by Len Levinson
Impulsively, he leaned closer and kissed her cheek. She smiled and held his hand. Someone knocked on the door. Dr. Steck opened it, revealing Corporal Shanahan. “Sir, a bunch of Injuns just showed up at the gate. They said they want to talk to you.”
Dr. Steck figured it was Tomaso making more requests that couldn't be fulfilled. He kissed his wife's forehead. “I'll be right back.”
He was grateful she didn't throw a tantrum, as another women might. He placed his wide-brimmed hat onto his head and followed Shanahan to the gate. What can I tell them this time? wondered Dr. Steck. I've become a professional liar.
If he told the Apaches the bald truth, that the Great White Father didn't give a damn about them, New Mexico would have a bloodbath. Washington would rather spend a million dollars on a good war, rather than a few thousand for shovels and seeds.
Guards at the gate watched Apaches nervously, while other soldiers gathered nearby.
“Who's in charge here?” asked Dr. Steck.
“I am,” replied the firm voice of a hefty officer wearing curly black sidewhiskers, Lieutenant Beauregard Hargreaves, who had been Nathanial Barrington's roommate at West Point.
“Dismiss your men.”
“Not with those Apaches out there.”
“They're from the settlement. You don't need to worry about them.”
“They're not from the settlement. That's Cuchillo Negro with some of his top warriors. And there may be more in the chaparral.”
Dr. Steck was taken aback. Cuchillo Negro was one of the foremost Mimbrenos, nearly the equal of the great Mangas Coloradas. Past the gate, Dr. Steck saw warriors, women, children, horses, as if an entire tribe had come in. An old warrior of great dignity stepped forward, a solemn expression on his face. Dr. Steck shook his hand heartily. “Chief Cuchillo Negro,” he said, “welcome to Fort Thorn.”
Cuchillo Negro touched his fist to his breast and said solemnly. “I believe you are a good man, Dr. Steck. I have come for peace.”
“Find yourself a plot of land,” replied the Indian commissioner, “and tomorrow I'll bring whatever you need.”
Cole Bannon sat at his favorite table against the wall, facing the cash register. His bartenders didn't know whether he was reading a newspaper, staring into space, or watching their hands dip into the till.
Maria Dolores stepped into the saloon; his sharp eyes spotted her instantly. He smiled nervously as she approached his table, then pulled out his watch. “Sometimes I lose track of time,” he alibied.
“I waited a half hour.”
“I was so tired—I couldn't move.”
She sat beside him. “I remember when you couldn't be with me enough.”
“I'm not in the mood for an argument.”
“Are you coming?”
“I'm not finished with my drink.”
“You can finish at the hotel room.”
“Sometimes,” he said without thinking, I feel like a stud horse.”
She recoiled as if he'd slapped her face. He placed his hand on hers.
“I'm sorry—I didn't . . .”
She pulled her hand away and rose from the table
“But I didn't mean it, Maria Dolores.”
“I am just a cow?” She made a hurt smile as she headed for the door.
He caught up with her on the planked sidewalk outside. “Please forgive me. I guess I've been working too hard.”
“It has nothing to do with work.”
He took her arm. “Please come with me to the hotel.”
“Take your hand off me.”
They gazed into each other's eyes from a distance of eight inches. It was one thing for him to sit with a mug of beer, and another to have the beautiful Mexican woman so close. He began to feel certain inspirations. “I can't live without you,” he whispered as he touched his lips to hers. They embraced for a long time, then drifted toward his hotel.
It was two in the morning when Clarissa Rowland finally crawled into bed. She lay atop cool cotton sheets, and moonlight glittered upon the Hudson River less than a hundred paces away.
Her bedroom was on the second floor of her parents’ cottage at the outskirts of Peekskill. All was still, the party receding into memory, and she realized it had provided a number of truly extraordinary experiences, most interesting of which was pushing the guest of honor into the lake.
She couldn't imagine what caused her to commit such a horrendous act, but couldn't help laughing softly. He'd been asking for it and she gave it to him royally. She'd thought of herself as Miss Clarissa Bland, who did what she was told and wouldn't say boo to a goose. She'd enjoyed standing up for her rights for once in her life.
