Paint the Wind

by Cathy Cash Spellman

  "I love our house," she whispered when the final fleeting explosion of ecstasy was done.

  "I love my wife," he whispered back.

  Even considering the size of the mansion, the coachman waiting down below thought three hours was a very long time to take in exploration.

  Fancy threw herself into the business of being rich and happy again like a death-row prisoner on unexpected reprieve. She finally had a house to rival Beau Rivage and her husband was the talk of Colorado. Wherever Chance McAllister walked, eyes followed, and not just women's eyes, although there were plenty of those to contend with. Men's eyes, too, for Chance was that most envied of humans, a bona fide winner.

  When he played, he won. Whether the game was business or poker, if the stakes were high, the odds were Chance was in the game and Chance was winning.

  Fancy had no idea what her husband owned; although she'd tried diligently enough over the years to keep track, Chance steadfastly kept her ignorant. And now that they lived in Denver, there really wasn't time to worry about where the endless stream of money came from, as long as it kept on coming.

  She had forgotten, or perhaps never really known, the price in obligations that must be paid for great wealth. She sometimes wondered if the life was changing her, as she saw it changing Chance.

  Fancy suffered the endless chatter of the dressmaker and the endless pinning of her hems. The condition of a wife's wardrobe said a great deal about the state of her husband's material success, so she was on constant call for fittings and fabric selection, now Chance was in the state legislature and on every committee in Christendom. I remember when I longed so for clothes like these, I would have sold my soul to get them, she chided herself. Now I'd rather just have the time I spend standing around being pinned!

  The rarefied stratum of society they inhabited in Denver and Leadville made perfection of wardrobe essential, which in turn necessitated trips to Worth in Paris, where the fashion dictator would show his collection by gaslight, on mannequins dressed only in black. It also made necessary the finding of a local dressmaker whose name was kept as secret as your age... and the constant parade of hatters and shoemakers and furriers who were currently wearing Fancy's patience thin.

  There was the custom of making calls to be coped with, too, and that was bound in more protocol than a papal visit. Fancy ticked off the foolish rules in her mind as she waited for the dressmaker to finish whatever damn fool thing she was doing. Newly established Denverites had to wait to be called upon by the old guard, and sometimes reams of letters of introduction had to be written before you passed this first hurdle. Then you had a week in which to return the call, by appearing at the door or having your coachmen do so. If the maid said Madame would receive you, you went to the parlor, being sure to keep on your hat, veil, and gloves—a gentleman, on the other hand, left his coat with the servant but carried in his hat, cane, and gloves and then left them on floor or windowsill (never on furniture) and God help anyone who transgressed one of these absurd regulations!

  On arriving in the parlor, your hostess had the option of not introducing you to any of her other guests, as they might not wish to know you. Fancy bridled at remembrance of one such humiliating moment when she'd first moved to Denver. "Fancy McAllister?" fat Mrs. Cudahy had said, looking as if she smelled week-old fish. "The dance hall girl?" How could so much derision get squeezed into three small words? "The wife of the legislator who's turning this backwater into a state!" Fancy'd responded, matching the woman's arrogance to perfection. "A former mine worker, I believe," the matron pursued. "And current millionaire," Fancy'd snapped, before she showed the old biddy a clean pair of heels.

  There were still those who, despite her unconscionable wealth, referred to her derogatorily as "that actress." At least that was better than the ones who called her "that piece of baggage who had herself auctioned off in Leadville." That choice morsel of history refused to stay buried. A man could sleep with jackrabbits and be forgiven if he struck it rich, but a woman's past was another matter entirely.

  If you arrived on other than your hostess' "at home" day, you left your card and turned down its right-hand corner, Fancy wasn't sure just why; if you were leaving town for a time, you could write ppc (pour prendre conge) on the bottom corner of the card. "The Elite meeting the Elect," Chance called it. At Beau Rivage one went out of one's way to be gracious to guests and to let them bask in hospitality—all this pretentious Denver protocol was just silly, time-consuming nouveau riche nonsense. I am Fancy Deverell of Beau Rivage and I am not a beggar!

  "That's enough for today, Eleanor," Fancy said, suddenly stifled by obligation—by wifehood and motherhood and charityhood and upstanding citizenhood. She stood on the stoop outside the dressmaker's house and hungrily breathed in the crisp mountain air around her. She thought of Bandana and Jewel and their irreverence toward all sacred cows. God, how I miss being free, she thought, finally focusing on what really troubled her. I hate being nice to all those old biddies, the matrons of "The Sacred Thirty-Six" without whose sanction you were "nobody." Sacred, my eye, she thought, why it's all just mining money and intermarriage with the rich of other cities or with penniless European royalty that's put them where they are. Their money's no better or worse than mine.

  No matter. She didn't care a stick about any of them. Not one of the thirty-six had the wit or wisdom of a Magda or Wes or Gitalis. At least living in Denver made her circus friends more accessible.

  That's just what I need today, Fancy thought suddenly, her boredom and annoyance evaporating. I need to see real people. Relieved at the prospect of escaping from propriety for the afternoon, she had her coachman head toward the other end of town in search of the freedom of old, wise friends.

