“Set up drinks for the house.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Dixon,” the bartender replied and, with a happy shout, everyone in the saloon rushed to the bar to give his order.
Chapter Twenty-three
When John Henry stepped down from the train in Emporia, he was met by Colonel Stevens.
“Marshal Sixkiller, I am Colonel Stevens, president of the KATY Railroad. It is good to see you, sir, and welcome to Emporia.”
“You were expecting me?” John Henry asked, surprised by the greeting.
“Mr. Abell sent a telegram informing me that you were coming. I’ve arranged a dinner for you, where you will meet Mr. Gunn and Mr. Scullin, my two top men. We may as well make your visit as pleasant as possible while we are discussing business.”
“You won’t get an argument from me,” John Henry said.
John Henry accompanied Colonel Stevens to the restaurant where, in a corner in the back, a special table had been laid out. Here, John Henry met Otis Gunn and John Scullin, as well as two prominent Cherokees, Colonel Boudinot, and General Stand Watie, both of whom had earned their military appellations when they had served in those positions in the Confederate army during the Civil War. John Henry knew both of them well, and they knew him.
“John Henry,” Boudinot said as he took John Henry’s hand. “I haven’t seen you since you were appointed U.S. Marshal. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” John Henry replied. Then, he nodded toward Stand Watie, the other Cherokee. “General, my respects, sir.”
“Captain Sixkiller,” General Waite replied, and though as chief sheriff of the Cherokee John Henry was a captain in the Indian police, he knew that General Waite was referring to the rank John Henry had attained during the war.
“Gentlemen, I’ve invited Marshal Sixkiller to have dinner with us tonight so he could speak to us about the role of the U.S. Marshal in our race to get the railroad to the Indian Territory before Joy and his group get there.”
“It’s too late for that,” Boudinot said.
“What?” Stevens replied with a gasp. “What are you talking about?”
“James Joy and his Border Tier Railroad have reached Baxter Springs.”
“The hell you say!” Stevens exploded. “This is the first that I’ve heard about it. When did it happen?”
“Just a few hours ago.”
Stevens let out a sigh of frustration and disappointment. “Then it’s over. All is lost.”
Unexpectedly, Boudinot smiled.
“No, it isn’t,” he said.
“It isn’t? What do you mean? How can this be anything but a disaster?”
“The Border Tier has reached Baxter Springs,” Boudinot said. “Now, most people consider Baxter Springs to be right on the Territory line and, indeed, they even advertise themselves as such. But in fact, it isn’t. It is actually a whole mile from the border.
“So far, Joy doesn’t know this, and I’m told he has halted all work and they are going to sit there until after the party, next week, celebrating the victory.”
“Next week? No, that’s no good, that’s too far away. Joy is sure to learn that he isn’t actually at the line before then. And how long will it take him to go a mile?”
“How is he to learn? As an official representative of the Cherokee nation, I have already welcomed him into the Territory. And, I will be furnishing everything his workers might need for a wild party—food, drink. I’ve even arranged to have some women come down from Wichita.
“The Honorable I.S. Kalloch, famous politician and orator is going to speak. I expect, before the day is over, that you won’t find a sober worker within twenty miles of the place.”
“Still, he has only a mile to go. He can do that in a day. We still have thirty miles to go.”
“We haven’t told you the best part,” Stand Watie added. “Even if he does cross the line, it won’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“He thinks he is opposite Cherokee land where the right of way has already been negotiated with the government. But he isn’t. He is opposite Shawnee territory and even if he crosses from where he is, it will do him no good, because he has no right to be there. The Shawnee have not granted permission to enter their land, and they’ll be turned around. Then, they will have to reroute for twenty-three miles back to Chetopa, in order to cross the border where it is legal,” Stand Watie said.
“Ha!” Stevens said, hitting the palm of his hand with a clenched fist.
