by Matt Braun
He wondered if he’d been snookered again.
The water appeared dark against the washed blue of a plains sky. A massive ferryboat stood docked on the north bank of the river. Above it, dotting the shoreline, were the outbuildings of Colbert’s Ferry.
Ryan, with Otis Gunn at his side, rode into the compound about midafternoon. Their trip had consumed four days, traversing the lands of the Creeks, Choctaws, and Chickasaws. The Texas Road, which angled southwestward through the Nations, brought them directly to the ferry landing. On the opposite side the Texas shoreline provided a backdrop for the Red River.
Grimy with trail dust, Ryan and Gunn passed themselves off as butt-sore travelers. They found Ben Colbert on the porch of the main house. He was a grizzled character, with a broad, good-humored face and a shock of white hair. His jaw was stuffed with tobacco and a quart of whiskey rested beside his chair. He informed them that he was now a man of leisure and the overseer of the operation. A gaggle of relatives attended to running the ferry.
Gunn engaged the old man in conversation. With little prompting, Colbert drifted off into a recollection of days past. In 1858, with hardly a nickel to his name, he’d obtained a tribal license to operate a ferry. At the same time he had claimed a Chickasaw head right of several hundred acres. The land included a wide stretch of river frontage and fanned out northward from his homestead.
The venture had prospered from the outset. Wagon trains loaded with heavy freight were ferried back and forth. The Butterfield Stage Line, with coaches operating between Missouri and Texas, used the ferry on a regular basis. Before long a small town appeared on the Texas side directly above the ferry landing. The inhabitants grandly named it Red River City, even though its principal commerce was the sale of rotgut whiskey. And through it all, like a link in a chain, the ferry remained the connecting tie between Texas and Indian Territory.
“Bad times or good,” Colbert concluded, “everybody needs a way across the river. I’ve done right well for myself over the years.”
“You surely have,” Gunn beamed. “Tell you the truth, I’m surprised you don’t have competition. How come another ferry never got started?”
Colbert squirted a jet of tobacco juice over the edge of the porch. He wiped his mouth and let go a wheezy chuckle. “Only one license ever gonna be granted, and that’s mine. I got blood kin on the Chickasaw council.”
“Just the same, you have a real moneymaker here. I’d imagine lots of people have tried to buy you out.”
“Not so many. Even then, most of ’em tried to steal it. Figgered me for one of them ignorant Injuns.”
“Their mistake,” Gunn said, his voice bland as butter. “If you’d been offered a fair price—who knows? You might very well have been tempted.”
Colbert cocked his head, appraising the other man with a crafty look. “You talk like you got somethin’ on your mind. Whyn’t you toss ’er out and let’s have a look-see?”
Gunn gave him a slow nod. “My partner and I,” he said, gesturing at Ryan, “like the looks of your operation. We might just make you an offer to buy it, lock, stock, and barrel.”
Colbert shifted his quid to the off cheek. “You talkin’ about the land too?”
“I certainly am. We’d want the land, the house—everything.”
“You’re out of luck, then. A Chickasaw can’t sell land to a white man. Only thing for sale is the ferryboat license.”
“Not necessarily,” Gunn said cautiously. “I’ve heard there are ways around tribal laws.”
“Yeah, there are,” Colbert said with a lopsided smile. “If you’re willin’ to marry yourself a Chickasaw woman.”
“If not me,” Gunn advised him, “then one of my associates. We can always find a man who’s eligible and willing.”
Colbert chortled out loud. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You come here to talk a deal!”
“I’ll do more than talk, Mr. Colbert. I’m prepared to put my money where my mouth is.”
Colbert turned out to be a shrewd haggler. After an hour or so of hard bargaining, they finally struck a deal. The figure agreed upon included Colbert’s land, all the buildings, and the ferry. Only one item in the negotiations remained tentative. Gunn would have to arrange for a bridegroom before the deal could be finalized.
Some while later the conversation ended with a round of handshakes. Gunn and Ryan collected their horses and rode back the way they’d come. A short distance up the road, Ryan finally succumbed to curiosity. He fixed the engineer with a thoughtful stare.
