North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  He dismounted, shifted the saber to his left hand, and drew his Colt. He approached the grove with caution. Gray Owl followed without permission; Charles was conscious of him as a shadow flicking over the sere grass to his left.

  From the edge of the grove he saw a dead horse, then two more. Warriors’ horses, usually left alive so that their owners would have fine mounts in paradise. This probably meant that someone other than Indians had shot them.

  He swallowed, took a few more steps, and spied the three decomposing bodies. Stripped of raiment, they lay amid broken sections of wooden platforms. Upright timbers that had supported the platforms still stood in the center of the grove. Forcing himself, Charles moved closer to inspect the naked corpses. Near them he found the splintered shafts of several brightly painted arrows. Everything else had been looted.

  He heard the anger in Gray Owl’s voice. “Do you know what has happened?”

  “I do. It’s the custom of your people to put their dead on these burial platforms if the winter ground is too hard to dig. These were special men—war chiefs, camp chiefs, maybe society leaders—because they were buried this way when the ground isn’t frozen.”

  Nearer to the sky on the platforms, the dead thus passed more quickly along the Hanging Road to paradise. It was also customary for the Cheyennes to deposit personal treasures, weapons, and a favorite mount, so the dead man wouldn’t lack for anything in the afterlife. Oddly, despite his hatred of the Cheyennes, Charles found himself sickened by the desecration.

  “Look more closely,” Gray Owl said to him. The tracker was almost stammering with rage. “Go. Look!”

  Charles stepped forward but soon halted again, pale. Not only were the funeral garments gone, but also chunks of flesh, hacked from arms, legs, and torsos. In the fist-sized cavities, maggots swarmed.

  “Jesus Christ. What for?” This was something entirely new.

  Gray Owl shouted, “Bait.” He waved wildly at the stream. “Fishing bait. I saw this once before. A soldier of the Seventh bragged that he had done it.” Tears ran from Gray Owl’s eyes. For a moment Charles thought the Cheyenne might pull his knife and stab him. “The white man is filth. He counts coup on the dead.”

  “Your own people sometimes—” he began, thinking of Wooden Foot and Boy, the violet-eyed girl in the sod house. He stopped, because those atrocities couldn’t cancel this one.

  A long wail in the east broke the silence. A westbound train.

  Gray Owl turned and left the grove. At that moment he clearly hated Charles and every other white man. Then why in hell did he track for them?

  Distantly, again from the east, he heard faint crackling. He dashed out of the grove, glad to do so. He waved his saber and his revolver. “Mount. There’s gunfire.”

  Three troopers at the stream raised dripping faces as he shouted again, “Mount!” He wigwagged the saber over his head and ran toward Satan, the horror in the grove and the complexity of the resulting emotions mercifully banished by the sudden, urgent need to act.

  The twenty Indians divided, half of them charging around the rear of the chugging U.P.E.D. passenger local. The parallel columns dashed ahead, to attack the train from both sides.

  In the second-class coach, the sergeant’s wife looked through a window across the aisle and saw brown horsemen riding bareback, their black hair streaming. Some brandished guns, some their hunting bows. At the head of the coach an older woman jumped up, then fainted. “My God, Lester, Cheyennes,” a man cried to his traveling companion.

  “Arapahoes,” said the cavalry officer in the seat ahead of the woman. “You can tell by the unbound hair.” He snatched out his service revolver, broke the window with three blows of his elbow, and fired a round. He missed.

  The sergeant’s wife stared with disbelief at a fierce painted face hovering not three feet from her. It wasn’t a man, she realized, but a boy, no more than seventeen or eighteen. He jammed a trade musket to his cheek while he gripped his racing pony with his knees. The boy and the white woman stared at each other for a protracted moment, nothing save the glass and the shining barrel between them.

  “Down,” the russet-bearded officer yelled at her. He stood and took aim at the Indian. The young brave saw him and shot first. The colonel’s body jerked, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he sank to the floor.

  A man screamed, “We’re all gonna die here!”

  “The hell we are,” the conductor shouted. “There’s railroad men hiding aboard this train.”

