Badlanders (3 page)

T
he Badlands.

Thousands of square miles of what some would call the most godforsaken country anywhere. To others they were a magnificent display of the Almighty's handiwork in the natural world.

Rocky buttes and towering mesas brushed the clouds. Winding canyons and deep ravines slashed the earth. Washes were dry most of the year but not all. Ridges crisscrossed every which way. Occasional streams accounted for green valleys nestled amid the brown of rock and earth.

The Badlands Land and Cattle Company had chosen their range wisely. It contained a lot of green. There were more year-round streams than elsewhere, and wells produced plentifully. A lot of work was called for, but the Diamond B promised to become a thriving enterprise if managed wisely.

That was where Alexander Jessup came in. Jessup had no experience running a ranch—that was why the BLCC hired Neal Bonner—but Jessup did have an impeccable record at managing large businesses. Even better, he'd
demonstrated a talent for turning a profit from every business he was involved with.

“Alexander the Great,” his peers had dubbed him. It was a measure of the man that he regarded it as a title, not a nickname. “Am I not Alexander the Great?” became one of his pet replies when someone questioned his judgment.

When the consortium approached him about managing their new cattle venture, Alexander was overseeing a chain of dairy farms. He'd organized them so efficiently he dominated the dairy market in New York City and other large Eastern cities.

Alexander lived with his two grown daughters in a mansion on the Hudson River, a mansion he'd named Macedonia, and had a sign put up to that effect.

The consortium sent Franklyn Wells to negotiate, and Alexander told him he could make his case over dinner.

Wells was dazzled by the luxury the Jessups seemed to take for granted. After a sumptuous three-course meal, the men lit cigars, sat back, and got to it. After presenting the particulars of the consortium's offer, Wells ended with “We realize we're asking a lot. Cattle raising in the West is nothing like the dairy empire you've established.”

“Nonsense,” Jessup replied. “Cows are cows.”

“Be that as it may, we've hired Neal Bonner, one of the best ranch foremen west of the Mississippi, to be your second-in-command, as it were. He knows all there is to know about ranching, and then some.”

Alexander Jessup harrumphed. “In the first place, I don't have seconds-in-command. I lead, others follow. If you want him to be foreman, fine. But he'll take orders from me like everyone else.”

“Of course,” Wells said.

“In the second place, what I don't know about ranching I'll soon learn. In case your background on me is incomplete, I'm a very quick study. It's one of the secrets to my success.”

“Am I to take it that you agree to our terms, then?”

“Provided your consortium agrees to mine,” Alexander replied. “I shall operate at my complete discretion. They may advise me as they see fit, but the final decision in matters relating to the ranch is mine and mine alone.” He had held up a hand when Wells went to speak. “A house must be provided. I don't expect another Macedonia, but I won't live in a hovel. The house must be ready in advance of my arrival.” Jessup paused. “My daughters go with me. They accompany me everywhere, and are indispensable. Both are outstanding businesswomen in their own right. You might have heard I had them privately tutored by some of the best instructors in the country.”

“I have, in fact, heard that,” Wells said.

“If I can't take them, I won't go.”

“The consortium wouldn't think of refusing your request.”

“Then I must ask,” Alexander said. “What are the perils involved? Not for me, but for them. Besides the obvious.”

“The obvious?” Wells repeated.

“Men.”

“Oh.” Franklyn Wells coughed. “Well, there will be the climate. It's a lot harsher than what you're accustomed to, with temperature extremes in the summers and winters.”

Alexander dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “We won't let a little weather bother us. Go on. What about hostiles?”

“The nearest tribe are the Dakotas, or the Sioux, as they are more commonly known.”

“The ones who wiped out Custer?”

“They had a part in it, yes. But General Crook and that other fellow, Miles, have put an end to their depredations. Their raiding days are over.”

“Anything else?”

