Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  He looked down at the ground for a moment, fighting the tightening in his throat. “And she didn’t want me to stay, but I think someone needs to be with her.”

  “I’ll stay with her, Reuben,” Sarah said, touching him lightly on the forearm. “Don’t worry. Do what you need to do and if you need a private place to read your letter, use my wagon. There’s an oil lamp.”

  She smiled up at Zeb, her face soft and radiant. “Thank you, Zeb. I’ll think about that question.”

  “My pleasure, Sarah.”

  She lifted up the hem of her dress and walked quickly toward the wagon.

  Zeb and Reuben exchanged a long look. “I think you ought to mosey on out and talk with Johannes. He seems a might down in the mouth to me.”

  “I’ll do that Zeb, as soon as I read this letter.”

  “I’m gonna head down and camp maybe a third of the way toward those Arapaho tipis north of Cherry Creek. I probably know some of ‘em. I’ll head into their camp in the morning. Be back about midday and you can tell me what the plans are.”

  Reuben nodded and turned to go. “One more thing, son.”

  Impatient to read the letter from Erik, Reuben spun around. “Yes?”

  Zeb held his eyes. “I ain’t never lied to you and I never will. But I didn’t tell ya everything back there in St. Louis when you asked me to guide you.…” Zeb cleared his throat.

  “Oh?”

  “I’m a mite more than a little familiar with that country you’re headed to. My trapping cabins are on the sides of them mountains, the Red Mountains.”

  Reuben stood, absorbing the information. Zeb continued. “Know the country like the back of my hand. I know exactly where that ranch land is laid out on them maps of yours and Rebecca’s gold map, too. Same place. Fact is, there’s some mistakes in ‘em. I aim to help you get set up. It’ll still be a strange, wild land to you, but through me, you won’t be a stranger. We have all been headed to the same Red Mountains, Las Montanas Rojas de la Uncompahgre, since the git go.”

  Reuben began to say something but Zeb had already turned and was walking away, outside the circle of wagons.

  Reuben let his arm drop and shook his head. He hustled to Sarah’s wagon. Not bothering with the ladder, he vaulted up on the tailgate of the makeshift old farm wagon, stumbling in the dark, looking for the lamp, burning his fingers with a match. He got the lamp lit and looked around the interior. Sarah had thrown all of Jacob’s belongings, except his pistol and two marked decks of cards, into a heap and burned them two days before. She had found his hidden second pair of boots. After examining them, Zeb confirmed he was Mac’s murderer. Sarah burned them, too. She had moved her belongings back in to make more room in the prairie schooner where she was spending the nights and days with Rebecca.

  The wagon still held some of Jacob’s malevolent energy. “We ought to burn you, too,” he said aloud to the canvas. He thought about reading the letter elsewhere but this first news, this first touch from his family back in Prussia, could not be delayed. It was addressed to:

  “Herr Reuben Frank

  Cherry Creek

  Kansas Territory

  United States of America”

  Standing, he roughly tore open the envelope. The letter was only two paragraphs long:

  “March 10, 1855

  Dear Reuben,

  I write to tell you that Father has died….

  Still holding the letter with both hands, Reuben sat down on a crate, the letter on his knees, his legs shaking. He took a deep breath and blinked his eyes.

  The rest of us are fine. Not yet knowing the town near the new farm, I hope this address is correct.

  Reuben sighed. Erik, you have no idea. There are no towns. He continued reading.

  The farm is prospering. The cattle have had good weight gain with the early spring. Helmon and Isaac are the same; obstinate, overbearing and resistant to new ideas. They will never change. There’s talk of war with Denmark. The Jews, as usual, are being blamed for the unrest by those who need to do so.

  Helmon said to tell you hello. Isaac is still angry at you. I’m thinking seriously about coming to America. Helmon and Isaac will never leave the farm. I have been reading everything I can on the United States and missing you. I believe Father was right that night in the kitchen when he selected you to go. You are the right choice. I keep hearing his words, “America is the future. Where there is land, there is opportunity.” I will write you again soon.

