The Titans

by John Jakes

  Bucyrus Tidwell popped into sight between the tents.

  “Who’s out there?”

  Toby uttered a series of whimpers. Dropped the maul handle. Leaned his forehead against the wagon and clawed the side with both hands. Then, with a lazy slowness, he slid down until there was no more wood to lean against.

  He fell face first on the rumpled blanket. Where his chest had rubbed the wagon, a wide swathe of red glistened like new paint.

  Almost instantly, men were shouting and clamoring around Michael. He barely saw the hunter collapse on his side, not unconscious but laboring to breathe. Blood had begun leaking from the man’s nose. His eyes closed.

  “What the hell’s the row?” Tidwell boomed, just as the Sioux, rifle in hand, came slipping into sight at the far side of the Bird Cage. He saw his fallen friend, ran to him, knelt, then glanced up with furious eyes.

  “Who did this?”

  Michael shoved through the growing crowd, ignoring shouted questions. He pointed to Toby.

  “He did part of it. The youngster was after me. Your friend came along, the boy went for him, and your friend took him out. I don’t know who bloodied him.”

  As if there weren’t pandemonium enough, a woman began to scream. Down in the direction of Brown’s Paradise, Michael thought. The direction from which the hunter had come.

  The Sioux cradled the white man’s head in his lap.

  “Joseph? Joseph, do you hear? I woke and could not find you. I went searching—”

  “That’s all we need, more goddamn Injun trouble,” someone complained.

  “There won’t be any,” Michael said. “He’s the white man’s partner. The white man helped me.”

  The keening scream was joined by a second one. Michael walked over to the Sioux, who watched him with suspicion.

  “Your friend’s hurt. He needs attention. You want to pick him up or shall I?”

  The Indian saw half a dozen drawn revolvers in the mob spilling from the lane between Tidwell’s and the saloon. Out in the street, a man yelled, “Fetch General Jack!”

  “We stay here—” the Sioux began.

  “No,” Michael said. “I think he’d better rest on the train until this is cleared up.”

  The Indian stayed motionless. A revolver cocked, loudly.

  “You’ll be safer somewhere else!” Michael insisted. “Some at this railhead don’t like any Indians but dead ones. Did you say your partner’s name is Joseph?”

  “Yes, Joseph Kingston. He is my kola. My sworn friend.”

  The name meant nothing. Undoubtedly he’d been wrong about having seen the white man before.

  “Well, now he’s mine too,” Michael replied. “You can trust me. Let me have your rifle so some drunken idiot doesn’t take a potshot at you. Come on, give it to me.”

  Doubtful, the Indian searched Michael’s strained face. Then he complied.

  “Pick him up and bring him along to the train. We’ll put him in my bunk.”

  Chapter X

  A Matter of Truth

  i

  STRANGERS MURMURED IN A half-lit dark. They spoke English, but the accents were not his own. Some of the voices carried a Yankee harshness. Others had a certain lilt he’d first heard at the railhead. Irish talk.

  Jeremiah came fully awake. His groin, his nose, and his forehead throbbed. When he grew conscious of his surroundings, fright dried his throat.

  He was boxed in a bunk—prisoned below, above, and on the right. Only when he floundered over on his side facing the amber light did he see no wall.

  His eyes focused on the man who’d almost taken a beating at the wagon. A slender Paddy with a weathered face and brown eyes flecked the color of the lamps in the—

  Bunk car, that’s where he was. The place was rank with the odor of unclean bodies, abuzz with conversation. About him, he presumed.

  He was resting at the top of a tier of three beds. The Irishman with the graying hair and mustache stood on the lowest one, trying to pull up the blanket while Jeremiah pushed it away.

  “Easy, lad,” the Irishman said. His voice had an echo. Or was that only in Jeremiah’s head?

  His upper lip felt tender when he explored it with his tongue. Someone had washed his face. The sense of confinement—of threat—intensified.

  “Easy, now. You’re safe. You’ve been looked at. Jack Casement knows a bit of field medicine. Nothing’s wrong with you except you’ve got a bashed nose and a bushel of bruises.”

