Wasatch Nation
Colleen Stormer
An Imprint of
Musa Publishing
Wasatch Nation, Copyright © Colleen Stormer, 2010
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This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
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Published by Aurora Regency/AMP, July 2010
Aurora Regency is an imprint of Musa Publishing
Smashwords edition
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ISBN:
Published in the United States of America
Editor: Celina Summers
Cover Design: Kelly Shorten
Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna
Warning
This e-book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for adults as defined by the laws of the country where you made your purchase. Store your e-books carefully where they cannot be accessed by younger readers.
To my mother, Colleen, who always thought I should write.
Chapter One
Late
summer 1843
Sangre de Cristo Mountains
Uinta Range
There are a few moments of time in the very beginning of the day where Nature herself seems to hold Her breath. The night birds have settled but even the earliest risers are still nuzzling deep in their nests. The dew has yet to fall and whatever breezes there are hug the ground, waiting for the sun to warm them. There is a sense that the greatest expectation lies ahead, no matter what concluded the night before with its old ragged arguments and tattered conversations.
No, a new day is unique in that it could be celebrated as never before, each time.
Dawn for Caroline Mathers meant another thing altogether. She was only twelve, but a great deal of responsibility weighed on her thin shoulders. Her father would have stocked the woodbin the night before and shaved a fatwood with which to start a quick fire in the morning. Another fatwood lay in the gut of the iron flathead stove and a wide iron skillet waited for saltpork and eggs. The noise would awaken her brothers, who would be growly until they ate. Her father rose by himself and Caroline knew better than to try to talk to him until well after noon dinner. Not that she would have time to stand around and gab with anyone; there was work left over from yesterday and tomorrow’s work to get a start on. The Mathers were racing to squeeze in a potato harvest, finish a side and the roof of the cabin and get four walls of a barn up before winter winds sliced down from the giant mountains to the west. They were alone out here on the front range of the Utah territory, alone until more settlers made their way west. Theirs had been an orderly trip planned with four other families in the spring of forty-three, but Halcomb Mathers couldn’t wait. No, he wanted to get the best land stake and start taming the soil in line with his own Manifest Destiny just as soon as he could get a travel party together.
The farming in Ohio had been easy and Halcomb made money hand over fist but he was bored to tears and his wife Frankina paid the price for it. He collected animals, which she was obliged to care for. He collected guns too, which Frankina was not allowed to touch. He collected all the land around him so that they had no neighbors. The more he planted, the more he harvested and the more land he bought.
This early summer morning found her mother still abed long after Caroline prepared and served the morning meal and packed mid-morning food for her brothers and father. They would probably finish tilling the potato crop and cut the rest of the hay before sundown. Her mother stayed close to the fire, seeking warmth that she could never get. Caroline made sure there was hot water simmering for tea and boiled eggs, then hefted her baby brother on her hip and started out to the barn to do for the animals. The child scrabbled around in the straw of the barn. Caroline was careful to keep him away from the pile of freshly mucked manure. She shucked and scraped and piled the muck up in a corner for to use when winter came to cover the tops of the herbs. She took a pleasure in the rhythm of the work, with an occasional snort from the mule and gentle stampings and swishing and chewing from the rest. Soon, she heard the approach of horses and quickly looked out the wide barn doors. No, it was still high light outside, not time for her father and the boys to be back.
Oh hell.
She felt a sudden thrill of fear, partly from using a forbidden word. She scooped up the baby and ran outside, stopping when she saw the riders. Four Indians on bareback ponies, painted faces and arms waving, rode straight at her. In her twelve-year-old mind, her first thought was of running away fast. But she felt the weight of the baby, thought of her mother inside and didn’t know what to do.
The Indian in the forefront flung himself off his horse and grabbed her roughly by the hair. She nearly lost her hold on the child and he started to wail as she clutched him to her chest. He dragged her towards the cabin, and out of the corner of her eye Caroline saw three more horses coming on at full gallop. The Indian saw them too but never lost his purposeful stride.
He kicked the door open. Her mother found enough strength to scream at the abominable sight. The Indian grabbed her up by the hair also and paid no mind to the teacup that clattered to the floor. Frankina flailed and screeched, digging her fingers into the skin of the brute. Halcomb was in a fierce hand-to-hand battle with two skinny Indians, the three of them yelling and cursing and grunting. Frankina’s oldest son screamed and leaped down off of his horse to join in the fight. The other two boys stared open-mouthed at the commotion, unable or unwilling to move. The baby in Caroline’s arms redoubled his efforts to be heard and was dreadfully successful, causing Halcomb to look away from his attacker for a split second.
One of the Indians saw his opportunity and slashed down with his knife. Holcomb Mather fell, his blood spurting from his neck in a great arc and seeping into his deeded land. His eldest son launched himself onto the killer, but these men were long used to reacting instantly. He too had a rugged blade plunged into his throat. With the resistance now over, the Indians left the dead man and his son lying in the cool sunlight and went to rummage inside the cabin, bringing out an assortment of personal items.
As swiftly as they came, the rogue Indians threw the woman and her terrified daughter before them on the horses, grabbed the reins of the younger children’s horse, the lead rope for the milk cow and all of them jolted off into the forests below King’s Peak.
Chapter Two
Something was working in the mind of Black Hand, the chief of the small Tumpanuwac band of Ute Indians. His eyebrows wiggled up and down and his mouth twitched when he was thinking, and he was thinking now.