If she'd pushed Soames into the lake, he probably would've drowned, for he was a dissipated and physically weak man. And if he didn't drown, he might very well break off their engagement.
But the scoundrel Nathanial Barrington had threatened to throw her into the lake as revenge, then stole a kiss. Evidently the guest of honor felt attracted to her, despite her engagement to one of his best friends.
Nathanial Barrington is capable of any foul deed, she realized, but he also represented freedom, adventure, and fun to a woman who'd lived a narrowly circumscribed life. It was touching to watch him trying to please his family, while everyone knew he'd rather get roaring drunk in a tavern full of prostitutes. Nathanial Barrington had many facets and was the strangest man she'd ever met.
She felt weird as she recalled how he'd watched her half naked. What if he'd come over and taken me against my will, or worse, with my cooperation? She felt perversely honored that such a rascal had shown interest in her, but figured he pursued every skirt he saw. He's probably lying with somebody's wife at this very moment, because a man who'd threaten to throw a helpless woman into a lake is not to be trusted, although I pushed him in first.
When she placed Soames on one side of the scale, and Nathanial on the other, somehow Soames didn't have much weight. She was marrying for all the right reasons, and Ronald even made interesting comments from time to time, but she didn't especially relish the notion of sleeping with him every night, especially in comparison with a man like Nathanial Barrington.
* * *
“I want to show you something, Running Deer.”
Jocita took his hand and led him to a sloping hill at the edge of the encampment. Older boys climbed the hill, while warriors at its base placed six-inch arrows into special shortened bows.
Jocita kneeled beside her son. “Pay close attention,” she murmured into his ear. “You are going to learn something important.”
Running Deer became serious as he looked at older boys waiting anxiously. Meanwhile, at the bottom of the hill, the warriors were lining up. The teacher for the day was old Nana, the di-yin medicine man of the Mimbrenos. “Are you ready?” he called to the boys.
They shouted that they were, then began darting about frantically as warriors at the bottom of the hill took aim at them. Running Deer stiffened, but his mother held him tightly.
“You will be up there one day,” she said.
The warriors fired arrows at the boys, who leapt and pitched out of the way. The miniature arrows didn't fly as fast as regular arrows, which provided an additional second of time. Their mouths open and sucking wind, the boys remained in motion, dancing around arrows, twisting and turning, bumping into each other as they struggled to avoid those sharp points.
There was a scream, a boy fell to the ground, the game stopped, and everyone ran to help him. Jocita carried Running Deer up the hill and set him down in front of the wounded boy. An arrow had pierced the boy's left thigh, but he showed no pain as he lay still on the ground. Nana pulled the arrow, then someone placed a handful of leaves against the wound, but blood continued to pour down the boy's leg.
The warrior woman whispered into Running Deer's ear. “You must learn to be fast, my dear son. Otherwise that will be you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Nathanial rode through the Hudson highla
nds, wondering if he was on a fool's errand. She'll never dare show up, after I admitted I'd spied on her, he told himself. This is a cosmopolitan woman of the upper classes, not an actress from an oyster cellar.
He wouldn't have given her a second thought if she hadn't pushed him into the lake. No woman had ever captured his attention so quickly and completely. A woman who'd do that would do anything, he calculated. I think she'll come here again, if not today then maybe tomorrow, but sooner or later, I, her ardent admirer, will see her.
If he ever told his friends, they'd laugh him out of town. But he was willing to wager a few days on the remote hope she was as much a romantic fool as he. The forest was cool, smelling of peat, with diamonds of light breaking through leaves. It reminded him of fairy tales about elves and goblins living beneath toadstools, while princesses reclined in distant castles.
He couldn't help contrasting the opulent greenery of the Hudson highlands with scraggly cactus, clumps of gama grass, and sad little mesquite trees on the endless plains of New Mexico. He'd seen vistas extending for seemingly hundreds of miles, whereas now he rode inside a sweet-smelling green cocoon.
