by Matt Braun
Ryan moved to the end of the bar. He laid the scattergun across the countertop and eared back both hammers. The metallic snick brought the saloon to a sudden standstill. Several men along the bar eased to the opposite side of the room. Hands on the bar, the gang members waited for Ryan to make his play. Collins watched him with a frozen smile.
“Hello, Collins,” Ryan said, nodding. “Figured we ought to have ourselves a talk.”
Collins returned his stare levelly. “You’re Ryan, ain’t you? The one they call the Indian Killer.”
Ryan’s look betrayed nothing. “I reckon some people call me that.”
“Well, what can I do for you, Indian Killer? You sorta busted up our party.”
“I’m here to deliver a warning. Behave yourself and you’re welcome at Gibson Station. I’ll even overlook the federal warrant on you.”
“You shore make it sound hospitable. But lemme ask you—what happens if I get out of line?”
“Don’t,” Ryan said in a low, dangerous voice. “Otherwise I’ll have to kill you.”
“Yeah?” Collins snarled. “It’d take more’n you and that shotgun to get the job done.”
“Then go ahead and try me.”
A leaden silence descended on the saloon. Collins’ eyes flicked down at the shotgun and back to Ryan. He kept his hands in plain sight.
“You’re bluffin’! No way you’d get us all. Not even with that!”
Ryan lifted the snout of the shotgun. He centered the barrels on Collins’ head. “I’m tired of talking. Either we’ve got a deal or we don’t. Which is it?”
Collins swallowed, thinking hard. “You won’t try to ride herd on me and the boys?”
“Not unless you cause trouble.”
“And you won’t take sides with the tibo marshals? I got your word on that?”
“You’ve already heard me say it.”
“Awright, then,” Collins said, bobbing his head. “You got yourself a deal.”
“Don’t break it. I won’t try to talk you around next time.”
“What next time?” Collins laughed. “Here, lemme buy you a drink. Just to prove there ain’t no hard feelings.”
“No, thanks.”
Ryan walked to the door. His head was turned slightly, watching the bar out of the corner of his eye. As he went through the door, the metallic whirr of his shotgun’s hammers being lowered sounded through the saloon. He passed from view onto the street outside.
Brad Collins took a long sip of whiskey. His eyes fixed on the middle distance in a thoughtful stare, and his mouth tightened at the corners. He smiled to himself.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
William Ross stood at the window in his study. A pipe was clamped in his mouth and tendrils of smoke drifted slowly toward the ceiling. His gaze was abstracted and far away.
Over the past several weeks he had aged visibly. There were dark rings under his eyes and worry lines creased his forehead. His features appeared tight, almost stretched, like those of a man who has experienced a sudden loss of weight. His shoulders were unnaturally stooped and he looked somehow defeated.
Ross had led his people for five years. Not once in all that time had there been serious opposition to his policies. As principal chief, he had ruled the tribal council by sheer force of character. Even Elias Boudinot and the Southern Party had conceded Ross’ preeminence among the Cherokees. He had never been challenged in the political forum.
All that had changed with the advent of the railroad. Political opponents such as Boudinot and Stand Watie had denounced him as backward and uninformed. Worse, a schism had developed within the ranks of his own followers. A silent conspiracy which advocated violence and bloodshed had arisen. Assassins once more roamed the land of the Cherokees.
The identity of the leader, or leaders, of the conspiracy was an absolute mystery. Whoever issued the orders was a master of secrecy and thus far an invisible presence. The organization itself indicated a brilliant mind at work behind the wall of silence. Nothing was known about the band of assassins or their objectives, for there had been no public pronouncement. Their intent was made clear only by the names of those they tried to kill.
The assassins appeared to be Ross’ allies. Their enemies—the railroad and the Boudinot faction—were his enemies as well. Yet he was opposed, both philosophically and on general principle, to their activities. They advocated a return to the old tribal customs by resorting to violence. Ross thought their methods were a return to the savagery of bygone times. He’d let it be known that such men were to be considered renegades. He would not countenance cold-blooded murder.
Opposing the assassins had done nothing to improve Ross’ political position. There was a faction within the tribal council that openly supported violence. Until now, despite their rebellious attitude he’d been able to hold them in check. But events of the past few weeks had forced him into an extremely tenuous situation. When the railroad bypassed Fort Gibson, he’d lost still more influence with council members. The courtroom shootout, though not directly related to the railroad, had further undercut his support. The tribal council, to a man, declared it the work of tibo interlopers.
Ross agreed with the allegation in principle. Every problem besetting his people stemmed in one way or another from the railroad. But he’d considered it futile to prefer charges against the railroad’s special agent, John Ryan. He had further fanned the flames of discontent by providing medical care for Ryan. A vote of censure in the tribal council had been averted by the narrowest of margins.
Ross saw little reason for optimism as he stared out the window today. His leadership of the Cherokee Nation was still in great jeopardy. One more misstep, and there was every likelihood he would be driven from office. He resolved not to let that happen at any cost. He knew his people would need him even more in the years to come.
