Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  “Hardy and ornery. They were originally called Criollo or ‘cattle of the country.’ Bred up with the Spanish Andalusia cattle that came from Spain in the early 1500s, I hear. Started with six heifers and one bull, if you can imagine. By 1540, there were thousands. Then that Coronado fella lost about five hundred in Texas in a storm sometime in the mid-1500s. When them Texans ran the Mexicans out in 1845 or so, there was tens of thousands of them wild critters. They started experimenting, breeding the Spanish wild blood with English cattle, which some say drifted over from Louisiana. I’ve heard those cows are about three parts wild and two parts European. Shortens up the time it takes to get them to full weight. Used to be six years, now I guess it’s around four. I heard tell of two-year-old steers almost one thousand pounds—pretty hides too. Seems like most of ‘em are all big spots of color.”

  Johannes watched Reuben’s face. His younger friend was fixed on Randy’s everyword. That brain of yours is going to spin outta your head, Prussia, if it was going any faster.

  “I’d say chances are good one of them two outfits will sell some,” Randy continued. “They are about five or six days’ ride south but still north of the New Mexico Territory.” Randy paused, “but trailing cattle and wagons to the Uncompahgre from that far south ain’t none too safe. You know how far that is? Some say the Uncompahgre ain’t even in the Kansas Territory anymore but in the Utah Territory. That southern route is the northern range of Comanche and Navajo, too. And those Southern Ute and Jicarilla Apache down that way ain’t all too partial to white men either.”

  Randy swiveled his eyes from Reuben to Johannes, then back again.

  Wants to make sure we are listening, Johannes thought.

  “Ask Zeb, he knows the way but might not be a bad idea for you to trail north around the southern edge of the San Isabel after you get your cows and meet your wagons at Fort Massachusetts. They can head south from here, then west over La Veta Pass into the San Luis Valley. The fort sits north of the west side of the pass. Save ya lots of miles going all the way north to the South Platte, and Kenosha Pass can be tough on wagons. Matter of fact, you would still find snowdrifts going that way and that’s Southern Ute hunting lands and they don’t like sharing.”

  “Any supplies you don’t get here you can outfit out of Fort Massachusetts. Then over Wolf Creek Pass and then you got some choices. Zeb likely knows some shortcuts. Them San Juan Mountains are quite a sight.”

  He looked hard at the two of them, “There’s one or two other big passes, too. After about mid-September you ain’t getting back this way ‘til May or June. Winter stays a long, long time up there. Them Red Mountains are a hell of pass. Ends on the west side on the Uncompahgre River up over the headwaters. Big gorge and full of hot springs the Ute are partial to. That’s the hunting grounds of one of the more or less friendly Ute tribes, headed by a Chief named Guera Murah. He’s Jicarilla Apache. Married a Tabequache Ute woman who died after their second son was born. One of their boys, Ouray, carries a lot of weight with the tribe. The Tabequache’s winter camp usually sits on the Uncompahgre River upstream of the Gunnison River. Ain’t much in the way of settlers, though. There’s suppose to be a building or two on the upper Animus and one over on the San Miguel River. Let me show you.” Randy turned abruptly, grabbed a piece of paper and began shaving a pencil.

  Johannes’eye was caught bya faded posterwith the rough drawing of a young woman, maybe a girl, tacked to the wall at the end of the counter: MISSING—DOROTHY ANNE EBERLYN—Age 14. Family Murdered In The Poudre, March, 1855. Kinfolk In Independence, Missouri WILL PAY $100.00 REWARD For Information.

  “It’s okay, Randy,” Reuben said, “What you said bears out the map and the recommendations of the scout my father and uncle hired. He didn’t have the names of those passes, though the map shows that upper Uncompahgre hot spring area and a building on the Animas.”

  At the young Prussian’s words, Johannes turned his stare back to Reuben. Let him draw the map, Reuben— not going to hurt anything and we might learn something.

  Randy, surprised, looked at Reuben, then shrugged and set down the pencil. “Well, there are damn few white men. I haven’t heard of no one trying to establish a big ranch over in that country, though rumor is that summer grass grows high as your waist. If you can figure out how to feed them though the winter, you might put a lot of pounds on them during the good weather.”

