Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Eagle Talon nodded. “When they rode their horses back, they were close together, holding hands. Brave Pony and I had crept through the grasses to some low-lying brush less than half an arrow flight from their wagon. When they dismounted, he looked in our direction. I think he sensed our eyes on them. Then they spoke and he put his arms round her and kissed her deeply.”

  He stared at his wife. She looked transfixed by the story, her tongue involuntarily wetting her lips. Eagle Talon continued, “a long, great kiss. It reminded me of us.” He cleared his throat. “And Spirit spoke to me. I heard it clearly.”

  Walks with Moon’s eyes widened. “What did Spirit tell you?”

  “Friend, strength, honor.” Eagle Talon paused. “I knew at that moment that the hairy-faced-one and I would bond, that we were somehow brothers and shared some future destiny. And I think, wife, that you will bond with his woman.”

  “Oh!” Walks with Moon raised one hand to her lips and stared at him.

  Eagle Talon stopped talking and looked at her closely. That’s an odd reaction, as if to something else other than my words.

  “There’s nothing to be frightened of,” he added hastily. “It was either the next sun or the sun thereafter that the Pawnee cut the track of the white wagons. They doubled back and began to shadow the white eyes through the shallow roll of the hills. They were undetected, though the wagon chief had scouts out in all direction from their wagons. One scout, as skilled as any of The People, knew we were there—a trapper, tall, dressed in buckskin, a raccoon cap, two rifles and two pistols, riding a clever, brown spotted horse that would make any warrior proud.”

  Eagle Talon traced lines in the dirt floor of the lodge with a stick as he spoke, as if sketching each thought. “I had sent up smoke to summon Pointed Lance, Three Knives and Turtle Shield. The sun following, they arrived. If the Pawnee attacked the wagons, we did not plan to interfere. On the third sunrise the wagons crossed that swift creek Tracks on Rock says has more otters than any other. When a wagon broke down in the water, the Pawnee ambushed and killed a white scout, striking without noise.”

  “Not the one with the raccoon cap?”

  Eagle Talon shook his head. “No, no. No Pawnee will kill that man. But something alerted the trapper that morning. He galloped toward the wagons from a great distance shooting a pistol in the air to warn the other hairy-faced ones and then the Pawnee attacked.”

  He looked up at his wife. She was riveted to his words.

  “Many Pawnee scalps hang from my lance. This you know. But I thought of the women and children in the wagons—and of the hairy-faced-one and his woman.” He shook his head and sighed. “It was decided that we would help the hairy-faced-ones. And now, I carry the weight of that decision to disobey the Council.”

  “The battle went well?”

  “Yes, Spirit rode with us. I counted five coups and Three Knives counted four. The hairy-faced-ones also killed many Pawnee. One man in particular, with golden hair like the rising sun, very, very tall, probably killed seven or eight that I saw, by himself.” Eagle Talon looked at her. “Five of them died by his saber, like an army sword.” He grinned. “I hope they all don’t fight like that.”

  “Why would you say something like that?”Walks with Moon interrupted in hurried, anxious voice. “Do you plan to fight them?”

  Eagle Talon looked at his wife, surprised. “No! We should all be able to live in peace. There is much land. It is ours. But if they respect it we can let them use it.” He paused. “And, if they abuse our generosity we will fight and we will win.”

  Walks with Moon relaxed. “After the battle, the Pawnee retreated. Brave Pony was severely wounded. We rode out of the smoke and dust of the fight and up to the wagons. Through the trapper, I spoke directly with the hairy-faced-one that Spirit had guided me to—Roo-bin. I saw his woman Ray-bec-ka kill at least one Pawnee with a rifle. She seemed wounded or stunned but brave and beautiful like you. In speaking with Roo-bin, I knew that everything Spirit told me was true. He knew it too. And I learned something very interesting.…” Eagle Talon paused, waiting for his words to sink in. He smiled when Walks with Moon took the bait.

  “What? What did you learn? Tell me!” she exclaimed, her voice rising.

  “You know the trapper, the man wearing the raccoon cap.”

  “I do? How could that be so? That’s impossible.”