  Concealed in the freight car, J. O. Hartree smiled at his three companions when he heard the hoofbeats, the shrill yells, the first shots. He was a plump, relatively young man, with soft good looks, wavy hair, and a long drooping mustache waxed to points. He had a piously insincere smile and mean eyes.

  “Turk, you stand beside me,” he said, quickly pulling on shiny leather gloves. He rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt and flexed his knees to be sure he had the feel of the moving train. He couldn’t use his hands for support once they went into action.

  Hartree and his hired shootists had been riding the line for weeks, hoping for this sort of opportunity. All summer the tribes had raided the line’s construction sites, terrorized the workers, and butchered a few who foolishly strayed off by themselves. Hartree was under orders to convince the damned red men that they couldn’t strike the line with impunity. It was a mission he enjoyed.

  He smoothed the front of his green satin waistcoat embroidered with two rearing antelope, majestic pronghorns. “Red, when I give the word, slide the door open. Then help Wingo load the guns.” On the floor lay eight powerful .45-caliber Sharps buffalo rifles, four for each shooter. J. O. Hartree planned carefully.

  Two bullets thumped outside of the car. Over other noise, Hartree heard windows breaking. The passengers were under attack. Well, he’d give this red filth a real surprise.

  “Let’s have the first two rifles, Red. Cock the hammers and rear triggers. Turk, if you fire before I say so, I’ll put the first bullet in you.”

  Charles and his detachment came over the nearby rise in line formation, charging. Billowy smoke streamed out above the train. Howling Indians with unbound hair galloped alongside. The Indians saw the troopers and reacted with surprise and confusion.

  The train was about a quarter mile to the soldiers’ left, chugging along with many of its coach windows blown out. Charles gripped Satan with his knees and steadied his Spencer, knowing he had only a small chance of a hit with the piebald bouncing under him.

  An Indian swung his bow up and aimed at Magic Magee, riding on Charles’s left. Charles leaned that way and struck Magee’s shoulder with his palm. Magee lurched over and for a moment hung down close to his horse’s neck. That was the moment the arrow hissed through the space where his throat had been a few seconds earlier.

  Magee dragged himself upright and flung Charles a look of appreciation. Shem Wallis took aim and blew the bowman off his pony. The Indians were slowing their pace now, outnumbering the soldiers but inferior in fire power. Charles yelled orders and half the troopers peeled away to circle the end of the train and go after the Indians glimpsed on the other side.

  Drawing near the train, with the wind beating in his face, Charles raised the Spencer again. Then something happened for which the soldiers were altogether unprepared.

  J. O. Hartree ran his hand along the barrel of the Sharps, silently starting a ten-count. Snick! Whump! He heard arrows striking the car. He took a firmer stance beside Turk and finished the count.

  “Open it.”

  The door squealed as it rolled. Morning light flashed on the double-triggered Sharps held by the two shootists. An Arapahoe goggled at the sudden appearance of the railroad men. Hartree’s brown eyes sparkled and his pious smile broadened. “Blow them down, Turk.”

  Because the rear triggers had been cocked, each front trigger was a hair trigger, needing merely a touch to fire the piece. Smoke and noise erupted from the door of the freight car. The Indian ri
fleman flipped off the bare back of his pony was instantly trampled by the horses of two other Arapahoes, unable to avoid him.

  Incredibly, beyond the racing Indians, Hartree saw a bunch of those black nigger cavalrymen, raffish as bandits. The soldiers and their white officer, likewise racing beside the train, shouted for the railroad men to stop shooting; they were directly in the line of fire. Hartree ignored them, passed the hot buffalo gun behind him, and received another. His next shot missed, but it blew off the straw hat of a nigger, who immediately crouched down over his horse.

  “You got my marker now,” Magee shouted as he galloped beside Charles. “That red bastard almost had me.”

  Charles shouted back, “Those idiots on the train are going to kill us.” He pumped his Spencer up and down over his head. “Hold your fire! That’s an order! Hold—”

  The shootist in the green embroidered vest snapped off a round to show how much he cared about the order. The Arapahoes, caught between the railroad men and the galloping soldiers, recalculated the odds; the leader motioned for them to drop back. Soon all of them were behind the train, dodging bullets from the troopers on the far side. They returned fire briefly with arrows and guns. One Indian flung his arms up and slid off his pony, blood running down his chest. The others immediately sheared away south, out of danger.

