by Len Levinson
At that moment, somewhere on the jumbled battlefield, a shot was fired, and a second later, Cuchillo Negro felt sharp pain in his chest. His lungs seemed to deflate, his heart tripped, and he realized that his death blow had come. Leaning backward in his saddle, he raised his right arm in the air, as if in salute. Oh, mountain spirits, I have tried to serve you well. And now I commend my spirit unto you.
He fell off the back of his horse and landed atop a soldier he'd killed earlier. Opening his eyes, Cuchillo Negro saw the owl circling above, hooting maniacally. “I have tried to do right by the People,” whispered dying Cuchillo Negro, “and I have worked for peace. I have nothing to fear.”
The owl monster vanished, then White Painted Woman materialized out of the sky, riding a black horse. She scooped up Cuchillo Negro and carried him into the heavens, where no owl monster would trouble him again.
In the early stages of the encounter, Sunny Bear avoided fighting with bluecoat soldiers. Who are my people? he wondered, pistol in hand, as his horse skittered nervously. What should I do with myself?
He knew that he looked like an Apache, and it wouldn't be surprising if somebody tried to kill him. As predicted, a bluecoat corporal appeared out of the gunsmoke and dust, riding a chestnut gelding. The corporal spotted Sunny Bear, steered toward him, and lowered his pistol for the shot.
Sunny Bear held up both hands. “Don't shoot! I'm a United States army officer!”
The corporal seemed not to hear as his horse closed with Sunny Bear. The white Apache was forced to draw his own pistol as the corporal fired. The bullet went wild, and the corporal thumbed back his hammer for another try, now ten feet away. “God forgive me,” whispered Sunny Bear as he pulled the trigger.
The corporal was hammered in his saddle. An expression of disbelief came to his face, then his eyes closed, and he rolled to the side, bouncing as he hit the ground. Sunny Bear climbed down from his horse and ran to his victim's aid. What have I done? he asked himself.
A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of the corporal's mouth. Sunny Bear closed his eyes as self-loathing came over him. I have killed a fellow American soldier, and my hands never will be clean again.
He heard approaching hoofbeats, raised his eyes, and saw an Indian riding a pinto pony toward him, aiming a pistol. Sunny Bear never had seen the Indian before, but could perceive that he wasn't of the People. Instinctively, Sunny Bear raised his pistol.
The Indian was Ho-say-shay, the Moqui, thrilled with the opportunity to kill another Apache. He fired, and dirt kicked up around Sunny Bear's moccasin boots. Then Sunny Bear pulled his trigger. Click.
A drawback of modern pistols was the occasional misfire, and Sunny Bear could not afford another chance. Ho-say-shay pulled back the hammer for his next shot, when Sunny Bear leapt through the air, tackled him, and tore him out of the saddle.
Sunny Bear and Ho-say-shay fell to the ground, while trying to slam each other with their pistols. They rolled and tussled frantically. Ho-say-shay brought the barrel of his pistol down on Sunny Bear's head, but Sunny Bear caught the Moqui's wrist while trying to drive his own gun barrel through his adversary's ear. Ho-say-shay managed to grab Sunny Bear's arm, whereupon both men tried to kick and knee each other into submission, causing bruised shins on both sides.
They twisted and struggled, butting each other with their heads or trying to bite each other's noses. Thrashing about, bumping into bleeding corpses, they fought with superhuman strength that only the prospect of death provides. The canyon reverberated with shots, and a flock of buzzards formed overhead, anxious for the feast to begin, as soldiers and Indians contested for a canyon that neither wanted.
Ho-say-shay decided to make a bold move. He released Sunny Bear's arm and aimed his two fingers at Sunny Bear's eyes, hoping to blind him. But Sunny Bear twisted his head to the side, receiving fingers on his cheek, while at the same time slamming the Moqui upside his head with the pistol.
Ho-say-shay's eyes closed momentarily, so Sunny Bear whacked him again. The fight gone out of Ho-say-shay, he struggled to clear his head as Sunny Bear leapt to his feet, aimed, triggered, and finally his pistol fired. The gun kicked in the air, and the Moqui's scouting assignment came to an end.
