Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  “I penned letters to each of the remaining creditors and enclosed them in an envelope with a letter of instruction to our solicitor. Randy promised it would be posted as soon as possible from Cherry Creek. I instructed the solicitor to sell the house giving the first twenty-five percent of the proceeds to Adam, Eve and Sally, which should set them up nicely. Their needs are rather minimal. The solicitor shall deposit ten percent into my account and then split the balance of the proceeds on a pro rata basis between the remaining five creditors of my father’s trading business, simultaneously delivering my other letters to them. Those letters promise to pay the debts in full, explain the situation and make the case that their interests and eventual full payment are best served by my not returning to London at the current time.”

  “Well, you seem to have thought of everything.” Reuben’s voice was icy, but laced with a grudging respect.

  Rebecca took the few steps toward him, setting her hand lightly on his upper arm.

  When he did not respond, she gently yanked on his arm, turning him and wrapping both hands into the lapels of his jacket. She blinked back tears, feeling almost faint. She was sure he could hear the rapid pounding of her heart. “There is one other thing, Reuben. It is the most important.”

  “And that is?” he asked coldly.

  She bit her lip at his tone, but despite herself, began to cry. “I am carrying your child.”

  Reuben’s face went white. He blinked rapidly and his jaw slacked open. “What?”

  “I believe I am pregnant, Reuben. With your baby.”

  “You mean our baby.”

  Oh my God. Rebecca Marx, you fool. “Of course. Yes, our child, Reuben.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I had not been feeling well for several mornings. Sarah suggested the possibility. I was incredulous but Zeb took me to the wife of the medicine man at the Arapaho village near town. She was very respectful. Zeb interpreted while Bird Song asked me several questions, put her hand on my belly and looked at my eyes and tongue. She assured me that I was indeed with child.”

  Taking a step back, Reuben sat down heavily on the fallen log next to where the Sharps leaned against the weathered wood.

  Rebecca felt panic rising in her. “Talk to me, Reuben.Tell me what you’re thinking. Please.”

  He was silent for a long moment then rose and walked to her, wrapping his arms around her waist, lifting her in the air and kissing her deeply. “I think,” he whispered in her ear, “that Reuben Frank is a proud and happy man, and I’m honored to have you as the mother of my children.”

  The tense, anxious anticipation of this conversation that had infiltrated every minute of the days since Rebecca found out she was pregnant burst. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. She began to sob into Reuben’s shoulder. “Song Bird said I would be more emotional than normal. I’m sorry, Reuben. I’ve been very worried.”

  Reaching down both hands, he placed them gently on her cheeks and lifted her face toward his. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m shocked, but thrilled. True, it will complicate things in setting up the homestead and necessitate certain changes to the house I planned to build, but I’m delighted, Rebecca.” He grinned, his voice taking on a teasing tone, “And you being more emotional may not be a bad thing.”

  Rebecca chuckled through her tears, wiping her eyes with her knuckles. “She also said that I needed to be careful. My small hips might mean some difficulties at birth.”

  Reuben smiled absently. “Oh—you will be fine, Mistress Marx.” Raising his gaze to the river behind her, he thought aloud, “So Zeb knows, Sarah knows. I know and you know. I guess Johannes is the only one who does not, other than Philippe and the young man we have helping us with the cattle.”

  “There’s one last thing I must tell you Reuben but you must promise to never breathe a word of it to Johannes.” Some of the light in Reuben’s eyes faded to worry. “Promise me, Reuben.” Rebecca began to sob again. “I hate it when I do this,” she murmured into his shoulder, stamping her foot.

  “It’s okay, Rebecca. Tell me. I promise.” Looking up into his face, she could feel streaks of tears on her cheeks, cool, blurring her vision. She blinked, trying to bring his features into focus. “When Inga died she was pregnant. She was carrying Johannes’ baby.” For the second time in a few minutes, Reuben looked shocked.

  “Sarah and I have wrestled with this ever since Two Otters Creek. Inga was going to tell him that night, but, but…,” she drew a deep ratcheting breath, “… that night never happened. On one hand, it is his right to know. On the other, we are convinced it will simply exacerbate the guilt and grief he feels.”