Since their capture three months ago, any semblance of Caroline’s previous life had disappeared and was replaced with a routine she could not have imagined. She thought of mornings on the Ohio farm when all she wanted was just a little more sleep before touching her feet to the ice-cold floor. At the Utah homestead, she resented having to be the first one up and had started to think her mother should snap out of it and get back to being the mother.
Now, she would go back to those boring, repetitive mornings in an instant. Her mother could stay in bed all day and she would bring her not only breakfast but dinner and supper too.
A nice game hen perhaps, with wild rice and…
An older Indian woman yanked her roughly by the shoulder and turned her to face the chief, who stood across from her and the gathering crowd. Caroline was very apprehensive. Her older brothers had been taken away by another band or tribe or family, whatever they were, about a fortnight after they had arrived. All the younger children had been kept together in one skin tent until the day they heard the commotion of the arriving troupe and after that, there had been a lot of talking and hand-waving. She could still hear their cries for her and her mother as they were put up behind a couple of young men on ponies.
The men rode off at a trot. The boys had to hold on so they were unable to turn back to look, but Caroline could hear their wails until they were far out of sight.
The Indians gave the baby to a very young girl soon after that, and it looked to Caroline as though he was given as a present. Like a birthday present. She shuddered, hoping that the girl knew enough not to feed him that awful mush stuff they had given her and her mother. She hadn’t seen him, the girl, or the band of Indian men that had come that terrible morning and stolen her.
Yes, she considered herself stolen just like their cow, which fed the Indian group for several nights.
Stolen like her mother’s pearl necklace that was now around the neck of Black Hand.
The chief of this group was a short man with dull hair and so many wrinkles around his eyes, it was hard to tell if they were open or not. He had on the same deer or elk skin shirt and leggings every time Caroline saw him and the same tattered feathers adorned his beaded headband. Of course she had on her same clothes too but that was different. Since those men dumped her off of the back of the horse in the middle of a grassy clearing, she had not had so much as a basin of water to wet her face. These people didn’t believe in washing anything. Her hands were beyond filthy and though she didn’t refuse to squat and relieve herself in front of whoever was guarding her at the moment anymore, she would not wipe herself with her hand. She used the hem of her long skirt and washed it with what little drinking water she could save for that use. One of the old women who brought them their mush every day seemed to be very angry about that when she had caught her doing it the first time.
A group of women and girls had come boiling back to the tipi and pointed at her and yelled among themselves. Then, they went away and nothing ever came of it.
She didn’t care about them anyway. Her mother had a faraway look in her eyes and Caroline couldn’t tell if she really heard her when she spoke to her or not. Frankina followed instructions, but wouldn’t do anything on her own, not even eat. She was much thinner, and her skin was nearly translucent over her bones. As Caroline stood before the squat chief she wondered if her mother had eaten any of the morning’s food or if she would wait till Caroline returned.
The chief raised his arms toward the sky and the crowd began a low chanting and stamped their feet. Soon, Caroline was choking in a cloud of dust and couldn’t hear what the man was saying. Not that she would ever understand any of that language. it was so harsh! The guttural sounds were irreproducible in her throat when she had once tried to repeat what the old women said. The only reason she knew the chief’s name was that he had pointed to his chest one day and said what she thought was his name “Black Hand”.
For all she really knew, he had cursed her.
Now, Black Hand shook his fist, (which wasn’t black at all) in which he held the pearl strand and some sticks and feathers. He placed them in a square of bright blue cloth and handed the package to a younger man who appeared out of the dust. He kept coming toward Caroline and so she stepped backward, startled. There was no expression on his face as he lengthened his stride to catch up with her and took hold of her hand. He pried her fingers open and placed the blue cloth in her hand. He enveloped her hand with his and dragged her around the circle of Indians that had formed, walking twice around the outside. When the second circle-walk was complete, he raised their common arms and gave a great yell. The rest of the tribal members started yipping and yelling also, stamping their feet more furiously and raising more dust.
Caroline was bewildered and thought for a moment that she must surely now be killed. However, the young man, still with her hand in a tight grip led her over to a pony with a cloth bridle made from the same blue braided cotton fabric that was crumpled in her hand. In one swift motion he swung her up onto the back of the pony and then leaped up behind her. He turned the pony’s head and with a little kick to its ribs, set off at a jolting trot with his new prize.
At first, the ride on the back of that pony for all those miles terrified her. After a while, she grew so weary and sore that she couldn’t hold on anymore and tried to fall off. Anything was better than the bone-jarring motion that threatened to shake loose every tooth in her head. And although the Indian never looked back at her, he seemed to know when to reach back and grab on to her dress or hair or whatever was handy and keep her astride. After hours travelling up steep slopes in the full hot sun, they broke upon another village and finally stopped.
Caroline was exhausted and he allowed her to slide to the ground. She cared nothing about what might happen to her now; all she wanted to do was sleep. He shouted to a group of women. They quickly gathered her up and took her to a skin tent much like the one she had stayed in with her mother and brothers. She stifled a sob at that thought. Convulsed with her personal aches and pains, Caroline completely forgot about her mother.
She tried to sit up but the women pushed her back down and began undressing her. Finally, it was too much for her to bear. She screamed at them, flailing her arms and legs. The women only laughed and worked faster. Soon, they had her naked and bathed her with an oily, flowery-smelling substance. They poured it through her hair and rubbed it into her skin, then they pulled a soft white tunic with beaded designs and fur trim over her head and worked her arms through. Her hair was braided into two long tails, with more beading woven through. They finally pushed her down onto a pile of skins and left the tent, smirking and whispering to each other.
