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.
The court’s decision ends a four-month struggle by Miss Landers to have the will administered according to her father’s wishes, and it leaves her one of the richest women in the country, and one with extraordinary power for a female only nineteen years of age. Miss Landers has gone into seclusion at the family home and was unavailable for comment, but it is rumored that when she reenters society, she will carry on her father’s campaign for a transcontinental railroad, in which Landers had invested heavily. It is well known that Miss Landers and her father were close to President Lincoln, who has made it known publicly that he favors such a railroad, but no bill for such a project is expected to be passed anytime soon.
Colt let out a soft whistle. Sunny Landers was a very, very rich lady, and only nineteen. What a burden her father had placed on her! And what a horror it must have been, having to go up against her brother and fight to keep what had been given to her. He remembered when she and Bo and Stuart had talked about the older brother, Vincent. Sunny had seemed almost afraid of him. What kind of hell had he put her through, and all the while she must have been grieving so deeply over her father. He was all she had ever known, her protector, apparently the only one in the family who had loved her the way she deserved to be loved.
How well he understood grief and loneliness. He wondered if she ever thought about him anymore, if she still kept that journal. His heart went out to her for her loss. It was difficult enough to lose one’s father under any circumstances, but to be left with such tremendous responsibilities could only be an added strain, especially on a woman so young.
He reread the article, noticing that apparently only Vincent had contested the will. At least she didn’t have both brothers against her, a small consolation in the midst of such responsibilities. He wished there were something he could do to help console her. He wondered if he should write her, express his concern over her loss. Maybe she would like hearing from him. Then again, maybe she had practically forgotten him.
Chapter 9
“Are you sure you’re ready to go out and face the world, Miss Sunny?” Mae finished pinning a straw hat to Sunny’s hair.
“I don’t have much choice.” Sunny turned to look into the mirror, hardly able to believe the image she saw reflected there. She had lost weight, too much weight, and the circles under her eyes could not be hidden by powders. Losing her father had been cause for enough grief, but Vince’s contesting of the will caused public attention and court appearances that temporarily halted any control she had over her railroad holdings and Landers Enterprises. The turmoil Vince had caused had left her no time to truly grieve. She had spent the month since the court’s decision in seclusion, taking the time she needed to weep, to think, to pray. She wondered if she would have survived at all if not for Vi’s kind support and their long talks.
She had visited her father’s grave many times, praying that somehow he would visit her in spirit and help her know what to do. She had a big job ahead of her, and she still struggled with depression. Her doctor had given her a special tonic to take twice a day, and Stuart had promised to help as much as he could, but he also had the responsibility of running his own companies, and he had a family who needed him. He could not go running off with her to Washington whenever it was necessary, and she knew he probably wouldn’t be much help there anyway. A person had to be aggressive and he had to know what he was talking about. Stuart still knew little about the railroad. He had not bothered to try to learn.
“Well, today I begin playing the part of Bo Landers,” she told Mae. She rose and turned. “A slight difference in size, wouldn’t you say?”
Mae smiled sadly. “Only physically. I’ve seen you stand up to the worst of them, Miss Sunny, and I’ll bet facing congressmen and fellow businessmen won’t be half as hard as having to face that cruel brother of yours and his witch of a wife.” She gasped, her eyes widening. “Pardon me! I shouldn’t have said that about your family.”
Sunny smiled. “What you said isn’t half as bad as what I’m thinking about them, so don’t worry.” She took a deep breath. “Leave me alone for a few minutes, will you, Mae?”
The young woman nodded. “Good luck, Miss Sunny.”
“Thank you.”
Mae left and Sunny walked across an Oriental rug to the library table she kept at the front window of her bedroom. She took out her journal, opening it to a new page. She sat down in the ornate cabriole chair kept at the desk, then she picked up her pen and dipped it into an inkwell.
Today I go out to face the world, she wrote. Actually, this is my first day of official business since Father died five months ago. I think I am strong enough now. In a few days I will travel to New York and Washington to get back to lobbying for the railroad. I hope those who were working on a railroad bill have not given up. With the country in full civil war, I fear the task ahead is great.
My grief will always be with me, but each day it gets a little easier. Writing these entries helps me cope.
She set aside the pen, deciding to wait and write more after her first board meeting as chairman of Landers Enterprises. She thumbed back through some of her first entries, seldom able to open the journal without going back to the passages about her trip west. How she longed at the moment for the peace and beauty she had known there! It seemed strange, with all she had suffered and lost on that journey, that she should remember it so fondly. In her grief she had discovered that thoughts of the beautiful land and the mountains were a great comfort.
She closed the journal, deciding this was not a time for daydreaming or longing for what could not be. She walked back to the mirror and checked herself once more. Her hat was trimmed with dark brown velvet ribbon and no flowers. Her dress was relatively plain, white poplin with a carter’s frock draped apron-like over a dark brown-and-white striped sateen underskirt. White lace trim decorated the cuffs and high neckline of the dark brown bodice of the dress. She would rather have worn something with shorter sleeves and a lower neckline because of the July heat, but today she wanted to look as businesslike and proper as possible, no frills, nothing to make her look too feminine. It was going to be difficult enough to garner the respect of the other board members, who now must look to her for final decisions.
>
She picked up her handbag, turning and looking at the canopied four-poster, wanting to run back to it and hide out for another day; but there was work to be done. She thought of how strong and energetic her father had always been, what he would expect of her now. It was time to carry on.
She marched out the door and down the stairs, saying good-bye to Mae. There was no room for tears or doubt. She had a job to do. She just prayed she would have the strength to do it. She walked to the waiting open carriage, smiling at the driver, an old black man called Page.
“Mornin’, Miss Landers.” Page opened the carriage door.
“Good morning, Page.” Sunny climbed inside, situating the skirt of her dress as she settled into the freshly cleaned leather seat.
“Glad to see you’re finally up and about. You’re too young to keep yourself cooped up in that big ol’ house all alone.”
Page closed the door and climbed up into the driver’s seat. Sunny liked the graying man, whose eyes always showed respect, even now. It seemed most of her help was kinder to her than her own family. “Take me to the office, Page,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” He snapped the reins, getting the shiny black mare that pulled the carriage into motion. “Fine day, isn’t it?”
Sunny studied the manicured lawns and gardens of neighboring mansions. “Yes, it is.” She studied the man a moment from behind, realizing she didn’t know much about him in spite of all the years he had worked for her father. She knew he had four grown children and he and his family lived in a little brick house near the stables on the Landers estate. “Page, tell me, what do you think of this war? Were you ever a slave?”
“No, ma’am,” he answered, watching the road ahead. “My father was, though, before I was born. He worked for a good man who gave him his freedom papers, and he came up here right off because he was afraid some other slaver would catch him and destroy his papers. He met my mama down by St. Louis and they came up here—had his own little farm north of Chicago. Me, I came to the city to find work, only had a couple other jobs before I started working for your father thirty years ago. Far as the war, fighting is always a bad thing, especially when it’s among a country’s own people. I expect those in the South think they have a right to defend their way of life, but from the things my father used to tell me about how slaves got treated on other farms that he knew of, if it takes a war to end it, then I guess we’ve got to have one. I just thank the Lord that most all the fighting will be in the South and not up here.”
Thunder on the Plains Page 15