  Reuben shook his head slowly. “I understand why the two of you held off. He is just now beginning to show signs of his former self. I think one day he must be told but that is not anytime soon.”

  Rebecca wrapped her arms round Reuben’s waist and squeezed, burying her head into the wall of his chest. Minutes passed before he tenderly pushed her away, holding her arms, his eyes boring into hers. “There is one more question, you know.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a bandanna.

  Rebecca dabbed at her eyes with the cloth. “And what would that be, Mr. Frank?”

  Smiling a thoughtful smile, he looked up at the sky, his teeth gnawing on his lower lip. “I’ll think about it for a day or two, Mistress Marx, and then we shall have another talk.” He leaned over, picking up the Sharps and nodded toward the wagons. “Let’s get back.”

  Rebecca held his hand as they picked their way back toward the fort. He is going to ask me to marry him. What will be my response?

  They walked past the day beds of the two deer they had spooked. The matted grasses of the nests were not parallel but at odd angles to one another. Rebecca felt an uneasy pang.

  CHAPTER 23

  June 11, 1855

  BREMERHAVEN

  “What are you doing with that duffel in your room, Erik?”

  Erik raised his eyes from the eggs and boiled potatoes. I wanted to have this discussion at supper. Isaac, almost three times his size, was glowering at him from across the breakfast table, but Erik was unflinching. “I’m packing for my trip to America.”

  Isaac and Helmon exchanged startled glances in dumbfounded silence. Then Isaac slammed his meaty fist into the kitchen table, almost cracking the wood. “You will do no such thing. I am the eldest. I run the farm. With father and Reuben gone, we need you here.”

  Erik dropped his gaze to his plate, scraping it with his fork and then lifted his eyes, staring back up into Helmon’s angry glare. “No, brother, you don’t need me. I’m just your frau. I save you the cooking and cleaning and the sewing,” Erik looked from one to the other, “and endure the incessant arguing. There’s no future for me here. I’m going to America to find Reuben and help him establish our family legacy over there.”

  Helmon opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut. Veins bulged in Isaac’s neck. He looked apoplectic. “You think this is such a bad life we have here? Are you treated so poorly?” he shouted.

  Erik pushed his plate away. “Poorly? It is your life that you have here, Isaac, not mine. And the fact that you do not realize how meanly you treat me, proves how little you care about my future.”

  There was a long silence. The flush in Isaac’s face lost some of its intensity, and he looked deflated. “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow, Isaac.”

  Without a word, Isaac rose suddenly from the table, the force of his legs pushing over the chair behind him with a crash. He strode to the door, crunched his felt hat over his head and stormed out. Helmon still sat at the table without a word, looking bewildered.

  Erik rose and began washing the dishes.

  Except for the brief, stiff, unemotional goodbye tinged with bitter anger that evening after supper, neither of his brothers spoke a word to him until just before an early bedtime.

  Erik had turned down the covers, checking his duffel one last tim
e, especially the secret false end he had carefully sewn into the heavy, canvas bag to hide his money. Glancing at his pocket watch, he shook his head. Just three hours to sleep. The door creaked open. It was Helmon, furtively looking over each shoulder for Isaac. He nervously held up the dagger their father had given him on his sixteenth birthday, then slid its thin, six-inch blade with curved tip into a well stitched and oiled burgundy sheath. Carefully placing the weapon into Erik’s hands, he curled his younger brother’s fingers around the leather housing the blade. “Be safe little brother,” he whispered. “Godspeed. Father would be proud.”

  June 12, 1855

  The clip clop of the pair of thick-shouldered Belgians pulling the wagon echoed up the wide dirt road into the early morning darkness. The damp air muted the sounds, giving their hoof steps a hollow distant tone. The sound was surreal as it reverberated between the tree trunks, stone walls and occasional dense hedgerow.

  For the tenth time, Erik cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the dark bed of the wagon, making a mental list. Have I forgotten anything? Violin case. Duffel. His mind ran over the contents of the duffel.