  All of it happened in less than two minutes. Charles was furious. His first good chance at avenging Wooden Foot was nearly gone and he hadn’t dropped a single Indian. Not one.

  “You want us to chase ’em, Lieutenant August?” one of his men yelled.

  Charles wanted to answer in the affirmative. But he was required to take charge of the damaged train and any wounded. He presumed there were some. He saw not a single human face in the shot-out windows of the coach.

  “No, God damn it, I don’t.”

  ___________

  Angry that the soldiers might spoil the show, J. O. Hartree said, “Someone yank the cord. Stop the train. I want prisoners.” As quickly as it began, all firing stopped, and the train jerked and slowed and jerked again as the brakes took hold.

  Charles and his men brought their horses alongside the train, which bristled with painted arrow shafts. As the Rogers locomotive came to a stop, clouds of steam drifted up, mingling with settling dust. Charles watched the green-vested man jump from the freight car and strut forward. One close look at the man’s face and Charles knew there’d be trouble.

  36

  CHARLES SLID HIS SPENCER back in the scabbard and trotted to the freight car. Three more civilians jumped down; a ratty lot. The plump man in the shiny gloves and green satin waistcoat was obviously in charge, and as the moments passed Charles liked his pushy swagger less and less.

  “J. O. Hartree,” the man said, as though the name should mean something. In the shot-up car, the excited voices of people in shock could be heard. Displeased by the lack of recognition, Hartree added, “Chief of railroad security.”

  “Lieutenant August, Tenth Cavalry. You beat us to it. We hardly fired a shot.” His regret was evident.

  “We’ve been riding the line and laying for the red bastards. You saw what cowards they are.”

  “You’ve got that wrong, Mr. Hartree. An old friend once said you have to turn your notions upside down on the Plains. If my detachment loses a man the Army will send another in a month. If the Indians lose a man it takes five or ten years for a boy to grow up to replace him. They’re not cowards, just damn careful.”

  Putting the man down bled off some of Charles’s anger. But Hartree didn’t like it. “I don’t need a lecture from you,” he said. A disheveled woman raised herself into one of the broken windows, saw the black soldiers, and sank out of sight with a horrified look on her face. Hartree shielded his eyes against the sun and squinted eastward, through the dust still drifting behind the train.

  “Boys, I see at least one of them alive back there. Bring him in. We’ll make an example of him.”

  “What are you talking about?” Charles asked. Hartree ignored him. Magee scowled and punched a dent out of his derby.

  The conductor appeared on the coach platform. “We’ve got a wounded man in here.”

  Charles said, “Hurt bad?”

  “Flesh wound. He’s awake.”

  “Let me check my own first.” He’d no sooner said it than Wallis rode into sight at the rear of the train, waving his kepi. “Lieutenant? Toby’s down. Arrow in his leg.” Charles swore. “One Indian down over here, too.”

  Hartree said to the redheaded shootist, “Get him.” He and the others hurried off.

  Charles handed his rein to one of his troopers and stepped up close to Hartree. Hartree’s men, meantime, reached an Arapahoe who had fallen near the caboose. The redhead kicked the body, rolled it over, shook his head, and proceeded on toward another Arapahoe, who was crawling on hands and knees, bleeding from a shoulder wound.

  The Indian staggered up and tried to run. Redhead caught him and dragged him back. The other two shootists vanished behind the train in search of the other brave.

  A couple of men appeared at the blown-out windows. Charles heard some slapping sounds, and an anxious voice. “Wake up, May Belle. You’re all right. Don’t take on so. Those are just nigger soldiers.”

  The wounded Arapahoe came lurching toward Charles, pushed by the redhead. Blood poured down the Indian’s arm and dripped from his fingers. Dismounted and hurt, the brave looked harmless and ordinary. One of Hartree’s men emerged from behind the train carrying an Indian in his arms. “Hurt leg,” the man shouted. “Can’t walk.”

