by Len Levinson
Chuntz scowled as he placed his hand on the hilt of his knife. “Do not insult me, medicine man. Because my knife is sharper than your magic spells.”
“I mean no insult,” said Nana pleasantly. “But how can we accuse unless we are certain?”
Mangas Coloradas interrupted. “How many soldiers?”
“At least two hundred, and their leader was the fat one, the same as in the Valley of Dead Sheep, the one they call Bonneville. I have always believed that Sunny Bear signaled to him and led us to destruction.”
Mangas Coloradas reasoned that Bonneville had stopped at Nathanial's ranch prior to crossing into Mexico and picking up his trail. “You have no proof, only blind hatred for Sunny Bear.”
“What if you are wrong?” asked Chuntz. “How many friends and relatives will die because of that Pindah pig whom you call Sunny Bear?”
There was a rustle of foliage, then a bloodied figure emerged from the chaparral, surprising everyone. Covered with gashes, her clothes torn, Constanza carried a heavy stick like a club as she ran toward Jocita, who rose calmly, waited until the club whistled toward her skull, caught it in midair, and whacked Constanza in the mouth.
The blow caught Constanza coming forward, knocking her cold. She fell in a clump, then Jocita bowed her head and waited for the onslaught. The tribe stared at her, then the figure on the ground. Finally Vitorio stepped forward. “What have you done to my slave?” he asked sternly.
“She was rude.”
“You had no right to beat her.”
“I am sorry, Victorio.”
Victorio shot a reproachful glance at Juh, as if to say, “Can't you manage your wife?”
A subchief or warrior could lose respect if he couldn't manage his wife, and Juh's face reddened with shame. He turned to Jocita. “Go to your wickiup and stay until I arrive.”
Jocita wanted to explain, but dared not defy Juh in front of the others. She noticed Fast Rider at the edge of the crowd, and he appeared worried, ready to cry. Many enemies had fallen before Jocita's bow, but Juh could crack her like a twig. “Yes, my husband,” she said, then ambled toward her wickiup.
Victorio lifted Constanza, carried her across the campsite, and deposited her outside his wickiup. Victorio's wife Shilay arrived, and together they bathed the unconscious slave. “She is more trouble than she is worth,” said Shilay. “I think you are in love with her.”
“I am not in love with her in the least,” replied Victorio. “But she resembles me. Have you ever heard that I was a Mexicano baby?”
“Those rumors are said about nearly everyone.”
“Maybe they are true, and this is a relative of mine.”
Shilay studied the bruised features, then her husband's face. “Sometimes people look similar, but so what? I think you are ashamed to admit you are in love with this Nakai-yes woman.”
“You are jealous, and I never should have brought her here, but how could I kill her when she resembled me?”
Shilay drew her knife. “If you cannot kill her, I would be pleased to help.”
“Think of her as your niece, not a rival. I will return her to the Mexicanos at first opportunity, and then we will be rid of her.”
“And the Mexicanos will kill you for your trouble, which may not be a bad idea.”
“Please do not be angry with me.”
He said it so sadly she couldn't help weakening. Everyone knew that Victorio was virtuous, never chasing the brazen bi-zahn women. “I am sorry to have doubted you,” she said, hugging him. “Perhaps I should not love you so much.”
As Victorio and his wife reconciled, Juh made his way to Jocita's wickiup, although he dreaded the encounter. Implacable in battle, Juh feared Jocita's cruel tongue. Fast Rider followed at a distance, because he was afraid his father would beat his mother. All his life he'd heard them arguing. His father entered his mother's wickiup, and Fast Rider could tolerate the anxiety no more. He ran into the wilderness, where no one could see his tears.
Inside the wickiup, Jocita sat beside the fire, eyes lowered. Juh dropped next to her and said, “You have embarrassed me again, my dear wife.”
“I am sorry,” she replied.
“Please do not harm Victorio's slave again.”
“It shall be as you say.”
“Why do you do such things?”
“I despise weepy Nakai-yes bitches.”
“But I am the one who suffered humiliation.”
