Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Emerging from the Narrows, they hugged the toe of steep and rugged slopes rising above them to the north. Angular rocks, granite slabs, scattered pines and the occasional more magnificent, thick red-brown trunks of ponderosas proudly towering above all the other trees, dotted the rugged terrain. Though now several hundred yards from the river, the roar was still deafening. Using his hands, Black Feather motioned to everyone to gather around him.

  Pointing backward with his thumb over his shoulder, he half-shouted, “Miguel, Chief, take up positions on the tops of those cliffs. You’ll do better walking into position than trying to ride. Those hillsides is steep, slick, half-frozen like greased snot. No sense riskin’ your horses.” He looked south up at the sun already partially obscured by the high folds of the mountains across the river. “Figure we got four to five hours ’til dark. I’ll send some of the boys up around then to spell you.”

  He looked from one man to the other. “Unless we get a spring storm, it should be a little bit warmer each day. When that river comes over the trail down there in the Narrows, we won’t have to post behind us. Until then I want one man out front and two men behind us at all times. Everybody is gonna have to do their part.” Several men shook their head and he thought he heard some grumbles but he couldn’t tell with the rush of the river. “That or maybe have your scalp lashed to an Arapaho lance or a cavalry saber run through you while you’re sleeping or worse if the bunch that sneaks up on us are like us.” Several men half-smiled at the thought. “I will do my share too.”

  He looked sharply at Johnson. “When I’m on watch, Johnson, you will be responsible for the girl.” Johnson blinked, then nodded.

  Black Feather pointed to a small canyon another several hundred yards up around the toe of the hill they had been skirting. “Looks like it flattens out at the mouth of that little draw. Fairly level and steep enough for good defense behind us.” He looked up to the sky again. “Probably get a bit more sun there, too. Tom, go up a quarter mile. There’ll be some rocks that come down off that hill and another little draw like this. Must have been some slides up there. Lots of them in this country. Some of them rocks come about halfway across this floodplain to the river. It’s a good spot. Get up in them boulders and keep your eyes peeled upstream. Ain’t no trail to speak of on the other side but don’t ignore it. You oughta be able to see anybody coming for quite a ways.” Tom started to put his heels to his horse but Black Feather put out his arm. “And one thing to keep in yer mind, that sun finishes its day swinging across these hills, then sets almost up-valley. Wear the brim of that hat low or you won’t be able to see nothing.”

  “Good idea, boss.” Tom spurred his horse into a trot and moved upstream still hugging the toe of the hill.

  “Well, what are you waiting for—summer?” Miguel and Chief glanced at each other and then wheeled their mounts, trotting back to some low pines where they tied them off. Slipping and falling every dozen or so steps, they began to pick their way up the slope, which would bring them to the top of the rock faces that plummeted into the Narrows.

  “Johnson, let’s get up there and get set up. Ain’t gonna be warm nights this high, probably still frosting. I want to set up a bivouac for Dot. She’s weak and bleeding. I might have to work on that calf and you might have to hold her like before.” Johnson stared at the girl, now half slumped over, then looked apprehensively back at Black Feather.

  “I think it will be okay for a fire if we keep it small and up that draw out of direct sight. Not many souls wandering around this high this early. Too late today, but tomorrow Chief and I will hunt up some meat. We both have bows. Way less ruckus. We’ll all get our bellies full, some rest and get mended up.”

  Looking up river, Johnson lifted his chin toward the pass “How far you think to up there? I never been. Purty spot, though on the chill side.”

  Black Feather smiled. “Thirty miles, maybe a bit more. This here is midsummer compared to up there right now. Winter ain’t quite over at ten thousand feet.”

  Dot wasn’t sure where she was. She felt suspended, dizzy, floating. Realizing instinctively she was half-unconscious, she concentrated on keeping her hands tight around the saddle horn, adjusting their pull and pressure when she felt herself slipping one way or the other. Somebody put socks on my hands! It was an effort, but she half-opened her eyes. Mountains, and what is that loud roaring sound? My leg hurts.

