by Matt Braun
“You mustn’t fail me,” Stevens went on. “You have to persuade Ross to live up to his agreement. We must have those ties!”
“Easier said than done,” Ryan observed. “What makes you think he’ll listen to me?”
“Ross is a pragmatic man. He can use you as a pipeline to me. And vice versa. He’ll listen because he doesn’t want to lose your … services.”
Only later that night did Ryan appreciate the irony of it. Lying in his bunk listening to Scullin snore, it occured to him that pragmatism was color-blind. A Cherokee was using him no less than a lily-white railroader.
“Your Colonel Stevens is a fool!”
“I hope that doesn’t mean I’m here on a fool’s errand.”
“Don’t bandy words with me, Mr. Ryan.”
“Never entered my head. I’m not that good with words.”
Ryan had arrived less than an hour ago. He’d been ushered into Ross’ study, all the while wondering if Elizabeth was home. After observing the formalities, he had relayed the gist of last night’s conversation with Stevens. The reaction was scarcely more than he’d expected.
Seated opposite him, William Ross looked swelled with indignation. His copper complexion was noticeably redder, and his mouth clamped in a tight line. He stared at Ryan with a bemused expression.
“Tell me,” he said at length. “Why haven’t I heard from you?”
“From me?” Ryan said, genuinely puzzled. “Why’d you expect to hear from me?”
“For one thing, I asked you to carry a message to Stevens. For another, it’s been well over a month since I made that request. Simple courtesy would have dictated a reply.”
“Stevens wasn’t interested in your proposal. I figured it was up to him to tell you so.”
“Let me be frank,” Ross said in an exasperated tone. “When a week or so passed, it was obvious that Stevens wasn’t interested. His failure to communicate that decision was hardly unexpected.” He paused and slowly shook his head. “I was very disappointed in you, however. I thought we had an understanding.”
Ryan suddenly got the message. In subtle terms, he was being told how the game of diplomacy worked. Delivery on the railbed ties had purposely been delayed. The purpose, aside from impeding construction, was to prompt another visit by him to Tahlequah. So Stevens had been right all along. William Ross would go to great lengths to keep a friend in the enemy camp.
“Next time,” Ryan finally replied, “I’ll make it my business to keep you informed. As you said, it’s nothing more than simple courtesy.”
Ross nodded. “Good. I think it will work to everyone’s advantage.”
“Now”—Ryan cocked his head with an inquisitive smile—“about the ties …”
“An oversight that’s easily corrected. I’ll instruct whoever’s reponsible to speed the delivery.”
Ross hesitated, fingers steepled in a thoughtful pose. “I understand Stevens has his eye on the Texas cattle trade. Tell me how it’s going.”
Ryan was quicker this time. He understood that he was being asked to enter into a trade. He would secure Ross’ cooperation in exchange for information. And he had no doubt that the crafty old Cherokee knew most of the details anyway.
He told Ross almost everything. What he left out was in deference to the man who paid his wages. He thought Robert Stevens would have approved.
Their discussion drew to a close some minutes later. From Ross’ manner it was apparent he had satisfied himself regarding the Katy and the cattle trade. While the financial problems of the railroad had not been mentioned, it was unnecessary to state the obvious. No one had to tell Ross that the Katy was actively seeking a new source of funds.
Toward the end Ryan’s thoughts turned to another subject entirely. He waited for Ross to broach the matter of the wild terminus town and the saloon shootout. But there was no reference to the Cherokee father and son now buried alongside a white man. Somewhat gingerly, he finally raised the subject himself.
“You’re aware,” he said, “that two of your people were killed recently.”
“I am,” Ross said gravely. “The Light Horse Police keep me very well informed.”
There was no need to pursue the statement. Ryan took it as confirmation that the railroad was under constant surveillance. He merely nodded and went on.
“Then you know I’m the one who killed them.”
“Yes, I do.”
Ross’ expression was unreadable. The silence deepened as Ryan waited for him to ask questions, demand the particulars. But the Cherokee sat there, silent and immobile, asking nothing. After a moment Ryan felt obligated to resume.
“I want to explain,” he said. “How it happened—and why.”
Ross held up a hand. “I require no explanation. I’ve already been advised of the details.”
“Would you mind my asking—”
“Yes, I would,” Ross cut him off. “It’s not important who advised me. Suffice it to say I am aware of how it happened, and why.”
Ryan hesitated, staring at him. “I’d like to hear the verdict. Do you blame me or not?”
“I see no reason to render judgment. That’s a matter between you and your conscience.”
“What if I said my conscience is clear?”
“As I told you,” Ross answered, “I require no explanation. However, you may want to have a talk with Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth?”
“Why do you sound surprised? She’s fond of you, and she’d grown to trust you—until this happened.”
“Until I killed the boy?”
“Yes,” Ross said softly. “As her father, I might offer a suggestion. Give her some rational justification for why it was necessary.”
“I appreciate the advice. But I’m not sure I understand it. Why are you so concerned?”
“For the simplest of reasons, Mr. Ryan. Elizabeth is my daughter.”
