Savage Frontier

by Len Levinson

  Johnny Davidson's father and mother would receive a letter from General Garland. Unfortunately, we were unable to recover the remains of your son. Nathanial fell back onto his pillow. He couldn't forget those anxious moments in Embudo Canyon.

  Dozing on his feather mattress, and for no apparent reason, he recalled the summer of 1851. While on escort duty with the U.S. Boundary Commission, he'd met the great Mimbreno chief Mangas Coloradas and other leading Apache warriors such as Cuchillo Negro, Delgadito, Juh, Geronimo, Lucero, and Nana the medicine man at the Santa Rita Copper Mines.

  The summer of 1851 had been the most unusual one of the Apache wars, because both sides had tried to make peace. They'd even moved their camps together, but a few “incidents” had occurred and the Apaches then departed. Relations between the U.S. government and the Apaches had worsened steadily ever since.

  There was another reason Nathanial remembered the summer of ‘51. On one of those lazy hazy nights, he'd made love to an Apache warrior woman on the open desert. Maybe it was mere fantasy, so drunk had he been, but next morning he'd awakened covered with scratches and bites. He didn't know her name and never had seen her again.

  I wonder if she ever thinks of me, he mused. Despite the raw, agonizing wounds, he couldn't forget his tawny Apache queen, whose name he didn't even know.

  In the afternoon, the great chief Mangas Coloradas was trying to take a nap. He always felt tired, it seemed. Old age is the deadliest foe of all, he told himself, because it can never be defeated.

  He heard approaching hoofbeats, then someone climbed down from a horse. “An important message has arrived from Chief Chacon,” said Delgadito, another leading Mimbreno subchief.

  Mangas Coloradas raised himself and adjusted his headband. His knees creaked as he made his way to the opening of the wickiup. A large gathering of warriors, subchiefs, and women were waiting to hear the message. A Jicarilla warrior stood beside an Appaloosa war pony.

  Mangas Coloradas drew himself to his full six feet six inches. “What is the message?”

  The warrior stood erectly as he reported. “Chief Chacon wishes to inform Chief Mangas Coloradas that bluecoat soldiers have attacked Jicarilla encampments, killing women and children. He warns you keep your wild young men under control, otherwise the same will happen to you.”

  A cloud came over Mangas Coloradas's sun-engraved features. “A council will be held first thing in the morning to discuss this matter.”

  Mangas Coloradas was profoundly disturbed as he returned to his wickiup. Never before had bluecoat soldiers attacked women and children. We cannot make peace with them because they are dishonest, but neither can we stop them since they are so strong. Sooner or later there will be no place to hide, and then?

  It was Saturday night in Santa Fe, and among the crowds strolled a solitary private in a baggy new uniform: the fugitive Ned Smith, now renamed Fletcher Doakes. His regulation blue cap square on his head, he inclined toward the shadows and tried to appear inconspicuous.

  The lust was in him, the same craving that had led him to strangle the redhead in San Antone. He hadn't hated her, and her death had been nothing personal. Killing women made him feel alive, whereas usually he was lethargic and sleepy-eyed.

  He tended toward low haunts, where victims wouldn't be missed. In Burro Alley, Doakes entered a dark cantina with no name. It was a filthy, grubby room with a bar on the left, tables to the right, filled with Mexican vaqueros, American soldiers, bull-whackers from both nations, half-breed Indians, and low-class whores. It felt like home.

  Doakes's mother had been a prostitute, though not of the official variety. She'd been the kept woman of a banker, but also had maintained a series of lucrative paramours on the side. Doakes had no idea who his father was, but he knew how to maneuver prostitutes into dark places. There'd be an outcry if he killed somebody's wife or daughter, and the last thing Doakes wanted was an outcry.

  He sipped beer slowly, for he was on a private's pay. The prostitutes were mostly old, unattractive, with skin diseases disguised cosmetically. All they do is lie, he thought. They deserve to die.

