Night of the Cougar

by Len Levinson

  Meanwhile, other warriors prepared to leave. “What are you waiting for, Geronimo?” asked Juh.

  The bluecoat war chief's horse stood nearby, confused and spooked by the sudden attack, yet attempting to do his duty, for he was a soldier too. On an impulse, Geronimo lifted the bluecoat war chief, threw him over the saddle, then leapt behind him, and kicked his heels into the horse's withers, joining other warriors departing the killing ground, leaving behind nude and mutilated bodies of enemy soldiers, plus a Mexican officer who died with William Shakespeare on his lips.

  Esther opened her eyes, and her first thought was, I'm alive. She lay in a room with three other women patients. “She's awake,” said one of them.

  “Where am I?” Esther asked through bruised lips and a cracked throat.

  “Austin.”

  “How'd I git here?”

  “Bunch of miners brung you in.”

  Esther's body was in agony, and tears welled as she recalled betrayal by a man she'd loved.

  The doctor visited later in the morning. “In a few weeks, God willing, you'll be up and about.”

  “I got no money to pay.”

  “See me when you're better. We'll work it out.”

  I'm sure we will, she thought, accustomed to using her body as collateral. After I recover, I'll return to the business, and should have enough in a couple of months to continue to New Mexico Territory. Because I ain't fergot you, Mrs. Rich Bitch, and after I've laid you to rest, I'm goin’ after that gang of outlaws, whose leader has the prettiest smile in the West. When I catch that son of a bitch Steve Culhane, his smilin’ days'll be over.

  Later that morning, a lean middle-aged man with finely chiseled features, dressed like a cowboy, appeared beside her bed. “I'm Captain Cole Bannon of the Texas Rangers,” he said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  She summoned her energy and explained softly, “I was a-travelin’ west with some men, and one night they jumped me.”

  “Remember their names?”

  “Steve Culhane was the boss.” Then she named others, but reminded the ranger, “They're prob'ly false names.”

  “What'd this Culhane look like?”

  “About as tall as you, a real handsome feller, you might say. Brown hair a little darker'n yers. Smiles a lot.”

  “You fell in love with him?”

  “ ‘Fraid so. You goin’ after ‘im?”

  “Damned right, even if we have to ride all the way to California. You must get well, so you can testify in court. Where're you going after getting out of the hospital?”

  “I'll be stayin’ right hyar in Austin.”

  “No money, I don't suppose.”

  “Don't you worry none about me, Captain Bannon. I knows how to git along.”

  “I'm sure you do, Miss Rainey. But here's something to help out.” He pressed a coin into her hand, and she could feel by its shape and heft it was a twenty-dollar double eagle. Then he said, “Good luck.”

  After he departed, she stared at the ceiling a long time, the coin clutched tightly in her hand. Guess men ain't all bad, she decided. Only most of ‘em.

  Cole Bannon sat at the bar of a nameless saloon, staring into his glass. It was midafternoon, not many customers, and the bartender knew how to tell a dirty joke, and when to leave a man alone.

  Cole had spoken with the doctor, who himself was shocked by the brutality of the crime. Cole Bannon was another Mexican War veteran, had seen countless gory scenes, but the beating of a defenseless woman roused him from his usual cold cynicism.

  He'd been following the Culhane gang for five months, and it wasn't the first time they'd committed rape and robbery. But the Texas Ranger had learned that sooner or later every criminal goes too far and makes the mistake that leads to his downfall.

  Approximately two hundred fifty miles to the west, a herd of cattle was spread over a panhandle plain, while their cowboys sat around a fire, eating steak and beans. They were ragged and weary, prepared for Comanche attack, and half crazed, because they'd been away from civilization so long. Hired to deliver cattle to a buyer in New Mexico Territory, they weren't sure they could find him, for he lived in one of the most remote areas of the frontier.

  The foreman's name was Donelson, and he had picked up his current merchandise in Mississippi, but it had been bred in South Carolina for hardiness on the open land. His cowboys chewed in silence, for they were not the breed that enjoyed speaking about themselves and their problems. As far as they were concerned, a man took care of his problems without bothering others. A few had plans to continue to Colorado Territory after the cattle were paid for, while others were running from the law.

