In the Shadow of the Mountains

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Thank you.” Irene touched the horse’s head and he nuzzled at her neck, whinnying softly.

  “He loves you, and you love him,” Ramon told her.

  Their eyes met, both of them feeling a deeper meaning to the words. “Yes,” she answered, hardly aware of her brother’s presence.

  “You have a way with horses that I have never seen in a gringa,” he told her. “Only in my own people, and the Indians. I have only known you a few minutes, but I can see it.”

  She smiled nervously. “Well, I don’t know where I get it, but I do love Sierra. I love all animals.”

  His eyes swept the horizon. “And do you love this land? Your brother tells me his other sister hates it. She wants to go back to California.”

  “Elly hates everything,” John put in. “That’s just Elly.”

  They all laughed then. “Yes, I like it here very much,” Irene answered. “I want to go up into the mountains, if I can ever convince my mother to let my father take me.”

  “Sí, it is beautiful.” He backed away slightly. “I must get back to work now. I am very glad to have met you, Señorita Kirkland.”

  “And I’m very glad to have met you.” Irene turned and climbed up onto Sierra sidesaddle. John untied the animal and handed up the reins. “Good-bye, Ramon,” Irene told him.

  Their eyes held a moment longer. “Vaya con Dios, señorita. Go with God.”

  The words and his eyes made her feel warm and safe. She reluctantly turned Sierra and rode off at a trot, back toward the current Kirkland home farther down the hill. She looked across the foothills, imagining riding at a hard gallop, Ramon at her side, both of them heading into prettier country west of Denver, exploring streams and mountain pathways. She felt a sudden pain in her stomach then, realizing what a forbidden thought that was.

  She forced herself not to look back. She knew Ramon was still watching her, and she didn’t want to appear flirtatious or too forward.

  “Pretty, isn’t she,” John was asking Ramon.

  Ramon watched her ride away, every manly desire deeply stirred by the patrona’s daughter. “Sí, mi amigo. Your sister is very beautiful.” He looked at John. “And you should never tell her or anyone else that I said so, or you will get Ramon in deep trouble. You told me yourself what your mother tells her daughters about Spanish men.”

  “My mother is a snob. Irene isn’t.”

  Ramon grinned. “I can see that in the few minutes we talked. She is not like the others.” He put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Just do what I tell you and say nothing. I am glad to have met her. That is the end of it. We had better get back to work. There is much to do.”

  They went back inside. Ramon almost wished he had never met the pretty Irene. It was not wise to have fond thoughts for a woman he could never have. Besides, there was Elena to think about. She was waiting for him at Hacienda del Sur. It was understood between his family and her own that he and Elena would one day marry. The union had been arranged many years ago between his and Elena’s grandfathers. To go against a family promise would be a disgrace, and an insult to Elena. He wondered why the thought had even come to mind, and he began working vigorously with a cornice plane, venting his anger and disgust with himself through concentrating on molding another piece of wood.

  Kirk and Chad rode with four hundred other men under Major Chivington, the eager Methodist minister-turned-fighter. Most of the Colorado Volunteers were hard-rock miners, come down out of the mountains to protect Denver gold, unruly men who were not easy to order around. But Chivington had a way of taking command. For the most part, the men obeyed his orders, although they were all now itching for a good fight.

  Chivington had been given orders by Colonel John Slough to skirt around to the rear of the Confederate contingent from Texas that was marching for Denver. He and his men were not to instigate a battle but were simply supposed to harass the enemy, deliberately driving them north toward Slough’s waiting Volunteers. Slough would attack with the several hundred men heading south to intercept the Confederates.

  “I’ll be glad when this is over,” Chad told Kirk. “All this riding and camping without any action is getting boring. I’d just as soon be back there with Slough and run head-on into Sibley and his bunch.”

  “I know what you mean,” Kirk answered. “I’ve got a lot of things to get back to. I hope the family is all right.”

  “So do I—especially Irene, if you don’t mind my saying so. Your daughter is beautiful and charming, Kirk.”

