by Len Levinson
“Where else? We've got a long day tomorrow, so go to sleep.”
“I know I shouldn't do this, but . . .” Impulsively, she kissed his cheek.
He looked at her in dim moonlight filtering through the blinds. “But, Belinda—what if I fall in love with you?”
“How will you explain me to your mother?”
Remembrance of that lady jolted Nathanial to a keener awareness of his situation. “I apologize,” he replied, moving away.
They tried to make themselves comfortable on the narrow jiggling berth, and it wasn't long before two exhausted people were fast asleep. Wheels clanged beneath them as the steam engine pulled mightily toward freedom.
In New York City, Amalia Barrington sat in her front parlor, reading The New York Daily Times. A spare woman in her sixties, she could hear children laughing in Washington Square Park across the street. How wonderful to be innocent, she thought.
Amalia Barrington's husband had left her for another woman, after being unfaithful many years. Her beloved older son was a drunkard, patron of prostitutes, and officer in the U.S. Army. Now her hopes rode with her youngest son, Jeffrey Barrington, a student at the Pembroke School, and her adopted son, Tobey, at the same institution.
Jeffrey wanted to go to West Point and continue the family's military tradition, but Amalia had hoped he'd become a lawyer, stockbroker, or shipping executive, like other members of her family. She had encouraged Nathanial to attend West Point, believing that he'd needed the discipline, but now thought military life had been the ruination of him.
Tobey, on the other hand, intended to become a lawyer. A former street urchin whom Nathanial had brought home one day, Tobey was the most level-headed member of the family.
“Hello,” called a voice from the street.
A friend named Myra Rowland stood on the sidewalk with a young blond woman whom Amalia took to be her daughter. Amalia led a reclusive life, but had been trained in hospitality from an early age. “Won't you come in for a glass of lemonade?”
“Love to,” said Myra.
The front door was opened by Shirley Rooney, Amalia's aging maid, and the guests led to the parlor.
Myra Rowland was stout in contrast to her slightly taller and lean daughter. “You remember Clarissa?”
“How she's grown,” said Amalia, who remembered Clarissa as a withdrawn serious child.
They sat in the parlor and were served lemonade, small sandwiches, cookies, and a wedge of cheddar cheese.
“Are you in school?” Amalia asked Clarissa.
“Not anymore,” said the young woman, who sat with her back perfectly straight. “I'm studying music with a private teacher.”
“She's a very accomplished pianist, I'll have you know,” replied her mother proudly.
“Perhaps she can play something when she's finished her lemonade.”
Clarissa appeared well-mannered and proper to Amalia's coolly evaluating eyes, and she wore an engagement ring. “How old are you, dear?”
“Eighteen.”
“Who's the lucky man?”
“Ronald Soames.”
Amalia knew of the Soames family. A sensible alliance. “You're a lovely girl and I'm sure you'll be very happy.”
“Have you heard from Nathanial?” asked Myra.
“I've recently received a telegram from him, as a matter of fact, and am pleased to say he's on his way to New York even as we speak.”
“The city has changed in recent years—he'll barely recognize it. Is he bringing his wife?”
“No,” replied Amalia. “She has extensive business interests in Santa Fe, I'm told.”
“How can anyone have ‘extensive’ business interests in Santa Fe. It's just a frontier village, isn't it?”
“It's quite a bustling place, according to Nathanial, and don't forget that Manhattan once was a frontier village too.”
Clarissa sat quietly, sipping lemonade. She vaguely recalled meeting the notorious Nathanial Barrington when she'd been a little girl, and had heard gossip about him all her life. He'd disgraced his family on numerous occasions, and presently was married to a Mexican woman. Unlike most men of their class, he'd joined the Army and nearly been killed in action several times. Clarissa always had been curious about him.
“Do you think you could play something, Clarissa?”
The trim young blonde crossed the carpet as Amalia admired her perfect posture. Why didn't Nathanial marry somebody like that? she wondered.
