Night of the Cougar

by Len Levinson

  As she lay groaning, he entered the bedroom, carrying a carafe of warm whale oil. “Ready?’

  “Be gentle, Robert.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  The fingers that had drawn detailed maps of the Chapultepec fortress during the Mexican War, now rolled his wife onto her belly. He rearranged her legs, then unbuttoned the back of her gown, revealing her pale shoulder. He peeled back the fabric, then poured the oil, and administered a soothing massage.

  She moaned, face in the pillow. “More.”

  The hands that had shot Mexicans at Cerro Gordo kneaded her inflamed muscles and joints, for she suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. “I'm not hurting you?”

  “I can't feel anything in that arm, and perhaps it would be best if I died and set you free.”

  “But I don't want to be free of you. Whatever makes you think such a silly thing?”

  He'd been destitute when they'd met, while she would inherit a fortune, or so everybody had believed at the time. Many whispered snidely that the dashing Lieutenant Robert E. Lee was marrying for money, but now, twenty-seven years later, the Custis fortune was gone, yet Robert E. Lee did not abandon his wife. He had married not for wealth, slaves, or even Arlington itself, but because he had been attracted to feisty, irritable Mary Custis. Perhaps it was her scathing honesty, or her aristocratic hauteur, or possibly because he had been obsessed with handsome, dark-haired women.

  On the subject of slavery, Robert E. Lee was no rabble-rousing fire-eating extremist. He believed the “special institution” a worse evil for white people than Negroes, and hoped for the gradual emancipation of slaves, but saw no easy solutions, and never personally owned more than six slaves, all left him in wills, or given by his father-in-law. Those that wanted freedom, he shipped to Liberia. No one ever said he treated slaves cruelly, and Arlington was a farm, not a regimented cotton or rice plantation. In Robert E. Lee's upper-class southern existence, he seldom saw the worst excesses of slavery.

  “I hope they don't call you back to duty,” said Mary deep in her throat, for she was becoming relaxed.

  “If they do, I may not go,” he replied. “I'm getting too old to ride the Staked Plains in the summer, chasing those damned Comanches.”

  “What if they make you general?” she asked, for Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee was a favorite of the army's commanding general, Winfield Scott.

  “After spending these months with you and the children, the army doesn't seem so attractive anymore. But if there's war, naturally that would change everything.”

  They embraced, another American couple fearing civil unrest, because the nation had been mired in the slavery controversy since the first shipload of slaves arrived from Africa in 1619. There had been secession crises, nullification threats, fistfights in Congress, and guerilla warfare in Kansas-Nebraska, with casualties mounting on both sides. Every year it became worse, the South feared domination by the North, and the North felt compelled to outlaw slavery. America was only eighty-two years old, and many, like Mary and Robert E. Lee, wondered if it would survive.

  Chapter Six

  The Second Cavalry was the army's unofficial elite unit. Organized only three years ago by then Secretary of War Jefferson Davis, it was deployed in west Texas, its mission to subdue the Comanches.

  Its officers included the cream of the officer corps, such as Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston, on temporary duty in the Mormon Wars, and Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee, on leave in the East. In addition, there were numerous outstanding junior officers, and one was Lieutenant John Bell Hood, a Kentuckian who spent most of his time chasing Comanches, occasionally encountering the aftermaths of massacres.

  A massacre could be spotted at long range by large numbers of buzzards circling in the sky, and as Lieutenant Hood approached one such gathering of black-winged creatures, he and his men were ready for war, carrying the latest experimental Sharp's breech-loading carbines, which could fire faster than traditional muzzle-loading rifles, but no Comanches presented themselves as targets that hot summer afternoon.

  Wind brought stench to their nostrils, and the soldiers raised their yellow bandannas over their noses. Buzzards protested vociferously, rousted from their meal, but there wasn't much left as the cavalrymen rode onto the scene.

  Lieutenant Hood assumed Indians were guilty, although no arrows poked through ribs of bloodstained skeletons. He ordered a burial detail, then dismounted, sat on the ground, and wrote details in his notebook, for he needed to file a report when he reached Fort Cooper.

