Night of the Cougar

by Len Levinson

  “The church?” suggested Lieutenant Suarez.

  “No, not the church,” said Captain Padilla. “The padre would never stand for it. And those cantinas stink to high heaven. Where else is there?”

  “What about outdoors?” asked Lieutenant Magalenez. “Be easier to concentrate our fire.”

  “Whatever we do, we can't arouse their suspicion,” cautioned Captain Padilla.

  “But, sir,” said Lieutenant Suarez, “I don't think . . .”

  “Enough,” interrupted Captain Padilla coldly. “Most of Sonora and Chihuahua has been depopulated by Apaches, and they have tricked and murdered Mexicans on numerous occasions—now it's our turn. They are trying to buy time, but instead will buy their deaths. Any other questions? No? Good, because we have much work to do. This meeting is dismissed.”

  A group of warriors gathered in front of the wickiup of Mangas Coloradas. They were led by Cochise and Dostehseh, as Nana the medicine man murmured prayers, while sprinkling holy pollen on the travelers. Then Mangas Coloradas delivered a speech, most of which Clarissa couldn't understand.

  She stood not far away, wearing a traditional deerskin blouse and shirt, her blond hair bound by a red bandanna, but her trusty old riding boots had proven sturdy enough for life among the Apaches. The warriors and Dostehseh departed south in a long procession, and those remaining behind watched solemnly. The drama appeared significant to Clarissa, so she found her husband and asked, “What's that about?”

  “A peace mission to Mexico.”

  “Why don't they make peace with the Americans instead?”

  “Because the Americans don't need peace, but the Mexicans might be agreeable. At least that's what Cochise thinks, but I believe this peace mission is a mistake, and I don't think the Mexicans will let our friends leave Fronteras alive. I've told them, but they've got to find out for themselves. There's going to be another tragedy, and there's not a damned thing we can do about it.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Culhane arrived in Nogales on a Wednesday afternoon, and no one paid attention to another bearded drifter. He sold his horses at the stable, took a room in a hotel, and spent most of his time sleeping, in an effort to rebuild his strength.

  He had no idea how he'd survived, but hated Barrington for delivering his worst defeat. Culhane nurtured his grudge like a poisonous flower, as he plotted the destruction of Nathanial Barrington.

  His strength returned, he passed more time in cantinas, and occasionally played a few hands of poker for small stakes, or selected a whore for an hour of pleasure. But he couldn't enjoy himself, because never in his outlaw career had he suffered such a setback. He was tempted to return in the middle of the night and kill the Barrington children, but Barrington maintained guards at all times. Culhane couldn't pick Barrington off with a Sharps rifle at long range, because one of the guards would see him first. Culhane's money dwindled, but he was certain his luck would change if he just kept smiling.

  Nearly six weeks had passed since Beau had been reported missing, and sometimes Rebecca was angry, while other times she broke unexpectedly into tears. I wonder if I should remarry? she asked herself one day, then heard hoofbeats in the street outside.

  She opened the door and saw an army carriage with two horses, plus four dragoons, and an officer whom she didn't recognize. “Mrs. Hargreaves?” he asked, removing his hat. “Colonel Bonneville would like to speak with you.”

  “What about?”

  “He didn't tell me, ma'am, but said it's very important.”

  She knew it was something about Beau, and feared they'd found his corpse somewhere. The officer helped her into the wagon, and during the ride to Fort Marcy, she figured the soldiers had buried him in some distant valley where she and the children couldn't visit his grave.

  Fort Marcy was situated on a hill near the Palace of Governors, and she entered the orderly room, where the clerk waved her through. She opened the door to Colonel Bonneville's office, and found him sitting behind his desk, signing a document. He had become acting commanding officer of the 9th Department, due to the continued illness of General Garland.

  “Come in, dear Rebecca,” he said. “Have a seat.”

  “Please don't keep me in suspense,” she replied. “What's wrong?”

  He smiled. “Nothing, and in fact I have good news. Your husband is alive and in excellent health. He has sent you a letter, which I have here,” he held it in the air, “but I thought I should speak with you first, so it wouldn't be a shock.”

