Savage Frontier

by Len Levinson

  “A person can see so many museums,” she replied, “and after a while it's a blur. Surely I was meant for more than traveling from city to city in a quest for God knows what. I've even been neglecting my piano. We've had a magnificent honeymoon, Nathanial, and I'll never forget our Italian hours, but maybe it's time we went home.”

  McCabe stood in the doorway, thumbs hooked in his belt, chewing a match. “You wanted to see me, ma'am?”

  “Please escort me to the bank,” replied Maria Dolores as she slung the satchel full of money over her shoulder.

  “I'll do anything you want, Mrs. Barrington.” He looked her up and down. “Anything.”

  “McCabe—I'm getting tired of your innuendos.”

  He appeared genuinely puzzled. “My what?”

  He was an ignorant uneducated beast with a powerful physical presence, and sometimes she felt like giving herself to him, although she knew that heart-break or murder would result from a liaison with such a man. He'd been toying with her during the past weeks, and she could almost feel those bulging muscles across the room. “I mean the remarks you make about doing anything I want.”

  “Just tryin’ to be a good employee, ma'am.” He examined her breasts, then her lower limbs.

  “That's it,” she said angrily. “You're fired.”

  “What'd I do wrong?” he asked, a mock expression of hurt on his face.

  “You're leering at me.”

  “What's wrong with that?”

  “Get out of here!”

  He leaned his head to one side. “What if I don't wanna?”

  “I'll call the sheriff.”

  One moment McCabe stood in front of her desk, thumbs hooked in his belt, and next moment, his Colt was aiming at her. “What's he gonna do to me? I'll shoot the son of a bitch where he stands.”

  She gazed coldly at the gun. “Are you planning to kill me?”

  “I'm just sayin’ that I'm the best man in Santa Fe to protect you on the way to the bank. You need me, Mrs. Barrington. Only you don't know it.”

  “I need a guard, not a man who insults and threatens me.”

  He dropped the gun into his holster. “I was tryin’ to make it easy for you, but all right—I'll play it your way. When you change your mind, I'll make you get down on your knees and beg for it. Are you ready to go to the bank?”

  “I'm wondering who'll protect me from you?”

  “That's the funny part, Mrs. Barrington. Nobody can protect you from me, and I can do anything to you that I want. But don't worry none. I never kill the people I like.”

  Nathanial and Clarissa arrived in New York City in time for Christmas, 1855, and after the New Year, Nathanial traveled alone to Washington, D.C., to discuss his career with his father. Shortly thereafter the War Department issued orders that Lieutenant Nathanial, U.S. Dragoons, should proceed without delay to Fort Craig, New Mexico Territory, and report to the commanding officer.

  Nathanial and Clarissa shopped for frontier wear, and Nathanial bought his little wife her first gun, a Colt .36 Navy Model with ivory grips. They found time for a trip up the Hudson to West Point, where he showed her the barracks in which his mind had been formed, and tried to explain his commitment to the Army, although he didn't understand it himself.

  Then it was back to New York, where Nathanial purchased the two finest pianos he could find, and shipped them to New Mexico on two different days. If the Indians captured one, perhaps the other would get through. He also purchased a new dining room table, matching chairs, a bed and mattress, sending them by train on a third day.

  Jeffrey was planning to enter West Point that fall, as Tobey continued his efforts to become a lawyer. Otis and Belinda had married during Nathanial's honeymoon, and Belinda's son now lived with them on Washington Square. Named Johnny after his father, the boy appeared overwhelmed by the move from the slave quarters. As expected, the elder Davidsons were happy to get rid of him.

  Nathanial said good-bye to one and all, tears were shed, and many hands shaken heartily, and one snowy winter day the no-longer-newlyweds departed New York City via ferry, caught a train in Jersey City, and as the locomotive gathered speed in the white-blanketed New Jersey countryside, Clarissa said excitedly, “It's going to be wonderful fun—I just know it.”

  They slept several nights on the train, but to Nathanial's surprise she never complained. Their diet was bread, chunks of cheese, and the occasional slice of smoked meat. Toilet facilities were not what one found in the Saint Nicholas Hotel, but she made the necessary adjustments.