Caroline was starving but the tent was barren of anything but a basin half filled with that oily stuff. As she lay there, the enormity of her circumstances came over her and her mind swelled with hopelessness and despair. She lay flat on her back, sinking into the hides and allowed a tear to slip out of the corner of her eye. This encouraged her self-pity and soon she was sobbing uncontrollably. She wished she would die, but that would probably happen anyway.
Soon she heard shuffling outside the tipi and the flap was pulled aside to reveal the tall Indian that she had ridden with into this village. She saw behind him that the daylight had faded to dusk, but it was still hot and stuffy in the tent.
Hell, she thought again, taking a bit of satisfaction at the feeling that the word produced in her gut…what now?
The Indian had the same expression on his face as he did during the whole ceremony-thing, he never smiled or frowned or anything. He stood looking at her for a few moments and Caroline tried not to look back into his eyes. She didn’t want him to see her cry, though her previous tears had probably left tracks on her cheeks.
Ugh, that oily stuff stank.
The Indian stripped off his loose shirt in one motion and this sent a kick of alarm through Caroline. He began to work at his leggings and Caroline had a sudden, awful thought.
What is he doing? He shouldn’t be in here like this. What if we’re married?
Didn’t you need a church for that? And someone to speak to the guests, like a preacher? Moreover, it had to be planned. All she knew about weddings was what her mother had told her and the one she had been to a long time ago. She had paid more attention to the cake and punch—wait! They hadn’t had any cake, food or anything!
Caroline relaxed. She wasn’t married.
She had to get back to her mother.
She wondered if her father was all right and in her child’s mind still couldn’t grasp the totality of what she had seen at their homestead.
The Indian in her tipi had succeeded in loosening the leggings and off they came, revealing a copper-colored, nearly hairless body. He brushed a large black feather over his body in long strokes and singing some tuneless chant under his breath but Caroline didn’t hear any of that. She watched stunned, as he dipped the feather in the dish of oil and streaked it over his chest, his stomach and down both legs. She tried not to look at his private parts but she was so bewildered by what was happening right in front of her that her eyes zeroed in on the very thing that she was barely old enough to wonder about. Her breath came in gasps until her vision darkened. She felt as though she would faint.
The Indian came closer and bent down. He was so close that the necklace he wore dangled down and touched her. Something else was touching her down there.
Caroline squeezed her eyes shut. His hair draped over her face and he moved his cheek against hers, whispering “Sh’wauch” over and over.
She sucked all her breath in, holding it until his hands moved against the soft chamois dress, and then it all came out in one great scream.
Chapter Three
Summer 1851
Sh’wauch looked on the ceremony with swelling pride. Her son, Tu’wayuk would return today and be welcomed as a man. She thought back to the day he had been born and how everything had changed for her within this tribe.
She was the woman of Wusgatii la-oka, who sat silently on the opposite side of the ceremonial circle, and who was the heritage leader of Moache band of the Uintah Nation. It had been eight years since she was taken from her mother and siblings. She was raising a son and daughter of her own now, and wished that Frankina could see her grandchildren. Sh’wauch still thought of her white family members as living although she had not seen or heard anything about them since that awful day. However, those thoughts didn’t come often. The tribe was constantly on the move between the winter home grounds, and the effort that involved took up much of her attention.
It was hard to keep up with the wild stories that went around the ritual fires at large gatherings regarding the tensions between the tribes and the Union Army, the explorers, and white people in general, but real fear grew in the eyes of the women and defiance built on the faces of the young men with each telling.
Sh’wauch thought back to her old family and how hard they worked to tame the land. There was never talk of taking anything from anyone else, much less any of the native peoples.
The crowd around her became noisier and Sh’wauch’s daughter hopped up and down beside her, trying to see the boys who would soon be given a family name and a place in the hierarchy of the tribe.
As the boys aged, they faced a series of challenges that became more difficult and dangerous. Through the years, they were assigned more responsibility until finally, as the last test, they would be required to survive an entire winter above the tree line of Shan’do’ka with only a knife, a satchel of special herbs and an amulet of their choosing. They were to return not only whole and healthy, but with proof of their great bravery and courage.
Sh’wauch was certain her son would be one of the finest braves. He was of the line of Chiefs and as such would be expected to return with a greater understanding of the gods in addition to all the other challenges. She regretted that he could never formally rise to the head of the Moache for her blood was not of the Uinta, but he would be a leader of his people nonetheless.
Sh’wauch hoisted her squirming girl child up higher and stood on her tiptoes, trying for a better view. The crowd pushed up and back, the stamping of so many feet raising a dust cloud that turned a reddish color in the early evening glow of the great bonfire. She finally caught sight of the distinct painted markings on her son’s small face, his eyes locked forward. His unsmiling face betrayed none of the apprehension she knew he must be trying hard to quell.
* * * *
Shal wauk ha’saa slid down her mother’s body till her toes touched the ground then ducked under and around a tangle of legs to reach the front of the crowd. She watched as her brother recited a solemn string of oaths and received instructions from his elders and the shamans. She was excited and looked forward to her time in the firelight, too young to understand that she would never be expected to fill that role and as a female, would have no ceremony.
