Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Without turning around, Philippe responded, “My father imported a number of them from Spain.”

  Philippe didn’t catch the look Reuben and Johannes exchanged. His groping hand found what he was looking for and turning, he triumphantly held up a small sack of Arbuckle’s coffee. “Amigos, you’re right in time for the best cup of café this side of that range of mountains,” he swept his arm expansively down the vista of the Rockies.

  Reuben laughed and dismounted. “We’ve been going since sunup and a short break for the best kafee this side of the Rockies ought not to do any harm.”

  Smiling, Philippe poured water from his waterskin into a small pot and efficiently built a fire with sagebrush, which reduced to coals quickly. He placed two flat-sided rocks inside the fire ring on either side of the coal bed he gathered into a smoldering heap. Placing the pot on the rocks, he grinned at Reuben and Johannes. “Keeps soot off the bottom. I hate soot in my saddlebags.”

  Michael was shifting from one foot to the other, looking very uncomfortable. Philippe stared at him. Poor timid mouse of a soul. “What is the matter, Michael?”

  “I…I have to…to…to…to pee.”

  Surprised, Philippe looked quickly at Reuben and Johannes. They too, appeared astounded, “Well, what are you waiting for, muchacho? We are all men here. You don’t have to ask permission.”

  “Thank…thank you,” blurted Michael. “I…I will go over to…to those rocks.”

  “You are a grown man, muchacho. You can go wherever you wish—except in my café.” He heard Reuben and Johannes chuckle behind him. Watching Michael lumber toward the rocks, Philippe shook his head and turned back to the fire, deftly sprinkling coffee grounds into the boiling water, occasionally stirring the pot with the stem of a bitterbrush he had cut with the twelve-inch knife that hung from a black leather scabbard off his hip. The boil subsided as the sage coals quickly died.

  With one finger over the spout, he poured in small trickles of cold water from the water pouch, beginning at the outside of the pot and working his way to the center in a spiral. “The cold water settles the grounds. The trick is just the right amount of water so as not to dilute the richness of the café.”

  Reaching for the handle of the pot with his left hand, he glanced up, enjoying the looks on Reuben and Johannes’ face. “We will give it just a minute to settle. You might want to get your—”

  His sentence was interrupted by a loud cry. Michael, fifty feet away, was buttoning up his britches, his thick shoulders less than a foot from several jumbled rocks that formed an outcropping almost neck high. On top of the rock coiled a large diamondback rattlesnake, disturbed from basking in the warmth of the late spring sun. It was rattling, coiled and ready to strike. Instinctively, Philippe drew one of the Colts from his crouched position with his right hand and without thinking, fired, the muzzle blast sending a shockwave into the top of his thigh and the under part of his left upper arm below and above the barrel of the pistol. His shot seemed to blend with an echo report so close together as to have been one. The snake’s head flew off in a spray of red and scales, its long muscular body writhing on top of the sunlit, blood-sprayed rock. Michael stumbled backward, his face ashen, his breeches still partly undone.

  Philippe looked down curiously at his pistol, turning it over in his hand. How could it have possibly fired twice? He looked up in time to see Reuben spin his Colt and slap it back into the low-slung holster.

  “I’d say we both hit him about the same place,” observed Reuben with no emotion.

  Philippe tilted his head down, the wide brim of his sombrero masking his astonishment and smiled down at his own Colt. He stood, spun the cylinder, slipped a cartridge back in the empty magazine and then smoothly shoved the Colt back into the same position behind his belt.

  His eyes met Reuben’s and they held each other’s gaze for a long moment. “Señor Reuben, that was very fast.”

  The young Prussian pushed his hat back on his forehead. “Actually, Philippe, you had the much more difficult shot. Very impressive.” The two men nodded at each other, an understanding passing between them.

  “Now, amigos, how about that café? Bring those cups over here.” Philippe turned and called out to Michael who was still standing where he had stumbled back from the rocks, one hand on his forehead. “Muchacho, the snake is dead. Time for café. And finish buttoning those breeches.” He, Reuben and Johannes broke into laughter.

