by Len Levinson
Her early life had been spent worrying about her soldier father being killed, and the rest worrying about her soldier husband. She anticipated a small widow's pension, and could not countenance marrying again. She remembered Beau playing with the children as if he were one of them. In the evening, she read the Bible.
Save me, O God; for the waters are come in unto my soul.
I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing:
Make haste, O God, to deliver me
Make haste to help me, O Lord.
Nana approached Beau and said, “Let us smoke together in your wickiup.”
Beau followed him inside, where sunlight penetrated the smokehole in the roof. It was dark, cool, smelling of dried foliage, the floor covered with animal skins, a firepit in the center.
Nana took out a clay pipe, stuffed it with medicinal plants, lit it, took a deep puff, then passed it to Beau, who thought the smoke smelled oddly pungent. They passed the pipe back and forth a few times, then Nana said, “You have been with us many suns. What have you learned?”
“You are not so different from us,” replied Beau. “Perhaps one day you will discover that farming and ranching are not so bad.”
“Perhaps one day you will discover that many white widows will be made, and many white mothers will weep in their wickiups, before you defeat us.”
“Why can't we make peace before more blood is spilled?”
“Because the White Eyes lie too much.”
“The God of my people is a god of peace.”
“Tell that to the widows who lost husbands in the Valley of Dead Sheep.”
Beau felt disoriented, and it appeared that orange and red lights flashed behind Nana's head. “What'd you put in this tobacco?” he asked.
“Geronimo said you asked for visions, and he warned you, but you refused to listen. So now you will have visions, and I hope they do not kill you.”
Nana crawled out of the wickiup, leaving Beau alone on the skins. What's this about? he asked himself as faint strains of violin music came to his ears. He felt as if he had no weight and could float out the smokehole, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see God or choruses of angels.
Why did Nathanial see visions, while I only have a headache? The harder he tried to experience magnificent thoughts, the worse the throb became. Finally it hurt so much he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
His breathing became shallow, his mind quieted, pain diminished. He saw himself lying in the darkness like a giant elongated worm. Then a question came to mind, which he spoke aloud to himself. “Why the hell am I fighting Apaches?”
In the clear light provided by medicinal tobacco, Beau realized that fighting could provide no honorable solution to the Apache Wars, because fighting was based on hate, and hate could achieve nothing beneficial. So that's why Nathanial left the army, realized Beau. Perhaps I can find a little farm and support my family by the sweat of my brow, instead of killing Apaches and taking the chance they'll kill me. If America didn't accept so many immigrants, we wouldn't need this land anyway. Why don't we leave some for the Indians?
Then a more shattering question arose from the recesses of his unprotected mind. If the Apaches are people more or less like us, he reasoned, what about Negroes? He hallucinated himself bent by shackles and chains, standing in the Charleston slave market, sold to the highest bidder, while Rebecca was bought by a lecher, who would rape her.
For the first time, the southern cavalier saw through the rhetoric and posturing of politicians, the dishonest sermons of the clergy, and the rant of fanatics. He realized that abolition was not a plot to undermine southern institutions, as so many fire-eaters claimed, but a deeply felt religious crusade. If Negroes were people—they must be freed!
The insight struck his heart with full force, and he realized that the North never would surrender their struggle, while the South could not step back from their sense of honor. Sitting in the wickiup, eyes glittering in the darkness, Beau saw a cataclysm approaching, and battlefields would be soaked in the blood of patriots. It is as inevitable as rain, he told himself, and like rain, will cleanse the nation of slavery's crime.
In the shadows, he saw brigades of cavalry charging, their guidons fluttering in the breeze, swords catching the glint of the sun, and battalions of cannon firing, ripping soldiers apart. Men stood toe to toe in tall grass and thrust bayonets at each other, screams of the gutted echoing over fields covered with blood.
