Savage Frontier

by Len Levinson

  He stood defiantly, feet spread apart, a confident expression in his eyes, and reminded her of the golden-haired Pindah war chief in his blue army uniform, striding across the campsite near the Santa Rita Copper Mines. Jocita hugged her son.

  “You are a brave boy,” she told him, “but no warrior can afford to be foolish. You must be careful in the future.”

  “I knew you would save me,” he said.

  Nathanial climbed the stairs to his mother's sitting room as if on his way to the gallows. He'd fortified himself with a large meal of roast chicken and sweet potatoes, among other delicacies, but still feared the wrath of the woman who'd given him life. He knocked on her door.

  “Come in, Nathanial,” she said sweetly, for she'd seen him arrive in his carriage, plus every other item of interest from her aerie overlooking Washington Square.

  She often was nicest before a scolding, so his hand trembled as he closed the door behind him. “Hope I'm not bothering you,” he said tentatively

  “No, but you look as if something's troubling you, Nathanial.”

  “I have a confession to make and fear you'll get angry. Perhaps you should prepare yourself.”

  “What is it this time?”

  He took a deep breath. “I intend to marry again, Mother.”

  Amalia Barrington was brilliant at maintaining outward calm, but she turned red, then patted her breast daintily. “But you're not divorced yet.”

  “I'll wait, of course.”

  The dowager stiffened her spine as she prepared to take the blow. “Who is she?”

  “Clarissa Rowland.”

  Again, Amalia Barrington's carefully constructed facade cracked. She managed to say, “But she's engaged to one of your best friends!”

  “I hope he doesn't challenge me to a duel, because I don't want to kill him.”

  “You're not on the frontier now, my son. I doubt that Mr. Soames will challenge you to anything.” She paused for a few moments, her brow wrinkled in thought, then she remembered who Clarissa Rowland was. “But you hardly know her.”

  “I know her well enough, and she plays the piano wonderfully.”

  “This isn't someone whom you've met in a frontier saloon. Her family has known ours for more than a hundred years. I and your no-good father would be very angry if you were to ruin her life, Nathanial.”

  “I don't think you understand, Mother. I love this woman. Why would I ruin her?”

  “You've loved so many women, you are no longer a reliable witness, my son.” She touched her hand to his cheek. “Promise that you won't break her heart.”

  “You have my oath. We're a perfect couple because she's a natural performer and I'm a natural spectator. What a joy it'll be to come home after a long scout and listen to Mozart expertly played.”

  “There's going to be a scandal, I'm afraid.”

  “Why do you worry about what others think?”

  “Because sometimes others are right. Have you ever stopped to consider that your behavior is outrageous?”

  “What's outrageous about getting married? I'll have a talk with Ronald, and if he doesn't shoot me in the back I'm sure everything will be fine.”

  “For how long?” asked his mother.

  “You have no confidence in me, as if I'm an utter blackguard.”

  “Correct,” replied his mother.

  Ronald Soames liked to spend a few hours each evening at his club, where he drank whiskey, read newspapers, and related tales of lawyer glory with friends. Then he'd go home to his brick house between Gramercy Park and Fifth Avenue, one of the nicer neighborhoods in the city.

  My life will change drastically after I'm married, he reflected. I won't be able to come here after work and read the Tribune. The lead story was a report that Russians had evacuated Moldavia and Walachia, while Austria massed troops in Galicia and Transylvania. A major battle was looming for the key city of Sebastopol, with hundreds of thousands of men and five armies involved, trying to hack each other to ribbons.

  Soames was a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker, so events in far-off lands took on a certain fantastical aspect. Military experts said that France, England, and Austria would experience no difficulty defeating doddering Russia, and the victors would expand into central Asia. How can America keep up if we don't increase our markets too? wondered Soames.

  While analyzing the news, he heard the approach of one of the servants. “Sir, a lady asked me to give this to you.”

