Night of the Cougar

by Len Levinson

  “A fool like you cannot win any hand.”

  “I din't notice you disagreein’ with my plans.”

  “I thought you knew what you were doing, and I was stupid enough to trust you. But they cannot see in the dark, and if we stay off the main trail, they will never find us ... I hope.”

  Kneeling behind a greasewood bush, wearing his cougar cape, Nathanial watched the outlaws retreat. He served as his own scout, creeping ahead in his breechclout and moccasin boots, his keen Apache eyes noting the shifting tactics of his quarry, hoping to throw him off their track.

  He carried his bow, quiver of arrows, knife, and pistol, the rest stashed so it wouldn't slow him down. He felt like a warrior again, lithe and strong, leaving a trail for his men to follow, for his men lacked silence skills, a warrior's most valuable weapon.

  He felt like a cougar as he crawled beneath a tomatillo bush, his eyes narrowed, mouth open, smelling the passage of his attackers. But he also was Captain Nathanial Barrington of the 1st Dragoons, West Point graduate, and modern nineteenth-century man of many confusions.

  Why don't I let them get away? he asked himself. Why can't I turn my other damned cheek, instead of being vengeful? But someone must stop them, otherwise they'll commit more crimes, probably against those more defenseless than I. How dare they steal my children, rustle my herd, and threaten to burn down my home? They would've killed us all, and now they're going to pay.

  The children gathered around Clarissa when the gunfire began, waited anxiously, then silence came to the desert, and no one dared mention that the outlaws might have won.

  Now Clarissa understood why most people preferred to live in settlements, instead of ranching on the edge of the world. What am I doing here? she asked herself as she blew dust out of the cylinders of her Colt. Nathanial convinced me it was safe, and I believed him.

  Even Natalie sensed a change in the atmosphere as she leaned against her mother, trying to gather warmth. Zachary and Gloria, hand in hand, stared in the direction of the shooting, hoping to see something important, but it was only the incomprehensible desert. And Pancho glanced about cautiously, rifle in his hands.

  Clarissa became so tense, she felt faint. Natalie noticed her change of mood and sought to comfort her. Then Clarissa caught herself, for she didn't want to frighten the child. “There—there,” she said as she hugged Natalie. “Everything will be fine.” But she didn't believe it herself, and silently cursed Nathanial for planting her in such a hazardous position.

  The outlaw camp had no fire, few blankets, little food, and was running out of water. They expected the Barrington cowboys to attack at any time.

  Outlaws have difficulty accepting responsibility for their misdeeds, so they blamed Culhane. He noticed them casting angry glances, and maintained his hand close to his gun.

  So did the others, but they needed the protection of numbers. Command had devolved to Avila, who organized a guard roster, with two men on duty at any given time.

  “I guess the only fair theeng is ration the food,” he said. “Everybody empty your saddlebags here, and let us see what we got.”

  They crowded around, upending saddlebags, and chunks of pemmican fell to the ground, plus a few moldy biscuits. They hadn't brought much because they'd intended to live off Barrington's larder, but now Culhane realized how careless he had been. There wasn't enough for the trip to Nogales, which encouraged them to move their hands closer to their guns.

  “Maybe we can hunt tomorrow,” said Avila.

  “Providin’ nobody's a-huntin’ us,” replied Culhane.

  “Close your mouth—cabrón.”

  “Yer blamin’ me fer everythin’, but it was jest bad luck.”

  “Stupidity, you mean.”

  Culhane may have been a murderer, but that didn't mean he lacked professional pride. “I'm tired of yer insults,” he said, resting his hand on the barrel of his gun.

  “What are you going to do about eet?” asked Avila, leaping forward and clamping Culhane's wrist in his hand. “Shoot me?”

  Avila's lips were only inches from Culhane's nose, and Culhane could smell yesterday's chili peppers. “Git yer hands off'n me.”

  Avila smiled in triumph, then let out a scream as a knife entered his belly. Culhane slashed to the side, and Avila collapsed onto the ground. Mexican and American outlaws glowered at each other, hands close to their guns, then Culhane smiled and said as he wiped his knife on Avila's pants, “Maybe it's time we went our separate ways, eh, amigos? We'll jest split everythin’ fifty-fifty, all right?”

