Devil Dance

by Len Levinson

  “You wanted to see me?” he asked.

  “I though it's time we made an appointment to go over the school's finances.”

  Both knew it would be improper to meet alone at night, so they scheduled a meeting for Saturday morning. After Nathanial departed, Miss Andrews made her way to the stove, where she boiled water, poured it into the wooden tub, removed her clothing, and lay in the hot, sensuous liquid.

  She wondered what feminine wiles to use on him, although she hated falsity. She wished she were more scintillating, but couldn't change what she considered her fundamental plainness. What if I simply and honestly confessed my love for him? she asked herself. And if he takes advantage of my weakness and vulnerability, well . . . it will not be my fault. The former Shaker woman smiled as she closed her eyes and ab-sentmindedly caressed herself.

  At the appointed time on Saturday morning, Nathanial crossed Fort Thorn's parade ground, his wide-brimmed, tan cowboy hat slanted low over his eyes, pants tucked into his black leather boots. His Colt was jammed into a new handworked leather holster at his waist, and he was on his way to meet the schoolmarm.

  Soldiers busily prepared for Saturday morning inspection, taking no special note of Nathanial. Why wouldn't he visit the schoolmarm, since his two children attended her school?

  She watched him approach, hidden behind her curtain, excited and terrified. She'd run every possibility through her mind during the preceding night, from ripping off her clothes and diving upon him, to offering certain carefully worded declarations.

  She clasped and unclasped her trembling hands, wishing she could control herself. Only the iron discipline of the Shakers prevented her from stuffing herself with cookies.

  Finally, he knocked on her door. Her mouth dry, she took one last look in the mirror, not thrilled by what she saw, then drew a deep breath, uttered a prayer, and grasped the doorknob.

  “Howdy,” he said, his smile turning her knees to jelly.

  Struggling to remain circumspect, she led him into the room that served as her office, bedroom, and kitchen. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Don't mind if I do, but please don't fill the cup all the way.”

  She lifted the pot from the stove, then poured dark steaming liquid into a tin mug. He removed a silver flask from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and added whiskey.

  “Have a seat,” she said.

  He sat at the table, noting the bed in the comer, not that far away. She bent over the desk, gathering papers, and he noticed those long legs topped by a well-constructed rump, or that's how it appeared in his imagination, because she wore a loose black skirt. She carried papers to the table, placed them in front of him, and sat.

  As she explained financial details, she was only inches away. Shuffling papers, pointing to numbers, sometimes her arm brushed his. Nathanial had been without a woman so long, he experienced prurient notions. No one could call her pretty, but she was a good woman, and her long legs mesmerized him.

  The school required more desks and chairs, she told him, due to increased enrollment. She described the current state of text book publishing, latest theories of education, and the success of new steel-point pens. As she babbled nervously, he sensed her tensions, but misread them, thinking she was ill at ease with her principal contributor, not that she experienced unwholesome desires herself.

  When she completed the report, he said, “How much do you need?”

  She provided the figure, and he arose from the table to reach into his pocket. As she watched him, she wondered what would happen if she merely invited him to . . . she didn't know exactly what to say. He laid a stack of bills on the table. “That ought to take care of you for the time being.”

  “Partially,” she replied softly, arising.

  “But it's the amount you asked for,” he protested.

  “A woman has other needs,” she suggested.

  They stared at each other, and now he understood her agitation, for he barely could remain still himself. Then she turned away so he couldn't see her tears. How pathetic I must appear to him, she thought, then nearly jumped out of her skin as his hands came to rest upon her shoulders. He was standing behind her, close enough to feel her body.

  “On the contrary,” he breathed into her ear, “I find you very appealing. But I can't marry you because I'm married already, and if we were to go to that bed over there, I have a feeling we both will regret it.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I'm still in love with my wife.”

  “What if I asked you to take advantage of me?” she replied weakly, pressing her full body against him.

  “Please don't,” he said through a constricted voice, trying to step backward.

