“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then try this: those Indians may have no claim to what’s beneath their land, but once the oil breaks the surface it becomes Indian property, to do with what they please, doesn’t it? Maybe you should ask Governor Coke to weigh in on that one.”
Rockefeller moved his mouth to the left, the right, and back again. Around him, nondescript men were busy at desks, working ledger books and studying detailed maps. In Jack Strong’s mind, they were either tallying up the profits from one venture or looking for the best sites for the next one. Whoever was either inconvenienced or displaced was considered meaningless.
“Progress stands aside for no man, Ranger,” he said, his voice scratchy and genuine.
“The victims who got dragged to death were boys, sir. How does that fit into your equation?”
*
That night, Steeldust Jack set himself up in a chair down the street from the Metropolitan Hotel, off the plank walk and in the cover of a mercantile exchange, so he couldn’t be seen. Prior to sitting down with a twelve-gauge shotgun laid across his lap, he’d fastened a lock through an old hasp on a rear door that formed the only other entrance to the building, leaving this as the only access point.
Activity in the area had increased significantly since John D. Rockefeller’s arrival. Each day the noon train seemed to bring more of his security men and sycophants, their dress and demeanor distinguishing them from one another, though their loyalties were the same. That, coupled with Rockefeller having taken over pretty much all of the hotel for his use, indicated he intended to be here for a while, perhaps as a base for his entire Texas operation. This surely accounted for the endless parade of town officials into the Metropolitan to kiss his proverbial ring, and the governor bending over backwards to do his bidding.
For his part, Steeldust Jack’s concern lay in what he saw as inevitable retaliation on the part of the Comanche. In times not long past, they would storm the street on horseback, firing at anything that moved, using Winchester lever-action rifles stolen off trains they’d raided or soldiers they’d killed. But he wasn’t expecting that here. It didn’t seem to fit this particular tribe’s style, although Isa-tai’s surly and confident manner suggested that the Comanche had no intention of taking this lying down.
Nature takes care of its own, Ranger, and we are its own.
Isa-tai’s words made no more sense now than they had when he’d spoken them earlier, but their memory held more than enough portent to keep Steeldust Jack mostly awake and alert through the night. He caught himself snoozing a couple times. Once, he was actually roused by his own snoring, a fact that set him to smiling—just before the gunfire began.
*
It was wild and unfocused, crackling through window glass and thudding squarely into walls bracketed by heavy studs. Steeldust Jack had his shotgun ready as he sprinted down the street, which was wet with mud from a heavy storm that had blackened the sky briefly, back when day still shined. He burst through the doors of the Metropolitan to find men in various stages of dress rushing about, clambering up and down the stairs that led up the whole of the building’s four stories. A number of men, the last of the residents not associated with Rockefeller’s dealings presumably, blew past him, desperate to escape what seemed like an all-out attack sure to claim its share of bystanders.
More gunfire echoed, a cascade of it that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air, now rich with the odor of gun smoke, hanging over the second-floor landing like a cloud. Steeldust Jack pushed past men struggling with boots or suspenders, to the third floor, where the first window glass had blown out. Rounding the stairs up there, he recognized Curly Bill Brocius and another gunman from the original group, their pistols aimed at the last three doors down the hall, which from this angle looked to be torn from their hinges.
Jack Strong advanced ahead, paying them no heed, his nose sucking in the thick odor of sulfur and the coppery scent that could only be blood, likely lots of it. Even during the war, in the worst battles in which he’d been embroiled, he’d never smelled it this strong, and the sight of the inside of the first room showed him why.
From what he could tell, a pair of men had been bedded down in matching beds. The scent of their sweat and boot odor was light on the air in comparison to the smell of blood and, this close, their shredded entrails. Because what was left of them was scattered about the twisted bedcovers and the floor, with portions strewn across the walls. It looked and smelled like a slaughterhouse, only the room’s darkness sparing him closer consideration. The splashed blood and gore looked black in the glow of the moonlight sifting through the window and the spill of the lanterns coming from the hall.