“We aren’t out of the woods yet, Boss,” Gunn said. “We are still thirty miles from Chetopa, and that’s farther than the Border Tier will have to go to make up for their mistake.”
“I have a suggestion,” Scullin said. “Let’s hire as many of the Border Tier Railroad track workers as we can, just to deny them to Mr. Joy. Once he finds out his mistake he’s going to have to go like hell to get there, but if we have hired away enough of his men, he won’t have the labor source to do it.”
“Gentleman, we are going to reach Chetopa three weeks from today or by damn I am going to know the reason why. General Stand Watie, Colonel Boudinot, you tell the folks in Chetopa that when our tracks cross into Cherokee nation, that I will throw a party for the entire town, and I’ll give every man, woman, and child, a free railroad ride to Russell Creek and back.”
After the railroad business was discussed, Stevens turned to John Henry, who during the discussion had been enjoying a rare, restaurant-prepared meal. He had just carved off a piece of beef and put it in his mouth when Stevens turned to him.
“I’m sorry, Marshal Sixkiller. I invited you to dinner, then ignored you to take care of business. Now, perhaps you can tell us what brings you to Emporia?”
John Henry held up his hand to signal that he would answer as soon as he chewed his food. Then, the meat swallowed, he spoke.
“I have been told that the competition between your railroad and the Border Tier Railroad has resulted in some destruction of property. Marshal Sarber is concerned that it might get out of hand and that some people might get hurt, or even killed. If that happens, it could spread out to endanger some innocent civilians.”
“Marshal, I admit that when we first started this little race, there were a few incidents. But now both Joy and I are convinced that the first trouble, the most damaging trouble, was not done by the Border Tier or the KATY Line. I didn’t do it, he says he didn’t do it, and I believe him. We think it was some outsiders who wrecked the Border Tier work train, and burned our store of supplies.”
“Why would an outsider do that?” John Henry asked.
“You’ve got me there, Marshal. I mean, if it was someone who wanted the Border Tier to beat us, why, they wouldn’t have wrecked the Border Tier train now, would they? And the same thing in reverse. If it was someone who wanted the KATY to succeed, why would they burn our supplies? No, sir, it has to be someone outside. And, say, maybe this is where you can fit in. Maybe you can find out who it is that’s doing this.”
“That is my job, Colonel Stevens. I fully intend to find out who is at the bottom of this.”
“I will make you this solemn promise. The KATY Railroad will fully cooperate with you in your investigation. And, we also stand ready to assist you in any way we can.”
“Thank you, Colonel Stevens. I appreciate that.”
John Henry spent the night in Emporia, then the next day took the Frisco Line to Paola, which would connect him with the Border Tier Line.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Joy is down at Baxter Springs,” Robert Greenwell said. Greenwell was Joy’s general manager. “The train from Kansas City will pass through here at nine o’clock tonight.” Greenwell took a booklet from his desk drawer, pulled out a page, and wrote on it. “Here, give this to the conductor. It will grant you a free ride.”
“Thanks,” John Henry said.
There was a private car waiting at the depot to be attached to the train when it arrived. The car belonged to Charles Beam, who was one of the principal inv
estors in the Border Tier Line. Beam wanted to see for himself that the railroad had reached the border of the Indian Territory.
“Sixkiller?” Beam said when he was introduced to John Henry. “That is a rather unusual name. It sounds almost Indian.”
“That’s understandable, Mr. Beam, seeing as my father was Indian.”
“My word. You don’t look Indian.”
“By not looking Indian, do you mean I’m not wearing a warbonnet, and I don’t have my face painted?”
“I . . .” Beam started, then he stopped and a sheepish smile spread across his face. “I guess you’ve got me there, friend. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“I’m not offended.”
“Mr. Beam?” one of the railroad officials called. “Will you be wanting your car to remain in Baxter Springs for a while?”
Beam went over to speak with the railroad official while John Henry took a seat in the waiting room. After about fifteen minutes the train arrived. There was some delay as the train was connected to Beam’s private car, then the conductor came into the waiting room.
