by Matt Braun
Ryan completed his early evening swing through town. He generally made the rounds three times a night, with a break for supper. Tonight there was the usual orderly chaos, with every dive packed to capacity. Off toward Poonville, where red lanterns hung outside the tent bagnios, he saw lines of men waiting their turn. A knot of men gathered outside a saloon fell silent as he walked past. He felt their eyes on his back and imagined what they were thinking. Lots of men would like to be known as the man who killed John Ryan. He wondered how long it would be before someone tried.
Slogging toward the railroad siding, he headed for a meeting with Stevens. Their dealings lately had been very much that of boss and hired hand. Upon returning from Tahlequah, Ryan had presented William Ross’ proposal. As he’d expected, Stevens turned it down flat, refusing all discussion. It was obvious that the railroader wanted things his own way. A truce with the Cherokees, at the cost of angering white politicians, was not to Stevens’ liking. He clearly believed in leaving his bridges unburned.
Stevens had been angered, too, by what he saw as Ryan’s meddling. He failed to understand why Ryan had spent the night at Ross’ home and stayed over still another day. Nor was he pleased that Ryan had taken it upon himself to act as a negotiator. While never stating it, he had implied that Ryan had been disloyal. The matter had been dropped, but Stevens plainly hadn’t forgotten it. Over the ensuing weeks, he’d treated Ryan with stiff formality.
A conference was under way when Ryan entered the private railroad car. Tom Scullin and Otis Gunn, the construction engineer, were seated while Stevens paced back and forth in front of them. Scullin glanced around at Ryan and rolled his eyes in a gesture of resignation. Stevens caught the byplay and halted, his face screwed up in a frown. His gaze shifted to Ryan.
“Have a seat, John,” he said curtly. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Saints preserve us,” Scullin moaned. “Don’t you believe it, Johnny m’boy. He’s set to talk the whole night, and never a pause for breath.”
“Spare me your humor!” Stevens’ voice was peevish. He stabbed a finger at Scullin. “I fail to see how you can joke when we’re so far behind schedule. And falling farther behind every day!”
“Would you have me wail and gnash my teeth? It’s hardly of my choosing.”
“Well, it has to improve. No two ways about it, Tom.”
“Talk to God,” Scullin muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
Stevens looked as though he couldn’t have heard correctly. Scullin shook his head, crossed one massive leg over the other. His eyes were hard.
“You understood me, Colonel.”
“Don’t get on your high horse with me!”
“Then lower your voice,” Scullin grated. “I’ll not be talked to in that manner.”
A strained silence fell over the car. The two men were locked in a staring contest, glowering at one another. After several moments, Stevens broke eye contact. He massaged his forehead as though he had a headache.
“I didn’t mean to snap at you, Tom. It’s just that we’re running out of time.”
“All the same, God’s the one who makes it rain. I’ve no control over the weather.”
“No, of course you don’t,” Stevens agreed. “But that doesn’t change our predicament. We have to reach Cabin Creek by the end of the month. That’s our absolute deadline.”
Scullin pursed his lips. “We’ll never make it.”
“We must!” Stevens declared loudly. “Otherwise we’ll lose the cattle trade for the entire season.”
“Would we now? I’ve always heard that the Texans trail through the end of September. It seems we’ve still got a bit of leeway.”
“You don’t understand. Once they start trailing to Abilene, they’ll continue throughout the summer. Texans are like sheep—they follow the leader!”
“I know it’s a loss—”
“A loss!” Stevens cut him short. “We’re talking about tens of thousands of dollars. And keep in mind, we won’t get a nickel from the Indians in bond issues. It’s a loss that may well drain us financially.”
Scullin made no reply. He looked down at his hands with a sorrowful expression. The worry lines on Stevens’ forehead deepened, and he seemed at a loss to continue. After a moment he turned to Gunn.
“Otis, you’re the engineer. Isn’t there some way around the damnable rain?”
Gunn looked pained, as though his teeth hurt. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and shot a glance at Scullin. At last he drew a deep breath.