  It was an envelope carrying Clarissa's perfume. Probably a love poem or some other endearing message, he speculated, although she'd never sent love poems or endearing messages in the past. He tore it open and read:

  Dear Ronald,

  I am waiting outside in a carriage, and have something important to tell you. It can't wait.

  Clarissa

  What's this? Soames asked himself. His tactics had been to exert no demands upon Clarissa, for it was a marriage of convenience, his lustful urges satisfied by her requirement to marry well. Yet Soames genuinely cared for Clarissa and believed she genuinely cared for him.

  He descended stone steps in front of the club, noticing her waving from a carriage at the curb. “What's wrong?” he asked as he climbed opposite her.

  She was calm, dressed in black, her blond curls furling beneath a black bonnet. “Thank you for coming, Ronald,” she said in a steady voice.

  “Has someone died?” he inquired wryly.

  She was still as stone. “I am afraid I have very surprising news for you. Perhaps you'd better prepare yourself.”

  He examined her face, determining that she was controlling powerful emotions. “Whatever it is, it can't be that serious.”

  “I apologize from the bottom of my heart, but I have decided to break our engagement.” She opened her hand and held out the engagement ring.

  A lawyer must be prepared for anything, but Soames hadn't expected such a barrage. “But . . . but . . .” he sputtered.

  “I will always admire you,” she stated matter-of-factly. “We've had beautiful times together, and I'm flattered that such an accomplished gentleman could care for a fool such as I, but I've decided that I don't love you completely.”

  Soames realized with dismay that her lovely body would never belong to him. Remorse and sadness dropped onto him like a load of rotting oysters. “Don't you think it's a little late to come to that determination?” he asked through a throat constricted by inner pain.

  “Better now than after we're married.”

  He looked at the ring. “Keep it to remember me by.”

  She wasn't interested in remembrances, but replied, “I shall cherish it always. Every time I look at it, I'll think of you.”

  He glanced at her. “Is there another man?”

  “I'm afraid there is.”

  For the first time, Soames felt anger. “Who is he?”

  “I don't want you to do anything ridiculous, like challenge him to a duel.”

  “What kind of barbarian do you think I am?”

  “It's not something we planned. It just sort of happened, like destiny.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A friend of yours, I'm sorry to say.”

  “Anybody who'd steal you is no friend of mine. Name the scum.”

  “Nathanial Barrington,” she said in a low voice.

  Soames's lungs emptied of air. “And to think I arranged his divorce! Clarissa, I'm not the finest human being who ever walked the earth, but Nathanial Barrington has had love affairs with so many women you couldn't fit them in Castle Garden. Until recently, he was seeing an actress who'd slept with just about everyone.”

  “Including you?”

  Soames turned a sickly purple. “What will you do when he leaves you, as he inevitably will?”

  “He won't.”

  “You're more immature than I realized,” replied Soames icily.

  Then, as he was about to leave the coach, he realized that he'd just insulted the wife-to-be of a client. Whoa, he said to hims
elf. He smiled, leaned back into the carriage, and said, “Forgive me, my dear Clarissa. My feelings have been injured, but on reflection, I think you and Nathanial might have a very successful marriage. Perhaps you'll make a decent man out of him, which is what I'd hoped you do for me, actually.”

  She pointed her finger at him. “I don't want any funny business from you, Ronald. You'd better not hold up the divorce.”

  “But, my dear Clarissa—aren't you aware that the sooner the divorce is final, the sooner I'll be paid?”

  Sergeant Berwick had learned his most important military lesson during his first enlistment. Don't volunteer for anything. Therefore, he thought it odd that he was becoming embroiled in the life of Private Doakes.

  The sergeant entered the Silver Palace Saloon, and the three stripes on his arm cleared a path to the bar. “I want to speak with Cole Bannon,” he said.

  “In back,” replied the man in the apron.

  Sergeant Berwick shoved his way toward the corridor as a few drunkards pushed back. He passed a prostitute who stuck out her tongue at him. “What's yer hurry, First Sergeant?”

  “Got to talk with Cole Bannon.”

