Savage Frontier

by Len Levinson

  Naked, he lifted her in his arms and said, “Do you remember the night when I held you like this, and was going to throw you into Cortlandt Lake?”

  “Instead you kissed me.”

  He repeated the performance, then laid her on the bed. They embraced naked for the first time, their tongues touched, and hands explored new and interesting flesh. It was the intimacy they'd been longing for, and they indulged their passion with increasing audacity, while on Broadway, weary wedding guests were piling into a row of waiting coaches.

  The lovers forgot their wedding guests as they feasted upon each other's bodies. Whenever Clarissa hesitated to perform a new and delightful act, Nathanial gently encouraged her to proceed. It was all she had hoped her wedding might be, while her patient professor, the former whorehouse connoisseur, achieved new heights of ecstasy in her silken arms.

  Several hours later, Nathanial opened his eyes in semidarkness. It was midmorning, blue velvet drapes covered the windows, and carriages rumbling on Broadway could be heard through open windows. He felt his little wife sleeping beside him.

  He hugged her more tightly and touched his lips to the top of her head. Some uncharitable men might say she was skinny, mousy, or too goody-good, but he considered her a work of art with her spare but aesthetically perfect body. She had just enough of everything, in his opinion.

  He couldn't help recalling other women in his life, even as he held his lovely new wife in his arms. How similar they were in the toils of passion, as if their personalities vanished, leaving behind only the elemental growling woman.

  When it came to passion, he'd never known anything quite like the Apache woman. Occasionally, at odd moments, she came to mind like an apparition. Her savage grace, not to mention her powerful but feminine muscles, had driven him berserk. I wonder what she's doing right now, he mused as his latest wife whispered something unintelligible in the darkness.

  I just got married but I'm thinking about another woman, thought Nathanial with a smile. He touched his lips to Clarissa's golden hair, inhaling its flower-like fragrance. From this day onward, I am your property.

  The People frowned upon solitary spirit guests, such as those of Plains and other Indians. They believed solutions and answers could be provided best within the context of family, clan, and tribe.

  Twenty-eight-year-old Geronimo was an aberration in this regard, but he was a di-yin medicine man in addition to being a warrior, and often liked to go off by himself, probing questions that perplexed him. Where did the sun go at night, and what is meant by the markings of the moon? Geronimo believed every living or inanimate thing held power, secrets, and meanings.

  If there had been no Nakai-yes and Pindah-lickoyee, Geronimo would not have become a warrior. His strongest inclination was to the depths, but then his family had been murdered by Mexicans, so he'd taken the warrior trail.

  During his youth, prior to his first marriage, he'd gone on a pilgrimage with other medicine men, in search of power. They'd traveled to distant lands, meeting Crow, Comanche, and Sioux, learning new customs and methods of attaining power, and nearly getting killed a few times.

  One practice had been taught Geronimo by Happy Elk of the Osage People. It was a plant called peyotl that the initiate chewed and swallowed. Geronimo had learned where to find the plant, how to harvest and prepare it, and how it should be ingested.

  He'd placed a few dried chips of sacramental vegetative matter into his mouth at dawn, and now could see faint orange pulsations on the horizon, a new day dawning in the Dragoon Mountains. Rock formations like gray blood sausages arose around him as he sat on a rock plateau, gazing at vistas of valleys, plains, mountains, and meandering streams.

  He felt as if someone were pumping fresh blood into his head as he watched strange multicolored images in the skies. He thought they were mountain spirits gesturing to him, trying to teach him esoteric truths.

  He wanted them to help him understand his enemies, so he picked up the shiny yellow object and held it close to his ear. It still was ticking. He tapped it curiously, fingered the little wheel on top, made it click back and forth. What is this thing? wondered Geronimo in the delirium of peyotl.

  It troubled him to know that White Eyes possessed power utterly incomprehensible to him. Was there a demon inside, working at a tiny contraption? Geronimo shook the watch, but the tick continued strongly. Perhaps the little demon is tied in place, surmised Geronimo.

  The more it ticked, the more he wondered what would happen if he broke it open. Possibly it would explode like a shell from the cannon of the bluecoat soldiers. Maybe the demon would grab him by the throat.

