"I love you, Fancy," he murmured as he moved his body over hers, the long strength of him pushing back her doubts. She knew he used lovemaking as the means of avoiding conversation, never speaking of the imbalance of their life, never looking the imperfect in the eye.
"We only learn from successes, never from failures," he'd told her once. "Failure queers the magic."
Chance raked in the chips across the green-felt expanse and smiled; his expression wasn't smug or self-satisfied, merely contented.
"You son of a bitch," Jake Guthrie said, only half joking. "You got more luck than a short-tailed cat in a roomful of rockers. If I didn't think you could outshoot me, I'd be tempted to ask where the hell those kings came from.'"
Haw Tabor pushed back his own chair with a chuckle—and signaled the waitress for a round of drinks. "Now, Jake, you just been outclassed is all. Chance here happens to have been blessed with one of the great poker faces of our time, and uncommon good luck to go with it." Haw tended to be expansive whether he won or lost, and extremely generous to the barmaids and dealers wherever he played. "If you can't stand the heat, Jake, you know you ain't supposed to play in the kitchen."
Guthrie smiled, begrudgingly peeled off several hundred-dollar bills from a fat roll, and handed them to the girl, who scurried for chips.
"Serves me right for believing that worried look you were sporting there a while back, McAllister. I can see how you beguile the ladies and the voters with your acting ability."
Chance chuckled, taking the ribbing good-naturedly; it was the price you had to pay for having more on your plate than most men. A little envy was a good thing; too much was dangerous.
"I'm going to need more than acting ability if Fancy finds out every time I come to Leadville, I stay out all night." He glanced at his watch and thought about where to go next, home or out for a little more fun. They'd kept the Leadville house because business still brought him there frequently.
Chance had discovered certain things about himself since he'd grown rich... there were huge appetites that seemed to go hand in hand with power. And now that there was money to indulge those appetites, sometimes the enormity of his desires unnerved him. He wanted to be a good husband to Fancy, wanted to protect their marriage from harm, but available women were another spoil, unerringly drawn to the winner's circle, and they were damned difficult to turn away beneath the gaze of other men and against the power of his own hot blood.
Fancy was always up to her nose in obligations these days, children, society. Not that that was really the reason he sometimes strayed... he did it because he wanted to. It made no sense that women placed such importance on sexual fidelity anyway; it had little to do with what a man felt in his heart.
Life was damned demanding these days. It took guts and stamina to stay on top of the heap, no woman could really understand the pressures men faced in the world of their tough, strong peers. Occasional diversions kept those pressures bearable.
Chance glanced at his watch and decided to go home. He'd promised Caz a visit to the mine in the early morning and he could use the sleep.
It was damned annoying that Caz kept calling him back to Leadville, on one excuse or another, Chance thought as he rode up to the Fancy Penny. There was no way he could be everywhere at once and it was good of Jason Madigan to be willing to look in on the mining operations whenever he was in Leadville. The man was an excellent engineer and a superb businessman; his ideas tended toward efficiency and cost-cutting, of course, and that never set well with a mine manager. But it was a distinct pain in the ass that Caz couldn't get along with him.
"You need to spend more time here, mate," Caz, said as he passed the heavy ledger over to Chance, who had barely bothered to skim the other two journals he'd shown him.
Chance frowned. It seemed every time he came up here lately, Caz was carping about the same thing. "Look, Caz, there are only so many hours in a week. I'm on seventeen committees and I'm helping build a state out of ten thousand diverse needs... I can't be in Leadville any more than I am. That's why you're in charge here."
Caz pushed his bush hat down on his forehead, a gesture Chance knew well from the old days meant he was trying to keep from boiling over.
"Listen up, mate. I'm not spoilin' for a punch-up, but it's a ratbag idea to think you can run a business this big like an absentee landlord. And as to me running the damned thing—I'd be glad to, if your half-arse associate Jason Madigan would keep his mitts outta my pie. I damn near told the bloke to ram it yesterday, which I suppose is why you've graced us with your presence today. Madigan's a know-all, Chance. I'm not saying he's not smart about mining, I'm saying he's not the friend you think he is and I don't want you to come up the raw prawn in this."
Chance slammed the ledger closed and rose from his chair. Why the hell everyone tried to bog him down in the details of life, when he was made for broader concepts, was beyond him.
"I owe Madigan, Caz, and he's been helpful to me in a dozen ways since the mine disaster. You know as well as I do, he lent us the money to repair the mine when no one in town would give us the time of day, and you also know he's given me sound investment advice and he's never asked for one goddamned thing in return. He has every right in the world to keep an eye on things here for me when I'm away. Without him, we would have been out of business."
Caz stood, too, his solid bulk taut with anger. "He'll do you dirty, mate, and you're too bullheaded to watch your back. I got no proof, only instinct, but I do know the man's a fool who shelters his own assassin."
The muscles in Chance's jaw stood out like mine cable.
"You're way over the line, Caz... I'll let it go for now because of times past, but you're goddamned well over the line."
Chance slammed the door of the manager's shack behind him and Caz stared at the closed door for a long time, remembering the time when they had been friends.
