The Titans

by John Jakes

  “English,” he said, garbling it so that it came out Anglish. The thumb of the hand holding the lance straightened, pointing at the Indian’s chest. “English!” There was an almost childlike quality about the declaration.

  When the Indian continued, he mauled the pronunciation of nearly every word. “I have traded at white forts. But we are not Laramie Loafers—”

  Some of the others understood and growled agreement.

  “We do not come to bring war. We like black coffee that is sweet. We want to see the fire road you are making. No war, only see.”

  He widened his eyes, blinking several times. The illustration almost made Michael laugh, not in derision but genuine amusement. The fat-bellied man almost resembled a small boy—except for that bow lance he’d quietly shifted back to Ruffin’s throat.

  “We friends.” It came out frans. “No war. Just coffee.” More blinking. “Just look.”

  Amusing as the Indian’s enthusiastic declaration was, Michael remained wary. He’d heard tales of braves who had ridden up to a government fort to trade with perfect cordiality one day, only to return the next and launch a vicious attack. They were unpredictable as the plains weather, Casement claimed. So he didn’t put much stock in Fatbelly’s assertions. Though his heart was beating less rapidly, Michael kept a frown on his face.

  “Very well. If you’re friendly—”

  Fatbelly’s nod was again impatient. “Friends. Friends!”

  “Then put the boy down.”

  The Indian cocked his head, acting baffled. Michael suspected the man understood more than he let on.

  Michael resorted to gestures. A finger at the boy, then at the buffalo grass.

  “Down. Let him go. Don’t hurt him.”

  The Indian pondered. Shook his head. “You are many. We are few. We keep him till we see the fire road and get coffee. Then we let go. Is not wise to believe all you whites say. You say friends, then you turn many guns against us.”

  Something ugly flickered in the man’s eyes. His smile disappeared.

  “Two summers ago it was so when Black Kettle camped at Sand Creek.”

  Michael winced; he knew the infamous reference.

  In the autumn of ’64, Indian raids in the Colorado territory had resulted in the organization of a Denver-based military unit of six hundred white men. The men—mostly riffraff—had been commanded by a fanatic Army officer named Chivington, who also happened to be an ordained Methodist minister. Chivington led his men to a nearby Cheyenne encampment.

  Though not responsible for the raids, the inhabitants of the camp—Black Kettle’s people—had feared reprisal and sought sanctuary from rising anti-Indian sentiment. The Army had proposed Sand Creek as safe territory. Black Kettle had moved there, even raising the Stars and Stripes on a pole—and then he’d watched Chivington’s regiment of ruffians ride in. For three or four hours, the whites had galloped back and forth, smashing tipis and butchering close to fifty braves, women, and children.

  “I had a sister there,” Fatbelly said. “Sister?”

  Michael nodded to signify comprehension.

  “She never stole cows, never cut talking wires”—a stab of the lance toward the telegraph poles across the Platte—“but her hair was taken. This hair”—the lance lifted to touch his head—“this hair too.” He lowered the lance to his groin. “It was held up in a large place for whites who laughed.”

  Michael had no answer to satisfy the Indian’s anger. He knew scalps of Cheyenne children and the pubic hair of Cheyenne women had indeed been paraded on the stage of at least one Denver theater following Chivington’s raid.

  Michael was no expert on the confused policies and operations of the Army in the West. But he did know officers assigned to the troubled territory during the war had generally been incompetents. The best men had been assigned to the Union forces pitted against the Confederacy.

  With men of poor quality in charge on the plains, it was no wonder decisions were poor as well. Such men didn’t believe it necessary to locate and punish the Indians actually responsible for a given act of murder or arson. For effective control of what was termed the Indian problem, punishment of any Indian would do. Fatbelly’s sister had evidently been one of the innocents who suffered from such witless retaliation.

  “No,” the Indian grumbled, tightening his hand over Ruffin’s purpling face. The boy’s eyes bulged. He looked ready to expire for lack of breath. “We let this one go if we find no war. We let go after we drink coffee!”

  The finality of it convinced Michael he’d better postpone further argument. He’d shaped a strategy for handling the situation, but before he had a chance to implement it, Fatbelly barked at him again.

