Thunder on the Plains - Softcover

Chapter 1

May 1857

Annie Webster frowned when she opened the door. "I don't take nobody but gentlemen in my boardinghouse," she warned defensively, "and only them that bathes."

The young man standing on her porch removed a wide-brimmed leather hat, revealing a cascade of thick, nearly-black hair that fell in tumbled layers. "I don't know much about gentlemen, ma'am, except that I'm no troublemaker; and I do take baths, often as I can."

The woman studied him closely, noticing he was clean-shaven. Although he wore buckskins, they were not worn and dirty like those she had seen on so many other men in Omaha who dressed like this one. The young man smiled warmly, his teeth straight and white, too white, she thought. Maybe they looked that way because his skin was so dark. Whatever the reason, it was a very handsome, unnerving smile, and it destroyed her remaining defenses.

She stepped aside, allowing him inside. His lanky six-foot-plus frame towered over her as she closed the door and folded her arms, a look of authority moving into her eyes. "Well, what will it be? Money's got to be paid up front. I've had my share of men comin' in here and messin' up a room for a couple of nights, then takin' off without payin'."

"I'm not here for a room, ma'am. Name's Colt Travis, and I came here to see a Mister uh-" He stopped and took a folded piece of paper from where it was tucked into his wide leather belt. Mrs. Webster watched warily, for attached to the belt was a beaded sheath that held a huge knife. Around his hips hung a gun belt and revolver. The hands that unfolded the paper looked strong, and were tanned even darker than his face from exposure to the prairie sun, darker than any white man she had ever seen. "A Mr. Stuart Landers," he finished. He looked at her with soft hazel eyes, a gentle gaze that didn't seem to match the rest of his rugged frame. "This poster says I can find him here. He's looking for an experienced scout."

"Experienced? You don't look old enough to have much experience, but then I guess that's for Mr. Landers to decide."

"Is he here then?"

The woman nodded, squinting and eyeing him even more closely. "You an Indian?"

Colt felt the heat coming to his cheeks. It was a question he was sick of hearing every time he met someone new. "I'm just a man looking for a job."

Mrs. Webster straightened. "That's not what I asked."

Colt sighed. "Ma'am, will you please just get Mr. Landers?"

The woman sniffed. "Follow me." She turned and walked over a polished hardwood floor to a small but neat room with a brick fireplace. Vases and knickknacks lined the mantel. "Can't blame me for askin'," she muttered. "Them high cheekbones and that dark hair and skin, wearin' buckskins and all, what do you expect? I got a right to know who I'm lettin' in my door."

Colt said nothing. He glanced around the room, wondering if the woman scrubbed every item every day. It was hard to believe that anything in this dusty town could be kept so clean. The room was decorated with plants, and little tables, stuffed chairs, and a sofa with flower-patterned upholstery. "I'm Annie Webster," she said, turning to meet his eyes. "You can wait here in the parlor, Mr. Travis. I'll get Mr. Landers."

"Thank you, ma'am."

The woman started out, then stopped and glanced back at him as though trying to tell him with her eyes he had better not break or soil anything. Colt just nodded to her, and she finally left. Colt remained standing, deciding the furniture looked too fine to sit on. He wondered if Mrs. Webster was a Mormon. Several Mormons had chosen to stay in Omaha since they first settled there for one winter a good ten years before.

The Mormons had a way of making something out of nothing, and this house was an example. There were few fine frame buildings in Omaha, more log and tent structures than anything else; but the place considered itself a city nonetheless. Even in its young stage, it was all the city Colt cared to encounter. He felt closed in in the small parlor, as out of place as a buffalo might feel inside a house. He looked down at his boots, hoping he had stamped off enough dust so as not to dirty Mrs. Webster's immaculately polished floor and colorful braided rugs.

"Mr. Travis." Colt turned to see a man of perhaps thirty approaching. He guessed the man's suit was silk, as was the paisley-print vest he wore beneath the perfectly fitting jacket. A gold watch chain hung from the vest pocket. The man looked Colt over appreciatively. "Stuart Landers," he said, putting out his hand. "I am very glad to meet you. Mrs. Webster says you've come in answer to my poster."

Colt took his hand, thinking what a weak grip the man had. Landers's dark hair was already beginning to thin dramatically, his temple area and the area just back from his forehead already bald. In spite of the man's obvious wealth, evident by his dress and manner, there was an honesty to his dark eyes that Colt liked right away. "Well, sir, the words excellent pay kind of struck my eye."

