Night of the Cougar

by Len Levinson

He grabbed handfuls of her hair, kissed her lips, and ground his teeth against hers as he forced her to the ground. She resisted somewhat, because she didn't want him to know how much she needed him, and indeed still loved him. How could she hate a man who was kind to the son he had not sired? Jocita rewarded Juh for his love of Fast Rider, but only grudgingly, with angry scratches and bites. Together they groped on the ground, satisfying warped desires.

  Chapter Three

  Warriors gathered sotol stalks for headdresses, or refurbished ceremonial skirts covered with ancient esoteric symbols. Meanwhile, medicine men wearing ceremonial robes crafted scepters and headdresses, musicians tuned instruments, and firewood was gathered as everyone prepared for the War Dance. In the evenings, male warriors repaired to the sweat lodge where they smoked, chanted, and sang of great battles.

  The People lived the ecstasy of united prayer as they attempted to draw power out of Yusn the Life-giver, creator of the universe. According to their oldest legends, their ancestors had been pushed from cold northern regions by enemies, and finally Yusn gave them the homeland as a sacred trust. The People had been defending it ever since against Comanches, Pimas, and Yaquis, then soldiers with silver helmets, and finally the armies of the Nakai-yes and Pindah-lickoyee. Few warriors died of natural causes, and a growing number doubted the power of Yusn, for He had not been helpful in recent times.

  Nana the medicine man preached that misfortune had befallen the People because they had lost faith in the Mountain Spirits and had become sinful in their hearts. “We are too lax!” he harangued them as he wandered across the camp, wearing a medicine hat decorated with turkey feathers. “We have become doubters, fornicators, unmindful of the elderly and sickly who dwell among us! Our shame has covered the land like a plague, and the Mountain Spirits are disgusted with us. Only a return to the holy Lifeway can produce victory!”

  Warriors took his words to heart and stopped pursuing divorced and widowed bizahn women, while the bizahn women ceased wiggling their behinds when warriors were about. Enemies became reconciled, presents were exchanged, and children contemplated losing a father, or in the case of Fast Rider, a mother.

  Few women went on raids, for women had been ordained to raise children and maintain the camp, but occasionally a woman appeared with the endurance and determination to fight alongside the men, and Fast Rider's mother was one of these. Often he sat for hours, watching her make arrows. She fascinated him, for she appeared part man and part woman, unlike the other mothers. With her etched muscles and solid frame, she was bigger than some men, yet was gentle with her son, and he loved to have her hug him tightly.

  One afternoon, Fast Rider observed his father, sub-chief Juh, craft a new bridle of deerskin and rope, the latter taken in the land of the Nakai-yes. Juh striated his muscles as he pulled a knot tight, and Fast Rider marveled at the strength in his father's body; he was even stronger than his mother.

  Suddenly Juh looked at him. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  Without hesitation, the boy said, “How proud I am to have such parents.”

  Juh was a cold-blooded warrior, but he found his presumed son's love touching. “As you are proud of us, we are proud of you, Fast Rider. One day, you shall be a great warrior.”

  “It takes so long,” complained the pouting boy.

  “Much must be learned, and you need to grow strong.”

  “I hope I will be strong as you, because no one will ever defeat me.”

  “When I am old,” said Juh, “you will lift me like a feather.”

  On the night of the War Dance, a bonfire was lit in a clearing near the wickiups. Then the musicians gathered, pounding drums and plucking lutes, their vengeance serenade drawing warriors, wives, maidens, children, and a few camp dogs.

  Figures could be seen on ledges and cliffs around them. These were the Gahn dancers, representing the Mountain Spirits, wearing tall headdresses and knee-length black skirts, their faces covered with swathes of black cloth, and they carried crossed scepters made of sotol stalks. In ritualized movements, they descended the slopes and made their way to the fire.

  Bowing, shaking scepters, they swept back and forth over the dancing ground, cleansing it of evil influences. When satisfied, they stood loosely in a long single rank, then Chief Mangas Coloradas emerged from his wickiup, attired in a tight-fitting medicine hat, his mighty chest covered by a medicine shirt. He was carrying a scepter. Everyone knew that his two beloved sons had fallen at the gates of Janos, and this raid would have special significance.

