PHILIPPE REYES
Reuben straightened up from tightening the cinch under Lahn’s belly and turned to Zeb. A thin rim of bright yellow from the rising sun pierced the pale, blue, dawn sky above the higher ground east of the wagons. Johannes was already mounted and he was checking the load in his Sharps .52 carbine. Buck and Lahn quietly nickered to one another and brushed their nuzzles together.
Zeb half-smiled, “Appears our horses get along.”
Reuben chuckled, “Like masters, like horses. I think the best plan, Zeb, is we will meet you at Fort Massachusetts. Randy seemed to think that would save coming back all this way and that route might be a little bit easier with the cattle and wagons than going over Kenosha Pass.”
The weathered leather that passed for skin around Zeb’s eyes crinkled, “Randy said? If his feet ever left that damn store, he might know.” Zeb smiled. “Just so happens in this case he is mostly right. It’s gonna take us a good six or seven days to get to the San Luis with these wagons. When do you expect you might be there with the cattle?”
“Well, first we have to find cattle, then we have to talk somebody into selling some. And until we talk to that Mexican vaquero Randy suggested and that ranch family with the two older sons, we don’t even know how many hands we’ll have.” Reuben paused, glanced at the wagon where Rebecca and Sarah slept and turned back to Zeb, “You going to be okay alone?”
“Ain’t going to be quite alone. The McKinley wagon is going part of the way and they ain’t in no rush to hurry down. Their course is set for somewhere around that Pike’s Peak country. That gets us about halfway,” he paused and looked at Reuben, “and I suspect Sarah and Rebecca will be driving their wagons.”
Reuben was silent for a moment. He glanced again at the wagon where the women were still asleep. “Sarah, maybe—but we both know that…” he grinned at Zeb and was sure he saw the slightest uncharacteristic blush color the mountain man’s tanned cheeks, “…but I’m not at all sure about Rebecca.”
“You gonna say goodbye?” asked Zeb quietly.
“Already did. Last night. She told me she would either be with you or she wouldn’t.” Reuben swallowed trying to ignore the empty feeling in his gut.
Zeb was silent. Reuben looked at him for a moment, “If she decides to go back to England, I think you ought to burn that wagon of Jacobs. It has a bad feel. Sarah can drive the prairie schooner.”
Zeb shook his head, “No sense burnin’ a good wagon. I got a couple of Ute friends. One has strong medicine, a great puwa. I think I can trade him some pelts for him to cleanse the wagon of Jacob’s energy.”
Reuben knew the doubt showed in his face and Zeb saw it.
“Don’t be doubtin’ the power of Spirit,” Zeb said seriously, his eyes boring into Reuben’s. “You felt it yourself—when you met Eagle Talon back there at Two Otters Creek.”
A vision of the Sioux warrior, statuesque on his painted mustang, like an apparition in the lingering smoke and dust of battle, his war shield with an eagle’s talon high on his extended arm, his hand palm out, coursed through Reuben’s memory. He was the obvious leader of the four warriors behind him, one slumping in the saddle. “Roo-bin, Ray-bec-ka,” the brave had said while Zeb interpreted.
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.