Threads West, an American Saga

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  The brothers glanced at one another. An air of expectancy hung over the kitchen. Wincing as he reached behind him, Ludwig placed the rich leather of an old, worn but sturdy leather map case on the now barren surface of the table.

  “As you know, we have discussed for some time our inability to expand our land further here in Prussia. The gentiles, though they are friendly, would rather not sell to a Jew. Uncle Hermann in New York and I have been writing back and forth for years. There is trouble brewing in America. There are some who want to keep slavery and others who do not. The government there wants to ensure federal power and settle western parts of the country.” Ludwig fell silent and looked around the table. “From what Hermann has written to me and from what I have read in the newspapers, the western part of America is inhospitable, almost lawless but there is land, and where there is land there is opportunity.”

  He withdrew several large parchments from the map case. The only break in the silence was the rustle of the heavy, beige parchment papers as he unrolled and spread them on the table in front of him. “Helmon, Erik, hold those corners, please.” The brothers peered intently at the large sheets.

  “It will be a long, arduous journey across the Atlantic to New York and then by train to Chicago and finally to St. Louis.” His bony finger traced the route on one of the charts. “Here, from St. Louis, there is no formal transportation. The eventual destination, the Red Mountains in the San Juan Range, is just over three hundred miles southwest of the very small outpost they call Cherry Creek, situated at the confluence of Cherry Creek and the South Platte River, east of a mountainous region known as Las Coloradas or Colorado. It is the western edge of what the United States designates as the Kansas Territory. The man Hermann hired to scout for us has done a good job. Based on his letters, I expected a third map which he indicated would be quite important, but it has not arrived, nor have Hermann and I received any further correspondence from him.” Reclining in the chair, he positioned his legs with obvious discomfort.

  “It takes three hands to run the farm here. I am of little use. One of you will go on this journey. It will be his job to establish this family in America. The rest of you and your families—if any women will have you,” he said, smiling, “may someday follow. I am convinced America is the future.”

  Giving a slow thoughtful look to each of his sons in turn, his eyes came to rest on Reuben. For a brief moment, pride, love and a vestige of worry clearly etched his face. Then his features turned stern, almost inscrutable.

  “Reuben, I have booked your passage on the SS Edinburgh. The ship will be launched later this year. Its new condition should make the voyage more comfortable. It leaves Bremen in the evening, on January 16, a little over eight months from now. It makes port for a short time in Portsmouth, steams to Liverpool and then continues to New York. January 16 is a Sunday. You will need to be on the road before daylight that day. I do not wish you to travel on the Sabbath. Erik will take you in and bring the wagon back. Pack light—just one duffel, the map case and one small trunk. I have already sent money in advance to Uncle Hermann. In addition, your work coat is back from our friend Marvin, the tailor. I have hung it in the front closet. There are six diamonds sewn into the hem. The monies you may use as you see fit to buy equipment and supplies and to hire the men that you may need.”

  Ludwig’s deep-set intense green eyes bore into Reuben’s. “The diamonds, however, are to be used for one thing only—to buy our land. They are to be used for nothing else.”

  Wrestling with a mix of excitement and fear, Reuben felt a damp sweat on his palms. “Yes, Father.” Erik smiled at Reuben and nodded, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. Helmon looked lost, as if unsure about exactly what had transpired. Jumping to his feet, Isaac slapped a meaty fist on the table, shouting, “But, Father—”

  “Be seated, Isaac.” His voice was firm. Looking up at him, Ludwig raised his hand. Isaac broke off in mid-sentence, his mouth still ajar. His usual mildly florid complexion was beet red. He sat with a heavy, angry thud that made his chair groan.

  “Reuben, when your evening chores are done, come up to the study. I want to go over these maps in detail with you. I also have Uncle Hermann’s letters for you to read. We will review them again before your departure. You have the summer and fall to prepare,” Ludwig blinked twice, his eyes watery. “Remember as you say your good-byes around the village it is highly unlikely that you will ever return.”

