Kinch Riley / Indian Territory

by Matt Braun

  The upshot of the negotiation was a victory for Boudinot. The treaty proclaimed a general amnesty and restored to the Cherokees their confiscated property. But it also required them to grant future right-of-way to railroad companies, as well as providing for the erection of military posts within the Nation. Still, it had represented something of a Pyrrhic victory. In the aftermath neither Boudinot nor the Southern Party had been able to gain control of the tribal government. These days Boudinot spent a good deal of his time hobnobbing with Washington politicos.

  All of which dovetailed neatly with Stevens’ own goals. Watching Ryan clean his shotgun, he decided to press the issue. “Why do you consider Boudinot a turncoat?”

  “For one thing, he wants to do away with tribal ownership of the land. Parcel it out to individuals in lots of a hundred sixty acres. For another, he believes the Nations should be placed under a territorial governor appointed by Washington. None of that would work to the benefit of the Cherokees.”

  “I didn’t realize you were an advocate of Indian rights.”

  “I’m not,” Ryan informed him. “I just don’t like turn-coats—red, white, or polka dot.”

  “Well, I still think you’re wrong about Boudinot. He wouldn’t dare pull a fast one on me.”

  “It’s your railroad.”

  Ryan loaded the shotgun with double-ought buckshot. He snapped the breech closed and laid the Greener across his saddle. Then he took the spit off the fire and began dissecting grouse with his knife. He glanced up at Stevens with a wry smile.

  “What’s your pleasure, Colonel? White meat or dark?”

  On the fourth day they sighted Fort Gibson. There, deep in the heart of the Cherokee Nation, the road veered off to the southwest. At the Arkansas River crossing they turned southeasterly onto a rutted wagon trail. Toward sundown they passed through the settlement of Webbers Falls.

  Their destination was the farm of Stand Watie. A leader in the Southern Party, Watie was also the uncle of Elias Boudinot. Yet unlike his nephew, he chose to use his Indian name. Boudinot’s father, some years before his death, had adopted a white man’s name. For the most pragmatic of reasons the son elected to follow his father’s example. As Elias Boudinot he found a warmer reception among Washington power brokers.

  Stand Watie, while not so flamboyant as his nephew, was nonetheless a man of considerable prestige. During the Civil War, Watie had risen to the rank of brigadier general in the Confederate Army. It was a military honor accorded no other Indian and stemmed from his command of the Second Regiment Cherokee Mounted Rifles. After Lee’s surrender at Appomattox, he had continued to lead his cavalry on guerrilla raids for almost three months. By holding out, he’d earned a singular distinction in the prolonged and bloody conflict. He was the last Confederate general to surrender his sword.

  Watie’s farm had been purposely selected for tonight’s clandestine meeting. The area around Webbers Falls was an enclave of Southern Party members, all former Confederates. The chance was therefore slight that there would be any loose talk about two white men visiting the farm. Stand Watie still commanded the loyalty of his wartime comrades, and a certain military code prevailed even now. No one who valued his life would risk being branded a traitor.

  Stevens and Ryan rode into the farmyard shortly after nightfall. The front door opened and a shaft of lamplight spilled across the porch. Stand Watie stepped outside, waiting for them to dismount. He was tall and portly, with a ramrod-stiff bearing that belied his age. His greeting was civil, though somewhat restrained.

  Inside they were ushered into the parlor. Boudinot strode forward, clasping Stevens’ hand with a show of warmth. He was a full head shorter than his uncle, somewhat stocky in build, and attired in a dark, conservative suit. When they were introduced, Ryan noticed that his hand was damp with sweat. Boudinot invited them to be seated, commenting that the women and children had retired for the night. Their discussion would not be interrupted.

  Stevens came straight to the point. “Day after tomorrow I’m scheduled to meet with William Ross. I thought it worthwhile that we review our agreement beforehand.”

  Boudinot frowned. “I understood we were in accord when we met in Washington.”

  “We were, and I trust we still are. However, since then a new element has entered the picture.”

  “What might that be?”