“No, sir, there’s not,” he finally answered. “As quickly as the graders get the roadbed leveled, the rain washes it away. We’re lucky if we lay track four hours out of the day.”
“On top of which,” Scullin added, “half the ballast on track we’ve laid gets washed away. We’ve got ourselves a hell of a patch job once the rain stops.”
The discussion hobbled on awhile longer. None of the men was struck by inspiration, and the rain seemed the clear winner. Several minutes later Scullin and Gunn trooped out of the car. Stevens just stood there a moment, staring dully into space. He finally became aware of Ryan.
“Yes, John,” he said absently. “What is it?”
“No idea, Colonel. You sent for me.”
“So I did.” Stevens slumped into a chair. “How are things going in town?”
“Pretty tame,” Ryan said. “Usual fistfights and a couple of stabbings. But nothing too serious.”
“I understand Red Baird showed up. Is that true?”
“Yeah, he’s here.”
“Why didn’t you advise me?”
“No need,” Ryan told him. “Baird’s just another gambler.”
“I have it on good authority that among other things he’s killed a dozen men,” Stevens said shortly.
Ryan smiled, but there wasn’t a trace of amusement in his eyes. “Don’t believe everything you hear. These gunmen like to boost their reputation by several notches. It makes other hardcases leery.”
“The fact remains he’s a killer. And he’s the sort of man who attracts violence. I want to know how you’re going to handle it.”
“I’ve already handled it. When he pulled into town, I had a talk with him. We understand one another.”
“Do you, indeed! And what happens if he kills one of our men?”
“He won’t.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because if he does,” Ryan said, a touch of irony in his voice, “he knows he’ll have to deal with me.”
“And you believe that will stop him?”
“Has so far.”
“I would prefer something a little more final.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
Stevens idly waved his hand. “I suggest you run him out of town.”
“Won’t work,” Ryan said. “If I run Baird off, I’d have to post half the men in town. We’d need an army to make it stick.”
“Perhaps it would serve as an object lesson for the others. By posting Baird, you would serve notice.”
“Only one problem. Unless he causes trouble, I’ve got no reason to post him. Not just on his reputation anyway.”
“I see,” Stevens remarked stiffly. “What if I ordered you to do it?”
Ryan gave him a stony look. “I don’t tell you how to run your railroad.” He paused, slowly stood. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“You seem to forget,” Stevens growled, “you’re working for me.”
“No, I haven’t forgot.”
Ryan walked to the door and let himself out. On the back platform he filled his lungs with air, then let it out slowly. He’d almost lost his temper, and he took that as a bad sign. A damn bad sign, he told himself, for a man in his line of work.
Heading uptown, he realized it was past suppertime. He normally took his meals with Scullin in the car where they both bunked. But tonight he wasn’t interested in further talk about the railroad or Robert Stevens. He decided
instead to try one of the tent cafés near the center of town.
The street was relatively quiet for midevening. Wooden planks, which were priceless in a tent city, served as a crude boardwalk. As he passed a saloon, Ryan came upon three men standing on the plank byway. The customary practice was for idlers to vacate the boardwalk in favor of passersby. As Ryan slowed, his attention directed to the men, a gunshot sounded from within the saloon.
Turning back, Ryan stepped through the entrance to the saloon. He pulled his Colt and held it alongside his leg, his thumb hooked over the hammer. He stopped just inside the entrance, assessing the situation and those involved at a glance. A man was sprawled on the floor, arms flung wide, blood staining his shirtfront. Standing over him, gun in hand, was a man dressed in a flannel shirt and a battered slouch hat. Beside him was a youngster, similarly dressed, who appeared to be in his late teens. Their backs were to the door.
“Drop it! You’re under arrest!”