The conversation ended on that note. After a handshake, Ryan walked from the study. He knew he’d been judged by the father, and none too harshly. He wasn’t all that certain about the daughter.
He went to look for her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Stable hands were mucking out the stalls. The interior of the building was dim and musty, ripe with the smell of dung. Outside a late afternoon sun tilted into the westerly quadrant.
Ryan waited near the stables. A house servant had informed him that Elizabeth was off riding. Apparently she was something of a horsewoman and went for a ride every afternoon. Upon hearing that, he’d registered no great surprise. She struck him as someone who would enjoy spirited horses.
South of the stables several horses were grazing in a fenced pasture. Ryan stood with his arms folded over the top rail of the fence, watching them. The horses were clearly blooded stock, with sleek lines and admirable conformation. He thought it very much in keeping with the position and prestige of their owner. Among aristocratic Cherokees, there was none who ranked higher than William Ross. He lacked only a scepter to be king.
Thinking back to their conversation, Ryan was somewhat saddened. In his view William Ross was fighting a losing battle. A valiant effort, with noble ideals, but one that was certain to fail. The forces allied against the Civilized Tribes were too strong, too determined. In a very real sense, the white man held all the cards in a game the Indian was still learning to play. Men such as Ross could postpone the inevitable through diplomacy and transitory political alliances. But delay, even for another generation, would not alter the end result. Eventually the Cherokees, and all the other tribes, would be stripped of sovereignty. Their days of independence were numbered.
Still, as he reflected on it, Ryan couldn’t help but admire the Cherokee leader. Ross was a farsighted man of intellect and wisdom. Without question, he saw what the future held for the Five Civilized Tribes. Yet he never flagged in his efforts to outfox Washington and the white power structure. Almost alone, he continued to mobilize the Indians and hammer out a spirit of unity among the t
ribes. Except for his dogged zeal, his refusal to admit defeat, the battle would have been lost long ago. By sheer force of character, he spurred his people to fight for the next generation.
All of which left Ryan with mixed feelings. His sympathy toward the Indians conflicted with his practical nature. Today, for no apparent reason he’d come very close to forming a private alliance with William Ross. Since it was of no benefit to him, common sense dictated that he should avoid such entanglements. Yet he’d walked a narrow line between his loyalty to Stevens and his affinity with Ross. He wondered why he’d done it, and no ready explanation presented itself. He knew it wasn’t conscience, and certainly he was no idealist. So that brought him around to perhaps the only reason that made any sense. He found it difficult to admit that he’d done it for a girl.
Pondering on it, he was tempted to laugh. She had been uppermost in his mind since the day they’d met. Ostensibly, every trip he’d made to Tahlequah had been on railroad business. But beneath a surface of pretext, the underlying reason was of a more personal nature. He wanted to see her, and he had capitalized on every opportunity that brought him to the Cherokee capital. However hard to admit, there seemed no getting around it. Otherwise he wouldn’t have waited for nearly an hour like some moonstruck schoolboy and worried all the while about the reception he would receive.
Presently Elizabeth appeared over a low rise of ground. She was riding sidesaddle, and as she approached, Ryan thought she looked more the eastern lady than a young Cherokee. Her clothes were informal, with a short jacket, a pleated skirt, and dark, supple boots. She was bareheaded, her cheeks spanked by the wind.
As she neared the stables, Ryan took a closer look at her mount. A magnificent stallion, the horse was barrel-chested, all sinew and muscle, standing fifteen hands high. His color was blood bay, with black mane and tail, and his hide glistened in the sun like dark blood on polished redwood. She held him to a canter, and he moved with the pride of power, hooves scarcely touching the earth. His nostrils were flared, testing the wind.
Elizabeth reined to a halt before the stables. She glanced at Ryan as he walked forward, and her cheeks seemed to flush even more. Her eyes were curiously impersonal, and she avoided looking directly at him. With casual grace, she dismounted by herself and waited, reins in hand. Ryan tipped his hat, forced himself to smile.
“I admire your taste in horses.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, not returning his smile. “When did you arrive?”
“A little while ago,” Ryan lied. “I had business with your father.”
“You’re quite the messenger these days.”
Her tone stung. There was an edge to her voice just short of sarcasm. Ryan knew he was being rebuffed, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. He tried another smile.
“Truth is, I’ve been upgraded to negotiator. Stevens sent me down to work out delivery on railroad ties.”
“What a shame.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“A shame that your construction crews are at work again. We’d hoped the rains would last longer.”
“Any more rain and we’d be taking boats, not trains.”
“Given the choice, I would much prefer a boat. But then, Cherokees aren’t allowed a choice, are they?”
Ryan was saved from a reply. A stable boy hurried outside, and Elizabeth tossed him the reins. The stallion rolled his eyes, prancing sideways, then allowed himself to be led away. An awkward silence was punctured by the thud of his hooves on the stable floor.
“I was thinking—” Ryan stopped and began over. “There’s something I’d like to explain to you.”
“You owe me no explanation.”
“Your father said the same thing. But he wasn’t mad at me.”
“Nor am I,” she said coolly. “I think ‘disgust’ would be the better term.”
