by Matt Braun
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Ryan reined the gelding around. As he rode off he pulled the shotgun from the saddle boot and laid it across his lap. The station agent impressed him as a man who spoke between the lines and left a great deal unsaid. He decided to take the warning the way it was meant.
A short time later Ryan halted the gelding in a stand of trees. He had followed the railroad tracks two miles or so and then turned off into the woods. His approach had been unobserved, and he was now concealed by the treeline. What he saw convinced him that it was no wild-goose chase.
To his immediate front a passenger depot was situated within twenty feet of the Katy tracks. Nearby a crew of carpenters were hammering together what appeared to be a freight warehouse. The location of the buildings left no doubt that the A&P tracks would cross east to west at that point.
Far in the distance a dust cloud smudged the skyline. With the sun at his back, Ryan was able to make out the figures of men and animals. The dust cloud was raised by graders who were carving a roadbed from virgin soil. Behind them work gangs were methodically laying track on a line almost due west. Smoke from the engine of a construction train was dimly visible even farther away. The distance to the graders appeared to be something more than two miles.
The sound of voices suddenly broke the silence. Startled, Ryan peered through the woods and saw a work gang beyond the treeline. They were pulling fence posts from a wagon and planting them on a north to south line. Looking closer, he spotted another crew working east to west on a perpendicular line. By rough estimate he judged that the fence, when joined on four sides, would enclose at least a thousand acres.
The meaning of what he saw was all too clear. Within a few days, three at most, the A&P track would intersect the Katy right-of-way. The purpose of the fencing operation was clearly to establish land for a new town site. Once in place, with the track crossing on the map, the A&P’s town site would totally overshadow Vinita. It was apparent that Andrew Peirce meant to steal a march on the Katy.
Yet however clear the intent, there was a riddle attached. The A&P, being owned by white men, could not organize a town site on Indian land. Only a Cherokee, exercising tribal head right, could claim such a vast homestead. So the conclusion was inescapable. A Cherokee was in league with the A&P.
Ryan thought it an ironic joke. Stevens, with great cleverness, had seduced Elias Boudinot. And now, borrowing the tactic whole, Andrew Peirce had bought himself a Cherokee. All that remained was to turn up the name of the newest Judas.
Ryan reined about and rode back through the woods.
Ryan camped late that night outside Tahlequah. After hobbling his horse, he built a small fire for warmth. His supper was cold vittles from his saddlebags and creek water. The meal finished, he crawled into his bedroll and went to sleep.
He broke camp and rode out before sunrise. He skirted Tahlequah, avoiding roads and people. His course was generally southeast, traveling cross-country through woodlands and rolling hills. He was some five miles south of the Cherokee capital by full light. He halted in a grove of trees overlooking William Ross’ home.
Around ten o’clock he saw Elizabeth walk to the stables. A few minutes later she rode out on the blood-bay stallion. He marked her general direction, and then, sticking to the woods, he followed on a parallel course. His appearance bothered him, for she’d never seen him unshaven and grubby from a night on the trail. He wondered how she would react.
He intercepted her on a stretch of open ground a mile from the stables. Her hair was upswept and she wore a pale doeskin jacket over her riding habit. The sight of her quickened his pulse, and he tried to smile. She looked him over like he was a bearded highwayman, unwanted company. She held her stallion to a prancing walk.
“Morning,” Ryan said. “Mind if I join you?”
She stared straight ahead. “You seem intent on ignoring my father’s wishes.”
“No choice. Leastways not if I want to see you.”
“Then I suggest you consider my wishes in the matter.” She turned her head just far enough to look at him. “I don’t want to see you, John. I thought you understood.”
“Oh, I hear you,” Ryan said with a wry grin. “I just don’t believe you.”
“Well!” she sniffed. “Aren’t you the vain one. I believe you overestimate yourself, Mr. Ryan.”
“Suppose we save that discussion for another day. I’m not here on a personal call—it’s business.”
