by Matt Braun
Ryan jumped, landing hard on his shoulder beside the bridge rails. He rolled, stopping himself against a beam, and looked up as the caboose toppled over the edge. He saw the brakeman on the rear platform, paralyzed with terror, unable to move. The man’s eyes were bugged, his mouth frozen in a silent oval, as he vanished from sight. The sound of rending steel filled the morning as one car after another crashed into the water. A moment later the firebox in the locomotive exploded with a thunderous roar.
The blast struck Ryan with cyclonic force. A towering fireball leaped skyward, shooting through the chasm of the center span. The heat singed Ryan’s eyebrows and pocked his shirt with tiny, smoking holes. For an instant it was as though the air had been sucked from the earth, and he couldn’t get his breath. Then, with an effort of will, he levered himself to his feet. His breathing returned with a ragged gasp, and he stumbled away from the heat. His eyeballs felt seared, but his vision, oddly enough, had never been more acute.
He saw Tom Scullin running toward the bridge.
The riverbed resembled a funeral pyre. Twisted steel and burned timbers were fused in a mound of smoky rubble. The locomotive, at the very bottom of the debris, looked like an incinerated dinosaur.
Scullin directed teams of men searching through the wreckage. On the riverbank the bodies of the engineer and the fireman, charred beyond recognition, were covered with blankets. Nearby lay the body of the brakeman, broken and torn as though trampled to death. Eighteen of the work gang had been found, and miraculously, none of them were dead. All the men were seriously injured and many had not yet regained consciousness. Three of them clung to life merely by a thread.
Overseeing the operation, Stevens moved back and forth between the injured and the rescuers. His features were sallow and his eyes glowed with a feverish look. He paused to watch several whores and dance hall girls tending the injured with bandages and kindness. His mouth went dry as a man with a compound fracture moaned in agony. It occurred to him that more men would die unless they received medical attention. Turning away in disgust, he tried not to think of the truth. The nearest hospital was in Topeka, Kansas.
As Stevens stared toward the rescue operation, he happened to spot Ryan. He’d noticed Ryan earlier, standing knee deep in the river, looking up at the bridge. But now, to his amazement he saw Ryan some ten feet above the water, wedged in among the trestles. As he watched, Ryan inched along a crossbeam and stopped underneath the yawning gap of the center span. It seemed to him that Ryan was inspecting one of the first trestles to have collapsed.
After a time Ryan began making his way down the understructure. Stevens walked along the shoreline and waited for him near the north end of the bridge. Ryan splashed through the water, skirting the last masonry piling, and waded ashore. His eyebrows were gone, replaced by two ugly red streaks. He appeared otherwise uninjured as he halted in front of Stevens. The look in his eyes was flat and cold, somehow chilling.
“What’s wrong?” Stevens asked.
“The bridge gave way awful damn fast. Too fast, for my money. So I had a look around.”
“Yes, go on.”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
“Sabotage!” Stevens said hoarsely. “Are you certain?”
Ryan stared at him. “No doubt about it. Somebody cut halfway through the trestles and the support beams. I figure it took at least two men with a crosscut saw.”
“My God! Someone did that—killed all these men. Why?”
“No mystery about that. You’ve made yourself some powerful enemies, Colonel.”
“The Cherokees,” Stevens grated. “William Ross finally got his revenge. That scheming bastard!”
Ryan looked skeptical. “Why should he wait until we’re in the Creek Nation? He could’ve started a war a long time ago.”
“Because everything else failed! I outfoxed him at every turn, made him look the fool. Now he’s evened the score, and very cleverly too! Suspicion will just naturally fall on the Creeks.”
“Maybe,” Ryan said slowly. “Seems like a mighty big coincidence, though. Three days after an attempted assassination and a bridge suddenly collapses. Good timing, wouldn’t you say?”
Stevens’ brow furrowed questioningly. “You think Brad Collins did this—was ordered to do it?”