  As days passed, Nathanial realized he'd married a woman who thought she could manage any situation and therefore did. Her curious mind constantly ingested new information, and she was so thoroughly alive he often admired her.

  Train tracks came to an end in Pennsylvania, they boarded a stagecoach and rode west with four other passengers: a lawyer, a hardware salesmen, the agent for a New York bank, and a ruffian in worn clothes.

  They opened the shutters for fresh air during the day, but it became quite chilly in the carriage. Clarissa had brought sweaters and a blanket, so she was toasty warm as she held her husband's arm and gazed at naked trees in snow-covered valleys.

  They spent occasional nights on the floor of stagecoach stops, some with leaks in the roofs. Periodically they slept in beds with other people, the men in one and women in the other.

  Nathanial studied his wife carefully, wondering when she'd beg to return to New York. But she was a doughty little soldier, wouldn't let anything stop her, not even the occasional louse or primitive toilet facilities.

  They made it to the great Mother Mississippi, where they exchanged the smelly stagecoach for the Natchez, a double paddle wheeler headed for New Orleans. Nathanial bribed their way into a cabin with white painted walls, where they bathed, barbered, changed into evening clothes, and repaired to the lounge, where they dined on shrimp creolestyle, with rice, fried okra, and pots of buttered peas.

  After dinner, Nathanial lost two hundred dollars to a kindly old man whom he suspected of being a cardsharp. Then the West Pointer threw down his last hand with disgust, strolled with his wife to the veranda surrounding the Natchez, and watched the crescent moon floating above the smokestack.

  “I must say—you're holding up very well, my dear,” he said, pecking her cheek.

  “Isn't it strange that I've seen the Thames, the Seine, and the Rhine, but this is the first time I'm seeing the Mississippi? We have so much wealth in America—we've barely begun to explore it.”

  “Things get pretty wild once you're on the other side of the river,” he cautioned her. “The only thing frontier people respect, be they white or Indian, is main force. So be on your guard, and if I ever tell you to get away from me, I expect you to move quickly.”

  “What for?” she asked, mystified by his rough new tone.

  “Sometimes I require freedom of movement. Don't feel insulted, but do as I say. Do you understand?”

  “You're the man who knows the territory,” she replied.

  Clarissa has no vanity, realized Nathanial. She knows she's good at the piano, and that gives her confidence in all situations. Also, she was raised the old-fashioned way. She knows what's important and that enables her to adapt quickly.

  “Nathanial,” she mused, “sometimes when you look at me that way, I wonder what you see?”

  “The woman who owns me lock, stock, and barrel.”

  She wrinkled her funny pointed nose. “But I don't want a slave.”

  “The longer I know you, the more captivated I become. We'll have fun in the Army, I think.”

  They kissed beside the polished brass rail as the moon cut a dimpled silver swathe down the Mississippi, leading them to New Orleans.

  In January 1856, Governor Lee Meriwether of New Mexico Territory submitted his Indian report for the previous year. He estimated 700 to 750 Mescalero Apaches, eight hundred to eight hundred fifty Mimbrenos, five hundred to six hundred Mogollons, three thousand to four thous
and Coyoteros, seven hundred to eight hundred Garroteros, and eight hundred to nine hundred Tontos. His grand total was approximately seventy-five hundred Apaches, of whom sixteen hundred were warriors.

  The warrior woman awoke suddenly in the middle of the night. She was covered with perspiration, chest heaving, mouth dry. She'd been dreaming of a bloody battle in which she'd been shot by the blue-coat soldiers of the Pindah-lickoyee.

  She tried to catch her breath in the darkness. She'd dreamed that a slug of lead slammed into her chest, knocking her to the ground. She saw herself lying there, bleeding to death, then awakened suddenly.

  The dream had been so vivid, she thought it portentous. She'd been taught since birth that pain and death were inevitable for warriors, and now the mountain spirits had sent their warning. She would be killed in battle soon, and had to prepare herself.

