by Len Levinson
The women shrieked as the stagecoach driver slapped reins against the haunches of his steeds. “Giddyup, goddamit!” he hollered, then an arrow pierced his right shoulder. As he tried to yank it out, another plowed into his liver. He toppled off the seat as terrified horses ran wild.
Taken by surprise, soldiers drew pistols and opened fire. Jicarillas swept among them, singing war songs, firing arrows, shooting guns. Maria Dolores raised her head and saw an Apache ride past covered with warpaint.
My God, she thought, an icy hand gripping her heart. She poked her head out the window and watched the warrior spur his horse to greater velocity as he tried to catch the front of the stagecoach. The Apache angled his horse closer, and Maria Dolores realized he intended to steal the stagecoach with her, Clarissa, Rosita, and little Natalie on board!
“Keep your heads down,” cried Maria Dolores as she drew her Colt Dragoon. An arrow jammed into the side of the stagecoach about an inch from her head, shots rang out in dust and smoke, orders were shouted, and Apaches cheered each other on.
Maria Dolores raised her Colt Dragoon, then lowered the sights on the back of the warrior about to leap onto the stagecoach. She squeezed the trigger, the slug caught him in midair, and he landed against the stagecoach, but his fingers lacked strength to hold on. He slid down the side, nearly was trampled by his own horse, and then the rear wagon wheel rolled over his legs as crazed stagecoach horses galloped down the potholed trail.
Rosita had already fainted, Clarissa's teeth chattered with fear, and Maria Dolores knew that someone had to stop the horses, but she was afraid of heights, never mind when the stagecoach rocked from side to side and bounced up and down. If one of the horses stepped into a gopher hole, it would be head over heels, and little Natalie might be killed. Some women have a fierce nurturing instinct, and perhaps it caused Maria Dolores to open the door of the stagecoach.
“Where are you going?” shouted Clarissa.
Maria Dolores didn't answer as she reached for the rail atop the coach. A clod of dirt kicked by a horse struck the side of her head, nearly knocking her cold, and she almost fell out the door, but managed to catch a grip. Then she worked her body around, almost dropped beneath iron-clad hooves, and made the mistake of looking back to see what the army was doing. She froze at the sight of blurred desert, a wheel hit a chunk of igneous rock, her skirts flew into the air, and a curious coyote beneath a sagebrush watched as she passed, wondering if that healthy leg was supper.
Maria Dolores pulled toward the top of the stagecoach, then placed her feet on the window. She reached for cords holding the baggage and climbed atop the stagecoach as it jiggled and danced murderously.
Stagecoach horses strained against the wind, trying to escape Apache death, while dragoons rode beside the coach, hoping to stop the runaways. No Apaches were in sight, Natalie shrieked, and Maria Dolores thanked God for significant favors as she crawled toward the box where the driver had sat, a few drops of blood marking his hasty departure.
Maria Dolores had never driven a stagecoach before, but thought a Hail Mary might help, not to mention an Our Father, as she wrestled the reins. The coach nearly pitched into the sage, the wheel hitting the bleached skull of a steer.
She noticed horses slowing down, her glazed eyes focused upon a dragoon holding the reins of the nigh leader, while a corporal grabbed the harness of the other lead horse. The stagecoach finally halted, and Maria Dolores's skirt flew into the air as she jumped to the ground. Then she pulled open the stagecoach door and saw Clarissa aiming a pistol straight at her nose. Natalie continued to wail.
Dragoon officers and soldiers gathered around the side of the stagecoach. Then Captain Tolbert, a narrow-waisted brown-bearded officer, dismounted. “We appear to have survived,” he said. “But the driver wasn't so lucky.”
“Where are the Apaches?” asked Maria Dolores.
“We chased ‘em off.”
Maria Dolores dropped to her knees, where she gave thanks to God alongside Rosita, while Clarissa unbuttoned her dress. “Time to feed Natalie,” she said.
The soldiers withdrew, Captain Tolbert closed the door, and nearby soldiers laid out the body of a private who'd been killed, an arrow protruding from his chest, while three others were bandaged by comrades. Now Maria Dolores understood more clearly how soldiers earned the coins they squandered in her saloons. Nathanial sometimes had been grumpy upon return from escort duty, and she could imagine what blood and death he might have witnessed only the previous day.