Fancy's ornate carriage looked ludicrous parked outside the small house where Magda, Wes, and Gitalis lived. Fancy could see the disdainful look on the coachman's face and was tempted to reprimand him, but as Magda stood in the doorway awaiting her, it seemed best not to draw attention to the man's contempt.
Magda opened her arms to Fancy, such an old familiar gesture, and the younger woman ran to her embrace, a child again. What a relief there always was in Magda's strength and wisdom; what blessed escape from the endless responsibilities of being Chance's wife.
"You are here for advice," Magda said as she set about making tea in the well-remembered samovar. "You are disturbed and wish for guidance."
"You've read the cards?"
Magda laughed, and in doing so seemed young again. "I've read your face. Something troubles you."
The two women sat near the kitchen window and Fancy tried to maintain her composure.
"It's Chance."
"More women?"
"Not that I know of... but if that ever happens and I find out, I'll leave him."
"His infidelity would be that important to you?"
"It would be that important."
"Each relationship has its own laws which cannot be transgressed," Magda told her gently. "Perhaps this is yours."
"Other women aren't what's troubling me at the moment, Magda. It's money... business. I don't know any way to put this gently... Chance is a horse's ass where money is concerned. He squanders it like water... stationery engraved in real gold, banquets and balls where the guests are given silver goblets as party favors... investments in mining properties a tenderfoot would laugh at. And gambling..."
"But I thought he was a brilliant gambler, Fancy. Does he not win at those games of chance?"
"He wins all the time—but it doesn't matter, Magda. It's like a sickness of some kind. If he wins a hundred, he bets two, if he wins ten thousand, he bets twenty. I have no way of knowing the true extent of his debts, but I suspect they're monumental. I've tried every way I know to reason with him, but I can see it's a kind of addiction."
Magda
poured the steaming tea without speaking and let Fancy continue. Magda thought it best to let her empty herself of woes before replying.
"There's more that worries me," Fancy hurried on. "I feel disloyal even saying this out loud because I love him so. But I always feel uneasy about Chance and business... he never does his homework, just gets by on his charm and that incredible memory he has for details that makes it sound to people as if he knows everything. To tell you the truth, I believe he thinks men like Jason and Haw Tabor and John Henderson and the like are just not as smart as he is, because they're forever doing research and learning all there is to learn about a new venture before they leap. And there's no way on earth to convince Chance he's doing anything imperfectly, because he's so damned successful at everything he touches." She paused for breath. "Oh, Magda, I swear to heaven, I wouldn't put it past him to lose everything we own in a crap game some night, or by investing in iceboxes for Eskimos..." She let the thought trail off as if the subject was so overwhelming, there was no way to tell it all.
"And I take it you have not been silent on these subjects," Magda said with a slight smile. "What was the result of your advice to your husband?"
Fancy made a wry face. "We've had fights that would make Balaclava look like a fancy dress ball."
"Men seldom take kindly to their wives' advice on business," Magda replied with amusement, "most particularly if their wives are right."
"A lot of good it'll do me to be right, if I lose Chance and all our money to boot."
"Let us speak of this famous Chance of yours, child, and see if we can put your dilemma in some semblance of order. Do you love him still?"
Fancy looked genuinely startled by the question. "Yes. I still love him very much."
"As you did when you carried Aurora and you fantasized this phantom Chance, whose dreams could change the world?"
Fancy hesitated; she had never lied to Magda. "It's very different since we're married... he certainly isn't what I expected, if that's what you mean. But he is exciting and adventurous... and wonderfully irreverent, just as I imagined... and he does make me feel that together we could rule the world. And I love his luck, Magda—you know I never, ever felt lucky before him."
"Aha!" said Magda. "So you trust the man's luck, but you do not trust the man."
Fancy was astonished once again at Magda's uncanny knack of seeing right into her soul.
"And you hate him when he frightens you, by risking what means little to him and everything to you?"
Miserably, Fancy nodded again.
"All obstacles that are placed in our paths, child, and all great loves and hates are teachers. Nothing is haphazard in the universe, so you must begin by knowing none of what goes on between you and Chance is an accident. Instead, it is a signpost that you may read, if you use your intuition. You come to Magda for advice, and this much I will tell to you: look within your own heart for the answers you are seeking, Fancy. Look to see what you need from this man, why you chose him above all others, and what his flaws tell you of your own. Ask yourself what Chance gives you that is powerful enough to make you stay... and what do you give him in recompense?"
"We're incredible in bed together, Magda. The sexual desire that drew me to him all those years ago is every bit as intense now... maybe more so. It's the same for him, I think. We fight like gladiators and then some bizarre electric current makes us want each other more than ever, and we end up making love until we're too exhausted to fight any longer." Fancy stopped a moment. "But it doesn't change anything."
Magda pursed her lips in thought.
"Perhaps it teaches, Fancy, rather than changes. Perhaps the bonds between you were forged in another lifetime, and you simply have unfinished business with each other that is very powerful and consuming."
She let Fancy ponder that a moment before continuing.
"What of the other brother? Where does he stand in all this?"