“Well, you call it what you want. All I’m trying to do is tell you my side of the story.”
“Would it really make a difference?”
“It might,” Ryan said earnestly. “You’ve got nothing to lose by listening.”
Elizabeth studied him a moment. “All right,” she said. “You can walk me up to the house. I’ll listen until we’re there.”
Ryan fell in beside her. He felt tongue-tied, almost at a loss for words in the face of her anger. But it was a short walk, and he had a lot of explaining to do. He cleared his throat, made a start.
“You blame me for killing the boy, don’t you?”
“Should I blame someone else?”
“How about his father?”
She glanced at him, aghast. “You’re not serious!”
“Why not?” Ryan countered. “He brought the boy there and he killed a man practically over nothing. The way I look at it, he put the boy in harm’s way.”
“And that absolves you?”
“No, it doesn’t. But it makes it easier to understand what happened.”
“What happened requires no understanding. You were simply doing your job, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, I was,” Ryan said defensively.
“And your job requires you to kill”—her voice dropped, suddenly harsh—“to kill even children.”
“Have you asked yourself why?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re wrong there,” Ryan said hotly. “That boy was just about man-size. He had a gun in his hand, and he tried to kill me. He fired first!”
“What did you expect?” she demanded. “He’d just seen you kill his father.”
“Who also tried to shoot me!”
“And there was no way to stop him? No way to avoid killing him?”
“None,” Ryan said. “He made his play and I had no choice.”
“Oh?” Her voice was icy. “Does that mean you chose to kill the boy too?”
“Hell, yes!” Ryan growled. “What was I supposed to do—let him kill me?”
“Why, of course not. That would spoil your record, wouldn’t it?”
“What record?”
“Come now, John, don’t be modest. I understand you’ve killed four Cherokees since going to work for the railroad. Or does father and son make it six?”
Ryan gave her a quick, guarded look. “Who told you that?”
“No one you know,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s just a rumor I’ve heard now and again. I hadn’t put any faith in it—before.”
“But you do now?”
“Yes,” she said, staring straight ahead. “I believe every word of it.”
“Then I reckon it doesn’t matter what I say. You’ve already got your mind made up.”
She stopped abruptly. Her eyes blazing, she turned on him, forcing him to pull up short. Her voice was tinged with scorn.
“You lied to me, John! The first time we met, you told me you would quit the railroad if it meant policing Indians. Do you remember saying that?”
“Sure I remember, and nothing’s changed. I’m not policing Indians.”
“Oh, but isn’t that a fine distinction. You just kill them, is that it?”
“I kill anyone who tries to kill me. And I don’t make excuses for it.”
Ryan left her standing there. He strode off toward the stables, calling for his horse. She watched after him a moment, murmuring a low, indelicate curse. Then, slowly, her eyes misted with tears.
She turned and fled into the house.
Some three weeks later the bridge was completed over White Oak Creek. Tom Scullin drove the work gangs relentlessly, starting at dawn the next day. By sundown track had been laid south of the bridge onto a broad expanse of prairie.
Waiting there was Elias Boudinot’s town site. Almost two square miles had been fenced off with posts and rough-sawn lumber. Under Cherokee law an individual could claim as much land as he was able to fence and improve. Technically, it was designated his homestead, but there was no limitation on the amount of acreage one man could claim. The law, enacted in a simpler time, had been designed for fa
rmers.
As a Cherokee national, Boudinot was entirely within his rights. The stretch of prairie was situated on unoccupied tribal lands, and his claim, though hardly qualifying as a homestead, was valid. Still, if he had not violated the letter of the law, he had cleverly twisted it in spirit. A sign nailed to a tree identified the site as the town of Vinita. Boudinot had named it after a talented white sculptress who was rumored to be his paramour in distant Washington.
By no small coincidence, the Atlantic and Pacific survey line crossed west to east at this exact spot. While the rival railway was still twenty-five miles short of the juncture, Stevens had taken no chances. He pushed Scullin to span White Oak Creek and thereby disrupt his only competitor. Boudinot’s massive land grab was the icing on the cake, a shrewd and well-orchestrated move. The Atlantic and Pacific would lose a month or more surveying a route around the town site.
Katy representatives had already fanned out through Texas. They carried the message that recently erected loading pens would cut the trail time to railhead by several days. With a bridge over White Oak Creek, the new town site was now being touted as a trade center. Overland freighters, engaged to haul from end-of-track southward, were standing by for the first run into Texas. There the trade goods would be exchanged for cotton and hides and brought back for transshipment to eastern markets. Vinita was already a bright new dot on the map and hardly a day old.
By the second day the town site had assumed a bustling look of permanence. The sporting crowd deserted their shanties up the line and moved bag and baggage to the new railhead. With them came the drifters and the outlaws, a creaking caravan of overland freighters, and the girls who populated Poonville. A tent town sprang up south of White Oak Creek overnight, and it was larger than anything yet seen. Boudinot, for cash in hand, rented lots previously laid out to accommodate the invasion. By nightfall, Vinita was a white settlement deep in the Cherokee Nation.