“I did not think it would end that way.”
He smiled as he touched her shoulder. “There is a way you can make me happy.
She looked at him, and he'd been her first love. They'd even gone on raids together before he left her for Ishkeh. She kissed his cheek, then reclined on the deerskin robes. “Perhaps I require happiness as well,” she said.
Chapter Seven
At Whitecliff, cowboys packed saddlebags, gathered ammunition, and assembled horses in the yard between the main house and barn. Meanwhile, Clarissa and Nathanial held their last conference in the office.
He sat behind his desk, and she on the chair in front of him. “I want you to promise to leave the cowboys alone,” he told her.
“Don't worry—I won't bother them,” she replied, as if she'd never attacked them with a shotgun.
“Blakelock is in charge except for purchasing, which you will supervise. All the men are experienced desert riders, so I'd suggest you do as they say. If there's trouble, they're the best protection you could have.”
There was a knock on the door, followed by Zachary's voice. “Blakelock says he's ready!”
Clarissa headed for the door, attired in oversized cowboy clothes, with her gun slung low and tied down, like Blakelock's. Outside, she saw the cowboys waiting alongside their horses, smoking and grumbling. Blakelock said to Nathanial, “Can we talk?”
Nathanial and Blakelock walked about twenty paces away from the others, then the foreman asked, “You tell ‘er?”
“Yes, and she promised to behave herself.”
Blakelock's voice went low. “I got a bad feelin’ ‘bout this. Sure wish you'd keep ‘er home.”
“I can't keep her home. You know what she's like.”
Blakelock glanced at him sharply. “Then what the hell you marry ‘er fer?”
“Because I fell in love with her. Haven't you ever been in love?”
“Sure I been in love. Men and women are the saddest messes in the world.”
“If she acts up, just remind her of her promise. She's a decent person at heart.”
“I never met a more ornery woman.”
“At least you won't have to worry about dealing with the sutler at Fort Buchanan. She'll make him wish he was never born.”
They heard her voice. “What's taking so long? We don't want to lose this good sunlight.”
Blakelock scowled. “Thar she goes.”
“She's right—you've got to get going.” Nathanial held out his hand. “Good luck, and don't drink all the whiskey.”
They shook hands, then Blakelock declared, “I guess a man gits paid fer his sins, and Clarabelle is one of the ways the good Lord is a-punishin’ me.”
Blakelock scuffled to his horse, then Clarissa kissed the children good-bye. “Don't neglect the lessons I've laid out,” she said to Zachary and Gloria.
“Don't worry,” they replied in unison, intending to ignore them totally.
She turned to Nathanial, who said sadly, “I wish you wouldn't go.”
“I wouldn't trust a dollar with any of them,” she replied.
The men heard the remark, glanced at each other, spat at the ground, and made groaning sounds. Nathanial could feel their dissatisfaction, but couldn't tie her to a chair, and maybe a trip to Fort Buchanan was exactly what Clarissa and the cowboys needed to get acquainted.
Clarissa climbed onto her horse, and she resembled a slim cowboy in her man's clothes, but without the rough air of a frontiersman. The men formed a column of twos behind her, their wagon at the rear, drive
n by Crawford, who wore a patch over his left eye, it having been shot out in the battle of Monterey. Blakelock rode to the front of the column. “We all set?” he asked.
He expected Clarissa to deliver a commentary, but she sat silently on her saddle, hat low over her eyes. Blakelock touched his spurs to the withers of his horse, and that creature stepped forward resolutely, hoping to meet interesting lady horses at Fort Buchanan.
Nathanial held the hands of his children as he watched his wife and cowboys ride into the wilderness. The cowboys who remained behind shouted farewells, but Nathanial worried about Clarissa, although Blakelock would protect her from bears, cougars, and other predators. Nothing will go wrong, hoped Nathanial. Clarissa knows how to behave, and besides, what could happen to her that hasn't happened already?
