Randy’s head jerked up, a smile momentarily cutting through his grief. “Met someone? You? I’ll be damned.” He chuckled humorlessly. “What’s Buck say to this?”
Zeb smiled, held out his hand and Randy rose and shook it. “I know bringing me the news and Mac’s stuff didn’t bring you no pleasure. Thanks.”
Zeb nodded his head once, turned to go and then turned back. “Your supply wagons are up with the train. John got his leg shot up in another little run-in we had with some renegades. We left him in Fort Kearney to mend. I ‘spect he will be along later this summer.”
“Charlie?”
“Dead. The Pawnee.”
Randy shook his head.
“I’ll get the supply wagons down to ya in the next day or two. Most likely’ll be several folks down from the train on their way south to get cattle. One is named Reuben—dark-haired, young, on the quiet side, about six foot. Not big, but powerful. Rides a tall palomino. His sidekick is Johannes—Danish accent, very tall, blond, soldier-type. You’ll recognize the army in him right off. He lost his woman up there on Two Otters Creek. Reuben was Mac’s assistant…and friend. Mac was teachin’ him. The survivors voted him head honcho after Mac was kilt. Did a good job of bringin’ the wagons in. Smart as a whip and tough. Has a pearl-handled Colt Navy he carries low on the right hip. One of them holsters you don’t see much of. They need a couple of good hands. If you know of any, give them their names.”
Randy’s eyes widened. “A pearl-handled Colt? You said you had a run-in with renegades. Is this the kid that shot six of ‘em out of the saddle in less than half a minute?”
“You heard about that already?”
“Hell, the whole territory has heard about it. We heard from some army when they came through, headed south to powwow with the Ute. And they heard from some Mormon wagons coming through Fort Laramie headed toward Salt Lake—which reminds me, I got some letters for your folks that got dropped off a few weeks ago by the stage out of Fort Laramie. They had heard about it from someone along the trail, too. Is it true?”
Zeb nodded slowly. “Yep, it’s true. In all, we took eight out of that bunch. Must’ve been thirty to start with. It was Black Feather’s band, Randy.”
The bearded man’s shoulders jerked, “You mean that scarred scum that burned out your family’s farm back there in Missouri when you were a tyke?”
“Yep.”
Randy looked at him closely. “He still alive?”
Zeb felt his lips purse tightly. “He is.”
Randy shook his head, “Let me fetch them letters for you.” He turned and walked heavily into a back room. Zeb stood, slowly stroking one side of his mustache.
Randy’s hand shook slightly as he sorted each envelope, handing some to Zeb. “You got a Rebecca Marx on your train?”
“Sure do. She’s Reuben’s woman.” Zeb chuckled, “Though neither of ‘em will admit it. A real lady, from London, temperamental but a spine of steel and the best damn female shot I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, there’s two letters to her from England and another here for Reuben. I think it’s from Prussia, if I can read it right. A long damn way for letters to travel.”
“Well, maybe that’s because it’s a long damn way.”
Randy wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, bit his lip and handed the stack of envelopes to Zeb. “Here, I can’t focus too good. Check them over and make sure they are all in your bunch.”
Zeb sifted through the letters, mouthing the names as he carefully and slowly read them. He handed two back to Randy. “That gal and feller is dead. Cholera.”
“I’ll make sure they get returned with a note,” said Randy, placing them gently on the counter.
“One more thing, Randy, if you wouldn’t mind doing me a favor?”
“Sure, Zeb.”
“You know Mac was awful attached to that mare. Feisty, obstinate, damn sorrel. Never saw that horse take a likin’ to anyone other than Mac—and this Rebecca woman. She and that horse get along well—same personalities. I offered the horse to her cause I figured Mac would’ve done the same. But she thinks she might be going back to England. So—I’d consider it a personal favor if you give that horse to her if she decides to stay and says she wants it. She was good friends with Mac and I’m sure he would’ve had it that way, too.”
“I’ll do that, Zeb.”
Zeb strode from the store into the bright sunlight. He slowly untied Buck from the hitching post and, arrested by an unexpected vision of Sarah’s smile, paused with one toe of his high-top moccasins in the stirrup and one hand on the saddle horn. There’s been enough death.