Wells tapped his cigar on his ashtray. “There is one thing I should mention. I've never lived in the West, you understand. But I went to Texas to make our offer to
Neal Bonner, and learned a lot about the nature of the men who do. You see, Mr. Bonner had conditions of his own, and one of them was that he bring his pard, as he calls him, along. The gentleman's name is Jericho. He's what they call a shootist.”

“I'm unfamiliar with the term.”

“Jericho is uncommonly proficient with a firearm.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” Alexander said. “From what I hear, everyone in the West wears a gun. Every male, that is.”

“Many do, as I saw with my own eyes,” Wells said. “But few are any shakes at it, as Mr. Bonner would say. Jericho is. They're quite reticent about it, but I was able to learn that Jericho has turned five to ten men toes up, as another of their quaint expressions has it.”

“Wait,” Alexander said. “You're saying this Jericho is a killer?”

“At least five times over, probably more.”

“And I'm to have him in my employ?”

“No Jericho, no Neal Bonner, and we need Mr. Bonner. And you need Jericho.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Hear me out.” Wells took a puff and blew a smoke ring. “You asked about the dangers. I'm enlightening you. One of them has to do with the character of the men out there, or the lack thereof. You see, Mr. Jessup, the West is home to many bad men. Gunmen, confidence men, cheats, cardsharps, thieves of every stripe, and, more to the point, rustlers. They're much more common than you can possibly imagine, and they are why you need a man like Jericho on your payroll.”

“I'm still not sure I understand,” Alexander admitted.

“Think of him as a deterrent. Those who live outside the law will be much less likely to give you trouble when they know that they must ultimately deal with Jericho.”

“You're serious?”

“Westerners aren't like us,” Wells said. “Their character, their fundamental natures are different. They're
highly self-reliant. They respect three traits in a man more than any others. His honesty, his devotion to keeping his word, and how lethal he is.”

“By God, you are serious.”

“Never more so. Shootists, they call them, are held in great esteem, and widely feared by the criminal element. I'm sure you've heard of Wild Bill Hickok, shot down in Deadwood not that many years ago. With a man like him on your payroll, no bad man would dare come near you or the Diamond B.”

“This Jericho is as widely feared as Hickok?”

“Oh, goodness no. But he does have a reputation. And as Mr. Bonner put it to me, once Jericho has bedded down a few coyotes of the human variety, you should have no more trouble with any of their kind.”

“You make it sound as if it's a foregone conclusion we will have trouble.” Alexander thoughtfully contemplated the glowing tip of his own cigar. “Very well. I'll let this Jericho work for me, but only because you've assured me we need Bonner and Bonner wants him along. But Jericho will pull his weight, like everyone else.”

“You need not be concerned in that regard. Jericho will work cattle along with the rest of the punchers.”

“Good. Then I look forward to the challenge. How soon before the house is ready?”

“Six months, give or take,” Wells said. “Mr. Bonner is at this very moment driving several thousand head of cattle from Texas to the Badlands to serve as the nucleus of the Diamond B's herd.”

“It's settled, then.” Alexander blew a smoke ring of his own. “Assure your investors that they've chosen wisely. I've yet to fail at anything I've undertaken.”

“They have every confidence in you,” Franklyn Wells declared.

•   •   •

Now, over five months later, Alexander Jessup still brimmed with confidence. As the stage that was taking him and his daughters to Whiskey Flats clattered and
bounced along the rutted and winding excuse for a road, he gazed out over the Badlands and felt an unusual stirring in his breast.

“A penny for your thoughts, Father?” asked one of the two young women who sat across from him.

Born three years apart, they were night and day.

The older, Edana, had hair like spun gold that hung past her shoulders in a lustrous wave. Her eyes were green, like Alexander's. She had an oval face with high cheekbones, thin lips, and not much chin. Her expression was nearly always earnest, and she seldom laughed.

By contrast, her younger sister, Isolda, nearly always wore a smirk, as if the world were a source of constant amusement. She had her mother's looks: curly black hair, brown eyes, a wide forehead, and full lips. Where her sister went in for plain dresses and ordinary shoes, Isolda liked to wear dresses with lace at the cuffs, and shoes with higher heels.

