Indian Territory 3

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Martin sneered openly. “One of the most important tasks in paving the way for civilized progress into this part of the country will be the elimination of the likes of you.”

  “You are decidedly unfriendly,” Riley said seriously.

  “I, sir, am your enemy!” Martin said firmly. Jake Donner took a step forward, but Riley restrained him. “Mr. Blazer, I leave you with a warning. I do not usually do such a thing, for I am a firm believer in the aphorism that forewarned is forearmed.”

  “I am so grateful,” Martin said sarcastically.

  “If you do not desist in both your attacks on me and the formation of any endeavor to ruin my business arrangements in Lighthorse Creek, I shall turn my associate Mr. Donner here and his underlings loose on you with such a vengeance that my earlier resistance to incursion will seem like weak slaps on the wrist.

  “Mr. Culhane Riley, do your worst!” Martin shouted.

  “Mr. Martin Blazer, I certainly shall.”

  Riley and Jake Donner made an abrupt departure, leaving Martin alone, and a bit uneasy, in the newspaper office.

  Fifteen

  The supper on the table had all of J. T. Buchanan’s favorite dishes—fried chicken, corn bread, and fresh-picked green beans. J. T. ate with gusto, complimenting Abbie not only for her cooking talent, but also for her choice of a menu.

  “I’m glad you like it, Papa,” Abbie replied modestly.

  J. T. glanced over at Martin. “How do you find these vittles?”

  “It’s the best meal I’ve ever had,” Martin announced.

  Abbie smiled at him. “Oh, it is not!”

  “Yes, it is.”

  J. T. waved his fork. “Why, by God, Abbie! I’ll bet it is the best meal he’s ever had.”

  “It sure is,” Martin said.

  J. T. resumed eating for a few moments. After a couple of more bites, he turned his attention back to Martin. “Boy, you seem to be in a hell of a good mood. What have you been up to today?”

  “Well, sir, I scared the pants off Culhane Riley,” Martin answered.

  J. T. ceased all movement for a solid five seconds. He stared incredulously into the younger man’s face. “What?”

  “I had a confrontation with Culhane Riley.” Abbie’s eyes widened in frightful surprise. She, like her father, had been struck dumb by Martin’s statement. “Martin! You didn’t say a thing to me about this. When did it happen?”

  “In the newspaper office this morning,” Martin said, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “The villain actually paid a call on me.”

  Now J. T. set his fork down. “You tell me what happened,” he commanded.

  “I was setting some type and the door opened,” Martin said. “This big fellow came in and asked for me. I introduced myself and he introduced himself. It was Culhane Riley.”

  “Did he take a shot at you?” J. T. asked.

  “Oh, no. But he had a gunman with him,” Martin said.

  Abbie said nothing, but it was obvious she was deeply upset and frightened.

  “Just tell me what he said,” J. T. demanded. “Don’t fill it up with a lot of fancy words. I only want the facts as simple and straightforward as you can possibly tell ’em.”

  “He and I had quite a conversation,” Martin boasted. “He even tried to enlist me into his pack of wolves. I refused, of course.”

  “Then what happened?” J. T. asked.

  “That would not be too difficult to guess,” Martin said.

  “Goddamn it! I don’t want to guess!” J. T. shouted. “You tell me exactly what he said to you after that!”

  “He threatened me,” Martin said. “As I expected him to do.”

  “Martin.” Abbie’s voice was soft with fearful despair.

  “Now, don’t you two worry a bit. It is only proof positive of how terribly frightened and upset he is,” Martin said confidently. “It’s one thing to send an ineffective sheriff and his guns against a tyrant, but quite another for the press to launch a determined attack,”

  J. T. stood up and threw his napkin to the floor in anger. “Martin, boy, you’re all alone! Didn’t that get-together we had over here the other night convince you of that?”

  “Not in the slightest. All the people of Lighthorse Creek need is leadership to give them the courage necessary to launch a lasting and successful attack against Culhane Riley,” Martin said. “And I fully intend to provide that guidance.”

