Devil Dance

by Len Levinson

  “It can get awful chilly on winter nights.”

  “There must be a better way than killing.”

  Nathanial grinned as he studied the small army of Indians in the distance. “It will be enlightening to watch you convince Chief Gomez of that proposition.”

  The Apaches drew closer as Ortega and his men’ constructed hasty barricades in the streets of Mesilla. Alone and unarmed, sitting upright in his saddle, Dr. Steck urged his horse forward, and Nathanial couldn't help admiring him. “Either he's brave or does not fully understand the danger into which he rides,” he said to Sergeant Duffy.

  “A real dolt, you mean.”

  Nathanial and the dragoons followed Dr. Steck, while the Apache threat loomed out of the desert. Nathanial was pleased to note that he had no responsibility for anybody except himself, unlike Duffy.

  “The happiest day of my life,” said Nathanial, “was when I resigned my commission.”

  “Not all of us have the Barrington millions,” replied Duffy. “I will defend you and Dr. Steck as best I can, but if the Apaches want to burn Mesilla to the ground, it's fine with me.”

  Chief Gomez and his warriors drew closer, and they were grim-faced, war-painted, bristling with weapons, in a state of controlled wrath, sitting rigidly on their war ponies. Dr. Steck headed straight for the chief, and when fifty yards from him, held up his empty right hand to demonstrate he came in peace.

  Chief Gomez also raised his empty right hand, for he knew that Dr. Steck was not a warrior. Nathanial advanced to join the negotiations, while Duffy remained back with his men. Dr. Steck approached Chief Gomez, pulled back his reins, and steadied his horse. “What do you want?” he asked the bandit chief.

  “We come to wipe out Mesilla,” said Chief Gomez, and his warriors murmured their assent. “Please get out of the way, Steck, and tell soldiers move too, otherwise we go through you.”

  Dr. Steck tried to smile. “If you destroy Mesilla, the Army will send many bluecoat soldiers and wipe you out.”

  “Let them come,” replied Chief Gomez confidently.

  “But mountains and deserts will fill with soldiers. It might take two or three harvests, but they will get you. I tell you this as a brother.”

  “You are a White Eyes, not my brother. I cannot turn from the murderers of my people.”

  “We shall punish the murderers. Do not jeopardize your safety for no good reason.”

  “A warrior does not worry about his safety, and I do not trust you, Steck.”

  “Steck speaks the truth partially,” said a voice in the Apache language.

  All Mescalero eyes turned to the tall, blond civilian in black vaquero hat atop a black horse to the right of Dr. Steck. The Mescaleros were amazed that he spoke their language perfectly, while the doctor and the soldiers had no idea what he'd said.

  “Who are you?” asked Chief Gomez.

  “I have lived among the Mimbrenos, and they named me Sunny Bear.”

  The Mescalero warriors looked at each other significantly, for they had heard the legend of Sunny Bear, the bluecoat war chief who became a Mimbreno warrior and di-yin medicine man, having seen great visions and committed valorous deeds.

  Chief Gomez nodded to the illustrious warrior. “What are you doing here, Sunny Bear?”

  “I am working for peace, great chief. The Mesilla Guards surely deserve to die, but if you kill them, the bluecoat Army will hunt you down as Steck has said. The justice of the White Eyes is very unjust, but the survival of the People must be your first concern.”

  Chief Gomez pondered those words, and something told him that Sunny Bear was speaking straight. “I will take your counsel, Sunny Bear, but we have other choices which I shall not name this day.”

  “I hope they include the death of the Mesilla Guards,” said Nathanial, holding out his hand.

  Chief Gomez clasped it. “If you ever wish to enjoy the holy Lifeway, you may ride with me, Sunny Bear.”

  “One day I may accept your invitation, Chief Gomez.”

  The Mescalero chief wheeled his horse, then shouted an order to his men. An unearthly shout went up among them as they spurred their war ponies. The sound of thunder came to the cactus-strewn plain as they galloped away, leaving Nathanial with Dr. Steck and the soldiers, all mystified by the sudden turn of events.

