Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Rebecca watched as Reuben turned toward the group of women, Zeb still talking to him. He looks a bit lost. What is going on? Her attention snapped back at the words matrimonio and boda, repeated earnestly by Black Mare.

  Rebecca felt suddenly lightheaded. Her heart jumped and her fingertips pulsed with a rush of adrenaline. “Do you mean there’s a wedding? My wedding?” She raised one shaky hand, pressing her fingers into her chest as she spoke and though she tried to control it, she knew her expression was far from composed. Her eyes darted between Black Mare and Chipeta, the older woman nodding at Rebecca, pointing with her chin toward Reuben, then Rebecca again. Black Mare’s straight white teeth flashed brilliant in the sunlight against her sun-tanned skin. Wrapping her arms around herself, she made hugging motions, her head bobbing assent. The women surrounding them began giggling, whispering behind raised hands, nodding obliquely, first at Reuben and then at Rebecca, with teasing but genuinely warm expressions on their faces. Looking around the circle, Rebecca grinned weakly, still unable to fully grasp the implications. Young Chipeta smiled, gesturing from Rebecca to Reuben, and then raised her hand toward the sun, arching her arm toward the west where the sun would sink.

  “You mean… You mean…” Rebecca Marx, stop your stuttering. She drew in a deep breath. Speaking very slowly, her voice quivering, she gestured, “You mean, Reuben,” she pointed at the Prussian who was now walking away, two men in conversation at his side, “and I,” she again raised her hand, pressing her fingers to her chest between her breasts, “are going to be married today when the sun sets?” A vision of the twinkle in Zeb’s eye a short time before and his words—and smoke the pipe to finalize the trade Reuben has proposed flashed through her mind. So much for any long, properwait for the touch of my betrothed on my body again. Her skin tingled with the memory of Reuben’s hands trailing down her skin, and her cheeks warmed. Seeing the look on her face, the other women laughed, bobbing their heads vigorously, exchanging sly, suggestive looks. Rebecca’s eyes flickered from face to face around the circle, awed by the glowing sense of companionship. I could be back in England, my girlfriends gathered around, teasing me about mywedding night. Truly, we’re no different—the universal energy of females.

  Black Mare spoke again, then grabbed Rebecca’s hand, walking her swiftly toward her lodge with Chipeta trotting alongside. The other Ute women, chattering happily, followed close behind. Stopping at the flap of the tipi, Black Mare turned and faced the group, uttering a few short, curt commands. Disappointed murmurings erupted from the women, then more chattering as they turned and walked back toward the fire.

  Chipeta opened the flap to the tipi and stood back. Black Mare quickly entered, literally pulling Rebecca inside. Rebecca breathed deeply, savoring the smell of leather and faint wood smoke, taking in the details of the baskets, a single headdress, the bed of buffalo robes, Ouray’s weapons and shield. Remarkable. So this is where Reuben made his trade. I shall have to ask them exactly what that was all about.

  Chipeta put a few sticks on the ebbing lodge fire, prodding it back to life, then joined Black Mare, who knelt by a row of baskets. Muttering to one another, they pawed through the various articles in several of the woven containers. Then Black Mare stood. “Ayh-eeh!” she exclaimed, holding up a leather dress by the shoulders, appraising it. She turned the garment so that the front faced Rebecca, pressing the dress against her own body and smiling broadly.

  Doe hide? Rebecca marveled at the dress’s creamy whiteness. The leather was evenly tanned and meticulously, perhaps even lovingly, stitched. From its collar fell a pointed, triangular pattern of blue, yellow and green beads ending in the center of a semicircular design in turquoise, which rose to pointed ends just below the shoulders. Chipeta stood proudly next to Black Mare holding a wide-fringed, light brown leather sash, two rows of blue and red beads on its edges and silver conchos stitched every few inches around its length.

  Rebecca’s legs trembled. “You are serious. I am going to be married tonight?”

  The two women spoke rapidly to one another smiling and nodding, pointing at the dress then to Rebecca.

  Black Mare stepped toward her, holding the dress out, her thumbs pinning the leather to Rebecca’s shoulders. “Aye-eeh,” said young Chipeta, cocking her head to the side, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Another rapid succession of comments flowed between the two women, Black Mare still holding the dress up in front of Rebecca, Chipeta’s enthusiasm needing no interpretation.

