White Apache

by Len Levinson

  Thirteen

  Chuntz opened his eyes. Nearby, Martita cut a rabbit, which she had shot herself with bow and arrow, into thin slices. She'd lit no fire, because fires attracted enemies. Her small hand moved rapidly, as she knew how to use a knife. “Come and eat,” she said.

  Chuntz felt peculiar, as if pent-up rage and viciousness had evaporated during the night. He couldn't remember such serenity, not even as a boy. She arranged the strips on a bed of leaves. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye as he reached for sustenance.

  There could be no doubt that she was ghastly, yet in the darkness, with her desperately clutching arms, she had given him pleasure. He realized that despite her long nose and chin, the deep wrinkles and sniveling expression, she was the only woman who'd loved him, outside of his mother.

  Moreover, Martita didn't appear quite so sniveling in the morning with the sun glistening her hair, as if she had gained a small measure of confidence during the night, and he knew there was power in that deceptive little body. She had tried to please him, an unusual experience for a despised lonely man.

  In fact, a mellow glow seemed to surround both of them. He bit his lip when he recalled that he'd thought about selling her to the Comancheros. But who would pay for such a repulsive wraith? Yet she understood him completely, for she was as loathed as he.

  “I have been thinking,” she said. “It is a bad thing that we are doing. If we bring bluecoat soldiers to our camp, the little ones will be harmed.”

  Chuntz nodded. “Perhaps we should forget this nonsense.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I apologize for what I did last night. I feel very ashamed.”

  “You did nothing wrong.”

  “Well . . . in a way I forced you, against your will.”

  “It was not against my will. Do you really think you could defeat me, you funny little mouse?”

  She appeared pleased by his answer, and even somewhat pretty as she smiled. Seated by the fire, no one would guess she was misshapen. “I have been thinking also,” he said. “Perhaps you should live in my wickiup. I am a good hunter, and we will work well together.”

  The smile vanished from her face, and she appeared as if struck by an arrow. Then she swallowed the meat in her mouth, took a sip of water, and said, “As man and wife?”

  Playfully, he slapped her rear end. “Perhaps we will have children to bring us meat when we are old.”

  On May 16, 1857, Colonel Bonneville's army established a permanent camp alongside the Gila River in the mountainous region north of the Santa Rita Copper Mines. Tents were pitched in straight rows, the camp was named the Gila Depot, and shortly there-after, the remainder of Colonel Loring's Mounted Rifle Regiment arrived, raising the strength of the expedition to eight hundred men.

  Detachments systematically searched for Apaches, continually expanding their range, while Colonel Bonneville remained behind in the Gila Depot, recovering his strength following the fatiguing journey. One afternoon, during an impromptu inspection of the camp, he noticed Lieutenant Lazalle sitting on the ground, writing furiously in his notebook, as soldiers cleaned and rearranged the interior of the lieutenant's tent. Colonel Bonneville padded toward Lieutenant Lazalle, who jumped to attention and saluted.

  “What are you writing?” asked Colonel Bonneville.

  “Just my half-baked thoughts, sir,” said Lieutenant Lazalle apologetically.

  “May I see it?”

  “It's rather personal, sir.”

  Colonel Bonneville snatched the journal out of his hands. “Nothing is personal in this command.” The colonel perused the pages, a half-amused smile on his face. One passage in particular raised his eyebrows, so he read aloud:

  The Gila Expedition originated in the bombastic folly of a silly old man already in his dotage, and thus far conducted with a degree of stupidity almost asinine.

  "This is what you think of your commanding officer?” demanded Colonel Bonneville.

  Lieutenant Lazalle turned purple. “It's the fragment of a novel I'm writing, not a true record of this expedition, sir. Or perhaps I'll turn it into a poem.”

  “I had no idea a budding Homer was traveling with me, and I must say, you have a way with words. Here's another edifying passage, concerning my aide, Captain Covington.

  I was thoroughly disgusted today by the ever-running tongue of Captain George Covington, whose vulgar personality and fulsome conversation render him an object to be loathed and shunned. He is an accomplished blackguard formed by Nature and perfected by Art.