“Yeah, I sure do,” Ryan said flatly. “One thing failed, so they tried another. I’d say the same man’s behind both.”
“And you don’t think that man is William Ross?”
“It’s not Ross’ game. He’s tough, but he doesn’t kill people. He’d never deal with scum like Collins.”
Stevens averted his eyes, thoughtful a moment. Finally he let out a deep breath. “We’ve no proof either way, so it’s a moot point. For the moment, however, I hope you’re right. I need a favor from Ross.”
“What sort of favor?”
Stevens gestured to the injured workers. “Some of those men will die unless they get medical attention. The nearest doctor is in Tahlequah, but he won’t come without Ross’ approval. I want you to arrange it.”
“I’ll do my damnedest,” Ryan said. “No guarantees, but I’ll try.”
“Good,” Stevens said, nodding. “In the meantime I’ll lay on a train for Topeka. With or without the doctor, we have to get those men to a hospital.”
Ryan consulted his pocket watch. “It’s going on twelve now. I ought to make it back here by dark.”
“Tell Ross I’ll do anything he asks. Just so he sends the doctor.”
“Sounds like an invitation to write his own ticket. How far should I go?”
“Anything within reason, short of closing down the railroad,” Stevens said. “I have an obligation to these men, and I’ll stick by them.”
“I’ll deliver the message.”
Ryan turned to leave. Stevens caught his arm, stopping him. “One other thing, John. After today Brad Collins has to pay the piper. I want him dead.”
“I want the man who pulls Collins’ strings. Once I’ve got him—”
“Yes?”
“Then,” Ryan said, walking away, “I reckon I’ll kill Collins.”
A midafternoon sun streamed through the study window. William Ross sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, in thought. Across from him Ryan was seated in a wing-back chair, waiting. The older man finally lowered his hands to the desktop.
“You couldn’t be mistaken?”
“No,” Ryan said with conviction. “Somebody used a crosscut saw to weaken the bridge.”
“Even so,” Rose inquired, “how can you be so positive about Collins? From what I gather, the sabotage was done at night. No one actually saw Collins.”
Ryan gave him an odd look. “Why all the interest in Collins?”
“It seems out of character for him. I understood Collins was just a garden-variety bandit.”
“So did I,” Ryan said, “till he tried to assassinate the Secretary of the Interior.”
Ross’ expression was bland, unreadable. Yet on the inside he was boiling with anger. He’d already spoken to David Tappin about the assassination attempt, but Tappin had shrugged it off, saying Collins had acted on his own initiative. Now, after hearing about the bridge, Ross was even more troubled. He made a mental note to question Tappin thoroughly, and soon.
“Unfortunate,” he said softly. “Good men, red and white, dying for no reason.”
“More will die,” Ryan added, “unless you send the doctor. For once you’ve got Stevens over a barrel.”
“He actually said he’ll grant anything I ask?”
“Well, almost anything. He won’t shut down the railroad.”
“Perhaps there’s hope for Stevens yet. At least he appears to have feelings for his own men.”
“I don’t mean to press,” Ryan said, “but time’s short. What’s your price for the doctor?”
“Nothing,” Ross informed him. “I don’t trade in men’s lives. I’ll give you a note to Dr. Porter.”
Ryan was visibly impressed by th
e gesture. But he thought the lesson in humanity would be lost on Robert Stevens. He watched as the older man hastily penned a short note. Finished, Ross folded the sheet of paper and pushed it across the desk.
“There is a price,” he said quietly. “I understand that today was an emergency. However, you will oblige me by not coming here again.”
“Some things don’t change, do they?”
“We are who we are, Mr. Ryan. If I weren’t accountable to the tribal council, things might be different.”
Ryan tucked the note in his jacket pocket. He rose, nodded acceptance of the condition, and walked from the study. He proceeded along the hallway to the vestibule and abruptly stopped. Elizabeth was standing beside the central staircase.
“Hello, John.”
