Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s right.”

  “After we pull up the rail, then what?” Tinker asked.

  “Then nothing. You get your twenty-five dollars and I don’t care what you do with it.”

  “What if a train comes along after we pull up this rail?” Evers asked.

  “What if it does?”

  “Well, hell, a train can’t run if there ain’t a rail for it to run on, can it?”

  “No, I don’t think it can.”

  “So if a train comes along with this rail pulled up, it’ll more’n likely wreck, won’t it?”

  “More’n likely,” Martin agreed.

  “Whooeee, damn!” Evers said. “That’ll be a sight to see!”

  “Not unless you get this rail pulled up.”

  “Come on, Tinker, let’s get this pulled up. I’m goin’ to enjoy watchin’ this.”

  After the rail was removed, Martin, unnoticed by the other two men, left a folded piece of paper lying on the rail, held down by a rock.

  “Let’s go,” Martin said, walking toward his horse.

  “Go? Hell, you mean we ain’t goin’ to stay around and watch the wreck?”

  “You want to go to prison?”

  “Prison? No.”

  “Well, that’s where we’ll all be goin’ if anyone finds out we did this. My advice is to get out of here now, while we still can.”

  “Damn. I wanted to watch.”

  “You can stay if you want to. But I’ve got another job that will pay twenty-five dollars if you want it. But if you don’t, I can always find someone else to do it.”

  “No, no, I’ll do it,” Evers said.

  The three men mounted their horses and rode away, but Evers stopped once, turned in his saddle, and looked back. “Damn, I’d like to see that train wreck, though.”

  “Not me,” Tinker said. “I just want to get the hell out of here.”

  Engine number 275 of the Border Tier Railroad was just south of Girard, Kansas, pulling six cars loaded with rails, ties, and spikes. The rails made for a heavy load so the train was traveling at little more than ten miles an hour, smoke pouring from the stack and steam gushing from the cylinders.

  Austin Mueller was the engineer, and he was sitting on a small, triangular seat by the right window, with the stub of a pipe clamped between his teeth. Ray Cathcart was the fireman, and he was throwing chunks of wood into the boiler furnace.

  “You know what I’ve always wanted to do?” Mueller asked, taking the pipe out. “I’ve always wanted to get out on the high iron with nothing more than the tender behind me, and open this thing up to as fast it can go. Why, I bet we could get her up to sixty, maybe seventy miles an hour! Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat! Now, that would be a ride, wouldn’t it, Ray?”

  “A ride for you, maybe,” Cathcart replied. “Now me, I’d be all asshole and elbows keeping the furnace fed.”

  Mueller laughed. “Maybe so, but it would sure be—” Mueller stopped in mid-sentence. “What the hell! Grab ahold on to somethin’, Ray!” he shouted.

  Mueller pulled on the brake and the train began sliding along the rail, steel screeching on steel heading for a place where one of the rails had been removed.

  “What is it?” Cathcart called.

  “Jump!” Mueller shouted.

  The two men jumped off the train, and hit the ground rolling. Then they got up and moved away from the track. It was good they did, because as the engine hit the breach in the track, the great driver wheels dug into the dirt and that turned over the engine. The boiler burst with a huge explosion and a gush of steam.

  Behind the engine the flatcars, laden with rails, kegs of spikes, cross ties, and railroad working tools, also went off the track and turned over, spilling the material over a wide area.

  Mueller and Cathcart stood there, now out of harm’s way, watching as the cars continued to twist and tumble, the air filled with the cacophony of steel crashing against steel.

  “What the hell happened?” Cathcart asked. “What did you see?”

  “One of the rails was missing,” Mueller said.

  “You mean it come loose?”

  “I think it was more than that. I think somebody pulled it up of a pure purpose,” Mueller said.

  With the tumble of the cars and the falling and shifting of the cargo ended, it was now safe to go to the point on the track where the rail had been removed. Wisps of steam were still drifting up from the overturned engine.

  “You’re right, Austin,” Cathcart said. “Lookie down there. There’s the missing rail a’ lyin’ there just as pretty as you please. And you can bet that it didn’t get there without someone carried it there.”

  “Who the hell would do somethin’ like that? Why, if we had been haulin’ passengers, a lot of ’em would’a got themselves kilt,” Mueller said.

  “And we damn near did,” Cathcart replied.

  The two men walked down the grade to look at the rail, and that’s when Mueller saw it, a folded piece of paper on the rail, held in place by a rock that was so large that he almost didn’t see the paper.

  “What is that?” Cathcart asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mueller said. “But I reckon we’re about to find out.”

  Mueller opened the folded piece of paper and read the note that was attached:

  We will do whatever it takes to be the first railroad into the Indian Territory.

  “Son of a bitch. You know who done this, Ray?”

  “Who?”

  “The KATY Railroad, that’s who. Them cheatin’ bastards will do anything to get to the border first.”

  “I don’t believe they’d wreck a train,” Cathcart said.

  “You, don’t? Here, read this.” Muller handed the note to Cathcart.

  “I’ll be damned,” is all Cathcart said after he read it.

