by Len Levinson
“Instead the People became lazy, drunk, and full of fighting. It got so bad that the thunder spirits were sickened and returned to the sky. Pretty soon the People were starving, and they prayed to Yusn for help. Finally he forgave them and sent the mountain spirits to teach them how to hunt and gather food themselves. And that is how the world has come to be.”
There was silence as Duane let the myth sink in. It made no rational sense, yet he felt deeply moved. “How did you get to be a di-yin}” he asked.
“It cost me five horses,” Cucharo explained. “At the time I was not a good hunter, and I had no woman. So I went to another di-yin who had the power of the North Star. I promised him five horses if he would teach me what he knew, and he did.”
“What's the power of the North Star?” Duane asked.
“The power of warfare. I became a great warrior and led many good raids.” He leaned toward Duane and winked. “I still do, but who is a greater warrior than Lion, who has given you his power. You have been greatly blessed, White Eyes.”
The di-yin placed his hand on Duane's head, and Duane closed his eyes as he received the benediction. He'd been a student of theology for most of his life, and his mind made the connection between the virgin births of Jesus and Child of Water, whereas White Painted Woman was similar to holy Mary, mother of God. The pagan Apache religion didn't seem so pagan, and they had their own strict moral code, too.
“Who was the bear?” Duane asked.
Cucharo opened his eyes wide. “The Bear Monster is worst of all, but you have defeated him, and he will be jealous of you. If you ever see a bear, or even bear tracks, run out of that place right away. But if you see a lion, that is your grandfather. Now you are of the People, and your name is Lion.”
Duane felt cat sinews in his muscles. He looked up and saw stars like white dots in the clear blue sky. Something had changed.
The di-yin stood before him. “You must never use your power for evil, otherwise it will be taken from you. You must always revere the mountain spirits, for they have taught the People how to live. Now let us hunt an antelope, and we shall eat. I will tell you the story of how Child of Water killed the monsters and then we will return to the camp.”
It was night, and a bonfire blazed in the midst of the wickiups as the People danced turbulently to the beat of drums and the pluck of Apache lutes. It was the Property Dance celebrating the influx of new wealth into the tribe, and Phyllis sat with the women at Delgado's fire, trying to make sense of what was happening.
Huera had told her that the Property Dance was a sacred celebration when married and unmarried warriors were permitted to sleep with widows and divorcees without men. But the warriors’ wives didn't appear to resent it, and Phyllis couldn't understand their generosity. Perhaps the wives felt sorry for their unmarried sisters, who could enjoy a man on these special occasions and receive presents and favors in addition, while warriors returning from battle could have a hot time.
Phyllis was semirepelled and impossibly excited by the events occurring around her. Conventional Apache prudery was tossed aside as the unmarried women, called bi-zahn, danced lewdly, threw their clothes off, and let firelight flash on their bare breasts. Phyllis saw flames of desire in the warriors’ eyes as they watched lasciviously, wearing war paint and recently acquired blue army shirts with gold stripes and insignia. The women made suggestive pelvic motions that Phyllis found shocking. She watched in astonishment and horror as a brawny warrior dragged a skinny bi-zahn woman into a wickiup. Phyllis heard cries of love as drums pounded incessantly and seminude dancers cavorted everywhere. Tizwin flowed freely, with no sheriff to maintain law and order. Phyllis felt frightened, vulnerable, and exposed. But no bi-zahn was taken against her will, and indeed all seemed most anxious to fornicate with strange warriors.
Delgado emerged from the desert, accompanied by a middle-aged heavy-breasted bi-zahn, the third he'd dragged off so far, and the Property Dance had only just begun. Meanwhile, his four wives were inebriated, fingering pots and pans stolen from the cavalry and chattering about delicacies they intended to cook.
Phyllis felt two eyes burning into her head. She turned toward Delgado sitting nearby, gazing at her with unmistakable silent insinuations. What if he comes over here? she asked herself. Phyllis was no longer a virgin and felt certain womanly needs. She closed her eyes and imagined Delgado ripping her clothes off. My God, what's happening to me! The tizwin made her giggle as the Apache lifeway caught her in its sway. Would Duane cut off my nose?
