“I like the Army issue 1847 Musketoon, myself,” Mac grinned, “but my favorite for close-in work is this…” he reached behind him and half drew out a shotgun, with a checkered walnut buttstock, “Colt Model 1855 Revolving Percussion shotgun. Five-cylinder, 10-gauge, side hammer, thirty-inch barrel. Brand, spankin’ new. It can do some damage.”
Reuben shook his head appreciatively and whistled, “Now that is some fire power.”
Mac laughed, “Yep, a swiss cheese factory,” then he grew serious. “We will be crossing the Gasconade River five days from now. It ain’t as big as the Osage, in a few weeks, but it’s our first sizeable crossing,” Mac stated quietly. “Ever taken wagons across a river?”
“On the farm we had to drive the cattle across the river when we moved them from pasture to pasture. Every once in a while, we would have to get fence or other supplies, or the plow, to the other side and back, but I can’t say I have a lot of experience.” Reuben paused for a minute. “And to be honest, Mac, the Lahn is a slow-moving river. I have a feeling some of the water we’ll be encountering is much more wild and powerful.”
“Yep, you can bet on that. My right-hand man is going to have to learn how to traverse American rivers. Other stuff, too. I’ll teach you. There’s a trick to choosing the angle, which is pretty much based on current and depth, and finding the places on either bank that work. Preparation time before the first wagon hits the water might be more important than the actual ford. Pick a bad spot, or poor crossing points on either side, or misjudge the current, or what kind of bottom the river has, and you will lose wagons and animals, maybe people, sure enough.”
“I’m eager to learn, Mac. Anything you want to teach this greenhorn, you don’t need to ask first. I think every bit of ‘how-to’ I can pick up will certainly come in handy when establishing the ranch.”
“Where are you planning to build this ranch?”
“A place called Las Montanas Rojas, the Red Mountains, in an area known as the Uncompahgre.”
Mac whistled softly. “That’s the very southwest corner of the Kansas Territories. Hell, that’s the damn edge of the country, son. Makes the trek we are making look settled. Mexico still claims part of it.”
“The less people, the more land, Mac.”
Mac nodded. “I suppose you’re right. How big a spread you planning on?”
Reuben hesitated. “I don’t know yet. It will depend on what I need to spend to stock up and outfit. Everything else will go into the land. I hope to have several thousand hectares, about a third in bottom ground, if I can find the spot. I have two maps prepared by a scout my uncle in New York hired. There was supposed to be a third, but it never arrived, and the scout disappeared. The farm—I mean ranch—won’t really be all mine. It is for my family.”
Mac felt his eyes widen. “Several thousand hectares? Why, that’s almost five thousand acres. Where did you get that kind of stake, son?”
He could tell Reuben was carefully weighing his answer. He did not know his younger companion’s mind was back in the kitchen of the farmhouse in Prussia, with his three brothers, Erik, Helmon and Isaac, and his ailing father, Ludwig, at their kitchen table. Reuben was thinking of his father’s low, iron-firm voice and eyes boring into his. I have sent money in advance to Uncle Hermann in New York. In addition, your work coat is back from Marvin, the tailor. There are six diamonds sewn in the hem. The money is for supplies and cattle. Ludwig had paused. The diamonds, however, are for one thing only, to buy our land. They are to be used for nothing else.
Mac noticed the furrow in Reuben’s brow ease and the tension in his lips slip into a bemused half-smile. He looked at Mac. “Well, maybe I will have to set my sights lower. We’ll see. Time tells all tales.”
Shrewd, too, Mac thought as he leaned over and spat. The sorrel jerked, not keen to the shift in weight, and the spittle fell short of its mark. Mac shook his head in disgust, ran the long fingernails of his huge powerful hand through the wavy, wild tangle of his beard and held them up for inspection. His fingertips glistened with wet-brown stain. “Can’t you walk still and easy for more than a minute, Red?” He wiped his hand on his jacket. “Damn, that happens three or four times a day. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you do that on purpose, you sorry excuse for a horse.” Red seemed to roll back her eyes at her wide-shouldered master. She jerked her head up and down, tugging the reins through her rider’s lax grip.