Ryan’s command splintered the silence like a thunderclap. The spectators, who were fanned out away from the killing, froze in a still tableau. The roughly dressed man hesitated for only a fragment in time. Then, crouching low, he whirled and brought his pistol around. All in a split instant Ryan identified the man as Indian and thumbed the hammer on his Colt. A corner of his mind registered amazement; until now, not one Indian had ventured into the shantytown. In that same instant, suppressing conscious thought, Ryan reverted to instinct. The Colt roared, spitting a streak of flame.
The Indian staggered up against the bar. A bright red dot widened on his chest, and the pistol dropped from his hand. He buckled, folding together like an accordion, and slumped to the floor. The youngster, standing not a foot away, reacted even as the older man fell. He stooped low, scooping up the pistol in a swift movement. There was a metallic click as he cocked the hammer and spun back toward the door. His face was contorted with a mixture of rage and fear.
“Don’t try it!”
Ryan shouted the order too late. The youngster was already turning, arm extended, the pistol level. Their shots cracked almost simultaneously, indistinguishable twin roars. A slug nicked Ryan’s waistband, ripping a belt loop off his pants. Opposite him, the youngster lurched backward, struck dead center below the sternum. Arms windmilling, the Indian youth lost his footing and went down. He fell between the two older men, the pistol still clutched in his hand. His eyes stared into a sightless void.
A leaden moment slipped past. Then Ryan walked forward and stopped before the three bodies. He stared down at the youngster, whose boyish features were set in a rictus of death. His own face went ashen and his stomach knotted in a queasy sensation. The bitter taste of bile flooded his mouth as the truth struck home.
He’d killed a kid.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The shootings created a momentary sensation. Word of the incident swept through town within the hour. Three dead in itself sparked only minor curiosity; violent death was no stranger to those who worked the frontier. It was the dead men themselves who generated such sharp interest.
The victim was an itinerant cardslick. Something of a loudmouth, he’d objected to the presence of an Indian in the saloon. When he became abusive and put a hand on his gun, he had paid for it with his life. The other man, who was Cherokee, shot him dead. Later it was determined that the Cherokee had wandered in with his son, looking for a drink. The bartender never had a chance to inform him that Indians were not served whiskey. Upon entering the saloon, he’d been braced by the gambler.
There was little surprise generated by the outcome. The sporting crowd knew Ryan to be a man of his word. He had threatened swift reprisal for those who resorted to gunplay, and he’d delivered on the promise. No great importance was attached to the fact that the dead man was an Indian. Everyone agreed that Ryan would just as quickly have tangled with a white man. Nor was there any stigma associated with the killing of a Cherokee boy. Opinion on the youngster, who looked to be about seventeen, was fairly uniform among the sporting crowd. He shouldn’t have made a try for the gun.
Ryan was somewhat less charitable about himself. He saw no way to have avoided killing the Cherokee man, and he agreed that the boy had been foolish to take up the fight. But all that failed to absolve him in his own view for killing a kid. He mocked himself for not having faster reactions or greater foresight. He thought he could have handled the situation differently, far more wisely. If he had, the boy would still be alive.
He knew that he was being harsh with himself. His regret was prompted basically by the youngster’s age, and by hindsight. Given the circumstances, his reaction was inevitable. Anyone who tried to kill him, man or boy, foreclosed all other options. When the choice was kill or get killed, there was no choice at all. Still, however much hindsight kindled his regret, he couldn’t entirely accept the reality. He wished that it had somehow ended differently.
The only positive note to the whole affair was that in the two weeks since the shooting, the town had become almost civilized. The sporting crowd, drifters, and outlaws were on their best behavior. A triple burial of the dead out beyond Poonville had proved highly persuasive. There was even talk that the cardsharp had saved time and trouble by getting himself killed by the Indian. Had he lived, according to local wits, Ryan would probably have shot him anyway. The dark humor contained a moral that escaped no one. Don’t start trouble.
Several days later, shortly before sundown, Ryan was on his way to see Stevens. He’d been summoned earlier in the afternoon, but he saw no need for urgency. Since the shootout, he’d been left pretty much to his own devices. Apparently Stevens thought the killings proved his ability to maintain law and order. Ryan considered it ironic that men had to die before he was judged to be doing his job.
