Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal

by William W. Johnstone

  “If he is dead, he is out of the way.”

  “Yes,” Eberwine said. “I suppose if you put it that way. But I’m not going to tell you how to do it. I just want him, uh, out of the way.”

  “It’s going to cost you fifteen hundred dollars,” Dixon said.

  “Fifteen hundred? Are you serious?”

  “I’m very serious. I know that you can afford it, Eberwine.”

  “I only paid Percy Martin five hundred dollars.”

  “Uh-huh. And how did that work out for you? Martin’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Eberwine agreed.

  “You get what you pay for. I’m going to cost you fifteen hundred dollars. Seven hundred fifty now, and another seven hundred fifty when Sixkiller is—out of the way.”

  “All right,” Eberwine said. “All right, I’ll give you what you ask. I just want the job done.

  After successfully crossing the creek, Stevens’s group, perhaps inspired by the success of completing the building under the harshest possible conditions, worked prodigiously. For the first few days after crossing the creek, the railroad progressed at a rate of three miles per day, including when they set a record of four miles and one hundred feet of track laid in one day.

  Their progress did not go unnoticed, and when word got back to Octave Chanute, he rode over to have a look himself. Stunned and upset by what he saw, he hurried back to Fort Scott to report to James Joy.

  Unlike Robert Stevens, Joy had chosen to stay away from end of track, especially after he learned that Baxter Springs was not only outside Indian Territory, but was opposite Shawnee land, not Cherokee land.

  “I’m tellin’ you, Mr. Joy, they are going to beat us there,” Chanute said. “They are laying track like you’ve never seen. They are in Chetopa.”

  “In Chetopa? How far is that from the border?”

  “Three miles. The way they have been laying track, they’ll make it in one day.”

  “How far are we from Cherokee land?”

  “Eight miles, three days, two at the absolute best,” Chanute said.

  “Damn, to get this close and be beaten by that upstart Stevens? No,” Joy said. He slammed the side of his fist down on his desk. “No, by God I will not be beaten by him!”

  “Mr. Joy, if we worked twenty-four hours a day, and doubled our work force, I don’t believe we could beat the KATY into the Indian Territory.”

  “Then if we can’t work any faster, we will slow them down,” Joy suggested.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I want you to arrange a visit,” Joy said. “Offer a twenty-dollar bonus to anyone who is willing to go over to the KATY operation and find some way to slow them down.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  “Use your head, Octave!” Joy yelled. “If, say, some of their track was removed, it would slow them down, don’t you think?”

  “What about the truce you made with Colonel Stevens?”

  “Did Boudinot welcome us into the Cherokee Nation, or did he not?” Joy asked.

  “Yes, sir, he did.”

  “And were we in the Cherokee Nation?”

  “No, sir, we were not.”

  “And has he, or has he not, allied himself with Robert Stevens and the KATY Railroad?”

  “He has.”

  Joy smiled and nodded. “Would you not consider that, by that duplicitous action, the truce was broken?”

  Chanute laughed out loud. “Yes, sir, indeed the truce was broken.”

  “By KATY.”

  “Yes, sir, by KATY.”

  “Therefore if several of our men pay a visit to the KATY people in Chetopa and slow down the operation, it cannot be said that we broke the truce. It can only be said that we were responding to their dishonest welcoming of us to the Cherokee Nation. How many men can you gather?”

  “For twenty dollars apiece I can gather over a hundred men,” Chanute said.

  “Then, by all means, do so. I will have the money ready when the men return.”

  Scullin pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his brow as he watched the men working with purpose and rhythm. So pleased were they with the fact that the goal was in sight . . . with its one-hundred-dollar bonus per man for winning the race, that the men were singing as they worked.

  Hail to the day and deed

  Hail to the iron steed

  Hail to the iron rail

  Hail to the KATY, hail

  Border Tier can go to hell.

  Scullin laughed at the song the men had composed, but the laughter died in his throat when he saw several wagons and horses approaching.

  “Colonel Stevens,” Scullin said, pointing toward the approaching men.

