Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Reuben turned his attention to the younger of the two brothers. He was small with wire-rimmed glasses and an unkempt towhead mop that had not been cut or trimmed for some time. His thin face and frail-looking frame reminded him of Erik. “How old are you, Jonathan?”

  Jonathan cast a frightened glance at his father. “Damn near sixteen,” Mr. Sampson rasped loudly, “and old for his age.”

  Reuben shifted his gaze to Michael. The big, heavy youth’s mouth was agape. His eyes were darting wildly from his father to Reuben.

  “How old are you, Michael?” Reuben asked gently.

  Sampson cuffed the boy across his head and Michael cringed. “Well, answer the man. These people are real-life cattlemen. They ain’t got heaps of time.”

  “Six…six…sixteen,” Michael stammered. Reuben, Johannes and Philippe exchanged glances.

  Reuben’s first inclination was to leave but he kept his silence and studied Michael. Maybe I can save this boy’s life and besides, we need the extra pair of hands.

  “Well, Mr. Sampson, I’m sure Jonathan here is a good hand but he’s a little too young for what we’ll be doing; however, we might be needing help in the future. Michael, though, will do fine. I think he’ll make a good cattleman.” A slight hint of a shy smile flitted across Michael’s face at the praise but it disappeared immediately and he looked apprehensively at his father. The two sisters and two younger boys sat at the table looking down at their empty plates. They had not said a word and had barely raised their eyes, even to see who had entered the house.

  “Michael, gather up your gear. You have a horse don’t you?”

  Mr. Sampson stuck out his chest belligerently. “What kinda outfit do you run, Mr. Franklin or whatever your name is? Never heard of a cattle ranch that didn’t have horses for their hands.”

  “He can have my horse,” Michael’s mother had turned from the stove, her hands nervously wringing her apron. Ignoring her glowering husband, she continued in a fast, tremulous voice, “Michael you go get Sam now. He’ll do you good and I never ride anymore anyway. Go on now son; don’t keep these men waiting.” She cast fearful eyes at her husband who frowned menacingly back at her from over Michael’s head.

  Several hundred yards from the ranch house, Michael craned back around in the saddle. Reuben followed his gaze. The slight figure of his mother was waving from the porch. Raising one arm, he clumsily returned the goodbye, then faced forward looking down at the back of his old gelding’s neck. He raised his hand and swiped his cheeks with his fingertips.

  Philippe noticed the youth’s tears also. His face softened. “Muchacho, let’s ride a bit ahead of these tenderfeet and see if we can keep them out of trouble.” His eyes briefly met Reuben’s and Reuben winked at him.

  “O…O…Okay,” replied Michael, surprise in his voice. Reuben watched them lope ahead and turned to Johannes. “Why don’t we just work our way down this west side of the river?” Johannes nodded agreement.

  CHAPTER 15

  May 29, 1855

  HEADIN’ SOUTH

  An hour passed. Far to the southwest rose a high pyramid-shaped mountain glowing white on its sharp crown. Must be Pikes Peak. In front of them, one hundred yards farther down the trail, rode Philippe, his slender frame form-fitted to his beautifully engraved saddle replete with silver conchos that accentuated Diablo’s sleek and powerful movements. Philippe’s broad shoulders were shaded by a wide-brimmed black hat with a tall round crown. His black wool jacket tapered from the shoulders to the narrow waist at his belt as if tailored. His chaps were darker than Reuben’s or Johannes,’ with rounded edges and heavier, shorter fringe. Drier climate down south.

  A half-horse length behind Philippe rode Michael. The big youth sat his saddle comfortably, his sloping shoulders hunched slightly over his heavy torso, his upper body rolling with the gait of his older sorrel horse. He wore a dirty, brown wool vest over a grey wool shirt.He had a .44 Colt Army revolver tucked in his pants. Too far towards the hip, Reuben observed, in no position to be played quickly.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Johannes’ question.

  “So, did you sleep under or in the wagon last night?”

