White Apache

by Len Levinson

  “My people are Mangas Coloradas, Cuchillo Negro, and Nana. I never will betray you, so help me God.”

  “Well said, but I know what you White Eyes think of us, because White Eyes have told me with their own tongues. But every raid, whether for booty or vengeance, is a holy act that we do not take lightly, for the mountain spirits watch everything. Because war is holy, we have special war language, the main words of which I will teach you before you leave. And you will wear this apprentice hat to signify your rank. While at war, you must never scratch yourself with your own fingernails, so here is a special scratching stick.” Nana held out a length of wood about two inches long and a half inch in diameter, sharpened to a point. “If you do not use it, your skin will become soft. Also, you must never let your lips touch water, so you will drink through this tube, otherwise your whiskers will grow faster.” Nana gave him a hollow reed about seven inches long. “Your duties will be to care for the horses and accomplish whatever the warriors ask. When you eat, you will not open your mouth wide. Neither will you drink before the others. You must not eat the insides of an animal, only the muscle meat. You will eat only cold food, otherwise your teeth will fall out. You must scratch dirt over the place you urinate. If you hear something behind you, you must look over your shoulder, not turn your whole body around. You will have no funny business with women once you leave this camp. We shall call you Child of Water, not Sunny Bear. If there is battle, we are obligated to put you in a safe place, but if it becomes necessary for you to fight, abandon yourself totally. The warrior who fights hardest is the warrior who prevails.”

  A comet flashed across the sky as Sunny Bear returned to his wickiup, reflecting upon what Nana had taught him. It had been like receiving a lecture at West Point, except he hadn't been required to take notes, and would receive no diploma upon graduation.

  Most of the camp was asleep, but a figure approached, Seema the bizahn women, a lithe little wench, and Sunny Bear always had taken a special interest in the petite ones. The bizahn women liked to flirt with warriors in the hope of increasing their food supply, so Sunny Bear wasn't surprised when she smiled seductively at him.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To my wickiup.”

  “I am not sleepy, and I am headed for a walk out there.” She angled her head toward the sage.

  He would have declined under ordinary circumstances, but was leaving on a military expedition on which he might be killed, and hadn't been with a woman for a long time. Moreover, Clarissa was far, far away, possibly even remarried. Seema touched him in an especially sensitive spot as she smiled. “You are a brave warrior, Sunny Bear.”

  “I am only a novice, and can offer no gifts.”

  “Bring yourself,” she cooed, then let him go, and strolled into the wilderness.

  He waited a decent interval, then followed like a hound dog, hearing her rustle a leaf, step on a twig, or drag a moccasin boot. Silently, he circled in front of her, then crouched beneath a brickellia bush, picked up a pebble, and tossed it several feet.

  A few moments later she appeared, hoping to surprise the dumb White Eyes. He flicked another pebble, which stimulated her to pass him by. He leapt upon her, covered her mouth with his big hand, and lowered her gently to earth.

  Her eyes gleamed with delight as he undressed her, finding no crinoline, pantaloons, or other obstacles beneath her deerskin dress. Yet he felt the need to be tender, because she was small and therefore precious, her skin like brown satin. He thought of Clarissa again, but he had certain needs. He wrapped his long arms around Seema's narrow waist, hugging her nakedness.

  “That is better,” she sighed in his ear.

  Occasionally, Colonel Bonneville dined with junior officers to study their characteristics. It wouldn't do to send the wrong man for the right job, such as Lord Raglan appointing Lord Cardigan commander of the ill-fated Light Brigade.

  Some officers tried to impress Colonel Bonneville with erudition, but ambition never disturbed him, and in fact, he thought it admirable because it indicated aggressiveness. Other officers, such as recently arrived Lieutenant Lazalle, commented little, seeking to elude notice, but nothing escaped the calm black eyes of Colonel Bonneville.

  A few officers stuttered nervously, so worried were they about making a weak impression, not realizing their worst enemy was self-doubt. Old Bonney Clabber made no moral or aesthetic judgments, but appreciated calm, competent officers who'd follow orders or improvise intelligently when no orders were available. Regarding his supposed advanced age, he'd show the young whippersnappers a thing or two in the days to come.

