by Len Levinson
He selected Bascombe, who had an unshaven moon face, to drive the wagon, while Curry, who resembled a weasel with a cigarette sticking out the corner of his mouth, would accompany them on horseback. They detached from the others and rode in the direction of the store, hoping for coffee, whiskey, flour, and maybe a local newspaper, so they could see if stories had been written about their exploits.
They didn't speak as they rode along, for they were accustomed to theft, and never gave a moment's remorse for the woman they'd raped, robbed, and left behind. Divine retribution was a joke to such men, and they believed the common rules of the world didn't apply to them.
They appeared not unlike other frontiersmen as they approached the store, and noticed no horses hitched to the front rail, indicating no customers. The front door opened and a portly fellow with brown sidewhiskers appeared, wearing a dark blue apron that reached his knees. “Welcome!” he said. “Goddamn— yer the fust white men I've see'd in a month! Come on in an’ have a drink on me.”
“Much obliged,” said Culhane, touching his fore-finger to the brim of his hat. Then he climbed down from his horse, threw the reins over the rail, and headed for the door of the store, followed by Bascombe and Curry. “You live here alone?” Culhane asked the storekeeper.
“My brother Dave he'ps me.”
“No wimmin?”
“What wimmin would live in such a spot?” The storekeeper laughed heartily. “My name's Ned.”
They shook hands, then entered the store. It had two tables, a stove, and a counter, while shelves displayed canned food, bolts of cloth, knives, ammunition, clothes. Brother Dave entered from the back door, and there was more handshaking, as Ned poured the drinks.
“To happy times,” he said.
They quaffed heartily, then Culhane said, “Afraid we don't have much time fer palaver.” He told the merchants his needs, and they piled bags of coffee, beans, flour, and bacon in the middle of the floor. “You boys're cleanin’ me out,” said Ned affably.
“In more ways than one,” Culhane muttered beneath his breath.
Bascombe chortled nearby, for he'd heard the remark.
“What was that?” asked Dave.
“Oh—nothin’ at all,” replied Culhane as he poured another drink.
The brothers gathered behind the counter and added the bill. “That'll be twenty-three dollars and eighty-eight cents,” said Ned.
“Ain't you gonter load it on the wagon?” asked Culhane.
The brothers looked at each other curiously, then Ned said, “Why sure.”
He and Dave carried the merchandise to the wagon, stacking it carefully, a procedure requiring several trips. Finally everything was on board, and the brothers returned. “Twenty-three dollars and eighty-eight cents.”
“That's a lot of money,” said Culhane.
“You've bought a lot of merchandise.”
“What if I don't pay?”
Ned looked nervously at his brother. “I suppose we'd have to take back the merchandise.”
Culhane pulled his gun. “Go ahead—take it back,” he replied as he pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck Ned in the chest, hurling him back to the bar, where he fell in a clump to the floor. The other outlaws yanked iron, and brother Dave knew his hour had come. He closed his eyes and waited for the bullet that would end his life.
“What the hell's wrong with you?” asked Culhane.
“Go ahead—shoot me,” said Dave, gritting his teeth. “Git it over with.”
“Git what over with?”
Dave opened his eyes. “You mean you ain't gonter shoot me?” he asked hopefully.
“What gave you that idea?” replied Culhane as he triggered.
With eyes wide open, Dave received lead in his heart. Instantly dead, he dropped on top of his brother. Culhane found the strongbox while Bascombe and Curry loaded additional whiskey, tobacco, and canned food onto the wagon. When finished, Bascombe heaved over a barrel of lamp oil, took bolts of cloth, dipped them in oil and flung them about.
Culhane sat at one of the tables, sipping whiskey out of the bottle and smoking a cigarette, staring dully at the men they'd shot. He felt nothing. When the wagon was loaded and the outlaws were ready to move out, Culhane scraped a match on the floor, set fire to the oil, and watched flames race along the boards, then climb the walls. The outlaw boss sauntered to the door, where he took one last look at his victims surrounded by flames, then stepped outside, climbed on his horse, and rode away.
