by Matt Braun
“Well, if it means anything, I believe you. Tappin strikes me as being too shifty for his own good.”
“John”—she touched his arm—“won’t you reconsider … about the railroad?”
“Sorry, but I’m no quitter. I couldn’t walk away when the fight’s half done.”
They parted on that note. When he went through the door, her breath caught in her throat. She folded her arms around her waist, clasping herself as if she were cold. There was a look of anguish in her eyes.
She felt a strange sense of loss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Verdigris River bridge once more took shape. Working marathon hours, Otis Gunn and his men swarmed over the demolished two-hundred-foot span. The resurrected structure was a visible testament to their efforts.
Support timbers were in place and work had begun on the superstructure as early as mid-October. Gunn estimated the center span could be opened to traffic toward the end of the month. Four miles south of Gibson Station, work was progressing as well on the Arkansas River bridge. The projected completion date was early December.
Robert Stevens fretted at the delays. Always the visionary, his mind leaped ahead of ongoing construction. He pored over maps of the Choctaw and Chickasaw nations, planning depot stops and rail yards, estimating freight traffic. Yet, however preoccupied, his eyes would involuntarily skip down the map to the Red River. And Texas.
Negotiations were under way for the first terminus in the Lone Star State. Stevens had written off the Colbert’s Ferry idea, principally because it would involve the Chickasaw Nation in his affairs. After his problems with the Cherokees, he was no longer fascinated with the notion of a town site in Indian Territory. Instead, his attention had turned downriver to the Texas shoreline. He focused on the town of Sherman.
An existing community, it offered certain advantages. Foremost was the possibility of a bond issue, which represented payment by the town for the privilege of being selected a railroad terminus. But the town fathers of Sherman, who impressed Stevens as a bunch of skinflints, were resisting the proposal. While they wanted the railroad, they felt a bond issue was a legalized form of extortion. Their obduracy led him to yet another idea.
Stevens conceived a grand vision. A few miles north of Sherman was a stretch of prairie occupied by small ranchers and hardscrabble farmers. The land was literally dirt cheap and could be purchased secretly through land agents. All of which raised the possibility of an enormous financial coup. It was within his grasp to create an entire town.
Unknown to anyone at Gibson Station, Stevens had sent a confidential emissary to Texas. Henry Denison was a trusted aide, charged with overseeing the Katy’s interests in Kansas. His mission in Texas was to contract for the purchase of several hundred acres north of Sherman. One section that immediately bordered the Red River was particularly suitable. The terrain was relatively flat and adequately watered, perfect for a town site.
Everything depended now on Henry Denison’s progress. If he was able to put together a block of land, the surveyors would be sent south to plan a town site. As an added inducement, Stevens had promised him that the new town would be named Denison. Once the contracts were signed, a land company would be organized to sell town lots. The arrival of the railroad would instantly transform raw farmland into a veritable pot of gold.
Stevens was absorbed by the idea. While the project was a year away from completion, he already imagined it as a full-blown reality. Part of the lure was the fortune he himself would pocket through the land company. But the greater enticement was to put his mark on the map, create a town from whole cloth. There was the added attraction of watching the Sherman skinflints go apoplectic over having lost the railroad. He thought of it as icing on the cake.
Still, for all his stargazing, Stevens was in a wretched mood. The present was depressingly bleak, however bright the future looked. Completion of the Arkansas River bridge was six weeks away, and track laying through the Creek Nation was stalled until the broad stream could be spanned. To compound the delay, twenty-three men from the Irish Brigade were still confined to the hospital car. Some of them would be hobbling on crutches for months to come and drawing full pay the entire time.
The drain on the Katy treasury was enormous and maddening. But expenses weren’t restricted to the track-laying operation being bogged down or to so many of the Irish Brigade on the invalid list. Within the last two weeks independent freighters hauling up the Texas Road had begun avoiding Gibson Station. The long cavalcades of wagons were swinging north upon reaching the Fort Gibson cutoff and trailing on to Vinita. There the goods were shipped eastward on the A&P line.
