Kinch Riley / Indian Territory

by Matt Braun

  “Probably easier with you than it was with the Cherokees. After all, you’re a tibo.”

  “Well, as someone once said, hindsight makes the most ignorant of men wise. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “No more side deals with Indians,” Stevens declared. “We’ll finish building the railroad and get the hell out of the Nations. Whoever called these people civilized had a strange sense of humor.”

  “Speaking of that,” Ryan added, “Major Tappin has had himself a horse laugh at our expense. One way or another, we ought to have the last laugh.”

  “Tell me,” Stevens asked, his eyes grave. “Do you think Ross authorized the A&P deal? Or was it solely Tappin’s handiwork?”

  “Hard to say,” Ryan remarked. “I know Ross has lost some of his influence over the tribal council. But whether Tappin would pull this on his own is another question.”

  “And in the end,” Stevens said in a disgusted tone, “it probably doesn’t matter. We’ve been forced into a fight with the A&P, and it’s dog eat dog. We have to take countermeasures.”

  Ryan looked at him. “What’d you have in mind?”

  “Go get Tom Scullin. Roust him out and tell him I said chop, chop! We need to hold a war council.”

  Ten minutes later Ryan returned with Scullin. The Irishman was half dressed and looked grumpy as a soretailed bear. But his mood underwent an abrupt turnaround when Stevens began talking. Stevens’ eyes were fierce and his voice was clipped.

  “Tom, I want the Irish Brigade ready to roll by dawn!”

  “Dawn?”

  “You heard me!” Stevens said. “Every man jack of them, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  Scullin gave him a sharp, sidelong look. “And where might we be rollin’ to?”

  “Vinita!” Stevens announced. “Or to be more precise, three miles north of Vinita. I intend to raid the A&P terminal.”

  “You what?”

  “A guerrilla raid!” Stevens rasped. “We’ll rout their work gangs! Close down their operation!”

  Scullin’s eyes took on a bright, madcap gleam. “You’re serious, are you? You plan to hit them head-on?”

  “I do indeed! I want the depot and the warehouse torn down. When you’re through with that, pull up all their fence posts—”

  “All of them?”

  “—and build a bonfire to light up the Cherokee Nation. I want the bastards put on warning. We will not tolerate interference!”

  Scullin turned to Ryan. “What d’you think, John? Are we within our rights?”

  “It’s not legal,” Ryan ventured, “but possession is nine-tenths of the law. Who’s to stop us?”

  “Andrew Peirce,” Scullin said, glancing at Stevens. “You know him yourself, Colonel. The man’s a terrible dirty fighter. He’ll not take it lyin’ down.”

  “Let him come!” Stevens said vindictively. “We’ll rout him and his railroad. No quarter asked and none given!”

  “So it’s war, then?”

  “Yes, goddammit! How many times do I have to say it? A war to the finish!”

  “Aye,” Scullin said with a harsh bark of laughter. “And we’ll be the ones to finish it.”

  The Irishman turned toward the door. He smote Ryan across the shoulder, grinning broadly. “C’mon, Johnny. We’ll give ’em a shellacking they’ll never forget!”

  “Tom, I wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China.”

  Scullin roared a great belly laugh.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The operation was conducted like a military campaign. Throughout the remainder of the night, Scullin attended to logistical matters. His manner was that of a general preparing to occupy a foreign country.

  Arms were the first consideration. By company edict railroad workers were not allowed to possess personal firearms. In Scullin’s bunk car were several rifles and pistols, which were rotated on a nightly basis among the railway guards. Wary of starting a shooting war, he decided to keep these weapons under lock and key.

  Scullin was a seasoned campaigner. He’d fought in railroad wars back east, and he knew that fists were not the weapon of choice. Men determined to inflict injury and rout their opponents selected weapons suitable to the task. Accordingly, he ordered several crates of replacement parts brought up from the warehouse. Every member of the Irish Brigade was then armed with a stout pickax handle.

