Night of the Cougar

by Len Levinson

  “I think they will shoot you, women or not.”

  “If you refuse permission, I shall go anyway,” she said. “I would rather face your punishment than the destruction of the People.”

  “I will tie you to a tree before I let you go to Fronteras,” he said, and even as the words left his mouth he knew that she would make the journey, because the only way to stop her would be to kill her, and that he could not do.

  Beau heard excited conversation among warriors and women, but it was in Apache language, and he'd learned few words. He could limp about, and his chest hurt whenever he took a deep breath, but he was much improved and hoped to be capable of riding soon. As he made his way through the camp, some Apaches appeared angry at him, others friendly, and he realized that the tribe consisted of many disparate tendencies, like a town of white people.

  He returned to his wickiup, where Constanza cooked a pot of stew. They were living as man and wife, and he was haunted by guilt, like a good Presbyterian, as was she, a pious Catholic. Both knew without speaking that he would return to his wife, and she would be on her own. I have betrayed Rebecca yet again, he thought.

  Yet he loved Constanza, perhaps not the same as he loved Rebecca, but it was love nonetheless, and could become quite torrid in the dark of night. He sat nearby and undressed her with his eyes. She glanced at him and smiled faintly. With her scabs and bruises mostly healed she was quite pretty, her youth especially invigorating. He arose and headed toward the wickiup, crawled inside, and began removing his clothes. She arrived a few moments later, and without a word unbuttoned her blouse.

  A dusty, bearded cowboy rode down the Paseo de Peralta in Santa Fe, but no one paid attention. Strangers arrived and departed fairly constantly in the big town, and most looked like murderers after a month on the trail.

  But Steve Culhane really was a murderer, and his stolen herd grazed on the other side of the Sandia Mountains, under the watchful eyes of his partners in crime. Now he needed more precise directions regarding the Barrington ranch.

  Culhane never had seen Santa Fe, but his instincts led him unerringly to Burro Alley, where the most notorious saloons, cantinas, and whorehouses could be found. It was midafternoon, but the rails were lined with horses, and fandango guitars could be heard. Culhane maintained his hand near his gun, in case a victim from his past might appear. Culhane climbed down from his saddle, looked both ways, tied his horse to the rail, and entered a saloon with no sign over the door.

  It was small, dark, and filled with smoke, about half full of customers, with the usual prostitutes wagging their butts. Culhane angled toward the bar, where the man in the apron waited, polishing a glass. “A double whiskey right hyar,” said Culhane, reaching into his pocket for the coins.

  The bartender placed the glass before him. “We got a hotel in back, in case yer interested.”

  “Nope, ‘cuzz I'm travelin’ with a herd of cattle that I'm s'posed to deliver to a feller name of Barrington, who's got a ranch somewhere's west of here. Ever hear of ‘im?”

  The bartender wrinkled his nose, which sported a large pimple. “There ain't no ranches out thar. It's Apache country, and I'd advise you to stay away from ‘em.”

  “To hell with Apaches,” said Culhane. “If we could handle the Comanches, we can handle anythin’.”

  It was a lie, but Culhane told so many untruths, he barely knew the difference. He viewed himself as the Robin Hood of the West, although he took from everyone and kept for himself.

  On the next stool, an army sergeant turned toward Culhane. “Did I hear you say Barrington ?"’

  “Sure did.”

  “He used to be my commanding officer.”

  “You know whar his ranch is?”

  “You got a map?”

  “Right hyar.” Culhane unbuttoned his shirt, pulled the map out, and unfolded it on the bar.

  Sergeant Duffy's eyes were half closed, his eyes traced with red lines. He took out a stubby pencil, studied the map, and made an “x.” “Thar.”

  Following the conversation, Culhane moved to another part of the bar, as Sergeant Duffy sipped his whiskey, and stared at bottles lined against the mirror, like soldiers on parade. He was so drunk, he already had forgotten his conversation with the stranger.

  Fort Buchanan was a scattering of ramshackle buildings on the eastern bank of the Sonoita River, named after President James Buchanan, and garrisoned with six companies of the 1st Dragoons, commanded by Captain Richard Stoddert Ewell of Virginia.

