by Len Levinson
The sergeant major gave her hand a firm shake. “Welcome to Fort Craig, ma'am. I'll have someone show you your quarters, and Colonel Chandler will speak with the lieutenant directly.”
“We'll wait outside,” said Nathanial.
He escorted her to the porch. She stood at the rail and looked at mountains that made the Catskills look like foothills.
“You can always catch the next stagecoach east,” he suggested.
“If other army wives get along here, so can I. We've had enough paradise, and it's time to get to work on your captain's bars.”
Amazing, thought Nathanial. I have a wife who'll help accomplish my goals, instead of dragging me down. Why, this could be the beginning of a whole new life for me.
Her new home was a solid but plain adobe hut with two rooms, one the bedroom, the other a combination kitchen, dining room, parlor, and vestibule. It would occupy a corner of her father's home on Gramercy Park, and it boasted an outhouse in back.
On the bright side, it was scrupulously clean, soldiers having painted and plastered. The furniture was old but in good repair, and the bed sagged in the middle. Now she understood why Nathanial had bought a new mattress in New York. She searched for a place to put her piano after it arrived.
Someone knocked on the door. Clarissa opened it happily, expecting her husband, but instead a tall woman with salt-and-pepper hair stood in front of her. “How do you do,” she said with a smile. “I'm Libby Chandler. Welcome to Fort Craig.”
Colonel Chandler's wife, realized Clarissa. My commanding officer. The New Yorker straightened her spine and introduced herself, then said, “I think this home will do nicely.”
“You're new to the Army, I understand.”
“Yes, but my husband has served in New Mexico for nearly ten years.”
Libby Chandler smiled. “I've been in the Army nearly twenty years, and sometimes I think I was born in the supply room and issued to my husband. We hope you'll be comfortable here, and if you have any problems, feel free to come directly to me. I don't mean to meddle in your marriage, but we can't have scandals among officers’ wives. Do you understand?”
“You'll get no scandals from Nathanial and me, I assure you. May I ask a question?” Clarissa leaned forward and looked the colonel's wife in the eye. “Can you tell me, woman to woman, just how dangerous it is?”
“Exceedingly dangerous—make no mistake about that. The Apaches seldom attack army forts, but might sneak in at night and steal a few things, or worse. So be on your guard. Do you have a pistol?”
“Yes, and my husband taught me to use it.” Clarissa reached beneath the folds of her coat and pulled out her Colt. “He says I'm a very good shot.”
The colonel's wife narrowed her eyes. “Do you think you could kill somebody?”
“No question about it.”
“You're from New York City, I'm told. Well, I'm from Atlanta. We're probably the only city girls at Fort Union, so I'm sure we'll have a lot to talk about. You must come over for supper after you're settled.”
The door closed behind the colonel's wife as a faint smirk came over Clarissa's face. Men appeared to rule the world, but were maneuvered by wives, she knew. If Libby Chandler likes me, Nathanial will get his captain's bars, she reasoned. His problem is he didn't marry me ten years earlier.
Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Daniel T. Chandler sat behind his desk, appraising the tall, husky officer standing at attention before him. The officer had just reported, and Colonel Chandler noted his well-tailored but dusty uniform, blond beard, and perfect West Point posture.
“Have a seat, Lieutenant,” said Chandler, West Point class of 1825. “I've examined your records and noted that you're an experienced company commander, so I'm giving you Company I. It's comprised mostly of men fresh from the recruit depots back east, they haven't received any training to speak of, and it's up to you to whip them into shape. You've been gone from New Mexico for a while, so let me bring you up to date. The western Apaches have been peaceful lately, but it's only a matter of time before they commit another outrage. It is my belief that they won't accept peace until we inflict a severe defeat upon them. As you know, the Congress has authorized us more men and equipment, so we've got to show results. Some people think western Apaches are invincible, but I'm confident we can handle them just as we've handled the others. I am also of the opinion that we shouldn't let them get away with a damned thing, so be prepared to move out on not much notice.”