  Ouray’s wife stepped back, motioning to Rebecca to undress. Not quite believing Back Mare’s request, Rebecca stuttered, “You, you want me to take my clothes off?” Black Mare nodded, moving her hands down her own dress, imitating the movements of disrobing.

  Rebecca was unable to control her shocked expression. The two women exchanged surprised glances. Black Mare walked to Rebecca and gently but firmly began slipping off her light jacket while Chipeta knelt and fumbled with the buttons at the front of her riding skirt. Rebecca was stunned, unsure whether to protest or giggle. Her mind raced. Reuben may have asked me to marry him but he certainly didn’t say anything about tonight! Down to her chemise, bloomers and undergarment now, she had to stop herself from stomping her foot. The two puzzled women stood back, their hands outstretched, thumbs and forefingers testing the texture of the chemise, admiring the silk. They have never seen what’s under these European clothes. Black Mare gestured to continue disrobing. Rebecca could feel the heat in her cheeks as she slid off the chemise, her breasts exposed and warm in the reflection of the lodge fire, its small fresh flames reaching toward the smoke hole. Rebecca hesitated. Again, the two young women looked at one another, Black Mare motioning somewhat impatiently with her hand. Rebecca could feel her cheeks grow hot. She sighed. What was it that I said to Inga? We are all women. Shyly, she slid off her undergarments, standing naked in front of the two Indian women, her hands clasped self-consciously below her abdomen.

  Black Mare held the chemise, bringing it to her cheek, slowly stroking the silk across her face and her neck, respectfully turning her gaze away from Rebecca. Chipeta pointed to the crumpled bloomers and undergarments on the lodge floor. Giggling, she shook her head, then arced her arm again from east to west, shaking her head again. Rebecca felt another blush climb up her cheeks. On this night, there will be nothing between you and your man but your wedding dress, and then, not even that....

  Laying the chemise gently down on the bed of hides that she shared with Ouray, Black Mare cast a last longing look at it, then turned, pulling out another basket, round and high, which she brought to Rebecca. Chipeta gently raised Rebecca’s arms up and the two women took silvery leaves from the basket, rubbing them between their hands, the pungent scent rising between them. Sage—Silver sage; Zeb called it woman’s sage. Slowly and delicately, they feathered their hands over the entirety of Rebecca’s body, their soft touch and the earthy, sweet smell reminding her of Reuben’s fingertips, making her skin tingle. This is really happening. I am to be married, in an Indian village, a tender feeling calmed her, to the man who is the father of my child. Ah, Mother, I do hope you’re watching. You were always concerned if your daughter would ever marry. She chuckled and Black Mare nodded, casting her eyes down but not before Rebecca saw her mouth curl into an approving smile. Rebecca lifted her own gaze toward the smoke hole, the blue sky beyond seeming to waver as the heat and smoke rose from the lodge fire.

  Johannes limped slowly to Bente, grinning and carrying his saddle. His chuckle morphed to a wince as he threw the heavy leather over her back and adjusted the cinch. “That’s some news from Zeb, isn’t it, Bente? Now, how do you suppose that farm boy talked milady Rebecca Marx of London into a wedding in an Ute camp on half a days’ notice?” Maybe Reuben ought to be instructing me in the ways of women. “I can’t wait to see this.”

  Bente shook, adjusting the fit of the saddle on her withers and blew softly. “Not all that enthusiastic, eh girl?” Johannes laughed, patting the mare’s rump.
Leaning his elbows over the trough to give his leg a rest, Johannes looked up at the sky, cloudless and brilliant. Going to be good to be back on the horse—always hated driving wagons.