  Running Deer slept on the other side of the wickiup. She readjusted his blanket, then kissed his forehead. Juh will raise him when I am gone, but who will love him as I?

  The Mother Superior looked up from her desk as the man in the black suit stood before her. “You wanted to see me?” he asked gently.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Denigran.”

  He sat in the chair, folded his hands in his lap, and appeared properly humble, yet there was something uncertain about him. The Mother Superior was fifty-four years old and thought she understood the depths of the human soul. “You're well enough to leave the convent, Mr. Denigran. What did you plan to do?”

  “I reckon I'll look for a job in this here town.”

  “What kind of work can you do?”

  Denigran smiled. “Clerical or farm work. I'll even sweep floors and clean cuspidors.”

  “You've had an education, haven't you?”

  “Eight years, ma'am.”

  “How'd you like to be a teacher? We have an opening in our school.”

  “But I've never been a teacher before.”

  “If you can read and write, that's enough. It's the little ones that you'll teach. Four, five, six years old.”

  “Like cherubs.”

  She smiled. “Exactly.”

  “It's sounds like a job where a man could do some good,” said Denigran with a straight face. “I love children.”

  “You won't have any religious instruction. That's the province of the sisters. I think you'll set a good example for our children, Mr. Denigran. What do you say?”

  It was Saturday night in Albuquerque as Cole Bannon strode through the saloon district. Hitching rails were packed with horses, and Cole wondered if one belonged to Fletcher Doakes.

  He dismounted, then led his horse into the narrow space between an Appaloosa and a pinto gelding. He threw the reins over the rail, climbed onto the planked sidewalk, and ahead was a cantina with a sign above the door: EL ZAPATO VIEJO.

  Cole looked over his shoulder, because he never could be sure when a criminal from his past might shoot a hunk of lead into his ear. Then he opened the door and stepped out of the backlight, his hand near his Colt .44.

  The cantina was filled with Mexicans, Americans, Indians, and mixtures thereof, both sexes. Small rough-hewn tables crowded the floor, the bar in back. Cole scanned faces, but didn't see anyone resembling Fletcher Doakes. He spotted an empty table and made his way toward it, passing a stout middle-aged prostitute smoking a cigarette. “May I join you?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  They sat at the table, their knees nearly touched. She had blue pouches beneath her eyes and deep lines around her mouth. “You look like you've just arrived,” she said. “Maybe you'd better lie down.”

  “I ain't tired,” he replied. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he withdrew his tin badge. “I'm looking for a man named Fletcher Doakes. Ever hear of him?”

  “Mister, I hear so many names, I can't remember ‘em all. What's he done.”

  “Killed some prostitutes.”

  “What's he look like?”

  “About five ten, on the slim side, black hair, face like a rat.”

  “I'll keep my eyes open fer him. How'd you like to have some fun?”

  “Not in the mood.”

  She touched him in a sensitive place, then rubbed gently. “How about now?”

  Cole Bannon had been on the trail eleven days. “Let's go.”

  A stagecoach wheel had been removed, and in the blacksmith shop the proprietor banged it with his hammer. It was morning and the long-bearded stagecoach driver looked on unhappily, because the dispatcher would bawl him out for running into the tree.

  The stagecoach stop was two ramshackle structures on one side of the trail somewhere in central Texas. Most passengers sat in the combination general store, restaurant, and saloon, complaining about the delay, while being waited on by the proprietor's wife and children.

  Shots could be heard behind the sorry excuse for a building as Nathanial patiently showed Clarissa how to use her Colt. “Draw, thumb back the hammer, and fire in one smooth motion,” he told her as he positioned her arm. “Accuracy is more important than speed. Raise the barrel up your opponent's body and squeeze the trigger. It's better to shoot low than high.”

  He smiled as Clarissa spread her legs, hunched like a desperado, and pulled the Colt out of her holster. Her little pink tongue stuck out the corner of her mouth as she aimed with both hands and pulled the trigger. It blasted, but she was growing used to the horrific noise and kick. Cans and bottles were lined on a plank of wood, and occasionally she'd hit one, perhaps by mistake.

