by Matt Braun
“Dumb bastards never seem to learn.”
“What the hell,” Ryan told him. “It beats hanging.”
“Yeah, I reckon it does.”
Irvin walked off to inspect the other two bodies. Ryan broke open his shotgun, extracted the spent shells, and reloaded. He started upstream to collect their horses.
The stench of Jack Spainyard followed him. His pace quickened, but he knew he’d never walk fast enough. It was a smell no man ever outran.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The delegates began arriving on a sunny March afternoon. Their attendance at yet another Intertribal Council gathering marked a worsening situation. The Katy was now twelve miles into Indian Territory.
The meeting had been called in Muskogee, capital of the Creek Nation. Not quite ten miles from Fort Gibson, the town was located south of the Arkansas River. It was situated roughly in the center of Indian Territory, and therefore accessible to all the delegates. The Five Civilized Tribes, as well as several smaller tribes, were represented.
Hastily convened, the purpose of the meeting was to devise a united strategy. Ancient tribal animosities led inevitably to squabbling and a breakdown in solidarity. But a mood of compromise prevailed as wagons and groups of horsemen made their way into town. Today the council would discuss encroachment by the railroad and various land-grab schemes. And it would address as well an even greater threat—the federal government. Finding some means of staving off the devious tactics of white politicians was a matter of critical urgency.
Nearly two hundred delegates gathered in the local meeting hall. While allied, they represented separate peoples and divergent interests. Yet beneath all the jealousy and bickering, they were nonetheless brothers in blood. There was a businesslike air about them, the somber dignity of those faced with mutual peril. They met to consider the onrush of white domination.
John Ryan was the only tibo present. He rode into Muskogee shortly after the noon hour and dismounted outside the meeting hall. Officially, he was there as the emissary of Colonel Robert Stevens and the Katy railroad. While he could not address the council as a whole, he’d been ordered to work behind the scenes. His ostensible goal was to present the railroad’s position in the most favorable light.
For all that, Ryan was still very comfortable. Stevens, though he never actually stated it, clearly expected him to spy on the proceedings. The council members crowding into the hall resented that their actions would be scrutinized by an uninvited white man. The looks they gave Ryan were laced with hostility. He felt like the worst sort of interloper simply because he was a tibo, and as far as the Indians were concerned, an enemy.
Yet the truth was something altogether different. Ryan was sympathetic to the Indians’ cause and their long list of grievances. His years as a marshal had taught him that the Nations were another world, one that mystified most white men. And he understood that men were generally compelled to destroy what they failed to understand. So human nature, abetted by railroad barons and power-hungry politicians, represented a formidable threat to the Five Civilized Tribes, which were now confronted with the specter of their own dissolution.
At root was the fact that so many people coveted Indian lands. Choice homesteads had already been claimed by a flood of immigrants and settlers. The clamor to open all public lands to settlement had intensified as the westward migration gained strength. With the scarcity of good farmland, one of the primary targets of this movement was the Unassigned Lands. Ceded by the Creeks and Seminoles as a home for tribes yet to be resettled, the Unassigned Lands embraced some two million acres of well-watered, fertile plains. White settlers were also eyeing the Cherokee Outlet.
Spawned by federal bureaucracy, the Cherokee Outlet was one of the government’s more bizarre creations. Earlier in the century, when the Cherokees were resettled in Indian Territory, they were granted seven million acres bordering southern Kansas. At the same time they were also granted a westward corridor, providing a gateway to the distant buffalo ranges. Comprising more than six million acres, roughly 150 miles in length, it was designated as the Cherokee Outlet. The legal status of this strip was confounding from its inception.
While the Cherokees held title to the Outlet, they were forbidden to dispose of it in any manner. Their lands to the east were sufficient for the entire tribe, and as a result they seldom ventured into their western grant. The upshot was a huge land mass that had remained unoccupied for the past thirty years. All that changed when the Chisholm Trail was blazed through Indian Territory. Texas cattlemen discovered a lush stretch of graze watered by the Canadian and Cimarron rivers. The Outlet made a perfect holding ground for longhorns, where cows were fattened out before the final drive to railhead at Abilene. For the last two trailing seasons, vast herds were halted a week or longer in the Outlet.
Word of this grassy paradise spread and quickly drew the attention of homesteaders. In short order, a public outcry arose over both the Unassigned Lands and the Outlet. The settlers were backed by several influential factions, all of which had a vested interest in the western expansion. Politicians and merchant princes and railroads, all looking to feather their own nests, rallied to the cause. Alone in their opposition to settlement were the Five Civilized Tribes. Their dealings with the government over several generations formed a chain of broken pledges and unfulfilled treaties. They saw settlement as a device for the enrichment of white farmers and greedy politicians.