  Ten miles south of Humboldt, Kansas, Otis Gunn had established a staging area for the material he was gathering for construction of the KATY line. Here were stacks of treated timbers to be used as cross ties, as well as kegs of spikes and fishplates.

  Under cover of darkness, Martin, Evers, and Tinker sneaked into the supply yard. Using kerosene as an accelerant, they soaked the stacks of timbers and the kegs of spikes and fishplates. Then they splashed kerosene on the wooden building that held the tools needed for laying track. That done, they struck matches and set fires which, within a few minutes, became a roaring inferno. Also consumed in the fire were the timbers, already precut, that were to have been used for bridging a deep gully. Before withdrawing, Martin left a note attached to an unburned tie.

  Two blocks from the fire, Corey McElwain stepped out of the Railroad Saloon. He smelled smoke as soon as he stepped outside, and looking down toward the railroad storage area, he saw orange flames lifting into the sky. He knew, immediately, what he was seeing.

  “Fire!” he called. “The railroad supply dump is on fire!”

  A couple more people came out of the saloon then, summoned by his shout, and they began shouting as well. One of them pulled his pistol and began shooting into the air. By now, several others had heard the commotion and they, too, came out to see what was going on.

  Someone ran down to the fire station and began banging on the steel triangle, signaling to all the volunteer firemen that they were needed. Soon the whole town was turned out and the pumper wagon was drawn from the station and rushed down the street toward the fire.

  Almost as soon as the volunteer firemen got there, though, they knew that there was no hope of extinguishing the fire, or even preventing the fire from spreading. It was a huge fire, covering at least half an acre of land, burning every building and every stick of timber in the equipment supply area.

  “I’ve never seen a fire quite that large!” one of the fireman said.

  “Get on it! Get it put out!” Otis Gunn shouted. “This is damn near all the material we’ve got!”

  “We’re doing what we can, Mr. Gunn,” the fire chief said. He shook his head. “ But with a fire this big,
there just isn’t much we can do.”

  The firefighters quickly emptied their pumper of water, but the fire was so large that the pumper had no effect whatever.

  The only thing they could do was refill the pumper, then start directing the water toward the buildings that were nearest the burning supply compound. This they did in hopes that the fire wouldn’t spread any farther. And in that effort, at least, they were successful, because the fire was contained.

  By the next morning the fire was out, not due to anything done by any of the firefighting volunteers, but simply because the terrible fire had consumed all available fuel. Those who had fought the fire all through the night, and that included most of the town, were standing around, dazed, not only by exhaustion, but by the enormity of the event.

  “Somebody needs to get word to Colonel Stevens,” one of the railroad workers said.

  “It’s already been done,” Otis Gunn said. “I sent a telegram to him more’n an hour ago, tellin’ him about the fire.”

  “What’s this goin’ to do to us, Mr. Gunn? You think it’ll stop the railroad from buildin’?” one of the track layers asked.

  “If I know Colonel Stevens, it won’t do much more than slow him down,” Gunn said.

  “Mr. Gunn?” the fire chief called. “Come over here, you might want to see this.”

  Gunn walked over toward the fire chief who showed him a note.

  “I’ll be damned. Some son of a bitch set this fire of a pure purpose,” Gunn said.

  As soon as he learned about the fire, Colonel Stevens, and his construction engineer, John Scullin, put together a special train to take them to the site. Otis Gunn met them, then walked over to the blackened area where the supply depot had been.

  Most of the people of the town who had come to help fight the fire were still there, wandering around. New gawkers had come as well, and it was easy to tell the difference between those who had actually fought the fire, and those who were the merely curious because the firefighters had blackened faces, while the Johnny-come-latelies were clean skinned. The smell of burned wood permeated the whole town. Little wisps of smoke were still drifting up from the site as railroad workers walked through the destruction to see if anything could be salvaged.

  The Humboldt fire chief came over to talk to them.

  “I’m just real sorry about this, Colonel, but by the time we got here, the fire was too big for us to deal with,” the chief said. “I’ll tell you the truth, the fire was so big that, for a while there, I didn’t know but what we might lose the entire town. We wet down the closest buildings to the fire, but that was all we could do.”

  “I can’t imagine how this started,” Stevens said. “Careless smoker? What?”

  “I don’t see how someone’s pipe, or even a cigar, could cause a fire this large,” the chief said. “No, sir, this fire was going in too many places at the same time for it to be an accident.”

  “Look here, Chief, are you telling me the fire was deliberately set?”

  “Yes, sir, that is exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “Show him the note, Chief Hanlon,” Gunn said.

  “What note?” Stevens asked.

  Chief Hanlon held out a folded piece of paper.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It was tacked on to a cross tie.”

  “It couldn’t have been,” Stevens said. “It’s not in the least charred.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, the cross tie it was tacked to was lying across the track well away from the fire. Like it had been put there on purpose, just so’s this note wouldn’t get burned.”

  Stevens unfolded the paper, and read the note.

  We will do whatever it takes to be the first railroad into the Indian Territory.

  He got a set, angry expression on his face.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “It was Joy.”

  “Joy?” Scullin asked.

  “Probably not him, personally. But it was his men.” Stevens showed the note to Scullin.

