Devil Dance

by Len Levinson

  A robber in blue-and-white striped pants took off his hat. “Jest drop yer valuables in here, and let's make it quick—we ain't got all day.”

  He came to a stop before a man at the extreme left of the line and held out the bag. The man hesitated, so the robber hit him in the face with his revolver. The bank customer collapsed to the floor, and the robber went through his pockets, pulling out coins, a watch, and a derringer. “Now ain't that a cute li'l feller.”

  He moved to the next customer, a woman, who took one look at him and fainted dead away. The robber did not hesitate to tear a string of pearls from her throat, then go through her purse. Meanwhile, Clarissa wondered whether to join the other woman on the floor.

  The robber continued down the line, and bank customers had become more cooperative, hastily dropping valuables into the bag. Meanwhile, black shirt emptied the drawer and was coming around with the loot. “Let's get out of here,” he said.

  “What's yer hurry?” asked brown beard, who turned to the best-dressed lady in the bank and said, “Whatcha got in that there purse, ma'am?” he asked, waving the gun in Clarissa's face.

  Clarissa raised her proud chin and replied. “Oh, a few odds and ends.”

  “Let's see what they are,” said brown beard. “Open up.”

  Clarissa remembered a line her soldier husband had told her one night as he explained the art of war. Surprise is the most important element of attack. She knew that robbers occasionally massacred victims and figured she had to take the chance.

  “Let's go, lady,” said brown beard, brandishing his gun. “You got a pretty face, but yer life don't mean shit to me.”

  Clarissa took a deep breath as she opened the purse. Her hand slipped inside and closed around the handle of the Colt, but to the robber it might have been a sheaf of bills. “Here it is,” she said with a smile, suddenly raising the Colt.

  Brown beard's eyes widened as the first shot fired. It hit him on the collarbone, but before he dropped to the floor, Clarissa triggered again, striking the next robber in the stomach. As she drew back the hammer for the third shot, the startled robbers were jumped by other victims, a struggle ensued, someone called for help, and soon armed citizens rushed into the bank, overcoming the robbers.

  Somebody brought a chair, and Clarissa lowered herself onto it, her Colt trailing smoke toward the ceiling. She stared at the two men she'd shot, one dead, the other writhing painfully, gritting his teeth. I did it, she thought, feeling proud, frightened, and disoriented.

  Finally, the sheriff arrived. “What the hell happened?” he asked gruffly, dinner interrupted.

  “That little lady shot these bank robbers,” said the teller.

  All eyes turned to the blonde in the pale lavender dress, sitting straight in the chair. She blew the remaining smoke from the end of her gun, placed it in her purse, and advanced to the window, where she calmly signed documents. “Is this bank open for business or not?” she inquired.

  The season known as Little Eagles was passed in mourning among the People, and no one was sadder than Chief Mangas Coloradas, his two sons lost in the battle for Janos. He lay in his wickiup, recovering from his wound, and tragedy pervaded the camp, for the People had suffered a grievous loss. No longer could they raid with impunity in the land of the Mexi-canos, while the White Eyes pressured from the east. There seemed nowhere for the People to go as they prepared for their last stand in the Chiricahua Mountains.

  One day Mangas Coloradas sent word that he wished to smoke with Victorio, who made his way to the great chief's wickiup, and found him sitting inside, pale and gaunt, covered with a deerskin robe. Slowly, painfully, Mangas Coloradas filled his pipe with wild tobacco and other vegetative substances, then lit the mixture with a twig that had been thrust into the fire.

  They puffed in silence, and a long time passed before Mangas Coloradas spoke in a barely audible voice. “I have committed two serious errors. The first was letting the People be poisoned, and the second was the attack on Janos. I am no longer fit to lead the Mimbrenos, and the time has come for you to take my place . . . gallant Victorio.”

  Victorio wanted to request the mantle be passed on to Barbonsito, or even Juh of the Nednai, but he was an obedient warrior and bowed before his chief. “It will be as you say,” he replied. “But I have no solution to our predicament.”

  “Then you are truly wise . . . for there is no solution. Our enemies are strangling us, but we must fight back as best we can.”

