“It’s the Agency, isn’t it?”
He nodded, then slapped the reins over the backs of the mules, urging them forward. “Yep, sure is. Another ten minutes or so, and you’ll finally be home.”
Home . . . The word had an unexpectedly foreign ring to it. Shiloh swallowed hard, suddenly overcome with a wave of homesickness overlaid with an acute edge of trepidation. This was it. She was here, and now reality must substitute for all her dearly held dreams. But what if . . . what if things didn’t turn out as she hoped? What if she wasn’t sufficient to the task at hand?
With a resolute shake of her head, Shiloh banished the doubts and fears. Nothing was served allowing such thoughts to undermine her confidence. She would do the best she could, changing the things within her power and finding peace and acceptance with what couldn’t be changed. That was all anyone could do. The rest was in the Lord’s hands.
As they headed down the hill, someone apparently gave word of their approach. A small crowd formed outside what must be the Agency office, if the American flag flying there was any indication. A distinguished-looking older man—gray-haired and who appeared to be in his early sixties—with an older woman of similar years at his side, stood directly beneath the flagpole. A younger woman with two small children walked up to halt nearby. And then, a slender, dark-blonde-haired woman, drying her hands with a dish towel, strode from the building just down from the Agency office.
“That’s Miss Josie,” Joe offered. “The tall one in the white blouse and blue skirt.”
“And the older man and woman?” Shiloh leaned toward him, as they were almost within earshot. “I assume they’re Nathan and Arvilla?”
“Yep.”
She shot the big freighter a quick glance. The clipped way he had replied was out of character, and she wondered why. It almost seemed as if . . . as if he wasn’t overly fond of the senior Meekers. If so, was it both or just one?
Shiloh was tempted to ask him, but it was too late. Joe Collum, even then, was leaning back, pulling the mules to a halt.
All eyes turned in the direction of Nathan Meeker. With a squaring of his shoulders, he stepped forward and offered his hand to Shiloh. She took it and climbed down from the wagon.
“Welcome, Miss Wainwright,” Nathan said, his voice cultured and mellifluous. “We’ve been awaiting your arrival with the greatest anticipation. Haven’t we, my dear?” he asked, half-turning to the older woman standing behind him.
She walked up and nodded. “Yes, indeed we have.”
“May I introduce myself?” he next said. “I am Nathan Cook Meeker, the agent for the White River Indian Agency. And this is my beloved wife, Arvilla Delight Meeker.”
Shiloh accepted the woman’s proffered hand. “It’s so wonderful to finally make both your acquaintances. I’ve been looking forward to working with you.”
“Well, no more than I’ve been looking forward to working with you,” the dark blonde young woman said, pushing her way past the others standing about. “Though I dearly love trying to recruit and teach the Ute children, with all the other tasks Father’s assigned me, I must confess I’m in dire need of assistance.”
She thrust out her hand to Shiloh, her blue eyes sparkling. “I’m Josephine Meeker. Everyone, though, calls me Josie, so you should too. And you did know, didn’t you, that you’ll be helping with the meals at the boardinghouse, and with the weekly laundry, and maybe even with some doctoring if you’ve got the skills?”
“Josie, why don’t you show Miss Wainwright to her room and help her get settled in?” her father brusquely interjected just then. “Time enough later to drown her with an excess of information.”
His daughter laughed. “As you wish, Papa.” She looked to Shiloh. “Did you bring a trunk or something with all your things?”
Shiloh nodded. “Yes, a trunk and a carpetbag.” She turned to the freight driver. “Could you hand me my traveling bag? And see that someone brings my trunk to wherever my new lodgings will be?”
“Sure thing, ma’am.” Joe tipped the brim of his big, floppy hat at her. “It was a pleasure traveling with you, ma’am.”
“I enjoyed your company as well, Mr. Collum.”
“Well, now that that’s settled,” Josie said, grabbing hold of Shiloh’s arm, “let’s get you to your new room. Supper’s in an hour, so you’ll have just enough time to unpack a bit and freshen up. But only if we hurry.”
