The Warriors (48 page)

“As long as a single one causes trouble, yes!”

“Worthing, you’re an ignoramus.
We’re
the intruders. We’re deep into the tribal buffalo grounds—the Republican herd’s one of the largest in the West. They see the buffalo being shot by white men; they see their land being cut up by these tracks; they see innocent members of their race being punished for the depredations of guilty ones—I’ll not compound the problems already created and risk losing men and time!”

Worthing stormed toward the door. “This is the god-damnedest outfit of yellowbellies I’ve ever seen. I’m going to get a Spencer and wait for—”

Michael was bowled aside as Casement lunged and fastened his hands on Worthing’s gray duster. Before the taller man could react, Casement hurled him against the cubicle’s outer wall. The planking vibrated.

Casement rose on tiptoe, cheeks red as his quivering beard.

“Captain Worthing, you have taxed my patience to the limit.” A shake of the man’s lapels.
“To the limit!
You lost the damned war, and I am sick to death of your trying to win it all over again by besting every man who strays across your path!”

Worthing’s hands clenched. For a moment Michael was certain there’d be a fight. Then he recalled that the Southerner liked odds favorable to himself. But Worthing did fire a verbal salvo.

“I’ll settle with you for this, Casement. You and the mick both. Count on it.”

“I already received that message,” Michael said. “In my bunk.”

Releasing the Virginian. Casement missed the glance of venomous understanding between the other two. The construction boss wiped his hands on his thighs, as if he’d touched something unclean. He jerked the door open and confronted a press of men who bombarded him with questions.

“What’s this about Injuns, Gen’ral?”

“Heard they got the Ruffin boy.”

“A hundred of the heathen, someone said.”

“Lads are breakin’ out the Spencers—”

“You”—Casement grabbed the nearest man—“go through the sleeping cars and issue a direct order from me. Twenty rifles out—no more! Have the gang bosses distribute them to men they can trust to keep their heads. The Indians may mean no harm.”

Michael saw doubtful expressions as well as frightened ones. He was conscious of Worthing staring at him but didn’t turn his head.

“At least they say they don’t. They merely want coffee and a chance to examine our equipment. We’ll take them at their word until they prove we shouldn’t. You, and you”—Casement singled out three more men—“you boys escort Captain Worthing to his car and keep him there.”

Worthing began to swear. Casement paid no attention.

“Sit on him. Tie him. Bash his head in—I don’t care. But he’s not to be allowed outside or permitted to place his hands on a weapon. I’ll not let one hothead bloody this whole camp.”

“Come on, Reb,” one of the appointed men said as the others closed in. “You just been to Appomattox all over again.”

The cursing Virginian was manhandled out of sight. Michael wished Worthing’s guards weren’t so eager to show how much they disliked him—or so free with taunts about the South’s defeat. They might only make the Virginian angrier and more reckless.

Casement began dispatching other men to round up the workers and have them assemble on the north side of the last sleeping car, where they would be hidden from any watchers Guns Taken might have sent to the hilltop. Michael worked his way along the packed corridor to the kitchen and called for fresh coffee from the startled cooks.

Within five minutes he was outside, and Jack Casement was preparing to address the growing throng around the steps of the bunk car.

Michael stood toward the rear of the crowd. Above the clamor of voices, he heard someone call his name.

He turned. Hannah Dorn was hurrying toward him, bundled in her shapeless coat. The floppy hat concealed her bright hair.

Her brother Klaus was with her, carrying his rifle. Then Dorn appeared from behind the wagon, buttoning his fly and belching. He looked unsteady on his feet. He too had his Hawken.

“Mr. Boyle—” Hannah touched Michael’s arm. In the band of shadow cast by the hat brim, her eyes widened in surprise and embarrassment.

It took her a moment to recover and ask, “What’s the difficulty?”

“Surprise guests. Thirty Cheyenne—down there behind those hills. They’ve captured one of the lorry car boys, and—hold on.” As he said the last words, he unconsciously reached across with his right hand and squeezed her forearm.

Then he too was struck by a realization that he was being overly familiar. He jerked his hand away.

Their eyes met again. He felt just as chagrined as she’d been a moment ago. Very nearly stammering, he added, “Casement—Casement will explain.”

