by Len Levinson
No soldier dared dispute Colonel Bonneville, especially with angry sergeants standing in the ranks, so the men dutifully raised their rifles and hollered, “Yes, sir!”
Colonel Bonneville performed a sharp about-face, then marched to his horse. A private held the reins, and the colonel climbed into the saddle slowly, for he no longer was a young warrior. He glanced behind him and caught a flash of Churubusco during the Mexican war, when his old Sixth Regiment had been pinned down on three sides by Mexican sharpshooters.
Flags and pennants whipped the wind as the sun rose over the Magdalena Mountains. Colonel Bonneville raised his right hand high, then pointed straight ahead. “Gila Expedition—forward march!”
The order was passed down the line, and the great lumbering caterpillar of soldiers advanced toward the gate as the band played “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” Wagon wheels creaked, horses snorted, and infantry soldiers marched with light field packs, their tents and stoves in wagons.
Dr. Michael Steck's permanent office was at Fort Thorn, and he fumed behind his desk as he heard the clank and rattle of the army passing his window. His letter to George Manypenny had been unanswered, and he expected his peacemaking efforts to be wiped out by the Gila Expedition. It is easier to hate than to think, reflected the good doctor as he rested his chin on his hand. If they fire me as Indian agent, there'll be plenty of work for a surgeon, I'm sure.
It didn't occur to Dr. Steck that tolerating the occasional murder might be viewed as appeasing or condoning bloodshed. But the doctor had never been a soldier, and like most rational thinkers, he tended to dismiss emotional and sentimental arguments.
***
The warrior known as Daklugie, twenty years old, lay amidst desert trumpet bushes and observed the departure of bluecoat soldiers from Fort Thorn. So they finally are coming, he mused. He located the stout old war chief in front, wrapped in a blue cape, and wondered how such a laughable warrior could hope to kill anybody.
Daklugie counted soldiers, wagons, horses, and especially the mules. They are so rich, we are so poor; they are so stupid, yet they own so much. How can this be?
The warrior crawled to his horse picketed in a nearby gully out of sight. He built a fire and tossed on water-soaked lengths of wood. Billows of smoke rose into the air, and Daklugie covered the fire with his blanket. Smoke collected underneath, then was released. The big black ball rose into the sky, visible for hundreds of miles.
Colonel Bonneville smiled when he saw the smoke signal, for he wanted the Apaches to notice, fear, and respect him, so they'd think twice before murdering Indian agents in the future. He could imagine Apaches at councils, debating how to halt the invasion. Colonel Bonneville hoped they'd attack, so he could catch them in withering long-range rifle fire.
Scouts and flankers had been posted, it was a glorious spring day, and Old Bonney Clabber reflected that his years of struggle, hardship, boredom, and wounds had been worth the effort. The army is the soul of the nation, he mused. One day great cities will arise on these desert wastes, but will anyone remember the poor soldiers who secured the land with their blood?
***
The old bull bear felt disconsolate as he sat in a clearing, eating flowers. They were not as filling as meat, but his hunting skills had been greatly diminished due to his fight with the young bear. Blind in his left eye, deaf in his right ear, his body marked with gashes, he did not hurt much anymore.
The old bear needed meat and love, but all he found were flowers. He wished he could catch a mule deer as in the old days, but they were too fast for him now. He wondered what had gone wrong, for he always had been a powerful bear. It was as if his body was decaying, powers deserting him. No lady bear would care for him, because he could not bring meat.
Raising his one good ear, he caught the sound of horses close by, then their smell came to him strongly. He slipped into the bushes, where he could watch safely. Perhaps they will provide meat.
The horses clopped into the clearing, the smell of old bear upon them. They glanced around for signs of danger, for they too were warriors of the People, with their own code. On the lead horse Cuchillo Negro raised his hand. “We will make camp here,” he said in warrior language.
The warriors drank from deer intestines as Sunny Bear cared for their horses. They rested awhile, then Cuchillo Negro said, “The Comanchero town is ahead, full of cheaters and thieves. Child of Water—stay and watch our back trail. Do not get in any fights if you can help it.”