  Rebecca knew how to appear placid when her heart beat turbulently and a slick of sweat covered her forehead. Alive? She opened the envelope calmly, and as she read, could not prevent her eyebrows from raising.

  “He was living with the Apaches?” she said.

  “So I understand.”

  “And he's resigning his commission?”

  “I think you'd better talk with him, and bring him to his senses.”

  Later that day, Colonel Bonneville was visited by Dr. Steck, the Indian agent. “Whatever you want,” said Old Bonney Clabber good-naturedly, “I can't give it to you.”

  “This time I'm not asking you to feed Apaches,” replied Dr. Steck. “I'll need a military escort later in the year, because I'd like to visit the western tribes. Perhaps I can convince them to leave the Overland stagecoaches alone, after regular schedules begin in their territory.”

  “I wouldn't worry if I were you,” said Colonel Bonneville. “The Apaches know that I'll hound them into the ground if they bother those stagecoaches. They've finally learned that they can't kill Americans and get away with it.”

  “You're forgetting one important possibility. They might risk one last war, and I'd like to speak with them before the killing starts.”

  “I'll be happy to provide an escort, providing you deliver a message to Mangas Coloradas. Make it clear that I will tolerate no stealing, killing, or any other depredations, and I'm not a friendly fellow such as you, good Dr. Steck. If Apaches commit crimes, I will destroy them, and I don't care how many War Dances they have. By the way, have you heard about your former assistant, Captain Barrington?”

  “Last thing I knew, he had a ranch in the Sonoita Valley.”

  “Not anymore. He and his wife have run off with the Apaches.”

  Dr. Steck thought for a few moments, then said, “Actually, I can't say I'm surprised. Because Captain Barrington was one of the strangest men I've ever known, but his wife appeared eminently sensible. I wonder why she went with him.”

  Colonel Bonneville leaned forward, an earnest expression coming over his puckish features. “She's in love with a madman, but that's hardly unusual. I'd say most women are.”

  Sunny Bear watched an Apache boy approach shyly, wearing a gold crucifix around his neck. “Do you remember me?” he asked.

  Sunny Bear realized it was his son, but the boy had grown many inches, with the long, sinewy body of his mother, her dark hair, the cast of her eye. “Of course I remember you, Fast Rider. You have grown so tall—soon you will be a warrior.”

  Fast Rider was in awe of the famed Sunny Bear, who didn't know what else to say to his son, although he wanted to impart knowledge and love. So they passed without another word, observed by Jocita, sitting in front of her wickiup.

  Sunny Bear stays away from me, she reflected, and I stay away from him. We are proper with each other, otherwise there will be blood on the sand.

  Beau breakfasted in the main house as Rosita sat on the far side of the table. Between them lay a platter of eggs, beans, bacon, and tortillas, plus a pot of thick black coffee, illuminated by an oil lamp.

  The faint glow of morning was on the horizon, and they could hear familiar yelps and shouts from the bunkhouse. Beau felt happy, because for the first time he could make professional decisions without regard to higher headquarters.

  Sometimes he missed the raising of the flag at the first formation of the day, the inspection of the guard mount, or the sense of destiny an officer knows
when riding at the head of a detachment of dragoons, a far cry from rounding up cattle, which was how he spent most of his days. But he couldn't kill Apaches anymore, just like Nathanial.

  Often he reflected upon his old West Point friend and Clarissa living with Apaches. Maybe I should join them, he thought.

  The door opened, revealing Blakelock. “Looks like we've got a visitor,” he reported, a peculiar expression on his face. “A woman, and she's alone. Says she wants to speak with Mrs. Barrington.”

  Esther unloosened the cinch underneath her horse as it slurped from the trough. She'd stayed off main trails, followed her compass, munched pemmican, and finally one night saw lights on the horizon.

  Blakelock opened the door of the main house. “Go right in,” he said, apparently mystified by her appearance out of the dawn.

  She smiled, for she needed to get the men on her side. “You look like you haven't seen many strangers here.”

  “We've had plenty of strangers as of late,” he replied, “but no wimmin.”

