The Texas and Western was a privately-owned railroad and the cars and facilities on its trains were plush and of a higher standard than those found on most of the big company-owned railroads. Nevada Jim Butcher, the man who owned the line, had made his fortune in silver in Virginia City before the war and had managed to hang onto it during the conflict. He had outfitted a wagon train with a veritable private army to guard it, and had set off across the states for Texas, aiming to pour his fortune into the fast-emptying coffers of the Confederacy.
But Indians and renegades and traitors amongst his own men had put paid to that idea. Beleaguered on a high canyon overlooking a bend of the deep-flowing Arkansas River, Nevada Jim had reckoned that no one was going to profit from his hard-earned silver. He had driven the three wagons containing the fortune off the cliff and had seen them plunge beneath the green waters of the Arkansas. Then, wounded, and not intending to be taken alive by his attackers, Butcher had leaped into the river. He was carried away by the swift current, washed ashore near a Confederate camp and cared for. By the time he recovered, the war had been lost and he saw that no amount of money could save the Confederate States ...
Surviving the armistice, which, in many ways, was nearly as bloody as some of the wartime battles, Jim Butcher had returned to the bend of the Arkansas with an Englishman he had met on his travels, a man who had worked as a salvage diver all around the world, raising sunken treasure ships. It had been child’s play for the diver to recover Butcher’s silver from the river, though it had taken three months, working in secrecy. That Englishman was now rich beyond his wildest dreams and Jim Butcher owned a sizeable portion of the state of Texas and ran his own railroad.
Yancey Bannerman thought briefly about the Texas and Western’s history as the train rolled on beside the winding Pecos River, west of Styles. Another day and he would be in Pecos and he would have to make his first moves on the treaty.
Kate Dukes had told him that last night in Austin, after dinner, while they strolled through the magnolia gardens of the mansion’s grounds, that there was a lot more at stake than Yancey knew.
“Your father told me the future of the southwest depends on the treaty coming off,” Yancey said.
“That’s the wider view, Yancey,” Kate told him, holding tightly to his arm. “But there’s a narrower one, perhaps a selfish one, though I can’t think of it that way.”
Yancey halted by a small gazebo and they went in and sat down on the bench. He was puzzled.
“You know what father’s like,” Kate said quietly. “How he worries about the affairs of state practically every minute of his life ... This treaty is something he’s had in mind for a long, long time, Yancey. It’s almost an obsession with him.”
“But I had the impression it was something that had come up recently.”
“No. He’s been working on it for years and only now can see any headway being made. He’s been working on the draft at all hours of the night, slipping out of his bed to do it ... Dr. Boles is very concerned about the strain he’s been under.”
Yancey nodded. He had noticed that Dukes was looking more strained than usual.
“Dr. Boles is afraid that if this treaty doesn’t work out father will react badly, might even—collapse ...” She stopped, overcome with emotion. He reached out and covered her hand with his.
“Don’t worry, Kate,” he told her quietly. “I’ll do everything I can to bring this treaty off ... I’ll get Red Dog and his daughter safely back to Austin. If your father can’t finalize things from that point on, then no one can.”
She squeezed his arm, clinging to him ...
Now, Yancey watched the lush country sliding past the train window, hoping he hadn’t been too optimistic. There had been a leakage in the governor’s office and his enemies had been busy. Already word had spread through the train that Governor Dukes had dispatched a special agent to travel on treaty business and that he was on this train. Yancey had spotted a group of hard-faced cattlemen who were travelling back to Pecos. From the way they were looking at him he knew that they had him tabbed. He tensed as they stood up now and made their way down the narrow aisle towards him. There were four of them, tough, gun hung, with the gnarled hands and leathery faces of men who worked the range for a living.
“You Dukes’ man?” the leader asked without preamble. He was big-shouldered, middle-aged and looked as strong as a bull buffalo. “The special agent?”
“I’m representing Governor Dukes, yes,” Yancey answered amiably. He took his boots down off the seat opposite and gestured to it. “Have a seat and talk a spell.”
