White Apache

by Len Levinson

  A dancer threw leaves onto the fire, producing clouds of fragrant smoke. Spectators joined the dance, careful to keep clear of the snakes. Running Deer's mother could be seen in the melee, pouring her soul into the healing effort.

  The hypnotic rhythm drew Nathanial to his feet. Employing special steps learned during his sojourn on the lightning-blasted mountain, he advanced toward the fire. Even the camp dogs watched as he somersaulted among them, then came to rest in front of Nana, who still carried the snake in his teeth.

  Nana removed the snake so he could speak. “Sunny Bear, you try to be one of us, but you are always holding back.”

  “There is no separation between the People and me, unless it is made by the People,” replied Sunny Bear.

  “Look around you,” said Nana. “You are the only warrior who wears unsightly facial hair. Why do you keep it, Pindah soldier?”

  “Well, shaving is a waste of time.”

  “Perhaps that is your fatal flaw, a laziness that prevents you from being great.”

  Sunny Bear made his way toward Seema. The American side of his brain thought he was ridiculous, but the Apache half knew better. He stopped in front of her and said: “Boil water, woman.”

  “As you wish, my husband,” she replied.

  They returned to their wickiup, where she prepared water, and he rummaged through his old army saddlebags, finding the razor, sharpening stone, and soap that the former officer had used to trim his beard. Drums rolled as he stroked the razor over stone. Seema carried in the pot of hot water, then searched her meager belongings for a triangle of broken mirror wrapped in leather. She held it for her husband as he soaped his beard, then he commenced the agonizing process of shaving, lacerating himself several times.

  “The mountain spirits appreciate such gestures,” said Seema solemnly.

  Sunny Bear looked at his bare face for the first time since leaving West Point, and his chin still was there, more sharply defined that he'd remembered. He wrapped the red cloth around his hair and gazed in the mirror at a strange clean-shaven blond Apache with a mad glint in his eye. “Time to return to the dance, my dear,” he told her.

  The sacred Snake Dance continued as little Running Deer lay still beside the fire. White clouds of smoke roiled into the air as more holy leaves and branches were piled on. Even the snakes wagged their jewellike heads from side to side in time to the beat.

  Jocita bowed as she prayed for the life of her only son. She recalled him as a baby who loved to play with fire, until he became burned. Oh mountain spirits, give me my son.

  She noticed dancers becoming silent. Raising her eyes, a strange apparition came forth, as if Child of Water had returned to the homeland, but closer inspection revealed Sunny Bear without his beard. He joined the other dancers, but his steps and intonations were his own, his leaps especially impressive. Sunny Bear is dancing for Running Deer, Jocita realized. With such devotion, how can the medicine fail?

  Eleven

  After reveille Beau found Colonel Bonneville studying maps at his desk. “Sir, you may hear a rumor that one of the scouts was shot for insubordination last night. That, of course, is untrue. He was cleaning his pistol, and it went off by mistake.”

  “Happens all the time,” croaked Colonel Bonneville. “When your men are fed, send them out for water, and if any run off, so much the better.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I've already sent them out.”

  Colonel Bonneville smiled with cracked aching lips. “Excellent.”

  After Captain Hargreaves departed, Colonel Bonneville glanced at the morning report, noting that Private Jeremiah Finney had been transferred to the sick tent, following a gun accident. Old Bonney Clabber knew that in the fullness of time the report would arrive in Washington D.C., to be stored in a basement beneath the War Department, where it would stand as the historical record, despite its falsity.

  Old Bonney Clabber signed Captain Hargreaves's morning report, wondering how many other so-called facts of history were based on dishonest reports, lying journals, and slanted newspaper stories. The plight of one of his former commanding officers, General Zachary Taylor, sprang immediately to mind. Known as “Old Rough and Ready” among the men, he became president of the United States in ‘50, and labored valiantly to resolve the slavery issue, but had been hounded to his grave by the press, who'd called him a bumbling old failure. Generations to come would believe the lie, never knowing his courage, brilliance, and devotion to duty.

