Kinch Riley / Indian Territory

by Matt Braun

  “What’s the story on the Atlantic and Pacific?” Ryan asked. “The Colonel seems to think they could still bollix his plans.”

  “No doubt of that. The head of the A&P is a fellow named Andrew Peirce. He plays rough, very rough.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for one thing, Peirce and his backers are trying to get control of the Missouri Pacific line. If they do, then we’ll have lost our connection to St. Louis. They’ll just close the door.”

  “And that would block the Katy from the eastern markets.”

  “Exactly,” Walker affirmed. “The Missouri Pacific would join with the A&P to create a direct route from the southwest. To put it mildly, we’d be left out in the cold.”

  “So Stevens has to beat the A&P through Indian Territory. Otherwise he loses all the marbles.”

  Walker nodded. “That’s why he needs cooperation from the Cherokees. A construction delay of any type could turn into a disaster.”

  “Well, George, just between you and me, he’s no diplomat.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he doesn’t understand Indians. They get stiff-necked and stubborn when a white man treats them like inferiors. And that goes double for the Cherokees.”

  “Is that why you think we’ll have trouble?”

  “Hard to say if we will or we won’t. I wouldn’t give odds either way.”

  Ten days later they halted on the southern boundary of the Cherokee Nation. They were four miles below Fort Gibson, on the banks of the mighty Arkansas. Across the river lay the Creek Nation.

  Ryan led the survey crew north from the river. As Stevens had directed, he retraced their route to Fort Gibson and they proceeded along the Texas Road. Not far north of the military post, three mounted Indians approached them, riding south. The riders were light-skinned, apparently Cherokee half-breeds, and one was mounted on a black-and-white pinto. All three had carbines laid across their saddles.

  Ryan watched them closely. His scrutiny centered on the one who rode the pinto. No great believer in coincidence, he was convinced he’d seen the horse before. A gut hunch told him the pinto’s rider was the man who had shadowed the survey party their first day out. The man was still on their trail and no longer alone. As they passed in the road, Ryan stared hard at the man on the pinto. The rider glanced at him, then looked quickly away. In that instant Ryan knew his instincts hadn’t failed him. He’d seen a peculiar glitter, something cold and deadly, in the Cherokee’s eyes.

  A mile up the road, Ryan reined his horse aside. He motioned Walker and the surveyors on, ordering them to ask no questions. Twisting around, Walker saw him dismount and lead his horse into the woods. Some moments later he reappeared with the shotgun cradled across the crook of his arm. He took up a position behind a tree at the side of the road.

  Still looking back, Walker’s eyes suddenly narrowed. He saw the three Indians ride into view perhaps a half mile to the rear. As the survey party rounded a bend in the road, he lost sight of the riders. His last impression was of Ryan pressed against the base of the tree, waiting. He wondered why the Indians were following them; he wondered what Ryan intended to do.

  The crack of a rifle shot sounded in the distance. No more than a beat behind came the dull roar of a shotgun blast, followed instantly by another. A deafening silence followed. Walker reined about, halting his men in the middle of the road. He was torn between staying put and going back when he heard the thud of hoofbeats. A lone rider appeared around the bend in the road.

  Ryan took his place at the head of the column. He said nothing, ignoring their stares. His features were set in a grim scowl, eyes pale and stony. No one asked any questions.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A week later the survey party rode into Parsons. George Walker and his crew went straight to their hotel rooms. With suppertime approaching, they were looking for a hot bath and a civilized meal. Walker seemed in no hurry to deliver his survey report.

  At the hotel Ryan was informed that Robert Stevens had moved into a private railroad car. He stabled his horse and walked down to the Katy supply depot. Dusk fell as he crossed the main tracks and approached the private car, which had been shunted onto a nearby siding.

  Ryan was in a foul mood. For the past week he’d done little but dwell on the shooting incident. Since accepting the job of special agent, he had killed four men. Which was almost half the number he had buried during four years as a marshal. At that rate, the number might jump to a score or more before the Katy traversed Indian Territory. He had no intention of allowing that to happen.

