manner of dealing with the Chinese fare. Then he passed the bowl to Daley, who was on his left. After he had scooped some of the Gong Bao stew on top of his rice, he said, “Enjoy the food. We’ll talk business over dessert.”

Twenty-five minutes later, with everyone sampling the sherbet, Malik said, “Let’s get down to it, then, shall we?

“What we’re going to do is have what has been referred to as a ‘brain storm.’ Except for Nate and Israel, I think everyone else has participated in one of these, before. Essentially, it’s a way to have a group of people generate ideas, using one another’s thoughts to help create new ones, even if they’re seemingly bizarre. One idea can help someone come up with another idea. There’s only one rule: don’t be critical of other’s ideas. That discourages the process. This exercise is meant to generate ideas, not evaluate them. Any questions?”

Tremaine, grinning, asked, “Does that rule mean we can’t laugh if something strikes us as funny?”

Malik smiled, “Not as long as it’s genuine laughter, and not derisive. Anything else?”

With no further questions from the others, he said, “Okay, then, here’s the problem: The RAIL Brotherhood appears to have sprung up for the specific purpose of unionizing the San Angelo Division. Now, to be clear, the executive committee, in Wichita, has decided that we will not actively resist union organizing, but rather leave it to our employees to decide their best course. That being said, the RAIL Brotherhood is still a queer duck. It has no locals anywhere else, as far as we’ve been able to discover. Raul Castillo checked with the Southern Pacific and the Santa Fe, and neither had ever heard of them, before.

“At first, we thought it might have been a group formed just to cheat our employees out of the dues they’d pay, and then the union would disappear in the night. However, we’ve discovered that the Brotherhood apparently has access to a significant war chest, against which even the dues of every last employee on the division, for a full year, would be small potatoes.

“Ah, Miss Peng is frowning. She’s offended because I just mixed metaphors, war chest with potatoes. Remember rule number one, Peng: no criticism.

“Finally, the apparent leader of the Rail Brotherhood is a man named Justin Abernathy, from Galveston. A year ago this past February, Frank and I encountered another Abernathy, Hiram Abernathy, a lawyer from Houston. He was drunk when I had a brief conversation with him at our annual Washington’s Birthday soiree which my wives and I sponsor at our house in Wichita.” Soriano had started at Malik’s mention of plural wives. “Yes, Sergeant, I said ‘wives.’ Someone can fill you in, later.

“In any event, Frank encountered Hiram the next day, when he was assigned to investigate his murder. Frank was a detective sergeant with the Wichita City police force, at the time. As I recall, the murder was never solved, as the trail seemed to lead into Texas and the Wichita xity police did not want to spend too much trying to track down the killer of a stranger. Frank was able to establish that Hiram was involved in some shady political dealings in Texas before he had to give up the trail.” Tremaine was nodding in agreement.

“Hiram was in his early fifties at the time of his death, and, though I’ve never seen the man, Justin Abernathy has been described by our people as being about thirty. Oh, yeah: Hiram was red-haired, as is Justin. No relationship, blood or otherwise, has been established. I only mention it as a peculiar coincidence that may, or may not, be relevant.

“Then, on top of everything else, Emma Watts was shot in the back. Which is either another peculiar coincidence, or it’s not.

“In summary, this seems a very unusual unionizing experience. For that matter, they really don’t seem to be trying all that hard to sign up members. My question is, what are they up to?” Finishing, he relaxed against the chair bacl.

Daley said, “We can’t actually rule out that they are a new union just starting out, and not yet very efficient.”

Malik nodded. “True enough. Oh, that reminds me: Nate, would you please note all of the ideas that are tossed out? Just make a list on a sheet of paper, but write larger rather than smaller, so It’s easily read, if we want to go back over it. The first idea is ‘new union with inept organizing.’”

“Yes, sir.” Vargas drew a couple sheets of paper from a short stack in the center of the table, along with a pencil from a mug.

Tremaine said, “Even if they have money, we can’t rule out the scam idea, either. They may just be inept con men.”

“Another good point,” Malik allowed.

“Very expensive, though,” Daley said. “They’ve sent eight men we know about and have hired locals to assist them. Add in train tickets, per diem costs, and bail money, they’ve made a fair investment in this venture, apparently for little return.”

Malik summarized, “So they seem to be organized, themselves, but not good at organizing a union. They’ve made a substantial investment, but the presumed payoff doesn’t seem worth it.

Vargas said, “Maybe money isn’t what they’re after, here. They might have some other purpose.”

“For instance?” Daley asked.

“Uh, let’s say they’re using this experience to train men for something more serious, somewhere else,” Vargas said.

“So,” Malik said, “a training camp?” He shrugged. “It’s plausible.”

Soriano quipped, “Their arsonists could certainly use some training. Talk about incompetent.”

Vargas looked a question at Malik, who said, “It’s an idea, so write it down: arsonists are incompetent, or write it your own way, as long as it represents what was said.”

Then Daley said to Soriano. “That’s a good point, Sergeant. The fires were small and did limited damage. Not only that, they stopped setting fires after those two. It seems to me that we’re more vulnerable to arson, than most other hazards.”

