by Len Levinson
Nathanial closed his eyes and tried to pray to the mountain spirits, but had no idea what they were. He raised his head three inches off the ground and saw toothy mountains arrayed across the horizon. Mountain spirits, indeed.
He thought of praying to Christ, but it seemed dishonest to call on God in extremity, and ignore His Majesty the rest of the time. Nonetheless, he closed his eyes to pray. “Our Father, who art in heaven—hallowed be thy name. . . .”
The stakes weren't looser after the Lord's Prayer. Nathanial glanced at a pulsating mass of glowing images traveling across the sky. He felt dizzy, perhaps from tobacco, then something moved to his right.
He turned in that direction, afraid of a black bear, but it was even worse. A rattlesnake crawled toward him from behind a stack of tumbleweed. “Nana,” said Nathanial, “this joke has gone far enough, wouldn't you say?”
There was no answer; birds sang overhead, and the faint slithering sound of a snake's belly traversed the sand. Warriors don't play when it comes to their profession, Nathanial realized. The West Pointer was staked out with a rattlesnake in the middle of God only knew what valley.
Nana had taught that a warrior must be still near rattlesnakes, so it became necessary for Nathanial to overcome revulsion of the slimy creature as it crawled up his bare leg. He worried that the snake would see his heart beating wildly against his skin. His flesh shriveled as the reptile inched toward his stomach, and it weighed at least ten pounds. Nathanial nearly fainted with terror as the ugly triangular head of the dreaded serpent appeared before his eyes, two fangs on top, two more on the bottom, and a forked tongue flicking at him, trying to sense what it had found.
The foreign entity was warm like a living being, yet motionless as a soft rock. How odd, thought the snake, as it peered into Nathanial's eyes. Nathanial struggled not to blink and felt as if the snake were gazing straight through him. The snake's jaws turned up at the corners as if grinning diabolically. “Now I recognize you, Pindah soldier,” the snake seemed to say. “If you were smaller, I would swallow you, but since you are too big for my jaws, and you did not seek to attack me, I will continue on my way. May your life be free from care.”
“It's too late,” whispered Nathanial to the snake. “Because I cannot move.”
“Then you shall die,” said the snake as he crawled off.
Nathanial didn't know what was real and thought he had lost his sanity. It appeared that he'd conversed with a rattlesnake, although such events didn't occur in his normal American world.
I've got to figure a way out of this mess, he told himself. Nana never would leave me if he didn't think I could escape, or maybe this is the worst Apache trick of all, and he's an Apache thief.
Again, Nathanial didn't know what was true, yet was staked to the ground, an ant crawling into his ear. Nathanial prayed the creature wouldn't descend deeper and dig a hole through his brain, a slow, agonizing death even worse than anything concocted in the dungeons of the Inquisition. He broke into a cold sweat as another ant crawled into his left nostril, but the hapless creature soon was sneezed into oblivion.
I'm trapped, therefore I am, reflected Nathanial. Again, the old French philosopher Descartes came to mind. I'll start with that basic premise and not waste time worrying. The ant tasted wax inside Nathanial's ear, turned, and proceeded to perambulate across his beard.
Nathanial pulled the stakes, but they remained solid in the ground. He couldn't reach his knife with his mouth and cut the ropes away. There seemed no hope.
I don't think Nana intends to kill me, he concluded, ergo there's a way out of this fix, and all I need do is figure it out. The only logical chance was loosening stakes, but they were too firmly embedded, or so it seemed. But he'd been yanking all four at random, without any system. His right arm was his best limb, so he focused his strength there, using his legs and spare arm for leverage as he tried to pry the stake out of the packed dirt.
Nothing moved, and finally he became tired, lying flat on the ground. I'm going to die. But I've got to keep trying. As he tightened his right arm, he noticed that the stake had given slightly, his previous effort not totally in vain. So he snatched and tussled again, his body quivering with effort, and he kept the pressure on for what seemed ten minutes, then went limp on the ground, no closer to escape than before.
