Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal

by William W. Johnstone

  “You’re bluffing. You don’t have a holdout gun under there. I know you don’t.”

  “Well, now,” John Henry said. “I guess you are just too smart for me, Dixon. You’ve figured it out, haven’t you? It could be that I don’t have a gun under the table, couldn’t it? Or, maybe I do. I guess you are just going to have to go ahead and draw to find out.”

  “Don’t think I’m going to let you stand up and draw,” Dixon said. “You’re the one so dumb that you didn’t stand up when you saw me come in.”

  “You’ve got a point there. I guess I’m just going to have to sit here and let you draw on me.”

  “Do you think I won’t draw on you?”

  “Oh, on the contrary, Mr. Dixon. I’m counting on you to draw. I mean, what if you didn’t draw? Why, when I blow a hole in your belly, some might call it outright murder. On the other hand, if you would go ahead and draw now, and if everyone in here sees you draw, why I’ll have all the witnesses I need to prove that I killed you in self-defense.”

  “You’re—you’re bluffing,” Dixon said.

  John Henry noticed a little line of perspiration beads breaking out on Dixon’s upper lip. His pupils had grown larger, and his nostrils were flaring.

  “I might be bluffing. I probably am, bluffing,” John Henry said, his voice as calm as if he were in conversation with a casual friend. “Go ahead, Mr. Dixon. Draw. Let’s see whether I’m bluffing or not. You could be right.”

  Dixon stood his ground for a moment longer, trying to decide whether or not he would call John Henry’s bluff. His eyes narrowed, a muscle in his cheek twitched, and he began sweating more profusely.

  “I tell you what. Suppose I count to three, and you draw on three,” John Henry said. “No, that won’t work, will it? I might decide to shoot on the count of two. Then where would you be?”

  “I don’t think you have a gun under that table,” Dixon said.

  “Like I said, you are probably right. So what do you say, Mr. Dixon? Do you want to call my bluff?”

  “Wait a minute, I see what you are doing now,” Dixon said.

  “Oh? What am I doing?”

  “You’re trying to draw me into a trap.”

  John Henry laughed. “Draw you into a trap. You’re just real clever, Dixon, the way you manage to work that word draw into a sentence.”

  Dixon was growing visibly more nervous.

  “Draw, damn you. Can’t you see that all these folks are wanting to see the show?” John Henry demanded.

  “No,” Dixon replied, holding his hand up in front of him, palm out. “No, I ain’t goin’ to draw. One thing I learned a long time ago is not to get into a gunfight until you know all the angles. I don’t know all the angles here.”

  “That’s true, you really don’t know, do you? Of course, you said that you don’t believe I have a gun here. And maybe I don’t. That would be one thing going for you, I believe.”

  “Yeah, and it might be going against me,” Dixon said. “Because the truth is, I don’t really know one way or the other. And I’m not about to get into any fight unless I know there are no surprises.”

  “Yes,” John Henry agreed. “That’s always been my policy. I don’t enter any confrontation unless I know exactly where I stand. I mean, I wouldn’t invite you to draw, unless I was holding a pistol in my hand. That is, of course, if I’m actually holding a pistol in my hand. What about it, Mr. Dixon? Shall we open the ball?”

  “Shit!” Dixon shouted. Now he put his hands out in front of him. “All right, all right, I ain’t goin’ to go for my gun now,” he said. He pointed at Sixkiller. “But you and me has got us a score to settle, Mister.”

  “Dixon?” John Henry called out as the diminutive gunman started to leave. Dixon turned toward John Henry.

  “I don’t figure you would be coming after me unless someone paid you to do it. Who paid you?”

  “You’re pretty smart, ain’t you?” Dixon asked ominously.

  “I try to be.”

  “What if I told you we were working for the same man?”

  “I’m working for the U.S. Government,” John Henry replied.

  “Are you now? You know, don’t you, that I’m going to have to kill you?”

  “I know you are going to try,” John Henry replied. “But you have to know, also, that I’m going to try, just as hard, not to get killed.”

  “I’ll be seeing you around,” Dixon said. “Soon,” he added ominously.

  “I’m sure I will be.” John Henry watched as Dixon left through the swinging bat-wing doors. Then he brought his hands up from under the table. They were completely empty.

  “What the hell?” one of the saloon patrons gasped. “Did you see that? The marshal just run a bluff on Matthew Dixon!”

  “I never thought I’d live to see anythin’ like that,” another commented.

  Without comment or gesture, John Henry got up from the table and walked over to the bar. He handed the bartender his empty mug.

  “I’ll have another.”

  “Yes, sir, Marshal!” the bartender said. “And this one is on the house! Yes, sir, it’s worth it to see what I just seen.”

  As the bartender turned toward the beer barrel to refill the mug, John Henry pulled his pistol and faced the door.

  “Draw now, you son of a bitch!” Dixon shouted, darting back inside the door. His gun was in his hand and he fired a shot at the table where John Henry had been sitting.

  “I’m over here, Dixon,” John Henry said calmly, standing at the bar.

  Dixon swung his pistol around for a second shot, but before he could pull the trigger, John Henry fired. The impact of the bullet knocked Dixon back out through the bat-wing doors.