  “Where’s my rifle?”

  “The Indian has it.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Sitting down here.” The Irishman motioned to the lowest bunk. Jeremiah couldn’t see Kola. “No harm will come to him. By the way, my name is Boyle. I’ve learned yours is Kingston. You needn’t speak if it hurts too much. But I want to thank you for what you did.”

  The golden brown eyes picked up lamplight. A sadness touched the stranger’s face as he went on. “The boy’s being wrapped for burial. I hate to see him dead, but under the circumstances I’ve no call to quarrel. Do you want some broth? One of the cooks is willing to—”

  “I want out of here.”

  “Afraid that isn’t possible as yet. Casement plans to speak with you. Meantime, you should rest.”

  “I want out of here!” Jeremiah sat up too quickly, knocking his head on the plank ceiling. Despite his determination, his bones seemed to lose their stiffness. He lay down again, breathing hard.

  The light of the car lanterns shimmered, then began to compress, squeezed between layers of darkness. The Irishman touched him.

  “Would a drink of whiskey help?”

  The panic of enforced confinement still gripped him as he lost consciousness.

  ii

  —sorrysorrysorrysorry—

  “What? What did you say?”

  “I said—”

  It was the Irishman again, barely perceived as Jeremiah’s sleep-clotted eyes came open. The man was still standing on the lower bunk. Evidently time had passed. Some lamps in the car had been extinguished. His aches weren’t quite so painful.

  Outside, cannon fire rumbled. Then he realized it was a distant prairie storm.

  “I said, I’m sorry to wake you. Jack Casement insists on seeing you right now. I tried to persuade him to wait until morning. But he’s exercised about all the trouble tonight.”

  “No objection,” Jeremiah said. He was grateful. He didn’t want to stay penned in this smelly prison any longer than necessary. Out in the stormy dark there were dead men crying his name. He needed to be away before the living heard.

  He clenched his teeth. Started to swing his legs toward the edge of the bunk. The pain wrenched his face.

  “Take my hand,” Boyle offered.

  “No. Stand back.”

  He hadn’t realized how difficult it would be. He struggled until he was on his belly with his legs hanging over the aisle. When the Irishman steadied his elbow, he jerked his arm away resentfully.

  He muttered an apology. He wasn’t himself because of the confinement, the sense of being entrapped by unfamiliar faces, dim ovals in the equally dim wash of yellow light. Wriggling into position to drop to the floor, he glimpsed Kola with the Ballard. A reassuring sight.

  He saw a rectangle of paper tacked to the wall near the head of the bunk. Some drawing of a nigra carrying a—

  His eyes opened wide. A guttural sound rose in his throat. He was unable to control the tears of astonishment.

  “Joseph?” That was Kola.

  “Kingston, what’s the trouble?” The Irishman.

  “Nothing!” he said, louder than he intended. “Brown almost kicked my balls off, you know. Hurts a bit.”

  He blinked, clearing his eyes. But it wasn’t so easy to rid himself of the surprise and anguish that had torn him like a bullet when he saw two words below the drawing’s caption.

  M. Kent.

  iii

  Who was the Irishman? Where had he gotten the picture that was unmista
kably Matt’s? He wanted to ask, but wouldn’t until he was in better control of himself.

  Fortunately there were distractions: the effort to walk, Kola supporting him, the Irishman hovering.

  They reached the platform between cars. Wind battered his face. Northwestward, a white light flared and spread on the horizon, soon followed by a prolonged roll of thunder. A cloud of dirt carrying bits of grass and other debris went sailing by. Beyond it he glimpsed men laboring to keep one of the tents from falling.

  “What time is it?” he asked Boyle.

  “Something after three in the morning.”

  “Bad blow coming.”

  “Fast,” Boyle replied, holding the next door. “This way.”

  Jeremiah had seen but never spoken to Jack Casement. He was no man for trifling, that much Jeremiah knew the moment he was ushered into the office. Casement was fully dressed, fully awake, and unfriendly.

  “Boyle here is pleading you’re too banged up to be on your feet, Kingston—that is your name?”