A little nonplussed, the four men crowded onto the seat, then the leader changed his mind and stood again out in the aisle, swaying with the motion of the train.
“We live in and around Pecos, mister,” the man said. “We’ve all lost families and land and stock to those bloody-handed Kiowas. And I’m tellin’ you right now, we don’t take too kindly to parlayin’ with ’em. Not if we have to give up our prime grazin’ land.”
“Figure it this way,” Yancey said easily. “You give ’em some land, and you don’t have to fight for the rest. You don’t lose any more stock and your families will be safe. Sounds a pretty fair deal to me.”
The big man snorted and one of the others spat out the window. “We hear the Injuns want the Pecos Valley.”
Yancey shrugged, smiling faintly; trying to keep it friendly. “Sorry. Can’t discuss the details of the treaty.”
“Goddamn it!” snapped one of the seated men. “It’s gonna affect us! Why in hell can’t you give us the details!”
Yancey held up a placating hand. “Let’s get something worked out first, huh? Then will be the time to go into specific details.”
“Specific details!” snorted the leader. “What kind of lawyer talk is that!”
Yancey leaned forward. “Wouldn’t you rather have Red Dog on your side than against you?” He raked them with questioning eyes and saw at once that these men would never forgive the Kiowas for their past bloody raids. But he persisted. “Isn’t it better to assure a peaceful future for your families and their kids, than to go on fighting?”
“I’ll tell you what’s better than that, mister.” The big man leaned down, his face cold. “It’s to wipe them red bastards off the face of God’s green earth; that’s what’s best of all, far as we’re concerned!”
The others agreed in a chorus and Yancey knew it was pointless to try to argue with them.
“All right,” he said. “That’s your view and I can understand it. But Governor Dukes has to do what he thinks is best for the whole state, though he surely won’t forget you people. You don’t need me to tell you that.”
“Dukes is all right,” the big leader admitted grudgingly. “But he’s makin’ a mistake here ... And I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, walkin’ the streets of Pecos, mister, with some fancy treaty in your pocket!”
Yancey couldn’t ignore the threat and slowly stood up, as tall as the big leader, wider of shoulder and narrower of hips. He stared straight into the man’s eyes.
“I’ve got a job to do and I aim to do it. Anyone tries to stop me will get a marker on Boothill.”
The men were silent and the leader cocked his head to one side to look at Yancey. “Fancy yourself with a gun, do you, counselor? Well, let me tell you that there are some mighty fast guns in Pecos ... And if they ain’t fast enough well, then, there are those who can operate from where they ain’t seen at all ... You get me?”
He shouldered roughly past Yancey before the tall troubleshooter could reply and the others got up and followed him down the aisle. At the door of the car, the big man turned back to face Yancey.
“In case you want to report me to Dukes, the name’s Hemp Carswell ... Remember the name, counselor.”
Yancey sat down slowly as they filed out. It looked as though there was going to be plenty of opposition to Dukes’ treaty ...
The army wagons made their way through the pass in a slow, rumbling column, the men choking in their own dust, panting in the heat beating back off the walls of the narrow defile. Apart from the drivers, there was the sergeant of the troop and five soldiers. They rode half-dozing in their saddles for it had been a long trail and the heat was stifling, draining their energy.
The orders had been not to draw undue attention to the wagons: as far as anyone was concerned, they were the usual supply vehicles heading for Fort Marlow, the army post on the fringe of Indian country, about halfway between San Angelo and Styles. But someone knew there was more to the wagons than the usual supplies of food and clothing for the sutler’s stores.
On top of the cliff above the pass was a row of painted horsemen with feathers in their headbands and repeating rifles in their hands. Their faces and bare torsos were streaked with war paint and they wore buckskin trousers and beaded moccasins, leather armbands and bear claw necklaces. There were six of them and at a signal from their leader, they rode down the steep trail that would bring them out ahead of the wagons.
