by Matt Braun
“Absolutely not! Cox is one of our most influential supporters. And we need all the clout we can get with Congress. I just won’t risk offending him!”
“Then I suggest you ask the Army for some help. Surround him with soldiers and maybe nothing will happen. It’s your best bet.”
Stevens shook his head adamantly. “Everyone would think we’re incapable of safeguarding our own railhead. We can’t afford that kind of publicity.”
Ryan spread his hands. “Can you afford to have someone take a shot at the Secretary of the Interior?”
There was a prolonged silence. Stevens seemed to stare at him and past him at the same time. For a moment Ryan thought he intended to ignore the question. At last Stevens appeared to rouse himself. His voice was edged, almost raspy.
“Put out the word,” he ordered. “We will not tolerate troublemakers. And that’s final!”
“When you say we, you’re actually talking about me, aren’t you?”
“John, your job is to maintain peace and order. I expect you to do no less.”
“It’s just about even money,” Ryan warned. “You go through with this and somebody’s liable to get himself killed.”
“Make sure it’s not Secretary Cox.”
“I’ll do my damnedest, Colonel.”
Ryan told himself it was a hell of a way to run a railroad. Later that night, lying awake in his bunk, it seemed even more asinine. He thought it likely that his damnedest might be too little and too late. Lots of people in Indian Territory would consider it an honor to kill the Secretary of the Interior. Some of them would willingly sacrifice themselves for that honor.
The occasion for the Secretary’s visit was the completion of the Verdigris River bridge. The trestles were in place and engineers estimated the river would be spanned by the middle of September. Across the muddy stream, four miles of track had been laid to the next barrier, the Arkansas River. Scullin and his work gangs were idle while awaiting construction of both bridges. Stevens saw the slack time as a golden opportunity, capable of garnering wide publicity in the eastern press. He planned to stage a celebration around the Verdigris River crossing.
To mark the event, a ribbon-cutting ceremony would be held on September 18. Secretary of the Interior Harold Cox had been invited to officially open the bridge and afterward deliver a speech. An astute bureaucrat, Cox jumped at the chance to make an appearance in Indian Territory. The attendant publicity would benefit everyone involved, himself included. As an added sweetener, Stevens laid on a special train to transport Cox and his retinue westward. The event promised to make front-page news.
Ryan viewed the ceremony, at best, as a calculated risk. Harold Cox, as Secretary of the Interior, was directly responsible for the Bureau of Indian Affairs. No friend of the red man, the Bureau was largely a tool of robber barons and railroad czars. To a great extent, the Katy was traversing Indian Territory under the auspices of the Bureau. Moreover, should the Five Civilized Tribes lose their independence, it was the Bureau that would bring it about. So Harold Cox was vilified by the Indians as the most visible symbol of tibo greed. His appearance in the territory would serve as a goad to those who felt victimized.
Ryan believed it was entirely possible that someone would attempt to kill the Secretary. He’d gone to Stevens voicing his concern for Cox’s safety. The upshot was that he’d been appointed to play guardian angel. Just before going to sleep, he reminded himself never again to volunteer an opinion. By doing so, he’d gone from the frying pan to the fire.
He already felt singed around the edges.
The special train arrived on schedule. The ribbon-cutting ceremony was set for high noon at the north end of the Verdigris River bridge. To add to the festivities, all the railroad workers had been awarded a day off.
Harold Cox detrained at Gibson Station like Caesar triumphant. He was a short, rotund man, completely bald, with watery eyes and a bogus smile. He wore a cutaway coat, striped pants, and a shiny top hat. His retinue consisted of several bureaucratic flunkeys and his own personal press contingent. A newspaperman from Washington and a journalist for Harper’s magazine trailed him like hounds on a fresh scent. Following close behind was a photographer with camera and powder box.
Their arrival created an immediate sensation. A crowd of almost five hundred people gathered around the depot. Tom Scullin and his Irish Brigade, cheering lustily, were positioned in the front rank. Behind them was the sporting crowd, gamblers and whores tricked out in all their finery. On the fringe of the assemblage were an assortment of Creeks and Cherokees who were drawn by the spectacle. A brass band, drafted piecemeal from the dance halls, thumped a sprightly tune. Bunting and streamers decorating the stationhouse lent an exuberant, carnival air to the scene.
