by Len Levinson
She took a step backward to satisfy herself that he couldn't be seen, then uttered a prayer to Yusn as she strung the first arrow into her bow.
Through dust, smoke, and screams, Nathanial saw a warrior perched on one knee, aiming a musket at him. The West Pointer fired wildly to upset the warrior's aim, but the warrior was rock solid as he pulled the trigger. The musket blasted a slug of lead at Nathanial, who heard it whistle past his ear. He held the Apache in his sights and triggered again.
The Apache was hurled backward by the force of the projectile, and Nathanial murmured, “That's for Lieutenant John Davidson, you son of a bitch!” All the emotion and madness of that day in Embudo Canyon came back to Nathanial, only now he was on the offensive.
The momentum of his horse carried him deeper into the Apache encampment. He saw their scattered fires and pathetic possessions but his heart was unmoved. He aimed at an Apache warrior fleeing, squeezed his trigger, and brought him down. Then he aimed at another Apache, but missed.
Dragoons rampaged across the campsite, shooting at everything that moved. Nathanial surveyed the terrain, and it appeared that most of the Apaches had fled, but one group was making a stand in the chaparral to the right.
And then Nathanial saw something that stopped him cold. Through the melee he spotted a tall Apache waving a white square of cloth. Many years had passed, but Nathanial would never forget that face as long as he lived. It's Mangas Coloradas!
The aging chief Mangas Coloradas was searching for the bluecoat officer in charge, so that he could smoke with him. A bullet had pierced his wrist in the early moments of the encounter, but he paid no attention to the pain. “We come in peace!” he told them. “We want to be friends!”
Lieutenant Haskell spotted the old warrior, but had no idea who he was. It was Haskell's first battle and he'd yet to kill an Indian. He jerked his reins in the direction of the tall Apache, kicked the flanks of his horse, and charged. His pistol was cocked as he aimed down the barrel. “You're one dead Injun,” muttered Haskell as he squeezed the trigger.
His pistol was a sixteenth of an inch from firing when an arrow pierced his chest. He stared at it in horror, and his expression never changed as he fell off his horse, bounced on the ground, and lay still.
Victorio ran toward Haskell's horse and leapt into the saddle. Chief Mangas Coloradas appeared befuddled as Victorio bore down on him, leaned to the side, and swept him away in his strong right arm.
“What are you doing!” cried Mangas Coloradas, struggling to get loose. “I must stop them!”
“Not today, my chief,” replied gallant Victorio as his horse fled into the thickest chaparral.
A group of warriors hadn't been able to reach their horses and were conducting a fighting retreat on foot. They fired arrows at the horses of inexperienced bluecoat soldiers, a tactic that was slowing them down.
Juh rode onto the desperate scene, bleeding from a bullet through his left calf. He spotted the warrior woman dodging among cactus, then urged his horse closer toward her. “Take my hand!” he hollered. “I shall carry you away.”
“No! Save your son!” she screamed.
Juh knew that Running Deer wasn't his true son, but could not deny him before Jocita. “Where are you, little warrior!” he bellowed.
The boy crawled out of his hiding place and held out his arms. Juh whipped the flanks of his horse as the animal galloped toward Jocita's half-breed child. Juh leaned to the side, grabbed the boy about the waist, scooped him up, then aimed his horse toward the highest mountains he could see.
Nathanial rounded up a dozen troopers and led them to where the Apaches were making their stand. “Follow me, men, we've got them where we want them now!”
He aimed his pistol forward as Duke V plunged into tangled vines, cholla, and prickly pear cactus. The officer fired at a brown Apache body darting behind a yucca plant, the Apache fell backward, then Nathanial shot at another, missed, and thumbed back his hammer when suddenly a warrior rose behind a hackberry bush and fired an arrow at Nathanial's horse. The Apache ducked as Nathanial felt his horse going down.
It wasn't the first time Nathanial had a horse shot out from underneath him. He held tightly to his gun as he tumbled through the air, another arrow whizzed past, then his shoulder hit the ground, he rolled, came to a stop, and fired a quick shot into the bush where his Apache assailant had hidden.
