Leadville

by James D. Best

  “Since you finished first, you wash the pot,” Sharp said with a malicious grin.

  Evidently the newcomer got the menial tasks. I started toward the canteen, but Sharp yelled, “Hey, use dirt.”

  “Dirt?”

  “Yep. Just grab handfuls of dirt an’ rub ’em around the pot till the dirt falls out dry. Use yer ’kerchief to finish the job.”

  I looked at McAllen, but his nod told me this was not some tenderfoot joke. I did as Sharp said and was surprised when the pot appeared clean after I had finished.

  When I handed the pot to Sharp for inspection, he whistled and said it looked just dandy for the morning coffee. That didn’t sound appealing, but Sharp had already proved his skill around a campfire, so his coffee would probably be good as well. I guess a little dirt never hurt anyone. As I snapped my handkerchief in the air to rid it of dust, my three companions started laughing uproariously.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “You did just right,” McAllen said. “Tell me, when you were on your own, did you use precious water to wash up after a meal?”

  When I left New York, I had traveled by train to Denver and then bought myself a horse and appropriate gear for the road. I rode alone from Denver through the Rockies and Utah until I reached Nevada. The trip taught me how much I didn’t know about how to live outdoors. “Mostly I found towns or inns, but if I couldn’t, I ate cold—right out of the tin.”

  “Stayed on roads, I bet.”

  I couldn’t understand why McAllen found this amusing. “I came to explore the frontier, not the wilderness.”

  “Our quarry prefers the backcountry,” McAllen said.

  “Indians don’t like to be penned like horses,” Red muttered to himself. This comment caught me by surprise. The sentence could almost have counted as a soliloquy for Red.

  McAllen made a guttural noise to pull our attention back to him. “This morning I had Red send a few telegrams to get the story about a Ute uprising that happened up north last week. The White River Utes attacked an army troop. Killed plenty. Then it appears that yesterday they wiped out the Indian Agency on the reservation, murdering a man named Meeker and seven of his staff. More to the point, they stole Meeker’s daughter—a sixteen-year-old girl—and her two children.”

  “How far away?” Sharp asked, suddenly interested.

  “Over two hundred miles as the crow flies. Further around the mountains.”

  “Doesn’t sound like our renegades,” Sharp said.

  “Nope. Hard five-, six-day ride away.” McAllen kicked at the dirt a few times. “This is a separate band, but Meeker’s the one that got the Utes riled.” McAllen kicked again. “Forget what happened up north. We gotta track this band.”

  “Problem is those other posses messed the trail.” Sharp looked at Red but got no response. He turned back to McAllen. “Lot of territory.”

  “We’ll find ’em.” McAllen’s tone was flat, not confident.

  I didn’t want to think about if or when we did. Four against six or seven didn’t sound promising. And how were we supposed to rescue the girl without endangering her?

  “What riled the Utes up north?” I asked to get my mind off the coming fight.

  “Meeker tried to turn them into Christian farmers,” Red said, with a note of distaste.

  Red didn’t say which part of that sentence offended the Utes more. The only Indians I had encountered lived in towns, and they seemed like despondent castaways. I assumed that when in their own element, Indians were of a different character. Savages? They certainly fought savagely, but my experience in the café the other morning had not been particularly civilized. Sharp once said that Indians had the same faults as us. Without firsthand knowledge, I’d take him at his word. I was learning about a part of the West I had not yet considered. My journal had concentrated on the rough-hewn towns, and I had completely ignored the original inhabitants of this vast country. I suddenly realized I could collect valuable material for my book on this trip. For the first time, I grew somewhat excited about our venture.

  “D’ya think the two snatches are connected?” Sharp’s question snapped me back from my musing.

  “Red doesn’t think so,” McAllen said.

  “Why not?” I blurted out before thinking.

  “Indians don’t have telegraphs.” Red said these words in a matter-of-fact manner, but I still felt like I had again exposed my frontier ignorance.

