Kinch Riley / Indian Territory

by Matt Braun

  “Where from?”

  “Abilene,” she responded. “I got to know Tom Smith before he was killed. Everybody liked him lots.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. He was a damn fine lawman.”

  “Have you heard the latest? The town fathers are all set to offer Wild Bill Hickok the marshal’s job. Isn’t that a riot?”

  “It’s liable to be a riot and a half. I understand there’s no love lost between Hickok and the Texas drovers.”

  “He won’t last long in a cowtown, then. Texans are there in swarms the whole summer.”

  Ryan studied her over the rim of his cup. “Way you talk you must have left Abilene just recently.”

  “You might say that.” She returned his look without guile. “I met Bob there last summer. We kept in touch and he finally made me a proposition. As you see, I accepted.”

  “Nice work,” Ryan remarked dryly, “if you can get it.”

  “Well, he’s sweet to me and it beats working in a parlor house.”

  “Yeah, I suppose it would.”

  She gave him a puckish smile. “You weren’t fooled, were you? I saw it in the way you looked at me last night.”

  Ryan grinned. “I’ve seen the inside of a few parlor houses in my time.”

  “See there, I knew it! We’re birds of a feather.”

  Sally suddenly stood. Her look was at once sensuous and humorous, somehow bold. She moved around the table with catlike grace and stopped beside his chair. Her voice was sultry.

  “Do you like me, John?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like you. And I’m not exactly a one-man girl.”

  “Stevens would be sorry to hear it.”

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  She laughed and cupped his face in her hands. The scent of her perfume and the warmth of her body seemed to envelop him. She bent lower and kissed him fully on the mouth. Her lips were moist and inviting, and her tongue performed an artful mating dance. Ryan sat perfectly still, not responding. At last, pulling back slightly, she stared down at him with earthy wisdom.

  “Don’t worry. Henry won’t be back for at least an hour.”

  “What about Stevens?”

  “I lied!” She laughed gaily. “He told me he’d be gone all day.”

  Ryan moved her hands from his shoulders. He stood, collecting his hat off the table, and moved out of reach. She gave him a puzzled frown.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “No sale,” he said evenly. “But don’t take it personal. I never mess around with the bossman’s lady.”

  “Foolish man. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “I’ve got a pretty fair idea.”

  “C’mon, be a sport—take a chance!”

  “Guess I’m not much of a gamblin’ man.”

  A vixen look touched her eyes. “It’s a long way through Indian Territory. And nothing but squaws till we cross the Red River.”

  Ryan shrugged. “I reckon it’s my loss.”

  “Well, there’s always another time. You’ll be around and I’m not going anywhere.” She paused, lowered one eyelid in a slow wink. “The offer’s always open.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Oh, I know you will … especially at night.”

  Her musical laughter followed him out the door.

  CHAPTER SIX

  On March 7 the Katy entered Indian Territory. It was a Monday morning, and there was still a nip of frost in the air. The spot chosen to cross the border was known as Russell Creek Valley.

  Colonel Robert Stevens and Tom Scullin stood at the end-of-track. Their eyes were directed southward, and for a moment neither of them spoke. Behind them some fifty cars loaded with construction supplies stretched northward. The Irish Brigade, Scullin’s construction crew, were gathered a short distance away. At last Stevens looked around, and stuck out his hand.

  “Tom, let’s build a railroad.”

  Scullin pumped his arm. With a nutcracker grin, the construction boss turned to the Irish Brigade. He raised a mighty forearm and pointed them toward the Cherokee Nation.

  “Awright, me boyos! Lay track!”

  The Irish Brigade, some two hundred strong, belted out a lusty cheer. The sun, edging over the horizon in an orange ball of fire, lighted the valley as they surged forward. A mile of roadbed had already been graded in preparation for the first day’s track laying. At Scullin’s command a mule-drawn wagon pulled up beside the grade and men began offloading rough-hewn ties. Not far behind, the iron men dumped a load of rails.

