Devil Dance

by Len Levinson

  “You have a right to defend yourself, but just make sure you don't cross the line. Otherwise, I'll bring the full weight of the law to bear against you, and if necessary, I'll clap you in jail myself.”

  Ortega raised an eyebrow. “You are one big hombre, but I do not think you are big enough to clap me in jail.”

  “Don't put me to the test,” replied Captain Barring-ton, formerly of the First Dragoons.

  It was Ghost Face among the People, the season” when snow covers the land. Their wickiups scattered on a plateau high in the Chiricahua Mountains, then-diet meager, they prepared for the destruction of Janos.

  Many warriors had sworn to participate, and Nana, the di-yin medicine man, was hard at work contriving Killer of Enemies Bandoliers, the most sacred and holy items a warrior could possess.

  First Nana had to kill the deer and cure the skin according to ancient rituals. Then the skin was cut into strands, measured into four parts, and each was painted either black, white, yellow, or blue, to represent the four directions.

  The strands were woven into a special cord, then hung with shells, pieces of sacred green chalchihuitl, crystals, petrified wood, beads, eagle down, bear claws, rattlesnake rattles, and circles of buckskin. Suspended at the end was the deerskin pouch filled with sacred pollen, bits of lightning-blasted wood, fragments of shells, and green malachite stones.

  Nana journeyed alone to the highest peak in the Chiricahua Mountains, where he spread the bandoliers on the rocks and prayed over them for four days and nights, while fasting and dancing.

  Chief Gomez's renegades couldn't afford prayer and dancing during Ghost Face, because they lacked life's necessities. Forced to continue raiding through the snow, they operated in small bands, taking a steer here, a mule there, a few sheep. They feared the wrath of the U.S. Army, but figured they were safe if they remained in motion.

  Most small ranchers had abandoned the territory, replaced by caudillos able to hire and arm private armies of fighting vaqueros. Every wagon train was heavily guarded, but if a vaquero fell asleep in the saddle, he could lose his weapons, clothing, and life.

  Chief Gomez and his warriors resembled wild animals more than men, with their long straight black hair covered with dust and nettles, not an ounce of fat on their bodies, their eyes fierce with alertness. They rampaged across eastern New Mexico Territory during early 1858, never committing a startling outrage, but the accumulation of minor depredations inflamed the local populace, while the Army could not catch fast-moving and wily adversaries.

  The situation worsened daily, and it appeared to Nathanial that a major tragedy was about to occur. No longer did he march with his chest out, stomach in, head level, but was bent with worry like a civilian, hands clasped behind his back. I'll never make peace in this territory, he admitted to himself. I'm wasting everybody's time, especially my own. Time to resign and move on?

  Since arriving in New Mexico Territory following the Mexican War, he'd harbored, in the deep recesses of his mind, an ambition to become a rancher. A growing nation needed beef, and newspapers were full of stories about railroad bills in Congress; one proposed a southern route through New Mexico Territory, which would more readily enable the marketing of beef. The Apaches won't steal the cattle and horses of old Sunny Bear, he figured. Hell, I was friends with Mangas Coloradas, Victorio, and all the others. Maybe it's time to start looking for land.

  Miss Andrews saw him approaching as she lectured her class on nouns and verbs. He appeared through the distortions of the window at the same time every day, to pick up his children, his solicitude touching her deeply.

  Zachary and Gloria sat at opposite sides of the classroom, apparently avoiding each other, or possibly considering the other a rival for Nathanial's attentions. But they were good students; otherwise Miss Andrews would wallop them with her ruler or the back of her hand. Spare the rod and spoil the child was not the philosophy of the frontier, but strict discipline produced the desired results.

  She dismissed the class, then stood by the window to see Nathanial hug his adopted daughter, then his natural son. Often Miss Andrews dreamed of herself as their mother, and they'd all live happily together, but Nathanial Barrington kept his distance, and she assumed she no longer interested him. She didn't realize that he hesitated to debauch a decent religious woman.

