Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  “I think me and the girl will be just fine, Johnson. Hank, didn’t you say that the river is up over the trail in the Narrows?”

  Hank, a burly man with pudgy cheeks, narrow slits for eyes and a dark complexion, looked up from his meat, nodded and took another mouthful of the steak he was holding in his hands.

  June 20, 1855

  “Colder,” said the tiny voice. Black Feather looked up from the small honing stone on which he was sharpening his blade. Alone with Dot this day past, his mind had been riding the past, his guard letting up some.

  Yep it’s definitely colder....” His eyes strayed up toward Cameron Pass and Nokhu Crags rock. The high peaks were gone, obscured by a dense, boiling grey-white cloud. The cloud cover settled almost down to their camp above the Narrows, the edge of the high elevation storm dissipating with uneven, serrated edges into a blue sky. His mother, Sunray, had told him of such cloud formations, shaped by the strong breath of Spirit high above the earth.

  With that thought, the numbing, gut wrenching memory of the day she had been taken from him again welled up. His eyes searched the hillsides around them for any hostile movement as they did every few minutes, then shifted to Dot. She was bundled up in his black and tan wool Army coat, hunched over and shivering. And they killed that defenseless old horse. Never even kicked anybody in her life. My mother, my pa, and old Dot. In a matter of hours. No warning. And I did nothing.

  His eyes fell to the knife in his hands, its cutting-edge poised against the whetstone. Until later. He recalled the heavyset man moaning in pain after six weeks of torture, begging for his life, the young teenager Black Feather had been looking into the doomed man’s panic-stricken eyes. He had found grim satisfaction in the bloody gurgle rising through the killer’s lips and his windpipe as the compulsion of revenge slowly, deliberately, propelled the knife’s edge across the front of the killer’s throat. This very blade. Shaking his head, he shoved the whetstone into one pocket of the wool coat. Standing abruptly, he sheathed the knife, focusing once more up valley. Sure hope they had sense enough to get up and over before that storm or the patience to wait it out.

  “Dot. I’m gonna build this fire up a little bit. You get closer to it and you’ll be warmer. I’ll tip this big rock up next to it. After it warms, it’ll be like a reflector, get more heat coming at you. We’ll cook ourselves some venison and boil up that wild asparagus we found yesterday. Early growth, but I figure we got enough to make a dent.”

  The girl tipped her face up slightly from where it was buried under the fully extended collar of his coat. Just her nose and big blue eyes were showing. She blinked.

  “Are the horses cold?”

  Black Feather had begun to slice chunks of venison from the single front shoulder remaining of the doe’s carcass hanging from low branches of an aspen tree thirty feet from the fire. He stopped cutting and craned his face toward her, “You know, that’s the first full sentence you’ve said in a spell. You do well when you’re talking about horses.” He pointed with the knife at the mustang and stallion. “See that fuzzy hair they’ve grown over the winter?” Dot tipped her head just enough to see over the collar. “This ain’t bad for spring grass, they still got most of their winter coat, and there’s not a rib showin’ on either one of ‘em.”

  The meat cut, Black Feather strained to roll the large triangular boulder so that one diagonal flat granite side was tucked in close to the flames. “Move in here a few feet across the fire from the face of that rock.” He again looked toward the pass and the seething weather above them and pursed his lips.

  “I think your leg is about the point it won’t open up again. How’s it feel?”

  Dot’s eyes peered at him from under heavy lids. She raised her mouth just above the coat collar. “Better.”

  “Good. I was worried about you there for a while. Figure we’ll start to catch up with the boys tomorrow morning. By then this wind will die down and whatever weather’s going on up there will have skedaddled. Best eat up tonight. No time for breakfast in the mornin’. I want to get started before daylight.”

  CHAPTER 30

  June 20, 1855

  STORMS ON THE PASS

  Sarah and Rebecca huddled under a shared blanket. The hiss of snow against the canvas wagon top ebbed and flowed in intensity with the howl of the wind, the heavy fabric bowing between the arched wood ribs, then billowing out from the sides of the wagon as the swirling gusts changed direction. The suspended oil lamps swung slightly from the buffets of the storm, ever changing the pattern of shadows their light cast across the goods and bedrolls in the wagon.