The warriors rode toward the settlement of thieves, while Sunny Bear searched for a place to hide. Roving past bushes and trees, he came to a patch of bright yellow bulbs. How beautiful they are, he thought, and then noticed something askew, for many bulbs had been chopped off, and other plants were tramped down. The apprentice warrior dropped to his hands and knees, detected fresh bear tracks, and smelled the musky odor of the creature. All he had were his knife, bow and arrow, drinking reed, and scratcher, not much against a bear, but evidently the creature had departed.
He picketed his horse amid stacks of copperweeds, then took his position behind two pine trees growing closely together. Sitting cross-legged, he dutifully watched the back trail, unaware he was under observation as well.
The old bear could not believe his good luck as he kneeled a short distance away. Meat had come to him, instead of him having to look for it. He couldn't manage all the two-leggeds who had sat in the clearing, but one would be no problem for a big strong bear.
He knew how to be silent, never placing his big paw on a twig that might snap. Panting happily, he contemplated new strength that meat would provide, and frequently glanced behind him, even scrutinizing branches above, in case a cougar might want his meat. Patiently, the old bear worked his way behind the two-legged. This is going to easy, he thought in his bear mind.
The day passed slowly as Sunny Bear studied the back trail. Hunger sharpened his senses, but he dared not permit his brother warriors to be caught unawares. No sounds of conflict came to his ears, for no one would dare attack a war party of Apaches, he hoped.
Then Sunny Bear heard something and remembered the prohibition against turning his whole body. He thought Cuchillo Negro and the others might be testing him, so he twisted his head and searched for the intruder.
He knew that leaves, twigs, and acorns constantly fell to the ground, and birds dropped vegetative matter. The forest was a veritable symphony to one who listened, but there had been something foreboding in what Sunny Bear had heard.
He wished he had peshegar, but a bow and arrow could be lethal in skilled hands. Sunny Bear crept behind a hop hornbean thicket, fitted an arrow into his string, and aimed straight ahead. Whatever you are, come on out.
The old bear saw the bow and arrow with his one functional eye, but thought they were the two-legged's paws. The two-legged was standing his ground, so the bear didn't have to chase him, expending valuable power that otherwise could be employed chewing meat.
Even an old bear possessed greater speed than a mere scrawny two-legged, but scrawny two-leggeds of the adult variety, like the one in front of the bear, provided many mouthfuls of meat. Without further ado the bear headed for his meat, growling hungrily. Something flashed, and almost simultaneously, the old bear felt sharp pain in his left shoulder. It caused him to falter, so surprised was he by the shaft in his flesh, and it infuriated him to realize that the two-legged would dare challenge him.
The bear roared as he raced toward the two-legged, who performed strange movements with his paws. There was another flash, something slammed into the bear's skull, failed to stick, and the arrow fell to the ground. The bear had been hungry before, but now became enraged. Yowling eerily, he raised both front paws off the ground, preparatory to leaping onto the two-legged, but the two-legged's paws twanged, and a shaft was buried in the old bear's underbelly.
Never had he experienced such a stomachache, not even after eating a rotting deer, but his hide was thick, and the point had penetrated only a
short distance. Snarling, the bear knocked the arrow to the side, producing more pain, but the arrow wouldn't go away.
The two-legged was running, so the bear galumphed after him, although his left front arm felt uncoordinated, and every movement caused torture in his right shoulder, while his bellyache worsened. The price of meat was higher than he'd imagined, but he rampaged onward, for he was a hungry old bear.
The two-legged turned to face him, and the bear let out a shout of joy, as supper was served. He zoomed forward like a torpedo, head down, teeth bared, his one good eye noticing a fresh shaft aimed directly toward it. He tried to dodge, but the shaft exploded into his good eye. He became instantly blind, and blood ran down his face as his skull felt split in half.
His ears told him the two-legged was running again, and the bear decided that punishment must be delivered. He knew vaguely that he might not continue much longer, but retreat does not ordinarily occur to a wounded old bear.
