by Len Levinson
Together they departed Maria Dolores's home, headed for their new life together.
Maria Dolores's lover was known as McCabe, a broad-shouldered brute employed to break up fights and keep order at the Silver Palace Saloon, one of her many properties. He always appeared to need a shave regardless of the time of day, preferring baggy cowboy clothes for comfort. A veteran of the Mexican War, he had seen sights and committed deeds that had seared his soul.
He was considered ugly, but for some reason women always had been attracted to McCabe, and he'd slept with a good many before falling in love with Maria Dolores Barrington. But now her former husband was in town, and he feared she'd go back to him for the sake of the children, both of whom hated McCabe. No matter how sweetly McCabe behaved, the kids simply would not warm to him.
He knocked on her door, expecting his rival to open it, but instead one of the Mexican maids responded, leading McCabe to Maria Dolores's office, where she sat with little Carmen, and the eyes of both were red with crying.
“What the hell happened?” asked McCabe.
Maria Dolores was so angry, she couldn't even speak, so little Carmen explained, “Papa was mean to Mama, then left with Zachary.”
McCabe hated Nathanial, whom he considered an arrogant West Point prig. They had met fleetingly after Nathanial returned from the Apaches and taken an instant dislike to each other.
“Where'd he go?” asked McCabe.
Nathanial and Zachary waited for a procession of wagons to pass, then crossed busy Washington Street and entered the Sagebrush Saloon, half empty that time of the day. There was a bar on the left, tables to the right, and a small dance floor in back, where a man played an out-of-tune piano.
Nathanial selected a table in the middle of the floor between a group of men playing poker and a gentleman reading a newspaper. Zachary sat beside his father, trying to understand what was so marvelous about a dirty, smelly hall full of derelicts and prostitutes, one of the latter approaching the table.
“Two steak dinners,” said Nathanial, “and a glass of whiskey for me, with a glass of milk for my son.”
“We ain't got milk,” replied the waitress, a freckled wench about fifteen. “This ain't no cow barn.”
“Surely, you can find some,” muttered Nathanial, stuffing coins into her hand.
Her attitude changed instantly. “Yessir,” she replied, then walked cheerfully away.
Nathanial believed that he'd neglected his son's education and was eager to impart his experience, knowledge, and hard-won conclusions. Meanwhile, at the bar, a cowboy fell off a stool and lay immobilized on the floor.
“That,” declared Nathanial, pointing toward the inert form, “is a clear demonstration of why we should not drink excessively.”
“But Mother said you're a drunk,” protested Zachary.
“It's true, but I'm a drunk in moderation, and there's nothing wrong with a hand of cards, either, but don't bet the farm. And if you find yourself against a cheater, simply fold your hand and walk away. Because a gentleman does not have dealings with cheaters, he will refuse to dirty his hands on them, and you must never under any circumstances be a cheater yourself.” Nathanial placed his hand on his son's shoulder and intoned, “Because honor is the most important quality a man can have, and it is better to die than dishonor yourself.”
“But Mother said you were the worst person in the world.”
“I sit before you in the nakedness of my sins, but if there's anything you remember—it's this: Hate is the twin of love.”
Zachary feared his father, doubted his fundamental good sense, yet loved and probably hated him. “I will do as you say,” he said simply.
“One of these days I'll introduce you to my Apache friends. When I lived among them, I met boys not much older than you who'd killed grown men. But this is a morbid subject. What would you like to talk about?”
“Tell me more about Apaches,” said Zachary.
“Honor is the foundation of their lives. That's why they refuse to surrender to the greater military power of the white man. What're you looking at?”
Nathanial noticed his son staring toward the door, his jaw dropping open in surprise. Nathanial turned, and his blood ran cold at the sight of McCabe reconnoitering the territory. There he is, thought Nathanial—the man who's planking Maria Dolores.
Nathanial despised McCabe, because the ex-officer felt inferior to the fellow who satisfied his former wife romantically. Meanwhile, McCabe spotted Nathanial, and Zachary felt afraid, because something terrible appeared about to occur.
