There was something very pleasant in the odor of the mercantile—a mixture of licorice from big glass jars, freshly oiled leather, gunpowder and seasoned wood. Rebecca had smelled this somewhere before. She felt her brow furrow as she tried to remember and then she drew a deep breath. Father’s ships. She was aware Sarah was staring at her, “What is it, Rebecca?”
“Memories.”
Rebecca blinked rapidly to clear the sudden blur in her eyes and looked around until her eyes spotted a short, powerful man with red hair. She shifted the Sharps to her other arm careful to keep the muzzle pointed at the floor and nodded to Sarah. “That must be Randy.”
Rebecca was aware that the store had grown quiet and the two clerks had stopped writing. The customers at the counter turned around and several other roughly dressed but not unfriendly looking men in the store had stopped what they were doing, one of them with his arm frozen in half-reach for something on the shelves.
“It doesn’t seem like they see ladies in here often,” whispered Sarah.
“Apparently.” Rebecca squared her shoulders, lifted her nose slightly in the air and with Sarah close behind, walked toward Randy feeling the half-dozen sets of eyes following every move.
Randy was seated in a high-backed chair carefully counting musket balls, which he was moving from one tray to another. His head jerked up as if he was suddenly aware of the silence that had descended on the store.
His eyes caught Rebecca’s, the initial look of surprise quickly yielding to wrinkles under his eyes as a smile spread under his beard. He rose, leaned over the counter and stuck out his hand. “You must be that dark-haired woman who has a fancy for Mac’s horse.”
Rebecca tried to mask her surprise, “Yes, yes, I suppose that would be me.”
The smile under Randy’s beard widened and he raised his eyes over Rebecca’s head to Sarah. “It ain’t often we have two women as pretty as you in the store at one time.” A deep laugh rumbled from his belly that reminded Rebecca of Mac. “Fact is, it ain’t often we have any women in the store.” Randy glanced around at his clerks and customers. “You got invoices to write. The rest of you got stuff to buy. So let’s get to it,” he bellowed. Still leaning over the counter, he swung his massive hand toward Sarah. “And, your name, ma’am?”
Rebecca was sure Randy already knew Sarah’s name.
“Sarah Bonney.” Randy’s quick nod affirmed Rebecca’s hunch. “A friend of Zeb’s?”
Without turning around, Rebecca knew by the twinkle in his eye that Sarah had just turned scarlet.
“That’s quite the rifle you have there, Miss Rebecca.” Randy’s eyes had fallen to the Sharps cradled in her arm.
“Your brother used to call me Miss Rebecca,” she said softly. His eyes snapped up to hers. He blinked several times quickly, his cheek muscles tightening over the curl of his beard. “Is that so?”
Rebecca noticed his hands had clenched into fists on the countertop. She gently laid one of hers across his knuckles. “I’m very, very sorry Randy. Mac was a good man who was my friend. He protected Sarah and me and the others on the train more than once.”
Randy blinked twice again, his eyes slightly filmy, and cleared his throat. “Thank you very much for saying that. Guess I thought we were immortal. It wasn’t something I expected.” Randy cleared his throat again. “What may I do for you ladies?”
“We need to pick up soap and just a few other items, Randy. We can find them.”
“I’ll have none of that. No friends of Mac have to wander around these aisles searching for things that I can find for them.”
Their supplies gathered, Randy led them back up to the front of the store and began to write out the receipts. He looked up mid-sentence. “Who did you ride out here with?”
“Just the two of us—and this,” Rebecca patted the rifle. Randy’s eyebrows rose quickly, then sank into a frown. “That’s not all too wise, Miss Rebecca.” He straightened up, looking harder at her. “There’s Indians out there that ain’t friendly like these Arapaho. And there’s some whites who are even meaner. That Bummer Gang has been pretty busy. A hardscrabble bunch of sneaky thieves—maybe worse. You women need to be cautious and keep your wits about you. You should never come back down to town alone.”
“We will be careful, Randy.” Rebecca patted the Sharps again.
His eyes narrowed. He looked like he was about to say something but he just nodded. “If ya wanna take Red back up there with you, you’re more than welcome to ride her. She will just get fat and lazy down here. If that horse ain’t bein’ worked, she gets in all sorts of mischief.”