  Like many officers, Lieutenant Hood was frustrated by the federal government's reluctance to wage full-scale war against Indians, but citizens back East didn't care to pay a large army, particularly since so many officers and soldiers were from the South. The slavery issue permeated every area of national life, and especially the army.

  Lieutenant Hood listened to shovels digging the earth as he worried about his country. The South might secede from the Union, but he wouldn't know until he returned to Fort Cooper.

  “Somebody's follerin’ us!” hollered Sergeant Witherspoon, pointing to their backtrail.

  Lieutenant Hood was on his feet hi an instant, stuffing his notebook into his shirt pocket. He whipped out his Colt and wondered whether to flee or make a stand. It didn't take long to decide, for he was West Point, class of 1853. “Sergeant Witherspoon—I want a skirmish line right here!”

  The men deployed quickly, and Lieutenant Hood stood behind them, raised his spyglass and focused on the intruders. At first they were a vague conglomeration of men and animals, but as they drew closer he could perceive no feathers in their hair, nor bows and arrows, but floppy cowboy hats could be seen, with beards and deerskin shirts.

  “At ease,” called Lieutenant Hood to his troopers. “They're Americans.”

  The men were surprised to encounter other riders, because usually they found nothing unusual on their scouts. Lieutenant Hood counted ten weathered desert riders approaching, led by a slightly built man on a strawberry roan stallion, and they all wore the tin stars of the Texas Rangers.

  The Rangers stopped at the edge of the mass grave, climbed down from their horses, and slapped dust off their garments. Then their leader advanced and said, “Howdy—I'm Cole Bannon. What's this?”

  “Comanche massacre,” replied Lieutenant Hood.

  Cole strolled among the skeletons, nearly gagging on the odor. “Don't see arrows.”

  “Comanches probably took ‘em away.”

  “What if it wasn't Comanches?”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “An outlaw gang that we've been chasing, led by a killer named Steve Culhane.”

  “In the absence of evidence,” replied Lieutenant Hood, “I'd have to say Comanches.”

  “What about the cattle tracks?”

  Lieutenant Hood appeared surprised. “I didn't see any cattle tracks.”

  “They're all over the damned place. If I'm not mistaken, these skeletons were cowboys, and the Culhane gang rustled their herd.”

  “How far would you say they are?”

  “Maybe a week ahead. Care to hunt ‘em down?”

  “We're expected at Fort Cooper.”

  Cole touched his finger to the brim of his hat, then climbed onto his horse and wheeled it about. “Let's go, boys,” he said.

  The Texas Rangers rode off, and Lieutenant Hood watched admiringly from beneath the brim of his Jeff Davis hat. He wished he could join them, but he was a soldier, and instead inscribed the meeting in his notebook, not modifying his hypothesis about a Comanche massacre. Thus another Indian atrocity was duly noted, to become part of the official record.

  Beau opened his eyes. He lay on his back, his ribs hurt when he breathed, he felt weak, the sky an overturned blue basin above. What the hell happened? he asked himself.

  It required tremendous effort to move his head, and he was astonished to see Apache men and women roaming about hutlike structures made of branches, leaves, mud, and grass. I'm
a prisoner of war!

  A shudder passed over him because he'd heard how Apaches treated prisoners. Sometimes they let women slice captives to ribbons, or stake them to anthills and pour honey over their faces, or tie them with wet rawhide to a saquaro cactus, and as the rawhide shrank it pulled the prisoner against sharp spines, puncturing him in hundred of spots, so he could bleed to death slowly.

  Beau wished he'd been killed in the ambush, but had not been lucky. He hoped he would die courageously, instead of begging for mercy like the coward he suspected himself to be. The pain in his ribs threatened to overcome him, but he held on.

  The Apaches noticed their prisoner was conscious, and it wasn't long before a scowling warrior approached. The warrior kneeled beside Beau, looked him over, then said, "Habla español?"

  "Sí,” replied Beau, amazed at the weakness of his voice.

  “I am Geronimo,” declared the warrior in Spanish, “and I have taken you fairly in battle.”