  He jumped at the sound of Rudolph’s voice, though they had been sitting together on the wagon seat for almost three hours.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  Rudolph’s pudgy, medium frame shook with quiet laughter. “We have gone to school together since we were three. I have never seen you as absent-minded as this morning, Erik, but no doubt very excited. I would be. I asked if the ship was departing Bremen or Bremerhaven?”

  Erik blinked. “You mean there are two harbors? I had no idea.”

  He could feel Rudolph staring at him through the darkness and sensed rather than saw the movement of his hands as he shifted the lines to the traces. “Really? Weren’t you in history class with me? Bremen is almost fifty kilometers up from the mouth of the Weser. In fact, there was no harbor at the mouth of the river until Bremen bought the territories there from the Kingdom of Hanover in 1827, less than thirty years ago. Now most of the shipping comes out of Bremerhaven.”

  “When I took Reuben to the SS Edinburgh last January—it seems so long ago—I’m sure we were at the harbor at the mouth of the river. The ship must be leaving from the same place.”

  “Let us hope so or you’ll be late,” Rudolph laughed. “Do you know where you’re going Erik? I hear America is a giant country. Herr Burger told us in geography class there are places in the western part that don’t have a single person, except for wild Indians, for hundreds of kilometers.”

  Erik tried to imagine all the lands from Villmar to Bremen without a human, but couldn’t. “When I get to New York I’m going to my Uncle Hermann’s. That’s what Reuben did. I don’t have Reuben’s maps but I’m sure Uncle Hermann can tell me the directions. Though, I must admit that when I get to this place called Cherry Creek, I really have no idea of where to go from there. I’m hoping somebody will know Reuben or know where he went and can help me get there. I have plenty of money—the entirety of the one quarter father left to each of us. I have Reuben’s too.”

  “Not much of a plan, Erik,” said Rudolph dryly. “I hope that money is very well hidden. I would not flash it around if I were you.”

  “It is where no one will find it.”

  Rudolph sighed, “I must admit I am very jealous. I would love to see America. Everybody’s talking about the grand, mysterious aura, the immenseness of the country.”

  The fading morning glow of the moon lit his friend’s face as he turned toward Erik. “And the people, Erik— the people are supposed to be very tough, many of them rough and not given to manners at all.” He chuckled, “Though I suppose if you live in a place where there’s no one else for a hundred kilometers, manners are not all that important.”

  Erik swallowed and rubbed his fingers together. “I shall manage. I’m sure I will be able to find Reuben or perhaps he will hear that I’m in Cherry Creek and will seek me out. It can’t be that far.”

  “I suggest that when you get to your uncle Hermann’s that you have him draw or get you a map. I don’t know, of course, but I think you’re underestimating the sheer size of the country. All of Prussia is supposed to be just a fraction of the size of what they call the Territories, and the Americans recently added almost a quarter more to their land area with a place called Texas. I think they get in more fights than the British.”

  Erik laughed. “Yes, it seems to me that as proud of their military as the British are, they would rather not battle the Americans again. Turn down here, Rudolph— I’m almost sure this was the street that brought us to the harbor. These buildings seem familiar and so are these large, square street cobbles.”

  They fell silent for several minutes; then Erik saw the dim forms of masts rising in the half-light above buildings. “Yes, yes, I can see the masts! This is the correct street!”

  The horses picked their way down the cobbled street toward the edge of the harbor, their shod hooves clicking with a metallic ring on the hard surfaces. They passed several docks, most still quiet at this early hour. The black hull of a steamship materialized in the partial light, the big white letters sifting and moving with the billows of fog. SS Edinburgh.

  As it had been that Sunday morning six months before when Erik dropped off Reuben, the wharf was alive with activity. Passengers crowded toward the gangplanks. Shouts and curses flew through the sea air, mingling with the creak of cargo nets lifting cargo high off the dock and then lowering it into the hold. Officers and seamen scurrying on the decks high above the wagon barked orders. The last time I was here there were tears streaming down my face as I said goodbye to Reuben. Now it is I embarking on the adventure.

  “Come on, Erik, I will help you with your things. I can’t believe you are bringing the violin. From what I’ve heard about America, you would do far better with a weapon.”

