Uncompahgre

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Brushing the dust from his sleeves and hat, the vaquero nodded, a smile blazing across his olive-tanned face. “Like his master, Señorita Sarah,” he said, his eyes burning into hers, “he does not usually take to people.” Sarah stared back, transfixed for a moment, then looked hastily away. I hope Zeb is not watching.

  “The sun will be down in about half an hour. That’s when the festivities will start,” he paused, studying her face, “I thought… I thought maybe we could go over and watch together.”

  Sarah searched the meadow, looking out toward the distant dots of the cattle for Zeb. I can’t very well go alone. “I’d like that, Philippe.”

  Philippe sprang from the saddle. “Diablo, you stay here and mind the wagon.” The stallion snorted, his head shaking up and down. “Are you ready to go, Señorita Sarah?” Grinning, Philippe held out his elbow for her to put her arm through.

  “Give me just five minutes, Philippe. Let me freshen up, put a little rouge on and change my skirt and jacket— oh, and brush my hair.”

  “¿Cinco minutos?” Philippe’s eyebrows raised.

  Sarah giggled. “Okay, cinco minutos…well, I promise not more than ten. This is Reuben’s wedding. I can’t very well attend looking like a dust ball.”

  Philippe smiled. “Señor Zeb,” he watched her face closely,“said it will be very brief, so we should not be late.”

  Sarah, halfway to the back of the wagon by now, turned, “Surely a minute or two will not matter.”

  Philippe simply grinned. “Better to not take a chance, Señorita…” adding as Sarah turned again, “It is Señorita Rebecca’s wedding, too.”

  Sarah fought against the tightening in her jaw. Whirling without saying a word, she took the few steps to the ladder.

  More than one hundred Ute clansmen were already gathered around one of two large bonfires in a large circle, their numbers swelling steadily. On one side of the fire, two small earthen pots, twenty feet apart, glowed, tendrils of fragrant smoke rising from them. Behind the smudge pots, a man and a woman, dressed in colorful ceremonial leathers, beat a slow rhythm on drums set ten feet apart. Leaving the drums, they danced to either side of the smudge pots, singing in low guttural tones, shaking tortoise shell rattles in each hand, their rattling in seductive cadence with one another.

  Sarah glanced nervously around for Zeb, then up at Philippe. I do like the feel of my arm in his. Philippe was intent on the drummers. Several in the gathering cast curious stares at them, their faces seeming to harden when their appraisal moved to Philippe’s sombrero.

  Her eye was caught by the activity at the second lower, but far wider, fire visible fifty yards from the crowd growing around the first. A number of women labored in its glow, several laying out food on two logs which had been split in half and set on stumps, the others slowly turning thick, sharpened sticks skewered through four hindquarters of elk, either side of the skewers resting in the crooked fork of branches that had been cut and stuck into the ground several feet from the edge of the fire ring, which glowed ever brighter in the growing darkness

  “That’ll be where the powwow ends,” said Philippe leaning close and following her gaze. “Generally the visiting tribes leave the day after a powwow for their main villages. It seems these Indios,” he swept his arm around the buzzing, ever-expanding circle of Indians, “they are staying to see the wedding.” He chuckled. “If the gringo army had not stolen it, I would bet my estancia that none of them have ever seen white eyes married. I have heard Utes have no formal wedding. Many of these Indios have never seen a wedding ceremony of any sort.”

  “Then how do they get married?”

  Philippe looked down her, his eyes smoldering with insinuated invitation, “They do what’s natural between a man and a woman, Señorita Sarah, and that marries them.”

  Standing in the shadows at the edge of the group of Utes on the opposite side of the fire, Zeb ran long fingers down his mustache watching Sarah and Philippe, a bile building in his chest, half anger, half hurt. Seems our talk didn’t mean much.

  From directly behind him boomed Johannes’ voice. “Quite a crowd. Haven’t they ever seen a wedding before?”

  Zeb tried to laugh. “No, Johannes, they probably haven’t.” Zeb couldn’t help grinning at the comically quizzical look on Johannes’ face. The Dane turned to Michael, immediately behind him, shouting above the rising din, “See this, Michael. One day you’ll meet a pretty girl and wind up in this type of commotion.”