  Not much happened at Fort Buchanan besides the usual drinking, gambling, and fighting in the sutler's store. Occasionally a crowd of cowboys might pass through, or a stagecoach. Deep in Apache territory, with an estimated three thousand warriors in the vicinity, Fort Buchanan was one of the most exposed army posts on the frontier.

  The monotony of garrison life was broken one day by the arrival of a cowboy crew and their wagon. Soldiers gawked openly at the aliens as they rode toward the sutler's store. Mahoney, the sutler, looked out a window, contemplating riches headed his way.

  The cowboys halted in front of the store, dismounted, and loosened the cinches of their saddles. They appeared tired, dusty, and bearded, except for one smooth-faced slightly built fellow. Everyone thought him a boy, but then the word spread across Fort Buchanan that a strange new female had arrived!

  Clarissa wore tan cowboy pants, brown leather chaps, a natural color canvas shirt, and a brown leather vest. She took off her wide-brimmed hat, slapped it against her leg, and a cloud of dust billowed through the air. Then she turned to Blakelock and said, “Follow me.”

  “Ma'am,” he replied politely, but the sneer never left his tobacco-stained lips.

  She led them into the store, which had four tables, a counter, and the usual merchandise stacked on shelves. Since coming to the frontier, Clarissa had seen many such establishments, and they'd been of various sizes, but all appeared similarly dingy, and all smelled like coffee, tobacco, and whiskey.

  Behind the counter, Mahoney smiled broadly. A bulky man of thirty-eight, he carried lead in his left leg, a souvenir of Cerro Gordo. His thick prematurely graying hair was brushed back and his jaw was the prow of a ship. “Howdy,” he said, taken aback by the woman in cowboy clothes.

  Clarissa pulled a folded sheet of paper from her shirt pocket, spread it on the counter, and said out the corner of her mouth, just like Blakelock, “Can you fill this order?”

  Mahoney looked at the items. “How you gonna pay?”

  “Letter of credit.”

  “Drawn on what?”

  “The Bank of New York.”

  Mahoney shook his head. “I can't let you have the merchandise until the letter clears. Might be two months. I mean no disrespect, but—what if it's a forgery.”

  “I am well known at the Cerrillos Bank in Santa Fe.”

  “You should've asked somebody there to endorse the letter. Sorry, but until I know you, I can't extend credit.”

  No one ever had refused Clarissa's letter of credit, and her New York dignity became aroused. “But we need the merchandise!”

  “Sorry,” said Mahoney.

  Blakelock hitched up his belt, then advanced toward the counter, spurs jangling. “We ain't askin’ fer charity, ‘cause Mrs. Barrington can buy and sell you a hundred times over, and still have enough to buy New Mexico Territory.”

  “If she's so rich, whar's her money?” asked Mahoney, who'd been in barracks brawls during his military career and did not back down before intimidation.

  “Are you callin’ her a liar?” asked Blakelock.

  “Hell no—I'm just explainin’ my side of it. But you best watch yerself, tubby, or I'll come out from behind this counter and kick yer ass.”

  A flush came to Blakelock's cheeks, all the cowboys stepped back, and soldiers rose to their feet, in case dodging bullets became necessary. Blakelock hooked his thumbs in his belt, leaned forward, and said, “Like to see you try.”

  Mahoney removed his apron as he a
dvanced from behind the counter. Blakelock raised his fists, and in the old days Clarissa would attempt to stop them, but had learned to stay out of the way. The two combatants circled each other, looking for openings in the other's defense, prepared to beat each other bloody, but before either threw a punch, the door to the general store opened, and a bearded fierce-looking captain appeared. “That'll be enough,” he said.

  All eyes turned to this singular individual. He looked like a biblical prophet in army uniform, with the bulging eyes of a fanatic.

  Mahoney spoke first. “Yer just in time, sir, becuzz I was about to kick the shit out of this fat old man.”

  The mustache atop Blakelock's lip bristled. “You best put this son of a bitch somewhere, afore I kill him.”

  “There'll be no killing at Fort Buchanan unless I give the order,” replied Captain Ewell, post commander. “You'd best move on, cowboy. We don't want trouble here.”