The vision was so terrible, Beau closed his eyes. But still it persisted, he couldn't dispel it, and he saw friends beheaded by grapeshot, great pits blown into the ground, and even caught a glimpse of himself in the midst of it, swinging his saber. “Oh God, no,” he whispered, writhing in horror on the floor.
Sometime later, Constanza crawled into the wickiup. “Are you all right?”
He opened his eyes; night had come to the camp. “Guess I fell asleep.”
“You were talking to yourself. Am I disturbing you?” She touched her lips to his ear.
His most profound insight evaporated before the onslaught of her warm, supple body. “No, it's always a pleasure to see you.”
“I want to ask a question. You have been with many women, no?”
“A fair number,” he admitted. “But no one like you—I swear it.”
“Be careful what you swear, because the angels are listening.” She unbuttoned her blouse. “We are leaving soon, and I want to give you something to remember me by.” Constanza's Spanish eyes glowed in the darkness as she pulled off her shirt, revealing upright breasts. “Go ahead—do things to me that you never dared with another woman, not even your wife, because you respect her too much. Isn't there something lewd or disgusting that you were ashamed to ask even a prostitute?”
He swallowed hard. “That is an accurate statement, I suppose.”
She leaned closer, pressing her naked self against him. “What are you waiting for?”
“I don't think you appreciate how depraved I am.”
“As much as you are a man, I am a woman. Let us go on a journey together, my love.”
After brief initial awkwardness, Beau and Constanza proceeded to explore new territory like intrepid pioneers, and soon found themselves engaged in the most forbidden practices, thoroughly degrading themselves by Victorian American standards. Both tried not to remember that soon they would part, but the awareness only made their adulterous ecstasy sweeter, more frenzied, and tinged with madness.
Chapter Ten
Steve Culhane rode toward the Fort Buchanan orderly room, hoping no one recognized him from a wanted poster. He was heavily bearded, covered with alkali, and his horse appeared ready to give out, but he was a stranger from the outside world; a crowd gathered.
“Any news from the states?” asked a soldier.
“I've been on the trail so long,” replied Culhane, recalling a line he'd once heard, but couldn't remember where, “I feel like horseshit myself.”
He climbed down from his horse, entered the orderly room, and found Sergeant Major Ames behind the desk. “Howdy, Sergeant,” said Culhane, smiling. “I've got a herd of cattle fer a feller named Barrington. You know whar I can find ‘im?”
“His wife was here a while back. Lovely woman.” Sergeant Ames walked to the map. “Right about here, next to steep white cliffs that can be seen a long ways.”
Culhane studied the map, then removed his notebook and copied significant details. “Thanks fer yer help,” he said. “Whar can I find a drink?”
The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “Let me make somethin’ clear right now. We don't tolerate no bullshit at Fort Buchanan. You want to have a few whiskeys, that's fine with me, but you tear the sutler's store apart, I'll toss you in jail, and if you kill anybody, you'll hang.”
Culhane smiled. “Hey, Sergeant—I'm just an honest cowboy. I ain't lookin’ fer trouble.”
Esther rode her stagecoach west, seated opposite an elderly white-haired lawyer. The other passengers were a marr
ied army officer minus his wife, and he also was attempting to ingratiate himself, plus a government official named Bailey who passed time writing in notebooks or reading a huge tome filled with numbers.
Esther despised them all, but smiled demurely, like the practiced enchantress than she was. And if she needed assistance, her gun rested within her purse, while a knife with a four-inch blade was available in her garter, in case her purse was stolen. If another man attempted to rape her, she'd cut off his arm and perhaps a few other items as well.
The lawyer kept smiling. She wanted to laugh in his face, because he was old, ugly, with tufts of tobacco-stained hair growing out of his nostrils, and a wart on his chin, but he appeared rich, and the whore in her couldn't help grinning back. His name was Bramwell Oates, and he said, trying to make conversation, “Another two days—we'll be in Santa Fe.”
“I can't hardly wait,” said Esther.
“You have friends there?”
“Afraid not.”
