Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Reuben nodded his head slowly.

  Zeb watched him. “Figured you’d remember. It might be good to have a second wagon for supplies. Cases of nails, some mortar mix, tools, wire for fence,” Zeb smiled. “Maybe even get some of them windows. I reckon we can pack ‘em so they don’t break. I hauled one up to the cabins ten or so years ago. Only lost one pane. Besides, I can tie them mules off behind it. The extra horses will be behind the prairie schooner.”

  Zeb reached out a long arm and squeezed Reuben’s shoulder. His grin grew wider, “I think Rebecca’s gonna require you build her a house. She sure as hell ain’t going all that way to live in a wagon.”

  Reuben took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Time tells all tales. Why don’t you plan on being down at Fort Massachussets, let’s say, twelve days from today. We might be a day or two behind you. It will be a lot easier holding the wagons in one place than those cows, if we are lucky enough to get any.”

  Zeb nodded and waved to Johannes. “See you on the other side of La Veta Pass. Watch your top knot.”

  Reuben’s eyes must have widened because Zeb chuckled. “Your scalp, Reuben, your scalp.” Still chuckling, the tall trapper turned away and led Buck toward the McKinley Conestoga on the other side of the now diminished circle of wagons.

  Reuben walked Lahn over to Johannes and Bente and mounted. “Let’s see if we can’t go hire cattle-rustling Philippe.”

  Johannes grinned widely and shook his head. “Crazy Prussian,” Reuben heard him mutter.

  The Arapaho village was upstream of the confluence of Cherry Creek and the South Platte. The sun had fully risen and the sky pulsed brilliant blue, Lahn and Bente picked their way slowly down the steep, greening sides of an old river meander, which curved toward a cluster of almost one hundred tipis, smoke curling in thin streams from their smoke holes, a number of smaller tipis surrounding one much larger lodge in the center of the camp. One tipi was pitched a good two hundred yards downstream of the rest of the village.

  Reuben glanced quickly at the sun.

  “Nine o’clock, maybe,” offered Johannes.

  Reuben nodded and pointed at the tipi on its own,

  “Based on what Randy said, that must be it.” In front of the tipi, they could see a man’s shirtless figure sitting on a stump in front of a crackling fire.

  “Well, let’s go. Never met a rustler before,” said Johannes, dryly.

  Philippe Reyes leaned toward the fire, his elbows on his knees, his bare shoulders warming in the morning sun. He spit on the honing stone, turned over the long thin blade of his knife and began sharpening its opposite edge.

  With lowered head, he watched the two riders approaching. One was medium build, square shouldered and moving easily with the big palomino underneath him. The other was tall, very tall, with longer blond hair. Something in his posture screamed military—or maybe law. Without moving other than the slightest turn of his head, Philippe said in a low voice directed back at the tipi, “Woman, bring one of my pistols and the Smoothbore. Pronto.”

  From inside the leather walls came a whiney, plaintive response, “Get them yourself, you lazy dog.”

  Philippe felt the muscles in his jaw clench. Worthless squaw. “Goose Feather, there’s two riders coming in. Might be law. Bring the weapons, ahora mismo!”

  The tipi flap snapped back and the round, pudgy, deep copper face of Goose Feather, her jet-black hair hanging in greasy strings around her shoulders, poked partially into the sun. The squints of her eyes took in the riders. Muttering to herself she ducked back into their tipi, emerging seconds later with one of his onyx-handled .36 caliber Colt Navy pistols, it’s silver barrel flashing in the morning light and his .45 caliber Smoothbore Musketoon.

  Philippe stood slowly, wanting to appear nonchalant. He turned and watched Goose Feather waddling the last few feet toward him, her shoulders swinging back and forth with each step. Dirt-smudged grease stained the leather, which clung tightly to her ample form, the sagging layers of flesh squeezed into the doeskin imparting skin-filled folds to the material. She puts on any more weight and she will have to add leather to that dress.

  Philippe took the pistol. He shoved it into his belt, positioning it perfectly for a quick right-handed draw. He didn’t have to check the load in the Musketoon—he routinely checked it several times a day and each night before he crawled under the robes with Goose Feather, invariably turning his back to her and pretending he was asleep when she tried to fondle him. He held the rifle loosely in his left hand.