“It’s his land you’re after and not the ferry, or did I miss something?”
“No, you’re right, it’s the land. The Katy certainly doesn’t need a ferryboat.”
“What’s so important about his land?”
Gunn laughed heartily. “A small fortune, John. Some might even call it a bonanza.”
As they rode, Gunn briefly explained the details. Stevens’ goal was to secure large tracts of land on both sides of the river wherever the Katy crossed the Red. The arrangement would be kept secret until all the railroad’s plans were completed. To that end three different survey lines would be run to the river. No one would know where the Katy actually intended to cross until it happened.
“I don’t get it,” Ryan said when he finished. “Why three survey lines?”
“Town sites!” Gunn announced. “We’ll run one line upriver to Preston. Another will be downriver, somewhere around Sherman. And the third to Colbert’s Ferry.”
“Then you’ll play one off against the other, Sherman against Preston, is that the idea?”
“On the button,” Gunn admitted. “Whoever makes the most land available, that’s where we’ll cross the Red River. We intend to sell a world of town lots.”
Ryan gave him the same disquieting stare. “So your offer to Colbert wasn’t legitimate. You’re just hedging your bet?”
“Colbert’s Ferry is our ace in the hole. If things fall through elsewhere, we’ve always got Colbert on tap. Not to mention Red River City.”
“What about it?”
“We could buy the whole town dirt cheap—and own both sides of the river!”
“Why not do it, then?”
“We want to create a boomtown atmosphere. And that’s easier done where a town already exists. Preston or Sherman, either one would do very nicely.”
Ryan shook his head. “Stevens must’ve lost a lot of sleep figuring that out.”
“Never underestimate him, John. He’s as shrewd as they come.”
“And tricky too.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothin’,” Ryan said. “Just thinking out loud.”
Gunn gave him a funny look. “Well anyway, we’re on the verge of something great. And you’re part of it, John! Just think of that.”
“I am thinking. All the time.”
Ryan’s thoughts would have surprised Gunn. He felt no triumph in the railroad’s progress, only sympathy for the old Chickasaw. One way or another, he told himself, Ben Colbert was out of business. Whether the railroad crossed at Colbert’s landing or elsewhere was immaterial. Ferryboats were about to become a thing of the past. Ryan understood that Colbert’s only hope was Gunn’s ace in the hole: a breakdown in negotiations with all the other towns along the river, which would leave the railroad no choice but to cross at Colbert’s Ferry.
Ryan silently cast his own vote for the old Chickasaw.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A searing midday sun beat down on the work gangs. Graders cursed their mules while laborers wrestled railroad ties into place on the roadbed. The men’s faces were streaked with a mixture of sweat and choking dust.
Ryan rode past on his horse. The morning, like so many other mornings, had been spent scouting ahead of the construction site. As he’d come to expect, there was nothing out of the ordinary, no sign of trouble. He hadn’t seen a Cherokee for the last three days.
The grind of a daily routine was again starting to wear on him. Over a week had pas
sed since his return from Colbert’s Ferry. As yet, there was no clue that the railroad was slated to bypass Fort Gibson. Soon enough, however, the tracks would take a sharp turn to the southwest and angle toward Three Forks. Then, without question William Ross and the Cherokees would discover Stevens’ plan.
What would happen at that point was anyone’s guess. After another tedious morning, Ryan was in no mood to forecast the future. His mind turned instead to the noonday meal as he neared the supply train. He was contemplating a hot cup of coffee when he spotted Sam Irvin. The marshal stood talking with another white man whose strident voice carried up and down the roadbed. Crowded around them were a half dozen Cherokees, listening intently. All along the tracks, railway workers had paused to watch.
Several things went through Ryan’s mind. He wondered what brought Irvin to end-of-track. Even more, he questioned why a deputy U.S. Marshal was traveling in the company of six dour-faced Cherokees and a white man who appeared mad with rage. He wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to hear the reasons.