Nathanial entered his new orderly room, where a sad-eyed clerk looked up from the morning report. When he saw silver bars on Nathanial's shoulder straps, the clerk jumped to attention. “Corporal Dunlop reporting, sir!”
“I'm Lieutenant Barrington, your new commanding officer. Where's Lieutenant Haskell?”
“In his office, sir.”
The door was marked COMMANDING OFFICER. Nathanial turned the knob and saw a second lieutenant sitting behind the desk. “I'm Lieutenant Barrington.”
Haskell arose and saluted. “I'll clear my belongings out in a minute,” he said. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
“What's wrong?”
“The men are a stubborn, quarrelsome lot, and it's difficult to make them obey. I'm just out of the Virginia Military Institute, sir, and nobody ever told me I'd have soldiers like these.”
“I'll address them at the evening formation, and then we'll get to work. If they don't follow orders properly, we'll see how they like the stockade.”
“The stockade is full, sir. The colonel wants company officers to discipline men themselves.”
“In that case we might have to shoot a few.”
Haskell blinked. He was a man of medium height with a close-trimmed brown mustache. “Did you say shoot a few, Lieutenant Barrington.”
“That's what I said.”
Someone knocked on the door as Clarissa instinctively reached for her gun. “Who's there?”
“My name is Rosita.”
Clarissa opened the door, revealing a Mexican woman in her forties. “I was wondering if you need a maid, senora.”
“I certainly do,” replied Clarissa. “Can you cook?”
“Sí, senora, in the Americano style. I used to work for the family who lived here before—Mrs. Chandler told me to see you.” She held up a gunnysack. “I have brought supper.”
“Who lived here before?”
Rosita became serious. “Captain Simmons and his wife. He was . . . killed . . . by the Apache, and his wife has gone back East with the children.”
A chill came over Clarissa. “What were the Simmons like?”
“Decent people. The lieutenant drank a bit.”
Clarissa recalled scars on her husband's body, and maybe he wouldn't be so lucky next time. A terrible foreboding came over her, she shivered, and now understood what Nathanial had been trying to say. New Mexico Territory wasn't like Venice or the Hudson Highlands, where personal safety was taken for granted. She lowered her hand and wrapped her pianist fingers around the handle of her Colt. She was in the Army too, with all the dangers of men and special vulnerabilities of women.
* * *
Nathanial walked through the stable, displeased to note dirty stalls. The horses appeared restless and unkempt as they looked at him with hopeful eyes. “Who's in charge here!” he demanded.
There were bustling sounds, Nathanial yanked his Colt, then perplexed faces appeared over the top of a stall. “I am,” said a feisty-looking sergeant with a red beard.
“Why are the stables dirty?”
“Don't worry, sir. We'll get to them.”
“When you're finished with your poker game?”
The sergeant winked. “It was dice, to tell you the truth.”
“What's your name?”
“McMahon, sir.”
“You have just become Private McMahon. Who's the next ranking man?”
A corporal with a brown beard stepped forward. “Corporal Norris reporting sir.”
“You're in charge of th
is detail, and I expect these stables to be clean when I come back.”
Norris appeared shocked. “All of them?”
“You have just been relieved of command. Can anyone tell me where the shovels are?”
“Over there,” said a private, pointing.
“Each man take a shovel and start cleaning those stalls.”
The men looked at him as though he were mad. “But we ain't finished our game,” said one of them.
“The Army isn't a gambling casino. What's your name?”
“Winthrop.”
“Don't you say, sir?”
“What for?”
“How'd you like to spend the night in the stockade, Private Winthrop?”
“How'd you like to go fuck yourself, sir?”
Nathanial brought one up from the floor, connecting with the side of the soldier's face. The force of the blow sent Winthrop hurtling against the wall, which he slid down and then became motionless on a pile of horse manure.
“Who's next?” asked Nathanial.
The soldiers slunk toward the shovels. Nathanial ran after them and kicked one in the buttocks. “Stand straight!”