  Michael looked up at Johannes, his eyes wide, a slight smile on his face, his hands nervously twisting together “I ain’t… I ain’t getting ma... ma… ma… married.”

  Johannes threw a lanky arm around the boy’s shoulders and shook him gently, “All smart men find a good woman and settle down sometime.” His face momentarily clouded, “It’s the dumb ones that don’t.”

  Focused on Sarah and Philippe again, Zeb said absently, “The puwarat ought to be jumpin’ out any time now.”

  “The what?”

  Zeb tore his eyes from Sarah. Glancing briefly at Johannes, he leaned forward slightly to see Michael who had voiced the question. “They call their shaman the puwarat, and their medicine man, the boca’gant. They have great puwa, son, great power.” Michael drew his head back, the quizzical expression on his face unchanged.

  Johannes’ tone was sarcastic, “Puwa? And where does this magical power come from?”

  Zeb frowned, “Careful, Johannes, some of these Utes know some English. You never want to joke about their medicine or their customs. They set great store in puwa. All the Indians believe in puwa one way or the other. It is the energy that binds all things, the energy stored in all things. And anyone, but especially the puwarat and boca’gant, can direct the energy for good or evil. All Indians believe it to some extent. Call it by different names, of course.” Zeb stared hard at Johannes. “And they’d be right, Johannes. God don’t reside just in some church.”

  Johannes opened his mouth to retort but the murmur of the crowd suddenly changed, its tone intensifying.

  The shaman burst into the ring of the firelight, his intricate ceremonial regalia beaded in a variety of dazzling colors that sparkled with different hues in the firelight, a bear’s head, mouth open, fangs showing, resting on his own, the sleek brown pelt shimmering in folds over his shoulders. He held two large leather gourds in his hands high above his head. As he shook them, lights flashed around the leather.

  Johannes stared, “My God, Zeb, how do they create those lights?”

  “Inside them rattles is quartz. Not many other tribes have figured it out, but when you put them rocks in the gourd and shake ‘em hard and quick, them rubbing together somehow creates white flashes of lights around the outside of the rattle. The Noochew believe it to be one of the symbols of power of the puwarat.”

  Impatient, Zeb turned back toward where Sarah and Philippe had been standing, but lost sight of them as the crowd gathered closer. Out in the circle of flickering orange-red light, the shaman shook his rattles, first at one smudge pot, and then the other, the white cracks of light around the leather mysteriously mingling with the sage smoke. The watchers grew silent, an air of expectancy settling over them.

  “What are those smoking pots?” Johannes whispered, leaning toward Zeb.

  Zeb turned toward Johannes, replying quickly, “Them would be smudge pots filled with sage and cedar. Smoke cleanses the air and drives away bad spirits. Reckon they’ll be bringing Rebecca and Reuben out shortly.” Zeb fell silent as either side of the circle began to part, braves and Indian women shuffling backward forming corridors with their bodies. But no sign of Sarah.

  Then, out from the shadows, came Ouray leading Reuben. Zeb had never seen the Indian leader so magnificently dressed, a breastplate of double-sided antler over ceremonial leathers decorated with quillwork and embroidered with hundreds of beads that sparkled in the firelight, his feathered headdress flowing down almost to the back of his knees. Following him was Reuben, wearing a cer
emonial reddish brown leather shirt, ornately fringed and cross-stitched with patterns of beads. Zeb made a mental note that he was not wearing his holster. Instead, he had tucked the Colt into a wide, cream-colored beaded belt tied on the side with strands of rawhide. His cowboy hat, pulled low over his forehead, accentuated the shadows cast by the flames.

  They reached the center of the space between the smudge pots, Reuben standing facing the fire, his back to the slow beat of the drums. Ouray stepped backward several steps, leaving the young Prussian out alone under the dissecting gaze of hundreds of pairs of eyes.

  Another murmur arose. Black Mare walked slowly through the opposite corridor of bodies, swaying gently to the drums and into the circle of firelight followed by Rebecca, then Chipeta. There were excited murmurs from the women in the crowd and guttural grunts of praise from many of the men. Rebecca’s long dark hair fell across her shoulders, accentuating the creamy white leather of her dress, which—Zeb couldn’t help but notice—snugged to the curve of her hips, the V-shape of its embroidered yoke falling from the neckline to just above her bosom, and its fringed hem swishing hypnotically side to side with her every step.

