Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Morales and Beanpole exchanged looks. Beanpole shrugged and drew his knife.

  “Let’s get saddled up, boys,” Snake called out.

  Turning his head into the chill dusk breeze that boiled over the rocky ridge, he smiled to the southwest. We’re gonna have some good fun down there, along with gold. Them pilgrims can dig it and we can take it.

  CHAPTER 18

  May 29, 1855

  OFFERINGS

  Eagle Talon’s mind raced, yet the mustang beneath him stood motionless. His shoulder trembled against the tension of the drawn bowstring but the shaft and arrowhead pointed at the two people huddled at the base of the tree remained steady. They have no weapons, he realized, and they are neither Indian nor hairy-faced-ones.

  He eased back on the draw of the bowstring but kept the arrow nocked, moving his ankles almost imperceptibly along the flanks of the mustang. The horse responded, stepping toward the two huddled figures. Only two lance lengths away now, Eagle Talon could see more clearly. Old man. Old woman. Old mule. He relaxed the slight pull he had maintained on the bowstring, halting the mustang with equal pressure from his knees. The man’s slender arm stretched protectively around the woman, his dark, thin body shielding her darker, thick-set one. He lowered his arm and with some effort rose. The woman reached up, grabbing the worn sleeve of the man’s jacket, pulling on it.

  Eagle Talon stared, fascinated. Her skin was like the smudge of charcoal on the white bark of an aspen. The old man bent his graying head toward the woman. The tone of his voice seemed reassuring, much like Eagle Talon might speak softly to Walks with Moon. Then the man turned and faced Eagle Talon, looking up into his eyes. Only the length of a single lance separated them now.

  The man spoke, his tone nervous yet friendly, but Eagle Talon could not understand his words. Perhaps it was the same language the hairy-faced-ones in the wagon train spoke but with a strange inflection. Remaining silent, Eagle Talon studied the pair.

  The thin man seemed in good enough shape for his age, though his clothing showed signs of long travel. The heavy woman held a pudgy hand rolled in a tight fist and pressed to her lips, shaking. Large, dark brown eyes peered over her clenched fingers into Eagle Talon’s. He dropped his own gaze when he realized he was staring back, embarrassed by this breech of etiquette.

  The old man spoke again, pointing to the woman, then to himself and then in the direction of where the sun sets. The mule regarded him quizzically, one ear forward, one ear back, grey muzzle extended, sniffing toward the mustang.

  Gesturing to Eagle Talon to wait, the man extended a finger at the mule, then walked over and opened one of leather pouches straddling the animal’s haunches, reaching far into the saddlebag to find what he was looking for. Only meager rations left, thought Eagle Talon.

  Withdrawing a small square of white shiny paper, the man pulled back the corners and held it toward Eagle Talon. Lifting his hand higher, the man waved his finger from the food to Eagle Talon, then back, the old woman looking on anxiously.

  Lifting one leg over the mustang’s head, Eagle Talon slid fluidly off the pony. The old man took a step backward. Eagle Talon reached into his own parfleche, withdrawing two small wrapped chunks of pemmican Walks with Moon had given him that morning. Turning, he took a step toward the man, who again stepped backward, lowering his own offering. Eagle Talon stopped and, unwrapping the pemmican, took a bite, chewing and swallowing, smacking his lips. He waved to the man to put away his food, and then raised his hand, offering him the pemmican. The dark-skinned couple exchanged surprised glances and the woman dropped her fist to her lap, her fingers opening and relaxing. Pointing at the pemmican, Eagle Talon walked slowly to the man, extending his arm.

  With some hesitation, the old man reached out and took the offered food, saying something. Eagle Talon did not understand the words, but the tone of his voice was grateful.

  Eagle Talon nodded, turned and walked the few paces back to his pony, his left hand reaching up to grab the horse’s mane, his body concurrently springing up and over the horse’s back in a half side somersault. Slinging the bow across his shoulders, he raised his hand, fingers to the sky, palm toward the dark-skinned couple. The man and woman exchanged wide-eyed glances again.

  Then, tentatively, the old dark one raised his hand, palm out to Eagle Talon.

  “Toksa, kola,” Eagle Talon said firmly. Without further words, and without looking back, he wheeled the mustang and rode slowly into the shadows of the alders toward the creek.