  Stevens watched them in silence for a short while. He was aware that Scullin preferred he not linger at end-of-track. The construction boss was something of a benign tyrant, driving the Irish Brigade with equal doses of curses and encouragement. He boasted that he could whip any man on the payroll, and he stood willing to prove it at the slightest provocation. But he preferred to work his men in his own way, without anyone looking over his shoulder.

  Still, there was something special about today. Stevens risked overstaying his welcome for a final word with the massive Irishman. When he could delay no longer, he finally motioned southward.

  “How long to reach Big Cabin Creek?”

  “God’s blood!” Scullin huffed. “You’ve asked me that no less than a hundred times.”

  “Then one more time won’t matter, will it?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ve been tellin’ you. Thirty miles in thirty days, God willing. I cannot do better.”

  Big Cabin Creek was Stevens’ initial objective on the drive south. It lay thirty miles beyond the border, where the military road from Fort Gibson split off from the Texas Road and angled northeast. Stevens was determined to reach the fork of the trail no later than early April. Otherwise there would be no railroad in place when the spring cattle drives trailed north out of Texas. He was counting days and a fortune in freight charges won or lost.

  “Thirty days,” he mused out loud. “That would put us across Big Cabin Creek on April sixth.”

  “Aye,” Scullin agreed. “Unless there’s heavy spring rains, or God forbid, a flood. We’ve a bridge to construct before we’ll be crossing the creek.”

  “Yes, but our engineers always precede the tracklaying crew by at least a day. Surely we won’t be delayed more than a day or so completing the bridge?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. As I said, it depends on the rain.”

  “All right, let’s assume the worst. We’ll suppose it rains the second Flood. I could always build stockyards this side of the creek.”

  Scullin looked at him, puzzled. “Why would you do a foolish thing like that?”

  “Simple economics,” Stevens said quickly. “You’ve never understood that there’s more to building a railroad than just laying track.”

  “It’s the cattle drives you’re talkin’ about?”

  “Indeed it is! No less than a hundred thousand beeves will be trailed out of Texas this summer. And right now Abilene is the closest railhead.”

  “Which means the Kansas Pacific would profit handsomely.”

  “Profits,” Stevens added, “that would defray a large percentage of our construction costs. But only if we lure the cattle trade away from Abilene.”

  “So you’ve no choice but to establish a railhead, and soon.”

  “No choice whatever.”

  “But you’ve still not answered my question. Why build stockyards this side of the creek? Would a few more days make so much difference?”

  “A few days might turn into weeks, even a month. Spring floods are unpredictable.”

  Scullin shook his head. “Aren’t you being a bit pessimistic?”

  “I prefer to plan for contingencies. I’d call it realism, not pessimism.”

  “I say it makes no sense. The stockyards belong on the south side of the creek, not the north.”

  “No, Tom,” Stevens corrected him. “The stockyards belong wherever they can be built in early April. Only the
n can I send agents into Texas with word of a new railhead. And closer than Abilene by two weeks trailing time!”

  “Why not wait until we’re farther south? A railhead on the Arkansas would cut the time in half.”

  “I want the cattle trade now—not later.”

  “Have you heard it said, a man’s reach should never exceed his grasp?”

  “What’s your point?”

  Scullin lifted his hands in a shrug. “Perhaps you’re overreaching yourself, Colonel. You want everything, and you want it fast. Some would say too fast.”

  “And what would you say, Tom?”

  “Well, to quote some wise man, Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  Stevens laughed. “I’ll settle for thirty days to Big Cabin Creek. A deal?”

  “By the Jesus,” Scullin muttered. “Will that get you out of my hair and back on your fancy car?”

  “Yes, gladly.”

  “Then it’s a deal.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Tom.”

  “Go on with you! I’ve work to do.”

