Kinch Riley / Indian Territory

by Matt Braun

  For every problem resolved there seemed to be a dozen more awaiting his attention. With the bridge open and four miles of track completed to the Arkansas River, it was now possible to move vast amounts of supplies forward. He’d considered doing just that and then ferrying the materials to the south shore of the Arkansas. It would have required a herculean effort by the Irish Brigade, loading and offloading every shipment at least four times. But the alternative was to wait another month while the Arkansas River bridge was being completed.

  Frustrated by delay, Stevens had ordered the plan implemented. Scullin could once again start laying track, and thirty days gained would put end-of-track deep in the Creek Nation. Yet as though fated, the plan began to unravel. A week of cold, drizzling rain turned the canebrakes south of the Arkansas into a waterlogged swamp. On the heels of the rain, there was freezing sleet and then several days of intermittent snowfall. The plan was scotched, awaiting a hard freeze to make the canebrakes passable. Scullin and the Irish Brigade were assigned instead to resume work with the bridge builders.

  So far as Stevens could see there was only one bright spot in the whole affair. Ryan’s talk with Andrew Peirce had produced immediate and highly profitable results. All freight rebates were rescinded, thereby removing any incentive to ship with the A&P through Vinita. Wagon trains from northern Texas again began arriving at Gibson Station, their freight consigned for shipment with the Katy. The sudden jump in revenue averted what might have been a financial debacle. The railway line was restored to solvency just in the nick of time.

  Of no less consequence was the abrupt disappearance of the night riders. The message delivered by Ryan apparently had a profound effect. While the details were unknown, it could be surmised that Peirce had in some way blackmailed Major David Tappin. Sabotage of the Katy tracks had ceased virtually overnight, and there had been no further encounters with the Cherokees. What that portended for the future was a matter of conjecture. But for the moment the Katy was enjoying a time of peace and prosperity.

  Stevens took mordant satisfaction in the victory. He reveled in the fact that he’d had the last laugh on Andrew Peirce. Though he hadn’t destroyed the A&P, he had upset Peirce’s time schedule beyond repair. The Katy would be the first to cross the Red River and roll onward into the Southwest. For that, Stevens owed a large vote of thanks to John Ryan. Few men could have brought Peirce to see the light so quickly and with such clarity. The outcome spoke reams about Ryan’s persuasive talents.

  What form that persuasion had taken was still something of a mystery. To Stevens’ questions, Ryan had replied in only the vaguest terms. Thereafter, Stevens became increasingly concerned, for he noticed an unaccountable change in Ryan’s attitude. A quiet man by nature, Ryan had now become withdrawn and almost taciturn. He spoke only when he was spoken to, and even with Scullin, who was his closest friend, he seemed strangely distant. His manner was somehow neutral, as though he’d lost interest in what went on around him.

  Stevens lit his cigar and stared out the window. His reverie was suddenly broken as he saw Ryan emerge from the bunk car. Wearing a woolly mackinaw, Ryan walked off toward the stock pens, carrying his shotgun. Stevens watched until the solitary figure disappeared into the snow flurries. He knew Ryan would saddle the roan gelding and ride off on a morning scout of the bridge site. What he didn’t know was why Ryan had withdrawn into a shell.

  Not knowing troubled him. He valued Ryan, and while they’d had their differences, they had always managed to work together. He puffed on his cigar, vaguely uneasy.

  Ryan propped his shotgun against a fence post. The gelding trotted over, whinnying in recognition, and stood waiting. One of the mules in the next pen over brayed and that set off a chorus from the other mules. With track laying at a halt, none of them had been out of their pens in almost two months.

  Ryan started toward the harness shed to collect his saddle. He suddenly stopped, watching as a number of horsemen materialized like ghostly apparitions out of the snow flurries. A cold sense of foreboding swept over him as he recognized the lead rider, Major David Tappin. Behind, ranked two by two, rode six Light Horse Police. He moved swiftly to the fence and picked up his shotgun. Hefting it, he hooked a thumb over the near-side hammer.

