The reporter gazed at the winter sunset from the viewing deck at the Central Pacific Railroad station. He watched the orange twilight creep over the Sierra Nevadas; the crisp evening air was heavy with promise for the fledgling state. The last time he came through here, it was still part of western Utah Territory.

Our reporter was a lanky fellow by the name of Samuel Clemens. This journey was something of a homecoming. Earlier in the decade, he wrote correspondence for the Territorial Enterprise in Virginia City, signing off as Mark Twain. Since then, he'd developed quite a reputation as a spinner of fanciful yarns. His tales of petrified men and frog-jumping contests often blurred the line between news and fiction; but that was only because he understood exactly how strange life could get at the frontier. Lately, he'd grown quite accustomed to the relative comforts of bustling San Francisco. An assignment like this would do much to reacquaint him with his rough-and-tumble origins.

The job was fairly straightforward: cover the opening of the rail line up to the Sierra Nevada summit, which cut through Donner Pass via Tunnel No. 6. Indeed, if it were up to the newspaper's sponsors, the story would be little more than a glorified advertisement for the Central Pacific train services; how captains of industry supported visionary engineers, as they conquered the mountain range for the benefit of common folk. But the editors knew better, so they called in Twain.

*

Twain was determined to report the full story, not just the verbose bravado of puffed-up moguls. He knew damn well that the rails were built on the sweat of foreign laborers. Sure, the work crew had its share of Confederate deserters, Irishmen, and free blacks. But for the most part, they were able-bodied coolies from the Orient. Some folks called them "Celestials", a crude transliteration of their Empire's poetic name. Others simply referred to them as "Cantonese" or "Chinamen". In private, many used far harsher epithets.

Now, Twain had his own personal biases about Celestial labor, but he opted to keep them to himself. He was more concerned with getting the Oriental perspective about working on the tracks.

*

Barely after sundown, Twain made his way towards the ramshackle camp that had formed near the railhead. He had scheduled a rendezvous with Superintendent Massingham, who could introduce him to English-speaking crew members. Their meeting place was the Double Happiness Tearoom tent, one of the vice dens operated by Chinese syndicates. But once Twain arrived, he quickly learned that Massingham had been summoned to Promontory, where officials were breaking ground for the planned First Continental Railroad. It seemed a fair excuse, but an excuse just the same.

The mood in the Tearoom felt unusually somber, even for a work night. Sure, there were a handful of laborers dancing with paid companions; their graceless, drunken movements out of step with the pianist. But far more were huddled around tables, deep in conversation. Their tone seemed heated, yet they kept their voices low. It built up a sense of palpable tension in the tent.

As luck would have it, Twain spotted a wiry-looking Caucasian gentleman sitting among one of the groups. A weathered tweed jacket and greasy spectacles marked him as an academic or scholarly type. Sure enough, he introduced himself as one Preston Cosgrove of the anthropology department at Millbrae College. The good professor was in the midst of a long-term ethnographic study of the Celestials. With the promise of a refill of his gin flask, Cosgrove seemed all too eager to update Twain about recent events.

*

Here is what everyone knew: on Tuesday evening, Workgroup 4D was playing "big two"—a Cantonese poker game—in their bunk at the encampment. At some point, Gao Yonghan had stabbed Hui Bingwen in the chest. Nobody else is quite certain of the remaining details—blame the moonshine.

Bingwen had been a very dedicated laborer, with an innate knack for building. It was no small feat for an erstwhile Guangzhou street urchin to be promoted to junior foreman.

Superintendent Massingham was upset about the loss. Nevertheless, there were plenty of other eager Chinamen ready to take his place. Boss O'Sullivan ordered the crew to drag Bingwen's corpse out into the desert.

Most folks agreed that Yonghan had been jealous of Bingwen's success. He seemed to relish the idea of his rival's death. On most evenings, Yonghan would stick to the Celestial-run vice dens. But this past Wednesday night, he visited Hopkins' Fisher King Saloon tent. He even hired Beulah, who was Bingwen's favorite lady—the only one who fancied Bingwen enough to comfort him for free once.

So this is where things get murkier. At sun-up on Thursday, the first shifters found Yonghan's withered corpse lying face down near the makeshift hardware depot. The local Deputy figured an investigation would be a waste of time—"write it up as booze poisoning and be done with it".

But Doc McAllister hadn't encountered anything like it; and he'd seen all kinds of crazy shit while treating wounded Unionists back in Tupelo. It was almost like the body had been mummified in a span of hours.

*

Before explaining the next part, Cosgrove made Twain promise to keep an open mind. The reporter agreed, listening intently. According to the professor, the laborers were convinced that Bingwen had returned as a jiangshi—some kind of vengeful revenant or animated corpse.

See, the Celestials believed everything has chi or vital essence. According to their folkways, the Great Basin air was filled with centuries worth of floating yáng qi energies: the spirits of outlaw drifters and fallen Navajo braves; the essences of feral mustangs and great horned owls that lived among the wild juniper. They were convinced that Bingwen's body had been roused awake by all these virile masculine forces.

Of course, if that was true, Bingwen would still be a living soul in a dead man's body. By the time he could lift himself off the ground, rigor mortis would have already set in; he'd be unable to bend his limbs, and his flesh would be pale and dust-caked. He would raise his arms forward and hop across the plains, kicking up clouds of sand behind him.

Most of the coolies were familiar with jiangshi lore, if only from the cautionary tales of superstitious aunties. They knew the creature would seek a damp cave to hide in until after dusk. Then, under the cover of night, it would leap towards the railhead camp with single-minded purpose.

Granted, nobody actually claimed to see this jiangshi. But when Yonghan's body was found, the Chinamen knew the real score. They had an idea how a corpse drained of its chi might look. Of course, they knew better than to speak up about it—well, not to the Bosses, anyway.

*

It was at that point when Cosgrove's account was interrupted by the Superintendent's untimely return. "Thank heavens you're still here, Twain!"

But the reporter had no time for such mundane pleasantries. "Oh, dash it, Massingham!" he said, "Your gloating can wait."

Twain now had a far more compelling story to tell.

Submitted for the Mark Twain, Reporting contest hosted by The_Bookshop and WattpadWesterns (1,200 words approx.)

Cover image sourced from Public Domain Vectors

Header image is an uncredited archive photo of Chinese laborers working on the First Transpacific Railroad ca. 1868