The Titans

by John Jakes

  Michael’s temper flared. But he suffered the rest of the tirade, and a few more jabs, without resorting to his fists. He meant to keep the pledge he’d made on the car from Kearney.

  Toby Harkness departed with a smirk on his face, apparently convinced he’d been dealing with a coward. Michael had already accepted the fact that such opinions would be the price of fulfilling his vow—

  Now Michael watched Butt Brown slip a pepperbox derringer from his waistcoat and begin shooting over his head. Further up the dirt street between the tents and the train, he suddenly spied the white buffalo hunter and his Sioux companion.

  In August, the two had already been gone by the time he returned to the railhead. Now they were back, strolling and enjoying the celebration. The white man waved his plainsman’s hat once or twice, and tipped it to a soiled dove in front of Brown’s Paradise. Even at a distance, a white streak in the hunter’s fair hair stood out clearly.

  Michael assumed the pair had brought in another load of buffalo meat. He was still convinced he’d met the white man during the war. He made up his mind to inquire.

  A troop of the cavalry now guarding the workers on a full-time basis galloped by, the men no more than blurs in their dark blue blouses and light blue, yellow-striped trousers. Sabers swinging in crazy arcs, they went pounding west, screaming as enthusiastically as the Paddies. Their bugler blew the charge.

  Meridian one hundred.

  It was a goal every man had concentrated on for months. With the goal reached, Michael had to confront the reality of the next phase of his life: more grueling, lonely work of the same kind. He didn’t like the prospect very much.

  He did feel a sense of pride in having helped push the line this far. As of today, the Union Pacific’s charter was official. The eastern skeptics would be silenced, and perhaps the line would begin to attract the investors it needed. Within ten days to two weeks, Dr. Durant’s much publicized Great Pacific Railway Excursion train would be chugging out of Omaha bearing its select group of government dignitaries, military officers, and potential stockholders. Jack Casement was undoubtedly already sending a telegraph message to Durant, informing him of the day’s accomplishment.

  Meridian one hundred. He was proud of having been part of the effort.

  Yet something was lacking. He felt disconnected from the revelry, and unenthusiastic about the work ahead. The unease wasn’t new. It had been with him ever since the trip to Kearney. He’d grown moody and uncommunicative. Sean Murphy had commented on it several times.

  A man came charging from the office car, repeating his news as he ran, “No more work! General Jack says we can take the rest of the day an’ have a good time!”

  More cheering. Michael started for his quarters, his face composed but not his spirit.

  Men waved and screamed with renewed fervor when Casement appeared on the steps of the office car, a jubilant smile on his face. The rifle fire grew almost continuous, the roar of the Spencers proclaiming the victory and challenging anyone within earshot—God Himself, up in the hazy autumn sky—to accomplish something more wondrous.

  It was a triumph, and Michael knew it. Why, then, did he feel so remote from it?

  Because he constantly remembered the price paid in blood to achieve it? Remembered the dead men, including the four butchered hunters who had never been identified?

  Or was it because, of late, he found Julia Kent’s face frequently and disturbingly replaced in his thoughts by that of Hannah Dorn?

  ii

  After supper he walked from the dining car to the row of lamplit tents where rowdy men were already plumping down their wages for overpriced whiskey, a chance to beat a professional at three-card monte, or a quarter hour with one of the fourteen or fifteen soiled doves inhabiting the portable town.

  He passed Brown’s Paradise. A reveler staggered out. Before the tent flap fell, Michael was gratified to see no other patrons inside. He had nothing personal against Brown. But he figured the new men arriving every day or so should understand the risks of visiting the establishment.

  At the rear of the narrow lane between Levi’s Bird Cage Saloon and Tidwell’s, his destination, he spied a wagon parked in the semidarkness. A tarp-covered wagon, with a black-haired man rolled in a blanket on the hard ground beneath.

  He recognized the white hunter’s Sioux partner. The Indian cradled a rifle close to his chest while he dozed.

  Inside Tidwell’s, the only railhead establishment selling general merchandise, a cheerful, overweight man slapped his hands on the plank counter.

