The Titans

by John Jakes

  Guns Taken drained his cup. His bow lance rested across his thighs. He thrust the cup down at Casement in an arrogant way.

  Obviously irked, the construction boss nevertheless took the cup, had it refilled, and brought it back. Guns Taken drank every drop, then flung the cup on the ground.

  “The fire horse!”

  A bit testily, Casement said, “Right there it is. The engine is a regular 4-4-0 type. That is”—he pointed—“four wheels on the front truck, four drivers, but no wheels beneath the cab. It weighs just under thirty tons, burns wood, and was named for a famous chief of the Seminoles, Osce—”

  Bored, Guns Taken interrupted with a sharp shake of his head. “No talk. Talk makes no sense.”

  “Then ride up and see the damned thing for yourself!”

  Guns Taken was amused by the other man’s losing his temper. This time his head shaking was unbearably slow. He enjoyed making Casement uncomfortable.

  “Show us the fire horse running.”

  Casement started to refuse, then thought a moment.

  “All right. Boyle?”

  Michael moved to his side.

  “We’ll take her a few miles down the track. You climb on the pilot board so they stay off. I’ll ride in the cab. If they demand a demonstration, by God I’ll give them one to remember.”

  Michael trotted to the head of the engine, scrambled up on the platform of the cowcatcher, and squatted down while the Cheyenne walked their ponies closer to the locomotive. Their eyes grew huge at the sight of the hissing contraption with a smoke plume drifting from its funnel stack.

  Casement mounted to the cab and barked orders to the engineer and fireman. Suddenly the whistle blasted. A calico reared, nearly upsetting its rider.

  Another Cheyenne grabbed for his hatchet, yelped something that must have been a curse and flung the weapon.

  Michael ducked. The hatchet clanged off the front of the engine not far from his head. He tightened his trigger finger just a little. Casement leaned out of the cab.

  “Guns Taken, keep your braves quiet! That’s the sound the fire horse makes when it’s ready to run.”

  The whistle screamed again, joined by the clanging bell. The Indian ponies shied. Guns Taken clapped his free hand over his mouth, his eyes round as a child’s again. The bell kept ringing as the engine lurched forward.

  The Indians scattered to both sides of the track. Michael felt wind against his face as he squinted at the braves trotting along beside him, awed by the slow whump of the drive rods and the grind of the wheels. The ringing bell was interrupted by a third howl of the whistle that brought alarmed looks to several dark faces.

  That fear wasn’t good, Michael thought. Fear could lead to anger.

  In a moment he was proved right. One of the braves kicked his pony and raced up beside the cowcatcher, shaking his bow and screeching at the iron monster starting to spew sparks along with the smoke.

  Osceola was gathering speed, its rods moving back and forth with a steadily accelerating beat. The front truck rattled. The huge driving wheels squealed on the rails. The brush of the wind against Michael’s face became a push.

  Twenty yards ahead, Guns Taken flourished his bow lance, kicked his pony, and went charging east beside the track.

  His braves howled and followed, racing on either side of the right of way. The ponies raised dust that blew in Michael’s face and started him coughing.

  The Indians rode hard, waving hatchets, quirts, and bows and uttering cries of scorn. The engine fell behind. The yelps and barks grew jubilant as the braves increased the distance between themselves and the fire horse.

  Abruptly, Michael felt the engine lurch. The rhythm of the rods began to quicken.

  He shot out a hand to grip one of the vertical bars by which a man could hold his place on the cowcatcher. The locomotive swayed around a slight curve, gaining speed again. Plainly Casement meant what he’d said about a demonstration. Politeness was one thing, defeat that suggested weakness quite another.

  Clanking and rumbling, Osceola moved steadily faster. Spark-filled smoke streamed from the stack. Swaying from side to side as he clung to the bar, Michael thought he heard the engineer call for more wood. He definitely heard the wood crash into the firebox. Within seconds, the locomotive began to close the gap.

  The Cheyenne looked over their shoulders and started flogging their ponies with bare heels. Their cries of pleasure became cries of outrage.