Private Richardson turned around. “Sir, perhaps you've forgotten that it's a court-martial offense for an officer to strike an enlisted man.”
“I'm the law in this stable and I'll kill you before I tolerate insubordination.”
Richardson smiled as he glanced at his friends. “He'll kill me?”
Nathanial drew his Colt and aimed at the space between the soldier's eyes. “Without hesitation.”
Nathanial's knuckles went white around the grips, prompting Richardson to hold out his hands. “All right—all right!”
“Get to work! I shall return in an hour to inspect the stable, and I will not tolerate back talk on this post. Any questions?”
Nathanial holstered his gun, walked three steps to the back of the stable, then drew the weapon again and spun around suddenly, taking them by surprise. “If any of you sorry excuses for soldiers think you might want to bushwhack me some dark night, be advised that I enjoy a little sport now and then. Get to work or I'll stuff those dice down your throats!”
Nathanial walked out the back door of the stable as the fragrance of the sage hit him in the face. This isn't going to be easy, but I'm not letting a bunch of raggedy-ass recruits defy me. He walked deeper into the wilderness, and for some unknown reason, the warrior woman came to mind. They'd stripped in terrain very similar to where he was standing, and proceeded to go insane with each other's bodies.
Nathanial loved Clarissa deeply, passionately, and lustfully, but the warrior woman would always be part of him, he knew. He gazed into the chaparral as he listened to her voice calling to him through whistling spines of cacti. Come to me, my White Eyes darling. Where have you gone, my love?
Nathanial arrived home after sundown, then Clarissa led him to a table illuminated by a single candle. “I've hired a maid and she's made supper. It's still warm.”
Nathanial glanced around in surprise. The home seemed picturesque, with colorful Indian blankets covering the walls. Clarissa lifted the cover from the pot, revealing chunks of beef swimming in beans and potatoes.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
He swept her up in her arms. “I think it's time we christened the bed.”
He blew out the candle, plunging the home into darkness. Then he carried his wife to the bedroom, kicked open the door, and lay her down. “I love your moods,” she whispered. “I never know what to expect.”
He didn't reply as he unbuttoned her bodice. There's nothing like the sight of this woman's body to bring me back to reality, he told himself. I can manage anything as long as I have my little wife to comfort me.
McCabe sat at a table in the Silver Palace, nursing a glass of whiskey and smoking a fat cigarette. Two bullwhackers were arguing at the bar while five Santa Fe gentleman played poker at a round table. Outside of a few other random drinkers, there wasn't much activity at two o'clock on a Wednesday morning.
The usual troop of prostitutes was present, and McCabe knew he could have any of them. For a reason not clear to him, women had been attracted to him all his life, even nice women who should know better. He seemed to exude something, but didn't care either way.
Life, death, and love didn't impress him, after the blood and guts of the Mexican War. Another veteran of that tumultuous conflict, he had learned that people were worse than animals. Sometimes McCabe even hated himself.
But he wasn't totally numb and nearly dropped his cigarette when he saw the boss lady walk into the saloon, wearing a black shawl over her head. She glanced from side to side, then headed in his direction. Wa'al, I'll be a son of a bitch, thought McCabe.
She appeared troubled and half asleep as she sat opposite him. She had difficulty looking him in the eye, so instead directed her gaze at the open collar of his shirt. “I have been thinking about you,” she said, and then paused, to gather her courage. “You're always talking about doing those things to me. Well, I've decided to take you up on it.”
He leaned back lazily on his chair. “What if I changed my mind?”
Maria Dolores's eyes blazed with anger. “You have been flirting ever since I set eyes on you,” she said icily, “and now that I have embarrassed myself, you change your mind?”
“I didn't say I'd changed my mind. But don't ever take me for granted, lady. Because I don't owe you a damn thing.”
“I did not mean to offend you,” she replied, “although you offend me every day with your insolent manner.”
“I wanted to know if you were just another bitch, or a real woman. You've got guts, boss lady—I'll say that for you. Let's go.”