In Washington those same politicians were holding out a wide array of enticements. Efforts were under way to convince the Five Civilized Tribes that their best interests would be served by abolishing tribal government. They were told that full citizenship within the Republic would afford them equality before the law, voting rights, freedom of speech and worship, and improved schooling. Still, based on their experience with tibos’ promises, they had good reason to doubt the faith of the government. So all of them—Cherokee, Creek, Choctaw, Chickasaw, and Seminole—were unwilling to exchange independence for the dubious privilege of citizenship. Indian leaders, as well as the lowliest tribesman, preferred the old ways to the white man’s road.
For all their resistance, however, the Indians were weighed down by a sense of fatalism. Educated men such as William Ross knew that their people were in the process of slow but certain absorption into the white culture. Once the railroad was extended to Texas, pressure would mount for the settlement of Indian Territory. The Five Civilized Tribes numbered less than fifty thousand people, and much of their land lay untilled. The movement to gain control of those millions of acres would ultimately put the tribes in an untenable position. So their leaders sought to forestall the inevitable by devising some bolder delaying action. The Intertribal Council would meet today to consider that very question.
Inside the council hall, Ryan paused at the rear of the room. There was no sanction against whites attending, but he was under no illusions. The men crowding through the door eyed him with a mixture of loathing and outrage. His presence was an affront, for he represented their most visible threat, the railroad. He reminded himself that the journey back to end-of-track would require unusual caution. Another attempt on his life seemed a distinct possibility.
The noise inside the hall was deafening. Knots of men scattered around the room were involved in loud and sometimes heated discussion. It occurred to Ryan that whites had a general misconception about Indians. Contrary to popular belief, the stoic red man with never a flicker of expression rarely existed. Indians were prone to play the part around whites, but in private they were as talkative and expressive as other men.
A familiar face down front caught Ryan’s eye. He saw Major Tappin huddled in conversation with several men. By their dress and features, he took the other men to be of the Creek tribe. Tappin appeared to be lecturing them, emphasizing some point with a sharp, chopping gesture. The listeners nodded, seemingly convinced, their attitude one of absolute respect. With hardly a pause for breath, Tappin went on in a windy monologue.
“Well, Mr. Ryan! We meet again.”
Turning, Ryan found William Ross in the doorway. As principal chief of the Cherokees and president of the Intertribal Council, Ross was the most influential man in the hall. He was slated to give the opening address, and his speech would set the tone of the meeting. The council, in effect, was an instrument of his will.
Ross was scrupulously polite. Yet he regarded Ryan with casual interest, as though their meeting were a trivial event in an otherwise memorable day. He pointedly made no offer of a handshake.
Ryan pretended not to notice. “Quite a crowd,” he said. “Looks like the Nations are well represented.”
“And the railroad too,” Ross noted. “I assume you’re here at Colonel Stevens’ direction?”
“Strictly as an observer.”
“Naturally the Colonel had pressing matters elsewhere. Otherwise I’ve no doubt he would have been here himself.”
The statement was delivered in a wry tone just short of mockery. Ryan smiled, sensing that the barb was not directed at him personally. He lifted one hand in an empty gesture.
“Tell you the truth, Mr. Ross, I don’t think Stevens would be caught within ten miles of Muskogee. He places too high a value on his own hide.”
Ross appraised him with a shrewd glance. “Are you implying that Colonel Stevens would not be safe here?”
“Maybe he would and maybe he wouldn’t. I’m just telling you how he looks at it.”
“And how do you look at it, Mr. Ryan?”
“Well”—Ryan hesitated, still smiling—“let’s say he was wiser to send me.”
“A diplomatic reply, indeed. Your tact does you credit.”
“A man tends to mind his p’s and q’s when he travels alone.”
“Which reminds me,” Ross said with a calm, judicial gaze. “I understand your friends won’t be here today.”
“What friends?”
“Why, Elias Boudinot and Stand Watie, of course.”
Ryan was momentarily taken aback. He recalled quite vividly the assassination attempt on the two kinsmen, but he was amazed that Ross would make any reference to their conspiracy with the railroad. However indirect, it seemed a damaging admission.
“What makes you think they’re friends of mine?”
“You disappoint me, Mr. Ryan. One minute tactful and the next evasive. Are you denying that you know them?”
“No,” Ryan said vaguely. “I’m just saying we’re not what you’d call friends.”
“Would you say the same for your employer?”
“I don’t speak for the Colonel. You’ll have to ask him.”
Ross allowed himself a reserved smile. “I daresay his reply would make interesting listening. Don’t you agree, Mr. Ryan?”
It occurred to Ryan that he’d been given a message. Or perhaps a warning. Ross clearly intended for him to pass it along to Stevens. He inclined his head in a faint nod.
“I’ll tell the Colonel you asked.”
“Yes, do that,” Ross said agreeably. “You might also tell him that Boudinot and Watie make poor allies. Their reputation for double-dealing is well-known.”
“Is that why they’re not here today?”
“I suspect their reasons are the same as Colonel Stevens’.”
There was an implied threat in the reply. Ryan started to pursue it, then changed his mind; there was nothing to be gained in pressing the matter. Better to let things take their natural course. He decided to switch to neutral ground.
“How’s Elizabeth these days?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“Give her my regards. I hope to see her again before too long.”
