Thunder on the Plains (15 page)

“Hell, no,” the soldier answered. “Haven't you heard? The country's at war, North against South. Those soldiers are headed back east.”

“War!” Colt drew the reins tight on Dancer. “I knew there was a problem over the slavery issue, but I never thought it would lead to war. Is it that bad?”

The soldier frowned as though he thought Colt was a little crazy. “Where in hell have you been, mister? We've got a new president, Abraham Lincoln. Ever since he was sworn in, southern states have been seceding right and left. Lincoln is against slavery. Now some forces from South Carolina have attacked Fort Sumter. Hell, the damn Union commander there surrendered. Now the South thinks it can win other battles. They want to form their own country, elect their own president. Can you believe that one?”

Colt shook his head, realizing that since wandering off alone after Slim died, then marrying LeeAnn and living out on the Plains with no neighbors, he had not kept up much on national events, nor had he cared, especially after losing LeeAnn and Ethan. For months he had lived the even more remote life of a nomadic Indian, giving little thought to what might be going on in the white man's world.

“Thanks for the information,” he told the soldier.
War
, he thought.
What
the
hell
kind
of
a
mess
is
this
country
getting
itself
into?
He had never even heard of Abraham Lincoln. He shook his head in wonder as he trotted his horse to the Pony Express building, dismounting and looping the reins of Dancer's bridle around a hitching post. He walked on long legs into the building, where another sign hung over a desk reading
Russell, Majors, and Waddell
. “Morning,” he said to a bearded man who sat at the desk.

“Morning,” the man answered. “What can I do for you?”

“I'm looking for work. I rode partway here with a man driving a freight wagon, and he told me about the Pony Express. Sounded like something I'd like to do.”

The man behind the desk looked him over warily, and Colt didn't think he had ever seen anyone with quite so red a beard. “And why do you think that?” the man asked.

Colt shrugged. “Sounds exciting. I know the country, and I'm a good rider; and right now I need something that will keep me real busy, keep my mind off personal things.”

“Like what?”

Colt shifted his hat, revealing part of a fresh scar that began above his right eyebrow and ran down his right temple to his ear. “That's my business. Do you need a rider?”

The bearded man scowled, deciding that from the looks of the tall, strong-looking young man before him, it was best not to pry. “Have a seat,” he told Colt, indicating a wooden chair, the varnish worn from its seat. Colt obliged, removing his hat. “My name is John Stanley,” the man told him. He rolled up a newspaper and swatted a fly.

“Colt Travis,” Colt answered, studying the man's thick reddish eyebrows and the mass of freckles on his aging face and on his arms and hands.

“How old are you, Travis?”

“What's the date?”

Stanley grinned a little, glancing at his calendar. “May 27, 1861.”

“Then I was twenty-four seven days ago.”

“We generally hire only young boys, some only fifteen, up to about twenty. The less weight, the faster the horse.” Stanley pulled open a drawer and took out a wad of tobacco. “And they have to be orphans.”

“I was orphaned at fourteen,” Colt answered, watching the man put the tobacco in his cheek. “I can assure you there isn't one person in this country who gives a damn whether I live or die. And like you say, it's true less weight makes a faster horse,” he added. “But there's also something to be said about experience. I've led wagon trains since I was orphaned—been to Oregon four times, California twice. I've fought Indians and I've lived with them—can communicate with Sioux, Cheyenne, Crow, Blackfoot, Shoshone—” He hesitated, the bitter hatred still burning in his gut. “Pawnee,” he finished. “I can shoot straight, even from a galloping horse. I know what to do for wounds; and I know this country like the back of my hand.”

Stanley just stared at him a moment, chewing on the tobacco, then turning to spit into a can beside his desk. “You've made your point,” he said. “We've lost two riders recently, quit because of being shot at by outlaws looking to steal the mail—probably think there's money in it. At any rate, some have the courage for the job, and some don't. I expect there ain't much that scares off the likes of you. Pay's a hundred and twenty-five a month, but there's no guarantee the job will last long. The government is already building a telegraph line clear across the country. A lot of the more important news will be carried that way after that, so there won't be so much need for us riding hard to carry it. The Butterfield Overland stage line carries mail too, so we figure the job is good for as long as it takes for the telegraph to get finished. After that I expect we'll be out of business.”