  The Mexicans looked at each other, then the outlaw named Mendoza spoke. “Sounds good to me.”

  They bargained over horses, pemmican, rifles, and ammunition, trying to make a fair split, because neither side could dominate the other.

  The outlaws’ horses were guarded by Domingez, a bony, thin-lipped bandido who became unnerved when alone, and twitched every time he heard a sound, imagining the Barrington cowboys crawling closer.

  His only comfort came from the voices of his compadres nearby, still in negotiations. I don't think the Barrington cowboys will follow us, Domingez tried to convince himself. They just want us to leave, that's all. He thought he heard something, turned suddenly, but there was nothing except dappled moonlight. He thought he spotted two eyes glowing in the dark, but they disappeared, and he believed he was hallucinating.

  He faced front again, wishing time would pass. It was the last wish he had. A knife severed his throat, he dropped, and Sunny Bear arose behind him, wearing his cougar cape, an ocher stripe across his nose. Then Sunny Bear advanced, cut the hobbles from the horses, and whispered to them. They scattered in a thunder of hoofbeats, and in seconds were gone.

  Domingez lay on the ground, tongue hanging out, eyes glazed over as Culhane examined the wound. “Neat job,” he proclaimed cheerily. “This is what happens to galoots what don't keep their eyes open. And don't ferget who made arrangements to hobble the horses: Avila.”

  Culhane glared at the Mexicans, who stared evilly at him, the animosity between them so virulent they could feel it. “It is best we go now,” said Mendoza.

  “Sounds fine to me,” replied Culhane.

  They separated, backing away from each other, and all had their guns out, ready to fire. So concentrated were they on each other, with their eyes following each other's hands, they didn't see moonlight kiss the shank of an arrow. A second later, Clay said, “Ugh,” and his knees collapsed.

  The outlaws scattered, leaving their wounded behind, but arrows continued to fly, then lighted sticks of dynamite fell upon them. Explosions rocked the night, outlaws were blown to bits, and others were cut down by gunfire. Panicked, many outlaws were shot in the back while trying to escape, while some chose to make a last stand, only to be torn apart by dynamite. But a few lucky ones managed to flee, and one was Culhane.

  He ran frantically across the desert, spines of cacti ripping his clothes and flesh. He was afraid to stop, afraid to continue running, his heart pumped violently, sweat poured down his face, and his breath came in gulps. The suddenness of the attack and its diabolical effectiveness unnerved him. Though unafraid to face a man in broad daylight, he was unprepared for the uncertainty of the night, with someone shooting arrows. Is it Barrington? he wondered.

  He feared he'd run over a cliff, for the land was uneven, with gopher holes and sudden drops, piles of rocks, and clumps of cacti; he bled from countless scratches. He didn't know whether to ambush Barrington or just keep running, although he was making too much noise, and there were bears, cougars, snakes, poisonous spiders, and countless other desert killers, such as Apaches, in the vicinity. He wanted shelter, sanctuary, a cave where he could hide. Who is this Barrington son of a bitch? he asked himself.

  He knew that his every step left a trail, and Barrington probably was following him. All I did was try to rob ‘im—what's he so mad at? Then he heard a strange hollow sound and saw blackness straight ahead. As he drew closer, he realized he'd co
me to the edge of a ravine. He got down on his hands and knees and peered at a river passing two hundred yards below.

  A good spot for a trap, mused Culhane. After concealing his trail with branches, he kneeled behind an outcropping of cholla cacti. Anyone following would arrive at the cliff s edge, and in the moonlight Culhane could get a clear shot.

  Culhane removed his hat, checked his gun, hunkered down on his belly, and waited, listening to the rippling river. I could swim away, but it's a long drop, he cogitated. Culhane was afraid of heights, but more afraid of an arrow in the ribs. If I don't hit Barrington, I'll have to jump, he thought. So I'd better hit ‘im, otherwise I'm one dead son of a bitch.