As the chanting and singing went on, she became bored and wove back through the mass of bodies, stopping to play with a village dog and her pups for a moment. She moved on, finding the skin flap of the shaman’s tipi loose and inviting. Unseen, she slipped inside and sat down amongst powders in colored clay pots, dark and shiny strings of beads, dried foliage and blossoms that hung from the support poles, various teeth and claws and sweet-smelling rubs. She sniffed each pot, each cluster of herbs. She found an empty jar, and stirred a sticky amber gel into some charred wood ash. It smelled so delicious, with an undertone of spice and smoke and she was just about to put a fingerful into her mouth when the skin flap was swept aside and the shaman strode in, standing taller than she had ever seen.
He glared down at her, his face streaked with paint. His eyes flicked from the mess on the ground in front of her to the glistening liquid about to drip onto her bare leg, but he said nothing. His gaze continued to bore steadily into hers and finally she could take it no longer. She ran out with a squeak, sending the pots and jars flying, and narrowly missed an encouraging swat from his staff.
* * * *
Aiishi Waahni nudged his cousin and motioned with his eyes, then drew a figure in the air with his fingers to indicate what Shal wauk ha’saa had already seen. They were on a slight rise above a shallow burbling section of a rather large stream. Here a few deep pools fed into a wide, rapidly flowing bed covered with washed pebbles. In the fall the stream was clogged with dying salmon and its banks were thick with predators gobbling up free meals. But now there was only a lone figure crouched over a clump of vegetation. He was rooting around in the sandy muck, placing handfuls of green into a small sack that he had slung over his back. The figure straightened up and the two spies saw that it was a small woman. She was Indian, but her heritage was not recognizable to either Aiishi Waahni or Shal wauk ha’saa. Her face had bright spots of color across her forehead and she wore an amulet that sparkled in the sunlight. Suddenly, she looked up at the little ridge directly at them. Instinctively they ducked but too late they heard a shout nearby. Aiishi Waahni went rolling back down the incline and then he was running back through the brush, but Shal wauk ha’saa’s hesitation cost her.
A hand slapped down on her shoulder before she could start her own flight and she was looking up into the sternest face she had ever seen.
“Ho ho!” She was surprised to hear a Shoshone dialect. “A little mouse, sneaking up on me!”
The man before her seemed so tall from Shal wauk ha’saa’s perspective. In reality, he was not much taller than she was. He had long yellow hair tied back and a bit of fuzzy hair on his face. A shallow flat-topped hat sat on his head at an angle and he wore a long green morning coat. He gave a yank on her arm and before she knew it, she was hauled upright before him.
“Come, little mouse! Where is your brother Fox?” The man made a great show of looking around from side to side. He followed Shal wauk ha’saa’s quick glance and saw a flash of motion as Aiishi Waahni continued his disappearance into the brush. She looked back up at the man, wondering how he knew not only where they were but who they were.
He released his hold on her and although part of her wanted to follow her cousin in his escape, she stood her ground.
“My cousin,” she emphasized by way of explanation.
The man replaced his stern look with a smile. “Cousin then. Why does the daughter of Wusgatii la-oka skulk around spying where she has no business?”
Shal wauk ha’saa was thoroughly confused as to how this man knew her father, but she maintained a noncommittal face.
“I do not skulk,” she said, lifting her chin a little higher. “But I must know who travels my land.”
At this bold statement the man threw his head back and laughed loudly, then clapped her on the back. The impact threw her forward and he had to catch her.
“Whoa little one! Your land, hmm?”
He laughed again, then turned as the woman who had been gathering greens approached. She was very short and Shal wauk ha’saa could not guess her age. Her expression said she could be fifteen summers or seventy. The woman’s eyes were bright buttons of obsidian and although she did not smile, there was laughter in the lines of her face.
“Nambia a’ chatoka ta’ co’uee, we are to have a guest today!”
The smaller woman eyed the girl up and down, nodded once.
“See that you are polite to Nambia and take care she does not poison your meal!”
At that statement Shal wauk ha’saa grew alarmed and her expression made the man laugh louder. He turned to leave and beckoned her with a single wave.
“Come on, girl! You will not want to spend the night alone in these hills!”
With a backwards look around for Aiishi Waahni, Shal wauk ha’saa swallowed hard and started after the pair.
Even if it was poisoned, the meal that Nambia had prepared would be well worth dying for. Tender strips of bison and elk, simmered all day in a spicy sauce were laid over pasta and wild leeks and onions on a table made of sturdy oak. She could not identify the spices; they were both fiery and sweet and left her mouth wanting more. A flat of golden brown panbread, pulled out of a black iron stove with, was drizzled with wild honey and left to cool just a bit to a crunchy crust. Young carrots cooked with the panbread had caramelized so that when Nambia scraped them off of the iron pan, the deep orange and amber colors swirled together. The sensory presentation of colors and smells was overwhelming. The man introduced himself as Henry Sharpes as he stirred whole raspberries into a jug of cool spring water, mint and little black specks of dried leaves. Shal wauk ha’saa had never tasted anything like any of this and was suitably impressed, although she tried not to show it.
The little cabin only looked small on the outside; the interior held a myriad of tools and instruments, shelves filled with bound books and papers, blankets made of soft shiny material hanging on the walls, small carved tables covered with statues, stone sculptures and candles. There were racks of clear glass bottles, some with liquid in them, pots of powders and jars of dried bugs, a large desk with two cakes of ink, a journal open to a half-written page, several small drawings framed in ornate silver frames leaning on each other and rolls of linen all scattered across. A pair of crossed axes with Indian sign on the stems stood guard over the plain door and a beaded breastplate with a mass of feathers was carefully placed underneath them.