  She looked at herself in the mirror, frowning at her plain hard features. She was surrounded by men who lusted after her, from the commander on down, but not the one who interested her most. She wondered if it was God's divine retribution as she sat behind her desk and corrected the students’ papers.

  That evening, Nathanial, his children, and Luiza, their maid, dined upon chili and biscuits, with milk for the children and a glass of Mexican brandy for their father. After the meal the children retired to their respective bedrooms for homework.

  Luiza was aged, wrinkled, and toothless except for one brown stump on the bottom, with a big wart above her left eye. She waited until both doors were closed, then turned to Nathanial and said in her gravelly voice, “You should get married.”

  “It's not easy to fall in love,” he replied.

  “You young people—you are always talking about love, as if you know what it is. Love is making a home for children, and I can introduce you to a proper lady.”

  “There's no such thing,” replied Nathanial caustically. “Just when they tell you they love you desperately, that's when they're planning to leave.”

  “That's because you treat them like your horse—you get on, and then you get off. Women need to be loved, and the way you show love is through sacrifice.”

  “Sure, women expect men to be slaves, and once you do whatever they ask, they lose respect for you. Marry again? Don't be absurd.”

  Clarissa stopped for a rest at the home of relatives in Washington, D.C. and discovered there were two main centers of social gravity in the nation's capital. First and foremost was the White House, where the unmarried niece of the President, Miss Harriet Lane, held court, while the challenger was Adele Douglas, wife of the embattled senior senator from Illinois.

  Clarissa's relatives were invited to affairs at both residences, and Clarissa accompanied them as their guest. She had visited imposing residences and known distinguished personages from an early age and therefore was not especially in awe of the White House. Passing through those historic halls, surrounded by leading statesmen and ladies, including the President, who looked like a farmer, she couldn't help reflecting how much warmer and congenial was Santa Fe's Silver Palace Saloon.

  She met numerous eligible men during her stay in the nation's capital, but instead was attracted to waiters, footmen, and the laborers she passed on the streets. One evening, at a ball at the residence of Lord Napier, the British ambassador, she examined with more than passing interest a Negro butler carrying a tray of drinks.

  As an artist trained to plumb her soul, she could not hide the uncomfortable truth. She was drawn to danger, excitement, fear, and melodrama, such as when she ran off with Tom Oglethorpe, instead of a decent gentleman such as those who flocked about her, brought her drinks and tiny sandwiches, and promised to escort her home.

  While listening to a conversation about Cuba and Nicaragua, which southerners wanted to annex as slave states, she couldn't help comparing the men to Nathanial, and had to admit that he was more interesting in his own rascally way, even unique, and as for depravity, it was difficult to surpass the lowdown Nathanial Barrington.

  She recalled the sweetness of her first meeting with the notorious dragoon officer, the fear that he wouldn't care for her, and the worse fear that he would. Clarissa sat surrounded by distinguished Americans and foreigners, beneath crystal chandeliers and surrounded by exquisite oil paintings of British royalty, yet felt uncomfortably abandoned. Wasn't Nathanial right about my performing career after all? she asked herself. All it gained me was hard work, headaches, sleepless nights, empty flattery, and the destruction of my marriage.

  �
�Are you all right?” broke in a voice nearby.

  It belonged to a British naval attaché named Trilling, to whom she had been introduced. She turned to him, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Something fell into my eye.”

  “Soot from one of the gaslights, I suspect. Or perhaps you're tired. Shall I see you home?”

  He was tall, languid, his dark blue uniform tailored to his slim form, with a pale complexion and sinister half-closed eyes.

  “If it's not too much trouble.”

  She told her uncle she wasn't feeling well, then left with the helpful naval attaché. It wasn't long before they were embracing in the carriage as the horses clip-clopped over deserted streets. Clarissa's husband was in Santa Fe, while Trilling's wife was in London, but Clarissa didn't dare spend the night at Trilling's rooms because what would she tell her uncle? Instead, she and the officer performed a certain intimate act on the seat of the carriage, and no one would ever know, not even the driver, reins in his hands, drowsing, anxious to return home and enjoy a bowl of hot soup.