  Stevens appointed himself commander-in-chief. He was neither a physical man nor a warrior. To him violence was merely another business tool to be used with judicious application. His preference was to outmaneuver an opponent, wits over force. Mayhem, while not necessarily repugnant, simply wasn’t his strong suit. He wisely left the fighting to Scullin and the Irish Brigade.

  Scullin accepted the responsibility with a certain brutish glee. He was a blooded scrapper himself and was confident that his men would make a good showing of themselves. Any true son of Erin fancied pugilism over diplomacy, and all of Scullin’s men still spoke with a brogue. He had no doubt that they would carry the day.

  Ryan was appointed second in command. The men respected him, and they were by now fully convinced of his fighting ability. Apart from being coolheaded, he was chosen as well for his experience in outwitting wanted men. Scullin knew the battle with the A&P would be decided as much on stratagem as on brute force. He thought Ryan would advise him well.

  The construction train was revamped for battle. All flatcars and boxcars were shunted into the rail yard. What remained were the bunk cars, which would serve as troop carriers, and a well-stocked kitchen car. Stripped to essentials, the train was capable of highball speed and quick maneuver. It would carry more than two hundred men and sufficient victuals to feed them for three days. Coupled to the rear was the private car of Robert Stevens.

  The Irish Brigade worked through the night. Hours were consumed in the rail yard, breaking down the train and then re-forming it into a sleek war wagon. Scullin constantly exhorted the men to move things along. No one resented his badgering, for they were all caught up in the contagion of an impending fight. Like all good troop commanders, he also knew that an army travels on its stomach. An hour before dawn the men were fed a hot breakfast.

  At first light the train got under way. The girls of Poonville turned out to cheer them on with fluttering hankies and ribald hurrahs. Pickax handles thrust overhead, the Irish Brigade responded with a bellowing roar.

  Asa Johnson felt the tracks vibrate. He checked the depot clock, noting that it was a few minutes past nine. No train was scheduled through Vinita until late morning.

  Walking outside, Johnson peered down the tracks. He saw the smoke, then the engine, and finally he heard the clickety-clack of steel on steel. He idly wondered why the engineer wasn’t sounding the whistle, but his curiosity turned to amazement as the train pulled into the station. He saw it was an entire trainload of Micks. Scullin and his Irish buffoons.

  And all of them waving ax handles!

  The private car was speedily uncoupled. At Scullin’s insistence, Stevens was to establish a command post in the depot. There, with access to the telegraph, he could open lines of communication with Gibson Station. Otis Gunn and his bridge builders could be rushed north if reinforcements were needed.

  Stevens, looking properly military, took over Vinita station. Asa Johnson was pressed into service and ordered to clear the telegraph line southward. By half past nine, with the private car shunted onto a siding, the command post was in operation. Stevens stood on the depot platform as the train chuffed away, gathering speed. He waved even though no one waved back.

  Some ten minutes later the train topped a small rise. Ahead lay the A&P depot, and nearby the freight warehouse. At the cardinal points of the compass, work crews were putting the finishing touches on a post-and-rail fence. To the east, obscured by a haze of dust, the track-laying gangs were perhaps a mile away. Not more than thirty men were still working around the depot itself.

  Sur
prise, which was critical to Scullin’s plan, appeared to be complete. Hanging from the engine cab, he scanned the depot and shot Ryan a wide grin. His primary objective was to occupy the terminal before significant resistance could be mounted. By the look of things, no one expected an aggressive move, much less an invasion from the Katy. For the moment he had superiority in numbers and a jump on the A&P’s main force. He meant to press the advantage without delay.

  The engineer throttled down, quickly set the brakes. Groaning and squealing, the train eased to a stop directly in front of the depot. Scullin hopped onto the platform with Ryan at his heels. Behind them the Irish Brigade poured out of the bunk cars like a horde of blue-eyed Mongols. With leaders appointed earlier and the Brigade already split into four companies, the men moved out smartly. In less than a minute, the depot and warehouse were completely surrounded.

  The stationhouse door banged open. Lon Kellett, foreman of the depot operation, stalked out onto the platform: He was a tough ox of a man with scarcely any neck, his head fixed directly on his shoulders. He knew Tom Scullin on sight, though they had never before tangled. He looked decidedly unimpressed today.

