by Len Levinson
Blakelock raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Like what?”
Clarissa opened her mouth to reply, then caught herself. “Do you expect me to reveal my most intimate and embarrassing secrets for your amusement?”
Blakelock looked at her, then made his tight smile. “What could you do, Clarabelle? Steal a cookie from the jar? People like you don't do nawthin’ wrong ‘cause you ain't got the guts.”
“If you knew the truth about me, you'd sing a different tune,” she said.
They chortled as if she were incapable of wicked behavior, and she was tempted to tell them about certain illicit acts that she'd performed with a gentleman in the back seat of a carriage in Washington, D.C., during the period when she and Nathanial had been estranged, but caught herself. “I admit that my lowest acts were nothing compared to your accomplishments, but if you want to brag about your adventures at whorehouses and such, go right ahead.”
“It ain't got nothin’ to do with whorehouses,” said Dobbs. “Yer here ‘cuzz you don't trust us.”
“Why should I trust you?” replied Clarissa. “You're all criminals, otherwise you wouldn't be in Arizona.”
It occurred to Clarissa that she was alone in the middle of a vast nothingness with an assortment of desperate men, and no police to protect her. They looked at each other, and some appeared angry, while Blakelock's distorted smirk became more ominous. “If we was what you say, we would've killed you long ago.”
“I'm sure some of you are fine men,” she replied quickly, “if only you'd clean yourselves up. And a little church wouldn't hurt either. But you don't respect me because I'm a woman. You think I don't know anything.”
Joe Smith spat a long stream of tobacco juice into the fire. “ ‘At's right—you don't.”
“I have experience with soap and water, and it could do you a world of good. That bunkhouse you live in would embarrass a self-respecting hog.”
“You don't like it,” said Barr, “stay the hell out.”
Clarissa couldn't believe her ears. She was about to reprimand him when she remembered her earlier promise to let them say whatever they pleased. “If you want to live in garbage, don't let me stop you.”
Blakelock's smile degenerated into something very close to a snarl. “Who're you sayin’ lives in garbage?”
“You.”
Blakelock leaned toward her, his eyes gleaming in the light of the fire. “What if I was to dig a hole six feet deep, throw you in, and cover you up?”
“You'd better not try,” she replied, reaching toward her holster.
Claggett yanked the weapon out of her hand. “Worst thing they ever did,” he said, “was let women have guns.”
“Was you a-gonna shoot me?” asked Blakelock incredulously.
“Nobody's going to bury me,” replied Clarissa, trying to be brave.
“You're lucky we don't lynch you.”
“If you did, my husband would hunt each of you down, and kill you the Apache way.”
“It'd be worth it,” said Dobbs.
They laughed, and she realized how much they despised her. “You'd lynch me because I told you to clean your filthy bunkhouse?”
“Why don't you mind yer bizness?” asked Crawford. “Why're you allus stickin’ yer nose whar it don't belong?”
“You'd be so much happier if you lived in cleaner surroundings. Aren't you going to give my gun back?”
“If I don't, are you a-gonna fire us?”
“You wouldn't treat me this way if my husband was around.”
“It's women like you who git husbands kilt.” Joe Smith turned to Blakelock. “Why don't we hogtie her?”
“I'm thinkin’ about it,” said Blakelock. “If'n I had my druthers, I'd roast her alive.”
“Hey—that ees a great idea,” said Pancho. “Why don't we?”
“A woman's place ain't in the kitchen,” said Dobbs. “It's in the fire.”
The men arose with expressions of mischief in their eyes.
“Now just a moment,” she warned, backing up.
“It's too late,” said Claggett as he advanced. “You done gone too far.”
“ ‘At's right,” agreed Barr. “You got to larn yer lesson.”
“But surely you're not going to throw me in the fire!”
“Surely we are,” said Dobbs.
She turned to Blakelock. “Stop them!”
“There's more of ‘em than me,” he explained, holding out his hands helplessly.
They circled around. “This isn't funny,” she told them.