“Afternoon, Elizabeth.” He moved forward, trying for an offhand manner. “You’re not waiting for me, are you?”
“As a matter of fact”—she paused, her eyes sad—“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. It’s just terrible … all those men.”
“How’d you hear about it?”
“Moccasin telegraph,” she said, smiling. “The Creeks and the Cherokees keep each other very well informed.”
“So your father knew all along. He just let me talk to hear my version, is that it?”
“Why, is there more than one version?”
“Not so far as I’m concerned.”
“Your eyebrows!” she said, suddenly staring at him. “Were you hurt in the accident?”
She would learn soon enough that it was no accident. Ryan saw no reason to correct her. “Nothing serious,” he said. “I got off luckier than most.”
“I …” She faltered, groping for words. “I’m glad you’re all right. I really am.”
“Would it have made any difference?”
“Yes, John. Whatever you may think, it would have made a great difference—to me.”
Ryan searched her eyes. What he saw there sparked a faint hope. “Elizabeth, let me ask you something. Your father says I’m not welcome here, regardless of the reason. How do you feel?”
For a moment it seemed as though she would reach out to him. Then, her voice almost inaudible, she lowered her eyes. “I never contradict my father.”
A moment of stark silence passed between them. Ryan waited, willing her to look up at him. But she kept her eyes fixed on the floor, saying nothing. He walked out without another word.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The death toll mounted. By morning three more men had succumbed to their massive injuries. Of the remaining survivors, four were in critical condition.
Shortly before sunrise, the hospital train pulled out of Gibson Station. Dr. Frank Porter, who had worked through the night, agreed to accompany the injured to Topeka. The men of the Irish Brigade treated him with respect and deference and appeared unmindful of the fact that he was a Cherokee. Several of their comrades were alive only as a result of his efforts.
The bridge collapse was a monumental setback for Robert Stevens. The loss of a locomotive, not to mention a score of seasoned workers, was catastrophe enough. But the greater reverse was the bridge itself. To rebuild it before winter arrived became an imperative of the first order. All railroad construction was stymied until the Verdigris was once again spanned.
Under Otis Gunn’s supervision, Scullin took charge of the project. Gunn meanwhile hopped back and forth between the Arkansas River bridge and the Verdigris. Within the week, with both crews working fourteen-hour days, there was modest reason for optimism. The Arkansas crossing was nearing completion, and the Verdigris bridge was progressing faster than anyone had dared anticipate. Gunn estimated an overall completion date of late October.
On October 1 Stevens sent for Ryan. Entering the private car, Ryan noted that the railroader was in an agitated state. A cigar stuck in his mouth, Stevens trailed a cloud of smoke as he paced the floor. Sally Palmer sat quietly in one of the armchairs and watched him with an apprehensive look. She glanced at Ryan and rolled her eyes in mock fright. Then, without waiting to be asked, she retired to the bedroom.
Stevens motioned Ryan to a chair. He continued pacing, all the while puffing his cigar as if it might go out. He put Ryan in mind of a mad bull hooking at cobwebs, frustrated and angry. Finally he halted at the window and turned to Ryan.
“It’s showdown time!” he said, waving his cigar. “I’ve just found out who sabotaged the bridge.”
“You have?”
“I have, indeed! It was that mealymouthed back-stabber, Andrew Peirce.”
“Who?”
“Andrew Peirce!” Stevens growled. “Head of the A&P. Here, read this.”
He handed Ryan a telegraph form. It was a wire from the station agent at Vinita. The message briefly related that the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad was within a few miles of the Katy right-of-way. All indications were that the A&P would intersect the Katy roadbed some three miles north of Vinita. On that spot, the station agent advised, A&P crews were constructing what appeared to be a depot.
Ryan recalled that the Katy charter granted a north-south right-of-way through Indian Territory. The A&P grant, as stipulated by Congress, was for an east-west right-of-way. It was further stipulated that the two lines were to intersect somewhere in the Cherokee Nation. Within the past month word had leaked that the A&P was about to gain control of the Missouri Pacific Railroad. The move was a direct challenge to Robert Stevens and the Katy.