He heard a cry that sent a chill to his marrow. It's impossible, he thought, but he'd never forget that voice. No, he thought as he charged toward the bush. It can't be.
An Apache who looked frighteningly familiar lay facedown in a pool of blood, and Nathanial thought he was losing his mind. The tumult of battle came to his ears as he rolled the Apache onto her back.
It was the warrior woman, his bullet having struck beneath her left breast. Nathanial's eyes widened with consternation when he realized that he'd killed her! He stared at her in shame, remembering their night of passionate love. Her eyes opened to slits, she regarded him for a few moments, then whispered in her language, “You.”
He didn't understand, but clearly she'd recognized him as he'd recognized her. A dribble of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth, she appeared to be dying, tears filled Nathanial's eyes as he realized the enormity of his deed.
He felt as if a cannonball had hit him in the head, and even as she lay there trying to speak, he knew he'd never stopped loving her, and always yearned to see her again. Even in Paris, Rome, and London, in the arms of his beautiful young wife, he'd never forgotten the warrior woman.
He heard a horse approaching, a dragoon mount whose owner had been killed. Nathanial grabbed the reins, and as the horse tried to escape, Nathanial punched him in the mouth. “Stand!” he hollered.
The horse obeyed as Nathanial lay the limp warrior woman over the saddle. Then he climbed onto the space behind her, the battlefield covered with smoke, shouts, cries for help, confusion. She was his prisoner of war, but they'd throw her in jail or before a firing squad, because she was Apache.
He gazed at the dying woman who personified the land that he loved so profoundly. He should return with her to friendly lines, but something told him go the other way. Ultimately, he couldn't bear to see the warrior woman hauled before enemies who'd mock her fighting pride, and if that wasn't enough, he'd made love with her on the most bizarre night of his life.
There was only one path to take, and he knew it was fraught with peril. A little voice in his ear told him he might be killed, but he had to save his warrior love. What the hell, he thought defiantly as he steered his reins in the direction of the Apache retreat. I'll say I got lost.
He kicked his spurs into the horse, who followed his command with a mighty leap. The warrior woman's blood dripped on brown desert leaves and her arms flopped crazily as Nathanial pushed the horse into a gallop. The smoky battlefield darkened as they rode deeper into the wilderness, then a shot was fired somewhere behind them, and a bullet slammed into Nathanial's back. He was rocked in the saddle, nearly fainted from pain, but struggled to hold on to the warrior woman as they disappeared together into the twilight.
Clarissa felt uneasy as she rode back to Camp Craig that night. She'd remained with Senor Sanchez longer than she'd intended, so captivated had she been by the lessons.
“There are many bad men in this settlement,” he warned her as they approached the church. “We must never practice this late again, but I could not help myself. It is a pleasure to have a student who learns so quickly.”
“It is only because you are such a wonderful teacher, Senor Sanchez.”
He placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed in a fatherly way. She couldn't help thinking of her own father, the stockbroker. He'd devoted his life to money, while Senor Sanchez had consecrated his to music. Who is the peasant and who is civilized? she wondered.
Inside the church, the Mother Superior looked up from her desk. “Is it you, Mr. Denigran?”
He walked into the office, carrying a gu
nnysack in his left hand, pleased to note that she was alone. “I wanted to ask you a question about God, Mother Superior. How can we believe in Him, since there's so much suffering in the world?”
“But it's people who usually cause suffering, not God.”
A strange new note came into his voice. “Do you know what suffering is, Mother Superior? I mean, do you really know?”
“I've worked among sick and dying people all my life, and have been ill myself. We all have our crosses to bear, and we must bear them gracefully.”
In a flash, his knife was out, pressed to her throat before she could scream. “Don't move, Mother Superior. Or I'll take your head off and use it for a football. We'll see how well you manage suffering as you open the safe. Now get moving!”
He pressed the knife into the folds of fat beneath her chin, a thin red line appeared, the Mother Superior's hand trembled as she unbuttoned the top of her habit and pulled out a key on a leather thong. “If you needed money, I would have given it to you,” she replied in a choked voice.
