Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Dawson watched Reuben’s eyes roam the room. “Spent more damn time on this part than the rest of the house combined. Gotta keep the Missus happy. Hard enough to find womenfolk who would live in the middle of nowhere to begin with.” A hint of a smile played on Dawson’s lips and his eyes twinkled. “You got yourself a woman, Mr. Frank?”

  Reuben forced a chuckle, “I’m not too sure.”

  Laughing, Dawson slapped the table with one meaty hand and the coffee cups bounced, a small spill splattering over the edges of Reuben’s coffee. “Ain’t that the truth. Let me tell you, young man, we’re never sure, and they always are. She already has it all figured out whether she’s your woman or not. You don’t have no say.”

  Reuben looked down at his mug. “That’s true enough. I figured out some months back I have no say.” Picking up the mug, he took a sip, then placed the drink slowly and deliberately back on the table and held Dawson’s eyes. “I really need three hundred head and I can’t do with less than ten bulls with that many cows. Twelve or thirteen would be better.”

  Dawson leaned back in his chair, the arched oak legs creaking with his weight. Reaching out a thick forearm, his hand enveloped his coffee mug and took a deep swig, his eyes boring into Reuben’s over the lip of the cup. “I told you, young fella, I can’t spare that many cows. Just bought out a neighbor to the south, and I need to stock that land. Grass ain’t worth a damn if nothing’s eatin’ it.”

  Reuben took another sip and let the silence build. The tick tock of the grandfather clock in the living room beyond the kitchen seemed unnaturally loud, echoing off the log walls. “I have much the same problem, Mr. Dawson. But mine is compounded. I have to push these critters over the Divide and into the Uncompahgre. Finding more cows will be near impossible over in that country,” Reuben paused, “I think we’re agreed on five dollars a head and nine for the bulls. Did I understand that correctly?”

  Dawson shook his head slowly. You got five dollars for the cows. Right young man? Assuming it’s just two hundred head. But nine dollars on the bulls was your number. I want fifteen.” His eyes were unflinching. “Been building this herd for almost twenty years and them bulls is a perfect mix of European and native. Great birth weights and hardly ever lose a calf. Put on pounds faster than just about anyone else’s in these parts.”

  Looking down at his coffee cup, he turned it round and round several times on the table with massive thumbs and forefingers. He peered at Reuben sharply. “If I was to part with two hundred and fifty cows I’d have to have five fifty for each. That’s how much more work it will be for me to stock up, or raise more heifers from the next calf crop, or head down south and find critters to buy.”

  “Would Mr. Christiansen sell you some?”

  Dawson’s eyes narrowed and he visibly flushed. “I don’t abide by folks who steal other people’s grass, then try and feed me guff ‘bout some type of accident. I wouldn’t buy cattle from him if his was the only cows between here and China.”

  Reuben nodded, focusing on his coffee to hide his surprise. He, Johannes, and Philippe had all been impressed with the Christiansen family the day before. Their manners and friendly natures. Unfortunately, they had just signed a contract with drovers to push most of their herd east to Kansas. The Army was the buyer.

  Reuben let his eyes wander around the kitchen again. One of the open shelves held several fine whiskey bottles and brightly polished heavy shot glasses. Like Ludwig used for Schnapps. A scene from long before— his father, smiling, holding up a shot glass in the Villmar Pub pointing at the neighbor’s prize bull out in the street, flashed across his mind.

  Trying not to smile, he gazed lazily at Dawson, “Is there anything I can do to convince you to sell me three hundred cows at five and ten bulls at ten dollars each?”

  Dawson wagged his head slowly. “Can’t think of anything Mr. Frank. You want those two hundred head or not?”

  Reuben pointed at the neatly stacked shot glasses on the far shelf. “If I eat one of those shot glasses, would you sell me three hundred cows at five dollars per head and twelve bulls at nine dollars per head?” I hope I am not pushing too far.

  Dawson sat back in his chair, his eyes widening. “Eat one of them shot glasses?” He turned around regarding them, and then swiveled slowly back to Reuben. “You understand each one of them weighs five or six ounces. Them is all Belgian glass.”

