by Len Levinson
The White Eyes needed the boy alive, so he could sell him as a slave down Mexico way. He did not believe a mere child could fire an arrow at a moving target and actually hit anything.
His horse was named Bob, a huge muscled stallion at the peak of life, stolen from the wealthy owner of a hacienda. He crashed through the underbrush as his rider prepared to toss his lariat. The boy let the arrow fly, and it punctured his pursuer's chest. In disbelief the White Eyes tried to yank the shaft out, but his body went slack, and he dropped out of the saddle.
I have killed my first Pindah, thought Running Deer happily, as he watched his adversary hit the ground. The boy of the People leapt to his feet, ran toward the horse, dived onto its back, and grabbed the reins. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw outlaws lassoing his friends, but he could not fight them alone. I must notify the People, he thought, legs gripping the horse firmly, toenails digging in like bat claws. He sped over desert wastes, bullets whizzing past his ears, and soon he was obscured in the twilight.
Alone, he worked his small body with the motion of the big horse as he raced past gnarled desert foliage. “Faster,” he whispered into Bob's cocked ear. “We must save my friends.”
***
“Someone is coming!”
Jocita was awakened from light slumber in the middle of the night. She grabbed her bow and quiver of arrows, then crawled out of the wickiup, joining other women emerging with weapons.
“It is Running Dear!” called the guard.
Jocita's heart stumbled as she heard advancing hoofbeats. She and the other women had been worried about the boys, and now a big horse appeared on the trail leading up the mountain, with a small figure sitting firmly on top. Jocita ran forward as the horse galloped into the center of the wickiups, then came to a stop, raising his hooves high in the air. When they returned to earth, Running Deer jumped down and ran to his mother.
“White Eyes captured the other boys!” he announced. “But I have managed to escape!”
Jocita dropped to one knee and looked him over in the moonlight. He carried a few bruises, but otherwise appeared sound. “Can you lead us to them?”
“Of course. I have even killed one with my arrow when he tried to catch me.”
“You are a little hero,” she replied, “and now we must save your friends.”
The women prepared weapons, gathered horses, and did not waste time packing food. There was no complaining or weeping among them, because these were not chubby bejeweled society princesses who spent their lives munching pastries and discussing the latest hairstyles. Trained in use of weapons from an early age, they were muscled sinewy women who could ride and fight without the least reluctance. Their children would be sold into slavery, and fierce maternal pride made them especially vengeful.
Elderly men and women remained behind to protect Victorio, the camp, and other children. In a single column the horses of armed warrior women galloped down the side of the mountain, led by a small boy whose legs clung batlike to his mount.
Fourteen
The outlaws were led by Jody Raybuck, veteran of robberies, murders, and assaults. Son of drunkards, he had been on his own since the age of nine, drifting ever west to escape the law.
He and his similar-minded desperadoes enjoyed the freebooting life, earning money however it came their way, and if they attacked a farmhouse, killing all inhabitants, it was reported as an Indian atrocity.
Raybuck carried a belly like a pregnancy and sported a black beard with gray streaks. He looked like a kindly uncle, instead of a vicious killer, as he sat by the breakfast fire, eating bacon and beans, his once-white vaquero hat on the back of his head. The fire emitted a smoke trail, but the outlaws were well armed and doubted anyone would dare molest them. Like many Americans, they were contemptuous of Indians, whom they considered even more degraded than themselves.
They had untied their captives and permitted them to join the feast, because they wanted healthy merchandise. “Any of you li'l fuckers tries to make a run fer it, I'll beat you to a pulp,” warned Raybuck.
The frightened children were calm, and none cried. They knew help was on the way, for the People would not let their children be stolen.
“Too bad they ain't Nigras,” commented Cal Teneel, another of the outlaws, his beard decorated by a misplaced bean. “Back home, I could get five hundred dollars apiece for ‘em.”
“You ain't home,” reminded Raybuck.
Cal Teneel, like Raybuck, had risen from the gutter. “If you don't like it—don't listen.”
