Thunder on the Plains (35 page)

A very small-built man looked up at him. “Yes?”

“I'm looking for General Casement.”

The man rose, and Colt forced himself not to grin or look surprised at how short he was. He guessed the man couldn't be more than five feet and a couple of inches.

“I'm General Casement.” The words were spoken crisply, and there was an authoritative air about him in spite of his stature. He barked an order to another man inside his quarters and the second man jumped to obedience, quickly leaving to procure the coffee Casement had asked for.

“My name is Colt Travis, and I'm looking for work,” Colt told the general. “I've done a lot of scouting, heard you're in need of somebody like me.”

“That's a fact. What's your experience?”

Colt removed his hat. “Before the war I led wagon trains west, since I was fourteen years old. I've been to Oregon and California, know the land, know the Indians. I can speak Cheyenne and Sioux and a couple of other tongues, and I'm not afraid to work alone out on the Plains. In fact, I prefer it that way. I rode for the Pony Express for a few months.”

Casement looked him over. “We just lost a good scout. I hope you know what you're up against. If it's been awhile since you associated with any Indians, you'll find things have changed. By the way, you look Indian yourself.”

“Part Cherokee, sir, but I was raised by a white father.”

“Hmmm. Well, as I was saying, you might discover that parlaying with the Indians isn't as simple as it might once have been for you. They are no longer in a very sociable mood, and they view this railroad as an intrusion on their land, something that is scaring away the game, that sort of thing.”

“I'm aware of the Indian situation. I know how they think. I really am good at what I do, General Casement, and I need the work.”

The man studied him more, taking a seat. “With that southern drawl of yours, you must be a Confederate.”

“No, sir. I fought for the Union. Spent about a year at Andersonville before the war ended.”

“Andersonville!” A new respect moved into the man's eyes. “You're lucky to be alive, Mr. Travis.”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Well, we have all sorts of men on that crew out there—northern
and
southern, which makes it damn hard to keep order and keep them out of fights, but I do it. I don't tolerate laziness, fighting, or drinking, Mr. Travis. And for a job like yours I usually require references.”

Colt thought about Sunny. A man couldn't get a better reference for a job like this one than from the woman who owned part of the whole project. She'd tell the man to hire him in a second, he guessed, but he didn't want to get the job that way. Casement would probably wire her, and then she'd know where he was. Much as he told himself there was nothing wrong with seeing her again, he preferred not to, not even sure himself why it mattered. He would just rather she didn't know he was doing this. With the hundreds of men who worked for the U.P., someone like Sunny probably didn't know the names of any of them other than the upper echelon who owned and managed the railroad. Only men like Casement were concerned with the names of the common workers, so it was unlikely Sunny would ever know what he was doing.

“Well, sir, I used to have some letters on me from people on wagon trains I took to Oregon and such, people who recommended me for this kind of work; but with the war and all, somehow I've lost them. I guess you'll just have to take my word.”

“Well, I'm a pretty good judge of men, and you have an honesty about those white man's eyes of yours. You certainly look like a hardy, robust man who can take care of himself.”

“I've done my share of fighting, sir, against Indians and in the war. I've got the scars to prove it.”

Casement scrutinized the scar over his right eye. “Yes, I can see that.” The man rose again. “What I need is a man who will ride the perimeter of the camp, Travis—keep an eye open for Indian attack. Believe me, we get them often. The Cheyenne are on a real rampage. I need a man who can spot trouble well before it reaches us, a man with a good horse who can ride fast and get back here to warn us so we can be ready. We keep a good supply of carbines for the men. When trouble comes, they drop their tools and pick up rifles. Things can get pretty wild out here sometimes.”

“I'm your man, sir. Just give me the chance to prove it.”

“All right. The pay is two dollars a day. Follow me. I'll explain how the camp operates.”

Casement led him outside, and Colt felt like a giant as he walked behind the man. He figured that whatever Casement lacked in stature, he must have made up for in ability, or the Union Pacific would not have hired him. It was obvious only a man of extreme authority and determination could keep this project running smoothly. His secretary returned with the coffee, and Casement took it from him, sipping on it as they walked. Colt noticed that men seemed to jump at the little general's command or work a little harder when they knew he was watching them.

