Heaven and Hell (52 page)

Two bullets thumped the outside of the car. Over other noise, Hartree heard windows breaking. The passengers were under attack. Well, he'd give this red filth a real surprise.

"Let's have the first two rifles, Red. Cock the hammers and rear triggers. Turk, if you fire before I say so, I'll put the first bullet in you."

Charles and his detachment came over the nearby rise in line formation, charging. Billowy smoke streamed out above the train. Howling Indians with unbound hair galloped alongside. The Indians saw the
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troopers and reacted with surprise and confusion.

The train was about a quarter mile to the soldiers' left, chugging along with many of its coach windows blown out. Charles gripped Satan with his knees and steadied his Spencer, knowing he had only a small chance of a hit with the piebald bouncing under him.

An Indian swung his bow up and aimed at Magic Magee, riding on Charles's left. Charles leaned that way and struck Magee's shoulder with his palm. Magee lurched over and for a moment hung down close to his horse's neck. That was the moment the arrow hissed through the space where his throat had been a few seconds earlier.

Magee dragged himself upright and flung Charles a look of appreciation.

Shem Wallis took aim and blew the bowman off his pony. The Indians were slowing their pace now, outnumbering the soldiers but inferior in fire power. Charles yelled orders and half the troopers peeled away to circle the end of the train and go after the Indians glimpsed on the other side.

Drawing near the train, with the wind beating in his face, Charles raised the Spencer again. Then something happened for which the soldiers were altogether unprepared.

J. O. Hartree ran his hand along the barrel of the Sharps, silently starting a ten-count. Snick! Whump! He heard arrows striking the car.

He took a firmer stance beside Turk and finished the count.

"Open it."

The door squealed as it rolled. Morning light flashed on the double-triggered Sharps held by the two shootists. An Arapahoe goggled a P'

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the sudden appearance of the railroad men. Hartree's brown eyes sparkled and his pious smile broadened. "Blow them down, Turk."

Because the rear triggers had been cocked, each front trigger was a hair trigger, needing merely a touch to fire the piece. Smoke and noise erupted from the door of the freight car. The Indian rifleman flipped off the bare back of his pony and was instantly trampled by the horses of two other Arapahoes, unable to avoid him.

Incredibly, beyond the racing Indians, Hartree saw a bunch of those black nigger cavalrymen, raffish -as bandits. The soldiers and their white
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officer, likewise racing beside the train, shouted for the railroad men to stop shooting; they were directly in the line of fire. Hartree ignored them, passed the hot buffalo gun behind him and received another. His next shot missed, but it blew off the straw hat of a nigger, who immediately crouched down over his horse.

"You got my marker now," Magee shouted as he galloped beside Charles. "That red bastard almost had me."

Charles shouted back, "Those idiots in the train are going to kill us." He pumped his Spencer up and down over his head. "Hold your fire! That's an order! Hold--"

The shootist in the green embroidered vest snapped off a round to show how much he cared about the order. The Arapahoes, caught between the railroad men and the galloping soldiers, recalculated the odds; the leader motioned for them to drop back. Soon all of them were behind the train, dodging bullets from the troopers on the far side. They returned fire briefly with arrows and guns. One Indian flung his arms up and slid off his pony, blood running down his chest. The others immediately sheared away south, out of danger.

All of it happened in less than two minutes. Charles was furious.

His first good chance at avenging Wooden Foot was nearly gone and he hadn't dropped a single Indian. Not one.

"You want us to chase 'em, Lieutenant August?" one of his men yelled. .

Charles wanted to answer in the affirmative. But he was required to take charge of the damaged train and any wounded. He presumed there were some. He saw not a single human face in the shot-out windows of the coach.

"No, God damn it, I don't."

Angry that the soldiers might spoil the show, J. O. Hartree said, Someone yank the cord. Stop the train. I want prisoners." As quickly 88 it began, all firing stopped, and the train jerked and slowed and jerked a8ain as the brakes took hold.

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Charles and his men brought their horses alongside the train, which bristled with painted arrow shafts. As the Rogers locomotive came to a stop, clouds of steam drifted up, mingling with settling dust. Charles
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watched the green-vested man jump from the freight car and strut forward.

