In the Shadow of the Mountains

by Rosanne Bittner

  Irene dressed a mannequin in the window of her elegant new shop, which catered to Denver’s wealthier women. She covered the form in a deep blue velvet day dress, and over that she put a short sealskin jacket, which was the latest fashion for winter wear. It was time for women to be thinking about cold weather.

  Unlike her mother, Irene had not opened the shop with the thought of how much more money she could bring herself and Kirkland Enterprises. It was true that the markup on her clothes was high, but many women in Denver gladly paid ridiculous prices just to wear the latest fashions. And Irene had not forgotten Denver’s countless homeless women and children. Without her mother’s knowledge, she had decided to contribute a good share of her personal profits to a shelter for widows and orphans. She and Bea both belonged to the women’s committee that had founded the shelter, but Bea just did it to make an impression. Irene was more concerned about sharing her wealth with those who had so little. It didn’t seem right just giving money to the charity. She wanted to give something from her own resources, and much to Bea’s chagrin, she had also begun donating some of her own time to working at the shelter.

  She pinned the jacket from behind to make it fit the mannequin better. She had decided that keeping busy was better than sitting around her new house with only servants for company, thinking about Ramon, thinking about her own unhappiness. Since she had opened the store and begun working at the shelter, she was too busy and too tired to dwell on her unhappy marriage to an unfaithful husband who, on several occasions, had not come home at all, or who claimed too often to work late.

  When he was home, Chad was always loving and attentive, pretending nothing was wrong, but Irene knew better. Their marriage was only four months old, but her husband was already cheating on her. In part she blamed herself. Her dreams of what a marriage should be were already shattered, in spite of the fact that her husband did not drink or abuse her. Still, she remembered Ramon’s remark that there were other forms of abuse besides physical ones, and she knew he was right.

  Dealt the blow of ironic fate that had trapped her in a loveless marriage, she refused to believe nothing could be done about it. She was trying very hard, never turned Chad away from her bed. She prayed for a baby, hoping Chad would settle more, love her more, if she could give him a child. She was in this marriage to stay, and she wanted to find a way to make it work, a way to be at least a little bit happy.

  She glanced out the window then to see a familiar figure, and she dropped a hat and hurried to the door. “Father!” In the next moment she was in Kirk’s strong arms. There came a flurry of hugs and kisses and welcomes. Then Kirk stood back and studied his daughter, who he thought looked too thin and pale.

  “Your mother says you’ve been ill.”

  She wished she could tell him the truth. “I was, but I’m all right now,” she answered slowly.

  He frowned, studying her closely. “You happy, Irene? Is Chad treating you right?”

  She reddened slightly. “Yes. I just don’t get to see a lot of him. Mother keeps him working long hours. It’s been a long haul, rebuilding and getting finances back in order after the flood. It was so terrible. Chad and I never got to go to Europe.” She shrugged, trying to appear cheerful, turning and waving an arm in a sweeping gesture. “With Chad gone so much, I got a little lonely, so I opened this store. Isn’t it nice?”

  Kirk looked around at shelves of elegant materials, fashionably dressed mannequins, stands that sported extravagant hats. Irene herself wore a yellow silk dress with cashmere trim. The hem was looped up slightly to reveal the bottom of her white petticoats, which were short enough to see her delicate feet in shiny, high-buttoned shoes. She noticed him glancing at her petticoats and exposed feet, and she laughed. “It’s the latest fashion,” she assured him.

  He shook his head. “Well, whatever the fashion, you always make it look good.” He gave her another hug. “All I really care about is that you’re happy.”

  How she wished she could explain, but her soured marriage embarrassed her, and she believed it was mostly her fault. “I am, Father.” She leaned back and looked up at him. “Don’t tell Mother, but most of my own profits go to the new shelter for homeless women. She would never understand that, but I know you do.”

  He grinned and winked. “I see success hasn’t spoiled you.”

  They both laughed. “So how was your trip?” she asked. “Have you been to see Mother yet?” She noticed a change in his eyes, a look of sorrow.