  “Rebellions don’t start overnight,” McAllen explained. “These angry braves probably jumped the reservation earlier.” Another kick at the dirt. “I sure hope to hell those boys don’t hear ’bout this uprising.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because they’d kill the girl so they could race back to the reservation to help their brothers,” Red said. “We need to find them before they learn that the Utes up north need their help.”

  Reminded about our grim purpose, my newly found excitement for our odyssey dimmed. I might learn more than I wanted about the savagery of small-group warfare in remote environs where white men were newcomers.

  “Turn in. I want to start at first light,” McAllen ordered.

  “Do ya have a plan?” Sharp asked.

  “A shaky one. The other posses probably drove the Utes deep into the mountains. Winter’s coming, so I think they’ll avoid the high country to the north.” McAllen kicked the dirt again. I realized that the calmest man I had ever met was nervous. “After we pass through this valley, we’ll head southwest. Red’ll pick the route. Hopefully, the instincts of his Indian half will put us on the right trail.”

  I looked at Red. “Were you raised a Shoshone?”

  “I lived with my father’s family until we were forced onto a reservation, then he sent me to my mother in Denver. When I was old enough, I returned to my father for a few years, but it wasn’t what I expected.”

  “You didn’t fit anymore?”

  Red met my eyes for the first time. “I fit with the Pinkertons.” When Red finally spoke, he seemed to have a few burrs.

  Sharp used a light tone to change the subject. “Gonna think with yer Indian half tomorrow?”

  “Like a Ute, not Shoshone. They’re mountain people.”

  McAllen returned to his bedroll, scooted down, and threw a blanket over himself. The three of us followed suit. After a few quiet moments, Sharp said, “Killin’ troopers, wiping out an Indian Agency: at least those acts kinda make sense. Hurt the ones that hurt you. But stealing this girl? It just gets men chasing ya for no purpose.”

  “They have a purpose,” Red said out of the dark.

  “What purpose?” I asked, leaning up on an elbow.

  Red stared at the stars. “Don’t know.”

  Chapter 8

  The next day we ran across no tracks, no people, and no decent game. We stopped in the late afternoon, and McAllen told us to set up camp below an imposing mesa. The quiet meadow took my breath away. The valley narrowed at this point, with steeply sloped gorges heading off in any number of directions. A thin waterfall splashed against some rocks at the base of our cliff and then disappeared into the ground.

  We were surrounded by towering rock faces but still had vistas between the valley walls that extended out to the flatlands for tens of miles. The brown and gold hues and unlimited horizon made the whole scene seem unreal to someone raised in the East, where impenetrable walls of green trees blocked an extended view. It suddenly occurred to me that the big sky, vast landscape, and soaring monuments gave westerners a sense of freedom and boundless opportunity not shared by their eastern neighbors, who could seldom see a thriving community less than a mile away.

  It was beautiful, and I wanted to make entries in my journal, but it had also gone from brisk to downright cold. I wondered if I could hold a pencil steady enough to read my own writing when I got warmer.

  As I was wondering if I would even have time for my journal, McAllen ordered, “Set up for a few days.”

  “The horses?” I asked.


  “Probably won’t run back now, but picket the packhorses a good distance apart in good feed. Let our saddle horses graze free.”

  McAllen and Red walked off to speak in private, so Sharp and I unloaded the packhorses and started arranging our supplies behind some huge boulders that had fallen down from the cliff. I glanced up but didn’t see any fissures that seemed ready to drop a new load onto our heads. It took about an hour for us to get the three packhorses hobbled by the front foot on picket lines and to get the equipment and supplies stowed in some type of order.

  When we started to unsaddle our mounts, McAllen yelled from a distance, “Leave Red’s horse alone!”

  “What’s going on?” I asked Sharp.

  “Red’s going to scout those gorges an’ try to pick up their trail. We’ll wait here for him until he can tell us which way to go.”

  “Days?”

  “Unless he gets real lucky.”