Henry told stories of his education as a doctor at a big school in the “back East.” Shal wauk ha’saa had heard her mother talk of such a place also and listened to Henry’s descriptions keenly. Wide, cobbled streets where one did not ride horses but sat in wagons that were pulled by them. Shelters made of sawn wood, not animal skins and earth. Trees and shrubs that were placed in certain spots on purpose, to enjoy and use. Shal wauk ha’saa could not comprehend most of what he was saying, let alone the magical things that he described. He finally pushed himself back from the table, stretching his long arms up and over his head.
He stood and gathered up the used plates, while Nambia remained at the smooth-topped table, finishing her meal. This surprised the young girl more than anything and she stared openly as he carted the rest of the meat and sauce to a large tub.
Henry turned to her with a thoughtful smile.
“Your mother was from the East, you know,” he said.
Shal wauk ha’saa stopped chewing and looked up at him. “My mother?”
“Yes. I met her when she was just a young lady a little older than you. Your brother had just been born and she was very sick. I was traveling with some missionaries.”
Shal wauk ha’saa had heard of “missionaries” in stories. They were not easily scared, because they had a powerful god.
“Anyway,” Henry continued, “I had some new medicine I thought could help her. I had to talk with your father quite a long time to allow me to help her.”
Shal wauk ha’saa pushed her plate away.
“You made her well,” she stated simply.
Henry smiled wider.
“Yes. She was made well. And she was a lovely lady, too. She told me many stories of growing up in Ohio and her mother’s stories of New Hampshire. Ah, New Hampshire,” Henry sighed and looked over her head.
“Is that your home?” Shal wauk ha’saa asked with a child’s naïveté.
Henry chuckled and Nambia, who had finished her meal and was filling the copper tub with heated water, smiled.
“It is where I was born, but it is not my home.”
This confused the girl more.
“Why do you not return to your home?” she asked.
“Oh my dear, there is nothing to do in New Hampshire except go to balls and wait for it to stop snowing!”
Nambia made a comment over her shoulder in a dialect Shal wauk ha’saa did not understand.
“Yes, Nambia a’ chatoka, you are correct.” Henry turned to face his guest. “There are more reasons for me to stay here and help those who are ill through no fault of their own than to wait upon those highhanders who drink and eat and fornicate themselves into an early grave.”
He clapped his hands together. “But that is enough of that talk! You need to scurry back before your brother comes looking for you!”
Shal wauk ha’saa was reluctant to leave the warm, sweet-smelling cabin and got up slowly, looking around at the wonderful mementos of a well-lived life. Nambia spoke again, rapidly in that odd language. Henry nodded.
“Shal wauk ha’saa, come back whenever you please, but don’t sneak like a marten hunting a grouse! Come right up to the door!”
Shal wauk ha’saa nodded, still overwhelmed with her afternoon. She took a long, final smell and slipped out the door.
Chapter Four
1861
A hot wind made sudden dust devils around the corners of sandstone canyons sculpted out over centuries. One little cloud whirled in Shal wauk ha’saa’s face, threatening to blind her. The grit stung but she blinked and maintained her stare in the same spot so she wouldn’t lose sight of the tiny figure in the valley below. He had been making dust trails of his own for three days now, never hurrying. Since she first spotted his plodding horse from high atop a lichen-covered rockfall, she watched for any sign he would stop and make camp, but all he had ever done was rest for a few hours just after dusk to just before dawn and then went on his way.
He didn’t hunt or build a fire. He didn’t even seem to be concerned with bandits or raiding parties. She blew a stray hair tickling her eyelash and slid back down the rock face. She wasn’t sure why he had come into the valley. He wasn’t the only traveler she had seen in the past few months. After three days, he did not seem to be aware of the girl’s watchful eyes and like the others, would soon be at the west end of the valley and out of sight. She stepped backward onto a ledge and turned around to jump down to the ground.
Her brother, already a man, stood a few feet away, waiting.
“He is nearly across the valley. There are more of them this year,” she said to him.
Tu’wayuk snorted and turned back to the ponies tethered together and the bottom of the rise
She followed him down and stood by her bay mare while he grabbed a handful of his horse’s mane and swung easily astride. He looked down at her and smiled for the first time.
“Only my sister waits and watches from cracks in the rocks like the lizard. Did you think any man could ride so freely in our land without notice? Aiishi Waahni has followed him for four days.”
He spoke without rancor, but the words stung her a little.
“I have watched Aiishi Waahni too.” She only noticed evidence of her cousin yesterday, but didn’t tell her brother that. “Ask him if he felt the tickle of a whisker on his feet last night as he slept—the lazy dog. Tell him it was a cat.”
Aiishi was one of her favorite cousins and they were always in competition for tracking honors.
Tu’wayuk hooted, “Aiee! He will wonder if he did and will not sleep tonight!”
She gave a small laugh and swatted his pony. The animal wheeled and trotted off with its rider, sitting straight on the bare back. Shal wauk ha’saa watched the fading smudge of dust until she could no longer see her brother. She led her mare and picked her way around scrub pine. She did not leave a trace of her passing, nor did the pony’s s light steps break any stick, disturb any stone. She stopped occasionally, climbing the low ridge and watching the progress of the man to the mouth of a pass that would take him above the snowline and over the Weminuche Mountains, west to wilder places.