In the pass itself, the wagons rolled on slowly, iron tires crunching stones and gravel, rumbling noisily between the walls, effectively covering any sound made by the raiding party in their descent.
The first inkling the soldiers had that there was anything wrong, was when the sergeant was shot out of his saddle, the heavy caliber bullet taking him right between the eyes. The driver of the following wagon went next, shot through the chest. He pitched over the side of his vehicle and the team plunged wildly but did not break: they stood, trembling, not knowing what to do, with the gunfire thundering through the pass.
The soldiers yelled at the wagon drivers to get under cover and hunted rocks themselves. Ahead there were wild war-whoops mingling with the crack of repeating rifles. Bullets ricocheted savagely in the confined space. Men yelled and moaned. Another soldier went down, lung-shot, and coughing crimson spray over his sheltering boulder. A team bolted, the wagon rocking and swaying and bouncing dangerously, the horses wild-eyed, straining in the harness. But two Indians leaped out of cover and snatched at the trailing reins, throwing their weight onto them. A third jumped into the driving seat and stood on the brake lever, bringing the vehicle to a shuddering halt. But, just before it stopped completely, a wheel bounced up over a boulder and the tray tipped past the point of balance. The Indians leapt clear as the wagon tipped over and cases and bales of cloth spilled out.
During the diversion, a corporal tried to get the remainder of the wagons and his men turned around and headed back through the pass. He was only halfway through the maneuver when there was a crash of gunfire from the other end of the pass, and a soldier spun to earth, kicking and gasping, with a bullet through the neck. Another crashed back, clutching at his shoulder. They were caught in a crossfire.
The corporal yelled orders, standing in his stirrups, not really knowing what he was saying. He was young and inexperienced and there was nothing in the training manuals that covered this situation. A wagon became jammed side-on across the pass and the driver jumped down and crouched beneath the tray. Two more men ran to use the vehicle as shelter but the attackers fired at their exposed legs and all three went down, wounded. The corporal was desperate now and all he could think of was getting away for help. He jabbed the spurs into his mount’s flanks and lay low along its neck, running for the nearest end of the pass. He had his big army Remington pistol in his hand and thumbed back the hammer, firing wildly in the general direction of the rocks the attackers were using for cover.
He didn’t get more than twenty yards before his horse was shot from under him. He catapulted over the arched neck and hit hard in the dust, rolling, losing his pistol. Stunned, but determined to go down fighting, he staggered to his feet, wishing he had a saber like the officers, and whipped out his hunting knife which, while not being ‘regulation’ could be carried by individual soldiers if they wished. But two bullets smashed into him: one in the hip and the other across his ribs. He spun around with the impact and went down hard, dropping his knife, semi-conscious, body ablaze with pain. The world spun and his greatest fear at that moment was that he would be scalped alive by the Indians ...
Every one of the soldiers was either dead or wounded now, and this included the men who had been driving the wagons. There was only desultory gunfire from inside the pass and then the attackers moved in from both ends at once. They rode fast and fearlessly, shooting down at the wounded, riding clear over them until there was no more resistance.
The only man still alive and in uniform in the pass was the corporal. Someone had figured him as already dead and so he was left in his agony lying face down in the dust while the attackers moved amongst the wagons.
They cut the teams loose on the supply wagons and tipped the vehicles over onto their sides, enjoying the destruction, yelling wildly, smashing open boxes of stores and letting bolts of material flutter in the wind. But while a half-dozen of the painted men did these things, there were two others who moved through the wagons more seriously, looking inside under the canvas, not finding what they wanted and moving on. And then they came to the second last wagon in the column.
They tore open the flap of the canvas cover and there, strapped down to a heavy platform in the middle of the wagon-bed, was what they had come after: a brand new Gatling gun, surrounded by boxes of ammunition and spare magazines.
One man turned to the other and grinned, tearing off his headband and feather, wiping a hand across his face and smearing the paint in streaks of smudged color.
“What’d I tell you, Jake?” grinned Jethro Kidd. “Huh? What’d I tell you? Now, a Gatling gun’s just got to load the odds in our favor!”
