The Warriors (49 page)

After a minute of the sign talk Michael didn’t understand, Casement dropped his hand to his side. Guns Taken grunted in a way that seemed to signify satisfaction. Michael scanned the crowd again, finally located Hannah Dorn, her father and brother among a half-dozen men near the whiskey wagon.

Dorn appeared as truculent as ever. Three of those close to him carried Spencers. No accident, that grouping. Michael hoped the men guarding Leonidas Worthing were equally alert and well armed.

Again Casement spoke with his hand. Guns Taken answered, “Yes, English. Talk English if you want. We are friends. Come only to watch how you build the fire road. Watch and drink sweet coffee.”

Casement hoisted a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s ready. Our present to you. We welcome a peaceful visit.”

“First”—Guns Taken cocked his bow lance toward a rail—“show how these are put in the earth.”

“No.” Casement shook his head. “No, we are not working today.”

Guns Taken didn’t like that. He chattered to his warriors. Several scowled and grumbled. Michael saw hands tighten on quirts or reach toward knives. Casement saw it too. He spoke firmly to recapture the attention of the leader.

“This is a holy day for my men. A day of rest. They pray to God”—his swift-moving hand amplified the explanation—“drink coffee. Sleep. Tend their clothing. Some ride the fire horse up and down the track—”

Guns Taken failed to understand the last word until Casement’s finger indicated the same rail to which the Indian had pointed.

“Track.”

“Uh. Track!”

“But there is no work on it today.”

Guns Taken accepted the fact grudgingly. “All right. Give us the coffee. Show us the fire horse.”

Casement turned slightly. “Come this way.”

The big Cheyenne didn’t move. Back along the train, Michael noticed the photographer, Stackpole, readying his camera and black cloth with slow, cautious movements. Guns Taken glanced at the motionless workers. The small clusters looked almost posed. The Indian couldn’t miss the rifles.

Michael thought the tall Indian’s eyes lingered a moment on the whiskey wagon.
Lord, he can’t read what’s painted on the barrels, can he?

Abruptly, the Indian stabbed the head of his bow lance into the fill between two ties. “Too many guns here.”

“Not to harm you,” Casement assured him. “Out here we must carry guns for our own safety. We have been raided at night. Cattle have been stolen—”

“We steal no cattle!”

“I am not saying you do.” Casement’s jaw thrust out. A touch of pugnacity sharpened his tone. “I have no way of knowing, however.”

That displeased the big man. “Others.
Others!”

“Very well, I believe you speak the truth,” Casement replied, emphasizing it with more gestures. His hand kept moving as he started for the train. “Let there be peace while you examine—uh, see—the fire road. Come. Drink and see.”

Guns Taken spent a few more seconds weighing the advisability of accompanying Casement to the side of the train where so many men were gathered. Some were still half undressed from their swim.

The Indian drew a deep breath, appearing to stretch himself an inch or two in the process. He looked not only taller but regal. His bearing was a declaration that he felt no fear among so many whites.

Moving with impressive grace, he returned to his pony and leaped onto its back in a surprisingly agile fashion. He raised the lance above his head. Still in single file, the Cheyenne began to walk their calicos toward the train.

Casement stood aside and beckoned Michael. The construction boss slipped the Colt from his holster, pressed it into Michael’s hand and said in a low voice, “Stay with me. You’re one of the few I can trust to keep a level head. I assume you know how to use one of these?”

Guns Taken rode by. His shadow flitted across Casement’s face. The Cheyenne gazed straight ahead, not bothering to acknowledge the two white men.

“Yes, I’ve gone out on the engine pinking at rabbits once or twice.”

“Let’s hope there’ll be no need for you to pink at anything else.”

At the improvised coffee station, the cooks were busy filling tin cups. Stackpole approached with his tripod over his shoulder. He asked permission to take a photograph. The Cheyenne jabbered excitedly and shook their fists at the black-shrouded box.

“You’ve seen a camera?” Casement asked.

“At forts.” Guns Taken nodded. “It is the box-which-steals-the-spirit. A part of a man is drawn into it and held captive there forever.”

Casement controlled a smile. “Very well, no photographs.” He ordered the camera removed by the crestfallen Mr. Stackpole.

