by Matt Braun
Protection was ruled out, and Ryan was left to ponder exactly why he was jouncing along in the coach today. The obvious conclusion was that Ross wanted something from him. Ryan waited for Ross to make an overture.
Only the leathery creak of the coach broke the silence. As they forded the Arkansas, Ross finally stirred from his spell. Unfolding an oilskin tobacco pouch, he produced a pipe and started to fill it. He glanced at Tappin, who was staring out the opposite window. Striking a sulphurhead, he puffed a billowy cloud of smoke. He at last looked across at Ryan.
“Are you a student of government affairs, Mr. Ryan?”
Ryan shrugged. “Politics never much interested me.”
“You’re fortunate to have that option. No Cherokee could afford such a luxury.”
“No, I reckon not.”
“Be that as it may, you’re hardly an uninformed man. So perhaps you’d indulge me. I have a question.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Call it idle curiosity …” Ross hesitated, puffing a wad of smoke. “As an observer, what was your opinion of the council meeting?”
“In what respect?” Ryan asked cautiously.
“Quite simply, do you believe we accomplished anything worthwhile?”
“If you’re talking about Washington, I’d have to say no. The resolution you drafted won’t hardly cause a ripple.”
“Another piece of paper to get lost in a blizzard of legislative paper. Is that it?”
“Pretty much.”
Ross considered a moment. “Are you aware there’s a movement in Congress to force territorial status on the Nations?”
“How’s that different than what you’ve got?”
“All the difference in the world, Mr. Ryan. We would then be a unified territory—with one territorial government, not five independent republics.”
“Wouldn’t that give you a stronger voice in Washington?”
“Hardly,” Ross said firmly. “The President would appoint a governor and all the judges. Congress would have veto power over all territorial legislation. And eventually, of course, it would lead to statehood.”
“I take it,” Ryan said with a smile, “you’re not interested in becoming just another state.”
Ross laughed without mirth. “Territorial status and statehood would require the dissolution of the Five Civilized Tribes. It would also violate every treaty we have with the United States government.”
Ryan rocked his hand from side to side. “Maybe your treaties aren’t as ironclad as you thought.”
“On the contrary,” Ross said. “Our sovereignty was guaranteed for ‘as long as water shall flow, as long as grass shall grow.’ Hardly equivocal language, wouldn’t you say?”
“Sounds permanent, all right.”
“Indeed it does. Of course, the coming of the railroad changed all that. As Colonel Stevens once remarked, progress will not be denied.”
Ryan nodded. “Even at the cost of a few treaties.”
“Let me be frank, Mr. Ryan. You seem reasonably sympathetic to our cause. Am I mistaken?”
“No,” Ryan said slowly.
“Then perhaps I might ask a favor. I assume you will deliver a report on the council meeting. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“When you do, be so kind as to consider something. We might very well strike an accommodation with the railroad if there were a quid pro quo. Some assurance that the railroad would assume a neutral stance—not oppose us—in our struggle for sovereignty. Would you relay that message to Colonel Stevens?”
“I’d be glad to.”
“And perhaps,” Ross asked pointedly, “argue the merits of such an arrangement for all concerned?”
It sounded to Ryan like an offer to cease obstructing the railroad, but also as though Ross was trying, very subtly, to enlist him as an ally. Or perhaps plant a spy in Robert Stevens’ camp. He phrased his reply with care.
“I think cooperation would be to everyone’s benefit. That’s what I’ll tell Stevens.”
“What sort of reaction would you anticipate?”
“I doubt he’ll go for it. He’d have to burn a lot of bridges in Washington.”
“A pity,” Ross said ruefully. “Where power and money are concerned, there are no reasonable men. Only winners and losers.”
The statement seemed to Ryan a prediction of sorts. He thought the best the Cherokees could hope for was a delay of the inevitable. Stevens would never adopt a position of neutrality where the Nations were concerned. The Katy, as well as the federal government, had everything to gain by the dissolution of Indian Territory. The Five Civilized Tribes were slated for the chopping block.