Approaching them, Ryan inspected the group closely. The white man was lean and rawboned, with shifty eyes and sleek, glistening hair. He wore mule-eared boots and a slouch hat, and strapped around his hip was a Remington pistol. The Cherokees were armed with an assortment of carbines and vintage muskets and appeared ready to take the warpath at any moment. Their features were taut with barely constrained anger.
Ryan dismounted, hitching his horse to the end of a flatcar. As he started forward, the marshal looked around and saw him. Irvin silenced the white man with a gesture and turned away. He hurried along the roadbed, motioning Ryan to stay back. His expression was a mix of disgust and simmering exasperation. He stopped where Ryan waited beside the flatcar.
“Howdy, John.”
“Sam.” Ryan nodded, cutting his eyes toward the white man. “Who’s your friend?”
“Friend, hell!” Irvin grunted. “He’s a shiftless no-account by the name of Bud Wilson.”
“And the Cherokees?”
“They’re relatives. Or maybe in-laws would be better. He was married to a Cherokee woman.”
“What do you mean was?” Ryan inquired.
“His wife’s dead,” Irvin replied. “Got herself killed pretty near a week ago.”
“Well,” Ryan sighed heavily, “I guess I’m going to hear it anyway. So go ahead and tell me. Who killed her?”
Irvin told the story quickly, without frills. Bud Wilson and a Cherokee man, Frank Proctor, were enemies of long standing. A chance meeting in Tahlequah led to an exchange in results, and Proctor pulled a gun. In the ensuing melee, Wilson’s wife was mortally wounded while Wilson himself managed to escape unharmed. Proctor was arrested by the Light Horse Police and charged with murder.
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Ryan remarked when he had finished. “What’s the problem?”
Irvin looked pained. “Proctor goes to court tomorrow. Word leaked out that the charges will be dropped.”
“Any truth to it?”
“Who knows?” Irvin said sourly. “But if he is released, I’ve got a federal warrant for his arrest.”
“On what charge?”
“Attempted murder.”
“You’re joking!”
“Wish I was,” Irvin muttered, lowering his eyes. “He killed a Cherokee woman, and it rightly belongs in a Cherokee court. But if he goes free, then it falls in my jurisdiction. His intent was to murder a white man—and that’s a federal crime.”
Ryan was silent a moment. “How’d you get tangled up with Wilson and his in-laws?”
“Sorry bastard,” Irvin swore. “He’s worried Proctor will slip loose and run. He tagged along to make sure I get the job done.”
“And brought reinforcements just to make double damn sure. Why was he giving you a hard time when I rode up?”
“Hold your hat,” Irvin said wearily. “The sonovabitch wants me to deputize him and that bunch of Cherokees. He says I’ll need a posse to get Proctor away from the Light Horse.”
“You’d be a fool to deputize them.”
“Christ, wouldn’t I! But that won’t stop them from trailing me into the courtroom tomorrow. I’m liable to have a hell of a lot more than I can handle alone.”
Ryan stared at him, eyes narrowed. “I’ve been waiting for you to get around to it.”
“Hell, John,” Irvin said lamely. “I can’t ride herd on Wilson’s bunch and the Light Horse and still arrest Proctor. I’m only one man.”
“Last time you asked my help, I ended up getting shot at.”
Bud Wilson suddenly took a step toward them. His features were flushed, and his voice went up a couple of octaves in an angry shout. “What d’ya say, Marshal? We’re tired of coolin’ our heels. Is he gonna lend a hand or not?”
Irvin groaned and rolled his eyes. He looked back over his shoulder. “Keep your shirt on, Wilson. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Time’s awastin’,” Wilson said defiantly. “You let my wife’s murderer get away and there’ll be hell to pay. I guarantee it!”
“So you keep telling me.”
Irvin turned back to Ryan, wagging his head. Wilson and the Cherokees began talking among themselves in low monotones. Watching them, Ryan got an odd sensation about the white man. He looked at the Marshal.
“Lemme ask you something, Sam. You think Wilson’s playing with all his marbles?”
“No, I don’t,” Irvin said crossly. “The man’s a goddamn half-wit. Why?”