  CHAPTER 16

  May 29, 1855

  RENAISSANCE OF THE SOUL

  One hundred seven miles north of the writhing, decapitated remains of the rattlesnake, Black Feather picked a small stone from the base of the sage where he squatted and tossed it lazily at Pedro’s corpse, aiming for the bullet hole in his forehead, which still seeped blood from where he’d shot him two days before. Told ya a hundred times it was a bad idea to challenge me. The pebble hit Pedro in the nose, scattering the swarming flies, and careened to the side rolling down the shallow bank to the canyon floor.

  Without shifting his position, he turned his gaze to Dot’s pale face. Her head rested against the blue wool of his jacket wadded into a makeshift pillow between her head and the rock against which she partially reclined. The young woman’s parted lips were still slightly blue, her eyelids changing shape as her eyes moved rapidly beneath them in unconscious delirium.

  Black Feather let his stare travel slowly down the thin taper of her neck, her small breasts and the slight flare of her hips showing promise of the woman she would be in several years. Reaching over, he gently turned her calf where he had sliced her wool pants, examining the chunk of skin and muscle he had cut out with his blade to stop the spread of the rattlesnake’s deadly venom, the deep red excavation encircling what had been twin puncture wounds. The clean edges of the incision were partially coagulated, filmed with a clear ooze. There was little puss. Nodding his head approvingly, Black Feather reached up to her thigh loosening the bandanna and stick tourniquet one-half turn. His eyes shifted back to the pale, porcelain face framed by blonde hair. Her lips were moving slightly and she groaned.

  “You are gonna be fine,” Black Feather said quietly, the soft compassion in his voice surprising him.

  Raising his eyes, he scanned the shallow walls of the box canyon. The red rock outcroppings forming the eastern rim were now glowing in the sinking sun. His gaze drifted coldly and without emotion back to Pedro’s awkwardly sprawled body. Shaking his head, he looked down at his own sinewy, bronzed forearms resting on his thighs. I kill my right hand man I have ridden with for years and feel nothing. Yet I feel a sense of relief and protection for a scrawny, half-grown white woman who’s been my captive for just several months. Strange.

  “Boss! Boss!”

  Black Feather lifted his head toward Johnson and the thirteen remaining members of his renegade band. Some were standing by their horses; others were sitting on rocks.

  One, Bama, sprawled on his back, ankles crossed, hands clasped on his belly above his brace of old powder and ball pistols, his sombrero pulled low over his face, sleeping.

  My band cut by almost two-thirds in under a month. Eight kilt in seconds and that son-of-a-bitch Snake lighting out day before yesterday with eight following. And Pedro. Pressing his lips together, Black Feather picked up another stone and hurled it at Pedro’s skull. It all started with that dark haired kid’s pearl-handled Colt. I should’ve known what he was up to when he got off that horse. Black Feather shook his head disgustedly remembering the repeated bark of the young man’s six-gun, bodies of various members of his band crumpling in their saddles or falling sprawled from their horses. That’s when it began, the distrust and discontent. Extending a long arm, he again gently twisted Dot’s calf to examine the cutaway flesh where the rattlesnake bite had been. Satisfied, he loosened the tourniquet another quarter-turn. Brooding, he recalled the day when he had plundered her family’s wagon just miles from where they now camped. A shadow flitted across her form continuing like a dark ghost
over the sage. The first of the turkey vultures had appeared yesterday. Now they had been joined by others flying circles high above them, their wings black against the deep blue sky high above Pedro’s body.

  That dispute with Snake was bound to come. We’re both evil, but he is without a soul. And Tex? Crazy. A lunatic. His head bobbed slightly. It’s for the best. Better thirteen good men I can trust… Squinting toward the remaining members of his band he corrected himself. …partially trust—than thirty, half who would gladly slit my throat and far worse for her. He again moistened his bandanna with whiskey, pressing it gently against the edge of her wound, slowly wiping the girl’s calf where her skin was discolored a reddish purple above and below the wound.