  Silently, the old chief danced his grief before the assembly of Mimbrenos and Chiricahuas, and everyone could see how terrible the loss had been. He leapt through the air like a young man, to show his determination to punish the Nakai-yes, and brandished his scepter like a lance, plunging it into the hearts of enemies.

  The People shared his rancor, for all had lost relatives and loved ones to Nakai-yes invaders. Mangas Coloradas advanced to the center of the clearing, wind troubling his long gray hair. Holding out his arms, he sang:

  “Cochise, Victorio, Esquiline

  They say to you, they call to you

  again and again

  What will you do?”

  The three named chiefs detached themselves from the crowd and joined Mangas Coloradas in the middle of the clearing. Representing the four holy directions, they danced a series of steps to demonstrate they would be as one in the battles ahead.

  They were joined by other warriors, as drumming and singing became louder, and a chorus chanted ancient melodies. Some warriors fired pistols, others performed backflips, and a few charged imaginary enemies. Soon they were joined by women, children, and the dogs, everyone contributing to the intensity of the ceremony.

  The War Dance continued through the night as the People worked themselves into a frenzy. Some warriors dropped to their knees, babbling incoherently, others shrieked rage at the Mexicanos, and a gathering begged the Lifegiver to award them justice, while scattered warriors wandered about in trances, singing victory songs.

  Their anger became focused, their spirits strengthened, and logic became overwhelmed. They danced till dawn, then returned to their wickiups to sleep the next day. The dance began again at sundown, continuing throughout the night. The cycles were repeated four times, to satisfy the four sacred directions, as the wills of warriors were sharpened to white-hot points of rage. The Nakai-yes will die, they told themselves. The People shall not be denied just vengeance.

  On the evening of the fifth day, the warriors painted their faces, gathered weapons, and prepared horses. In the darkness, Mangas Coloradas climbed into his saddle and pulled the reins south toward Mexico. Five hundred warriors followed him, the largest force ever assembled in his lifetime.

  Nathanial sat in his office, looking out the window. Never had he been more proud of anything than his rickety little ranch in remote Arizona. Best of all, his little wife was with him, instead of waiting back at some flea-bitten fort while he fought the Apache.

  As the happy rancher studied an old hardware catalog, there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” he said mindlessly, expecting one of his children.

  The door opened on Pancho, sombrero in hand. “Soldiers are on the way,” he said. “About two hundred.”

  The soldiers would be the first visitors to Whitecliff, and Nathanial expected to know some of them, having been a soldier himself. Eagerly he reached for his big wide-brimmed tan hat, then entered the parlor, where class had adjourned abruptly, his children screaming with delight.

  The family and their cowboys gathered in the yard between the house and barn as blue uniforms appeared on the horizon. It'll take a full-scale war to get me back into the army, Nathanial told himself as he placed his arm around his wife's waist. And maybe not even then.

  Riding in front of the formation was Colonel Benjamin Louis Eulalie de Bonneville, short, rotund, sixty-two. On a tour of the Apache homeland, he was second in command of the 9th Department, under General
John A. Garland, whose health was failing.

  A West Point graduate, Colonel Bonneville sat squarely in his saddle, flanked by guidons, one from the 3rd Regiment, his personal fighting force, the other belonging to the First Dragoons. His intention was to study the land over which the new stagecoach line would pass, and make peaceful contact with Apaches, if that was possible.

  Colonel Bonneville wasn't inspiring to observe, for he wasn't huge like General Winfield Scott, or attractive like Colonel Albert Sydney Johnston, but his men respected his professionalism, and he never panicked when bullets and arrows were flying around.

  They had nicknamed him Old Bonney Clabber, and most had served under him during the Gila campaign of the previous summer, when they'd defeated a substantial Apache force in the Valley of Dead Sheep, even killing the famed Mimbreno war chief Chuchillo Negro. During the worst moments of that campaign, when they'd drunk no water for nearly a week, Old Bonney Clabber never faltered.