Raybuck and Teneel stared malevolently at each other. Bo Carter, another of the outlaws said, “Hey, let's relax here. We got a lot of ground to cover today.”
The outlaws didn't notice Apache boys glancing at each other significantly. Suddenly, the air filled with whistling sounds, shafts appeared in the torsos of outlaws, and the air trembled with screams. Captors writhed on the ground, then warrior women burst out of the cactus and chaparral, knives in their hands. In seconds they had overrun the campsite.
The boys cheered as their mothers gathered them into their arms, while at the edge of the clearing, Running Deer watched, legs far apart, little chest bursting with pride. His mother kissed his cheek. “I am proud of you, my son. Not only did you escape, but you led us to your friends. In time to come, the story of your deed will be told by old women and never shall be forgotten. From this day onward, you are called Fast Rider.”
Later that day, Captain Tolbert arrived at Maria Dolores's mansion with a wagon and crew of two soldiers. Clarissa's belongings were loaded as she thanked Maria Dolores for her hospitality and she kissed Maria Dolores's children by Nathanial, as if they were one happy family. Then Clarissa rode in the wagon toward her new home, which she was renting from Maria Dolores.
Clarissa hadn't asked McCabe's help, because she didn't care to be alone with such a man. It wasn't that she mistrusted him, but doubted her ability to remain under control. McCabe stimulated her in a troubling way that had nothing to do with romance, yet seemed frighteningly appealing.
“Lovely day,” said Captain Tolbert, riding alongside the carriage.
What a banal remark, thought Clarissa. Nathanial never would make such a comment, while McCabe would rip my clothes off once he got inside my house. Which is precisely what I want. Oh, Lord—I hope there's a military escort leaving soon for the east.
Later, as Clarissa was settling into her new home, a package arrived from her mother, containing a letter and news clips tied with a string. When finished with complaints from bucolic Gramercy Park, Clarissa plowed into the stack of clippings.
On the national scene, President Buchanan had made a speech in which he stated: “The object of my administration will be to halt the agitation on the slavery question, and to destroy political parties based solely on section.” Meanwhile, William Lloyd Garrison, a founder of the New England Anti-Slavery Society, declared, “No Union with slaveholders!” at a speech in Worcester, Massachusetts. Scientific American Magazine warned that the world whale population was in danger of extinction, because improved literacy rates had increased the demand for whale oil used in lamps. The first railroad bridge over the Mississippi had opened between Rock Island, Illinois and Davenport, Iowa. New York's first passenger elevator, invented by Elisha Otis, had been installed in Haughwout's Department Store on Broadway.
Clarissa caught a sense of the “go ahead” spirit of the fifties, with new towns sprouting where forests previously had existed, and a furiously expanding economy fueled by borrowed cash. Some naysayers warned that the bubble would burst, but no one wanted to believe dispiriting news. Maria Dolores is right, decided Clarissa. Albuquerque will have a rail-road one day, but my roots are in the East, and I am leaving this damned frontier as soon as I can.
Mangas Coloradas sat firmly in his saddle, his heart leaden as he and his warriors rode toward the Black Range. The People are being driven from their homeland, he reflected, but the People will survive, and in time, perhaps b
luecoat soldiers will go elsewhere. It is better to buy time than spill blood. Perhaps I can make a treaty with the Mexicans, who are not as strong as the White Eyes, and then, in a few harvests, we shall return to the homeland.
Ahead of the column, Geronimo signaled that he had found tracks. The others climbed off their horses and studied the ground. No one had to speak, the message clear. Unshod ponies and a flock of sheep had passed that point one sun ago.
“Perhaps it is Cuchillo Negro,” offered Geronimo.
Mangas Coloradas scratched his head. It was clear that warriors had come that way, and Cuchillo Negro had gone for sheep. “Whoever they are, they will run into the bluecoat army, and we should stop them. If we hurry, we should catch them early tomorrow.”
“They may be enemies,” cautioned Juh.
“We are many, and they are few, my brothers,” replied Mangas Coloradas. “If they are enemies, we shall take the sheep for ourselves.”