She didn't like being seen with him, but was tired of worrying about what others thought of her. She felt safe walking down Burro Alley with such a man, although she was surrounded by rough-looking outlaws carrying guns and knives. McCabe would even tower over Nathanial.
Finally they arrived at his hotel, a large adobe hut in poor repair. He held her hand as he led her down a dark hall, unlocked a door, and lit a candle. It was a small room in need of cleaning, and his bed hadn't been made. The mixed odors of whiskey and stale tobacco were heavy in the air, although the window was half open.
He undressed without even kissing her, and it was so squalid she felt like fleeing, but it also appeared intensely erotic to a passionate but proper lady. He was even more enormous without his clothes, and covered with hair.
“Get your clothes off,” he growled. “What are you waiting for?”
The sound of his voice sent a tremor through her. They'd never even kissed, but she found herself unbuttoning her bodice as he crawled onto the bed and lay on his back. Then he pulled the cork on a bottle of whiskey on the dresser and took a swig.
Maria Dolores felt as if she were losing her mind as she peeled away her blouse. She saw him gazing calmly at her breasts and knew he cared for her in his own twisted way, just as she cared for him. She realized that he was practically a stranger as she stepped out of her skirt. Naked, she crawled into bed with him.
“Whiskey?” he asked.
“No thank you.”
“Bet you're surprised to be here, right?”
“You probably don't believe me, but I usually don't do this sort of thing.”
“You're right—I don't believe you—but so what?”
One moment he was lying on his back, totally relaxed, and then he was all over her, kissing, groping, clutching and overwhelming. Never had she been taken with such force, and the very newness of the experience thrilled her. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and kissed his lips wildly as he pressed her against the mattress. “It's always the ‘ladies’ what show me the best time,” he murmured, wrestling her into submission.
Chapter Twenty-three
Geronimo raised his head above a clump of bayberry bushes. Twigs were stuck into his headband, smeared dirt blending his face with the surroundings. He coun
ted approximately three hundred sheep, fifty head of cattle, and twenty-odd horses heading east with a crew of eight vaqueros.
Geronimo studied the heavily armed vaqueros, but they didn't impress him. Moreover, they were trespassing on the homeland and whatever they owned was fair game for the rightful owners. Geronimo saw no peace with the Nakaiyes and the Pindah-lickoyee. His faction believed in unrelenting warfare against invaders, not watching seeds grow.
He made the sound of a whippoorwill, then retreated to the horses. His warriors joined him, their faces painted with stripes of ocher across their noses, and carrying Killer of Enemies Bandoliers over hardy chests. Among them were Juh, Chatto, Loco, Nana the medicine man, and Jocita the warrior woman in a deerskin shirt worked with pale blue beads.
It was a tribute to Geronimo's growing skills that so many distinguished warriors had chosen to follow the Bedonko on his first raid as war chief. Each knew his or her assignment, there was no need for orders. They climbed into their saddles, kicked the flanks of their horses, and worked the animals into a full gallop.
The horses accelerated across the desert, dodging cactus plants as tall as a man, or leaping over hedges of chaparral. Like a brown tornado, they burst onto the plain where sheep and cattle were trudging along.
The People sang war songs and brandished pistols as they charged the vaqueros, who took one look and sped in the opposite direction. Meanwhile, the sheep stampeded toward the west while the cattle headed north.
The warriors split up and easily gathered the animals, then herded them with captured wagons. No one had been killed or wounded during the transfer of property. “While we're back in the homeland, we might as well do a little business, eh Juh?” asked Geronimo as they headed for the main Mimbreno column.
“It was wrong to give up this land so easily,” replied the Nednai chief. “Now we are back and our enemies had better beware.”
That evening, Nathanial and Clarissa sat to supper with the colonel and his wife.
The main course was the usual beef and whatever vegetables could be found, prepared by the Chandlers’ Mexican maid, who happened to be the sister of Clarissa's maid.