Casement stopped in front of one of the three huge boxcars that were part of what he told Colt was the work train. “Never stops rolling,” he told Colt. “Keeps advancing as fast as the rails are laid. These bunker cars are where the men sleep, eighty-five feet long they are—regular rolling hotels. There's a triple deck of bunks inside, hammocks slung underneath some of them. The three cars can house up to four hundred men if some of them pitch tents on the tops of the cars. The car between mine and the housing cars is the dining car. We can feed only a hundred and twenty-five men at a time, so you have to eat in shifts. You'd be welcome to the sleeping quarters and the food when you're in camp, but of course if you're doing your job right, you won't be around most of the time. One end of the car where my quarters are is a kitchen and storeroom. And, of course, most of our meat comes from the cattle you see grazing to the north of the tracks.”

The man had to nearly shout to be heard because of the noise of the camp.

“You just missed seeing the big timers of the U.P.,” the general continued as both men walked past several horse-drawn wagons piled high with railroad ties. “Dr. Durant and his bunch were out here just a few days ago, threw a big party right out on the prairie to celebrate the U.P.'s arrival at the one hundredth meridian, nearly two hundred fifty miles out of Omaha. It was quite a bash—a couple of congressmen, celebrities of all sorts, and Miss Sunny Landers and her fiancé were also along. The men were falling all over each other to get a look at Miss Landers, but, of course, none of this motley crew was allowed anywhere near Durant and his bunch in their fancy frocks and top hats.”

“I've, uh, I've heard of Miss Landers,” Colt answered, wondering why it bothered him more than it should have when the man mentioned Sunny's fiancé. “So, she's engaged, is she?”

“Yes, to that Blaine O'Brien fellow. Everyone says it's about time. They've been seeing each other for years, but Miss Landers has been so involved with the U.P. and Mr. O'Brien with his new logging industry and his own businesses in New York that they've just never been able to set a date. I think the wedding will take place sometime next year.”

Colt struggled against the ridiculous feeling of hurt and disappointment. Sunny was doing exactly what she should. He forced himself to pay attention to Casement as the man explained more to him about the railroad camp.

“These men are not an easy bunch to keep organized and under control,” the general was saying, “but by God they know they'd better stick to it or they're gone. We've got a mixture here of Civil War veterans like yourself, as well as German and Irish immigrants, Mormons, southerners who have lost their homes, drifters, prospectors, even a few Negroes—freed slaves needing work. They're a hardworking bunch when kept in line, but I don't like the damn tent towns full of gamblers and whores that follow them. There's one just a couple of miles to the east, and I imagine they'll be moving on farther west soon to keep up with us. They're good at bilking these men out of their hard-earned money, but I suppose if a man is foolish enough to let such riffraff take him for everything he has, there isn't much I can do about it. At the same time, they all know that if the whiskey and women keep any man from doing a proper day's work, he's through with the U.P.”

The camp was filled with the shouts and curses of men, the banging of mauls, the occasional hiss of steam and sound of the whistle from the work train's locomotive. Men swarmed everywhere, some hauling ties from the wagons, others pounding spikes. A team of men hurried past Colt to pull a steel rail from a horse-drawn cart, the very last vehicle between the work train and the crew. Two men took hold of the end of a rail and pulled, the rest of the gang grabbing hold as the rail slid free of the cart. They ran with the rail to its required spot, a foreman gave a command, and the rail was dropped in place, after which the spike crew hurried forward and secured it.