  Reuben felt his jaw set. He nudged Lahn slightly forward of Bente, swiveling his eyes away from the bright May sun to the east, to the country west of them.

  Undulating foothills swept down from forested mountains. Beyond the foothills loomed the sharp spines of snow-covered peaks.

  He turned to Johannes, “You know the answer to that. You saw me getting out of the bedroll this morning, bumping my head for the thousandth time on those damn struts underneath Rebecca’s wagon bed.”

  “Yes, I suppose I did,” Johannes chuckled.

  Leaning down, Johannes adjusted the lariat hanging from the side strap of the saddle. He jiggled the stock of his Sharps 1852 slanting breech carbine to make sure the scabbard was on securely. The curved hilt and hand guard of his saber and the tip of the saber scabbard, stuck out on either side of the bedroll lashed behind his saddle.

  Hoping to steer the subject away from Rebecca, Reuben craned his head toward Johannes. “You think four is enough?”

  “I guess we will find out. And I will remind you, my Prussian friend, it’s really three and a half. I told you way back on the train when you first raised this crazy idea of me accompanying you out here,” he grinned and winked at Reuben, “that this son of a Viking knows nothing about cattle.” He laughed, “And, I’m not all too sure I want to learn.”

  They rode in silence for several minutes, listening to the soft plod of their horses’ hooves on the sandy clay soil and the occasional muted roar of the high spring flow of the South Platte a quarter mile east. The pace of the river’s flow would slow by the time it reached its confluence of the North Platte, two hundred miles southeast of where they rode. High overhead, enormous flocks of Canadian geese periodically pierced the cloudless blue sky in huge V-shaped patterns. Even at that distance, their high guttural honks and calls echoed off the soft folds of the country.

  At one point, the birds were so raucous that Reuben lifted his cowboy hat and, shielding his eyes from the sun, looked up admiringly at their formations. “Mac said that when geese fly north you can count it as a sure sign that summer is close behind.” Aware of Johannes’ stare, he adjusted the hat back on his wavy brown hair and turned to his tall blond friend.

  Johannes normally prided himself on things being kept in military order, asking Inga to trim his hair at least once a week but he had not cared for it at all since her death. His hair sprang from beneath his grey-brown campaign hat, gathered in waves around his ears and ended in almost full ringlet curls that now brushed his shoulders. He does look a lot like a Norseman.

  “Any decisions?” Johannes’ voice was nonchalant.

  “On what?” Reuben realized he had snapped back at the question more harshly than intended. Johannes’ blue eyes, bright and piercing even in the shade of his wide-brimmed hat, were steady and concerned.

  “You’re trying to avoid an inevitable discussion, my friend. Did you talk to Rebecca?”

  Annoyed, Reuben slapped his hand to his chaps where they covered his thigh. The sudden sound startled Lahn and the palomino took an extra dancing half-step, then settled back down.

  “You seem mighty worried about me and Rebecca. It will be what it will be.”

  “Frankly, I’ve grown to like her. But I’m not as much interested in Rebecca, as I am concerned about you.”

  Reuben glanced quickly at his friend, immediately regretting his quick temper. The question made him face the anxiety he felt at the uncertainty of he and Rebecca’s future. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Matter of fact, we did talk. For about three hours after you and I got back to the wagons. She has me quite confused, Johannes. You have far more experience with women than I do. I swear, sometimes I think we’re making progress in the discussion and then thirty seconds later she’s back on the same point she was stuck on ten minutes before.�
�� He shook his head. “I love her and I’m fairly certain she loves me. When we get along, it’s almost as if we can read each other’s minds. And when we are…” Reuben looked down, embarrassed, “…together…”

  He sighed and felt the heat in his cheeks. “While I don’t have near the experiences of some people I know,” he half grinned at Johannes, “all that seems completely satisfying for both of us.”

  “So, when you can’t be sure where she stands, you feel frustrated and exasperated. And when you’re getting along, everything else in the world plays second fiddle?”

  Reuben nodded, “That sums it up well.”