  “Are you the fire-road boss?”

  Michael shook his head. “I only lay track.”

  The Indian didn’t understand.

  “I work. Work.” Michael flexed his hands. Pantomimed lifting something. The Indian grunted.

  “My name—” Was that an unfamiliar word? Dry-lipped, he began again. “I”—a finger to his chest—“I am called Boyle.” He repeated it.

  “Bile.” Fatbelly nodded. “I am—”

  A rush of gibberish. Michael kept shaking his head. Finally the Indian went back to English.

  “Guns Taken.”

  “Ah. Guns Taken.” Michael’s bobbing head indicated his comprehension.

  The Cheyenne’s grin returned. “Took three guns when I was ten summers. Three! From a white fort. I rode away fleet as the wind before they could close the gates and catch my pony. I was honored and became Guns Taken instead of Dog Barks, the name I was given at the hour my mother bore me.”

  There was enormous pride in the statements and the broad smile accompanying them. The innocence of the declaration relieved Michael’s anxiety a bit. Almost made him like the fellow, in fact.

  But it was dangerous to be lulled. Casement insisted the Plains Indians were not the primitive simpletons too many whites made them out to be. The Sioux and Cheyenne could be cunning. And volatile.

  “Three big guns!” the Indian bellowed.

  Michael nodded hastily. “Yes, yes, I understand.” Evidently he hadn’t acted sufficiently impressed. His failure wiped the smile from the Indian’s face. Guns Taken thrust his lance at Michael.

  “We go to the fire road. Now.”

  Knees pressing against his pony, the warrior started forward. Michael held up his hands.

  “Wait.”

  He pushed his palms toward the Indian. Guns Taken’s scowl deepened. Michael swallowed, wondering whether the man would fling his lance.

  “Let me go first,” Michael told him, mixing improvised pantomime with the words. “You stay here while I go ahead—ahead—so there will be no angry men. Let me speak to the boss of the fire road. It may take me a little while, so don’t be alarmed. I promise to tell him you are not here for war. Then he will make you welcome.”

  Guns Taken shook his head hard. Michael’s meaning was either unclear or the Cheyenne was again pretending. Tense, Michael went through it twice more, finally making the Indian understand he would precede the party and take whatever time was required to assure there was no trouble. He was not only concerned about Tom Ruffin’s safety, but anxious for Jack Casement to get the men at the railhead firmly under control before the Indians appeared. He hoped he was doing the right thing.

  Turning his pony, Guns Taken addressed the young men in his band. The Cheyenne spoke a swift flow of words Michael couldn’t fathom. But gestures and expressions left no doubt about some of the reactions:

  Complaints. Angry protests. Guns Taken silenced his braves with repeated shouts.

  A couple of the Indians let Michael take the brunt of their displeasure. The ferocity of their glances made him shiver.

  But Guns Taken was in command. Michael was again encouraged when the big Indian walked his pony forward three steps and gave a final nod.

  “You go. The boy stays till the fire-road boss says come in.”


  “No. I want the boy.” With both hands he motioned to Ruffin, then the grass. “Let him down.”

  “You go! Boy stays.” The dark eyes shone with a sad cynicism. “Then there will be no guns fired to greet us. If there are guns fired, Bile”—the smile reappeared, but it had a terrifying lack of humor; the Cheyenne pricked Tom Ruffin’s neck a second time—“the boy is yours. Dead.”

  The bargain was clear. Jesus, Michael thought, why me in the middle of this?

  All the Cheyenne began to jabber, waving at him, impatient for him to leave. Guns Taken thrust the bow lance at him a second time.

  “Too much talk already! We thirst for coffee. You find boss!”

  Michael started off, then paused. “Tom?”

  Guns Taken uncovered Ruffin’s mouth. In a surprisingly calm voice, the boy replied, “What, sir?”

  “Keep still and they won’t hurt you. I’ll be back soon.”

  Even with Guns Taken’s hand clasping his face again, Ruffin managed a nod. The Irishman turned his back, crossed the summit of the low hill and broke into a run going down the slope. Despite Tom Ruffin’s grit, Michael wondered if he’d see the boy alive again.