  Insects chirped, stars sparkled overhead, and Culhane's respiration returned to normal. Nobody's following me, he realized. Hell, it's hard enough to track in the daytime.

  He looked up, found the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and the North Star. No dumb cowboy will ever catch me, he thought confidently as he arose.

  “Don't move,” said a voice behind him.

  He spun and saw an Apache emerge from the chaparral, aiming a Colt Navy. “Is it you, Barrington?”

  Sunny Bear drew closer, face covered with war paint. “You should have left me alone.”

  Culhane took a step backward, trying to smile. “You ain't gonter kill me, are you?”

  “I sure am.”

  “What about the law?”

  “I am the law,” replied Nathanial, his finger tightening around the trigger.

  Culhane saw his wicked life flash before his eyes, and all he could do was lunge for Sunny Bear's wrist, but the warrior saw him coming, and smacked him upside his head with the gun. Culhane went down, rolled over, and wanted to stay down, but a furious desire to live came over him. He lurched toward the edge of the precipice, Sunny Bear tackled him, but Culhane twisted frantically, escaped those clawing fingers, and leapt into the air.

  The next thing Culhane knew, he was toppling through space. Now what'd I do that for? he asked himself. For all I know, this river is only two feet deep!

  Stark terror came over him, because he'd committed many vicious deeds, and wondered if there truly was a judgment day. He'd studied the Bible as a child, now the lessons returned.

  He hit the water with such impact he was knocked cold. His head slipped beneath the surface, bubbles trapped in his nose, but he didn't touch bottom because the river was twenty feet deep. Unconscious, limp and waterlogged, Culhane drifted downstream.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In her isolated comer of the dark Sonoran Desert, Clarissa stood guard nervously. She feared her husband had been defeated, and she would have to make Fort Buchanan on foot, carrying Natalie. Is this the end of my life, she wondered.

  Then out of the night she heard horses. Her husband's voice called, “Clarissa?”

  She gave thanks to God, and the children rejoiced noisily as Nathanial rode into the clearing, still wearing war paint and his cougar skin cape, followed by the cowboys. Clarissa stared at her white Apache husband and thought, Who the hell does he think he is?

  “We won,” he said as he climbed down from the saddle. Then he kissed her. “Let's go home.”

  Zachary replied, “You look like an injun.”

  The children crowded around their strange father, and Clarissa felt relieved, but knew she'd never be safe until she returned to civilization. As her horse was led forward, she said, “I never truly realized how dangerous this area was, and in retrospect, I can't imagine why you brought us all here.”

  “Be thankful we won.”

  “I've reached a decision,” she stated firmly, “and I might as well tell you now. This territory is too lawless for me, and I'm going back east with Natalie, because I could never subject my child to this again.”

  “What about the ranch?”

  “This ranch, and a thousand more like it, aren't worth the life of my child!” Clarissa felt her temper coming on like the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, and found no reason to apply the brakes. “What kind of man would bring his family to Arizona!”

  “Let's go home, and we'll talk tomorrow.”

  Stubbornly, she placed her hands on her hips. “What manner of lunatic would want to live where you have to worry about being scalped in the middle of the night?”

  “If you want to run home to Mother—that's up to you.”

  “Bastard!” she screamed as the engine gathered steam. “You think that because you're a man, you know everything! In all my travels, I've never experienced anything as terrible as this damned ranch of yours, where your daughter lives under the threat of instant death, and it doesn't even trouble you.”

  “Of course it troubles me, but a warrior must defeat his enemies, which I have done.”

  “What warrior are you talking about?” she asked sarcastically. “You were an army officer, then you were an Indian agent, then a rancher, and now you're a warrior? Do you think life is something you can shed, like a snake's skin?”

  “It's getting late,” replied Nathanial wearily. “We've got to get back to the ranch.”

  “ ‘At's right, Clarabelle,” said Blakelock out the side of his mouth. “How much horseshit do we have to tolerate afore we can go to bed?”

  She turned to him. “You old hog—you drunkard— you utter beast—how dare you speak to me that way, after what my children have been through!”

  “If they ain't complainin'—why're you?”

