Murder In Cheyenne

MURDER IN CHEYENNE

BY JOHN R. MCCORMICK

Copyright© 2011 by John R. McCormick

Smashwords Edition

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CHAPTER I

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Killian Wilde gazed out of the train window at the quickly passing landscape. It was a bleak arid land with brown patches of dying grass looking as if it had eaten up all the fresh green grass. He was dressed in his old Union Army sergeant's uniform that he wore during the war, and a Confederate soldier, sitting next to him, was dressed in a ragged gray jacket and a pair of ripped and dirty farmer’s dark blue jeans. Besides still wearing his uniform the soldier stood out to Killian, as a lead ball had passed through his left eye and taken a good chunk of the back of his skull with it, as it exited. Though the land was standing still, it appeared to be moving instead of the train.

I am at fuckin’ sea, the confederate soldier sighed.

His accent was thick and decidedly Southern, though Killian was not sure from which Southern state he was from, he sounded, at least to what he knew, vaguely Tennessean. From his upbringing in Ireland and his time in an Irish neighborhood of New York City, he could place an Irish accent down to county, but all Southern accents sounded just Southern to him.

Killian turned his eyes to face the soldier, who was between hay and grass, neither a man nor still a boy. He vaguely remembered the Johnny Reb from the Wilderness where he had personally shot him. The soldier benignly smiled at him. Staring into the dark hole, the soldier’s left eye was hanging out of his socket. He saw out the window at the passing terrain through the reb's empty eye and the hole in the back of his head. It held his attention so much that he couldn’t turn away.

No hard feelings, anyhow, the soldier said. The name is Jake.

Please to meet you, Jake, Killian said then shifted on the hard wooden train bench seat he sat on. My name is...

You don’t have to tell me 'cuz I know your name. It’s one of the positives of being dead, that and I ain’t goin’ have ta die again, Jake told Killian. You only have ta die once, and that is truly enough.

Better if you didn’t have to die at all, Killian commented trying to sound amusing.

Yeah, Jake laughed. I guess ya Ken’t avoid the bone orchard, though, ken ya, Kill?

Yeah, I guess you can’t, Killian said, as his stomach began to knot.

Going on a trip? asked Jake. Maybe ya goin’ on a nice trip for relaxation with plenty of saloons and easy women?

I’m going somewhere to do a job, Killian replied.

What’s the job? the young soldier asked.

Find a murderer.

Ever look in the mirror? asked the dead, young soldier.

Killian did not answer, but instead turned his head to look back out the train window. The terrain hadn’t changed. It was still stark, familiar yet unfamiliar, an in-between land that sent a cold shiver down his spine. The land made him think of his many sins and wished he could find a priest nearby to make a confession and receive absolution hoping this time he believed he was truly forgiven for what he had done.

Too often when he stared into a mirror to shave his face he saw the face of a murderer. The thing was no matter how many times he went to Confession for Absolution, or how many Acts of Contrition, Hail Mary’s, or Our Fathers he recited in Latin, he still felt like a murderer. It got so that he decided that part of him was a murderer, a natural one, too, which was why he survived the war while others did not return to their families. How else could he explain all those men who died that shouldn’t have?

I’m just joshing with ya, Kill, Jake said with a hearty laugh drawing Killian’s attention back to him. It wuz war and ya did whot ya had ta do. I would have killed ya if ya didn’t kill me. That’s the problem with war someone has to die for the other side ta win.

I guess. Sometimes it doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to kill, though, admitted Killian.

Don’t sound like such a croaker. Things ain’t that bad, Kill. Before the war this here country wuz just some states dealing with each other in a distrustin’ manner. Now it’s one big country. Of course it ain’t a fair country, no country is that, but it is one big one. We are all better off together, ain’t we?

What do you want, Jake?

I guess in the land of the blind, I’d be king, he answered with a laugh then he reached up and pulled his skin below his left eye with his right index finger making his black hole of an eye socket bigger and emptier.