One close look at the man's face and Charles knew there'd be trouble.

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Charles slid his Spencer back in the scabbard and trotted to the freight car. Three more civilians jumped down; a ratty lot. The plump man in the shiny gloves and green satin waistcoat was obviously in charge, and as the moments passed Charles liked his pushy swagger less and less.

"J. O. Hartree," the man said, as though the name should mean something. In the shot-up car, the excited voices of people in shock could be heard. Displeased by the lack of recognition, Hartree added,

"Chief of railroad security.''

"Lieutenant August, Tenth Cavalry. You beat us to it. We hardly fired a shot." His regret was evident.

"We've been riding the line and laying for the red bastards. You saw what cowards they are."

"You've got that wrong, Mr. Hartree. An old friend once said you have to turn your notions upside down on the Plains. If my detachment loses a man the Army will send another in a month. If the Indians lose a man it takes five or ten years for a boy to grow up to replace him. They're not cowards, just damn careful."

Putting the man down bled off some of Charles's anger. But Hartree didn't like it. "I don't need a lecture from you," he said. A disheveled woman raised herself into one of the broken windows, saw the Wack soldiers and sank out of sight with a horrified look on her face.

Hartree shielded his eyes against the sun and squinted eastward, through foe dust still drifting behind the train.

"Boys, I see at least one of them alive back there. Bring him in.

^e'll make an example of him."

"What are you talking about?" Charles asked. Hartree ignored I Un- Magee scowled and punched a dent out of his derby.

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The conductor appeared on the coach platform. "We've got a wounded man in here."

Charles said, "Hurt bad?"

"Flesh wound. He's awake."

"Let me check my own first." He'd no sooner said it than Wallis rode into sight at the rear of the train, waving his kepi. "Lieutenant?

Toby's down. Arrow in his leg." Charles swore. "One Indian down over here, too."

Hartree said to the red-headed shootist, "Get him." He and the others hurried off.

Charles handed his rein to one of his troopers and stepped up close to Hartree. Hartree's men, meantime, reached an Arapahoe who had fallen near the caboose. The redhead kicked the body, rolled it over, shook his head and proceeded on toward another Arapahoe, who was crawling on hands and knees, bleeding from a shoulder wound.

The Indian staggered up and tried to run. Redhead caught him and dragged him back. The other two shootists vanished behind the train in search of the other brave.

A couple of men appeared at the blown-out windows. Charles heard some slapping sounds, and an anxious voice. "Wake up, May Belle.

You're all right. Don't take on so. Those are just nigger soldiers."

The wounded Arapahoe came lurching toward Charles, pushed by the redhead. Blood poured down the Indian's arm and dripped from his fingers. Dismounted and hurt, the brave looked harmless and ordinary.

One of Hartree's men emerged from behind the train carrying an Indian in his arms. "Hurt leg," the man shouted. "Can't walk."

"Drop him right there," Hartree called back. "You're not his goddamn nurse." The man let go, and the Indian screamed when he hit the ground.

"Listen, Hartree," Charles said, "I think we'd better clear up one matter. It's the Army's responsibility to convey prisoners to Fort Harker."

"You don't have a thing to do with it, mister. The scum attacked railroad property." He grabbed the shiny shoulder-length hair of the
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Arapahoe prisoner and twisted. "The railroad will deal with them." He squatted and wiped his glove on yellowed grass at trackside. "Greasy damn bastards."

Hartree's eyes flicked back and forth between the bleeding prisoner and the Indian lying on his back at the rear of the train. Stroking his mandarin mustache, he suddenly made up his mind.

"This one's in better shape. He goes free after we take care of his friend. I want this boy to see what we do to red men who threaten r

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railroad property. I want him to tell the others. Turk, fetch those picket pins from my valise."

The shootist named Turk scrambled back into the freight car. Charles was beginning to have a very bad feeling. Turk jumped down again with two of the sharp metal pins used to picket horses. Slowly, hoping to attract no attention, Charles wandered back to Magee, who had dismounted.

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took the picket pins. He tossed them up and caught them in front of the wounded Arapahoe. Charles leaned close to Magee and muttered in his ear. Magee said, "Yessir, I'll see if anybody up front is hurt." He walked toward the locomotive carrying his Springfield rifle.