  He chortled again, thoroughly amused. Better check these saddlebags. He tightened the rawhide ties to the twin leather pouches behind the saddle, rummaging in one, then the other, his fingers finding his tin cup, leather gloves, extra knife, ammunition and a folded piece of heavy paper. What the hell is that? Pulling it out, he unfolded the paper. MISSING—DOROTHY ANNE EBERLYN—Age 14. Oh! That notice from the mercantile about that poor girl whose family was killed. Shaking his head, he refolded the poster, turning to throw it in the coals of the fire yet to be extinguished by Michael, then hesitated. He opened it again, reading, then shrugging, and shoved it back half folded into the saddlebag. Lifting his left leg with hands clasped beneath his thigh, he positioned his toe in the stirrup, lifting himself painfully into the saddle. “Come on, Bente—we got a wedding in an Indian village between a Prussian farmer and an English aristocrat to go see!”

  “HOW MUH LONGER DO YOU think, Philippe?” A tinge of anxiety crept into Johannes’ question.

  “Maybe another hour.” Pushing back the brim of his sombrero, Philippe looked up at the sun, not yet setting but threatening to soon touch the ridgelines in the western skyline. “We’ll make it, Señor Johannes. When we get to this gap, I’ll ride ahead. There’s no place for these cows to go except the trail from what Señor Zeb told us. You and Señor Zeb stay behind and keep them moving. I don’t think either wagon will have any trouble. El muchacho es un careterro muy fino.”

  “Yep, he does handle those lines well. Did you see the way he eased that wagon around those downed trees?” Johannes glanced nervously at the sun, then back down the trail toward the wagons in front of them.

  “Señor Zeb had a good idea on the spotted ponies. When we get the cattle out of the canyon, I will take the two spotted horses west into the trees and tie them off for the night, hidden on a long tether line. Manaña, I will return and lead them through the trees on the north edge of the meadow to where the cows will be. Hopefully, the two Indio guards at the bottom of the canyon, with so many cows, riders and wagons passing before them, will not take close notice.”

  Behind them rang the ding and dong of the lead cow’s bell and behind her, the cries of more cows, louder and more frequent as the narrowing of the trail pressed them together.

  Philippe rose in the saddle looking ahead. “Señorita Sarah’s wagon has just entered the canyon. I shall ride up there and make sure she has no problems.”

  Johannes reached out his arm, resting a hand briefly and lightly on Philippe’s forearm. “You know there’s kind of a promise between Zeb and Sarah?”

  Cocking his head toward Johannes, he looked directly into the tall man’s blue eyes. “Señorita Sarah has told me they are not betrothed. Is this incorrect?”

  “No,” Johannes said, Philippe pleased by the sound of admittance in his voice, “but there is a history between them going all the way back to St. Louis.”

  Philippe allowed a smile to play on his lips. “I see,” he said, spurring Diablo into a trot without a further word, feeling Johannes’ concerned eyes on his back as he rode to catch up with Sarah’s wagon.

  Reuben finished rubbing his neck with the sage leaves from the basket the young Ute man had brought him, his eyes surveying the interior of the lodge he had been given to prepare for the wedding. Fewer baskets and no headdress. Only one piece of beaver pelt art, his eyes ranged the leather wall, and slightly smaller, too. He slipped on his trousers and then the ceremonial leather shirt Ouray had lent him, the heavy leather brushing across his back as it slid over his shoulders down to below his hips. Aside from some looseness in the shoulders, the shirt fit well.

  His head snapped up at the sound of running feet and shouts outside the tipi. From a distance, the faint cries of cattle and the whoops and whistles of Johannes, Philippe and Zeb drifted in, muted by the lodge’s hide walls. The outfit! A slow, rhythmic beating of drums began mingling with the sounds of the approaching herd and the hum of voices toward the fire rising as more Indians congregated. Smoothing his hands over the shirt’s beadwork, Reuben swallowed, fighting a prolonged pang of anxiety. I wonder what Rebecca’s doing? And what she’s thinking?

  The three women had poked their heads out of the tipi as the loud excitement erupted all around the lodge when the cattle first came through but now the commotion had died down, replaced by the buzz of many voices from the direction of the main fire. Rebecca listened as the muffled grunts of the cattle receded slowly to the north. Black Mare and Chipeta stood only a few steps from her, moving their heads from side-to-side, looking critically at the brown leather sash tied around her waist. Every few seconds, one or the other of the two women darted forward to straighten a piece of twisted fringe bent from long storage in the basket or to adjust the belt to a slightly different height. Finally, they circled around her, nodding approvingly, talking rapidly to one another, Black Mare pulling the collar line up at the back of Rebecca’s neck. From outside, Rebecca heard the rattle of the wagons and Sarah’s voice, muted by the tipi. “Whoa there.” Suddenly struck with an idea, she turned, walking toward the tipi flap, waving for Chipeta and Black Mare to follow her.