  Lieutenant Lazalle cleared his throat, fearing Captain Covington would challenge him to a duel. “You're invading my private thoughts, sir,” he managed to say.

  Colonel Bonneville raised his eyebrows as he read what he considered an erroneous account of the fire set by Apaches. “I don't mind your insulting me personally, but you should get your facts straight. Lieutenant Lazalle. Perhaps you were in fear of your miserable life when Apaches were frying our asses, but you're something of a dolt, so it's to be expected. I should throw this insulting and pernicious little journal into the nearest fire, but my association with Thomas Paine has convinced me of the need for freedom of expression, so I give it back to you, you whiny little dog.”

  Colonel Bonneville continued his walk, leaving Lieutenant Lazalle trembling perceptibly. My career is over, thought the literary lieutenant. The only possible way to redeem myself would be to perform a heroic act, which is unlikely since fundamentally I'm a coward. Thank goodness I can always go back to Massachusetts, where I shall take up the profession of literature, and who knows, perhaps I'll become the new Fitz-Greene Halleck or Edgar Allan Poe.

  The camp was ringed by a jumble of tooth-edged mountains, and on one sat the great chief Mangas Coloradas, frowning at tents arrayed like white flowers beneath him. Since the war between the Nakai-yes Mexicans and the Pindah-lickoyee White Eyes, never had so many bluecoat soldiers gathered together in New Mexico Territory.

  If those bluecoat soldiers below can't steal our homeland, they merely will send more, he considered, stroking his chin with long bony fingers. Thus far we have been able to elude them, but if they continue to fill these valleys with soldiers, where can we go?

  A tear rolled down the cheek of Mangas Coloradas as he contemplated the destruction of the People. There can be no peace with these White Eyes, he swore, because they will politely permit us to starve, as did Steck with my brother Cuchillo Negro. We shall stay out of their way for the time being, but one day a final price will be paid for this land, which I shall collect in blood.

  The Comanchero town resembled the previous one, except it had not yet been burned to the ground. Another mélange of adobe huts on both sides of a trail, its most prominent landmark was a combination saloon, general store, and bank. Outlaws and desperadoes could be seen on the sidewalks, all warily observing Cuchillo Negro and five warriors riding into town.

  They came to a halt in front of the saloon, hitched their horses, left one warrior outside as guard, and headed for the front door. Cuchillo Negro was first inside, the aroma so awful his eyes watered, and he coughed deep in his lungs, then reemerged into the fresh air. “A warrior cannot go into such a place,” he said.

  They waited on the sidewalk, hoping someone would ask what they wanted, and sure enough, it wasn't long before a mustachioed Comanchero in a red shirt and a bear-tooth necklace came outside. "I am El Gato,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “Cuchillo Negro.”

  El Gato bowed. “I have heard of you. What do you have to sell?”

  “Sheep.”

  El Gato shook his head sadly. “There is no demand at present, but perhaps in another moon—”

  Cuchillo Negro interrupted him. “You know very well that I cannot keep them for a moon, you thief.”

  “Why did you steal sheep, of all things? Why not horses or mules, which have value? Gringos don't like sheep, because they spoil the grazing for cattle. But I could give you a few rifles for them.”

/>   “A few!” exploded Cuchillo Negro. “You are cheating me!”

  “Why should I lose money on your sheep?”

  “Tomas from the other Comanchero town asked for these sheep, and now he is gone.”

  El Gato smiled. “Why did you not say so? Tomas is here now, but has no money. He is lucky to be alive.”

  “It's true,” said a voice behind Cuchillo Negro.

  The old war chief turned quickly. Disheveled, in rags, holding a bottle, Tomas staggered toward him. “I am sorry, but I am ruined,” he said.

  “You have enough for whiskey, I notice.”

  “I always have enough for whiskey, but here, take a swig.”

  Cuchillo Negro smacked the bottle out of Tomas's hand, and it went flying into the street. “Tell me what to do with the sheep. You said you had a buyer.”

  “I have not spoken with him for a long time.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Sonora.”

  “I cannot drive these sheep that far, especially with bluecoat soldiers searching for the People.”

  Tomas held out his hands. “I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do.”