“Oh yes it is,” said Claggett, lunging for her.
She screamed, but landed in the arms of Joe Smith, who clamped her arms close to her body. “Gotcha,” he said, looking into her eyes.
She tried to knee him in an unmentionable spot, but Dobbs grabbed one of her legs, Claggett the other, and Barr and Joe Smith each held her arms. They carried her to the fire as she swayed from side to side. “Stop it!” she screamed.
“Eet ees time you got what ees coming to you,” replied Pancho.
“This has gone too far, Blakelock!” she shrieked.
“Even your own husband warned you not to come with us,” he pointed out, “but you wouldn't listen. This is what happens to wimmin who talk back to their men.”
They swung her back and forth a few times as she screeched fearfully. Oh God, she thought, they're not going to hurl me into the flames, are they? They let her go, and she felt herself flying into the air. When she came down, she was sure she'd land on hot coals, scorching her clothes and hair, cooking her alive. She bellowed and contorted, expecting to be fried at any moment, but instead fell into Blakelock's waiting arms.
At first she didn't know what happened, then they roared with delight, holding their bellies, faces growing red. Blakelock lowered her to the ground, then nearly fell onto his face, so weakened was he by mirth. “Clarabelle—yer the funniest thing I ever see'd.”
“You son of a bitch!” she screamed as she climbed off the ground. Then she dived onto him, intending to punch his face, but he caught her wrists, and when she tried to kick him in the shins somebody grabbed her foot and lifted it straight into the air.
She fell onto her rear end as they gathered around, roaring with delight. She rose again and charged Claggett, but he danced out of the way. Then she chased Dobbs, but he easily eluded her. She ran after Pancho, certain that she could demolish him if she could get her hands on him, but he too outmaneuvered her. She picked up a branch and tried to crack it over Joe Smith's head, but he raised his hand and yanked it out of her grasp.
She realized that she couldn't do anything to them, and frustration nearly drove her mad. She felt like mouthing the most vile epithets she could imagine. If she had an ax, she'd chop them to bits. Finally she crouched over, balled her fists, and said, “Words cannot describe how much I hate you all.”
No matter what she said, they continued laughing. She caught a glimpse of herself running about like a madwoman, making a spectacle of herself, and realized how absurd it all was. They have defeated me, she admitted. But only because they outnumber me, and are more physically strong. “I guess any woman who travels with you boys has got to be loco,” she told them.
“You leave us alone,” said Blakelock. “We'll leave you alone.”
“It's a deal,” she replied, then swaggered forward like a bowlegged cowboy and held out her hand.
Blakelock shook her fingers, and she expected him to crack her bones, but he was oddly delicate. Then they all cheered as Blakelock took her in his arms and planted a fatherly kiss on top of her head. “Guess you ain't so bad after all, Clarabelle.”
Nathanial awoke in the middle of the night, worried about Clarissa and his cowboys, his children growing up without playmates, his inability to make the ranch profitable, and myriads of other matters, such as water, weather, and outlaws.
There was only one way to satisfy his troubled mind, and that was to check his domain. He climbed out of bed, put on his clothes, and
tied the cougar skin cape around his shoulders. Then he crept like a feline out the window and ran silently into the foliage surrounding the main buildings, where he paused, watched, and listened.
Since killing the cougar, he needed to prowl at night, his eyes somehow keener, his sense of smell heightened. Sometimes he had the urge to leap onto cattle and sink his teeth into the backs of their necks.
Silent, nearly invisible, he crawled through the underbrush, studying the ground for signs of recent intrusion. He watched a rabbit nibbling a nut in a clearing, then wings fluttered, an owl swooped out of the sky and carried the struggling victim away. Death is the law of this land, thought Nathanial.
His fingernails appeared to elongate, his ears became pointed, and he thought perhaps he shouldn't have eaten so much peyotl before going to bed. Like a cougar, he crept through the night, eyes glittering like rubies.