I'm going to die because I lack the strength to persevere, according to the will of the People. Nathanial thought of Clarissa, his mother back in New York City, his brothers taking spring examinations, his children growing up without him in Santa Fe.
Again, he concentrated on his right arm, battling to free himself. Every effort produced barely perceptible progress, and he feared death before he worked the stake loose. He was hungry and thirsty, and one ant crawled through his hair, while another hiked into his boot. After resting for a reasonable interval, he went at it again, muscles striating his arm, and he feared a blue vein might burst, covering him with blood.
The sun dropped toward the horizon, and Nathanial didn't care to spend the night staked near a stream, where many creatures would come to drink, and one might take a bite out of him. Finally, his strength broke, and he went loose on the ground, his mouth dry as the sand around him. The more I work my muscles, the more liquid gets used up, he realized. But I'd rather die trying to bust loose than lie back and wait for a miracle to occur.
Out of nowhere a yellow bird came to rest upon his breast as Nathanial tried to catch his breath. The bird looked at him curiously, pecked his buckskin shirt a few times, then stepped forward like a bowlegged comedian, and turned his head sideways, one eye gazing directly at Nathanial.
Nathanial peered into the black retina of the bird, which seemed to be asking, “What happened?”
“I am being tested,” replied Nathanial aloud, startled by the cracked sound of his voice.
“More than you realize,” said the bird, who then leapt into the air, and as quickly as he came, was gone. How light and free he is, thought Nathanial. I would give anything if I could be that bird.
Suddenly, perhaps due to fatigue, panic, and Nana's special tobacco, Nathanial imagined himself soaring through the air, using his yellow wings for steering. The windstream smoothed feathers on his face, and he saw vast expanses sprawled before him, when a dark shadow appeared overhead. A hawk zoomed claws first toward him, he swerved to the side . . . but the stake held him down.
He opened his eyes on a molten red sunset. I dozed off, he realized. Oh, mighty mountain spirits, save me. He was about to resume pulling the stake when he heard a low, barely perceptible growl to his right, and he'd been in New Mexico Territory long enough to know what uttered that fearsome sound: a coyote. As if in affirmation, he heard a snarl from a different direction, then a third. Nathanial's heart sank as he realized that he might be chewed by the long sharp fangs of coyotes.
He snatched the rope, but the stake only loosened about a quarter of an inch after his efforts, and it might take hours, even days to remove it from the ground. Meanwhile, he could hear the occasional footpad, or the sound a branch makes when touching coyote fur. They were closing in on him as the last sliver of sun dropped below the horizon.
Having observed his labors with amusement, they knew he was tiring. A rush at his throat, and he'd be gone to the spirit world. Terror struck him like a cyclone as he lost control of himself. Wrestling the ropes like a maniac, he shrieked in an effort to frighten the coyotes, but they gathered around and watched solemnly like wise old monks. Nathanial imagined teeth tearing his living flesh and believed such an end should not come to a West Point graduate who had studied so hard and suffered so much for his country. Life is a series of seemingly random but actually connecting events, he realized, and if I never reached for the warrior woman at the Santa Rita Copper Mines, I wouldn't be here today. We are punished by our sins, not for them.
I'm trapped, therefore I am. The warrior woman retreated from his mind as he observed coyotes glancing at each other, as if consulting about wh
at next. Finally, one stepped forward cautiously, twitching its nose. The others followed, to bite chunks out of Nathanial's delicious flesh.
“Get away!” he screamed, kicking and punching the air, but his movements were greatly restricted by the cord, and this the coyotes noticed with gravity. They did not appear afraid as they stood in a circle, baring fangs and licking lips.
Nathanial had been wounded in the past, and several fine horses had been shot from beneath him, but he'd never dreamed he'd be eaten alive by coyotes, and no one was available to rescue him. He took a deep breath and tried to steel himself for the ordeal of being ripped to shreds, praying the end would come quickly. He even contemplated baring his throat to their fangs to end his suffering.
But somehow, the image of himself politely extending his throat to the drooling coyotes, brought him to a keener awareness of his essence, which he'd never really understood before. At rock bottom Nathanial Barrington was an angry man.