  J. T. sat down again. “I want you to forget this whole thing, boy.” His voice was cold and menacing. “You’re getting into something that will bring nothing but the worst sort o’ trouble down on our heads.”

  “I don’t wish to have a quarrel with you, J. T.,” Martin said. “But I’m afraid I simply cannot back water in this instance.” He took a bite of his corn bread. “What amazes me, actually, is that Culhane Riley seems to be an educated man.” He laughed. “At least he has an appreciation of Shakespeare.”

  J. T. raised his eyebrows. “Evidently he didn’t get much book learning in mercy and decency. And this here conversation ain’t the end of the matter, Martin Blazer. I’m gonna drum some sense into your head one way or the other.”

  “J. T., I must insist that—”

  “Martin!” Abbie’s voice had a strong hint of appeal in it.

  Martin looked at her.

  Her eyes beseeched him. “Please!”

  The young man immediately understood. This was to be a special evening, and any argument with J. T. could certainly cause a most undesirable effect on their plans. Martin took a deep breath. “I always value your advice, J. T.”

  “We’ll talk some more tomorrow,” J. T. said. “This ain’t the time or place.” He stood up. “Goddamn, boy! You even spoiled my appetite for fried chicken and com bread. I’m going out on the porch for my whiskey and cigar” He walked away from the table.

  Abbie leaned toward Martin, whispering loudly. “Don’t you dare upset him, tonight of all nights!”

  “Don’t worry,” Martin said. He reached for his coffee.

  “Martin!”

  “What?”

  “Go talk to Papa,” Abbie said. “Now!”

  “Now?”

  “Yes!” she exclaimed in exasperation.

  Martin set the cup down and got to his feet. He walked slowly through the house and out on the porch. “Hello, J. T.”

  J. T. turned around from grazing out into the night. “Need a drink, young man?”

  “No, thank you,” Martin said. “I came out here so that I could speak to you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes, sir. On a most important matter.”

  J. T. knew what the subject of the conversation would be, but he gave no indication of his knowledge. “What’s do danged important?”

  Martin cleared his throat. “Well, J. T., I’d be most appreciative if you would kindly allow me to marry Abbie.”

  J. T. turned back to face the darkness knowing that Martin couldn’t see the grin on his face. “You mean my Abbie?”

  “Of course,” Martin responded.

  “You want to get hitched with my little girl, do you?”

  “Yes, sir. I truly do.”

  Now J. T. turned back. “Has she said anything , that makes you think she’d go along with the idea?”

  “Certainly, J. T. I proposed and she accepted,” Martin said in amazement. “You don’t think I would simply walk out here and start talking marriage without discussing it with my intended, do you?”

  J. T. smiled. “Goddamn it, boy! I don’t know for sure what you’d do about anything. This latest thing with Culhane Riley fair boggles my mind. You are one of the stubbornest, mule-headed fellers I’ve ever seen in all my days.”

  Martin’s spirits fell. “J. T., I do what I think is right.”

  “I don’t hold that against you,” J. T. said. “As a matter o’ fact, I respect you. But that still don’t mean I think you got any more sense than God put in a horse’s ass.”

  “Let’s get back
to the original conversation,” Martin pleaded. “I promise I’ll be a good husband to Abbie,” the young suitor declared.

  “Listen, boy, I’m real fond of you,” J. T. said. “If I chose a son-in-law myself, it’d prob’ly be you. I’ve knowed you since you was a pup, and you was always a fine boy. I can see you ain’t changed from that as a young man.”

  “Thank you, J. T.,” Martin said, feeling better. “I’ll give my permission for you to marry Abbie,” J. T. said. “And I won’t put no strings on it. You do what you think is right, and I’ll back you up. That’s the least I can do.”

  “Oh, thank you, J. T.,” Martin said. “I’ll fetch Abbie.” He ran inside the house and quickly returned with the young woman.