  “When are you going to kill me?” asked Beau, who was anxious to get it over with.

  “That remains to be seen,” replied Geronimo. “What are you to Sunny Bear?”

  Beau was startled to hear the name. “How do you know I am a friend of Sunny Bear?”

  “You mentioned him when I was preparing to kill you. That is the only reason you are not dead.”

  “Sunny Bear and I are like brothers,” Beau said truthfully. “We studied to become soldiers together. When he lived among you, we thought he had died, but then returned a new man.”

  “There is none like Sunny Bear,” replied Geronimo. “Since you are his war brother, I shall give you to him as a gift.”

  After Geronimo departed, Beau reflected upon his old friend Nathanial Barrington. If he hadn't lived among Apaches, and I hadn't mentioned his name, I'd be gone from this world.

  Beau slept, and when he opened his eyes, a young tall Mexican woman knelt alongside him. Beau thought he was hallucinating, but then she said, “I have heard you speak Spanish.”

  “Are you a captive too?” he asked.

  “Yes, of Victorio. The fiends have killed my parents, my brothers, and sisters, and all our vaqueros.”

  “When I recover, I will take you out of here.”

  “They will never let you leave alive, or me either,” she said fatalistically. About to explain further, she suddenly closed her mouth as a bandy-legged Apache in his midforties approached. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “You should do some work for a change, you lazy Nakai-yes bitch.”

  The Apache slapped her rear end, and Constanza was tempted to punch him in the nose, but he would cut her heart before she even touched him. Instead, she bowed as she retreated toward Victorio's wickiup.

  The Apache kneeled beside Beau. “We have met before,” he said cordially. “At the Santa Rita Copper Mines seven harvests ago.”

  Beau studied the Apache, but didn't recognize him. “What is your name?”

  “Nana, and Geronimo has paid me one fine horse to heal you.”

  “What are my prospects?”

  “I have removed the bullet.” He held up a chunk of lead. “You will be well soon. I do not suppose Sunny Bear ever told you about me.”

  “Sunny Bear does not speak about his time with Apaches, but he has refused to make war against you ever again, and no longer is a soldier.”

  “Sunny Bear is a warrior who keeps his word, but how about you?”

  “I respect deeds, not words.”

  “When you return to Sunny Bear you must thank him, for it is he who saved your life.”

  “What has he done that causes you to respect him so?”

  “He has seen great visions,” replied Nana. “And he makes everybody laugh. Can you make me laugh, White Eyes?”

  “Not with a hole in my chest”

  “Be thankful it was not your head,” said the medicine man.

  ***

  Constanza's principal task was collecting wood for Victorio's fire, but this became increasingly difficult the longer the People stayed in one camp. She was forced to range an ever-greater distance, and worry about finding her way back, plus she could meet a hungry bear, or step on a rattlesnake.

  She loaded wood onto a deerskin blanket, then slung it over her shoulder and trudged to camp. Back and forth she went, from dawn to dusk, except for meals, and never had she labored so unremittingly.

  She hated the Apaches, feared they'd torture her to death, and sometimes cried hot tears. I am the most wretched woman on earth, she thought, because I've lost everything. Constanza had been loved by family and friends, but now was spat upon when Victorio wasn't looking. She sometimes thought of running away, but the wilderness was dangerous.

  She carried an armful of branches and twigs to the blanket, then decided to rest. Finding shade in the lee of a paloverde tree, no sooner had her rear end struck the ground heavily, than she heard an ominous rattle. Her blood ran cold, and she nearly fainted as the viper materialized out of the grass beside her. The Mexican princess had no idea a nest of eggs lay nearby, yet knew instinctively she shouldn't move, and expected rattlesnake fangs on her body at any moment. A slick of sweat covered her body, she wanted to scream, but managed to control herself. “Please go away,” she pleaded. “Oh, Madre mía—save me!” The snake slithered closer, apparently suspicious of the large warm object that landed in its midst, and Constanza thought she'd die of fright.