  She headed toward the main house, hat in hand, gun on her hip. She toyed with shooting Mrs. Rich Bitch at first sight and getting it over with, but wanted to escape easily, then hunt down Culhane. Because she had not forgotten him either.

  She opened the door and found a husky black-bearded handsome man sitting down to breakfast with a Mexican woman. That can't be Clarissa Barrington, thought Esther as she made a tentative, unconfident smile. “Mr. Barrington?” she asked.

  “Sorry, but he's not here,” replied the fellow at the table. “My name's Beau—what can I do for you?”

  Esther was stopped cold by this news, and her smile faltered. “Where'd he go?”

  “He's living with the Apaches. Took his wife and children with him.”

  “How come?”

  “It's a long story, so sit down and have breakfast.”

  Esther had not tasted a decent meal since Fort Buchanan, so she joined them at the table. Beau tried to explain recent history. “Nathanial Barrington believes the Apache way of life is superior to ours, strange though that may seem.”

  “Why'd his wife go with ‘im?”

  “Because she's nearly as deranged as he. But they never mentioned you.”

  “Maybe they fergot, or din't care.”

  “Rosita could use some help. How much do you need?”

  “I'd accept anythin’ now,” said Esther. “I got no place to go. Do you think Mrs. Barrington'll be back?”

  Beau smiled. “Knowing Clarissa as I do, and how spoiled she is, I wouldn't be surprised if she arrived any day now.”

  Sunny Flower sat in front of her stew pot, stirring the mixture within as old Chief Mangas Coloradas kneeled beside her and asked, “How are you faring?”

  “There's so much to do,” she replied. “I'm always tired.”

  “That is because you are weak, but soon you will be strong as a woman of the People. Where is Sunny Bear?”

  “Hunting, and I hope he returns by dark.”

  “Do not worry about Sunny Bear, because he knows the dark. In fact, once the whole world was always dark. Can you imagine that?”

  “I have been taught there's been daylight since the Lifegiver created the world.”

  “Your education was not good,” admonished Mangas Coloradas, “but I will teach you now. In the beginning, there were no sun, moon, or stars. Everything was night, and the beasts liked it that way, because night hid them when they hunted. But the birds wanted light so they could spot beasts trying to catch them.

  “Finally the birds and beasts went to war over admitting light into the world. The beasts had claws and teeth, but the birds had invented bows and arrows, so they won. And that's how light came to be.”

  He spoke as if he believed the mythology, and Clarissa caught a sense of his faith. Who could prove it's not true? she asked herself. And as he continued, it appeared that his skin smoothed, and he was forty years younger. Clarissa felt herself becoming lost in the droning of his voice. “The serpents were clever,” he continued. “They hid in caves, and that's why we have so many snakes nowadays.”

  Clarissa wondered what was happening, as if his power overwhelmed her. She felt apprehensive, because familiar guideposts had been removed, and she drifted through the soul of the Apache nation.

  “The eagle was chief of the war,” resumed Mangas Coloradas. “And that is why we wear his feathers to this day, to remind us of his wisdom, justice, and power. I bet you never knew that.”

  “The White Eyes tell the story differently,” she replied. “We believe the Lifegiver banished darkness by his will.”

  “Maybe he did,” said Mangas Coloradas, “or maybe the eagle did it for him. Either way, it is the same, for everything comes from the Lifegiver.”

  Clarissa realized that she sounded like a magpie compared to the conviction of Mangas Coloradas. What is reason, except a formula that too often provides wrong answers? she asked herself. But how can I abandon myself to impulses, moods, and blind faith as do the Apaches? “What if everything's true, and everything's false?” she asked.

  “Everything is not true,” replied Chief Mangas Coloradas. “Because we know that stealing and killing are wrong. You are like Sunny Bear, always questioning when first he arrived among us. But now he understands. And one day you will understand too.”

  Esther decided the best way to advance her position at Whitecliff was to seduce Beau Hargreaves, so she brushed against him in hallways, bent over in front of him in various parts of the house, and once, while sitting in a chair, provided a glimpse of leg, but he didn't respond, and Esther became discouraged.