  Rebecca felt the redhead shift as the back gate of the wagon opened with a hurried thud and two long arms reached in with a wind-driven boil of snow, pulling out the ladder. Johannes, then Philippe, followed by Michael, clambered into the wagon scooting underneath the tied canvas back, not wanting to open it to the tempest outside. One by one, they straightened up, their shoulders and hats covered with snow.

  “Michael, shut the tailgate,” directed Johannes. The tall Dane peeled off his leather gloves, letting them drop with a sodden splat near the tailgate. He rubbed his hands together vigorously, flashing a broad smile. “Good evening, ladies. We expected to see you outside by a fire, busy stirring a big, hot pot of Sarah’s stew, ready to feed the hungry cattle crew.”

  Good to see glimpses of the old Johannes from time to time. Reuben and Sarah were right. It was best not to say anything. Smiling back at him, Rebecca retorted in an overly serious tone, “You should’ve come to the wagon earlier, Johannes. You would have seen us huddled out there in the cold and the dark sacrificing our comfort for you men,” she began to laugh, “but the snow kept putting out the fire.”

  Johannes began to step toward them, but Sarah raised an arm from beneath the blanket. “Oh no, no you don’t. Don’t take one step in here, Mr. Svenson, until you take off that sopping gutta-percha and that hat. You’re already dripping over everything. Rebecca and I just got warm.”

  Johannes and Philippe exchanged amused glances. Michael was already dutifully following Sarah’s instruction, his eyes periodically looking up at the two women, then settling on the floor again as he shed his poncho, hat and gloves.

  Johannes snorted. “You ladies were not out trying to start any fire, but,” he added with a mischievous grin, “just imagining that scene makes us feel looked after.”

  “How dare you question us, Johannes?” Rebecca faked indignation, trying to maintain a straight face, but to no avail. Both she and Sarah began to laugh. “You know us too well. We have, however, laid out the pan bread we made yesterday, honey and the last bit of butter. We should’ve brought more of that.”

  “And some pemmican you can roll in those thin round bread things Philippe showed us how to make the other day,” added Sarah looking brightly at the vaquero.

  Philippe chuckled. “They are called tortillas, Señorita Sarah, and when you roll them over some type of content, even pemmican, they are called burritos.”

  Rebecca turned her head to Sarah. The redhead was staring back at Philippe who was untying the colorful bandanna wrapped around his neck, its two tails tucked deep into the lapel of his tunic. She cleared her throat. “How are Zeb and Reuben doing out there? Such a horrible night to be out.”

  “They are fine,” responded Johannes. “We have the cows pretty well bunched together. They are concentrated in small groups, staying close to one another for warmth I suppose and they’re not about to move out from the downwind side of the various clumps of trees they have gathered behind. Given this hellish weather, we are rotating three hours on, three hours off, tonight.” Johannes shook his head disgustedly. “This is June. It’s supposed to be summertime.”

  Philippe chuckled. “Sí, Señor Johannes, but apparently the weather gods on top of these passes don’t keep calendars. One can only imagine what December or January would be like.” He turned his attention to Michael. “¿Como esta, muchacho? Warming up?” Michael threw an
other quick glance at Rebecca and Sarah, then diverted his eyes down to the floor nodding his head, “Yes…yes…yes, sir,” he stammered.

  “Good!” Philippe clapped his hands. “Good! So the señoritas’ reward for our promptly obeying their commands is that we may now make the looong walk to the food.” He gestured to the trays and plates Sarah and Rebecca had set out for them more than an hour before, a mere few feet away from where the men stood.

  Sarah giggled. “Well, of course, Philippe. We would be honored to have you dine with us.”

  Rebecca watched Johannes’ eyes shift rapidly from Philippe to Sarah. Sarah—you are being far too transparent. “We shall even let you sit, as long as your pants are halfway dry. If things get wet or damp in here, they take forever to dry out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Johannes threw her a mock salute.