Killian was afraid that he stared into the left eye socket any harder he’d see inside the soldier’s skull to his brain. He shuddered and Jake released the skin under his eye.

I guess so.

Why would ya be in such a land, Kill? Jake asked.

I have no idea.

Stop beatin’ the devil around the stump, Kill. You’re a curly wolf, so accept it and be one. But be one for the right reasons not wrong uns. To start wit’ help find the murderer of these people. That will at least put ya on the path to righteousness, but if ya don’t, Jake chuckled, well if ya don’t your really cussed ain’t ya?

With those words Killian woke up in a crowded train compartment with Gideon Atwater, his friend and commanding officer since Gettysburg, sitting right beside him on the hard wooden bench seat. With a sigh of relief he noticed that he did not have his union uniform on, but instead he wore a rose-colored bib shirt, black pants, and cavalry boots now with a black slouch hat covering his strawberry-blond hair. He pulled a cavalry greatcoat around himself for protection from his dream and for warmth from the cold.

Everyone was bundled up in their overcoats and such trying to keep the cold night air from their bones, as the train traveled through the plains of Nebraska, the newly made thirty-seventh state, towards Omaha, Nebraska. The Union Pacific workers were some five-hundred miles West of Omaha in Cheyenne, a city that didn’t exist before November 13, 1867, where they were halted because of early winter storms and cold weather that froze the ground and made it difficult to lay tracks. Throughout Nebraska and now the same in Wyoming, Granville Dodge had laid out many towns, which became repair centers for locomotives and train cars. These towns would house the workers, as the transcontinental railroad was being built. In the short time since Dodge and his survey crew plotted out the city of Cheyenne several thousand people had migrated there looking to make their fortune off of the success of the Union Pacific. It seemed that the transcontinental railroad was all about opening up the country and having people dream of fortunes being made.

Pushing his black slouch hat back, Killian reached up to wipe the sleep out of his eyes with his right hand. This made the crucifix from his mother’s rosary dangle like temptation in front of his face. Other than the color of his eyes, which was the same as his mother's, this rosary was the only other reminder he had of her. For a few moments he stared at it then he lowered his hand.

Bad dream? asked Gideon, who still only wore a black frock coat over a white three-button pullover shirt, a vigilante vest, and a scarf to keep him warm. He had also worn a black gambler’s hat, the kind worn by Mississippi riverboat gamblers. When they first met he had worn an officer's uniform then in Chicago he was always dressed in a black frock coat, which made him look fancy and serious, Killian had to admit that Gideon now looked less city, but he still looked fancy.

Unlike Killian wore an Union army styled holster from his army days with a six shot, fourteen inch, .44 caliber, single action army-styled Colt in it, Gideon Atwater preferred to keep his eleven-inch Beaumont-Adams double action, five shot revolver kept in the right pocket of his frock coat, so as to look unarmed. Just like their choices of revolvers were different, the two men chose to carry different rifles, also. Killian liked the Winchester 1866, lever action rifle, nicknamed Yellow Boy by some because of its copper brass receiver, as well as the easy loading and smooth shooting action. Gideon preferred the Henry, brass framed, lever action, and breech loading rifle because of its range of firing and number of rounds, up to twenty-eight rounds a minute in the right hands. Two different men with different styles, yet their trust of each other was unbreakable.

Just a dream, Killian answered then stared down at the end of the train compartment where the coal heater stood.

A woman with a newborn baby, some children, four women, and five men occupied the area nearest the coal heater. Those sitting near it were warm, while everyone else was cold, as the heat from the heater was dimmed by cold air the further away from its source that it traveled. Killian wished he could sit down there right by the heater just for a moment to warm himself: I don’t know if it’s bad or good.

Oh, I see, replied Gideon, who continued to read his book, Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens.

