THE NOOCHEW
Lifting himself partially from the saddle, Reuben craned his shoulders, looking back up the trail they had been descending. The wagons were long out of sight and even the bells of the lead cow could no longer be heard. Probably dropped halfway between the wagons and Little Medicine. There was no snow at this lower elevation, the forest changing from tall conifers and aspen to occasional aspen patches, willows and alders in areas of springs and greater moisture. On the south-facing slopes of the rocky, undulating ridges, grew scattered pinyon pine and juniper. In the partially visible meadow several miles below them rose tendril tips of grey smoke and other more mysterious vapor plumes.
They rode three abreast, Rebecca between Zeb and Reuben. The horses cast sideways glances at one another, softly whinnying and shaking their heads from time to time. Buck seemed especially alert, as if he knew their destination. The chill of higher altitude was gone. Twice they had stopped to shun clothing, tying their jackets and coats atop the bedrolls lashed to the rear of their saddles. Two large birds soared overhead in a cloudless sky, their flight path seeming to follow southern ridge lines, their great brown wings almost motionless, outspread, with irregular light circles on the undersides. Their high-pitched screech echoed from the skies, sifting through the trees around the trio of riders.
Rebecca’s eyes were fixed on the circling birds. “Golden Eagles,” said Zeb. “Them two is just young-uns; you can tell by the white spot on their wings.” Shielding his eyes with one hand, he lifted his head. “Four, maybe five-foot wings. They get up around six or seven foot when they’re full-grown. I’ve seen ‘em take antelope fawn, even small yearling deer. Some say they can see a rabbit at five miles. If you watch ‘em long enough, they’ll fold their wings and drop out of the sky like a rock. Then you know they’re after dinner.”
“Magnificent,” Rebecca murmured.
“Yep.” Zeb spoke softly, not much above a whisper. “I figure we’ll be down to that canyon in an hour or two give or take. We’ll kind of ease into that meadow, make sure whoever is making that smoke is friendly.” His eyes traveled from Rebecca to Reuben. “If I slide my long gun back into my scabbard, do the same.”
“And if you don’t?” asked Reuben.
Zeb’s eyes clicked to him and then browsed back down the trail. “Then you’ll know what to do. Likely won’t have any choice.” Rebecca cast an anxious glance at both men.
“I’m pretty sure it’s Chief Guera Murah’s bunch. Ute means ‘land of the sun’ in their language. They be quite different from them Sioux you met, Reuben—more colorful. Like lots of beads and baubles on their clothes and weapons, and they’re big on paintin’ themselves and their horses. Truth be known, most other tribes are their enemies. They only get along well with the Apache, particularly them Mouache and Capote, the Southern Utes, over in the San Luis Valley and stretchin’ down south to north of Santa Fe, below where you picked up those cows, though Guera Murah is full-blood Jicarilla. Their biggest enemies is the Cheyenne, Crow, Shoshone, Blackfoot and Arapaho.” Zeb reached into his shirt, pulling out his tobacco pouch, extracting his chew and biting off a piece. “But they’ve had fights with the Sioux and Pawnee. They got good at fighting since takin’ on them Spaniards a couple hundred years back. That’s when they first got horses. Got in some big scrapes with the Diné, too. Sometimes even teaming up with white men to fight them. Got every bit as good on horseback as any Indians, ‘cept maybe less so than the Apache and Sioux, but not by much. Them Sioux call themselves ‘The People.’ Utes call themselves the ‘Noochew.’”
“Diné?” Reuben glanced at Rebecca, not surprised that she wore a puzzled expression.
“Navajo.” Leaning over Buck’s side, Zeb spit a wad of chew at a twisted aspen by the trail, hitting the white trunk dead center. He grinned at Reuben. “I like to practice my aim.” Falling silent for a moment, he ran his fingers down his mustache. “Best you know more about these people. Indians put a lot a store in ceremonies. Utes have their Bear Dance every spring. And they ain’t above drying leaves from them manzanita bushes and smoking it mixed in with their tobacco sage. Sometimes make tea of it, too. Addles the brain a touch—gets them closer to Creator. Closer to Spirit, the Sioux would say.”