A chuckle rumbled from Mac’s chest. “Yep, on purpose.” He rubbed his hand affectionately on the beginnings of mane that sprang from between her ears. “You sure do what you have to, though, when we have to, so I suppose I can take your jokes from time to time.”
Reuben’s smile widened. “How long have you had her, Mac?”
Mac sighed. “Going on ten years, I reckon.” He was silent for a moment recalling the day. “We was headed back to St. Louis from Cherry Creek. Twelve wagons filled with hides and such. Midsummer, if I remember right. There were a few Indians who didn’t take kindly to white men even back then, but in those days, for the most part, folks got along. Most problems was from half-breeds. Cherry Creek was just a bunch of tents and lean-tos. Hell, there was generally more Arapaho tipis then white man huts. Things have changed now, and I think the change that’s coming might be faster. Me and my brother, Randy, had started up a mercantile in a big field tent made of hides a Pawnee woman stitched together for us.”
He laughed. “Cost us a mirror, a blanket and a rusty musket back from the damn revolution, and I had to bed her a few times, though, I didn’t mind. Anyways, we had this crazy idea about bringing wagons back and forth for pay. Figured there’d be more and more folks headed west, and folks back East couldn’t get enough leathers and furs. We figured right. We were busier than we ever thought. And it just gets more and more busy. Didn’t have the money to buy a horse. Our folks brought us over from Ireland when we were wee tots. Good people, but they were dirt poor working and scratching a living out of some acres they cobbled together in the Ohio River Valley with my mother’s dowry. The wagon strings from the East in them days might be ten or fifteen rigs once or twice a year, ’cept for the big ones carrying fools to California with pick axes and shovels. Now we’re doing thirty to fifty rigs to Cherry Creek—sometimes three times between March and October if the weather lets us. And we ain’t the only outfit getting people across. Those mountains are like magnets to folks.” He paused and rubbed his chin.
“What happened the day you got Red?” prodded Reuben.
“Yep, well, got lost in some thoughts. Anyways, we seen heavy smoke from down river. We come around a bend. Seems two fool families tried to make the trek west to Cherry Creek on their own. Even back then there was safety in numbers. By what was left of their clothes, they were Mormons or some type of religious folks. Maybe they figured God would protect them. Folks who figure that are often real disappointed.”
“What do you mean by what was left of their clothes?”
“Well, whoever hit ’em—might have been renegades or maybe a rogue band of Indians—they left no tell-tale signs, even pulled their arrows. They killed them all, took whatever they wanted, then burned everything including the bodies. Must’ve found oil for the lanterns and poured it over the remains of those poor pilgrims. Was a damn nasty, smelly scene.” Mac felt his nose involuntarily wrinkle as he recalled the stench of burning flesh. “You couldn’t even tell if those children was boys or girls ’cept judging by the size of the bodies they could not have been much more than five, six, or seven years old. Their killers must have thought they took all the horses and mules— I guess one of the two rigs had mules judging by the tracks.” Mac saw Reuben was obviously transfixed by the story.
“There was a stand of cottonwoods right close. The outlaws must have hidden in those trees. While we were working the shovels trying to give those remains a decent burial, out bolts this mare. She was glad to see us, but she was mighty jumpy. There was more white in her eyeballs than brown. She could hardly keep
her hooves still. She just skittered around while we got the pilgrims settled, God rest their souls. Then I took a handful of grain and a rope, and caught her. Tied her to the back of one of the wagons. I rode her from time to time. There was a bit less ruckus each time. Guess we got to be friends.”
Mac leaned down, rubbed Red’s shoulder, straightened up in the saddle and spit out his wad of chew, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “So, are ya willing to be my assistant?”
“Assistant?” Reuben looked puzzled.
Mac chuckled. “Sure, you know, Lieutenant, right-hand man, goto hombre. Need me to spell it out in German for you, son?”
Reuben was obviously surprised. “Well, Mac, I appreciate the offer. The truth is, I’m learning. I think you may need someone older and more experienced to back you up.”
