Savage Frontier

by Len Levinson

  “You've been a great help to us here,” she replied.

  “I don't think the children like me much. They think I'm odd. Do you think I'm odd, Mother Superior?”

  “We're all odd in our own way, I suppose. God made each of us for His own special purpose.”

  It took all Denigran's willpower to prevent himself from laughing. “I wonder what my purpose is?”

  “Pray on it, Mr. Denigran.”

  Bells rang, announcing Compline. The schoolmaster followed the Mother Superior down the corridor, and he thought of jumping her from behind, slitting her throat, and ravishing her upon the cold stone floor. She comes this way every night, he deduced as they arrived at the chapel. One night I'll be waiting, to give her the best theology lesson of her life.

  Clarissa felt nauseous, her joints hurt, and she had a headache. Her mother was far away and her husband had ridden off on a campaign from which he might never return.

  When not sick, she was hungry. Often she sat in her parlor and looked out the window, an open book on her lap. She'd never been so alone. Sometimes she suspected she might lose her mind in the vast emptiness of the frontier.

  She wondered what had driven Nathanial to return to New Mexico, land of nothing at all. She could tolerate Fort Craig if she had music, but neither of her pianos had arrived. She felt cut off from the wellsprings of creativity, and there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it.

  She heard footsteps and turned to see her maid. “Senora, you look so sad. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Not unless you can find me a piano. I have been a musician all my life and miss making music.”

  Rosita rolled her eyes. “I love music too, senora. It is food for the soul, no? There are no pianos here that I know of, but perhaps you should play the guitar.

  Clarissa pondered what her maid had suggested. “Actually that's a very good suggestion. It's one of the world's oldest and finest instruments. Where can I buy one?”

  “I will take you to Senor Sanchez. He is a very great musician, and he makes guitars. Besides, it is good for a pregnant woman to take walks, no?”

  * * *

  “Zachary, this is a friend of mine, Mr. Francis McCabe.”

  They stood in the parlor of Maria Dolores's home, and little Zachary looked glumly at the intruder. “How do you do, sir.”

  Maria Dolores continued introductions, although she hadn't liked the icicles in her son's voice. “Francis, this is my daughter, Carmen.”

  The little girl refused to talk to McCabe, who thought they were surly goblins. “Howdy,” he said, trying to be friendly.

  McCabe was dressed in his usual saloon outfit, having taken a few drinks before the visit. Zachary and little Carmen could see that their mother liked him. Finally Zachary turned to her and announced, “Just because he's a friend of yours, that doesn't mean he's a friend of mine.” Without another word, the boy walked away.

  “Me neither,” said little Carmen, holding her little nose in the air as she followed her brother out the room.

  McCabe reached into his back pocket and pulled out his flask. “I don't think they like me.”

  “They miss their father, although he was never home when they were little.”

  McCabe took a swig from his flask, then asked, “Whatever happened to him?”

  “He just arrived at Fort Craig, according to a letter he sent me, and has not seen his children for two years.”

  McCabe looked at her sideways as an ash from his cigar fell to the rug. “You still in love with him?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “What if I didn't believe you?”

  “You can go to hell.”

  He smiled. “I'd rather go to the hotel.”

  “We're supposed to have dinner with my children, remember?”

  “I ain't sittin’ at a table with them two pups. They'd probably put a gnat in my mashed potatoes. After you're finished, I'll be waitin’ at the hotel.”

  She smiled a secret smile as she stood at the window, watching him swagger down the street. He provides what I need and perhaps I shouldn't expect more, she reflected. Then she continued to the dining room, where her children already were seated. She took her place at the head of the table as the maid ladled soup into bowls.

  “You were rude, Zachary,” she said.

  Zachary grumbled, “I don't want to see him anymore.”

  “I shall bring anyone here that I like,” she replied.

  Zachary jumped to his feet and pounded his fist on the table. “No you shall not, because this is my father’s house!”

  She looked the little boy in the eye. “It is my house, and if you don't sit down, I shall slap you.”