  “Why has the Lifegiver abandoned us?” asked Victorio.

  “The ways of the Lifegiver are unknowable. Perhaps he has other plans for the People.”

  “As farmers and diggers of the yellow metal?” asked Victorio. “I do not think so.”

  “Listen to me, Victorio. The White Eyes are coming, and their intrusion will be more hideous than anything we have seen heretofore. You must counsel with Cochise and determine strategy.”

  “But we cannot counsel without the leadership of Mangas Coloradas. We must have your recommendations.”

  “I am old, tired . . . increasingly weak-minded,” said Mangas Coloradas. “My era of leadership is drawing to a close. From this day forward . . . you and Cochise shall lead the People.”

  Fonseca rode beside a herd of cattle, on guard duty in the desert twenty miles south of Fort Thorn. Thanks to his good work with the Mesilla Guards, he had been given a vaquero job by Ortega.

  Fonseca had killed so many Mescaleros, he no longer felt pursued by demons. I have avenged my wife and children, he thought contentedly. He recalled how he'd shot and hacked Mescaleros during the second massacre, his special mission the killing of children. Thank you, Joshua, for delivering my enemies into my hands.

  Now he was free to remarry, sire more children, and if he saved his money, he could own another ranch in ten years. The Apaches will never stop me, he thought. One day I'll be a caudillo like Senor Ortega.

  Fonseca wasn't paying attention to his surroundings, for it was a peaceful night. He gave free rein to his imagination, seeing himself with a beautiful young wife, healthy sons, and a little house in a valley like the one he rode through.

  Something made a rushing sound to his right, but he assumed a breeze rustled the blossoms of yellow spiny daisies. Shortly thereafter, something smacked his head, blotting out happy ambitions. He fell to the ground as his horse looked at him sadly.

  Five Mescalero Apaches emerged from the foliage, and among them was Panjaro. He stuffed a gag in Fonseca's mouth, bound his hands and feet, then other warriors arrived with their horses. They tied Fonseca head down over a saddle, then the Mescaleros mounted up and set a course for Chief Gomez's secret hideout in the Davis Mountains.

  Nathanial's mood had not improved by the time he left the hospital. Leaning on a cane, his first stop was the sutler's store, where he bought a bottle of whiskey, a bag of tobacco, and corn husks for the rolling of cigarettes. Then he went home, finding it clean but empty, Miss Andrews and the children at school.

  He sat at the kitchen table, drank, and brooded. Then he made his way back to the sutler's store and bought another bottle. He climbed to the hayloft in the stable and continued to drink, but no matter how much he tried, he could not dispel the image of the eviscerated child.

  He toyed with the notion of riding to Mesilla and shooting Ortega in cold blood. The townspeople would make short work of the intruder, but that was the best part. Do I want to live in this filthy world? he asked himself as he sank deeper into despondency.

  He moved to an adobe hut in nearby Dona Ana and sent word that he did not want to see anybody, not even his children. He refused to talk except with the old lady who brought him whiskey and tobacco. In the days that followed, he continued to drink, smoke, and become filthy, but nothing erased the image of the torn child. Nathanial Barrington had seen one dead innocent too many, and whatever faith in God he had possessed was gone. “If somebody killed me, it would be a blessing,” he mumbled one day as he sat with droopy eyes at the ta
ble, flies buzzing around his head.

  16

  * * *

  Fonseca knew they were going to kill him as he lay bent over the saddle, arms and legs tightly bound. Blood caked his hair, his body ached violently, and he'd lost feeling in his extremities long ago. He wished they'd shoot him and get it over with.

  As a good Catholic, he couldn't help wondering about judgment day. They killed my wife and child, so what could I do? he asked his silent interlocutor. He remembered a prayer his grandmother had taught him to ward off the evil eye. Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me. He whispered the words, feeling a small measure of relief.

  Some time later, he was aware of being pulled off the horse. Coming to consciousness, he thought: This must be it. He repeated the prayer. Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.

  They unbound his hands, gave him food and drink, and treated him roughly. Aha, he thought, as he chewed gristly venison. They're fattening me for the kill. He smiled as they glowered at him, and he knew such people would never forgive, because they were like him, utterly remorseless.