  Extracting a cigar from inside his coat, Stevens struck a match. He lit up in a wreath of smoke. “I’ve decided to propose a bond issue. It’s an accepted procedure whenever a railroad builds through an area. The purpose, of course, is to help defray construction costs.”

  “With one slight difference. White communities want a railroad and they’re willing to raise a bond issue to ensure they aren’t bypassed. The Cherokees, by and large, have been opposed to the project from its inception. A bond issue would simply stiffen their opposition.”

  Stevens rather enjoyed jousting with Boudinot. He thought of the other man as an educated redskin and took amusement at his fancy manner of speech. Fixing Boudinot with a look, he puffed importantly on his cigar.

  “Elias, the matter isn’t open to debate. I prefer to have the Cherokee Nation committed by way of hard cash. And I expect your Southern Party to support it in the tribal council.”

  Boudinot and his uncle exchanged a quick glance. Stand Watie’s features were unreadable, and there was a moment of oppressive silence. Then Boudinot threw up his hands. “Very well. You are assured of our support.”

  “Good,” Stevens said easily. “Now on to other matters. Are you familiar with White Oak Creek?”

  “Yes, of course,” Boudinot replied. “It flows into Neosho maybe thirty miles below the border.”

  Stevens nodded. “I have information that the A&P survey line will run through there. I suggest you plan your town site for that general area.”

  For the next hour or so Stevens and the two men huddled around a map of the Cherokee Nation. Ryan sat quietly off to one side, solely an observer. Their discussion centered on an elaborate scheme to force the Atlantic and Pacific to detour around White Oak Creek. The purpose, insofar as Ryan gathered, was to delay construction of the rival railway. While it was unstated, Ryan discerned still another element in the conspiracy. Boudinot and Watie, in payment for their support, would be allowed to organize a major town site. The Katy would guarantee its success by establishing a terminal on the location.

  To Ryan there was a certain irony about their secretive intrigue. Some thirty-five years ago Boudinot’s father had been involved in a similar conspiracy. The elder Boudinot, along with others, had signed a secret treaty which ceded the tribe’s ancestral southeastern lands to the federal government. Yet ancient Cherokee law exacted the death penalty for unauthorized land cessions by members of the tribe. Following removal of the Cherokees to Indian Territory, there had been a settling of accounts. The elder Boudinot and his co-conspirators were executed in unceremonious fashion. All in all, Ryan thought it was perhaps a case of like father, like son. It seemed there was a trace of conspiracy in the Boudinot blood.

  When the meeting ended, there was another round of handshakes. Stevens appeared pleased with himself, nodding and smiling all the while. Stand Watie walked them to the door, his nephew trailing a pace behind. Outside the three men paused for a last word as Ryan moved toward the hitch rack. Halting beside his horse, he stooped down and tightened the cinch. As he straightened up, he saw Stevens wave and turn away from the house. Boudinot and Watie were framed in a streamer of lamplight from the doorway.

  The night suddenly erupted in gunfire. Almost in unison the sharp crack of two rifles sounded across the yard. Stand Watie cursed, grabbing his left arm, and tumbled off the porch. Stevens flung himself to the ground, scrambling toward the hitch rack. With surprising agility, Boudinot dove headlong through the doorway. He kicked the door shut as he rolled into the house.

  All thought suspended, Ryan reverted to sheer instinct. He pulled his shotgun from the saddle scabbard,
stepped around his horse, and thumbed both hammers to full-cock. The buttstock was seated against his shoulder as the rifles cracked again, showering Stand Watie with dirt. Silhouetted against the fiery muzzle flashes, Ryan saw two men materialize from the dark not thirty yards away. He aimed high, triggering both barrels with a double tap of his finger. The scattergun exploded with a thunderous roar.

  Buckshot sizzled across the yard in a deadly hailstorm. One of the men reeled sideways in a strange haywire dance. He lost his footing and went down in a tangle of arms and legs. The other man buckled from the impact and dropped his rifle. He slumped forward without a sound. Tossing the shotgun aside, Ryan threw his Colt and slowly walked forward. He circled the men, watching them closely under the faint starlight, alert to any movement. At last, one at a time he rolled them over with the toe of his boot. They were both dead, chopped to pieces by buckshot.