***
Nana visited Victorio, who sat before his wickiup, cleaning his army rifle. “I have a request from the bluecoat war chief,” said Nana. “He wants your Mexican slave woman, for he is too weak to care for himself, and I cannot be with him all the time.”
Victorio's face betrayed no emotion, but he thought, this is my chance to get rid of her. “I will take her to him,” he replied.
Constanza kneeled among other women, rubbing an oily, smelly substance into the hide of a mule. Her arms ached from the effort, but she was afraid someone would beat her if she stopped. She noticed Jocita prowling about, no one was friendly, and Constanza had never felt so alone.
She noticed a woman looking at her curiously, so Constanza turned to her, fearing another attack. Instead, the woman spoke in Spanish. “My name is Elena, and I am Mexican too.”
Constanza was surprised, because she'd thought the woman pure Apache. “You are a captive?”
“Yes, for a long time.”
“Perhaps you can leave with me, if they turn me loose.”
“I do not want to leave.”
Constanza couldn't believe her ears. “Why not?”
“I am happy here.”
“How could anybody be happy here?”
The woman smiled. “It is much better than what I had with my own people, because I was very poor, and my husband beat me. Now I am one of Mangas Coloradas's wives.”
“But the Apaches are . . .” Constanza was afraid to say “savages,” because apparently many of them spoke Spanish.
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Victorio, who pointed to Constanza. “Come with me.”
She followed him across the campsite and headed toward the wounded American officer lying in front of his wickiup. “I have brought you a present,” said Victorio to Beau. “I give you this slave—to care for your needs. She will live in your wickiup, and when you leave, you will take her with you.” Then Victorio turned to Constanza. “Obey him—do you understand?”
Dr. Michael Steck, forty, Indian agent to the Apaches, was visiting Santa Fe in an effort to obtain supplies for Mescalero Apaches living at the reservation beside Fort Thorn. A sturdily built square-jawed Pennsylvania Dutchman, he was a medical doctor who'd moved West for the sake of his wife's health, ran low on funds, and finally found the most impossible healing job imaginable, making peace among Apaches, Americans, and Mexicans, all of whom hated each other.
Dr. Steck worried about his wards at Fort Thorn, because civilians from nearby Mesilla had tried to massacre them twice that spring. The strain of the Apache Wars wore him down, and he had no friends in Santa Fe, most citizens considering him a troublemaker and fool. The army especially hated him because he'd accused them of certain massacres, such as the Chandler Campaign of ‘56, and the Gila Expedition of ‘57. No one trusted him, although he was a decent man.
There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” said Dr. Steck, expecting a courier from Colonel Bonneville's headquarters.
Instead, an attractive blond woman stood before him, a troubled expression on her face. “Are you Dr. Steck?” she asked in an educated southern drawl.
“Sure am—what can I do for you?”
“I'm Rebecca Hargreaves, wife of Major Beauregard Hargreaves. I've been notified that my husband is missing in action, and perhaps the Apaches have captured him. I heard you were in town, and was wondering if you'd inquire about my husband when you speak with the Apaches again.”
Dr
. Steck had met Major Hargreaves. “Please come in,” he said.
Rebecca entered the room, relieved she didn't have to resume the painful conversation in the hallway. There was only one chair and the inevitable bed. She stood nervously while he wrote in his notebook. “You may be sure I'll pursue the matter fully,” said Dr. Steck.
“What do you think his chances are?” she asked, a catch in her voice. “Please tell me the truth, because I have no patience with well-intentioned lies.”
“Not good,” he admitted.
“I can't believe he's gone,” she said, a lost tone in her voice.
“Perhaps he isn't.”
“But I must be realistic.”
“I understand you have children?”
“Two.”
Dr. Steck felt touched by the young woman's sorrow. “You must be strong, and rest assured that I will do all I can for your husband.”
She arose, he opened the door, and she departed. Alone, he returned to his chair. Frontier people must numb themselves, he reflected, otherwise they'll be destroyed by the sheer horror of it all. And that very numbness keeps the Apache Wars alive.