What do I need the army for? he asked himself. What do I care about Apaches? Even if the South secedes from the Union, the Saint Nicholas Hotel dining room will continue to serve its varied cuisine.
He came to the promontory, dismounted, and loosened the cinch beneath his horse's belly. Then he lay on the ground with his spyglass, a few sandwiches, a bottle of wine, and a copy of Moby Dick, a recently published novel by a New Yorker named Herman Melville, recommended by his mother.
If I'm going to waste three days, I might as well get caught up on my reading, thought Nathanial. He found a comfortable spot and opened the book. Wouldn't it be funny if she actually showed up?
Moby Dick was written so vividly it gradually shanghaied Nathanial onto the Pequod, where he became a sailor chasing the great white whale. His eyes raced along, wondering how anyone could conceive such an unusual story, and he made comparisons between Captain Ahab and certain officers under whom he'd served, such as General Bull Moose Sumner.
The atmosphere below decks, with creaking hull, smell of bean suppers mixed with tobacco smoke and brine, was evoked superbly. It was a tale of adventure on the high seas, but also the story of one man's obsession with revenge, while the great primordial white whale kept swimming indifferently along, demolishing everything it found.
Sailing across the China Seas, Nathanial noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he reached for his Colt. A woman with blond hair was riding into the clearing below. My God, thought Nathanial. She's done it.
His jaw hanging open, he watched her climb down from her horse. She tied it to a tree, then turned her back to Nathanial, who rubbed his eyes to make certain he wasn't hallucinating. It appeared she was unbuttoning her blouse! She wouldn't dare.
She peeled it off and spread it on the ground, then lay upon it, folded her hands upon her belly, and sunned herself. Nathanial yanked out his spyglass and focused on those two pink nubbins standing proudly in the air. It was as though the temperature had increased by at least twenty degrees. He reflected upon the heart of a woman who'd follow dreams to their illogical conclusions.
She's engaged to one of my best friends, but she and I are attuned on the deepest levels, he concluded. Hands trembling, he reached for his horse's reins.
Clarissa lay on her back, dozing to forest music. He's probably recovering from the drink he consumed last night, she thought. He's forgotten who I am by now, and I imagine he tries to kiss every girl he meets.
Then she heard the sound of someone approaching through the underbrush. She hoped it was he, not an illiterate mountain ruffian come to leer at the half naked girl lying brassily in the clearing. The sounds drifted closer, she was tempted to cover herself, and began to question what she was doing there. He probably thinks I'm insane.
She heard him stop before her, opened her eyes to half mast, and it was the scoundrel Nathanial Barrington staring at her naked breasts. She thought he was going to dive on top of her, but instead he dropped to a cross-legged sitting position nearby and became pensive.
Self-consciously, she raised herself, then put on her blouse, buttoned it to her neck, but didn't bother tucking it into her riding pants. “Aren't you going to say anything?” she asked.
“If you believe in destiny,” he replied in a faraway voice, “then you must believe we were meant to be together.”
“Perhaps,” she replied. “But I'm engaged to your friend.”
“I hope Ronald doesn't challenge me to a duel, because I might have to kill him.”
“I have always believed in destiny,” she admitted. “Do you think we should get married?”
“Of course. And there's something I must tell you, so you won't suffer unpleasant surprises later. Army life is nothing like Fifth Avenue, or even Cortlandt Lake, so you'd better stay with Ronald if you require champagne and caviar.”
“I've never liked champagne and caviar, and it'd be wonderful to have adventures for a change.”
“There isn't much adventure on an army post, I'm sorry to say. You may be thrown together with people you may not like.”
“I like nearly everybody,” replied Clarissa. “Are we not all children of God? But you must promise one thing, before I give my consent. You must promise a piano wherever we go, no matter how remote the army post. Because I cannot live without music.”
“You shall have as many pianos as you desire, even if I have to bring them in on the backs of mules. I never dreamed I'd be fortunate enough to marry a virtuoso pianist.”