Rebecca smiled. “That is very nice Randy and a good idea. I’ll take good care of her until I make a decision on exactly what I am going to do. Is there a solicitor in town?”
Randy looked at her blankly. “Solicitor?”
“I think you call them attorneys.”
He shook his head. “No. The law is the army passing through once in a while and the circuit judge out of Fort Laramie, though he ain’t here ’cept every four to six months. We ain’t likely to see him between December and early March.”
Sarah spoke up, “Randy, does anyone do sewing in town? I am a seamstress.”
“I would imagine you could get yourself a pretty good trade mending britches and jackets and such. Not much of those goods get out this way yet and folks have to make clothes last.”
Rebecca pushed the small wooden crate full of soap and sundries that she and Sarah purchased back at the thickset Irishman. “Would you mind looking after this for a while? Sarah and I would like to take a stroll through town.”
Randy’s belly rumbled with a low laugh. “Won’t be a long walk, Miss Rebecca.” His eyes flickered between the two women. “Heard a few of that Bummer Gang is in town.”
“We shall be fine, Randy.” Rebecca turned and she and Sarah swept out the door. Sarah walking automatically over to the hitching post.
“No, Sarah. Let’s walk. It won’t take long. There are just a few other stores here. I would like to see what they have. We can talk to some more people about your sewing and maybe somebody will know where there is a solicitor.”
The two women walked slowly, peering into the windows and open flaps of large wall tents where grizzled merchants were selling goods, tack, elixirs and knives.
Colorful residents mingled with others just traveling through or coming into town to trade, drop-off pelts and pick up supplies.
Suddenly, Rebecca was shoved roughly from behind. As she tried to regain her balance, the rifle was ripped from her arm. The heavier man of the foursome, a long scar over one eye, leered at her with an almost toothless grin. His hand gripped Sarah’s upper arm, completely encircling it. Directly in front of Rebecca, holding her Sharps and pretending to look it over, was the smaller of the four men. He ran his fingertips down the length of the rifle’s stock with an exaggerated, suggestive stroke, raising his eyes in a bold stare at Rebecca, the same sarcastic smirk curling his lips, a look of confidence and control in his eyes.
“That’s my rifle.” Rebecca drew herself to full height. “Return it immediately and tell your friend to take his hand off her.” Clenching her hands to mask the trembling in her fingers, she felt her cheeks redden. “Right now. This is not something gentlemen would do.”
The smaller man holding her rifle had pale blue eyes. Like those shepherd dogs from Australia, she thought. His gaze swept up and down her body and his tongue darted over his upper lip. “I don’t never remember claimin’ to be no gentleman.” His hand darted out and grabbed Rebecca’s forearm. She tried to twist away but his grip was like a vice. “What say you and that pretty little red-haired thing go for a ride with us? There’s some nice country around here we could show you.”
Crude laughter erupted from the four men. The taller, heavier outlaw flashed a hungry half-smile down at Sarah, then shifted his gaze to Rebecca. “Folks around here know us as the Bummer Gang. Don’t suppose you two are known around here, though
, being new to town and all.”
Rebecca steeled her voice, the anger rising in her chest. “Take your hands off both of us,” she said, reaching out for the Sharps, “and return my rifle.”
“Lady, I ain’t taking no guff off you or no one else.We’re going for a ride.”
Sarah tried to pull away but her attention shifted as a cold, level voice came from the street. The outlaws stiffened and froze.
“It would be a good idea if you do what the lady says.”
Rebecca’s heart leapt at the sound of Reuben’s voice cutting through the dusty glare of the sunlit street. Reuben stood on the other side of the railing of the wood walkway, his legs slightly spread, shoulders loose, hands dangling at his hips, his right hand just inches from the pearl-handled Navy Colt that hung angled and low on his hip. Next to him, Johannes sidestepped away, his Sharps carbine perched on one forearm, muzzle raised, one finger on the trigger.
“Floyd? Floyd?” The heavy man nervously addressed Rebecca’s captor as he stepped to the side and squared off facing Johannes.
Floyd snickered and his eyes dropped to Reuben’s Colt. “Fancy pistol,” he said in an acid voice.