  Geronimo lay the ticker on the ground, picked up a rock, then dropped it. The crystal shattered. He found an opening in the case, inserted the blade of his knife and twisted.

  There were little wheels of shiny metal. Geronimo marveled at fingers that could craft such objects, or perhaps they were evoked by sorcerers. He dropped the watch and took a step backward. A feeling of dread came over him as he caught a vision of himself as an old man planting corn in a faraway land. That will never happen to me, he swore as he kicked the watch off the ledge.

  He heard sounds of the thing falling down the mountain, its wheels and springs bursting into the air. Then the ticking stopped at last, and the holy mountain became tranquil once more.

  Fletcher Doakes turned on his cot, itching and scratching. No matter where he moved, he couldn't sleep. He wanted to run naked through the barracks, screeching at the top of his lungs, lopping off heads with a sabre.

  He felt as if he were dying of an insidious disease. No matter where he lay, he felt uncomfortable. Hornets and snakes crawled over him and something bored into his left shinbone.

  Finally he crawled out of his cot, put on his uniform, and tiptoed out the door. The cool night tweaked his nose as he gazed longingly at the stable. He couldn't think clearly, as if waterfalls were flooding his mind.

  He needed solace desperately, but no one would place her arm over his shoulders. He remembered how he'd cried as a child while his mother ignored him, too busy reading newspapers, applying cosmetics, or going and coming with men. Fletcher hated them all, but he'd especially despised his mother. The other children had made fun of him at school, calling the sensitive boy son of a whore. He held his hands over his ears, to block their voices.

  A guard stood at the proscenium door to the stable, his rifle slung over his shoulder. “Can't sleep?” he asked.

  “Thought I'd lie down in the loft. You know how it is sometimes.”

  “A few of the boys git to a-snorin’,” replied the guard, “it sounds like lumberjacks sawin’ down trees.”

  The clerk smiled as he entered the stable, but continued to scratch when out of sight. It felt as if a worm wriggled in his ear. He found an empty stall, climbed inside, stuck out his tongue, and dug his fingernails into his skull, drawing tiny dots of blood. The straw on the bottom of the stable looked like rising flames, and he wondered if the stable was on fire.

  Why couldn't I have been born a horse? he wondered. He gazed at the gray mare in the next stall, who examined him warily. “I won't hurt you, girl,” said Fletcher softly. “You're too beautiful to kill, and I know you're a good mother because it's your instinct. The trouble with people is we think too much.”

  The horse looked at him curiously as Fletcher heard the crackle of straw behind him. He turned and saw a figure approaching in the darkness. “Who goes there!” he demanded, reaching for his pistol.

  A familiar face loomed out of the shadows. “It's just Sergeant Berwick. I was on my way to the latrine and thought I saw you wandering about. Are you all right, Doakes?” In the dim light, with his shirt half unbuttoned, Berwick looked like one of Doakes's mother's lovers in the morning, trying to be polite.

  “I ain't feeling so good, Sarge.”

  “You'll feel better if you unburden your heart, my boy.” Sergeant Berwick climbed into the stall, then placed his hand on Doakes's shoulder a
nd said softly, “I'm your friend. You can trust me.”

  “I do trust you, Sergeant,” said Doakes as he lowered his hand toward the knife on his belt. “What do you want to know?”

  Berwick peered into his eyes. “What's bothering you?”

  “I'm a murderer, Sergeant. Didn't you know?”

  Berwick smiled. “Yes, I did. It's because you're sick in the mind, isn't it?”

  “I hear voices that tell me to kill.”

  “You should listen to those that tell you to be good.”

  An unholy light burned in Doakes's eyes. “But I'm only happy when I kill, Sergeant. Some people die of disease, others of old age, and a few die of me. I am the scourge of God.” He casually rested his hand on the knife. “Have we ever met before?”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  “Didn't you sleep with my mother last night?”

  “I never knew your mother. You're really quite confused, aren't you?”

  “Yes,” replied Doakes as he plunged the knife toward Berwick's gut.

  Berwick raised his arm to protect himself while opening his mouth to scream. But he was taken by surprise, Doakes changed direction and slashed his throat. No sound issued from the sergeant save one last gasp.