Shiloh had to quickly lengthen her stride to keep up with the long-legged Josie. So much for proper introductions and getting to meet everyone right off, she thought. But maybe it was for the best. She really was travel weary, and it’d be nice to settle in a bit before supper.
Then, if all went well, she might be able to make an early day of it. Right about now, a nice bed in a quiet room sounded the closest thing to heaven she’d find on this earth. The stopover last night in that tiny town hadn’t yielded the most comfortable of sleeping quarters. Not upstairs of the town’s only saloon, which didn’t close down until at least three or four in the morning. Indeed, even the prior nights of sleeping under the stars had provided better rest.
“You mustn’t take offense when Papa gets a little short,” Josie said just then, wrenching Shiloh’s thoughts back to the present. “He’s just under such duress at times, trying his mightiest to please the Utes and the Indian Bureau. And believe me, most times what the Utes want is in direct opposition to what the Indian Bureau wants.”
“And what would those opposite desires be?” Shiloh asked as they passed two buildings across from each other and then headed for the one in the southeasternmost corner of the little complex.
“The Utes want to live as they’ve always lived, free to hunt and roam as the seasons dictate. And the Indian Bureau wants them to give up their ancient ways, settle down on reservations, and become farmers.”
“That does sort of put your father smack in the middle, doesn’t it?”
Josie nodded. “Yes, it does. Unfortunately for the Utes, my papa pretty much agrees with the Indian Bureau. And when he sets his mind on a task . . .” She shook her head. “Suffice it to say, I feel sorry for the Utes.”
She paused at the door to a two-story building that appeared to be newly built. “Well, enough of the politics. Come on in and let me show you your room.”
That was a very interesting bit of information, Shiloh thought as she followed Josie into a small foyer with a set of stairs at the back that led to the second floor. A colorful hooked rug graced the hardwood paneled floor, and a tiny carved wooden table stood just to the left of the door, set with a crystal vase adorned with a handful of pine bough greenery. It was all very charming and rather unexpected in such a high mountain valley so far from civilization.
As she followed her hostess up the stairs, however, she couldn’t keep from harking back to Josie’s most recent words. They were very interesting indeed, but best not delved into too deeply just now. She had plenty of time to get the lay of the land, figure out where everyone stood on things. And tomorrow was definitely soon enough to begin.
The next morning after a hearty breakfast of oatmeal, biscuits, ham, and eggs, Shiloh helped Josie and her mother clear the table in the boardinghouse dining room, scrape plates in the kitchen, then wash and dry the dishes. It was Shiloh’s first opportunity to actually meet sixteen-year-old Flora Ellen Price, wife of Shadrach Price, an Agency employee who worked as a farmer, and little May and baby Johnnie, their two children. Though Flora had been in the group to welcome her yesterday, Josie had hurried Shiloh away before she could greet everyone. And then Flora hadn’t felt well that evening and so had missed the supper meal at the boardinghouse, where she and her family lived with most of the other employees.
Shiloh immediately liked the shy young woman and was heartened by the fact she’d have two potential friends in Flora and Josie. Hopefully, their companionship would help ease her transition into Agency life, which, at present, still felt rather foreign and awkward. So foreign and awkward tha
t she hadn’t slept well last night, even after unpacking all her things and attempting to make her bedroom as homey as she could.
But that was to be expected, she hastened to reassure herself. Her first job at the girls’ school in Denver had been a challenging transition from her two years spent at teacher’s training at Peru State Normal School in Nebraska. And, Shiloh sheepishly reminded herself, she’d nearly given up from severe homesickness and gone home while there.
She was a grown woman now, though, and would rather die a thousand deaths than slink back to Castle Mountain Ranch because of yet another bout of homesickness and the self-doubts that always seem to hover just below the surface of her self-sufficient, confident façade. Not to mention she’d never hear the end of it from Jordan. No, if it was the last thing she ever did, she’d finish out her year’s contract. By then, she would have made a place for herself here or begun looking for employment elsewhere. She wasn’t about to tuck tail and head home.