  J. T. smiled down at his daughter. “Do you want to marry this firebrand, Abbie?”

  “Yes, Papa, I truly do,” Abbie said.

  “I give you both my blessing,” he pronounced. Abbie cried out in happiness and rushed to embrace her father. Then she went back to Martin. “You’ve made us both real happy, Papa.”

  “When’s the wedding?”

  “I thought it would be nice if we could have the ceremony in two months,” Abbie said. “There’s a lot of arrangements to be made.”

  “Lord, girl, you need your ma,” J. T. said.

  “I think Mrs. Tobey will help me, Papa,” Abbie said.

  “I’m sure she will,” J. T. said. “Now you two go away and leave an old man to his likker and his see-gar.”

  “Yes, sir,” Martin said. “Thank you, J. T.”

  “You’re welcome.” He watched them walk away, then turned his attention back to his cigar. He took a pull on the stogie, then treated himself to a drink of whiskey.

  “I just hope,” J. T. Buchanan said to himself, “that my little girl don’t too quick turn into a widder lady.”

  Sixteen

  The evening’s darkness slowly enveloped the main street of Lighthorse Creek. But before the gloom could completely set in, glaring yellow light spread out from the freshly lit lanterns of the west-side saloons. The work day was ending for the populace on the east side of town. But in this part of the community it was just beginning.

  Culhane Riley, standing in the window of his office over the Silk Garter, could hear the sounds of the crowd below him gradually building up as the evening of fun picked up in intensity. Cowboys, beginning their evening stint of drunkenness, already shouted to the irregular staccato of the bar girls’ shrill laughter. Glass tinkled and the piano player loudly banged out the various requests of the rowdy clientele.

  Despite this racket, Riley’s mind locked out the disruption. All his attention was concentrated on but one thing as he looked down at the empty building across the street that housed the Sentinel. He took a slow, pensive sip from the brandy snifter he held. Drinking the expensive liquor had become habitual with him by then, and he consumed at least a half quart a day.

  Riley treated himself to a pull on the fine-quality cigar he was enjoying with the drink. Now and then he dipped the end of the stogie into the brandy to add a bit of flavor to the smoke.

  Despite these creature comforts, the criminal boss was not at ease with the world. He was deeply troubled by young Martin Blazer and his newspaper. For the first time in his professional criminal career, Riley felt he faced a formidable threat.

  ~*~

  Culhane Timothy Riley had been born in Boston, Massachusetts, some forty years previously. His family was second-generation Irish who had fled the potato famine of their native country to seek their fortune in the near-mystic land of America where, they’d been told, the streets were actually paved in gold.

  The Riley’s didn’t find gold, of course, but they found something just as good to folks who had a combination of ambition and ruthlessness: plenty of opportunity. The grandfather, a tough brawler and cunning businessman named Tim Riley, fathered six children while establishing a wide-open, no-holds-barred saloon near the Boston waterfront. It was not only a money-making enterprise, but it also provided a place where the less honest and more truculent elements of the city’s Irish commonality could gather for scheming, meetings, and double-dealing when not participating in criminal activities and drunken brawls.

  Tim Riley wisely avoided obvious direct connection or alliances with any of the numerous gangs in the area. This was not done out of a desire to avoid fraternization with undesirables because of any misgivings on his part. He did this in order to maintain a strict neutrality. This afforded him the advantage of dealing in more than simply selling rotgut booze and green beer to his customers. By having an unprejudiced business relationship with the Irish underworld, Tim Riley was able to deal in stolen goods, smuggled articles coming through Boston Harbor, prostitutes, and other sidelines in which the gangs dealt. Since he did not actually compete with any one of the groups, he consequently got a piece of the action from them all by being trusted through his lack of being a direct threat.

  If Tim Riley helped transport a new shipment of girls for Kelly’s brothel, he also helpfully stowed stolen merchandise for the O’Brien gang—not to mention providing a meeting place where ship’s captains could deal with Donahue’s bunch of traffickers in illegal goods.