“Let me give you the name of a good hotel.”
“But I can't afford the best, I'm afraid,” she replied.
He winked. “I can help.”
The army officer grunted. “Are you trying to seduce this young lady, you old fart?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. What's it to you?”
“She's young enough to be your great granddaughter.” Captain Crimmins turned to Esther. “Feel free to stay with me and my wife, Miss Rainey. At least you'll be safe from old farts.”
She didn't trust Crimmins, and who knew about his wife. “No, I'll find a reasonably priced hotel, thank you. But I appreciate yer offer. How kind you are to a lone woman.”
When the officer glanced in another direction, and the government official was buried in his book, she glanced at the lawyer, then winked. A broad smile came to his face, and she knew that she'd hooked him. He devoured her with his eyes as she gazed out the window, offering a view of her profile. Go ahead—enjoy me while you can, she thought to herself, because I'm going to take every penny you've got, and I might even kill you, to get in the mood for Mrs. Rich Bitch.
Captain Jose Baltazar Padilla, a heavyset mustachioed officer, sat behind his desk in the Fronteras military barracks, reading the morning mail. The letter on top was from the War Ministry, providing good news. Fronteras would be reinforced, and new forts constructed. Captain Padilla smiled, because President Juarez finally had seen the light Mexico couldn't afford to lose her northern provinces to the Apaches, because the government would be discredited.
Like Juarez, Captain Padilla was a man of the liberal party. The son of a baker, he too had been selected by priests to attend the best Catholic schools, but instead of studying the law, he continued to the Colego Militar, Mexico's West Point. An experienced Apache fighter, he had served with distinction in the war against the United States.
His door opened, then Lieutenant Magalenez appeared, an excited expression on his clean-shaven face. “Two Apache women have been sighted, sir, heading this way. They are carrying the white flag.”
The hair rose on the back of Captain Padilla's back. “Are you sure they're alone?”
“That is my information, sir.”
“Escort them here, and place the post on alert.”
After Lieutenant Magalenez departed, Captain Padilia paced the floor nervously. He knew that Apaches attempted peace only when forced, and the United States Army had been campaigning against them since the end of the Mexican War. Captain Padilla didn't trust Apaches, and doubted they were sincere. Only military defeat will stop them, he believed.
He pulled on his visored cap, stepped outside, and paused in front of his headquarters, hand on his sword hilt, observing soldiers deploying, augmented by armed citizens, while his four cannon were placed strategically. All was in readiness should the Apaches attack.
The main street of Fronteras led to the town's main gate, and Captain Padilla observed guards approaching, escorting two Apaches. The savages frequently sent women when attempting peace, but he knew that Apache women were as deadly as men, and sometimes worse.
The guards passed through the gate, and Captain Padilla could observe the Apache women more clearly. Not fat old squaws, they were young, upright wenches sitting solidly in their saddles, dark-skinned, with long straight hair and slanted eyes, covered with dust, looking wild as the desert itself. They appeared unafraid, although surrounded by Mexicans who hated them, and Captain Padilla realized they were beautiful in their wild, tawny way. Captain Padilla's wife was in Guadalajara, and his eye had been known to wander.
He stepped forward, his aides behind him, and he said, “Welcome.”
The taller of the women said in guttural, heavily accented Spanish, “We are here to talk peace.”
“Come to my office, and let me give you food and drink.”
“I take no food and drink from Mexicanos, because you have poisoned too many of my friends. We will speak here, where everyone can see.”
“What do you want?” he asked.
“No more fighting between us.”
“If you stop—we will stop. What else do you want?”
“Food, blankets, and implements for agriculture.”
“By whose authority do you speak?”
“Chief Mangas Coloradas, my father, and Chief Cochise, my husband.”
Captain Padilla realized that an important Apache woman stood before him, and he was tempted to capture her, holding her hostage. But perhaps he could bag bigger game. “What has happened to Chief Miguel Narbona?”