  Suddenly they heard a voice. “Hallooo there!”

  Instantly, Donelson and his men were on their feet, pistols in hands. “Who're you?”

  “Pilgrims! Can we spend the night?”

  “The more the merrier,” said Donelson, glad the visitors weren't Comanches.

  Out of the chaparral rode eight men, their leader smiling broadly, hat on the back of his head. “Name's Harriman,” he said. “What's your'n?”

  The cowboys and travelers introduced themselves, then sat around the fire. “Where you headed?” asked Harriman.

  “Arizona,” replied Donelson.

  “That's Apache country.”

  “If we run into Injuns, we'll just give ‘em a steer.”

  “That yer herd?”

  “Nope—they belong to a feller named Barrington who lives out thar. We been hired to deliver it, an’ collect the money.”

  Harriman glanced significantly at his men, then turned to Donelson. “Looks like you boys're about to turn in.”

  “We are, but go ahead and cook yer vittles. Make yerself at home.”

  “Much obliged,” said the man with the ever-constant smile, tipping his hat.

  The cowboys prepared their blankets for the night, while the pilgrims gathered by the fire. Harriman's real name was Steve Culhane, and he nodded his head barely perceptibly. His outlaw cohorts drew pistols and opened fire on the cowboys at close range. The cowboys were taken by surprise, all shot before they could resist. Culhane and his men aimed their final rounds at figures still moving, then the campsite fell silent. “Looks like we just got us a herd,” he said.

  “Now all we got to do is find somebody to buy it,” said Dunphy sourly.

  “Why not sell it to the galoot what ordered it?” asked Culhane.

  “But New Mexico Territory is a helluva ways off!”

  “It's the same direction we're goin’ in,” he reminded them, and then winked boyishly. “At least we won't have to worry about food. But first—let's find another campsite, ‘cause this one's a-gonna stank after a while.”

  Clarissa taught Zachary and Gloria the niceties of long division when the sound of commotion came through the open window. Annoyed, Clarissa peered outside and was astonished to see Claggett fly headfirst out of the barn. He was followed by Dobbs, who dived upon him.

  But Claggett rolled away, jumped to his feet, and managed to kick Dobb's dark brown goatee. Dobbs lost his sense of direction, landed on the ground, and then received a sharp kick in the ribs. Clarissa's husband was riding the north range, so she took down the shotgun from its post above the fireplace, thumbed, back twin hammers, and rushed outside, an expression of determination on her face. “That's enough!” she shouted.

  The cowboys paid no attention as they stood toe to toe and pummeled each other. Clarissa raised the shotgun to her shoulder, aimed into the air, and pulled both triggers.

  She'd never fired the weapon before, and had no idea it kicked so hard. Her shoulder felt torn out of its socket, then she fell onto her rear end. As her vision cleared, she saw the men continuing to battle, ignoring her.

  She picked up the shotgun by the barrel, poised it like a bat, and advanced toward the warring duo. “I said stop!” Again they paid her no mind, so she swung with all her strength at both of them and managed to connect with Claggett's arm.


  He winced as the blow landed, then she swung at Dobb's head, but he dodged out of the way. “Now hold on thar, little woman,” he said.

  “Stop fighting this instant!” she shouted.

  “Mind yer damned business,” growled Claggett.

  “Everything on this ranch is my business,” she replied firmly.

  “You best put that rifle down, or I'll shove it up yer ass.”

  No one ever had spoken to Clarissa so crudely. “You worthless bastard!” she screamed as she took another swing at his head.

  He yanked the shotgun out of her hands, but she wouldn't let go, and kicked him in the shins. He howled in pain, hopping on one foot as a crowd of cowboys gathered, anxious to be amused. Meanwhile, Dobbs seized the opportunity to land a heavy left on Claggett's snout, causing Claggett to step backward, blinking his eyes, nose possibly broken. Dobbs rushed forward to finish off his adversary, but walked into a stiff left jab. The two cowboys stood toe to toe, slugging each other tenaciously as Clarissa searched about for help, and her eyes fell on the foreman standing with his thumbs hooked in his belt, apparently enjoying the show.