  The two men had gotten on a first-name basis, and Kirk found Chad likable enough, if not a little too eager to make an impression. The man was obviously romantically interested in Irene, and he certainly had a promising future; but Kirk was still wary of him, and considering Irene’s young age, he had told Chad he would have to wait until Irene’s sixteenth birthday to begin seeing her.

  Her birthday had passed two weeks earlier, and Kirk felt bad that he had missed his daughter’s birthday for the first time since the year he spent in the Sierras looking for gold. He argued with himself that he had no good reason for being skeptical of Chad Jacobs, except that he was naturally wary of all the young men who wanted to court his daughters, since they were rich. But Chad had mentioned more than once that he was wealthy in his own right. He certainly looked as though he came from wealth. The way he dressed, his manners, his education, all spoke of good breeding. At least that was what Bea would call it.

  For Kirk, though, there were certain things that were more important than good breeding, like whether or not his daughter’s husband would be kind to her, faithful to her, would love her just for who she was, not because she had money. He and Bea had married for all the wrong reasons, and deep inside he had never been happy. He didn’t want that for his daughters, or his son.

  Kirk’s thoughts were interrupted when they moved into a narrow canyon dubbed Glorietta Pass. Chivington suddenly raised up in his saddle, pulling his sword and pointing it. “Ride hard, boys,” he shouted. “Enemy ahead!”

  Chivington, anxious to make a name for himself, charged ahead, and his troops followed. Kirk could barely tell what Chivington had seen. He had spotted only three men, and he surmised they were Confederate scouts. Men shouted war cries and rode hard after them, and they scattered. One scout was shot and captured, and Kirk was almost disappointed that the fight had been so short-lived that he had not even had a chance to shoot his rifle.

  The wounded scout informed Chivington that Sibley’s main force was not far ahead and still moving north. The next morning, Chivington led his men north to flank the Confederate troops, the eager leader on fire with a desire for conquest. Kirk suspected the man had just seen his chance for glory, and that he probably hoped to run across the Confederates before Slough and his men could steal the battle.

  Kirk and Chad rode hard, choking on dust from horses ahead of them. They both realized things were finally getting serious, neither one doubting that they would see battle this time. By the time they came across Sibley’s troops later in the day, the Confederates were already in a heated battle with Slough. Chivington, wanting some of the glory for himself, ordered his troops to charge ahead. “We’ll cut off their supplies, men,” he shouted. “That will turn them back quicker than Slough’s bullets!”

  They moved into Sibley’s camp, and Chivington grabbed a burning stick from a fire and threw it into a Confederate supply wagon. His men followed suit, setting fire to tents and more wagons. Kirk rode up close to a cook wagon and held his gun close to an oil lamp that hung against the canvas. He fired, and the flame that spit from the gun barrel caused the lamp to explode. In seconds the canvas was engulfed in flames.

  He turned his horse, letting out a warwhoop not unlike an Indian, but he quickly sobered when he saw Chad raise his rifle. The young man sat facing him, and for a split second Kirk thought Chad was going to shoot him. Chad did fire, but the bullet whizzed past Kirk. Kirk heard someone cry out, and he whirled his horse to see a Confederate fallin
g from the front of the wagon, a rifle in his hand.

  Kirk looked back at Chad. “He was fixing to shoot you,” Chad told him.

  Kirk looked at the dead body, while farther ahead the fighting raged. There was no time for thank-yous. Chad and Kirk joined the melee farther ahead, but Kirk held back when he saw Chivington begin bayoneting the Confederate horses and mules. Anger raged in his soul at the sight. Chad fixed his bayonet on the end of his rifle, and Kirk grabbed the bridle of Chad’s horse. “Don’t do it,” he growled. “Not the animals.”

  Chad saw no reason not to kill the animals, but he didn’t want to get on the bad side of David Kirkland. He backed off, watching the bloody massacre with disinterest, while Kirk was regretting being a part of bringing Chivington in as an officer for the Volunteers. The man was a fighter, of that there was no doubt. But in that one moment of raging, bloody butchering, Kirk saw something akin to evil in the supposed man of God.