  The same as in the pub. Reuben nodded. The floor creaked back by the door as Johannes shifted his weight.

  Dawson leaned forward, both muscled forearms on the table flanking his mug. “Tell you what, Mr. Frank, you eat one of them shot glasses and I’ll sell you three hundred head at five dollars each, and twelve bulls for nine dollars per bull, but if you don’t, then you buy two hundred head at seven dollars each and five bulls for twenty each.”

  Reuben nodded. “I’ll need five things before I agree.”

  “And what would they be?”

  I need a hammer, a raw slab of sirloin steak two or so inches thick, about eight inches by four inches or as close to that as you can get, a slab of butter, a heavy napkin or cloth, and a big pitcher of water, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Laughing uproariously Dawson slapped the table sending the coffee mugs several inches into the air. “By God, you’re serious. I got them things and you’re welcome to ‘em and whatever else you think you might need.”

  Dawson yelled back into the house, “Mama, you better come out and see this. If you wouldn’t mind, fetch me that hammer off the tool crate back there in the mud room and one of your fine, white, cotton napkins. Tell Josie to cut a big slab of sirloin off that steer we butchered day before yesterday and bring it in here.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Dawson folded his arms across his chest, his mouth curled in a half smile. “How you wanna choose that glass you’re going to…” he coughed trying to hide a laugh, “…eat, Mr. Frank?”

  “I’ll let you choose one of them out of the three stacks on the shelf.”

  Dawson’s wife bustled into the kitchen the thick cloth in one hand and heavy hammer in the other, her looks clouded with the same weathered appearance as her husband. Her eyes kind, but past their beauty, darted curiously from Reuben to Dawson.

  Dawson didn’t introduce her. “This young man and I have a slight wager, Mama. Has to do with buying cattle.” He stood up, the chair squeaking behind him as he slid it out, and lumbered over to the shelf. Picking up each of the glasses in the three stacks, he studied them carefully, then chose one that Reuben was sure had a thicker bottom than the others. He brought it back to the table and, reaching out one long arm, slapped it with a sharp thud next to Reuben’s coffee. “Mama, give Mr. Frank that hammer and napkin.” Turning his head he bellowed over his shoulder, “Josie, you killin’ that steer all over again? Bring that steak.”

  A young man of around twelve came rushing into the room, one hand holding a thick piece of beef still dripping blood, a butcher’s knife in the other.

  Must be the youngest, Reuben thought.

  “Mama, get some of that butter from the icebox.” Dawson turned back to Reuben. “I think that’s all you asked for, ain’t it?” Reuben nodded, “Except for the water. I noticed a flat stone out there by the front steps. Would you mind if I ate the glass out there?”

  Dawson stared back at him incredulously, “Hell, you can eat it up on the roof of the barn for all I care. I just want to see you do it.”

  Reuben rose from the table. “Josie, my name is Reuben Frank.” He lifted his eyes to Dawson’s wife and nodded, “Would you mind bringing that steak out behind me. My hands are full.” As he walked toward the kitchen door he caught a worried, puzzled frown from Johannes. The tall blond shook his head. He thinks I’m crazy. Reuben grinned at him.

  Outside the sun was well past noon, the late spring slant of light lengthening shadows of the cottonwoods around the house. Philippe and Michael walked over, the vaquero carefully studying each person’s face as they came out of the house,
his eyes shifting continuously between the glass, butter, hammer, napkin and Reuben.

  Reuben sat cross-legged in front of the big flat stone by the walkway. Brushing away some dirt off the rock, he laid out the napkin centering the shot glass in the heavy, white fabric, and then the steak. Wrapping the glass tightly in the napkin, he twisted and held the loose end in his left hand. With his right, he raised the hammer and began to methodically pound the bulging cloth. He could feel the stares but focused on the task at hand—reducing the heavy glass to powder.

  When he was satisfied, he carefully opened the napkin and using the claw end of the hammer sorted the finely pulverized glass to make certain there were no large, sharp shards left. He looked up, “All there, Mr. Dawson?”

  Dawson nodded, a concerned look in his eyes. He’s figuring it out.