The festive atmosphere continued on the walk to the bridge. The band led the way and was followed by the dignitaries and their party. The procession resembled a circus parade. Ryan maintained a position close beside Stevens and Secretary Cox. Spread out around them were armed railway agents who normally performed guard duty at the warehouse. Wary of the crowd, Ryan constantly scanned the sea of faces. His unease was heightened by the fact that Cox was built like a bale of cotton. He thought the Secretary made an inviting, and almost unmissable, target.
Stevens delivered a short and somewhat flowery introduction at the bridge. Then Secretary Cox posed with Stevens for the photographer. Ryan thought the Secretary looked like a trained bear. Cox and Stevens’ handshake, as well as the ribbon cutting, was immortalized with several explosive flashes of the powder pan. When Cox actually cut the ribbon, the Irish Brigade, led by Scullin’s bull-like roar, broke out in a fresh round of cheers. As planned, the special train then chugged onto the bridge, halting halfway across. The last car groaned to a stop where the ribbon drooped on the tracks.
Secretary Cox mounted the rear platform. With Stevens beside him, he launched into a speech commending the railroad. His reedy voice was punctuated by a powder flash, which caused him to pause and hold an artificial pose for the camera. Oblivious to the crowd’s laughter, he then resumed with an ornate tribute to Colonel Robert Stevens. He hailed the railroader as “a giant of a man, leading the vanguard in America’s march to progress.”
“Bullshit!”
A voice from the crowd cut the bureaucrat short. Cox halted, sputtering and red-faced, suddenly dumbstruck. Ryan, who was positioned on the car steps, searched the crowd. Toward the rear he spotted Brad Collins and the gang of half-bloods. The outlaw’s eyes were lighted by a cold tinsel glitter, and he seemed to be staring straight at Ryan. His mouth curled in a ferocious grin.
“Goddamn tibos!” he shouted. “You’re robbing us blind, stealing our land!”
The Indians standing nearby muttered agreement. Scullin and the Irish Brigade, as well as the sporting crowd, turned angrily toward the voice. Then off to one side there was a flash of sunlight on metal. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw a man raise a cocked pistol. He had only a moment to identify the man as a breed and wonder why he was separated from the Collins gang. In the next instant the pistol roared and Harold Cox’s top hat went spinning into the air.
Stevens grabbed Cox and threw him down on the platform. Drawing as he turned, Ryan leveled his Colt, sighting over the barrel. He feathered the trigger, holding dead on the man’s chest. The Colt leaped and the half-breed seemed to suck in a great lungful of air. A starburst of blood spread across his shirtfront and he went down like a stone.
Wheeling around, Ryan once more searched the crowd. Off in the distance, he saw Collins and the gang of breeds hightailing it toward town. The Irish Brigade, led by Scullin, had formed a protective circle around the car. The armed railway guards clambered aboard the rear platform amid shouts and panicked confusion. As Ryan sighted on Collins, one of them jostled his arm and spoiled his aim. He slowly lowered the Colt, all too aware that the gang was racing for their horses. For the moment there was nothing to be done.
Ryan holstered his pisto
l. He heard Stevens consoling Harold Cox, who was blubbering in a high-pitched, hysterical voice. Then, turning on the steps, he looked down at the dead half-breed. It occurred to him that someone had, after all, risked suicide in an attempt to commit murder. But the man had not acted alone or on his own initiative.
He’d been sacrificed by Brad Collins. A stalking horse used to kill and then be killed.
The crowd slowly dispersed. Their festive mood was gone, replaced by sober amazement. What they had witnessed left them in a total quandary. No one could figure the dead man’s motive.
Ryan ordered the body removed. With Secretary Cox safely inside the car, the special agent then turned his attention to security. Another assassination attempt seemed to him highly unlikely. Yet, given the number of Indians in town, he saw no reason to take chances. He quickly stationed the railway guards around the train.