  “What the hell’s the idea, Scullin?”

  “Why, it’s simple enough,” Scullin said pleasantly. “You’re trespassing on private property. I’ll have to ask you to clear out.”

  “Trespassin’!” Kellett rumbled. “You’ve got rocks in your head. This here’s A&P property!”

  “No, Lon, you’re mistaken. You’ve built your depot on Katy right-of-way. I want you out—now.”

  Kellett glared at him, baffled. “That just ain’t possible! We can’t be on your right-of-way!”

  “You are,” Scullin said with finality. “And I’ll not argue the matter further. So be a good lad and vacate the premises.”

  “Like shit!” Kellett growled. “The graders are gonna be here after noontime. They’re all set to put in the crossing.”

  “Not today,” Scullin informed him. “Until things are put right, there’ll be no crossing. Tell Mr. Peirce to stay clear of our tracks.”

  “Stick it up your ass! I ain’t going nowhere.”

  “That’s your last word on it?”

  “Goddamn right!”

  Scullin hit him. The blow caught Kellett flush between the eyes, staggered him backward, and he dropped to one knee. Uncommonly agile for his size, Scullin shifted and took a quick step forward. He lashed out, exploding two splintering punches on the other man’s jaw. Kellett went down like a wet sack of oats. He was out cold.

  Grinning wickedly, Scullin dusted his hands and glanced around at Ryan. “Some men just won’t listen to reason. And wouldn’t you know, I gave him the straight of it. He is on our right-of-way!”

  “No doubt about it,” Ryan said, smiling. “You were entirely justified, Tom.”

  “Oh, indeed I was! Can you imagine the man’s gall? Tellin’ me to stick it! Blood of Christ!”

  The A&P work crew was herded up to the depot. Three wagons were brought around, with mules already harnessed, and Lon Kellett was loaded aboard. He regained his senses just as the wagons took off across the prairie, headed toward the distant track-laying operation. Wobbling to his knees, he rose and shook his fist in the air. Scullin laughed uproariously, waving good-bye with his hat.

  The Irish Brigade went to work with a cheerful vengeance. One company began dismantling the depot while another assaulted the warehouse. With wagons and teams the two remaining companies set out to destroy the fence. Ryan thought they looked like overgrown boys pulling an outlandish prank. It all seemed so good-natured and playful, some sort of jest.

  Then his gaze shifted to the A&P end-of-track. He wondered how Andrew Peirce would enjoy being made the butt of the joke. He knew the answer wouldn’t be long in coming.

  There was now a gigantic bonfire where the station once stood. Already the wreckage of the depot and the warehouse had been consumed, reduced to ashes over the afternoon and early evening. Fence posts were being fed a wagonload at a time into the roaring blaze. Sparks showered the air and great tongues of flame leaped skyward.

  Scullin and Ryan stood near the tracks. They were amused by the men’s antics, watching quietly as another load of posts fueled the fire. The beefy track-layers whooped and shouted, not unlike Indian braves engaged in a war dance. Their exuberant cries filled the still night air.

  Scullin had ordered the bonfire rekindled after the men had been fed a hot supper. Several lookouts were posted atop the train and told to keep a watchful eye on the A&P camp. But Scullin’s confidence seemed to ebb as the night wore on. He’d waited all afternoon for Andrew Peirce to retaliate. He had felt certain the roaring bonfire would provoke the other side. Yet now he’d begun to have his doubts.

  “Hell of a note,” he said gruffly, holding his pocket watch to the light. “Going on midnight and still no sign of them. Where are they?”

  Ryan was silent a moment. “Maybe Peirce doesn’t like the odds. It’s possible he’s got something else in mind.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, for one thing, there’s the law. He might’ve sent to Fort Smith for a marshal.”

  “What would that accomplish?”

  “If nothing else, it’d be a standoff. They were trespassing, but we destroyed their property. The law would order us to move out of their way—let them lay track.”

  “Oh, we’ll not stop them from laying track. Peirce has a federal grant and nothing to be done about that.”

  Ryan looked at him. “Then why not pull back to Gibson Station? You’ve wrecked their depot and warehouse. What’s left?”