  “I’m sorry, Dot. Your leg will never be beautiful again, but in time the muscle will heal. You should be able to walk with only a slight limp.” Reaching out, he gently brushed back her hair where it had fallen over her eyes and forehead. His touch evoked a slight whimper, and her eyes darted from side-to-side under almost translucent lids. The feel of her skin under his calloused fingertips again brought back the day he had abducted her—her screams, her mother clutching at her throat as she was thrown backward over the wagon seat into the canvass covered bed by the force of Snake’s bullet, the wide petrified eyes of her father, suddenly lifeless when he had shot him with his Smoothbore .45 caliber from just feet away, blowing off the top of his head in a spray of blood and brain matter.

  “Boss!”

  With a start, Black Feather realized he had not responded to Johnson. The lanky Texan had been with him almost as long as Pedro had. Through seniority, he was now the new second in command.

  “You want us to bury the Mexican? He is starting to stink.”

  “No, we will leave some food for the buzzards.”

  Johnson walked toward him. “You ain’t got much shut-eye the last day or two. How’s the girl doing?”

  “She will be fine. That whiskey came in handy—I will make sure you are amply repaid the next time we take wagons or a homestead.”

  “Well, Boss, I’m not sure we have enough men left to rob too much from too many. We’re gonna have to watch for singles or maybe a stagecoach.”

  Black Feather nodded. His new lieutenant was right. “Johnson, we’re going to have to stay until the mornin’. The girl will not be fit to ride until then. I wanna good scab over that cut before her legs are hanging down over the edge of a saddle bouncing on a horse.”

  “We could put together a travois,” suggested the Texan. Black Feather rose. “We could, but by the time we put one together sturdy enough to survive being dragged in this rocky country, it’ll be nightfall anyway.”

  Johnson nodded. “Suppose so....”

  “We’ve been holed up here too long. Get Bama and Chief up on top of those canyon walls with Tom. Tell ‘em to keep a sharp lookout. We will have to stay without fire. After all this commotion there ain’t enough of us left to take on a cavalry patrol.”

  “Where we plannin’ to head to tomorrow, boss?”

  “I think we will head north of Horsetooth Rock. We’ll stay in the creek bottoms between the hogbacks and then make our way up the Cache La Poudre River. We’ll camp one night a few miles up into the canyon. The day after, if we push the horses, we ought to make it to above the Narrows. We’ll camp above them where the valley widens out. It’s a good defensible position. We can see anybody coming down from Cameron Pass and one or two men could hold off an army where the canyon is narrow behind us. We’ll rest up there a spell, kill some deer or an elk and get back our strength.”

  Johnson sighed. “The men could use a break. We ain’t had nothing but bad luck since we tried takin’ that wagon train and that kid with the pearl-handled Colt. Shit— weren’t figurin’ on anything like him.” Then the tall man smiled. “Ain’t been over there in years, but I heard tell there’s a couple of isolated homesteads over on the North Platte and the Michigan in that Northpark country on the other side of the pass. Maybe we can pick one of them off.”

  Black Feather nodded, careful not to agree. “Where did that lizard, Snake, say he was takin’ that crazy bunch of loons?”

  “The Uncompahgre. It’s a valley far south of here. Many ranges bigger than the Rawah but almost unsettled. Ain’t no wagon trains. He’ll find the pickin’s slim.”

  “Didn’t he spout off somethin’ about gold?”

  “Only a rumor. Some say there’s no gold down there. Others say there’s a few prospectors that dug some up. But it is big, wild country.”

  Black Feather swept his arm out toward the undulations of the Great Plains stretching endlessly eastward from the mouth of the canyon. “Yep, I have heard something about it. Even bigger than this, they say. Fewer folks and much more rugged.” His lips curled into a sneer. “Like you said, it will be slim pickin’s for Snake.”

  Johnson nodded grimly, “Maybe Snake will chance into that young son-of-a-bitch and his pearl-handled Colt.”

  Clearing his throat of phlegm, Black Feather spit onto the ground between his legs. “Don’t know about Snake, but I’ll wager we’ll meet up with that Colt again.”

  CHAPTER 17

  May 29, 1855

  SNAKE

  Twenty-two miles south of Dot’s delirious struggle against the effects of the venom, the Big Thompson River cascaded from its canyon mouth, spilling between rocks, frothing and filled with frigid debris from the spring thaw unwarmed by the afternoon sun. Beyond the canyon, it slowed to a more placid, meandering flow between eroded banks. Still murky from the upstream turbulence, it continued its journey toward the South Platte.