  Jeremiah confined his answer to a nod.

  “I overruled him. I want tonight’s business settled. I have already talked with an Alice Peaslee—do you know a woman called Alice Peaslee?”

  “One of Brown’s whores.”

  “Yes. Nancy Dell, the female who caused one of the incidents, is apparently too distraught to speak to anyone.”

  Casement tipped back and forth in his chair. It squeaked. Even when he sat all the way forward, his legs didn’t touch the floor. His glance was nearly as fiery as his beard.

  “Alice Peaslee satisfied me that her employer, Adolphus Brown, attacked first.”

  Relieved, Jeremiah said, “That’s correct.”

  “Two men are dead, however. Brown and his boy of all work.”

  “Toby came at me with the handle of a sledge. He”—Jeremiah located Michael leaning in a shadowy corner; thunder pealed—“he was all over this gentleman. When I suggested he stop, he turned on me.”

  “You found it necessary to shoot him?”

  “At that moment”—Jeremiah shrugged—“yes.”

  “Well, you were apparently provoked on both occasions, and Boyle supports the second part of your story. The prostitute confirmed the other part. So I have no cause to detain you. Butt Brown was one of the worst influences in this camp, if there can be any degree of difference between men of his stripe. But I don’t want your kind at the railhead either, Mr. Kingston. I don’t want murderers here.”

  “I defended myself!”

  “In the first case, apparently you did. The boy is another matter. I want you to take your wagon and your Indian friend and get out. Immediately, and for good.”

  “Sir,” Boyle protested, “you should at least let him rest a bit mor—”

  “Immediately,” Casement repeated, and swung his squeaking chair to face the desk. He reached for a pile of papers and within seconds was immersed in them. There was no appeal.

  iv

  Michael helped Kingston and the Sioux hitch the mules. The storm was coming rapidly. Swollen clouds were visible overhead whenever the lightning flashed.

  As soon as the wagon was ready, Kingston ordered the Indian to drive to the end of the track and wait. A few moments later, still moving with a lack of steadiness, he led his buffalo pony in the same direction.

  “Walk with me a moment, Mr. Boyle.”

  Michael was puzzled by the hoarseness of Kingston’s voice. He didn’t know what to make of the hunter. The man was neither illiterate nor constantly rough-spoken. But there was a remote, unfeeling air about him that made Michael thankful Kingston wasn’t his adversary. The man seemed able to keep his head while bearing a great deal of pain.

  They struggled against the wind, passing behind the tent town. Half a dozen of the canvas structures had been struck in anticipation of the thunderstorm. The rest flapped and tilted toward the east, their poles creaking, their guy ropes whining. Only the Bird Cage showed a lamp.

  “Devil of a shame you’re turned out so soon, Kingston. Casement has not quite forgotten he’s no longer commanding or disciplining Union soldiers.”

  Kingston laughed in a curt way. “Was he an officer? I suspected.”

  The buffalo pony shied as they passed the last tent and took the wind’s full force. Kingston held his plainsman’s hat on his head as they labored toward the grade. Another lightning burst revealed the buffalo guns bobbing in the handmade saddle scabbard.

  “I have a question for you,” Kingston said.

  “What is it?”

  Kingston opened his mouth, then hesitated. The question Michael heard was not the one Kingston meant to ask, he thought.

  “Why did you permit that boy to maul you?”

  “I don’t know whether I can explain. I was in the war—”

  “Yank side, of course.”

  Michael nodded. “From your speech, I’d guess you were on the other one.”

  “Yes, I was. Go on.”

  “I grew sick of the fighting. I journeyed out here to get away from it and didn’t. I had to kill again. I won’t bore you with the story, but I promised myself I’d never fight again.”

  “Think you can stick by such a decision?”

  “I can try.”

  Kingston grunted, then dabbed his sleeve against a thread of blood below his purpled nose. When he spoke again, it was with a wry sadness.