Mac peered into Reuben’s eyes. He said nothing. The muffled clop of the horse hooves in the fertile Missouri soil were the only sounds. He gave his next words careful thought, “Reuben, I liked you first time you and that tall blond-haired Norwegian, or whatever he is, came in the livery stable back in St. Louis when you were looking for horses and a wagon. You don’t get much chance to gauge a man out here. Things happen fast. You have to figure him quick, and size him up right, or there will be hell to pay.” He paused, and reached a meaty hand into his coat. He bit off a huge chunk of the chew stick, savoring the sudden burn of tobacco and cherry flavoring. He extended the chew to Reuben who shook his head.
“Don’t chew, eh? That’s a habit you have to pick up. It can be an awful good friend on the trail. Clears your nose and helps you think.” He stuck the tobacco back into his coat and turned his eyes back to Reuben.
“I know you’re green, but I figure you for a quick study. You got brains and fire. That’s a rare combination. I think you got guts, too. But I figure you’ll have plenty of chances to prove me right or wrong on that score over the next two months. I’m more interested in the man who backs me up, than whether or not there are things he needs to learn. You up for the job?”
Reuben held Mac’s eyes with a steady gaze. “I don’t suppose there’s any pay involved?”
Mac slapped his thigh and Red did a sideways prance, alarmed at the clap of flesh meeting canvas-denim. “Whoa there, you cantankerous critter. Now that’s exactly the question I’d expect from a Hebrew fellow. No. No pay.” He tried hard not to laugh, but finally burst out with a loud guffaw and Reuben joined in.
“My father taught me well, Mac. Used to go to the cattle auctions with him.”
“I hear you Jewish families all stick together. I guessed, but it figured, you being from Prussia, and that last name Frank, and all. Makes no nevermind to me. Not interested in the God you worship, just your grit.”
“Fair enough,” Reuben extended his hand. Mac leaned over and shook it, his massive paw engulfing Reuben’s. That’s settled, he thought, feeling a sense of satisfaction.
“Mac, do you stop the wagons during the day so folks can rest up, and the ladies can have some privacy?”
Mac felt a stir of annoyance. “We have a schedule to keep, son. We get to these rivers too late and we’ll be fighting snowmelt from the mountains. It’s easy to get jammed up for a week.” A sudden thought struck him. He shot Reuben a sly smirk, “That pretty little dark-haired thing put you up to asking me?”
The reddening in Reuben’s dark complexion gave him away. “You poking her, son?”
“What?” Reuben looked astonished.
Mac started to laugh. He couldn’t control himself. His laughs boomed off the trees and a flock of starlings resting on their journey north, squawked in protest and flew from their perches on the barren limbs of several oak trees, the combined beat of their hundreds of wings making a whooshing sound.
Mac felt the tears in his eyes, and he finally had to fumble a kerchief from his back pants pocket. “Damn, son you aren’t that tenderfoot are you? You’re a man, she’s very fine looking woman, and only a fool could miss the looks you were shootin’ at each other when you were loading the wagons on the ferry barge. I just put two plus two together and guessed.”
Reuben shook his head, still looking somewhat shocked. “No, Mac, Rebecca and I really don’t have a relationship. It’s more like a cat and dog circling around one another in a yard. Sometimes our tongues are out, sometimes we’re just growling.”
Mac studied Reuben’s face. Wistful, maybe? “Sorry if I offended you, Reuben. Didn’t mean to intrude. Just doing some people math, that’s all.
“Now, about stopping the train. We have to be mighty careful. We can’t lose time, and we don’t want to be vulnerable. We do have more females than typical. I think there’s forty-six, counting youngsters. Maybe we will take five-minute stops midmorning, and midafternoon. I’ll talk about that when we get together to eat that pig tonight.” Mac glanced up at the sun beginning to fade into the gold of late day. “That’s not all too far off. I want everyone knowing the rules, and I want to start getting their minds right about some unpleasantness that’s likely to come our way and for that river crossing. It won’t be the toughest that we do, but the first one’s always the most interesting.”
He pushed the edge of his hat back and scratched his forehead. “I’ll call you forward when we stop and show you how to organize the train in a night circle without these pilgrims running each other over. Let everyone know that after they get set up for the night we will meet at the supply wagons for dinner and some talk.”
