Thunder on the Plains (2 page)

“I don't know a whole lot about anyplace east of here,” Colt answered, sitting down again and taking another puff on the cigar. “And call me Colt.
Mr. Travis
is too formal for me.” He met Stuart's eyes. “Actually, I don't even know much about railroads. Only saw a train once in my life myself, when I went through Iowa and met some people who'd taken a train out of Chicago as far west as it went, then went on with wagons. I have to say, I was pretty impressed with that big locomotive, but I'll tell you, laying rails clear across the plains and over two mountain ranges sounds impossible to me. Hell, it's hard enough to get mules and wagons over those mountains; but then I guess that's not my problem. All I want to know is what my role is in all of this.”

Landers pulled at a dark, neatly trimmed mustache. “My father is on his way to Omaha. He'll be here in a few days. He wants an experienced scout who can give him a rough idea of what would be the best route to take in building a railroad west. He just wants to get a feel of the land, to see if it really could be done. He'll need to get a lot of financial backing for this, and before he can get others involved and talk them into investing, he wants to be sure he knows exactly what he's talking about.” The man rose and began pacing. “Oh, there has been talk around Washington about such a railroad for a long time now, Mr.—I mean, Colt. There have even been one or two surveys done.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “My father is convinced that Congress will eventually pass a bill supporting such a railroad. He wants to get in on the ground floor—sees the possibilities. If it is a success, he'll be an even richer man. Of course, if it fails, he'll be a much poorer one. At any rate, he asked me to come out here and set things up, find a good scout.” He glanced at Colt and smiled nervously, a hint of fear in his eyes. “I would have hated to face him and tell him that after all this time I hadn't come up with anyone. When my father barks, people jump, except for my older brother, Vince. They never have gotten along very well. But my father really is a good man, Colt. He's just a man who worked hard all his life and is used to ordering people around, except for Sunny. She's got him wrapped right around her little finger, but she doesn't seem to take advantage of it.”

Colt felt a little awkward hearing the added personal comments the man offered, wondering why he was telling him these things about their private family life. It mattered little to him, except that this sister the man kept mentioning did not sound like the type who should be trekking through dangerous country.

Landers walked closer to Colt, putting his hands in his vest pockets. “Will you take the job? There will be a few rules because of Sunny's presence, but I don't think they will be things you can't live with. I have a feeling you know how to behave around proper ladies. My father will pay five hundred dollars, and if something happens to your horse, he'll replace it. Whatever supplies you say are needed, he'll provide them.”

Colt let out a light whistle. “Five hundred dollars?”

“To each of you, if your partner comes along.”

Colt set the cigar in an ashtray and rose, standing a good four inches taller than Landers. “That's a lot of money. A man would be a fool to turn it down, but in a case like this, once we're out there, what I say goes. I can't be spending half my time arguing with your father. I don't care how many millions he's worth, he's got to listen to me once we're out there on the trail.”

“My father has great respect for your kind, Colt. Our business was built on traders and trappers. My father did a little wilderness trapping of his own when he ·was younger. He understands these things. He'll listen to you, especially if it means Sunny's safety.”

Colt nodded. “I'll go talk to my friend and come back this evening with an answer.”

“Fine.” Landers put out his hand again, and Colt took it, trying to envision the “little sister” called Sunny. How little was little? And just how spoiled was she? He had a feeling it was the daughter who could end up being the real headache on this trip, but for five hundred dollars, he could put up with her smart-aleck talk and snooty ways. The girl would probably spend most of her time complaining about the discomforts of life on the trail and whining to go back home, but that was her problem. Besides, he'd spend most of his time scouting well ahead of the actual wagon train. He wouldn't have to listen to most of it.

Colt said his good-byes and donned his leather hat, walking on long legs to the front door, eyeing the lace curtains at the window and vaguely remembering his mother. He had been only five when she died, but he still remembered how lost and lonely he had felt. Every once in a while some little thing would remind him of her. He stepped out into the sunshine then, breathing deeply of the fresh spring air, glad to be out of the stuffy parlor.