  “How do you do, sir? Bucyrus Tidwell’s the name.” He rolled a gold-plated toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Help you find something?”

  Michael surveyed the hand-labeled jars, bottles, and boxes on makeshift shelves. Everything from calomel to cartridges. He tugged his churchwarden out of his hip pocket.

  “I need some tobacco.”

  Tidwell hefted an amber jar and carried it toward the balances, “Got some choice Virginia. Six bits.” His smile widened. “Per ounce.”

  “Per ounce? You’re joking.”

  Less cordially, Tidwell said, “I know my own prices.”

  Michael was observing the sums chalked on the jars and boxes. He’d never been in Tidwell’s before. Disgusted, he said, “And you haven’t set a fair one on anything. Your profit looks to be three or four hundred percent.”

  Tidwell shrugged. “Costs a lot to have freight forwarded here.”

  “Not that much.”

  “There also ain’t no comparable store between here and Kearney.” Tidwell’s smile returned, an arrogant half-moon. “You want to walk there for tobacco, feel free.”

  “Damn gouger,” Michael growled, pivoting away. “I’ll go without.”

  “Do that, you cheapskate papist!”

  Michael broke stride, fought his anger, then walked on. He batted the tent flap aside with a savage slap.

  iii

  Jeremiah Kent lay on a blanket-covered cot located in a second, smaller tent directly behind Brown’s Paradise. He’d discarded his clothes on the dirt floor, anxious to satisfy himself with Nancy. Now that they’d finished a romp, he was content to relax a bit, taking pleasure in his own nakedness—he’d bought a bath at The Tonsorial—and in hers as she lay straddling him. He barely felt her weight.

  A lamp, trimmed low, rested on a crate in the corner. Hanging canvas separated the crowded nook from two similar ones in the tent. Beyond the canvas to his left, one of the other whores was puffing and moaning while her customer growled a continuous stream of profanity. Peculiar way to enjoy a woman, Jeremiah thought.

  Nancy tightened her spread legs against his. Where the roughness of her hair brushed him, he felt himself stir. Languorously, he fondled the globular breasts hobbling above his chest. His thumbs worked slowly on the brown tips. She had her palms braced on the cot so he could touch her that way. “Honestly didn’t think you’d come back, Joe—”

  “I like my full name better, hon. Joseph.”

  “All right, Mr. Joseph,” she laughed, moving one hand to stroke his cooling forehead and the white-streaked hair above.

  “First time I called on you in August, I told you I’d be back.”

  “Is it me you like, or just any ol’ gal?” He lifted his head to buss her lips.

  “You.” A shudder rippled down her back. She squeezed him harder with her thighs. Then she rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m glad that friend of yours didn’t come in with you.

  Butt won’t let us take none of his kind. Nor niggers, neither.”

  “Kola knows that. He goes to see Miss Gold Tooth, down the line.”

  “Us girls up here won’t even speak to that disgusting old whore. She’ll take anybody—” Suddenly she kissed his throat. “Oh, Joseph, you’re so damn nice!”

  He chuckled. “You don’t have to deliver the speech your boss taught you.”

  “He didn’t tell me to say it,” she breathed. “It’s good
with you. With all the others—’specially those blasted Irishmen—it’s just work.”

  “I’m flattered. But I’d say ‘all the others’ is overstating it. This place appears to be crying for trade.”

  “It is. Butt’s mighty upset.”

  “Since there’s no line waiting, he won’t care if we have another go—”

  “Yes, he will! He’s mighty strict about the clock. You only paid for one time. Fifteen minutes. We used that already.”

  The anxious words faded into a murmur of pleasure as he reached behind her and started to rub her bare buttocks.

  “Joseph, Joseph—you’re a sweet boy. But we don’t dare. Butt would have my hide.”

  “I’ve got your hide, Nancy. Gonna keep it a while, too.”

  There was a more pronounced stir in his groin. Quickly she shifted her pubis, lowered herself, and moaned as she felt the rigidity.

  “God, you just melt me,” she whispered, kissing his ear, his eyelid, his cheek while his thumbs pressed harder against her breasts. “You got a mean look sometimes, but you’re sweet and easy on a girl—must be the Southron in you. Were you in the war?”