There was a knock at the door. Ross squared himself up, shoulders back and head erect. He turned as Major Tappin entered the study. He nodded briskly in greeting.
“Good afternoon, David.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Ross waved him to a chair. He crossed the room, halting at the edge of his desk as Tappin seated himself. He chose to remain standing.
“What can I do for you? Your message sounded urgent.”
“Are you aware,” Tappin asked, “that the council plans to meet tomorrow?”
“I am.”
“Do you plan to address them?”
“No, I do not.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because my presence would serve no useful purpose. I think it’s best to let them get mired down in the routine conduct of business.”
“Then you haven’t heard,” Tappin said. “There’s talk that you’ll face another vote of censure tomorrow.”
“On what grounds?” Ross demanded.
“Failure to act in the tribe’s best interests. Specifically, your failure to convene an emergency session of the Intertribal Council.”
“I wasn’t aware an emergency existed.”
“Perhaps you should be,” Tappin said pointedly. “It’s been three weeks since the railroad entered the Creek Nation.”
“To date,” Ross observed, “I’ve heard no complaint from the Creeks.”
“The Creeks are not at issue. We’re discussing your people, what the Cherokee council wants.”
“And what is that?”
“Some form of retaliation. At the very least, an act of defiance. We’ve been made to look the fools.”
“On the contrary,” Ross informed him. “Our prohibitive cattle tax drove the railroad from Cherokee lands.”
Tappin laughed too loudly. “Stevens lost nothing in that bargain. He’s shipping trainloads of cows from Three Forks.”
“Precisely my point! As a practical matter, there is only one railhead in the Cherokee Nation. And I understand Boudinot’s town site is all but deserted.”
“Boudinot’s another matter entirely. A majority of the cou
ncil believes he deserves the death sentence. If it’s ever put to a vote, he’s as good as—”
“No!” Ross announced. “I will not be a party to barbarism.”
Tappin studied him with a thoughtful frown. “You would do well not to state that opinion in public. By tribal law, Boudinot is subject to the extreme penalty.”
“Times change,” Ross said. “Ancient laws sometimes have no place in a modern world.”
“I suggest you keep that opinion to yourself as well.”
“Your advice was much the same regarding John Ryan. What would have happened if I hadn’t voiced my opinion then?”
“He would have been killed,” Tappin said harshly. “Or allowed to bleed to death. Which was exactly what he deserved.”
Ross looked at him inquisitively. “Could you have let him bleed to death?”
“He killed two of my men!”
“You haven’t answered the question.”
Tappin was seething inside. He took a grip on his anger, forced himself to appear outwardly calm. “I suppose no man deserves a slow death. But that’s neither here nor there. We’re talking about the council.”
“Yes, so we are.”
Ross stuffed his hands in his pockets, moved behind the desk. “You know, of course, that Fort Gibson will eventually be closed down.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s a burdensome expense and serves no useful purpose. Unless, of course, we create an incident to justify its existence.”
“An incident involving the railroad?”
“Precisely,” Ross affirmed. “By biding our time, we end up with no military posts and only one railhead. We can then devote our energies to the critical engagement—the fight for Cherokee independence.”
“Well …” Tappin said doubtfully, “I’m not sure the council would be persuaded. You’re talking long-range, and they tend to be very shortsighted.”
“Then we’ll give them a short-term solution. Suppose an incident were to occur in the Creek Nation. Would that suffice?”
“What sort of incident?”
“You know the Creeks as well as anyone here does. What would you suggest?”
Tappin considered a moment. “I received a report that Ryan had some trouble with Brad Collins and his gang. Perhaps I can arrange an incident through Collins.”
“No harm must come to John Ryan! You would have to make that clear to Collins.”
“I think he’ll listen to reason.”
“Have I your assurance on that point?”
“Leave it to me,” Tappin said, grinning. “Outlaws can always use friends in high places.”
After Tappin had gone, Ross slumped wearily into his chair. He scrubbed his face with his palms but was unable to erase his dour expression. For all practical purposes, he’d just struck a bargain with the devil. And for little more than momentary political gain.
He knew he’d sold himself cheap.
The rose was dark magenta in color. Elizabeth clipped it with shears, careful to avoid the thorns. She held the flower to her nose and breathed deeply.
The aroma was faint, barely detectable, She lowered the rose and looked around the garden with a melancholy expression. At the height of the summer, the flower garden was a riotous explosion of colors and hues. But now it was early September and only a few of the rosebushes were still in bloom. Windswept petals, already dry and faded, littered the earth.
Elizabeth dreaded the passing of summer. A short autumn inevitably led to a long, dreary winter. The rain and sleet brought with it a dank, bone-chilling cold that sapped her spirits. An occasional snow, particularly at Christmastime, relieved the monotony. But the seemingly endless months of dismal weather left her dispirited and out of sorts. Her vivacity returned only with the arrival of a new spring.
Her mood today was only partly caused by summer’s end. Even the dying roses were a reflection rather than the source of her low spirits. Hard as it was to admit, she was lost in a morass of conflicting emotions. One minute she prided herself on having driven John Ryan away. In the next, she ached for the sight of him.