  *****

  Reuben’s replay of the previous evening was interrupted by a deliberate hard slap to his head. “Do you plan to get that hay out to the cows or have you started your journey a half year early?” snapped Isaac.

  Reuben turned to his older brother. Evidently, the rancor of last night’s family meeting has not yet dissipated. A big man by any standards, Isaac towered above Reuben. He had large thick farmer’s hands and his face that morning carried the flush of too much schnapps. Reuben knew Isaac’s pride had been hurt.

  “The cows will get fed, Isaac.”

  “Father made the wrong choice. You are not strong enough.”

  Regarding his brother with steady eyes, Reuben forced himself to remember Isaac’s answer to anything was to push, to use muscle. He believed power was merely a physical attribute. Reuben resolved not to get into a fight. These may be the last months we ever spend together. “Father must have had his reasons. I am sure he thought you were too important to keep the farm going here to send you to America.”

  Isaac’s features softened for a moment.

  “Do you love me, Isaac?”

  His body jerking, Isaac’s lowered chin came up, his face wearing a startled expression.

  “Do I love you?” he echoed slowly, obviously perplexed. The word seemed foreign to him. “Why would you ask such a question, Reuben? What does that have to do with this conversation or Father’s selection of you to go to America?” Isaac fell silent and then added, almost as an afterthought, “Besides, you are my brother. Why would you ask me such a thing?” His tone had turned suspicious and defensive.

  Reuben half smiled. “Yes, Isaac, we are brothers. Each of us has our strengths. Your strengths and abilities are important here, helping Father with the farm and getting Erik ready for school. You are Father’s right hand. I fear he will not last much longer.” Reuben and Isaac looked out at the small figure hunched atop the wagon in the field.

  “Yes, I know,” said Isaac, his eyes misty.

  “Father trusts you to keep what we have. He trusts me to expand upon what is already built and to start something new and different. We each have different talents.” “Are you trying to say that you are smarter than I am?” snapped Isaac, diverting his gaze from the far-off wagon back to Reuben, his voice combative.

  Sighing, Reuben shook his head. “No, Isaac that is not what I meant at all.”

  The two brothers regarded each other warily. “Do you love me, Reuben?” Isaac’s voice was harsh and sarcastic. “I do love you, Isaac. You are my brother. But there are times I do not like you.”

  Blinking as he thought about the words, the larger man’s mouth opened and shut several times. “Well, there are times I do not like you either.”

  “Wish me good luck, Isaac,” asked Reuben, holding out his hand.

  Isaac looked at Reuben’s hand. Then, shoving his own into his pocket, he snarled darkly, “Good luck,” immediately wheeling and walking away.

  Standing and watching his older brother’s back in retreat toward the farmhouse, the realization that the future of his family and their fortune rested on his shoulders hit him with full force. He found himself imagining the look on Isaac’s face if he returned from America a failure.

  He looked once more at the wagon out in the field. He loved his father. Ludwig was wise. He had built their enterprise from insignificant to one of the largest in East Prussia. Butchers and breeders regarded their cattle as second-to-none. Ludwig had added to the land and the herd, making improvements to the farm, adding on to their home,
building barns, and increasing crops and hay. Reuben suddenly realized that of all of the brothers, he most resembled his father. The thought gave him courage. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, straining his eyes to the west trying to see a place he could not visualize nor imagine. He clenched his jaw and balled his hands into tight fists. I can do this. I will do this, for my father and for my family.

  CHAPTER 3

  May 6, 1854

  CHERRY CREEK

  The first several days of Zeb’s journey to Cherry Creek went smoothly. He followed Divide Creek west as it joined with other tributaries amassing increased current and flow velocity until it reached the Uncompahgre River. Turning his pack string north, he rode downstream to the confluence of the Gunnison. Before daylight the next morning, he had the pack string heading east and north up the Gunnison through rolling sage that turned to patchy aspen. He rode along the south rim of the Black Canyon, its rough jagged walls cascading hundreds of feet down to the silver ribbon of river that twisted through the tortured rock at the bottom of the chasm. The angry white rapids that roared in a rushing free fall down the steep gradient could be seen and heard, even at that distance. Zeb always marveled at the power of this unique piece of the mountains. Past the canyon, the high valley began to rise, the tree cover transitioning grudgingly to conifer as the river gradually dwindled to the tiniest of tributary creeks and disappeared into alpine springs on the high flanks of Monarch Pass.