  Her long legs tempted him, not to mention knowledge that she was a love-starved semi-virgin. Then she faced him, and with trembling hands unfastened the top button of her dress, her small delectable breasts rising to view. Unable to forsake her ripe, pleading flesh, he leapt upon her as she let out a sigh of relief, and he carried her to the bed, where he gently lowered her, then undressed her with quick, deft movements. It didn't take long to relieve himself of his own clothing. Soon they were naked together, frantically grasping, giving full rein to frustrated longings, as soldiers stood at attention on the parade ground, and Lieutenant Wood inspected their uniforms.

  During the course of the inspection the soldiers heard something that sounded like a woman's scream, but they figured it was only the call of a bird.

  Three rough-looking hombres of indeterminate background watched each other's hands as they smoked and chatted, waiting to be interviewed by the commandante at Janos. The Mexican Army was looking for scouts, intending to hunt Apaches in the spring.

  A Mexican sergeant opened the door and looked around warily, as if expecting to be jumped. “Moniz?” he asked.

  Antonio Moniz rose to his full five feet and four inches. Half Yaqui Indian, he wore a black beard and a knife sticking out of each boot. “That's me.”

  “This way.”

  The sergeant led Moniz to an office where a Mexican officer sat behind a desk, while in the corner a bull-chested Americano officer could be seen, stroking bis chin thoughtfully.

  “My name is Captain Marrero,” said the Mexican behind the desk. “You want to be a scout?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever been a scout?” “No, sir.”

  “Can you track?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How well?”

  “I grew up with the Yaquis, sir.”

  “It will be a difficult and dangerous assignment.” “All of life is difficult and dangerous,” replied Moniz.

  Captain Marrero turned to Captain Beauregard Hargreaves, U.S. Army, sitting in the corner. Beau nodded his head barely perceptibly, then Marrero turned back to Moniz. “You're hired.”

  Chief Mangas Coloradas, accompanied by Cochise and Victorio, lay on a ledge and gazed down at Janos, city of death. Scouts had reported much military activity in the vicinity, and the war chiefs had come to see for themselves.

  “It will not be as easy as we thought,” said Victorio. “There are many more soldiers.”

  Mangas Coloradas shook his head disdainfully. “The Nakai-yes cannot stand up to us. At the end of Ghost Face we will strike the town head on and reduce it to rubble.”

  “Head on?” asked Cochise. “Such a plan will waste many warriors.”

  “The Mountain Spirits will not forget what the Mexicanos have done to us,” replied Mangas Coloradas, who believed the religion of the old time. “We will have our Killer of Enemies Bandoliers to safeguard us.”

  Victorio had been shot in the groin while wearing a Killer of Enemies Bandolier; he wasn't so sure. But he dare not challenge the great Chief Mangas Coloradas, while Cochise also held back his doubts, not yet comfortable with his new power. Moreover, Nana the medicine man had declared the portents to be favorable. “It will be as you say,” replied Cochise, but he worried about thunder sticks that
he'd seen, the cannon.

  “Nothing can stop the People this time,” declared Mangas Coloradas. “For never has our cause been more just.” He made a fist and held it before them. “Janos will be destroyed!”

  12

  * * *

  Chief Gomez didn't wipe Mesilla off the face of the earth, but that didn't mean he had forgiven anyone for the massacre at Fort Thorn. Following the confrontation with Sunny Bear and Dr. Steck, the outraged chief and his warriors visited upon eastern New Mexico Territory a veritable hurricane of destruction, forcing the First Dragoons to take the field once more. But there weren't very many of them, and the region was vast, with impassable mountains, sudden storms, and a hidden enemy. Chief Gomez's Mescaleros slept in no permanent shelters, and when their horses became tired, the warriors exchanged them for fresh ones and kept on marauding.

  Complaints reached Washington, D.C., and it wasn't long before General Garland received letters from Secretary of War John B. Floyd and General Winfield Scott, requesting action against the Apaches. As a result, soldiers continued to crash about the landscape, following tracks that invariably petered out, or scouting in vain for days on end.