  John Henry held the smoking pistol in his right hand and continued to look toward the door as, nervously, the bartender put the beer mug down on the bar beside him. John Henry didn’t even look around, but reached back with his left hand to get the beer. He took a long swallow as he continued to stare at the door.

  If Dixon had any friends, none of them came in after him.

  Chapter Thirty

  The next morning John Henry visited Colonel Stevens in his private car. The car was blocking Maple Street in Chetopa, and everyone in the town was standing in the street, staring through the window at John Henry and Colonel Stevens as they were talking.

  “I heard about the run-in you had with Matthew Dixon last night,” Colonel Stevens said. “Hell, ever’-body has heard about it. It’s the only thing anyone wants to talk about.”

  “I guess those sort of things do create a lot of talk,” John Henry said.

  “Why do you think he came after you like that?”

  “That’s a good question. He said something interesting though. He said that he and I were working for the same man.”

  “Working for the same man? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” John Henry said. “I have been puzzling over it.”

  “We’ll be crossing the Territory line at noon tomorrow,” Stevens said. “The Border Tier is still some six miles away, which means we have won. I don’t expect any last-minute skullduggery, but I would be obliged if you would spend the rest of your time here with us, until we cross into The Nations.”

  “That sounds like a reasonable request,” John Henry said. “I’ll stay with you.”

  “Colonel Stevens!” Gunn said, calling into the car from the door.

  “Yes, Otis, come in, come in.”

  Otis Gunn was smiling, broadly, and holding up a piece of paper, waving it back and forth.

  “This just came by telegram. I thought you might want to read it.”

  “You are smiling,” Stevens said. “May I take from that that it is good news?”

  “Yes, sir, you can,” Gunn said.

  “Then you read it to us.”

  “All right,” Gunn answered. Clearing his throat, he began to read. “‘On the 6th, instant, the KATY will be completed to the south boundary of the state o
f Kansas. I have passed over this railroad, making a careful and critical examination of its construction and equipment, and hereby certify that said Missouri, Kansas, and Texas Railway Company have constructed a first-class railroad, beginning at its junction with the Kansas Pacific Railway at Junction City, from thence in a southeasterly course to the headwaters of the Neosho River, and thence across the valley of said river to the town of Chetopa.’”

  “That’s a very good endorsement,” Stevens said.

  “It was good enough to get the job done,” Gunn said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Gunn broke out into a big smile.

  “We also got a telegram from Secretary of the Interior Cox.” Gunn cleared his throat, than began to read. “‘I find that at the Kansas and Neosho Road, the Border Tier is not authorized at present, under said legislation, to enter the Indian Territory and build the line, and that to complete its right at this time to do so, it would have been necessary for said road to have been completely constructed to a point in the Neosho Valley at or near the crossing of the boundary line by the Neosho, and where it could enter the Cherokee country without crossing the reservation of any other Indian tribe. This, the said company has not done.’”

  With his smile even broader, Gunn looked up from the telegram toward Stevens. “You know what this means, Bob?”

  John Henry looked toward Colonel Stevens, and saw his eyes glistening. He looked away quickly, so as not to embarrass him.

  “Yes, Mr. Gunn, I know what it means,” Stevens answered in a voice that cracked. “It means we have won.”

  From the Southern Kansas Advance:

  KATY Wins Railroad Race Will Be Allowed to Enter Indian Territory

  At ten o’clock on Monday morning the KATY Railway reached the south line of Kansas. The construction train was ordered up to the foot of Maple Street by Colonel Stevens, and through the enthusiastic efforts of the band, hundreds of our citizens were soon on their way to the depot to be in for a free ride.

  The end of the track is two miles and one hundred rods south of Chetopa. Arrived there, we found the Irish brigade which had hammered and shoveled its way from Junction City, one hundred and eighty miles, to the Indian Territory in less than nine months, resting their picks and hammers at last on Cherokee soil, on the grassy slopes looking down to Russell Creek.

  To Colonel Stevens fell the task, and the honor, of driving the last spike on the Kansas side of the line. Three or four false blows greatly amused the Irish track brigade, but the task was completed, the spike driven, and the race to the border was won.

  In a brief speech, Colonel Stevens reminded the crowd that “we shall not stop here. Our course lies onward to the Red River. Nor shall we pause there, but continue to the Rio Grande. Beyond this even, we are casting our eyes through the chaparral and over the steppes of Mexico, till our engine stands panting in the palaces of Montezuma and the halls of the Aztecs.”

  The first railroad spike driven on Indian soil was driven by Colonel Elias C. Boudinot, a Cherokee Indian, and an attorney.

  “My own people,” said Boudinot, “along with the Creeks, Choctaws, Chickasaws, and Seminoles, the Five Civilized Tribes, have always been pre-eminent to the wild Indians of the plains by virtue of what we have learned by contact with the white man. I stand in no fear or dread of the railroad. It will make my people richer and happier. I feel that my people are bound closer together and to the government by these iron bands.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  One week after the border crossing ceremonies, the KATY was five miles into the Indian Territory when a surveying party was set upon by three men. The surveying party was unarmed, and they stood by helplessly as the three armed men destroyed their instruments and destroyed their charts and maps.