  “Nothing,” Scullin said. “Unless Peirce still has some notion of organizing a town site. If he does, then we’ll sit here till doomsday.”

  “How will you know whether he does or not?”

  Scullin smiled. “If he wants a town site, then he knows he’ll have to drive us off. It’s a case of might makes right. To hell with the law!”

  “What about Boudinot? From a legal standpoint, the land belongs to him and his new cronies.”

  “The Colonel will hold Boudinot to the original deal. Assuming, of course, that nobody kills him in the meantime. How do you feel on that score—will they try?”

  “Hard to say,” Ryan allowed. “We still don’t know who they are.”

  “You’re talking about the assassins?”

  Ryan nodded. “Boudinot crawled in bed with Tappin, and that might help him some. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Jesus,” Scullin grunted. “It makes you wish for the good old days. Building a railroad used to be a damnsight easier.”

  Ryan chuckled. “Some folks call it progress, Tom.”

  Scullin’s reply was cut short. One of the lookouts whistled and caught their attention. Standing on top of the nearest bunk car, the man rapidly motioned eastward. They crossed the tracks and halted in front of the locomotive. Their eyes were drawn to movement far out on the prairie.

  Moonlight bathed the landscape in a pale glow. The distant movement slowly became distinct human forms. Looking closer, Scullin and Ryan were able to make out a large body of men. As the gap narrowed and the figures became more distinguishable, their number appeared to be something over two hundred. They were carrying pickax handles and lengths of chain and approaching at a determined stride.

  Scullin laughed and spat on his hands. “Well now, it appears we’ve got ourselves a donnybrook!”

  “In spades,” Ryan added. “Where do we meet them?”

  “Where else? On our own right-of-way!”

  The Irish Brigade was mustered in a matter of minutes. With Scullin and Ryan in the lead, they took up position on the east side of the tracks. After the long wait, the prospect of a skulldusting contest seemed to raise the men’s spirits even higher. They began shouting catcalls, slapping their pickax handles into open palms. Behind them the bonfire cast a shimmering light across the tracks.

  Lon Kellett was in the vanguard of the A
&P track layers. He carried a three-foot length of logging chain and his eyes glinted with cold ferocity. The men around him closed ranks. They advanced in a burly wedge, weapons gripped tightly. As they approached, the catcalls died off and the Irish Brigade fell silent. There seemed no reason to talk, nothing left to negotiate. Whatever was to be settled would be settled by force.

  Leaping out front, Kellett snarled a murderous oath and swung the logging chain overhead. Scullin went to meet him, ducking aside to let the chain whistle past. He clouted Kellett square in the knee with the pickax handle, and there was a loud crack. As Kellett screamed and toppled sideways, the A&P tracklayers surged forward. A roar went up along the tracks, and the Irish Brigade jumped into the fray. The earth seemed to quaver under the impact as the two sides collided head-on.

  Ryan waded in to join Scullin at the forefront: Together, almost shoulder to shoulder, they clubbed and hammered in a blurred flurry. The men of both sides battered their way into the center of the action like ancient warriors, hurling themselves at one another with savage abandon. The struggle quickly became a contest of brute strength, a barbarous melee of ax handles and swinging chains. Over the grunts and curses came the dull whump of blows, and louder still the strangled cries of those struck down.

  The battleground soon turned wet and slick with blood. The mushy thump of wood on flesh and the crunch of shattering bone beat a steady tattoo in the otherwise still night. Men fell in increasing numbers, trampled and crushed underfoot, reduced to bleating, terrified animals. Yet the struggle raged on, never slackening as the strongest ones hacked their way toward each other. Neither side wavered, and no man backed off.

  The momentum of the battle slowly shifted as foot by foot the A&P tracklayers were forced to give ground. The Irish Brigade smelled victory and their ax handles flailed faster. Kellett’s men broke ranks and scattered before the attack. Once the retreat began, a sense of panic swept through the A&P forces. Those in the rear quietly deserted their comrades, fleeing across the prairie. The few who still fought on were quickly hammered into the ground.