  One of Colonel Bonneville's favorite junior officers was absent, although assigned no duties. Captain Beauregard Hargreaves, commanding officer of B Company, First Dragoons, frequently dined with his men, although food was superior at the officers’ mess. But soldiers tended to idolize such an officer and follow him into the jaws of hell. Colonel Bonneville made a mental note to call on Company B if difficulties surfaced during the campaign.

  After supper Captain George Covington strolled among the tents, remembering Colonel Bonneville studying him and others throughout the meal, a harrowing experience for an officer obsessed with additional income that a promotion would bring. If I'd stayed in the Second Cavalry, I'd probably be a major by now.

  He arrived at Company B and found Beau in his tent, reading an old mangled copy of De Bow's Review. "Am I disturbing you?”

  “Not at all,” replied Beau. “Did I miss anything at the mess?”

  “No, but I think Colonel Bonneville noted your absence.”

  “He's the least of my worries, because there's going to be civil war, according to James De Bow. He says if the Republicans win the White House in ‘60, it's the end of America.”

  George scowled. “I refuse to become embroiled in the so-called great political issues of the day. It's just cheap tinhorn politicians grasping for power, and they'll say anything, depending upon what voters want to hear. If it ever comes to civil war, politicians will make deeply moving speeches, and their lackeys in the press will write powerful articles such as the one you're reading, but it's fellows like us who'll die. To tell you the truth, it's so disgusting, I don't even give a damn anymore.”

  Beau lay down the magazine. “You'll give a damn when Yankee bullets are firing at you. They say that cynicism is the mask of an idealist betrayed by his heroes.”

  “I have no heroes, no illusions, and no great hopes. But you still carry a few, I've noticed. I don't know if you're blind or . . . ?”

  “Stupid?” asked Beau, completing his friend's sentence. “Perhaps you'd feel different if you had a family.”

  “I'm surely not married, if that's what you mean. No woman is going to boss me around, and neither am I very sentimental, I'm afraid. America is an experiment that obviously has gone awry, and what's wrong with kings, I ask you? For my part, I'd prefer to be keeper of the harem. Why do men fight wars? Because they're bored.”

  “You think everybody's bored because you're bored. How dare politics disrupt the life and loves of Captain George Covington.”

  George leaned closer, twirled his mustache, and declared, “Wherever you look, there is injustice, suffering, crime, and gross hypocrisy. The old order with its special cruelties is passing, to be replaced by an even crueler world. The abolitionist never will go away, and the South never will surrender. The outcome is as obvious as tomorrow, so we might as well enjoy ourselves today. This is our last night in camp, and I thought I'd find a woman to help pass it pleasantly. Care to come along?”

  “Got work to do,” said Beau.

  “If s nice to know there's one loyal husband left, although I can't imagine why.”

  “Your condescending tone is not lost on me, but at the risk of seeming tedious, I need to ask, if we have no loyalty, what is left?”

  “Pleasure,” replied George as he departed for the whorehouse district alongside Fort Thorn.

  George's boots carri
ed him to a large adobe hut at the edge of camp, guarded by a heavily armed Mexican who smiled at the approach of the officer. “How good to see you again, sir.”

  “Let's hope it's not the last time,” replied George.

  At the end of the corridor he came to the drawing room where customers and courtesans met beneath the benign eyes of the madam, a Mexican woman named Senora Almeida, who greeted George like the regular customer he had become since his arrival at Fort Thorn.

  George enjoyed a free drink at the bar, for this was an expensive whorehouse reserved for officers and other dignitaries such as traveling lawyers, salesmen, and so forth. Then he lit a cigar. No matter what troubled him, the sight of attractive ladies calmed his soul.

  Expensive whorehouses usually featured red decor, and this popular theme was carried forward in drapes covering the windows and upholstered furniture. The prostitutes appeared properly sluttish, wearing excessive cosmetics, their hair carefully coiffed, lit by a chandelier imported from Chicago, but somehow it all appeared unutterably squalid to George. Despite his modern philosophical beliefs, he was profoundly unhappy, perhaps due to his acne-ravaged face, or possibly because of his empty soul, an entity he didn't even acknowledge that he possessed.

