by Len Levinson
The cantina was half full, and no one paid attention to him, or so he thought. He sauntered toward the bar and said to the man with the white cloth around his waist, “Mescal.”
The bartender filled the glass, Victorio tossed a few coins onto the bar, and the bartender took what he required, noting the stranger's prominent Indian nose. The spy carried his glass to an empty table against the wall, sat, and stared into space.
Victorio listened intently to conversations going on around him, hoping to garner a scrap of military news, his ears assaulted by a cacophony of arguments, narratives, announcements, and ribald jokes. Many of the Nakai-yes were throwing colored cards onto piles in the middle of their tables, a seemingly pointless activity. It was seldom that Victorio could observe enemies at close range, and they appeared execrably foreign with their strange clothing, customs, and language.
A Mexican with a mustache carried a guitar to a small elevated area, sat upon a stool, and began to play. Victorio studied his fingers closely, wondering how anyone could be so dexterous, and reahzed that Nakai-yes music was exceptionally beautiful. He let it enchant him, his eyes closed, a half smile on his face. He wanted to dance, then shivered as the musician strummed a complex new chord that transported Victorio to lands he'd never known, and before he could control himself, rose to his feet. In the narrow aisle between tables he felt compelled to whirl about, raising his arms in the air.
Suddenly, the music stopped, he opened his eyes, and nearly fainted at the sight of Nakai-yes staring at him, drawing weapons. In an instant Victorio was on his way to the nearest window. Someone tried to tackle him, but received a knee in the face for his effort, and a half-drunk vaquero went for his throat, but a solid punch to the teeth sent him reeling backward. Victorio fought his way across the floor, shook loose his pursuers, a gun fired, a vaquero near Victorio slumped to the floor, and somebody cried, “Don't shoot, because we might hit ourselves!”
A gambler dived at Victorio's ankles, but the warrior leapt onto a table, then threw himself at the window. His shoulder hit the pane, wood splintered, and shards of glass accompanied him as he flew through the night. Bullets whizzing over his head, he disappeared into the back alleys of Albuquerque.
Captain George Covington heard shots as he approached Clarissa's door. He yanked his Colt Navy when someone shouted “Apaches!”, then George dropped to one knee, peering into shadows. Lights went on in homes around him, and men's heads were silhouetted in windows, glancing about furtively.
Apaches would be unlikely to attack Albuquerque head-on, decided the captain of cavalry, and it probably was a false alarm. Yet it provided a reasonable excuse for visiting his deceased friend's widow.
He sauntered toward her door and knocked loudly. “Clarissa—it's George Covington. Are you all right?”
She opened the portal, attired in a red silk robe embossed with the gold heads of lions purchased in Venice during her honeymoon. “What's wrong?” she asked, Colt in hand.
“Apaches have been spotted in town, and it's probably not wise for you to be alone till they're gone.”
She admitted him to her home and closed the door behind him. Suffering from a headache, she'd been asleep when the warning drifted through her open bedroom window. “I'd better check the baby.”
He followed her across the parlor, noticing her trim but fairly curvy form. They found little Natalie fast asleep, hugging one of her cloth-covered Navaho dolls, the window open.
“The sleep of the innocent,” George said admiringly, for innocence is fascinating to scoundrels.
“I'll make coffee.”
“That's not necessary,” he replied, for it meant starting a wood fire, a time-consuming and distracting chore. “Do you have any spirits, by any chance?”
“As a matter of fact, I've found an old battle of Nathanial's.” George followed her to the parlor, where she opened a cabinet, withdrawing a bottle and two glasses, added water to hers, but nothing to his. In the middle of the parlor they raised their glasses. “To the memory of Nathanial Barrington,” she said.
He drank, but couldn't help being critical of her hypocrisy. She groveled on this very floor with Beau, but now she's behaving as if it never happened, the little vixen. She sat on the sofa, which consisted of pillows stuffed with dried cornstalks and covered with brightly died red and brown Pueblo fabric. The thin robe and pale blue gown beneath it clearly outlined her shapely crossed legs, and George felt extremely romantic. Should I simply dive onto her, or wait until she gets drunk? he wondered.