  He made it a point to keep his travel parallel but off actual trails, though he had a habit of stopping on Monarch when he infrequently had occasion to be on the summit. It was early morning on the fifth day of the trip when he, Buck and the mules reached the top of the pass. Veering north from the trail that they had been shadowing by several hundred yards, he rode into a small meadow. Letting the horse drag reins, he hobbled the mules, allowing the animals to graze the grass patches that poked through the spotty spring snow on the south side of the ridge. Sitting on a sun-warmed rock, he began to roll a smoke, taking in the sight of it all.

  The craggy tips of glowing snowcapped peaks pointed their rocky fingers at an endless blue sky. Springs percolated on either side of the ridge. Rivulets of water augmented by snowmelt shimmered, the tiny wet surfaces fluttering in the steady westerly breeze. Zeb studied them as they swirled and winked with sunlight. He had always been fascinated with how, at certain high points, water on one side of the divide seemed to head toward the plains and water on the other side flowed in the opposite direction west toward the ocean, which he had never seen.

  “Most confounding,” he said to himself stroking his mustache. Clicking his cheek slightly, he gave a low whistle, and Buck trotted over from the edge of the meadow. The mustang waited patiently until Zeb collected the mules. Then they were off, picking their way downslope from the meadow, headed northeast.

  The next day, Zeb made his way around the edges of the western basin of South Park, ascended the treed ridge known as Trout Pass, and stopped well within the tree line on the east flank of the pass that overlooked the broad expanse of high-country flatlands. He immediately spotted the light, bouncing tops of four wagons still miles away to the northeast in the gentle rolling sagebrush. Sitting astride Buck for a while in the timber, still concealed, he watched the small wagon train carefully. This was Ute country. They were not as friendly as the Arapahoe were. The light cloth tops of the wagons were bright against the backdrop of gray-green sage and Zeb was sure Indians had watched them for some time. He had planned to turn due north to keep in tree cover until he had to venture east into the open to cross the great valley toward the final pass and the headwaters of the North Fork of the South Platte.

  He sighed, his eyes on the distant wagons the whole time. Damn fools. Gonna get themselves killed sure enough. Turning in the saddle, he apologized to the mules, “Okay, we are going to meet some white folks. I know you don’t see many, so behave.”

  It was late afternoon when his trail intersected with that of the small band of wagons. All four were Prairie Schooners, slightly lighter and smaller than Conestogas. The lead wagon reined in when they saw him. The driver was flanked by a rotund woman with a soiled white lace sunbonnet tied snugly around her double chin. As Zeb approached, the man stood with an antiquated musket in his hands. “No need for that, pilgrim,” Zeb called out. Hesitating, the man relaxed and sat down, placing the butt of the old rifle on the floorboards of the driving seat.

  Riding up to the side of the wagon on the driver’s right to make it more awkward to pick up and swing the musket, he nodded at the couple. “Howdy.”

  Rising in the saddle, he peered down at the three wagons stretched out behind. Each of them rumbled to a stop as they came up behind the lead wagon. The couples in the other wagons, all similarly dressed, were craning their necks curiously at Zeb. Peeking from behind one of the drivers were the small, pale faces of little children. The driver just ten feet from him was younger and smooth-shaven. He fidgeted, unsure what to make of Zeb’s silence.

  “We are Mennonites,” he eventually offered. “I’m John and this is my wife, Norma. We’re headed to the west part of the Kansas Territory from the Oklahoma Country.”

  Zeb’s thumb and forefinger played at one edge of his mustache. “That’s quite a ways.”

  Again, there was silence.

  John glanced to his wife and then back at Zeb. “We’re aiming for the plateau country. Supposed to be good soil there. How far, ya reckon?”