  After the meal, they tied him onto the horse and resumed their journey to the camp of Chief Gomez.

  The next stop would be Fort Thorn, and Clarissa felt apprehensive as she sat in the stagecoach, her long journey coming to an end. Well, soon I'll know the truth, she said to herself, trying to stir her confidence.

  She was accompanied by her daughter, maid, and a gentleman named George Bailey, a special agent sent by the Interior Department to assess the Apache situation in New Mexico Territory. Forty-nine years old, diminutive, he wore a dusty business suit and glanced repeatedly at his watch. “Shouldn't be much longer,” he said.

  Natalie had been lethargic most of the trip, but now looked out the window eagerly, as if aware she had returned to the land of her birth. “Da, Da,” she said.

  She knows her father is here, thought Clarissa, who had memorized a speech to deliver to her husband, so she wouldn't omit important points. She was afraid he'd make a scene. How pathetic I must have appeared with my need for cheap acclaim.

  “There it is,” said Bailey.

  Clarissa looked out the window of the stagecoach and perceived a cluster of darkness amid sand and green foliage on the horizon. If he's gone, I'll follow him, she determined. I've got to admit the truth no matter how painful it might be, so I can have peace.

  “I said it once,” announced Bailey, “and I'll say it again. I don't think a lady should travel through this territory, especially after two massacres.”

  She'd heard about the second Mesilla massacre and wondered if Nathanial had been killed. Her life had been serene before meeting him, now blood and death were everywhere.

  She closed her eyes and prayed silently. Oh God, I hope he's there.

  As Clarissa drew closer to Fort Thorn, Nathanial awakened in his shack at Dona Ana. He'd slept with his clothes on, because he didn't like dressing and undressing. Mainly, he lay on his sofa day after day, smoking, drinking, and ruminating. The ragged old Mexican woman prepared the occasional meal that he merely picked at.

  He'd lost thirty pounds, his beard was three inches long, and clothing hung loosely on his frame. He resumed drinking upon awakening, his goal to become senseless as quickly as possible. Sometimes he felt like taking a shotgun and blowing people to bits. “Oh, Generation of Vipers,” he whispered, recalling a line from the Bible. “Who hath warned thee to flee from the wrath to come?”

  Dr. Steck and Lieutenant Wood were on hand to greet the visiting special agent as the stagecoach pulled to a halt in front of the Fort Thorn orderly room. The first person out was a Mexican woman, an uncertain smile on her face. Next came an attractive well-dressed blonde carrying a small child, and finally Special Agent Bailey stepped down.

  Dr. Steck rushed forward to shake his hand, anxious to make a good impression on a superior from Washington. “Welcome to Fort Thorn.”

  “I'm here,” explained Bailey, “on the orders of Chief Clerk Mix. You've had two massacres, and he wants an independent assessment.”

  “We shall cooperate in every way,” said the ever-gracious Dr. Steck.

  Meanwhile, Lieutenant Wood stared fixedly at the blonde, who held her child and glanced about the post, as if wondering what next. Lieutenant Wood removed his hat and bowed slightly. “May I help you, ma'am?”

  “I'm looking for Nathanial Barrington,” she explained. “I'm his wife.”

  Dr. Steck turned about abruptly, stunned by her words. “So you're the one he used to talk about.”

  She didn't know what he meant, but smiled like the talented performer that she had been. “Is he here?”

  “He's moved to Dona Ana,” said Lieutenant Wood. “I'd be happy to arrange transportation if you like.”

  Clarissa cleared her throat. “Is he . . . with another woman?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I've come a long way,” said Clarissa, “and I'd be grateful if someone would lead me to him right away.”

  Lieutenant Wood ordered the nearest soldier to bring a wagon. “And make it fast!” Then he turned to Clarissa. “I'm sure Nathanial will be overjoyed by your arrival.”

  Dr. Steck added embarrassedly, “He's taken to drink, you know.”

  “It won't be the first time,” replied Clarissa.

  Dr. Steck escorted Bailey to his quarters, leaving Lieutenant Wood with Clarissa, the maid, and child. “Is that Nathanial's daughter?” asked the lieutenant.