  “Mr. Blakelock—don't you think you should stop this altercation?”

  His eyes narrowed, and he made that grim, resigned smile. “What the hell fer?”

  “Before one of them kills the other.”

  “Oh, settle down, Clarabelle. They ain't gonter kill each other.”

  “My name isn't Clarabelle, and I am ordering you to stop this fighting instantly.”

  Blakelock didn't move, and then Clarissa heard the loud thud of a fist landing solidly on a forehead. She turned in time to see Dobbs fall to the ground. It appeared that he had stopped breathing, so she rolled him onto his back, pressed her ear against his chest, and heard his heart beating like a tom-tom.

  “Carry him to bed,” Clarissa ordered.

  Again no one moved. Arising, her jaw clenched with the rage of Gramercy Park, she balled her fists and walked unflinchingly toward Blakelock. “I just gave you an order!”

  Again he made his tight bitter smile. “Clarabelle—why don't you go bake muffins, and leave the men alone.”

  Something snapped within Clarissa, and she drove her fist toward his nose. But he clamped her wrist, and appeared bored. “Settle down, Clarabelle, afore I put you over my knee and spank yer bare bottom.”

  She blushed at the thought of such an outrage, causing his smile to broaden. Angrily she jerked her wrist out of his hand, then stared at him, wanting to elaborate on how much she loathed him, but he'd only laugh in her face. “I'm going to speak with my husband about you,” she said with barely concealed fury. “I'm going to have you fired.”

  “You cain't fire me, ‘cause I just quit,” he replied. “I'm sick of yer interference, Mrs. Boss Lady.”

  “If the ramrod goes, I go too,” said Pancho. “There ees not enough money in God's world to make me take orders from a woman."

  “Me neither,” said Barr.

  “Hell—don't leave me behind,” said Joe Smith.

  Clarissa stared in disbelief as the entire crew resigned before her eyes. How'll we manage without cowboys? she asked herself. What'll Nathanial say when he finds out they quit because of me? She cleared her throat. “I appear to have lost my temper,” she said quickly to Blakelock. “Of course you're not fired over such a trifle. But I don't believe you should stand by and let men murder each other.”

  Blakelock pointed behind her, and she turned to Claggett and Dobbs, now on their feet, faces the worse for wear, but otherwise alive and healthy. “The men need a good fight onc't in a while,” explained Blakelock confidentially. “It's good fer ‘em.”

  The concept stunned Clarissa, because she couldn't understand how a split lip could be good for anybody. “If you say so, Mr. Blakelock,” she replied, struggling to control her fury.

  “Don't take it so hard, Clarabelle.”

  “I wish you wouldn't call me that, Mr. Blakelock. It's such an ugly name.”

  “Not to me, because onc't I had me a mule called Clarabelle, and she was a good, hard worker, and smart as a whip.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “The Injuns stoled her, and prob'ly ate her, I imagine. Mule meat is their favorite food.”

  She suspected he was ridiculing her, but it appeared the mutiny was over, and Nathanial wouldn't need to hire a new crew of cowboys. “You may return to whatever you were doing, Mr. Blakelock. Good day.”

  ***

  That evening Clarissa stood at the parlor window and watched her husband arrive at the barn. Blakelock joined him a short time later, and Clarissa figured the topic was her.

  “Don't worry, Clarissa,” said Zachary, who sat on a parlor chair, Sir Walter Scott's The Lady of the Lake on his lap. “We'll stick up for you.”

  “You did right,” added little Gloria, who had been reading over his shoulder. “Them cowboys are a bunch of no-good varmints.”

  “Those cowboys,” Clarissa corrected, and then her husband emerged from the barn, Blakelock at his side, still speaking with him. Oh-oh, thought Clarissa. Blakelock headed toward the bunkhouse as Nathanial continued to the main house. He wore his wide-brimmed hat, tallest person on the ranch, and entered the house with a grave expression.

  “We've kept some supper warm for you,” Clarissa said brightly.

  He didn't kiss her, instead hanging his hat on the peg beside the door. Then his children crowded around. “Don't be mean,” said Gloria.

  “Go to your room,” he replied.