  “What is it?” Stevens asked.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like the looks of it,” Scullin said. Then he recognized the track boss of the Border Tier. “Son of a bitch! It’s O’Brien and his men.”

  “What do you think they want?”

  “I don’t think they want to congratulate us.”

  “But, no, Joy and I have a truce.”

  “Not anymore you don’t. Men! Gather ’round!” Scullin shouted. “Gather ’round, men! We’re about to do battle with the heathen bastards of the Border Tier!”

  The wagons and horses continued to approach. Then they stopped and men started pouring out of the wagons, screaming and yelling in fury as they ran toward the KATY men, now gathered around Scullin.

  “At ’em, boys, at ’em!” Scullin shouted, and though Stevens retreated to the rear, Scullin advanced to the front, becoming the first of the KATY men to land a blow.

  Both the KATY and Border Tier men had hammers and pickaxes that could have been used as weapons, but those were thrown aside and, with ancient Irish war cries, the two sides went against each other with fists flying.

  The Battle of Chetopa was on, and the citizens of Chetopa, aroused by the screams of rage and battle, poured out of their homes to witness the fight.

  In order to show impartiality, John Henry Sixkiller was halfway between Chetopa and the current end of track for the Border Tier Railroad. The distance between the two points was ten miles, which meant that John Henry was five miles away from Chetopa when he saw Sheriff Gurney coming toward him at a gallop.

  Realizing that it must be something important to bring Sheriff Gurney out here so fast, John Henry started galloping toward him so that he was able to close the distance quickly.

  “What is it, Sheriff?” John Henry called when he pulled up on Iron Heart.

  “Marshall, you have to come quick!” Sheriff Gurney said. “There’s a hell of a fight going on back in town between Joy’s men and Stevens’s men. There’s more’n two hundred engaged if there is a man.”

  “Is it a shooting fight?” John Henry asked, anxiously.

  “No, thank God. At least, there wasn’t no shooting when I left. As far as I could tell, they’re just goin’ after each other with nothin’ but their bare hands, but there’s so many of ’em, I don’t see how we’re goin’ to avoid some real serious injuries.”

  “How much do you have left in your horse?” John Henry asked.

  “I don’t know, he’s purt’ nigh give out, gallopin’ all the way out here like I done. I’ll follow you back, but I won’t be able to keep up with you.”

  “That’s all right, get there when you can,” John Henry said, urging Iron Heart into a gallop.

  John Henry could hear the shouts, screams, and curses before he got there, even over the thundering sound of hoofbeats as Iron Heart galloped, without letup, for the entire five miles. When he got to town, he saw a great crowd of what looked to be over a thousand people. At first he thought they were all fighting, but as he got closer he saw that most were just gathered around, watching the melee of flying fists.

  Pulling his pistol, he fired it into the air as he rode Iron Heart right into the middle of the brawlers. The intrusion of the horse knocked several of the men down and had the effe
ct of separating the others. He fired a few more times until, finally, the fighting stopped and everyone looked toward him.

  “You men back away from each other, farther!” John Henry ordered.

  When they didn’t move quickly enough, he fired into the ground, first just in front of the feet of the Border Tier men, and then in front of the KATY men. That drove them farther apart and the men of the KATY and the men of the Border Tier stood across from each other, bloodied and bruised but, for the moment, quiet.

  “Mr. Scullin!” John Henry called.

  “Aye, Marshal,” Scullin replied, his nose bloody, his knuckles split, and his face bearing the smile of a man who loves a fight.

  “What is going on here?”

  “’Tis a fight, Marshal, and a glorious one it be,” Scullin said.

  “I can see that. How did it start?”

  “These black-hearted Border Tier men attacked my men while we were at work.”

  “Who is in charge of the Border Tier men?” John Henry asked.

  “That would be me,” a man said, stepping forward. Like Scullin, he was bloodied and bruised.

  “Paddy O’Brien,” Scullin called out to him. “Sure ’n’ there’s never been the day when a man from Donegal County could beat a man from Cork, and that’s the truth of it.”