Zeb swayed to the side and spit again, the brown gob flying in an arc, narrowly missing a thinly trunked alder. Reuben leaned in toward Rebecca to hear better. Zeb grimaced, then went on with his lesson.
“Ute chief once told me there’s seventeen different bands. They all get along mostly but each has their own peculiar customs. Them southern tribes I was talking about like peyote. Comes from a cactus.” He laughed. “Got talked into tryin’ it once. Makes you feel like you’re floating and colors get extra bright. Bluest sky I ever seen, rosiest prickly pear blossoms, too. My head wasn’t right for three days.”
He turned toward Reuben, his face serious as he held his gaze. “If it is Chief Guera Murah, it’s likely his son, Ouray, will be a part of any talking, and they’ll pull out a pipe. They have several. You’ll know what he’s thinking ‘bout by which he chooses. If it’s a black pipestone without much carving, he’s just being polite. If it’s made of that same clay but all carved up with some inset beads? That means he respects you. And he has one pipe made of salmon alabaster. Don’t know how long it took to decorate it but it’s quite something. If he uses that one, well, means he’s a mite fond of you, and respects you too. Only seen him take it out twice. One time was when Kit Carson and I visited their winter camp. Carson and Guera Murah are friends.”
The mountain man shook his head. “Though mebbe Kit wouldn’t get the same treatment now since he’s leading them Army boys out of Fort Union and Fort Massachusetts against the Mouache and the Jicarilla, back in the San Luis. News travels fast between these Indians.”
“How long have they been here, Zeb?” Rebecca asked quietly.
The mountain man peered down the trail, studying something and then turned to her, one eyebrow arched, “Damn near forever. Hundreds of years before them Spaniards from what I gather. According to Ute legend, they was all brought here from the south by a half wolf-half man god name of Sinauff. Carried ‘em up here in a magic bag and then Coyote, their symbol of mischief, set ‘em loose.
“Another thing, you may see some younger Indians that don’t quite look like the rest of the village—flatter faces, slightly higher foreheads. Those would be slaves captured in raids, mostly from the Paiute, maybe some Navajo. Them tribes do the same to the Utes. Then they trade slaves for horses or whatever goods they want. It died down some, but when they opened up the Old Spanish Trail from Santa Fe to Los Angeles twenty, maybe thirty years ago, the fighting picked up again. Matter of fact, if we can’t use that shortcut, we only got two choices. Either head north from here and join up with a branch of the Old Spanish Trail down on the Gunnison over to Fort Uncompahgre, or backtrack over Wolf Creek, then down to the Animas River. One’s the northern, the other the southern branch of the trail. I reckon the northern would be better.”
He stared at Reuben, the weathered lines around his eyes tightening, the history lesson over. “Follow my lead, Reuben. These folks are gonna be your neighbors for a long time. Might be your only neighbors for years. I’ll interpret best I can. Guera Murah was raised Apache. Ouray was raised in Taos. Speaks a mixture of English, Spanish and Ute. I’m half good at Sioux but less so with Ute.”
Looking sharply at Rebecca, who was staring wide-eyed at him, Zeb warned, “Three more things and then we’ll be getting close enough where we best hush up and move quiet. Since women can’t smoke with the menfolk and Guera Murah’s wife has passed, Ouray is likely to introduce you to his wife, Black Mare. Fine woman— quiet, but strong. She’s half Kiowa Apache. ‘Bout your same size. Matter of fact, you two look similar in more ways than shape. It’s just as important you get along well with his wife as it is Reuben gets along with Guera Murah and Ouray. They already formed their opinion of me. I got their respect and vice versa, but I wouldn’t call them friends. They are great hunters, chase buffalo like the Sioux, and maybe the most skilled hunters in the mountains—deer, elk, fish, rabbit. They consider me competition of sorts but I’ve always been fair, so we get along. Done some trading with them, too. The women pick all sorts of wild vegetables, wheatgrass, bentgrass, poa, stipa and sunflowers. Grind it all up into a sort of wheat. Add chokecherries and cook up dried round cakes. And gather pinyon nuts. Add it all to their larder for a nice break midwinter from elk or deer meat.”