Jake Edge nodded slowly, using the canvas to wipe some of the paint off his own face. He wore no smile of victory; he was already planning just how he could use this addition to his armory ...
“And one other thing, Jake …” Jethro Kidd added, wanting to make sure he was well and truly back in Edge’s favor. “With this here ‘Injun’ raid on the wagon train, the army’ll bring more men to this area, leaving fewer available to get on that gold train from Horsehead Crossing ...”
“I know that,” Edge growled and shoved Kidd roughly aside. “Get this unhitched and on the way back to Concho, while I find some water to scrub off this mess. Hell! I even stink like an Injun!”
He moved away and Kidd let out a long breath, looking at the heavy Gatling gun. It was going to make them all rich!
“Well, they weren’t Indians, that’s sure enough the truth,” Johnny Cato said, as he finished reading the report Governor Dukes had handed him. He slid the papers across the desk towards Dukes. “No attempt to scalp the dead men or even to come back and cut ’em up, which Kiowas always do, same as the Apaches. And it ain’t like Indians to pass up all that grub and bright-colored cloth.”
“They didn’t pass up the Gatling gun, though,” Dukes said quietly.
Cato frowned, pulled the report back towards him and began scanning through the pages swiftly.
“You didn’t miss it first time round, John,” the governor said, “It’s not in there. But take my word for it, there was a Gatling gun in that wagon train … In a special wagon, covered up. That wagon was found in the river just north of the pass where the attack occurred. We recovered it, but found no gun. And it hadn’t sunk to the bottom, because the bolts that had held it to its platform had been unscrewed. And all the ammunition and spare magazines were missing.”
“Then that’s the reason for the raid,” Cato said. “They wanted the Gatling gun. In which case, it could’ve been Injuns after all.”
Dukes frowned. “How so? You just said yourself they didn’t do any of the things Kiowas usually do ... No mutilations!”
“Yeah. But maybe they didn’t do those things just so we would think it was white men dressed up,” Cato pointed out. “I mean, if you knew a bunch of Injun renegades had their hands on a Gatling gun, Governor, what would you do?”
“I’d be inclined to send an army troop after them post haste, before they had time to assemble the gun and learn how to shoot it ...”
“Sure. But if you thought it was only renegade whites …?”
“Well, I’d certainly leave no stone unturned to track them down,”
“But there wouldn’t be quite the urgency, huh?”
“Probably not quite so much …”
“No, you’d figure the white men were likely gonna run the gun down to Mexico or somewhere, not use it against your army right away, like redskins would ...”
“I’m beginning to see your point, John ... But the fact remains, there’s one new Gatling gun missing. I was sending it into the southwest so that more men could be released for duty elsewhere. I didn’t want it made public at this time. You’ll have to track down that gun for me, John. And fast. If the Indians have it, there could be a full-scale war started before Yancey has a chance to negotiate that treaty. I know some of the Kiowas don’t want peace ... Any more than some of our own people.”
Cato stood up, nodding. “I’ll get out to the Fort Marlow area right away, Governor. There’s an outlaw hangout not all that far to the north. A town called Conchos …”
“I know of it,” Dukes said grimly. “It’s high on my list to wipe off the face of the earth as soon as this trouble is settled. It has festered long enough on the body of Texas.”
“I’ll head out there,” Cato said. “It’s the kind of place a man can pick up the information we need. I’d be obliged, sir, if you could arrange things so that a few wanted dodgers with my face on ’em get circulated around the area before I get there ...”
Dukes nodded, got up and thrust out a bony hand. He gripped briefly with Cato.
“I’ll see to it, John ... And good luck to you. Now, don’t take any needless risks. If you can track down the Gatling gun, get word to the army at Fort Marlow and let them handle it from there.”
Cato nodded and turned towards the door. Dukes watched him go, his lined face sad: he knew he could well be sending Cato to his death on this mission ... He rubbed gently at the center of his chest, wincing a little, shoulders bowed with pain.