The train compartment was barely lit by Pintsch gas lamps, but this didn’t stop Gideon from reading his book. His eyes adjusted nicely to the darkness. Killian had noted that Gideon’s carpetbag had equal parts clothes and books in it, making it heavier than it needed to be, while Killian’s saddle bag, a better choice for when they took to horses, had clothes, a book of Charles Dickens serialized story, The Haunted Man and the Ghost’s Bargain. Although he didn’t think of himself much like the character of Redlaw, he understood his situation.

Suddenly, the train lurched to an unexpected stop causing the coal heater’s door to open wide and send red hot coal chunks flying onto some of the people sitting closest to the heater. One of the men’s overcoats immediately caught fire, as hot coal met dry wool. He struggled to get it off, as his wife and children watched paralyzed in horror. Quickly, Gideon's darkly handsome face turned from placid to concern, as he got up and rushed to the man, pulled the man’s fiery overcoat off of him, tossed it onto the floor then he began stomping the fire out with his Wellington boots. The man’s wife stood up and rushed to her husband's aid helping him examine his body for burns.

While Gideon put the man out and then checked on the children and women to see if any of them were badly burned or hurt, Killian stood up and grabbed his Winchester from the storage area above his head. He rushed towards the door that led to the next compartment to check on what caused the sudden stop. Opening it he faced an out of breath conductor. He was a good fifteen years older, five inches shorter, and fifty pounds heavier than Killian.

There’s a dead horse and a damned wild Indian with a gun standing on the track, he announced.

I’ll take care of it, Killian said then looked down to see Gideon calmly assisting a woman with a burned hand by bandaging it with a bit of torn white petticoat.

Gideon, he called and his friend lifted his head to look at him. I’m going to deal with the reason this damned train stopped.

Yell if you need any help, Killian, he called back then gave his attention to the woman.

Following the conductor Killian exited the train compartment and walked down the steps to the ground. He took a deep breath of the cold fresh air. The air in the passenger car had been getting stale from the smell of burnt coal and people. A light dusting of recently fallen snow covered the hard frozen ground, and above them was a full moon and plenty of starlight to see by. About twenty feet ahead of the train standing on the tracks was a dead horse, a small campfire, and an Indian with a Spencer Repeating rifle cradled in his arms. Killian smoothly cocked his Winchester and started walking towards the Indian.

He passed by several passenger cars that had curious people sticking their heads out of the windows into the cold air to see what was happening. For better or worse an Indian always brought the curiosity seeker out of people. When Killian reached the black locomotive engine with its large coal heated steam engine, the driver stopped him, while the fireman leaned on his shovel to take advantage of the time and rest.

You gonna talk to the savage, the youngish man, who was dressed in a sheepskin coat that, like his face, was slightly blackened by smoke, asked.

I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone if you didn’t stop, Killian pointed out. This train with its cow catcher can push cows out of the way, can’t it?

I know...I should have kept going but...

I know. You got scooped into stopping. I’ll talk to this Indian to see what he wants, Killian said and continued walking towards the Indian. He stopped when he was five feet away from him. The Indian wore leathery, worn out buckskin, moccasins, and had a thick wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He had long black hair, black eyes, and a sharp hatchet profile, and was a good four inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than Killian, though he could see that the Indian was all sinew and muscle.

I don’t speak your language, but I hope to Jesus you speak mine, Killian stated.

I speak your tongue, the Indian replied.

What tribe are you from? he asked him.

Arapaho.

Oh, was Killian’s response.

The Arapaho had no reason to be friendly to white men. Back in 1864 Col. Chivington wiped out a friendly village of Cheyenne and Arapaho Indians in the Colorado territory. Because of the Civil War Chivington was never brought to justice for his actions. It became known as the Sand Creek Massacre. It caused many Cheyenne and Arapaho warriors to join the Dog Soldiers for revenge. Phil Sheridan did a great deal of killing of the Dog Soldiers in his Indian War campaigns against them. They weren’t the threat they used to be. If this Arapaho were a Dog Soldier, he wouldn’t be talking to Killian.