* * * *
Shal wauk ha’saa regarded the small meal baking in the coals of the fire she had built. A summer rabbit, putting on a winter coat but still lean, had started its panicked flight a second too late. Her slingshot loosed a rock that hit its mark, the rabbit flopping wildly before dying. She peeled the charred skin away from the meat and held a chunk in her teeth, sucking her breath in around it to cool. It was time to decide whether to join her family on their annual winter trek from the low hills to the plains or stay in the mountains. Last winter she and Aiishi Waahni had made separate camps, run trap lines between them and had been moderately successful. The skins and furs they brought back to the tribe were appreciated, although not fine enough for ceremonial dress. This year she wanted to go it alone, with Tu’wayuk’s approval.
Surely he would give it. He barely noticed her comings and goings anyway, with all the discord between tribes and the Spanish missionarios pushing farther north.
He was all the family she had now and held a position on the council. Their father had been a chief’s son, and so Tu’wayuk should have been Chief but for the mixed blood from their mother. His far-seeing visions and wisdom, even when he was very young, and the strength and cunning he had shown on his year quest marked him for a position of authority. In the last few years, his visions had become violent and foreboding and he said they told of a time of great trouble for all Nations.
That was before the Great War exploded and consumed the white men. There were no wagons now trying to find a way over the wide brown plains and the few encampments early settlers had put down were rotting in the sun.
Tu’wayuk would prefer all things white rotted away. The Pawnee, Cherokee, Apache, Blackfoot, Oswego, Shawnee, and Piute tribes had a heritage interest in the vast territories and each Nation had been invited to send one chief to the white man’s camp in Philadelphia to arrange an acceptable solution.
Their father, Wusgatii la-oka, told of dreams where he saw his people swept away as a tide of cattle roiled down the great rivers from the east. Men with long rifles followed, while Raven circled overhead, screaming, and rending his feathers with his claws.
He said the Indian way of following the elk and buffalo would end, because the white man’s voracious appetite for land would not be sated. Many times the elders asked him how he could speak for allowing soldiers and settlers in when he himself had raided farms, that his own family was a result of one such raid. Wusgatii la-oka could not dispute this. He said only say what his visions told him to say.
His recurring visions came to an awful reality in 1856, when a small band of Moache encamped with Chief Tintic in the Cedar Valley for the Sun Dance. Unfortunately, several Mormon settlers died in an Indian raid at nearby Cedar Fort and a posse of angry citizens had come looking for information.
Misunderstandings and assumptions escalated into a general melee and wild shooting. Afterwards Chief Tintic, his brother Battest, Wusgatii la-oka and Sh’wauch, four smaller children and two braves lay dead along with the two members of the posse. Tu’wayuk had been twelve years old and Shal wauk ha’saa was nine. They and a small group of other children escaped only because they were off catching frogs in the shallows of the Small Cedar River. They heard the guns, saw the smoke from the ensuing grass fires from a distance out, and raced back to a scene of total devastation.
Shal wauk ha’saa mourned her mother loudly until Tu’wayuk grabbed her up, shaking her to her senses. She remembered his grim face as he then led the group of stunned survivors back to familiar ground, his eyes hard and glittering. Their uncle, Sun Raven, took both children to live with his Kapo’ta band in the wild lands at the foot of the Continental Divide. Shal wauk ha’saa’s care was given over to the shaman to learn the craft of healing, but she often slipped out with the young boys on their exploits. She missed her mother terribly, missed her stories of traveling by wagon train, the other pioneers, of Shan’do’ka in the winter and in the summer.
She could not comfort her brother with stories. Although he had the same proud features of his father, the coal black hair, deep ochre color of his skin and the ability to see in his sleep, he did not share Wusgatii la-oka’s view of sharing the land with anyone.
Not after Cedar Valley.
In the months following the slaughter of his mother and father, Tu’wayuk erased all resemblance to the boy he had been. After some especially vivid dreams in which everything in the forest had been burned to ashes by a raging inferno save for a tall, straight Douglas pine, he insisted on changing his given name to Standing Tree. The shamans advised Sun Raven not to allow him to tamper with the fate that was intertwined with his heritage name, but Tu’wayuk insisted that his visions be respected. Many earnest prayers were spoken into the oily smoke of that fire. Sun Raven took note of the gravity that Standing Tree displayed when consulted on decisions regarding his sister and soon allowed him to have complete control over her, a restriction that would chafe at her during all of her time growing up.
He told her of a vision he had. Shal wauk ha’saa was across a wide river, water rushing over boulders. He could not hear what she was saying from where he stood on the far bank. There was a narrow footbridge spanning the water and she approached it, testing the knotted ropes. He screamed for her to stop, to stay away and not cross over. She made motions indicating the she could not hear him continuing to carefully cross the bridge.
Without warning, a support collapsed and the span tilted to one side. As she grabbed onto the railing with both hands, the other support gave way too and she fell into the boiling foam. He cried out for her when her head bobbed up, looking around for him.
She continued to plunge forward, reaching out to him and calling his name, “Tu’wayuk,” not his dream-name, on the far side.
The bank under his feet started to give way as he stretched out, reaching for her through the impossible spray. He saw her slip and recover, and go down on one knee. Still she came forward towards him.
She fell, battered against the rocks, bleeding and gasping. Her long hair was plastered across her face, but still her eyes sought his, her hands above the white waves. If only she would turn back, was his desperate thought.
Before he could scream her name again, she was gone.
A movement across the river caught his eye. A line of solemn white men and women, dressed in suits and frocks, stood where the bridge had been, watching the disaster. Their eyes burned into his, accusing. A raven walked the shoreline, pecking at bits of cloth. The raven cawed loudly once, and then flew off downstream.