  Colonel Bonneville recalled the scandal concerning Thomas Jefferson, accused by Federalist enemies of sleeping with one of his slaves, and fathering a number of mixed blood children, another so-called fact widely believed but never proven.

  How will history portray me? wondered Old Bonney Clabber. Will they say I was an overstuffed voluptuary who remained in the army beyond my usefulness, living off my past, which itself would be brought into question? But journalists love a victor, and if I defeat the Mimbreno Apaches, I will be remembered as a hero, provided I and my command don't die of thirst before we see an Apache.

  The People emerged sleepily from their wickiups, the sun halfway to its zenith. Women prepared the first meal as members of the snake society stuffed exhausted rattlers into sacks, rode to a canyon a fair distance away, and unceremoniously dumped them. “So long, good friends,” said Nana. “May we meet again under happy circumstances.”

  The snake society returned to camp shortly before the sun was overhead and joined other warriors in preparation for war, the implications of which were becoming more clear to Sunny Bear, sitting in front of his wickiup. I should return to Clarissa, but now I have a sick Apache son to worry about as well.

  It would be considered ill-mannered to abstain from paying his respects to the boy's putative parents, so after checking his pistol to make sure it was loaded, clean, and in good working order, he sauntered toward the wickiup where Nana was treating Running Deer and was invited inside.

  Running Deer lay naked, his body dotted with pollen, on an albino deerskin by the fire, with Nana, Juh, and Jocita in attendance. “He is much improved, I am happy to say,” said Nana. “The Snake Dance was powerful medicine.”

  The boy's color had heightened, a bandage of leaves and vegetative paste covering the X cuts on his arm. Sunny Bear raised his eyes to Jocita, who appeared magnificent in her grief, while Juh was silent, his face expressionless.

  After the visit Sunny Bear strolled alone in the chaparral, reflecting upon the People's healing arts. Are mountain spirits more preposterous than the Immaculate Conception? he wondered. Or the Incarnation, or the parting of the Red Sea? What if all legends, sagas, and theology are true?

  While dwelling upon the incomprehensible, Sunny Bear noticed Cuchillo Negro approach on the trail, smoking his pipe. “I have been looking for you, Sunny Bear. We are going after the sheep that Tomas has requested. Will you come along as apprentice?”

  Sunny Bear bowed his head. “It is an honor to be chosen.”

  Cuchillo Negro looked at Sunny Bear, then placed his hand upon his shoulder. “I have come to admire you, Sunny Bear. You have taught me that a White Eyes is not inherently bad, and there is a possibility for peace between our peoples.”

  “It will not be for many harvests, I fear.” replied Sunny Bear.

  “Good, because first we must steal those sheep.” Cuchillo Negro laughed as he walked away.

  Chuntz returned to the encampment, reported to Mangas Coloradas in the chief's wickiup, and detailed everything he'd seen north of Albuquerque, including the wasted attack by Jicarillas on three Pindah stagecoaches, but omitted his effort to betray the People.

  “You have done good work,” said Mangas Coloradas, “but there is big trouble. A bluecoat army has invaded the homeland, and we are moving against them this sun. Are you with us?”

  “I am tired by my long journey,” said Chuntz, “and will catch up tomorrow. What are you going to do?”

  “Hit them every which way,” replied the chi
ef of the Mimbrenos.

  Cuchillo Negro and his warriors departed the encampment in the late afternoon with their apprentice, Sunny Bear, formerly of New York City. The warriors waved farewell to their families, and Sunny Bear's eyes fell on Jocita, sitting beside the bed on which lay his Apache son, who had become conscious and managed to smile at the mounted warriors.

  As the raiding party progressed onto the open land, Sunny Bear prayed the boy would survive. Cuchillo Negro rode in front, his majestic nose cutting the wind, gray hair trailing behind. He worked his mount into a trot, and the other warriors followed dutifully.

  War parties continued leaving throughout the day, and shortly before dusk, the great chief Mangas Coloradas took the field with the bulk of his best warriors. Left behind to guard the camp were women, children, and warriors too old to travel, with Jocita as war chief.

  In days to come Colonel Bonneville would receive reports of Apache depredations throughout New Mexico Territory.