The coach rolled past the turnoff to Fort Gibson. Tappin, who had taken no part in their conversation, suddenly found his voice. He gestured out the window.
“Up the road is where two Cherokees were killed just about a month ago.”
Ryan looked at him, fully alert. Tappin’s composure was monumental, and he studied Ryan with an expression of open appraisal. Ross seemed unaware of the byplay. He glanced at Tappin with casual interest.
“Have you determined who was responsible?”
“Not yet,” Tappin said, still staring at Ryan. “But whoever it was, he used a shotgun. It’s not a common murderer’s weapon—among Indians.”
“Indians!” Ross repeated sharply. “Are you implying it was done by whites?”
Tappin shrugged, a sourly amused look on his face. “Why not ask our guest? He’s a former marshal, and reputedly quite a manhunter.” He paused, staring hard at Ryan. “What’s your opinion, Mr. Ryan?”
Ryan gave him a wooden look. “Hard to say, Major. Were there any witnesses?”
“No.” Tappin eyed him with the same disquieting stare. “Not to my knowledge.”
“I never had much luck proving murder without a witness.”
“Well, no matter,” Tappin said with ominous calm. “Someone will come forward sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time.”
Ryan sensed the threat. He was suspect and he was being warned that the killings were not forgotten. He kept his features devoid of expression.
Tappin smiled and resumed staring out the window.
Dinner that night provided still another riddle. As an overnight guest, Ryan was treated with great cordiality. The meal, complemented by suitable wines, centered around imported oysters and a haunch of native venison. Afterward, a fine Napoleon brandy was served to the men.
All through dinner Elizabeth seemed elusive. She was obviously pleased by Ryan’s visit and extended herself to make him feel welcome, but her attitude, while gracious, was distant.
Ryan pretended to notice nothing, but underneath he felt as though he was involved in some sort of charade. Compared to the last time, when they’d toured Tahlequah, Elizabeth was not herself. Her natural vivacity was muted, and she seemed on edge, curiously tense. He wondered if her father’s presence was inhibiting her. He concluded instead that it was attributable to his presence.
Later that evening she confused him even more. Following dinner, Ross engaged him in conversation in the drawing room. Their discussion ranged over a variety of subjects, but they didn’t talk of politics and the railroad. Elizabeth listened quietly, rarely offering a comment. Then as she excused herself for the night, she seemed to do a complete turnabout. She invited him to stay over another day on the pretext that he’d not yet seen all of the Cherokee Nation. Her manner was so charming that he readily agreed.
Early the next morning they drove off in an open carriage. Elizabeth wore a fashionable dark blue dress trimmed with gray piping and bone buttons. Her hair was drawn back sleekly, accentuating the contours of her face, and atop her head sat a jaunty little hat. She was animated and sparkling, chattering gaily, her eyes shining like black pearls.
Elizabeth’s feelings veered wildly. In Ryan’s absence, she’d found herself lost in long reveries about their last ride together. She knew it was witless and silly,
for they were separated by his continuing loyalty to the railroad. But now, seated beside him, she was unable to control herself. She felt dizzy with happiness.
Elizabeth took him to see Park Hill. Some five miles south of Tahlequah, the small community was known as the “Athens of the Cherokee Nation.” Here were two elegant brick churches, one Methodist and one Presbyterian, both fashioned along the lines of a New England meetinghouse. But most impressive was the Park Hill Mission, which was funded by religious donations. A printing shop operated by the mission produced schoolbooks that were distributed throughout the Nations. Elizabeth was quick to tell Ryan that some books were also printed in the Cherokee language.
Sequoyah’s invention of a tribal alphabet had stamped out illiteracy among the Cherokees. In the years that followed, all schools in the Nation were mission operated, sponsored by religious organizations. Then in 1841 the tribal council established a formal educational system, with eighteen elementary schools. Trained schoolteachers were engaged, log schoolhouses were built, and every child was assured an education. The program, Elizabeth pointed out, marked a milestone in Cherokee progress.