Where is he? she wondered as she gazed at Delgado. He sipped tizwin as drums pounded in Phyllis's ears. She felt like dancing naked in the moonlight but knew that she was a Christian, and Christians didn't do these things, as far as she knew. But why not? She saw herself groping naked in Delgado's arms, and her cheeks flushed with emotion. Oh, God, help me before I do something I'll never live down!
Somebody shouted, the drumming stopped suddenly, and the warriors reached for their weapons as a guard burst into the assembly, babbling Apache. Phyllis wasn't fluent in the lingo but gathered that someone important was coming. Warriors moved toward the edge of the camp, and Phyllis joined them with the rest of the wives, while the children scooted down the crevice path, to greet the newcomers.
Cucharo and a tall, lean Apache materialized out of the night, carrying leather pouches. Phyllis looked at the younger Apache, who bore a certain resemblance to Duane but was more muscular, tense, and exotic. My God—it's him! she realized at last.
Cucharo handed the chief a leather bag full of sacred pollen, then bowed to the chief's wife. The di-yin folded his arms on his chest and delivered a major oration. Phyllis couldn't decipher every word, but it appeared that Duane had accomplished something important. He appeared alien in his breechcloth and moccasins, the red muslin rag wrapped around his head and paint on his nose and cheeks, as he tossed a pouch to Delgado. Delgado appeared deeply moved, and Phyllis was more confused than ever. What's happened to Duane? she wondered. Everybody's so respectful of him.
The chief, Cucharo, Duane, and Delgado entered the chief's wickiup, and there was silence for a few moments. Then the music resumed, and dancers re-formed their circle around the fire as tongues of flame licked the sky. Phyllis rose, brushed off her jeans, and strode toward Huera and the other women. “What's going on?”
They peered at her with new interest. “Your man had a great vision,” Huera said reverently. “Now he is a di-yin. He has been given the power of the Lion, he has killed the Bear Monster, and White Painted Woman has held him in her arms. Cucharo said that his grandfather was from the People. Enjuh. It is so.”
Phyllis's skepticism butted against Huera's rock-solid faith. The Apaches saw something in Duane, and even Delgado, who detested White Eyes, had treated him with consideration. Drums pounded, bi-zahn women undulated their bodies, and Phyllis was mystified by the latest turn of events. Duane's no di-yin, she reassured herself. He's got all these Apaches fooled, probably because he's fooled himself.
The door flap wavered at the chief's wickiup, then Cucharo appeared, followed by Delgado, Duane, and the old chief. In the darkness, Duane had the same high cheekbones as they, his eyes almost Oriental. The men embraced each other, then the chief returned to his wickiup while the others headed in separate directions.
Duane walked directly toward her, and she noticed his lithe Apache gait. Firelight glistened on his long, corded legs, flat stomach, and powerful arms. He appeared more lethal, while war paint heightened his menacing aspect. He came to a stop a few feet in front of her and gazed silently into her eyes. “Come with me.”
He grabbed her arm, pulled her to her feet, and their faces were inches apart. She smelled ponderosa pines in his hair, while his eyes struck sparks off hers. Without another word, he lifted her off the ground and carried her toward their wickiup. Drums hammered in their ears, maidens chanted, she touched her lips to his chest, and he lowered her toward the entrance. She crawled inside, but before she could roll
onto her back, he was on top of her, tearing at her blouse, his face contorted with desire, and he appeared almost cruel as he stripped her in rough methodical movements.
But somehow it was pleasing, as she lay on the antelope skin, gazing at him in the dimness. He removed his breechcloth and moccasins, then grasped her shoulders and inserted his tongue into her mouth. His hands were strong on her body as maidens chanted love songs around the bonfire and coyotes howled mournfully in far-off caves.
Big Al Thornton sat in his office, smoked a cigar, and looked out the window at the Milky Way blazing across the sky. Where is she now? he wondered.
He couldn't stop thinking about his darling daughter, whom he believed had died of thirst in the desert. The mere image of her suffering made him weak in his knees. He'd lost twenty pounds, his clothes hung on him, and his expression was grim.