“I don't hear shooting,” she said. “Maybe it was a cat.”
“Apaches are extremely subtle,” he reminded her. “One might be hiding in the kitchen even as we speak.”
She arose abruptly, drew her Colt Navy, and tiptoed toward the kitchen, holding a candlestick in her left hand. He leapt in front of her, to sacrifice his life if need be, but they found only the stove sleeping for the night.
They stood close together and turned toward each other. He took the candle from her hand, set it on a nearby shelf, and endeavored to bring his voice to its most sincere timbre. “Don't you know, my dear Clarissa, how much I love you?”
Instead of melting into his arms, she replied, “But George, I don't love you.”
George had learned that no often meant yes in the mouth of a lady. He placed his hands upon her waist and said, with the faintest hint of heartfelt warble, “I actually dream about you, and I'm sure you must be lonely as well, sequestered with your daughter, grieving for your husband.”
He hoped sentimental evocations would disarm her as he placed his love-starved lips against her cheek and pulled her gently to him, thrilling at the touch of her breasts covered by one thin layer of cotton, and another thin layer of red silk. But it didn't last long. Two hands struck his chest and pushed him away roughly. “George—what's wrong with you?”
“S-s-orry,” he said, stuttering in an effort to make himself appear silly, instead of the calculating fiend that he truly was. “I . . . I . . . I apologize, Clarissa. Why, I must have . . . I don't know.”
Tenderness came to her eyes. “You poor fellow, far from home. I imagine the campaign has you worried.”
“Perhaps it's really you,” he proclaimed, “because you're so graceful, charming, witty, a perfect musician . . .”
He reached for her again, for a true degenerate never truly surrenders, but she took a step backward and said sternly, “If you don't stop, you shall compel me to call the sheriff.”
George raised his hand in a gesture of peace, while trying to smile convincingly. “Perhaps the price of living in tumultuous times is a bit of madness occasionally,” he alibied, “as we seek comfort from the world's irrationality.”
She recalled her interlude with Beau, which had occurred not far from where she stood with George. “I understand,” she whispered. “I too have done mad things. Please don't think I was judging you, for in the eyes of God we are sinners all.”
He smiled, as he attempted the ploy known as getting their sympathy. "Am I too ugly? My cheeks not smooth enough?”
She looked at his sorrowful face, feeling obligated to comfort him. “There's nothing wrong with you, George. But I still feel married to Nathanial.”
Liar, he thought, but stated instead, “If I know Nathanial, he wouldn't want you to hide from the world. You must allow love to enter your life once more.”
As he was contemplating grabbing her one last time, just to make sure, a voice in the street could be heard. “Everything's safe! The Injun is gone.”
“Thank goodness,” said Clarissa as she headed for the front door.
“Where are you going?”
“I'm letting you out.”
“But Clarissa, if you slept with me, it would mean so much.”
“Now you're being an idiot.” She pulled open the door. “Out.”
“Are you sure there's nothing I can do to change your mind?” he asked with a wry smile. “Who'd you like me to kill?”
/> She placed her hand firmly on his back, pushed him out the door, and before he could say something witty, slammed it shut, then threw both bolts. Carrying the candle, she returned to the living room, not surprised by George's advances, because women were scarce in Albuquerque, and frustrated love longings ricocheted off the mountains. There were many men without women, but few women like herself, without a man. Beau was an aberration, she told herself. I never in a million years will perform such a disgraceful act again, and it's not what others think of me that's worrisome, it's what I think of me.
She looked into her daughter's room, and saw Natalie sleeping peacefully, a faint smile on her face as night breezes ruffled the drapes. Clarissa kissed her daughter, then backed out of the room and closed the door.
She hadn't peeked beneath the crib, and neither had she examined the dark corners of the room. It simply didn't occur to her that an Apache warrior could maintain perfect stillness, barely breathing, within her very home.