The highly excited Sunny Bear no longer concerned himself with moral implications, because he wanted to survive. His horse had run away, but many animals without riders were roaming about haphazardly due to difficult visibility. Sunny Bear dashed toward one of them, when another bluecoat soldier charged out of the gunsmoke, aiming his pistol. Sunny Bear turned toward him and was about to shoot him out of the saddle, when he recognized curly black side-whiskers beneath the vaquero hat. “Beau!” bellowed Nathanial. “It's me!”
Beau couldn't hear anything amid the furor and pulled his trigger. The Apache darted out of the way at the last moment; the bullet exploded dirt where he had been standing, and then Beau found himself snatched out of his saddle. He fell to the ground, trying to aim another shot, when the Apache dropped on top of him. The wind knocked out of Beau, he opened his eyes. A huge warrior sat atop him, holding Beau's gun hand, trying to smile.
“Howdy—it's Nathanial Barrington—remember me?”
Beau was aghast as he stared at the familiar face framed by long blond Apache-styled hair. Beau wondered if he was traveling through limbo. “Are we both dead?” he asked dreamily.
“Afraid not,” replied Nathanial.
Nathanial climbed off Beau and rose to his feet. Beau followed him up as they continued to examine each other. Dead Apaches and soldiers lay around them, the lopsided battle dying down. They had been roommates at West Point and now were reunited under the oddest conditions. “I thought you were dead,” said Beau.
“Another premature report,” replied Nathanial.
“What are you doing in that getup?”
“I was wounded in the Mogollon Mountains, and the Apaches nursed me back to health. Do you know what became of my wife? I hope she hasn't married someone else by now.”
A ton of guilt threatened to bury Beau, but instead he grinned bravely and said, “She was single when last I saw her, and by the way, congratulations—you're a father.”
Numbly, Nathanial held out his hand. I have another child? he asked himself.
Beau shook the proferred paw vigorously. “Welcome home.”
Colonel Bonneville held up his stubby arm. “Reform!”
Officers and sergeants shouted orders, trying to work the men into line, while before them lay a smoky battlefield, with bodies of soldiers, Apaches, and sheep strewn about. In the confusion the bluecoat soldiers couldn't determine what size force they'd defeated.
Sergeant Harris shouted, “Look!”
The triumphant smile on Colonel Bonneville's face vanished as a large war party of Apaches appeared on a hill overlooking the battlefield. Have I been lured into a trap? he asked himself. He had no idea how many Apaches were in reserve. His flanks unprotected, he decided to take the prudent course. “Bugler, sound the retreat!”
***
Atop the hill Mangas Coloradas wondered whether to attack superior numbers, when bluecoat soldiers turned and fled. “Look at the cowards,” said Juh. “How can we not have contempt for them?”
Mangas Coloradas considered Juh dangerous, because Juh appeared unable to think without malice. The old chief surmised that the bluecoats had decided cautiously to fight another day.
“Let us pursue them,” pleaded Juh.
“I do not pursue when I know not what lies ahead, it is time for us to leave this place.”
“But we cannot leave our dead brothers behind!”
“You are free to act as you please,” replied Mangas Coloradas.
Juh gathered a handful of warriors and rode toward the valley where the battle had taken place. As they drew closer, a barrage of rifle fire greeted them from bluecoat skirmishers hidden in the chaparral. Juh and his warriors returned rapidly to the top of the ridgeline.
Juh smiled weakly. “Evide
ntly, the bluecoats have not all gone, as we thought.”
The old chief surveyed the battlefield. Many sheep had been trampled in the melee, while others had run off willy-nilly and now where white dots in the distance. Corpses of warriors could be seen more clearly on the ground, another setback for the People. Buzzards swooped out of the sky, their patience finally rewarded, as Mangas Coloradas and his warriors retreated from the catastrophe.
And from that day onward, the battle site became known as the Valley of Dead Sheep.
Seventeen
Colonel Bonneville sat at his desk, sipping whiskey and writing his official version of the battle. He couldn't testify that he'd attacked approximately ten Apaches with his full force, then ran like a coward from another Apache party of indeterminate size. So he juggled facts somewhat, in the true tradition of reporting, and made it appear that only a small number of his expedition had been engaged, while he'd remained unruffled in the rear.