  Michael’s bones throbbed as he knelt on the pilot board. He was all but blinded by billowing dust. Chuffing and thundering, the locomotive drew up opposite the slowest rider.

  Osceola passed the Indian and, moments later, another. He shook his bow at Michael.

  The engine caught up with four more Cheyenne on the other side. Their mounts were already lathered. They fell behind.

  A cacophony of rattling, clanking metal beat against Michael’s ears. The engine swayed more and more violently. The whistle screamed, and the bell never stopped ringing. Michael’s hand was white on the bar.

  Soon, half the Cheyenne had been outdistanced. After another half mile, only Guns Taken remained unbeaten.

  He rode bent forward over his pony’s neck. He kicked the game animal without mercy and kept glancing back at the puffing monster. The Cheyenne’s spine and shoulders glowed with sweat.

  The engine noise was like a cataclysm shaking the earth. The point of the cowcatcher drew up even with Guns Taken. The warrior’s mouth worked, but the roar drowned his cries as he urged his mount to greater and greater effort.

  To no purpose. Inexorably, Osceola began to pass him.

  Through the dust, Michael had a last glimpse of the Cheyenne’s face turned toward his adversary. Tears or sweat shone beneath his enraged eyes.

  Bell jangling, whistle bellowing, the locomotive left him behind in a cloud of smoke, sparks, and drifting ash.

  iii

  With a yowl of iron, the engine began to slow down. The bell stopped ringing. Michael exhaled and slackened his hold on the bar.

  Over the next half mile, Osceola ground to a halt, jerked into reverse, and began to chug backward toward the railhead. Without any warning, Guns Taken was there beside the track, his bow lance clutched in his right hand.

  He sat absolutely still as he watched the locomotive go by. Wind blew smoke from the stack and gusted it down into his face.

  Sparks made his pony sidestep, start to rear. Guns Taken jerked on the plaited hair and gave the animal half a dozen vicious kicks until it stood quietly again. Then he jerked the bridle and began to follow the engine back toward the work train.

  One by one the other Cheyenne appeared on either side of the cowcatcher and fell in behind their leader. On each sunlit face Michael saw mingled fear and fury.

  The Indian procession trailed Osceola at a distance of about a quarter mile. Not one brave spoke. Michael wondered at Casement’s wisdom in demonstrating the engine’s speed. It was never good to humiliate an enemy. He’d learned that from Louis Kent and Worthing, among others.

  The Cheyenne jogged slowly after the locomotive, their eyes brimming with the hatred men reserved for a conqueror whose power they had come to feel at a cost of great pain and lost pride.

  iv

  When the engine braked, Michael jumped down. He thrust the Colt into the waist of his trousers and ran back to join the sooty-faced Casement climbing from the cab.

  “I don’t believe our visitors took kindly to losing, General.”

  Casement ignored the Irishman’s rueful smile and shrugged in what amounted to a callous dismissal.

  “I didn’t intend that they should. Maybe if they’re sufficiently impressed before they depart—”

  “You mean frightened.”

  “Call it what you please. I hope I’ve persuaded them to leave us alone.”

  Michael inclined his head. “Look at the head man.”

  Guns Taken was riding past the engine, scanning it as if it were a thing of filth.

&
nbsp; “He doesn’t enjoy being whipped.”

  “But he has been. That was my purpose. To whip him. Peaceably but positively. Don’t forget, Boyle”—Casement’s glance said he wasn’t overjoyed to have Michael question his actions—“our objective is still to get the line through with a minimum of trouble. If their pride has to take a licking before they realize they can’t stop us, so be it. I didn’t order Charlie to open her to full throttle just on a whim.”

  Michael let the matter drop, though he still had doubts as to whether intimidating the visitors had been wise. Guns Taken gave the locomotive a last withering look. There was no longer any pretense of friendliness on his face as he jabbed the bow lance at the boxcars.

  “Show us those, white man.”

  The Cheyenne didn’t miss Casement’s faint smile. “Certainly.”

  The sullen Indians dismounted. Casement ushered the first of them into the second bunk car, Michael’s. The construction boss hadn’t lost all sensitivity to the perils of the situation. Captain Worthing was in the other car.