He swung into the saddle,“Let’s get back to the wagons, Buck. I think I’m going to take me a walk. You’re gonna have to amuse yourself for a spell.” Buck craned his neck back toward him, then pointed his muzzle forward and shook it impatiently against the reins, stepping into a trot.
CHAPTER 2
May 27, 1855
GIRL TALK
Seven miles northeast of where Zeb was giving Randy the painful news of Mac’s death, Sarah stood on the rough ground of a small rise, surveying the circle of prairie schooners and Conestogas that lay fifty feet east of her. Their once bright, canvas tops were muted and streaked with the rigors of a thousand miles of weather, river crossings, sun and dust. Many had bullet holes or patches where arrows from that horrible day back on Two Otters Creek had torn the rigging. The customary small, cautious evening cook fires had been replaced by several large fires, thigh-high flames licking the cool clear air, clusters of pioneers excited to finally have arrived at Cherry Creek, trading stories, sharing plans, reviewing goals and saying goodbyes.
Sarah snuggled into her shawl, then laid a blanket on the ground and sat down, curling her legs under her until she was comfortable. She hadn’t wanted to be part of the jubilant crowd. She had had little time to herself since leaving Liverpool and had much to think about. I am not the same woman who had eagerly embarked the SS Edinburgh in Portsmouth Harbor five months ago. The surety of continuing her English seamstress career with her Aunt Stella in New York had evaporated and her dream of opening her own shop had—at the very least— been postponed. She had made new, close and unexpected friends during the journey west and, sadly, had lost some of them.
Below her stretched the broad basin of the South Platte, low-lying folds of lands that seemed to stretch and roll forever. The fires and occasional oil lamps of the several hundred residents of Cherry Creek shined far away, lonely flickers of light in a land of creeping shadows, their luminescence, like the faintest stars, daring the approaching night. I have lost my innocence…and carry his spawn in my belly. Conceived not of love but rape. At the thought, anger rose from her womb and her teeth bit into her lower lip. Tears came to her eyes and the expanse before her blurred. She blinked them away and looked to the west. The sun hung suspended behind dark, silhouetted mountains, the thin layers of softly glowing clouds laced with silver and bold strokes of fiery orange-red. Underlying them, a deepening purple sifted down from the highest peaks and curled around the foothills, spreading like a fog of color across the rolling plains. This land, the people; I had no idea how it would call to me. Transfixed by the sheer power of the scene, Sarah felt tiny and insignificant yet empowered at the same time. So many choices.
Her attention was diverted by three ground squirrels, a mother and two babies, thirty feet in front of her. Sarah cocked her head to the side and smiled. “Cute,” she said aloud. The mother studied her two young kits, wiggling her nose with an apparent air of bored detachment.
She watched as the two young squirrels wrestled playfully. Suddenly, one turned and antagonistically knocked the other over, biting it. The injured sibling squealed and the mother chattered angrily. Sarah felt a sharp twinge in her belly. She held her hand to her rounding stomach, trying to soothe the pain. The squirrels ran down the rise, disappearing in the grass, the smaller of the two kits limping where the other had bitten it.
&nb
sp; As she watched the animals disappear, she saw Rebecca walking toward her from the wagons. The petite, curvy brunette—though not swathed in London’s finest that she loved so much—was clothed in a loose-fitting, light, riding dress, the high quality, pleated wool skirt clinging to the curve of her hips. A deep blue cotton shirt peeked above the cardigan top of an expensive grey knit woolen sweater, the ends of her dark brown, almost black hair falling over her shoulders. That she remained the best-dressed woman on the wagon train was unquestionable. “Sarah, may I join you?” she asked, her smile somewhat obscuring the angry red, unhealed scar over her upper right lip.
Sarah patted the blanket beside her and Rebecca gathered up her riding dress and sat down heavily, slightly off balance, almost rolling backward.
“That was graceful, milady Marx.”
Rebecca laughed. “Wasn’t it?”