Zeb fell silent. Reuben waited, then prompted him. “What of the third thing, Zeb?”
“Been thinking about how we need to tell him what you plan—that ranch and the cattle.”
“Do we have to tell them, Zeb?” Rebecca asked.
Zeb cast a quick look at her from narrowed eyes. “Yep. They’ll know right off anyway. Probably already do. We gotta bring the cattle through one way or the other. They may have seen a cow or two from them Spaniards, but they never seen three hundred. Best to be up front with them unless the timing ain’t right. One thing above all else, they got to trust you. Trust means a heap site more to Indians than most white men.” He bent over the saddle and spit into the grass by Buck’s front hooves. “And they ain’t particularly keen on white men. They never liked the Spanish and back in 1843, Fremont brought a bunch through here, looking for a railroad path. Damn fool got hisself stranded midwinter. Lost half his men and had to backtrack to Taos. The Utes still talk about it. Now them Mormons is stirring up trouble with the Northern Band. But unlike white men, if you look ‘em in the eye, they’ll judge you on the person you be.” He thought for a minute. “We’ll just kind of ease into it. If nothing else, it wouldn’t be bad for you to get the chief ’s nod of approval for that ranch.”
“Approval?” Reuben felt a bristle flash up his spine. “The ranch will just be a tiny piece of land in this huge country,” he said, sweeping his arm, “besides, I want to buy it.”
Zeb laughed. “Reuben, they figure this is their land. It ain’t for sale. They saw what happened when the Navajo and the United States signed the treaty of 1849.” He snorted. “Treaty of Peace, they called it. The government liars and fools broke it in months.” Zeb shook his head in disgust. “They ain’t much on trusting white men agreements and you got nothing you could trade, even if they was inclined.”
Should I say anything? Reuben rode quietly for a minute as they wound their way through a narrow gorge with broken rock walls that rose high enough to block the sun. A small creek, that had cut the canyon over eons, rushed alongside the tight turns of the trail, swollen with snowmelt. Carefully picking his words, Reuben said slowly, “What about diamonds?”
Zeb and Rebecca’s heads jerked toward him in surprise. “Diamonds?” Rebecca gasped.
“My father gave me six large diamonds to use for buying the ranch. He was thinking in the European way.”
Zeb gave a surprised chuckle. “I’ll be go to hell. That’s what you was talking about back in St. Louis.” He wagged his head, “I ain’t even sure they know what a diamond is, Reuben. The Spanish traded them beads and glass, which they set great store by. I doubt they’ll think a diamond is more than just another piece of glass, but I don’t rightly know. It’s probably best you say nothing for now.”
Reuben nodded. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone. Just Johannes knows.”
Staring straight ahead, Zeb agreed in a dry voice, “Yep, less people that know, the better.”
Scanning the rocks above them, Zeb reined in Buck. “We’ll ride single file from here. Rebecca, drag out that Sharps. Stay between me and Reuben. Any trouble, you take out the first that comes at you, then hightail it back to this canyon. There’s some broken rocks at the mouth and a patch of cottonwoods. You can cover us with your long gun there,” his mouth set grimly. “But if it gets real troublesome, you get on Red and skedaddle back up that mountain so that Johannes and that Mexican know what’s going on.”
A short time later, the jumble of stone cliffs fell away, mingling with cottonwoods. The raucous calls of magpies echoed in the trees. Zeb held up his hand for them to halt. Buck pawed the soft, sandy ground as the mountain man peered carefully through the stand of timber toward the open green that marked the beginnings of the meadow beyond the trees. He slowly swiveled his head upwards, his eyes suddenly widening, the muzzle of his Enfield beginning to rise. Then his facial muscles relaxed and the gun sank back down. He hitched his head slightly to the left. “Look up real slow. They been watching us.”
Reuben lifted his eyes from the trees. Standing above them, partially hidden fifty feet up in the rocks and one hundred feet away, stood two braves, arrows nocked in their bows, the colorful lines that ran down the front of their tanned, fringed leather shirts clearly visible. Zeb raised his hand, palm out, toward them, whispering, “Yep, it’s Ouray’s bunch.” The two braves raised their hands in response, returning their arrows to the quivers behind their backs.