  I looked around at the terrain. “They think the Utes came this way because there’re so many routes they could take out of this valley. Rocky surfaces too.”

  “You’re learning, Steve. ’Fore long, ya’ll be a regular frontiersman.”

  I hooked a thumb at the rest of our party. “What’re they talking about?”

  “Probably how far Red should track ’em if he finds signs.”

  “Wouldn’t it be dangerous for him to approach alone?”

  “Not if Red’s father taught him well. Damn sight safer than the four of us and seven horses pounding after ’em.”

  “Then we may be here awhile,” I mused.

  “Yep. Good place too. Can’t come at us from behind, an’ these boulders’ll stop any bullets they throw at us from the front.”

  I looked up and down the still valley. I saw no life, and the only sound I heard was a distant crow making an ugly squawk like something had jerked its leg. Otherwise, it was dead quiet, and our camp felt as lonely as a graveyard in an abandoned town. “I bet they’re long gone.”

  “Probably, but ya can’t be too careful.”

  “Of course you can … but I guess that means no fires.”

  “No fires.” Sharp swung his arm around. “See them ridges? Easy to spot even a small fire from up there.”

  “Then they’ve probably already seen us.”

  “Not necessarily. Indians have a low opinion of whites. They know we like fires when it’s cold. They might take a peek over that ridge at nightfall but otherwise ignore this valley.”

  “Sounds careless.”

  “Not from their point of view. They surely got a bead on that other posse, so occasionally, they’ll just check to see if there’s another group of pursuers. A second party’s not their first concern.”

  “Thinking like an Indian?”

  “Thinkin’ like someone pursued.” Sharp unbridled one of the packhorses and gave him a swat on the rear to move him out of his way. “That other posse messed the trail, but they’ll also keep that Ute band busy. ’Bout time those boys lent us a hand.”

  Our riding partners meandered back and, without a word, Red mounted and walked his horse away from us along the cliff line. McAllen looked over our handiwork and offered no suggestions. He hefted his saddle and laid it up against a boulder. Then he did something I copied. With both hands, he started pulling out the long grass and throwing it where he intended to put his bedroll. I guessed they decided Red would track the Utes all the way to their lair. If we were going to be here awhile, might as well get comfortable.

  It took us half an hour to pull enough grass for our crude mattresses. The sun had slid behind a mountain peak, turning the rock formations red and gold with a scattering of green splotches from the low-lying junipers.

  McAllen seemed to mull something over and then said, “Gather up some dry wood for a fire in the morning.”

  Sharp looked puzzled. “A fire can be seen from above.”

  “Only from the north if we build it close to the cliff.” McAllen examined the mountains to the north of us. “Hell, if they went that way, they’ve eluded us already.”

  Sharp and I trudged off to search for loose wood that wouldn’t require the noise of a hatchet. “Has he lost hope?” I asked, noticing that the air had grown so cold I could see my breath.

  “He’s a realist. Our chances are slim.”

  “But—”

  “Listen. We’re late. He’s bettin’ his daughter’s life that they went south. If he’s wrong, we’ll never find her. Let’s just get some wood.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. I was cold.

  We returned with armloads of wood and picked a spot directly under the high cliff. I arranged everything so that only a match would be needed in the morning, and Sharp brought over the sacks that contained our food supply. About thirty feet away, McAllen sat cleaning his rifle against one of the boulders that fortified our new home.

  “How ’bout fish for dinner?” Sharp asked as he went over to our pile of gunnysacks.

  “I see a waterfall, but I don’t see a stream,” I said.

  “Sardines … canned.”

  “Sounds better than cold beans. I’m not sure I’d enjoy them out of a can after that gourmet meal last night.”

  “Exactly. Pales by comparison.”

  With that, Sharp pulled out three cans of sardines and some hardtack biscuits. Now I understood why Sharp had been eager to eat at Greta’s again. Then he tossed me three apples that I barely managed to juggle. “Dessert,” he said.

  When we had finished eating, McAllen said, “We need to post a sentry. Steve, you take the first few hours, I’ll take the middle, and Jeff the last.”