  Johannes detected a slight change in Randy’s tone. There was more doubt and warning than promise in his voice. Johannes looked down at his boots and for a fleeting moment regretted the promise he had made to Reuben.

  Randy’s eyes flickered to Johannes. “I see you been studying that poster of that poor Eberlyn girl.”

  Johannes nodded, glancing at the poster again.

  “What about hands?” Randy asked Reuben sharply, then, before the young man could answer, questioned Johannes, “You going with them?”

  Johannes nodded, “I am.”

  Randy reached under the counter pulling out a duplicate of the poster on the wall. He extended his arm over the counter, stretching the paper toward Johannes. “The Army figures it was the Black Feather bunch.” His gaze shifted momentarily to Reuben’s Colt. “You boys have met them bloodthirsty bastards. Here—take it. Ya never know; though, she’s likely dead or far worse.”

  Johannes took the poster, studying it briefly again, very young, then folded the heavy paper, shoving it in his jacket pocket.

  Refocusing his attention, Randy glanced at Reuben sharply, “Any womenfolk traveling with you?”

  Reuben pursed his lips, hesitating. “That’s not been decided yet.”

  Randy smiled softly and cleared his throat. “Told that dark-haired girl she’s welcome to take Red back up to the wagons with her ’til she figures out what she’s going to do.” Randy’s eyes closely studied Reuben’s expression as he delivered the offer.

  Reuben shrugged, his face impassive, “That’s her decision.”

  Randy chuckled again. “I figured she wasn’t one to take to a bit. She clearly has her own mind.”

  Reuben’s facial muscles tightened. “Yes, she does,” he said, tossing Johannes a quick look.

  Randy shook his head. “If you have some ladies traveling with you then you have someone to cook and tend camp. That’ll be nice after pushing cows through rough country all day and keeping your eyes peeled for Injuns. How many critters you plan to start off with?”

  “Three hundred cows and twelve bulls if we can find them,” answered Reuben.

  Randy whistled. “I don’t know if those spreads will part with that many. Guess you’re serious. You’re gonna need two, maybe three, more men. Them longhorns is good beef but they are an edgy breed and tougher than nails. You could do with fewer hands in the flats but up in that timber and canyon country, keeping that herd intact, gathering up strays and just having enough guns to defend an outfit that’s going to be spread out a half mile, is going to be a task.”

  Reuben nodded. “Any idea where we might find those men?” he pressed.

  “Reuben, you got a good base. You and him,” he gestured at Johannes, “and Zeb makes me think you’re well down that road.”

  Reuben laughed. “Yep, well Zeb hates the thought of cattle. Had to promise him he wouldn’t have to spend a minute with them.”

  Johannes straightened up. “And I’m no expert on cattle, either.”

  Randy scratched the back of his neck. “Might be one man in town. Don’t know him all too well but I heard he’s been on a cattle drive or two from New Mexico.” Lowering his voice, Randy confided, “name’s Philippe Reyes. He’s first generation Mexican. Parents were French and Spanish. He’s quiet, tough, keeps to himself. I hear tell his family was wealthy, with a huge estancia down south of the border. Got in some trouble and they disowned him. Started rustling back and forth across the border and had to come north when the Texas law got onto him. Right now, he’s just doing some odds and ends and trading. Lives in the tipi of a widowed A
rapaho woman. It’s kind of set off from the rest. The tribe was none too pleased with her taking up with a white man.” Randy chuckled and corrected himself, “I mean a someone who’s not an Indian.”

  Randy rubbed thick fingers up into his beard. “There’s also a place about five miles southwest of here on Bear Creek. Family of seven—daughter and four sons. I think two of the boys are in their mid teens. I’ve never figured how they make it with one hundred and sixty acres and unreliable seasonal water from that creek. Whenever they come in here for supplies, they watch their pocketbook mighty close and try to barter whatever they can. Them boys might be lookin’ for something and their folks might be happy to have two less mouths to feed. Their name is Sampson. The two older boys are Jonathan and Michael. I ain’t certain but I think Michael is sixteen. He’s a year older than Jonathan. Ain’t the sharpest pencils but they seem to have grit.”

  Too young, Johannes thought.