The courtroom gun battle had provided her with an almost painful emotional confusion. She’d rushed to Tahlequah upon hearing that Ryan had been wounded. There, heedless of public reaction, she had spent the night at Ryan’s bedside. Elizabeth surprised herself with the strength of her concern for him but felt strangely glad that he couldn’t see her clutching his hand and very close to tears. Although the operation had gone well, he’d been heavily sedated with laudanum and therefore unaware of her presence. When the crisis ended the next morning, she had undergone another shift in mood. She departed before he’d regained consciousness.
She had been revolted by the aftermath of the shootout. The final count of eleven dead and many others wounded left her sick at heart. She rejoiced that Ryan had survived, and would recover in time. Yet she couldn’t ignore the fact that he’d again taken sides and killed two more Cherokees. Once again she found herself torn between loathing and a compulsion to be with him. In the end, unable to live with half measures, her conscience had prevailed. She restrained herself from seeing him again.
For all her restraint, she never tried to deceive herself. She was concerned for his welfare and vitally interested in his recovery. Through her father she was able to gather bits and pieces of information. She heard that Ryan was up and around and walking with a cane. A short time later she learned that he was practically fully recuperated. While the news relieved her anxiety, it also left her saddened. She knew he would soon resume his work with the railroad. For all her fear and worry, nothing had changed.
There was one small consolation. The railroad, and Ryan, were now in the Creek Nation. She thought it unlikely that he would be thrown into another confrontation with Cherokees. The Creeks were somewhat less rigid in their attitude toward whites, so it seemed to her a remote possibility that Ryan would kill anyone else. She wanted to believe that he resorted to a gun only when provoked.
Yet she was not altogether sanguine. She couldn’t help being depressed by the growing distance between herself and Ryan. The deeper tracks were laid into the Creek Nation, the more isolated she felt. With each passing day, Ryan was farther away, moving inexorably southward. She knew he would be gone forever once he crossed the Red River. All that might have been between them would then become a bittersweet dream.
Her reverie was suddenly broken by the sound of her name. She turned and saw her father on the veranda. He moved down the steps, then proceeded along a path to the flower garden. She waited, still holding the rose.
“Well, well,” Ross said, halting beside her. “The last rose of summer, hmm?”
“Don’t tease,” she said seriously. “You know the thought of winter depresses me.”
“Winter?” Ross asked. “Nothing else?”
“Why do you say that?”
Ross took a moment to light his pipe. He snuffed the match and ground it underfoot. Finally he looked up.
“Major Tappin was just here.”
“Oh?” she replied without interest. “What new calamity did he have to report?”
“You shouldn’t be so hard on him. Tappin is a very capable administrator.”
“I’m sorry, Father. I just don’t like the man. He’s too …”
“Unsociable?”
“Worse than that. He’s always impressed me as being very insensitive. I know it sounds silly, but somehow he … Well, he frightens me.”
Ross smiled, puffing on his pipe. “I suppose Tappin frightens many people. But then, policemen are seldom loved. It’s part and parcel of the job.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said with a shrug. “What brought him here today?”
“Among other things, he had a bit of news about John Ryan. I thought you might be interested.”
“Maybe I am,” she said indifferently, “and maybe I’m not. What is it?”
Ross was aware that she’d begun plucking petals off th
e rose. He suppressed a chuckle, forcing himself not to look at her hands. “According to Tappin’s information, Mr. Ryan is back on the job. In fact, he recently had words with Brad Collins.”
Her eyes widened. “The outlaw? That Brad Collins?”
“Don’t worry,” Ross reassured her. “As such things go, it was rather inconsequential. Ryan simply warned Collins to behave himself.”
“Why would I worry?” she murmured uneasily. “Apparently he’s happy doing what he does best.”
Ross could see the hurt deep in her eyes. He gently touched her arm, saying nothing more. At length she nodded, then smiled a little. As he turned to leave, she found her voice.
“Father.”
“Yes?”
“Is he still at Three Forks?”
“So far as I know. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
Ross wisely let it drop. As he walked toward the house, Elizabeth glanced down at her hands. She saw that the rose was completely bare of petals. Nothing remained but the stem and sharp thorns. Her mouth softened in a wan smile.
Winter seemed distant, and yet so near. She suddenly felt cold.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I want your personal guarantee.”
“No soap, Colonel.”
“You refuse?”
Ryan’s jawline tightened. “I’m telling you there’s no way to guarantee any man’s safety. The best we can do is whittle down the odds.”
“Odds?” Stevens repeated. “Are you saying something’s bound to happen?”
“The sporting crowd’s a rough bunch. None of them has any particular love for politicians. That goes double for the Indians.”
“You refer to Collins and his gang of half-breeds.”
“Not altogether,” Ryan corrected him. “Any Indian—Creek, Cherokee, Choctaw—they’ve all got a bone to pick. A Washington bigwig makes a pretty inviting target.”
“Target!” Stevens said incredulously. “Good God, you sound like he’s certain to get shot!”
“You want my best advice, Colonel? Wire Secretary Cox and make some excuse. Tell him you’ve had to postpone the ceremony.”