“Half-wits sometimes go off half-cocked. He’s liable to start something you’ll have to finish.”
“All the more reason I need your help. He’ll be in that courtroom tomorrow, no matter what I say. I’d feel easier knowing you’ve got me covered.”
“Hell, why not?” Ryan grinned. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Won’t cause you any problem with Colonel Stevens, will it?”
“No problem at all, Sam.”
Ryan felt as confident as he sounded. He’d come to the conclusion that Stevens needed him more than he needed the job. Which tended to switch the leverage in their dealings on to his side. The thought made him smile.
Early next morning they rode into Tahlequah. The stores were already open, and the square was crowded with people. Several paused to stare as the armed column rode past.
Marshal Irvin and Ryan, who now wore a badge, were in the lead. Behind them rode Wilson and one of his brothers-in-law. The other family members rode three abreast and two in the rear. All of the Cherokees had their long guns propped against the saddle, muzzles pointed skyward. Their bearing was that of determined men, prepared to fight.
Ryan saw a squad of Light Horse Police up ahead. There were four out front and four in the rear, with a lone civilian sandwiched between. On foot and armed with Spencer lever-action carbines, the Light Horse were escorting the civilian to the courthouse. Ryan figured the man to be Frank Proctor, the accused murderer. He also counted the Light Horse again, puzzled by their number. So many police to guard one man seemed to him a bad sign.
Ryan dismounted before a hitch rack on the street. Looking up, he saw a Light Horse with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves glance in their direction. The sergeant barked a command and hurried the squad and their prisoner up the steps and into the courthouse. A moment later the sergeant and another Light Horse returned, positioning themselves on either side of the door. Behind them, Major David Tappin stepped outside onto the landing. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
Irvin mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. He swapped a worried look with Ryan, then moved around the hitch rack. Ryan fell in beside him and they started up the walkway to the courthouse. Bud Wilson and the Cherokees formed a wedge immediately behind them. Passersby on the square watched curiously as the small phalanx of men trooped forward. Irvin halted them at the bottom of the steps. He nodded curtly to Tappin.
“You’re blocking my way, Major.”
Tappin smi
led, a mere baring of his teeth. “We’re in Tahlequah, not Fort Smith. What business do you have here today?”
“Frank Proctor,” Irvin said. “I understand he’s scheduled to appear in court.”
“A Cherokee court,” Tappin remarked. “On a tribal murder charge. You have no jurisdiction here.”
“I do if he’s released.”
“Why would he be released?”
“Good question,” Irvin said flatly. “But if it happens, I’ve got a federal warrant on him.”
“And the charge?”
“Attempted murder.” Irvin jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You know Bud Wilson, don’t you?”
Tappin bristled, his eyes dark as slate. “Have you any proof that the shot was meant for Wilson?”
“I only arrest people, Major. Juries decide whether or not there’s enough proof.”
“The juries in Fort Smith,” Tappin said viciously, “always find enough proof when it’s an Indian.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion. All the same, I’ve got a job to do, and I intend to do it.”
“So it appears,” Tappin said, indicating the other men. “Quite a show of force, Marshal. Are these your deputies?”
Irvin gave him a dull stare. “Mr. Ryan’s been duly sworn. Wilson and the others asked to come along. You might say they’re interested parties.”
“Too interested,” Tappin observed. “How do I know they won’t start trouble in the courtroom?”
“It’s your courtroom, Major. You’re welcome to stop them from going inside.”
The Light Horse sergeant stepped away from the door. His face looked as though it had been hewn from rough walnut, with an angular nose and cold, brooding eyes. His thumb was hooked over the hammer of his carbine, finger on the trigger. He stared directly at Wilson.
“Nobody moves,” Ryan said with chilling calm. “Major, do yourself a favor. Call the sergeant off.”
Tappin gazed down at them a moment. Then he motioned the sergeant to move back beside the door. His eyes finally settled on Ryan.
“You’ve chosen the wrong side again, Mr. Ryan. It seems to be a habit.”