  The garrison at Fort Thorn filled with soldiers, while the Mesilla Guards blamed all depredations on reservation Apaches. Nathanial visited the reservation and Mesilla regularly, hearing complaints and denunciations from both sides. Apaches and whites believed in the right to avenge bloodshed, like every other nation or people in the history of the world.

  I came west for my health, thought Nathanial, but instead I have plunged into the darkest corner of the human heart, and some days even I feel like killing. He had postponed his plans to start a ranch, due to the increased velocity of the Apache wars.

  One afternoon he stood in Mesilla's small square, facing the Catholic church, a squat adobe structure with a crude cross sticking out the roof. Nathanial ambled inside, hoping to receive advice from the great beyond.

  It was a small, low-roofed hall with an altar and painted wooden statues of Jesus, Mary, and the saints, illuminated faintly by candles and random light streaming through small rectangular windows. Kneeling in a pew, Nathanial heard old ladies whispering rosary prayers around him, a wagon passing outside.

  A gaunt black-bearded monk in a brown robe swept the floor. Nathanial watched him send up clouds of dust as the monk hummed a Gregorian chant. When he drew close, Nathanial arose and said in Spanish, “May I talk with you, padre?”

  “What is on your mind, sir?” asked the padre, who appeared approximately thirty years old.

  “I am Dr. Steck's assistant, and I fear the Mesilla Guards will commit another massacre on the Mescalero reservation. I was wondering if you'd help stop it.”

  “How?” asked the priest.

  “Talk with. Juan Ortega.”

  “What makes you think I haven't already? But he believes I am a befuddled religious ninny who writes homilies in the safety of my sacristy, and has no knowledge of the world.”

  “I feel the next massacre coming just as sure as I'm standing here,” said Nathanial.

  “There is nothing you can do,” replied the priest. “Except pray.”

  Nathanial lost his temper. “Your prayers don't seem to have worked so far!”

  “I pray not for special favors, but that God's will be done.”

  “You think it's His will to kill Mescaleros?”

  “If more people prayed, we would not have such crimes.”

  “I need more than your ecclesiastical platitudes!”

  “You and Senor Ortega have more in common than you realize, because he too is an unhappy man. You should pray for him.”

  “I'll never pray for that son-of-a-bitch, and please don't compare me with him. I've never committed a massacre.”

  “No?” The priest clucked knowingly, then continued sweeping the church.

  Nathanial sat heavily in the pew, aware that Captain Barrington had killed many times in the line of duty, just as Ortega thought he was killing in the line of duty. Every murderer considers himself innocent, realized Nathanial. The worst crimes are justified by the best reasons.

  Clarissa's hackney coach rumbled up noisy Broadway, passing City Hall, the Astor House, Taylor's Restaurant, and A.T. Stewart's, while newsboys shouted on streetcorners and businessmen carried briefcases over crowded sidewalks.

  The rapid pulse of the city never failed to enliven Clarissa. She stopped to buy the Tribune, then read about the Lecompton Constitution finally coming to its final vote in the Congress. The greatest orators in the nation, such as Jefferson Davis of Mississippi, Stephen Douglas of Illinois, William Seward of New York, and Alexander Stephens of Georgia, delivered ringing speeches, and everyone worried about war between the North and South.

  While perusing the newspaper, her eyes fell on a brief article at the bottom of the next to last page.

  MASSACRE IN NEW MEXICO

  A report has been received concerning the massacre of Indians at a small settlement called Fort Thorn in remote southeastern New Mexico Territory. According to General John Garland, commanding officer of the 9th Department, a group of Mexicans broke into the camp on the morning of February 8 and killed eleven men, eight women, and five children, plus wounding countless others.

  The page rattled in Clarissa's hand, as if God was speaking to her. She'd been thinking about her husband, and now read about the fort where he was stationed. She was certain Nathanial had been in the thick of it, and maybe he was killed.