  “I hate you!” he screamed as he leapt toward her, flailing his little fists.

  She grabbed his wrists in one hand, the seat of his pants in the other, then hoisted him like a bag of beans and carried him to his room. He twisted and fought but she was much stronger than he. Finally she dropped him on his bed.

  “Behave yourself,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “You are making me very angry.”

  He pointed at her, tears running down his cheeks. “It's your fault that my father doesn't live here anymore!”

  With a sigh, she sat on Zachary's bed. In a way, he's right, she admitted. She felt guilty and defeated as she collapsed onto her back and moaned softly.

  “Are you all right, Mother?” he asked, a frightened tone in his voice.

  “Just tired, Zachary.”

  He kissed her cheek. “I'm sorry, Mother.”

  “No, I'm the one who's sorry. I'll never bring Mr. McCabe here again. Come back to the table.”

  She took his hand and together they descended the stairs. It's not their fault that they love their father, thought Maria Dolores. It troubled her to know that Nathanial's presence, through his children, still dominated her home.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  On April 15, 1856, chief of scouts Thaddeus Singleton found Cuchillo Negro's abandoned village. “The stolen sheep and cattle grazed there,” he explained to Colonel Chandler, pointing to a grassy plain. “Then Cuchillo Negro and his people left with the thieves in that direction.”

  The colonel and his staff were on horseback, gathered around Singleton, with Dr. Steck among them. “It's hardly surprising,” said the doctor, “that Cuchillo Negro ran from a military force of this size. I believe you've scared him, Colonel Chandler, with this ludicrous expedition.”

  Colonel Chandler lit his last thin black cheroot. “Ludicrous?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “On the contrary, we represent a very credible threat to the Apaches. They probably aren't moving quickly so we should catch them before long. Singleton, ride ahead and find out where they are.”

  “Now just a minute!” protested Dr. Steck. “These Indians are under my protection!”

  “Go ahead and protect them,” replied Colonel Chandler, still smiling. “You may even warn them we're coming, but if they refuse to give up what they've stolen, they shall be forced at the points of guns. In the meanwhile, I advise you to keep out of the line of fire. ‘Twould be a tragedy if you were killed by a stray bullet.”

  “Or an aimed one,” replied Dr. Steck.

  “Mangas Coloradas, I must speak with you.”

  The People were riding into the foothills of the sacred Mimbres Mountains, where slopes of cactus and scrub brush made way for coniferous trees. Mangas Coloradas and Victorio rode at the head of the long spread-out caravan, and Juh had just joined them, accompanied by Geronimo and Loco, three of the most warlike firebrands.

  “What is it, Juh?” asked Mangas Coloradas.

  “We are vulnerable because so many sick people are slowing us down. I think we should give Cuchillo Negro a few head of cattle, then send him and his cowards back to the Chiricahua Mountains on their own.”

  Mangas Coloradas raised his eyebrows at Juh. “We were slowed by the sheep and cattle you stole, but I could not make you give them up. Are sheep more i
mportant that our unfortunate brothers?”

  “They are traitors,” replied Juh, “and they are endangering our march.”

  “Your theft of those animals is the worse crime, because the bluecoat soldiers may be looking for them.”

  “I am not afraid of bluecoat soldiers,” replied Juh.

  Colonel Chandler, riding at the head of the army column, shielded his eyes with his hand. It appeared that his scouts were galloping toward him. “Evidently they've found something,” he said with satisfaction.

  Tension had been building since they'd found the trail of stolen animals. Their wagons and heavy equipment had been left behind and they were gaining steadily on the Apache raiders.

  Colonel Chandler appeared excited to Nathanial, not a good sign. Nathanial's mode of deportment under fire was General Zachary Taylor, under whom he'd served in the Mexican War. Old Rough and Ready had been tranquil during the most uncertain moments of battle, and that's why the men had confidence in him.