  “There’s no need for that,” he told Chad. “We could have just scattered them, captured some of them. Come on.”

  Kirk rode farther ahead, joining in more combat. He shot one man, then cried out with pain when the bayonet of another jabbed his leg. He whirled and smashed the barrel of his rifle across the side of the man’s head. It was then he heard a bugle sound retreat, and the Confederates began to flee. Both Chivington and Slough, along with the rough and unorganized Colorado Volunteers, pursued them for several miles. They finally realized Sibley and his men meant to keep going all the way back to Texas. With nearly all their supplies, mules and horses totally destroyed, they would have to abandon their plans to capture Denver and her gold.

  Cries of victory filled the air. Denver was saved! Kirk looked down at his painful, bleeding thigh and pulled a bandana from a pocket of his buckskin jacket. He tied it around his leg.

  “Kirk! You’re hurt,” Chad exclaimed, riding up to him. “You’d better see the medic right away.”

  Kirk grimaced, turning his horse. “I will.” He looked at Chad. “You saved my life back there at that wagon,” he told him.

  Chad grinned. “Well, I wanted to be able to shoot at something. I guess I got my wish.”

  Kirk grabbed his hand. “Thank you, Chad. What else can I say?”

  Chad thought how he could have had no better good fortune than to have had the chance to save David Kirkland’s life. Irene Kirkland was as good as his. “Nothing, sir,” he answered. “Just allow me permission to come and visit your daughter often.”

  Kirk grinned. “Anytime, as long as you mind yourself. She’s pretty young to be seeing anyone yet.”

  Chad nodded. “Yes, sir. But I might as well tell you I’m totally taken with her after one visit. I realize how much she means to you, though. I would never be anything but a gentleman.”

  Kirk nodded. “Fine.” He looked around. “I’m anxious to get home. How about you?”

  “Well, sir, I have begun to think of Denver as home. I’m anxious, too, especially to dig into my work for Kirkland Enterprises. I hate the thought of your wife having to handle things alone.”

  Kirk raised his eyebrows, grinning slightly in spite of his pain. “Bea? Don’t ever worry about Mrs. Kirkland handling anything alone. She can outwork ten men, let me tell you.”

  Chad laughed, and both men rejoined the celebrating. They would return to Denver heroic conquerors. Gilpin’s “pet lambs” had proved their worth, in spite of their motley, unorganized condition. But Kirk was not proud of some of Chivington’s tactics. He had seen the bloodthirsty expression on the man’s face when he butchered the Confederate horses, and he wondered if the man could be trusted to continue to represent Denver with honor.

  The Rocky Mountain News was splattered with headlines of victory at Glorietta Pass well before Kirk and Chad and the others managed to get back to Denver. People celebrated in saloons and in the streets. Chivington, it was said, was the true hero of the day for mounting an attack from the rear and destroying the Confederate supplies.

  Red McKinley joined in the celebrating. Having just arrived in Denver, he really didn’t care much one way or the other about the reasons for the dancing in the streets. He was simply having a good time joining in the fun and drinking liquor that others were buying for him.

  Red moved from one saloon to the next, getting a feel for this new and growing city he had heard so much about, hoping that maybe here he could find some kind of solid work and settle down. He was getting older. It was getting harder to stay in a saddle from dawn to dark leading wagon trains, and the pay was not that good. Besides, there was talk of bringing the railroad all the way across the country, just as he had once predicted would happen. That would mean work such as his would become nearly extinct.

  He looked up at the signs around town: Kirkland Hotel, Kirkland Supply, Kirkland Bootery. “Kirkland,” he said aloud. He frowned, turning and grabbing hold of a man who was walking past him. “Hey, mister, you wouldn’t happen to know the Kirkland whose name is on all these signs, would you?” he asked with his Irish accent. “Might it be David Kirkland? A big man with light hair? About my age?”

  “That description fits David Kirkland, all right.”

  Red grinned. “No fooling?”

  “No fooling. The Kirklands own half of Denver—mines, warehouses, a bank, a hotel…hell, you name it, they own it.”

