Threads West, an American Saga

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  “I am.”

  There was another silence.

  “I have things to do here man, so if you have something to say, spit it out.” Shifting his eyes from Jacob, he began to read some papers on the table.

  Jacob clenched his jaw. This asshole thinks he’s God. Gaging Mac’s powerful shoulders, he decided to say nothing confrontational.

  “Me and my fiancée are looking for passage west.”

  Mac looked up with a frigid stare. “You bring your own provisions and ammunition. It will be two hundred dollars.”

  Jacob had heard that Mac typically charged one hundred dollars. He tried to return the intense look from Mac but couldn’t.

  “Does that include a wagon?”

  Mac’s eyes flickered. “I’m all out of wagons.”

  Jacob leaned forward, feeling heat flow to his face. “You mean you’re charging two hundred dollars, and that doesn’t include a wagon?”

  “Aye, and we’re leavin’ two days from now. At daybreak. If you’re not there, we’re not waitin’.” Ignoring Jacob again, Mac looked back down at his paperwork, then he leaned to his side and spat another tobacco chew to the dirt floor. “One more thing. It’s cash in advance.”

  “We’ll be there,” Jacob clenched the hand in his pocket. It shook slightly as he handed over the money. “Where can I get a wagon?”

  Mac did not look up. “Talk to the tall man down at the corrals.”

  “How much should I pay?” pressed Jacob.

  Raising his head, the red bearded wagon master’s eyebrows were furrowed, and his eyes annoyed. “Whatever he charges.”

  Dropping his eyes to his papers, he gave a dismissive wave with one hand. Jacob spun, taking long quick strides toward the livery entrance. Mac shouted after him, “Make damn sure it’s a good wagon. If you’re broke down, you’ll be on your own. Your scalps will be on a tipi pole and coyotes will feast on your livers.”

  Walking back down the street, he could feel the terse anger in the muscles of his neck and shoulders and the boil in his gut. A man whose vision was obscured by a large sack of flour over his shoulder didn’t see him. Jacob shouldered him, sending the man staggering off the boardwalk.

  I need a bar, any bar, a couple of shots of strong whiskey and time to think. He gritted his teeth. With his winnings, he had plenty of money but he was loathe to spend more, particularly with Mac.

  It was late when he returned to the cramped hotel quarters. Though furious about having to spend eighty dollars on a wagon and a team, he thought he had bought a good stout rig and the horses seemed healthy to his untrained eye.

  Bursting into the hotel room, he waved at Sarah. “Woman, come downstairs. I want you to see this fine wagon I bought just for you.”

  Sarah was staring out the window from her seat on the edge of the bed. She blinked but didn’t move or turn.

  “That was thoughtful, Jacob,” she said.

  “By the way, I’ve told everyone you’re my fiancée.”

  Sarah smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Jacob, for thinking of my dignity.”

  Jacob stared down at her, feeling his brow crease suspiciously. “You feelin’ okay?”

  “I was a bit nauseous this morning but I am better now. Thank you, Jacob, for being concerned.”

  Jacob scratched his head, then shrugged. “Come on, we need to get ready. We need provisions and a pistol. I threw that antique of yours off the train. I spent some time in a mercantile. I think I will get me one of them five-inch, short-barreled .44 revolvers that that Frontier Army Company just came out with. I can keep it in my coat pocket. And we have to be down there at the crack of dawn in just two days. The wagon master is a mean son of a bitch.”

  “Then perhaps we should wait for another wagon train.”

  Whirling in the doorway, Jacob shook his head vehemently, “No. There are very few. We’re going. The next set of wagons might not leave for weeks. I don’t want anyone to beat us to the gold!”

  CHAPTER 44

  MARCH 17, 1855

  PREPARATIONS

  Stopping at the hotel’s front desk, Reuben wrote out a quick note, then handed it to the bellhop along with two bits.

  “Deliver this to Miss Rebecca Marx, please, Room 430.”