  Love,

  Your Brother, Erik”

  Reuben looked at the date. Erik must have posted it soon after he and Johannes had arrived in St. Louis, maybe while they were still on the train between New York and Missouri. He folded the letter carefully, shoved it deep in his pants pocket and blew out the lamp. Jumping down from the wagon, he secured the tailgate and walked toward Lahn, a picture of his father’s strong green eyes in his mind.

  CHAPTER 5

  May 27, 1855

  A WORD TO THE WISE

  The muffled, sliding sound of Lahn’s hooves moving through grass and the occasional sharp, metallic tick of his shoes hitting rock cut through the still, chilled night air.

  “Mississippi,” came a voice out of the darkness.

  “It’s me, Reuben.”

  Johannes rode up to him, smoothly slipping his Sharps .52 caliber carbine into a cradled position in one arm.

  “You’re still using that password Mac gave us? Are you coming in tonight?”

  “No, Reuben. As Zeb would say, this suits me just fine.”

  Bente and Lahn were standing side-by-side, their noses pointed at the Rockies, a looming, forbidding mass of jagged dark silhouettes rising without texture in the night, blotting out a third of the western sky.

  Johannes turned his head in the darkness, looking at the mountains. “It is an enormous, dangerous, wild, exciting, spectacular country, Reuben. Coming all this way we had the support and company of other wagons, more than a hundred brave, strong men and women. From here on, it’s just us. I have a feeling this next leg over that country up there is going to make what we’ve done thus far feel like a close column drill on a parade ground.”

  “I suspect so,” said Reuben.

  “I’ll be direct, Johannes. Are you going to help with the push over the mountains and establishing the ranch down in the Uncompahgre?”

  There was a long silence. “When Johannes Svenson makes a promise, Reuben, he keeps it. That’s why I don’t make many.” He laughed in a sad, self-deprecating sort of way. “That, unfortunately, includes some promises I should have made.”

  “And then?” asked Reuben quietly.

  “And then, Reuben, my friend, I’m going to be what I am. A cavalry officer, as I was in Denmark. Knew it all along, I suppose, but facing off with that renegade band, the battle on Two Otters Creek, my talk with that Captain Henderson when we met up with the cavalry patrol from Fort Laramie—it’s all a message, a reminder that we are all what we are. There’s no changing it.” He sighed. “And, with Inga gone, no reason to.”

  “Got a letter from Prussia today. I just learned my father died in March. He chose me for this, you know. Even though he is…was…thousands of miles away, I had his support.” Reuben felt his throat constricting again.

  “We’re all going to die, Reuben. It is the inescapable circle. That’s why it is so important to live when you can,” Johannes paused, “And you still have his support.”

  Johannes’words struck a chord. Reuben’s eyes widened.

  “Have you asked her?”

  Reuben’s mind snapped back from where it had been, somewhere on the other side of those mountains. “Asked who?” And, as he said the words, he realized what Johannes meant.

  “That’s what I like about you Prussians. A quick wit.” The two men laughed.

  “So? Did you?” Johannes’ tone was serious and Reuben could feel his friend’s intent stare through the darkness.

  “I thought about it, but when I inquire if she’s go
ing back to England, she avoids answering. I tried to bring it up twice in the last two days. Each time, something interfered and I have this feeling that she’s glad she didn’t have to answer.”

  “Remember back there, that morning at Two Otters Creek?” Johannes voice cracked. “I told Inga we would talk that night.”

  Reuben nodded, silent. All too well.

  “Are you in love with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, my friend, a word to the wise. You need to tell her. Moments don’t come often, Reuben. It is the one thing I have learned since first looking in Inga’s eyes, back there on the train to St. Louis.” He sighed and looked up at the sky. “Don’t let a moment slip by, Reuben. You might not have it again.”

  Johannes reached a long arm over and slapped him on the back. “The worst she can say is, ‘No.’”

  CHAPTER 6

  May 27, 1855

  TORRID CONFUSION

  Reuben urged Lahn into a gentle lope directly toward the campfires, the landscape soft, silver and shimmering in the lunar light. The grievous news of his father’s sudden death and Johannes’ adamant advice to live his life heightened his determination. Father, how did you ask Mother? “Rebecca, I love you and I think you love me. It would be a good life if we married.”