  "Uncle Jason! Uncle Jason!" Aurora shouted excitedly from the carriage window.

  Jason Madigan looked up sharply from the conversation he was holding with John Arkin of the Chronicle, and saw the beautiful child alight from the carriage and run toward him on the dusty street as her nanny looked on disapprovingly. Her dark curls bounced and her cheeks were flushed with eager color. What an exquisite little beauty she had become.

  Almost without knowing he intended to do so, Jason opened his arms to the girl and she ran into his embrace. He felt oddly flattered by her exuberance, as if he'd been singled out for some special award.

  "Oh, Uncle Jason," she breathed, hugging him close. "You have absolutely no idea how much I've missed you! Mama told me you were here and I've been watching for you everywhere. I just knew I'd find you."

  "Why that's very flattering, Aurora... and I must say I've missed you, too. Now that we are reacquainted, my dear, you must tell me all about yourself. Whatever has been going on in your life since last we saw each other?"

  Aurora frowned. "My mother married Chance McAllister and started having babies," she said. "I barely ever see her... not that I care all that much."

  Jason heard the crankiness in the girl's voice and wondered what had provoked it; the child had worshiped her mother, all those years ago.

  "You must tell me what you do care about, Aurora," he prompted gently. "Now that we've found each other again, I'd like to give you a little present for old times' sake, so you must tell me what gives you pleasure."

  Aurora considered the question for a long moment. "Could you come to visit me sometimes, Uncle Jason? Remember that horse you bought for me when I was little?... I still love to ride. Maybe you and I could ride together, like we used to."

  So she still remembers me with love, he thought, warmed by the knowledge. Obviously McAllister had not captured Aurora's heart, as he had her mother's.

  Jason patted the youngster's arm proprietarily. "I visit here frequently these days, my dear," he said. "I'd be honored if you would occasinally give me the pleasure of your company when I'm in town. I'll ask your mother's permission, of course, but I expect she'll grant it."

  He walked her back to her carriage, as gallantly as if she were a great lady. "I snail ca
ll upon you within the week, Aurora," he promised as he bade her good-bye.

  The carriage began to pull away, but Aurora stuck her head out the window impetuously.

  "I've always loved you, Uncle Jason!" she blurted, then retreated into the recesses of the coach before he was obliged to reply.

  Touched and thoughtful, Jason stood on the street corner for several minutes before returning to his conversation.

  Chapter 82

  In the year when Hart arrived in Apacheria, Gokhlaya and General Crook were playing hide-and-seek in the Sierra Madre. The Chiracahua band that the white man became part of was already thinned by warfare and wearied from the long fight with the endless stream of white soldiers and settlers who had disrupted the Apache's once orderly existence.

  Despite the horror stories he'd always heard about the bloodthirsty Apaches who needlessly attacked white settlers, Hart found the reverse was closer to the truth. The discovery of gold and silver in the Southwest in the 1860s had brought a flood of prospectors into the Arizona and New Mexico Territories, which were the traditional hunting grounds and the sacred places of the

  Apache. The People, who knew no reason to be otherwise, were at first accepting of the white man; they believed the land to be large and bountiful enough for all to take from it what they needed, and the concept of land ownership was alien to them, as all land belonged to Usen, for the good of all men.

  At first the sporadic wagon trains were merely treated with curiosity or disdain by the Apache, but as it became apparent that this endless stream of interlopers had no intention of sharing, only of taking, the People began to strike back. As hostility surfaced, and as the numbers of whites increased drastically under the protection of the army, the Apaches retaliated; ranches were pillaged, wagon trains attacked, stages were waylaid and destroyed.

  Because atrocities against the Indians were considered acceptable and necessary, while similar atrocities against the white man made front-page news, soon the Apaches, who were native to this pilfered land, were treated as animals to be hunted and destroyed by any means possible. Newspapers carried items advising travelers on how to kill Indians efficiently: a mixture of brown sugar, crackers, and strychnine was one of the popular methods touted, and scalp bounties ranged from twenty-five dollars for a child's to fifty dollars for a squaw's and a hundred dollars for a warrior's, so it was no wonder that the braves of Gokhlaya's Chiracahua band looked with considerable disfavor on the warrior's white guest.

  Hart was definitely strong enough to walk unaided now, he thought with satisfaction as he hunkered down to crawl outside the wickiup.

  Gokhlaya had introduced him to the men of the tribe; he could see they were wary and begrudging of the protection he'd been afforded, but a tightly structured environment existed in camp, rules were to be followed, taboos observed. Due to Gokhlaya's protection he was, for the moment, safe. Hart sensed he was being ridiculed, sized up, but he was not yet fluent in the Apache language, so he was spared the worst of it.

  He watched the bustle in the camp and noted that most physical labor of Apache life fell to the women. They carried the heavy water tus and immense loads of firewood; he already knew they performed all the duties of breaking camp and moving it, for they'd done so twice since his arrival. The care of children, cooking, cleaning, making clothing and ceremonial garments was also theirs.