  At West Point Cadet Buck Barrington fenced with his instructor, Count Clemence de Maulincour, formerly of the seventh Chasseurs, now in exile from his country. They wore wire masks, white suits, and white boots as they danced backward and forward in straight lines, parrying, lunging, riposting.

  Buck knew how to keep his knees bent, wrists limber, and never removed his eyes from his opponent's foil. He also knew the feint, a most important ploy, and always remained cool under attack, standing his ground. It appeared the Frenchman was tiring, so Buck flicked his wrist suddenly. The count tried to parry the thrust, but Buck's foil touched his opponent's tunic.

  The count looked at the point of contact, then removed his mask, revealing a long face and teeth stained by tobacco. “Excellent,” he said. “You are improving very rapidly, Cadet Barrington.”

  Few cadets ever bested the instructor, said to be one of the best in the world. Apparently, I have an aptitude for this profession, Buck surmised afterward, as he changed to his duty uniform. Maybe the army's not a bad choice for a fellow like me. How can I expect others to protect my family, when I am young and strong and should protect them myself?

  ***

  The caravan arrived in Santa Fe, one horse with empty saddle, its owner buried on the trail. The procession stopped before the Palace of Governors, and the door was opened by Captain Tolbert. “I'll find a wagon to help with your things,” he told the ladies.

  After he strode off, Rosita said to Clarissa, “I think he likes you.”

  “Don't be absurd,” replied Clarissa testily.

  Maria Dolores leaned toward her. “I noticed it too. He cannot keep his eyes off you, and he is not that bad-looking.”

  Captain Tolbert returned with an army ambulance, similar to a stagecoach, and two soldiers. “Nothing is too good for the wife of an officer,” he said, “especially the two wives of the same officer.”

  What a mindless remark, thought Clarissa. Soldiers loaded luggage on top, then they began the final journey to Maria Dolores's home. Maria Dolores had invited Clarissa to stay with her until Clarissa found a place of her own.

  During the ride Clarissa felt uncomfortable about Captain Tolbert's obvious interest, because she feared temptation. Oh Nathanial, why'd you have to get yourself killed? You've made my life so complicated.

  They arrived at Dolores's adobe mansion in a residential neighborhood not far from the Palace of Governors. As the soldiers unloaded the baggage, a horse and rider galloped around the corner. The rider had immense shoulders, was dressed like a cowboy, his face brutally ugly in Clarissa's opinion. He pulled his horse to a halt, jumped down from the saddle, ran toward Maria Dolores, and took her in his arms. “About time you got back,” he said. “I been missin’ ya.”

  Clarissa watched with astonishment as the monster touched his thick lips to the curvaceous ones of Maria Dolores. He reminded Clarissa of bull. Then Maria Dolores pushed him away. “Clarissa, this is one of my employees, Mr. McCabe.”

  He took off his hat, revealing thick black hair. “How do ya do, missy. And what might yer name be?”

  “Clarissa Barrington.”

  Maria Dolores told him, “She's my former husband's second wife, and she's going to be staying with me for a while.” McCabe appeared puzzled.

  As servants carried luggage into the house, Captain Tolbert sidled closer to Clarissa and said in a voice barely above a whisper, “May I call on you sometime?”

  The half moon shone dully on a herd of sheep sleeping on a wide green mesa. Nearby tents protected shepherds from possible inclement weather, but not from inclement Apaches. Two shepherds were awake, watching the herd and chatting about the senoritas of Janos, when hoofbeats came to their ears. The conversation terminated abruptly, shepherds hopped onto their horses and rode toward the tents. “Apaches!” they cried. “Run for your lives!”

  Heads appeared from the tents, followed by guns and half-naked men. They ran terrified into the night, not bothering to protect their horses, because they knew from bitter experience that they had no chance against Apaches.

  Meanwhile, warriors descended upon the flock, hooting and shouting, smacking them with whips. The terrified sheep bleated as they ran on stumpy legs in the direction chosen. Sunny Bear watched from a hillock not far away, marveling at the efficiency of the theft, no blood spilled, a drama enacted repeatedly in the People's homeland, as they collected rent for use of their property.

