Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal Read online

  “Here it comes!” someone shouted, though as the oncoming train had now rounded “half-mile curve,” there was no need to announce its approach, because everyone could see it. It was a behemoth with smoke rolling up thickly from the stack, then laying a long black line over the length of the train. Steam was gushing from the actuating cylinders on either side of the engine and the large puffs could be heard rolling toward them.

  Finally, the train roared into the station, with the engineer applying the brakes to bring it to a stop at exactly the right place. Once the train stopped, there was a loud hiss as excess steam was vented. The train was still, but it wasn’t quiet. Chanute was standing close to the engine, and he could hear the water percolating in the boiler. The pressure relief valve was opening and closing in great gasps, as if the locomotive were some living beast, gathering its breath from a long run. Overheated bearings and journals popped and snapped as they began to cool.

  The first car behind the express car, a highly polished mahogany that attracted the attention of everyone, was the private car that belonged to James Joy.

  “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” one of the platform spectators asked.

  “Never. It must be the private rail car of someone very wealthy.”

  As the arriving passengers began leaving the train, the conductor came up to Chanute.

  “Mr. Chanute?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Joy asks that you join him in his car.”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “This way, sir,” the conductor said, leading him back to the entrance to Joy’s private car. Chanute was well aware that he was the object of everyone’s attention as he stepped up onto the entry platform. He knocked on the door and Joy opened it.

  “Mr. Chanute, very good of you to meet me at the depot,” he said. “Please, come in.”

  Chanute had heard of Joy’s private rail car, but this was the first time he had ever seen it. The floor was covered with a deep red carpet. There was a bed at the front of the car, not a small bunk as was found in the sleeper cars, but a full-size bed. The walls were paneled with cherrywood, and the light fixtures were of real gold. Against the left wall of the car, there was a highly polished liquor bar. Right across from the bar was a small dining table with two chairs, and, moving back from the table were two larger, overstuffed leather chairs. A sofa was just across from the two chairs, creating a conversation area. Between the sofa and chairs was a low table which was covered with maps and papers. It was obvious that Joy had been working during the long train ride back from New York.

  Joy stepped over to the bar and poured two drinks, then came back to hand one of them to Chanute.

  “Thank you,” Chanute said.

  “Have a seat.”

  Chanute sat in the chair indicated and Joy sat on the sofa.

  “How did the trip to New York go?” Chanute asked. “Did you find more investors?”

  “Not for the Border Tier, I’m afraid.”

  “No?”

  “It seems that the investors think that running a railroad through Indian Territory is not very smart. On the other hand, they are all lining up to invest in railroads in the Western states, so all isn’t lost.”

  “Perhaps not in the long run it isn’t lost,” Chanute said. “But it doesn’t do much for the project we are working on now.”

  Joy smiled, and took another sip before he responded.

  “Not necessarily. We can still do this, it is just going to require a bit of manipulation, is all.”

  “What sort of manipulation?”

  “Here is what I want you to do. I want you to inspect the tracks between Garrison and Blaine, and find enough fault with them that they have to be pulled up and then put down again.”

  “What? Why would we want to do that?” Chanute asked. “I’ve been over those tracks, there is nothing wrong with them. And don’t forget, we are scheduled to start operation over that line, soon.”

  “Mr. Chanute, you and I both know that we will make no money on that line for at least three years. Tear it up, I tell you. We’ll put it back after we reach the border of the Indian Territory.”

  “Mr. Joy, you are a smart man, so I know you have some reason for this.”

  Joy smiled. “I do, indeed. As I told you, it has been difficult to raise money for the Border Tier Railroad, but for all the other railroads, I am getting investments to the tune of forty-six thousand dollars per mile. It is twenty-three miles between Garrison and Blaine. That comes to just over one million dollars, and for that track, I’ll have no trouble getting money from investors.”