  “Do you remember the stories you told me, of how when you were a little girl of just a few winters, a white man stayed and traveled with The People for a winter? How he became friends with Tracks on Rock and Flying Arrow? How you said they taught him how to hunt, trap, track and survive?”

  Walks with Moon’s eyes widened, her mouth dropped opened and one hand flew to her lips. “Oh! They called him Zeb-Riah. I used to tickle his wrist. He was very kind.” “Yes, it is the same man. He remembered you and Tracks on Rock and your mother, Tree Dove and her sway with your father and the Council.”

  Eagle Talon let out a deep guttural laugh. “He was just as surprised as you! But now the news is not so happy. We found water and saved Brave Pony’s life, which is why that beautiful shirt you made me is missing a sleeve. When we approached the camp as the sun set, the last of the women were just leaving their day’s work fleshing out the bodies of our buffalo brothers down in the basin. Three Cougars galloped up to us, very nervous, telling us they had set up the Council lodge and Flying Arrow wished to see us. We left Brave Pony at his tipi. Then, with a dark cloud hanging over us, we went to the Council gathering.

  “The Council was angry. Flying Arrow was disappointed that we disobeyed his orders and became embroiled in a fight not of our own, leaving The People without eyes in front of the trail.”

  Eagle Talon hung his head. “Now I and my friends that I talked into the misadventure are shamed for a moon. We can talk to no one, even each other and no one will talk with us. We can only hunt alone. We can do nothing for the tribe unless asked.” He looked up and held her eyes, “And I have shamed you too, wife.”

  “Yes, husband, you have.”

  Her tense but calm, non-accusing tone unsettled Eagle Talon.

  His surprise and hurt must have flashed across his face, because Walks with Moon’s lips quivered and tears welled in her eyes.

  “You misunderstand me, husband. I meant we are together in this. I am your wife. I carry your child. I am proud of you…” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “… and I think the Council has made an error.”

  “I am sorry,” he said softly and stood, silent.

  “Do you feel better having shared that with your wife?”

  “I do feel lighter. The weight is partially off my soul.

  Thank you for listening. I think I shall walk and watch the sunrise.”

  Without another word, Eagle Talon tied on his loin cloth, wrapped a buffalo robe around his shoulders, untied the tipi flap and stepped out into pre-dawn chill.

  Outside the tipi, he walked fifty paces, stopped and fixed his eyes on the yellow glow and waves of rose hue spreading from behind the green-gold waves of land, but the dawn did not afford him its usual comfort.

  Should I tell her the rest? Though Council members would not even look in their direction as they left the lodge, Flying Arrow had come to him out of the dark before he returned to her and told him he wanted to speak of the hairy-faced-ones, Roo-bin and his woman, Ray-bek-ca. He was very curious. He’d told no one else yet about the raccoon cap. He felt his jaw muscles tighten. And I shall inform Flying Arrow when he chooses to talk with me.

  The sun rose with the smile of a new day but its warmth did little to chase the chill from Eagle Talon’s heart.

  The camp was fully awake and the shadows had lost their length when he returned to the tipi.

  Inside, the lodge fire burned brightly. He let the robe drop from his shoulders, tied the flap and turned to his wife. He was surprised to see her still lying under the tatanka hide. Walks with Moon flashed a wide smile. Her eyelids lowered and lips pursed
seductively, she threw the robe back from herself, revealing the splendor of her lithe, trim body. She raised one hand, crooked her forefinger and wagged it, inviting him back to the buffalo robe.

  Eagle Talon lost himself in the comfort of her touch, her passion drawing the worry from his mind, her tenderness like a salve to his heart.

  Eagle Talon kissed her ears and pressed his lips to the rapid pulse of her neck. With Walks with Moon’s inner thighs wrapped tightly around his hips, he could still feel her spasms of culmination contracting, then relaxing around him.

  She half-sighed, half-murmured, “I missed you, husband. I was upset that you left before breakfast.”

