Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Philippe’s eyes followed his outstretched arm. He nodded once, and without a word began a fast-paced climb toward the rock outcroppings two hundred feet away and fifty feet in elevation above them.

  Johannes followed, casting his eyes left and right, every few steps turning around, peering intently behind them. Breathing heavily they reached the rocks, stopping for a minute to catch their breath. They clambered up between the reddish-brown boulders that poked from the snow, one or the other of them slipping with every second or third step, catching themselves with their free hand on the steep slope, the other hand clutching their rifles. At the top of the boulder-strewn rise was a huge, angular rock more red than brown. A vein of milky white rock ran diagonally from top to bottom across its entire length, glistening dully in the sunlight. What is the name of that rock? Quartz? A memory of something he read somewhere stirred in Johannes’ mind but he couldn’t place it. His attention was diverted by Philippe, five feet above him, hatless, peering carefully over the top of the large uppermost rock.

  The Mexican held up two fingers behind him. In a barely audible whisper, he hissed, “Dos Indios and the cows.” Philippe edged down on his belly from the lip of the ridge. Rolling partially to his back, he grinned at Johannes, still below him. “I think, Señor Johannes, they want Señor Reuben’s cattle.” He pulled one, then the other of the twin onyx-handled Navy Colts from his belt and spun the cylinders, checking the loads.

  Climbing the last few steps to Philippe, Johannes’ boots slipped out from underneath him several times, forcing him to catch himself on the rough edges of rocks. Together, they slowly raised their bare heads over the rock. The approximate line of the trail curved above and behind them to the east. On the opposite sides of the rocky point, to the north, was a small alpine valley, a narrow drainage through its center, water showing dark against snow where it had melted, collecting in what would be a small stream when the mountain thawed in the coming weeks. Fifty yards below them two Indians fully clothed in heavy, fringed leather shirts and leggings moved at a fast walk, each of them holding a stick that they snapped occasionally across the rumps of the two missing longhorns.

  Johannes estimated the downhill end of the meadow to be no more than two hundred fifty yards away. Two light colored horses, dark spotted like leopards, stood in the shadows of the wall of dense green conifers that marked the end of the open space.

  “Well, let’s go get those cows back.” Johannes rose to a half crouch and began to scoot around the edges of rocks. “Stay low so we don’t skyline ourselves,” he said, realizing immediately that the vaquero needed no such warning.

  Philippe grabbed his arm, a strange light in his dark eyes. “Señor Johannes, allow Philippe the honor of retrieving Señor Reuben’s cattle. Stay here, mi amigo. Cover me with the rifles.” He leaned his Smoothbore against the rock.

  Johannes opened his mouth to protest but Philippe was already on the move, creeping with stealth around the edge of the huge boulder and disappearing out of sight. “Shit,” muttered Johannes to himself. He wiggled his lanky body slightly higher up on the rock and slowly, avoiding any rapid movement that might attract the Indians’ attention, got the Sharps in position, drawing a bead on the taller of the two braves still moving steadily downhill. He couldn’t see where Philippe was or what the vaquero was doing on the other side of the rock.

  The smaller warrior in the rear glanced behind him, then again, stopped, and shouted, dropping his stick. His larger companion turned, looking back toward Johannes’ position. The tall Dane spread his legs to stabilize his upper torso, snugging the smooth-grained stock of the Sharps against his cheek, raising his eyes once to make sure the path of the bullet would not hit the far edge of the rock slab. Looking quickly downward at Philippe’s Smoothbore resting a few feet below him, he practiced mentally how he would lay down the Sharps, reach for and pick up the Smoothbore, aim and fire the second rifle. Now where the hell is Philippe? Have they seen me or him? His body jerked in surprise and his eyes widened as Philippe came into view, his back to him, walking slowly, but steadily directly at the two warriors. The braves glanced at one another nervously, obviously perplexed. The larger of the two appeared armed only with a lance. The smaller man had a bow, which he shifted off his shoulders, drawing an arrow from his quiver and notching it. Philippe kept advancing toward them until no more than sixty feet separated the three men. The smaller Indian screamed, simultaneously raising and bringing his bow to draw. Philippe’s right hand flashed and a report echoed through the little valley, rumbling in echoes as it receded down the canyon behind the spotted horses prancing nervously at the sound of the shot. The Indian with the bow sank to his knees, releasing the arrow into the snow twenty feet ahead of him and toppling over face first.