One night was much like the other in the old whorehouse in Austin. The men started arriving around dinnertime, and the whores were busy until dawn. Just a little while longer, Esther told herself one evening as she walked down the corridor after finishing with a customer. He proceeded before her, a politician who never failed to mention God in his speeches to the electorate.
“Be back to see you again sometime,” he said with a wink.
“Look forward to it,” she replied.
He leaned closer, although he had a wife and kids a few blocks away. “You ought to let me set you up someplace. I could make your life a lot easier.”
“Don't wanna depend on one man,” she replied with a smile. “ ‘Cause yer all full of shit.”
He shrugged. “If it's not you—it'll be somebody else.”
They kissed lightly, then he headed for the bar, and she sat on one of the parlor chairs, crossed her legs and waited for her next customer. There were so many, a girl couldn't help making money. Soon I'll be able to move on, she promised herself.
Her face was painted, her mauve dress exposed most of her breasts, and the skirt was slit up the side, revealing her bare leg. She glanced at her sisters flirting with men, some of whom held business discussions among themselves, and she'd heard that many a deal was made in the whorehouse.
The chimes rang midnight, and it sounded like the cymbals of hell as a lone cowboy appeared in the corridor, as if uncertain where to go. It was unusual to see a common cowboy at the high-priced whorehouse, but he must have money, otherwise they wouldn't've let him in.
Esther watched cynically as the cowboy glanced around the room, then headed directly toward her.
“Howdy,” he said, holding his hat in both hands. He looked sixteen, with pimples on his cheeks.
“What'cha want?” she asked lazily, gazing into his eyes.
“You, I guess.”
“Let's go.”
She took his hand and led him to the corridor. They came to her room, she lit the candle on the dresser, then closed the door. “How do you want it?” she asked, businesslike.
“I don't know,” he said, unable to look her in the eye. “It's my fust time.”
“ ‘At's what I figured.”
“I wanted the best fer my fust time.”
“Ten dollars.”
He counted the money in the palm of his hand, and it consisted of many coins hoarded a long time. “There it is, ten dollars.”
“Take yer clothes off and git in bed.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Fool, she thought, because she didn't want to be sentimental about a poor, lonely kid who did a man's job and needed a woman's love. She carried the money down the hall and came to Miss Lulubelle's office, where the black-haired broad-shouldered man in a black business suit sat in the corner, reading a newspaper. Esther put the money on the desk, the madam counted it, then made the appropriate notation in the ledger. “Yer doin’ real well,” she said.
Esther returned to her room, where the cowboy lay beneath the sheets, his clothes at the foot of the bed. “What you want me to do?” asked Esther.
“I dunno,” he confessed. “Whatever you usually do.”
She couldn't help smiling as she removed her dress. “Never see'd a nekkid woman afore?”
“Nope.”
“It must git real lonely at the ranch.”
“Lonelier'n you can imagine,” he replied.
She crawled into bed, they kissed, and she felt like his mother, or maybe his teacher when she told him what to do. He was young and excitable; it didn't take long. As he lay atop her, his mouth hanging open, she could see how defenseless he was. She was tempted to stab him, to get back at those who'd raped and robbed her, but what would she do with the blood? “That's it, sonny jim,” she told him.
“It was so fast.”
“You got to pace yourself.”
“How can I pace myself with someone like you?”
“Next time bring twenty dollars.”
“That's almost a month's pay!” he protested.
“Love ain't cheap,” replied the coldhearted whore.
Long Abe Lincoln found difficulty drawing crowds during that hot summer of 1858, so he developed the strategy of following Senator Douglas across Illinois, responding to the Little Giant's speeches next day. Often Lincoln rode as a regular passenger on trains that pulled the renowned senator's luxurious private car. As the campaign progressed, Lincoln's audiences grew, and according to Senator Douglas's spies, the country lawyer's pithy moralistic arguments were striking sparks with religious farmers and townsmen, while everyone laughed at Lincoln's backcountry jokes that skewered the illustrious senator from Chicago.