Josie entered the kitchen just then, returned from putting the clean dishes back in the cupboard in the dining room. “As soon as you’re finished with those forks and knives,” she said, glancing at the silverware Shiloh held, “we can head down to Chief Douglas’s village by the river. They’re getting ready for the first day of the Bear Dance.”
Though Shiloh had heard of the Utes’ traditional three- to four-day annual ceremony held in late March to celebrate the coming of spring, she had actually never seen one. All she really knew was that the Utes believed that the first spring thunder awakened the bear from his winter’s hibernation, and that the dance would not only placate their friend, the bear, but awaken him for his hunting. The Bear Dance was a time to make new friends and rekindle old friendships. A time to thank the Creator for their surviving another harsh winter and to celebrate the renewal of life with the coming of spring.
Excitement filled her. This was why she had come to the White River Agency. To immerse herself in the Ute life and culture, to gain a deeper understanding of their needs, hopes, and dreams. It was the only way she might have a real chance at effecting any change in them and their lives. The only way she might be able to help them avoid the same sad fate as all the other Indian tribes, relegated to bleak, barren Indian reservations far from their ancestral lands, dependent on the United States government for even the food they ate.
Shiloh quickly finished drying the last of the silverware, placed the pieces in the drawer beside the sink, and put away the dish towel. “Give me a moment to run upstairs and get my coat and mittens,” she said as she untied her bib apron and hung it on a peg near the wall cabinet. “I’ll meet you in the entry.”
“Don’t tarry,” Josie replied. “I want to get us a good spot where we can see everything.”
With a quick nod, Shiloh hurried from the kitchen and bounded up the stairs to her bedroom. Morning sun still streamed into her single, white-lace-trimmed curtained bedroom window, making the small space a bright, cheery place. A simple, iron-framed bed covered with one of her mother’s colorful handmade quilts graced the wall catty-corner to the window, and on the opposite wall, a plain little table with a chair served as her desk. Near the door was a chest of drawers with a mirror atop it. Her traveling trunk sat beneath the window, and though it provided a handy seat, the view of the storehouse across the street didn’t encourage a lot of time spent gazing outside.
She had yet to unpack all her books, or hang the few framed prints she had brought with her, or lay out the rag rug beside her bed, but her family photographs already sat on one corner of the table. Putting out the tintypes of her two older stepbrothers—Nicholas and Cord—as well as one of her now-deceased stepfather standing with her, Jordan, and their mother, and the very grainy one of her father, dressed in Union blue, taken just a few months before his death in a battle against the Confederates, was always one of the first things Shiloh did when she was away from home. The photographs were the closest thing to actually having her family with her, and their presence seemed to help lessen some of her homesickness.
She grabbed up the heavy, black woolen coat she’d left laying on top of her trunk and donned it. Briefly, Shiloh considered whether to bring along her knit hat, then decided against it. The day was cloudless, sunny, and no wind blew. She’d be warm enough in her coat, mittens, and wool skirt, in addition to a woolen vest over her pleated white blouse, woolen stockings, and boots.
Pausing before the chest of drawers, she did a quick check of her hair in the mirror. In a vain attempt to contain it, she had pulled back her dark auburn, irrepressibly curly tresses at the nape of her neck and tied them with a black ribbon. Still, as hard as Shiloh had tried to tame the flighty mess, some of the shorter, more wayward tendrils escaped to frame her face.
She inwardly sighed. With the wild mane she possessed, not to mention its color, she was sure to be the center of attention with all the Utes. But it couldn’t be helped. The good Lord had His reasons for everything, and sooner or later even the Utes, who were certainly not used to curly red hair, would get used to it.
For an instant longer, Shiloh’s gaze caught on the silver chain that lay over her buttoned blouse, the silver cross and tooled eagle glinting at her throat. Jordan’s claim that it was sacrilegious to wear the two together echoed in her mind. Was her sister correct in her scathing assessment? Was she pushing the boundaries of good taste and decorum wearing the two together?