  His mother had insisted on school, and a little education had given Doakes big ideas. He was certain he could be a general or a senator if he had the right connections. He felt superior and it rankled to be a mere clerk in the Army.

  His mother died when he'd been fourteen, and he'd waited awhile for his father to claim him, but none stepped forward. Since then he'd been roaming America, doing odd jobs, always one step ahead of the law.

  Painted prostitutes paraded past the bar, shaking their breasts and buttocks as he watched with amusement. To Doakes, they appeared utterly contemptible. I'd rather be dead than a prostitute, he said to himself.

  The cantina was crowded, boisterous, confused. In such surroundings, nobody could prove anything and everyone was an embarrassment. Doakes's tastes ran to the most hideous of the lot, so he selected an elderly chubby prostitute wagging her wide hips as she strolled past. “Lookin’ fer a good time, soldier?” She smiled, showing rotted stumps of teeth.

  The odor of cheap perfume struck his nostrils, reminding him of the smell of blood. “Don't mind if I do,” he replied. “What's your name?”

  “Samantha. How about you?”

  “Doakes.”

  “This way, Private Doakes. I'll show you a real good time.”

  You sure will, thought he, as he followed her across the cantina, then down a corridor, his hat positioned low over his eyes. She opened the door and he stepped inside her tiny room. A narrow bed, rickety chair, and dresser covered with bottles of cosmetics comprised the decor.

  “Take your clothes off,” she said, a beguiling lilt in her voice.

  “You take your clothes off.”

  “You ain't goin’ to do it with yours on, are you?”

  “I'm payin’, ain't I?”

  With a pout, she unfastened hooks at the side of her dress. The garment fell away, revealing a flabby old wench with a wrinkled potbelly. “You got any kids?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied hesitantly. “But I do not want to talk about them.”

  “I'll bet you don't,” he replied. “Lie belly down, because I want to look at your pretty ass.”

  The whore giggled obligingly, then rolled over. The smile vanished from Doakes's face as he reached into his pocket for the length of cord. Suddenly he came up behind her, and in a practiced movement slipped the cord over her head.

  He yanked tightly, preventing sound from her throat. “Your life is in my hands, whore,” he whispered into her ear as she writhed in the frenzy of death. He played with her, loosening the cord so she could breathe a bit, then tightening again. He didn't have all night, so he finally gave the cord a final twist.

  Panting, he arose from the bed. He looked at his face in the mirror, saw glazed eyes, flushed cheeks, thin lips slightly parted. I am redeemed, he thought happily as he sniffed a bottle of her perfume. Then he took a dress out of the closet, held it before him, and imagined how he'd look as a woman.

  He wished he could stay longer, but it was time for Casanova to depart. He glanced at the bed one last time, a rush of pleasure came over him, and he trembled with joy, satiated at last. Hand trembling, he put on his hat, opened the door, then eased into the darkness.

  Maria Dolores sat at a back table of the Silver Palace saloon, eating supper alone. There was no reason for her to be in the saloon, she should be with her children, but somehow had found herself working later than usual lately.

  At the opposite end of the saloon, her new guard prowled along, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his pants, cigar in his teeth. In spite of herself, Maria Dolores was intrigued by the man of mystery who'd shown up at her office. Is he running from a wife and five children?

  He appeared a gentleman in cowboy clothes. She wanted to talk with him, purely out of human interest, for Maria Dolores wouldn't dare admit, even to herself, more personal feelings. It's nice to see people other than army officers once
in a while, she thought as she sliced a tender ribbon of steak. I wonder what Nathanial is doing without me?

  Maria Dolores knew her husband had a weak character, for once he'd confessed his brief romance with an Apache squaw. She'd never forgiven him, although she'd pretended she had. Maria Dolores and Nathanial had been married over five years and argued fairly steadily. She wanted him to resign his commission, he steadfastly refused.

  A shot rang out, startling her. At the bar, a bull-whacker held a smoking gun in his hand. No one lay on the floor, so evidently it was another wild shot at the ceiling which would leak next time it rained. Another expense, thought Maria Dolores with chagrin.

