Williams looked around at the other graves, content that the monument to his deceased wife was still the finest, largest and most elaborate in the cemetery. The servant was not buried here, of course. He was not buried anywhere. His body had been taken into the woods south of town and left there. The blood and the organs had attracted animals, and he had been eaten. His bones, no doubt, were rotting there even now, under exposure to the elements.
Williams smiled to himself with satisfaction.
But the smile faded as he heard the whistle of the mail train passing through the center of the city. It made him think of Jeb Harrison. The railroad president might think he knew business, but he definitely didn't know the Chinese, and if Williams was sure of one thing, it was that before the project's completion he would regret having hired those slant-eyed sons of bitches. They might seem like hard workers now, but down the line, when it was important, when they were really needed, the Chinks would not be there or would fail to do what was required of them and something would go horribly wrong. He knew it in his gut. You just couldn't trust the heathen Chinee.
Besides, this was an American railroad and should be built by Americans.
Even if they were micks.
The train whistle grew faint as it moved farther away, and Williams gave Alice's grave one last look. The half-formed notion he'd had earlier, the one that had been lurking at the back of his mind ever since, had been given additional consideration, had been thought through a little more. There was meat on those bones now, and he had no doubt that once he fleshed out the details, his idea would prove to be a most propitious one.
But for now he would just stay out of Harrison's way. And wait.
They heard the war whoops before the hooves this time, which meant that the Sioux had been close and the horses were starting from a camp nearby rather than galloping over the plains. Johnny Fowles and the other three hired guns drew their weapons, readied their backup, then checked to make sure the rest of the railroad camp were doing what they were supposed to be doing. Those with rifles were taking up position near the other men who were busy securing supplies. The Chinese huddled together in their section of camp, looking confused the way they always did, and Johnny felt angry. They were like children, the Chinese, dumb children who didn't seem to be able to learn, and their complete inaction in the face of these attacks put everyone at risk.
It was cheaper to replace Chinese than food or wood or rails, and if it appeared that people or supplies were in danger, Johnny's orders were to sacrifice the Chinese first. But that was pretty damn hard when the Chinks remained as far as possible from the fighting, expecting to be protected like they were little princes and princesses.
'I can't send a message!' Peterson yelled from the telegraph table. 'I think they cut the lines!'
And then the Indians were topping the rise, looking like ghosts in the massive cloud of dust that accompanied their galloping horses. Both the Sioux and the Cheyenne had started attacking railroad workers on a regular basis, and by far he preferred fighting Cheyenne. They had the bigger reputation as warriors, but they fought cleaner, more straightforwardly. They were easier to outfox. Sioux, on the other hand, were crafty. Rather than engage in a battle head-on, they would create diversions, try to outflank and out-maneuver, arrive in waves. He was always waiting for the other shoe to drop when he fought the Sioux and that kept his focus split, made him a less effective fighter, which perhaps was the intention all along.
Johnny sighted and shot, gratified to hear the weapons of the other hired guns sound almost simultaneously. Four dark figures in the front of the dust cloud went down, then two more, then three more-Then the attackers were upon them and he could not keep track. All was chaos, and the only thing he could do was lie low and shoot at whatever was on horseback. Rifle fire was going off in all directions, and screams of agony mixed in with the war whoops the Sioux used to intimidate their enemies. He couldn't tell who was who or what was what, but when the front of the fighting moved past him and he was forced to turn around and pick off successful intruders rather than repel an attempted assault, he saw that the telegraph table was no more and the cook's tent was down. He thought he saw Buster Thornton, one of the construction foremen, fall to a bullet and go under the hooves of a horse. He, Tibbits, Duncan and Maxwell were all still in action and unharmed, and the four of them fired away, dropping Sioux warriors right and left, scores of other railroad workers also joining in and killing the natives.
Amazingly, impossibly, the Chinese stood in their section of camp completely untouched, watching what went on as if from within a protective shell. They remained stupidly in place, while everyone else valiantly tried to fight back against the aggressors.
Finally, as always, the Sioux retreated. They always seemed to know the point at which the damage they inflicted would be greater than the losses they suffered, and they invariably quit before the equation shifted. He fired after the fleeing horses and was gratified when one last warrior went down, his horse continuing on riderless.
The fight was over-for now-but it soon became apparent that they'd suffered more losses this time than ever before. Three men were dead, over a dozen were seriously injured, and quite a few were walking around telling anyone who would listen that they were quitting, that no amount of money was worth risking slaughter. A fire had been started at the north end of camp and two tents were ablaze, but now the Chinese were finally getting involved, relaying buckets of water from the creek, and it would be only a matter of minutes before the flames were out.
The goal of the Sioux had been to stop or at least forestall the building of the railroad, and at that they'd been partially successful. The tool wagon had been overturned and quite a few of the implements were either stolen or broken. You had to admire that on some level. Remaining so concentrated that even amid the chaos, in an extremely limited amount of time, the Indians had been able to wage such a specific and successful attack was indeed impressive. .
'Fowles!'
Johnny looked over to see Duncan walking toward him grinning, pistol holstered, two rifles over his shoulder. 'Ten!' he crowed. 'All kills!'
Johnny nodded tiredly, acknowledging the other gunman but not deigning to answer. The man was a braggart and without a doubt the most self-centered person he had ever met. Even with all of the disaster surrounding him, Duncan could see only how he was personally affected. And, characteristically, he believed he came out of it a hero.
Someone had already ordered the Chinese to gather the fallen Sioux, and the small pigtailed men were moving in pairs to pick up the deceased and take them to the tracks, where Maxwell and some of the lower hammer-swinging brutes would cut them open and leave them for the buzzards. Johnny walked past the dead and dying bodies. He would never admit it to another living soul, but deep down a part of him sympathized with the Indians. This had been their land for God knows how long, and now strangers were building a railway line right through the middle of it. He would have fought back, too, if he'd been in their situation.
A hand clapped him on the back, and Johnny spun around, nearly drawing his pistol, but it was only Tib-bits, and he relaxed a little, drawing a deep breath.
'It's over,' the hired gun said. 'Relax. I just came to commiserate.'
'Sorry. I'm still there.'
'I know.' Tibbits, with his sad eyes, always looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and for all Johnny knew, he was. The two of them never talked about the past-or the future- only the present, but despite the man's protestations to the contrary, Johnny always got the feeling that Tibbits didn't really like killing, that he wished he'd gone into some other line of work.
As opposed to Duncan.
The younger man came between them, throwing a muscled arm around the shoulders of each. 'Can either of you beat my ten?'
Johnny shook his head. The truth was, he'd never been a man to keep track. It was not something of which he was proud; it was merely what he did.
Tibbits sighed heavily. 'I don't rightly know.'