  Tappin reined to a halt. He sat there a moment, the Light Horse drawn up behind him, their mounts snorting frosty puffs of air. His expression was one of veiled mockery, amused contempt. At length he lifted his chin, indicating the shotgun.

  “Are you expecting trouble, Mr. Ryan?”

  “Never know,” Ryan said woodenly. “There’s lots of it around these days.”

  “Oh?” Tappin replied. “I understood your problems were all solved.”

  Ryan looked him directly in the eye. “Things have been pretty quiet the last couple of weeks. You and Peirce must’ve had a heart-to-heart talk.”

  Tappin studied him with a kind of clinical detachment. “I assume you’re referring to Andrew Peirce, president of the A&P. To the best of my knowledge, we’ve never met.”

  “How about that!” Ryan said with a touch of disbelief. “And here I thought you two were bosom buddies.”

  “I repeat”—Tappin paused to underscore the words—“we’ve never met.”

  “I suppose a go-between works just as well. Course, Boudinot must get tired of hotfootin’ it back and forth between Vinita and Tahlequah. Or do you meet him out on a dark road somewhere?”

  “Who I meet, and where, are none of your concern, Mr. Ryan.”

  “Another time maybe,” Ryan said, letting it drop. “What brings you to Gibson Station, Major?”

  “Brad Collins.”

  “What about him?”

  “I believe you have a payroll shipment coming through tomorrow afternoon. I understand it’s usually aboard the express car, locked in a strongbox—and all cash.”

  Ryan frowned. “How’d you know that?”

  “I hear things,” Tappin answered genially. “Collins got drunk and bragged to the wrong people. He and his gang plan to rob the payroll train.”

  “That a fact?” Ryan said without expression. “Why would you ride all the way down here to save the Katy’s payroll?”

  “Just following orders,” Tappin said with an odd smile. “When I informed Chief Ross, he asked me to alert you personally. He feels that the Cherokee Nation cannot condone robbery—even by a half-breed outcast.”

  Ryan considered a moment. “Any idea where the holdup might take place?”

  “Pryor’s Creek,” Tappin said. “Collins intends to block the bridge.”

  “And you figured I might want to prepare a reception for him?”

  “No,” Tappin said firmly. “Your payroll means nothing to me one way or the other. I’m here at Chief Ross’ request.”

  “You’ll be sure to thank him for me, won’t you?”

  Tappin ignored the wry tone. “As a gesture of good faith, he’s also offering assistance. I was ordered to bring along a squad of Light Horse and place them at your command.”

  Ryan hesitated, doubly vigilant now. “Why would the Light Horse serve under me? I killed a couple of their friends at the courthouse.”

  “These men,” Tappin said, gesturing to the stolid-faced horsemen, “will obey without question. Their orders are to place themselves at your disposal.”

  “I have my own guards.”

  “Hardly enough,” Tappin noted. “Collins has that many or more in his gang. Besides, if you refuse, it will be a direct affront to Chief Ross. As I said, these men represent a token of his good faith.”

  “Tell you what; I’ll leave it up to Colonel Stevens. You and your men just wait here.”

  Ryan moved around the riders, eyeing them as he went past. The Light Horse sat like bronzed statues, staring straight ahead. He walked toward the rail yard.

  “I don’t like it!” Stevens grunted, shaking his head. “Why should Ross want to save our bacon?”

  Ryan stood with the shotgun in the crook of his arm. His
mackinaw was wet with melting snow and a puddle had formed around his boots. He nodded imperceptibly, his mouth set in a narrow line.

  “It’s Tappin I’m worried about. I don’t trust him as far as I could spit.”

  “Do you believe Ross actually sent him here?”

  “Yeah,” Ryan said slowly. “Tappin wouldn’t have come otherwise. His story’s too easy to check out.”

  Stevens’ eyes squinted in concentration. “So that brings us back to Ross. What’s he after?”

  “Maybe it’s on the up-and-up. I’d like to think Ross would side with us over Collins.”

  “You’d like to,” Stevens asked, “but the question is, do you?”

  Ryan rubbed his jaw, considering. “I’ve always figured Ross for an honorable man. So I’d have to say he’s given us the straight goods.”