  Then two strong arms were lifting her, sliding her gently sideways from the saddle. Her eyes flickered. A blurry, bronzed, swarthy face with a scar above thin lips belonged to the arms that wrapped themselves under her thighs and shoulders, carrying her with an uneven gait. She was lowered down on something soft and warm. Fluttering one eye partially open, she saw Black Feather’s black and tan wool coat, the one he kept under his bedroll behind the saddle on his black horse.

  His voice seemed far away. “You feeling okay? You with us?” So tired. She forced the one eye fully open. He was kneeling, staring hard at her as he carefully wrapped the folds of the greatly oversized jacket around her, tucking in the edges so it would not fall off. She realized she was shivering. “Cold,” she heard a high, weak, female voice say as if from somewhere else, “cold.”

  “That’s okay.” The words came from the scarred lip. “We’ll git a little fire going, get warmed up and some food in you. Going to have to work on that leg a little bit. It’s opened up from ridin’. We gotta stop the bleeding.”

  “No, no, it will hurt.” That same far-off girl’s voice. She felt the coat collar getting snugged around her neck with tender roughness. “Yep, it’ll hurt some, but if you keep bleeding it will be far worse than that. Don’t worry none, you’ll be fine.”

  Then everything went black.

  The next morning the sun shown pale and yellow from the east between the spires of rock that marked The Narrows, bathing their camp on the small alluvial plain at the mouth of the draw with relative warmth. Black Feather crawled into the bivouac he and Johnson had quickly but expertly constructed. The lean-to was simple but effective. They had lashed two poles, entry side higher, between two pairs of saplings, more or less evenly separated, then overlaid cut evergreen boughs on the top and sides. Not square, but cuts the wind and stops the frost.

  Twenty feet into the little wash, four of the men huddled, stretching their hands out to a small fire crackling merrily and emitting the pleasant smell of pine pitch in its sparse smoke.

  “Damn, fuego! First in una semana!” Miguel said in his thick, mixed English accent.

  “Ain’t much of a fire,” Tom laughed.

  “Well, may be small but it’s doing the job on my frozen fingers,” Johnson mediated.

  Black Feather half-smiled to himself. Sometimes it’s the simple things. He gently separated Dot’s wool pant leg he had split the previous evening, carefully checking the areas he had cauterized with the glowing, red-hot blade of his knife. Good thing she was passed out. He brought his eyes close to her calf, shifting his position to allow more light along the area where the chunk of flesh was missing. Bleeding seems to have stopped.

  She whimpered slightly. Still out—probably better that way. He backed out of the bivouac, rose and took several long steps to the fire. “Nice to see those flames, ain’t it, boys?” They all nodded. Tom pointed to the blackened kettle sitting on a rock at the edge of the flames. “Hot coffee, boss. First in a week. We already had ours.”

  “Obliged, Tom. Throw me that cup.” He took a long swig of the black, very hot java. “I’m goin’ up river and spell Chief. Keep your eye on the girl, Johnson.” The men round the fire all looked at one another. “Just your eye.” Impelled by the deadly tone in his voice, they immediately turned their faces back to the flames.

  “I’ll watch after her. She’ll be fine.” Johnson’s tone was reassuring but permeated with a subtle, odd distraction, which caught Black Feather’s attention, suddenly triggering a long forgotten memory. I wonder if he’s been thinkin’ about that gold he and I took from
them pilgrims and buried in secret over on the Yampa years ago.

  Black Feather held Johnson’s eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Come get me if she starts bleeding again.” He looked around the small circle. “When it warms up toward midday Chief and I will go get us that meat. I wanna use the bows. No sense making gun noise. Might be an elk back up from winter grounds and I’m sure there’s mule deer. They will be bedded down, easy to spot and we can put on a sneak. Tonight we’ll have ourselves fresh steaks.”

  Tom grinned. “Meat, fire and coffee, I might just live here.” There were guffaws from all around the fire.

  Smiling, Black Feather walked a few uphill paces and unhitched the stallion tied with the rest of the horses to the tether line slightly further up the draw.