He struggled to hasten, but banged headfirst into a tree, knocking himself cold. Rolling and groaning on the ground, he felt new shafts ram into him as he swung wildly, and then an arrow embedded itself in his throat.
The old bear felt himself weakening; he could not see, and a new shaft slammed into his gaping mouth as his world became a river of blood. So this is how it ends, he thought, as he sat heavily upon the ground, front paws lying at his side, arrows sticking all over him like a giant porcupine. Again, he heard the twang that he associated with his downfall. Above his anguished breathing, his keen ear picked out the whistle of wind against tiny feathers, as if a hummingbird were about. He felt the point touch hair on his breast, power through his ribs, and pierce his heart. The bear fell onto his face, never to hunt again.
Sunny Bear kneeled behind a sumac bush, still not recovered from his fight with the bear. Somehow, he'd managed to stand his ground and fire one well-aimed arrow after another, with a lucky one impairing the bear's vision.
Sunny Bear held no rancor for the bear, for it had been a most gallant warrior, and demonstrated how ferocious and unrelenting an attack should be. Now Sunny Bear understood why Apaches considered bears the most dangerous creatures in their homeland.
Never in Sunny Bear's life, not even in the midst of Palo Alto, where lead slugs had flown like gnats and cannonballs blew down ranks of charging soldiers, had he been so terrified. Sunny Bear held his knife in both his fists above the bear's massive chest. He paused, because Captain Nathanial Barrington's stomach was revulsed by the barbaric act he was about to perform, but his new Apache soul had gained ascendance. I cannot ignore this opportunity for bear power.
He butchered the bear's chest, then sawed off a small chunk of warm, leathery heart. Having sampled insects and stewed prairie dog puppies during his months with the People, a bear heart would not be too repellent for a warrior, although Captain Nathanial Barrington often wondered if he was carrying Apache studies too far.
The heart was tough, its flavor on the salty side. Sunny Bear thought the taste might be improved with chili peppers, cumin powder, the juice of a lemon, and a pint of whiskey. Slicing another hunk, he intoned prayers for the spirit of the beast. I have vanquished you, but you are part of me now, oh holy bear.
The Comanchero town consisted of a few adobe shacks and outbuildings scattered near a water hole. Its population seldom rose above fifty, and no one was surprised by the sight of seven painted Apache warriors arriving with skins, because individuals of all types came to trade, and some Nakai-yes and Pindah-lickoyee criminals lived in the town, hiding from their own people.
The warriors stopped their horses in front of the store, made certain no rifles were pointing at them from windows, then dismounted. One warrior remained with the horses, while Cuchillo Negro led the rest inside to a panorama of food, clothing, warm red blankets, bright beads, and denizens sitting at the four tables, whiskey glasses and cards before them, staring in wonder and fear at the warriors.
A curtain behind the bar was thrown to the side, and a heavyset man with dark skin and frizzy black hair appeared, wearing a thin mustache, clean white pants, and a pale orange shirt. “Is it Cuchillo Negro I see?” he asked no one in particular, holding a thin tube of tobacco in his hand. “I am happy to see you again, sir.”
“I have come to trade,” said Cuchillo Negro.
“Let us have a drink first,” said the man, whose name was Tomas.
A free drink was precisely what the warriors wanted, but they knew Comancheros never gave anything for free. The warriors sat at a table that magically had cleared of patrons.
A bottle and glasses were brought, and the warriors relaxed in the pleasant fragrance of tobacco, coffee, and bolts of clean cloth. They refilled their glasses many times, although history was replete with incidents of warriors drinking with the Nakai-yes, and being massacred when too dizzy to defend themselves, their severed heads traded for bounty money.
While the Apaches sipped firewater, Tomas went outside to look at the goods. He ran his practiced fingers across the fur, noting it was of high quality, ideal for winter coats and jackets, and a market always could be found.
He returned to the Apaches, who now were glassy-eyed, and asked, “What do you need?”
“Guns,” replied Cuchillo Negro.
“They are hard to find these days, but I have a few.”
“You are always lying, in order to raise the price.” Cuchillo Negro pointed at Tomas's nose. “Be fair.”