  “Yes. That’s how I knew you were here.” He quickly brightened. “Everything went real fine. I—”

  There was no time to finish. A commotion arose in the street outside, and people began running and shouting, crowding around and following someone. Kirk let go of Irene. “Now what?” he muttered. “You stay right here. I’ll go see what’s going on.”

  Irene walked to the door and watched curiously, as Kirk left and moved into the crowd. More people gathered, beginning to shout obscenities about the “damn, dirty Cheyenne.” “Murderers! Rapists!” people yelled, fists raised. “It’s time to do something about this! Somebody ought to get hold of Governor Evans right away,” another man shouted.

  Irene told her assistant to watch the store. She moved into the crowd, asking one man what was going on.

  “It’s those damn savages,” the man raged. “They’ve been on a rampage, raping, murdering, burning homes and crops, stealing horses. Some settlers just rode in to show us the kind of horror those damn Indians can commit—brought the bodies of a whole family, massacred! You’d best stay inside, ma’am. You don’t want to see this.”

  The man left her, and curiosity goaded Irene on. Her father had always tried to explain to her the Indian point of view. She wanted to understand, wondered why there had to be so much fighting and bloodshed. Considering the hell the Indians had visited upon Denver this past summer, it was difficult even for Irene to sympathize with them.

  She moved through the crowd, now pushed along by rough, angry men. Lately people had been worked up and fighting in the streets over the subject of statehood for Colorado. A recent vote to admit Colorado to the Union had failed, and those who had wanted statehood were angry. Besides that, the Civil War was fast coming to a head now. The South was being ripped apart, and Denver was overflowing with bitter, angry refugees from that ravaged area. Now with the Indian problem, Denver seemed ready to explode.

  Someone shoved Irene, and she suddenly found herself in front of the unruly mob, staring at stripped, mutilated, bloated body parts of what had been a man, his wife, and two young girls. They were being laid out in the street. The man who had brought them raised his arms for the crowd to quiet.

  “This is what’s left of the Hungate family,” he announced. “Innocent people, hard-working settlers and a loving family—man, wife, two daughters—raped, murdered, cut to pieces by the murdering Cheyenne! This is the work of Yellow Eagle and his young warriors!”

  The crowd broke into an uproar, fists raised, shouts for the Colorado Volunteers to get into action. “Get the Cheyenne out of Colorado,” they yelled. “Kill them all—women and children—like they do to us!”

  Irene felt she would be ill from the gruesome sight. She looked across the way to see her father in some kind of heated argument, and she knew he was arguing that they couldn’t be sure which Indians had done this. Nearby a fight broke out when one man shouted at another that this was the fault of those who had voted against statehood. “If we were a state, we’d get more help from the federal government,” the man insisted.

  “If we were a state, you’d be bled dry through taxes,” the other man returned. “We can take care of the Indians ourselves!”

  “Well, we haven’t so far, have we,” the first man roared. “Why don’t you try taking care of me!” He proceeded to land a fist on the second man’s jaw, and Irene jumped back as a brawl broke out. Soon more joined in, and Irene couldn’t see her father anymore. Was he fighting, too? Her mother would be outraged if Kirk
got into a common street brawl. She put a hand to her stomach, still sick at the sight of the mutilated bodies, while some men tried to quiet the crowd. Suddenly a strong arm came around her waist.

  “Irene, get out of here,” someone said. She looked up at Chad, who hurriedly whisked her away, keeping hold of her, actually ducking over her protectively as he guided her out of the worst of the crowd. He led her up onto a boardwalk. “What on earth were you doing in that bunch?” he asked her.

  “I just…I wanted to see what all the commotion was about.” She looked up at him. “Oh, Chad, did you see those horrible, mutilated bodies!”

  The street was still in an uproar, and he hurried her back toward her shop. “I saw,” he was telling her. “You get inside here and stay put, you hear? I’m going to see what’s going on.”

  “Chad, Father is back. He’s in that awful ruckus out there.”