Next morning, crossing the square before the Palace of Governors, Clarissa spotted McCabe shambling from the opposite direction. He was dressed indifferently in jeans and a loose plaid shirt, cowboy hat tilted low over his eyes, thumbs hooked in his pockets. Pure lust assailed her, although there was no logical reason why she would be attracted to such an ogre.
He removed his hat and grinned. “I been lookin’ all over fer you, Mrs. Barrington. A piano has showed up at Maria Dolores's house, but it's fer y'all. The feller what delivered it said it come on a wagon train that got hit by Comanches. Then it landed in a warehouse in San Antone, ‘cause the transport company went out of bizness. Anyway, I'll put it in a wagon and deliver it to yer place first thang in the morning.”
She couldn't help noticing his hips as he continued on his way. But she didn't stare, because ladies don't indulge such weakness, at least not in public. Instead, she resumed her dignified walk home as the realization struck her with full force. Tomorrow morning I'll be alone with McCabe!
The ground before Chuntz and Martita looked like every other length of desert, except for bent blades of grass and a rock lying at an odd angle. The lovers ascertained that no enemies stalked them, then climbed down from their saddles and studied the language of markings. A herd of sheep had passed that morning, accompanied by unshod horses, probably from the People. “Perhaps we should join them,” suggest Chuntz.
Martita didn't argue, because there was strength with greater numbers. The Romeo and Juliet of Apaches climbed onto their horses and followed the sheep trail onward.
Cuchillo Negro and his warriors bedded down after sunset, the sheep asleep in nearby wilderness. The air was still except for the occasional bleat of a lamb and the howling of coyotes in the distance, as if singing a funeral song.
The more the subchief tried to sleep, the farther that goal receded. Owl sickness weakened him, and he expected his heart to stop at any moment. He didn't fear death as a warrior, but the unknown terrified him. Scratching his ribs, where a rash had broken out, he sat up and glanced around the campsite. I must keep on, because the People need peshegar.
As if to mock him, the faint hooting of an owl could be heard in the distance. Cuchillo Negro covered his ears with his hands as he broke into a cold sweat. No matter how tightly he covered his ears, the owl serenade continued.
Fifteen
In Santa Fe the next morning Clarissa opened her front door to McCabe, who was accompanied by two workmen. The piano lay on its side in a wagon, and one leg had been broken. “Where do you want it?” asked McCabe.
“Right there,” said Clarissa, pointing to a corner of the living room. “But I don't know about the leg.”
“I brung somethin’ that'll hold it till you git it fixed. C'mon boys, load that sum-bitch in here.”
Clarissa stepped out of the way. She was alone, having let Rosita take the baby to church. The men tilted the piano right side up, and McCabe placed an empty whisky crate beneath the broken leg. The piano was scarred, a few bullet holes testifying to an adventure beyond what Steinway pianos generally endured.
“You boys git on back to what you was doin’,” said McCabe.
Clarissa thanked the movers, and McCabe locked the door behind them. At last he and Clarissa were alone. Terrified, she gazed at him, and the little voice in her ear said, what are you doing? He took a step toward her, she moved closer, they embraced, their lips came together, and his fingers tickled her back as he unbuttoned the back of her dress.
“In the bedroom,” she whispered.
He carried her down the hall, laid her on the bed, removed his clothing rapidly, and it pleased her to note that his hands were trembling. Her dress half off, he pulled it over her head, then removed her undergarments.
“I must be mad,” she said.
“I know what you need,” he told her, not ungently.
Low animal lust had stoked between them from the moment they'd met, and they'd been angling for an opportunity since. The flirting game was over, and the main course about to commence. Clarissa wanted to scream with pleasure, but respectable widows don't do such things so early in the day.
Ho-say-shay noticed movement on a distant rise. In a moment he was off his horse, pulling the animal to safety behind a stack of boulders. Then he peered around it and narrowed his eyes. Several riders were headed in his direction, cloth wrapped around their heads, Apache-style. Keeping low, the Moqui led his horse a distance, then jumped into the saddle and prodded the animal's flanks. At a trot the horse carried him and his information back to the Gila Expedition.