  “What am I looking for?” I asked.

  “Nothing. You won’t see shit with this moon. Listen. Try to pick out any unusual sounds.”

  “Don’t get mad if I wake you because one of our horses decides to night graze.”

  “I’ll be mad if you don’t. Them horses’ll give us our first warning.”

  I nodded, well aware that I had been given the easiest hours. No one seemed to have anything more to say, so I got out my own rifle to clean in the remaining light.

  “You’re handy with a pistol and steady in a fight, but I don’t expect any close-in work. Ya any good with that long gun?” McAllen asked.

  “Better.”

  “Sounds boastful.”

  “I don’t think you want a demonstration. Might be a bit noisy.”

  “Nope. Take you at your word.”

  I carried a Winchester ’76 that used 45-75 cartridges. My model had the standard extended magazine that held twelve cartridges, plus one in the chamber. Being a gunsmith, I had modified the rifle, just as I had improved my factory Colt. I started with the pick of the litter, lightened the trigger pull, attached a custom target sight, and added a lighter hammer spring. The ammunition was my own load, using English powder for a cleaner burn. It was a fine weapon, and my skill had been honed by practice in my gun shop and in the field. Like my father, I seemed to have a natural way with guns.

  I thought about what McAllen had said. His question about my skill with a rifle meant he intended to ambush the renegades. I knew the numbers dictated surprising the Utes, but shooting men from a distance bothered me. It seemed less like a fight and more like murder. I knew enough about McAllen to know he was tough, but he was not ruthless, and he operated according to a strict code of honor. Still, I wondered if I could trust his judgment when his daughter was involved.

  As I finished cleaning my rifle, Sharp and McAllen crawled into their bedrolls. Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed my saddle and carried it to the other side of a boulder, leaning it against the rock for a backrest. McAllen had been right about the moon, something he probably kept track of in his business. When the sun had completely set, I could not see more than a few yards.

  I rested my Winchester in my lap and listened for all I was worth.

  Chapter 9

  Our four-day encampment could not have been less eventful. Shar
p cooked a respectable breakfast each morning, we ate out of tins in the evening, and, while they lasted, we ate apples midday. Between meals we gnawed on jerky and occasionally sucked a peppermint stick.

  For the most part, I spent the time writing in my journal. When I reviewed my notations, they seemed to dwell on how uncomfortable I was rather than on the breathtaking country. And it was beautiful. The high meadow was exceptionally quiet, except for a soft whistle that came each afternoon with the gentle breeze. The rust-colored mesas that soared above our heads looked grand and ethereal. Misshapen junipers clung precariously to naked cliff faces, while most of the flat ground seemed to be covered by low-lying gamble oaks. The fall colors ran mostly to browns and dull reds instead of the myriad colors I was used to in the East. At first, my prejudices told me that autumn was prettier in New York, but the muted colors of this high desert blended perfectly with the red rocks and dusty green plants.

  This was grander than the nature that Thoreau wrote about. I should’ve been enthralled, not pining for a comfortable chair, a hot drink, and an even hotter fire. I would have reprimanded myself, but I knew that Thoreau’s idealized Walden Pond was actually only a short walk to these same accoutrements that he enjoyed on a regular basis at his friend Emerson’s house. I was about to make a notation along this theme when it struck me that easterners thought Walden Pond was raw nature, unsullied by man. In contrast, we were two days’ ride from a rustic encampment that offered few human comforts. Thoreau risked mosquito bites to experience nature. We were hunting men bred to the wilderness, so we could kill them—or perhaps be killed by them. In the West, nature was beautiful and imposing, but it was also dangerous.

  My respect for McAllen’s fortitude grew by the day. He showed no outward sign of impatience when Red did not return. In his place, I would have paced and probably cursed the heavens, worried that Red had been killed or captured. The previous day, I had asked McAllen about Red’s return, and he had simply said that we wouldn’t see Red until he located our band of renegades.