Now the Apaches know I am a man to be reckoned with, he thought proudly. One of his aides had been killed, so Colonel Bonneville had appointed a replacement, Lieutenant Richard Snead. “Captain Hargreaves wishes to see you, sir,” said Lieutenant Snead, standing outside the tent.
The tent flap was pulled to the side, then Captain Hargreaves appeared, followed by a tall, deeply-tanned, long-haired blond officer in an ill-fitting uniform whom Colonel Bonneville had never seen. Where'd this galoot come from? wondered Old Bonny Clabber.
Beau reported, then said, “May I present Captain Nathanial Barrington, formerly of the First Dragoons. He was wounded by Apaches over a year ago, during Colonel Chandler's campaign in the Mogollon Mountains, was taken prisoner, and reported as killed in action. But now he has returned.”
Colonel Bonneville stared more closely at this singular individual. “I met your wife at Fort Thorn, Captain Barrington. Lovely woman, she was. But I thought Apaches killed prisoners.”
“I knew their medicine man, and he healed my wounds.”
“Can you locate their hideouts on the map?”
“I doubt it, sir.”
“You might as well rest for a few days while I decide what to do with you.”
Nathanial held out a piece of paper. “That won't be necessary, sir. I'm resigning my commission.”
Colonel Bonneville appeared ambushed yet again. “Why?”
“The Apaches have become my friends, and I could never fight them again.”
“Perhaps you'd better think this over.”
“My mind is made up, sir.”
Colonel Bonneville leaned back in his rickety wooden camp chair. He didn't like it when junior officers refused his advice, but the Barringtons were another fine old New York family, like the Rowlands. “I spent much of my youth in New York City,” said Old Bonney Clabber genially, “and met your Uncle Jasper some years ago. Well, I certainly won't hold up your resignation, but it will have to be approved by higher headquarters. What was it like living with Apaches?”
“They practice what they preach, unlike the White Eyes, I mean Americans.”
“In my travels I've met many white men who became attracted to the Indian way of life and married Indian women. Is that what you plan to do?”
“No, sir. My wife is in Santa Fe, and I'm headed there with the next wagon train.”
Colonel Bonneville scowled, because captains ordinarily requested permission for leave, but Captain Barrington's uncle was one of the wealthiest investors in New York City. “How long a leave will you require?”
Lieutenant Lazalle never intended his journal to be a precise chronicle of events, because its secret goal was the conquest of a certain lady who resided in Boston, Massachusetts. To her alone he wanted to confide his brilliance, for she was a Beacon Hill heiress, and if they married, he wouldn't need the damned army anymore.
What would she think if she knew I remained at the depot while the others went to war? he asked himself. So he wrote himself more importantly into the narrative, relying upon remarks Colonel Bonneville had made at mess. Whenever possible, Lazalle made deprecating remarks about other officers, as though they were incompetent, and he the fount of wisdom. Perhaps she'll feel sorry for me and beg me to leave the army, he fervently hoped.
If someone had told him his journal would be studied by future historians as if it were absolute truth, he would have laughed hysterically.
“I think George had a premonition of the end,” said Beau as he and Nathanial walked across the camp. “I hope he's found peace, wherever he is, poor son-of-a-bitch.”
They passed soldiers cleaning weapons, exulting in their easy victory. Nathanial remembered his droll friend George Covington, who'd offered a quip for every occasion. “The Apache wars are over for him, and for me too, Beau. I find no honor doing the dirty work of a government that refuses to deal fairly with Indians. Can't you see how corrupt all this is?”
“Are you saying that Apache killing and stealing are perfectly fine? Sounds like they've won you to their side.”
“They're like you southerners, and they don't know the meaning of surrender. They also don't give a damn about laws with which they disapprove. I don't have the solution, but I'm not participating in the killing anymore—that's all I know. I've shed enough blood to last me for the rest of my life.”
Beau sighed in defeat. “To tell you the truth, many times I've asked myself what the hell I'm doing here.”