  “Since I am in shame for the next moon we shall have plenty of time to make up for the nights we were not together but now I must rise again. Speaking with my friends is forbidden but perhaps if I walked by their lodges I can get a sense of what is going on. And we will need one more buffalo besides the one that Soaring Eagle kindly killed for us while I was away. Now I must hunt alone—” he sighed heavily, “which is much more difficult. When I do kill one of our brothers I will come and get you and then together we can gather the fat, skin, cut and prepare the meat.”

  He felt her lips smile against his shoulder at his words. Walks with Moon reluctantly relaxed the wrap of her arms around his neck and slid her legs slowly from around his middle. “I am also busy today. I must help the women finish collecting fat and we must begin the process of tanning hides. Most of our meat is already salted or the smoking started but I must wrap it.”

  Eagle Talon kissed her again and then gently disengaged his body from hers and rose. He stood and looked down at himself, breathed in deeply and smiled. “I love the smell of us.”

  “You remind me of the wapiti,” she teased, “snorting and tossing your antlers. So proud of yourself.” Then she reached down and touched herself, lifting her fingers to her nostrils. “But I will be thinking of you, too, my husband, when I am with the women, wrapping that meat.”

  Eagle Talon led one of his ponies between the tipis of the camp, trying hard to appear nonchalant as people glanced at him and then looked hurriedly away without a sound. He was zurprised to hear Flying Arrow call out as he passed the old chief ’s lodge.

  “Eagle Talon, come into my tipi.” Flying Arrow’s voice was brusque and curt. Eagle Talon grimaced. This would obviously not be a social visit.

  Eagle Talon grabbed his pony’s nose and squeezed gently, his command to stay. He lifted the partially open flap of the tipi and took one step forward, standing silent.

  The tall, frail thin frame of Flying Arrow, still with an aura of power but without the musculature of youth, sat cross-legged in front of a small, low-burning fire. His famous staff that had counted so many coup, his shield, antler breastplate, lance and bow, rested within close reach. He raised his head—his wide nose and weathered face, framed by long grey hair that fell from high cheekbones toward thin lips pressed grimly together.

  “I do not call you at this time to talk of the hairy-faced-ones. Nor that Spirit has perhaps spoken to you of them. Instead, I find myself in an awkward position. Ten of our warriors are out on the trail ahead of The People as our eyes and ears. Unlike you, I hope they will not be distracted. We find ourselves shorthanded for near guard scouts. We’ll be breaking camp as soon as the women finish their work sometime after mid-sun. I wish you to stay in the tree line of the creek.”

  He paused, his eyes narrow and his voice harsh, “You are to leave each morning before dark and return only after the sun sinks. No one else will know this. Today, you will ride behind us until you are hidden by the high ridge to the rear. When you are out of sight, go to the creek. You are to report only to me and only in the event of danger. You will follow my instructions exactly, no deviation for any reason. Do you understand me?”

  Eagle Talon’s tongue pressed thickly against the roof of his mouth, dry and mute. He tried to swallow but could only nod.

  “Say it,” said Flying Arrow sharply.

  “Yes, I have taken your words to heart.” I would not like to think of what will happen if I disobey these instructions.

  Flying Arrow nodded his head sharply just once, then waved his hand dismissively. “Why do you stand there? Go.”

  CHAPTER 11

  May 28, 1855

  RED & BLACK

  It was mid-sun as Eagle Talon rode slowly to the edge of the creek. The rush of water was only as wide as the length of his lance but flowed with late spring strength. The current glistened and sparkled in the glow of the day. There was a cautionary hiss to the whisper of the stream as it caressed the dirt and stone edges of the streambed on its forever journey to points unknown. Eagle Talon and the spirited red, brown and white mustang he rode wove warily back and forth between willows and cottonwoods along the bank. Kisses of warmth on Eagle Talon’s bare upper torso from rays of the sun alternated with quick, brief stints of chill as shafts of sunlight streamed through alleys in the trees, then transitioned to shadows on the sunless side of the cottonwoods. The slight breeze stirred the old growth grass of the previous winter and rippled the early summer leaves. The mustang’s head suddenly rose. His neck tensed, nostrils flared and his ears flicked forward. He peered intently upstream into the timber.