  Of all his children, Tim Riley was the most fond of his son Tim junior. While the other boys were financed into the saloon business, Tim senior recognized that junior had a superior intelligence to his brothers. He learned faster, got out of scrapes easier, and had a gift of gab—along with a certain charm—that made him right for one obvious profession: politics.

  Tim senior bought off the ward alderman and got junior a good shot at being elected to the city council. The election was as rotten and crooked as Tim’s heart. Voters included not only the bribed and the threatened, but also the dead. The names of the deceased were taken from gravestones and registered as voters. Even these tactics made the outcome a bit shaky, so Tim called in a favor from gang chieftain Brian Kelly and had the opposing candidate’s house burned down.

  The man prudently withdrew from politics, and it was said he was last seen in Boston buying a one-way train ticket for some distant destination in the south.

  Tim junior did even better than his father could have hoped for. During his years in office, he made crooked alliances with construction companies, cartage firms, breweries, and other commercial organizations that offered the best opportunities to acquire illegal dollars. The best of these, and one with whom Tim junior formed a lasting friendship, was the Culhane Warehouses located on the waterfront. Edmund Culhane, who had inherited the enterprise from his Yankee forebears, was as crooked as Tim junior and was most helpful in providing facilities for deals that ran the gamut from housing illegal immigrants to storing untaxed whiskey. Tim junior was so fond of Edmund Culhane that he named his firstborn son after him. Thus, Culhane Riley was born to a heritage of wealth and chicanery.

  Tim junior wanted young Culhane to have something no other member of the Riley clan had been able to obtain: an education. This wasn’t so much for the intellectual enlightenment of the boy as to get him into law school so that a homegrown—and presumably trustworthy—attorney, whose loyalty to the family would be unquestioned, would be available to serve their sundry legal needs.

  Culhane, like his father, was not a disappointment. He did quite well in parochial school with the exception of breaking every rule at least a half-dozen times. But he learned his lessons between canings, and even mastered Latin. Many boys who had demonstrated a remarkable talent in that dead language were steered toward the priesthood, but the good fathers at the Saint Mary’s Academy for Boys didn’t give Culhane Riley even an instant of consideration for that particular vocation. In fact, he was never even a choirboy.

  Culhane terrorized the schoolyard. He was a natural brawler with a great deal of physical talent and meanness for that pastime, so the first thing he did at the start of every academic year was to search out the biggest boy he could find, then beat him to a bloody pulp. Culhane liked to be th
e boss and he could think of no better way to establish his leadership among the students. Once his superiority was firmly ensconced, Culhane spread his activities to collecting money from the other students to allow them to eat their lunches in peace, walk the halls unmolested, and even to go to the outhouse in the back of the school building. Culhane had plenty of money from his father, and he didn’t really need that extra pocket change. The practice, like establishing his superiority with his fists, kept him in charge at all times.

  When Culhane Riley graduated from Saint Mary’s, he did so with the highest academic honors.

  His marks were the best in the entire school, and it was a source of genuine embarrassment for the priests who made up the faculty. They found it incomprehensible that the smartest student of the religious institution was also the most vicious and unscrupulous. Many of these church-trained instructors, mostly the young and idealistic, had tried to change the young kid’s ways, but he was incorrigible.

  Culhane went from the Catholic boys’ school directly to Harvard Law School. He tamed his conduct there remarkably. This change in personal conduct was brought on more from stern lectures from his father and grandfather about the importance of his becoming a lawyer than from any improvement in morals or character. The two older Rileys really didn’t care if the young man terrorized the Harvard campus to the core of its academic soul, but they wanted no enemies made—especially within the families and institutions represented by the scions of old New England dynasties.

  To have done such a thing would have been to cause the destruction of the Rileys’ petty empire. These were powerful people, and they would tolerate Irish gangsters in Irish neighborhoods, but once the threat came onto their own territory they would squash it like a loathsome bug with every ounce of awesome power in their establishment. They were so powerful, in fact, that when Culhane Riley learned of the strength they wielded, even he was impressed.