  “What did you say to them?” asked Dr. Steck.

  “The truth,” replied Nathanial.

  ***

  Nathanial's prediction came true in the weeks to come. There was no proof that the Mesilla Guards had committed the massacre, and no charges were brought against them. They got away with murder, and in the fullness of time, the troops returned to Fort Thorn.

  Meanwhile, the survivors of the massacre continued to starve, and Chief Gomez's warriors raided with renewed dedication. Matters soon returned to their normal state of mutual hostility in that beleaguered corner of New Mexico Territory.

  Trains frequently broke down, and late one afternoon Clarissa found herself sitting in a snow-covered field of New Jersey, next to a row of railway cars halted due to a malfunctioning steam engine. Mechanics climbed over the black locomotive, tightening and loosening bolts, having intense conferences producing no discernable results, as jets of steam shot from apertures, sending white clouds across the snow-blanketed farmland.

  The conductors had lit a bonfire and supplied food and drink, so everyone was making the best of the delay. Clarissa was restless, but gentlemen always were available, such as a fellow with dark eyes and a leer, holding a bottle. “May I fill your glass?” he asked.

  She'd noticed him circling around her, attempting to introduce himself ever since Baltimore, but she saw through his game, so similar to her own. She held out her glass and he filled it with port wine. “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Clarissa.”

  “I'm Michael. Where are you headed?”

  “New York City.”

  “I'm on my way to Boston. Are you married?”

  “My husband and I are divorcing.”

  He smiled, recognizing a kindred licentious soul. “I must confess that I find you enthralling. Who are you—what are you—and how can I be of assistance?”

  “I am nobody, and you can't help me at all.”

  He turned to the side, affording an advantageous view of his finely chiseled profile, while admiring the sunset landscape. “It's so beautiful in this part of New Jersey,” he declared. “Care to take a walk?”

  She couldn't help smiling, because she'd never done it in the snow before. On the other hand, she was beginning to question the desirability of sleeping with a variety of men, the great exalting act becoming routine. As she raised the glass to her lips, a voice said, “Someone's coming.”

  All conversation stopped, because roving thieves might have noticed their dilemma, but most of the male travelers were armed, and the railroad supplied rifles for the engine crew. Clarissa placed her hand in her purse, closing her forefinger around the trigger of her Colt Navy. She remembered Nathanial, who had taught her how to shoot. If I had married a decent man, I wouldn't be in this predicament, she told herself.

  Out of the night materialized a wagon with a man and woman sitting on the box, three children in back. The man pulled the reins and smiled. “We heered you was broke down, and thought we'd invite you to the camp meeting over yonder. It a-gonna be a grand old time.” The farmer winked.

  “How far?” asked Michael.

  “About a half mile. You can walk it with no trouble. C'mon, we'll lead you there.”

  Clarissa turned to Michael. “Shall we go?”

  “It's not exactly what I had in mind,” he said ruefully.

  Other travelers also were curious about the camp meeting. They turned to the chief engineer, who bellowed, “Go ahead, ‘cause I ‘spect we'll be hyar fer a while!”

  Clarissa and the travelers gathered together their bottles and loaves of bread, then followed the wagon across the snowy field, hearing faint sounds of singing in t
he distance. Michael remained at Clarissa's side, and it wasn't long before bonfires and tents came into view.

  A log platform had been erected, and upon it a preacher named Reverend Josiah Belknap exhorted throngs of believers, skeptics, and sinners who'd traveled long distances. He was a storklike preacher with a short black beard and a bald head, the gleam of the fanatic in his eye.

  “You have heard it said,” he hollered, wagging his bony forefinger in the air, “that the nation is suffering from the financial panic, but I say unto you that the nation is suffering from the consequences of sin! Because each one who invested in fraudulent schemes did so out of greed, passion, and concupiscence. The man and woman of pure heart has nothing to fear from the Lord God. So come forward, my friends, confess your sins and bare your hearts before the Lord. I know it isn't easy, but it just might be your last chance.”