Clarissa sat at the piano, unlimbered her fingers, practiced a few chords, and then performed a Bach partita. Her fingers raced nimbly over the keys as her passionate longings filled the air in the form of music. Since childhood, music had been the outlet for emotions she dared not express verbally. An occasional movement of her shoulder or toss of her head were the only indications that depths resided within the young woman.
Amalia closed her eyes, transported by the beauty of Clarissa's soul. Many amateurs played the piano acceptably, but Clarissa obviously was especially talented.
“How exquisitely you play,” said Amalia after the last note had been struck.
“Your piano is out of tune,” replied Clarissa. “I can fix it for you, if you like.”
“She has her own tools,” said Myra proudly. “My daughter doesn't trust anyone to touch her piano. She's a perfectionist.”
What a wonderful young woman, thought Amalia after the Rowlands had departed. Too bad Jeffrey and Tobey are too young for her.
* * *
Maria Dolores couldn't bring Cole Bannon to her home, because Santa Fe was a small town. Instead, a few nights every week, she visited his hotel room. Frequently she stayed until morning, confident her children were safe with maids, servants, and cooks
One morning she gazed at Cole Bannon's sleeping profile in the light streaming through the curtains. She thought he resembled a poet or professor, although he was a Texas Ranger. She'd seen him manage brawlers, bullies, and drunkards with ease, and men appeared to respect him.
Yet she didn't love him as she'd loved Nathanial in the early years of their marriage. On the other hand, she wondered if such passion could exist for a mature woman such as herself. Should I marry Cole Bannon? she asked herself.
She didn't like sneaking around Santa Fe like a harlot or an adulterous wife. One must be cautious in the choice of mates, she warned herself. I don't want to make two mistakes in a row.
He opened his eyes, then gradually the sleepy expression transformed. “What's wrong?” he asked.
“I was looking at you.”
He embraced her. “If only we could be together all the time.”
“You would tire of me.”
“No, I'll love you forever.”
She recalled making the same ill-considered statement to Nathanial approximately six years ago, and now she lay naked in bed with another man. She thought she was betraying something, although she wasn't quite sure what.
* * *
That evening, Fletcher Doakes strolled through Santa Fe, contemplating his future. Should I head for California or go down to Mexico? He never liked to stay in one place too long, because sooner or later something went wrong.
On the other side of the street, he spotted the Mexican woman with whom he'd ridden in the stage-coach, the one who owned the Silver Palace Saloon. She was married to an army officer stationed at Fort Union. I wonder what it's like to sleep with that? he asked himself.
Doakes wished he could have a woman waiting in a nice home somewhere, but it seemed as far as the moon. The followed her to church, and out of curiosity stepped inside the twin-towered adobe house of God. Candles illuminated gaudy statues and light streamed through stained-glass windows as his quarry lit a candle before the Virgin Mary, then dropped to her knees.
Doakes snickered inwardly. How can a virgin give birth to a child? he asked himself. They invent God to tolerate their stupid pathetic lives. Doakes felt superior to the worshipers. People like this don't deserve to live, but I can
't kill them all.
He chortled at his private joke, then the Mexican woman rose and crossed herself. He stood beside a statue of Saint Jude and tried to appear innocuous as she passed only tantalizingly inches away. He felt her feminine emanation, then followed her out of the church. She was taller and stronger-looking than some of the men she passed.
He followed her to the Silver Palace Saloon, where she disappeared through a corridor at the rear of the establishment. Doakes couldn't afford a trip to the bar, so he retreated from the noisy crowded saloon. He sat on an empty bench in front of a hardware store and imagined himself in bed with the Mexican woman, she telling him how handsome he was. The dusty street was crowded with wagons, carriages, and riders floating in a cloud of dust.
“Howdy, Doakes.”
The fugitive became terrified at the sound of his name, but it was only Sergeant Berwick standing before him, hands on his hips. Doakes tried to smile. “Evening, Sergeant.”