  “Yes.”

  “D’you ever meet up with that old Reb Davis?”

  “In a manner of speaking. You might say Mr. Jefferson Davis was responsible for teaching me some of life’s most valuable skills.”

  “What’n the fire’s that mean?”

  “Never mind,” he laughed, pulling her head down.

  She wriggled. “Sweet, we got to think of the time. If you don’t pay—”

  “Be quiet,” he said, affably but firmly, and kissed her.

  She gave up without protesting and kissed him back, her mouth open, and her tongue darting. Now she was moving her hips, raising them and lowering them faster each time. A faint sound—not next door, outside—distracted him. He opened his eyes.

  Over her shoulder he saw a distorted shadow cast on the canvas by an outdoor lantern.

  “Hey in there, Kingston.”

  “Shut up!” Roused now, he clutched Nancy’s perspiring back.

  “Your time’s up.”

  “Oh, it’s that damn pea-headed Toby—” Nancy panted. Jeremiah thrust. “Oh. Oh”

  The shadow stirred. “You don’t put your pants on, Kingston, I’m comin’ in.”

  Jeremiah stopped the movement of his body, raging because he’d just slipped comfortably into the girl. The silhouetted arm of the proprietor’s assistant moved toward the opening in the canvas. Jeremiah dropped his right hand beside the cot. Seized the Ballard that laid atop his clothes.

  “Boy, if you set foot in here, I’ll blow you all the way to the river.”

  The silhouetted arm dropped. “But you got to pay again.”

  “After.”

  “No, before. It’s Mr. Brown’s rules.”

  “Hell with his rules. I’ll settle up later—” Jeremiah’s voice acquired a harder edge. “You better skedaddle because I see your shadow just perfect against the lantern. Leave us alone or I’ll put one through you with this buffalo gun. Not even your own mother’ll recognize you.”

  Quickly, the shadow shrank and disappeared. In the next cubicle, clothing rustled and the whore said in a monotone, “Oh, that was sure sweet. Thanks a lot.”

  Jeremiah relaxed, shifted his right hand back to Nancy’s hips and returned to more pleasurable pursuits.

  iv

  Adolphus Brown was in a vile temper. He leaned his elbows on the board resting on two barrels and surveyed his clientele. One miserable Paddy, passed out on the floor.

  For the first time this evening, two of the girls were occupied in the annex, but the third was still alone. He’d already taken a turn up and down the street. He knew his competitors had more customers than they could handle.

  Brown pulled a tarnished pocket watch from his waistcoat, snapped it open, and checked the time. Toby came rushing in.

  “Butt—”

  “Those two finished with Alice and Nancy?”

  “Yes, sir—that is, Alice got done on the dot. But that buffla hunter told me to leave. He’n Nancy, they’re goin’ at it again.”

  Brown’s eyes clouded. “I assume he paid you—”

  “No, Butt. He—he said he’d shoot me if I went in to collect.”

  Brown slapped his palm on a worn deck lying on the board. “I’ll have that bitch for breakfast!”

  Toby fingered his beard. “Ain’t her fault. That Kingston’s an ornery sort.”

  Brown’s glance was scathing. “You mean he has enough sand to scare you off? I thought better of you, my boy.”

  Humiliated, Toby stood speechless. Brown started to say something else, but then Liam O’Dey slipped inside the tent. With a jerky swipe of his hand across his mouth, he hurried to the counter.

  “This one on the house, Mr. Brown?”

  “Why in shit should it be?”

  “Well, sir, because”—nervously, O’Dey glanced at the entrance—“that time before, you asked me to keep my ears cocked. I’m still doin’ it.”

  “You said it’d be a pleasure, seeing as how Boyle tossed you off his gang.”

  “That’s right. Not ten minutes ago, I overheard that bastard speakin’ with four of the greenhorns who arrived yesterday. He was next door to Tidwell’s, outside, and I was inside—he didn’t see me slip in behind him. He wasn’t bothering to keep his voice down, either. He told the greenhorns he couldn’t advise them about any of the places except this one, where”—O’Dey touched the deck—“where he said the railroad bibles are not straight.”