  Clarissa nodded.

  “How delightful.” Lieutenant Wood realized that his competition for the schoolmarm was about to be obliterated. Then the wagon arrived, whereupon soldiers loaded Clarissa's trunks in back. Lieutenant Wood selected Corporal Gillespie and told him to escort Mrs. Barrington to her husband's home.

  The ladies climbed into the conveyance, Lieutenant Wood stepped backward, and the wooden spokes turned toward Dona Ana. My prayers have been answered, Lieutenant Wood told himself. This is indeed a joyous day. Then he ran toward the school, his dragoons watching curiously. It wasn't far; he adjusted his uniform and opened the door. All eyes turned to him, because he'd interrupted a spelling class. “Miss Andrews,” he said. “May I have a word with you?”

  She looked at him crossly “Not in the middle of a lesson. You should know better, Lieutenant Wood.”

  “It's an emergency,” he replied. “Otherwise I never would have disturbed you.”

  “Class, study your spellers until I return.”

  She walked down the aisle, stepped outside, and said, “Well?” a note of irritation in her voice.

  He closed the door behind her so the children couldn't hear. “Guess who just arrived at Fort Thorn?”

  “How can you bother me with such nonsense?”

  Lieutenant Wood grinned. “Mrs. Barrington didn't appear nonsensical in the least. It may interest you to know that she's here to claim her husband.”

  The schoolmarm's eyes bulged out of her head. “This is a joke in extremely bad taste.”

  “The joke's on you, my dear lady. Because she's on her way to him even as we speak.” He laughed. “Looks like you're stuck with me.”

  The Shaker woman didn't know what to say, but somehow she had to admit she'd always known it would end this way. “There are worse things, I suppose,” she sniffed.

  “How soon can we get married, do you think?”

  “We should wait a decent interval.”

  “I don't suppose you'd let me kiss you?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Perhaps later this evening.”

  Sometimes Nathanial wondered what day it was as he lay in delirium on his sofa. Yesterday he'd tripped over his feet and banged his head against a door while on the way to the outhouse, leaving an ugly scab. Everything he'd believed had deserted him, the world seemed a diabolical joke, and he saw no reason to continue.

  My children will get along without me, he told himself ruefully as he rose to a sitting position. In fact, they'll be better off, because I set such a poo
r example. It's easy for Henry David Thoreau to sit in his cabin alongside Walden Pond, writing of transcendental bliss. He doesn't have massacres to disturb his lofty meditations.

  Everything seemed false when measured beside a disemboweled child. Bottles of whiskey could not drown that grotesque figure, and Nathanial felt the panic of mental imprisonment. “I can't manage this anymore,” he mumbled to himself angrily, reaching for his Colt. He yanked it out of its holster, held it to his temple, and thumbed back the hammer. A feeling of relief came over him, for his personal devil dance was coming to an end.

  But his mind fed new thoughts. If I'm going to die, why not take a few son-of-a-bitches with me? He saw himself riding into Mesilla, a Colt in each hand, shooting everyone he saw. They'll get me eventually, but that's the whole point. I'll go down in a blaze of glory, like a good West Point officer. But what if I kill an innocent man? Dismayed, filled with contempt for himself and the world, he collapsed onto the sofa, and for no apparent reason, recalled a poem read long ago:

  By love directed, and in mercy meant,

  are trials suffered, and affliction sent,

  To wean from earth, and bid our spirits soar,

  to that blest clime, where pain shall be no more.

  He felt heavy, like an immense globule of oil melting into the cushions. Headache, nausea, and pain in the chest troubled him. He could find nothing to hang onto as he sank deeper into the bowels of the earth.

  He did not hear the door open, nor the rustle of a skirt, then a gasp. Neither could he perceive the movement of feet, the sound of water being poured in the kitchen, nor the approach of those strangely familiar steps. Nathanial struggled to open his eyes, and then cold water hit him full in the face.

  For an instant he thought he was drowning, then he sat upright, sputtering and cursing. He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands and realized he had passed far into madness, because it appeared that the former Clarissa Rowland of Gramercy Park was standing in his parlor, looking at him with grave concern. “Are you all right, Nathanial?” she asked.