The Moqui had not been as observant as he'd thought, for he'd been spotted first by Barbonsito, riding the point for Cuchillo Negro. Barbonsito galloped back to the shepherds, and he was not surprised to have seen the scout, for he'd noticed tracks of shod horses all morning. Barbonsito raced over the sage, fearing an encounter with many bluecoats, then slowed as he came abreast of Cuchillo Negro. “The Pindahs are straight ahead,” he reported. “I have seen one of their scouts.”
“Tell them I wish to speak with them.”
“And if they shoot me?”
“Be on your guard.”
Barbonsito rode back toward the bluecoat army, wondering what to say in his broken Spanish-English. We have found some sheep, and would you be interested in buying them? Are the White Eyes that stupid? he wondered.
Meanwhile, Cuchillo Negro motioned his warriors to follow. “Soon we will be on our way home,” he told them.
The warriors continued their ride toward the Pindah camp, the sheep dimly aware their ordeal was over. Grunting happily, they trudged toward a meadow that they hoped would be permanent.
This time I will not let the White Eyes trick me, thought Cuchillo Negro as he led the procession. But I'm sure they are near starvation, since they are poor hunters. A hungry belly always is willing to talk.
He noticed a massive churning cloud in the distance; it resembled a white owl.
The young bear sat with his pregnant wife in a cave, watching Apaches herding sheep below, while white tents covered the horizon. A fateful collision was coming, and the young bear turned to his mate, who was smiling. All we need do is wait patiently, and meat shall be delivered unto us.
Clarissa looked in her bedroom mirror, surprised to note that she still appeared more or less the same. No one would guess she'd spent the morning wrestling naked with a man she barely knew.
Since the incident, Clarissa had been remarkably well composed. No longer did she feel ill, as if something essential was lacking in her blood. Neither did she detect guilt, because technically she was a free woman, and as for McCabe, let him worry about his own attachments. Perhaps I've broken the prohibition concerning fornication, and possibly I should feel contrite, but it's not as if I killed somebody.
She'd attended enough Episcopalian sermons to know she was sliding down an extremely hazardous slope. I don't need to make a habit of it, she reminded herself. When I return east, I'll find a suitable husband, if such a thing exists. I wonder if Ronald Soames stil
l is in love with me?
She didn't wish to become the kind of woman who'd sleep with one man, then another, and soon couldn't remember their names. She realized that lust was highly gratifying, but not nearly as wonderful as true love. There will never be another Nathanial, she decided as she made her way down the hall. I will settle for second best, but second best is better than nothing.
In the nursery Rosita bathed Natalie. “I'll finish here,” said Clarissa. “You can start preparing dinner.”
Clarissa patted her daughter with a white towel. What would you think, my dear child, if you knew what I've done. But one day you too will be a woman and understand that flesh is fragile indeed. Unfortunately, a woman cannot always play by the rules.
Although Clarissa did not voice these thoughts, the infant smiled as if she understood.
***
My career is finished, thought Lieutenant Lazalle as he sat morosely in the saddle. He and his mounted riflemen had left the Gila Depot two hours before, their mission to search for Apaches. What if they're ahead, preparing to ambush us?
Lieutenant Lazalle wondered if the colonel had sent him on the scout in the hope a certain pen-toting lieutenant might be killed. Every time a leaf wavered in the breeze or a bird flew from aloe vera bush to mulberry vine, he feared attack. He jumped two feet into the air as the voice of Sergeant Avery echoed in his ear, “Here comes the Moqui!”
Ho-say-shay wouldn't ride at top speed unless there was trouble, and Lieutenant Lazalle was tempted to order a retreat before the message arrived, but then remembered the chapel at West Point, where he'd sworn to do his duty. He held his arms close to his sides, raised himself to proper riding posture, and awaited the news.
The Moqui's horse sped toward Lieutenant Lazalle. “Apaches coming!”