  Clarissa listened without the scathing skepticism of certain other sophisticated travelers, for she'd been raised on Episcopalian Christianity, and music had convinced her that not everything can be codified and categorized scientifically. Although the preacher obviously was a crackpot, she considered his logic correct, for if each individual lived according to the commandments, America's problems would be solved.

  “I invite you to bow before the Lord,” called Reverend Belknap. “End your drinking, fornication, greed, and lust. What has sin got you so far?"

  Some travelers scoffed at the raving preacher, but Clarissa pondered his words. What good have my indiscretions done me? she asked herself. In fact, they never lived up to their promise, and sometimes were quite embarrassing. And I was about to do it again when that wagon showed up.

  Somehow, in her mystical artistic mind, it seemed that the breakdown of the train, appearance of the wagon, and camp meeting were acts of providence. A chorus of men and women began to sing:

  It's me, it's me, oh Lord

  standin’ in the need of prayer

  Clarissa felt bereft of God and realized that she'd fallen a long way. How can I ever return to that cleaner nobler time? she asked herself. Is it possible to go back, or are those days lost forever?

  Not my father, not my mother

  Standin’ in the need of prayer

  Not my sister, not my brother

  Standin’ in the need of prayer

  Clarissa's left foot moved forward, but Michael placed his hand on her shoulder. “Where are you going?” he asked, a superior tone in his voice.

  “Forward,” she replied.

  “Surely, you don't believe this nonsense.”

  At that moment she realized she was far worse than she'd imagined, for she'd been about to fornicate with a blasphemer, an atheist, one who spent his days satisfying his basest pleasures and missing the greatest satisfaction of all.

  She threw his hand off her shoulder, then continued toward the platform, joining other pilgrims, hands clasped together. They were young and old, male and female, white and Negro, forming a great procession, while the chorus continued to sing:

  It's me, it's me, oh Lord

  Standin’ in the need of prayer

  Yes it's me, thought Clarissa as she dropped to her knees in front of the platform. Bowing her head, her eyes filled with tears when she realized that her life was in shambles, her daughter in New York, her husband in New Mexico Territory, and she removing her clothing for any knave who came along. What has it gained me? she asked herself. I have never been so unhappy in my life.

  On the stage the preacher dipped his hand in the bucket of water and flicked drops onto the throng. “I baptize you in the water of the Most High,” he told them. “Open your heart to God and be healed!”

  As holy water struck Clarissa's face, she flashed on her husband, who had warned against the emptiness of fame, the wages of false pride, and the falsity of the mob. What did all those people mean to me? she asked herself. It was music that I loved, and Nathanial had loved it too. He didn't want me to become a performing giraffe, but I ignored him and followed instead Martin Thorndyke, who fundamentally was a liar and thief.

  What have I done? asked Clarissa silently as holy water dripped down her cheeks. At least Nathanial lived the impulses of his heart, even when obstreperous and ridiculous. As for his acts of immorality when living among the Apaches, I can understand how easy it is to fall into certain habits.

  She hated to admit it, but Nathanial had been right about the hollowness of public acclaim. In truth, she preferred playing at the Silver Palace Saloon, where most of the patrons barely paid attention, and if she improvised an unusually difficult passage and failed dismally, most would be too drunk to notice. She recalled rare moments of musical achievement at the Silver Palace Saloon, where she'd sung through the night, entertaining cowboys, soldiers, vaqueros, freighters, lawmen, outlaws, half-breed Indians, and everything else the great American frontier could churn up, as if out of its very sacred soil.

  She became aware that others were pulling back from the platform. Opening her eyes, she was the only one still on her knees. Blinking, trying to understand what had happened to her, she raised herself from the hard-packed snow. Then Reverend Belknap dropped from the stage, landing in front of her. “Sister, your prayer was answered,” he declared, flicking holy water at her face. “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

  She returned to the travelers, where Michael waited with an expression of astonishment. “My word—I do believe you're crying,” he said. “How I envy you, because apparently you've had a legitimate religious experience, but somehow, I cannot believe this foolishness.”