  Unlike some lawmen Ryan was not a killer by nature. He believed certain men were fated to be killed, and he thought that others, by the viciousness of their crimes, deserved the ultimate penalty. Yet he was an advocate of reason and law over the rule of the gun. He preferred to bring lawbreakers, even murderers, to justice before the courts. A legal hanging, in his opinion, was by far the greater deterrent to outlaws. So he killed only as a last resort.

  Tonight he intended to voice that very thought. All the way from the Cherokee Nation, he’d been preoccupied by the latest shootout. While he had pulled the trigger, he in no way faulted himself. He had fired only after being fired upon; in that sense, the killings were unavoidable. The fault, in his mind, fell instead on Robert Stevens. The latter’s motives were murky, and he couldn’t put his finger on the exact cause of the bloodletting. But something about the whole assignment stunk.

  Mounting the steps, he climbed to the rear platform of the car. Through the door window, he saw Stevens seated in an armchair, smoking a cigar. A manservant lighted the last of the overhead lamps, then disappeared into the kitchen up forward. Ryan knocked on the door, three hard raps. Stevens turned, looking somewhat irritated, and rose from his chair. A moment later he opened the door.

  “Well—John! Where did you come from?”

  “Just rode in,” Ryan replied.

  “Excellent! I’ve been expecting you for the last day or so. Please, come inside.”

  Stevens ushered him through the door. Entering along a narrow companionway, Ryan noted that the bedroom door was closed. Moving into the main room, he saw that it was lavishly appointed. To the rear was a parlor area, with paneled walls and ornately carved furniture. Toward the front was a dining area, with a candlelit table, fine linen, and an array of bone-white china. Ryan saw that two place settings were arranged on the table.

  Still smiling, Stevens motioned him to an armchair. Ryan sat down, dropping his hat on a nearby table. The luxurious surroundings made him all the more aware that he was covered with grime and trail dust. It occurred to him that the Katy’s general manager lived in the style befitting a man of wealth and influence. Stevens took a chair opposite him.

  “Where’s George?”

  “Up at the hotel,” Ryan observed. “He said he’d write up his report tonight.”

  “Then I’m doubly glad you dropped by. I’m anxious to hear how things went.”

  “If you’re talking about the survey, it went fine. Walker and his boys got it done just the way you wanted.”

  “And the new route,” Stevens inquired, “bypassing Tahlequah and Fort Gibson? Any problem with that?”

  “No,” Ryan said tightly. “No problem with that.”

  Stevens arched one eyebrow in question. “From your tone, I take it something went wrong.”

  “Wrong as it could go. I had to kill two men.”

  “Damn!” Stevens muttered. “Who were they?”

  “Cherokee breeds.”

  “Why did you kill them?”

  “No choice,” Ryan said in a low voice. “They trailed us all the way down to Fort Gibson. Whether or not they meant to do us harm is anybody’s guess. I never got a chance to ask.”

  “What happened?”

  “I braced them just north of the fort. Before I could ask their business, one of them took a shot at me. I killed him and another one who tried to make a fight.”

  “Are you
saying there were more than two?”

  “Yeah,” Ryan acknowledged. “The third one took off and never looked back. I let him go.”

  “Were George and his men involved?”

  “Not directly. I’d sent them on ahead.”

  “How about the Army? Did you notify anyone at the post?”

  “No.”

  “And the Cherokees? Did you report it to anyone in Tahlequah?”

  Ryan shook his head. “I figured the wisest thing was to let well enough alone. No telling who sent them.”

  “Sent them?” Stevens repeated, frowning heavily.

  “Well, they damn sure weren’t robbers. Not the way they trailed us for ten days.”

  “You think they were spies?”

  “Or worse.”

  “Oh, come now! Aren’t you exaggerating slightly? Why would anyone want to kill our surveyors?”

  “You tell me.”