Colt grinned, slightly embarrassed. “What the hell is a telegraph?”

Stanley smiled in return, turning and spitting again. “Where in hell have you been, boy?”

“Someone else already asked me that. Let's just say I've kind of been off alone for quite a while.”

“Mmmm-hmmm. Where'd you get that scar?”

“Pawnee. His scalp is tied to my gear.”

Stanley chuckled. “Well, ain't you somethin'? No doubt you've got Indian blood. What kind?”

“Cherokee.”

“You've got a drawl. I don't want any Confederates working for Russell, Majors, and Waddell.”

“I don't even know what a Confederate is, Mr. Stanley. All I can say is I was raised in Oklahoma and Texas.”

The man laughed more, shaking his head. “Boy, you really
have
been off alone, haven't you? You know about the war?”

“I just found out about it. The men driving the freight wagon didn't know anything about it either, but then, they were heading west to east. I guess the news hadn't reached them yet.”

“Well, a Confederate is somebody who's on the side of the South.”

Colt sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I don't take
any
side. I don't give a damn about the war, Mr. Stanley. I just want a job that will keep me busy and will let me be alone and travel the country I love.”

“Fine.” Stanley picked up the newspaper he had used to swat the fly. “Sounds to me like you need to brush up on what's goin' on. Can you read?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, take that paper there and study on it. It's a few days old, out of Omaha, but you can get an idea of what's been happening. And by the way, a telegraph is a way they've invented to send coded messages clear across the country. You ride a little bit north of here and you'll see the poles, with wire strung across their tops. There will be stations set up all across the country, places where men sit and use an instrument to send messages by something called Morse code. The messages go through the wire by way of what they call electricity. It travels through the wires on the poles on over to another station—takes only seconds, mind you—and that station sends it on to the next and so forth.”

Colt ran a hand through his thick hair, his mind swirling with all this new information. “I'll be damned. Electricity, they call it?”

Stanley nodded. “Newspapers say it's the thing of the future, figure someday this electricity will be used all kinds of ways to speed things up and such. Next thing you know, there will be a damn railroad out here. There's talk of it. Can you imagine? A
railroad
that goes clear across the country? I say it can't be done, but now that they're building this telegraph thing, who knows? I'd sure like to see how they think they'll get a railroad over the mountains.”

A railroad! The comment brought back memories. It was the first time Colt had thought of Sunny Landers in a very long time. Did her father still plan to build a transcontinental railroad? It had been nearly four years since he had guided them to Fort Laramie.

“Who knows?” he said. “People seem intent on getting themselves to California or Oregon, and going by wagon is still an awfully risky way to go, especially with a family.” He remembered how he had first found LeeAnn, and the sick grief swept over him again. He wondered if it was going to be like this for the rest of his life, these bouts of horrible grief suddenly slamming into him, making all his muscles ache.

“Well, not all of them go on to the coast,” Stanley was saying. “A lot of them are starting to settle right out here. I bet you'd be surprised at how Omaha is growing, and now there's Denver and Cheyenne and Salt Lake City.” He shook his head. “Never thought I'd see the day this godforsaken country actually started to fill up with settlers. At any rate, you come back here tomorrow morning and we'll talk about what you need to do, get you started. That all right with you?”

“Fine.” Colt rose, picking up the paper. “Thank you.”

“Have a good day, Travis.”

Colt nodded, turning to take his hat from where he had hung it on the arm of the chair. “Thanks for the paper,” he said as he put on his hat. He walked outside to Dancer. “Let's go find a spot of shade, maybe a place where it's a little more quiet, boy.”

A wagon clattered past, and in the distance the sound of someone giving an order mingled with the cry of a baby that came from a settler's wagon. It gave Colt a strange feeling to be around the bustling activity of so many people again, after spending months in quiet Indian camps. He wasn't sure he was ready for all of this yet, but he supposed a man had to get back to living sometime, even if it didn't seem there was anything to live for. He took hold of Dancer's reins and led the animal away, heading for a grove of cottonwood trees north of the fort, where he tied the horse to a small tree. Dancer snorted and shook his mane, bending his head down to nibble at some grass.