  “Neither do we,” said a woman's voice.

  Captain Ewell appeared surprised, because no women was in the vicinity. Then he realized a cowboy had spoken, and he turned in the direction of the voice. “How can I be of service, ma'am?”

  “The proprietor won't honor my letter of credit, sir.”

  Mahoney retorted, “I've been stuck before, and I ain't a-gonna git stuck again.”

  “But my husband was in the army,” said Clarissa. “And he had a fine reputation for paying bills. In fact, I have it on the best authority that he was responsible for the success of several saloons in Santa Fe.”

  “What's his name?” asked Captain Ewell.

  “Nathanial Barrington.”

  Captain Ewell appeared thunderstruck. “I've met your husband. Whatever happened to him?”

  “We've got a ranch about a week's ride from here, and we need supplies.”

  The post commander turned to Mahoney. “I will vouch personally for Mrs. Barrington.”

  Mahoney indicated the appropriate document, Captain Ewell scratched his name, then turned to Clarissa. “I would be honored if you dined with me tonight, madam.”

  “What I really would like,” she replied, “more than anything in the world, is a bath.”

  “Feel free to make use of my tub, or anything else at Fort Buchanan. You are the wife of a friend, and nothing is too good for you.”

  After Captain Ewell departed, Clarissa supervised the purchasing of goods, making certain Mahoney didn't press his thumb too heavily on the scale. Cowboys carried the merchandise to their wagon, then Clarissa signed the documents. All transactions with the sutler completed, it was time to pay the men. She sat at a table and they crowded around like a herd of cattle. “Make a line,” she ordered.

  “Oh come on, Clarabelle,” said Dobbs.

  “Nobody's getting paid unless they're in line.”

  They growled and grumbled, but this time she had the power. One by one they pushed into line, fidgeting and working their shoulders.

  “Before I begin,” she said, “I want to say that I hope the injuries won't be too severe in the brawling later today.”

  Some glanced at the ceiling, others the floor, behaving like naughty boys. She paid Blakelock first, then he stood beside her, thumbs hitched in his belt, belly hanging like a collapsed roof as he watched her give dollars to the rest of the cowboys. They made a beeline for the counter, where the sutler stood with his bottle of whiskey and a broad smile.

  After the last man had been paid, Clarissa turned to Blakelock. “I don't like to issue orders, Mr. Blakelock, because I know how fragile is your masculine pride, but I expect you to do everything in your power to stop fights before anyone is hurt too badly.”

  “I have always believed,” he replied, smoke from his cigarette making him squint, “that if two men want to beat on each other, the onliest thing to do is git out of their way.”

  Clarissa wanted to explain the immorality of fighting, not to mention its dangers, but decided to keep her peace, despite the righteousness of her position. She'd have to travel back to Whitecliff with them and didn't want to end in the fire. “Blakelock,” she said, “if you knew how mad you make me, you'd be in fear of your life.”

  “Oh, Clarabelle—who the hell's skeered of you?” He laughed.

  “What if I were to walk behind you someday and blow your brains out, if you've got any left.”

  He leaned forward until his gruesome face was inches from hers. “You couldn't kill me on the best day of yer life, even if I was bound and gagged, lyin’ on the ground, out cold. Besides, what the boys do on their time is their bizness, Clarabelle.”

  “I told you to stop calling me that horrid name.”

  “I think you orter take me along, to scrub yer back when yer takin’ yer bath.”

  “You should pray more.”

  “I pray all the time that you'll let me . . .” He let his voice trail off.

  “If I did, you couldn't do anything anyway, you old buzzard. And you wouldn't dare speak that way if my husband was here.”

  “But he ain't.”

  “Yes he is—in spirit, and besides—you're not serious. You just want to frighten me, and make me uncomfortable because it amuses your depraved sensibilities. But during this trip, I have become so accustomed to vulgarity, I doubt anything will shock me ever again.”

  He made his malignant smile. “Wanna bet?”

  Broadway was New York City's most heavily policed area, making it possible for Nathanial's mother to meet Clarissa's mother once a month at Taylor's Restaurant, at the corner of Chambers Street, although they didn't especially like each other, and Clarissa's mother had opposed the marriage from the beginning.