Ross examined him with a kind of bemused objectivity. “Would you care to stop over tomorrow night? As our houseguest, of course.”
“Well, sure.” Ryan sounded surprised. “I’d like that.”
“I trust it won’t compromise you with Colonel Stevens?”
“If it does, I reckon that’s his worry.”
“In that event, why not travel with me tomorrow? I have my coach here.”
“I don’t mind horseback.”
“Yes, but why ride alone—on a lonely road?”
Ross’ expression was unfathomable. Yet there was no doubt that he’d extended a warning. Once again the deeper purpose was unclear. And once again Ryan decided not to press the issue. Not now.
“Sounds like good advice,” he said. “I’ll plan on riding with you.”
“Excellent.”
Ross stuck out his hand. He smiled and shook Ryan’s hand warmly. The gesture was hardly lost on the men crowded around the doorway. Nor was Ryan unaware that a message had been passed. The handshake guaranteed his safety while in Muskogee. He pumped Ross’ arm once for good measure.
With a nod, Ross walked off. He made his way to the front of the hall, exchanging greetings with several men along the way. Mounting a speaker’s platform, he moved directly to the podium. The hall quieted as he took up a gavel and hammered the delegates into silence.
For a long moment Ross just stood there. The silence thickened. Finally, when the crowd was absolutely still, he raised his arms in greeting. His voice flooded the hall.
“Brothers! Delegates to the council. I welcome you as we unite once more in a noble cause. One people, undivided—red men all!”
The crowd responded with a thunderous ovation. Someone loosed a shrill war whoop, and the delegates roared their approval. In that instant every voice there was fused into a single voice. By unspoken agreement all their past differences and the pettiness of tribal politics were set aside. They joined in a confederation of mind and spirit, proudly defiant.
William Ross spoke for nearly an hour. He talked of the railroads and the audacity with which they planned to exploit the Nations. He railed at the conspiracy of white politicians—and certain Indians—who sought to gain control of the red man’s domain. He addressed himself to Congress and the federal bureaucracy and their unholy alliance with white power brokers to bring about settlement of Indian lands. His arguments struck to the very marrow of present and future dangers.
And at last, his voice alive with rage, he flung down what was both a challenge and a warning. He predicted an effort to bring about the allotment of their lands in severalty, forcing each of them onto the same 160 acres awarded to homesteaders. When that happened, he promised, there would soon follow the dissolution of tribal governments and Indian Territory as they had known it. Finally, calling the railroad a “greedy cormorant,” he warned of a day when 23,000,000 acres of tribal land would be engulfed by a white tide. All that, he concluded, unless the council acted now—today!
Following his speech, Ross opened the floor to debate. Members of each tribe spoke at length, voicing their own concerns. But there was no debate, for every speaker agreed that action—an act signifying resistance—was imperative. By late afternoon a resolution had been drafted to President Ulysses S. Grant. In it the council expressed satisfaction with their own governments and the tribal ownership of land and urged Washington to abide by the provisions of existing treaties. There was nothing in the document to indicate open defiance.
Looking on, Ryan realized that it was all whitewash. The resolution was meaningless, another piece of paper to be ignored by both the President and Congress. But William Ross’ speech had nonetheless in
flamed the other tribes, incited them to act. Unable to challenge Washington, the Indians would instead strike a symbolic blow. And there was no question as to the closest enemy at hand.
They would attempt to stop the railroad.
CHAPTER NINE
A morning mist slowly burned away under the brassy dome of the sky. The coach trundled northward, drawn by a matched pair of carriage horses held to a steady pace by their driver.
Ryan occupied the front seat inside the coach. His horse was hitched to the rear, his saddle deposited in the luggage boot. He was unaccustomed to traveling in style and was impressed by the plush comfort. He thought it befitted an aristocratic Cherokee.
Ross and Tappin were seated opposite him. Earlier, before their departure from Muskogee, Tappin’s greeting had been civil but cool. Aside from small talk, there had been little conversation and no reference to yesterday’s council meeting. The three men had ridden in complete silence for the past half hour.
Ross appeared preoccupied. He was staring out the window with a faraway look in his eyes, as if toward something dimly visible in the distance. He was clearly pondering a matter of great complexity and seemed unaware of his traveling companions.
Watching him, Ryan was absorbed in thoughts of his own. He wondered why he’d been invited to share the coach. It was entirely possible that Ross wanted to protect him from an assassination attempt. By any estimate most of those attending the council meeting had viewed him as their mortal enemy. And as Ross had implied, a lone horseman on the Texas Road presented a tempting target. Yet that raised a question in Ryan’s mind to which there was no ready answer. Why would Ross want to protect him?
No reasonable explanation occurred to Ryan. He had to assume that Ross was responsible for the violence to date. Certainly two assassination attempts had not gone unnoticed by the principal chief of the Cherokees, and it was reasonable to assume that the tribal leader had, at the very least, tacitly sanctioned the attempts. Great men, by their silence, often consigned lesser men to death.