McCabe crossed the floor, came to a halt at the edge of the table, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and appeared ready for mortal combat. “You'd best stay away from Maria Dolores,” he said, “or I'll kill you.”
McCabe spoke softly, and other saloon patrons hadn't heard the threat. Cards were slapped onto a nearby table, and someone laughed at the bar. Nathanial slowly rose to his feet, his hand near his Colt .36. “Move away from the table, son,” he said.
Zachary followed orders, for his father had spoken in a voice that brooked no objection. The boy looked at his father and then at his mother's lover glowering malevolently at each other with the table between them. “Get the hell away from me,” replied Nathanial, also talking softly, “before I lose my temper.”
But McCabe didn't move, while his face bore mute testimony to powerful emotions. “You fancy-pants son-of-a-bitch—you're real rough when it comes to women, but your temper don't impress me one bit.”
Zachary stared wide-eyed as his father walked around the table and came face-to-face with McCabe. “You filthy pig,” he said, staring at McCabe's eyes from a distance of twelve inches.
McCabe launched a left cross, his intention to cave in the side of Nathanial's skull, but Nathanial blocked the blow with his right arm, then delivered"? a solid hook to McCabe's cheek. Nathanial felt as if his knuckles had cracked, but McCabe flinched only slightly as he responded with a roundhouse right to Nathanial's liver, one of the most sensitive spots in Nathanial's body.
Nathanial felt as if someone had jammed a spear into him, but some men fight harder when hurt, and he leapt onto McCabe, reaching with both hands for McCabe's throat, but the latter stepped to the side and threw a sharp uppercut to the point of Nathanial's chin.
Nathanial saw the Milky Way and the aurora bore-alis as he tried to clear his head. Meanwhile, he and McCabe had caught the attention of other saloon patrons, who formed a circle and placed wagers on the outcome. Zachary had to climb on a table to see over their heads.
Matters didn't appear hopeful for his father, who was being backed up by the ferocity of McCabe's attack. Both combatants showed blood on their faces, and Zachary wondered what would happen if his father was killed. Guess I'll have to shoot McCabe, he thought in his childish mind.
Meanwhile, Nathanial realized he had lost the fine edge of speed and physical strength he'd possessed when living among the Apaches. He tried to block McCabe's punches, but unfortunately one sneaked past his guard and pulped his lips. I've got to get my offense working, determined Nathanial, as a long, looping right landed on his ear, knocking him over a table, which collapsed beneath his weight, and when Nathanial opened his eyes, he lay on the floor.
He looked up at McCabe, whose fists were balled, waiting for him to rise. Nathanial was tempted to surrender, but he thought of McCabe in bed with Maria Dolores, and the shame of being bested on the bed-sheets was more than he could bear.
“You don't look so tough to me, mister Army officer,” said McCabe contemptuously.
Nathanial realized how far he'd drifted from the holy Lifeway as he rose to his feet. He remembered Mangas Coloradas, Victorio, and Nana the medicine man, who had taught him the warrior way. He needed to move faster, concentrate his power, avoid McCabe's punches, and think, instead of stumble about wildly.
He went into an Apache crouch as McCabe charged, throwing punches from all angles, and again Nathanial retreated, looking for openings
, blocking blows, offering lateral movement. But McCabe pressed his attack, when a sturdy jab flattened his button nose, and a hook caught him on the cheek.
McCabe didn't flinch as he resumed forward motion. But too often his punches worried only the air, while he was taking more shots to the head. When he raised his hands to protect that target, Nathanial peppered his midsection with jabs and uppercuts, finally landing a solid shot on McCabe's liver. At the moment of contact all the misery in Nathanial welled up, and he went berserk, wanting to demolish the lover of Maria Dolores.
Both men stood toe to toe, chins down, flinging punches. Nathanial felt that every solid hit would damage Maria Dolores in a remote way, and this gave him renewed strength, while McCabe's nights of drinking and carousing had taken their toll. The more Nathanial thought of Maria Dolores's treachery, the more energy he seemed to acquire. At last he was paying her back, and it felt as if a volcano erupted inside him as he methodically tore McCabe apart. The accumulation of punches, plus a straight right to the chin, finally sent McCabe reeling. He tripped over a cuspidor, then raised himself immediately, only to be thrown down again by a one-two combination to the head.