  Chapter II

  Armed Camp

  i

  MICHAEL RAN WITH ALL his strength, plunging through the thick buffalo grass along the river. Sweat began to flick off his forehead.

  He sped by the spot where he’d dropped his clothing and drew abreast of the first group of naked bathers laughing and enjoying a water fight. Wigwagging his arms, he yelled, “Back to the train! There are Indians yonder. They have Tom Ruffin.”

  Up to his knobby knees in the water, Liam O’Dey scratched his testicles. “Ah, Michael Boyle, let’s have none of your feeble jokes this morning.”

  Michael shook a fist. “It’s no damn joke! I talked to them. If you stay here, the boy’s liable to be murdered. Get moving!”

  He spun and dashed on while O’Dey and his companions clambered up the bank for their clothes.

  He stopped to warn three more groups, and sent a man from the last one running on down the river to summon in the others—a good hundred or so, strung out in the shallows for at least a mile to the east. Michael himself angled toward the perpetual train, waving his arms frantically again.

  Osceola was pulling out. Armed men clinging to the sides of the locomotive and tender saw him coming. One poked his head into the cab. The engine stopped with a squeal and spurting of steam.

  Michael went pounding around the edge of the beef herd. The disturbed animals began to low. Michael’s shouts and arm waving brought two of the drovers charging at him. One brandished a long stick.

  “Quit yer damn yellin’ or ye’ll stampede ’em.”

  “Indians!” Michael yelled, pointing west. The drover turned pale and crossed himself.

  As Michael rushed on, noisy, half-naked men started streaming toward the train from points all along the bank. He reached the office car, vaulted up the steps two at a time, and ran along the narrow corridor. The door of Casement’s cubicle stood ajar. Michael heard a voice he recognized.

  “Either I get my job back from that mick, or I won’t be responsible for what happens to—”

  A bull-voiced Casement broke in. “You will be responsible or I’ll ship you back to Omaha under guard, Worthing!”

  Michael kicked the door open and grabbed the jamb with both hands, too upset to worry about the presence of the Virginian. Worthing pivoted toward him. His face was puffy and discolored. His left eye had swollen shut.

  “Well!” he said in a nasty way. “The very mick under discussion.”

  ii

  Casement ignored him, eyes on Michael’s sweaty face. Michael gulped air. He couldn’t seem to get enough.

  “What the hell’s wrong, Boyle?”

  “We have visitors, General. About a mile west. Thirty Indians. Cheyenne, I think.”

  “Merciful God!” Casement breathed. “That’s all we need.”

  “Pity they didn’t lift your fucking hair,” Worthing said, touching a knuckle to the bloated yellow-blue mass of his left cheek.

  “Let him talk!” Casement said. “You saw the Indians yourself?”

  “I did. I had conversation with them. The head man speaks passable English. They captured Tom Ruffin. The boy had gone off to catch a grouse—”

  In a few sentences he explained what had happened. At the end, Worthing gaped. “You mean to say you let a pack of filthy savages hang on to the boy while you turned tail?”

  Red-faced, Michael snarled, “The leader had a lance this long”—he flung his arms wide—“square in Ruffin’s neck. The head man said they don’t want a fight, General Jack. Just sugared coffee and a look at the equipment. I said I’d come on ahead and guarantee there’d be no trouble. We won’t get Ruffin back safely any other way.”

  “Ah, God,” Worthing sighed. “I’d have taken him back.”

  Casement stamped over in front of the Virginian. Though the top of the construction chief’s head only reached Worthing’s chin, his anger was sufficient to intimidate the Virginian.

  “One more word and I’ll have you locked up.”

  The ex-Confederate’s open eye glared. Michael heard men piling into the corridor, asking questions and calling for Spencers from the sleeping cars. Casement gestured.

  “Shut the door.”

  Michael did.

  “Now tell me. Do you think the hostiles were lying? Do they want their blasted coffee—or a scrap?”

  Weary, Michael leaned against the wall and rubbed at the sweat on his belly.