Ten years later a system of higher education was established. Seminaries, one for boys and another for girls, were constructed outside Park Hill. The buildings were brick and stone, three stories high, with massive columns on the front veranda. Here, among other subjects, the older children were taught Latin and algebra, grammar and science. While their schooling was conducted in English, they were also grounded in their mother tongue. The most promising students were later sent to colleges and universities back east. In effect, the Cherokee Nation was looking to the future, building from within. The best of each generation was trained in business and law and medicine.
Elizabeth was justifiably proud. She was also somewhat chauvinistic about her people and not the least bit ashamed of it. She boasted that the public schools, particularly the seminaries, surpassed white institutions in both Kansas and Texas. Ryan accepted the statement, for he found himself impressed by the tribe’s vision and far-reaching planning. He saw now that these same qualities had been brought to the Cherokees’ struggle for sovereignty. William Ross was already planning a generation ahead.
As they turned from Park Hill, Ryan’s thoughts took on a personal note. He sensed she was attracted to him, but it was hard to tell with educated women. Particularly one whose moods were so damnably mercurial. A wrong move too early might easily scare her off.
The point quickly became moot. Elizabeth’s mood underwent a transformation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her expression change. The gaiety was replaced by a troubled look, and her shoulders seemed to tense. Her hands were clenched in her lap.
“John?”
“Yes.”
“Would you mind … ?” She faltered, then hurried on. “Before we get back to the house, may I ask you something?”
“Of course,” Ryan said. “What is it?”
“Father told me about your talk on the way from Muskogee. He said he thought you were unusually sympathetic toward the Cherokees.”
“I suppose that’s a fair statement.”
She gave him a searching look. “Were you sincere with him or just being diplomatic?”
“I’m no diplomat,” Ryan said, glancing at her. “Either I say what I think or I don’t say it.”
“Then you meant it?” she asked anxiously. “When you agreed to speak with Colonel Stevens?”
“I’ll talk to him. But as I told your father, I doubt it’ll change anything.”
“It could … if you tell him the right thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Convince him,” she said quite intently, “that he will never build the railroad unless he accepts my father’s offer. There are men who mean to halt the construction—at any cost.”
“You’re talking about Cherokees, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Who are they?”
“I have no idea.”
“Does your father?”
Her chin tilted. “No, he doesn’t. But he knows they exist, many of them.”
“So he put you up to telling me about them—”
“No!”
“—and asking me to pass it along to Stevens.”
“Please believe me,” she implored, “he has no idea I’ve told you, and it would make him very angry if he knew.” She paused and her voice dropped. “He’s ashamed of what they’re doing, going back to the old ways. He’s trying to stop them.”
“How can he stop them if he doesn’t know who they are?”
Her voice was barely audible. “I’m afraid he will find out, afraid for him.”
Ryan looked deep into her eyes. He read no guile there, and some inner voice told him to believe her. He popped the reins. It seemed important that he return to end-of-track, and quickly.
He had to have a long talk with Stevens.
CHAPTER TEN
Track laying slowed to a virtual halt by early April. Heavy rains turned the prairie into a quagmire, making it impassable for days at a time. End-of-track was scarcely fifteen miles from the Kansas border.
With construction at a standstill, Stevens ordered the supply depot brought forward. A siding was built off the main roadbed, and trains began chuffing back and forth. In a matter of days a mountain of construction supplies and equipment was unloaded on the soggy prairie. The Katy had established its first terminus.
Over the next two weeks the terminus was transformed into an anthill of commerce. Word went out that the Katy had shifted its supply depot, and the race was on. Gamblers, cutthroats, and harlots—all scenting fast money on the wind—arrived by wagon and horseback. Sprawling over the prairie, a shantytown went up as the horde descended on end-of-track.