  In a repeat of the scene three hours earlier, the tailgate opened with a thud, and snow curled under the closed canvas rigging, rising in a blown column in the relatively heated air of the wagon, the flakes melting as they rose, then disappearing, falling in droplets to the floor. Reuben rolled under the canvas, followed by Zeb on his hands and knees. Zeb rose to a crouch, reaching back out into the snowy darkness, pulling the tailgate up behind them. Sarah, her head resting on Rebecca’s shoulder, jolted awake.

  “We would appreciate—” Rebecca began to speak, but Reuben held up his hand with a smile.

  “Johannes gave us the word. You might say we have been pre-instructed. Take off all our wet gear here before we take one step.” He laughed. “Do I have it right?”

  Reuben smiled and Zeb, now standing, chuckled, his fingers busily working the ice and snow out of his mustache. “I’ll just hunker down right here on this barrel by the tailgate. These leather leggings are wet through, though this fringe will dry ‘em soon enough. Reuben, would you mind fetching my food for me?”

  Reuben turned from hanging his gutta-percha over the cross brace suspended side-to-side from one side of the top of the rearward arched canvas support to the other, an idea of Zeb’s, lashed into place for just such a purpose. He took the several steps to the food the two women had laid out, preparing two plates, cutting large slices of the pan bread for each, and smearing gobs of butter and honey over the top of thick cake-like squares. He hesitated, surveying the tortillas and the adjoining dish of pemmican, looking at Rebecca and Sarah with a puzzled expression. “Those round pieces of bread are called tortillas. You roll the pemmican up in them and then you have a burrito.” Sarah beamed helpfully.

  “Really?” said Reuben, his eyes sliding to Rebecca’s.

  Reserved. He’s been like this since he tried to propose. Waving her hand in the air, Rebecca forced a light and airy tone, “Yes, really. Actually quite delicious.”

  “Just bring me pemmican, Reuben. I don’t need any of them tortillas.” Zeb’s voice was flat except for the word ‘tortillas’ to which he had added a sarcastic inflection. Sarah’s face blanched.

  Reuben paused, looking back over his shoulder at Zeb from his stooped position, his hands frozen, one holding a tortilla, the other about to sprinkle pemmican on it. “Sure, Zeb.”

  Rebecca fixed her eyes on Zeb. Best to cut this conversation off. “Zeb, are these types of storms common in June?”

  “Much obliged, Reuben,” said Zeb, reaching up for the plate the young Prussian extended to him. With his thumb, forefinger and middle finger the mountain man picked up a clump of pemmican, dropping it in his mouth and chewing. “Sure are, Rebecca. I’ve seen snow like this in July, this high, sometimes August. I reckon we’re over eight thousand feet. The Gap is around six thousand and Wolf Creek, behind us, tops out at more than ten thousand feet, if I remember correctly. We holed up here on the east slope of this next ridge, ‘cause the west sides of these hills get way more snow.” He tipped his head back, dropping another mound of pemmican into his mouth and chewing. “Good thing is, it won’t last long—usually. I bet tomorrow there ain’t a cloud in the sky and it’ll warm up right quick. By noon, this snow’ll turn to muddy slush. We’ll be stuck here at least a day.”

  Reuben’s head snapped up. “We’re going to lose a day?” “Better than losing a wagon on slick slopes.” Zeb’s tone was matter of fact.

  Rebecca was struck by a sudden memory. Trying to keep the alarm out of her voice, she peered at Zeb. “I saw an article in the newspapers back in England—I believe on the Alps. They talked about snow sliding off mountains under the right conditions.”

  Zeb looked at her with respect for a moment, then nodded, still chewing. Swallowing, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Yep, them is called avalanches. They can sweep down off a ridge and take out everything in their path, even the biggest of trees. Quite something to see.” He paused, obviously lost in a memory, then catching the look of alarm on Rebecca’s face, added quickly, “But we’re fine here. Checked it out before we chose this spot. Ain’t much of a north slope above us, which is where the snowpack is mostly this time of year. That south slope is steeper and higher but there’s only patches of snow left. We’ll be fine.”

  Rebecca breathed out, relieved. “I thought there were just going to be two riders out at any time tonight.”