Nathanial saw no point in discussing the Apache Wars, because lessons are learned best when a man is alone with the mountain spirits. Besides, he felt ill, now that he was separated from the People. He knew, deep in his heart, that he'd never been truly Apache, yet felt foreign among his own people, because Sunny Bear was a stranger wherever he dwelled. Turning in the direction of the Apache encampment, he wondered about Mangas Coloradas, Victorio, Nana, Juh, Jocita, and his son, a terrible sense of loss coming over him.
Beau could see his friend was troubled. “What will you do after you get out of the army?”
“Clarissa and I will settle in New York, I imagine. Provided she hasn't found another man.”
“Not as far as I know,” replied Beau, unable to look his friend in the eye.
On the battlefield vultures and coyotes enjoyed a midnight supper. Whether the corpse was Apache, American, Mexican, or Moqui, it was all the same to them. They heard an unwelcome sound and turned to two bears coming upon the gory scene. Buzzards leapt into the sky, squawking protestations, while coyotes whined and retreated.
The bears had not enjoyed meat for many suns. They looked about to make sure no hunters were in the vicinity, then lowered their great jaws and proceeded to dine.
The husband bear didn't know he was ingesting a famous subchief and warrior of the People named Cuchillo Negro, who had performed many valorous deeds and been a friend to chief Mangas Coloradas. And neither did the husband bear care, feeling happy as he chewed Cuchillo Negro's courageous heart. My belly is filling, he thought. I have everything I need.
Eighteen
Empty army wagons rumbled toward Santa Fe, and Nathanial rode among them, placing his last pinch of sacred pollen onto his tongue. He had danced upon the lightning-blasted mountain, smoked with the warriors in the sweat lodge, and gone on two raids as an apprentice, but now finally was headed back to his American family.
He wished he could return to the Black Range, and he missed the pure mountain air, the fragrance of campfires, and the feeling of power when riding with other warriors. Yet he also looked forward to seeing Clarissa and his new daughter and prayed Clarissa had not married another man. Because regardless of how many lightning bolts struck him, and how lustfully he felt about Jocita, or how tenderly he cherished Seema, he would always love Clarissa, his one true mate, the other half of his very own nature.
Unfortunately, Clarissa was a vivacious young woman, and he knew well the darkness that resided in the hearts of men. She would have no great difficulty catching one, and over a year had passed since he'd disappeared in the M
ogollon Mountains. Everyone is going to be surprised to see me, he thought. But I hope there are no unhappy surprises waiting for me, such as Clarissa's wedding to another man.
In the season known among the People as Heavy with Fruit, the great chief Mangas Coloradas led the Mimbrenos south to Mexico, forced yet again to abandon the homeland to Pindah soldiers. Even children and dogs felt sorrowful as they rode from the land given them by their gods.
The aging chief sat firmly in his saddle, shoulders squared and stomach flat, although he felt heartsick. If I promise to stop raiding the Mexicans, perhaps they will leave us alone in the Sierra Madre Mountains. But we shall continue raids against bluecoat soldiers to the north, to let them know we have not surrendered. And perhaps the mountain spirits will send a miracle, to make the White Eyes leave our land.
A few paces to the rear of Mangas Coloradas, Nana, the di-yin medicine man, sat on his horse, trying to understand. Why did the Lifegiver take back what He had given and turn it over to the White Eyes? he asked himself. When we arrive in the Sierra Madre Mountains, I shall call the People to greater piety. Then perhaps the Lifegiver will return our land to us.
The bizahn women rode at the rear of the formation, and among them Seema sat on a fine horse that once had belonged to Sunny Bear, who apparently had been killed in the Canyon of Dead Sheep. Seema's brief association with Sunny Bear had conferred advanced status upon her, not to mention his spare Colt .36, razor, and other goods. Several warriors had made overtures, but she bided her time. I will never be hungry again, thanks to Sunny Bear, she thought.
Chuntz turned in his saddle and watched the Mimbreno Mountains merge with the horizon behind him. Medicinal mud covered his head wound, and he wanted to weep for his lost wife, but such an act was unworthy of a warrior, so instead he remembered their happy nights together, when she coaxed something rare and beautiful out of him, and transformed him into a more noble warrior. For the sake of your memory, my dear Martita, death shall be my gift to bluecoat soldiers from this day on.