The sheer audacity of this situation left Stevens in a fierce rage. Andrew Peirce, only four days after the moonlit battle, had reoccupied the original site. He correctly reasoned that the Katy, with so many injured men, would shy away from another confrontation. On the strength of his deal with Boudinot, he’d also obtained a federal court injunction barring the Katy from further interference. In short order, a track crossing was put through and the depot, as well as the warehouse, was rebuilt. To rub salt in the wound, the new station was named Vinita.
Stevens’ hands were tied. He had staked everything on a show of force by routing the A&P construction crew, and he’d lost. All the planning, the savage battle and the injured men, not to mention the cost of the operation, had come to nothing. He’d been betrayed by Boudinot and undermined still again by the Cherokees. But the deeper humiliation had little to do with the Indians’ treachery or the fact that a battle had been fought to no advantage. What stung him most was that he’d been outmaneuvered by his rival, Andrew Peirce.
There was a practical aspect to be considered apart from injured pride. Several freighters had been questioned as to their reason for bypassing Gibson Station. Their response was chilling in its implications. Agents for the A&P were offering large rebates to anyone who would take their wagons all the way to Vinita from northern Texas. The A&P made it profitable for teamsters to haul the longer distance. Fully nine out of ten wagons coming up the Texas Road were now shipping with the A&P.
Andrew Peirce’s intent was patently obvious. He meant nothing less than the financial ruin of Stevens and the Katy line. Whether it was revenge or merely underhanded business practice, the blow was timed perfectly. With the onset of winter and the trailing season at an end, revenue from the Texas cattle trade had fallen off sharply. Army contracts, however profitable, would never generate sufficient income to keep the Katy solvent. The loss of business from independent freighters represented a critical blow.
Problems seemed to beget problems. Over the past week guerrilla warfare had broken out along the Katy line. Sections of track were ripped from the roadbed at isolated spots throughout the Cherokee Nation. The ties were then piled into mounds and set afire. Rail traffic out of Gibson Station ground to a halt until work gangs could repair the damage. While the Cherokees were the logical suspects, no one had yet been caught in the act. There was no way to patrol a hundred miles of track, and the saboteurs had struck only at night. Putting a halt to the raids seemed almost impossible at this point.
Stevens’ dour mood was understandable. Loss of sleep left him cranky and irritable, and the prospect of financial ruin put a steely edge on his anger. The morning’s news from north Texas, relayed by letter from Henry Denison, was the proverbial last straw. He sent for John Ryan.
Stevens wasted no time on preliminaries. He went straight to the point, his voice hot with rage. “I’ve just had word that Peirce has upped the stakes. As of today, it’s a cutthroat game!”
“What’s he done now?”
“The dirty bastard!” Stevens ranted. “His agents in Texas are offering an even trickier deal. Anyone who ships freight with us from Gibson Station and transfers to the A&P at Vinita will get a fatter rebate than before!”
“It’s clever,” Ryan acknowledged. “We make chicken-feed running back and forth between Vinita, and he winds up
with the business.”
“Precisely!” Stevens said acidly. “In effect, he’s turned Vinita into a strangler’s knot. We’re cut off from routing through traffic to St. Louis.”
“What’s the difference? Unless we put a stop to the sabotage, we’re snookered anyway. We’ll never get a train out of the Cherokee Nation.”
“That’s another thing!” Stevens bridled. “I’m told that the A&P agents in Texas have been doing a bit of bragging. They said Peirce is working hand in glove with some unnamed Cherokee to stir up the tribe. Would you care to guess who the Cherokee is?”
“Probably Boudinot,” Ryan said. “And he’s likely operating under Tappin’s protection. That would account for why we haven’t caught anybody. Who’s going to spill the beans on another Cherokee?”
Stevens grimaced. “We’re talking about conspiracy! A criminal act of the worse sort, and I want it stopped.”
“You can’t send me back to Tahlequah. I’ve just about played out my string with Ross.”
A wintry smile lighted Stevens’ eyes. “Forget Ross and Boudinot and everyone else. I want you to pay a call on Andrew Peirce.”