  Still chuckling, Scullin turned to leave. He stopped suddenly and Stevens’ eyes followed the direction of his gaze. A short distance uptrack Ryan reined his horse past a work crew. His hat was tugged low against the morning sun and his shotgun was balanced across the saddle. He looked armed for bear, and his features did nothing to dispel the impression. As he approached, he nodded to them.

  “Morning, Colonel. Tom.”

  The two men returned his greeting. Without stopping, he rode past them, eyes fixed on the distance. They watched as he continued on to a point beyond the graders. There, halting his horse on a low rise, he sat staring off into Indian Territory. After a moment Scullin whistled between his teeth.

  “I’ve not asked,” he said to Stevens, “for it was your own business. But now my curiosity has the best of me.”

  “About what?”

  “About John Ryan. What was your reason for hiring him?”

  Stevens gave him a sideways glance. “We needed a special agent, and Ryan was the best man available.”

  “All the same, I understood his job was to maintain order at end-of-track.”

  “And so it is.”

  “Then suppose you tell me”—Scullin paused, nodding to the solitary figure on horseback—“why has he killed four men, and scarcely a month on the payroll?”

  “Four Indians,” Stevens noted. “There is a difference.”

  “Indian or white, the question still holds.”

  “Ryan did what needed doing. It’s as simple as that.”

  Scullin was silent a moment, considering. “There’s a rumor around that someone intends to stop us from building a railroad. Any truth to it?”

  “Tom, I never deal in conjecture. After all, why borrow trouble?”

  “You’ve not said yes or no.”

  “Well, anything’s possible. At the moment we’re considered intruders by the Cherokees, but there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Scullin motioned toward the construction crew. “Those boys are loyal to me because I look out for ‘em. I’d like to keep it that way. You’re sayin’ my boys are in no danger?”

  “I’m saying you need not concern yourself. John Ryan will attend to any … problems.”

  Stevens grinned and slapped Scullin across the shoulder. Turning away, he walked off alongside the construction train. Some distance uptrack an unloaded supply train stood waiting with his private car coupled to the rear. He strode toward it with a purposeful air.

  Scullin stared after him only a moment. Then his gaze swung back to Ryan and the uncased shotgun. His brow furrowed in a dark scowl.

  Off to the southwest, a treeline marked the path of Russell Creek. Like a sentinel, one hand resting on the shotgun, Ryan studied the trees. He had the prickly feeling he was being watched.

  After several minutes, he looked away. There was no movement in the trees, nothing that appeared out of the ordinary. Still, something told him there was more to the feeling than imagination. For the moment, though, he decided to play a waiting game. He turned his attention to the track-laying operation.

  The lead element was the grading crew. With picks and shovels and mule-drawn scrapers, they transformed rough earth into a level roadbed. Behind them another crew laid the ties and leveled each one with the roadbed surface. Next in line were the iron men, five men to each five-hundred-pound rail. After they dropped the iron in place, the spikers moved up and quickly anchored parallel rails to the crossties. Ten spikes to the rail, three blows to each spike kept the air ringing with the metallic whang of sledgehammers.

  Farther back the screwer crew finished spiking rails and screwed down fishplates to secure the rail joints. Following them were the gandy dancers, who levered up ties by wedging a shovel blade beneath the tie and bouncing up and down on the shovel handle. The filler gang moved in then and finished bedding the loosened ties with stone ballast. The last crew in the operation was the track liners. Their job was to check the alignment of the rails and inspect ballast underneath the ties. The final step was a close once-over by the tracklaying boss.

  Uptrack from the work gangs was the construction train. Every mile of track laid required forty carloads of supplies, plus food and water for the men and animals. So the construction train, for all intents and purposes, was a self-contained town on wheels. Hauled by one locomotive and pushed by another, the train was a ponderous collection of freight cars and flatbeds, several three-decker rolling bunkhouses and one entire boxcar devoted to the mess kitchen. Scullin’s quarters were in one end of a car near the front of the train. The opposite end was his office, complete with desks and a telegrapher-clerk.