“Board!” he called.
Fifteen miles south of Paola, Percy Martin and three others were waiting.
“You sure this train is carryin’ money?” a man named Peters asked.
“There’s nearly two hundred railroad workers down in Baxter Springs,” Martin said.
“So?”
“So, they have to be paid. More’n likely the payroll is on the train.”
“More’n likely don’t mean it is on the train,” Peters said. “It just means that more’n likely it is.”
“If you don’t want to be a part of this, you are free to ride away now.”
“Look here, Peters, I think Martin is right. And even if the train ain’t carryin’ a payroll, why it’s goin’ to have passengers on it, and you know they got money.”
“I ain’t ridin’ away, I was just askin’ is all.”
“You got the wood ready to light?” Martin asked.
“Yeah, but why are we goin’ to light it? If we leave it just the way it is, it’ll wreck the train, then it’ll be easy pickin’s.”
“Think so, do you? You ever walked through a rail car when it’s lying on its side?” Martin asked.
“No, can’t say as I have.”
“You can’t say you have, because it can’t be done. If we’re goin’ to be takin’ money from the passengers, then we need cars we can walk through. Get it lit soon as we hear the train a-comin’. I want the engineer to see it in plenty of time to stop.”
“All right. It’s all ready to light.”
“Better get it lit now,” one of the other men said. “I hear it comin’.”
Chapter Twenty-four
They had been underway for almost an hour when the train suddenly ground to a shuddering, screeching, banging halt. The sudden stop threw a sleeping boy from his seat and he began crying.
John Henry, who had been dozing in his seat, tried to look through the window, but because it was dark outside, and because the inside was illuminated with gimble-mounted coal-oil lanterns, the only thing he saw in the window was his own reflection.
“What is it?” someone asked.
“Why did we suddenly stop like this? There’s no depot here!”
“If this is how James Joy is plannin’ on runnin’ his railroad once he gets it built all the way through to Texas, he certainly won’t get my business,” another complained.
John Henry was unable to see what was going on outside, but he had a gut instinct as to what was going on, so he pulled his pistol, then covered it with his hat.
Almost immediately a man stepped into the car from the front. He was wearing a white hood pulled down over his face, with only his eyes showing. The mask hid the man’s identity, but John Henry knew that it would also restrict the robber’s vision somewhat.
“Everyone stay in their seats!” the man shouted as he brandished his pistol.
“Who do you think you are?” a passenger in the front seat demanded angrily. “You’ve got no right to come barging in here like this.”
“This gives me all the right I need,” the robber said, waving his gun around. “Now you just stay in your seat and be quiet, and you won’t get hurt.”
“The hell I will,” the passenger said, and exhibiting more guts than sense, he stood up. When he did, the robber brought the butt of his pistol down, hard, on the top of the man’s head and, with a groan, he fell back in the seat with his head bleeding. Several in the car shouted out in protest.
“Keep quiet!” the gunman demanded. “Everyone, just keep quiet and stay in your seats.”
Another gunman came on, to join the first. “What happened?” he asked.
“Nothing I can’t handle. Is everything under control out there?”
“Yeah,” the second gunman answered. “Ever’one is doin’ just what you told ’em. Semmes is coverin’ the engineer, ’n Beardsley is goin’ through one of the other cars.”
“Peters, you dumb son of a bitch! You just told everyone on the train our names!”
“Sorry, Martin. I wasn’t thinkin’.”
“No, you’d need a brain for that, wouldn’t you? Just start with the car behind us.”
“All right,” Peters said.
As the second gunman started down the aisle to go to the next car, he looked over and saw the badge on John Henry’s shirt, and he gasped.
“Hey, Martin!” he called, bringing his gun around toward John Henry. “We got us a lawman on board!”