  The memory of Helmon at his bedroom door the previous night tugged at him. For a moment, he was tempted to show Rudolph the dagger. Instead, he forced a light laugh. “Even hard hearts soften to the sound of music.”

  “I hope so, Erik. I hope so,” Rudolph muttered without conviction as he reached into the wagon for the duffle.

  The two long-time friends embraced. “Please write me, Erik. I’m anxious to hear about America. You draw well—perhaps you could draw some pictures.” Rudolph looked wistfully at the Edinburgh. “Perhaps someday I’ll come visit you.”

  Erik hugged his friend, hefting the duffle onto his shoulder. “I hope so, Rudolph, I hope so.”

  “What about your brothers? Do you have their blessing?”

  Erik shook his head slowly. “Anything but. They are self-centered and more interested in competing with one another than in my affairs or events of the world. They know nothing but the farm, nor do I sometimes think that they want to.” He paused. “Though perhaps Helmon may at least understand.”

  “The sun is rising! Erik, it is time for you to board.

  Goodbye, my friend.”

  Erik shook Rudolph’s hand and gave him another hug. “It is not goodbye, Rudolph. This is simply until we meet again. I shall write and, when you have a chance, send a letter with news of the village to me. Father told me a posting simply needs a name, then Cherry Creek, then Kansas Territories and then finally,”—he smiled— ”United States of America.”

  Rudolph clambered back in the wagon, waved once and snapped the lines. The Belgians moving out smartly.

  Erik looked after the wagon until it disappeared. Bent over from the weight of the duffel, he struggled toward the gangplank, suddenly wishing he’d eaten breakfast. At the bottom, he stopped, lowering the violin case and the duffel to the dock as the mate checked his name on the manifest and tore his ticket in half. Far up the gang-plank, he saw a mill of emigrants moving to and fro on the deck. His hollow gut surged with adrenaline. Will I be predator or prey? His hand closed on the dagger in his coat pocket. Clenching his teeth, he swallowed, stooped and picked up his lugga
ge.

  CHAPTER 24

  June 15, 1855

  THE NARROWS

  The Cache La Poudre River rushed, tumbled and roared through the narrow chasm of rock. The lower temperatures at the higher elevation kept its boils tea colored, less muddy than down below. The angry flow threatened the narrow, rocky trail, already slick with shaded ice and partially thawed mud, its waters on the verge of eroding the soil clinging to the roots of the few tough cottonwoods that had weathered flash floods and spring thaws over the decades. Soon, it will get warmer, and there will be no trail, Black Feather thought with satisfaction.

  The band rode single file, Dot right behind him and following her, Miguel. Turning in the saddle, Black Feather shouted through cupped hands over Dot’s head, “Miguel, go on ahead to where it opens up above here. It ain’t too far, maybe a couple hundred yards. Don’t show yourself. Just check and be sure we are alone.”

  Miguel eased his grey mare carefully past Dot’s mustang and Black Feather’s big black stallion, who was tossing his head nervously at the powerful current. The Mexican had to raise his left stirrup boot far behind him, almost on top of the mare’s rump to avoid contact and even then, his saddle brushed Black Feather’s leg as his mount moved warily past.

  Black Feather craned back in his saddle again, staring at Dot’s pallid face, bluish lips and half-closed eyes. Her shoulders swayed left and right as she tried to maintain balance even though the mustang stood still. A dull red bloodstain ran down the length of her pant leg along the calf. Not doing all too well. She’s gonna need some tending to.

  The renegade motioned with his hand and the band, still strung single file, began to pick their way up the almost submerged path. Raising his arm, he motioned them to stop a hundred yards further. No sense talkin’, no one can hear me over this racket. Gesturing to the others to stay put, the renegade backed the stallion slightly. Leaning far to the back, he grabbed the reins of Dot’s mustang and eased the two horses another twenty or thirty yards until he could just make out the form of Miguel through the newly leafed trees. The Mexican had stopped his horse at the edge of the widening of the floodplain, his thin frame silhouetted by the wider backdrop of patchy snow, golden spring grass and sagebrush. Glancing back over his shoulder, Miguel motioned him to come up. Black Feather passed on the signal to the men waiting behind.