The construction boss spoke in a loud voice. At the announcement of the presence of Indians—the rumor verified—there were exclamations of astonishment and alarm. At scattered spots in the crowd, a Paddy demanded the intruders be met with volleys from the stored rifles. Casement shouted them down.

“Absolutely not! There’ll be no shooting unless I give the command. They have Ruffin, and they may honestly mean us no harm.”

“But, General, we outnumber ’em!”

“That would be no consolation to any man killed or maimed in an unnecessary fight. Of course we outnumber them. We could storm out there and drive them off. But I doubt we’d see Ruffin with his scalp again.”

Nervously, Michael glanced toward the blowing buffalo grass on the line of hills. Perhaps the Cheyenne were gone and Tom Ruffin was already dead. Contradictory images of Guns Taken flitted in his mind. He saw a guileless child, then a sly trickster. Which was the true picture?

He forced his attention back to Casement.

“We’ll remain calm, keep all but twenty rifles out of sight, see exactly what they want, and hope they’ll depart peaceably when they get it.”

“You know what they want!” a voice burst out behind Michael. Hannah Dorn closed her eyes before she swung to look at Gustav Dorn.

Hannah started working her way toward him. “Papa, please. Let General Casement run things.”

Even from eight feet away, Michael smelled the whiskey on the unkempt merchant. Dorn weaved on his feet as he flourished his rifle.

“You got shit in your head, Casement! It’s more than coffee the red devils are after. It’s guns! It’s liquor—” He brought the Hawken up to his chest. “Sons of bitches touch my whiskey, I blow their heads off. You touch this gun, I do the same for you.”

“Papa, that won’t help,” Hannah pleaded. She took hold of the Hawken. “Put it down.”

“Damn woman—
let go!”
Spit flecked Dorn’s lips as he wrenched the rifle out of Hannah’s grip. Michael felt a spurt of anger, started for Dorn.

Casement yelled, “Take that rifle away from him!”

Dorn began to back up, putting the Hawken on cock. A sharp intake of breath came from Michael’s left—from Sean Murphy. Several Paddies scuttled aside, out of range of the weaving muzzle.

Licking at the corner of his mouth, Dorn dropped into a crouch.

“Nobody takes it. First who tries, I shoot.”

“Dorn?”

The merchant swung toward Michael. The Hawken’s barrel steadied, aimed at the younger man’s belly.

“What’s your two cents, Paddy?”

Michael extended his hand. “Give it up before you’re hurt. The boy’s life is more important than your liquor.”

“Paddy, you stay away from me. I got a big ball ready for you if you don’t—”

Michael took three more steps—a yard closer to the German—before he halted. He wiped his mouth. “Be reasonable, Dorn.”

“You come on,” Dorn interrupted, wiggling the Hawken. “You come right on, Mr. Mick. As soon as you walk one step more, I shoot your goddamn thick head to pieces—
ahh!”

He squealed as Hannah’s fingers shot in from behind and clamped on his neck. She’d gone creeping around his flank while his attention was fixed on Michael.

Dorn lunged to the side, seized the Hawken’s muzzle, and swung blindly. The stock slammed Hannah’s jaw.
Jesus, it could go off!
Michael thought as the girl stumbled, her hat tumbling from her head. Bent low, he ran at the German.

He ripped the Hawken from Dorn’s fingers and tossed it to a man who juggled it as if it were a poisonous snake. Dorn aimed a clumsy punch at Michael’s midriff. Michael jerked his belly back out of the way and used his longer reach to seize Dorn’s ears. He yanked, hard.

Dorn staggered, shrieking obscenities. Men encircled him. Michael retrieved the Hawken and uncocked it. He noticed Sean Murphy had slipped up to the bewildered Klaus and relieved him of his rifle. He reached down to help Hannah to her feet.

“I’m sorry I provoked him. I’m sorry he hurt you.”

“Oh—” Tears filled her eyes. Ashamed, she spun so he couldn’t see. She snatched up her hat and whispered, “What does one more time matter?”

Her grief hurt him too, somehow. He wanted to reach out to her, comfort her.

Dorn thrashed and yelped as more men surrounded him. Michael wondered how Hannah Dorn’s faith could withstand her father’s behavior. All she believed seemed negated and made a mockery by the merchant’s pathetic yet potentially lethal rage.