  Snake stood and stepped away from the naked, middle-aged woman curled in a fetal position at his feet, her body lying amidst the ripped remnants of what had been her clothing, her skin pale in the glare of the sun.

  Raising his leather loincloth to button his dirty breeches, his thin lips twisted in a mean, satisfied smile. He turned to the eight men circled around them and nodded, his meaning clear.

  Tex started to step forward, his round face contorted in a demonic smile, the discolored scar on his neck pulsing. He drew his lips back, revealing only a few yellowed, blackish teeth, a gaping hole between them. He pushed his tongue between the toothless gap, drew his knife and peered hungrily down at the sobbing woman.

  “Put that knife away, Tex. You can have your fun later, after the others, like you did with that banker’s wife back in Nebraska.”

  The Texan nodded, light reflecting from his hairless skull, his eyes fixed on the bruised, terrified female form lying on the ground. Several of the men chuckled nervously. Snake noticed their eyes, fixed on the Texan’s blade. No doubt, remembering. Snake apprized what had, earlier that day, suddenly become his own band of thieving outlaws.

  “Could I go next, Meeestir Snake?” Morales was the smallest of the men who had joined with Snake in the split from Black Feather’s band. The young Mexican, his eyes darting back and forth from the woman to Snake, was already unbuckling the worn, brown leather belt that held up the filthy canvas pants he had sewn from the top of one of the wagons they had plundered the year before.

  “Please, please, good Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy, please,” she moaned in broken, panicked wheezes.

  “Morales, help the poor woman out.” The group cast approving looks at Snake and broke into gales of laughter.

  An hour passed. The sun was now well behind the foothills at the mouth of the canyon and the current of the Big Thompson swirled a filthy pink with the fading day’s light. Snake rifled the clothes of the woman’s dead husband, rolling the heavy man’s corpse from side-to-side in the buggy seat where he had been shot to get access to his pockets. There were only a few small coins. An old sorrel mare stood wide-eyed and trembling in the traces of the buggy.

  A cottonwood twig snapped behind him and he whirled. Crazy Tex.

  “Snake?” the stocky man drawled, his eyes asking the question.

  Snake smiled. “Just make sure when you’
re done she can’t talk to no one about nothin’ ever.”

  Tex wheeled, half running back toward the cluster of men fifty yards back from the river, pulling his knife from its sheath.

  “Morales, Beanpole, come on over here. Let’s torch this buggy.” The two men broke off from the group, moving obediently in his direction. At six foot six, Beanpole was the tallest of the band, his sloped shoulders always hunched forward as if in a perpetual state of apology. The two men sauntered up. Beanpole grinned. “You’re right, Snake. That damn captive girl Black Feather had was bad luck. This is the first bunch we’ve knocked off in more than a month.”

  “It’s a start. Musta been on their way to neighbors for something. Sure didn’t have enough money to be making a supply run and no extra clothes with them. Beanpole, why don’t you—” his command was interrupted by a piercing scream from the woman. Snake looked up to see the rest of the men scatter and Garcia, a pudgy dark-skinned Mexican, bent over retching.

  Morales turned pale and swallowed.

  “Beanpole,” Snake said, turning back toward the buggy, “slit that old mare’s throat.”

  “Kill the horse, Patrone?”

  “Yes,” snapped Snake, “damn thing is old and half-starved. Won’t do nothing but slow us down or wander off to some neighbor by happenchance and get people riled up and looking for these two before they have to.”

  “But,” protested Beanpole, “what about the fire? The smoke?”

  “Let it burn for a few minutes, enough to take out anything that might be a sign leading to us. Then push the damn thing into the river.” Snake laughed. “Or hell, let the mare drag it down there and then kill her. We’ll be on our way shortly, riding all night. I want to get down to that Uncompahgre country, and I wanna be there by late June. Find some folks with gold. These two-bit outfits ‘round here ain’t gonna have no money, and we ain’t got enough men anyways. If we ride most of the dark, we’ll be long gone by the time these folks is missed.”