  Rebecca wore beaded moccasins, and above them colorful beaded ankle bracelets rose to the fringe hanging from her dress. The soft leather mounds of Rebecca’s breasts, accentuated by the crescent-shaped embroidery sweeping across her midsection, were enough to rouse any man. Watching, Zeb thought again of Sarah and fought down a few urges that seemed none too gentlemanly. In contrast, Rebecca’s expression seemed stunned. Under one arm, she carried a tightly rolled towel.

  Black Mare led her into the space between the smudge pots, then stopped, and smiled gently toward the Prussian, guiding Rebecca with a hand on the brunette’s arm to within a foot of Reuben, positioning their bodies back-to-back, sides to the fire, the couple centered in the rising smoke of the smoldering sage.

  Like her husband, Black Mare retreated backward several steps, standing next to the Ouray—in attendance but not on display. The shaman leapt from between the drums again, his rapidly moving rattles sparking white. He was chanting and moving rhythmically to the increasing tempo of the drums. Dancing between the couple and the fire, he turned suddenly, facing Rebecca and Reuben from the side, white lights bursting from the rattles as he shook them down the outsides of each of their bodies, from shoulders to ankles. He reversed the direction of the rattles, still chanting, repeating the process, but this time beginning at their feet. Handing off the rattles through the darkness to Ouray, he danced, swaying back and forth in front of Rebecca and Reuben, slowly drawing from the inside of his shirt a type of brush with long heavy, reed ends pouring from its bone handle. The beat of the drums quickened as did the movements of the puwarat, undulating first to one smudge pot brushing the smoke toward Reuben, then toward Rebecca, back-handed, then forehanded, three times each way. Then swaying, the bear skull on his head appearing almost alive, to the other smudge where he repeated the brushing procedure moving the smoke toward the couple. Moving catlike toward them, he reached out his hands to either of their far shoulders, slowly turning their bodies until they faced one another. He held the brush in the air, uttered a piercing cry and took two quick steps backward out of the direct light of the fire.

  The drums stopped. There were shouts and many of the women began to clap their hands again. Zeb scanned the crowd around the fire.

  “That’s all?” Johannes asked, his voice incredulous.

  Zeb turned back toward him, “That’s it. That’s the whole shebang.”

  The crowd grew suddenly silent. Looking back into the firelight, Zeb watched, engrossed, as Rebecca unwrapped the towel she had been carrying, letting it drop to her feet. She stretched her arms skyward, each hand holding a wine goblet. There was an excited gasp from the circle, some of the crowd stepping forward to see better. Twirling the goblets in her fingers above her head, the flames caught on the gold inlay, glittering and shining a yellow-orange as she turned back to Reuben, her face looking up at his, the crowd murmuring.

  Zeb’s gaze shifted from Rebecca and Reuben, once again searching the gathering. His body tensed as he found the outline of Philippe’s sombrero in the shadows, Sarah’s small figure standing next to him. A sick feeling lanced through him as he watched the vaquero lift her chin with his finger and bend his head down toward hers, his sombrero obscuring both their faces.

  Zeb didn’t need to see their lips meet. She’s gonna kiss him back. He pivoted on his heels, blood rising, anger replacing whatever thoughts he might have had. He gave a quick nod toward Johannes, not trusting himself to meet the Dane’s eyes. He broke from the circle, his gut twisted and his heart racing, his mind numb. Gotta find Buck. Leave a note. Can’t be around folks. Need to go home.

  Now, where the hell is he going? Not wanting to miss any part of the ceremony, Johannes looked quickly over his shoulder at Zeb’s tall, retreating form. When he looked back, he realized how engrossed he’d been— he hadn’t even noticed Michael had stepped forward and was standing next to him. The teenager’s lips formed a circle, his eyes wide, and his eyebrows had disappeared under his hat brim as he stared fixated at the activity by the fire, the spellbound crowd and Rebecca.

  Reuben’s eyes were filled with loving admiration, a hint of a smile playing on his face as he looked down at her. He is so handsome. The circle had grown completely silent, the Utes looking at one another impressed by the wine glasses and wondering what strange custom the white eyes were engaged in. Rebecca turned her head toward Black Mare who smiled, reaching behind her and picking up a bladder bag, then stepping forward, filling both wine glasses with tobacco sage tea. Rebecca handed one filled glass to Reuben, who took it from her hand with an amazed look on his face. “Where in the world…? I’ll be go to hell.”