  Reuben’s head bobbed. “Much obliged.”

  Randy cast a sharp look at the young Prussian, “Mac used that phrase a lot,” he said softly.

  “That’s where I got it. And your brother taught me way more than that, Randy. He was a good man.”

  Randy cleared his throat, the corners of his lips twitching, one large hand again absently stroking the red curls of his beard, “That’s a wild place you are going to. The Utes are not partial to squatters.”

  Johannes knew Reuben would react to that suggestion and smiled inwardly when Reuben stiffened.

  “We are not squatters. I intend to pay for the land.”

  Randy looked at him for a long moment. “Aim to pay? Who? The government? Ain’t no government there. Some other person if you can find someone who claims they own something? That land is forever. If I was you, I’d get some papers somehow so it was legal in white man’s terms but I’d sure as hell make friends with them Utes. They don’t give a damn about deeds and you want to keep your scalp and your place from being burned out.”

  “Thank you—”

  Randy cut Reuben off. “Do what you please. There ain’t no give in that kind of place, son. In addition to Injuns and no law, from what I hear, winter over in that country is tough.”

  Reuben glanced quickly at Johannes, then back to Randy. “When does winter usually set in up there?”

  Randy’s broad shoulders rose in a shrug. “Don’t rightly know. You know, Zeb has trapped that area for years. In fact, his cabins are in them Red Mountains, though they will be several thousand feet above where you’ll likely homestead. Altitude makes a big difference.”

  Johannes felt his eyebrows rise at the revelation of Zeb’s past trapping in the same specific mountains where they were headed. He felt even more surprise that Reuben was apparently already aware. Johannes forced the thought from his mind and listened carefully.

  “Your best bet for that herd will likely be Bill Dawson. Maybe four or five days ride south without pushing your horses too hard. I ain’t never heard nothing bad about his outfit but if you buy from the other place, the Christiansen spread, you better have yourself a counting rope.”

  Randy threw a piercing look at Reuben, “You gonna leave those two women alone while you go out for cattle?”

  Reuben’s jaw set. “They can handle themselves pretty well; Zeb will be staying and there will be several wagons that aren’t pulling out just yet.”

  There was a long silence. Randy stared out the wavy, mullioned glass into the sunlit street, his eyes unseeing. Johannes saw his shoulder sag as he slowly returned his stare to Reuben. “If that woman wants the mare, she can have her. Mac most likely would have wanted it that way.”

  Reuben extended his hand and Randy clasped it for an extended period of time, his blue eyes misty but blazing. “I appreciate all you did for Mac,” his voice cracked. “You did a mighty fine job getting them wagons through and taking charge after that bastard killed my brother. Hold on a minute.”

  Randy walked down the counter to where the Colt 10-gage shotgun rested on the wooden top of the display case. He picked it up, hefted it, then walked back to Reuben.

  Reuben shook his head. “That’s mighty nice of you, Randy but I will most likely never need or use a shotgun.”

  Mac thrust the weapon at Reuben. “Take it. You were obviously a good friend of Mac’s.” He swept a muscled arm at the walls, “and I ain’t got no shortage of guns here. I’m sure he would want you to have it,” he said gruffly. Then he smiled and added, “And if you keep on making enemies like today, you’re gonna need it. Here’s that ammunition.

  You boys get what else you need and then come see me at the front counter and we’ll get squared up.”

  CHAPTER 9

  May 28, 1855

  THE MULE

  Three hundred fifty miles northeast of the face-off between Reuben, Johannes and the Bummer Gang, Israel led the old, grey, stocky mule deeper into the shade of the leafing cottonwoods along the creek they had been following southwest. Sunlight, warm with the coming summer, seeped through the passages in the trees, its bright rays dissipated by unfurling leaves and muted by the dark, course bark of the riparian forest. He paused before leaving the tree line they had been skirting, carefully searching the nearby creek bottom for any danger, now and again casting quick glances over both shoulders and behind the mule.

  “Let me help you down off that mule, wife.”

  “You are gonna have to, Israel, I think my bottom might be glued to this critter. I’m not sure what’s worse, walking or riding.” Hunching over the forequarters of the mule, Lucy reached down and rubbed her swollen left knee, barely visible below the hem of her skirt.