  She knew that her beauty was intact, because all the cowboys flirted with her, but she preferred to let them suffer. She felt no desire after Steve Culhane.

  One evening, at supper with Beau and Rosita, she decided to broach an important topic. “I'm surprised, considering all the outlaws in Arizona, that you ain't been bothered by ‘em.”

  “You should've been here a while back,” replied Beau. “Nathanial and the cowboys had their hands full of outlaws. It was a real shooting war within sight of these very buildings, but finally Nathanial and the cowboys drove them off, killing most of them.”

  I wonder if Culhane got away, thought Esther, alone in her room later that night. Where would he go? She guessed the answer, because she'd been around outlaws so long. If Culhane escaped, he'd head fer Mexico, she figured. And then she remembered the name of the nearest border town, a few cowboys had been there, Nogales. Should I head south and settle my score with Culhane? he asked herself. Then, when I finish, Mrs. Rich Bitch will be home from the Apaches, and I can take care of her.

  At Fort Buchanan, Constanza wrote letters to surviving members of her family, describing her fate. While waiting for replies, she spent most of her time in the room the army provided, where she brooded alone.

  There was no permanent chaplain at Fort Buchanan, so she endured her crisis alone. Sometimes she cried all day, feeling loveless, lost, and betrayed by the God she had loved. Meals were brought her, because Old Baldy got tired of seeing her tearstained face and bloodshot eyes at his table. Often she thought of killing herself, but Holy Mother Church had preached that suicide was evil, so she stayed her hand.

  One day a short gnomish Mexican priest with a pimple on his nose arrived at Fort Buchanan, on his way to Janos. He was Father Gomez and heard confessions from the Catholic soldiers, afterward holding a Mass. Constanza dropped a note in the collection plate stating that she'd like to speak with him alone, so he invited her to his room later that evening.

  A pot of tea and two cups were waiting when she arrived. He said, “Captain Ewell told me of your misfortune, senorita. How may I help?”

  “I have lost my faith,” she confessed.

  “I am not surprised,” he replied gently, “because your faith has been sorely tested. But you must direct your gaze not to the crucifixion, but the resurrection. You will be together with your family in the next world.�
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  “If you talk with God in your prayers, please ask why my family had to be massacred.”

  “Do not blame God for the deeds of Apaches. No, God desires happiness for all, but there are too many sinners.”

  “I lived briefly among the Apaches, and they see themselves as pious as any Christian.”

  “But God is not guilty, so do not blame Him. What about you—are you free from sin?”

  “No, and in fact I want to kill Apaches.”

  “You must shake the devil off.”

  “I need more than prayer.”

  “There is nothing more.”

  “Sometimes I want to sleep with every soldier on this post.”

  The padre raised an eyebrow. “You are a rich man's daughter, obsessed with yourself, but there are those who suffer far more than you. If you wish to expiate your sins, then follow the cross, help the sick, feed the poor, protect the needy, and fight Apache hatred with true Christian love and charity.” Father Gomez removed the rosary from his neck and held the crucifix before her eyes. Nailed to the cross, Jesus twisted in agony, crowned with thorns, slashed with a spear. “If you think you have suffered,” said the priest softly, “what about him?”

  One afternoon Sunny Bear went off by himself to consult with the Mountain Spirits. He found a cave with a good view of the surrounding wilderness, sprinkled sacred pollen about the floor, then sat, said his prayers, and chewed six slices of peyotl.

  It wasn't long before the horizon became tinged with orange, while the blue sky glittered like a blanket of sapphires. Nathanial hoped for a significant vision that he could carry back to Nana, so everyone would tell him how holy and profound he was, but instead the peyotl made him sick to his stomach, and he wondered if he had poisoned himself.

  Instead of White Painted Woman riding a white horse across the sky, Sunny Bear felt tired. He spread his cougar cape on the floor, lay down and closed his eyes. But it seemed as if his stomach hurt more when he was on his back, so he arose and paced the floor nervously. Something told him he would die if he stopped walking, because he needed to work the poison out of his system, and cursed himself for experimenting alone with peyotl. My ignorance has killed me, he suspected.