  “Drop him right there,” Hartree called back. “You’re not his goddamn nurse.” The man let go, and the Indian screamed when he hit the ground.

  “Listen, Hartree,” Charles said, “I think we’d better clear up one matter. It’s the Army’s responsibility to convey prisoners to Fort Harker.”

  “You don’t have a thing to do with it, mister. The scum attacked railroad property.” He grabbed the shiny shoulder-length hair of the Arapahoe prisoner and twisted. “The railroad will deal with them.” He squatted and wiped his glove on yellowed grass at trackside. “Greasy damn bastards.”

  Hartree’s eyes flicked back and forth between the bleeding prisoner and the Indian lying on his back at the rear of the train. Stroking his mandarin mustache, he suddenly made up his mind.

  “This one’s in better shape. He goes free after we take care of his friend. I want this boy to see what we do to red men who threaten railroad property. I want him to tell the others. Turk, fetch those picket pins from my valise.”

  The shootist named Turk scrambled back into the freight car. Charles was beginning to have a very bad feeling. Turk jumped down again with two of the sharp metal pins used to picket horses. Slowly, hoping to attract no attention, Charles wandered back to Magee, who had dismounted.

  Hartree took the picket pins. He tossed them up and caught them in front of the wounded Arapahoe. Charles leaned close to Magee and muttered in his ear. Magee said, “Yessir, I’ll see if anybody up front is hurt.” He walked toward the locomotive carrying his Springfield rifle.

  More passengers were peering from the coach. Hartree addressed them. “Gentlemen—and you ladies especially—I respectfully ask that you stay in there while I deal with these savages. I intend to punish one of them in a way consistent with their treatment of white captives. The lesson will benefit every white man and woman in Kansas.”

  “Back off, Hartree,” Charles said. “I told you this is the Army’s responsibility.”

  Two of Hartree’s shootists raised their buffalo rifles. Hartree said, “No, sir, this is railroad business. Don’t interfere unless you want several dead niggers to explain to your commanding officer.”

  A trooper grabbed his sidearm. Gray Owl reached out to stay his hand. “We’re on the same side. Or we’re supposed to be.”

  Charles glanced toward the engine cab. Magee had vanished. Hartree tossed the picket pins to Turk. “Go back to that other man
and tie him down. Spread-eagle him. Nail those two pins through his private parts.”

  Charles turned white. The conductor gripped the platform stair rail and said, “Mr. Hartree, that’s pretty extreme.”

  Hartree yelled, “Shut your damn mouth or well save a pin for you. Turk?” The man trotting toward the rear of the train turned back. “Be sure you rip off his clout first. Red, take this dirty scum back there to watch.”

  The Arapahoe whose arm dripped blood was dragged away. He looked sick. Charles swallowed sour saliva.

  Gray Owl was gazing at the train. Suddenly his mouth dropped open. Charles warned him with a look, holding motionless while he watched a wild turkey feather, then a black derby, rise above the roof line of the freight car. Magic Magee climbed into sight, unseen by Hartree or the passengers below.

  Charles felt sweat gather and drip from his nose. Slowly, Magee lined his Springfield to his shoulder. He aimed at the back of the green satin waistcoat. At the rear of the train, one of Hartree’s men spied Magee and yelled, just as Charles spoke.

  “Turn around, Mr. Hartree. If you crucify that Indian, it’ll cost your life.”

  Hartree spun, saw Magee, clenched his fists. “Shit.” He flung a look at his men, who were too far away to do him much good. Charles drew his Army Colt and cocked it. Hartree pivoted back, his face scarlet.

  “You interfering bastard, the railroad’ll have your ass.”

  Charles said to his troopers, “Collect those three and put them in the freight car. The Indians can travel in the caboose.”

  Hartree let out a stream of accusations and foul language, until the men in the coach protested. Magee signaled Gray Owl. The tracker ran forward and caught Magee’s Springfield when he tossed it down. Magee hung from the roof of the car, and dropped.

  “Well done,” Charles said to him. “You can tear up the marker.”

  “Oh, no, sir. This wasn’t anything. The marker’s a big one. Anytime you need some help, you ask.”