Ryan stared at him. “You’re not talking about any rough stuff, are you?”
“On the contrary,” Stevens reassured him. “I merely want you to deliver a message.”
“What sort of message?”
“Tell him two can play the same game. I demand—demand! —that he cease all of his underhanded schemes. Otherwise it’s tit for tat from now on.”
“You’re saying you would sabotage his tracks, maybe blow his bridges—is that it?”
“Exactly!”
Ryan studied him a moment, finally nodded. “I’ll deliver your message. But don’t count on me if push comes to shove. I’m not a hit-and-run night rider—not for you or anyone else.”
“Don’t worry,” Stevens said, smiling. “I can always import outside help. All I want from you is one thing—make a believer out of Peirce.”
“I’ll do my damnedest, Colonel.”
Later, reflecting on it, Stevens decided he’d taken the right step. Andrew Peirce was a buccaneer and a scoundrel, the type of man who responded only to force. So it was fitting, Stevens told himself, to send a man who was something of a natural force.
He thought Ryan’s “damnedest” would do very nicely.
The sky was like dull granite. Heavy clouds rolled in from the north and a sharp wind rattled branches on the trees. A flock of crows took wing from the woods, cawing raucously as they wheeled away.
Ryan scanned the overcast sky. It was too early for snow, and he’d forgotten to bring along a rain slicker. Later yesterday, after talking with Stevens, he had saddled the roan and ridden out of Gibson Station. The night had been spent on the trail, and now, in the early afternoon, he was within a few miles of the A&P camp. He followed the tracks northward, holding the roan to a walk.
Earlier when he’d passed a section of rebuilt track, it occurred to him that he wasn’t surprised by the sabotage. For several months now, he’d been expecting some form of reprisal from the Cherokees. Nor was he surprised that Elias Boudinot had been made the straw man, the apparent leader of the night riders. The true leaders of a conspiracy were seldom willing to reveal themselves publicly. Major David Tappin was no exception; he would, at all costs, try to avoid the limelight of a conspiracy. Tribal politics dictated that he at least appear above reproach.
There was, as well, the matter of William Ross. While Ryan doubted that Ross was directly involved in the conspiracy, he recalled Elizabeth’s concern for her father. Her comment about Tappin and his ambition to take over as tribal chief seemed all the more relevant. The sabotage, though directed at the Katy, might easily have a hidden purpose. Open rebellion by the Cherokees could be turned inward, brought to the floor of the tribal council and used as a means of forcing Ross to resign his office. And thereby open the door for David Tappin.
The prospect troubled Ryan. He admired Ross, believed him to be an honorable man. So it was in the interest of everyone involved to expose the conspiracy. Yet curiously enough, he felt no great urge to catch the night riders. They were merely dupes, sacrificial pawns in a larger game, even less important than Boudinot. There was, moreover, a personal reason for not attempting to trap them. To avoid capture, they would almost certainly fight. And he simply didn’t want to kill any more Cherokees. Or anyone else, for that matter. White or red, he was weary of killing men.
The thought gave Ryan a moment of sardonic reflection. In the Cherokee Nation, he was already something of a legend. They called him the Indian Killer, and spoke it with the harsh inflection of a curse. The burden of the name weighed heavily on him as he rode into the A & P camp. He reminded himself that he was there to deliver a message and nothing more. He wouldn’t be goaded into a fight, or another killing.
The area around the depot was crawling with men. To Ryan’s great relief, none of them seemed to recognize him. He was nonetheless on edge, for these were the very men who had taken part in the midnight battle. West of the new track crossing, he saw a construction train, and farther away, the track-laying gangs. He spotted a private railway car shunted on to a siding. Ryan noted wryly that Peirce’s private car was almost identical to Stevens’. He reined his horse toward the siding.
On the rear platform of the car, he knocked loudly. A voice ordered him to enter and he stepped through the door. The interior layout was more businesslike than Stevens’ car. A section had been partitioned off and furnished as an office. Seated at a wide mahogany desk was a man who appeared to be in his early fifties. He was heavily built, with a sweeping mustache and a square, thick-jowled face. Behind wire-rimmed spectacles his eyes were gray and chill, stern as a church deacon’s. He motioned Ryan forward.