  CHAPTER 25

  June 15, 1855

  JOCKEYING FOR POSITION

  A stew of fresh rabbit, small wild scallions and potatoes bubbled merrily inside a large, black iron kettle suspended from a tripod of lashed green limbs over the fire ring. Sarah reached for another broken branch of aspen, placing the small log on the fire, positioning it so the flames were centered under the rounded cauldron.

  “Señorita Sarah, your fire is perfect. Have I told you how much I like your cooking, too?” Philippe flashed a wide grin at her from across the fire. His thin, wiry frame was fully stretched out on the ground, his ankles crossed far enough so his spurs didn’t dig into his shins, his head resting on a hand supported by one elbow planted on his bedroll. The orange glow of the fire deepened the tanned, olive tones of his skin and reflected off the bright white of his teeth. Sarah raised her head acknowledging the complements with a smile. Realizing her eyes had been fixated on his lips, she busied herself stirring the stew again.

  She could feel his gaze, sense his eyes examining one part of her body, then another. Why is my heart beating so rapidly? How does he do this to me? Keeping herself fixed on her stirring, she asked, “How are the cattle, Philippe? Are they behaving?”

  “Behaving?” Philippe threw back his head and laughed. I like his laugh. “Behaving, Señorita Sarah? Cattle never behave. There are always problems. Sometimes grande, sometimes pequeno. These are good cattle that Señor Reuben purchased. Strong, they have stamina and they have not been losing weight despite the rugged nature of the country but they are not used to mountains and trees and fast-moving creeks. After being raised on that parched grass down on the flats, they want to linger around the sweet, green grasses that grow this high, especially these early summer, tender young shoots of grasses. For cattle, they are always the most tasty.”

  There’s something in his tone. Sarah glanced up from the stew. Philippe’s eyes were glowing. Sarah was sure it was more than a simple reflection from the flames. She looked hurriedly down at the stew again.

  “I’ve been very busy, Señorita but soon the cattle will become accustomed to this type of trail and settle down. Then I might have a few spare hours.…” He paused. Sarah realized she was moving the long ladle around the pot far more vigorously than necessary. “I’ve asked you before, Señorita Sarah, will you take a walk with me when the time arises? I would be honored.”

  I’d love to. She caught the thought before it became words rising from her throat. “I would be flattered, Philippe but…”

  “But?”

  Sarah tried to formulate a response.

  “But?” The look Philippe cast at her was a bit too knowing. “Señor Zeb?” he asked.

  She wiped her hands down the front of the thick knapped waist apron draped over her grey, wool pleated traveling dress and tied at the back. How did Rebecca manage to find an apron at Gart’s Mercantile? Looking across the fire at the vaquero, her eyes involuntarily followed the taper of his shoulders to his hips. “Yes, Philippe, Zeb. He is a very good man, you know. He’s been very kind to me and…”

  “And?”

  “And, we talked.”

  “Talked?”

  “Yes,” She stammered, “Yes, we talked about perhaps being together after we get settled in the Uncompahgre.”

  “I see.” A smirk played with the corners of Philippe’s lips. Those lips. “Señor Zeb has not asked you to marry him, has he? You are not betrothed?”

  With a conscious effort, Sarah slowed the circular rate of her stirring. “No, no I don’t believe we’re engaged,” she replied slowly, “and he has never really said anything about marriage.”

  “Forgive me, Señorita. Perhaps I am being too forward, but I presume it is Señor Zeb’s child that you are carrying?” Sarah’s knees suddenly felt weak. Taking a step back, she sat down heavily on the log Johannes and Zeb had dragged close to the fire for a seat, leaving the ladle in the kettle. She pressed her lips together tightly trying to still the quiver she felt creeping into them.

  Blood rushed to her cheeks. He has no right.

  “I am surprised at you, Philippe. You have always been a gentleman. That is not a thing to say to a lady.”

  Philippe’s eyebrows shot up, his eyes widening in the firelight. He sat up quickly, leaning slightly toward her. “I’m sorry, Señorita. I did not intend to be rude nor prying, but…”

  “But what?” Sarah snapped, surprised at the defensive intensity in her tone.