  “How would I know?”

  “You must’ve known there was a risk.”

  “I knew nothing of the kind.”

  Ryan searched his eyes. “Then why’d you send me off to bodyguard George and his boys?”

  Stevens met his stare. “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “Not yet. I’m just asking you a simple question.”

  “You asked me the same question before you left. And I’ll tell you now what I told you then. Walker needed a guide.”

  “You’re a liar,” Ryan said bluntly.

  There was a long pause as the two men examined one another. Then Stevens rose and moved to a window at the side of the car. He stood there for several moments, a cigar clenched between his teeth, staring out at the darkening sky. Finally he turned back, his features set in a somber expression.

  “All right,” he conceded, “I wasn’t altogether frank with you. I suspected something might happen.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, after all, an attempt was made on the lives of Boudinot and Stand Watie.”

  “That’s tribal business, between the Cherokees.”

  “Yes, but quite obviously someone ordered it.”

  Ryan gave him a narrow look. “What’s that got to do with the survey crew?”

  “I can only hazard a guess. It seems rather apparent that the someone—whoever he is—doesn’t want a railroad built.”

  “So the place to stop it was before it got started—the surveyors.”

  “That seems a reasonable explanation.”

  “Only one man could issue that kind of order.”

  “I agree.”

  “And you think William Ross sent three breeds out to kill us?”

  “How could I think otherwise? Particularly when I’d informed him only days before that we plan to start construction next month. The timing of it squares too neatly to be coincidence.”

  Ryan pulled at his earlobe, thoughtful. “Ross doesn’t strike me as an assassin. It’s not his style.”

  “Indeed?” Stevens countered. “Nothing happens in the Cherokee Nation without Ross’ tacit permission. You should know that better than I.”

  “Maybe so. But my instinct tells me different. And I’m generally not wrong.”

  “I suggest we stick to deductive reasoning. I wouldn’t care to wager my life on instinct.”

  “You wagered my life, not to mention the surveyors’. Even after you’d already deducted all this.”

  Stevens admired the tip of his cigar. “You have a point. I’ve no real excuse except to say that there was no alternative. Without a survey line, we can’t lay track.”

  “What about the truth? You could’ve told me what you suspected.”

  “To be quite honest, I couldn’t take a chance on losing you. I was concerned you might quit rather than lead the survey party.”

  “I don’t scare that easy.”

  “No, I daresay you don’t. The way you challenged those half-breeds proves that.”

  “There’s something else I don’t do.”

  “Oh?”

  “I refuse to work for a man who won’t level with me.”

  “Suppose we write it off as an error in judgment?”

  “You lied to me,” Ryan said in a measured tone. “Do it again and we’re all through—then and there.”

  “I understand.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Ryan stood and collected his hat. As he turned to leave, the bedroom door opened. A compelling, attractive woman in her late twenties moved into the parlor area. She was blond and tawny, rather statuesque, with inquisitive, bold eyes and a vivacious smile. Stevens stretched out his hand and drew her forward.

  “John, I’d like you to meet Sally Palmer. Sally, this is the fellow I was telling you about, John Ryan.”

  “Oh, yes,” Sally said in a throaty voice. “You’re Bob’s special agent.”

  Ryan nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Palmer.”

  “Please, just call me Sally. Everyone does.”

  Ryan thought it an understatement. Up close, there was something common, almost bawdy, about the girl. She wore a velvet gown, her rounded shoulders were bare, and rather too much of her cleavage was exposed. He found it amusing that Stevens, who was a married man, had himself a camp follower. Sally Palmer, to all appearances, was not too far removed from the oldest profession.

  She looked at his dusty trail clothes. A wise smile brushed the corner of her mouth. “Bob said you’ve been to Indian Territory. How was life among the savages?”

  “About like usual.”

  “You’ve been there before, then?”