  The scouts galloped closer, pulled back their reins, and came to a stop in front of Colonel Chandler. Singleton made an awkward military salute. “Sir, the Apaches have the animals with ‘em and are about an hour ahead of us.”

  “Sergeant Ames, please tell the company commanders that I wish to speak with them. The men can take a break.”

  Colonel Chandler raised his hand, the blue column ground to a halt, and Nathanial climbed down from his new horse, a black stallion whom he'd named Duke V, in honor of his other army horses. Nathanial drank water from his canteen, then poured some into his hat and let Duke V wet his lips.

  Dr. Steck rode toward Colonel Chandler and looked down at him from his perch atop the saddle. “What are you going to do?”

  “Stay out of my way,” replied Colonel Chandler. “I have no time for civilian folderol, if you don't mind.”

  “Are you planning to attack without warning?”

  “If you ask one more question, I shall order you bound and gagged.”

  Dr. Steck watched grimly as officers coalesced around their commanding officer. “The Apaches are dead ahead,” the colonel told them. “If we pick up the pace, we should engage them before the sun goes down. Tell the men to check their weapons and get ready for action. As soon as I see the Apaches, I shall order the attack. When you hear the bugle, move your men out quickly.”

  Lieutenant Haskell raised his hand. “What about women and children, sir?”

  “An Apache woman can kill you as quickly as any warrior, and even the children are deadly with bows and arrows. Once we close with the enemy, the men will know what to do.”

  The company commanders returned to their units, where dragoons were tightening cinches beneath the saddles of their horses. Nathanial examined his Colt. 44 as he recalled the canals of Venice. Why'd I come back here? he asked himself.

  “Call the men to horse!” said the colonel.

  The orders were passed along, and a clamor could be heard as the men climbed into their saddles. Nathanial took his position in front with Colonel Chandler and the other staff officers. No bugles were blown, because they didn't want to alert the Apaches. Colonel Chandler urged his horse to proceed along the trail of stolen sheep, the detachment followed, and Nathanial found himself advancing toward another battlefield.

  He couldn't help remembering Embudo Canyon, where his friend Johnny Davidson had died in his arms. That bloody moment came back with full ferocity as Nathanial sat straighter in his saddle, his lips set in a thin line. The time has come to pay back you Apache bastards, he thought.

  “Such beautiful fingers,” said Sanchez the guitar maker, sitting in his adobe home. He held up Clarissa's hand and examined them closely. “You were born to play the guitar, senora.”

  “I can imitate what you do, Mr. Sanchez, but perhaps a person who isn't Spanish could never play the guitar well.”

  “Playing the guitar is not dependent upon where you were born,” replied the teacher. “Ultimately, it is a matter of love.”

  It was growing late, and Clarissa knew she should go home, but home was an empty adobe hut, whereas old Sanchez was music. She leaned back in her chair and listened to him strum the melodies of Andalusia, letting the chords sink into her tissues.

  Sanchez was seventy-three, a wrinkled and unshaven guitar maker who carried the faint trace of stale mescal about his gray beard, but she imagined him as a carefree young vaquero riding his horse down the main street of a Mexican town, playing his guitar as senoritas watched breathlessly from the sidewalks, fluttering their fans and trying to catch his attention. Yes, agreed Clarissa as she touched her fingers lightly to the edge of the vibrating guitar. It is a matter of love.

  After supper, Norbert Denigran often took a walk through the small settlement beside Fort Craig. Ecclesiastical platitudes and pointless rituals were a lump of coal in his throat, and he needed to refresh himself.

  The settlement existed mainly to service the fort with supplies, entertainment, and prostitutes. It reminded him of a smaller Santa Fe, and often he was tempted to have a few drinks at a cantina, but a respected schoolmaster could never be seen in such places.

  A wagon rolled down the middle of the street, loaded with bags of flour. Few soldiers could be seen, since most had left on the expedition to the Mimbres Mountains. The usual conglomerations of merchants, bullwhackers, vaqueros, and drifters strolled down the dirt sidewalks.