Rebecca looked out over the landscape, breathed in deeply, held it and then slowly exhaled. Sarah studied her profile, high cheekbones, evocative curve of nose and almost perfect lips. Rebecca had also embarked on the Edinburgh at Portsmouth but they had not begun as friends. Their competitive interest in Reuben—Rebecca aloof and sarcastic and Sarah unimpressed with Rebecca’s overdone high society demeanor—had fueled their immediate abrasion. They had sniped at one another throughout the five-week voyage, even during immigration at Castle Garden before they had gone their separate ways—neither of them anticipating how the threads of their lives were destined to interweave again.
The two women sat silently side by side, watching the shadows elongate as the high peaks absorbed the sinking sun, one bright, yellow bit at a time. “It truly is magnificent,” Rebecca said, an unmistakable note of wonder in her voice. Sarah said nothing. The moment spoke for itself. She drew the shawl up over her shoulders, the temperature dropping in concert with the disappearing sun. The painful twinge in her stomach seemed to be gone.
“Sarah,” Rebecca was looking at her with earnest, wide eyes, “Can you remember England?”
“Sometimes it’s difficult,” she admitted. “I have flashes at times. The inside of our sewing shop, the jostle of shoulders when I walked to the market but it wasn’t long after we left St. Louis that I could not even remember the smell.”
Rebecca nodded. “I can’t recall the color of the front door to our London home—not even the color of the marble steps or how many up to the landing.”
“And the sound. You know, Rebecca, that constant noise that you only notice when you don’t hear it?”
“There was a night on the wagons,” said Rebecca, staring at the last remnants of sun, “that I sat on the banks of the Missouri and realized what was important only months ago was fuzzy, dreamlike—somehow, it seemed like forever. London is like a book I read long, long ago. Not the place where I used to live.”
“I know, Rebecca, I know. My anticipation of America was the hustle, bustle and throngs of New York, working in my Aunt Stella’s shop, saving money to open my own. I really had no idea—”
“—that this,” Rebecca swept her arm grandly, “could exist.”
Sarah turned to her, surprised at how effortlessly Rebecca had finished her thought. She put her arm around the brunette’s shoulders. Rebecca did the same and they leaned their heads together.
“It changes you somehow,” whispered Rebecca.
Sarah nodded, feeling Rebecca’s hair brush her cheek as she moved her head. “Perhaps more than change, it alters you—as if you’ve stepped into a bright sunny room with no walls and you can’t go back.” She paused for a moment. “Have you decided, Rebecca?”
Rebecca sighed. “There is so much to consider. For some reason, I expected Cherry Creek to be more than it is.…”
Sarah started to laugh, pointing at the sparse cluster of lights all but swallowed in the massive descending blackness. She flourished her hand with an exaggerated grandeur. “Imagine, a great city!”
Rebecca chortled. “Reuben let me look through Mac’s telescope this afternoon when he and I rode. I couldn’t hold it very still but I got the impression that it is one dusty street and part of another, all less than a block long. I’m not even sure there is a solicitor there. I’ve no idea how I am going to conduct business or get my family’s land sold…if that’s my ultimate decision.” After several seconds of silence, she added, “It seems I have come a great distance, yet not arrived.”
“I know. I shared your anticipation of Cherry Creek but there seems to be but a few buildings. It’s more an Indian village,” Sarah sighed. “I had no idea. I’m not even sure there’s a place to set up a sewing shop—or that there would be any customers. Maybe they are all like Zeb and they do their own sewing.”
That thought made them both laugh. “I’m sure there are still plenty like me down there who wouldn’t know,” Rebecca said, “and who don’t want to learn which end of the needle to use.”
Sarah’s head jerked with a thought. The maps. Jacob’s stolen gold map was now in the secret compartment at the bottom of her carry bag, along with her money. “Rebecca, did you get the opportunity to ask Reuben about the map?”
“No, he’s been too preoccupied with the excitement of getting to Cherry Creek. And he has said some odd things. I think he knows good and well that Jacob did not die by the Pawnee.”
Sarah was startled. “Reuben’s very much in love with you. You know that, Rebecca, don’t you? And…and…you told Inga and me that you had…” Sarah carefully considered her words, “…you had been with him.”
Rebecca shook her head, “It does not matter. I know he cares for me….” Her voice trailed off and she looked up into the sky. “And our passion is…is far more intense than even my wildest wonderings before I gave him my virginity but I’m not sure that it is love. In the end, Sarah, we all have our own paths.”