Colonel Bonneville never reported his Mexican jaunt officially. Instead, he described the ambush as if it had occurred north of the border, and omitted mention of Mexican soldiers, because they couldn't be in New Mexico Territory. Colonel Bonneville had learned as a lieutenant that truth often was altered in military reports to serve a variety of strategic purposes, especially protecting commanding officers’ reputations.
There was a knock on his door, then Dr. Michael Steck entered, a government official who conceivably could make trouble for an officer. “Thank you for granting me an audience,” said Dr. Steck sarcastically. “I realize you're busy, so I'll come to the point. I need supplies for the Mescaleros at Fort Thorn, and I've learned that your storehouses are full of bacon and beans.”
“Which my soldiers will eat.”
“If you fed Apaches, you wouldn't need to fight them.”
“Why don't the Apaches feed themselves?”
“They need to learn agriculture.”
“Are we supposed to take them by the hand and show them everything? I suggest you take up the matter with the Department of the Interior. What else?”
“I spoke with Mrs. Hargreaves yesterday, poor woman. Is there anything we can do about her husband?”
Old Bonney Clabber frowned. “Major Hargreaves was one of my most promising officers, but you know what Apaches do with male prisoners. At one point Mrs. Hargreaves must make up her mind that her husband is dead, and not a damned thing can be done about it.”
Beau awakened with a start as Constanza snuggled against him. It was the middle of the night and she was asleep, groping unconsciously for human warmth. He didn't have the heart to push the unhappy woman away, so he let her rest against him, trusting him.
He wasn't sure he trusted himself, because Apache medicine had improved his health, permitting him to feel like a man. He became aware of Constanza's breasts jutting into his army shirt, and it excited him to contemplate her needs. I can't betray Rebecca, he admonished himself. And neither can I take advantage of this poor, lost child.
She moaned softly, as she worked her pelvis against him, trying to find more comfort while she slept. She's probably not accustomed to sleeping on the ground, he told himself, but she was soft, yet firm, and terribly vulnerable. He couldn't help placing his arms around her waist to soothe her, as it were.
He tried to recall the calamity that was her life, but her living, breathing flesh was more compelling. Although married to Rebecca, he could not deny Constanza's appeal. He felt himself becoming dizzy, blood pounded in his throat, and then she placed her cheek against his.
He felt the full length of her body, then she whispered, “Please help me.” She pressed against him, leaving no doubts as to her requirements, but still he was unable to move. “They might kill us both,” she explained in a whisper, “and I do not want to die without knowing a man.”
She pressed her lips against his, and in his weakened state, he was unable to resist. Neither did he fuss when she unbuttoned his pants. Constanza dropped her clothes in the dimness of the wickiup, then lowered herself upon him. It took a while, but she finally achieved her desire. If Apaches killed Constanza Azcarraga, she would not die a virgin.
Cochise sat alone on a deerskin blanket in a remote cave. He'd come on foot so he wouldn't have a horse to distract him. Cochise needed his mind free so he could converse with the Mountain Spirits.
He smoked, prayed, and fasted. Before him stretched immense distances, the horizon tinged with gold while hawks flew overhead, singing happiness songs. Cochise felt as if he were a cactus plant rooted to the ground, feeling the power of the universe throbbing in his veins. This is an old world, thought Cochise as he beheld deep crevasses that time had gnawed into the mountains. Enemies may vanquish us, but the spirit of the People shall live on.
He felt ecstatic as he gazed at the sky. Although it was midafternoon, he saw stars twinkling, or so it appeared. He felt strong, brilliant, invincible, connected by an invisible cord to every plant, rock, and mountain in view. I am the world and the world is me.
Something in the sky caught his attention. At first he thought it an eagle, barely a dot among the clouds, but it flew closer in an odd pattern. Cochise wondered what kind of bird it was, then noticed it had four legs. Apparently, a winged black horse and rider were galloping toward him out of the sky! Cochise rose to his feet as the horse drew closer, its rider brandishing a lance. Cochise felt chilled when he recognized the rider as the departed Chief Miguel Narbona, all wrinkles and infirmities vanished, like a young warrior. Cochise dropped to his knees and bowed before the ghost of his mentor.