  “Then we’ve no choice, do we? We either accept his help or risk offending him. And who knows where that would lead?”

  “All right,” Ryan said. “I’ll tell Tappin we’re agreeable.”

  “Just make damn sure you take our men along! We can’t trust that payroll to a bunch of redskins.”

  “Don’t worry, Colonel. It’s as good as done.”

  Outside, the wind had dropped off and heavy snowflakes were falling in a thick, white curtain. Ryan began formulating a plan as he walked back to the stock pens.

  A freight train pulled out of Gibson Station early next morning. Aboard the caboose were Ryan and five railway guards, as well as the squad of Light Horse. Tappin had returned to Tahlequah the previous afternoon.

  Shortly before noon the northbound freight stopped at Boudinot’s original town site. Asa Johnson, the station master, exhibited only mild curiosity as Ryan and his peculiar alliance trooped into the depot. For the next two hours, with hardly a word spoken they warmed themselves around a potbellied stove. Johnson played the attentive host and kept the coffeepot perking.

  The southbound train arrived only a few minutes behind schedule. Coupled to the rear of the engine and tender were the express car and two passenger coaches. Earlier, from Gibson Station Ryan had wired ahead to Kansas, ordering that no passengers be allowed to board the train. He now split his force of eleven men into separate teams. The railway guards were placed inside the first passenger coach, and the Light Horse were seated in the rear coach to be less visible. His position was with the regular express messenger, locked in the express car.

  Ryan’s orders to the men were precise and clear. All of them understood that there was to be no gunplay unless the outlaws opened fire first. Even then, any of the robbers who could be captured rather than killed were to be taken prisoner. He particularly wanted Brad Collins taken alive, and he’d repeatedly stressed that point. Only in the last extreme was the gang leader to be fired on. His purpose, which he kept to himself, had to do with the Verdigris River bridge and other acts of sabotage. He wanted the opportunity to question Collins.

  Pryor’s Creek was roughly twenty miles south of the depot. An hour or so later, as the train rounded a slight bend, the engineer suddenly throttled down and set the brake. While it had stopped snowing, the roadbed and the surrounding countryside were blanketed with white. A short distance downtrack the bridge had been sealed off with a barricade of fallen trees. The engine lost speed rapidly and jarred the men in the cars behind. Only a few yards short of the bridge, the train rolled to a halt.

  On the east side of the tracks, several men emerged on foot from a thick stand of woods. They were spaced far apart, their guns drawn, and appeared to be well organized. One man hopped onto the steps of the engine, covering the engineer and the fireman. Another hurried toward the end of the train, blocking any exit from the last passenger coach. Still another halted at the steps between the passenger coaches, and a fourth took a similar position between the lead coach and the express car. Brad Collins and the sixth gang member walked directly to the express car, stopping in front of the door. Collins hammered on it with the butt of his pistol.

  “Open up in there! If you don’t, we’re gonna start killin’ your friends. The engineer goes first!”

  The door slammed open. Ryan stood to one side, the shotgun pointed downward, both hammers cocked. The express messenger was opposite him, also partially concealed, his pistol extended through the open door. Collins and his partner appeared stunned, frozen in a moment of indecision. Ryan wagged the muzzle of his shotgun.

  “Drop your guns or you’re dead.”

  Collins obeyed, his eyes glued to the scattergun. The other man hastily followed suit, tossing his revolver into the snow. Without being told, they both raised their hands overhead. Ryan motioned them back a step, then took a quick peek out the door. He saw the remaining gang members moving cautiously toward the express car, their guns leveled. He looked back at Collins.

  “Tell your boys to call it quits. I’ve got men back—”

  At the rear of the train, the Light Horse Police poured out of the last passenger coach. As though on command, they shouldered their carbines and delivered a withering volley into the robbers. The four gang members at the rear were cut down from behind, shot in the back. Collins and the man at his side were knocked sprawling under the impact of the heavy slugs. They went down, arms and legs flailing, flattened alongside the snowy roadbed. The only robber to escape was the man on the steps of the locomotive. A bullet whizzed past his head, and he leaped, rolling down the embankment. He darted into the woods before the Light Horse could unleash another volley.