Almost ready to walk to her and risk humiliating her further by making her look at him, Michael was prevented by Casement calling for attention.

“Now that we seem to have things in hand, let’s try to get through the remainder of the day without any casualties. It’s up to you men—each and every one. I want no Indian Bureau commissioners descending on us to ask why we harmed innocent visitors.”

If indeed they’re innocent,
Michael thought.

“I want to write no reports to General Dodge and the directors of the line, and more important, no letters to wives or sweethearts explaining how a good worker was needlessly slain.”

There were still a few grumbles about Casement’s lack of nerve. But most of the rust eaters agreed with Michael’s silent assessment: It took more courage for Casement to exercise restraint than it did to indulge the kind of hostility that made Dorn and Worthing such threats. General Jack’s forceful voice overrode the last muttered objections.

“Our job is to save Ruffin, then lay track and reach the hundredth meridian as fast as we can. Remember that!”

Except for Dorn cursing among his captors, the crowd was still.

“Boyle?”

“Here, sir.”

“Go tell the Indians to come in.”

“Right away, General.”

“And, Boyle—”

Michael turned back. Three gang bosses had appeared behind Casement. All three had a pair of Spencers in each hand, and several of the tubular butt magazines in their belts. Casement indicated the weapons.

“Do you want one?”

Michael almost answered yes. He would have felt far safer. But he thought of Tom Ruffin. The sight of a rifle might provoke an impulsive stab of that bow lance. One thrust was all it would take to kill the boy.

“No, I’d better go without.”

Casement nodded, a thin smile relieving the severity of his mouth for a moment.

Heart hammering, Michael set off along a lane that opened in the crowd. The men had fallen so silent he could hear the whine of the prairie wind and the hiss of steam from
Osceola.

T
WENTY MINUTES LATER, MICHAEL
returned to the railhead, a pale but unhurt Tom Ruffin by his side. Behind them, riding single file with Guns Taken leading the procession, came the Cheyenne.

Virtually every worker had turned out to watch. Hundreds of Paddies stood or sat in small groups. A few looked openly hostile, others anxious. But the majority were merely curious.

Approaching the finished track west of the perpetual train, Michael searched for the seven-shot repeating rifles distributed while he was gone. He spied the first two with the stock drovers. A wise precaution, he decided when he heard a burst of Indian talk. He turned to see a young brave point to the cattle and make a smirking comment to the rider behind. On the faces of several of the Cheyenne he saw undisguised envy.

His eyes moved back to the train. Most of the workers had gathered along the north side. He noticed one man still relaxing in a hammock slung beneath a sleeping car. No, not precisely relaxing—the barrel of a Spencer was visible.

Two men lounged beside their tent on the car’s roof. The mellow sunlight of the mare’s-tail sky set the barrel of another Spencer flashing.

The man holding the repeater shifted position. The flare of light vanished. But not before Guns Taken and his braves took note.

Closer scrutiny showed Michael the location of other rifles. Casement had arranged things well. The Spencers were inconspicuous but not invisible. The unarmed workers were aware of the guns. In front of a Paddy with a rifle in the crook of his arm, Liam O’Dey sweated and fiddled with his holy beads.

Casement came striding around the end of the nearest boxcar. He too carried a rifle, and had buckled on a holstered Colt. He stopped on the track, his red beard snapping in the breeze.

Along the north side of the train, Michael heard swearing. He craned to see the source—two cooks hurriedly setting planks on a couple of barrels. A third man came scrambling down from the kitchen, rag-wrapped hands gripping the bail of a huge enamel pot trailing steam from its spout.

Casement’s eyes darted to the boy at Michael’s side. “He’s fine, sir,” Michael said quickly. “Guns Taken kept his word.”

The track boss nodded and gazed past him as the procession halted. Guns Taken dismounted and walked forward with bow lance in hand. His bare stomach quivered. Though the Indian was more than a little bowlegged and his huge melon of a belly looked soft, Jack Casement didn’t relax.

Guns Taken stopped a foot from the construction boss. The Cheyenne’s six-foot height and Casement’s shortness presented a curiously comic picture. Guns Taken peered down at the smaller man with a guarded smile Casement didn’t return.

Casement made the peace sign with his free hand. Guns Taken replied using the identical gesture. Casement’s hand began to dart, point, describe fluid curves.