  But now Myra Rowland had become a widow, and Amalia Barrington a near-widow, her husband moderately insane, and she preferred to leave him home, where servants could keep him from mischief. At her meetings with Myra, Amalia usually arrived first, a thin, austere woman who wore high-necked dresses, her gray hair combed into a neat bun behind her head. She ordered a cup of tea and read the Tribune as she waited for Clarissa's mother.

  The most important business story of the day came from Japan, where a New Yorker named Townsend Harris, America's first ambassador to the land of the rising sun, had negotiated a treaty opening more ports to U.S. ships and providing permission for Americans to reside in Japan. Naturally Amalia knew Mr. Harris, as she knew most New Yorkers of the foremost classes.

  The major domestic story concerned Senator Stephen Douglas of Illinois, running for reelection against an upstart Republican contender named Abe Lincoln, known as Long Abe due to his unusually tall physique. The Tribune’s Horace Greeley favored Douglas, since Douglas had opposed the Buchanan administration's proslavery Lecompton Constitution, and Amalia felt like walking to the Tribune office and giving Horace a piece of her mind, because she despised Douglas, considering him even more contemptible than President Ten Cent Jimmy Buchanan.

  Myra Rowland arrived, her great jowls barely contained by a quadruple-stranded pearl necklace, a stout, overbearing woman with graying hair piled high on her head, and she appeared top-heavy, as if she'd fall onto her face. “Sorry to be late,” she said as the waiter pulled back her chair.

  “That's what you always say,” replied Amalia, reluctantly folding the paper. “I think it's insulting when people can't keep appointments.”

  “I wanted to let you read your Tribune. Has anything happened that I should know about?”

  “Why should you know anything?” asked Amalia. “Ignorance is bliss, they say.”

  “You may consider me ignorant, but I don't care to read about the decline of my beloved country. When I grew up, I met Daniel Webster and Henry Clay, whereas today's politicians are nothing short of scoundrels, but I didn't come to argue politics. Have you heard from Nathanial?”

  “No—and evidently Clarissa hasn't written either.”

  “You don't suppose the Indians got them?”

  “Someone would have notified us, I'm sure.”

  “How would anyone kno
w?” inquired Myra. “They're in the middle of God knows where, and I don't understand why that son of yours doesn't return to New York and lead a normal life.”

  “He hates normal life, and it's interesting to point out that your daughter follows him everywhere, like his puppy dog.”

  “It is my conviction that he has cast an evil spell over her, odd though that may sound. Don't they know how much we worry about them?”

  “If I were young again,” said Amalia wistfully, “I might go west myself, to see how they're doing with my own eyes.”

  “I prefer modern plumbing, and I wouldn't want wild Indians to burn me at the stake. And then there's the criminal element that invariably flocks to border areas, to escape prosecution in their own jurisdictions. For all I know, your son is keeping Clarissa against her will. I don't mean to be rude, because you've done your best with him, God knows, but I wouldn't put anything past Nathanial Barrington.”

  “He certainly has mesmerized your daughter, who is so desperately in love with him, there's nothing she won't do, apparently.”

  “The young people of today—I don't know what to think about them,” complained Myra. “They're all transcendentalists, see their phrenologists regularly, and call themselves progressive. Well—I prefer the old days, when people attempted to be dignified, and obeyed their parents, instead of running off to live among bloodthirsty savages in New Mexico Territory, of all places.”

  Clarissa made her way to Captain Ewell's residence, saddlebags over her shoulder. She knocked on the door and was greeted by a bony old black woman wearing a red bandanna on her head. “You must be the Yankee lady,” she said. “Come on in—I got a bath prepared. My name's Hester.”

  In the kitchen, an empty tub was set beside the stove, on top of which bubbled four pails of water. Hester picked up a pail, then dumped it into the tub. Meanwhile, Clarissa undressed. “You can't imagine how wonderful that water looks to me,” she said.

  “Oh yes I can, becuzz I can smell you all the way over here.” Hester mixed pails of cold water with the hot, continually testing with her hand. “Want me to wash yer back?”