After discharge from the hospital, Esther bought cosmetics and a new dress, then bathed, gussied herself up, and proceeded toward the best whorehouse in town. It was located on Pecan Street, not far from the state capitol, convenient for politicians, lawyers, and government workers. A two-story wooden structure, the whorehouse was not especially conspicuous on a street lined with saloons, a pawnshop, a barber shop, and a doctor who specialized in late-night gunshot wounds. She knocked on the door, which was opened by a white man with black hair hanging to his shoulders.
“I'd like to speak with the boss,” said Esther.
“Bet I know what fer.” The black-haired man smiled, as if happy to see her, providing confirmation that Esther had made herself presentable.
The whorehouse was slow that time of day, with only a few customers in the ornate parlor, then came a corridor that led to a kitchen, where women sat about in robes, eating breakfast and reading newspapers, wearing no cosmetics and looking dowdy in the cold light of day. The black-haired man knocked on a door.
“Come in,” said a cracked voice within.
The guard opened the door, and a shriveled, aged woman in a red wig and white party dress sat behind a desk. She took one look at Esther and said, “Have a seat.”
Esther walked gracefully to the chair, although her ribs still ached, and daintily crossed her legs, although her pelvic region was sore. “My name's Esther Rainey, and I'm lookin’ fer work,” she said.
“I'm Miss Lulubelle,” said the old woman. “You ever done this afore.”
“Most of my life,” confessed Esther. “I'll show yer customers a real good time—don't worry none about that.”
“We git gennelmen with fancy tastes, and you got to be willin’ to do anythin’, if you knows what I mean.”
“There ain't nothin’ I ain't done,” said Esther. “Hell—it's all the same to me.”
The madam didn't inquire where Esther was from, because such questions were considered ill-mannered. It was more important that Esther possessed front teeth, not to mention a memorable bosom. “You're hired,” said the queen of whores.
It was siesta time in Santa Fe, and Rebecca Hargreaves sat in her parlor, reading The Blythedale Romance by Nathanial Hawthorne. Her maid was napping and the children at school.
Published six years ago, The Blythedale Romance was the novelistic version of Hawthorne's stay at Brook Farm, a Utopian community established by transcendentalists in Massachusetts. According to Hawthorne's vitriolic pen, they were a petty, silly conglomeration of self-righteous reformers, with a new theory for every situation, and lacking common sense, true humility, or Christian charity. Their leader, called Hollingsworth in the novel, was portrayed as a hypocrite not above seducing empty-headed women who practically worshipped him. Naturally all were avowed abolitionists like Harriet Beecher Stowe.
The novel confirmed Rebecca's worst suspicions about northerners, and since Hawthorne himself was from that section, she considered the satire authoritative. There can be no compromise with fanatics such as these, thought Rebecca.
From the street, she heard hoofbeats, the clank of military equipment, the shout of a sergeant. She rushed to the window and saw a detachment of dragoons in front of her house. Beau's back! she thought happily as she ran toward the door.
She pulled it open and saw Colonel Bonneville covered with dust, waddling toward her, a mournful expression on his face. “May I come inside?” he asked. She nodded, he marched into her home, and they faced each other in the parlor. “Mrs. Hargreaves—I regret to report that your husband is . . . missing in action.”
Rebecca was the daughter of a colonel on the retired list, and perhaps that's why she didn't faint dead. away. Instead she stepped toward a chair, sat upon it, and stared into space. “My God,” she whispered.
“He was on a scout, and apparently had been ambushed. We were able to account for everyone except him, so there's the possibility he might still be alive.”
Rebecca was surprised at how calm she became, although tempted to shriek her heart out. “But we know what Apaches do to their prisoners, Colonel Bonneville,” she replied in measured tones. “They torture them to death.”
“That is so,” he agreed. “But don't give up hope, and remember that Captain Barrington was believed killed by Apaches, but returned some months later.”
“If Beau is alive,” said Rebecca, “how can we get him back?”
“We have no ambassador to the Apaches,” replied Old Bonney Clabber. “But perhaps he'll return one day as did Captain Barrington. However, I don't want to give you false hope. It is entirely possible that your husband is . . . no longer with us.”