  Cuchillo Negro turned to El Gato. “Why don't you sell the sheep to the buyer in Sonora?”

  “How will I drive them there with you and your warriors prowling around. You'll probably steal them from me and sell them again.”

  “You do not trust me,” said Cuchillo Negro.

  “And you do not trust me either, so how can we do business? Bring horses and mules, then we'll talk.”

  Clarissa entered Fort Marcy's headquarters, and the sergeant behind the desk looked up. “May I help you, ma'am?”

  “My husband was Captain Nathanial Barrington, and I wonder if I might speak with the commanding officer.”

  Sergeant Tooey stared at her for a few moments. “I'm proud to say that I served under Captain Barrington, ma'am. I saw him get in a fight once that . . .” The sergeant cleared his throat. “Please have a seat. I'll see if Captain Medlowe is busy.”

  Clarissa was amazed by emotions evoked by the mere mention of her husband's name. The sergeant opened a door at the rear of the orderly room and held a conversation with someone inside. I hardly knew my husband, she admitted.

  “He'll see you now, Mrs. Barrington.”

  She entered the rear office, where a tanned, well-groomed officer arose behind his desk. “I'm Captain Medlowe. What can I do for you Mrs. Barrington?”

  She thought, here's another decent and reasonably attractive gentleman, with perfect manners and gracious bearing, the kind you could take anywhere. “I'm trying to return east and wondered if you might have a detachment leaving for Fort Union.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, but most of the traffic is coming in this direction. As you know, New Mexico Territory is in a state of war, and even the Jicarillas are acting up. You might be stuck in Santa Fe for the winter.”

  “A fate worse than death,” she replied.

  “If you need an escort here in Santa Fe, may I nominate myself?” He smiled. “You may be interested to know that I was rather friendly with your husband, Mrs. Barrington. We were posted to the Santa Rita Copper Mines, just after the Fugitive Slave Act had passed in ‘50. There was one afternoon when I thought Nathanial was going to take on the entire officers’ mess, because he hated the constant politicking. Nathanial had tremendous courage, and I consider it a privilege to have known him.” Captain Medlowe did not see fit to mention Nathanial's numerous drunken binges at the Santa Rita Copper Mines, nor the time Nathanial had beaten Lieutenant Whipple into unconsciousness.

  Clarissa headed toward the front gate, wondering why she wasn't attracted to decent men such as Captains Medlowe and Tolbert. Perhaps they remind me too much of Nathanial, and I crave something completely different—like McCabe.

  “I have had a vision,” said Cuchillo Negro. “We shall sell the sheep to the bluecoat army!”

  The shepherds sat around the night campfire and looked at each other in surprise. “But . . . but,” stuttered Barbonsito, “the army will say that you stole them, and will take the sheep without paying, and shoot you.”

  Cuchillo Negro raised his finger in the air. “You are forgetting that I observed the White Eyes closely when I lived among them at Fort Thorn. They are practical when it comes to their bellies, and by now they have been away from their fort almost a moon. Their war chief has many mouths to feed, and a convenient flock of sheep will solve their problems for the time being. I know how to deal with the White Eyes. They have no ideals where their bellies are concerned.”

  They nodded solemnly, for Cuchillo Negro indeed had lived among the White Eyes, his plan appearing logical. Sunny Bear wanted to point out the obvious hazards, but was confined to war language, and didn't know how to express himself. “I don't think—”

  Cuchillo Negro interrupted with a scowl. “Silence, apprentice. You are not yet worthy to offer advice.”

  “But—”

  “You have heard the war chief,” said Coletto Armarillo. “If you violate our code, it can lead to catastrophe.”

  But I'm trying to avoid a more certain catastrophe, thought Sunny Bear. Yet religion was the bedrock of their lives, and they might kill whoever violated its precepts. I will abide by their wishes, decided Sunny Bear, and perhaps I can mediate between both parties.

  Jocita sat in Nana's wickiup, layering leaves and mud on Victorio's wound. The great warrior was asleep, and Jocita had received instructions from Nana on how to treat him. “Victorio, you must regain your health,” she whispered. “The people need you.”