Senator Douglas wondered how to stop Lincoln, who appeared gaining in popularity. He decided to campaign harder, pushing his health to the maximum, while Abe Lincoln sniped at his heels, and the Buchanan administration fomented rebellion in the Illinois Democratic party.
One day the Little Giant received a note from Long Abe, challenging him to a series of public debates. This was brazen effrontery on the part of a minor political figure, and Douglas's advisors suggested that he decline, because the debates would provide credibility for Abe Lincoln. But Stephen Douglas of Illinois was one of the nation's greatest orators, and thought he could deliver a knockout blow if he could face his main opponent one on one.
“If you get up on the platform with him,” warned Usher F. Linder, an old friend, “it'll make him your equal in the eyes of the people.”
“I don't give a damn,” replied the Little Giant, a cigar in his hand. “Advise Mr. Lincoln that I'm at his disposal.”
Both campaign staffs met in a smoky Chicago hotel room, and after much haggling and posturing, seven debates were scheduled in each congressional district except Chicago and Springfield, because both candidates already had covered those towns. The national press, in the never-ending pursuit of increased sales, saw possibilities in the saga of a virtually unknown country lawyer with the guts to take on the most famous senator in the land.
The eyes of America turned toward Illinois during the summer of 1858 as preparations were made for the much-anticipated debates. Horace Greeley wrote in the New York Tribune, "It will be a contest for the Kingdom of Heaven or the Kingdom of Satan.” According to the Richmond Enquirer, the encounter would provide “the first great battle of the next presidential election.” And the New York Evening Post reported, “The prairies are on fire!”
Chapter Eight
Mangas Coloradas, Cochise, and Victorio sat in the sweat lodge, wearing only their breechclouts. Perspiration dripped to the dirt floor as red coals radiated heat.
“The time has come,” said Cochise, “to make peace with the Mexicanos. For we have laid waste to their lands, stolen their cattle, and caused much devastation. Now, out of fear, they shall bargain with us.”
Mangas Coloradas raised his forefinger. “Perhaps they want revenge and will attack when they see you.”
Victorio added, “If we go in strength to speak with them, they will think we are raiding, and if we send a few warriors, they will be
killed on sight. Your idea is good, Cochise, but how can we ask for peace?”
“If we do not council with them,” replied Cochise, “we will face worse consequences. The stagecoaches passing through the homeland are a sign of what is to come, while the Mexicanos have made no similar effort to settle Sonora and Chihuahua. It is there that we must make our effort.”
“It is too dangerous,” said Mangas Coloradas. “The emissaries would be wiped out.”
“But we cannot fight the Nakai-yes and the Pindah-lickoyee together,” insisted Cochise.
The three foremost chiefs continued their council in the sweat lodge as scraps of conversation were overheard by passersby. Everyone was anxious to know the latest plans, and mothers worried about the future of their children.
After the conference, Mangas Coloradas returned to his wickiup. His daughter Dostehseh, wife of Cochise, was waiting. “I wish to council with you,” she said.
“My dear child,” he replied, placing his arms around her. “Do not be so serious.”
“I have had a vision,” she said, raising her hand in the air. “I and another woman will journey to Fronteras and attempt to make peace.”
The old chief shook his head vehemently. “Never!”
“Cochise is right, and we cannot miss this opportunity. If women go, the Nakai-yes may not molest us.”
“It is an opportunity for my daughter to die, and I will not permit it.”
“Then I will ask Cochise.”
“He is your husband, but I am your father. I forbid you to go, because I could not bear to lose you.”
“What are the lives of two women compared to the future of the People?”
After leaving Mangas Coloradas, Dostehseh made her way across the encampment, entered her wickiup, and found Cochise speaking with Coyuntura, his brother.
“I would like to council with you, my husband,” she said solemnly. “It is not necessary that Coyuntura leave.”
“Why are you serious?” asked Cochise. “Is the bluecoat army on the way?”
“I and another woman will go to Fronteras and make peace, because the Nakai-yes will not molest women traveling alone.”