“All you gave me was a job teaching your mealy-mouthed children for a pittance. Move, because I don't have much time.”
Side by side they made their way to the safe, and he never relaxed the blade pressure on her throat. He could see her exposed white undergarment, which excited him. She knelt in front of the safe, turned the key, opened the door. ‘Take it all,” she said in a quavering voice.
“Are you afraid, Mother Superior?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, her breath coming in gasps.
“Where is your God now?”
“Everywhere.”
“Do you know how beautiful you are, and how much I love you?”
“If you love me, you must let me free!”
“You don't understand, Mother Superior. Death is the only freedom we have.”
His wrist made a sudden motion, then she dropped to the floor. He wanted to roll her onto her back and pick up her dress, but had to get out of there. He stuffed his gunnysack with money when he heard a scream behind him.
He turned, and it was dear little Sister Teresa standing in the doorway, holding her hands to her face and giving the alarm. He chased her down the corridor, but she was a strong-limbed young woman shouting at the top of her lungs. “The Mother Superior has been murdered by Mr. Denigran, and he is in the building right now! Lock yourself in your rooms.”
Denigran opened the first door and found himself in the chapel. It was silent, Christ on the cross illuminated by a ray of moonlight streaming through the windows. Denigran ran to the front door, then drew his Colt. He opened the door and a smile wreathed his rodent face as he saw two riders heading toward the church.
He ran at the riders, aiming his gun at them as Sister Teresa's voice pierced the night. “There he goes—the murderer!”
The rider on the left was a white-bearded old man. He reached for his gun, but Denigran was coming fast, aiming straight at him. Denigran's gun barked once, the old man leaned to the side, the murderer dragged him out of the saddle, then mounted up and turned his pistol on the young blond woman with whom the old man had been riding.
His hammer snapped forward at the same moment the spooked horse tried to dance away from his master lying on the ground. The bullet fired harmlessly into the air as Denigran kicked his heels into the flanks of the stolen horse.
The animal balked at carrying off the murderer of his old friend, and he fought the reins as Clarissa came to her senses. Everything seemed to be moving more slowly than normal, and she felt light-headed as she reached beneath her black leather jacket and whipped out the Colt Navy that her husband had given her.
“He's a murderer!” shouted the nun in the window of the convent.
The culprit looked like Satan in a dark suit as he worked to control the panicked horse. Clarissa thumbed back her hammer and squeezed the trigger.
The cartridge exploded, then Norbert Denigran felt his innards rip apart. A howl burst from his mouth, the second bullet smacked him in the chest and knocked him out of the saddle. He opened his eyes and saw a beautiful blond woman above him, aiming at his nose.
“Are you going to . . . spank me again, Mother?” he asked dreamily as black curtains descended around him. “Why don't . . . you ever reward me . . . for the good things . . . I do?”
Clarissa saw him go limp on the ground, but kept her pistol aimed at him anyway. She wondered if she was having a nightmare, because it was so different from her cosmopolitan New York life. Armed townspeople came running, nuns spilled out of the convent, and a crowd formed around Clarissa and the dead man. “Who was he?” asked the sheriff.
“A teacher in the school,” explained Sister Teresa. “I saw him kill the Mother Superior and take money in the safe.”
A citizen picked up the gunnysack full of coins. Another citizen pointed at the murderer's bloody hand. “How could anyone kill a nun?”
A tall man with a Colt in one hand and a tin badge in another strolled onto the scene. “I'm a Texas Ranger,” he said. “Name's Cole Bannon. I've been hunting this man a long time—he's killed over a dozen women. Who stopped him?”
“She did,” said the sheriff.
The Texas Ranger turned to a small ordinary-looking blond woman who looked like she'd faint at the first sign of danger. She was pale as new washed wool, but she'd closed the case that had occupied his life for the past three years. Cole Bannon took off his hat and smiled. “Good shootin’, ma'am.”