A short while later he entered the rear door of the private car. He found Stevens and Cox seated opposite one another. Cox was slumped in an armchair, a brandy glass clutched in one hand. His face was pasty and beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead. His hand trembled as he drained the last of the brandy.
“Madness,” he said in a shaky voice. “Why would anyone want to kill me?”
Stevens nodded sympathetically. “Who can say, Mr. Secretary? All Indians are deranged savages anyway.”
Cox looked at him blankly. “The man was Indian?”
“A half-blood,” Stevens said. “But a dead one, now. You’ve no reason to concern yourself further.”
“I—” Cox faltered, passed a hand over his eyes. “I don’t feel so well.”
“Perfectly understandable. Why not lie down for a while? We can talk later.”
Stevens assisted him to the bedroom. There was a murmured conversation, and then, closing the door, Stevens returned to the parlor. He angrily bit off the end of a cigar and lit up. Inhaling deeply, he gave Ryan a sideways look.
“You were right. I should have called it off.”
“We got lucky,” Ryan said. “All the same, if I were you I wouldn’t push it.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Get him out of here muy pronto. Our luck might not hold next time.”
“You think someone else might try?”
“I’d just as soon not find out.”
Stevens’ expression was grim. “It all happened so fast. Who was the gunman?”
“One of Collins’ gang.”
“Well, that’s a hell of a note! Why weren’t you watching him?”
“You seem to forget,” Ryan said evenly. “Collins had everybody distracted, including me. The way he rigged it damn near worked too. His man got a little nervy and rushed the shot.”
“Why would Collins try to kill Cox? It makes no sense.”
“I’ve been thinking along those lines myself.”
Stevens was thoughtful a moment. “Perhaps it was revenge of sorts. After all, you did put him on warning, and in open public.”
“I tend to doubt it. He could have killed me easy enough out there. But the whole thing, start to finish, was aimed at Cox.”
“And?” Stevens said, puzzled. “What are you saying?”
Ryan moved to the window. He stared down, looking past the bridge timbers to the muddy river below. Then, as though talking to himself, he spoke in a slow, pensive tone.
“It’s got the smell of a put-up job. Collins is small-time. He runs whiskey and robs people. Why would he turn assassin all of a sudden?”
Stevens looked surprised. “Are you suggesting that someone paid him to do it?”
“Tell you what I think,” Ryan said, turning from the window. “Collins never dreamed that up on his own. Unless I’m way off, somebody put the idea in his head.”
“Yes, but who?”
“We keep asking ourselves the same question, don’t we?”
“Christ,” Stevens muttered. “You think whoever tried to kill Boudinot is behind this too?”
“Anything’s possible. Like I said, Collins is no assassin.”
“Perhaps not. But we don’t know who put him up to it. At the moment he’s our only lead.”
“I wouldn’t argue that.”
“Well, then …” Stevens hesitated, puffed a cloud of smoke. “How soon can you get on his trail?”
“Why borrow trouble? Half-breed or not, Collins is still an Indian. We’d have to start a war to smoke him out.”
“You intend to do nothing?”
“No,” Ryan said in a flinty voice. “If he shows up here, I’ll kill him. Otherwise, it’s a job for federal marshals or the Army.”
“I don’t care for that,” Stevens grumbled. “It looks like we’re trying to pass the buck.”
“Seems to me it’s out of our jurisdiction. The Secretary of the Interior works for the government, not the railroad.”
Stevens’ mouth hardened. “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. We have to take care of our own dirty laundry. I want you to find Collins.”
“No can do, Colonel.”
“What?”
“Before I got to Collins, I’d have to fight my way through half the Creek Nation. I want him as much as you do, maybe more, but I’m tired of killing Indians.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“It says all I’ve got to say.”
“Are you refusing a direct order?” Stevens demanded. “Because if you are, don’t think you can’t be replaced!”
Ryan smiled. “It’s your railroad, Colonel.”
Stevens seemed on the verge of saying something more. Then, as though to halt the words, he stuffed the cigar in his mouth. He made a brusque, dismissive gesture with his hand and turned away.