  “Hell, General, I’m no student of red men. One minute, the leader—his name’s Guns Taken—struck me as a straight-out sort. Then I’d get a feeling he was saying one thing and thinking another. I can’t honestly tell you whether they’ve come like children to a candy store, or are just pretending.”

  “A little of both, maybe,” Casement said. “The fools in the Indian Bureau always make the mistake of thinking we’re up against savages out here. That was your word, wasn’t it, Worthing? Savages?”

  Worthing seethed in silence as Casement went on.

  “But they aren’t savages. They’ve a society hundreds of years older than ours—and most are smarter than many an Army officer I’ve met. You won’t see a Sioux or Cheyenne risking twenty men to rustle half a dozen cows, but some Army lieutenants would commit three companies to save one government heifer.” Agitated, he tugged at his beard. “How are they armed? Any muskets or rifles?”

  “None that I saw. They’re carrying knives, hatchets, bows—and the head man has that devilish lance. It’s all tricked up with feathers and a string for firing arrows.”

  Casement muttered a despairing obscenity. “Then he’s a Bowstring. If so, they are Cheyenne.” Noticing Michael’s puzzled look, Casement explained, “The bow lance is a characteristic of the Bowstrings, one of the Cheyenne warrior societies. It means the leader’s no boy on a lark, but a man to be reckoned with. Did he harm Ruffin?”

  “Gigged his neck and drew a little blood. More for my benefit than anything else, I think. But he said he’d kill the boy if there were any traps when he came in!”

  Casement turned away and pondered, palms resting on his cluttered desk. Finally his head snapped up.

  “All right. The boy counts most. We’ll pull every man off the engine, and issue a limited number of rifles. You go to the cooks, Boyle. Have them start brewing coffee. Gallons of the stuff. Pour on the sugar.”

  Worthing couldn’t believe it. “You’ll permit them to ride in here?”

  “Exactly. I’ll not truckle to them, nor let them think we’re weaklings. That’s why I want some Spencers in sight. But neither will I incite them.”

  “Jesus.” Worthing still looked thunderstruck. “Our herd’s been hit how many times? Three? Four?”

  “We have lost animals, not men.”

  “But we should show ’em they can’t get away with it!”

  Casem
ent shook his head. “We don’t know whether these Indians are the same ones who stole our stock. To punish them as if they were is not only wrong—it’s foolhardy. I’m not even considering Ruffin when I say that. Punishing the wrong Indians is the mistake Chivington made at Sand Creek. It’s the same mistake the goddamn Army makes every day of the week. It’s one big reason the trouble never stops!”

  “This Guns Taken,” Michael put in, “he claims he lost a sister at Sand Creek.”

  Casement groaned. “Then we’ve double the worry. They’re not only Cheyenne, but Cheyenne with a grudge:”

  “What fucking difference does it make if they’re not the ones who drove off the stock?” Worthing fumed. “They’ll see the beeves and be back to help themselves. I say stop ’em ahead of time!”

  “Oh,” Casement murmured, “you subscribe to the theory that all of their kind should be wiped out, do you?”

  “As long as a single one causes trouble, yes!”

  “Worthing, you’re an ignoramus. We’re the intruders. We’re deep into the tribal buffalo grounds—the Republican herd’s one of the largest in the West. They see the buffalo being shot by white men; they see their land being cut up by these tracks; they see innocent members of their race being punished for the depredations of guilty ones—I’ll not compound the problems already created and risk losing men and time!”

  Worthing stormed toward the door. “This is the god-damnedest outfit of yellowbellies I’ve ever seen. I’m going to get a Spencer and wait for—”

  Michael was bowled aside as Casement lunged and fastened his hands on Worthing’s gray duster. Before the taller man could react, Casement hurled him against the cubicle’s outer wall. The planking vibrated.

  Casement rose on tiptoe, cheeks red as his quivering beard.

  “Captain Worthing, you have taxed my patience to the limit.” A shake of the man’s lapels. “To the limit! You lost the damned war, and I am sick to death of your trying to win it all over again by besting every man who strays across your path!”

  Worthing’s hands clenched. For a moment Michael was certain there’d be a fight. Then he recalled that the Southerner liked odds favorable to himself. But Worthing did fire a verbal salvo.