“What're you doing?”
“Taking it easy, you might say.”
The sergeant appeared about to move on, when he had second thoughts. “You're a strange one, Doakes. Always alone.” The sergeant sat on the bench beside the private. “Is somethin’ botherin’ you, soldier?”
“No, sir,” replied Doakes as he fought rising panic. “Just like to be by my lonesome, that's all.”
The sergeant placed his hand on Doakes's shoulder. “I guess you can't talk about it, but if you ever want to get it off your chest, they say I'm a good listener. Buy you a drink?”
“Not right now, Sergeant.”
“Well, I'll be moving along, Doakes. Don't let life get you down.”
The sergeant crossed the street, heading toward the Silver Palace. I must appear odd to him, Doakes realized. It was as if Doakes had a long hairless tail that had become visible.
It was night when the warriors returned to their hidden camp in the Alamo Hueco Mountains. Women and children rushed to meet the heroes, but the boy named Running Deer stood by himself before his mother's wickiup, watching them solemnly. Dirty, tired, and bloody, the warriors sang victory songs as they passed among the campfires, heading toward the wickiup of the great Chief Mangas Coloradas.
He was waiting for them, arms crossed, a smile creasing his weathered features. Victorio dismounted and bowed. “The raid was successful, my chief. We have many splendid horses and you would do us honor if you selected your favorites among them.”
“I require no more, horses,” replied Mangas Coloradas. “But I need more Victorios!”
The warriors cheered as Mangas Coloradas embraced his heir. The boy watched wide-eyed, for glory went to he who performed great deeds. Then Running Deer spotted his mother trudging toward him out of the mass of cheering warriors. Leaves covered the gash on her shoulder, her eyes half closed as she dropped to her knees and hugged him. “My boy,” she said in a barely audible voice.
She held him so tightly he had difficulty breathing. Then she loosened her grip. “I hope you have been good.”
“What is wrong, Mother?”
“Oh—I am tired, I suppose. But I have many horses and your belly will be full for a long time.” She patted his stomach with the back of her hand.
Other warriors had fires waiting for them, built by their wives, but Jocita was a wife herself. She stacked twigs and branches, then borrowed a burning stick from another fire. Running Deer watched as she dropped to her knees, bent low, and blew flames to life. Then she loaded on heavier logs.
The odor of roasting meat filled the air as meals were cooked in fires across the campsite. Jocita sat beside her hunk of horsemeat and hoped she wouldn't fall asleep, she was so tired. She and the others hadn't eaten or slept for three suns. The meat dripped fat into the fire as her son stared at her in awe.
Cheers and shouts of joy went up around the campsite, someone was playing a lute, and then, out of the shadows stepped Chief Juh, a playful smile on his face. He dropped beside Jocita, placed his hand on her shoulder, and squeezed. “You are a great warrior, my dearest one. Not even men much larger than you could fight you off.” He smiled. “I would hate to have you aiming one of your arrows at me.”
“How could I aim an arrow at the father of my child?”
She looked significantly at her son, then Juh turned toward Running Deer. “How are you doing, my boy?”
Running Deer stood shyly before the great chief and was unable to speak.
“He is afraid of you,” said his mother. “Because you never play with him.”
“But I am busy . . .”
“You have plenty of time for your other children,” she said coldly.
Neither dared to say the truth about Running Deer's parentage, so Juh was forced to reply. “You are right. Come here, Running Deer.”
The boy cautiously stepped closer, and Juh could see that the boy was terrified of him. Juh hated the light hair and strange green eyes before him, because they reminded him of the White Eyes war chief who'd seduced his wife. But Juh had to admit that the boy was not to blame. He wrapped his arms around his putative son. “One day soon I shall take you for a ride and show you many things. But now it is late and I would like to speak with your mother alone.”
Running Deer walked off to visit friends, leaving Jocita and Juh beside her fire.