She was stunned at her fate in his dream and swore she would never live under the white man’s rule. The look on his face told her he did not believe her.
Chapter Five
Shal wauk ha’saa held up her tin cup and shook the powdered contents around, sending a fine dust into the air. What remained in the cup was a deep rich red color. Only spindly legs and a few remnants of wings from what used to be carmine beetles stubbornly refused to be pulverized completely. Henry had told her that the husks of the beetles, when properly ground would make a lovely coloring ingredient and then set her to the task.
She had returned to Henry’s little cabin, knocking on the door as he had requested. Henry hadn’t been about, but Nambia admitted her and to Shal wauk ha’saa’s surprise had set her to washing out strips of white cotton. She spent that first night on a bed of the softest cotton quilting.
Henry returned late the next morning. Shal wauk ha’ saa watched Nambia stir a small pot bubbling on the stove, smelling wonderfully of raspberries and pine tar. She ran up to him as he shrugged out of his coat.
“What makes this so sticky?” she said, holding up a small clay pot with a tarry black salve inside. And this one burn my eyes with its breath?”
Henry raised his hands and laughed.
“Hold on now!” he exclaimed. “You can’t learn everything today!”
Henry promised to teach her, with her brother’s permission of course, everything he knew of healing and potioning if she would promise to come twice a week at the same time. She eagerly agreed, but wondered if her brother would allow it, given that there was a bit of history between Henry and him.
When Henry arrived smack in the middle of the wild Shoshone territory that would someday be the state of Utah, he set up a temporary camp as though he owned the place. Nambia turned up a week later and settled right in, unpacking remedies and implements and translating from Ute to French and English.
* * * *
One day, Standing Tree brought a formidable raiding party of mostly young men from the tribe in full regalia. Henry was respectful, but not intimidated. He was careful to allow Standing Tree to initiate the parlay and endured several long-winded speeches and declarations, mostly honoring Wusgatii la-oka’s heritage and telling long complex tales of conquests and visions. To the brave’s surprise, Henry Sharpes also had a thing or two to tell him about his father.
Eventually there had come to be an understanding between Henry and the Shoshone. He carefully avoided passing judgment in their territorial wars; instead he welcomed anyone who could benefit from his art. In return, he moved freely between the Indian world and the white world and had the respect of both. Standing Tree initially resisted granting permission for his sister to spend time at the cabin, saying that he feared his nightmares would come true under Henry’s influence. After a thorough scolding of his hardheadedness by Nambia, vehemently followed by the women of the Moache, he relented.
Shal wauk ha’saa was eager to learn everything Henry and Nambia knew. The grinding of the bugs was one of her first assignments and she initially thought it would be simple, but getting all the pieces of the dried insects into a fine grain proved elusive. She sighed and set the cup down, intending to rest her arm. She wasn’t looking where she put the cup and it teetered on the edge of the table, then fell off and the powder flew in all directions staining everything it touched. The clatter brought Henry’s head peeking around the corner of where he had been busy writing.
Shal wauk ha’saa looked back at him, aghast. The carmine beetles were exotic, a luxury brought from across the ocean. Shal wauk ha’saa hadn’t ever seen an ocean but Henry said a boat would have to float for a long time, months, before reaching another land.
Henry canted his head to the side and frowned.
“I’m sorry!” Shal wauk ha’saa exclaimed. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks and felt enormous shame at her clumsiness. She backed away, into another small table with glass bottles jostling against each other. Turning around quickly in response to the noise, the bottles were knocked some to the floor, spilling their liquidy contents. Shal wauk ha’saa gave out a short shriek and covered her face with her hands, standing stock-still.
Henry was quickly beside her, wrapping her up in his arms. He pressed her head and hands to his chest and rubbed her back briskly.
“Here now, little squirrel. It’s nothing, an accident is all! Shhh,” he soothed.
Shal wauk ha’saa was sobbing silently, squirming to get away from his forgiveness.
Henry held her out at arm’s length. Her head was bent down and her dark hair spilled over her face.
“Shal wauk ha’saa,” he said sternly. She rewarded him with an immediate cessation of the sobs, but kept her face hidden. He shook her a little, once.
“Do not allow your circumstances to tell you what you are. Now,” he said reaching under and bringing her chin up, “what is it you are supposed to be doing?”
She sucked in a short breath and said softly, “M-making red color. F-from, from those bugs.”
“All right then. You’ll need more of them. They are in the little sack there on the shelf. Clean that up first and after you have what you need, I’ll show you how to color linen so it won’t run.”
Shal wauk ha’saa saw him smile, knowing the guilt showed in her face.
“Mistakes happen, girl. Get over them and get on. Or you’ll spend half your life sleeping with regret.” Shal wauk ha’saa didn’t understand all he had said but nodded and pushed away from him. Her instinct was to hide her face again. Henry’s words churned in her mind and she resisted the impulse. In no time, she had the floor clean and once again held a cup of dried bugs in one hand and a stone pestle in the other. She began grinding with a small circular motion, this time blending the fibrous legs and wings in, too. Soon, the mixture was a fine dust of deep red and she presented it for Henry’s approval. He smiled and clapped once.
“See there, now,” he said. He shook out a fine long-sleeved linen shirt draped over the back of his chair. Its current color was a creamy white, with delicate speckles of brown throughout. It seemed too small for Henry’s broad shoulders. Shal wauk ha’saa assumed it was for Nambia. A line of fine beading around the sleeve openings and the bone ties were polished to perfect smoothness.