  Slowly Reuben sprinkled the powdered glass down the center of the steak. “Could I have the butcher knife, please, Josie?” The boy glanced quickly at his father, then handed the knife over handle first. Reuben cut a very thick slice of butter, smoothing it over the powder until the pulverized glass was virtually invisible under the fatty spread. Folding the steak over the butter and glass he raised the meat to his mouth and took a deep bite, chewing carefully and swallowed, following the procedure with a large gulp of water from the pitcher, not bothering with the cup Mrs. Dawson had brought out. He took another bite, chewing slowly and swallowing.

  “I’ll be damned and go to hell,” Reuben heard Dawson mutter almost under his breath.

  Five more careful bites, extended chewing, and virtually the whole tumbler of water until nothing was left.

  Reuben leaned over the rock and spat, making sure there was no blood, then stood.

  “I’ll be damned and go to hell.” This time Dawson said the words loudly, his voice almost booming and tinged with surprise and respect. “Now I have seen everything. Going to use that trick myself sometime. Where’d you learn that?”

  Reuben burped, and cast a quick look at Mrs. Dawson. “Excuse me, ma’am.” Turning back to the rancher, he smiled. “In a place far, far away.”

  Dawson looked at him for a moment, his face serious, than broke out laughing. “Well, Mr. Frank you’ve earned them cattle. I’m good for my word. Saddle up and we’ll start sorting. We can finish up come morning and you can be on your way. We ain’t got enough room in the house, but the barn is mighty comfortable. You’re welcome to stay there and have supper with us, assuming you’ve got your appetite back by then.” He laughed, his eyes flickering to Philippe.

  “The four of us always eat together,” said Reuben quietly.

  Dawson nodded. “I mean all of you.”

  Dawson’s oldest boy, Richard, a younger replica of his father, slid one large calloused hand over knots on the counting rope as the last of cows were herded through the chute from the corral into the open pasture beyond.

  As young Michael and Philippe deftly organized the herd, Philippe occasionally shouted in a mixture of Spanish and English to Johannes, pointing and directing the tall Dane, who more often than not was failing in clumsy attempts to gather an animal. Not quite like flanking a cavalry patrol, is it Viking? Reuben smiled to himself.

  A heavy hand slapped him on the shoulder, propelling him a step forward. Dawson was grinning. “That’s three hundred cows and as soon as Richard is done recoiling that counting rope, he’s gonna ride out, meet up with my middle son and bring in your bulls. I’m still thinking about you eatin’ that glass.” He moved his face closer to Reuben’s, peering intently at him. “You feeling okay?”

  “I feel fine,” Reuben chuckled, “but the real test will probably come in a few hours.”

  One of Dawson’s eyebrows lifted. “Good luck on that!” he said with a wide smile. “Well, I got two presents for you.” He raised a bent forefinger and pointed. A longhorn cow, larger than most of the others stood proudly shaking giant twisted horns slightly from side-to-side. Beautifully colored in brown and white, with a white muzzle and graying cheeks, she craned her neck toward the cows being gathered by Michael, Philippe and Johannes. The twin, brass, square shaped bells hanging around her neck with a heavy canvas strap clanged with a tinny sound.

  “That there is Queen. She’s my best lead. She led over five hundred head up from Texas eight years ago. Same bells.”

  Reuben began to protest, but Dawson waved at him. “Son, you’re smart. You got grit. I think you’ll do just fine but…” He fell silent, his eyes fixed on some distant point in the rugged peaks to the west. He turned slowly back to Reuben, “…But this I know. The country you’re headed into is harsh, unforgiving, unexplored, and unsettled. It’s beaten and killed many men that called it home and knew its ways. You can’t afford to get this herd spread out. Some you ain’t never gonna find. Some will get picked off by Indians and rustlers. Queen and them bells will help keep ‘em together, especially when the country gets rugged and steep.” He looked at Reuben closely. “It’ll be all of that, and more.”

  He stuck out a beefy hand and Reuben took it. “I wish you Godspeed. Me and Mama will pray for you.” The leather of his jaw split into a wide smile, “I’ll sell you cows anytime, but I ain’t never givin’ you a shot glass again. Them things have value.”