  Ryan jumped through the open door. He landed on his feet and turned, planting himself solidly. Facing the rear of the train, he shouldered the shotgun and took dead aim at the Light Horse. Bunched together, they hesitated uncertainly and slowly lowered their carbines. At that instant the railway guards tumbled from the lead coach, looking from Ryan to the Light Horse. Ryan rapped out a command.

  “Disarm the bastards! Keep ’em covered!”

  Whirling around, Ryan hurried down the embankment. Collins lay on his side, the snow underneath him stained a bright cherry red. When Ryan knelt down, rolling him over, the outlaw appeared dead. His eyes were closed and the upper part of his coat was matted with blood. Then he wheezed, coughing raggedly, and his eyes fluttered open. A trickle of blood leaked out of his mouth as he focused on Ryan.

  “Funny, ain’t it?” he said shallowly. “Shot down by the goddamn Light Horse.”

  “Tough luck, Collins,” Ryan said, bending closer. “I told them not to fire unless you started it.”

  “How’d they get here?”

  “Major Tappin sent them along. He warned me about the holdup.”

  “Warned you!” Collins feebly grabbed the front of his mackinaw. “Tappin told you I was gonna rob the train?”

  Ryan nodded, watching him closely. “How else would I have found out?”

  Collins gasped, fighting for breath. “Son of a bitch double-crossed me … murdered me … .”

  “Why would he do that, Collins?”

  “I dunno,” Collins whispered, barely audible. “I wouldn’t never have talked. Not about the bridge or tearin’ up tracks or nothin’ … he wanted … done … .”

  A reddish froth bubbled over his lips and his voice trailed off. His mouth opened in a low death rattle, then he trembled and lay still. His eyes rolled back in his head.

  Ryan stared down at the outlaw a moment. As if a veil had been lifted, everything was suddenly clear. Only one man could link Tappin to the bridge collapse and the track sabotage. But to put the Light Horse on Collins’ trail or kill him outright would have been too obvious. The better plan was to arrange a bogus loan of the Light Horse, with orders to shoot on sight. And credit the railroad with Brad Collins’ death!

  Hefting the shotgun, Ryan climbed to his feet. He considered questioning the Light Horse, then discarded the idea. Threats wouldn’t work and no amount of interrogation would make them betray Tappin. With a sense of resignation, he ordered the railway guards to turn them loose. It was a thirty-mile
walk to Tahlequah, and snow all the way. The thought gave him some satisfaction, but it ended nothing. Ryan made himself a solemn promise.

  David Tappin would be brought to accounting—for murder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The train pulled into Gibson Station late that afternoon. Ryan hopped off the rear passenger coach as the engineer decreased speed in the rail car. He walked toward Stevens’ private car.

  All the way from Pryor’s Creek, he had maintained a thoughtful silence. The railway guards who had loaded the outlaws’ bodies onto the express car were equally pensive. Seated by himself, he’d stared out the window, considering his next move. The decision he had finally made seemed the only one possible under the circumstances. He felt comfortable with himself for the first time in a long while.

  Stevens’ manservant answered his knock. Inside the car Ryan found Stevens and Sally Palmer seated in lounge chairs. The girl, who was sipping a rye and water, looked at him inquisitively. Her expression was neutral, as though his safe return prompted only mild curiosity. Stevens bounded out of his chair with a laugh, hurrying forward. His eyes were ablaze with excitement.

  “I knew it!” he said, grinning. “You pulled it off, didn’t you?”

  “The payroll’s safe,” Ryan informed him. “And there are six dead men in the express car. One of them is Brad Collins.”

  “What’d I tell you?” Stevens whooped, glancing back at the girl. “Didn’t I tell you Ryan wouldn’t let me down?”

  “That’s what you told me,” she said indifferently.

  “Only one trouble,” Ryan interjected. “It was the Light Horse that got him, not me.”

  “What?” Stevens said, looking baffled. “The Light Horse got Collins?”