  Among his staff officers rode Major Beauregard Hargreaves, a stocky frontier soldier with curly black side-whiskers, who experienced uncomfortable regrets as he followed Colonel Bonneville toward the shacks in the distance. He knew they belonged to Nathanial Barrington, his former West Point roommate, who had been his closest friend, and supposedly still was.

  But Beau carried a shameful secret that he dared not repeat, not even to his wife Rebecca back in Santa Fe. Two years ago, Nathanial had been reported missing in action after a clash with Apaches in the Mogollon Mountains east of Fort Craig, and it was assumed he had been killed. While in the act of comforting Clarissa, Beau had crossed the line with her where sympathy became something more intimate, and they'd ended up naked in the bedroom, not out of love, but perhaps to commemorate the passing of Nathanial, or out of despair.

  Following the cataclysmic act, which never had been repeated, Nathanial returned alive after nearly a year among the Apaches. Seems he hadn't died after all, only been wounded, and the red devils nursed him back to life. Beau felt ashamed of his seduction of Clarissa, for he was a man of honor and believed himself the instigator. It was a stain he'd wear to his dying day, adding gloom and guilt to his Presbyterian countenance. Worst of all, he'd need to face both Nathanial and Clarissa in less than an hour. I'll pretend nothing happened, he counseled himself. Maybe I was drunk, and dreamed it all.

  Nathanial recognized Colonel Bonneville as the army rode into his yard, flags flying, uniforms covered with dust, equipment clanking. The ex-officer knew how he appeared to them, a bearded madman who'd dragged his family to the bloodiest corner of the frontier, and the army would have to protect his bad investment.

  Colonel Bonneville raised his right arm in the air. “Detachment halt!”

  The men and horses came to a stop, a cloud of dust billowed forward, and the colonel lifted his stubby leg over the horn of his saddle, lowered himself to the ground, then stepped toward the blond-bearded rancher. “Is it you, Captain Barrington?” asked Colonel Bonneville jovially.

  Nathanial drew himself to attention and threw a salute. “Welcome to Whitecliff.”

  Colonel Bonneville glanced about. “A beautiful view, but not as beautiful as Mrs. Barrington. Where is the lady?”

  Clarissa stepped forward, dressed like a man, holding out her hand. “How lovely to see you again, Colonel Bonneville.”

  “What has he done to you, my dear, carrying you off to such a forsaken spot? Why, I ought to throw him in the stockade.”

  “But he didn't drag me here,” she replied gaily. “I came of my own accord.”

  “Extraordinary,” expostulated Colonel Bonneville as he removed his gloves. “You wouldn't have anything to drink, by any stretch of the imagination?”

  “No whiskey, sir,” replied Nathanial. “We're all teetotalers here, except we don't have tea either. It's rather a primitive life, I'm afraid.”

  The soldiers dismounted, slapped their dusty wide-brimmed civilian hats against their thighs, then a familiar bull-like figure stepped forward, and Nathanial could not restrain himself as he rushed forward to embrace his old West Point roommate Beau Hargreaves. “What the hell're you doing here?” he asked happily.

  “I wanted to see if the buzzards had got you.” Then Beau noticed Clarissa advancing tentatively, carrying her own false smile.

  “What a wonderful surprise,” she said.

  Beau kissed her hand, blushing with illicit memories, then greeted the children as Nathanial observed the scene sardonically. For he harbored his own dark secret; once in Santa Fe, during the period when Clarissa had left him for her piano-playing career, he had attempted to seduce Beau's wife, to no avail. But he too smiled pleasantly, although ashamed of his betrayal.

  Guilt pervaded the yard as soldiers unloaded wagons, and Colonel Bonneville and Major Hargreaves followed Nathanial into the main house. They sat in the parlor, and Rosita brought cups of fresh stream water. After slaking his thirst, Colonel Bonneville looked up, narrowed an eye, and asked, “See any Apaches lately?”

  Nathanial didn't care to lie to a fellow officer, but couldn't disclose information that might harm his friends. “This territory is full of Apaches—you know that, sir.”

  “I asked if you'd seen any?”

  “Only one—a friendly visit.”

  “Other ranches haven't fared so well, I'm sorry to say. Have you heard about the stagecoach stations?”

  “What stagecoach stations?”