  He led her inside her shop and closed the door. “I’ll go see if I can find him. You all right?” There were times, like this one, when she actually believed she saw true love and concern in Chad’s eyes. It would be so much easier if she always saw it there, if she knew he was faithful to her. She couldn’t know his tender concern was inspired by a guilty conscience. He had just come from the Kirkland mansion, where he had gone to pick up some papers for Bea, and had ended up making love to Elly on the couch in Bea’s study.

  “I’m fine,” she told him. “Be careful, Chad.”

  He leaned down and kissed her lightly. “I might as well tell you Bea just got a wire from Colorado Springs. Hank Loring’s ranch was attacked. His wife and daughter were killed.”

  “Oh, no! The poor man!”

  “Yes. All hell is breaking loose. Something has to be done, Irene. We’ll talk about it tonight. Don’t leave here until I come for you.”

  He left and closed the door, disappearing into the wild crowd. Irene wondered what would come of all this Indian hatred, wondered what it was like on the other side of the conflict. The Indians were losing all that was precious to them. But in turn, innocent people like Hank’s family were suffering. Her heart grieved for the man, who had always seemed to be so devoted to his family.

  Her thoughts were awhirl with how wrong and unfair life could be: her unhappiness with Chad, the Indian massacres, the fire, then the flood, those poor mutilated souls in the street, Hank Loring’s terrible loss…and Ramon—who was always there in the back of her mind. He had come to the housewarming, but they had been cool and formal with each other, all the time wanting to hold and be held. It had been an evening of hell for both of them, Chad dragging Ramon around to introduce him to Denver’s elite, Bea acting upset and nervous about his presence there.

  Chad came back inside the store. “Things are getting rough out there. You’d better close up for today and send your help home. We’ll all go out the back way.” He locked the door and pulled the shade. “Let’s go.”

  Irene followed him, asking no questions for the moment, thinking again about the murdered settlers. Were there enough Indians lurking just beyond Denver to come and attack the whole city?

  The Rocky Mountain News was filled with lurid details of Indian massacres. Meetings were held. Governor Evans called upon citizens to do their patriotic duty and join the Volunteers, who under Major John Chivington would soon go on a campaign to put an end to the Indian attacks. People were being murdered, homesteads burned, women taken captive, stage stations attacked, telegraph wires cut. The citizens of Boulder hastily built a fort, where people in nearby areas could come for safety. Women began carrying small supplies of strychnine to swallow in case they were captured, preferring to die rather than be raped and tortured by Indians.

  Bea was beside herself with rage over lost income, but Kirk was strangely quiet, often sitting alone in his study. Direct links to the States were cut off, and mail had to be delivered by a southern route to San Francisco, then brought overland into Denver from the west, a terrible inconvenience that brought important correspondence many weeks too late. Prices rose out of sight, and paper became almost nonexistent. Badly needed mining machinery could not be delivered. Farming nearly came to a halt, as settlers left their farms and moved into bigger communities for safety. Stages stopped running, and easterners stopped investing in Colorado businesses and mines because it was impossible to get through to the endangered area. The rumor spread that more than ten thousand Indians were preparing to attack Denver, most of them gathering in southeast Colorado. Kirk found the fear ridiculous beyond measure.

  “There aren’t even close to ten thousand Indians in this whole Territory and beyond,” he told his family one evening when Irene and Chad joined them for dinner. “It’s the Sioux and northern Cheyenne doing most of this, not the southern Cheyenne at the reservation. What’s going to happen is innocent Indians are going to suffer for this, and that will just make the rest of them even angrier.”

  “There is no such thing as an innocent Indian,” Bea had argued.

  The political atmosphere in Colorado became volatile, each faction blaming another for the current problems, people screaming at Governor Evans to do something. Evans declared martial law and campaigned harder to build the Third Colorado Volunteers.

  Many answered the call, including a good share of miners. Chad also joined, prompted by Bea, but warned by Kirk not to join Chivington. “I don’t trust the man. He’s out to make a name for himself, feeding on everyone’s hysteria,” he told Chad. “This is going to lead to real trouble.”