As his temperature rose, the coyotes chose to attack en masse, their leader diving for Nathanial's jugular. Nathanial tucked in his chin as the fangs of the coyote pierced his bearded cheek, while another coyote snapped his jaws on Nathanial's calf muscle, followed by a third digging his choppers into Nathanial's shoulder.
Nathanial bellowed like a wild bull as pain and repugnance pushed him to total madness. In his extremely agitated state a larger than usual rush of adrenalin dumped into his bloodstream. It hit his heart like a thunderclap as he clenched his teeth and threw all his remaining overstimulated strength into one last mighty pull on his right arm.
The stake didn't loosen, but painful bites kept him fighting frantically, working his shoulders, dodging his head, and during one of those passes, he looked directly into the mouth of a coyote and saw all the way down into the fires of Hades.
“No!” he screamed with a formidable twist as a coyote bit off a piece of his arm. Nathanial contorted like a rattlesnake as coyotes danced about nimbly, avoiding churning elbows, shoulders, and knees, taking the occasional nip out of him, and waiting for his strength to fail, when they'd dine at leisure.
He wrenched vehemently, realizing the stake had become looser, but he bled from at least twenty fang gashes and claw scratches. “No!” he screamed to the heavens, imagining Apache angels in white breech-clouts flying above, plucking lutes and chanting gutturally
A tooth entered his kneecap, sending barbed pain throughout his body. In desperation, accepting strength from Apache angels, he bounced mightily, flailing his arms, and all at once, in the far reaches of consciousness, he realized his right arm was free as the stake flew through the air! In a single rapid movement he drew the knife from its scabbard, sliced blindly through the air, and caught a coyote in the chops, nearly severing its jaw.
The coyote whined horribly as Nathanial took another swipe, ripping the ribs of the next coyote, and on the front swing, cut the ligaments in a third coyote's leg. The other coyotes pulled back, desiring a free meal, not a blade in the guts. They growled their disappointment as Nathanial cut loose his other hand. Then he stood, glanced behind his back, and raised the knife in time To skewer the coyote that had snuck up behind him. The knife pierced the coyote's rib cage, blood spurted, and Nathanial threw the beast to the ground, then bent and cut the ropes holding his ankles. He jumped free and faced the coyotes. “Come on, you bastards,” he said, waving the knife from side to side. “I'm ready for you now.”
Somehow he didn't appear appetizing with the bloody blade in hand. The coyote captain glanced at its soldiers, then emitted a sorrowful howl. They echoed the sound, scratched the ground, turned, and walked away. Nathanial held his knife ready to impale a coyote, then glanced behind to ascertain one of the brethren wasn't outflanking him. He maintained his posture of defiance as darkness came to the desert, then moved toward the stream, washed his wounds, and drank deeply.
Soldiers slept in tents at the post in Albuquerque, but a more solid structure had been constructed for Colonel Bonneville. Of pine logs, its roof sotol slats overlaid with clay shingles, it sat at the edge of the parade ground, guarded at all times.
A prostitute named Teresa approached at ten o'clock that evening, a shawl covering her features. The guards motioned her by, so she continued to the porch and knocked lightly on the door. A moment later, it was opened by the tall officer with acne scars. “Right on time,” said Captain Covington with a smile. “I can always rely on you, Teresa.”
“I love my work,” she said with a laugh, although it was opposite to what she felt.
He handed her the money, she counted it, then placed it in her bosom. “What are you staring at?”
“Your breasts.”
“They are pretty, no?” She held her hands beneath them, like ripe melons.
“Perhaps some other time,” he said. “The colonel is waiting.”
I'm sure he is, she thought, proceeding down the hall. Because he is a pig like every other man, even if he is a colonel, and everybody follows his orders. At least the fat old colonel was clean, unlike some customers, and he didn't smack her around, like others.
She came to his door, knocked once, then turned the latch. A fire burned in the hearth, near which Colonel Bonneville sat behind his desk, a glass of whiskey in hand, shirt half unbuttoned, showing a mat of gray hair upon his chest. “I was afraid you wouldn't come, my dear,” he said.