Then he called on three workers to come forward and help him distribute coffee to the still-mounted guests. The Indians gulped the contents of the cups with lip-smacking pleasure. Michael eyed the group beside the whiskey wagon. Dorn was talking and gesturing, obviously resentful the Cheyenne were being so royally treated.

Guns Taken drained his cup. His bow lance rested across his thighs. He thrust the cup down at Casement in an arrogant way.

Obviously irked, the construction boss nevertheless took the cup, had it refilled, and brought it back. Guns Taken drank every drop, then flung the cup on the ground.

“The fire horse!”

A bit testily, Casement said, “Right there it is. The engine is a regular 4-4-0 type. That is”—he pointed—“four wheels on the front truck, four drivers, but no wheels beneath the cab. It weighs just under thirty tons, burns wood, and was named for a famous chief of the Seminoles, Osce—”

Bored, Guns Taken interrupted with a sharp shake of his head. “No talk. Talk makes no sense.”

“Then ride up and see the damned thing for yourself!”

Guns Taken was amused by the other man’s losing his temper. This time his head shaking was unbearably slow. He enjoyed making Casement uncomfortable.

“Show us the fire horse
running.”

Casement started to refuse, then thought a moment.

“All right. Boyle?”

Michael moved to his side.

“We’ll take her a few miles down the track. You climb on the pilot board so they stay off. I’ll ride in the cab. If they demand a demonstration, by God I’ll give them one to remember.”

Michael trotted to the head of the engine, scrambled up on the platform of the cowcatcher, and squatted down while the Cheyenne walked their ponies closer to the locomotive. Their eyes grew huge at the sight of the hissing contraption with a smoke plume drifting from its funnel stack.

Casement mounted to the cab and barked orders to the engineer and fireman. Suddenly the whistle blasted. A calico reared, nearly upsetting its rider.

Another Cheyenne grabbed for his hatchet, yelped something that must have been a curse and flung the weapon.

Michael ducked. The hatchet clanged off the front of the engine not far from his head. He tightened his trigger finger just a little. Casement leaned out of the cab.

“Guns Taken, keep your braves quiet! That’s the sound the fire horse makes when it’s ready to run.”

The whistle screamed again, joined by the clanging bell. The Indian ponies shied. Guns Taken clapped his free hand over his mouth, his eyes round as a child’s again. The bell kept ringing as the engine lurched forward.

The Indians scattered to both sides of the track. Michael felt wind against his face as he squinted at the braves trotting along beside him, awed by the slow
whump
of the drive rods and the grind of the wheels. The ringing bell was interrupted by a third howl of the whistle that brought alarmed looks to several dark faces.

That fear wasn’t good, Michael thought. Fear could lead to anger.

In a moment he was proved right. One of the braves kicked his pony and raced up beside the cowcatcher, shaking his bow and screeching at the iron monster starting to spew sparks along with the smoke.

Osceola
was gathering speed, its rods moving back and forth with a steadily accelerating beat. The front truck rattled. The huge driving wheels squealed on the rails. The brush of the wind against Michael’s face became a push.

Twenty yards ahead, Guns Taken flourished his bow lance, kicked his pony, and went charging east beside the track.

His braves howled and followed, racing on either side of the right of way. The ponies raised dust that blew in Michael’s face and started him coughing.

The Indians rode hard, waving hatchets, quirts, and bows and uttering cries of scorn. The engine fell behind. The yelps and barks grew jubilant as the braves increased the distance between themselves and the fire horse.

Abruptly, Michael felt the engine lurch. The rhythm of the rods began to quicken.

He shot out a hand to grip one of the vertical bars by which a man could hold his place on the cowcatcher. The locomotive swayed around a slight curve, gaining speed again. Plainly Casement meant what he’d said about a demonstration. Politeness was one thing, defeat that suggested weakness quite another.

Clanking and rumbling,
Osceola
moved steadily faster. Spark-filled smoke streamed from the stack. Swaying from side to side as he clung to the bar, Michael thought he heard the engineer call for more wood. He definitely heard the wood crash into the firebox. Within seconds, the locomotive began to close the gap.

The Cheyenne looked over their shoulders and started flogging their ponies with bare heels. Their cries of pleasure became cries of outrage.