I knew Duane Braddock was trouble the first time I set eyes on him, Big Al thought. He got my daughter killed, and there ain't a damned thing I can do about it. Sometimes Big Al wanted to put a bullet into Duane Braddock's head, although he figured that Duane had been killed, too. He was just a wild-ass kid who wouldn't back down, and my daughter thought he was the best thing that ever happened to Texas. If the Apaches didn't get them, the sun did, or the Comancheros, banditos, renegade miners, or lost, wandering outlaw bands.
Big Al grumbled to himself as he walked down the hall to Phyllis's bedroom. He opened the door, lit her lamp, and gazed sadly at her shelves of books. Her clothes hung in the closet and an old Navaho doll lay on her pillow. Big Al touched the floral bedspread, and a tear came to his eye. Sons of bitches live forever, but my daughter had to die.
It was night on the desert as Marshal Dan Stowe and Miguelito rode along a winding arroyo. They'd been in the saddle since late afternoon, and Miguelito said they'd arrive in the Apache camp sometime tomorrow.
Marshal Stowe sagged in his saddle, dozing lightly, as he let Miguelito lead the way. Sometimes he thought that Miguelito was luring him into a trap where the Apaches would massacre him, steal his horses, and leave his bones to bleach. The most nagging part was that Marshal Stowe didn't have to be there. He could've reported that Duane Braddock disappeared into Mexico, but the lawman had never filed a false report in his life.
He dozed as his horse plodded onward. It reminded him of long night marches during the war and the constant danger from Confederate sharpshooters. Now Honest Abe was dead, General Grant's administration was the most corrupt in American history, and controversy buzzed around General Custer's recent campaigns against the Plains Indians, which some considered massacres.
We were young gods of war, but now we're ordinary people again, Marshal Stowe thought philosophically. I guess glory doesn't last forever, and I should be thankful that I've got a job. If Duane Braddock is living with the Apaches, I'll take him into custody, and if the girl is there, I'll bring her out. And if the Apaches try to kill me, all I can do is go down like a soldier.
CHAPTER 8
THE LOST DETACHMENT WANDERED ACROSS the desert as the sun blasted them unmercifully. They were covered with perspiration, throats parched, eyes hollow, cheeks sunken. A garland of buzzards circled the sky, and purple mountains lined the plain. A mesa stood in the distance like a grotesque monument to a forgotten god.
The detachment was headed in a northerly direction, hoping to find their last water hole, but each man knew it was far away, and they might never reach it. Dazed by the sun, tongues swollen, they fought their way through cactus needles that ripped their clothes and flesh. Every step was agony as they watched for Apaches and prayed for miracles.
Lieutenant Dawes no longer could lie to himself as death lurked straight ahead. They'd become imperiled due to his own heedless folly, false pride, and low jealousy. Weakened by lack of food and water, guilt assailed him as his pants were shredded by thorns, his knees lost their bounce, and his broad shoulders drooped. He placed one foot in front of the other, although he knew that every movement was futile. But a soldier keeps advancing despite illness, wounds, doubts, confusion, and enemy fire.
He looked over his shoulder at cavalry troopers straggling behind him in a column of twos. Bearded, ragged, and demoralized, they wanted to shoot him in the back, and he couldn't blame them. His fancy West Point education hadn't amounted to much in Apache territory, and now he knew how Napoleon felt at Waterloo after Wellington's cavalry split his lines in the victory charge. Not only was he dying of thirst, but he felt like a failure.
He wanted to collapse onto the ground, never to move again, but a West Point officer can't disintegrate in front of his men. He hallucinated the castellated walls and emerald lawns at the renowned military academy on the Hudson. It was a grand charade, with form-fitting uniforms and blaring bands, but it hadn't prepared him for fighting the Apache in the desert of south Texas.
Whatever made me think that I could lead men in battle? he asked himself dreamily. The desert shimmered before him as Vanessa Fontaine advanced spectrally across the shifting sands. She wore the identical green dress as on the day he'd first seen her outside Gibson's General Store in Shelby. He'd fallen madly in love with her, never suspecting that the golden goddess would lead him to doom in southwest Texas.