  Scullin read it, then he clenched his teeth and his temple throbbed in anger. Finally, he spoke.

  “Yes, sir, but don’t you be worryin’ none about this, Colonel,” Scullin said. “Because what I plan to do is take me a bunch of Irish lads and we’ll be for teachin’ Mr. Joy and his outfit a thing or two. Yes, sir, you can count on that.”

  “Scullin, don’t kill anyone,” Stevens said. “The last thing we need now is to get bogged down in some murder trial.”

  “We won’t be needin’ to do any killin’ to teach this lesson. But you can bet there will be a few boys wishin’ they was dead by the time we get finished with them.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m told that end of track for the Border Tier is just north of Columbus. Like as not the gandy dancers will be comin’ in town tonight. We’ll just be there to meet ’em. After we get through with ’em, they won’t be wantin’ to lay track for a while, that’s for sure.”

  “What about the men you take with you? Will they be up to working tomorrow?”

  “Now is it kiddin’ me you are, Colonel Stevens? Sure ’n’ ’tis Irishmen I’ll be takin’ with me, and there’s niver been an Irishman who couldn’t fight until midnight and answer the call the next mornin’.”

  Stevens smiled. “Then, by all means, take your Irishmen and do battle for the KATY.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was a little after nine p.m. and business was booming in the Ace High Saloon. At least ten of the customers were from the Border Tier track-laying crew. They were drinking, and flirting with the bar girls, in general having a good time when seven men came into the saloon, then stood just inside the bat-wing doors.

  “And would there be any scum-sucking, low-life Border Tier men in here?” Scullin shouted.

  “Well, now, what have we here?” one of the Border Tier men replied. “Is there a circus nearby? I think a bunch of monkeys have escaped.”

  With a guttural yell, Scullin and the six men with him charged into the middle of the floor, met by ten of the Border Tier men.

  The KATY men were slightly outnumbered but, by a strange coincidence, all of them happened to be carrying a small club, cut from two-inch thick dowels. Some of the saloon patrons who were not part of the Border Tier pitched in as well, though they were so quickly dispatched that nobody else joined. Instead, those who were not railroad workers, as well as the bar girls, and even the piano player, backed up against the wall, out of the way, watching as the fight continued.

  There were curses, shouts of anger and pain, and the crash of furniture.

  The battle lasted for no more than three minutes as Scullin and his boys made quick work of the Border Tier men.

  “Get out of here!” Scullin yelled, holding aloft his truncheon. “Get out of here before we break all your skulls!”

  The few Border Tier men who could still walk carried or helped the others clear the saloon. When all were gone, Scullin gave a loud yell.

  “Huzzah, boys! Now, let’s drink up!”

  The victorious KATY men rushed to the bar and the bartender was suddenly busy again. The bar girls, now with the Border Tier men gone, resumed their flirtations, but this time with Scullin and his men.

  Two days later six KATY men—none of whom had taken part in the raid on the Ace High saloon, were attacked as they were grading the right of way for the KATY. There were nine Border Tier men, and like the KATY men in the Ace High fight, all were equipped with truncheons which were just the right size to be easily handled, and to inflict painful injuries. When they left, three of the KATY men wound up with broken bones.

  For the next few days the fights continued, as the KATY sent raiding parties out after the Border Tier workers, and the Border Tier responded in kind.

  Willie Buck showed Marcus Eberwine a copy of the Doster Defender newspaper.

  Fighting Threatens Railroad

  There are two railroads vying for the goal of transiting Indian Territory, James Joy’
s Border Tier, and Colonel Robert Stevens’s KATY Railroad. This contest has deteriorated into a physical battle between the two companies as, on several occasions, there have been clashes between great groups of men.

  These battles have not only caused several injuries, to include broken bones and severe cuts and abrasions, but have also brought to a complete halt all construction. The West, indeed the entire nation, is waiting for the successful crossing of Indian Territory, which will bring Texas beef to the Eastern markets, but that seems unlikely unless the two companies declare a truce between them.

  Eberwine read the article, then smiled. “Willie Buck, my boy!” he said, thumping the paper with the back of his hand. “I believe we may just have won the war.”

  “Were you in the war, Eberwine?” Buck asked.

  “No, I, uh, managed to avoid that unpleasantness.”

  “Well, I was in the war.”

  “Oh? Were you a member of Colonel Sixkiller’s regiment? It was the Second Cherokee Mounted Rifles, I believe.”

  “No, I want nothing to do with any Sixkiller.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I heard about the episode of him arresting you, and destroying a wagonload of your liquor. I can see how that would make him your enemy.”

  “It didn’t start there. Sixkiller and I have been enemies for many years. Anyway, the reason I asked if you had been to war was to make a point. It is far too early to say that we have won more than a battle.”

  The railroads continued to war against each other until James Joy sent word to Robert Stevens that they should meet.

  “Look here, Colonel, I don’t like the looks of this,” Scullin said. “I mean, what if he gets you off by yourself and—does something to you?”

  “Mr. Scullin, James Joy is a fierce opponent who will take advantage of any situation, but I scarcely think he would do anything to harm me.”