  The bellhop’s eyes widened at the tip. Minutes later, Rebecca was walking toward him across the foyer, hips swaying, her form-fitting dress shimmering over the curves of her body. Her dark hair tumbled down her neck, ending in slightly curled wisps at her shoulders, contrasting provocatively with the bright red color of the fabric. The creamy swell of her breasts peeked from the frilly trim of the low neckline. Men’s heads turned. Despite himself, Reuben drew in his breath but he remained hunched over the counter with his shoulder to her.

  Reaching him, she smiled guardedly. “Shall we get a table and have some tea?” she offered.

  “I have things to do.”

  Rebecca drew in her breath, a look of disappointment flitting momentarily across her features.

  “I’ve arranged your passage. You’ll be furnished a wagon. I will select a good team of four for you. Typical is two but better to be safe. You can pay me back half for the horses and we will split them when we reach Cherry Creek. Johannes and I will be on horseback. We will assist you as necessary. In return, we would expect to stow our supplies and duffels in your wagon.”

  “Inga will be delighted,” Rebecca responded smoothly. “Thank you, Reuben. How much is this going to cost?”

  “One hundred dollars and I would estimate your share of the horses at ten to twenty dollars.” Reuben eyed her dress. “I would limit the finery you bring. There’s not much room, and traveling light will be critical.…”

  She began to speak but Reuben held up his hand. “I’m not done. Do you have any idea what provisions are needed?”

  Thrusting her chin forward, the brunette drew herself to full height. “I am sure Inga and I can figure out what is needed.”

  Reuben laughed. The slight flush he had noticed in her face when she walked up began creeping down to her collarbones.

  “Well, if you decide you need assistance, let us know by this evening. Just over two days is not a great deal of time to get ready for a journey of this type.”

  “Reuben.” Rebecca extended her hand, letting it rest lightly on the forearms he had crossed over his chest. “Do you wish us to not be on the same wagon train? Will we be an imposition?”

  Reuben was dismayed at the look in Rebecca’s eyes, her words and her tone. The giddy feeling of camaraderie the day before rushed back, along with self-annoyance. Damn, get yourself under control. Taking a deep breath, he ran his thumb gently over a solitary tear that had begun to form at the corner of her eye. Her eyes closed and she rested her cheek lightly on his hand.

  “No, Rebecca. I don’t mind. We can all help one another. This is not a trip to make without friends or for the fainthearted.”

  “I know, Reuben. I am not sure there is anyone else I could say this to. I am a bit frightened. This is all new to me. I am very much out of my element. Inga and I are very happy you and Johannes will be traveling west with us.”

  Reuben cleared his throat. A strange, pleasant tightness troubled his chest. “It’s new to us too. We will be fine, though it will not be easy. We can all contribute, as long as you aren’t so stubborn.”

  Rebecca’s nostrils flared. “Oh, you must be teasing me. I think that might be the pot calling the kettle black.”

  “You need to begin preparations,” said Reuben gently.

  “Let’s get Inga and Johannes organized.”

  “I will go talk with Inga right now.” Rebecca touched his arm again, her eyes studying his. “Thank you again.” She turned, heading for the stairway.

  Reuben walked briskly toward the entrance. Now where is that damn Johannes? He felt a bounce to his step and he realized that the tune he heard someone humming was his own.

  *****

  “Johannes, here are lists I made up on the train. Buy one an
d a half times the amount of each item. I am under no illusions. It is doubtful that Rebecca and Inga will have the slightest notion of how to outfit themselves. Then, why don’t you bring the wagon Mac has provided for them back up to the hotel and help Inga pack it properly. The two of you can coordinate the supplies together. We will keep our goods in their wagon.”

  Johannes rubbed his hands together. “It would be my pleasure, Reuben.”

  Reuben laughed. “No, Johannes, we need less pleasure, and much more concentration. Three hundred miles from St. Louis will be an inopportune moment to realize we did not bring an important item. Make sure we each have at least two hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition for your Colt, and see if you can find the same for the rifles. Buy an extra two hundred rounds for my pistol, if you would—I need real firing practice.”