As Ryan was aware, the Missouri Pacific was a main artery into St. Louis and points eastward. Should the A&P gain control of that line, it would represent a coup of major proportions. In effect, Stevens’ working arrangement with the Missouri Pacific would be voided; the end result would be to block the Katy from direct access to eastern markets. The A&P, at that point, would then command all trade with the Southwest.
“Sounds like trouble,” Ryan said, looking up from the telegram. “But what’s all this got to do with the bridge?”
“Everything!” Stevens snorted. “Andrew Peirce is a blackhearted scoundrel. He makes the Cherokees look like Good Samaritans.”
“And you think he’s behind the sabotage?”
“Who else has a better reason? We’ll end up a month behind schedule because of that bridge. By the time we get moving again, he’ll have track laid halfway across Indian Territory. Jesus Christ, just think of it.”
Ryan pondered a moment. “Would Peirce kill all those men just to get a jump on you?”
“Would he?” Stevens parroted. “He’d cut his own mother’s throat! The man is morally bankrupt.”
“But would he kill?” Ryan insisted. “Have you ever known him to resort to violence, calculated or otherwise?”
“Well …” Stevens hesitated, munching his cigar. “No, I suppose not. But that doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. We’re playing for table stakes here! Murder wouldn’t stop him.”
“Maybe not,” Ryan allowed. “All the same, I’d still tap Brad Collins for the honors. It’s more in his line of work.”
“Whether it is or isn’t doesn’t matter. The fact remains that Peirce and his railroad are on our doorstep. I want you to leave for Vinita on the next train.”
“What’s in Vinita?”
“The A&P!” Stevens thundered. “Or at least they’re only three miles away. You go up there and nose around. See what they’re up to.”
“What makes you think they’re up to anything?”
“Because I know Andrew Peirce! The man’s middle name is ‘devious.’ So don’t argue with me about it. Just get on up there and keep me informed.”
Ryan boarded a freight train that afternoon. His horse was stalled in a boxcar, along with his camping gear. As the train rolled out of Gibson Station, his attitude toward the trip darkened. He figured it for a wild-goose chase.
Vinita looked like a ghost town. Apart from the stationhouse, the community consisted of three frame structures. The buildings were slapdash affairs, crudely constructed, and appeared to be deserted. There
was no one in sight.
Ryan dumped his gear on the ground after unloading his horse. Asa Johnson, the station agent, wandered over as the train got under way. Johnson was a cadaverous man, all knobs and joints, with a loose-gaited stride. He gave the impression that life held no surprises, aside from a sudden attack of constipation. He halted, nodding as though it were an effort.
“You’d be Ryan,” he said. “The Colonel wired me you was on your way.”
Ryan began saddling his horse. “Looks sort of lonesome around here.”
“Yep,” Johnson said laconically. “Nobody but yours truly.”
“Who belongs to those houses?”
“Boudinot owns ’em,” Johnson said. “Empty now, though. Have been since everybody pulled up stakes for Gibson Station.”
“That a fact?” Ryan tied off the latigo and began strapping his saddlebags into place. “When’s the last time you saw Boudinot?”
“Hell!” Johnson cackled. “Been so long I plumb forgot. He lit out with everybody else.”
“What’s new with the A&P?”
“I dunno much more’n I telegraphed the Colonel. Only got wind of ’em late yesterday.”
“You said they’re about three miles north of here?”
“Yeah, ’bout that.”
Ryan stepped into the saddle. “Much obliged, Asa. Enjoyed our little chat.”
“You ridin’ up there for a look-see?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Take some free advice,” Johnson said. “Don’t try to ask questions. Them boys ain’t too friendly.”
“Gave you a hard time, did they?”
“Told me to haul ass and don’t look back. Bastards meant business too!”