  A solitary officer at the bar on the night before leaving on a major campaign would attract the attention of prostitutes, and it wasn't long before they were sashaying past: Mexicans, Americans, Indians, and mixed-blood women, the latter exotic and dusky-eyed. But George decided on an American beauty with light hair, a rich full mouth, and a substantial bottom. To indicate his choice, he pointed at her, crooked his finger, and motioned.

  Her eyes lit up as she worked her fan. “How handsome you are tonight, Captain.”

  George felt dispirited as she sat beside him, for solemn compliments were articles of her trade. “I am going to war tomorrow,” he told her. “And it is entirely possible that I will not come back. Therefore, you may become the last love of my life. What's your name?”

  “Maxine.”

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  She appeared self-conscious, then professionalism reigned. “I live down the hall, and I've got what you want. C'mon.”

  He followed her across the lounge, his selection evaluated by connoisseurs who admired her girlish innocence, although she was twenty-five years old, had been on the frontier ten years, married a few times, two children abandoned in other towns, and the occasional crude abortion.

  A lost daughter of Eve, she granted him entrance to her workshop, with its bottles of cosmetics on the dresser, the chair for removing one's boots, and the inevitable bed. “How do you want it?” she asked, leaning against the dresser so he could see her naked back in the mirror's reflection.

  “I want everything you've got.”

  “Five dollars,” she replied.

  He reached into his pocket—he always reserved a little for emergencies—and gave her the money. She kissed his nose and said, “I'll be right back. You can take off your clothes.”

  He disrobed in front of the mirror and recalled his dead friend, Nathanial Barrington, with whom he had visited houses of ill fame in New York City. Maybe you're the one who's best off now, thought George. At least you've escaped from this corrupt, malevolent world.

  No ritual dance had been organized, because no vengeance or raiding was anticipated. The expedition simply would be skins traded for guns, unless the warriors were attacked. At midnight they gathered at the edge of the encampment, faces painted, and some carried Killer of Enemies Bandoliers, to protect from danger.

  The apprentice loaded deer and antelope skins onto packhorses, while friends and relatives wished the merchants well. Everyone needed peshegar and ammunition now that bluecoat soldiers made big war. At the edge of the crowd Chuntz seethed at Sunny Bear. He has killed my cousin, and they reward him with an apprenticeship.

  Chuntz felt insulted because the clan treated his feelings lightly, another slap in the face to a man who believed he'd been belittled and humiliated far too long. Mangas Coloradas wished the warriors a safe journey, and when the chief embraced Sunny Bear, Chuntz's self-restraint snapped.

  “Just because this White Eyes wears our clothing,” he declared, “that does not make him one of us! He must not be permitted to leave this camp alive, because he will betray us!”

  Everyone looked at Mangas Coloradas, who appeared surprised by the outburst. “Sunny Bear has had great visions—”

  “What if Sunny Bear lied!” interrupted Chuntz. “He is laughing behind our backs as he plots our destruction. In the old time he would have been killed long ago, but there is new weakness among us.” Chuntz drew his war hatchet. “If none of you has the will, I will do it myself.”

  Juh stepped out of the crowd. “I have told you—this Pindah is under my protection.”

  “If he is such a great warrior, why does he need protection?”

  They turned to the blond-bearded member of their clan, who adjusted the cinch beneath a packhorse. When finished, he arose, slapped dust off his hands, and faced Chuntz. “I have apologized for the death of your cousin, although I did not kill him, as far as I know. I need no protection, but I thank subchief Juh for his offer. If you seek to kill me, Chuntz, I shall defend myself.”

  “That is enough,” said Mangas Coloradas, holding his hand in the air. “These warriors are leaving on a dangerous mission.”

  “I demand justice now!” screamed Chuntz.

  Mangas Coloradas looked at Juh, who turned to Jocita, who raised her eyes to the mountains, where the spirits resided. Not seeing an alternative solution, Mangas Coloradas stepped back. “So be it.”