If all officers resigned their commissions, she thought, where would I be right now?
Defeated Jicarilla warriors gathered by a stream to drink and bathe wounds, and José Largo felt disgraced, for he had led a failed raid. My ambition was greater than my good judgment, he analyzed, bleeding from a head wound as he bandaged his arm with his torn shirt. I should not have accepted the odds, and no one will follow me again.
It was another blow to the Jicarillas, on top of so many others. Perhaps on another day they could have overwhelmed the White Eyes, but they were weakened by inadequate rations, and fast-firing pistols had been fierce. They'd left dead warriors behind, barely escaping the withering barrage.
Jicarilla warriors had endured too many retreats, losses, and failures. They hoped they could find fire-water as they limped off the field of honor.
Seema bent over the pot, stirring mule meat stew. Not far way, Sunny Bear sat in front of the wickiup, fastening a carrizo reed arrow to a hardwood tip. Three warriors passed the front of Sunny Bear's wickiup, each carrying squirming leather sacks. They were the snake society, returning from a collecting expedition. The rattlesnakes were deposited in the snake lodge, and Sunny Bear estimated forty had been incarcerated already.
He returned his gaze to his third wife, who stirred her stew, wearing the usual voluminous skirt and blouse, but he knew she was lithe and small-breasted, not shy about seeking her own pleasure. Sunny Bear thought there was something wonderful about having a woman available to do his lascivious bidding, and all he had to do was feed her, a bargain for a jaded New Yorker.
He arose and walked toward her. “I want to talk with you . . . in the wickiup.”
She could have refused, for a woman of the People always could find an excuse, such as watching the pot of stew, but Seema had been without a man too long and realized she might be without one again. She daintily lay down the branch that had been her spoon, then proceeded to the wickiup. He waited several minutes, so as not to attract attention, then followed her inside.
Meanwhile, Juh carried his writhing bag toward the snake lodge. A crowd had gathered, and among them was his son, Running Deer. “Can I see inside, Father?” the boy asked.
“You are too young, my boy.”
The boy raised his scarred arm. “I have the power of the bat.”
Juh studied the child. He will become a great warrior, or the first one killed. “Can the power of the bat defeat the power of the snake?” he inquired.
“The bat will catch the snake in his claws and eat him up.”
“What if the snake bites the bat?”
“The bat is too smart.”
“We shall see,” said Juh. “Follow me.”
Jun crawled into the darkened snake lodge, followed by Running Deer. A horrible stench arose from the stack of knotted ever-moving reptiles on the far side of the wickiup, like an amorphous, glistening monster behind a fence of tightly woven grasses, leaves, and branches. The serpents shook their rattles, producing a terrific din. Juh opened his bag and threw it toward the pile, but held the bottom. A fat rattlesnake came flying out, landed on the pile, raised his head and tail simultaneously, and trembled his rattles.
One snake lunged at Juh, who snatched it out of the air. Grasping the thrashing creature by the throat, he held it in front of Running Deer. The serpent snapped its jaws at the boy, but was unable to reach him. Its forked tongue darted out of its mouth as he searched for means to escape, but the grip held it tightly.
“I am not afraid of you,” said Running Deer, staring into the snake's slitted eyes.
“That is because your father is holding me by the throat,” the snake seemed to reply. “Let him turn me loose, and we'll see how brave you are.”
“Let him go,” said Running Deer to Juh.
Juh was astonished by the demand, for he had not heard the snake speak. “What for?”
“To prove I am not afraid.”
“It is not necessary. I believe you.”
“The snake does not.”
“How do you know?”
“He has told me so.”
Juh didn't consider the child loco, for hidden forces dominated the People's world, and all was not as it appeared. “If you are not afraid, my son, perhaps you should be. This snake is a fast and deadly enemy.”
“But I have the power of the bat. I said turn him loose!”
It was almost an order. Running Deer looked like a small, staunch warrior, exuding absolute self-confidence.
“How can I let you be killed?” pleaded Juh.