Fighting against the weakness in her knees, Rebecca looked over at Sarah. Her eyes were wide and her lower lip trembled. One of the two stocky members of the quartet separated himself from the others, his older Enfield musket at the ready.
A twisted smile spread across Floyd’s face. “I think I heard ‘bout you. You just coming off that wagon train northeast of here?” The man’s eyes slipped again to Reuben’s Colt.
Reuben’s voice was level, emotionless. “Don’t matter. Let her go. Same with the redhead.”
It happened quickly. Sarah, emboldened and quick to take advantage, brought the heel of her boot down hard on the instep of the outlaw holding her. The man yelped in pain and hunched over, releasing his grip. Sarah turned and bolted down the wooden walkway. A look of rage flooded Floyd’s face. He shoved Rebecca roughly and she stumbled, watching the event unfold as she fell heavily to the walkway. The outlaw’s eyes slid rapidly back to Reuben, his hand moving swiftly to the handle of his pistol, his face twisted and his eyes narrowed to slits.
Rebecca hit the weathered wood hard. The impact jerked her head back. She heard a shot and half raised herself frantically trying to see. Floyd was holding his hand, blood spilling from a hole just below his wrist. He staggered back a few feet to one of the uprights supporting the covered walkway and leaned heavily against it. Reuben stood lazily, his Navy Colt in one hand, gunpowder smoke still rising several feet above the muzzle. One of the other men moved and Rebecca heard the distinctive hammer-click of Johannes’ Sharps, which he had raised to his shoulder. Reuben swung his pistol. The heavy man with the Enfield took a step back and dropped the musket, raising his hands. The tall outlaw froze, one hand clenched around the handle of his still holstered pistol. He straightened up slowly, moving his hand carefully away from the sidearm and raised his hands to his shoulders, palm out.
Reuben’s attention shifted to Rebecca. “Are you all right?”
She struggled slowly to her feet, her legs wobbly, “I’m fine, Reuben.”
Floyd’s hand was steadily dripping blood on his boot. A mean look simmered under his paled complexion and a snarl laced with pain curled his lips. “Reuben, huh? I will remember that name.”
Reuben’s eyes shifted back to Floyd. “The last name is Frank.” Reuben gestured with the muzzle of the Colt. “It’s time for you to leave. Drop your gun belts.”
“We won’t do no such thing,” spat Floyd.
Reuben’s jaw clenched. He grimly cocked the hammer of the Colt. “I don’t push, mister. You got exactly two seconds.”
The four men exchanged nervous glances, their eyes shifting between themselves and Johannes, standing rock steady with his Sharps just twenty feet away and coming to rest on Reuben’s Colt. The stocky man who had dropped the Enfield fumbled with his belt, his lead quickly followed by the tall outlaw, whose hands were shaking. Floyd, his face etched with hatred, shrugged; his uninjured hand struggling with the buckle of his cartridge belt. “You ain’t heard the last of this,” he said through gritted teeth as his pistol hit the wood with a thud.
Rebecca had been so transfixed that she had not realized that all activity in the street had come to a halt. Men crouched down between barrels, pistols drawn. Several peered over the top or from the sides of wagons with rifles. A hundred feet away stood Randy, Mac’s shotgun in his arms. Down the dirt street in the opposite direction, another man on horseback had his rifle out. Behind him was a young woman. The attention of Cherry Creek was riveted on the scene.
“I think I have,” said Reuben quietly, “but if not, you know my name.”
Muttering, the men moved away, backing up at first then turning and walking hurriedly to the other side of the short street and toward the perimeter of the buildings and canvas tents a hundred yards away.
Reuben holstered the Colt. Johannes eased back the hammer of his Sharps and lowered it. Sarah, who had ducked into a doorway, emerged and ran to Rebecca.
Reuben stood at the street edge of the walkway looking up into Rebecca’s eyes. “Better pick up your rifle,” he said softly.
Rebecca fought to control her trembling. “Reuben, you could have—”
He cut her off. “I wasn’t. Could’ve don’t count. Johannes and I have some supplies to pick up. I want to meet Randy and talk to some other people in town. If you and Sarah will wait, we can ride back together.”