  Brown cursed, grabbed the deck, and flung it. Cards fluttered down. Toby was wide-eyed.

  Gaining control, Brown jerked his hat off, mopped his scarred pate, and settled the hat back on his head. “Toby, you’d better go see that loudmouth again. Guess your first call made no impression. This time you must talk louder—unless, of course, the customer we were discussing watered your guts too badly.”

  “No, Butt! I just didn’t want to go into the dark against a man lugging a hunting rifle—”

  “I’ll handle him.” Brown nodded, grabbing a bottle of Overholtz cut with Platte River water. He shoved the bottle into O’Dey’s white hand.

  “Two swallows.”

  O’Dey drank greedily.

  “Now get out.”

  When he was gone, Brown motioned Toby to his side. There was a pathetic eagerness in the young man’s eyes.

  “We can’t fool with the mick any longer, Toby. Waited too damn long already.”

  He frankly feared reprisals from Casement if one of the workers was seriously injured. But as things stood at the moment, his choices were to take a risk or pack up and leave.

  “Watch the Irishman till he’s alone,” he cautioned. “Be sure no one sees you.”

  “It’ll be easy, Butt,” Toby said, bobbing his head. “First time I braced him, he wouldn’t raise a hand. He’s yella.”

  “Well, you talk to him in your most persuasive way.”

  “Loud, Butt?”

  With a steady gaze, Brown said, “As loud as you know how.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Toby scuttled from the tent. Brown jerked out his watch again, noted the hour and minute, and thrust it back in his pocket. He stalked to the entrance, muttering and kicking strewn cards. By God, he was through letting pious micks ruin his trade, and randy itinerants take advantage of him!

  Before stepping into the street, he paused to consider his strategy. He pulled out the four-barrel derringer, removed the shells and returned the pepperbox and the shells to separate pockets. He left the tent smiling.

  v

  In the dark behind the annex tent, Toby frantically rummaged among empty crates in one of the unhitched phaetons. He was ashamed of the way he’d disappointed Butt. Ashamed and anxious to make amends.

  He hadn’t told Butt the real reason he’d balked at entering the annex, though Butt had guessed it. Toby had seen the young, soft-spoken hunter once in
August, then again this evening. Both experiences had left him inexplicably frightened.

  He didn’t frighten easy, either. But there was something vicious about Kingston’s eyes. They were worse than his employer’s eyes, even when Butt was boiling mad.

  He found what he sought. A handle broken from a spike maul. Thick enough and stout enough to beat a man to death in three blows.

  With the maul handle clutched to his side, he slipped deeper into the darkness as Butt Brown stormed out of the main tent and headed for the entrance to the annex. Nancy’s wordless voice came through the canvas, uttering cry after strident cry.

  Chapter IX

  Kingston

  i

  “MR. KINGSTON?”

  The voice pushed at the edge of his mind, barely audible because of Nancy’s outcries and the roar of his own breath. Her nails dug, then scraped his back. Bodies shuddering, they reached the end together,

  “Mr. Kingston, this is Brown.”

  “Oh, God,” Nancy panted, limp on top of him all at once. Jeremiah whispered for her to be quiet, then shifted his head away from hers. Clearly delineated on the front canvas, he saw the motionless silhouette of the stocky man in the melon-shaped hat.

  “I hear you,” he said as his breathing became more regular. He slid his hand down to the Ballard.

  “Believe there’s been a slight misunderstanding—”

  Jeremiah blinked. Brown sounded friendly.

  “Might we discuss it a moment?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “No, I mean out here.”

  Jeremiah ran his tongue to the corner of his dry mouth. Despite Brown’s puzzling cordiality, something smelled of danger. Far in the distance, drunken men sang a sad Irish ballad. A revolver banged. A woman laughed, shrill as a crow’s caw.

  “Toby should have known better than to interrupt,” Brown resumed. “The lad’s not too heavy upstairs. You’re welcome to Nancy’s company for as long as you want to enjoy it, provided you pay in advance. Trade’s light this evening—I’ll even set you a special all-night price.” A pause. “Mr. Kingston?”