  “That's because you have become your own God,” said Clarissa.

  He smiled. “Were you planning to make a donation to my religion? If so, I promise a miracle.”

  “I'd like to see you disappear,” she said.

  Before he could answer, she stepped away from him, heading back to the train. She didn't need to listen to more preachers, because she wanted to think. But Michael followed her. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Please leave me alone.”

  “You don't know what might be lurking out here.”

  She drew the Colt from her purse. “I can manage for myself, thank you.”

  “Is that thing loaded?”

  “Not only is it loaded—I have just cocked the hammer.” She pointed at him. “Good day, sir.”

  He shrank back, holding his hands in the air. “It's been wonderful meeting you.”

  Snow crunched beneath Clarissa's leather boots as she made her way to the train. Wind whistled over the frigid field, but she wore three thick sweaters beneath her leather knee-length coat, and a thick wool black shawl covered her head. All she could think of was Nathanial. I must find him and tell him the truth—that this time he happened to be right. Of course, he's not right all the time, and sometimes he's been a damned fool, but he and I certainly are in agreement on the issue of public performances.

  She recalled that they'd shared many similar tastes, and had been happy before she'd decided to win the praise of the masses. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that their love had been quite profound at times. He was even helpful around the house, nailing things together, patching their old stove at Fort Craig. No one could call him a lazy man.

  A distant stand of trees whistled in the wind as she recalled the circumstances of their meeting. Somehow, they had been delivered to the same little edge of the Hudson Highlands one summer afternoon in ‘54, with no one about, surely a star-crossed meeting. She'd thought him appealing at the time, especially with his notorious reputation. But unlike other scoundrels, he had never tried to take advantage of her, or use his superior strength against her, and indeed, he had asked to marry her, the honorable course for a gentleman.

  Maybe I didn't appreciate him, reflected Clarissa. Instead, I behaved like a spoiled child, and I'm surprised he didn't spank me. I have squandered the love of my husband for a few paltry hours of fame.

  She recalled magical hours when she and
Nathanial had lain in bed in their hotel off the Grand Canal in Venice, or took walks in the Luxembourg Gardens of Paris. They'd quarreled occasionally, but at least he was interesting, unlike the common cynical seducer of all-too-willing ladies.

  Suddenly, in the middle of the corn field, with the pale moon overhead and a few wispy clouds in the sky, she came to a stop. I was swayed by false compliments, she realized. Thorndyke thought he could make money off me, so I embarked on the path that has destroyed my marriage, the foundation of my very life.

  Clarissa trembled when she thought of little Natalie in New York City, raised by a maid. What kind of woman would desert her child? she pondered. Clarissa felt like vomiting the poison of her life—the wine, whiskey, champagne, and lost dreams.

  Nathanial tried to save me, but I disdained his advice, thinking he was jealous. But Nathanial was beyond jealousy; he'd seen too much war and was unimpressed by the low tastes of the mob. He wanted peace for New Mexico Territory and needed me at his side.

  Her eyes filled with tears, the strength went out of her, and alone in the middle of the field, she dropped to her knees. “I must tell him I'm sorry,” she whispered to herself. “He'll probably throw me out, and I couldn't blame him, but I must admit the truth if I'm an honorable woman. Because none of us is free fron sin, except Jesus.”

  But wait a minute, she cautioned herself silently. Do I really want to travel by stagecoach to New Mexico Territory, through land populated by warlike Indians and craven criminals, for the opportunity to throw myself at Nathanial's mud-caked boots and beg his forgiveness, even though he may well kick me out like the traitorous baggage that I am?

  The answer came with stunning forcefulness. Yes!

  Miss Andrews looked out her classroom window as Nathanial approached down the alley. She'd dismissed the students, and her heart fluttered with anticipation when there was a knock on the door. Then he entered, removed his hat, and the poor woman nearly swooned from thwarted desire.