  “I’m the better man than you, John Scullin, an’ you’ll be forgettin’ that soon, I don’t think.”

  “Mr. O’Brien, what are you and your men doing here?” John Henry asked.

  “Why, Marshal, t’wasn’t nothin’ but a friendly fracas that brought us here. A few blows among friends, you might say.”

  “Take your men back where they belong.”

  O’Brien turned to his men and nodded and, nursing broken noses and fingers, they started toward their horses and wagons.

  “Paddy, m’boyo,” Scullin called out. “As soon as we cross the border into The Nations, come see me. We’ll share a pint, and speak o’ Ireland like the friends we once were.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  With Joy’s men gone, work could continue unhampered on the KATY Line. And because the KATY was within a few days of reaching the border, John Henry decided that his best bet would be to stay with the KATY until the border was crossed. He telegraphed his intention to Marcus Eberwine.

  CROSSING INTO INDIAN TERRITORY IMMINENT BY KATY RAILROAD WILL REMAIN WITH KATY UNTIL CROSSING. JH SIXKILLER

  “Wait, Mr. Deckert,” Eberwine said after he read the telegram Deckert had given him. I have a telegram I need to send. I want you to take it to the telegraph office.

  “Yes, sir,” Deckert said, standing by as Eberwine wrote out his telegram.

  Matt Dixon was in the End of Track Saloon in Baxter Springs, drinking whiskey and playing solitaire. He was playing solitaire because everyone was too frightened to play poker with him. Finding no play for a red six of hearts, he looked through the down cards until he found a black seven, then turned it up so he had a play. It was cheating, yes, but he reasoned that, since he was cheating himself, what difference did it make?

  A boy of about fifteen came into the saloon.

  “What are you doing in here, Mickey?” the bartender asked.

  “I have a telegram for Mr. Dixon,” the boy replied.

  “That’s him back there in the corner, playing solitaire,” the bartender said, pointing.

  “That’s him? He ain’t very big, is he? From all I’ve heard of him, I thought he would be a big man.”

  “How big do you have to be to kill someone?” the bartender asked as he went back to wiping his glasses.

  Mickey stared at him for a long moment before he got up the courage to walk back to his table.

  “What do you want, boy?” Dixon asked, as Mickey approached, then stopped but said nothing.

  “Are you Mr. Dixon?”

  Dixon looked up from the cards he had spread out on the table. “I said, what do you want?”

  “I, uh, have a telegram for you.”

  Dixon held out his hand, and Mickey handed it to him. He continued to stand there.

  “Is that all?” Dixon asked.

  “Yes, sir, only, the way I get paid is when folks give me a tip after I’ve handed them the telegram.”

  “It is, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, here’s a tip, boy. Don’t come pussyfooting around me no more. I don’t like it.”

  Realizing then that no money would be forthcoming, Mickey walked away from the table.

  “Mickey,” the bartender said as Mickey walked by.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Here,” the bartender said, giving him a nickel.

  “Thanks, Mr. Green,” Mickey said, a smile brightening his face.

  “Did you give that boy some money?” Dixon asked after Mickey had left.

  “Yes, sir. The boy don’t have a daddy, and his mama is sickly. The boy gettin’ paid for deliverin’ telegrams is the only way they have of making a livin’.”

  “If you’re dumb enough to want to give him money, it’s none of my concern,” Dixon said. “But you ain’t doin’ it for me.”

  “No, sir, this wasn’t no reflection on you,” the bartender said. “I was just, uh, tryin’ to help the boy and his mama out, is all.”

  “A woman can always make money whorin’. What does his mama look like?”

  “She couldn’t do that, Mr. Dixon. Like I said, she’s just real sickly.”

  “Ha! What the hell does she have to do but lie there when a man is with her?” Dixon asked, then he laughed at his own joke.

  Not until then did Dixon open the telegram.

  SIXKILLER IN CHETOPA. SECOND PAYMENT PLUS BONUS WHEN JOB IS DONE.