I am John Tall Bull, yellow hide, the Arapaho introduced himself.

I prefer the name Killian to yellow hide. It’s a bit more personal, he said, so John, is it? Strange name for an Arapaho.

I have been educated by Jesuit priests who live in New Mission, Colorado. They baptized me John and made me one of their tribe.

You mean faith not tribe, Killian corrected him.

I have been baptized and confirmed a warrior of the Christ, Keelian, John Tall Bull told him in a tone that showed he was slightly confused by Killian.

Glad to hear it, John. Where are these Jesuits from? Killian asked with a broad smile.

Naples. Father Juliano told me all about his wondrous country. I would like to go there some day, but there are no buffalo there and the ocean makes the trip difficult, he stated simply.

So you’re a Catholic, Killian said with humor, you know that just gives people another reason to hate you in this country.

Are you Catholic Christian, too, Keelian? John Tall Bull asked.

Yes, I am, answered Killian then he lifted his left hand and showed him the black beads of the rosary he had wrapped around his wrist.

Mary beads. Then we are warriors and brothers in God, Tall Bull said with a slight smile, as he looked at the rosary.

I guess we are at that, John. Why have you settled on the tracks with a dead horse?

Running from Cheyenne warriors who wanted me dead because I am Catholic Christian. I rode my horse too hard. He dropped dead while I was crossing the path of the Iron Horse. I need ride, he said then nodded towards the train, on the Buffalo killer.

You need a ride on the train, huh, Killian said then looked back at the engineer, who appeared nervous. The coming of the railroad had caused Indian troubles to arise. Sherman was leading the army against them, but, still, Indians were killing people, and getting killed in return. It was a slow percolating war brought on by expansion and territory.

Where are you headed? Killian asked him.

I go to California eventually. Father Juiliano tell me there are Jesuits in Santa Clara who can help me go to Naples if I wish. I think it might be a better place than here.

I see, Killian said then thought about his options for a moment. Part of their plan was to buy horses in Omaha to load on the train. From Omaha he and Gideon were going to ride the train until they were twenty or thirty miles outside of Cheyenne then ride into town. At first blush Gideon didn’t want people to know they were working for the railroad, but to ferret out some information at first. Having a tracker and guide wouldn’t be a bad idea for them, considering how neither one of them were frontiersmen by nature. They would probably need a guide to find their way outside of Cheyenne. And it didn’t hurt he liked the idea of the Pinkertons paying an Indian some money.

Would you like a job, as well as a ride on this Iron Horse, John? he asked.

It depends on job, Tall Bull said seriously and with a hint of suspicion.

You show some good commonsense there, John, doubting my veracity until you heard what the job was. The job is to get my partner and me to the town of Cheyenne in Wyoming territory and assist us while we’re there. Not too tough of a task, even if the weather is turning bad.

How much? John Tall Bull asked.

Ten dollars, Killian replied.

Not enough.

Twenty dollars, he increased the offer.

I will take it because you are brother in Christ.

Good, Killian said with a laugh. Kick that fire out, off the track, and follow me.

John Tall Bull kicked the small fire he had built out of dried grass and twigs sending sparks of burning red that almost looked like fireflies into the dark night air then he kicked the remains of the fire completely off the tracks. Tall Bull then followed Killian, as he walked to the waiting driver.

What are you doing with this savage? asked the driver in a shaky voice, as he tentatively looked from the Arapaho to Killian, who glowered at him.

We are giving him a ride and I am hiring him to do a job. And he isn’t a savage, but a good Christian gentleman. Now where can he sit? Killian asked. As he talked to the head conductor, a five foot two-inch tall, forty year old man who was reed thin and nasty in appearance.

We can’t have an Indian on the train. It will scare the passengers, the conductor declared.

With a quick turn, Killian stared down into the conductor’s face and used his intimidating size to shut the man up then he snapped: Yes, we can.