  Outside the lodge, the village was full of activity, people streaming toward the fire from all directions, talking and laughing. Sarah was tying off the lines of the prairie schooner, stopped a hundred yards away, and was preparing to climb down from the driver seat. Motioning to the two Ute women to follow her, Rebecca walked briskly toward the wagon, the redhead looking up as they approached, her jaw dropping.

  CHAPTER 42

  June 25, 1855

  TRADITIONS

  “When I first looked, I thought there were three Indian women coming up to the wagon,” Sarah exclaimed, her eyes round and shifting nervously from Rebecca to Black Mare and Chipeta. “Is it true? You’re really getting married tonight?”

  Without breaking her stride, her gaze brushing past Sarah, Rebecca nodded curtly, “This is Chipeta and Black Mare.” At the sound of their names, the two women nodded and smiled at Sarah, who tentatively raised her hand in a partial wave, her mouth still open.

  Ignoring her, Rebecca opened the tailgate, pulling out the ladder. She climbed into the wagon and turned, motioning Black Mare and Chipeta to join her. Chipeta glanced at Black Mare for permission, who nodded, and then the two women clambered up to the wagon bed.

  Rebecca made straight for the trunk at the head of Sarah’s bedroll. Opening its large, domed and ornately scrolled top, she rummaged through the trunk quickly, casting articles of clothing haphazardly behind her over the bed, finally finding what she had been searching for. Straightening up, she turned with a white silk chemise in her hand, handing it to Black Mare with a smile. Ouray’s wife gasped, taking the garment and smoothing it in her fingers, grinning broadly. Looking at the younger woman apologetically, Rebecca suddenly raised a finger in the air, “Wait, I do have something for you.” She turned and bent over the trunk again, objects flying around the wagon, straightening up with a black tweed riding jacket, silver embroidery on its rounded edges and red buttons vertical in three lines across the breast under the shoulders. Holding it out toward Chipeta, she spread the shoulders of the garment between her hands. “Yes, this will definitely fit. It has always been a bit too small for me. Try it on.” Chipeta looked at her, not comprehending until Rebecca made the motions of putting on the jacket. Understanding flashed across Chipeta’s eyes. She donned the jacket, pulling on its lapels to position it over her shoulders, and then slowly twirled so that Black Mare and Rebecca could see. Black Mare nodded approvingly.

  “Muy bonita,” Rebecca said, smiling at her awkward Spanish.

  Hastily gathering the clothing strewn around the wagon, Rebecca shoved it in a jumbled bundle back into the trunk. She wheeled briskly to her bedroll, rolling it half back and removed the flour sack wedged betwe
en two trunks to level off the surface under the bedroll. Opening one of the trunks, she reached in an arm, groping carefully. “Ah, there they are,” she exclaimed, gingerly withdrawing two rolled skirts, unwrapping and spreading them out on Sarah’s bedroll. In each was an ornate wineglass etched with gold in a grape leaf design. She held them up and both women gasped. “I will need these for the boda.” Smiling, she gazed at the goblets. You surprised me, Mr. Frank. Now it is my turn to surprise you. Pulling a small, heavy towel from the trunk, she carefully rolled the wine glasses securely cushioning the crystal stemware so that they did not touch one another.

  Sarah pursed her lips as she watched Rebecca, Black Mare and Chipeta walk away, the fringe at the bottom of all three women’s dresses swaying with the movement of their hips, Rebecca carefully cradling the rolled towel under her arms. The two Indian women looked back, smiling and waving, their figures silhouetted against the setting sun but Rebecca did not turn around. Well, milady Marx, it appears even a wedding has not thawed your ill temper.

  Sarah turned at the sound of a horse coming in at a lope. Philippe reined in Diablo only feet from where she stood, the big black stallion snorting, reaching out his muzzle and roughly nuzzling her chin. Raising her hand, she stroked his nose. “He is a beautiful horse, Philippe.”