Beau lay outside his wickiup, letting the sun's rays heal him. He felt stronger with every passing day, the pain in his chest diminishing. To pass time, he tried to study Apaches objectively, and perceived that they were exceedingly poor, with food scarce and American and Mexican settlers invading their territory. Why can't Apaches adjust to America? he asked himself.
Yet the Apaches appeared normal in many ways, even respecting friendship, which is why they hadn't killed him long ago. Often he reflected upon his old friend Nathanial Barrington, who had accepted their Lifeway. Sometimes he suspected the Apaches were waiting for him to recover, so they could torture him to death.
One morning Nana visited to change his dressing. “How are you feeling, bluecoat soldier?”
“Much better, and I am grateful for your skills as a medicine man.”
“Our lives are in the hands of the Mountain Spirits, and everything I know, I have learned from them. Now lay still.” Nana removed the dressing, which was made from mud and leaves. “You are doing well, and soon you will be ready to ride, unless you want to stay with us, like Sunny Bear.”
Beau grit his teeth, as Nana's apprentices washed his wound. “No—I'll return to my people, thank you.”
“You will become a bluecoat war chief again, and try to kill us all?”
“You must become farmers, ranchers, and shepherds, if you want to survive.”
“Yes, but you do not provide land, seeds, or sheep.”
“You must not expect the Great Nantan in the East to do everything for you.”
“But you expect me to save you, no? Where would you be were it not for me?”
Beau realized that the supposedly primitive Indian had outdebated him. “I suppose we all need help occasionally,” he admitted.
“When you return to the eastern lands, tell that to the Great Nantan.”
“I do not know him, and could never even get close.”
Nana appeared surprised. “Why?”
“There are too many White Eyes around him. But if you do not make peace, you will be overwhelmed by us.”
“If I die in defense of the People, it will be a holy death.”
After Nana departed, Beau reflected upon the conversation. This is no bloodthirsty monster, he concluded, and I understand why Nathanial became fascinated with them. They will fight to the last drop of blood, and that will be the end of the Apache Wars.
Beau noticed Constanza approaching apprehensively, her face badly bruised, nose adorned with a scab. She kneeled beside him and said in Spanish, “How
are you feeling?”
“I should be able to walk in a few days. They said they'll let me go soon, and I suspect they'll probably turn you loose as well.”
“They never will free us,” she replied. “I am sure of it.”
“I think you are wrong, and I will ask Nana to speak with Victorio about letting you move into my wickiup. No one will harm you if you are with me.”
Tears came to her eyes. “Sometimes I am so afraid. I hate them so. They are not people at all. They are animals.”
“At least they did not kill you.”
“Why did they not kill you, since you are a soldier?”
“I am the friend of an Americano who became a warrior among them. His name was Sunny Bear.”
Constanza was surprised, because she never had heard such a strange story. “Why did he do that?”
“He was an unusual man.” Beau tapped his temple. “Or perhaps he was loco.”
“How could he befriend murderers?”
“He had killed a few people himself.”
Constanza hugged herself. “The world has gone mad. Nothing like this ever happened to me. I don't . . . I don't . . .”
Her voice trailed off. A rich man's daughter, she'd never worried about torture, suffering, bereavement. He wanted to place his arm around her, but could barely move. “You've got to get hold of yourself,” he told her. “Your father would want you to be strong.”
Her body was wracked by a sob. “But I am not strong. Sometimes I do not want to live anymore. At least you still have your family.”
“You are a young woman, and you can have another family. It is a sin to give up hope.”
“How can I hope, when there is so much evil in the world?”
Steve Culhane lay atop a hillock and studied the small, isolated store through his brass spyglass. It lay about three miles ahead, with horses in the corral. Such a store might be alone for days on end, and then one day a cattle crew would pass, or a detachment of dragoons.
“Just when we're runnin’ out of coffee—thar t'is,” said Culhane to himself.
He clomped down the hill, where his compadres waited. “It's a store all right,” he told them. “I'll need two men to help with the wagon—the rest watch the herd. We'll be back directly.”