Victorio had shed the Mexican clothes and boots, and now wore only his breechclout, with his knife in one hand and stolen pistol in the other. He'd been fleeing when he'd seen the open window, slithered inside, and now sat on his haunches in the corner, the room smelling pleasantly, so different from the cantina.
Victorio was tempted to kill the child, because she'd grow up and produce more warriors for the Pindah-lickoyee, but he didn't want to harm a babe after it had been kissed by her mother, and didn't need undue attention. He resolved never to impersonate a Mexican again, and couldn't imagine what he'd done wrong.
The house was still as lights were extinguished in the adobe wickiup next door. Silently, Victorio moved to the window, climbed outside, and began his long journey back to the camp of Mangas Coloradas.
Springtime on the Hudson can be quite dramatic, especially with howling rain lashing the West Point library on a Wednesday afternoon. The building seemed to tremble beneath the blasts as water poured down windows, obscuring views of the boiling river.
Inside, cadets sat at long tables, boning between a break in classes. Among them, Buck Barrington studied the Summary on the Cause of Permanent Fortifications and of the Attack and Defense of Permanent Works by one of his professors, Dennis Hart Mahan, West Point class of 1824.
. . . against slow and overprudent generals, the very elements of nature seem to array themselves. Speed and fluidity are the keys to success.
Buck needed to write an essay about the book, but found it difficult to concentrate in the wake of the Dred Scott decision. Cadets from North and South tried to be civil with each other, but a glacier had settled into the institution, along with the dampness of rain; Beau shivered beneath his black cape.
There were no overt arguments, but the nation appeared clearly headed for civil war, and an officer would need more than books if he wanted to survive. The war might break out before I graduate, thought Buck, and I'll never avenge the death of my brother.
The prostitute's contempt had reawakened Buck's nascent sense of honor. His grandfather had served under George Washington at the battle of Trenton, and his father had been wounded in the War of 1812. Buck didn't want people to think of him as the man who turned his back on the blood of his brother. I'll pay my debt to Nathanial, providing the abolitionists and slavers don't start a civil war first.
Bored with the Mahan book, he picked up a red leatherbound volume—The Gallic Wars by Julius Caesar.
He opened to his favorite passage, the Roman army debarking onto the shores of Briton. The defenders, their bodies painted blue, attacked on chariots before Roman legionnaires could reach shore. Heavily laden with equipment, the legionnaires fell back, and it looked like catastrophe, the water churning with casualties, but General Julius Caesar didn't issue an order, nor did he send somebody to lead the counterattack. Instead, he grabbed the flag of Rome, leapt into the waves, and made for shore, exhorting his men to follow him.
Naturally, the men would be humiliated if their famous general were killed while they retreated, and they might not be permitted back in Rome for performing such a cowardly deed. So they followed Caesar, hacking their way to shore, driving off the Britons, and establishing their beachhead on the strange new island.
Buck loved to read the history of warfare, but there was a deeper lesson for a West Point cadet. The landing emphasized the significance of leadership, which was based upon personal courage of the highest order. The commander must laugh at death, Buck realized, and I hope I remember this important lesson when Apaches are shooting arrows at me, or my southern classmates are firing cannon in my direction during the civil war that everyone thinks will soon engulf this land.
Seven
Food was scarce in higher elevations, so the bear descended to warmer zones, where he nibbled mock-heather buds. He sat for long periods before rat holes and rabbit warrens, with no success.
Becoming furious, he especially desired a mate, but had been unable to locate a lady bear. Birds laughed at him, as he impotently clawed the air, hoping to catch one in his claws. He fished at a stream, slipped on wet stones, and fell into the water. No matter how hard he tried, nothing achieved results.
One day he blundered upon a strange sight. An unknown power had cut branches and piled them in the center of a clearing. Holes were dug into the ground and filled with charred wood, broken pots, and old woven baskets imprinted with odd symbols. The bear smelled faint traces of the People, hoped they'd left food, found a few moldy nuts and seeds, and half strip of dried mescal, but no meat, and it was meat that the bear required. His long nose became stuck in a jar, and he struggled to pull it away, then rampaged across the clearing, flinging the remains of wickiups into the air, kicking baskets and old rags, shaking his gigantic head from side to side in dumb fury, wreaking havoc across the former encampment of the People.