  “I still don’t understand. Tear up the track, then get money to rebuild it. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does, if you realize that the money we’ll be getting for the Garrison to Blaine stretch will be diverted for use for the Border Tier Line.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Chanute said. “Like I said, you are a smart one, all right.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  John Henry met the prison wagon when it arrived in Doster. There were two men with the wagon, the driver, Bert Rowe, and the shotgun guard, Travis Calhoun.

  “Hard trip?”

  “Took us ten days, making thirty-five miles a day. We didn’t have to camp out none,” Rowe said. “Spent last night in Arkansas City.”

  “What about going back? Did you make arrangements with all the local law to use their jail for a night?”

  “Where there was a jail, we did. At least three of the towns don’t have a jail. When we pass through there, our prisoners will just have to stay in the wagon. It won’t be a problem—we’ve had to do that before.”

  “All right,” John Henry said. “Let’s go get our prisoners.”

  Marshal Dawes was more than happy to turn the prisoners over to John Henry for transportation back to Fort Smith.

  “I don’t mind tellin’ you, gettin’ rid of these two is a relief,” he said. “Mostly, all I have to deal with is a few drunks. I haven’t been real comfortable having a couple of murderers in my jail.”

  “Not to worry anymore, Marshal, we’re taking them off your hands,” John Henry said.

  Marshal Dawes opened the door to the cell and John Henry stepped inside with the two prisoners.

  “Hold your hands out here, Simmons,” he said. “I’ll slip these wrist manacles on you.”

  “How far will you be takin’ us?” Simmons asked.

  “To Fort Smith. It’ll be about ten days.”

  “Ten days? You plan to keep us cooped up in that wagon for ten whole days?”

  “Yeah,” John Henry answered.

  John Henry locked the cuffs on Simmons’s wrist, then signaled for Injun Joe. Injun Joe stood up, and held his hands out.

  On the third night out, they stopped in front of the jail in Winfield, Kansas. John Henry took the two prisoners inside where they were met by Sheriff James Finely.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Sheriff Finely said when he saw the two prisoners. “I knew we were going to put up a couple of prisoners for the night, but I didn’t know one of them would be Vernon Simmons.”

  “You know him?” John Henry asked.

  “Yeah, I know him. Everyone in Cowley County knows him. Three years ago he and his brother hit the Dumey farm, about five miles south of town. They killed Chris Dumey and his ten-year-old son, then they raped and murdered Dumey’s wife and fourteen-year-old daughter. We’ve had wanted bills out on both of them ever since. Vernon and Milton.”

  “Well, you can take down the ones on Milton,” John Henry said.

  “How so?”

  “Because the son of a bitch killed him, that’s why,” Vernon Simmons said. “He killed my brother in cold blood, and there ain’t nobody done nothin’ about it.”

  “I wouldn’t have done anything about it if I had seen him strangling him in his sleep,” Sheriff Finely said. “What have you got Simmons on?” he asked John Henry. “Something that is likely to get him hanged?”
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  “Double murder.”

  “Good. If it was anything less, I was goin’ to get the judge to grant an injunction against you taking him any farther.”

  “An injunction wouldn’t have done any good,” John Henry said. “This is a federal prisoner. I’m taking him to Fort Smith, and he’ll hang there.”

  That night, John Henry, Bert Rowe, and Travis Calhoun were having dinner at the Palace Café when a nervous-looking deputy came in.

  “Marshal Sixkiller?”

  “Yes?”

  “You better come quick, Marshal. There’s a crowd gathered out in front of the sheriff’s office, and they say they’re goin’ to take Simmons out of jail and hang him.”

  John Henry wiped his mouth with a table napkin, then stood up from the table.

  “Thanks, Deputy.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Calhoun said.

  “I will, too,” Rowe offered.

  “No, you stay here and finish your supper,” John Henry said. “Travis and I can handle this all right.”

  John Henry and Travis Calhoun followed the deputy sheriff outside, then walked quickly down the street toward the jail. Even before they got there, they could hear the shouts.