  “That’s not too damn romantic, is it?” Lahn snorted. “Rebecca, I’m in love with you. Marry me.” Lahn snorted again.

  “Rebecca, we’ve had our disagreements. I learned tonight my father has passed away. It was a shock. But it reminded me of the shortness of life and the importance of family and love. And, somehow, from the first time I saw you on the Edinburgh, I knew I’d be honored to have you as my wife.” Reuben sighed. “That’s a bit better don’t you think, Lahn? I ought to get down on one knee. Father told us he did that with Mother.” Reuben felt a stab of loss as he recalled his mother smiling as Ludwig told the story to his sons. Erik had been her favorite. It would be nice if he came to America. Reuben shook his head at the night. No—he is too young. Helmon and Isaac will not allow it.

  Reuben’s jumbled thoughts returned to Rebecca and he stiffened. And flowers. Got to have some flowers. Reuben jerked back on the reins. “Easy boy, easy. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking, or maybe thinking too hard.”

  Dismounting from the palomino, he led the horse, bent over, his eyes searching the moonlit ground. He cut the leafy silver tops of several sage plants with his knife, cursing when he stumbled over a rock. He cut several stems of early black-eyed Susans, one of them with petals partially displayed, the others just buds. His eyes were arrested by several shoots of delicate, purple-blue-petaled blossoms. He quickly gathered a handful, then paused and looked up into the stars. “It is unlikely Father, that I shall ever be back to place flowers on your grave. So know I pick these not only for the woman I hope to marry but for you, too.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrists, then spent a moment arranging the stems. He held the wild bouquet out at arm’s-length against the starlight, critically surveying his handiwork. “It’ll have to do.” Carefully holding the flowers, he mounted.

  He skirted the outside of the circled wagons, determined not to be distracted by the pioneers gathered around the fires. He rode directly toward the soft amber glow of their wagon’s oil lamps, sliding off the saddle when he reached the rig, holding the flowers to one side. He hurriedly tied off Lahn on the customary rear wagon wheel. He thought he heard the murmur of Sarah’s and Rebecca’s voices as he rode up but the wagon was suddenly silent.

  He knocked tentatively on the tailgate.

  “Is that you, Reuben?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes.”

  He could hear the women whispering. His eyes rose to the sky. I need your help, Father. He shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, wiping the dust off the top of each boot on the calf of his britches. He waited a moment and cleared his throat. “May I come in?”

  Sarah unwrapped the ties from the rear of the canvas top, her figure appearing silhouetted by the oil lamp.

  Though her face was in shadow, Reuben thought her smile held an air of apprehension. “Please do, Reuben,” she answered.

  He opened the tailgate and Sarah lowered the ladder, then walked over to Rebecca and put her arm around the brunette, who was sitting up on her bedroll, the soft folds of a grey, brushed wool blanket drawn around her shoulders and snugged to her neck. Her face was puffy, her red eyes fixed on Reuben’s. Her gaze dropped to the flowers and a slight hint of a sad smile played on her lips. Ludwig’s face flashed across his mind. What has upset her?

  “I’m not interrupting?” The two women looked at one another, something in their shared glance completely female and alien.

  Rebecca moved her eyes from Sarah and stared at him. Reuben couldn’t be sure but the only time he had seen that look in her eyes was back on Badger Creek, the evening they stole away to passionately cleanse one another of the horror of the Pawnee attack.

  There was a silence and then Sarah rose. “Perhaps the two of you need some time. I will stay in my wagon tonight.”

  Leaning down, Sarah squeezed Rebecca’s hand and kissed her on the forehead. “If you need me, you know where I’ll be, Rebecca. I’m so sorry. It will be okay.” Rebecca looked up at Sarah and nodded. Sarah swept past Reuben with a pained expression, then laid her hand gently against his arm. She began to say something but then shook her head and clambered down the ladder.

  “What was she ‘so sorry’ about?” Reuben’s gaze returned to Rebecca only to find her still staring at him in the same odd way. He could feel a trickle of sweat running down his sides under his armpits. He cleared his throat, “Rebecca…ah…I…” He thought of his father and suddenly the timing seemed all wrong. This is a bad idea. Rebecca continued to look at him, unblinking, silent, her eyes misty.