  “Off and on.” Ryan took a step back. “You’ll have to excuse me. It’s been a long trip and an even longer day. Colonel, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Nodding to Stevens, he turned and walked from the car. Outside, through the window he saw Stevens seat the girl at the dining table. The manservant materialized from the kitchen and began pouring wine. Ryan chuckled softly to himself.

  Stevens clearly intended to live the good life while building his railroad.

  Ryan took his time next morning. He figured he’d earned a respite, however brief. Nor was he in any great rush to resume talks with Stevens.

  Shortly before nine, he walked in the direction of the rail yards. His mind almost reluctantly turned to Stevens. He wasn’t entirely satisfied with their conversation of last night. He considered it a toss-up as to whether or not Stevens would level with him in the future. The railroader was clearly unaccustomed to taking others into his confidence.

  Even more worrisome was the matter of William Ross. Ryan still wasn’t convinced by Stevens’ argument. He found it difficult to believe that a man of Ross’ stature would stoop to conspiracy and assassination. The fact that Ryan was attracted to Elizabeth Ross did nothing to color his opinion. He simply felt that her father was an honorable man, above resorting to murder. His gut hunch told him that the answer lay somewhere else.

  All that left a very large question mark. If not William Ross, then who? Someone had engineered a rather elaborate scheme, involving secrecy and cold-blooded murder. Whoever was responsible clearly had many dedicated men under his command. Four Cherokees had already lost their lives; that number in itself indicated a conspiracy of some scope. Obviously then, the leader had to be someone of importance within the Cherokee Nation. But the who, at least for now, remained a mystery

  On one point there was no doubt. In less than a month Ryan had killed four members of the conspiracy. So the leader of the group had, in all likelihood, added Ryan’s name to the death list. Wherever he traveled in Indian Territory, he would now be a marked man. He reminded himself not to get careless.

  At Stevens’ private car, he knocked on the door. Footsteps sounded from within, then the door opened. The manservant greeted him with a polite nod.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ryan.”

  “Morning. I’d like to see Colonel Stevens.”

  “Sorry, sir, he’s out.”

  “Any idea where he went?”

&n
bsp; “I believe you’ll find him at the surveyor’s office.”

  “Much obliged.”

  As Ryan turned to leave, Sally Palmer suddenly appeared in the companionway leading to the main room. She was attired in a gauzy peignoir worn over a nightgown.

  “Well, hello there!” she called. “Come on in.”

  “No, thanks,” Ryan said. “I’m looking for the Colonel.”

  “I expect him back in a few minutes. Hang around. I’ll give you a cup of coffee.”

  “Don’t go to any bother. I’ll just—”

  “No bother!” She waved to the manservant. “Henry, get Mr. Ryan a cup of java.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Henry disappeared into the kitchen. Ryan allowed himself to be led into the main room. Following Sally, he noted that her peignoir was quite sheer and very revealing. The fabric, like curves in melted ivory, clung to her long, lissome legs and voluptuous figure. She took a seat across from him at the dining table.

  “So tell me. How’s it feel to be back among civilized people?”

  “All right,” Ryan said without inflection. “Not that I’ve got anything against the Cherokees. For the most part, they’re pretty decent.”

  “Do tell?” She gave him a glance full of curiosity. “Bob told me you barely escaped with your scalp. He said those surveyors owe you their lives.”

  Ryan looked uncomfortable. “That’s stretching it quite a ways.”

  “Oh, c’mon! Don’t be modest.”

  Henry emerged from the kitchen. He set a cup and saucer in front of Ryan, then poured from a steaming coffeepot. Finished, his gaze shifted to Sally.

  “If that’s all, ma’am, I have errands in town.”

  “Sure, Henry, you run along. I’ll hold down the fort.”

  Henry departed with a perfunctory nod. As the door closed, Ryan took a sip of his coffee. He was aware that Sally was looking him over with more than casual interest. She had enormous hazel eyes that seemed to dance with secret laughter. She smiled warmly.

  “Bob tells me you were a deputy marshal.”

  “Yeah, I was.”

  “Maybe we have mutual acquaintances.”