  As usual, Bea won. Chad found it easier to go against Kirk than against his mother-in-law. He left in mid-October with the Third Colorado to put an end to the Indian problem. Kirk closed himself in his office and spoke to no one, suffering his own secret hell at the thought that his own son was out there…somewhere.

  A cold rain beat against the windows, making Irene shiver. She was glad she had taken today off so she didn’t have to go out in the wet weather. She sat in Chad’s study, counting money donated during a special fund-raising drive for the new shelter.

  Even at home she wanted to keep busy, especially now that Chad was gone. In spite of their rocky marriage, she was worried about him. He had been gone a month now, and she worried he could be horribly wounded or murdered by the Cheyenne, let alone that he was out on the open plains in this terrible weather. She was haunted by the memory of the mutilated bodies of the Hungate family, and she prayed every day that her husband would come home alive and in one piece.

  She looked up then as Jenny Porter came into the room, carrying a package. When she moved into her new home, Irene had brought her maid, Rose Boles, and Jenny from Bea’s home. With John off at college and Irene gone, Bea could manage without the two extra women; and Irene felt close enough to Rose now that she didn’t want to lose her. Once in the new house her first order to both women was that they should call her Irene, not Mrs. Jacobs. Her gentle nature made them extremely loyal, and both women were relieved to be out from under Bea Kirkland’s rule.

  Jenny handed the package to Irene with a smile. “A messenger brought this,” she told her.

  Irene took the brown paper-wrapped package curiously, noticing it was addressed to her and was marked Personal. Jenny left, and Irene quickly opened the package, gasping at its contents, her eyes filling with tears. She knew who the sender had to be when she withdrew a magnificent carving of a horse, accurate in every detail, shaped and pointed to look like Sierra.

  “Ramon,” she whispered. The carving was at least twenty inches long and perfectly porportioned in height. She carefully set it on her desk, her heart torn with gentle memories that quieted her worry over Chad. She quickly opened the letter accompanying it, blinking back tears so that she could see to read it.

  My darling Irene, I know your husband is away, so I took the chance on writing this letter, which you can destroy after you read it. I hope you like the horse. You can tell everyone it is a belated housewarming gift from your contractor, but you and I both know it has a deeper meaning
.

  This is my farewell gift to you, mi querida. I am going away for two, maybe three years.”

  Her heart tightened with dread.

  “We both know it is best. We must not see each other for a long time, and perhaps then the pain of what we cannot have will subside. A Catholic priest here in Denver has recommended me to supervise the building of a great cathedral in Los Angeles, California. It is a very honorable appointment, and I will personally carve a great wooden crucifix that will hang at the front of the church. I will receive a great deal of money for this project, enough to one day come back to Denver a rich man.

  I cannot promise, however, that I will come back to Denver at all. It is possible I will stay in Los Angeles to start a new life. Although I love Colorado as the place where I grew up, we both know why it might be better if I stay away.

  Whatever I do, I want you to remember always you were my first love, and that I will always cherish you in my heart. You will forever be in my thoughts and prayers. I know you understand why I must do this. I would come in person to tell you good-bye, but I am afraid with you there alone, it would be unwise. I cannot trust my emotions, and you are an honorable woman who wishes to be true to her vows, as well you should. I can only hope your husband realizes he is married to the most wonderful woman in Denver, and that he will try harder to make you happy.

  Adiós, mi querida. Vaya con Dios.

  Ramon

  Irene read the letter once more, stopping often to wipe tears from her cheeks. She wadded the letter up in her hand. Gasping with tears, she walked over and threw it into the fire. “Vaya con Dios, mi querido,” she sobbed.

  In spite of the December cold, Denver citizens turned out by the thousands to cheer the returning, victorious Third Colorado regiment and John Chivington. Kirk watched with an aching heart from his office window, realizing some people didn’t even realize that the “souvenirs” some of the soldiers carried on bayonets and wooden poles were women’s body parts.