He ran his thick, dirty fingers through his beard, thinking. “Probably have to split that hog into quarters over several roasting pits, otherwise we will be there all night. Tell everyone to come down about an hour after dark.”
Reuben started to wheel Lahn around and Mac called out after him, “Tell the menfolk to bring their guns. We won’t need ’em tonight, but I want folks building good habits early. It might keep them alive.”
CHAPTER 9
MARCH 18, 1855
AMONGST FRIENDS
The first pastel hint of evening colored the cumulus clouds that hung suspended to the west. Reuben had made it a point to spend a few minutes talking with the pioneers in each wagon. Those of city origin were wondrous and wide-eyed, nervous and excited. The country folks were more at ease, but obviously enthused with the adventure of the moment. He was struck by the sense of shared purpose, hope, and spirit that bound this wide array of personalities. The powerful commonality was different than anything he had seen or felt in Europe. The energy was manifested in the voice, manners, and gestures of each and every person he talked to. He tried to define it in his mind but could not.
The only negative interaction had been with the obnoxious Irishman, Jacob, earlier in the day. His curiosity about the how and why of Sarah being with that burly, abrasive man grew steadily from the moment of the first surprising sight of the Edinburgh shipmates— together, no less—as he galloped by their rig in the early morning, checking the line of wagons for Mac. Now he had again ridden up alongside Jacob’s side of their rig to let them know of the wagon master’s plans for the evening. Sarah smiled radiantly at him, over Jacob’s head, a definite blush in her cheeks, her eyes dancing. “Good afternoon, Reuben.”
He was reminded of the first times he had met each of them. Jacob and he had been oil and water from the moment of their first brief encounter on the wharf in Portsmouth as Jacob roughly shouldered his way past him and Johannes when boarding the Edinburgh. Johannes had been even more vehement in his instant dislike of the shady, belligerent immigrant from Ireland. What was it Johannes had said when I commented that Jacob didn’t seem like a nice fellow? Reuben pondered, Oh, Yes, “More than that, Reuben, he’s far worse than that.”
Sarah had embarked in Portsmouth, too, as had Rebecca. The scene replayed in a flash in his mind. It was just several months ago, but it seemed like years, that he and Johannes had been aboard the Edinburgh since Bremen. They had returned from a leg-stretch down the wharf, had their encounter with Jacob, and Johannes
had left him leaning on the rail, fascinated by the bustling wharf, the frantic commercial ship traffic, and the grand military might of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy on display in the busy harbor.
As Sarah had begun to ascend the boarding ramp, her slim figure and red hair caught his attention. Their eyes had met, and she stumbled on the gangplank. Even from that distance, he could see the mortified scarlet bloom in her cheeks. During the voyage, he’d had short conversations with her at the rail along the bow of the Edinburgh, salt spray on their faces. And he could still remember her delicate touch on his arm when, days later, they found themselves together in the animated throng of passengers shouting and pointing at their first glimpse of America. “Oh, my, there it is,” she had said, “the Harbor and Ellis Island!” How pretty she had looked at that moment, how unafraid.
He checked Lahn’s gait, slowing to the speed of the wagon, and tipped his hat to her again. “Hello, Sarah,” he said, smiling. He shifted his eyes to Jacob and he felt the involuntary tightening of his lips. He nodded curtly and heard the coldness in his own voice. Perhaps, he mused a twinge of jealousy too, “Jacob.”
Sarah spoke again, with obvious enthusiasm. “Oh, Reuben, how nice of you to come visit us.”
“Just want to tell you that we will be taking breaks twice a day, morning and afternoon, like the one a few hours ago for ladies and for stock, to check equipment, and stretch out just a bit. But they’ll be short. We are going to camp a bit early this afternoon, learn how to circle up the wagons and get organized after this first day on the trail. Also, Mac is roasting a pig tonight at the supply wagons, and everyone is invited. He wants folks to meet one another, and he wants to talk to the group. We are all going to have to work together. It’s a mighty long, hard way from here to there.”
Maps of Fate Page 7