  “The problem, my friend, is that you do not love Rebecca.…” Johannes held up his hand as Reuben started to retort. “You’re in love with her.” Johannes laughed. “Loving someone and being in love are very different. In love is the most blissfully confusing state of mind in which a man can find himself.” He looked sharply at Reuben. “Are you two reaching a resolution on anything?”

  Reuben leaned forward and wiped the top of his saddle horn vigorously with his thumb, “Only that she will make up her mind one way or the other whether she is staying in the Cherry Creek area until she gets her land sold or coming over to the Uncompahgre with us.”

  “You mean with you.”

  “Yes, with me, or going back to England. She explained some things about her father’s trading company and related outstanding debts she had not shared before. In addition to cleaning that up, she’s concerned about their aborigine servants, their house in London and, of course, all the family possessions. I got the impression she didn’t really trust the solicitor who handles the family affairs. If I distill what she said, her family seems to have some type of financial problems right now—which is why she wants to sell the land that her father bequeathed her out here. But they still have quite a bit of assets, both sentimental and valuable back in England. We talked about a fourth possibility—she goes back to England and then returns. Problem is; I think if she does that she will never return.”

  “What did she say to that idea?”

  “She didn’t. She just did her famous foot stamp, jutted her pretty little chin out with fire blazing from those big brown eyes the way she does and told me I was selfish to be burdening her with so much to think about at a time she had so much to think about.” Reuben shook his head and chortled without mirth. “What were those words you used? Exasperating? Frustrating? Yep.”

  Johannes’ blond eyebrows scrunched in a puzzled look. “But if we are meeting Zeb and Sarah south of here at Fort Massachusetts with the cattle and then heading west to the Uncompahgre, we won’t get back to within one hundred and fifty miles of Cherry Creek. How is she going to tell you what she decided?”

  “I asked her the same thing. She shrugged and said she would either be with Sarah and Zeb or she wouldn’t.”

  The lengthy ensuing silence that followed was broken when Johannes muttered, “Interesting.”

  “What’s interesting?”

  “The completely opposite riding styles between Michael and Philippe. That ranch youngster looks like he was poured into the saddle. Each step the horse takes his body is like gelatin, moving, absorbing. Philippe on the other hand, rides with such a stiff back posture it is as if somebody lashed two metal bars to his back. He looks just as comfortable though and at home in the saddle as the kid. My company of heavy cavalry once took on a like-sized unit of Royal Spanish Cavalry—some said it was a detachment from King Ferdinand’s personal guard. They rode like Philippe does, stiff and statuesque but they surprised us. Some of the best riders and most versatile cavalry we ever fought.”

  Reuben waited but Johannes offered no more of the story.

  “Well, don’t leave me hanging. You’re picking up bad traits from Rebecca. Who won?”

  Johannes looked slyly sideways at him. “Captain Johannes Svenson of the heavy cavalry of the Danish crown never lost an encounter, Reuben.” Then he grimaced and a look of pain swept briefly across his face, “Except with his own pride.”

  Johannes lowered his voice slightly, “What did you make of that whole situation at the tipi when you rode up, introduced yourself and less than a minute later asked Philippe if he wanted to ride with us?”

  Reuben thought for a minute. “I liked him immediately but I sense he has a dangerous streak.”

  Johannes nodded.

  “I think he is one of those men who is either your friend or your enemy. There’s no in between for him,” Reuben continued.

  “I agree with your assessment. But didn’t you think the interaction between he and his Arapaho woman was a bit strange?”

  Reuben laughed. “Not at all that strange. He was happy for the excuse to ride out but she was not pleased.”

  “I thought for a few minutes she was going to come after you with that knife she was using to skin that beaver,” Johannes chortled, “either that or she was going to use it on Philippe for not displaying any reluctance to leave her company.”

  “Well, I think leaving had been on his mind long before we rode up. Either that or he’s one of the most organized men in the Rockies or it’s just his habit to have things packed in advance, in case he has to move quickly. At any rate, based on what Randy said and our discussion there at the tipi, he knows his way around cattle.…”

  “Well, at the least he knows about rustling them,” observed Johannes dryly.