  “Bring that murderin’ son of a bitch out here, or we’re comin’ after him!” someone yelled.

  “I’ve got a rope!”

  “Bring him out here, Sheriff Finely! We aim to hang the bastard!”

  When the deputy, John Henry, and Travis Calhoun got close, they could see the crowd, a dark mass gathered around the front of the jail and spilling far out into the street. John Henry figured there must be at least a hundred here. They were still shouting, and one of them was brandishing a rope, which was already made into a hangman’s noose.

  “Sheriff said to go around back,” the deputy said. “The door is locked, but I’ve got the key.”

  “All right,” John Henry said.

  Because it was dark, and because the attention of the crowd was directed toward the front of the jail, nobody saw the three men cut in between the barbershop and hardware store to get to the alley behind the sheriff’s office.

  The deputy opened the door, and John Henry and the others stepped inside.

  “Hey!” Simmons called. “You’ve got to protect me! You’ve got to keep me from that lynch mob.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Why? Because you are a U.S. Marshal, that’s why. It’s your duty to protect me while I’m in your custody.”

  “Why don’t I just let you go now?” John Henry suggested. “You wouldn’t be in my custody anymore.”

  “You can’t do that!” Simmons said, fright constricting his voice. “You can’t turn me over to a lynch mob!”

  John Henry walked into the front of the jail where Sheriff Finely was standing to one side of the window, peering out between the shade and the window.

  “Do you know any of those men, Sheriff?” John Henry asked.

  “Yes, I know all of them. They are my friends and neighbors. They are good men, really. It’s not like them to form a mob like this. But ever’ one is still riled up by what Simmons and his brother did.”

  “Do you think that if you went out there as a friend, and a neighbor, you could talk them out of this?”

  “No, sir, to be honest with you, I don’t think I could. I told you, after what Vernon and his brother, Milton, done, there ain’t nobody in this town feeling kindly toward them, even me. And truth be told, if I wasn’t wearin’ this star right now, I would more’n likely be out there with ’em.”

  “You’ve got a good view there: Who in the front row is the most dangerous?”

  Sheriff Finely looked again. “I would say that would be Bull Blackwell. He’s the one in the front, holding the rope.”

  John Henry walked over to the gun rack and took down a double-barrel shotgun. Breaking it down, he saw that the breaches were empty.

  “Where are your shells?”

  “Right over there, top drawer,” Finely said, pointing to a stand-up filing cabinet.

  John Henry took two shells out of the drawer, then with a knife he opened up one of the shells and dumped the “buck and ball” out onto the floor. They made a loud thump as they hit the floor, then rolled away.

  With the same knife, he cut a piece of rope, then pushed it down into the shotgun shell casing.

  “Give me that bottle of ketchup,” he said, pointing to what had been left of the prisoner’s supper.

  Travis Calhoun handed him the bottle, and John Henry poured it into the open shell casing around the bit of rope. After that, he loaded the gun, putting the rope shell in one barrel, and the live shell in the other. He snapped the barrels closed, then looked over at Calhoun.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  Calhoun had a tight expression on his face, and he answered with a quiet, but determined, “Yes.”

  “Open the door, Sheriff. And close it behind us,” John Henry ordered.

  Sheriff Finely nodded, then did as John Henry asked. John Henry and Calhoun stepped out on the front porch, and the surprise of actually seeing someone come from the jail caused everyone to grow quiet.

  John Henry stood there for a long moment, holding the shotgun with the butt of the gun resting on his right hip, the barrel pointing up.

  “Who are you?” the man Sheriff Finely had identified as Bull Blackwell asked.

  “I am United States Marshal John Henry Sixkiller. And those two men in there are not the sheriff’s prisoners. They are my prisoners, and I am taking them on through to Fort Smith.”

  “You can have the ’breed!” one of the men in the crowd shouted. “We don’t give a damn what happens to him. But you ain’t goin’ nowhere with Simmons. We aim to haul his ass out of that jail and hang him right here in the middle of town.”