  Michael waited at the steps, letting the Cheyenne climb up and enter one at a time. None of the Indians uttered a sound. An almost eerie silence had descended on the camp. In Worthing’s car, someone yelled.

  Christ, keep a tight hand on that fool!

  The last brave passed him, intentionally stumbling, and driving an elbow into his ribs. Michael’s hand jerked toward the Colt but he kept his temper. He met the Cheyenne’s defiant gaze calmly and motioned for the Indian to precede him.

  When he had, Michael grasped the handrail and went up the steps, fervently hoping Casement could conclude the visit and get the Indians away from the railhead before their anger exploded.

  Chapter IV

  Slaughter

  i

  IN THE BUNK CAR it very nearly did.

  Guns Taken hovered at Casement’s elbow, leading the line of braves down the aisle. The Indians stared but remained silent.

  At the end of the car, Guns Taken paused beside the partially empty rifle racks. From his position at the rear, Michael heard the Cheyenne leader say something in a quarrelsome tone. The exact words were lost because the others blocking the aisle started growling agreement.

  Gradually the hubbub diminished. Michael caught Casement’s firm, “No.”

  “White man—”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  The line moved again. The Cheyenne shuffled out of the car. Michael drew abreast of Casement, who was still stationed beside the racks. The red-bearded construction boss whispered, “The big one’s really hot now.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted some of these rifles, gratis.”

  Outside, Guns Taken stood beside the roadbed, both hands on his bow lance. His braves had gathered behind him. The track boss went down the steps. Michael started to follow, then snapped his head around at the sound of ferocious thumping in the adjoining car.

  Several of the Cheyenne heard the noise. Hands dropped to the hilts of knives and hatchets. But there was no further disturbance.

  Guns Taken shook his lance at the car just vacated. “You show us something else.”

  “What?”

  “Show that the men of the fire road are truly friends. Give us”—he held up his left hand, the fingers spread—“this many guns.”

  Casement said quietly, “I’ve already told you the guns belong to the railroad.”

  Guns Taken thrust his fingers close to Casement’s nose. The smaller man didn’t blink.

  “This many!” Guns Taken insisted.

  “No, and that’s final.”

  Michael eased the Colt into his hand. The mood of the confrontation was growing ugly. All along the train, watching workers were stirring, anticipating trouble—

  More temperately, Casement went on. “We have welcomed you peacefully. We have shown you the strength of the fire horse. We have poured sweet coffee.”

  Guns Taken spat on the ground to show what value he placed on everything Casement had mentioned. The moment produced an unexpected ambivalence in Michael. He admired the audacity of the Cheyenne leader. It took courage to make demands in the face of vastly superior numbers. At the same time, he felt sorry for Guns Taken and his braves. In the masses of white men—and the humiliating speed of the locomotive—the warriors had glimpsed their coming defeat. Perhaps even their extermination.

  Once more the construction boss resorted to sign language along with words. “I am deeply sorry Guns Taken is angered. We wish only friendship. But we cannot give away rifles which might be turned against us.”

  Guns Taken thrust his bow lance into the shoulder of the roadbed, raking a long gouge in the gravel. He whirled and addressed his braves. Muttering, they followed him back to the ponies. While the Indians mounted, more cursing and thumping erupted in the other sleeping car.

  Re-forming his braves into single file, Guns Taken began to ride out the way he had come in. He maneuvered his pony close to the front ranks of the workers, forcing them to fall back. A few didn’t want to, but the more prudent prevailed. The potential troublemakers were virtually dragged out of the way.

  Michael and Casement followed the procession on foot. Michael observed the heightened tension—the scowls, the whispers—among the men, and despite good intentions, fell victim to it himself.

  The hoofs of the ponies plopped in the silence. Puffs of dust blew away in the breeze. Guns Taken gazed down contemptuously at the Paddies he passed.

  All at once he reined his pony to a stop opposite the whiskey wagon.

  Dorn’s half dozen guards stepped closer. The merchant was still fuming. Behind him, Hannah stood white-lipped, her hat in her right hand and her wheat-colored hair glinting in the sun. Her eyes remained fixed on her father.