  Nathanial often snored as he slept, especially after polishing off a bottle of brandy, while Luiza was half deaf. At two o'clock in the morning, when it sounded as if trees were being sawed in Nathanial's bedroom, a door opened in the darkened adobe home, then a youthful face appeared in moonlight streaming through the parlor window.

  Zachary tiptoed across the floor, attired in his brown wool coat and trousers. He looked both ways, paused every few seconds to make sure the sawmill continued unabated, and finally arrived at Gloria's door, where he knocked ever so lightly. Seconds later, the door was opened by Gloria, wearing her white robe.

  “Howdy,” he said.

  “Howdy,” she replied. “Come on in.”

  He entered her bedroom, closing the door behind them. Then they moved closer and kissed lightly, not daring to touch hands or bodies.

  “I love you,” he said simply.

  “I love you too,” she replied, eyes downcast.

  It had been this way since they'd met, although they teased and fought constantly, partially because they were normal children, and partially to throw adults off the track. She sat at her desk while he lowered himself onto the trunk at the foot of her bed. Together they gazed out the window at the full moon high over the Hueco Mountains.

  “I wish we were old enough to get married,” he said, although he wasn't quite sure what marriage entailed.

  “Me too,” she replied, for he was her first true love. “But it's taking so much time.”

  “I have an idea. I'll tell Father he doesn't have to meet us after school because we know the way home. I'm sure he has better things to do, and we can have fun.”

  They were curious puppies who wanted to explore Fort Thorn on their own, without adult supervision. They smiled as they held hands chastely and looked out the window at the moon. “Someday we'll be together forever,” she said.

  One of Juan Ortega's ranches was raided that winter, with cattle and horses stolen, three vaqueros killed. Ortega couldn't understand why the United States government, of which he had been forced to become a member, wouldn't stop the crimes. One day he rounded up several of his guards, among them Raphael Fonseca, then rode to Fort Thorn, where soldiers stopped them in front of the orderly room. Ortega and his men were armed, as were the soldiers, so gunplay wasn't out of the question.

  “I demand to see Lieutenant Wood!” declared Ortega, on horseback in front of his men.

  A door opened, then Lieutenant Wood appeared, annoyed at being disturbed. He'd been reading a newspaper article about a transatlantic cable being laid between Ireland and Newfoundland. “What is it, Ortega?”

  Ortega removed his hat and made a mock bow. “Sir, the Indians are making life hell in this territory, and we request your assistance.”

  “There are not enough soldiers in the entire U.S. Army,” replied Lieutenant Wood, “to protect all the ranches in New Mexico Territory twenty-four hours a day.”

  “If you get rid of those damned Apaches beside this fort, we would feel safer. Everybody knows they sneak away to commit crimes, and then return for rations. How can you let this travesty continue?”

  “I suggest you take your complaint to Dr. Steck.”

  “Dr. Steck is worthless!” replied Ortega. “How many dead Americans does it take—fifty, a hundred—before you do something?”

  Lieutenant Wood smiled faintly. “Sergeant of the Guard—call out the men.”

  Sergeant Duffy was sergeant of the guard, standing nearby with his service revolver in hand. “All of them, sir?”

  “You heard me.”

  Sergeant Duffy walked toward the barracks, shouting at the top of his lungs. “I want a full post formation—with rifles and bayonets—now!”

  The order was relayed across the small installation, and it wasn't long before soldiers rushed outside, carrying .58 caliber rifles with long-range sights, chambered to fire minié ball ammunition. They dressed right, covered down, and formed four long ranks at attention.

  Lieutenant Wood turned to Ortega. “I am directing you to leave this fort. If you refuse, I shall place you under arrest. If you resist, I shall open fire.”

  “If you do not protect us, we shall be forced to protect ourselves,” he said ominously.

  “If you harm any Indians, I shall lock you in jail. And if you kill any, I'll put you before a firing squad.”