Soriano said, “If I wanted to make trouble for a railroad, I’d go around removing the spikes that hold the rails to the ties. That’s the one I’ve been afraid of.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Sergeant,” Tremaine said. “They remind me of a gang of bank robbers who take the cash from the customers waiting in line, but never demand the money from the cash boxes or the safe.”

“He’s right, Israel, that’s a good point,” Malik said. “They really don’t seem to be trying all that hard.” Then he became thoughtful, “But then, why shoot Missus Watts?”

There was no immediate response, and the group seemed to have no good answer.

Finally, Schroeder said, “As to why they shot the Division Superintendent, I can’t say, but the more I think about it, the more I cotton onto Nate’s idea. They seem too organized to support the notion they’re being clumsy. But it would make sense if they’re preparing to do something somewhere else.”

Daley added, “Then they shot Emma as practice, too.”

It grew quiet around the table, again. Frowns and grim looks were the rule.

Malik broke the silence with, “Then a new question: Practice for what?”

Tremaine said, “I don’t think they’re practicing on how to start a labor union.”

Vargas added, “But maybe they’re practicing how to use union organizing as a cover for something else.”

Tremaine replied, “That would make sense.”

Soriano sounded perplexed, when he said, “But are they practicing to be useless at it? Like I said before, there are better ways of hurting a railroad than a couple small fires.”

Vargas said, “Maybe they didn’t want to cause too big a ruckus. Maybe they didn’t want the Texas Rangers involved. A wrecked train, especially a passenger train, would get in the newspapers.”

Daley, with a face pinched in concentration, began, half to herself, “How to put this, and not break rule number one? Uh, shooting Emma, Missus Watts, would seem to increase the attention they might garner.”

Malik smiled grimly, nodding. “Well put, Moira. Missus Watts’s shooting does appear an anomaly in a rather low key campaign. Might they be intensifying that campaign?”

Soriano noted, “We’ve not seen any arson or other vandalism since Missus Watts was shot. I’d say the campaign, such as it was, has dropped off.”

Malik asked, “Do you think that might be due to the extra security officers who were transferred?”

“The reinforcements began arriving the day after the second fire,” Soriano said. “The only thing that’s happened since was Missus Watts being shot.”

Schroeder said, “It’s possible we’re looking at the wrong results. Perhaps they were testing something else. Maybe they were testing your reaction to what they did. Maybe they were trying to find out how far they had to go before we brought out the big guns.”

Malik asked, “Big guns? Do you mean me? Or the headquarters security staff?” Then Malik’s face twitched into a wry smile. “Or a former Texas Ranger?”

Schroeder shrugged. “Either. Both. More likely you.” Then, with his own smile, he said, “But I wouldn’t discount the significance of the former Ranger.”

Daley said, “Sergeant Soriano has revealed something else. We’ve been so focused on anticipating their next attack, that we may not have noticed that there have been no attacks.”

Footfalls could be heard, mounting the coach’s steps up to its end platform. Both Vargas and Peng turned toward the rear door, Vargas bringing his pistol from its holster.

“Easy, Nate,” Malik said.

Neither Peng nor Vargas reacted to Malik’s words, as they moved in concert, Peng toward the door and Vargas several feet from it on the opposite side.

The figure that appeared on the lighted platform was in the uniform of a K&ASR Security officer. He knocked at the door and Peng opened it part way, retaining her grip on the door handle. The man said, “This wire just arrived for Lieutenant Daley.”

Moira called out, “Thank you, Private. You can give it to Miss Peng.”

He handed the message to Peng, saying, “We didn’t decode it, Ma’am.”

Daley said, “We’ll take care of that.”

The officer turned and stepped down onto the ground and walked off into the late evening twilight.

Malik said, “Have Nate decode it. We’ll take a break for ten minutes. Mister Fei said there was more sherbet, though it might have melted some. And there’s more iced tea and some fresh coffee. Does everyone know where the privy is? There’s a place to wash your hands afterward right next to it. Okay, then, ten minutes.”

Twelve minutes later, while the others settled in around the table, Moira Daley was reading over Nate Vargas’s shoulder as he finished transcribing the coded telegram.

She said, aloud, to the group, “This is from Inspector Marty Finnerman, in Del Rio,” using his title for those who may not have met Finnerman. “He says that, this evening, Abernathy, Ivanovich, and six companions” she looked up, noting, “possibly the whole ‘Portman’ family,” she went back to reading, “boarded a westbound Southern Pacific for El Paso. Marty’s heading back here with the first train, tomorrow.”

“That will be our livestock express,” Soriano said. “He should be here mid- to late morning, though probably earlier rather than later. Not too many ranchers are shipping cattle.”

Malik asked Daley, “And Mike Jefferson is due at noon?”

“Just after,” Daley replied.

“This changes things,” he muttered. He rubbed his forehead for a moment, then stood up and walked slowly to stand behind Peng and Vargas. He said, “Okay, then. Peng, three wires.” Peng drew a note pad and pencil from a pocket of her skirt, then glanced up at Malik.