  Johannes stood at mock attention and saluted. Despite his attempt to be comical, Reuben noticed the salute was exact. Johannes did have military experience.

  *****

  Reuben returned to the dusty street leading to the livery stable that afternoon. I need one trail-savvy hand for the journey west and the ranch. Even better if he knows Indians and the mountains. The rest of the men I can gather in Cherry Creek or one of the trading posts.

  Stationing himself against the weathered brick of a smoke shop on the opposite corner from 4th Street, legs crossed, arms folded across his chest, and the wide brim of his hat pulled low, he watched carefully. A medium height, thin man perched on the second rail of a corral fence at the end of the alley, talking to the horses. A number of horses had come up to the man and were crowding close to him, gently pushing against each other for his attention.

  He recognized the tall frontiersman who had caught his attention when they first met. He was leaning against a corner of a building like the day before, and again appeared to be rolling a cigarette. Two knives hung from the tall, lanky man’s belt, and another was slung across in back in a leather scabbard. A brace of pistols, one cap and ball and one newer revolver rested crosswise behind his buckle, and a well-used .54 caliber Sharps rifle nestled in the crook of his arm. The man had an air of quiet confidence. Keeping his eye on the buckskin-clad figure, Reuben nodded to several men who walked by but spoke to no one.

  He moved down the boardwalk toward the sinewy man building the smoke. The man lit the cigarette, watching him approach. Reuben stopped a few feet away, and the two men sized each other up in silence. The frontiersman had not changed his stance. He continued to lean against the side of the building, taking another draw on the cigarette with an air of ambivalence. Except to drop briefly to Reuben’s Colt, his stare never left Reuben’s face. Weathered crow’s feet crinkled from the corners of the man’s bright green eyes. Two heavy purple scars ran across the man’s cheek from under his eye to above the jawline. Reuben’s gaze lingered on his cheek.

  “Bear,” the man said, matter of fact.

  Reuben studied the scars more openly. “What happened?” The man’s eyes narrowed at Reuben’s accent.

  “I ate him.”

  Reuben laughed. “My name is Reuben.” “Reuben what?”

  “Frank.”

  “Prussian?”

  “Yes,” replied Reuben feeling mild surprise. “How did you know?”

  “The way you speak American.”

  There was another long silence as the two men regarded one another.

  Blowing smoke out of his nostrils, the frontier man reached into his buckskin jacket, pulling out a tobacco pouch. “I am Zeb. Smoke?”

  “No, thank you. Who is that thin fellow down at the corral having a conversation with the horses?”

  Without turning, Zeb responded, “Thomas, Mac’s wrangler.”

  “Are you going west?”

  “Yep. Going back west. Plan to trap some more beaver. You?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “We?”

  “My friend Johannes and I. We’ll be riding on horseback. I need to buy eight good horses, in fact. We have two acquaintances heading out with the train too but by wagon.”

  Bending over slowly, his shoulder still resting against the wall, Zeb spat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Johannes? Must be the tall blond fella you was with the other day. Mac said something about two single women going. That be the others?”

  “Yes.”

  Zeb straightened up slightly but his features remained impassive. “Greenhorns can get themselves into trouble out there,” he gestured to the west, “and women can be bad luck. Thomas will steer you to some good horseflesh.” He smiled, chuckling low in his throat. “That bastard must have been a horse last go round.”

  “Perhaps you can help us not be greenhorns. The ladies will not be a problem. They are capable and smart. And they can cook.” Reuben’s mind flashed on an image of Rebecca in the red dress. “Or they can learn to. Do you know the mountains southwest of Cherry Creek?”

  “I trap out that way, though you most likely ain’t goin’ that far. My nineteenth or twentieth season, I’ve lost count. What’s a fella like you goin’ out there for?”

  “You look like a man who has common sense, a quick wit and would honor your word. I sense a toughness, too. I’m headed out to establish a cattle ranch and I need a good man who knows the country and the ways of the land,” Reuben paused, “and who can fight, if need be.”