***

“Here it comes.” Slim Jessup craned his neck to see, then winced with pain, touching his swollen jaw. He had already decided that if he ever had tooth trouble again, he would just shoot himself before he would go through having one pulled. He took a flask of whiskey from inside his buckskin shirt and uncorked it, taking another swallow as he watched the approaching coach and the wagon train behind it.

“Watch that stuff,” Colt warned. “We aren't supposed to drink, remember?”

Slim, a nickname applied because his physique was quite the opposite, wiped his lips. “I'm not so sure I'm going to like this job,” he told Colt. “This is what I get for lettin' you do the choosin'.”

“You find me another wagon train that will pay us five hundred dollars each, and we'll forget about this one.”

Both men stood waiting on the porch of Mrs. Webster's boardinghouse. Stuart Landers had ridden out to greet his father in the distance, and the whole train stopped momentarily while a tall, husky man got out of a grand but very dirty coach. Colt and Slim watched the men talk. “That must be the old man,” Slim grumbled. “A bastard to work for, I'll bet. And look at all them men with him, all them wagons. Hell, you'd think it was the president of the United States in that coach.”

“Or the queen of England,” Colt commented. He glanced at Slim, wanting to laugh at the sight of the man in new buckskin pants and shirt, wearing a new hat, his face clean-shaven and his hair cut and combed. Slim Jessup was not a man prone to spruce up for anyone, and that was part of what Colt loved about him—he had done all this for him, respecting his decision to take this job. Slim had been like a father to Colt for years, ever since Colt saved his life.

Colt was only fourteen at the time. Having set out on his own after his father's death, Colt had come upon Slim's camp in the foothills of the Rockies. Slim invited Colt to share his coffee, and before their first conversation was ended, Colt had shot a rattler that had slithered up behind Slim and looked ready to strike. From then on the friendship deepened, and Colt began traveling with the seasoned scout, learning how to track, how to handle Indians, how to find food where it seemed none could be found. Colt had come to be as skilled as his mentor. The two men shared a mutual respect for each other and had traveled together now for six years.

“Somethin' tells me we'll dearly earn the five hundred, and wish we had asked for more,” Slim commented.

“Relax. Lord knows we'll probably eat good. Stuart Landers has arranged for one hell of a supply of bacon and dried beef, potatoes, you name it. And he says two men are coming along who will cook for everybody. At least you won't have to eat cold beans out of a can, and we won't have to drink that rot-gut brew you call coffee.”

“I make the best damn coffee this side of the Mississippi, and you know it.”

“If that's true, I'd hate to taste the rest.” Colt moved off the porch as the wagon train began moving again. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Would you look at that coach? I've never seen anything like it.”

“Special made for Her Royal Highness, I expect,” Slim answered. He straightened, trying to pull in his big belly. He removed his hat and smoothed back his graying hair, then scratched at his chest. “All this pretty-smellin' junk you made me put on over at the bathhouse has got me itchin',” he complained. “I need a little dirt and sweat under this shirt.”

Colt did not seem to be listening. Slim watched him push his own hat back, exposing a few dark waves that framed his finely chiseled face. Colt had his mother's dark skin and hair, his father's height, and hazel eyes. The young man's handsome looks had cost him run-ins a time or two over young white girls on wagon trains, girls who were quite taken with Colt in spite of his efforts to avoid them. Colt was fully aware that the girls' fathers considered a half-breed not good enough for their “chaste” young daughters.

Colt had learned the pleasures of being a man at the tender age of fifteen, in the arms of a whore in Portland whom Slim had paid to entertain Colt as a birthday present. Slim grinned at the memory. He supposed he loved Colt; felt almost like a father to him. Colt was as close to family as Slim figured he would ever get. It pained him to know that most of his life Colt had wrestled with not knowing to which world he belonged, white or Indian. Slim had tried to teach the young man that he was simply a man, his own man, worthy of being accepted with respect by both races.