“He has gone to the spirit world.”
This was news, and Captain Padilla paused to reflect. If I could capture Cochise and Mangas Coloradas, that might mean the end of the Apache resistance. “You may invite them to visit, and we will council together.”
“You must guarantee their safety.”
Captain Padilla raised his right arm. “I swear they will not be harmed.”
“Tell me when.”
“At the new moon, let Chief Mangas Coloradas and Chief Cochise come. Bring as many of your people as want to accompany them. We shall have a great feast with much food and"—he paused for effect—"firewater. Together, let us make peace.”
“I will report what you have said. We shall meet again.”
Captain Padilla turned to the other Apache woman, who had been silent throughout negotiations. “What is her name?”
Dostehseh replied, “Jocita.”
He nodded to her. “Good day, senora.”
“She does not speak Spanish,” said Dostehseh.
Jocita was ready to fire arrows at the least provocation, but Dostehseh nodded to her, and they turned their horses around. Then they rode toward the gate, accompanied by the guard mount, to make sure no angry citizen shot them.
Captain Padilla watched them go, smiling faintly beneath his mustache. Perhaps, if I trap a good number of Apaches, President Juarez need not send extra troops, and the cause of the revolution will be advanced.
On the morning the People departed for Sunny Bear's ranch, Chief Mangas Coloradas rode at the head of the column. “How happy I will be to see my warrior brother Sunny Bear,” he said to Cochise. “He knows much about the Nakai-yes, and when we return, Dostehseh and Jocita should be back with news from Fronteras.”
“I pray that they are well,” replied Cochise, to the left of Mangas Coloradas. “They should have arrived at Fronteras by now.”
Farther back in the procession, Nana also anticipated seeing Sunny Bear, who had been his disciple. I wonder if he still has visions, the medicine man asked himself, or if his powers have gone now that he is with the Pindah people? If only he would join us, and help us fight the White Eyes.
At the rear of the procession, catching most of the dust, Beau rode beside Constanza, knowing their separation was coming. He wished he'd never comforted her that first night, but then recalled her supple flesh, the feeling of her naked breasts against his bare chest, and knew he could not withstand her, despite Re
becca, Beau II, and Beth.
He glanced at her profile, and had to admit she was an oustanding example of Mexican beauty, with her aristocratic Spanish features. And even after loving her most of the night, he wanted more.
Throughout his life, Beau had entertained desires that he'd never told anybody, not even prostitutes, for fear they'd laugh at him, or call him a maniac, but Constanza had encouraged him to attempt his most perverted passions. It troubled him to know he loved her desperately, although he was married, father of two.
The worst part was he loved Rebecca equally, if not more. But women aren't the same, and love can have many complexions, he realized. Now he understood why the caliphs of Araby had harems, but what man could withstand the intrigues of a hundred incarcerated women?
Beau felt defeated by Constanza, as if he had become her love slave. He could not believe he'd debased her and himself so thoroughly, and she had participated so wholeheartedly, she'd raised him to elevations he'd never before known.
She turned toward him, and her eyes spoke testaments about her own disreputable cravings. It frightened him to know the passions she'd unlocked in him, and wished he could be alone with her for the rest of his life. How can I leave this woman? he asked himself. And how can I not? He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer. God help me.
On the way back to Whitecliff, Clarissa heard a cracking sound, and turned in time to see the wagon collapse. The column stopped, the men climbed down from their saddles, and Pancho crawled beneath the conveyance. “The axle ees broke,” he called out.
Blakelock turned to Clarissa. “It's gonter be a while.”
“What do you call ‘a while,’ Mr. Blakelock?”
“A few days.”
“Why so long?”
He spat at the ground. “Thar ain't no gen'ral store out hyar, and no blacksmith. We're gonter haveta build a new axle from scratch, so make yerself comfortable.”
Clarissa looked around, and there wasn't even a stream in the vicinity. How can anyone make themselves comfortable? she asked herself.