  Philippe stopped walking. The vaquero shoved the pistol back in his belt and stood, silent. With a wild scream, the larger brave ran at him, his arm high and locked, gripping the lance. Johannes drew back the hammer of the Sharps. Jesus, Philippe. Move or shoot. You’re going to be in my line of fire. Twenty feet from Philippe the muscular brave slowed, planting his left foot, cocking his lance arm further preparing to hurl the spear. Again, Philippe’s right hand moved in a blur, and there was another report. The lance flew from the warrior’s hand, his head jerking, his body flying backward in an arch that lifted his feet from the snow. His body landed on his back and neck, his shoulders driving into the snow, skidding several feet before coming to a halt.

  “I’ll be damned,” Johannes muttered, watching the vaquero walk from one Indian to the other, kicking each of them.

  Johannes stood quickly, skirted the edge of the rock, then, one rifle in each hand, half slid, half slipped down the bank. Philippe walked briskly toward the two spotted horses, slowing his pace as he neared them. He raised his hand, then the other, one to each horse, gathering their lead ropes with a quick darting action. After some initial resistance, the ponies calmed, allowing the Mexican to lead them back toward Johannes and the two corpses. The confused longhorns trotted twenty feet this way and that, stopping, shaking their heads and bawling. Johannes looked closely at the dead Indians. Young, perhaps mid-teens. The brave with the bow had been shot directly through the heart, the other in the forehead just above his eyes.

  The vaquero drew closer, a wide smile on his face. “Señor Johannes, I’ve always wanted one of these leopard ponies. One for you and one for me. I’ll lead them out. Can you push those cows along? They will probably follow the horses.” Johannes’s eyes flickered quickly from the bodies, to Philippe’s toothy grin, to the cows. Cool customer.

  “You didn’t have to kill them,” a low voice came from the edge of the trees.

  The spotted horses pulled on their lead ropes, prancing sideways. Johannes and Philippe both jumped, Philippe’s free hand reaching for his pistol. It was Zeb, virtually invisible in a clump of three aspens at the edge of the tree line not more than fifty feet from them. Philippe exhaled visibly, relaxing his hand and lowering his pistol. Johannes stopped his one-handed swing of the Sharps.

  “Señor Zeb, that’s a good way to get shot, sneaking up on people.”

  Zeb stepped from the trees, his Enfield cradled comfortably in one arm. “I just moved natural like. If these two youngsters had been grown up braves, or with other warriors, you’d both be dead and scalped.” Philippe’s lips pressed together. The mountain man walked slowly to the two bodies studying their colorfully beaded leather clothing closely. “San Luis Valley Utes. The Mouache tribe teamed up with the Jicarilla Apaches and massacred fifteen men and women at El Pueblo over Christmas. Took two or three others captive. Them two bands of Indians been raiding and killing since the forties, maybe earlier. They’ve fought with the troops out of Fort Massachusetts several times—and the army is on their trail right now, from what I learned at the fort.” His eyes rose east toward the pass, “their winter camp is usually down low on the South Fork, east side of Wolf Creek Pass, sometimes north, nearer to Conchopata. Probably se
en us come up and been shadowing us for a couple of days. At least they weren’t the Uncompahgre band.”

  “Band?” questioned Johannes.

  Zeb nodded, one set of fingers stroking his mustache. Leaning over, he spat a wad of chew to the side. “Chief Guera Murah’s tribe, the Tabequache of the Uncompahgre band of Utes. Their winter camp is on the other side of these mountains down on the Uncompahgre. They are the least warlike of all the Utes. He and his son, Ouray, who is sub-chief, can be good friends, but if these were theirs, there won’t be much chance of that, and they can make life hell over there.” His busy eyebrows fell over his eyes in a frown as he looked at Philippe. “You didn’t have to kill them. They was just kids trying to count coup. We could’ve spooked them out of here.”

  Philippe half-raised his head, returning Zeb’s stare from under the brim of his sombrero. He spun the cylinder of his Colt, replacing the spent cartridges and flashed a cold smile. “Or, Señor Zeb, they could have followed us, decided the women were better than the cows, and been even more trouble. Philippe Reyes takes no chances.”