Neither Stevens nor the manservant was in evidence when Sally Palmer let him into the private car. He thought about leaving but changed his mind. The railroader’s mistress was not his worry and certainly no reason to walk on eggshells. He decided to wait.
He accepted her offer of a drink, and as she moved to the whiskey cupboard, he seated himself in one of the armchairs. After pouring a stout shot, she returned and halted behind his chair. She leaned forward, holding the glass in front of him. Her other hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
“Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“Around,” he said, taking the glass. “I manage to stay busy.”
“You know what they say,” she purred. “All work and no play …”
“I thought we hashed this out last time.”
She leaned closer. Her hands drifted down his chest, and she put her mouth to his ear. Her breath was like warm velvet.
“Foolish man,” she whispered. “I told you then it wasn’t finished. When I like someone—”
“What the hell’s going on here?”
Stevens’ voice lashed at them. He slammed the door behind him and strode forward. Sally straightened and took a hasty step back from the chair. She flung an arm at Ryan.
“Blame him!” she declared. “I made him a drink and he grabbed my hands. I was trying to get loose.”
Ryan hoisted his glass in a sardonic toast. “Evening, Colonel.”
“Well?” Stevens demanded. “Aren’t you going to answer the charge?”
“Why bother?” Ryan said, smiling. “You know a fairy tale when you hear one—don’t you?”
“Are you telling me she’s lying?”
“You be your own judge.” Ryan gestured in her direction. “Nobody would ever take that for the look of girlish modesty.”
Sally tried to cover her embarrassment with a derisive laugh. Her features only reddened more, and she crossed quickly to Stevens. Her hand gripped his arm.
“Don’t believe him, Bob! He got fresh and I just tried—”
Stevens slapped her. The blow was delivered so sharply that her head snapped back. She staggered, blood trickling from her mouth, her eyes round. She looked shocked.
“I should h
ave known,” Stevens said hotly. “Once a whore, always a whore!”
“No, honey!” she pleaded. “It’s not what you—”
“Go to your room. Now! I’ll deal with you later.”
Sally wavered, slowly turned from him. On the way past she shot Ryan a venomous look. Then, her eyes brimming with tears, she retreated to the bedroom. The door closed with a muted click.
Stevens dropped into a chair. His face was wreathed in a dark scowl and a pulse throbbed in his forehead. There was a moment of oppressive silence as Ryan took a long pull on his drink. Finally, trying for a light touch, he waved his glass.
“Don’t fault her too much, Colonel. She just likes to flirt, that’s all.”
“Indeed?” Stevens snapped. “Am I to understand it’s happened before?”
“Would it make any difference if it had?”
“No,” Stevens said. “To be frank, I expected it long before this. I knew what she was when I brought her along.”
“In that case,” Ryan allowed, “you’ve got no room for complaint. A flirt here and there seems like pretty tame stuff.”
“Perhaps,” Stevens conceded. “But I didn’t call you over here to discuss my personal life. I have an assignment for you.”
Ryan permitted himself a smile. “Aren’t you afraid the town’ll go to hell if I’m away?”
“You’ll only be gone two days.”
“Whereabouts am I going exactly?”
“Tahlequah,” Stevens informed him. “I want you to pay a call on William Ross.”
“Oh?” Ryan appeared surprised. “I recollect you told me to steer clear of Ross.”
“Necessity dictates otherwise. We’re running short of roadbed ties, and I suspect it’s Ross’ handiwork. He’s not above anything.”
“So you want me to negotiate a new delivery schedule?”
“I certainly do,” Stevens acknowledged. “First, it was the rain, and now it’s the damnable Cherokees. We simply can’t afford further delay.”
Ryan understood his concern. The rain had finally abated, and the track layers were now within a few miles of Big Cabin Creek. Once there, Stevens would move to lure a vestige of the cattle trade away from Abilene. A steady supply of railbed ties and bridge timber was therefore crucial. And it was obtainable only from the Cherokees.