  Eagle Talon stopped the horse and listened carefully, his eyes searching every shadow—nothing. He thought he heard a sigh as if from the heavy exhale of an animal. Adrenaline coursed through his fingertips. Deftly, quietly, he slid the bow from where it hung diagonally across his shoulders and withdrew an arrow from the quiver on his back, notching it carefully and then resting the bow against his left leg. His left forefinger held the arrow in place where his left hand clenched the bow’s rawhide grip. His eyes probed carefully once more and then he gently dug his heels into the mustang.

  The pony had taken less than fifty steps when Eagle Talon again stopped the horse. He heard something else—an almost imperceptible sigh, out of place in the air currents among the cottonwoods. The mustang’s ears remain pricked, his eyes fastened on some point still upstream and slightly off the creek to their left. Eagle Talon raised the bow to the ready, its long alder body held with an almost rigid left arm diagonally across his chest. He slipped his fore and second fingers over the arrow notch just behind the fletching of duck feathers.

  The mustang took two more careful steps. Suddenly, Eagle Talon caught a movement from the left corner of his eyes. His pulse raced. The battle with the Pawnee was still fresh in his memory and he was high strung by the events of the last two suns. He brought the bow to full draw instinctively, without thought, sighting down the arrow shaft. At the end of the length of the arrow, over the shape of the triangular flint arrowhead, was the forequarters of a mule. Below the animal, two people huddled against a tree. One of them, a man, was seemingly shielding the body of the other. His dark face looked directly at Eagle Talon and the pony. One hand was stretched out in front of him, pointing at the warrior and his horse.

  CHAPTER 12

  May 28, 1855

  ERIK

  Far to the east from where Eagle Talon was deciding whether or not to release his arrow, across a body of water greater than Eagle Talon could imagine, Erik drummed his long, uncommonly delicate fingers against the rough planks of the kitchen table. He pushed back his thick, black spectacles until they were firmly over the bridge of his nose, close enough to his eyes that when he blinked his long eyelashes touched the glass. He looked down at the half-written letter. How do I properly phrase this?

  He leaded over the water basin, peering out the wide, multi-paned kitchen window framed by dark oak slab cabinets. The glass faced east toward the farm’s main fields and the church spires of the little village of Villmar, two miles down the dirt thoroughfare from the farm gate. The languid waters of the Lahn River drifted lazily past the great white barn. The fields were separated by fences and hedgerows, the cultivated land between those barriers green with late May growth. The grass and row crops near the
river where his brothers could get water to the land in the ditches his grandfather had dug were green and almost ankle-high. Two solid, heavily muscled Belgian draft horses were hitched to a plow between the house and the barn. From the corrals drifted the smell of manure and the bawling of sixty weaned calves. In a pen on the other side of the two-track farm road, their mothers bellowed equally anguished protests. They will find tomorrow far more upsetting. Tomorrow, they would be branded and castrated. Neighbors from up and down the dirt thoroughfare that led from Villmar past a number of farms like theirs would be on hand to help, as would Rabbi Bernhard Frank. He would bestow blessings on each procedure and calf, an all-important step to being able to market the meat or live animals, as kosher.

  Sighing, Erik’s eyes traveled the length of the kitchen countertops. Large bowls heaped high with potatoes that needed skinning and boiling, three huge jars of jam he had canned himself and ten loaves of rye bread purchased just hours before at Goldberg’s kosher bakery in the village. Since their mother’s death in 1852 and their father Ludwig’s failing health shortly thereafter, it had somehow fallen to him, the youngest, smallest and most frail of four brothers, to keep the house clean, do most town errands and prepare virtually every meal.

  Putting together a huge noon lunch for the twenty or more neighbors expected for the celebration of calves was one of his biggest annual challenges and an occasion he usually found himself looking forward to. It gave him the opportunity to play his violin and harp for others during lunch and later when the work with the cattle was complete, for those neighbors who would invariably linger until dark, delighted to have an excuse to gossip, complain and get slightly intoxicated, sipping another of Erik’s creations, apple-cherry wine. Sometimes too, a neighbor would bring along one of their pretty daughters, though Erik found himself too shy to ever muster a hello and his two oldest siblings, Helmon and Isaac, thought him too effeminate to interest the girls.