  He shuffled to the kitchen, where he filled a bowl with beef stew, then sat at the table. Clarissa took a chair opposite him and said, “I'm sorry.”

  He didn't reply as he dipped his spoon into the stew. She wished he'd say something, but instead he calmly finished his meal, sopped his bread in the gravy, then poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “You make me feel as if I've murdered somebody,” she said.

  Finally he turned to her, and she noticed his eyes half closed with fatigue. “Clarissa—I've told you be- fore, and now I must tell you again—please leave the men alone.”

  “I tried to stop a fight. What was wrong about that?”

  “Your woman's concept of wrong does not apply here, as I've tried to explain before. This may surprise you, but most people in New Mexico Territory never heard of Susan B. Anthony or Elizabeth Cady Stan-ton. The cowboys don't want a woman telling them what to do, because they're poor, forgotten bastards, they're all drunkards, and manhood is all they have left. You take it from them—they'll ride out of here. They'd rather starve, or live like wild Indians, than take orders from a woman.”

  “In other words, I'm so far beneath them—it's humiliating to obey me?”

  “They don't look down on you, Clarissa. In fact, they respect you very much. They feel you don't appreciate them, and it's true, you don't. They're honest, hardworking cowboys, with their own code of honor, but also surprisingly sensitive, and you must beware of offending them. A woman might talk behind another woman's back, but men fight it out face-to-face, with fists, or whatever they can lay their hands upon, winner take all.”

  “That strikes me as rather barbaric,” retorted Clarissa. “I've asked you to do things, and you've obeyed, although I'm a mere woman.”

  “That's because I love you, but the men are scared of you. If you used your mind, instead of arrogance, you could have them eating out of your hand, but anyway, I had a talk with Blakelock, and he said the cowboys need to blow off steam. So he'll take Dobbs, Claggett, Crawford, Pancho, Barr, and Joe Smith to Fortm Buchanan, buy supplies, and let them tie on a drunk. Meanwhile, we'll keep Manion, Bastrop, Thorne, and Grimble here. When Blakelock and his bunch returns, we'll let this bunch go. The men are fighting amongst themselves because they need to have some fun.”

  “What about me?” she asked.

  “You'll stay here.”

  “Why can't I go to Fort Buchanan?”

  Nathanial smiled patiently. “Clariss
a—this is Apache territory.”

  “You said they won't bother us, because they're friends of yours. I don't trust that bunch of drunkards and gamblers with my grocery money.”

  “If they wanted to steal, I doubt you could stop them.”

  “They might not steal, but God only knows what groceries they'll bring back.”

  “I'm sorry, but my mind is made up. You're not going to Fort Buchanan under any circumstances—is that clear?”

  She made her determined little smile, and something told him she was going to Fort Buchanan whether he liked it or not. The strangest aspect of women, he ruminated afterward, is they claim we dominate them, but somehow they always do as they damned please.

  Not all wives do as they please, and in a white-columned mansion in Virginia, Mary Custis Lee often awakened in the middle of the night, crippled by bone-grinding agony. Heiress to one of the South's great names, the former slim belle had become puffy, old, and wrinkled before her time due to years of debilitating illness.

  Forty-nine, she was daughter of George Washington Parke Custis, grandson of Martha Washington. Custis had preferred dabbling in music, painting, and literature to managing his vast estate, and upon his death the previous October, owed ten thousand dollars. Mary, overwhelmed, had been forced to send for her husband Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee, executive officer of the Second Cavalry.

  Stationed in west Texas, he requested leave, returned to Arlington, and learned that in addition to the ten-thousand dollar debt, his wife had inherited 196 slaves, who had done little work under the benign reign of her father. The roof of Arlington House leaked, the barn appeared on the verge of collapse, fences were down, and formerly verdant lawns were overgrown with weeds and bushes.

  Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee set to work with the precision and energy that had marked his rise from a lowly second lieutenant. Now the roof no longer leaked, a vast quantity of corn had been planted, and the loan was being repaid.

  Mary Custis Lee couldn't understand why her husband tolerated her crankiness. Even when she vented rage at him, he stood steady as a soldier under fire, never retorting insultingly. He had become her personal servant and never would let a slave touch her, for he considered his wife his responsibility.