  Guns Taken pointed the bow lance at one of the barrels.

  “We drink water before we go.” He rubbed his palm across his throat. “We have a great thirst.”

  Casement strode forward. “That’s not water. You can’t—”

  Guns Taken paid no attention. He climbed off his pony and started toward the wagon. Casement caught up, snagged his arm.

  “Guns Taken, the answer is no.”

  The last word ignited the Cheyenne’s temper. “No, no! I have heard enough no!”

  He shoved Casement away. Dorn cursed and took a step. Three of his guards caught and held him as Hannah pleaded for him to restrain himself. Then, without warning, Guns Taken lunged and rammed the iron head of the bow lance into a whiskey barrel.

  ii

  Wood cracked and split. The Cheyenne jerked the lance head free, wonderment on his face. The odor of the pale brown liquid spurting to the ground was unmistakable.

  The other Cheyenne identified it too. They began to murmur and gesticulate. One laughed.

  “Goddamn you, let go!” Dorn puffed, trying to free himself. “If that red bastard steals—”

  “Papa, be still!” Hannah cried.

  Guns Taken drove his bow lance into the barrel again, increasing the size of the hole.

  Chortling, the fat-bellied Indian squatted and put his mouth to the spouting stream of forty-rod. Dorn broke loose.

  Casement called a warning. Men tried to catch the merchant, failed. He was halfway to the crouching Indian when one of the younger Cheyenne flung himself from his horse. Michael saw metal flash.

  The young warrior ran with astonishing speed. Over by the train, a Spencer came up—too slowly. Dorn fastened his hands on Guns Taken’s neck. The younger Indian uttered a piercing yell and drove the blade of his trade hatchet at Dorn’s forehead.

  Bone cracked. Dorn shrieked and staggered, the hatchet buried in the front of his skull. Blood trickled down both sides of the blade and into his eyesockets.

  iii

  “Papa!” Hannah screamed, running to help him.

  Dorn fell against the wagon, dying on his feet. The blood poured down the folds beside his nose to his white-streaked beard. The young brave turned on Hannah, ready t
o fight barehanded. Michael jerked his Colt level but the girl was in the way.

  He dropped the revolver and flung himself between the Indian and Dorn’s daughter. Casement shouted something he couldn’t hear. A Spencer blasted from the roof of the office car.

  Had Michael not caught Hannah’s waist and dragged her down, the rifle ball would have hit her. It thwacked the wagon bed a second after Dorn’s guards scattered.

  Michael sprawled on top of Hannah as Guns Taken scrambled to his feet and dashed for his pony. Hannah screamed again, hysterical now.

  Lying on top of her thrashing body, he heard the hammer of boots, confused yells and curses, then a second explosion. The ball plowed a furrow a foot from where he had pinned Hannah to the ground.

  He twisted his head to look. Through a tangle of mounted Cheyenne, Michael glimpsed Leonidas Worthing on the sleeping car steps. The Virginian levered a spent cartridge out of the breech of his rifle. His gray duster was torn, his face marked by cuts. Behind him, two of his three guards staggered into view. Both were badly bloodied.

  The guards tried to jump Worthing. He eluded their hands, leaped down from the platform, and aimed at the Indians milling around Guns Taken to protect him while he vaulted to the back of his pony.

  Casement was directly in the line of fire. He flung himself to the ground. The ex-Confederate blew a Cheyenne off his horse. Blood pattered on the ground next to Michael and Hannah. The shot unleashed pandemonium.

  Two rifles roared. Another Indian shrieked. Michael jumped up, retrieved his Colt. A Cheyenne was aiming an arrow at Casement, who was climbing to his feet. Michael fired.

  The Cheyenne toppled sideways off his pony. Michael winced at the sight of the gaping wound in the Indian’s belly.

  Guns Taken kicked his pony and went racing away toward the end of the track. Here and there a Spencer banged. But Casement’s judicious placement of the guns now had an unexpected consequence. Those with the weapons were so spread out, and so many men were milling everywhere, the rifles couldn’t be used effectively. Drifting smoke from Osceola and dust raised by the Indian ponies only compounded the problem.