  “I admire your determination. I didn’t find the war a pleasant or uplifting experience either. But when I came out of it, whole in body if not exactly whole of mind, I made a different choice. I decided I’d never let any human being best me in a fight for my life. Nor would I suffer the behavior of dishonorable men. Your position has its merits, though. I’d urge you to stick by it—”

  What the devil was this? Michael wondered. Something close to sadness had crept into Kingston’s voice.

  Or was he merely imagining that, deceived by the noise of the raging wind?

  No, it wasn’t imagination. He saw that when the lightning illuminated the prairie again. The rails shone like streaks of iridescent fire, leading beyond the meridian marker to the wagon, the restive mules, the motionless Indian. Kingston’s eyes were wet.

  “—because if you do, you stand a chance of being a happy man. Don’t let any bastard chivvy you into changing your mind.”

  “Toby nearly did. He kept calling me a coward.”

  “Not surprised. But I’ve had a taste of each kind of life. In many ways, yours demands more courage—”

  Kingston’s voice broke. He pivoted away. Michael squeezed his eyes shut against the blowing grit. He couldn’t fathom why this young man who killed so easily seemed eager to counsel him. He was taken by surprise when Kingston seized his arm.

  “Where did you get the picture?”

  “What?”

  “The drawing in your bunk. Where did you get it?”

  “Why, from the artist’s father.”

  “Do you know him?”

  Michael was alarmed by the intensity of the question. Kingston’s fingers dug into his sleeve. Puzzled and annoyed, Michael pulled away. “See here. I hardly consider this an occasion for discussing—”

  “Goddamn it, answer me! Do you know the artist’s father?”

  “Yes, I know him.”

  Lightning lit heaven. Thunder shook the earth.

  “He’s my father too,” Kingston said.

  “Jesus Christ, that’s it,” Michael breathed. No wonder he’d missed the obvious. He’d been looking in the wrong direction.

  “What are you talking about?” Kingston said.

  “Your face. It’s like Jephtha’s.”

  v

  Kingston—or Jeremiah Kent, as he announced himself to be—repeatedly refused to answer Michael’s questions about his past. He wouldn’t explain how he’d gotten from Georgia to the railhead, or why he was traveling with a Sioux and calling himself by another name.

  Hoping to break through the stubborn barrier of refusals, Michae
l told him Jephtha Kent believed his youngest son to be dead.

  “In a sense that’s true, Mr. Boyle. Now what do you know about my brothers?”

  Still shaken, Michael described Matthew’s survival of the blockade and his marriage, then Gideon’s unsuccessful struggle to find a place for himself in New York City, where Jephtha was preaching.

  “So both of them came out alive. I’m glad. Is my mother well?”

  “She—she died this past summer.”

  A glare of lightning showed Michael the other man’s bent head. Jeremiah made no sound.

  “King—Jeremiah—blast! I can’t get used to calling you Jeremiah—”

  “Don’t. It isn’t my name any longer, just as Kingston won’t be after tonight.”

  “You’ve got to tell me where you’ve been! How you got here—”

  “No, Boyle. I refuse. But what about you? I don’t recall hearing anyone speak of you. What’s your connection with my father?”

  Hoping cooperation would engender more of the same, Michael explained. Jeremiah nodded from time to time, and said when Michael finished, “Well, if my mother ever mentioned you before I left Lexington, I’ve forgotten. I’m happy to hear my father’s alive.”

  “He’ll be happy to learn you are, too.”

  “You’re not going to tell him.”

  “Of course I am! As soon as pos—”

  Jeremiah interrupted with a shake of his head. “You won’t tell him a thing unless you want to hurt him.”

  “Good God, it wouldn’t be fair to keep this news from—” Michael stopped. There was a measure of truth in what the younger man said. Which truth had priority? He thought of one way he might answer that. “There’s a circumstance which could change your mind. You surely recall the California money—”

  “Amanda Kent’s money? Yes.”

  “When Jephtha concluded you’d been killed, he decided to will me your share. He adopted me unofficially into the family—in my bunk I have his letter explaining why.”

  “What you’ve just said proves he did the right thing. You could have kept the information to yourself. You’re a proper Kent, all right.”