  He opened his eyes to narrow slits, as if he understood, then dozed off again. She departed Nana's wickiup and noticed her son walking toward her. The Snake Dance had healed him, and he'd been on his feet four suns, seemingly as good as ever. As a religious woman she assigned his miraculous cure to the benevolence of the mountain spirits, and not to Juh, who had sucked out most of the poison.

  “I am going hunting with the other boys,” said Running Deer.

  She doubted he was fully recovered, but he would be with other boys, and the camp could use fresh meat. “You must be careful,” she said.

  Later in the day Running Deer and the boys departed on foot, carrying bows and arrows. Soon there-after, a woman named Hiza approached Jocita. “Chuntz and Martita have not been seen for six suns,” she said.

  Jocita frowned, for Chuntz and Martita were the most unpleasant members of the clan. “Is it possible that they have run off together?”

  “I do not trust them. I fear they are betraying us.”

  “Then we must be more watchful.”

  Jocita attended to her many duties the rest of the day, alert like the other women. By sundown Chuntz, Martita, and the boys had not yet returned, and the camp felt out of harmony with the holy Lifeway. Then one woman guard shouted, “Somebody's coming!”

  Jocita's heart leapt, for she thought her son was returning. Nonetheless, she strung a new arrow in her quiver and pointed in the direction of the trail.

  The heads of grown warriors appeared over the rise, and at first Jocita thought Mangas Coloradas had come back, but then detected strangers, possibly enemies. The other women readied their bows, but the lead warrior raised his hand in the air. “I am José Largo of the Jicarillas—may we camp with you?”

  Jocita and the other women drew closer. Some of the warriors had been wounded, with a few women among them. The Mimbrenos helped the Jicarillas to the ground. José Largo was unsteady on his feet, his arm bandaged with deerskin. “We have suffered a defeat, and now we are on our way to the Land of the Nakai-yes, because we refuse to live on the reservation the White Eyes have chosen for us. Where are your warriors?”

  “They are fighting Pindah soldiers who have invaded our land.”

  José Largo spat a gob of blood at the ground. “They are everywhere, like lice, and so are other enemies, for we have seen many tracks. Your homeland is no longer safe, and you should come with us to M
exico.”

  “Perhaps we will when our warriors return,” said Jocita. “You did not see boys hunting?”

  José Largo shook his head.

  Running Deer crept through the grass, listening for dangerous sounds. Ahead sat a rabbit, nibbling a seed. Slowly, barely perceptibly, the boy pulled back the deer sinew string of his bow. The rabbit stopped chewing and looked directly at him, but Running Deer blended with the desert, and not even his eyelashes flickered.

  The rabbit placed another seed into its mouth as Running Deer let go the string. There was a sudden humming sound, and the rabbit's breast was skewered by a wooden shaft. The rabbit frowned at Running Deer, then collapsed onto the ground.

  The child did not move, and neither did he shout for joy. Ever since his day with cousin Geronimo, he had been a little warrior. His scarred arm gave him bat power, he believed, otherwise he would not have returned from his deep snake sleep, in which he had seen many visions.

  The rabbit lay on the ground, one good meal for a boy and his mother, but someone had to hunt for the old people too. He was aware of the sun going down, and though they were far from home, Apache boys feared nothing except cowardice itself.

  He pulled the arrow, strung the rabbit to a leather thong, and tied it to his waist. Then he searched for another spot where game might be found when he heard sinister sounds. Turning about, he was shocked to see riders heading toward him and the other boys! For a moment Running Deer was unable to think, but then remembered his father, Juh, cousin Geronimo, and his mother, Jocita the warrior woman. The riders were coming fast, whirling lariats over their heads, and surely would run him down, but he had been awarded the power of the bat, and might have a chance.

  He burrowed into the ground as he heard someone shout, “I see one of the l'il bastards over thar!”

  The boy had no idea what the White Eyes said, but understood the enemy's malevolent intentions. He withdrew an arrow from his cougar-skin quiver and strung it to the bow. The White Eyes was bearing down on him, circling the rope over his head. “Why you Injun sum-bitch—you ain't a-gonna try an’ kill me, are you?”