  Observing the operation, Ryan was struck by the efficiency of it all. On the surface it looked like a madhouse flung into chaos. But upon closer examination it became apparent that there was a synchronized chain of events not unlike a finely balanced clock. The parts, operating with seeming independence, ultimately meshed together and brought about a frenzy of construction. It was clear to him, watching them now, that Scullin and the Irish Brigade had earned their reputation. No one built a better railroad or built it faster.

  Ryan’s attention was suddenly drawn back to the treeline. He saw four Indians ride out of the heavily wooded grove and halt beside the creek. Their horses began swizzling water, but he wasn’t fooled. They’d been there all the while, secreted in the trees. Despite appearances, the Indians weren’t simply watering their mounts. They wanted him to know the railroad was being watched.

  Tom Scullin, who had also seen the riders, walked forward. He stopped beside Ryan, gazing for a moment at the four Indians. Then, reining their horses about, the men rode south along the creek bank. When they were some distance away, Scullin finally looked around.

  “Cherokees?” he inquired.

  “Nobody else.”

  “Have they some mischief in mind?”

  “Yeah,” Ryan laughed. “I’d say that’s a safe bet.”

  “What is it they might try?”

  “Blow up the tracks. Set fire to the supply cars or wreck equipment. Hard to say where it would start—or end.”

  “You being the special agent, what do you suggest?”

  “We ought to post guards, especially a night watch. You pick the men and I’ll assign them to shifts. Sundown to sunrise.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Scullin agreed. “Of course, my boys aren’t gunmen. They’re more experienced with their fists or pick handles.”

  Ryan smiled. “Want me to give them a few pointers?”

  “I’d think you’re the one to do it.”

  There was an awkward pause. Scullin held his gaze a moment, then looked down at the ground. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Understand, I’m not judgin’ you. It’s just—”

  “Curiosity.”

  “Of sorts, yes.” Scullin glanced up, cleared his throat. “The Colonel tells
me you did what needed doing. I’m talking about the four men you killed.”

  “So what’s your question?”

  “Was the Colonel tellin’ me the truth?”

  “You think he’d lie?”

  “I’m askin’ you.”

  “No.” Ryan looked at him without expression. “You’re asking me if Stevens hired himself a professional killer, aren’t you?”

  “Since you put it that way, I suppose I am.”

  “I’m going to make an exception in your case.”

  “Exception?”

  “Normally, any man who asked me that would pay a stiff price.”

  Scullin tensed, somehow standing taller. A muscle pulsed in his jaw and his great hands knotted into fists. Then, looking closer, he saw no animosity in Ryan’s face. What he saw instead was sardonic amusement, a hint of laughter. His hands slowly unknotted.

  “What makes me the exception?”

  Ryan shifted in the saddle. He seemed to weigh his words before he spoke. “It’s a long haul to the Red River. I’ve got a feeling we’ll both need a friend before we get there.”

  “Because the Colonel never lets the right hand know what the left hand’s doing—is that it?”

  “Close enough,” Ryan said. “Where I’m concerned, I think he knew he’d get a fight of some kind from the Cherokees.”

  “So he purposely went out to hire himself a gunhand.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  Scullin looked at him questioningly. “Why do you stay on, then?”

  “In a way Stevens was right.” Ryan motioned off into the distance. “Somebody out there means to stop the Katy—no matter who gets killed.”

  “And I take it you mean to stop this somebody?”

  “Last time out,” Ryan said stonily, “his men tried to kill me. That tends to make it personal.”

  “Well spoken,” Scullin rumbled. “So tell me now, would you care to join me for supper tonight? I might even offer you a drink.”

  “I’d like that, Tom. Thanks.”

  “One thing, though.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you not bring your shotgun? I promise you’ll find no red heathens at my table.”

  Scullin walked off with a booming laugh. Ryan stared after him a moment, chuckling softly. Then his eyes shifted to the treeline, and all humor melted from his face. The prickly sensation returned and with it his unease.