  The snake gave a mighty lurch, and Constanza realized her end had come, but instead of injecting poison into Constanza's arm, the snake went flat on the ground, an arrow through its body. Constanza leapt up and ran twenty-odd paces, then turned to see if the snake followed her. It lay bleeding, apparently dead.

  Constanza hadn't seen the direction from which the arrow had came. Warily she glanced about, wondering if she were next on the archer's list, when a yerba linda bush trembled nearby, and a wild-looking Apache woman arose, bow in her left hand. Constanza remembered this woman, for she was taller than any other women in camp, taller even than Constanza, and utterly barbaric-appearing, hardly a woman at all.

  Jocita walked toward her, curious about the Nakai-yes woman whom Victorio had taken. She stopped a short distance away, dressed in a deerskin dress and shirt, hair tangled, prominent cheekbones, thin, expressionless lips.

  Constanza wanted to show gratitude, and hoped she had found a friend, so she bowed before Jocita, and said, "Gracias.”

  Jocita spoke no Spanish, for she was of the Nednai tribe, the most uncivilized Apaches of all, and it disgusted her to see the Nakai-yes woman fawning before her. “Stop it!” she commanded, but Constanza was as ignorant of Apache language as Jocita was of Spanish. Confused, frightened, Constanza raised her hands to protect herself, and this angered Jocita even more. “Stand up for yourself!” yelled Jocita. “Where is your pride?”

  Constanza's nose became bloodied, her lower lip split, and a punch to the ear made her hear church bells. She realized she was going to be beaten to death unless she fought back, but she knew nothing of combat, and when she dived blindly toward Jocita, the lithe warrior woman merely took one step to the side, and smashed her in the face.

  Constanza toppled unconscious to the ground at Jocita's feet, and Jocita was tempted to cut off her head, because many relatives and friends had been killed by the Nakai-yes over the years, and she had been poisoned by “friendly” Mexicanos at Janos. But the Nakai-yes woman was Victorio's captive, and Jocita dare not antagonize him, so she kicked the senseless Constanza in the buttocks, then walked to the rattlesnake, where she removed her arrow. “Perhaps I should have let you kill her,” said Jocita to the viper as she wiped reptile blood off the head of the arrow. She dropped the arrow into her cougar skin quiver, took one last look at the Nakai-yes weakling, and strolled proudly back to the encampment.

  Late in the afternoon, Victorio realized his slave had not been seen for some time. I should not have left her alone, worried Victorio. But he dared not show undue concern for a slave. A search wi
ll be justified if she doesn't return by tomorrow morning, he decided.

  Victorio and the other warriors refurbished weapons, following the raid in the land of the Nakai-yes. Many horses and mules had been taken, along with numerous pistols and rifles, and much blood spilled, providing, a small measure of revenge for loved ones killed by Mexicanos.

  While crafting a new war club, he heard someone shout, “Chuntz is returning!”

  Chuntz had been sent on a long scout through the homeland, partially to remove his contentious personality from camp, partially for security reasons, and had not been seen since the War Dance. The tribe gathered before the wickiup of Mangas Coloradas, anxious to hear news. Chutz arrived on a pinto gelding, an angry expression on his face, and had been more argumentative than ever since his wife had been killed in the Valley of Dead Sheep. He pulled his horse to a halt in front of Mangas Coloradas's wickiup, climbed down from the saddle, and accepted the pipe that was passed him by Nana the di-yin medicine man, as warriors and women sat at a respectful distance, anxious to hear news.

  After Chuntz had puffed mightily, Mangas Coloradas said, “What have you seen?”

  “Bluecoat soldiers roaming about,” replied Chuntz, “the usual stagecoaches, cattle, vaqueros, and the treachery of your dear friend, Sunny Bear.” Sarcasm dripped from Chuntz's lips, for he despised those who admired the Pindah. "I have observed him with my own eyes plotting with bluecoat soldiers.”

  There was silence for several seconds, for everyone knew how Chuntz hated Sunny Bear. Then Nana, mentor of Sunny Bear, spoke. “How do you know they were plotting if you do not speak their language?”

  “What else would they talk about—the birds and the sky? I am sure he told them what he knows about us.”

  “How can you be sure if you have not heard?”