  Ryan struck a match and inspected the bodies. In the flare of light he saw that they were both Indian, and doubtless Cherokee. As he turned away, Stand Watie crawled to his feet, clutching a nasty arm wound. The door opened a crack and Boudinot cautiously peered outside. Approaching the house, it occurred to Ryan that all the shots had been fired at the two kinsmen. There seemed little question that someone was aware of the conspiracy and had invoked ancient tribal law. The dead assassins merely underscored the point.

  Elias Boudinot and Stand Watie were marked for death.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tahlequah was the capital of the Cherokee Nation. Set among gently rolling hills, it lay some eighty miles south of the Kansas border. To many, it was considered the hub of progress in Indian Territory.

  It was midmorning as Ryan and Stevens rode just south of Tahlequah. For the last hour they had passed magnificent baronial homes, with colonnaded porches anchored by towering Grecian columns. The setting was one of antebellum plantations transplanted from a more gracious era. The lavish estates were outnumbered by log cabins and unpretentious frame houses, but it was obvious that wealthy Cherokees lived on a scale befitting their position. Some were farmers, and others, clearly, were gentleman farmers.

  Stevens, much as Ryan had predicted, was somewhat awed. The tales he’d heard about the Five Civilized Tribes were far exceeded by reality. While he knew that the Cherokees maintained plantations before the war and were slave owners as large as any in the South, he was dumbstruck by the extent of their progress along the white man’s road. He expected to find advanced savages a step above the nomadic Plains Tribes, who had evolved into tillers of the soil after being pacified by the federal government. Instead he found a people who cultivated the land with something approaching reverence. Theirs was a thriving agrarian society that rivaled even the most prosperous midwestern farm community.

  William Ross lived five miles south of Tahlequah. Like many prominent Cherokees, he and his family operated a sprawling plantation prior to the Civil War. His home, which was reminiscent of Old South mansions, was a two-story structure with tall columns and a wide veranda. The house commanded a sweeping view of the countryside, and split-rail fences bordered its mile-and-a-half-long driveway. Outlying the main grounds was an orchard with over a thousand apple trees.

  Upon sighting the house, Stevens began revising his strategy for dealing with Ross. He reminded himself that William Ross was the most influential man in Indian Territory. A graduate of Princeton University, he’d been groomed from youth to assume leadership of the Cherokees. Before he had taken over, his uncle, John Ross, had been principal chief of the tribe for more than forty years. Since 1866, he had, if anything, surpassed the stature of his late uncle. Above all others, he’d been elected president of the Intertribal Council, which was working a coalition of the Five Civilized Tribes. And judging by his baronial home, he was something more than a blanket Indian with a fancy education. Stevens thought to himself that diplomacy rather than demands might better suit the moment.

  A stable boy took their horses as William Ross greeted them on the veranda. He was a dignified man, with strong, angular features and piercing eyes. His bearing was straight and square-shouldered, a posture of austere self-assurance. He wore a frock coat with dark trousers and a somber black cravat. He welcomed them with something less than warmth.

  The inside of the house was, if anything, even more imposing than the grounds. The ceilings were high and the staircase facing the entrance rose like an aerial corridor. Large wall mirrors flanked either side of the hallway, and double French doors opened on to a room appointed with ornately carved furniture and an immense piano. Opposite was an informal parlor, and beyond that, a tall-windowed study. The study was quite masculine, paneled in dark wood with leather wing chairs set before a broad mahogany desk. The bookcases occupying one wall were lined with history tomes and works of literature.

  Ross indulged in small talk for only a short while. The meeting had been arranged by letter, at Stevens’ request, and there was a certain protocol to be observed. But after his visitors were seated, Ross quickly dispensed with preliminaries. He ignored Ryan, whom he took to be an aide of some sort. His full concentration focused instead on Stevens.

  “Your letter was somewhat vague, Mr. Stevens. May I inquire the exact nature of your business?”

  “Of course,” Stevens said pleasantly. “First, I wanted to personally advise you that the Katy will begin construction quite shortly. We plan to start laying track the first week of March.”