  *****

  Zeb was surprised. Sounds like an offer of some type. He remembered the young man from the previous day. It was his walk, faster than most, the air of quiet surety and the way he seemed to take in everything as he had moved down the street toward the livery with his tall blond companion. With the question pending, he took his time to study the younger man’s medium but solid build, and the lack of dust and sweat on the broad-brimmed hat. He let his eyes linger on the holster that cradled the six-gun. It was slung low and slightly behind Reuben’s right hip, snugged comfortably to his leg with a rawhide thong. The leather was new but well oiled, beautifully stamped, and the lighter, rough scrape marks on the front of the holster lip testified to repeated draws of the weapon. Been practicing.

  “Them one of them Slim Jims I have heard tell of? Pretty fancy.”

  “Yes.”

  Raising his eyes back to Reuben’s, he stood upright from the building wall, spreading his feet and facing Reuben head on. “You askin’ me to work for you?”

  “Yes.”

  Shaking his head, he began rolling another smoke, somehow annoyed at the younger man’s offer. But, he was curious. “I ain’t worked for no one, except back when I was fifteen. Where exactly are ya headed? Do ya know?”

  The young Prussian hesitated, then spoke slowly and deliberately. “I have some maps but we are eventually bound for near where the Kansas and Utah Territories meet toward the southwest flank of the mountains. A place called Las Montanas Rojas. You may have heard of it as Red Mountains.”

  Zeb forced himself to keep his focus on the cigarette half-built in his fingers but a good portion of the tobacco tumbled from the rolling paper when his hand jerked slightly at Reuben’s words. Cursing, he slowly sprinkled more leaves on the paper. “Yep, I heard of the place. What’s the pay? And I do plan to trap, no matter what, and I don’t take orders from no one.”

  “Supplies, board when we get some buildings up, and five dollars a month. And trapping on the side would be fine.”

  “And I don’t have to deal with any damn cows?”

  The young man shook his head. “No, others will handle the livestock.”

  “And I don’t have to stay in any buildings ya might put up?”

  Reuben smiled, obviously amused. “You can live under a tree if that’s your preference.”

  Taking a drag on the cigarette, Zeb’s mind worked quickly. Contemplating the half-smoked butt for a long moment, he flicked it with his thumb and middle finger out into the dirt of the alley. Watching the smoke curl blue-gray into the air, he ran his fingers down his long mustache, and made a decision.

  �
��You got a deal for now, Mister Frank. We’ll see how it goes longer term.” Zeb held out his hand, which Reuben shook firmly.

  “I’ll go talk to Thomas on those horses. See you after we ferry across the river the morning we leave. You can begin our instructions then.”

  Zeb nodded. His thumb and forefinger smoothed the end of his mustache as he watched Reuben stride down 4th Street, sunlight glinting on the pearl colored handle of the Colt as it swung slightly in its holster on the young man’s hip.

  CHAPTER 45

  ON THE EVE OF MARCH 18, 1855

  WESTWARD

  One thousand miles southeast of the thin wisps of smoke curling from the tipis of a small village of Oglala Sioux along the south fork of the Powder River, and three hundred miles northeast of slave hovels on a sprawling plantation in the Oklahoma panhandle, a number of curious onlookers watched the prairie schooner being loaded in front of the hotel on 4th and Walnut Street.

  Johannes had hired some Chinese immigrants to transport Rebecca and Inga’s luggage and the supplies through the hotel and to the wagon. They were busily sorting supplies and baggage on the curb next to the wagon. Reuben came out for a last check before the items were loaded into the prairie schooner. All six of Rebecca’s ornate trunks were in the street. His tall blond friend shot him an exasperated glance, rolling his eyes.

  Reuben shook his head. That woman is incorrigible. He charged up to Rebecca’s room.

  Answering his loud knock, the smile she had been wearing as she swung open the door quickly disappeared. “Your eyes shade to gray when you’re in a dark mood,” she said.

  “To hell with my eyes. We discussed the need to travel light, Rebecca. Six trunks are not needed out West. If you spend an extended time, you can have them shipped later.”

  “Every day here is an extended time. I need my belongings with me. That’s final.” She walked away.