Colt stepped away from the trees, deciding he'd ride out later to find the telegraph poles Stanley had told him about. He wanted to see the strange invention for himself. He couldn't picture how anything could move through wires, taking only seconds to travel over several miles. He shook his head, wondering what White Buffalo would think of such a thing. He sure wouldn't like to hear what Stanley had just told Colt, about more people coming here to settle.

He sat down with his back against a tree, reading by sunlight.
More
States
Secede
from
Union
, one headline read. “Virginia and Arkansas have become the eighth and ninth states to secede from the Union,” Colt read aloud. “President Lincoln has called for more volunteers to help end the insurrection that has torn the United States and has now caused casualties. A secessionist mob stoned Union troops in Baltimore, Maryland, killing four men.”

Colt shook his head, hardly able to believe what was happening. “Jesus,” he muttered. He scanned the paper again, reading article after article about possible all-out, bloody fighting between North and South. He found one article about the progress of the telegraph, another about how the West was growing and how there was talk of a transcontinental railroad.
Congress
continues
to
argue
the
value
and
necessity
of
such
a
railroad
, the article read,
and the best route, should such a railroad come to be. Now that the South has chosen to withdraw from the Union, it is unlikely that the southern route they have wanted will be used. Mr. Thomas Durant is urging the consideration of Omaha as a starting point for the railroad, but some congressmen claim it should be St. Louis. However, with the clouds of civil war hanging gray and heavy over Congress, it is unlikely there will be a vote on the railroad anytime soon.

Colt set the paper aside, and began to roll a cigarette. He lit it and leaned his head back, unable to help wondering what LeeAnn would have thought of all these new happenings. Again, her memory brought a very real pain to his stomach. He closed his eyes. Little Ethan would have been a year old now, maybe walking. He had never been able to bring himself to go and see their graves, hadn't even bothered to look for the four hundred dollars he had hidden under a floorboard of the cabin. Retrieving it was not worth having to view the scene of his horrible loss, having to see the burned-out cabin that LeeAnn was once so proud of, where they had made love and shared meals, where Ethan was born.

He had never found Buck or gone back to see if there was anything salvageable. If someone else wanted to settle there, they could have the tools and the plow he had left behind. He supposed he should go and see Mrs. Scott someday and tell her what had happened, but he still couldn't bear talking about it. Maybe he would just write her a letter. That would be easier than facing her, for he still had not gotten over his own shame and anger at feeling LeeAnn's and Ethan's deaths were partly his fault.

He smoked in silence, wondering how long it was going to take to get over the pain of it, or if maybe that would never happen. A gentle wind rustled the newspaper, disturbing his thoughts. One page blew over, and as he grasped the paper to keep it from blowing away, he caught the name—
Landers
. He frowned, keeping the cigarette in his mouth as he picked up the paper for a closer look.

Miss
Sunny
Landers, daughter of the late Beauregard Landers, shipping and railroad magnate of Chicago, Illinois, has been awarded the full inheritance willed to her upon her father's death January second of this year
, he read. Colt quickly put out his cigarette. Bo Landers, dead! What a terrible loss for Sunny. Suddenly, the memories came flooding back as though that last good-bye had been only yesterday.
The
decision, handed down by Circuit Court Judge Howard Seymour, ends a bitter family feud, instigated by Vincent Landers, firstborn son of Beauregard and half brother to Miss Sunny Landers.
“Poor Sunny,” Colt muttered.
The
contested
will
has
been
settled, leaving Miss Landers full ownership of the B&L Rail Road, a major stockholder of the Illinois Central and the Chicago and Rock Island Railroads, and 75 percent stockholder of Landers Enterprises, the parent company for the family's several subsidiaries as well as another 40 percent stock in all subsidiary companies. Also in the award is the family home, a mansion on Lake Michigan valued at one hundred thousand dollars, ownership of all property on which Landers Enterprises and its subsidiaries are located, vacant land that borders two miles of Lake Michigan shoreline, and stock in the Pacific Railroad Company, plus an undisclosed but reportedly substantial sum of money held in trust. Landers's sons,
Vincent
and
Stuart, will retain their major stock in Landers Great Lakes Shipping, Landers Warehousing, Landers Overland Freighting, and Landers Supply. A picture of the first Mrs. Landers and some of her jewelry was awarded to Vincent Landers and was not argued by Miss Sunny Landers.