  Reuben felt his shoulders drop and began to lower the wildflowers he held above his waist and slightly extended. They don’t look so good in the light.

  “Perhaps tomorrow would be a better time to talk.” Reuben began to turn toward the open rear of the wagon.

  “Wait, Reuben.” Rebecca rose and walked to him, reaching for the bouquet. She raised the sage and flowers to her nose and inhaled. “I am really beginning to love the smell of sage,” she said softly as she raised her eyes to his. She took a half step forward and wrapped her arms around him. There was a tremor in her embrace. “Hold me,” she murmured in a half sob into his chest.

  Does she know about my father? How could she?

  Reuben obliged, lowering his lips and kissing the top of her head. Rebecca’s arms tightened and he began to repeat the gesture but she raised her head and intercepted his kiss with her own—just a brush of parted lips at first, then an increased pressure tinged with passion. She carefully laid the bouquet down on the flat surface of a cartridge box. “Tie off the canvas, Reuben. Shut the tailgate.”

  Reuben felt his eyes widen at the command in her voice. He shut the rigging and closed the tailgate. When he rose and turned, Rebecca was standing just inches away, her brown eyes wide, teary, looking up into his, full of sorrow and something else Reuben couldn’t quite fathom. She slowly let the blanket fall from her shoulders. She wore nothing but a sheer silk chemise, almost transparent, every curve of her lithe young body glowing in the low light, the pink of her nipples erect, clearly visible and straining against filmy material.

  Despite his surprise, Reuben could hear the sudden rush of blood in his ears. It became a roar when she reached out one small, delicate hand and firmly cupped the rapidly increasing thickness below his belt.

  “Rebecca, I…”

  His voice was stilled as she raised her other hand to his mouth, touching his lips with the tips of her fingers.

  “Don’t talk, Reuben. Not a word.” Her fingers tugged at his belt and fumbled with the buttons of his breeches.

  He stepped back, gently pushing her hands away.

  She froze.

  Her lower lips trembling, she lowered her hands. “I
realize I must look a sight, Reuben.”

  Reuben sighed. “No, Rebecca, you are beautiful, as always.” He paused. “My father died.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh…” She sat down heavily on the bedroll and bent her head “Oh…” Her shoulders began to shake.

  A vision of Johannes carrying the limp, bloody body of Inga through the smoke from the wagons, a shovel dangling from one hand, his shoulders hunched, flashed before Reuben’s eyes. He sat down slowly on the blankets next to Rebecca and pulled her toward him. She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder and through his open jacket clenched his shirt with one hand. He stroked her hair quietly. She sobbed softly again. “My mother died, Reuben, on the very day the wagon train left St. Louis.”

  Reuben’s hands, by their own volition, stopped their motion as he struggled to comprehend this torrent of conflicting passion and emotion. “I’m so sorry, Rebecca,” he whispered into her hair. “Neither of us has had good news from across the ocean tonight. A part of each of our hearts is gone.”

  She shook her head into his jacket, dropped her hand to his knee and slowly traced his inner thigh, hesitating just below the “V” in his pants. She pulled her head back and stared into his eyes. “I need you Reuben.” Her voice cracked. “We need each other.”

  Reuben felt lost, swimming in the sea of their combined grief, pulled by the tide of his love and awash in a sudden wave of desire for her. He nodded almost imperceptibly at the question in her eyes.

  This time, her fingers were gentle as they worked at the constraints of his belt. Reuben shed his jacket, then reached down to help her. His trousers open, she reached in and held him firmly, her small fingers not quite encircling his girth. Her eyes, still tear-filled, never left his, the sheen of the dimming oil lamps accentuating the slight, moist part of her lips. She rose, blew out the oil lamp and then standing in front of him, pushed him down on the blankets. Grabbing one of his boots, then the other, she slid them off and then stripped his trousers and long johns from his lower body. Her curves were backlit by the campfires of the circled train, filtering through the wagon top. Reuben’s mind was racing, his body alive with surprise and passion, his thoughts numbed by their combined loss. He realized he was painfully rigid, the insistent throbbing in his loins rhythmic with the rapid beat of his heart.