  The men, it seemed to him, did far less. They hunted, of course, and depending upon the terrain and the season, that could be an all-consuming effort. But Hart knew from Gokhlaya that their primary function was that of warrior, so when there was no war, the Apache men spent their time in gambling or in games of skill and strength.

  Gokhlaya, standing in a circle of men, noticed Hart's progress from the wickiup, and joined him as he watched a group of boys involved in an unfamiliar game.

  "They are training to be warriors," Gokhlaya explained as he drew abreast. "Many restrictions are required of these novices—to become warriors they must pass numerous tests and ordeals."

  So the games are not games at all, Hart thought, but training camps. "What kind of restrictions?" he asked aloud.

  "A boy in training must not scratch his head except with a scratching stick, he must drink water only through a special tube. He must not be untruthful, or a coward. He must not eat or drink too much, nor have sexual intercourse more than the ordinary amount, or these things would become his nature.

  "When he is on a raid, he must use the special war language and must never eat warm food."

  Hart nodded, wonderingly, and thought of what fine drawings these activities would provide. "What weapons do they learn?" he asked.

  "They are trained in the skillful use of bows and arrows, war clubs, knives, lances, shields, rocks, and slings. Finally, they learn of guns. They learn most of all to perfect the weapon of their own bodies, for that is the one which makes the true difference in battle. An Apache warrior is trained to run one hundred miles with one mouthful of water to sustain him. He carries the water on his tongue for the first fifty miles and then swallows it to give strength for the second fifty miles."

  Hart shook his head in amused astonishment; it was little wonder the government had so much trouble subduing this tribe. What a contest of men it might have been if both sides were possessed of equal numbers and weaponry.

  Gokhlaya's stories of Apache training inspired Hart to set himself a daily exercise routine as soon as his body could sustain it. Each morning he would walk or run, stretch his unused muscles, and attempt to regain his strength and agility. The warriors watched his solitary efforts and joked among themselves, but Hart paid them no mind.

  One morning as he emerged from his wickiup, a warrior called Blue Shirt, because of a favorite garment, beckoned the white man to join in the games that were already in progress. Hart would have thought it a comradely gesture had it come from another source; but this brave had watched him with hostility through the past weeks and it appeared, from the expression of contained humor on the faces of the other men, that he meant Hart no good.

  Blue Shirt handed the white man a feather-trimmed lance and indicated with signs that Hart was to aim for the very distant target he had set up. The Kansan had no skill with the unaccustomed weapon, and Blue Shirt's smile made it clear this was a test of manhood. At a considerable disadvantage, Hart picked up the long lance warily. It was carved from the dead stalk of sotol, which had been fire-straightened and hardened, and he knew from Gokhlaya that war leaders often used lances like this one to prove their courage. He hefted the weapon and threw it far and straight, but as he had no experience of the lance's idiosyncrasies in flight, it fell short of the mark. All around him tittered, as Blue Shirt took two lances from the hand of a nearby brave and threw them in such swift and fluid movements that the first one hit the target's center precisely and the second struck so close it seemed to share the same entry point.

  "Perhaps the white-eyes should hunt with the small girls," Blue Shirt declared, to the merriment of all near enough to hear the exchange. Hart noticed that the women had now gathered alongside their men, and were clapping their hands in glee. He could sense an odd exhilaration in the group and knew that if he did not redeem his manhood in some way, the disgrace would linger.

  Glancing up, he saw Gokhlaya at the rear of the group frowning ominously. The Apache offered no advice or encouragement, but something in his stance told Hart that Gokhlaya's honor, too, could be forfeit by his failure; he signaled the People to wait and hastily returned to the wickiup. When he rejoined them he carried his sketch pad and charcoal.

  Hart laid the art supplies on the ground and tugged his shirt off over his head; despite his recent illness, his physique was powerful and he could see the acknowledgment of his great size in the watchers' appraising eyes.

  "There's one sport that's pretty much the same in any language," he called out to Blue Shirt. "Let's see what happens if we fight each other man to man."

  Real excitement murmured through the
onlookers—the Apaches loved few things better than a contest of manhood. They edged as close as they could to the arena. Blue Shirt grinned at Hart's response; no challenge could have pleased him more, for he was big and brawny, and cunning enough that few men in the tribe were his equal in hand-to-hand combat.

  The braves who formed the circle around the men began to shout to Blue Shirt as the fight gained momentum. Wrestling and boxing, the two antagonists grappled with each other's strengths and gauged each other's weaknesses. Hart was fast for his size, but Blue Shirt was more agile and in peak condition.

  The watching braves murmured at the contest's duration; these were two strong men who pitted their skills against each other. The battle increased in frenzy until, at last, the cheering crowd began to shout admiration for both combatants. Finally, Hart's formidable size and strength turned the tide in his direction, but Blue Shirt fought valiantly until he could no longer force his screaming muscles to his will. By the time the white man wrestled the Indian to the ground, locked in a hold he couldn't escape, both men's bodies were so covered with blood and dirt that except for Hart's hair, they were nearly indistinguishable.