After a moment of indecision, Shiloh decided not to hide the necklace beneath her blouse. She was proud of both. Indeed, perhaps they might be of some help in bridging some of the cultural separation between the whites and Indians. If nothing else, the Utes should appreciate her honoring their beliefs by wearing one of their revered symbols.
The walk down to the White River from the Agency took about ten minutes, Josie chattering on about the Bear Dance preparations the whole way. “See that tall fence of sticks and branches?” she asked, pointing to a large circular brush corral between the river and Chief Douglas’s tepees. “The opening to it always faces east, and inside is where the Utes do their Bear Dance. The men and women line up facing each other, and then each line takes two large steps forward and then three small steps back, everyone moving in unison. The men build the enclosure and make all the other preparations, including the feast afterward, to honor the women.”
Shiloh shot her a quick grin. “It’s nice to see that some men, anyway, like to cook. Our own people could stand to learn that custom.”
Josie laughed. “Well, don’t go getting your hopes up that Ute men are any different than white men. In the Ute culture, cooking the food is usually the woman’s job. All the men are expected to do is provide the food. And, aside from protecting his family when the need arises, that’s pretty much all Ute men do. Well, aside from racing their ponies.”
She paused, her smile fading. “My father had such high expectations of changing their ways when he first came to the Agency. He wanted to turn the Utes into progressive, self-sustaining farmers. So far, all my father’s been able to get them to do is dig one irrigation ditch, and to get them to do even that, he had to threaten to withhold their supplies. Now, he just shakes his head and says they’re lazy.”
Unease rippled through Shiloh, and she quickly ignored it. Nathan Meeker’s letter in response to her application for the teaching position had certainly not made mention of such difficulties. He had, instead, written a glowing account of all he’d accomplished since his arrival last July, and all he still intended to do to help the heretofore nomadic White River Utes adapt to a farming lifestyle. His letter had excited and inspired Shiloh, who had always wanted to play a part in helping the Indians of Colorado.
Whether the Utes realized it or not, their days of roaming their beloved mountains were numbered. Since the end of the War between the States, the influx of settlers seeking a fresh start was rapidly growing. And, with the discovery of gold deep in the southern Utes’ territory of the San Juan Mountains of Colorado in 1858, soon followed b
y the unearthing of additional gold and silver veins throughout the Rocky Mountains, the relentless onslaught of miners had only compounded the problem. The Ute way of life required they have a vast territory to roam in pursuit of game and other food, and the white interlopers couldn’t understand why such a small number of people needed such large amounts of land. Sooner or later, these two opposing ways of life were bound to clash. Unfortunately, past events had already proven that the Utes wouldn’t come out well.
“It takes time—and education—to change long-held beliefs,” Shiloh replied instead. “Surely we can find some common ground on which to build a mutually respectful relationship. The Utes are as much God’s children as we are, after all.”
“Yes,” Josie said with a nod, “they are. Father isn’t very good, though, at hiding his opinion of the Utes as exactly that. Children. And they resent him for that, among other things.”
Shiloh sighed. “The ones I’ve known have been far from childish. They’re kind, friendly, generous people. But they’re also proud and fiercely independent.”
“Oh, you won’t get any argument from me on those counts,” her companion said with a chuckle as they neared the brush corral and a crowd of Utes milling around outside. “I like them very much.”
There was an air of excitement mixed with much laughter and joviality in the colorfully dressed people slowly filing into the enclosure. The women wore moccasins and long, soft, white buckskin dresses covered with buckskin capes that were beaded with porcupine quills and elk teeth, the sleeves of the dresses fringed, as were the hems. Their long, thick, black hair was parted in the middle and either hung loose or in two braids. The men were garbed in heavily fringed buckskin shirts with the traditional V flap in front, and fringed leggings with moccasins on their feet. Some of them decorated their braids with animal fur coverings, and others wore their braids unadorned.
Heart of the Rockies Collection Page 32