  Reuben, sitting on a keg next to the bedroll near Rebecca, took a bite from the burrito, a large portion of the pemmican falling out of one end. “Remind me to wrap these things tighter next time.” He picked the pemmican off his leggings and threw it back on his plate. “Philippe should be in shortly.” At the mention of Philippe’s name, Rebecca noticed Zeb’s gaze dropped to his plate before Reuben continued on. “He just wanted to make sure Michael and Johannes was all set up. Shift after this, he and I will go back out and Johannes and Michael will come back in. Zeb gets to have two shifts off. Figured that would be fair since I broke my promise that he wouldn’t have to spend any time with cows.”

  The tall mountain man looked up from his plate with a grin.

  Opening her eyes slowly, Rebecca’s gaze roved the interior of the wagon. Sarah lay on the bedroll next to her, breathing rhythmically, both of them still under the same blanket. The winds have died down. Reuben sprawled on the wagon floor below her, his chin on his chest, arms crossed and legs extended in an uncomfortable position in the narrow space that formed the small walking corridor between Sarah’s empty bedroll and hers, and the stores and supplies carefully piled on either side of the wagon bed. Snoring more deeply, Zeb had tipped back the barrel he sat on, leaning his shoulders against the rear corners of the canvas.

  A horse whinnied at the rear of the wagon. The tailgate slammed open and Philippe crawled in on all fours. Rebecca felt, rather than saw, Reuben’s head snap up. Sarah sat up suddenly next to her.

  “Hola!” said Philippe cheerfully, sliding his gutta-percha over his serape, then reaching up and taking off his hat, shaking it. Not snowing nearly as hard, Rebecca noticed. Philippe’s smile froze as his eyes met Zeb’s. He shifted his eyes to Sarah, breaking the icy stare between the two men first, then looked at Rebecca, his grin forced. “Este vaquero is hungry, Señoritas.” He began to peel off his serape.

  Throwing off her part of the blanket, Sarah rose quickly. “You are wet, Philippe. I will fix you a plate.” She smiled.

  An impossible situation from which to distract attention, Rebecca looked quickly at Zeb. He still leaned back on his barrel, his posture relaxed, but the eyes he fixed on Sarah were as stormy as the swirling snow outside.

  Rebecca felt her jaw tighten as she watched Sarah prepare Philippe’s food. Two men after you, and you are hurting the one who has stood by you and the kindest of the two. Rebecca looked away, focusing her gaze on one of the gently swinging lanterns. And you do have choices, my friend.

  CHAPTER 31

  June 20, 1855

  BURIED PAST

  The stunning blue of sky just below the pass contrasted sharply with the dark green of conifers and intermittent steep meadows on the north side of the narrowing valley. Heavy snow still packed the
north face of the steep mountainsides and many of the tree branches on the lee side of the lodgepole, spruce and fir supported five or six freshly fallen inches disgorged by the thick clouds they had seen the afternoon before. North, on their right, was the river, swollen with melt and chunks of ice, but almost clear and a fraction of its size at the Narrows. They had ridden hard and the horses were sweating in the warm spring sun of mid-afternoon, which had softened the newer snow of the day before to a heavy wet layer over the pack of previous storms. Their horses moved slowly, stepping tentatively, their hooves breaking through the spring crust and sinking into the corn below. Black Feather’s careful scrutiny found no tracks. Must have filled with the wind before the sun set it up.

  The twists and turns of the evermore narrow canyon above them were more defined. Rising several miles to the northeast were the abrupt faces of Nokhu Crags rocks, grey-brown and proud against the spring sky. Black Feather let the stallion pick its way, concentrating instead on a continual close survey of the intermittent avalanche chutes and areas of little timber on the north face.

  He shifted his gaze to a movement deep in the trees by the river, his hand instinctively beginning to draw his Smoothbore. A riderless horse limped into view, dragging his left rear leg, struggling. Black Feather felt his jaw muscles tighten. Don’t look good.

  Several hundred yards further, as the invisible trail began to steepen, he thought he saw a dark mass in the snow on the north side of the canyon above them. “Dot, follow me. Keep your eyes on me and do what I tell ya. Stay close.”