  CHAPTER 19

  June 4, 1855

  EPIPHANY

  “Have you decided?” An anxious look turned the corners of Sarah’s eyes.

  Rebecca didn’t answer. Her gaze traveled between the few remaining wagons. Aside from their own, there remained only Sarah and Jacob’s makeshift, converted freight wagon, the Solomen family’s prairie schooner, the Livingston rig with its lingering aura of grief over the loss of a father and husband at Two Otters Creek, and the McClintock family’s Conestoga, worn from its long journey from Pennsylvania. The McClintock’s were Mennonites, all of them thin, the man and woman of medium height with worn features from years of laboring on their small farm. The children were older, though not yet in their teens, quiet and well-mannered like their parents. Perhaps the least obtrusive travelers in the entire wagon train. Paul McClintock had been ridiculed by some of the men, and had been the subject of hushed whispers between the women on the train after the fight at Two Otters Creek. Refusing to bear arms, he had not participated in the battle. But even as the fighting was still raging, he was first to aid the wounded. No doubt, he saved several lives at the risk of his own.

  Rebecca stared at their wagon, remembering Paul hunched over a wounded Pawnee, the immobile, bleeding brave’s dark eyes regarding him with suspicion and hate. As attentive to the Indian as he was to the men and women of the train, Paul had just finished dressing the gaping wound in the warrior’s chest when he was shoved roughly aside by two other men from the train. Rising, he tried to intervene, but it was too late. Both men fired several shots into the helpless form of the Indian. When the other men left, Paul stood over the brave’s corpse, tears streaming down his cheeks. Compassionately folding the dead man’s arms over his chest and closing his still wide-open eyes, Paul had walked slowly and sorrowfully back to his wagon.

  Her eyes traveled to the other two wagons remaining, the wide gaps between the rigs a reminder of departed friends bound for wild, unsettled destinations whose names she had never heard and did not recognize. I miss the Johnson family—Margaret, Harris, and those two cute little girls.

  Before being knocked almost unconscious by a stocky Pawnee warrior’s shield, Rebecca had glanced up while reloading the Sharps and seen Harris’ heavy frame struggling with an Indian trying to steal their heirloom American flag, which had flown from the front of their wagon all the way west from the Mississippi. He had proudly told her on several occasions his grandfather carried the flag with thirteen stars circled on a blue field in the Revolutionary War. The flag had again gone into battle with Johnson’s father in the War of 1812. So different are these people from the effete, well-dressed snobs of London, but so tough-minded, resolute and fearless despite their fears. Rebecca shook her head and grinned ruefully. No wonder my England was twice defeated by these men and women.

  “Does that mean you’re not coming with us?” Sarah’s voice cut into her reverie. “You’re going back to England?” She looked up into her friend’s wide, searching eyes.

  A painful queasiness shot through her stomach as it had around the same mid-morning time the last several days. The pemmican must be going bad–or perhaps the biscuits or bacon have some mold. I shall have to check.

  “I have not decided, Sarah. I must decide what to do with father’s land. As strong as the forces that entice me to stay are–Reuben, this country…,” she swept her arm out at the mountains, “… and these people…,” she nodded at the remaining wagons, “there are other considera
tions, which compel me to return to England. Mother’s estate must be settled, and my father’s remaining debts repaid. Adam, Eve and Sally, our Aborigine servants, will be quite lost with all this. They began as slaves, but my dear father gave them their freedom many years ago and they stayed with us voluntarily.” She sighed. “They will have no idea of what to do. They became my friends. Adam, the father, seems to have an ability to foretell the future, or at least my father thought so.” Sarah stared, listening attentively.

  Rebecca paused, remembering the morning she had left their stately townhouse. The ornate black carriage with door ajar held open by the smartly uniformed driver, frail and aged mother Elizabeth sobbing at the head of the marble steps in the doorway, and the tears and somber expressions on Sally and Eve’s faces. And yes, the wise, aging, brown eyes of Adam looking unblinking, deeply into hers as he spoke. “It will be a different life, Mistress, but you shall prosper.”