But... paying passengers won’t like it to have someone like him onboard, he said mildly. And...

You can put him in the baggage car so they won’t have to see him, the driver said, as a way to avoid any more arguments with Killian.

Yeah, I guess we could do that, the conductor conceded, but I don’t trust him.

I’ll sit in the baggage car with him, Killian stated, just to soften your fears.

Okay, but... started the conductor.

No more buts. My patience is about run out, Killian ordered then he noticed that John Tall Bull was smiling at him. Tell the Pinkerton in the third passenger car, his name is Gideon Atwater, that his partner is going to take the rest of the ride in the baggage car.

You’re a Pinkerton? asked the conductor with surprise as well as a bit of awe, since the Pinkertons had an ace-high reputation to those who weren’t on the wrong end of a Pinkerton’s job.

No, he’s the Pinkerton. I’m just the man’s partner. Now open up the damned baggage car and let me get out of this cold air, he demanded.

The first windowless car linked to the engine was the baggage car. The interior of this car was dark and filled with crates, bags of mail, luggage and packages headed to Omaha. It was cold, only slightly warmer than the outside in there. The conductor left them a kerosene lamp for light and whatever heat they could get from it. Killian lowered the lamp to its dimmest to save on kerosene. Clearing some space away from wall near the main door for both of them, John Tall Bull sat down with his rifle in his lap and waited for Killian to join. Taking the same position with his Winchester in his lap, Killian sat down beside the Indian.

Will your partner miss you? John Tall Bull asked.

Nahh. He’ll just read his book and take it for granted that I’m doing what I need to do.

The train lurched forward and slowly rattled along until it picked up a full head of steam. Killian thought sitting on the hard bench seats were uncomfortable, but now sitting on the floor of a car made him appreciate the seat he formerly occupied. The metal on metal vibrations shook the wood and reverberated up his spine rattling his bones. He glanced at John Tall Bull, who seemed unaffected by the rattling.

Many of you hate me and my people. Our land you take and you hate us for wanting to keep our land, John Tall Bull declared over the sound of the engine and clanking machinery of the train.

Some people hate you and some don’t. Unfortunately, there are many who just want the land. You see, John, this is a country with a future and there are many powerful men who want it to be a big future. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about people not liking you. There are some people in this country who hate my people, too, Killian told him.

Why? Are you from a different tribe, a warring tribe that is hated?

In a way I am. I’m Irish and those who hate me are not. Some yellow hides, as you called me, don’t like the Irish. They think we are lower even than Arapaho, Cheyenne, and other Indian tribes.

Why is this?

If I knew the whys of life, John, I’d be a smarter man than I actually am, Killian stated with a soft self-deprecating laugh.

Do my questions make you laugh, Keelian? asked John Tall Bull.

Not really, John. I’m laughing at the fact that I seem to attract philosophical acquaintances in my travels. There must be something about my nature, which puts us on the same path. Gideon will like you.

I will meet this Gideon?

You will. He’s the one who is going to be paying you the twenty dollars.

Ahh, Tall Bull said then began to bless himself by placing his left hand on the middle of his chest and raising his right hand to his forehead. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.

You’re praying now? asked Killian.

Yes, Tall Bull answered, Father Juiliano taught me to always pray before going to bed. Don’t you?

I used to but life has conspired to knock praying out of me unless I’m in a church. But don’t let me interrupt, Killian said then he leaned back with his back against the train wall and lowered his black slouch hat over his eyes.

Pater Noster, intoned Tall Bull, as he continued his rote bedtime ritual.

As John Tall Bull prayed Killian listened to the wind, as it whistled violently through a wormhole in the woods. He appreciated the simple quality of the Indian’s praying, a quality he lost years ago. With eyes that adjusted to the dim light, he saw that Tall Bull blessed himself then shut his eyes. Good idea, he thought, time to sleep.