  “About six weeks in those,” replied Zeb, gesturing at the wagons. “Pending weather. Winter ain’t quite done yet. You might be there about June, maybe July. Going to be awful dry in the plateau country that time of year.”

  “You’re the first man we’ve seen since we come over the pass from Bent’s Fort.”

  Detecting a slight movement behind John and Norma in the interior shadows of the wagon, he shifted his gaze to John. “It won’t help none.”

  The couple cast quick looks at one another. “What won’t help none?”

  “Hidin’ the young-uns in there under the goods.” Zeb nodded his chin at the wagon.

  The couple glanced at one another again; then Norma turned and called out behind her, “Okay children, you can come out.” The freckled faces of two, very young, towheaded boys appeared, their eyes wide with curiosity.

  “Are you one of those mountain men?” asked Norma. Her voice was soft and timid, and her hands were clasped tightly in the lap of her long, gray skirt.

  Zeb chuckled. “Nope, just Zeb.” Looking back over his shoulder toward the higher country where afternoon clouds had begun to boil at the upper tree lines, he warned, “The Indians won’t be none too happy to see you. This is Ute country.” Noticing the look of fear cross Norma’s face, he was sorry he had said anything, though he had ridden out of his way to tell them just that. Ain’t none of your business.

  “Where are you headed, Mister Zeb?” John asked. “Cherry Creek, and the full name is Zebarriah Taylor.”

  John’s eyebrows shot up. “Zebarriah Taylor? We’ve heard of you!” John’s eyes traveled to the mules. “Quite a few folks are drifting into Cherry Creek. They might even change that Cherry Creek name to something else. Montana City or Denver City. Gonna sell them pelts?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “We stocked up on provisions in Cherry Creek before we came this way. Ran into some people who came from back East. They was dressed mighty fine and seemed book smart. They told the fella in the mercantile that things from the west and leather and Injun keepsakes fetch high prices way back there.”

  He studied John’s face. “Much obliged for the information but Cherry Creek’s about all I can handle, and not for long.”

  John nodded his head.

  “Good luck.” Zeb dug one heel gently into Buck’s side and the horse took a few steps.

  “Damn,” Zeb cursed to himself under his breath. He backed Buck up a few steps and the horse’s haunches collided with the nose of the nearest mule, which
set off some stamps of hooves and brays.

  Zeb craned around. “Easy, boys,” he said sharply. “If I was you folks, I’d turn around back to the flats—though I venture there’s not much chance of that. If you mean to push on, you might want to turn north here.”

  Zeb raised his arm, pointing to the white peaks of the Mosquito Mountains to the north of the great sage flat. “There’s a pass there called Hoosier. Better trail for them big rigs and you can follow that down the other side along the Blue River. There’s a small settlement there called Dillon. You can restock, and if you still have the notion to head west, get directions for the National Trail over to the Colorado River. There will be a few settlers along the river if you need help. Though, if I was you, I’d find me a place along the Blue further down. Good dirt and plenty of water. The further west you go, the less friendly the Indians. They don’t take kindly to that 1850 Treaty being broken. You might think about trading that thing…” Zeb nodded at John’s musket, “… for one of these,” he raised the Sharps slightly. “Get you five to six more shots a minute with this breech. Could be handy.”

  John smiled. “We will pray on your advice. Thank you. God bless you.”

  Cantering past the other three wagons, Zeb pointed Buck toward the bottom of Kenosha Pass, which rose steeply and suddenly from the valley floor, like a giant slice in the tall, rugged skyline on the east side of South Park. Except for the much lower Pine Ridge at the eastern edge of the mountains, this was the last big mountain barrier before the Great Plains and Cherry Creek.

  Thinking about the trail he would take north along the Front Range to Cherry Creek, he decided that once on the back side of Pine Ridge, he’d get out to the edge of the timberline in the foothills and then stick to the hogbacks.

  He camped at the western toe of the pass that night. By the next afternoon, he was on the east side of Kenosha, starting down the headwaters of the South Platte’s north fork. He stayed at least a quarter-mile from the creek as it grew to a river — more when he had the opportunity. He began to see occasional riders.