  She had stared at him, taking a half step backward, unsure whether his English—more than she had heard him speak at one time in fifteen years—or his words surprised her more. “Adam, I am impressed by your English. And thank you for your good wishes, but I shall return before winter.”

  Adam’s brooding eyes had again penetrated hers with a look of sad wisdom. “The power of the land and the man will hold you,” he had said quietly.

  Another wave of mild nausea brought Rebecca back to the present moment.

  “What is it Rebecca?” Sarah asked. “You look pale.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I was just remembering something back in London.” She paused and waved one hand at the wagons. “And thinking about these amazing people we journeyed with over the last two and one half months now scattered to places with strange names, building their lives, and following their dreams. Quite impressive, very different from what I have known and considered normal before coming to America.”

  Sarah was silent but her eyes were piercing as she looked at Rebecca. Her eyelids narrowed almost imperceptibly and she nodded slightly as if she suddenly understood something.

  “You look as if struck by an epiphany, Sarah. What is it?”

  “I was…,” Sarah’s gaze suddenly focused over and beyond Rebecca’s shoulder. The brunette turned. It was Zeb approaching them, leading Buck.

  “Good morning, Rebecca,” he said cheerfully. His tone softened and there was a slight tinge of color under the leathery tan of his cheeks, “Good morning, Sarah.”

  Sarah stood beaming, reaching out a delicate hand to his forearm. “Good morning, Zeb. I thought about you last night guarding us out there all alone with Buck.”

  Looking momentarily embarrassed, he patted her hand. “Weren’t no bother.” He cleared his throat. “The McClintocks tell me they’re pulling out today, heading north to the Big Thompson country. Got a sister up there with a small homestead. The Solomens are joining a small wagon train forming up in town, then heading up Clear Creek and over the pass to the Blue River Valley. Good land, good water that way.”

  His eyes shifted to Rebecca. “Are you all right, Rebecca? You’re looking a mite clammy.”

  “I’m fine Zeb. Thank you for asking. I’ve been a bit under the weather the past several mornings—slightly nauseous and a tad of a cold sweat. I think it is something to do with our dinners. I am carefully going to check the pemmican and the last of the hardtack roles and bacon today. Have either of you been nauseous?”

  Zeb and Sarah exchanged quick glances, then Sarah turned back to Rebecca again, her look sharp and probing. “I have not.”

  “Not me, neither. I think the food is just fine.” Zeb chuckled. “First time I ever had two women cookin’ and fussin’ over me at one time. Feel a might spoilt.”

  Both women laughed and the paint horse tossed his head.

  “The Livingston widow and her young-uns are goin’ partway with us as I told ya. I’m gonna have them pull their wagon in close to ours. Sarah, perhaps you could drive Jacob’s old rig over closer, too. No sense being too spread out here. It’s just been me and John Solomen standing guard since Paul won’t fight, and now it’ll just be me.”

  “I’ll take my turn at guard duty,” said Rebecca firmly.

  Zeb regarded her for a long moment. “No, Rebecca you won’t. But I thank you for offering.” He caught the narrowing of her eyes and added hastily, “I told Reuben I’d look after you, and you wandering around in the pitch black in the middle of nowhere doesn’t quite fit that bill.” He smiled. “Even though you are mighty handy with a rifle.”

  “Zeb, Rebecca and I were just discussing whether she’s going back to England or staying here.”

  Zeb’s lips pursed. “Well, I know what my choice would be, but I understand you got to make your own decision.”

  He looked pensively west toward the mountains, the massive wall of earth towering above the plains, their jagged peaks crowned by bright white snowcaps shimmering in the morning sun. “You ladies can start making preparations. Reuben wants to meet up on the twelfth. I figure about six days’ travel in these rigs. We will plan on leaving early on the morning of the fifth. That’ll give us an extra day just in case we hit weather or have a breakdown. I aim to head down to town to get our supplies lined up. Later on, we can all go down in Jacob’s old rig and load up. It was built to haul freight; no reason it shouldn’t serve its purpose.”