CHAPTER II

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It was a bitter cold sunny afternoon highlighted by a crisp blue sky with white clouds lazily moving through it. With its smokestack billowing white gray smoke the train crossed the pile bridge over the Missouri River, as it approached Omaha. The train whistle blew cracking the cold air with a release of an ear piercing trill. January of this year was the first time a train had come to Omaha and for many in this growing city of around six thousand citizens the sight and sound of a coming train was still an exciting one for them. The train brought supplies, mailbags, packages, and more people looking to improve their lives in the territories and make their fortune out west, but, mostly, it brought the anticipation of change and further growth.

With metal wheels creaking, clanking, and making a high whine against the metal tracks, the Union Pacific train slowly pulled into the recently built train depot of Omaha. The whining breaking slowdown of the train continued until it finally came to a full stop with a quick jerk. As the other passengers gathered their belongings and easily ventured out of the passenger cars and into the fresh air, a stiff and cranky Killian and placid faced John Tall Bull waited patiently for the conductor to open the baggage car door and let them out. With a woody moan the side door on the depot side slid open letting bright light into the car. Killian closed his eyes for a second to allow them to adjust to the sunlight, as he and Tall Bull walked out of the baggage car.

Standing on the platform Killian appraised the terrain of a part of the country he had never seen before. Even though he had been in this country for more years than he ever had lived in Ireland, he still thought of himself as a bit of an outsider, a foreigner to the land. Still, he was amazed by the vast scale and scope of America, even though some of it had become a common sight to him. On the days following his arrival to New York City he often felt himself overwhelmed by the sheer numbers and different kinds of people and buildings. It was like he had come to a city that could exist nowhere else but in America because most of the inhabitants were from somewhere else, but America. He thought of his father who mistakenly believed that just being in America ensured their futures. His Da forgot that even in America good luck, hard work, and a break meant a great deal.

Killian started reflecting on how after his Da died he moved to Maine thinking it would bring back an Irish feel of the land and he didn’t much think of the South, as after the war that part of America reminded him too much of death and destruction. Whatever pleasantries the South had to offer were lost on him because he had killed too many men there and saw too many die there. As he moved to Chicago, the landscape of the Midwest had room for crowds, as well as farms, cities, towns, but it also had a certain plainness, a kind of flatness to it; a lack of awe. Yet, now as he moved further and further west he saw an America able to hold under one land, great open spaces, flat plains, green-rolling hills, dried yellow patches of land, and great mountainous terrains. It didn’t matter what type of spaces these were because there was room enough to accommodate people and their dreams of happiness and prosperity.

Now standing there breathing in the icy cold air, untainted by the smells of kerosene and baggage, and sizing up this budding and growing land, Killian and Tall Bull were greeted by the serene face of Gideon, who stood on the platform of the depot, as well as many of the citizens of Omaha, who had rushed to check on the train’s arrival. They were now gawking and pointing fingers at Tall Bull, as if they had never seen his ilk before. Killian caught a glimpse of Tall Bull out of the corner of his eye. From his still placid appearance he knew this wasn’t the first time he had been stared at by yellow hides with a combination of curiosity and fear, open dislike and murderous intent, and with an awe and disdain.

I’ve hired him to help us, Killian told Gideon knowing that if Gideon needed further explanation he’d ask for them alone and not in public.

How much will his service cost me, Killian? asked Gideon in a voice that showed no hint of surprise at Killian’s surprise announcement.

According to Gideon money didn’t mean much to him because his father would leave him enough when he died to live well enough. His brother would run the business and he would relinquish any rights to it for a price, too. But the Pinkertons cared about money, and Gideon was a loyal employee, at least, until he wasn’t.

Twenty dollars.

Gideon offered his right hand to Tall Bull to shake: Gideon Atwater.

John Tall Bull, replied the Arapaho, as he shook his hand.

"From the expressions on these people’s faces I doubt they’ll be willing to embrace you and put you up in the local hotel, John. I’m afraid you’ll need to find your own place to