  The bartender was a Mexican wearing a white apron. “You'll have to put that pistolero away, senor.”

  “Says who?” asked the bullwhacker, unsteady from high whiskey intake.

  “The rules.”

  “Shove ‘em up yer ass.”

  The barrel of a Colt Dragoon came down on the bullwhacker's head, his legs crumpled and he fell in a heap to the floor. Cole Bannon stood behind him, gun in hand. “Settle down, boys,” he said.

  Cole grabbed the bullwhacker by the collar and dragged him to the door. Maria Dolores resumed her meal as she thought, Now there's a man who knows what he's about.

  Chapter Six

  In the season known as Many Leaves, Subchief Victorio and a cohort of Mimbreno warriors rode to Fort Thorn to observe friends who were trying to live like the White Eyes.

  They were distressed by what they saw. The peace-loving People had become lazy, flaccid, and disorganized, separated as they were from the holy Lifeway. The ground was muddy around their wickiups and the stench of garbage permeated the air. It didn't appear as though chores were getting done.

  The clan leader was named Tomaso, and Victorio called him aside for a conference. “Are you happy here?” asked the Victorious One.

  Tomaso was forty, potbellied, and always had considered himself a forward-looking warrior. “The White Eyes cannot give us all we need,” he said weightily, “but we must live in peace with them anyway.”

  “Why?” asked Victorio.

  “Peace is better than war.”

  Not always, thought Victorio. “How do you plant food?

  “We set seeds in rows, according to the latest methods of the White Eyes. They know much about these things.”

  Victorio's face was immobile, but he thought, The White Eyes know how to subjugate weak-minded warriors. “How can you be content dropping seeds into the ground, when you have been a warrior?”

  “There is a time for war and a time for peace,” replied Tomaso, quoting a missionary. “I have seen too much blood, Victorio. It must end.”

  Victorio wandered the reservation with his warrior honor guard, observing the new ways. I too hate killing, he reflected, but I'd rather be bathed in blood than live in this dirty place, relying upon the charity of White Eyes.

  In Santa Fe, a dusty, creaking stagecoach came to a halt before the Fort Union command post, where a crowd gathered to greet new arrivals. The door was opened by a corporal with a blond mustache, and passengers debarked into the arms of waiting spouses, friends, and lovers.

  Last man out was a thickly built officer relying upon his cane. No one was was there to greet him, but that's how Nathanial wanted it. His plan was to locate his wife when she least expected him, so he could see what she was doing, and with whom. If I have to drag her back to Fort Union by the hair, by God, that's what I'll do. How dare she run out on me? Who the hell does she think she is? His anger stoked hotter and he was bursting with laudanum, his Colt Dragoon loaded as he hobbled toward the Silver Palace Saloon.

  A few blocks away, Maria Dolores sat in her office. There was a knock on her door, then Cole Bannon entered, hat in hand. “You wanted to see me, Mrs. Barrington.”

  “Have a seat, Cole. Let's talk, shall we?”

  She admired his animal grace as he lowered himself into the chair. He had a certain . . . she didn't know what to call it. Perhaps it was merely the way he wore his clothes.

  “I've been thinking about you, Cole,” she said. “You have been working for me two months now, and obviously you are a capable man, but I think you are wasting your talents as a guard. How would you like to manage this saloon for me?”

  He thought for a few moments. “You're taking me by surprise, Mrs. Barrington.”

  “You'd be paid double what you are earning now. When could you give me an answer?”

  There was another knock on the door, which was opened by agitated Miguelito. “Senora—your husband is here!”

  Maria Dolores turned deathly pale.

  “Perhaps I'd better be going,” replied Cole.

  Her heart filled with nameless fear. Shuffling sounds advanced down the hallway, followed by the appearance of her husband, attired in a dusty blue uniform, stumbling with the help of a cane. He took one look at Cole, frowned, then turned toward his wife and said, “Guess what just blew in from Fort Union?”

  There were a few moments of silence as she struggled to catch her breath. Then she swallowed hard and said, “I'll speak with you later, Cole.”