A squalid, ramshackle affair, the town was constructed of poles and canvas. The street, such as it was, consisted of saloons, dance halls, and gaming dens. The lone hostelry, large as a circus tent, reeked of stale sweat and filthy blankets and charged four bits a night for a rickety cot. Where a grove of trees towered over the prairie, there was a dingy collection of one-room shanties. Among the sporting crowd it was known as Poonville, for it was where the whores practiced their profession. The ladies operating these dollar-a-throw brothels were an enterprising breed, offering something to suit the tastes of any man. Yet they were a ragtag bunch, unkempt and coarse, the lower rung of whoredom. Only the fact that their customers were blinded by lust kept them in business.
On any given night the town was crawling with renegades—bandits, cardsharps, wanted killers—a fraternity of rogues seeking sanctuary, whose chief goal in life was to put distance between themselves and the law. Brawls were a sporting pastime. Among men who prided themselves on being ornery as well as tough, any dispute was an excuse for kick-and-stomp. On a nightly basis, cock-of-the-walk squared off against bull-of-the-woods, and blood flowed.
Tonight, with the street axle deep in mud, the town resembled an unholy carnival. Huge Studebaker wagons piled with freight and pulled by triple spans of mules clogged the street. Hitch racks outside every shanty were jammed with saddle horses, and raucous laughter from indoors left small doubt that firewater was being dispensed in liberal doses. From dance halls came the sprightly wail of fiddles, and an occasional banjo twanged strident chords. Hundreds of men joined in a rowdy jostling match as they made their way from one dive to the next.
The shantytown was a lure for a particular breed of men who roamed the western plains, men whose appetites ran to fast women, popskull whiskey, and games of chance.
Ryan’s job here was a monumental task, and constantly dangerous. For all practical purposes, he was the law at end-of-track. Day and night he was required to maintain order among outcasts and outlaws gathered from across the frontier, and thus far, only his reputation had prevented a serious outbreak of violence. He’d not yet been forced to kill anyone.
When the sporting crowd arrived, Ryan had quickly laid down a code of conduc
t. Fisticuffs, even rough-and-tumble brawls, were permissible as long as an altercation did not lead to killing. Theft and robbery, whether by whore or penniless drifter, would result in swift justice. Gunplay, whatever the provocation, would not be tolerated. Anyone who killed or resorted to a gun would be called to answer for it. And it was known that Ryan would exact harsh payment.
Still, throughout the town there was a prevailing attitude of devil take the hindmost. The sporting crowd was comprised of fly-by-night operators, rootless vagabonds. Their interest was in fleecing the railroad workers, not settlement of the land or legitimate business. In fact, any attempt to settle on Indian land was punishable by a federal fine of $1,000. The single exception was for a white man who had intermarried within the Five Civilized Tribes. Such an individual was exempt from normal restrictions and could not only claim land, but found it considerably easier to obtain tribal license for certain types of businesses.
There was no license, however, for trading in whiskey. By federal law spirits in any form, whether liquor, wine, or beer, were illegal in Indian Territory. For selling or bartering, there was a $500 fine. Smuggling or attempting to transport alcohol into the Nations brought a $300 fine. Operating a still for the manufacture of spirits carried a fine of $1,000. Yet no one paid any attention to the law. Popskull and rotgut were stable commodities of trade throughout the tribes.
The crux of the problem was enforcement. Federal marshals were few and far between, due to the reduction in manpower ordered by the Fort Smith court. Whiskey smugglers risked small chance of arrest, and nowhere was the fact more obvious than at end-of-track. Freight wagons loaded with barrels and wooden cases rolled into the shantytown on a regular schedule. All of this compounded Ryan’s problem, particularly after dark. Drunks, like vampires, were more active at night.
On only one front had Ryan been allowed a respite. Hampered by the rains, railroad construction was proceeding at a slow crawl. In the last week the track-laying crews had advanced less than a mile, and with the Katy stalled, the threat from the Cherokees had momentarily disappeared. Weather had seemingly accomplished what the Indians wished for most. The white man’s iron horse was stopped cold.