  Denigran came to the alley where he'd killed the most recent whore. The ground was bare where she'd lain after he'd strangled her. The fiend smiled as he remembered tightening and loosening the tension, toying with the last moments of her life.

  His smile vanished when he saw a familiar figure enter the alley from the opposite end. It's the Texas Ranger! Denigran was tempted to run for his life, but instead recalled that he'd shaved his beard, and he wasn't in uniform. He turned away from the alley as his heart pounded violently in his chest.

  He's still after me, realized Denigran as he circled back to the convent. He felt the noose tightening around his throat, as during his last days in Santa Fe. I've got to steal some money and get the hell out of here.

  The People smelled danger as they stopped for the night near a stream bordered by willows. The stolen sheep and cattle were settled on a grassy plain, under the watchful eyes of warriors, while women gathered wood for fires and other warriors butchered a horse. Guards were posted and even the children were vigilant.

  The warrior woman whirled a stick between her hands as curls of smoke arose from dried grass. She blew gently on the sparks, and soon a tiny tongue of flame appeared. She piled on twigs as the fire crackled.

  Her son held his crucifix to the light, cooing to it, trying to evoke its power, when something appeared in the corner of the warrior woman's sharp eyes. It was a warrior riding hard toward the encampment, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Many bluecoat soldiers coming!”

  The camp sprang to life, and everyone turned to Mangas Coloradas for leadership. He reached for his stolen musket, rammed a cartridge in the barrel, and cocked the hammer.

  His warriors followed his example as the rider charged toward the fire of Mangas Coloradas. “They are right behind me!” he said, pointing at a cloud of dust gathering ominously on distant desert wastes. “Many more bluecoats than we!”

  Again, all eyes turned to the great chief Mangas Coloradas. He'd been a fighting chief most of his life, made cold calculations, and knew they could give up the sheep and cattle, but not Cuchillo Negro and the nearly starved Mimbrenos. “I will talk with them,” said the chief. “We will strike a bargain.”

  Juh looked at him in astonishment. “They are coming to make war, and if we do not leave this place, they will kill us all!”

  “You may leave if you like, young Juh, but I am staying with my brother Cuchillo Negro and his people. If I give back the animals that you have stolen, there will be no difficulty.”

  Juh stuttered when he became excited. “Th-there will b-be a massacre here, and it will b-be
on your hands!”

  “No, it will be on your hands, because you stole those animals.”

  “Your opinion hasn't affected your appetite for fresh meat, great chief. You have partaken nightly, as I recall.”

  Victorio strode between them, holding his right arm in the air. “We have no time for recrimination. Those who want to run away should do so, and the rest will make our stand right here.”

  At that moment somebody shouted, “Here they come!”

  The First Dragoons were at full gallop, pistols in the hands of soldiers, guidon flags fluttering in the breeze, and the bugler was blowing the signal to attack. Most of the men had never trained for an all-out hellbent-for-leather cavalry charge, and they were formed in three ragged lines, with stragglers to the rear, and a few men had fallen off their horses, because they'd never ridden at a gallop in their lives.

  Some had never fired more than a few cartridges out of their pistols, and others were having impromptu bowel movements. The roughest and meanest of the lot raced in front of the others, brandishing pistols and hollering insults at Apaches fleeing in all directions.

  Nathanial's horse galloped to the right of Colonel Chandler, the breeze plastering back the front brim of his hat. Nathanial held his pistol in his right hand as he looked back at the men. The formation was falling apart, and the commanding officer was becoming isolated from his men, although he didn't seem to notice. Colonel Chandler was focused entirely on the enemy as he aimed his pistol straight ahead. “At them!” he screamed. “Don't let any get away!”

  The warrior woman glanced at charging bluecoat soldiers as she carried Running Deer to a thick clump of chaparral. “Now is the time to practice what I have taught you, my warrior son,” she said. “The enemy will be here soon and you must be still.”

  She kissed him one last time, then pushed him beneath the leaves, covered him with clumps of dead branches, and said, “Don't move.”