  He fell silent for a long moment, then cleared his throat. “Rebecca, if you decide you’re staying in Cherry Creek or heading back across the sea, we’ll drop you off in town. I’m sure Randy can wrangle you a place to stay until his supply train heads east.” Zeb’s voice dropped and he swallowed, “Or when he finds a replacement for his brother. There will likely be a cavalry patrol that would be delighted to have the company of a lady back up to Fort Laramie. You can certainly catch a wagon or coach headed east from there.” He looked at her closely, opened his mouth to say something more, then stopped. Without another word, the mountain man turned, clicked softly at Buck and led the paint off in the direction of the McClintock’s wagon.

  Sarah sat down next to Rebecca on one of the empty storage kegs they had pulled out of the wagon. She threw several pieces of twisted, thick sage roots into the fire and then, reaching out her hand, setting it lightly on Rebecca’s thigh. “How many days have you been feeling nauseous?”

  Rebecca blinked, surprised at the intensity in Sarah’s voice. “Why…well…it began the morning before yesterday. Quite uncomfortable and yesterday I actually vomited. Though I don’t feel quite that queasy now. I’m sure it is just something in the food that is not agreeing with me or perhaps I’m catching a cold.”

  There was a long silence.

  “What is it Sarah? You look possessed.”

  Sarah wet her lips, a pink hue stealing up her light-skinned cheekbones beneath her freckles. She leaned forward, speaking in a low conspiratorial tone. “You said that there’s a clammy sweat that comes with this upset stomach?”

  Rebecca nodded. What is she driving at?

  “Rebecca, if you pardon me for asking—are your bosoms tender?”

  Rebecca started, leaning back in surprise at the question. “Yes, I have noticed some tenderness. But that comes periodically as we both know.…” She paused. “Oh, I see. You’re thinking it’s the monthly curse coming on.”

  Sarah blinked, shaking her head. “No, I’m not. When did you last have your time of the month?”

  What strange questions. “Let me think—perhaps two weeks ago. Right around the time that Army patrol visited us prior to the wagon train taking that cut off from the Platte.”

  Sarah leaned forward farther, darting furtive glances left and right. Whispering, she asked, “Were you with Reuben before he and Johannes left?”

  Rebecca felt a hot rush of color flood her cheeks as she remembered Reuben’s muscular form beneath her, and the desperate, rhythmic movement of her pelvis against the base of his manhood embedded thick and deep within her the night they had learned of their parent’s death.


  Sarah, watching her closely, pressed her lips together and nodded. “You have been.” She leaned back with a deep sigh, one hand unconsciously drifting to her belly where the rounding was becoming more pronounced. She blinked rapidly, silent.

  Rebecca tried to keep the impatience from her voice. Strange questions. “Why do you ask?”

  Turning, Sarah slowly stretched out her hands, taking one of Rebecca’s between them and squeezed. Her eyes were wide and compassionate. “Do you love Reuben?”

  Rebecca felt her annoyance rising at this series of inquiries. “I am close to Reuben—but love? I have given it no thought, Sarah. And it really is quite irrelevant in any event.”

  “Rebecca…it is very relevant,” said the redhead in a low, measured tone.

  “Really, Sarah. You are being silly. How does it possibly matter?”

  Sarah inhaled deeply, held her breath and then exhaled her words, “Because I believe you are pregnant. I believe you are carrying Reuben’s child.”

  CHAPTER 20

  June 4, 1855

  THE OUTFIT

  Blue eyes bright with life but guarded from experience held Reuben’s gaze from across the round, ornate but well-worn oak table in the kitchen of the Dawson ranch house. Silver-white hair draped Dawson’s broad and still powerful shoulders. His eyes, slightly squinted by habit against the sun, were set wide within the frame of his darkly tanned, weathered and wrinkled face.

  Logs crackled in the Oberlin stove by the entry and steam curled from two large mugs of coffee, one in front of each man. The thick log walls of the kitchen were squared, separated by thickly applied lines of white-grey chink. The corner logs fit snugly with little gap despite the imprecision of hand tools. The window openings were painstakingly squared, surrounding multi-paned windows, their wavy, blown glass dissected by mullions. Carefully made cabinets, each with a large brass pull, separated an icebox, ornate six-burner wood cook stove and a large water basin perched beneath a water keg, its faucet fed by gravity. Reuben could feel the tense stare at the back of his head from Johannes standing by the stove near the entry door. Outside, he could hear the muffled sounds of Philippe talking with young Michael though he could not make out the words.