“Now you do presume! Your business affairs are the least of my interests.”
“Your father wouldn’t agree.”
“Then speak with him.”
“After last time,” Ryan commented, “I doubt I’d get past the front door.”
“In that case,” she said haughtily, “why should I bother listening to you?”
“Because it involves your people. The Cherokees.”
“How ominous. Are you trying to frighten me?”
“Maybe I am,” Ryan admitted. “Unless you help me, it’ll go bad for everyone.”
“What do you mean, go bad?”
“A railroad war,” Ryan told her. “A battle royal between Stevens and the Atlantic and Pacific—with the Cherokees caught in the middle.”
She reined to a halt. The stallion acted skittish and cast Ryan’s gelding an evil eye. Ryan kept his distance, waiting while she considered his statement. Finally, as though somehow resigned, she agreed to listen.
Ryan quickly explained the problem, expressing no uncertainty about the A&P’s intentions.
“In a nutshell,” he concluded, “Stevens won’t roll over and play dead. He’ll start a shooting war to stop Peirce.”
“And if he did?” she asked. “It would be a white man’s war. How does that involve my people?”
“Boudinot rigged a land deal with the Katy. Now some other Cherokee has sold his soul to the A&P. Town sites mean big money. So it won’t stay a white man’s war for long.”
“All right,” she conceded, “you have a point. What do you want of me?”
“A name,” Ryan said. “Whoever threw in with the A&P has to be convinced he made a bad deal. I need his name.”
“So you can persuade him to deal with the Katy, is that it?”
Ryan spread his hands. “Sounds better than people shooting at one another.”
She seemed to look through him. At length she smiled with a touch of mockery. “Well, why not? All we’re talking about is which railroad controls the town site. Isn’t that so?”
When Ryan nodded, she went on. “I’ve heard rumors, nothing definite. Apparently there are members of the tribal council who will go to any lengths to destroy Stevens and the Katy. They’ve made their peace with Elias Boudinot.”
“Boudinot?” Ryan repeated. “What’s he got to do with it?”
“From what I hear, his allegiance no longer belongs to Stevens. He abandoned the old town site, and he’s now filed claim on a new plot of land—for the A&P.”
“Well, I’ll be …” Ryan’s voiced trailed off. He shook his head with amazement. “Boudinot’s even trickier than I thought. He sold himself to the highest bidder.”
“So it would appear,” she said. “Of course, he had support this time. It seems there are other Cherokees willing to sell their birthright.”
“Any names?” Ryan asked. “You said they’re members of the council.”
“The only name mentioned was Boudinot’s. I assume the others don’t want their names tarred with the same brush.”
“Probably not.”
Ryan paused and his expression underwent a change. His features softened under the dirt and beard, and his eyes were warmer. “Look, we’ve made a pretty good start today, haven’t we? Don’t you think we could—”
“No!” she interrupted. “You said you wanted to talk business, and we have. Don’t read anything personal into it.”
“Who are you trying to convince—me or yourself?”
“Good-bye, John. Let�
�s make this the last time.”
She wheeled the stallion sharply about. Ryan sat there motionless as a statue and watched as she rode away. His eyes registered nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ryan stood in the dark shelterbelt of the woods. An owl hooted somewhere and farther away a dog barked. He slowly scanned the yard around Stand Watie’s home. Finding nothing, his eyes moved to the front of the house. He spotted a guard on the porch.
Earlier, he’d struck out cross-country again after talking with Elizabeth. Traveling almost due south, he had sighted Webbers Falls late that afternoon. He’d skirted the village, still avoiding people and roads, wary of being seen. By sundown he had secreted himself in the woods behind Stand Watie’s farmhouse.
So far as Ryan knew, Elias Boudinot was there now. Boudinot, when not off politicking in Washington, stayed with his uncle. The trick would be to get past the guard and inside without raising an alarm. Surprise was vital to what Ryan had in mind.