  Rebecca giggled, her face radiant. “No, Mr. Frank, you are not going to hell; you are going to be married and if we are to be wed Ute style, we should at least throw in a few Jewish traditions.” Her tone grew soft. Looking into his eyes she said, “Had I had more warning, I would have insisted on you doing the Tish.” The pleased twinkle in the young Prussian’s eyes made her smile.

  “Where did you…?”

  A coy, mischievous smile played on Rebecca’s lips. “I smuggled them from the trunks you so brutally forced me to leave behind in St. Louis.” What were Inga’s words? “A girl has to do what a girl has to do.”

  Reuben grinned down at her. “Are these for what I think they’re for?”

  “That’s right, Reuben” she said quietly, “Our marriage is also the marriage of two traditions, the first, of these wonderful people who have blessed us with their hospitality and customs.” She swept her arm at the circle of Indians who murmured, transfixed by the white eye’s ritual but understanding the gratitude in Rebecca’s tone. “And now we are about to share with them the ancient Jewish custom of the breaking of the glasses.”

  They raised their stemware toward one another, extending and interlocking their arms, each drinking over the elbow of the other, their eyes fixed on one another. Unlocking their arms, Rebecca took the glass from Reuben and kneeling, placed both glasses side-by-side on the towel, which she had spread on the ground. The sunlit warmth still rising from the earth wafted evocatively up her leather dress, caressing her bare skin. Wrapping the ends of the cloth over the goblets, she stood, holding out her hand to Reuben. Looking at one another, they raised their right feet in unison and with a smashing motion, brought their heels down on the towel, shattering the covered wine glasses. The crowd gasped, many of them whispering to one another and pointing.

  Taking her other hand in his, Reuben faced her, “I love you Rebecca Marx. Would you accept the honor of marrying me this night?”

  Reuben’s face was blurry and she felt the cool trail of tears streaking her cheeks. She blinked. For the first time, I know. The noise of the crowd faded and the circle of Utes became but a blur, her entire being focused on the man in front of her. The man whose baby gr
ows inside me; the man whose touch brings feelings I never knew existed; the man who has risked his life to protect mine. She could feel the tremble in her lips as she smiled up at him. “I do accept, Reuben Frank, and I, Rebecca Marx…” her voice broke and she took a deep breath, “… am not only proud to be marrying you this night…” she paused, biting on her lip to still the quiver, trying to will away her tears, “but I do love you, Reuben—very much. I am in love with you.”

  A wide astonished grin spread across Reuben’s face, a soft tenderness in his eyes. He cleared his throat, “I think, Mistress Marx, we are now married.”

  Rebecca blinked several times, trying to focus his misty image. “And I think Mr. Frank, this is where you kiss me.” Reuben leaned forward, his lips meeting hers. She molded her body to him, their flesh seeking one another through the leather that separated them.

  There were shouts and claps and the drums began to beat again as their lips parted.

  Ouray and Black Mare moved toward them, standing close, Chipeta slightly behind, all three bobbing their heads and smiling, Black Mare’s and Chipeta’s eyes dropping to the towel that covered the shattered goblets.

  Though her voice was low and throaty, Johannes had caught most of Rebecca’s words as she gazed teary eyed up into Reuben’s face. “…I love you Reuben…I am in love with you.” Congratulations my friend; live long and happy with your bride.

  Johannes’ delight in the moment and the unusual scene was briefly darkened by a nagging sense of loss, and a tinge of jealousy. Could’ve been a double wedding, maybe. Inga, I do miss you so—I hope you heard my whisper in your ear there at the end.

  The shadowy image of the sketch of the missing young girl in the poster flashed across his mind, combining with the memory of Inga’s pleading, frightened eyes looking up into his from the crook of his arm at Two Otters Creek. Tragedy and life—inseparable. He cleared his throat, glancing quickly left and right to see if anyone had been watching or sensing his thoughts, then forced his attention back to the fire. Reuben and Rebecca were locked in a passionate kiss, their bodies molded together, the crowd around him whispering, smiling and nodding approval. I’ll congratulate them in private tomorrow. Their minds will be elsewhere tonight.