  John Henry was in the Railroad Saloon having his lunch and a beer when Matt Dixon came in. John Henry had never met Dixon, and didn’t know who he was until the little man came over to his table.

  “Are you Marshal John Henry Sixkiller?” Dixon asked.

  “Yes,” John Henry replied. The question had been more challenging than inquisitive, and John Henry dropped both his hands in his lap.

  “Yes, I’m Marshal Sixkiller,” John Henry replied. “Is there something I can do for you, Mister . . . ?” He let the sentence hang, inviting the little man to supply his name.

  “My name is Dixon. Matt Dixon. And what you can do for me is die.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Dixon, I’d prefer not to die,” John Henry replied. His voice was calm.

  “It’s not all the same to me. They tell me you are good with a gun, Marshal. Is that true?”

  “There have been those who have tried to kill me, but so far I’ve managed to stay alive.”

  “Have you ever heard of me?” Dixon asked.

  “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of you.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “I’ve heard that you enjoy killing.”

  Dixon smiled. “That’s right. And I especially like killing big strong sons of bitches like you. I’ll just bet you wish you could mop this floor up with my ass, don’t you?”

  “Yes, that is a pleasant thought,” John Henry replied.

  “I know what people like you are like.”

  “Really? And what are people like me like?”

  “You see someone small like me, and you think I’m of no consequence. You think you can just brush me off like a fly. But this”—Dixon patted the handle of his pistol—“makes me as good as the biggest and strongest man that ever lived.”

  “No, it doesn’t make you as good,” John Henry said. “It may give you a little backbone, but it doesn’t make you as good.”

  “I’m tired of talkin’, Sixkiller,” Dixon said. “I’ve heard that you are fast with a gun. For an Injun,” he added with a smile. “How about it, Mr. Sixkiller? Me and you. You want to try it now? Go for your gun.” Dixon moved his hand down to hover just over his own gun.

  The conversation had started easily enough, but it quickly progressed to a dangerous level,
and now a challenge had been issued. From a nearby table a woman’s laughter halted in mid-trill and the piano player pulled his hands away from the keyboard so that the last three notes of his melody hung raggedly, discordantly, in the air. All conversation ceased and everyone in the crowded saloon turned to see if the event they had all been speculating on was about to take place. Most of the onlookers were experiencing some trepidation as they watched the drama being played out before them. But there were some who were watching with morbid curiosity, anxious to see where this was going. Was there going to be a gunfight? If so, who would win?

  “Well, Mr. Dixon, let’s think about this. I mean even if you beat me, what satisfaction will you get? It wouldn’t be a fair draw now, would it?” John Henry asked, replying to the man’s challenge. “I mean I’m sitting down, and you’re standing up. I would be at a disadvantage trying to draw.”

  Dixon’s smile broadened. “Yeah, well, that’s the way of it. It’s the luck of the draw, you might say.” He laughed. “‘Luck of the draw.’ That’s funny, ain’t it? I mean, seein’ as we are about to draw against each other. Now, Sixkiller. Let’s do it now. I don’t plan to wait around all day while you’re getting’ up your courage.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to wait,” John Henry said. “You see when I saw you come over to my table, I thought you might have something like this in mind. So I’ve already pulled my gun. I’m holding a gun under this table right now and it’s pointed straight at your belly.”

  Dixon blinked a couple of times, then he laughed nervously. “Who are you trying to kid, Sixkiller?” he asked. “You didn’t pull your gun. It’s still in your holster. I can see it!”

  John Henry looked down at the pistol in his holster. “Well, so it is,” he said easily. “I guess I would really be in trouble now, wouldn’t I? I mean if that was the gun I was talking about. But I’m not talking about that gun,” John Henry explained. “No, sir, the gun I’m talking about is the one I keep up my sleeve. I learned some time ago to do that. It’s a derringer, two barrels, forty-one caliber. I can shoot right through this table and put a hole in your stomach big enough to stick my fist in.”