  She felt as if the Lord had hurled a lightning bolt at her. How terrible if Nathanial died before I could speak with him, she thought. I'd feel terrible for the rest of my life. Oh God, I pray he's alive. The coach turned onto Gramercy Park, headed for her father's mansion, and she observed maple and elm trees in the park where she'd played as a child. The coach stopped, Clarissa climbed up the steps, hit the rapper, and the maid answered, nearly fainting at the sight of the long-lost daughter.

  Her mother arrived on the scene, her face pale, jowls hanging like curtains. “You're home,” she said, holding out her arms.

  They hugged, kissed, then her mother's mood shifted suddenly. She took a step backward and said, “We've heard very disturbing stories about you, young lady.”

  “They're probably true,” replied Clarissa.

  “I knew this would happen when you married the rapscallion Nathanial Barrington.”

  Before Clarissa could reply, servants carried her luggage into the living room. Clarissa took the opportunity to head for the nursery, her mother sputtering at her heels. “You should have listened to me!”

  Clarissa found Rosita knitting on her chair, Natalie sleeping nearby. Rosita jumped to her feet and embraced Clarissa, then Clarissa tiptoed to the crib. It appeared that Natalie had grown considerably, her pale brown hair thickened. “I apologize,” whispered Clarissa to her sleeping child. “I'll never desert you again.”

  Clarissa retreated from the room, her mother still at her heels. “When your father comes home, there'll be hell to pay.”

  “I shall move to the Saint Nicholas Hotel first thing in the morning. By the way, do you know if Nathanial is still alive?”

  Her mother stopped short. “You can't kill somebody like Nathanial Barrington, who has a head like a block of granite, although it wouldn't be a bad idea.”

  “Has he divorced me?”

  “Not that I know of, but that hasn't stopped you from certain shenanigans.”

  “Exactly what is that supposed to mean?” asked Clarissa as she entered her bedroom.

  “That you have consorted with strange men.”

  “Come to think of it,” replied Clarissa thoughtfully, “they were rather strange.”

  “They couldn't be any stranger than Nathanial Barrington. Of all the men to marry, you had to select that villain.”

  “Mother, you don't understand. Nathanial was a wonderful man.”

  Her mother reached for the dresser to steady herself. “Sounds like you're still in love
with him.”

  Clarissa removed her bonnet. “I am, and have decided to return to him.”

  Her mother stared at the ceiling. “My poor daughter apparently has lost her mind. Your father always said you spent too much time alone with your piano. Please tell me you're joking.”

  “I'm completely serious.”

  “But Nathanial Barrington has behaved dishonorably to you.”

  “He wanted to save me from life on the stage, which turned out to be a nightmare.”

  “He was jealous of you, you mean.”

  “There's something you don't understand about Nathanial Barrington. He's not capable of jealousy, because he's too smart.”

  “Nathanial Barrington smart? Perhaps you sat in the sun too long when you were on that plantation in South Carolina.”

  They continued to squabble as mothers and daughters must, and after a while the rumble of something that sounded like a hippopotamus came from below, the arrival of Father. Wheezing, he rapidly climbed the stairs, arrived in her room out of breath, and shouted, “It's about time you returned home, young lady! I cannot begin to tell you how embarrassed I have been by you! Living in sin with a man in South Carolina, indeed!”

  “I apologize,” replied Clarissa, for she didn't want to argue.

  “It had better not happen again!” He wagged his finger in her face, appearing on the edge of apoplexy.

  “Perhaps you'd better sit down,” Clarissa told her father, “because I have news.”

  “Don't tell me you've married a southerner?”

  “I'm going back to Nathanial Barrington.”

  “I don't believe it!” he cried, flinging out his arms.

  His wife tried to calm him. “Please sit down, Herbert.”

  Instead, he turned to his daughter. “There is only one possible solution. We must send her to the Bloomingdale Asylum.”

  Clarissa whipped out her Colt. “If anybody tries to lock me in an asylum, I'll shoot his damned lights out.”

  Her father stared at the gun, his daughter's finger wrapped around the trigger. “My God,” he uttered. “Has it come to this?” Agitated, he found it difficult to breathe. A terrible pressure seemed to squash his chest, and his left arm went numb.