The moon went behind a cloud. He stepped from the trees as darkness momentarily cloaked the land. His nerves were strung wire tight and his hearing seemed painfully acute. He catfooted to the side of the porch. There he waited until the guard turned toward the opposite side of the house. Timing his move closely, he stepped onto the porch with the Colt raised. He thunked the guard over the head and caught him before he fell. A minute’s work left the man bound with his own belt.
Ryan eased through the front door. He gently closed it behind him, hesitating in the darkened hallway. The layout was familiar from his previous visit, and he proceeded to the lighted parlor entrance. A quick look located Boudinot seated at a small desk, writing a letter. There was no sign of Stand Watie.
Ryan lingered a moment longer in the hall. His interrogation of Boudinot would not take long, perhaps ten minutes at the most. He felt confident that all questions would be answered to his satisfaction. Yet he wanted no surprises, and it seemed risky to begin until he knew the whereabouts of Boudinot’s uncle. He also wondered about women and children in the house.
A door at the rear of the parlor opened. Stand Watie entered, wearing a floppy nightshirt out over his pants. His hair was mussed and he padded barefoot to the fireplace. He yawned, stood with his back to the flames, and idly watched his kinsman. Finally his voice intruded on the scratch of pen on paper.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Good night,” Boudinot said without looking up. “Sleep well.”
“Don’t stay up all night.”
“I just want to finish this letter to Vinnie.”
“Humph!” Watie snorted. “Bad enough you named a town after her. You don’t have to act like a lovesick puppy.”
“We’ve been through that before.”
“Well, I still think it’s damn foolishness. You’ve got no business chasing after a white woman!”
“Precisely the point,” Boudinot remarked. “It’s my business, no one else’s.”
“She’ll never marry you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Whether she does or doesn’t alters nothing. She provides an entrée into the proper Washington circles. I’m satisfied with the arrangement.”
“Still say it’s damn fool nonsense!”
Boudinot smiled, dipping his pen in the inkwell. He resumed writing with an amused glance at his uncle. Watie muttered something, then turned from the fireplace.
“Hold it right there.”
Ryan stepped into the room. His voice was low, but the words were a whipcrack command. The pistol was extended at waist level, covering Watie. He wagged the barrel in Boudinot’s direction.
“Over by your uncle.”
Boudinot rose, dropping his pen. He crossed to the fireplace, halting beside Watie. His features congealed in a scowl.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
Ryan ignored him, glancing at Watie. “Where are the women and children?”
“In bed,” Watie said sullenly. “What happened to the man I had posted outside?”
“Nothing much. He’ll wake up with a lump on his head.”
Watie glowered at him a moment. Then his eyes went dark and vengeful. “You’ve got more trouble than you bargained for. I’ll see to that personally.”
Ryan smiled without warmth. “I’ll remember you warned me. Tonight’s not your night, though. I’m here to talk with your nephew.”
“About what?” Boudinot demanded.
“The A&P,” Ryan said. “I understand you’ve made a deal with Andrew Peirce.”
“Who told you that?”
“Do you deny it?”
“No,” Boudinot’s voice was guarded. “It wouldn’t have remained secret long anyway.”
Ryan regarded him with contempt. “Stevens will be disappointed in you.”
“I had no choice!” Boudinot said with a sudden glare. “My life was threatened. I had to go along.”
“Way I hear it, you didn’t lose anything. You’ve still got a town site.”
“No, that’s not true. I only have a share—a small share—in this one.”
“Who are your partners?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I just made it my business. Suppose you tell me the whole story.”
“And if I refuse?”
Ryan cocked the pistol. “You know what the Cherokees call me?”
“The Indian Killer,” Boudinot said weakly.
“Don’t make me prove it.”
Boudinot stood immobilized, as though frozen in place. Ryan looked to him like the image of death itself. He wondered if Stevens had sent the man here to kill him. A moment slipped past, then he sighed and hung his head.