  Cole arose, nearly as tall as Nathanial. Their eyes met, neither liked what he saw. Cole sidestepped toward the door, never turning his back on Nathanial. Finally the husband and wife were alone.

  “Have you been hurt?” she asked.

  He didn't respond as she kissed him dutifully. Then he asked, “Who was that?”

  “He works for me. I think you'd better sit down.”

  He dropped to a chair as she returned to her desk. They studied each other with barely suppressed anger. “Why haven't you returned to Fort Union?” he asked.

  “I have been busy here, I am afraid. My father has died.”

  “Sorry,” he replied, although he barely knew her father. “When did he die?”

  “Shortly before I arrived in Santa Fe.”

  “That's a long time ago. What's going on?”

  “You have things to do at Fort Union, while I have nothing.”

  “Do you call our children nothing?”

  “I need other work to occupy my mind, and I am tired of bowing to the wives of your superior officers. Why must I always be the one to make compromises? Why don't you resign your commission and live in Santa Fe like a normal man? Sometimes I think you are married to the Army, not me.”

  It was the same argument since the early months of their marriage. “How are the children?” he asked.

  “They are well but miss their father.”

  “That's because you left me.”

  “But you have left me many times to be with the Army. When I received word that my father was ill, you were gone. How did you hurt yourself?”

  “Oh, I fell off a horse.”

  “I hope you have not been drunk while I was away.”

  “Of course not,” he replied as tincture of poppies coursed through his veins.

  “You do not look well. Miguelito will take you home in a carriage, and I will join you later.”

  “What about now?”

  “I am busy.”

  “It appears that your businesses are more important than your husband.”

  “It appears that the Army is more important than your wife.” She headed for the door. “I will find Miguelito.”

  Nathanial was transported in his wife's carriage to her sumptuous home, where maids prepared his bath, laid out a clean, pressed uniform, and brought him a bottle of whiskey. He began drinking as he undressed and continued as he lay in the hot sudsy water. The more he thought about his wife, the angrier he became.

  His mood worsened when she didn't come home for supper. The children were hungry so he sat with them, wondering why she wasn't there. She's getting too big for her britches, he decided. She has no respect for me, otherwise she wouldn't speak to me as she does.

  Nathanial recalled the bewitching Spanish princess he'd married, and wondered what had happened to her. I didn't know anything abou
t her and she didn't know anything about me, he realized. We lusted for each other, got ourselves married, and now she's decided that she doesn't want to be in the Army.

  “Are you all right, Daddy?” asked little Zachary.

  “I'm fine, son, and how are you?”

  “I want to go back to Fort Union with you.”

  “I'll talk with your mother, but now it's time for bed.”

  He kissed his son and daughter, then maids carried them to their bedrooms. Nathanial limped to the parlor, sat and gazed at expensive furnishings selected by his wife. Where the hell is she?

  The alley was dark and gloomy and it smelled like stale urine as Doakes appeared at the end. He looked both ways, hat low over his eyes, then entered, hand near his service revolver. The twin demons of lust and rage were on him, time for another feast.

  Every ten feet down the alley, an old faded prostitute could be seen. They were wretches who couldn't get jobs in whorehouses or saloons, and had to sell themselves in the open for the lowest possible price. Sometimes Doakes thought of himself as a fanged beast prowling the gutters of the world. Other times he viewed himself a man of exceptional tastes. We only live once, so what the hell, he told himself.

  The prostitutes were undernourished, ragged, ancient, and occasionally scarred. He felt no pity for them because he considered pity an inferior emotion. A real man doesn't follow the artificial rules of the world, he told himself.

  About midway into the alley, he found what he was looking for. She was younger than the others, but stood at an odd angle, as she ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip. “Lookin’ fer fun?”

  “Sure am,” he replied. “Let's go.”

  “We can do it right here.”

  “I like a little privacy.”

  “It'll cost more.”

  He placed his hand in his pocket and jingled coins that lay beneath the cord. “I rented a room.”