Michael’s bones throbbed as he knelt on the pilot board. He was all but blinded by billowing dust. Chuffing and thundering, the locomotive drew up opposite the slowest rider.

Osceola
passed the Indian and, moments later, another. He shook his bow at Michael.

The engine caught up with four more Cheyenne on the other side. Their mounts were already lathered. They fell behind.

A cacophony of rattling, clanking metal beat against Michael’s ears. The engine swayed more and more violently. The whistle screamed, and the bell never stopped ringing. Michael’s hand was white on the bar.

Soon, half the Cheyenne had been outdistanced. After another half mile, only Guns Taken remained unbeaten.

He rode bent forward over his pony’s neck. He kicked the game animal without mercy and kept glancing back at the puffing monster. The Cheyenne’s spine and shoulders glowed with sweat.

The engine noise was like a cataclysm shaking the earth. The point of the cowcatcher drew up even with Guns Taken. The warrior’s mouth worked, but the roar drowned his cries as he urged his mount to greater and greater effort.

To no purpose. Inexorably,
Osceola
began to pass him.

Through the dust, Michael had a last glimpse of the Cheyenne’s face turned toward his adversary. Tears or sweat shone beneath his enraged eyes.

Bell jangling, whistle bellowing, the locomotive left him behind in a cloud of smoke, sparks, and drifting ash.

With a yowl of iron, the engine began to slow down. The bell stopped ringing. Michael exhaled and slackened his hold on the bar.

Over the next half mile,
Osceola
ground to a halt, jerked into reverse, and began to chug backward toward the railhead. Without any warning, Guns Taken was there beside the track, his bow lance clutched in his right hand.

He sat absolutely still as he watched the locomotive go by. Wind blew smoke from the stack and gusted it down into his face.

Sparks made his pony sidestep, start to rear. Guns Taken jerked on the plaited hair and gave the animal half a dozen vicious kicks until it stood quietly again. Then he jerked the bridle and began to follow the engine back toward the work train.

One by one the other Cheyenne appeared on either side of the cowcatcher and fell in behind their leader. On each sunlit face Michael saw mingled fear and fury.

The Indian procession trailed
Osceola
at a distance of about a quarter mile. Not one brave spoke. Michael wondered at Casement’s wisdom in demonstrating the engine’s speed. It was never good to humiliate an enemy. He’d learned that from Louis Kent and Worthing, among others.

The Cheyenne jogged slowly after the locomotive, their eyes brimming with the hatred men reserved for a conqueror whose power they had come to feel at a cost of great pain and lost pride.

When the engine braked, Michael jumped down. He thrust the Colt into the waist of his trousers and ran back to join the sooty-faced Casement climbing from the cab.

“I don’t believe our visitors took kindly to losing, General.”

Casement ignored the Irishman’s rueful smile and shrugged in what amounted to a callous dismissal.

“I didn’t intend that they should. Maybe if they’re sufficiently impressed before they depart—”

“You mean frightened.”

“Call it what you please. I hope I’ve persuaded them to leave us alone.”

Michael inclined his head. “Look at the head man.”

Guns Taken was riding past the engine, scanning it as if it were a thing of filth.

“He doesn’t enjoy being whipped.”

“But he has been. That was my purpose. To whip him. Peaceably but positively. Don’t forget, Boyle”—Casement’s glance said he wasn’t overjoyed to have Michael question his actions—“our objective is still to get the line through with a minimum of trouble. If their pride has to take a licking before they realize they can’t stop us, so be it. I didn’t order Charlie to open her to full throttle just on a whim.”

Michael let the matter drop, though he still had doubts as to whether intimidating the visitors had been wise. Guns Taken gave the locomotive a last withering look. There was no longer any pretense of friendliness on his face as he jabbed the bow lance at the boxcars.

“Show us those, white man.”

The Cheyenne didn’t miss Casement’s faint smile. “Certainly.”

The sullen Indians dismounted. Casement ushered the first of them into the second bunk car, Michael’s. The construction boss hadn’t lost all sensitivity to the perils of the situation. Captain Worthing was in the other car.

Michael waited at the steps, letting the Cheyenne climb up and enter one at a time. None of the Indians uttered a sound. An almost eerie silence had descended on the camp. In Worthing’s car, someone yelled.