Chief Miguel Narbona reined his winged horse, and the animal kicked pebbles across the sky as he came to a stop in front of the cave. “Cochise!” hollered Chief Miguel Narbona. “Why do you cringe before your chief?”
“I am not worthy,” replied Cochise.
“I have observed you,” thundered Chief Miguel Narbona. “Your heart is pure, and from this day onward, no bullet or arrow can harm you. This is the power if indomitability in battle that you have earned. So be not afraid.”
Cochise raised his eyes. “I shall never die?”
“I mentioned only bullets and arrows,” said young Chief Miguel Narbona as his horse pranced about nervously. “Not knives, clubs, or the teeth of the cougar. And you must beware of cannon, Chief Cochise. Terrible times lie ahead, but the People shall triumph ultimately.”
The lithe warrior atop the prancing horse transmogrified into withered old Chief Miguel Narbona in the days before his demise, yet he sat firmly in the saddle. “Never forget me, Cochise,” he shouted. He waved one last time, wheeled the horse, and galloped toward the farthest reaches of the sky.
A wave of dizziness struck Cochise, he thought he'd faint, and then he saw a thousand Chief Miguel Narbonas galloping across the heavens, calling his name. Cochise collapsed onto the rock floor of the cave as hawks circled above the canyon, singing afternoon madrigals.
Benito Juarez, President of Mexico, sat in his office in Vera Cruz, reading reports of Apache raids in Sonora and Chihuahua. Even the distinguished Azcarraga family had been massacred recently.
Juarez, fifty-one years old, was a full-blooded Indian from the Zapotec tribe. The Catholics had educated him, and he'd become a lawyer, politician, and chief justice of the Mexican Supreme Court. He also was leader of the reform party, which opposed the privileges of the caudillo class, the army and clergy. He had been jailed by Santa Ana, then became governor of Oaxaca, and now was President of the Republic, his government in Veracruz.
As America drifted toward civil war, Mexico actually was engaged in one, reformers against conservatives, the latter having captured Mexico City, forcing Juarez into exile. The Zapotec was popular among the common people and the new rising business class, but his administration was rife with corrupti
on, yet no one accused Benito Juarez of wrongdoing, and he was considered a national hero, a man of integrity, and something of a genius. He sat at the pinnacle of his career, making difficult decisions daily as he shifted troops and supplies, and borrowed heavily from abroad.
If he failed to defend the northern provinces, the United States might intervene, as they had during the war of 1846–48. His resources were stretched to limit, but the Apaches must be stopped. Despite civil insurrection, a collapsing economy, and unparalleled government indebtedness, he took time to write an executive order that would change forever the face of the Apache Wars. The northern presidios would be reinforced at once, and every effort made to halt further incursions.
Above all, I must defend our national boundaries, he thought as he signed his name on the bottom of the order. From now on, the Apaches will feel the strength of my government.
A chill was on the desert, the sky decorated with stars as the Whitecliff cowboys sat around a fire, eating steak and beans. Dusty, smelly, grumpy, they appeared ill at ease with Clarissa.
They can't be their usual foul selves in front of a lady, she figured. She wanted to leave them to their profanity, but if she wandered about the chaparral, a lost, wandering Apache might abduct her, or a bear might bite off her head. A deadly silence pervaded the campsite, and Blakelock refused to look at her.
Their disapproval hurt her, because she'd always tried to please everybody. Finally, unable to bear the tension longer, she took a deep breath and said, “I'm sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable, but why don't you behave as if I'm not here?”
They appeared surprised by her declaration and looked at each other like a pack of bearded gorillas, wondering who should respond. “But you are here,” said Claggett ruefully.
“Why should that stop you?” Clarissa replied. “Go ahead—say anything you like, no matter how revolting, and don't worry about me, because I'm really not a lady, and I've done many things that I'm ashamed of.”