Rebecca felt a rush of surprised anger but couldn’t quite place why. She threw back her shoulders and raised her chin, “We’re going to head back now. We’ll manage.”
Reuben’s lips compressed. “Suit yourself.” His attention turned to Sarah, “You still have that Derringer on you?”
Sarah nodded, her eyes still wide and her fair complexion colorless.
Reuben’s gaze returned to Rebecca, “Make a straight line back to the wagons. Don’t detour. Keep your eyes open and those weapons handy. We’ll follow along the same route shortly.” Reuben gave Rebecca a long look and then, turning, his face impassive, nodded to Johannes.
Johannes’ eyes flashed to Rebecca and then Sarah. He shook his head disapprovingly and then took two long steps until he was at Reuben’s side. The two men started toward the mercantile and Randy, who had lowered his shotgun and stood waiting for them outside the store entrance.
CHAPTER 8
May 28, 1855
LONGHORNS
Johannes liked the feel and smell of the mercantile. Randy, the powerfully built, red-bearded man who had stood at the ready with Mac’s shotgun just minutes before, strode up to Reuben and him, his hand extended, a smile on his face, “Those Bummers have had a facedown comin’ for quite a spell. It was a pleasure to watch.”
“We appreciate you backing us up,” said Reuben, shaking his hand warmly.
“No bother. No bother at all.” Still smiling broadly but with searching eyes, Randy turned to Johannes. He stuck out his powerful paw again and Johannes shook it, liking the feel of firm and steady strength in the other man’s grasp.
Randy’s eyebrows furrowed, he blinked and his lips tightened behind the curls of his mustache. “Sounds like we both had a bad day at Two Otters Creek.” Johannes felt a sudden burning sear his eyes and involuntarily swallowed. “Yes, we did, Randy.”
Mutual understanding and compassion flowed between them. Their handshake had not broken. The broad-shouldered man turned and spoke to Reuben, “Zeb tells me you’re planning to move on?”
Reuben nodded. “We’re headed to the Uncompahgre. Going to establish a ranch down there for my family back in Prussia.”
Randy shook his head, “To hell you ride. Matter fact, wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t give that name to a town down that way sometime. A ranch? Getting cows out of there to a market might be tricky, though it is a good time to raise meat. If things blow up over the slavery thing back east, there’s
gonna be several armies that need lots of beef. Where exactly ya headed in the Uncompahgre? That’s mighty big country.”
Johannes noticed Reuben’s expression became more attentive and the young Prussian chuckled, “Yep, one thing we need for a ranch is cattle. We’re headed to the Red Mountains.”
“Las Montanas de Rojas?” Randy’s eyebrows arched. “Me and Mac spent a summer down there with Zeb years back.” He swallowed and fell silent. Johannes had a feeling Randy had not finished the story.
Reuben waited expectantly too, but Randy appeared lost in thought. Reuben threw a quick look at Johannes. “You know where we can find some?”
“Huh? Oh.”A slow grin spread across Randy’s face.“Man bythe name of William Bent started Bent’s Fort and another, Fort St. Vrain. He had to rebuild Bents a fewyears ago. Both are established trading posts, and have outfitted maybe thousands, but they are too far east from where you need to head to. What most don’t know is they also brought about two thousand head of them Texas Longhorns up through the Panhandle some years back. Most of those cows are on ranches toward Santa Fe, south of San Luis and Pueblo, which are just a few buildings each—maybe ten to fifteen folks.” He laughed. “Not like this big city,” he brandished a thick hand toward the window. His face grew serious.“Most of them people at El Pueblo got massacred by Ute and Apache at Christmas.” He shook his head and sighed. “Anyways, ain’t been down there for years, but I understand the herds have grown to a goodly number and there’s been a new army fort built north of there a few years back, Fort Massachusetts. Lord knows how it got that name. A couple of them ranchers, a few days’ ride south and east of there, Dawson and Christiansen, sometimes drive cattle east. Meat for them city folks back there and some for the army.”
Johannes moved over to the counter. Leaning against the top with one elbow and settling his hip against the edge, he listened closely.
“I’ve heard those longhorns are a hardy breed,” said Reuben.
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