This time McCabe didn't get up, and Nathanial felt exultant, as if he'd finally defeated nagging, hurtful Maria Dolores. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the nearest table, took a swig, and then looked down at his adversary, who lay unconscious and helpless at his feet. Nathanial wanted to stomp him, but could not go that far. Then an odd thought occurred to Captain Nathanial Barrington, formerly of the First Dragoons: How can I make peace in this territory if I can't stop fighting myself?
High in the Davis Mountains, nestled within a ravine that White Eyes had never seen, the encampment of renegade Mescalero Chief Gomez was a scattering of conical tipis among fir trees and waxflower bushes.
Chief Gomez had decided to rest, after two weeks of roving guerrilla warfare. Thirty-two years old, he was leader of 150 Mescaleros, the only warriors of that tribe living according to the holy Lifeway, which they had sworn to defend.
They had three head of stolen cattle, enough to feed everyone for perhaps a moon, and then they'd be off again, laying waste to the countryside. Chief Gomez's warriors were young, with muscular women fighting alongside the men, and no children, elderly, or valuable possessions to slow them down. The land was filling with miners and farmers; soldiers hunted ceaselessly for Apaches, and danger was everywhere.
The women arose to prepare breakfast, while warriors remained in their beds. The fragrance of roast horse meat filled the air, then warriors crawled out from beneath fur blankets.
Chief Gomez had much worry, for bluecoat scouts might cut his trail, but guards ringed the encampment, and the renegades were ready to counterattack or flee at a moment's notice. I will stay in camp one more day, he decided, Aleeya, his wife, poked her head into the tipi. “Panjaro is waiting to see you,” she said. “He wants to join us.”
Chief Gomez was not surprised, because hungry Mescaleros continually fled the reservation, augmenting his force. Chief Gomez put on his deerskin shirt, tied a red bandanna around his straight black hair, and crawled out of the tipi, where Panjaro, a bloody bandage on the side of his face, sat forlornly.
Chief Gomez kneeled before Panjaro, placed his hand on his shoulder, and said with a smile, “So you finally have come to your senses.”
It was Advent in the Sonoran desert, and rain pelted the canvas walls of Beau's tent, its roof leaking as he sat on his cot, smoking a cigarette and reading the Gospel according to Saint Matthew.
Think not that I am come to send peace on earth:
I came not to send peace, but a sword.
“Are you there?” asked a voice outside the tent.
“Welcome,” replied Beau.
Lieutenant Marrero, with a bushy black beard that hid his mouth, entered the tent. “There is a problem with the men,” he said. “They are tired of this scout and want to go home for Christmas.”
“I'll speak with them,” replied Beau.
Lieutenant Marrero shouted commands, was answered by curses, and a commotion broke out, for the soldiers didn't care to leave their tents and venture into the rain. Beau put on his gutta-percha coat and vaquero hat, then adjusted the gun in the holster on his hip, hidden beneath the coat. Meanwhile, sergeants rousted the men, pushing and insulting them, using force whenever necessary, although there were only two sergeants and twenty men. Grumbling, the men formed two ranks, dressed right, and covered down in the hissing rain.
Beau strode to a point in front of them, remained at attention, and shouted, “How many Mexican children will be kidnapped by Apaches, how many women murdered, and how many cattle stolen before you do your duty? Don't you know that the Apaches laugh at your ineptitude?”
Someone in the ranks murmured, “Listen to how the dirty gringo talks to us.”
Beau continued, “You are crying like children, but to defeat Apaches, you must be tougher than they. Don't you care about your flag? If we gringos could inflict heavy blows upon the Apaches, why can't you?”
“Just give us a chance,” said another voice in the ranks. “We'll show what we can do.”
“If a few drops of rain are too much for you, how can you stand up to the Apaches? Will I have to tell Colonel Garcia that you're a bunch of cowards?”