  In a remote corner of the desert the morning dawned on a running flock of sheep, warriors behind and at their sides, urging them on. The warriors had tied together the horns of the strongest sheep, positioning them along the flanks of the flock and using them as mobile fences. The warriors and flock could travel seventy miles a day, while the army was lucky if it covered fifteen, and ten was more likely.

  The warriors maintained their rapid pace until sundown when they camped near a lake surrounded by juniper trees and grama grass. Barbonsito roasted one of the sheep as darkness came to the land. Due to war rituals, talking was kept to a minimum, because talking invariably becomes pointless, boastful, and distracting. Sunny Bear was grateful for the silence, because he felt more confused than usual. What will I do if the U.S. army happens to cut our trail? he wondered. If it comes to life and death, could I defend myself against the flag I have sworn to serve and kill other American soldiers?

  Before bedding down, Cuchillo Negro wandered into the wilderness to relieve himself. He glanced about, then proceeded to loosen his rawhide belt when something fluttered in tangled vegetation before him. A winged creature arose, Cuchillo Negro reached for his black knife, and then, to his horror, an immense owl flew at him, hooting angrily at being disturbed.

  Cuchillo Negro was struck with terror, for the most terrible calamity had occurred. Owls were ghosts of criminals, according to the wisdom of the People, and the great warrior cowered as the owl hooted and angrily smacked him with its wings. Then the owl soared into the sky, circled above Cuchillo Negro, and flew away.

  Cuchillo Negro dropped to his knees and trembled. It did not occur to him that a simple coincidence had happened, and he'd merely stumbled upon another creature of the wilderness. All events held occult significance for Apaches, none more deadly than an encounter with an owl.

  The old war chief struggled to overcome owl sickness that swept through his lungs, causing him to gasp for air. He returned to the camp and went to bed immediately, so no one could see his suffering. But he couldn't sleep that night as the owl monster dug its talons into his soul.

  Dr. Michael Steck's urgent letter never reached George W. Manypenny, commissioner of Indian Affairs, for the latter had resigned on March 11, 1857, due to complications arising from the usual Washington bickering and infighting.

  Manypenny had been succeeded by James W. Denver, born in Frederick County, Virginia, a former lawyer, another veteran of the Mexican War, who once shot a newspaper editor in a duel. Following satisfactory performance as a bureaucrat on railroad and telegraph committees, he had been appointed by Presid
ent Buchanan as commissioner of Indian Affairs, although neither the president nor Denver possessed any experience whatever with Indians.

  As an experienced government worker, Denver knew better than to step on sensitive toes, nor did he wish to become embroiled in conflicts that had brought down his predecessor. He didn't comprehend fully the contradictions of his new position, but couldn't let that stop the pursuit of his duties. During his first weeks at the new post, he usually sat behind his desk in a newly completed wing of the Patent Office Building, with the Department of the Interior and General Land Office down the hall, and read the backlog of correspondence.

  Midway down the pile, he came across a letter from Dr. Michael Steck, agent to the Apaches, a man whom Denver never had met. The letter was addressed to Manypenny, but since it was official correspondence, Denver had no compunction about opening the envelope.

  His eyes widened with alarm as he read denunciations of military officers mentioned by name. Denver was shocked, for no experienced government employee would dare express himself so honestly. The letter seemed to singe Denver's fingers, but he knew precisely what to do. Dr. Steck evidently is not a very sensible individual, thought the newly appointed commissioner. He tore up the document, then dropped it into his wastebasket.

  Twelve

  The lake shimmered in the distance, and scouts urged their horses onward, but water-starved creatures needed no encouragement, their huge luminescent eyes glowing with desire. Behind the scouts slogged the Gila Expedition, tongues hanging out the mouths of horses and men alike, and Colonel Bonneville was ready to collapse from lack of water, for he was the oldest man in the brown barren valley.

  Beau rode among the scouts and spies, and even he, a healthy man in the prime of life, felt dizzy, tongue swollen in his mouth, lips cracked, with the headache of his life. He intended to take off his clothes and dive headfirst into the lake and drink to his belly's content.