  “Fool,” whispered Doakes as Sergeant Berwick collapsed onto the floor. “You thought you could outsmart me?” Doakes kicked the corpse. “At least I won't have to worry about your damned snooping anymore.”

  Doakes felt dizzy as the mare looked at him reproachfully. “I couldn't help it,” said Doakes. “It was him or me.”

  Suddenly Doakes realized the enormity of his deed, and broke into a cold sweat. He'd need a horse and saddle, and was in the stable where those things were kept. The guards had not been roused from their usual torpor. Perhaps I can get away with another murder, thought Doakes.

  He saddled the mare and slipped on the bridle. I may be shot in the back, but it's my only chance. He climbed into the saddle and held the reins. “If you get me out of this mess,” he told the horse, “I'll turn you loose, all right?”

  It's a deal, the horse seemed to be saying.

  Doakes rammed his heels into the horse's ribs. She leapt forward and galloped past rows of stalls as captive horses cheered her on, or at least that's how it seemed to Doakes. The guard was standing at the entrance, rifle in hand. “What the hell's goin’ on thar!” he bellowed.

  Doakes fired his service revolver at the guard, the startled soldier leapt out of the way, and the mare charged past him, galloped across the parade ground, and headed for the main gate. “Halt—who goes there!” yelled two guards.

  Doakes's response was two quick shots from his pistol. The soldiers dropped to their bellies and managed to trigger a few wild ones, then frantically rolled out of the way. Doakes passed through the gate, nearly falling off the horse's back.

  The guards shouted the alarm as Doakes turned the first corner, hugging the horse's throat with his arms, heading for the open range.

  The bartender was a tall broad-shouldered man with a long swooping mustache. He wiped his hands on a towel as he approached the table where Cole Bannon sat with an old newspaper and a mug of beer. “I just heard somethin’ you might be interested in,” said the bartender. “Remember that sergeant you was talkin’ with t'other night, name of Berwick?”

  “What about him?” asked Cole, raising his eyes.

  “Some soldier killed him, then stole an army horse.”

  “What was the soldier's name?”

  “I don't remember.”

  Cole gulped down the rest of his beer, put on his hat, and was out the door. He walked swiftly toward Fort Marcy, suspecting that Doakes had struck again. He climbed the stairs to the command post head-quarters and found it full of officers and sergeants. He removed his Texas Ranger tin badge from his shirt pocket and showed it to a captain.

  “Sergeant Berwick was helping with one of my cases. I heard he was killed tonight.”

  “That's right,” replied Captain Milligan. “He's in the hospital if you want to see his corpse.”

  “Who did it?”

  “A recruit named Fletcher Doakes. We've got two detachments looking for him and expect to bring him in soon.”

  The stolen mare galloped across a rock-strewn plateau as Fletcher Doakes looked at his back trail. He couldn't see far, but knew he was leaving an easy trail. Somehow he had to reach Mexico before the Army caught him. Facing forward in the saddle, he whipped the reins against the haunch of his horse and jabbed his spurs hard into her belly. “Faster,” he told her.

  “You said you'd set me free,” she seemed to be saying.

  “Later.”

  He kicked her again, then noticed she was slowing. It occurred to him that perhaps he'd pushed her too hard. “What's wrong with you?” he asked.

  A glazed expression was in her eyes as she slogged to a stop, her great sides heaving. Blood dripped from her withers, where he'd spurred her. “We can take a rest,” said Doakes, trying to be friendly. “I'll give you water from my canteen, all right?”

  He raised his leg to climb out of the saddle, when he realized she was going down. He jumped clear, then turned and saw her land on her side, where she quivered and twitched. He was stranded on the desert with no canteen, horse, or compass. The beast stopped moving, her tongue hanging out.

  Doakes realized it would be harder for the cavalry to track him on foot. In the morning he'd climb to a high place and look for patches of green, where there'd be water. Perhaps I can waylay a hapless traveler, he thought optimistically, withdrawing his knife, still stained with Sergeant Berwick's blood. Doakes cut out the horse's loin, then wrapped the bloody flesh around his neck. “Bye bye,” he said to the dead animal as he began his long trek to Mexico.