  “The Overland Company is building a chain of them from the Mississippi to the Pacific, and some will pass through this very territory. If you see your Apache friends, you might pass the word along. If anything happens to one of those stagecoaches, there'll be hell to pay.”

  ***

  Not all warriors went on the raid, because spies were required to monitor the homeland. Chuntz had been assigned the Sonoita Valley, and he'd spotted the bluecoat column yesterday west of Bonita Canyon. Chuntz had followed at a distance, and now the army had stopped at Sunny Bear's ranch.

  Chuntz lay on his belly atop a rock ledge, gazing at soldiers pitching tents, a steer roasting over an open pit, its fragrance wafting past Chuntz's nostrils. He felt hungry, but a warrior does not acknowledge unworthy considerations.

  Chuntz hated Sunny Bear, because Sunny Bear was a Pindah, while Chuntz's wife had been killed by Pindah soldiers in the Valley of Dead Sheep. Chuntz never had trusted Sunny Bear or his fancified visions, and always believed Sunny Bear had betrayed them. There he is plotting against us, thought Chuntz as he observed Sunny Bear strolling among his Pindah friends. Now perhaps the others will listen to me, and we can wipe out Sunny Bear.

  Rows of white canvas tents and the clamor of military life reminded Nathanial of boredom, drunkenness, and the attrition of constant guerilla warfare during his career as an army officer. How did I manage so long? he asked himself. He couldn't help feeling sorry for men forced to enlist or starve, but it was an unjust world, and the Barrington family contributed substantially to charity. No one person can save America, he reminded himself.

  He reached his destination, the tent assigned to Beau. “May I come in?”

  “I'm sorry,” replied the voice within, “but I'm entertaining Queen Victoria.”

  Nathanial pushed the flap aside. Beau sat at his field desk, a map spread before him, eyes half closed with exhaustion. There was a cot, another chair, the odor of old canvas. Nathanial sat opposite Beau. “How's the army?” he asked.

  “It's the same magnificent mess it's always been. Do you ever miss it?”

  “Sometimes, but I prefer ranching.”

  “Nathanial—in the name of truth it must be admitted that this isn't a real ranch, and wouldn't exist were it not for your family's subsidy. On the other hand, I'm doing something useful, defending honest citizens against your friends the Apaches. I'm even defending you."

  “I don't need defense, because the Apaches are my brothers and sisters, and my cowboys are more than a match for any outlaws that might wander this way.”


  “I fear one day your charred corpse will be found tied head down over the dead coals of a fire, because you're a white man, whether you like it or not. But I can't help being curious—how much money have you thrown at this ranch?”

  “Not as much as you think, and the outlook is promising, especially if they build a railroad to Santa Fe. I guess you could say I've found my little corner of heaven. How're Rebecca and the children?”

  “Haven't seen them for over a week, and that's the worst drawback of military life, I admit. Does ranch life agree with Clarissa?”

  Nathanial smiled. “I've never seen her so happy.”

  An unpleasant twinge passed through Beau. “I never thought you'd settle down, because you were such a hellion. Why, I remember times . . .”

  Nathanial raised his hand. “Marriage to Clarissa is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  Again, Beau felt uneasy before his friend. “If it weren't for Rebecca, I would have drunk myself to death long ago.”

  “Clarissa has become quite a tough little soldier,” Nathanial explained proudly, “exactly the opposite of what she used to be. Even the cowboys are afraid of her. It's quite amusing to watch her with them.”

  “I don't suppose you receive any news,” said Beau, “but not much has changed, I'm pleased to report. Ten Cent Jimmy Buchanan has continued to equivocate over every issue, like the coward that he is. He's destroyed the Democratic party, and in my opinion the only man who can unite the nation is Stephen Douglas.” Beau referred to Senator Stephen Douglas of Illinois, the so-called “Little Giant,” leader of the insurgent wing of the Democratic party.

  “But Douglas is a charlatan,” protested Nathanial.

  “So are all other politicians,” replied Beau. “But if the Republicans win the White House in ‘60, you can pretty much forget America.”

  Nathanial sighed wearily. “The great slavery debate makes liars out of everybody. If only you could see how good life can be outside conventional concepts.”