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 distraction 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.”
He reached down, picking up a stick and tossed it into the fire. “Right now we are on the east side of the pass. Toward the top we’ll branch north down through Little Medicine. Narrows real tight, then opens up a bit. There’s some hot springs the Utes use, too. Got more passes to work our way across, and they’re steeper, particularly that Red Mountain Pass. That trail is nothing but switchbacks going up. Some slopes you probably couldn’t ride a horse straight up. Some parts is so narrow that if you meet another wagon comin’ the other way—which ain’t likely—it might take an hour to get them both in position so the one that passes by doesn’t drop off the edge.”
He chortled, but Sarah detected little humor in his tone. “One good thing is those damn cows won’t have any place to go. Have to follow the trail just like us, although probably be strung out for a half mile or more behind the wagons.” He stood up, stretching his legs. “We ought to check them loads before the Lost Trail shortcut. You don’t want anything shifting or sliding on those grades, or falling out the rear on one of them mules.”
He raised his eyes to Sarah with a look that was kind, but edged with worry. “That stew was good, Sarah. I think I’ll break off tomorrow for a few hours when we get a little lower and see if I can shoot us a deer. Won’t take more than a couple hours to butcher and salt. As little as you women eat, it ought to keep us going for the better part of a week. It ain’t often I luck out and get three rabbits in one day. Anything less wouldn’t be much of a stew.”
A gentle snore from the log caught their attention. Reuben’s chin was on his chest, his boots stretched toward the fire, his hands clasped over his stomach, fast asleep.
Leaning over, Sarah reached out to shake him but stopped mid-motion at Zeb’s voice. “Let him be for an hour or so, Sarah. He’s been putting in longer hours than all of us but Lord knows, no one’s had much shuteye. I’ll ride back out. Each of the boys can come in one by one and get themselves fed. I think me and Johannes have the first half of the night anyways. The boy and that Mexican go from then ’til sunup. Come on over here for a minute.”
Zeb walked twenty feet from the fire and away from the wagon and Reuben. Sarah followed. He turned sharply, his eyes holding hers. “That Mexican bothering you?”
“No, no, Zeb; he is not,” She said, surprised at the brusque directness of his inquiry.
“You’ll let me know?”
“Why, of course but Philippe has been a complete gentleman.”
Zeb searched her face for a long moment then nodded, dropping his voice, “Tell me the whole truth on Rebecca.”
Sarah glanced over her shoulder toward Reuben, still snoring by the log. “Actually, Zeb, I’m worried about her. I think she’s having some type of difficulties. I just can’t tell, and every time I ask her, she insists that she’s fine.” Zeb’s lips twitched underneath his mustache, “She’s awful narrow hipped. There’s some type of concoction the Sioux brew up for slightly built women when they’re with child to ease things.” He shook his head. “Damned if I can remember what it is. The Utes use it too.”
“Perhaps we will run across some Indians and we can ask,” Sarah suggested hopefully.
Zeb’s eyes clicked down to hers. “I think it’s best if we don’t run into any Indians between here and the Uncompahgre. These southern Utes ain’t all too friendly. They’ve tangled with the troops out of Fort Massachusetts several times. Once we get over there, it’s Chief Guera Murah and his son, Ouray and their band. You can get along with them mostly. Mebbe Ouray’s wife, Black Mare, or one of the other women in the tribe would help.” Raising his eyes to the wagon where Rebecca slept, he shook his head. “We’re just gonna have to do the best we can.” He shifted his gaze back to Sarah. “If she gets any worse, come talk to me. Don’t tell Reuben. He’s worried enough about her as it is and he has a lot on his mind. The going’s tougher than he thought. He sure knows cattle but he ain’t never moved them in country like this,” Zeb looked up at the sky, “especially racing against time.”
Sarah felt a pang of alarm. “Race against time?”
“Yep. The longer this takes the more likely we are to lose cows one way or the other. A shorter time would be better for Rebecca and you and…,” he paused, “…this here’s gittin’ to be the end of June. First snow’s likely to fly mid-September where we’re headed. That don’t leave a lot of time to set up a homestead that’ll keep the wind and snow out and the heat in.” He looked down at his calf-high, thick elk skin moccasins and rubbed one toe in the dirt. “I figure you’re due sometime around December and Rebecca, as near as I can figure from what you’ve told me, sometime around February or March. You women ain’t Indians. You can’t be havin’ babies out in the open or in some drafty wagon or lean-to.”
“Oh!” Sarah raised one hand over her mouth. “I just hadn’t given it much thought, Zeb. We’re greatly complicating what you men need to do.”
Zeb smiled tenderly at her. Raising one rough thumb to her cheek, he stroked it softly from her cheekbone to her throat. “We know you ain’t. I think we’re all delighted to have you along.” He smiled. “I know I am. It just makes for other considerations, that’s all. Nothin’ that can’t be handled; just gotta be kept in mind.”