  That night, one candle provided light in the office of Juan Ortega as he sat with five members of the Mesilla Guards. “You are my principal lieutenants,” he said, the air laden with tobacco smoke. “It is you who must pass the word to the others, and every man must be pledged to secrecy, because if the Army finds out what we're up to, they not only will stop us, they will put us in the calaboose. Be especially careful how you behave with Steck and Barrington, because they would be first to sound the alarm. We will assemble Saturday at midnight, then go to the reservation and take care of the Apaches once and for all. Are you with me, companeros?”

  Fonseca was first to speak. “It is about time.”

  The others murmured their assent as Ortega placed his right fist on the middle of his desk. Fonseca laid his hand over Ortega's, then the others touched their palms onto the pile. They felt the warmth of each other's determination as all looked at Ortega.

  “If all goes according to plan,” he told them, “we should be able to kill them all.”

  “The Mesilla Guards are up to something,” said Dr. Steck as he sat in Lieutenant Wood's office two days later. “I fear they plan to attack the reservation.”

  “I've heard the same thing,” replied Lieutenant Wood. “But I have no proof.”

  Nathanial stirred on his chair. “What kind of proof would you require—a dead baby? We are not seers, we cannot predict the future faithfully, but it might be wise to place a military cordon around the reservation.”

  “You were an Army officer, Barrington. How'd it look if I stationed soldiers around the Apaches, but not around white settlers? We aren't numerous enough to take every precaution.”

  “If the Mesilla Guards attack that reservation,” said Nathanial, “General Garland will relieve you of command.”

  “If I place a cordon around the reservation, I'll look like a fool.”

  “God forbid,” replied Nathanial, “that you should look like a fool, even if it saves lives of women and children.”

  “But you make a possibility sound like an absolute fact, Captain Barrington. I can't claim that the Mesilla Guards are peace-loving farmers and businessmen, but neither have they committed crimes, and I can't take action that will bring a rebuke to the Army. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Walking back to his office, Dr. Steck said, “It's up to us, but what can we do?”

  “Warn the Mescaleros,” replied Nathanial.

  “Do you think they don't know?”

  “Why don't they leave?”

  “The strong ones already have gone, in case you haven't noticed, and t
he remainder are dependent upon us for basic sustenance.”

  Nathanial shook his head in frustration. “We need a safe reservation for these Mescaleros, with farm implements and cattle, so they don't have to steal. Why in hell doesn't Washington do something?”

  ***

  In late January, 1858, Dr. Steck's letter requesting a new Indian reservation north of the Gila arrived at the Office of Indian Affairs in Washington D.C. Charles Mix, still acting for James Denver, concurred with the position stated, so he drafted a formal letter and sent it to the Speaker of the House, the Honorable James L. Orr of South Carolina. It would be the work of Congressman Orr's committee to shepherd the proposal through the House of Representatives.

  But Mix's recommendation and numerous others, including railroad bills and tariff considerations, were languishing due to continuing debate over the Le-compton Constitution. Speaker after speaker railed against the opposition, stinging insults passed across the aisles, and despite resolutions, clauses, amendments, and other tactics, the fundamental question was whether Kansas would become a slave state, thus opening the West to the “peculiar institution.”

  The Congress no longer possessed splendid orators like Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, or the great John C. Calhoun. Those heroes had been laid to rest, replaced by a rougher, more partisan breed, such as Representative Galusha A. Grow of Pennsylvania, chairman of the House Committee on Territories, who was to become the central player in one of the most astounding events ever to occur in the hallowed halls of Congress.

  Tall, strongly constructed, thirty-four years old, Representative Grow wore a spade beard but no mustache, and the roof had become thin atop his dome. His stature was not particularly imposing, but he was considered the conscience of the Republican Party, which he had joined after defecting from the Democrats.

  Despite Galusha Grow's prominence in Washington, he had come from modest beginnings, growing up fatherless in a farming settlement in the Susquehanna Valley of north-central Pennsylvania, near the village of Galewood. Hardscrabble poverty had been his lot, but with persistent effort and dedication, he had graduated from Ahmerst College and become a lawyer. He was the champion of the downtrodden ordinary American, and as far as he was concerned, the Negro was included in that category.