Outside the car Ryan stood grinning to himself. What he’d only suspected before was now a hard fact. Stevens needed him more than Ryan needed the job.
He went down the steps whistling a lively tune.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The weather was unseasonably warm. A forenoon sun reflected off the Verdigris in ripples of orange and gold. The tent town of Gibson Station appeared almost lifeless in the late morning hour.
Weather dominated conversation in the railroad camp. Even though the days were balmy, the temperature dropped sharply at night. There was a hint of frost in the air during the darkness hours; potbellied stoves in the bunkhouse cars were being stoked shortly after dusk. No one expected the warm days to last much longer.
Robert Stevens’ forecast was especially pessimistic. He viewed the weather as a capricious and sometimes menacing adversary. The chilly nights left him convinced that winter would arrive early. Drizzling rain, followed in the harshest months by snowfall, would severely hamper railroad construction. He was determined to make the most of what promised to be a short autumn.
Delay on the Arkansas River bridge was particularly worrisome. To span the river required an immense structure at least 840 feet in length. It was by far the largest bridge yet attempted by Katy engineers. The latticework of trestles and support beams gave it the look of a gigantic spider’s web. By the very nature of its complexity, it was a slow and tedious project. With maddening regularity, the estimated completion date was revised time and time again.
Stevens had been temporarily distracted from his worries by the Verdigris River bridge opening. Following the attempted assassination and Secretary Cox’s hasty departure, there was a lull before things returned to normal. By the third day, however, Stevens’ attention focused once more on the Arkansas River crossing. Track laying through the Creek Nation had been brought to a standstill until the barrier was surmounted.
Tom Scullin was summoned to the private car. There Stevens informed him that the Irish Brigade was being pressed into service. Scullin and his work gangs, idle now for almost a week, were to report to Otis Gunn. The chief engineer would assign them jobs alongside his bridge-building crew and thereby speed the completion date. Scullin readily agreed and expressed the opinion that hi
s Irish Brigade would show Gunn a thing or two about spanning a river. At Stevens’ insistence he further agreed to place himself at Gunn’s command. No rivalry, Stevens told him, would be tolerated over leadership of the project.
The first construction train was loaded by late morning. There were two flatcars, one stacked with supplies and rough-hewn timbers, and the other carrying fifty men. Scullin placed one of his foremen in charge, ordering him to report with the work gang to Otis Gunn. As for himself, Scullin planned to supervise loading of the second train, then bring it forward to the river crossing. The first train pulled out of the rail yard shortly after eleven o’clock. A caboose that had been converted into a kitchen car was coupled on at the last minute.
On impulse, Ryan swung aboard the caboose. He generally visited the construction site once a day, covering the four miles by horseback. He decided to make the trip by train today for no particular reason. The shantytown was of no immediate concern since it seldom came alive before dark. He’d be back by then, as one of the supply trains always returned before nightfall.
A brakeman boarded from the opposite side as the train was switched onto the main track. Ryan looked around, nodding to him, then once again turned his attention forward. His senses suddenly alerted when the locomotive picked up speed and rolled onto the Verdigris River bridge. A loud creaking noise like trees swaying in the wind sounded over the rumble of the locomotive’s driving wheels. An instant later there was an earsplitting crack from somewhere beneath the bridge.
Ryan saw the center span of the bridge buckle. Beams and splintered timbers flew like matchsticks as supporting trestles collapsed underneath the weight of the locomotive. In an eerie sort of slow motion, the two-hundred-foot-long center span simply vanished. Too late, the engineer cut the throttle and slammed on the brakes. The locomotive screeched forward, showering sparks along the rails, and teetered on the edge of the chasm. Slowly, hissing steam and smoke, it nosed over the last upright trestle.
As it hurtled downward, the locomotive jerked the entire train forward. Ryan felt the sudden acceleration in speed even as he saw the tender and the first flatcar disappear. Directly ahead, men were leaping off the second flatcar, arms and legs akimbo as they slammed into vertical beams on both sides of the bridge. One man missed completely, sailing through the opening between beams, and plummeted to the riverbed fifty feet below. A dozen or more of the work gang rode the flatcar over the shattered roadway.