  The riders reined up ten feet from him. The smaller, younger of the two, dark brown curly hair underneath a dark brown cowboy hat that looked more new than old, crossed his forearms on the saddle horn and leaned forward. Philippe’s eyes fell to the pearl-handled Navy Colt in the holster, low on his hip.

  When his gaze returned to the young man’s face there was a smile in the green eyes that returned his look. “I’m Reuben Frank. This is Johannes Svenson. No need to be jumpy.…” Reuben paused, “We’re not the law.”

  Philippe shifted his eyes to Johannes who was watching him intently. The tall blond man nodded.

  Philippe felt himself relax. Reuben’s eyes flickered over his shoulder and he knew Goose Feather’s heavily jowled face was staring out the flap of the tipi to which she had retreated. Johannes’ eyes were fixed on the long scar that ran from his beltline across his well-defined abdominal muscles and up the front side of his chest almost to his sternum. He grinned at the tall blond. “A minor dispute over una muchacha muy bonita.”

  Johannes broke into a laugh. “Who got the girl?” Philippe pretended to look affronted, “Why, Señor Johannes, I did, of course. Would the two of you like to join me for some café? It will not take long and you can tell me why you honor me with your visit.”

  Reuben dismounted and walked within a few feet of Philippe, his gaze steady. “Thank you but we have a long ways to go and we are short on time. I have two simple, direct questions for you. First off, we were told you know cattle. Is that true?”

  I like his direct approach. Philippe smiled, watching Reuben closely, “Well, compadre, judging by you telling me you are not the law, I believe you are aware that I have experience with cattle.”

  The young man grinned. “And the second question is, I’m headed over to the Uncompahgre with Johannes. There might be a few others—ladies—joining us and the mountain man, Zebbariah Taylor, is our guide. He will be helping out some too. We are headed south to get cattle. I intend to establish a ranch. We could use a good hand. Interested?”

  Philippe’s eyes flickered momentarily upward. Gracias Dios. He returned his gaze to Reuben, “and the pay?”

  “Ten dollars per month, plus room and board.” Reuben chuckled, “when we get a roof up, that is.”

  “And how long do I have to get ready?”

  “About five minutes.”

  Philippe smiled, “You drive a hard bargain, Señor Reuben. But it just so happens I am currently unemployed.” He paused and laughed. “And I am already packed.”

  Goose Feather had now lumbered fully from the tipi. She stood behind and slightly to the side of Philippe and Reuben. Her features were flushed and the usual squint of her eyes were narrowed to slits by the lowered hard lines of her eyebrows. Her great bosoms rose and fell rapidly. In one hand, she held a bloody half-fleshed beaver pelt and in the other a six-inch curved skinning blade Philippe had given her in return for staying in her tipi. She pointed angrily with the knife and shrilled in Arapaho.

  Johannes put his hand over his mouth trying to stifle a laugh and Reuben took a half step back, his eyes widening.

  Philippe turned to her, “Shut up, squaw.” His voice was grim. Without warning, his long left arm extended and in a blur, his thin strong fingers grabbed the hilt of the knife from her. He turned and threw it out into the sage.

  Turning back to Reuben, he stuck out his hand, “You have a deal, Señor Reuben.” The clasp of the younger man was warm, strong and sure and
Reuben’s eyes never left his. “And know this Señor Reuben; Philippe Reyes will ride for the brand, always, unless I tell you in advance otherwise.”

  Reuben nodded.

  Philippe raised a hand, inserting his pinky and forefinger into his mouth. He blew a piercing whistle toward the line of river cottonwoods fifty yards away. A sleek, muscled black gelding appeared from the trees at a gallop.

  Philippe flashed a wide smile at Reuben. “Diablo is very fast.”

  “Really?” There was a good-humored doubt in Reuben’s tone.

  Philippe winked at him. “There are many who could attest to his speed. Sometime I shall tell you.”

  Philippe shot a look at Goose Feather whose lower jaw was trembling, a look of hurt permeating the anger in her eyes. He said nothing, instead ducking into the tipi to gather his bedroll, clothes and the second of his brace of black-handled Navy Colts.