  CHAPTER 35

  On the Eve of June 22

  DISPUTED TRAIL

  Zeb chewed contentedly, squatting by the fire, his Sharps within easy reach. Across from him, Reuben and Johannes sat on a log, hunched over eating, shoveling in spoonfuls of pan bread smothered in gravy. Zeb swallowed, his eyes roving the ridge tops and the layers of peaks beyond, their craggy, endless summits disappearing into a rose-hued twilight. Soft silver shimmers of a half moon rose to the east, playing tug-of-war with the dying light of the sun. Rebecca stood slightly to the side of the fire, a pleased expression on her face as she watched the men eat.

  “You outdid yourself on this gravy, Rebecca,” Zeb said.

  “Thank you Zeb. The ingredients, of course, are an old family secret.” She laughed.

  Looking up from his plate, just a semblance of his usual smile evident on his lips, Johannes concurred with Zeb, teasing, “Rebecca, I can just imagine you in that stately townhouse in London busy preparing pan bread and gravy breakfast every morning.”

  Reuben, in the middle of swallowing, choked and coughed, spitting some of the pan bread into the fire.

  “You are clumsy today aren’t you, Mr. Frank?” Rebecca’s smile teased back, but her eyes were unmistakably tender in the glow of the firelight.

  Zeb studied Rebecca’s face. Her eyes had not left Reuben. She’s mighty happy for some reason tonight. His gaze shifted to Johannes. Johannes is still thinking about them two young warriors. Zeb took another bite, turning his attention back to Rebecca, curious.

  Sensing his stare, Rebecca cocked her head at the coffee pot, and smiled, “More coffee, Zeb?”

  “Thank you, ma’am; I would.”

  She stooped over, reaching her left hand for the kettle, which rocked and simmered on the side of the fire. In the firelight, Zeb caught the glint of gold on her finger. He stopped chewing, glancing quickly at Reuben who was still half-coughing, then smiled into his plate. He finally asked and she finally said yes. About damn time. He cast a quick glance over his shoulders at the wagon and its dimly glowing canvas top. Strange, Sarah has not come out.

  Keeping his tone matter-of-fact, he pretended to focus on cutting another wedge-sized piece of pan bread, spinning the chunk around the gravy with his fork. “I don’t know, Reuben. Seems a pretty gal out here where there ain’t none, who can shoot as well as a man, and makes the best pan bread and gravy in the San Juans, just might be a catch.” Rebecca, in the midst of carefully pouring coffee into the tin cup by his foot jerked, spilling some of the steaming brew on the ground.

  Reuben’s eyes clicked up from his plate. “Well, just so happens I agree with you, Zeb.” The young Prussian smiled widely at Rebecca. “We were going to wait ’til tomorrow night after we get through Little Medicine, but this is as good a time as any.” Johannes stopped chewing and straightened up, his mouth still full, his eyes darting between Rebecca and Reuben. Smiling warmly at Rebecca, Reuben stood up and held out his hand. Taking several steps, the brunette reached out to him and twined her fingers in his. “This Prussian farm boy got lucky yesterday,” Reuben said with tender pride, “The finest woman this side of England said she’d marry me.”

  The couple looked at each other, broad smiles on their faces. An ache flashed through Zeb’s heart. Wish Sarah was here to see. Johannes jumped up to his feet, spilling his supper. “Well, I’ll be go to hell.” He grabbed Reuben’s hand, shaking it energetically. “Congratulations, farm boy. It looks like good sense can seep into any brain.”

  Johannes turned to Rebecca, stretching out his arms, “And to you, milady Marx, I offer my condolences.” Everyone laughed. “Give me a hug while you’re still single.” She and Johannes embraced warmly.

  Zeb stood, reaching a long arm across the fire to shake Reuben’s hand. “Congratulations, Reuben.” He slipped off his coonskin cap, smoothing back his hair with one hard hand and faced Rebecca. “I’m happy for you, Miss Rebecca. I was beginning to think the two of you might be old and grey like me before you got this thing settled.” Laughter again echoed around the little clearing. Zeb hitched his head toward the wagon, “What did Sarah say?”

  He was surprised at the sudden change in Rebecca’s face. “I haven’t told her yet, Zeb.”

  More here than meets the eye. “She gonna join us for supper?”

  Rebecca returned his gaze with a steady eye. “I doubt it. I don’t think she’s feeling one hundred percent.”

  So, when’s the party?” asked Johannes enthusiastically.

  Reuben’s brow wrinkled, “Party?”

  The tall Dane shook his head in mock incredulity. “The wedding, Reuben, the wedding. Even Prussians have weddings, don’t they?”