  Israel chuckled and looked up at the plump, rounded figure of his wife. There was a definite expression of discomfort on her full, round and high-cheeked face. Thin trickles of sweat seeped from the graying strands of wiry black hair pressed against her forehead by a blue print bandanna. She looked tired.

  “Traveling all night is tiring and having to stay off the main trails makes it all the more tough,” Israel commiserated softly. Gazing upward toward the sun, he raised one dark-skinned hand to his head shielding his eyes. “I reckon it’s late morning, maybe noon. Why don’t we hole up here ’til evening and then get on the trail again?”

  Lucy groaned. At the sound, the mule turned its light grey, almost white muzzle back toward his rider, one ear forward, one ear back and blew through his lips.

  “See, Sally don’t want to be moving around in the dark either.”

  Israel pursed his lips. “I’d rather be walking in the daylight myself—a lot less stumbling. But we ain’t safe yet, Lucy. From everything I’ve read and what folks in the stations along the Underground Railway been sayin’, we ain’t safe ’til we reach them Rockies and even then we will have to be careful. I don’t think we’ll breathe easy ’til we cross over them mountains and reach the west side. You heard what that farmer, Charles, told us at the last stop.”

  Lucy shook her head, heavy cheeks wobbling. She sighed. “I know you’re right Israel. Everybody been telling us that, and Mr. Charles was real clear on his advice. And thank you again Lord, for Mr. Charles. He was a godsend.”

  Israel reached up and grunted, his thin frame and stooped shoulders straining with the effort of assisting Lucy as she leaned off the mule and half fell into his outstretched arms. Her legs almost buckled as he lowered her to the ground and steadied her.

  “You all right?”

  Reaching down, she rubbed her knees. “My knees are mighty sore, Israel but I suppose that riding is better than walking.”

  “It is far better than walking woman—and that will be double when we start going over those mountains. I’ll help you over to that big tree but first why don’t you walk around just a little bit and get that riding stiff out of your legs. Let me get us something to eat.”

  Lucy nodded, hobbled a few steps, paused, then took a few more ginger shuffles. Israel walked to the rear of the mule and began undoing the rawhide ties on the flaps
of the makeshift leather saddlebags.

  Lucy stopped, swaying lightly. Craning her face toward Israel, she commented, “That was pretty smart making them carrying cases, Israel.”

  Israel nodded, his fingers fumbling with the rawhide ties. “I’m sure glad we had enough leather from the cowhide left over after I got through fixin’ Charles’ saddles.”

  “He will be mighty pleased with what you did for his tack, Israel. It looked almost new. I am sure he won’t mind none you took a few scraps of leather. Besides, you left a dime and that note.”

  “I’m not sure he can read my chicken scratch. Miss Tara sure enough taught me to read on the sly but we never could sneak enough time together for me to learn to write proper.”

  Israel pulled out several hard tack biscuits and unwrapped a chunk of cheese from the wax paper and cooling, damp cloth it was bundled in. Leaning down, he checked the makeshift cinch he had fashioned to keep the saddlebags in place just fore of Sally’s rear haunches. It was snug but not tight. “Holdin’ up real good but when they get wet that cinch is gonna stretch out a bit. Keep your eyes peeled when we get into rain, Lucy.”

  With a firm grip on Lucy’s arm, he helped her over to the trunk of a particularly large, gnarled cottonwood. She eased herself to the ground with another groan and he handed her a biscuit and some cheese.

  She was lifting the hard tack to her lips when, laughing, her hand suddenly dropped to her lap.

  Israel looked at her, puzzled. “What’s so all fired funny, woman?”

  “You know Israel, here we are, two old runaway Nigga slaves in the middle of nowhere heading across a continent to some place we seen once on a map at that nice old white lady’s house in Topeka and we can’t hardly pronounce the name of where we’re going. We are plumb crazy.”

  Israel felt his eyes narrow. “Ex-slaves, Lucy. We is ex-slaves.” He took a deep breath and smiled. “Un-com-pah-gre,” he said, slowly mouthing the word in an attempt to pronounce it correctly. He chuckled,“and of the twenty-four years you been married to this scrawny, salt and pepper man, you just now figurin’ out we’re crazy?”