  “Why are you doing this?” Willard Fairman asked. Fairman was the chief surveyor.

  “This is Indian Territory. This is our land, this does not belong to the white man, and we don’t want your railroad here,” one of the armed men said.

  “But we have permission from the Cherokee Council. Colonel Boudinot himself welcomed us when we crossed the border.”

  “The Council does not speak for us,” the Indian said. “Show this paper to Colonel Stevens.”

  Fairman and his surveying team returned to end of track where Steven’s private car, the Prairie Queen, had been converted into his office. Stevens and Scullin were in a discussion when Fairman and his entire team stepped in.

  “Willard?” Scullin asked, surprised to see not only his chief surveyor, but the entire surveying team. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you out surveying?”

  “You can’t survey without tools, and we’ve got no surveying tools.”

  “What do you mean? What happened to them?”

  “They were destroyed.”

  “Destroyed? How?”

  “By Indians.”

  “What?”

  “Read this,” Fairman said, handing the note to Stevens. Stevens read the note, then passed it over for John Scullin to read.

  The railroad company KATY is trespassing on Indian land. You are not welcome here. Leave our land at once, or suffer the consequences.

  Indian Independence Council

  “What is this Indian Independence Council? I’ve never heard of it before,” Stevens said. “Who are they?”

  Fairman looked at the other two members of his surveying team, but he didn’t answer right away.

  “What is it, Fairman? What are you not telling me?”

  “Uh, when we first started surveying inside the Territory, we came across a sign they had put up.”

  “What did the sign say?”

  “I don’t remember the words exactly, but it was something like, ‘Warning, we don’t want the white man’s railroad.’ And the bottom line said that it was the Indian Independence Council.”

  “Where is the sign now?”

  “We tore it up.”

  “You didn’t think that would be something that might interest the colonel?” Scullin asked.

  “Tell the truth, Mr. Scullin, I didn’t want to trouble anyone with it,” Fairman said. “I knew we had permission from the Indians and from our government, so I figured it didn’t make any difference what the sign said. I’m sorry if I made a mistake.”

  Stevens stroked his chin for a moment, then he shook his head. “You didn’t make a mistake. Even if you had told me about the sign, I probably would have had you do exactly what you did do.”

  “What should we do now?”

  “There’s no question about it,” Scullin said. “We have to continue the survey. See Forney, our equipment manager. Tell him I said to give you a complete new set of surveying tools.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fairman said, though his answer was hesitant, and he made no effort to leave the car.

  “Well, go ahead,” Scullin said. “Go back out there and pick up where you left off.”

  “There might be a problem with that.”

  “What problem?” Stevens asked. “We do have spare equipment, don’t we?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s not it. Colonel, they didn’t do anything this time but tear up our equipment, but they were armed. If we go out there again, I’m not so sure they will be satisfied with just destroying some equipment.”

  “That’s no problem,” Scullin said. “I’ll send some armed men out with you.”

  “No, wait,” Stevens said, holding up his hand. “That’s not such a good idea.”

  “Colonel, you don’t mean they should go out unarmed again, do you?” Scullin asked.

  “No. For now, I’d say we don’t go out at all.”

  “What are we going to do, Colonel? We can’t lay track if we don’t have our route surveyed.”

  “I’ll send for the army,” Stevens said.

  “You’ll send for the army? How long is that going to take? I mean, that’s likely to cause quite a delay, isn’t it?” Scullin asked.

  Stevens smiled. “What difference
does that make? We won the race, didn’t we? We’ve already been certified as the only railroad with the authority to build into Indian Territory. Time is no longer as important to us as it once was.”

  “The railroad has stopped construction,” Willie Buck said to Marcus Eberwine.

  “Have they left the territory?”

  “No, they’re still there. But they aren’t building.”

  “How do you know they aren’t building?”

  “We attacked their surveyors.”

  “Did you kill any of them?”

  “No, but we stopped the construction.”

  “Are you prepared to kill anyone?”

  “If need be,” Willie Buck answered.

  Eberwine nodded, but said nothing.

  Emporia, Kansas

  When Octave Chanute went into James Joy’s office, he was drumming his fingers on his desk and staring out through the window.

  “You look pretty pensive,” Chanute said.

  “Pensive? You call it pensive?”

  “What would you call it?”

  Joy thought for a moment. “Yeah, you can call it pensive, I guess. Otherwise, I would have to admit that I’m defeated.”

  “Not necessarily so,” Chanute said.

  “What do you mean, not necessarily so? Stevens is building in Indian Territory, I’m not. What else would that be but defeat?”

  “Well, if Stevens really was building in Indian Territory, I suppose you could call it defeat.”

  The expression on Joy’s face turned from one of depression to curiosity. “What do you mean, if he really was building? Are you saying he isn’t building?”

  “Take a look at the Cherokee Advocate,” Chanute said, handing the paper across the desk to Joy.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “It’s right there on the front page. I don’t think you’ll have any difficulty finding it.”