  “Are you in charge of these men, Blackwell?” John Henry asked.

  It was easy to see where Blackwell got the nickname Bull. He was a big man, with a round, bald head that sat upon his shoulders with no visible neck.

  “Yeah, I’m in charge of these men.”

  “Tell them to go home.”

  “I ain’t tellin’ ’em shit!”

  Without another word, John Henry pointed the shotgun toward Blackwell and pulled the trigger. The gun roared, and the muzzle flash lit up the night.

  Blackwell’s stomach turned red and he grunted and went down. The others shouted in alarm, and John Henry turned the shotgun toward them.

  “I’ve got one barrel left,” he said. “Who’s next?”

  The crowd turned then and ran away in panic and confusion.

  Sheriff Finely and his deputy came out onto the front porch. By now the crowd had scattered and, groaning in pain, Blackwell got to his feet. He looked down at himself, then rubbed himself with his hand.

  “What the hell? What did you shoot me with? There ain’t no holes in my stomach! Where’d all this blood come from?”

  “Sheriff, I would feel better if you would keep Mr. Blackwell in jail overnight, at least until after we leave tomorrow.”

  Looking on the ground Blackwell saw a short coil of rope. The rope was red. He picked it up.

  “You shot me with a piece of rope?” Blackwell smelled the red on the rope, then touched his tongue to it. “Ketchup? You put ketchup on a rope and shot me with that?”

  “Yeah.”

  Blackwell shook his head. “What would you have done if everyone had charged you? You couldn’t stop them with a piece of rope.”

  John Henry pointed the shotgun toward the sheriff’s sign, a small board that dangled down from the porch roof. He pulled the trigger and again, there was a roar and a bright flash of light from the muzzle blast. Half the sign was torn away.

  “I had a live round in the second barrel.”

  It took eight more days for the prison wagon to make it through to Fort Smith, Arkansas, stopping at towns along the way. Each night, the prisoners would be put in the local jail, and each morning they would be returned
to the wagon, which had a steel reinforced floor and roof, and bars around all four sides. It wasn’t that uncomfortable for them inside: They had bedrolls, they had a chamber pot, and they were given something to eat, three times a day.

  The arrival of such a wagon to Fort Smith wasn’t that unusual an event, but it still brought several people out to watch as it rolled down the street, the two prisoners inside clearly visible behind the bars.

  “Who you got there, Bert?” someone called from the street. Bert Rowe had been driving prison wagons for the last five years and was well known by everyone in Fort Smith.

  “Hell, you don’t need to ask. I know them two galoots,” another said. “That’s Vernon Simmons, and Injun Joe.”

  Rowe drove through the town and stopped at the gate to the prison. He waited at the gate until it was opened for him, then he drove through. John Henry rode in with him.

  Rowe stopped, and set the brake, then crawled down to be met by a couple of prison guards.

  Rowe opened the tailgate, and the prisoners crawled out.

  “Marshal, if you’ll go on in to see the warden, he’ll give you a receipt for the two prisoners,” the senior guard said to John Henry.

  John Henry nodded, then walked across the yard to the main office, where he was greeted warmly by the warden.

  “You’ll be staying for the trial?” the warden asked as he made out the receipt.

  “I have to. I’m a witness for the prosecution.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Well, we’ve quarters for you here if you need them. I admit that they are empty cells, but they have a bed.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I will be staying at a hotel.”

  The warden chuckled. “I can’t say as I blame you,” he said, handing the signed receipt to John Henry.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The trial was held within three days after John Henry delivered the prisoners. Vernon Simmons and Injun Joe Pipestem were provided with a lawyer because they had no money to hire one. The lawyer did the best he could with uncooperative clients, and to the surprise of no one, both men were found guilty as charged. All that remained now was the sentencing, and that took place the very next day after the trial.