  She looked at the children, and Natalie was glad to see her father in his funny new Apache costume, while Zachary tended to agree with everything his father said, whether he understood or not, while Gertie the gutter rat viewed life as clawing and scratching, and was pleased the cowboys had won.

  “Children lack the capacity to understand,” Clarissa declared self-righteously, “like a certain foreman I could name. But far be it from me to keep you up all night . . .” It occurred to Clarissa that the men she insulted had defended her from outlaws, and had actually saved the children's lives, but she was so angry, upset, and harried, she didn't care what she said.

  Nathanial placed his arm around her. “The crisis has passed. Relax.”

  She began to cry.

  “What's the holdup?” asked Dobbs testily.

  “Clarabelle's at it again,” said Claggett. “She was a-gonna kill everybody, now she's a-crying her pore eyes out.”

  “C'mon Clarabelle,” snarled Barr. “We ain't got all fuckin’ night here.”

  She thought there was something so awful about them, they were beyond sufferance, yet they had defeated a gang of outlaws. Wiping away tears with her sleeve, she said, “I'm sorry if I lost my temper, and actually, I should thank you for doing a wonderful job. You're really very fine . . .”

  “Jesus God—now she's a-makin’ a speech,” said Joe Smith, rolling his eyes.

  She realized she never could please them, no matter how hard she tried. “Whar's my damned horse?” she asked wearily.

  “Right here, Clarabelle,” said Bastrop.

  Without further complaint, everyone mounted up and headed back to the ranch.

  Nathanial and Clarissa awoke around noon, and enjoyed a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and beans with Rosita and the children. Meanwhile, the cowboys stirred in the bunkhouse, while guards were posted at all times, like a military camp.

  Clarissa felt well rested, but still wasn't sure about ranch life. It is entirely possible, she thought, that another gang of outlaws might attack, or Apaches could burn everything to the ground, but do I want to spend my life sipping tea in Gramercy Park?

  Everyone had been transformed by the outlaw war, even Natalie, Zachary, and Gloria, who had managed better than she, the former belle of the ball. Perhaps I was too pampered as a child, reflected Clarissa, but what's wrong with being pampered?

  Nathanial placed his hand on hers. “Perhaps you're right,” he said. “I should not have brought you here. It certainly is dangerous but I thought you'd get used to it. I feel torn apart because I love th
is land, but I also love you. I wish you'd give the ranch another chance. We can make it work if we just hang on.”

  “Why can't you return east with Natalie and me?”

  “I will, but I don't believe Natalie wants to leave.” Nathanial turned to Natalie. “Do you?”

  Natalie smiled and tried to say no.

  Clarissa declared, “You're manipulating the child for your own personal gain, like the scoundrel everyone says you are.”

  “It never stops,” said Zachary wearily. “Why'd you two ever get married?”

  Gloria piped up, “I'm sick of you two arguing.”

  “Wouldn't you like to go east where it's safe?” asked Clarissa.

  “No,” replied Zachary.

  “Me neither,” added Gloria.

  Clarissa felt like tipping the table onto them and screaming at the top of her lungs. Since childhood, she'd always shoved her frustrations into the piano, so she stormed to the parlor, sat at the Steinway, and ran her fingers over the keys.

  The instrument had gone out of tune, but somehow seemed more appropriate to her feelings. She hammered discordant notes, slammed deep bass chords, and ran her thumb along the treble. Strange, horrible vibrations emitted from hammers and strings, but they reflected her feelings precisely, and helped her feel better. She wished she'd never met the rapscallion Nathanial Barrington, because he was the one who'd led her astray, and she tried to convince herself that she'd been perfectly happy before he'd come along.

  In the midst of her atonal concerto, as she drowned in the music of despair, a gruff voice said, “Hey, Clarabelle—are you tryin’ to drive everybody loco ‘round here?”

  She spun on her piano bench and saw Blakelock standing in her parlor, hat in hand, a mournful expression on his face. “How dare you tell me what to do in my own home!” she yelled. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Clarabelle—the men can take so much,” he replied patiently. “We've got a chance to relax an’ wash our socks, an’ we got to put up with you? Why don't you play ‘My Old Kentucky Home’?”