  With a smile of triumph Chuntz raised his war hatchet. “You will pay for the blood of my cousin, Pindah soldier. That is the law of the People.”

  Chuntz advanced, a fighter who might move in any direction, as Sunny Bear drew his knife from his boot. As expected, Chuntz made the first pass, but Sunny Bear leapt lightly out of the way. Chuntz charged again, taking a swipe at Sunny Bear's face, but Sunny Bear easily dodged the razor-sharp edge.

  Chuntz stopped, rested his hands on his hips, and said, “Must I chase all over this camp in order to kill you?”

  Chuntz was surprised to find a knife penetrating a sixteenth of an inch into his throat. It had happened so quickly, he didn't remember the initial thrust. The expression on Chuntz's face made several onlookers laugh aloud. Chuntz realized he had lost yet again, against a White Eyes, no less.

  “Go ahead and kill me,” challenged Chuntz.

  “I am not angry,” replied Sunny Bear.

  Never had Chuntz known such dishonor and was tempted to bury his hatchet into his own head. There will be another day, he counseled himself. “You cannot be much of a warrior if you are afraid to kill.”

  “Do not test me,” replied Sunny Bear. He dropped the knife into his boot, then returned to the horses, showing his back to Chuntz, whose lips twitched with impotent rage.

  “We have wasted enough time,” said Cuchillo Negro.

  The warriors mounted their steeds, then rode out of camp. The crowd dispersed, among them Jocita, holding the hand of Running Deer.

  “Why didn't Sunny Bear kill Chuntz?” asked the boy.

  “I do not know.”

  “How could a White Eyes move so fast?”

  “He has learned from visions.”

  After Running Deer went to bed, Jocita sat beside the dying embers of her fire. The more she thought about it, the more unusual did Sunny Bear appear. Sunny Bear has great power, and I knew it from the first time I saw him. Now my son has inherited his blood, and who can say what great feats Running Deer will perform when he is a warrior?

  Nine

  At Fort Thorn all tents were struck by dawn, loads were tied down, and companies gathered on the parade ground. Sergeants shouted at men shoving wagons into place, while snorting horses were led to bits and reins. A contingent of wives and children had assembled to see the men off, and Old Bonny Clabber's
private band fell in beside the command post headquarters, with drums and horns.

  The sun was an upside down cup of red-hot coffee on the distant mountains, its initial rays spilling on the headquarters building, as the front door opened. Captain George Covington appeared, blinking at the brightness as he stood at attention; then Colonel Bonneville stepped outside, wearing his long blue cape and a high-quality vaquero hat given him by a local admiring rancher.

  Colonel Bonneville may have been fat, bald, and elderly, with a few chunks of lead carried in his ribs, but he marched smartly ten paces, then snapped to attention. His voice came like a shot. “Report!”

  Sergeant Major Randall advanced from the formation, a lone figure casting a long morning shadow, finally halting in front of the colonel, where he saluted. “The Gila Expedition is present and accounted for, sir!”

  Colonel Bonneville filled his lungs and hollered, “At ease!”

  His voice echoed across the parade ground, and the men pushed left legs to the sides while clasping arms behind their backs.

  “You all may remember Henry Linn Dodge,” began Colonel Bonneville. “He visited most of the army posts in this territory, and he was a fine man, one who wore the uniform of the United States army, and who served with distinction in the Mexican War.

  “Now he is gone, murdered last November by Apaches. And he's not the only one, because Apaches have been waging war on the United States since we took responsibility for this land. Well, boys, the time has come to show them that we've had enough.

  “Now there are some who claim to love Indians and think they're the most noble race that God has yet created, but folks with those sentiments don't have to deal with the sons-of-bitches here in New Mexico Territory. The plain fact is Apaches are thieves and killers, but their reign of terror is about to end.

  “We're going to hunt them down and force them to see the error or their ways, and therefore you can expect to see action quite soon. I advise you to keep your eyes peeled at all times, especially at night, because you never know when Apaches might strike. We've got a lot of ground to cover today, so let's get started. Are you with me, boys?”