“If you believe in me, you must do as I say.”
Juh understood the ramifications of faith, so he dropped the rattlesnake. “It shall be as you say.”
He stepped back, and the snake landed, coiled quickly, and faced the boy. “You are a dead weasel,” it said, snapping forward.
The boy sprang, clawed at the snake's throat, but the snake was already gone. A moment later, Running Deer felt two pricks on his arm. The serpent slithered along the floor, shaking rattles. “I have killed you,” it said victoriously.
The snake lodge spun around Running Deer, his eyes went white, and he collapsed before the coiled rattler. Juh seized the snake, tossed it back with the others, drew his blade, made to quick X cuts on the site of the fang punctures, and sucked poison out of the boy's arm.
Running Deer will learn a valuable lesson, thought Juh, if he lives. A warrior must never be vainglorious, even a warrior such as I. Juh spat venom onto the floor of the snake lodge, then resumed his efforts, but the poison was loose in the boy's body, and his life depended upon the benevolence of the mountain spirits.
The Gila Expedition continued its journey toward the upper Gila, but was running out of water. As Juh was fastening his lips to Running Deer's arm, Colonel Bonneville gazed angrily at a brackish pool lying in the midst of cottonwood trees. “What does it taste like?” he inquired.
Captain Covington didn't care to conduct the experiment, so he looked at Sergeant Harris, who in turn cast his eye upon Private Donneghy. The hapless soldier dropped to his knees and dipped his hat into the water, then raised it to his lips, took a sip, made a horrible face, and spat the liquid onto the grass. “Tastes like piss,” he said.
Colonel Bonneville struggled to keep his temper under control as he turned to Pablo, one of his guides. “I thought you said the water would be potable.”
Pablo was a slouching desperado with a perpetual expression of disgust on his bearded features. “Un pocito mas," he said.
“That's what you told me last time, you son-of-a-bitch,” replied Colonel Bonneville.
The cattle were wheezing and glassy-eyed, obviously ill from thirst. The men were no better, and even the distinguished colonel's throat was parched, his tongue a wad of cotton. He deeply desired to shoot the Mexican, but that wouldn't get him water.
He didn't relish passing a thirsty night, but his scouts and spies obviously were incompetent. “Captain Covington, would you send out more scouts? And tell Captain Hargreaves that I wish to speak with him.”
Colonel Bonneville sat on a rock and lit a cigar as soldiers pitched his tent. When it was erect, he clomped inside, closed the flap, opened one of his packs, pulled out the flask of whiskey, and took a swig.
He could return to Fort Thorn, but would become the laughingstock of the army, and when the history of the West was written, he'd be called an idiot. No, he needed to resume his flawed campaign, and if a few men died of thirst, they had volunteered for adventure, and there was no greater adventure than searching for water in an arid land.
“Sir?” asked Captain Covington outside his tent. “I have Captain Hargreaves.”
“Send him in.”
The flap was pushed to the side, and dirty, black-bearded Beau Hargreaves appeared more a pirate than an army officer. He drew himself to attention in front of the desk and threw a salute.
“Have a seat,” said Old Bonny Clabber. He tossed the flask to Beau. “Help yourself.”
Beau took a healthy swallow, then returned the flask to its position of attention upon the desk. Colonel Bonneville declared, “Our unfortunate situation, and the suffering of our poor animals, is due to the company of scouts and spies and their inability to locate water. I have lost confidence in their commanding officer, and you will replace him as of right now. The spies and scouts must understand they're in the army, and if they continue their errors, I shall order a firing squad. Any questions?”
Beau looked both ways, then lowered his voice. “Sir, I can't promise anything unless you give me a free hand.”
“Do what you believe necessary, and I shall back you completely. Anything else?”
“The only thing such men understand is main force, sir.”
“Apply it as you see fit, Captain Hargreaves.”
By the time Beau arrived at the scout and spy company, his predecessor had decamped. The men awaited their new commanding officer, and when they spotted him, followed by a sergeant and orderly, they winked and guffawed up their sleeves. The scouts and spies were adventurers, wild men, failed prospectors, and lost souls who somehow had landed in New Mexico Territory, where they discovered no escape from their own rotten cores.