  In the morning, Maria Dolores read to her children in the parlor. She'd chosen the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors. It illustrated a point that she wanted them to learn, that rivalry among family members was wrong.

  There was a knock on the door, which was opened by one of her maids. “Senor Bannon wants to see you,” she said.

  Maria Dolores was annoyed, because she didn't want him coming to her home. “Read to the children while I speak with him.”

  Maria Dolores made her way to the vestibule. Cole stood in the doorway, hat in hand, while behind him a saddle horse and packhorse were tied to the rail.

  “I've come to say good-bye,” he said awkwardly. “I arrived in Santa Fe looking for a certain murderer, and he left town a few hours ago. I'm sorry, but . . .”

  “There is no need to explain.”

  “Maybe we'll get together down the trail.”

  They touched lips coolly, then gazed into each other's eyes, recalling burning nights in his hotel room. Then he turned and walked toward his horses, as she realized he was the second man who'd left her out of so-called “duty.”

  He climbed onto his horse and rode out of her life, his packhorse trailing behind him. They love you madly and promise anything, reflected Maria Dolores, until they find something more important to do.

  At sunset, Jocita and Running Deer sat on a level bed of leaves high in the Chiricahua Mountains. They could see distant peaks, immense valleys, rolling mountains, and the red glimmer of the setting sun on the surface of a creek.

  “I have something for you, my son,” said Jocita. She reached into her leather pouch, withdrew the gold cross and chain, and held it before his eyes.

  “What is it, Mother?”

  “It is an amulet of great power.”

  “It looks like a man who is asleep. What power is that?”

  “He is having great dreams.”

  The boy stared at the man on the cross. There was something interesting about him. “Who is he?”

  She dropped the necklace around his neck. “He is God of the White Eyes and the Mexicans. When you discover his secret, you will accomplish great deeds.”

  His mother and father always spoke of great deeds, yet he was a little
boy unskilled in the ways of the world. Please help me, god of the cross, he prayed as the symbol branded his malleable soul.

  Chapter Nineteen

  For their honeymoon, Nathanial and Clarissa Barrington sailed across the Atlantic Ocean on the clipper ship Flying Cloud. They landed in Southampton, rode a train to London, checked into a hotel, and proceeded to venture forth to museums, concert halls, theaters, and restaurants.

  Newspapers were filled with the Crimean War, and soldiers in the multivaried uniforms of the Crown could be seen everywhere, plus flags and patriotic signs. The newlyweds visited Shakespeare's grave in Stratford-upon-Avon, watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and in late September removed to Paris, another city at war. It wasn't unusual to see troops marching on the Champs D'Elysees, and what if the Tsar decided to spend the winter at Versailles? But Nathanial and Clarissa felt remote from the turmoil as they dined one evening at a café on the Boulevard Malesherbes.

  “Isn't there someplace we can go where they're not having a war?” asked Clarissa.

  He brought her hand to his lips. “We're off to Venice.”

  The next day they rode a train to Dijon, sitting opposite each other. Nathanial observed her fine profile as she gazed out the window at picturesque country farms. These are the happiest days of my life, he told himself.

  They arrived in Venice and rented the top floor of a small hotel off the Grand Canal, often remaining in bed all day as the world passed in the murky waters below. From their pillows, they could see over the rooftops of Venice to the glittering Adriatic Sea.

  They rented a gondola, and Apaches were far from their minds as they floated down the Grand Canal, a mandolin player strumming the rhythms of Umbria, and the gondolier warbling an out-of-tune chorus of an apparently different song.

  In weeks to come, the Indian fighter and his pianist bride spent many hours aboard gondolas, accompanied by bottles of wine, loaves of bread, and fontina, provolone, and Gorgonzola cheeses.

  One night, the rooms at the Doge's Palace were brightly lit as Nathanial and Clarissa drifted past on their gondola. It was the Festival of All Souls, when everyone wore colorful costumes. Clarissa was dressed as a Gypsy dancer, while Nathanial had on the red-and-white stripes of a clown. They drank wine as crowds danced gaily and cannon fired at the fort that defended Venice from the sea.