  She blew him a kiss as he continued toward the corridor, then knocked on a door. “Come in.”

  The Texas Ranger sat behind his desk, on which stood a bottle and a glass half full of whiskey. Cole was bleary-eyed, face puffy. “What can I do for you?”

  “It's about Doakes. The more I'm with him, the stranger he gits. Can't look you in the eye, has no friends, and when he's not workin’, he's just wander-in’ around, a funny look on his face. I don't know if he's yer man, but he sure is a little loco in the coco, if you knows what I mean.”

  Bannon took another sip. “He's more than loco, because innocent bystanders don't peep into people's windows. Regardless of what the judge said, I saw him with my own eyes. I'm convinced he's the killer.”

  There was a knock on the door. “I thought you'd be alone,” said Maria Dolores.

  “I was just leaving,” replied Sergeant Berwick, grabbing his hat.

  Maria Dolores stepped to the side as Sergeant Berwick clomped out of the office. Then she sat on the chair, leaned toward Cole Bannon, and said, “Where have you been?”

  He shrugged. “Busy.”

  “When you lie, you show disrespect. Perhaps we should stop pretending that we are having a love affair.”

  “Maybe you're right.”

  Maria Dolores never realized he'd give up so easily. She felt faint, but instead raised herself to her full height. With great majesty she walked out of the office, but this time he didn't follow her. In the dark corridor outside, she waited a few moments. She didn't hear him coming so she continued, unsure of herself, wanting to cry.

  In the main saloon, lonely men stared at her hungrily. She knew she could have any of them, but for how long? At least prostitutes get paid for what they do, she thought ruefully as she headed for the door. What a fool I was to trust men, who don't even trust each other.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Business-suited men carried satchels across Pearl Street as Nathanial paused beside the doorway of a six-story brick building. The neighborhood surrounding him financed enterprises across America, with he himself a beneficiary. He climbed the stairs to the offices of Soames and Soames. The clerk recognized him immediately. “Right this way, sir.”

  The clerk opened a door, Soames looked up with bloodshot eyes, the faint odor of alcohol exuding from his person, and he forced a smile. “What can I do for you today,” he said in a shaky voice.

  Nathanial walked up to him, placed his hand on his shoulder, and said, “I'm sorry.”

  “I haven't heard about your divorce yet, and was planning to mail a letter of inquiry this very day.”

  “Ronald, I said I'm sorry.”

  The lawyer's mask crumbled. “I accept your apology, of course. Clarissa prefers you and there's nothing I can do about it.” He opened a drawer of his, desk. “Care for a drink?”

  “Don't mind if I do.”

  Soames poured two glasses, each took deep swigs. Nathanial wondered if Soames maintained a pistol in one of his drawers. The dragoon watched the lawyer's hands carefully as alcohol performed its medicinal task of calming two men in tense confrontation.

  “She certainly is a pretty girl,” sighed Soames. “I can understand why you couldn't resist.”

  “It wasn't like that at all. It was more like . . .”

  “Destiny?” offered Soames, a mocking tone in his voice.

  “It may sound like a cliché, but yes, it did seem like destiny.”

  “You can't fool me—it's lust pure and simple, but don't get me wrong—I've never been opposed to lust pure and simple. In fact, I've always considered it the most wonderful thing in the world, something we should all aspire to. I felt that way about Clarissa, but evidently she didn't share my ardor. I'm merely a lawyer, whereas you're her knight in shining armor. When Venus fell in love, did she not choose Mars?”

  “Clarissa is the girl I've always searched for but never found. I don't know what she sees in me, but I don't give a damn. All that matters is she loves me.”

  Soames smiled sourly. “You're a charming fellow. I suppose you can have whatever you want.”

  “If that's so, why am I a lieutenant after nine years in the Army!”

  “Because you're a man of impulse. Come to think of it, Clarissa will make the ideal officer's wife because she's really a clever little vixen beneath her fine cosmopolitan manners. I wonder what she'll be in ten years?”