“Sergeant Henderson,” said Beau, “I want two ranks right here.”
Sergeant Henderson was a squat redheaded Mexican War veteran with a long swooping mustache. “You heard him,” he told the scouts and spies.
They glanced at each other in disbelief. “Hold on,” said Finney, who wore a thick brown beard to his chest and one golden earring. “We ain't in the army.”
“Oh, yes you are,” replied Sergeant Henderson. “On yer feet, you rat-faced bastard!”
“Up yer ass,” snarled Finney, who refused to move.
The sergeant whipped out his gun. “I ain't a-gonna tell you again.”
“Then don't,” Finney pulled out his own pistol and waved it through the air. “Who the hell do you think yer talkin’ to—one of these damned ‘cruits?”
“I'll take care of this, Sergeant,” said Beau.
All eyes turned to the captain, his frame like the trunk of a ponderosa pine. “What in hell do we have here?” asked Finney derisively. “Is it an officer I see.”
Everyone glared at Beau, distracted from Sergeant Henderson, who pulled his trigger. His Colt Navy fired, and an astounded expression came over Finney's face, then his eyes closed, and he collapsed onto the ground. The scouts went for their guns, but Beau's Company B materialized from the night, armed and ready for action.
The scouts looked at each other sheepishly, surrounded and outnumbered. They returned their guns to their holsters and formed two ranks in front of Sergeant Henderson, who proceeded to call the roll. No one made a move to help Finney, who lay groaning and wheezing on the ground.
Beau addressed his conglomeration of outcasts and criminals, his foot on Finney's chest. “You will become disciplined soldiers, or suffer the fate of this pile of horse manure you see lying on the ground. What's it going to be?”
After sundown the People gathered in front of the snake lodge, a bonfire blazing nearby. Sunny Bear sat among the warriors, while Seema had joined the ranks of married ladies, instead of the disreputable bizahn women. She held her head high, as in the days when her former husband had been alive, and prayed the Snake Dance would confer power upon her new husband, whom she didn't care to lose in the battle ahead. Oh, lord of snakes, make my husband strong.
A grinding sound cam
e from the snake lodge, then Nana appeared at the entrance, parrot feathers in his hair. He carried a rattle in each hand, which produced the sound, and wore a painted knee-length cotton cloth skirt to which coyote and fox fur had been attached in back, hanging to his heels. His body and face were painted black, and a rattle had been attached to his right knee.
Then Cuchillo Negro stepped out of the snake lodge, carrying a basket of pollen, which he flung in all directions. Next came Mangas Coloradas, holding a necklace of bear teeth in his left hand, and rattling a T-shaped instrument in his right.
In rows of four the rest of the snake dancers advanced from the lodge, all dressed alike, and formed a circle around the campfire. They stomped their right feet as they worked their rattles and chanted slowly. “Oh-ye-haw, oh-ye-haw, ha-yee-ha-ha-yee-ha-ha-hi-ha-a-a-a.”
Alongside the fire musicians pounded drums as the dancers ceremoniously returned to the snake lodge. They went inside, drumbeats reverberating across the mountaintop, and then a small boy was carried out, Nathanial's son, Running Deer, pale and unconscious, atop a cradle of sotol stalks.
The boy was laid beside the fire, and the dancers returned to the lodge. Drumbeats increased in volume as the dancers returned, half their number carrying snakes, while the others distracted angry reptiles with long wands that they waved before the snakes slitted bloodshot eyes. Snake dancers twirled, carrying deadly cargo, while the noxious odor from the snake lodge swept over the assembly.
The dancers spun around the fire, fondling snakes, even kissing them, as assistants held the snakes’ attention by poking wands into their noses. Drums pounded as dancers whirled with greater frenzy, snakes knotting and unknotting, and then Sunny Bear saw something that made him gasp.
Nana had placed the body of a snake in his mouth and was dancing with his arms out, eyes closed as if in a trance. Then other dancers followed his example, and soon all were shuffling with snakes between their teeth, absorbing snake excrescences into their bodies, but the snakes didn't seem to mind, perhaps experiencing a euphoria all their own.