The lone lobo licked his chops as he crept closer to two figures sprawled on the ground. The female two-legged lay on her back, the male two-legged on his stomach, both covered with delicious blood. They'd fallen off their horse, who stood nearby, gazing warily at the lobo, who growled. You try to stop me, big fellow, I'll chew your hamstrings out from beneath you.
The lobo knew he was fast, smart, hungry. It would take more than a clumsy horse to stop him. He decided the female would have more tender meat, so he approached her warily. She breathed just barely, and the lobo thought he was safe. Her left breast appeared tempting. He opened his jaws, moonlight glinted on his fangs, and he prepared to take a healthy bite.
He spotted a faint flash in the corner of his eye, then an arrow pierced both his lungs, shooting out the other side of his body. The lobo's jaws closed on thin air as he collapsed to the ground.
Stars glittered above, a faint breeze was on the sage, and a hawk screamed in a dark corner of night. The horse continued to munch grass, not as dumb as he looked. A head appeared, wearing a bandanna. Then another warrior popped up. The peaceful scene transmogrified into seven warriors arising from the foliage. Chatto kneeled beside Jocita and raised her eyelid with his thumb. It showed white. Meanwhile Nana pressed his ear to her chest. “She is alive.”
Loco turned at the bluecoat officer. “In the press of battle, I saw him ride off with her. He tried to save her life, but evidently he has been shot.”
“In the back,” said Victorio, standing nearby. “He was running away from his people, to us. Perhaps he was lost. I do not know if Nana can save them, for these are very deep wounds.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Clarissa sat in the parlor, picking her Spanish guitar. Neither of her pianos had arrived, but her skill with five shimmering strings increased every day. She'd even taught herself to strum melodies from Mozart, Bach, and Handel, lost in music as she waited for Nathanial and the others to return.
Sometimes she performed impromptu concerts for lonely wives of other officers, and often took meals with them, trying to raise each other's morale. Clarissa had gained a certain notoriety at Fort Craig, because she'd killed an outlaw that even the Texas Ranger hadn't been able to catch. She'd never forget the moment she'd pulled the trigger, and every day thanked God for the presence of mind that told her to shoot the son of a bitch down.
She worked a few hours every day as volunteer in the post hospital, but her main interest was music. She tried not to deliberate about the dangers and hardships
faced by soldiers, otherwise she'd lay on the sofa and worry about Nathanial all day long.
Her ears were unusually sensitive, due to her years of studying music. One afternoon, as she plucked one of Senor Sanchez's old fandango tunes, and fondly remembered the brave guitar-mater, she heard shouting on the parade ground. She arose from her chair as Rosita entered the living room. “The soldiers have returned!” she announced gaily.
Clarissa hung her guitar from its peg on the wall, then stood before the mirror and looked at herself. No longer was she a pale and wispy New York debutante, for her cheeks were deeply tanned and a new frontier vitality could be seen in her manner.
The parade ground filled with wives, children, and the soldiers who'd stayed behind. Colonel Chandler rode through the main gate, followed by his staff officers, guidon flags fluttering in the breeze as ragged dusty men proceeded to the command post headquarters.
Clarissa ran toward them, holding the front of her long flowing Mexican skirt. She didn't see Nathanial among the staff officers, and assumed he was farther back in the formation.
Then she noticed a curious event. Colonel Chandler pulled the reins of his horse to the right and appeared to be heading directly toward her. An icy hand gripped her heart; she stopped in her tracks. Oh my God—no, she said to herself.
The post spun like a carousel as the colonel drew closer. Everyone watched the fair-haired young pregnant woman clasp her hands together and look up at the commanding officer, a hopeful expression on her face. They saw the colonel's lips move as he conveyed the awful message. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Barrington, but your husband has been killed by Apaches. Evidently they've taken his . . . body . . . away.”
Fort Craig was rent by a heartfelt scream, then the young bride's legs gave out beneath her and she went crashing to the ground.
* * *
On a warm summer afternoon, while working at her desk, there was a knock on Maria Dolores's door. It was Miquelito. “A soldier wants to see you, senora. Says his name is Duffy.”