"Why the hell would you ask that?" Fancy replied testily. "He's off somewhere painting Indians, last I heard. And besides, what has Hart to do with Chance and me?"
"You three—not merely two—have returned to be together in this lifetime, Fancy, this much I am permitted to tell you. You are bound by bonds so powerful their full extent is hidden even from me. Mark well my words... you three have chosen to fulfill your commitments to each other in this lifetime, child, and no power on earth, least of all your own willfulness, will keep you from your destiny."
Chapter 86
The deer hunt took the braves miles from their encampment. Hunting was dangerous now, so many soldiers roamed the land that had been the Apache hunting grounds time out of mind. The scout pointed the men toward a valley more fertile than its surroundings, and divided the hunters into two large groups; Gokhlaya headed one, and Naiche, the hereditary chief of the Chiracahua, the other.
The riders fanned out into parallel ranks, so that each man was fifty yards from his neighbor, as the long lines of riders advanced toward the grazing deer. The moment the animals were in clear sight, the forward line raced ahead of the other so that a circle was formed around the unsuspecting herd. The second line shaped itself into an outer circle with such speed and agility Hart thought the entire undertaking looked as if it had been created by a great dancing master.
The Indians, silent up to the moment of closing the second circle, began to shriek and hoot and scream to terrify the trapped animals into running in all directions. Heavy-tipped hunting arrows showered into the milling herd, bringing down one deer after the next, until dozens lay dead or dying within the tightening concentric circles of braves. The entire enterprise had taken no more than twenty minutes, Hart suspected, but the meat and skins, bones and hooves, would supply the tribe for weeks or months to come. No scrap was ever wasted, even the tiniest bones were used as needles, the intestines cleaned to make a casing for pemmican that could be saved for the lean days of winter.
Gokhlaya dispatched men to fetch the women, for cleaning and dragging the kill back to camp would be their responsibility. The warriors, in high spirits, sang and talked on the return to the ranchería, for meat, which had been scarce for months, would now be plentiful. There would be skins for garments, tent coverings, and decorations. Boasts would be made around the campfire in nights to come of the valor of the mighty hunters.
Hart knew by now the curious protocols that would be observed: a fortunate hunter might be forced by custom to give his kill to a less fortunate one, simply because the man asked for it— and many fine hides would go, not to the man who had killed the deer, but to a quick-witted companion who begged it as a boon.
"Next time we will wear the deer mask," Gokhlaya called out, reining in next to Hart. "With these masks we can stalk them from within their midst and choose only the ones we wish to be our prey. It is best to kill the weak and leave the strong, for the good of the herd."
"I learn valuable lessons from you," Hart said.
"You teach me as well," Gokhlaya responded.
"One day perhaps you will teach me what life was like on the reservation, and why you left San Carlos before you found me. Had you never left there, you and I would not have met."
Gokhlaya frowned. "You must hope you do not learn firsthand of the reservation of the soldiers. As to our encounter... those who are destined to meet do so, no matter what the whims of the white soldiers may be."
Hart nodded. He'd heard stories back in Colorado, of General George Crook's relentless war against the Apaches. Everyone knew of the maverick general who dressed in buckskins and lived more like an Indian scout than a career military man, and of how he'd broken the back of the Apache nation in '72 and '73. What Hart hadn't learned back home was the truth of how the Indian agency men who took over after Crook's departure had made life so full of hardship for the Apaches that, one by one, the bands were forced to flee the reservations. Defrauded of their farms, their cattle, and even their government food rations by a ruthless ring of speculators, and harassed by a bungling an
d uncaring military, the tribe had escaped the San Carlos reservation and returned to the Southern Stronghold. Hart knew the Chiracahua had, in fact, been on their way to Mexico when they'd taken him in.
Gokhlaya slowed his horse to a walk, so they could talk more easily. "When the white man's wagons first came to our land, Firehair, we did not harm them for we do not own the land. No one can own the land, or the sky. All was given by Usen to be cultivated and to be shared. The People thought the white-eyes understood this truth. But they did not come to share the land with us, and soon we were pushed away from our hunting grounds and from our strongholds. Only then it was that we began to try to stop the wagons. But the soldiers came in numbers greater than the stars in the heavens and it was too late."
Hart nodded, the echo of his father's words in his head: The Indians will be destroyed, son, and with them will go the last true Keepers of the Land.
"Each year more was taken from us. The White Father in Washington made promises, but they were as dust in the wind. So now we fight for our manliness... a man who cannot hunt to feed his family is not a man. A man who cannot protect his family is not a man. We left the reservation that we could be men again."
Hart looked at the stalwart figure by his side. The Apache's eyes never wavered from the road ahead, so he could not see if there was bitterness or resignation in them.
"You cannot fight them forever, Gokhlaya. They are as many as the sands of the desert... if the People kill ten, one hundred will come to take their place. If you kill one hundred, one thousand will be sent. The People will be like the deer within the circle."
Gokhlaya rode in silence for a full minute before he spoke again. "I am glad you do not lie to me. If there can be truth between us, Firehair, one day there can be truth between our people."
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