***
In the night three mule deer cautiously approached a sparkling mountain stream. Shy, glancing about, the elegant creatures listened for odd sounds, such as a bone cracking in the cramped leg of a hunter nearby.
The deer stopped, raised their ears, but no bears charged them, and sometimes changing temperatures caused wood to split. The deer were well attuned to the music of the night as they proceeded to the edge of water, where they searched about once more, then two bent to drink, while the third, the bull deer, watched for danger.
His eyes were razor sharp, but he spotted no puma crawling through the underbrush, or a blond-bearded Apache drawing back his arrow, perhaps because the Apache kneeled in dappled shadows and was covered with black mud. But the bull knew what the twang meant.
In an instant he was bounding away, as was his daughter. His wife wasn't so lucky, falling to the ground, an arrow piercing her lung. In the midst of death throes, a knife mercifully slit her throat.
The bearded Apache clasped his hands together and said, “Thank God.” Nathanial had been living on roots, leaves, and bugs, but now could enjoy venison. He skinned the animal quickly, made a bag of her coat, tossed in choice cuts, threw the bag over his shoulder, and continued his lonely trek through the homeland.
The warriors sat in the sweat lodge, listening to Mangas Coloradas speak. “Bluecoat soldiers are gathering at Albuquerque,” he told them. “They have many weapons and horses, and they are preparing to make big war against the People. No longer can we retreat to the land of the Nakai-yes, because they too are making war upon us. We are vulnerable when traveling with women and children, and bluecoat soldiers have hired Pueblo scouts to find our camps. This is a serious predicament.”
Cuchillo Negro rose to speak. “I do not recommend we fight the White Eyes, because there are so many of them. We should avoid them, because no matter how slow we are with women and children, we will never be slower than bluecoat soldiers. I will never abandon the homeland because of those pigs.”
“Nor will I,” added Juh. “I respect the Mimbreno homeland as my own, for we Nednais and Mimbrenos are war brothers since the old time. But I do not recommend
letting them roam free on land that has been awarded us by the Lifegiver. They must pay the price of passage, for it is one thing to want your brother's land, and another to die for it.”
Mangas Coloradas stood like a great oak in their midst. “During the war between the White Eyes and the Nakai-yes, I saw both sides charge at thunder sticks they call cannon. They are brave warriors, and have inflicted heavy wounds upon the People. Do not take these people lightly, my warrior brothers.”
“I do not take anybody lightly, least of all you, great chief Mangas Coloradas,” replied Juh courteously, “but neither would I permit enemies free range. If I were the last Apache warrior, I would fight them alone.”
It became silent in the sweat lodge, then gradually all eyes turned to the victorious one, heir to the great chief Mangas Coloradas. Victorio was aware of their attention and again wished the mantle could be passed on, because he did not seek authority and power. But no one, not even Juh, would dare take on gallant Victorio, a vortex of death in battle, and no one ever had stood up to him.
Victorio was not unusually large muscled, nor particularly tall. A calm and deadly grace, rugged confidence, and absolute indomitability of will were his main attributes, although he'd nearly been skinned alive in Albuquerque, and there was much about the White Eyes he could not comprehend.
“They have many cannons, wagons, soldiers, horses, and mules,” he told them. “When able to fight their kind of war, they are unbeatable, so we must never attack them head-on, and never be caught unawares. But I agree with subchief Juh—we cannot let them walk through the homeland, because that would only embolden them.”
Mangas Coloradas spoke: “What are your suggestions, Victorio?”
Victorio smiled. “Once, not long ago, I learned a valuable lesson from Manuelito of the Navaho People. The easiest way to defeat these Pindah dogs is to take their livestock, for they are lost without horses and mules, and will run with their tails between their legs back to their forts, where they will remain another few harvests, and then forget what they have learned, and come after us again. Perhaps a providential fire might demonstrate the dangers of stealing the homeland. Otherwise, we shall stay out of their way. That is what I recommend.”