The soldiers stood straighter at the mention of that name. Beau nodded to Lieutenant Marrero, indicating he could dismiss the formation. Then Beau returned to his tent, removed his raincoat, and sat on his camp chair. Training is everything, he told himself, and after a few weeks in the field, they'll have more confidence. Give me enough time and I can make a soldier out of anybody, he thought. Next spring, when the Apaches come down from the mountains, we'll be ready for them.
Tom Oglethorpe went to town one afternoon, while Clarissa remained on the plantation, playing the piano. Toward evening, Tom hadn't returned, but Clarissa felt no jealousy, because she didn't love him in the least. After a supper of fried chicken and rice, she sat in the parlor and read John Keats:
I look where no one dares,
And I stare where no one stares,
And when the night is nigh,
Lambs bleat my lullaby.
The truth I care about is art, reflected Clarissa. But what does art require of me, and have I made a religion of art, instead of God? Christmas was coming, and she thought of her baby daughter in New York, her parents lamenting her flight to the backwaters of the South, her husband somewhere in New Mexico Territory if he still was alive. Clarissa was free to go anywhere, unlike Tom's Negroes, yet was enslaved by indecision. Should I return to Europe? she asked herself.
Her hearing was extremely acute, due to years of piano playing, and she caught traces of music from the slave quarters, then recalled the kitchen Negroes mentioning a party they intended to have. Opening a window, she heard strange cadences quite unlike Italian opera, church music, or the sentimental ballads of the day.
Roused from her torpor, she put on her coat and headed toward the slave quarters, drawn to the mysterious sounds. The air was redolent with wood smoke, lights shone through windows of the barn, and Clarissa felt enchanted by the strange music, which sounded like a man singing a weird nonchromatic tune to the accompaniment of strings, flutes, drums, and chanting. It was totally new, unlikely, impossible to conceive, not American or European, but apparently pure African.
She came to the opening of the barn, then froze at the fantastical sight of Negro men and women dancing, shaking their hips, clapping their hands, wagging their heads from side to side, as if in a trance. Clarissa didn't know what to think as she stood transfixed.
She recognized some of the slaves, but their usual sulkiness was gone as they enacted ancient tribal customs. Clarissa felt like an interloper, yet could not bring herself to leave. A fire burned in the center of the dancing circle, sending eerie shadows hopping along the wall. In a corner three girls chanted in high-pitched voices.
The repetition of musical
phrases and constant beat of the drum somehow enlivened Clarissa. She watched men and women wiggling shoulders and swiveling hips, and it was amazingly erotic, yet with no suggestion of lewdness. Clarissa found herself tapping her left foot and realized she was smiling. It was happy, Splitting music, not a funeral dirge.
This is how they behaved when they were free, figured Clarissa. Then they were captured by slavers and transported in chains to South Carolina. Clarissa could see clearly that slaves were human, although perhaps not identical to her in every respect. But she felt certain they experienced the same pain and sorrow and were capable of the same happiness.
Then out of the throng walked a short old man in threadbare clothes with a long, curly gray beard and baldness atop his head. Clarissa recognized him as Ebenezer, one of the house slaves. The elder stopped before her and smiled. “Want to dance?” he asked with a semi-toothless smile.
She held out her hand, which he accepted, then led her toward the fire, where the drummer pounded and dancers writhed weirdly. The old man let go of Clarissa's hand, then worked himself into the beat, holding his hands high, whirling like a young man. Clarissa perceived that the rhythm was simple to follow, given her years of music training, and the dance steps themselves were a simple two-step with unlimited variations.
She locked into the music, moving her hips awkwardly, for she'd never danced in this manner before. Everyone examined her, not with the usual grudging respect, but seemed to be welcoming her. Clarissa gave herself to the dance and discovered she wasn't as awkward as she'd thought. Indeed, the movements felt more natural as she continued, and her many frustrations receded in the chanting, shuffle of feet, and wail of the three girls.
The old man laughed. “You are a very good dancer,” he said.
She blushed with satisfaction as she spun around, her skirts rising in the air, and she found herself opposite a handsome young male slave with smooth ebony cheeks, a blunt but well-formed nose, and short curly hair. He had muscles that could crack her in two, yet he too was a skilled and graceful dancer, and he gazed directly into her eyes. I could give you pleasure, he seemed to be saying.