  “But you are an extremely beautiful woman.…” He waved his hand, searching for the right words, “…It’s— obvious, I think. That you are with child adds to your beauty. I was not trying to intrude; I was just trying to understand. Forgive me.”

  This is how it’s going to be with everyone. Sarah blinked rapidly but to no avail—the fire blurred. “Well, Philippe, since you are so curious, let me tell you.…”

  Out of the darkness, a cheerful but tired voice boomed, “What’s that I smell?”

  Both their heads snapped toward the sound and a moment later Reuben and Zeb leading Lahn and Buck materialized into the outer bands of firelight. They tied off the horses on two aspen trees near where Philippe had tethered Diablo.

  Reuben walked purposefully toward the fire, oblivious to all except the stew but Zeb stopped suddenly, looking sharply at Sarah, then Philippe and then Sarah again, his eyes narrowing. Philippe scrambled hurriedly to his feet, buttoning his tunic and setting a thick woven black and white serape over his shoulders. Replacing his hat on his head, he gave it a tug forward to settle the black, broad brim over his forehead. Zeb had not moved.

  “Hello, Zeb.” Sarah tried to smile brightly. Why am I feeling guilty?

  Zeb nodded curtly at Philippe. “Philippe.”

  “Hola, Señor Zeb and Señor Reuben.”

  Reuben’s attention was diverted from supper by the tone of the voices of his two friends. His facial muscles tightening, he looked from one to the other, finally shifting his eyes to Sarah. “Sarah, you plan on cooking that ladle along with the rabbit?”

  “Ooohhh, I forgot.” Sarah stood, reaching out hastily and pulling the long handled, deeply dished spoon from the kettle.

  Reuben’s voice softened. “How is Rebecca?”

  Without meeting Reuben’s eyes, Sarah forced a tone of optimism into her voice. “I think she’s better, Reuben. She is sleeping.” She glanced at Zeb, then quickly at Philippe.

  Philippe was silent, shifting his shoulders to adjust his serape. Sarah looked away as he looked up at the sky. “It will be chilly this night as high as we are. I will go out and see how the boy and Johannes are doing.” He chuckled. “Señor Johannes especially.” He bowed slightly. “Señor Reuben, Señor Zeb.” Turning toward Sarah, he swept off his hat, “Buenas noches, Señorita Sarah.” He wheeled, walking off into the darkness toward Diablo.

  “That was delicious, Sarah.” Reuben sighed as his fork scraped the last of the stew from his tin dish.

  Sarah cast an anxious glance at Zeb, who squatted by the fire eating slowly, a frown playing on the chiseled features around his eyes.

  “Is Rebecca really feeling better?” asked Reuben, his gaze turning toward the dark wagon.

  Thankful for the distracti
on from Zeb’s awkward silence, Sarah spoke in a low tone, “I don’t know, Reuben. She rarely complains but I know she is nauseous for several hours every morning and she is very tired early. The last two nights I had to bring her supper in the wagon and wake her up or I fear she would not have eaten at all.”

  Reuben pursed his lips, a look of concern evident on his face. “Bouncing on these two-wheeled rocky ruts can’t be comfortable for her.” His eyes flickered toward Sarah. “Or you. How are you feeling?”

  Unconsciously, Sarah’s hands fell to her belly, which over the last week or two had begun to push against the fabric of her wool dress. She could no longer fit into any of her corsets. “I’m feeling fine, Reuben. Once in a while I am a little queasy.” She tried to make her voice light and airy. Zeb stopped eating, and sat staring at his plate, listening.

  Reuben dampened a burp with his hand. “Excuse me, Sarah. Please consider that a testament to your good cooking. I might add, you’re doing a fine job of driving that freight wagon. I am sure that rig is difficult to handle on a trail like this.”

  “Thank you, Reuben. I do notice the horses are struggling a bit on the steeper uphill grades. How much farther is it?”

  Zeb’s eyes remained fixed on the fire and his voice echoed off his plate. “Eight, mebbe ten days, I reckon. Assuming that shortcut’s passable, and we don’t get caught by a late spring snow. That would hole us up for a few days. Don’t wanna be driving wagons up and down these hills, especially down, in a muddy, snowy slick.”