Landers laughed and motioned for Colt to be seated across from him. Colt reluctantly lowered himself into a stuffed chair, deciding not to lean back. "I am afraid I might have made a mistake putting those words in the ad," Landers told him. "Oh, the pay will be excellent, but the ad attracted every sort of man imaginable. Most of those who answered it so far have turned out either not to have near enough experience, or have been so dirty and dangerous-looking that I just felt I couldn't trust them." The man studied Colt intently as he spoke. "Mrs. Webster said you, on the other hand, gave a very good appearance and didn't, uh...well, to put it bluntly, she said that ‘this one doesn't smell bad.'"

Colt frowned, trying to decide whether or not the remark was a compliment. He rested his elbows on his knees, fingering his hat. "Mr. Landers, I don't know what this is all about or why it matters, but before my folks died, I was raised to be clean and respectful. My father was a missionary, came west with the Cherokee back in the thirties. Fact is, my mother was a Cherokee herself, but she and my pa lived in nice houses and brought me up a Christian. I have to say, though, that whether or not a man is clean and educated doesn't have much to do with how good a scout he is."

"Oh, I am sure of that; but this is a situation that calls for both-an experienced scout who can ensure our safety, but a man presentable and mannerly enough to be around my younger sister. She's never been exposed to this rough frontier life. My father won't allow any nonsense around her-foul language, uncleanliness, that sort of thing. You're half Indian, you say?"

Colt felt the defenses rising again, but he did not detect an insulting ring to the words. "Cherokee. Lived most of my early years down in Texas. My folks were both dead by the time I was fourteen, and I've been kind of a wandering man ever since."

"Well, whether or not you're a half-I mean, being part Indian isn't really so important as long as you were raised by a white, Christian father. You speak well and give a good appearance. I must say, you look young, though, Mr. Travis. May I ask your age?"

"I'm twenty, but I've been on my own and lived a man's life for a lot of years. I've been to Oregon and back four times and to California twice. I've fought Indians and killed my share, led wagon trains, hunted buffalo, you name it. I even know a little bit about surveying. After my mother died, my father moved to Austin and worked for a surveyor for a few years down in Texas, and I worked right alongside him."

Landers's eyes lit up. "Surveying! Why, that's wonderful! That kind of experience is just what we need! I knew if I took my time I'd find the right man."

Colt watched him warily. "I ought to tell you I have a partner, name of Slim Jessup," he said, speaking in a soft Texas drawl. "He's a little less prone to bathing, but I'd make sure he cleaned up. He's quite a bit older, taught me everything I know. He'd be here with me now, but he's over seeing a horse doctor about getting a tooth pulled."

"A horse doctor!" Landers grimaced. "For a tooth?"

"Out here you take help wherever you can find it," Colt said. "Slim's in a lot of pain."

Stuart Landers shook his head. "Well, will this Mr. Jessup be willing to come along?"

Colt rose, beginning to feel restless within the four walls. "I can't answer that until you tell me what this is all about, Mr. Landers. I haven't even said I'd do it myself for sure, but even without Slim, I can assure you I can do as good a job as anybody. I have a couple of letters of recommendation from people whose wagon trains I've helped guide west. I hang on to them to help me get new jobs. You want to see them?"

Landers rose. "Well, yes, I suppose I should." He studied Colt more closely as the young man took the letters from a small leather bag that was tied to his belt. He took note of the weapons Colt wore, intuition telling him this young man did indeed know what he was about. Colt handed him the letters, which he had obviously been carrying around for a while. They were worn from being folded and unfolded often, but the writing was still legible.

Colt walked to a window while Landers read the letters. He looked out at the dusty, rutted street in front of the house, again wondering how Mrs. Webster kept the place so clean. It felt strange to be inside a normal home now, even though he had been brought up this way. It had been many years since he had lived in a real house. Since losing his parents, the whole West had become his home, the sky his ceiling, the earth his floor. He had grown to like it that way. Slim said it was the Indian in him.

"Well, these people praise you highly, Mr. Travis," Landers said. He walked over and handed the letters to Colt. "I am impressed and delighted. Time is getting short, and I wasn't sure I would find the right man. You're pretty young, but better qualified than anyone else I've interviewed. It w...