  Smiling, Reuben swung himself up into the saddle on Lahn. “Much obliged, Mr. Dawson. You never did tell me your first name.”

  Dawson looked up at him, the corners of his lips twitching slightly, the twinkle Reuben had noticed at the breakfast table back in his eyes. “Nope, never did. Most likely never will.” Dawson surveyed the cattle now organized in a rough line twenty to thirty cows wide stretching several hundred yards. “Looks like you got yerself an outfit. That Mex and the boy knows cows.” He chuckled, “But that tall blond? Seems like he knows a saber better than a lariat.”

  Reuben laughed, “You are a good judge.”

  Dawson half smiled. “By the time you get to where you’re going he will know cattle sure enough. I’ll open the gate. You can take old Queen out to the head of the bunch. She’ll know what to do and so will they. Them bulls is less likely to wander. If I was you I’d keep them at the back of the line, it’ll save you stragglers.”

  Reuben pulled down on the brim of his hat. “I’m sure we will meet again, Mr. Dawson.”

  Dawson looked at the cows and then up at the mountains. “Maybe so.” He turned slowly and headed toward the gate.

  Evening came on quickly, the sun disappearing behind a jagged western rim, the last screeches of color reaching like painted fingers into a sky darkening from the east. Johannes reined in Bente, taking in the scene. He had been riding what Philippe called “drag” all afternoon. His clothes were covered with dust and interlaced with the smell of cattle and manure. Even Bente’s long, thoroughbred-like legs had lost their luster. One cow split off from the rear flank, evading a lumbering bull trying to chase her back in.

  Bente flipped her bay head back, her dark-tipped ears perked up and she whinnied. “By the love of God, you like this don’t you, horse? Okay, let’s go get her.” They set off at an easy lope but four times the cow out-maneuvered them, refusing to turn back to the trail.

  Johannes shook his head in disgust. The cow was thirty feet off, broadside. There was an unusual crescent moon shaped marking on her left cheek and neck. She seemed to be smiling, her big brown eyes taunting. Bente shook her head. “Well Bente, we can’t out run her, it seems, so let’s reason with her.”

  Johannes drew his gun and spun the cylinder, holding the pistol up to the cow. “All right you smelly beast. I’m not playing games with you. This is an Army Colt pistol. I imagine it kills cows just as well as it kills men. It’s getting dark and I’m in no mood for any more of this, so what is it gonna be?”

  The cow stared at them, bawled a long, low moooo, and then reluctantly wheeled, trotting back towards the herd as Johannes watched, astonished. “Well Bente, we have to have a talk with Reuben. He’s all about ropes, whistles and hoots,” Johannes laughed, “
but it looks like there’s something to be said for a bit of psychology.” He slipped the pistol back in his holster, took a long look at the darkening mass of mountains to the west, and then dug his heels gently into Bente’s flanks. “Come on girl; let’s see what Philippe can whip up for dinner.”

  CHAPTER 21

  June 11, 1855

  ATTRACTION

  Reuben and Johannes rode side-by-side, the tree line of Trinchera Creek several hundred yards to the right, its rough, uneven grouping of cottonwoods and aspens stretching northwest into the distance like a great directional arrow. Around the broad valley rose treeless foothills. Their rolling forms gave way grudgingly to distant higher, sharper conifer-covered ridges of the San Isabel. Further out, to the northwest, the sharp spines of the Sangre De Cristo Mountains glistened white with snow.

  “I figure we are within a day of the Fort,” Reuben said, lifting himself in his saddle and craning backwards toward the group of bawling cattle. “I’m glad we went around this southern edge of the San Isabels, and avoided La Veta Pass.” One hundred feet behind them was the clank, clank of Queen’s brass bells. Behind her by thirty feet was the vanguard of the cows spread out an eighth of a mile on the wide valley floor. Johannes watched his friend closely. He knew Reuben was pleased with the deal he had made for the herd and the time they were making, but the young Prussian’s expression had a worried, preoccupied edge.