  CHAPTER 14

  May 29, 1855

  NOW THERE WERE FOUR

  “That is some horse you have there, Philippe,” said Johannes, the appreciation in his voice evident.

  Philippe’s teeth flashed white in a wide, proud smile. “I bred him myself. Diablo is an overo-mustang cross. The long legs of a racing horse and the stamina and smarts of a wild pony. I am convinced Diablo is faster than any horse in the territories.” He laughed, a deep baritone laugh that boomed out to the cottonwoods, startling several wrens from their perches. All three horses pricked their ears. “Indeed this gelding has outrun the best the Texas Rangers could muster on many occasions.”

  Philippe turned to Reuben. “Where are we headed Señor Reuben? I don’t think three of us are enough to handle three hundred longhorns. I am very familiar with the breed,” Philippe flashed another smile.

  “Zeb thinks his mustang Buck is the fastest horse in the territories,” quipped Reuben. He grinned at Philippe.

  “Maybe the two of you will have to race. Johannes and I can make wagers. We are headed out to the Sampson Place. It’s more or less on the way, just a few miles west of the Platte on Bear Creek. Randy told us they have two sons. Same time he was kind enough to tell us about you. Perhaps one or both may want to join us.”

  The three men rode in silence punctuated by the occasional sharing of small talk about weather, cattle and horses. Just getting the gauge of each other, Reuben knew. Reuben noticed Philippe wore his twin Colt Navy .36 caliber pistols tucked crosswise in his belt. The brace of Colts had black agate or maybe onyx handles—Reuben couldn’t be sure—but they were the opposite color of his own pearl-handled grip. Reuben noticed numerous faint scratches on the silver barrels where they protruded below the leather of his belt. He has slid them out from behind that belt far more than once, Reuben thought.

  It was sometime in early afternoon, shortly after fording the strong currents of the South Platte when Johannes raised himself in the saddle and pointed, “That must be the place.”

  Reuben slipped Mac’s telescope from his pocket and extended the brass, “Doesn’t look like much.”

  As they rode toward the distant buildings, the disrepair of the small ranch was obvious. The loafing shed leaned at a crazy angle without bracing. Trash and debris were scattered along the two-track into the ranch house. The house was dilapidated, unpainted and several windows were missing panes. Two older horses listlessly trotted toward them. They weren’t starving but the ribs showed through their hide. Several more were fenced next to a small barn missing a portion of its roof.

  Reuben’s trained eye immediately picked out about fifty acres of land that had been farmed in the past and grown some type of crop. The tract was laid out along the creek and obviously watered from that source by ditches that looked clogged with debris and old growth.

  He turned to Johannes, “Didn’t Randy mention that creek doesn’t run all year?”

  “So?”

  “Well, right now the water is up due to spring runoff. This is the time to take water out of the creek and get it on your cropland but it doesn’t look like they’ve even plowed that acreage. It hasn’t been seeded and they don’t have water going.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Reuben caught a quick glance from Philippe and a nod of agreement.

  They reined in front of the house. Broken planks pockmarked what had once been a veranda. Their splintered edges tipped toward the ground under the stoop. The left-hand riser on the stairs up to the porch had settled, canting the stair treads at an angle. The remnants of a broken chair cluttered one corner.

  “Hello?” called out Reuben.

  There was no response and no one came to the door. Reuben was sure he heard some type of movement inside. He was just swinging his leg over the saddle to dismount, when the door was flung open with a loud creak and a bang.

  A large slovenly man, unshaven, potbellied, his eyes noticeably bloodshot even at a distance of thirty feet, swayed in the doorway holding a double-barreled shotgun. “Waddaya want?” His words were slurred. Reuben was aware Philippe’s right hand was slowly moving up his leg toward his pistol. Johannes’ eyes were on Reuben with a ‘What now?’ look.

  “You can lower that shotgun. Randy from the mercantile sent us out here.”

  “I told that red-bearded bastard I would pay next month.” The barrel of the shotgun raised slightly.

  Reuben thought quickly. “No, it’s not about money. I’m Reuben Frank; this is Johannes Svenson and Philippe Reyes. We’re starting a ranch and heading south to pick up some cattle. Randy said you had two sons out here who knew their way around cows. We want to see if they were interested in signing up.”