John Henry had intended to wait for a few minutes longer until he was able to get a better grasp of the situation, but his hand had been called. Peters was already pulling the hammer back on his pistol, so John Henry had to shoot, his bullet blasting a hole through his own hat. The gunman who had recognized him went down with a hole in his chest.
The gunman up front, the one called Martin, managed to get off a shot, but he was shooting fast and wild and his bullet buzzed harmlessly by John Henry’s ear, plunging into the seat behind him. John Henry, his hat now discarded, brought his own pistol up and squeezed off a second shot. Martin was hit in the chest and he fell against the front wall of the car, then slid down until he was sitting on the floor. On the wall behind him a swath of blood traced his path downward. Martin clasped his hands over his wound, but blood began spilling through his fingers. Pulling his hand away, he looked at his bloody palm for a second, then his head fell to one side.
Two men had come into the car, and two men had died. During the gunfire, women screamed and men shouted. And now, as the car filled with the gun smoke of the three discharges, John Henry scooted out through the back door of the car, jumped from the steps down to the ground, then fell and rolled out into the darkness.
“Martin! Peters! What’s goin’ on in there?” someone called. “What’s goin’ on?”
By the train’s ambient light, John Henry saw the train robber who was yelling at the others. This was the same one who had been covering the engineer, and now he was moving quickly toward the back of the train. As he ran through the little golden patches of light, it had the effect of a lantern blinking on and off so that first he was in shadow, then brightly illuminated . . . then shadow . . . then illuminated. John Henry aimed at him.
“Hold it right there! I’ve got you covered. I’m a United States Marshal! Put down your gun and throw up your hands.”
Realizing he was standing in a patch of light, the robber moved out into the shadow to fire at John Henry. He was out of the light, but the muzzle flash of his pistol gave John Henry an ideal target and he returned fire. The robber’s bullet whistled by harmlessly, but John Henry’s bullet found its mark and the would-be robber called out, “Semmes, I’m hit!” Then the robber collapsed.
John Henry had accounted for three, and he knew there was at least one more, so he stepped up close to the side of the train, then began moving toward the rear of the train, trying to locate the one remaining man. He saw him
then, just as he was stepping through the door and into the private car. John Henry snapped off a quick shot but missed, and he saw his bullet send up sparks as it struck part of the metal in the doorframe. He didn’t get a second shot at him, because the outlaw made it inside.
John Henry hurried to the front end of the same passenger car he had been riding in, then backed up against the side of it so that the robber, who was now safely inside the private car, wouldn’t have a clear shot at him. One of the passengers poked his head out to see what was going on.
“Get back inside!” John Henry shouted.
The passenger jerked his head back in, quickly.
John Henry peered cautiously around the corner, trying to see his adversary.
“Semmes,” John Henry called, remembering the name. “You may as well come on out of there. All the others are dead. You’re the only one left, and you don’t have anywhere to go.”
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” Semmes yelled.
“The name is Sixkiller,” John Henry called back.
“Sixkiller? Yeah, I’ve heard of you. You’re that Indian policeman, ain’t you? What are you doin’ here?”
“I’m a U.S. Marshal,” John Henry said.
“What the hell? How’d you hear we was goin’ to rob it?”
“A medicine man told me,” John Henry said.
There was a beat of silence, then Semmes called out again, “I’m comin’ out. Don’t shoot, Sixkiller! I’m comin’ out!”
“Well, come on then,” John Henry replied.
John Henry watched the back door of the private car. A second later it opened and Semmes appeared. But instead of coming out with his hands up as John Henry had expected him to do, he had Beam with him, and he was holding his pistol to Beam’s head.
“You out here, Sixkiller?” Semmes called, searching the darkness. “You out here?”
“I’m here,” John Henry answered. He stepped out so the outlaw could see him, and he raised his pistol to point it at Semmes. “Drop your gun and come on down here.”
“Drop my gun? Are you crazy? Maybe you ain’t noticed, but I got my gun pointed right straight at this man’s head.”
Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal Page 17