“Come on,” said Zeb. He threw a sideways look at Reuben, adding, “Let that be a lesson to you. An Indian who doesn’t want to be seen, usually ain’t.”
They rode slowly into the Ute camp, steam from the hot springs rising surreal and selkie-like at various points in the extended meadow behind the lodges, a smell of sulfur in the air. Reuben stopped counting the tipis at fifty. Must be better than a hundred. They appeared to be clustered in three groups, one large and two smaller sets of lodges off to the side. Two tipis larger than the others occupied the center of the largest cluster of cone-shaped lodges. Four large fires burned with groups of Indians clustered around each, some standing, some sitting, all swaying back and forth. Several small children ran toward them shouting and squealing in loud voices and a number of Indians stood up at the nearby fires turning to face them, talking among themselves and gesturing excitedly. One man ran from one of the fires to one of the tipis in the center of the camp. From it emerged a man and a woman who walked slowly toward them, a small phalanx of braves forming to their sides and behind them, some carrying lances, others long black clubs with knobs on the ends. Two warriors cradled muskets and several had bows.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the gathering crowd advancing toward them, Zeb spoke from the side of his mouth. “The couple up there in front, that would be Ouray and Black Mare. Remember, he’s got a lot of pull. I think they are having a powwow. That one small group of tipis yonder is Indians from the Northern Ute, the Uinta. And that other set of lodges? That’s the Yamparika tribe from the Yampa River country.” Leaning down, he slid the Enfield into the double belly scabbard above his Sharps.
Rebecca glanced at Reuben, her eyes blinking rapidly, her complexion pale. Reuben nodded and they both eased the Sharps into their scabbards. Ouray, his wife and their guard stopped when twenty feet away. Zeb raised his hand, palm toward them. “Miaue Wush Tagooven,” said Ouray, raising his hand palm out in reply to Zeb’s silent greeting.
Rebecca studied Ouray. He was stocky, ruggedly handsome, about five foot, nine inches tall, with broad muscular shoulders. Younger than I imagined. Perhaps four or five years older than me. His leggings were of loose, dark leather, fringed heavily on the outer legs, intricate bead patterns approximately three inches wide running from the waist down to equally wide double bands of beads at the cuffs, which rested on heavily stitched moccasins with a squared off toe. His lighter leather shirt was likewise heavily fringed at the waist, shoulders and sleeves, an extra layer of leather sewn over each shoulder adorned with a dark-colored bead pattern. A white, red, turquoise and yellow beaded belt tied with leather fringe wrapped around the middle of his shirt. Below a long intricate beaded necklace was a triangular pendant of carved antler, also inlaid with beads. His face was round and eyes wide-set. His nose with well-defined nostrils and high cheekbones balanced well with his rounded chin and lips, his upper lip slightly thicker than his lower. His long, jet-black hair was parted low on one side and tied in tight braids that hung either side of his chest almost to his belt. Very chief-like.
Black Mare stood at his side but one step behind. She was shorter, perhaps five foot, two inches. She wore a one-piece, loose fitted, lightly tanned, leather dress. Its bottom and sleeves were as heavily fringed as her husband’s garments. The long, irregular fringe above her square-toed moccasins ended just above a series of colorful, beaded, ornamental ankle bracelets that rose one after the other four or five inches above her ankles. Her belt was simple woven leather fastened with some type of cinch of antler or bone.
Her build was willowy but with distinctive womanly curves, Rebecca noticed, and handsome features. Her eyes were large, brown and set wide, her chin slightly more pronounced than his, as were her cheekbones. Her face, more angular than her husband’s, was framed by long, smooth jet-black hair, carefully brushed and parted in the middle, braided on one side. I see what Zeb meant about the resemblance. Her hair tapered to the bodice of her leather dress, its embroidery descending from her shoulders in the shape of a “V.” That would have been her cleavage if her clothes were of European make. Rebecca realized with some surprised anxiety that she was the object of study, too. Her eyes met and held Black Mare’s for a long moment and then the lips of Ouray’s wife parted, her teeth wide, white and expansive in a genuine smile.
Rebecca felt mesmerized. Powerful woman. Like her husband.