  “Oooohh.” Reuben and Rebecca exchanged quick glances. “We never talked about it.” Johannes caught Zeb’s eye. They both tried to stifle their laughter, but it was to no avail. Holding his stomach, Zeb collapsed back on the ground and Johannes sank to one knee.

  “What’s, what’s, so funny?” stammered Reuben.

  “Reuben,” Johannes gasped, trying to catch his breath, “the wedding is the most important part.”

  Rebecca began laughing, too. “I think, Johannes, we were both so shocked that he asked and that I said yes, that we never even gave a thought to the next step.”

  “Zeb, I know there are no rabbis, but are there any preachers within one hundred miles of where we’re headed?”

  Shaking his head, his laughter finally under control, Zeb chortled. “None I know of, Reuben.” Reuben and Rebecca exchanged questioning looks.

  “But,” said Zeb grinning and raising one hand and forefinger in the air, “Chief Guera Murah’s medicine man is an old hand at weddings. Course, they are Indian style.…” He began laughing again. “…I’d venture you’ll be the very first white eyes he’s ever married off.”

  “An Indian medicine man?” asked Rebecca slowly.

  Zeb looked at her. She ain’t protesting. Just can’t quite believe what she just heard. “Yep, they know how to throw a shindig, too. The chief’s wife died some time ago, Rebecca, but if you get along well with Ouray’s wife, I bet she could find a fine doeskin wedding dress for you somewhere in the village.”

  Rebecca raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, right, a wedding dress. I had not thought of that, either.” Zeb looked at Johannes and they again broke into laughter.

  Johannes’ eyes focused toward the wagon. Zeb turned. Sarah stood ten feet away, watching them, forcing a small smile to curl her lips.

  “I heard everyone laughing and came out to see what was happening.” She looked at each of them in turn. Reuben turned his head expectantly toward Rebecca but she was silent. The Prussian cleared his throat. “Sarah, me and Rebecca got engaged yesterday and that seems to be a source of much amusement for these wild men.”

  Sarah’s head jerked slightly, her eyebrows rising. “Well, I see. Congratulations Reuben.” Her tone changed
subtlety. “I am happy for you, Rebecca.” Rebecca nodded curtly.

  The redhead pressed her lips together. “I’m not feeling completely well this evening.” Zeb opened his mouth to speak, but she caught his eye. “No Zeb, I’m fine. Just tired. I would love to talk with you though, when you have a moment in the next day or two.” The look she threw him was hopeful, almost pleading.

  Zeb twirled the coonskin cap in his hands. “Sure, Sarah. Anytime.”

  Sarah turned to Rebecca and Reuben. “Congratulations again. I’m really very glad for you.”

  Lifting the woven riding dress, one hand on either side of the hem, she began walking back to the wagon. Zeb watched her for a moment before turning back to the group around the fire. Rebecca was staring after the redhead, her lips pursed. Reuben turned to Johannes, their conversation happy and animated.

  Eventful day, Zeb pondered, slipping on his coonskin cap. “Johannes,” he said, “what say you and I ride out and spell the boy and that Mexican?” Reuben began to reach for his rifle but Zeb held out his hand. “No, Reuben, I ain’t got much experience about all this but I know you just got betrothed. Why don’t you spend some alone time here at the fire with your bride-to-be? You can join us later. Besides, I’m sure you want to tell Michael and Philippe yourselves. We won’t say nothing. It’ll be a surprise.”

  “Thanks Zeb,” said Reuben, smiling down at Rebecca. He looked back up, “When are we going in the morning? Early I suppose.”

  Zeb pulled the cap snug around his greying hair and over the tops of his ears. “Nope. I figure maybe mid-morning. This snowmelt is gonna set up overnight—be like ice early in the morning ’til the sun works on it a bit. Midmorning will give me time to make sure that freight load is cinched up tight, too. The steepest part of this trip is still ahead of us. Down through the Gap to Little Medicine tomorrow, then up that Lost Trail cutoff, a shortcut I’ve used and then up to the last part over Red Mountain Pass and the Divide. And if that shorter route is snowed in or blocked…” he paused, thinking, one hand stroking his mustache, “…then we’ll have some tough choices to make. Probably have to head north up the Old Spanish Trail, then follow the Gunnison River to the Uncompahgre River and come in towards Red Mountain from downstream. We ain’t there yet.”