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passengers were peering from the coach. Hartree addressed them. "Gentlemen--and you ladies especially--I respectfully ask that you stay in there while I deal with these savages. I intend to punish one of them in a way consistent with their treatment of white captives. The lesson will benefit every white man and woman in Kansas."

"Back off, Hartree," Charles said. "I told you this is the Army's responsibility."

Two of Hartree's shootists raised their buffalo rifles. Hartree said,

"No, sir, this is railroad business. Don't interfere unless you want several dead niggers to explain to your commanding officer."

A trooper grabbed his sidearm. Gray Owl reached out to stay his hand. "We're on the same side. Or we're supposed to be."

Charles glanced toward the engine cab. Magee had vanished. Hartree tossed the picket pins to Turk. "Go back to that other man and tie him down. Spread-eagle him. Nail those two pins through his private parts."

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Charles turned white. The conductor gripped the platform stair rail and said, "Mr. Hartree, that's pretty extreme."

Hartree yelled, "Shut your damn mouth or we'll save a pin for you. Turk?" The man trotting toward the rear of the train turned back.

"Be sure you rip off his clout first. Red, take this dirty scum back there to watch."

The Arapahoe whose arm dripped blood was dragged away. He looked sick. Charles swallowed sour saliva.

Gray Owl was gazing at the train. Suddenly his mouth dropped open. Charles warned him with a look, holding motionless while he watched a wild turkey feather, then a black derby, rise above the roof

'ine of the freight car. Magic Magee climbed into sight, unseen by Hartree or the passengers below.

Charles felt sweat gather and drip from his nose. Slowly, Magee 334 " HEAVEN AND HELL

lifted his Springfield to his shoulder. He aimed at the back of the green satin waistcoat. At the rear of the train, one of Hartree's men spied Magee and yelled, just as Charles spoke.

"Turn around, Mr. Hartree. If you crucify that Indian, it'll cost your life."

Hartree spun, saw Magee, clenched his fists. "Shit." He flung a look at his men, who were too far away to do him much good. Charles drew his Army Colt and cocked it. Hartree pivoted back, his face scarlet.

"You

interfering bastard, the railroad'll have your ass."

Charles said to his troopers, "Collect those three and put them in the freight car. The Indians can travel in the caboose."

Hartree let out a stream of accusations and foul language, until the men in the coach protested. Magee signaled Gray Owl. The tracker ran forward and caught Magee's Springfield when he tossed it down. Magee hung from the roof of the car, and dropped.

"Well done," Charles said to him. "You can tear up the marker."

"Oh, no, sir. This wasn't anything. The marker's a big one. Anytime you need some help, you ask."

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Emotion welled in Charles. Until now he hadn't quite realized what good soldiers these men had become. They were able to respond quickly, obey orders, and generally do a lot more than just shoot an enemy. He felt a rush of pride.

Magee took charge of putting Hartree and his shootists in the freight car, which he then closed, posting two guards outside. The security chief could be heard stomping and swearing.

The conductor again appealed to Charles for help with the wounded man.

"Is he bad?"

"No, not bad, but--"

"Then I want to see to my own first." He was testy, because he was doing things he didn't want to do: controlling gun-crazy civilians; saving wounded Indians. Every damn thing but the one thing he'd joined up to do.

He climbed up and over the platform of the passenger coach, completely missing the intense look Gray Owl gave him; a look that carried new respect and regard.

Private Washington Toby, a lanky mulatto boy from Philadelphia, lay next to the caboose with blood all over his fine buckskin pants. A broken arrow jutted from his leg. Toby clutched his leg while he swore and wept from pain.

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"Lie back, Toby." Charles tried not to let his anxiety show. "Let goof your leg."

Reluctantly, Toby did so. Charles knelt and pulled out his Bowie knife. He lengthened the slit in the buckskin to more than a foot. Ever since the tribes had replaced stone arrowheads with ones of strap or sheet iron, arrow wounds were terrible. If the iron hit bone, it often crimped around it, making extrication an agony. Of course if the arrow cut a muscle, or nicked a blood vessel--