“What is it?”
“Are you Andrew Peirce?”
“I am,” Peirce said impatiently.
“I’ve got a message for you, Mr. Peirce—from Robert Stevens.”
Peirce looked surprised, then suddenly irritated. “Who the hell are you?”
“The name’s Ryan.” Halting at the desk, Ryan held his gaze. “I work for the Colonel.”
“John Ryan?” Peirce asked. “Stevens’ hired gun?”
“I’m not here to swap insults, Mr. Peirce. Let’s just stick to business.”
“Well, Ryan, you have some nerve coming here. Every man in this camp would give his eyeteeth for a crack at you.”
A smile appeared at the corner of Ryan’s mouth. “I reckon they’ve already had that and more. I don’t especially care for a rematch.”
“No doubt,” Peirce said with a short, emphatic nod. “Although my boys tell me you and Tom Scullin gave a good account of yourselves.”
“We got about as much as we gave.”
Peirce took off his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief. “So Bob Stevens sent you with a message? Knowing him, I’d wager it’s some half-assed threat.”
“No, sir,” Ryan said evenly. “It’s more on the order of a declaration of war.”
“What’s that?” Peirce looked as though his ears were plugged. “What did you say?”
“I’ll give it to you in Stevens’ own words. He said two can play at the same game. If you don’t back off, he plans to let you have tit for tat.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“Word’s out,” Ryan said, “that you’ve riled up the Cherokees. Our tracks are being torn up faster than we can rebuild them. The Colonel wants you to have a talk with Boudinot—or Tappin—and put a stop to it.”
Peirce shook his head in mock wonder. “Are you accusing me of sabotaging the Katy?”
Ryan ignored the question. “There’s more,” he said. “Stevens wants you to lift the freight rebates, starting today. If you don’t, then the fat’s in the fire.”
“Tell him to go straight to hell! I’ll run my business any way I see fit.”
“Sorry to hear you say that, Mr. Peirce. Whatever else he is,
the Colonel’s a man of his word. He’ll make you pay a dear price.”
“Will he?” Peirce demanded. “And what form would this tit for tat take?”
“Hit and run,” Ryan answered in a low voice. “Your tracks would be torn up and burned. Your bridges would be blown and your rolling stock derailed. Stevens would go whole hog and then some.”
Peirce’s eyes were angry, commanding. “If he wants war, then by God he can have it! I’ll destroy him, run him out of the Nations!”
Ryan regarded him with great calmness. “Yeah, you could do that. But while you were about it, he’d take you down with him. When the dust settled, you’d both be out of business.”
Peirce sat quietly for a moment with his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. After a moment he looked around. “How would you like a job, Mr. Ryan?”
“Thanks all the same,” Ryan said. “I’ve got a job.”
“A pity,” Peirce observed. “I could use a man with quick wits. I’d be willing to double your salary.”
“No sale, Mr. Peirce. What should I tell the Colonel?”
Peirce glowered back at him with an owlish frown. “Tell your boss he’s the sorriest excuse for a railroader that I’ve ever met. And then tell him”—he paused, waved his hand disdainfully—“he’s got himself a deal.”
Ryan nodded, moving to the door without another word. Outside the car he went down the steps and walked directly to his horse. After climbing into the saddle, he turned the roan away from Vinita. As he rode off, he wondered what sort of reception Peirce would get in Tahlequah.
Major David Tappin had his own ax to grind. And in some ways it had nothing to do with the railroad.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
On November 7 the Verdigris River bridge was once more opened to traffic. The first construction train, loaded with bridge timbers, crossed the river late that morning. Crowded onto one of the flatcars were Scullin and a contingent of the Irish Brigade.
Stevens observed the operation from a window inside his private car. The weather was dismal, with low-hanging clouds and whirling snow flurries. While the interior of the car was toasty warm, it did nothing to improve his mood. He munched an unlit cigar, watching the train disappear across the bridge. The sight gave him only fleeting comfort.