  “So, our respite ends.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Cherokee Nation, Mr. Stevens, does not want your railroad. We look on it as an invasion of our tribal lands—nothing less.”

  “But unavoidable, Chief Ross. And I might mention, sanctioned by the treaty of 1866.”

  “A regrettable fact, but nonetheless at odds with the interests of my people.”

  “Progress won’t be denied,” Stevens intoned. “However, there’s no reason your people should suffer in the process. With your assistance, they might profit very handsomely instead.”

  Ross eyed him keenly. “Are you selling or buying, Mr. Stevens?”

  “Oh, I’m buying! And paying hard cash, I might add. The Katy is in a position to pump upwards of a million dollars into your economy. Sound interesting?”

  Stevens went on to explain the proposition. Railroad ties were laid at a rate of 2,600 to the mile, and the Katy had some 250 miles to traverse to the Texas border. Simple arithmetic indicated that nearly 700,000 ties would be needed, and Stevens was willing to pay the generous sum of a dollar a tie. He thought the contract would best be administered by the tribal governments.

  Ross was a skilled negotiator. He deferred judgment on the ties and shrewdly waited to hear the next proposal. Somewhat nonplussed, Stevens raised the matter of trailing longhorn herds to railhead. By long-standing practice, each of the Five Civilized Tribes had always charged a per-head tax for the privilege of trailing through Indian Territory. The Cherokees, whose land abutted Kansas, charged the most, seventy-five cents per cow. Stevens outlined his plan to resurrect trailing along the Texas Road while the Katy was building south. But to stimulate trade, he wanted the Cherokees to set the example by reducing their tax to twenty-five cents. Everyone, Indians and railroad alike, would benefit.

  Once again Ross deferred any decision. Outfoxed, Stevens was forced to move on to the next topic. He reluctantly broached the matter of a bond issue. Though it was unstated, he clearly wanted the Cherokees to set a precedent for their Indian neighbors to the south. He reviewed the benefits to the tribe, which would include more backcountry depots and a major terminus located in Tahlequah. His suggestion was that an equitable bond issue would be something on the order of $500,000.

  “I think not,” Ross said with a querulous squint. “In Kansas you could bludgeon communities into paying such extortion. The Cherokees are under no duress to meet your demands.”

  Stevens gave him a dull stare. “How would you like it if the Katy bypassed Tahlequah altogether?”
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  “Very much,” Ross said crisply. “In fact, I urge you to bypass the entire Cherokee Nation. We would be much happier if there were no stopovers at all.”

  Stevens took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Would you at least put the question to the tribal council?”

  Ross’ tone was clipped, incisive. “The bond issue is a dead issue, Mr. Stevens. You need pursue it no farther.”

  Their eyes locked. Stevens boiled inwardly, but he knew he was beaten. After a long silence, he spread his hands in a bland gesture. “What about the other proposals?”

  “Would you and Mr. Ryan care to join me for noontime?”

  “Well, yes, thank you. We would enjoy that very much.”

  “Fine.” Ross stood. “I’ll just send for Major Tappin. He’s our tribal treasurer, as well as commander of the Light Horse Police. I’d like him present when we resume negotiations.”

  Ross walked quickly from the study. When the door closed, Stevens turned and looked at Ryan. His voice was tinged with exasperation.

  “Any idea what he has up his sleeve?”

  “Tell me,” Ryan said, deadpan. “Have you ever been between a rock and a hard place?”

  “I’m not familiar with the expression.”

  “It’s a form of the old squeeze play. I think you’re about to get educated—by the redskins.”

  The negotiations were suspended for lunch. Shortly before the noon hour they were joined by Major David Tappin. He was swarthy, somewhat darker than the usual Cherokee, with marblelike eyes and sleek, glistening hair. His manner was one of ill-disguised mistrust, guarded contempt.

  Ryan was on speaking terms with Major Tappin. Previously, as a deputy marshal he’d had occasion to work with the Light Horse Police. He knew that Tappin, whose principal responsibilities were tax collection and law enforcement, wielded considerable power within the Cherokee Nation. Some said he was second only to William Ross, and no man to have for an enemy. Ryan never doubted it for a minute.