She watched as Henry measured a tiny scoop of the newly crushed insects and mixed them into a clear oily liquid from another flask. The resulting compound was a deep blood red. He poured the dye into a small copper tub that had a handful of smooth river stones and then added the shirt, stirring it with sturdy wooden spoon. He grinned at the tremendous clanking the stones made and at Shal wauk ha’saa covering her ears. The fabric absorbed the oily dye greedily and the rocks helped to spread the color, resulting in a breathtaking fusion of uneven shades. He then carefully threaded the body of the shirt onto a length of twine and looped both ends on opposite wall hooks to dry.
“Tomorrow, we will rinse it clean and the color will be set,” he announced. Shal wauk ha’saa looked on with a sense of satisfaction.
“Now,” Henry said turning to her, “let’s practice some compounds.”
Shal wauk ha’saa spent the rest of the afternoon with her mentor, reciting formulas for combining root pastes, herbs, elixirs, animal parts, flavorings, and colors into medicines and salves. Some of the ingredients she had never heard of and when that happened, Henry went to his bookshelf and took out a volume of illustrated elements. He read the captions in English and French to her, much as a father would read a bedtime story to his daughter. After the lessons, Nambia sent her off with a sweet and she would daydream all the way back to the village.
Her brother never asked her anything about what Henry taught her, but she felt his eyes watching her closely when she treated the young son of a visiting family for an ugly leg laceration. The child did not seem to mind her ministrations, which included cleaning and sewing the wound and then wrapping a width of linen around his leg, because she captivated his attention with a sun dazzler toy Henry had given her. The visiting family had praised her abilities to her brother, who only smiled indulgently.
Shal wauk ha’saa reported her accomplishment to Henry, who listened kindly to her descriptions, murmuring here and there, nodding occasionally. He pronounced her actions appropriate and predicted there would be no lasting scar on the boy.
“Asgaya smiles upon you,” Henry said, referring to the Red Spirit who bestowed the healing arts.
That had been some time ago, in the early part of the year. The Sun Dance was nearing and Shal wauk ha’saa was regretting she would miss almost a fortnight of study.
When Shal wauk ha’saa arrived, Henry was gently swishing the dyed shirt in a basin of pinkish water. He held up the dripping garment for her to see. Against the streaked oxblood colorations, the tiny imperfections in the flax made it shimmer until it seemed like it had a million dots of sunlight dancing across it.
“It is for you,” he said simply.
Shal wauk ha’saa was astounded. “How will I explain it to my brother?”
“I’ve already spoken to Standing Tree about it. He wants you to wear it at the First Meal.”
He drew a twisted strand of leather from his pocket that had a small bobcat claw tied in the middle.
“Wear this around your neck to guide the good spirits to you.”
Henry smiled at her surprised expression. Shal wauk ha’saa clasped it to her and looked up at Henry with shining eyes.
“Thank you,” she breathed, tying the ends around her neck. “Thank you!” Henry took a short bow. “You are very welcome, little squirrel.”
Chapter Six
A group of solemn men sat in a half-circle under a three-sided structure made of well-tanned elk skins. It was trimmed with the hair of mountain goats, bison beards, and horsetails, the fur of fox, beaver, and puma and the feathers of raven, crow, and eagle. The trimmings represented the familiars of the bands and tribes attending the Sun Dance and were repeated in the ceremonial dress of those who came to participate in the annual festival. None of these men looked festive, however and they did not partake in any of the prepared foods on the other side of the encampment. No celebrants approached this structure, no one lingered near to catch a whisper. To eavesdrop on a council meant immediate banishment.
“My people no longer have first kill on our lands,” a squat, stern-faced man said.
“The Union Army seeks to prevent me from following Brother Elk and Brother Bear. Brother Coyote is surely laughing at us.”
He drew deeply on a long reed pipe, whose overflowing bowl of embers sprang to life.
“My brother Bear Tongue speaks truly. I have seen the men of the Union Army across all of our trails. They stop up the streams like Beaver and take the fish. They kill the young deer when they cannot run with their mothers. They eat only flesh and leave the skin and bones for Raven. Baugh!”
Standing Tree was a part of this council and spat out this statement forcefully.
Kiash’skoo, a chief of a Northern Ute tribe took a long inhale on the pipe as it was passed to him. “There is poison in the white man’s decision to fight with each other. Their nation cannot last.”
The men sat in silence for a long while, reflecting on what they knew and what they had heard.
“Bear Tongue,” said Chief Buffalo Horn, “I speak for all bands of the Paiute. Your hunters are welcome in our lands. There are no soldiers in our hills.”
Bear Tongue nodded once. “My people shall wear a yellow band on our bridle, as a sign of the friendship between our two tribes. See that and know we will pass peacefully.”
The small fire before the group of men flickered and danced, painting their faces in a golden glow. Their expressions were sober, their tones subdued. The Northern Union Army had sent a steady stream of soldiers into previously unexplored territory, presumably to protect Northern interests, but in actuality to ensure the leader of a group of rebellious Mormons did not provide support to the confederacy in the inevitable war. They viewed any Indian with suspicion.
Standing Tree blew out a breath and made a dismissive wave. “If the blue army is in our land, they cannot fight with the gray army. They must choose where their war will be. We will help neither side.”
There were mumblings of agreement.
“But to ensure there is no temptation by the white man, whatever color he wears, to take what is not his, we must not fight among ourselves. We must strengthen our ties while he is struggles with his brother.” He accepted the smoldering pipe and took a few short draughts before passing it on.