  Red let go of him, looking across the street at the hotel. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. How long had it been since he had last seen Kirk. Back in forty-six, wasn’t it? Sixteen years! He could hardly believe what he had just seen and heard. David Kirkland, a wealthy man! It was difficult to imagine. “Guess I’ll have to look up my old friend,” he muttered. He wondered what had ever happened to the little half-breed Indian girl Kirk had taken from Bent’s Fort.

  Chapter Eight

  Irene could not resist the chance to see Ramon again, even though her mother would disapprove vehemently of her seeing him alone. She had visited with him often over the last several weeks, but always with John and other workers around, and even then, only when her mother was gone. Although she knew it was probably wrong and pointless, she seemed unable to fight the attraction she felt for the strong, kind, and talented man.

  The Colorado Volunteers were expected back in Denver today, and Bea was in town helping to prepare a grand welcome. She would not be back to pick up her daughters until later in the day. Against his wishes, Bea had taken John with her so he could spend the morning at Kirkland Enterprises. The young man had left with a scowl and near tears in his eyes, and Irene knew he would rather come up to the new house and work with Ramon. She was sorry for him, but could not help being glad that finally, for the first time since meeting Ramon, she had a chance to be alone with him.

  Back at the main house, Elly was primping as though she were going to a ball rather than to a parade. The girl carried on about how she hoped Father and Chad were all right. Irene prayed for the same, and she was excited that her father would finally be home again; but she was not especially overjoyed that Chad was coming back, although she did hope he had not been harmed. Now that Chad Jacobs was coming home, her mother would be pressuring her to receive the man regularly, but all Irene could think about was Ramon.

  She trotted Sierra toward the new house, which sat on land that was now being called Kirkland Bluffs. Denver’s elite had begun building their homes up there, away from the city’s “undesirables.”

  Irene felt daring and excited as she came closer to the mansion. Ramon was here! She had seen him ride up earlier. Her emotions were a torrent of what she felt sure was love, mixed with a feeling of hopelessness. Ramon had never voiced his feelings, but she was sure she had seen in his dark eyes the same intense emotion she felt for him. Every time she was around him, she felt more deeply impressed, not just with his dark, handsome looks and his artistic skills, but with the fine qualities he possessed.

  She came near the house and dismounted, tying Sierra with hands that were suddenly shaking. Was she
being too forward? Her mother would be in a rage if she knew she was here. Yet this time the thought of her mother’s disapproval was not enough to deter her. She climbed the steps and walked through the double doors.

  The builders had accomplished a lot in the past few weeks, but things had slowed now, since most of what was left could not be finished until the goods arrived from San Francisco and New York. Today the rest of the builders were in town, already getting drunk in preparation for greeting the troops—all except Ramon. She knew he preferred to work alone anyway. For Ramon, the news of the victory at Glorietta Pass meant little. In his mind, this land should still belong to Spain.

  “Ramon,” she called out. Her voice echoed through the huge, open great room. She heard footsteps, and Ramon appeared at the top of the wide stairway to her left. He stood on the first landing, looking down at her in surprise.

  “Irene! What are you doing here? Aren’t you going into town?”

  “Not until later this afternoon.”

  He looked around, appearing hesitant. “You are alone?”

  She felt her cheeks growing hotter. “Yes. I—I got a little bored waiting for this afternoon, so I thought I’d come up here and talk to you.”

  He slowly descended the stairs, his heart racing, arguments against his own feelings raging in his soul. “It—it is not right for you to be here,” he warned, unable to take his eyes from hers as he moved to the bottom of the stairs.

  “I don’t see why not,” Irene answered, trying to look brave. “You’re a good friend to John and me both.”

  She studied him as he came closer, feeling new, forbidden, womanly desires at the sight of him in tight-fitting denim pants and a red calico shirt with rolled sleeves. Today he wore a red bandanna around his forehead, making him look more Indian than Mexican. She wondered who in his royal ancestry had been tall, for Ramon was taller than most Mexicans she had known. He carried himself with great pride, a pride she knew came from the blood of kings.