“You are a great chief because you have a great heart,” said Jocita. “You understand that a boy needs his father.”
Juh glanced up at her. “But his father needs his wife.”
“You have so many wives—you can take your pick.”
“You are the one I really want.”
“You should have thought of that before you married Ish-keh.”
“If I can love your bastard son, why cannot you love me?”
“But I do love you, my husband.”
“I want you to love my body, not my kind deeds.”
“Never again, because you have broken a solemn vow to me.”
“You have broken one as well with me.” He gestured with his head in the direction that Running Deer had gone. “We're even.”
Sometimes Jocita experienced certain thoughts about men that drove her to distraction, and now it was happening with her husband. She lowered her eyes demurely. “Perhaps it is time to forgive and forget past crimes,” she said.
“May I come to your wickiup tonight?”
“Not yet,” she replied, pushing him away. “You have not yet suffered enough.”
“Why must you torture me?”
“You deserve to die for what you have done to me.”
“But you have done the same to me!”
“You were the first traitor, not I.”
“Can I help it if I wanted sons? It is right for a man to want sons, but wrong for a woman to go with another man. A few times I even thought of killing you, but I cannot kill her whom I adore.”
She looked at his bronzed muscles rippling in the firelight. He was her first love, and his generosity to her son tipped the scales. “Not tonight,” she said. “But soon.”
Chapter Eleven
The locomotive clanged into Washington, D.C., shooting steam beneath iron wheels. Nathanial and Belinda gazed out the window at the distant capitol dome in the red effulgence of the setting sun.
They debarked from the train, then porters carried their bags to a waiting carriage. The officer and his slave viewed stately hotels, private mansions, and sprawling government buildings as they headed toward the Emory Hotel, an out-of-the-way brick structure favored by military officers. It looked rundown since Nathanial had visited last, but the same whorehouse sat across the street.
The desk clerk looked up from his Intelligencer, and wasn't surprised to see an officer and a slave, for slavery was permitted in the capitol of the United States. But it was unusual for an officer to travel with a female slave, arousing the clerk's suspicions.
“I'd like to rent adjoining rooms for me and my slave. Could I send a message?” Nathanial wrote on the scrap of pap
er:
Dear Father,
When and where can I visit?
He scrawled an address on the envelope, the clerk handed it to a messenger, then hotel porters carried the officer's and his slave's luggage to their rooms. Nathanial was pleased to note that the Emory had installed indoor plumbing since last he'd stayed.
Alone, the West Pointer opened a leather bag and removed his scissors. He carefully trimmed his blond beard as the porcelain tub filled with warm water. Then he lay in it and tried to prepare himself for the reunion with his father.
Nathanial was apprehensive about meeting the man with whom he hadn't spoken for seven years. Last time they were together they'd come to blows over Nathanial's effort to meet his father's paramour, a beautiful octoroon. But now the errant son was more mature, soldierly and steady under fire. He didn't want his father to smell anything on his breath, so he didn't order whiskey.
Instead he reclined in the tub and smoked a cigar. When his fingers shriveled, he dried himself, dressed in his best uniform, and looked at himself in the mirror. A hardy combat commander peered back at him.
There was a knock on the door. “Come in.”
Belinda entered, wearing her uniform. “This just came for you.”
She held out an envelope, and he saw his father's handwriting.
Dear Son,
I'll be home the rest of the day, waiting for you.
“Bad news?” she asked.
“I'm going to see my father.” He thought how nice her blackness would look against the red bedspread.
“While you're gone, I'll take a walk.”
“A slavecatcher might drop his net over you. I suggest you stay in your room.”
“I'm not staying in any room,” she said.
He sat at the desk and wrote:
My slave Belinda is simpleminded and sometimes wanders off. If you find her, please return her to me at the Emory Hotel. Reward.
He signed with a flourish. “I hope this keeps you out of trouble.”
“Yas, suh,” she said, shuffling toward the door. “Yas, suh.”