  “Where she's going,” replied Nathanial, “she may not be alive in ten years. I feel terrible about what I've done to you, but . . .”

  Soames raised his hand. “Please spare me this cheap sentimentality, because we both know there is no honor among men where women are concerned. In a small corner of my heart, I shall hate you until the day I die, but there's no reason to let these relatively insignificant matters interfere with our professional relationship. You can rest assured that I shall continue to manage your legal affairs with my usual punctilious attention to detail, and now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to be alone.”

  Maria Dolores decided the time had come to look through her father's belongings. She'd been too upset and busy to confront his memory, but now needed to connect with something, anything, even his clothes.

  She saw them hanging in his closet as he'd left them, neat, plain suits in dark solid colors; he'd never appreciated finery or ostentation. Diego Carbajal had been a reader of books, an amateur philosopher or theologian who in another era might've become a rabbi.

  The Catholic Church would receive his Jewish clothes, except one dark gray wool sweater with brown leather buttons. She intended to keep his collection of books, because nothing reminded her of her father as much as books.

  Displayed prominently in the middle of his desk was his Bible. She opened it absentmindedly, noting he'd underlined certain passages.

  My God, my God, why has thou forsaken me? Why are thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my longing?

  Maria Dolores felt remote from God, although she'd gone to Mass every day prior to marriage. She remembered happiness during her first year with Nathanial, but then he spent increasingly long periods away from home, and finally was transferred to Fort Union. It was around that time that he'd confessed his offhand romance with the Apache squaw.

  It had been the most sickening, painful blow of Maria Dolores's life. Many times she'd thought of shooting him. She flipped a few pages and was astonished to see underlined:

  But whoso committeth adultery lacketh understanding; he that doeth it destroyeth his own soul. A wound and dishonour shall he get; and his reproach shall not be wiped away.

  It was as if God were speaking to her; she felt a chill in her bones. These were the words her father had lived by, realized Dolores. How different was he from Nathanial, a complete sensualist. I thought I loved Nathanial, then thought I loved Cole Bannon. But what i
s Love? She recalled the answer in I Corinthians 13, to which she turned. To her surprise, her Jewish father had underlined:

  Love beareth all things

  believeth all things

  hopeth all things

  endureth all things

  I married a morally weak man and Cole was no better, concluded Maria Dolores. What does it say about me, for I pursued them, knowing full well they were liars.

  She didn't miss Cole terribly, but her special wrath was reserved for Nathanial. Cole merely had been a fling, but Nathanial continued to stomp his cavalry boots through her Roman Catholic soul. I'm sure he's romancing another woman even as I sit here, she thought. He's selfish, utterly lost, or perhaps in love with love itself. Whoever his next wife is, she has my unqualified sympathy.

  “Where are you going, dear?” asked Myra Rowland as her daughter headed for the front door.

  “For a walk, Mother.”

  “Are you meeting him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don't you think you should introduce him to us, before you are seen alone with him.”

  “How can I introduce him to you if he's still married to someone else?”

  “Perhaps you should wait until after the divorce before spending so much time with him.”

  “Susan B. Anthony says that women should break out of these outmoded notions of so-called ‘proper’ behavior.”

  “Susan B. Anthony never had a daughter, or even a husband. I would hardly call her an expert on the matter.”

  “Elizabeth Cady Stanton is married, has five children, and she says the same thing.”

  Her mother couldn't think of a rejoinder, so Clarissa kissed her cheek and was out the door. She wore a white summer dress with little blue flowers embroidered into the fabric, but no hat or parasol. Her mother watched her cross Gramercy Park, eager to meet her man. I've never seen her so happy, her mother thought.

  Guards were posted at all exits of the stable, plus at the front gate of Fort Marcy. It was night and Fletcher Doakes couldn't figure how to desert the Army. Seven dollars and change sat in his pocket, enough for a trip to the hog pens, but he didn't dare kill whores with the ranger and Sergeant Berwick asking the wrong questions.