Colt was astounded at the speed with which the rail was placed. He noticed Casement had his pocket watch out and was observing the whole process. “Thirty seconds,” he said. “Very good.” He looked up at Colt and smiled proudly. “With two rail gangs we can drop four rails a minute,” he bragged. “Those rails weigh five hundred pounds each, but if things are organized, they can be handled like sticks of wood.” He watched two more rails put in place. “When Dr. Durant contracted with me for this job, I promised him speed and efficiency, and that is what he will get. The man has a lot of money invested in this, as does Miss Landers and a lot of others, including the government. The sooner the railroad is completed, the sooner it can begin earning money for itself. Besides that, we're in a little race with the Central Pacific, Crocker and Strobridge and that bunch. We don't intend to come in second on how many miles of track we can lay in a day. The competition is part of the reason these men are willing to work so hard. They don't want to be outdone by Strobridge and his little Chinese men.”

“Chinese? I've seen a few in California. The Central Pacific is using them?”

Casement laughed. “That's what I'm told. I guess for their size they work pretty good, but these men don't have any use for those little yellow people. They sure, don't want to be outdone by them, so they just work all that much harder.”

Colt noticed that the rail cart was nearly empty, and that the bed of the cart had rollers in it, making it easier to slide the rails out. Another cart was on its way, bringing a load of rails from the flatcar of the work train that held the bigger supply. As soon as the first car was empty, men literally dumped it off the track to make room for the next cart, which was pulled along at a fast gallop so that the rhythm of the work was not interrupted. Behind it was another horse and cart full of rails, waiting for its turn.

“Those carts are very light,” Casement told him as they watched several more men right the empty cart, unhitch it, and run with horse and cart back to the flatcar full of rails, reposition the horse and cart and begin reloading it. A second train was parked to the east of the work train; and it contained even more rails. Men worked at that end just unloading rails and bringing them to the flatcar at end of track for loading onto the carts. “That first train will head back for Omaha soon to pick up more rails,” Casement told him. “It's a never-ending process, Mr. Travis—bring out the supplies, load them onto the work train, bring them to the end of the track on the carts and back again. When well orchestrated, the entire procedure reminds me of a kind of dance, don't you think? In fact, these men have a nickname—gandy dancers, some kind of Irish term. Each man has a specific duty. The work train and the supply train behind it provide everything needed to keep us supplied, fed, and housed, as well as everything needed to lay tracks with speed and efficiency. We even have a blacksmith shop. I tell you, this whole thing is a grand machination of men, contractors, subcontractors, engineers, foremen, surveyors, graders, rust eaters—uh, that's what we call the men who handle the rails—spike men—an absolutely beautiful movement of muscle and iron. We have a lot to prove to the disbelievers, Mr. Travis, and we're doing it.”

It was obvious the general was proud of his own expertise at keeping everything in order, and Colt couldn't help being impressed. “I can certainly see that,” he answered. There was movement everywhere, a general feeling of anxious determination to get the job done. His own excitement was due in part to knowing what an achievement this must be for Sunny, to come out here and see the progress being made, a railroad edging its way across a continent, just like her father dreamed could happen.

“We've had a hell of a time getting proper timber for the ties,” Casement was telling him. “There's nothing out here but damn cottonwood, and even that can be found only along the river. It's nearly useless as far as durability, but we burnettize it, impregnate it with a solution of zinc chloride. That helps strengthen it. At any rate, with the difficulty in getting good cedar and oak ties shipped in from Minnesota, we have to make do with mostly these cottonwood ties. What we do is mix them on a ratio of four of the cottonwood ties to one strong, durable one. Eventually, the cottonwood ties will have to be replaced, but there will be time for that once the railroad is finished. Right now speed is essential.” The man looked up at him, sticking his thumbs into the armholes of his vest. “Well, you're welcome to go over to the storage car and get whatever supplies you'll need, food and ammunition and such.”

“I'm pretty well stocked for now.”

“Good, then you might as well get started, Mr. Travis. There's no time like the present. Oh, and any wild game you can kill—antelope, even buffalo, is a welcome change—helps us preserve the beef.”

Colt nodded, wondering, with all the noise and ruckus, how the man could think there would be much wild game anywhere close. He could understand why the Cheyenne hated this, but he was wise enough to understand there was no stopping it. He remembered White Buffalo's last words—that he should leave while they were still friends. If he was going to work for the Union Pacific, he would most certainly be considered an enemy. It made him sad to think of it, but he needed the work.