  Nathanial enjoyed his job as professor of the shooting arts, because it provided opportunities to touch his wife during his efforts to improve her aim. Quite often he found himself undressing her with his eyes. He gave thanks to the powers that had caused her to become his bedmate.

  Her confidence with the weapon was growing. “It's one thing to aim at objects that aren't shooting back,” she told him, “but I wonder if I could really kill someone.”

  “If you ever feel threatened, just follow my instructions and shoot the son of a bitch down. Don't even think about it.”

  Covered with perspiration, Maria Dolores awakened in the middle of the night. She'd been dreaming about performing erotic acts with McCabe, and her breath came in gasps.

  What's wrong with me? she asked herself. There is virtually no difference between McCabe and a gorilla. Yet she found herself longing for him, although he appeared incapable of understanding her mind.

  But I need somebody to understand my body, she reminded herself, and thought he was just what she needed. In her rational mind, she knew she should stay away from McCabe, but her hunger got the best of her.

  Why not? she teased herself. This time I won't fool myself into thinking it's love. I'll just take it for what it is and not expect more. But wait a minute, Maria Dolores. Do you really want the love of a brute?

  She thought for a few minutes, then whispered into the night, “Yes.”

  But he had stopped flirting with her, as she'd requested. If she wanted to sleep with him, she'd have to initiate the activity. I could never proposition him, she thought. It would be too humiliating, wouldn't it? I'm not that desperate . . . yet.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  In the season of Little Eagles, a council was held in the Mimbreno camp. Warriors and subchiefs sat in a large circle, and pipes were passed among them as again they debated the future of the People. Some Chiricahuas attended the meeting, among them Chief Miguel Narbona and Cochise. They listened carefully as Chief Mangas Coloradas spoke.

  “Cochise and the Chiricahuas are generous brothers,” declared the Mimbreno chief. “But I hear the blood of ancestors calling me back to our sacred homeland. To settle my heart, I must return and meet with my brother, Cuchillo Negro. If I see with my own eyes that he is content with the White Eyes, perhaps I can learn something. And if the White Eyes have betrayed him, we can bring him back with us. If any warrior and his family wishes to accompany me, that will make us stronger. I warn you that many White Eyes are
in the homeland, and if any warrior did not wish to come, I respect him. It will be a hazardous journey but soon we shall know the truth.”

  Most of the older warriors didn't want to return to the Mimbres Mountains, because they preferred to avoid bluecoat soldiers. Therefore, it was only the wildest and most daring warriors who agreed to escort the great chief Mangas Coloradas on his historic return to the homeland.

  On the appointed day, he rode at the head of the column as it made its way through the Dos Cabezas Mountains. Behind him came Victorio, Delgadito, Juh, and Geronimo, among other fighters, with their wives and children.

  They comprised about fifty souls, and among them was Jocita the warrior woman and her son riding the same horse. She wanted Running Deer to see the land of his birth, because who could say when the next opportunity would come. Jocita wasn't optimistic about the White Eyes, and suspected the Mimbrenos might be exiled forever.

  She wondered if her dream would be fulfilled during the pilgrimage, but feared weakness more. She could stay safe in her wickiup, but the only way to defeat fear was to ignore it, she'd learned. With her son rocking back and forth in the saddle before her, the warrior woman returned to the holy land of her birth.

  The stagecoach stopped before the command post headquarters at Fort Craig, New Mexico Territory. Clarissa stared out the window at scattered adobe buildings alongside the Rio Grande. She'd thought forts had high walls to keep out Apaches, but not Fort Craig.

  A soldier helped her to the ground. Fort Craig looked bleak and barren, at the edge of a marsh surrounded by mountains. “I hope you're not too disappointed,” said Nathanial, noticing dismay on her face.

  “No—it's lovely,” she replied unconvincingly.

  “Let's tell the sergeant major we're here.”

  They climbed the front steps and entered the orderly room, where a bald sergeant major with a black mustache sat among his clerks. “I'm Nathanial Barrington, and this is my wife, Clarissa.”