“Gawd dammit!” shouted Private Cruikshank behind him. “Maybe I'm a-gonna die—but the son of a bitch who brought me here is a-gonna die first!”
Lieutenant Dawes turned and saw the soldiers arrayed against him. Cruikshank had drawn his service revolver and was pointing it at the middle of Dawes's chest.
Dawes was delirious as he staggered from side to side. He recalled Napoleon stopped by the king's soldiers on the Paris road after returning from his first exile. Lieutenant Dawes raised his trembling sunburnt hands and tore open his shirt, baring his chest. “If you want to shoot your commanding officer in cold blood, here I stand.”
A shot rang out, and for an instant Lieutenant Dawes thought he'd been killed. But he was still standing, and no ugly red hole appeared in the middle of his chest. Smoke rose from the barrel of Sergeant Mahoney's gun, who aimed it at the sky. “There'll be no more of that,” he said in a deadly tone. “The next shot'll be ‘twixt yer goddamned eyes, young private!”
The desert fell silent as the men looked at each other in dismay. All their marching, training, target practice, and spit and polish didn't amount to anything in the Texas desert. Cruikshank mumbled darkly as he holstered his gun. “If it wasn't fer that son of a bitch, we wouldn't be hyar.”
All eyes turned to Lieutenant Dawes, who replied in a dry, cracked voice, “We've got to hold together and try to help each other reach safety. It's the only way.”
Corporal Hazelwood spat at the ground. “We're finished, and everybody knows it. That fancy-pants bastard brought us, and we oughtta shoot ‘im!”
“You're right,” Dawes replied. “But if you kill me, you're stuck here anyway. And if the guards had been more vigilant, we'd be fine. I think we should die as comrades in arms, instead of shooting each other in the back like hooligans. We may not be good men, but at least we can be good soldiers.”
Weasellike Private Witherspoon said snidely, “I should've deserted while I had the chance.”
Lieutenant Dawes thought he'd appeal to their finer sensibilities. “I think we should bow our heads and ask for God's guidance.”
“If there's a God,” replied Private Cunningham, a redheaded ex-farmer from Missouri, “He would never've let us in this mess in the first place. We're stove up, and there's no way out.”
“I think,” Lieutenant Dawes said, “there are some here who still believe with me in the power of prayer. Gather around, men, and let's ask our creator for divine assistance.”
They bowed their heads, lips cracked, noses peeling, eyes bloodshot. “Dear God,” said Lieutenant Dawes, “have mercy on your poor Christian soldiers.”
They stood in silence, thinking of lost loves, squandered dreams, and crushing failures. They knew they were the dregs of the earth, for why e
lse had they joined the frontier army, to fight Apaches instead of becoming carpenters, farmers, mechanics, scriveners, businessmen, or even priests. Each reflected upon the path that had brought them to southwest Texas, where coyotes and buzzards followed at a safe distance, waiting for them to drop.
They heard a cry from Private Duckworth: “Water!” He was their point man, roving far ahead of the main unit, searching for whatever he could find. Their ears perked up, and they heard his parched voice again. “Water!”
They couldn't believe their ears. Was it a false echo from a far-off cave? They looked at each other in alarm, and then, as if driven by a single will, they headed toward Private Duckworth, images of cool trickling liquid on their tongues. They rampaged through clumps of cactus and scatterings of grama grass. “Water!” The voice came closer, and they could see green cottonwood trees in the distance.
“We're saved!” shouted Private Cruikshank.
Lieutenant Dawes believed that God had answered his prayer. It was a sign from heaven, just as God parted the Red Sea for the wandering Israelites. The men began to run, tongues hanging like dogs’. They stumbled over rocks, roots, and gopher holes as they made their way to the oasis in the middle of the desert. Suddenly they'd been given the gift of life!
Lieutenant Dawes tried to contain himself, but his throat was like sand, and his legs moved of their own volition. All he wanted was to bury his face in the water and drink deeply. Then they could hunt meat and become soldiers again. “I told you, boys—we'll get through this if we just hold together!”