Sarah fell silent, thinking about Rebecca’s words. The chatter from the large campfires drifted in the breeze. Below the small hill where they sat, the dim form of a horse and rider moved across the land toward them.
“It’s Zeb,” Sarah smiled. The mountain man dismounted where the ground squirrels had been, his buckskin-clad leggings blending with the color of the grasses as if he had grown from the land. He walked up the shallow rise toward them, Buck close behind.
“Hello, Zeb,” said Rebecca.
“Rebecca. Miss Sarah. Purty night.”
“I’m surprised to see you back, Zeb. For some reason I thought you’d stay in town, perhaps with Mac’s brother, Randy.” Sarah could see Zeb’s head shake against the light of the first stars. His hands moved in the fading light, the skin backlit when the fires behind them occasionally flared, their greedy flames feeding on yet unburned buffalo chips. Sarah realized he was rolling a cigarette.
“How did Randy take the news of poor Mac?” asked Rebecca softly.
“Good as can be expected.” Zeb shook his head, “but it ain’t sumthin’ I want to ever do again.”
“Oh, almost forgot,” Zeb said, reaching into his fringed jacket, his hand fumbling underneath the leather. He drew out three envelopes. “Seems to be mail for you, Rebecca. Got some for Reuben and a few of the others, too. I’ll go over and pass ‘em out. There was one for Thelma and the Doc,” he said in a low tone. “Randy will return them with a note.”
He handed Rebecca two envelopes. “And this one,” he flapped it back and forth, “is for Reuben. I can give it to him or you can; makes no never mind to me.”
“How did these letters get here before us, Zeb?”
“Stage has been running between Laramie and Independence since 1850. Occasionally, the army drops down this way from Laramie and when they do, they bring whatever’s up there that belongs to fellas down in Cherry Creek.”
He started to lift the cigarette to his mouth, then, sensing Sarah’s disappointment, added, “Sorry, Sarah, that’s all there was. I’m gonna go hand out these others. Would you walk with me?”
“How could any woman refuse such a gallant, well-mannered request?�
�� Sarah answered in a teasing voice. “I would be delighted to.”
Zeb stretched out his hand. Sarah took it and he pulled her to her feet. “I’ll be excited to hear what’s in your letters, Rebecca,” she said as they turned to go. “I hope it’s news from home.”
Rebecca stood at the rear of the wagon, the two letters clutched in one hand, Sarah’s blanket tucked under one arm, her other hand lowering the ladder. She paused for a moment, watching the petite redhead in a traveling dress and the tall, lanky mountain man, his fringed leather etched by the brightness of the fire as he stood passing out the letters. “That would be perfect,” she murmured to herself.
CHAPTER 3
May 27, 1855
GENTLE SURPRISE
Zeb and Sarah walked side-by-side toward the bonfires. Zeb stepped over the wagon tongue and held out his hand. Such a nice man. Sarah took it and he patiently helped her over.
The letters were quickly distributed, Zeb calling out “Mail!” and then the addressees’ names, struggling with the occasional pronunciation. The lucky pioneer generally ran to him, grabbing the envelope from his outstretched hand, turning immediately away and fumbling to open it with a muttered, “Thanks, Zeb.”
Sarah caught a glimpse of Rebecca, about to climb in their wagon, but pausing for a moment to look over toward the fire.
Several of the people around one fire tried to engage Zeb in conversation but he would have none of it. “Got things I got to take care of. We’ll talk in the morning before you pull out.”
The chore dispatched, they walked toward the far side of the circled wagons. Then she saw Johannes. His lithe six-foot-six form and blond hair, reddish in the firelight beneath the light colored, flat-brimmed cowboy hat was unmistakable. He was striding rapidly toward them leading his bay, Bente. “Sarah! Zeb!” he called out in a thick Danish accent, “I’m headed out, over the east ridge we crossed this afternoon. Got a night guard out in every direction, although we will rotate twice, instead of once, tonight. Tomorrow’s a big day and the men need time to get organized.” He smiled. “All are excited, as well they should be. I don’t want to keep anybody from their families too long tonight.”
Uncompahgre Page 4