“What do you want to know?”
“Who’s behind it?” Ryan asked. “And don’t tell me it’s a bunch of council members. It has to be someone with authority.”
Boudinot’s eyes fell before his gaze. “It was Tappin.”
“Tappin?” Ryan said, astonished. “Tappin threatened your life?”
“I swear it’s true!”
“And Tappin is your partner?”
“No,” Boudinot said in a shaky voice. “Several council members are involved. Tappin wanted it that way so it would appear more legitimate to the tribe. He took nothing for himself.”
“Why?” Ryan pressed him. “What’s he got to gain?”
“Tappin wants to destroy Stevens and the Katy. He feels the A&P is the lesser of two evils.”
“What about William Ross?”
Ryan was alert to the slightest reaction. He watched the other man’s eyes, looking for anything hidden or uneasy. Boudinot met his gaze steadily.
“I never met directly with Ross. But, of course, that means nothing in itself.”
“Why not?”
Boudinot shrugged. “Tappin is a loyal bootlicker. He wouldn’t visit the outhouse without Ross’ permission.”
Ryan wasn’t all that sure he agreed with the assessment. Yet his purpose was to glean information, rather than start a debate. He went on to a more relevant point.
“Think back,” he urged. “Did Tappin ever say Ross was involved in the A&P deal?”
“No, he never actually said it. But he certainly implied as much. Why do you ask?”
“I like to know who my enemies are.”
Watie grunted aloud. “You’ve made one here tonight. No man forces his way into my home without paying the price.”
Ryan fixed him with a harsh stare. “Do yourself a big favor. Stay out of my way.”
Boudinot silenced his kinsman with a gesture. “Forget what he said, Ryan. We’re in no position to be threatening people.”
“Glad to forget it,” Ryan said, his eyes impersonal. “Just don’t get crosswise of me, or I’m liable to remember.”
Boudinot and Watie looked at him without speaking. Still covering them, he backed through the entryway and into the hall. A moment later the front door closed.
Gibson Station was still going strong. Midnight ha
d come and gone, but the street was crowded with men. Drunken laughter mixed with discordant strains of music echoed from the dives and saloons.
Ryan forded the river south of town. He bypassed the construction camp and rode directly to the livestock pens. Then, after turning the horse into an empty stall, he fetched water and an armload of hay. He thought the roan had earned his keep.
Approaching the rail yard, he noted that the lights were out in Stevens’ private car. He mounted the steps and rapped on the door. Several seconds passed before a lamp was lighted. Attired in a nightshirt and dressing robe, Stevens made his way through the car. His eyes were gummy with sleep and a whiskery stubble covered his jawline. When he opened the door, he looked both irritated and surprised.
“Ryan!” he said in a phlegmy voice. “Where the devil have you been?”
“Here and there,” Ryan replied. “I just now rode in.”
“Why didn’t you telegraph me? I wired the station agent at Vinita and he said you’d disappeared.”
“Figured you’d better hear this in person.”
“Hear what?” Stevens said, motioning him through the door. “Have you turned up something?”
“It’s a long story.”
Ryan took it step by step. He first related what he’d seen at the A&P construction site. Then he explained why he had called on Elizabeth Ross and what he’d learned. He ended with a recounting of his unannounced visit to Stand Watie’s farmhouse. He stuck to the facts, voicing no conclusions.
As he talked, all the color drained from Stevens’ face. The railroader seemed turned to stone, his mouth set in a grim line. At one point he bolted from his chair and began pacing the floor with jerky strides. Finally he pulled himself together and once more sat down. When he spoke, there was an undercurrent of rage in his voice.
“Goddamn Boudinot!” he said hotly. “After all I’ve done for him, and he stabs me in the back. The miserable bastard!”
Ryan nodded. “That pretty well pegs him.”
A vein pulsed in Stevens’ forehead. “You were right about him being a turncoat. He betrayed his own people easily enough—so why not me?”