  “Everybody makes mistakes.” Reuben did not miss the sharp sideways glance Johannes threw at him. That didn’t come out right at all, Reuben chastised himself. “I have the feeling he knows how to handle those twin Navy Colts, too.”

  Johannes was quiet for a moment. “I think there’s more to his story than we know, Reuben. The way he rides, I would say he’s definitely Spanish trained, perhaps even in Europe but certainly by Europeans. And his features are…” Johannes searched for the word, “… aristocratic.”

  It was Reuben’s turn to nod assent. “I noticed that too—his polite mannerisms, but I don’t think Philippe Reyes bows to anyone.”

  “And what do you think about the boy?”

  “He’s not a boy—he’s sixteen. I think we were damn lucky, in the space of two hours ride, barely going out of our way from the direction we were headed anyway, to come up with two hands who know cattle.”

  “I don’t know, Reuben.” There was a note of doubt in Johannes’ tone. “Michael is awful young—in many ways. It’s not just years that make the difference, you know.”

  “Yes, he is but I didn’t sense anything bad about him. He’s deathly quiet, maybe even to the point of shy. There’s not much in his handshake and that stutter…” Reuben shook his head, “but then again how could you have self-confidence growing up in that situation?”

  “They were dirt poor for sure.”

  “Yes, they all but pushed him out the door, though I think his mother did it out of love. We’ll see how he bears up in the coming days. Sometimes someone like that just needs a chance. You and I and maybe Philippe, who knows, can spend some time with him. I think if we get him comfortable, teach him to think for himself and build up a little of his confidence, he could turn out to be a good hand. He’ll certainly be loyal—he has no place to go. I’m not too sure his family would take him back in.”

  “No,” said Johannes dryly, “with him gone they can each have a biscuit and a quarter in the mornings.”

  “Well, I’m sure that he’ll miss them just because it’s his family and that’s all he knows. He certainly hasn’t had any examples set.” Ludwig’s green eyes flashed through his mind. Thank you, Father.

  “What’s that?” Johannes suddenly pointed off toward the tree line of South Platte. Ahead of them, Philippe and Michael had reined in their horses.

  Reuben reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out Mac’s brass telescope. “Dammit Lahn, hold still.” He extended the tube. “It’s a band of Arapahos, maybe twenty braves and about the same number of women and children. Four or five travois. A
small village on the move, I suppose.”

  Johannes relaxed and pushed the Sharps carbine back in the scabbard from its half-withdrawn position. “Guess I’m just a little jumpy after Two Otters Creek.”

  Up ahead of them Philippe dismounted and, after a moment, Michael also swung down off his saddle.

  “What are they stopping for?” He and Johannes exchanged glances, dug their heels into their horses and broke into easy lopes that closed the distance in seconds.

  Philippe Reyes knelt down with one leg, careful not to put his knee into a prickly pear. He quickly began gathering rocks within easy reach. He had about finished a small circular fire pit, when Johannes and Reuben rode up. Michael, who had been watching him build the fire pit without a word or any offer of help, took a half step back from the approaching riders.

  Philippe paused and perched one long arm over his raised knee. He nodded to Johannes and smiled at Reuben. He had liked Reuben from the moment the young Prussian had ridden up to the tipi, dismounted and firmly shook his hand while looking him in the eye. A firm handshake and direct eye contact is the mark of honor and a gentleman, his father’s oft-repeated words bubbled up in his memory.

  His initial sense of the young man was confirmed by Reuben’s refusal to tolerate the surly prejudice of Michael’s Padre.

  Reuben leaned down from the palomino, his forearms crossed on the saddle horn. “Why are you stopping? Anything wrong?”

  Philippe felt a chuckle rise from his chest, “No Señor Reuben. It is my custom to stop around midday to brew café.”

  Philippe rose, sauntered over to Diablo and unbuckled one flap of the saddlebag.

  “I like that buckle idea,” called out Johannes. “Easier and saves time when you want to get in and out to get something. Where did you get it?”