Tomas smiled weakly. If I drive too hard a bargain, he thought, they might string me up by the heels. So he brought one stolen army rifle and two boxes of cartridges. “How about this?”
“More.”
Tomas added one more rifle and three boxes of cartridges. “That is the best I can do.”
“More.”
Tomas knew he had to stand up to them, otherwise they'd bleed him white. “I am giving you a fair price, but you are trying to frighten me with your warriors.”
Cuchillo Negro smiled as he hugged Tomas to him. “I was just testing you, my friend.”
Tomas did not push Cuchillo Negro away, for he admired Apaches. They killed white Americans, his sworn enemies, because Tomas's mother had been a slave who'd escaped from an east Texas farm where uppity Nigras received whippings, and families were split apart by slave trading. Tomas's father had been a Comanchero.
“If you need guns and ammunition,” said Tomas, “there is a certain flock of sheep that I would like to have. Perhaps you can get it for me?”
“I know you well, Tomas,” said Cuchillo Negro. “You know where this flock is because you have sold it to the present owner. And after I retrieve the sheep for you, you will sell them to another owner.”
“True,” replied Tomas, “and if you want more guns after that, you can steal the same flock again.”
“I have a feeling these poor sheep will do much traveling in the days to come,” said Cuchillo Negro.
It was midnight when Cuchillo Negro and his warriors returned to where they'd left their apprentice. Having consumed large quantities of firewater, many experienced difficulty remaining in their saddles. Why did I drink so much? Cuchillo Negro asked himself, ashamed of permitting himself to fall so low.
The meeting place was vacant when they arrived, with no sign of Sunny Bear. What happened to him? wondered Cuchillo Negro, who burped as he descended from his saddle. He wondered whether to sleep it off, or continue the journey back to their camp.
“He is over here,” said Cautivo.
Cuchillo Negro stumbled in the direction of the voice, and they all gathered around Sunny Bear, who sat cross-legged beneath a pinyon tree, wrapped in freshly skinned bear fur, the severed head of a bear grinning in front of him. At first the warriors thought they had drunk too much firewater, but then realized it was indeed Sunny Bear, and apparently he had killed his namesake, which surely was an act of tremendous significance. Not a scratch could be seen on Sunny Bear. “How did it happen?” asked Cuchillo Negro.
Wind whistled through pine needles as Sunny Bear slowly raised his eyes. “I have eaten his heart,” he intoned.
At two o'clock in the morning all was silent in the camp of the Gila Expedition. Colonel Miles lay in a drunken stupor, while Colonel Bonneville reeked only mildly of whiskey. Busters, bunions, chafed shoulders, sore backs, and mosquitos could not prevent the men from sleeping.
Captain Beauregard Hargreaves had been appointed officer of the day, and his duties included assuring that guards were alert. Most officers left this task to the sergeant of the guard, but Beau preferred to prowl the campsite personally, forcing guards to challenge him, making certain they were alert.
So engrossed was he with his thoughts, he didn't notice an Apache warrior in the darkness, bow and arrow ready to fire. Victorio easily could kill the blue-coat war chief, but Mangas Coloradas had ordered no unnecessary bloodletting. The subchief waited until the soldier passed, then emerged into the night, wearing breechclout, moccasin boots, and bandanna around his head.
He imitated the call of a black phoebe, then rumbling could be heard as concealed warriors burst out of the night, firing guns, slapping leather, and shouting at the mule herd. Victorio ran back to his horse, the herd stampeded, and guards fled for their lives. “Apaches!” they shouted.
The most fearful word in New Mexico Territory echoed across the camp, and a commotion ensued as soldiers rushed out of their tents, guns in hands. Mules rampaged past Beau, whose horse raised his front hooves high, surprised and agitated by the change of affairs.
Beau spurred his horse and angled it away from the herd. Through dimness and thunder Apaches drove off mules, and Beau fired a few wild shots. Then, in the swirling dust, an Apache rider sped toward him, aiming his pistol. Beau wheeled his horse toward the rider, cocked his Colt Navy, and charged.