“In that case, I'll see Ronald tomorrow and give back his ring.”
Major Stanfield Parks, executive officer at Fort Thorn, looked up from his desk as the sergeant major approached. “Dr. Steck would like to see you, sir.”
Major Parks was second in command, but Colonel Hall had gone on a scout, ostensibly to show the Apaches that the Army controlled the territory, but actually to get away from the old lady for a few days. The major didn't want to talk with Steck, because Steck was a civilian authority. But neither could he refuse. “Send him in.”
The door opened; tall, tanned Dr. Steck appeared, wearing rawhide pants and a rawhide vest over his blue shirt. “I'm sorry to bother you, Major,” he said, “but Chief Cuchillo Negro and his tribe arrived last night, and I wonder if I can borrow some cornmeal and a few beeves.”
Major Parks frowned. “But, Dr. Steck, we barely have enough for the men.”
“Cuchillo Negro is one of the most important Mimbreno chiefs. It's cheaper to feed him than fight him.”
“I can't take food from the mouths of American soldiers and give it to Indians who'll fill their bellies and then go out and kill a white man. We've had reports that Cuchillo Negro has been raiding in Sonora, or maybe he's the one attacking wagons on the Journado del Muertos. How can I give you what I don't have myself?”
Cuchillo Negro examined the new campsite, as the women constructed wickiups. He was hungry, no animal tracks were in the vicinity, and they were far from mountains where mescal was harvested. This is a sacrifice I must make for future generations, he told himself.
He couldn't understand why food hadn't been offered, and it was almost midmorning. His warriors looked at him reproachfully, and he wondered if he was being foolish. Perhaps I should have stayed with Mangas Coloradas, but how can I gamble with the lives of children?
He sat by himself away from the others and wondered why the White Eyes were denying food. Perhaps they are testing our commitment to peace, he thought. But I know how to go without food.
“Steck is coming!” shouted one of his warriors.
Cuchillo Negro arose, a smile spreading over his wrinkled features. Dr. Steck sat alone on the front seat of a wagon. My fears were unfounded, thought Cuchillo Negro. Steck will take good care of his Indian brothers.
Cuchillo Negro walked toward the center of the encampment,
followed by warriors, women, children, and dogs. They all looked expectantly as Dr. Steck came to a halt in front of them. The doctor appeared embarrassed as he climbed down from the wagon. The warrior known as Ponce looked inside and saw two bags of cornmeal.
“Welcome, brother,” said Cuchillo Negro.
“I apologize,” replied Dr. Steck. “We didn't expect you, and you must be patient until we receive more supplies.”
Cuchillo Negro saw his warriors unloading the paltry bags of meal. “But you promised . . .”
“And I shall live up to my promises, but even the soldiers are short of food.”
“How do you expect us to live on that, Steck?”
Dr. Steck leaned toward him and said evenly, “Your alternative is the warpath where bluecoat soldiers will hunt you down and kill you.”
“It is better to die like a warrior than starve to death, no?”
“Soon I will have more supplies. It has taken many years to make enemies of our peoples, and you cannot expect everything to be solved in a day.”
Cuchillo Negro looked him in the eye. “Do not disappoint us, Dr. Steck.”
The Indian commissioner raised his right hand in the air. “I will work hard to make you happy here, but I am not alone. The White Father in the East has many concerns, and the bluecoat soldiers are angry at your bad men, the ones who steal and kill, unlike you, great chief. And we too have our bad men. But you and I must work together so that peace can come to this land.”
“I will do all you say,” replied Cuchillo Negro. “It is not healthy to fill our bellies, because we only get sick afterwards.”
That poor misguided Apache has faith in the U.S. Government, thought Dr. Steck as he walked to his office. A recalcitrant tribe could be subdued during one season of hard campaigning whereas pacification might take ten or twenty years.
Sometimes Dr. Steck thought of returning to the medical profession, but it too was in turmoil, with doctors disagreeing over the relative merits of lancing, allopathy, phrenology, and massive doses of medications such as calomel, opium, quinine, arsenic, and tartar emetic.