The coach drew up beside them then, interrupting Slim's thoughts. Colt stepped back a little. Men shouted at the mules that pulled the following three wagons, and dust rose skyward. Besides the eight men who drove and rode shotgun on the coach and wagons, six more rode on individual horses, all sporting rifles and pistols. Some of them rode behind the wagons, driving a small remuda of horses and mules, apparently extras to be used to switch teams on the coach and wagons so that the animals would not be worked too hard.

The
man
has
thought
of
everything
, Colt thought. He glanced back at Slim, who shook his head in wonder.

Stuart Landers trotted his horse up to Colt and dismounted as the coach door opened and a well-dressed graying man stepped out. He looked even bigger now that he was closer, standing as tall as Colt but much heftier, a man who obviously ate well. “Hello!” he bellowed. “So, this is Omaha. Sure isn't much compared to Chicago.” He took a quick look around, then reached inside the coach. “Come on out and have a look, honey.”

A small, gloved hand took hold of Landers's hand, and in the next moment there appeared a young woman, certainly not the child Colt had expected. She wore a pink cotton dress that fit her slender waist and developing body enticingly. Although the dress had become wrinkled and dusty from the ride, its poor condition did little to detract from the beauty of the young lady who wore it. She stepped down, looking too warm in the long-sleeved dress. A feathered hat topped her golden hair, and when she looked at Colt, he wondered if anyone possessed eyes quite so blue. He could not help staring, especially when the young lady broke into a brilliant and genuinely sweet smile. “Hello,” she said, little hint of shyness in her demeanor. “Are you the scout Stuart told us about?” Before he could answer she turned to her father. “Daddy, he doesn't look like those Indians we saw a few miles back.”

“Those were full blood. Mr. Travis here is only
half
Indian.” The man let go of his daughter and offered his hand to Colt. “You
are
Colt Travis, I take it. You certainly fit my son's description.”

“Yes, Father, this is the one,” Stuart put in.

Colt quickly looked away from the daughter, whose age and beauty surprised and intrigued him, but whose remark had left him wondering if it was meant as curiosity or an insult. He took Landers's hand. “I'm Colt Travis,” he said. “The man up on the porch there is my partner, Slim Jessup.”

Landers nodded to Slim. “I'm Bo Landers,” he said loudly, “but then, I guess that's obvious by now.” The man let go of Colt's hand and stepped back a little, eyeing him more closely. “Awful young, aren't you?”

“Old enough,” Colt answered, feeling the daughter staring at him. It was the first time in his life a young lady had made him feel strangely uncomfortable, made him wonder if he looked presentable. “I've done a lot of scouting and can match anyone else you might pick.”

“Stuart has already told me all of that. He says you even know a little bit about surveying.”

“Well, I never learned it all, sir, but as far as the land to the west, I can tell you where the solid ground is, where it usually floods, where the ground is always too soft—that kind of thing.”

“That's all I need. Pardon my daughter's remark about your Indian looks. It's just curiosity. Makes no difference to me. I've called many an Indian friend in my day. If a man is honest and hardworking and good at what he does, makes no difference to me what runs in his blood.”

Slim eyed the conversation closely, grinning to himself.
Yeah
, he thought,
unless
that
hardworking
half
Indian
man
takes
an
interest
in
your
daughter. What kind of a difference would it make then, Mr. Bo Landers?

Landers thundered every word, unlike his quieter son. The skin of his face was a ruddy red, and when he removed his silk hat to apply a handkerchief to his sweating brow, the remaining hairs on his balding head were pure white. He replaced his hat and turned to his daughter, putting an arm around her. “This is Sunny, Mr. Travis. She's fifteen. Whatever else we do on this trip, the one thing to remember is that she is to be protected at all costs.”

Colt glanced at Sunny, removing his hat. “Miss Landers,” he said, nodding his head slightly. She smiled again, a bright, winning smile. Colt thought how her brother's description truly did fit her.