“If a penny isn't enough,” Edana said when her father didn't reply, “I can make it a dollar.”

“Ninety-nine cents profit,” Isolda said. “I'd jump at it were I you, Father.”

Alexander smiled with genuine affection. “I was thinking of your mother, girls, and how much she would have loved this scenery.”

“It is pretty,” Edana said, “in an austere sort of way.”

“Don't start with Mother again,” Isolda said. “You can't wallow in grief forever.”

“Isolda!” Edana exclaimed.

“Oh, hush,” Isolda said. “Father knows I'm right. It's been seven years. She's gone and that's all there is to it.”

“Gone, but never forgotten,” Alexander said. “We'll always have our memories of her. She lives on in our hearts.”

“There you go again,” Isolda said. “You're too sentimental by half.”

“And you're not sentimental enough.” Edana came to
their father's defense. “Would it hurt you to admit that you miss her as much as we do?”

“Who are you to talk about emotions? You're an iceberg inside.”

“Isolda,” Alexander said.

“Well, she is,” Isolda said petulantly. “Everyone knows it. She keeps everything bottled up. She always has, even before Mother died.”

“That will be enough,” Alexander said. “We're starting a new life in a new land. Let's not bring up old disagreements.”

“Is that what you call them? But very well.” Isolda looked out the window on her side. “As for this new land, I can't say I'm as entranced as she is. When you've seen one patch of dirt, you've seen them all.”

Alexander sighed. He had long marveled at how unlike his daughters were. The same father, the same mother, yet they had so little in common. Edana was practical to a fault, and as her sister intimated, usually as emotionless as a rock. Isolda, on the other hand, wore her emotions on her sleeve, and was hotheaded, as well. All were traits neither he nor his wife possessed to any great degree. It mystified him how children could turn out so unlike their parents.

“What do you think of the Badlands, Father?” Edana asked.

Alexander considered a moment. “They have an unusual . . . beauty . . . about them that I find most compelling.”

“Did you really just say ‘beauty'?” Isolda said.

“Quit teasing him,” Edana scolded. “I happen to agree.”

Isolda shook her head in disbelief. “What's gotten into the two of you? Father is always all business, and you wouldn't know beauty if it bit you on the hind end.”

“Isolda!” Alexander said sternly.

“Well, she wouldn't.”

Alexander turned to the window. It troubled him that they seemed to have more petty arguments of late. Secretly, he blamed Isolda. His younger daughter had become too temperamental. She acted bored half the time, and was sarcastic toward everyone about nearly everything. He didn't know what to do. He hoped it was a phase and nothing more.

Moments like these, he sorely missed his wife. She knew how to relate to the girls better than he did. Whenever Isolda acted up when she was little, it was his wife who invariably calmed her down and got her to behave.

It was rough, being a man and raising two girls. He did the best he could but secretly fretted that he didn't do enough. It didn't help that he was kept so busy at his job that they hardly ever did anything outside of their work.

Troubled, Alexander gazed out at the scenery.

The vistas beyond the carriage soothed him somewhat. The many buttes, with their flat tops and sheer sides sometimes splashed deep red by the sun, were spectacular. No less so were the mesas, towering tablelands of sandstone or limestone or basalt. In addition, there were rock spires and stone monoliths of all different sizes and shapes. All of that interspersed with tracts of prairie grass and verdant valleys.

The Badlands were a fascinating riot of diversity.

Just then the driver hollered down, “About a mile to Whiskey Flats. Just over the next rise.”

“Nice of him to let us know,” Edana said.

“I told him to,” Alexander said, and grinned. “So you two can fuss with your hair or whatever it is you do.”

“What is this place like?” Isolda asked. “This Whiskey Flats?” She said the name mockingly.

“In his last letter Mr. Wells wrote that I might be pleasantly surprised,” Alexander replied. “But to answer you, I'd warrant it's a typical frontier town. I only pray it has a church. Without one, vice tends to run rampant. Or so I've heard.”

“Do tell,” Isolda teased.