“How could I stay away from my handsome colonel?” she replied as she planted a kiss on his bald head. Then she sat in his lap and twittered as his arms encircled her and one hand came to rest upon her bosom.
“I was young once,” he told her nostalgically, “difficult though that may seem. Beautiful women such as you have loved me, but I didn't have this stomach then, and hair grew on my head. I was even famous, you may be interested to know. Ah, where have those days gone?”
“Perhaps we can recapture them, sir. Come—let us go to bed.”
On the other side of the door Captain Covington heard their footsteps cross the room, and soon there-after, the bedspring concerto began. The deed is done, he thought happily as he tiptoed away. His duties over, he intended to seduce Clarissa Barrington that very evening.
George Covington considered a woman a prize to be won, like a living, breathing holy grail, and he'd planned this evening for many moons, having become obsessed with the story Beau had told. He'd dreamed of pristine Clarissa falling into his waiting arms, where he would ravish her utterly, and the designated night finally had arrived.
He departed the colonel's headquarters, saluted the guards at the front gate, and ordered, “Keep your eyes open, men.”
“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison, saluting as he passed into Albuquerque. But despite appearances to the contrary, none of their eyes were open that cool spring night, except two narrowed ones not far away, belonging to an apparently drunken Mexican in a wide desert-stained sombrero, passed out in front of a closed hardware store.
Victorio had stolen Mexican clothing from a farmer's adobe shack on the outskirts of town, but the boots pinched his long toes, the hat too large, plus the pants too short. The warrior had no concept of frontier fashion, and indeed the notion was as alien to him as the rings of Saturn. He believed he looked like a Mexican, and this was true provided one did not examine him too closely.
He had seen where the soldiers lived, how they protected themselves, and how their commanding officer could be killed. A warrior would dress as a woman, shawl over his face. The guards would wave him through, and once inside the war chief's wickiup, strike quickly with a knife, covering the war chief's scream with the free hand. Then depart silently and modestly, like a woman.
Victorio was tempted to kill the war chief, for it would plant fear into the hearts of the Pindah-lickoyee. But he would not undertake significant ventures without consulting Chief Mangas Coloradas. I will not kill you this day, bluecoat war chief, thought the rising star of the Mimbrenos. But if you ever come near my family, that will be another matter.
&n
bsp; Victorio wanted to know the war plans of the White Eyes, but couldn't walk up to the war chief and ask. He couldn't even visit where the soldiers drank fire-water because he spoke practically no English. But he could habla fair to middling Spanish, and that meant a trip to drinking places where Nakai-yes gathered.
Victorio placed his hands in his pockets as he imagined Mexicans did, although his elbows stuck out too far, and he was conspicuous, unbeknownst to himself, as he walked down the planked sidewalk, disturbed by the clanging of his spurs. He couldn't imagine why anyone would wear such noisy devices. Why are these people so stupid? he wondered.
The town smelled of outhouses and garbage, so different from the fresh, fragrant air of the open land. Light from oil lamps spilled into the street, where heavily armed men rode horses, while others strolled or staggered along the sidewalks, depending upon how much they'd drunk. Victorio saw many bluecoat soldiers, but most appeared unimpressive, with poor musculature and bad skin, creatures unaware of life's niceties.
The Apache spy stopped across from a cantina, a typical thick-walled adobe wickiup with a bench in front, on which Nakai-yes men sprawled with their bottles. Casually, Victorio strolled around the building, taking note of windows in each wall, plus the back door. Then he studied the cantina from across the street as he gathered courage.
Victorio hated enclosed smelly places filled with the Nakai-yes and Pindah-lickoyee, but could not let distaste prevent him from acquiring valuable military information. He carried a stolen pistol plus his knife in its leather scabbard, and was certain he looked no different from any other Mexican, although his clothing had been sized for someone else, and he appeared comical in pants barely lower than his knees.
Trying to appear loose, he crossed the street. The door to the cantina opened, a drunkard stumbled outside, and Victorio slipped past him, then headed toward the nearest dark spot, where he could take his bearings.