  The man belched loudly, then wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm. Slowly lowering the shotgun, he asked, “Is it a paying job?”

  Reuben saw Philippe’s hand relax and slide back down his leg to rest on his thigh. “Of course. Eight dollars per month and room and board once we get a bunkhouse up. Are you Mr. Sampson?”

  The man lowered the shotgun to the floor unsteadily and leaned against the doorway. “Yep. You must be talking ‘bout my boys, Jonathan and Michael.” He belched again. “Come on in. Meet the boys and the wife. I think we got some coffee. I could use some.”

  Johannes, Reuben and Philippe began to dismount.

  “Not you, Mexican,” came the surly voice from the doorway.

  Philippe froze, his right leg parallel down Diablo’s spine, in the process of dismounting. The lines of his face hardened.

  “Either we all come in, Mr. Sampson or none of us do.” Reuben felt, rather than saw, Philippe’s surprised, appreciative look. “I suppose we can trail those cattle with three hands. Thank you for your time.” Reuben made a show of beginning to remount.

  “Hold on. Hold on. I guess it won’t do no harm to have one of them…” he spit the word, “…in the kitchen one time.” Sampson called back over his shoulder. “Get some coffee out for these boys. Two cups…” he paused, “I mean three.” His eyes shifted nervously to Reuben and then turning, he waved his hand for them to come in.

  Reuben was appalled at the interior of the hovel the Sampson family called home. He followed Johannes’ stare upward toward the roof. Blue sky poured through the cracks of half-rotten planking in at least a dozen places. Colder than Hell in the winter and wetter than Hades when it rains.

  One little girl with curly, dirty brown hair was fixated on her barren plate and two slightly older boys stared at them from smudged faces with rapidly blinking eyes from the large, stained rickety table. Two older teenaged boys—one frail and thin, the other large and heavyset sat in the furthest chairs.

  The father stood, swaying slightly, behind the two older boys. “This here’s Jonathan. He’s fifteen but not too handy. This here’s Michael. This boy knows cattle. He can wrestle a steer to the ground by his lonesome.”

  Mr. Sampson slapped a beefy hand on the thick, sloped shoulders of the large youth. The boy’s oval face drained of color. His eyes were wide and frightened.

  “We’re having a late breakfast. If
we’d known, we woulda set out more food.”

  Reuben could see the filthy surface of the wood stove from where he stood. Two large iron skillets that appeared not to have been cleaned for years sat on the stovetop. Eight small biscuits were lost in the black expanse of one cast iron pan, sizzling in the other were eight strips of bacon, also appearing lonely in the wide bottom of the cast iron. Reuben’s eyes roved the interior. He could not see any significant food stores.

  “Pa? Pa?” Michael stammered in a low voice.

  “Shut up boy, your Pa is making a deal for you.” Turning, he bellowed, “Where is that damn coffee?”

  A small, frail shell of a woman with hair like her daughters looked anxiously over her shoulder. There was a purple bruise on her cheekbone. “It’s comin’. It’s comin’,” she said anxiously.

  “Actually, Mr. Sampson, I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Neither do I, señorita.” Philippe removed his hat, bowed and swept the sombrero toward the floor. “No need to prepare a cup for me but thank you.”

  Johannes threw a glance at Reuben, “I drink coffee but I must have had three pots this morning, so you can count me out too.”

  Reuben was sure Sampson’s wife’s shoulders sagged with relief and she leaned on the counter for support, her back still to them.

  Sampson slid his eyes to each of the three men. “Okay, no coffee. Makes no never mind to me. So, I think you should take both these boys. Make ‘em into men and pay them a wage.”

  He looked down at his two sons, “And you remember to send them wages back to your Ma and Pa. We kept you alive, fed and kept a roof over your head all these years. It’s the least you can do.”

  He took a few weaving steps toward one of the two cabinets above the makeshift kitchen counter, opened one, took out a bottle one third full of an amber liquid and tipping his head back, gulped a large swallow. His face contorted. Smacking his lips, he swiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve and then replaced the bottle in the cupboard. He cleared his throat. “So, will they do?”