by Len Levinson
The old warrior fragmented before Cochise's eyes, then the sky became clear, without diamonds or a masked dancer. Cochise bowed. “I have heard your intelligent words, Chief Miguel Narbona,” he declared. “All glory to you, oh great departed champion of the Chiricahuas.”
Jocita sat before her wickiup, fletching a new selection of arrows, distracted by thoughts of Sunny Bear. She smiled faintly, and an onlooker might imagine she was proud of the arrow she'd constructed, not her remembrance of one tumultuous night with Sunny Bear at the Santa Rita copper mines, when he had been a bluecoat war chief.
She had loved him briefly, and never could forget him. She felt no great guilt, because Juh previously had betrayed her by taking a second wife, Ishkeh. Then, after Sunny Bear, she became pregnant, surprising everyone. Now she had been awarded her very own son, who would care for her when she was old.
She looked at him sitting a few feet away, making his own arrows. He was seven harvests old, with dark brown hair, tanned skin, lean but well muscled, strongly resembling her. She believed one day he would become a great war chief, due to his unique parentage.
“Cochise is returning!” shouted one of the guards.
They had been awaiting the decision of Cochise for three suns, and gathered in front of his wickiup. Cochise came into view, his face painted with ocher symbols, eyes ablaze with inner light. He stopped his horse before his wickiup, climbed down from the saddles, and faced his audience, which included Mangas Coloradas and Victorio.
Cochise raised his arms and said, “We shall make big war on the Nakai-yes, and after we have caused much devastation we shall offer peace, which they will be happy to accept. Then we shall take sanctuary in their land, while continuing warfare against the Pindah-lickoyee. But the war we wage against the Nakai-yes must be harsh, to convince them to make peace. There can be no pity, because the Nakai-yes have shown no pity to us. Who is with me?”
A roar went up from the assembled warriors as they rushed forward to join Cochise.
The cougar caught the scent in the afternoon and now closed in for the kill. The prey was not a deer or antelope, the cougar's favorite food, but a horse and a strange two-legged creature, their essences mingling in the afternoon breeze. The cougar paused, opened its mouth, and grimaced, exposing special olfactory glands on the roof of its palate. It perceived the direction, and its heart quickened at the hope of finding food.
The cougar moved silently across the desert, avoiding open places, preferring to crawl beneath sagebrush rather than circumventing it. Every few hundred paces it paused and smelled, to confirm direction. Drawing closer, it almost could taste fresh blood. Soon it could feed its kittens.
Their mouths always were open, pleading for milk, but their mother couldn't provide sustenance if she didn't eat. The cougar had been hungry many suns due to scarcity of game. It appeared as if a sickness had overtaken the land.
The cougar heard sounds, the quarry straight ahead. Peering through a fernwood bush, it saw a horse and two-legged rider stopped at the edge of a stream. The rider climbed down, led his horse to water, then dropped to fill his own belly.
The cougar gazed at the horse, but didn't want a hoof in the teeth, and a horse could bite as hard as any cougar. Then the hungry mother turned toward the two-legged creature drinking, unaware he presented a juicy meal. The cougar got low on its belly, preparing for the final burst of speed.
Nathanial leaned over the stream, sipping the sweet, cool blood of the inner earth, his eyes closed, savoring the flavor. Raising his head from the water, his beard dripping like a blond mop, he remembered the line by Henry David Thoreau. “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Not me, thought Nathanial. I've got my own ranch, I love my wife and children, and I live in paradise.
His eyes fell on a roundish green cactus plant about two inches in diameter, standing three inches off the ground, with a white flower in its center. It was peyotl, a plant used by some Apaches to induce visions. Whipping out his knife, he sliced off the top of the cactus, then heard a sound behind him. like the touch of a paw as it bounds over the ground. Nathanial spun, raised the knife, and a big golden cougar flew toward him, fangs extended, prepared to sever the back of his neck.
The cougar saw too late that its prey was prepared, the blade aimed at its belly. And the cougar noticed further there was no way to save itself except to kill the two-legged immediately. Arching so that all four paws would strike at once, with jaws following thereafter it saw the two-legged dash to the side, then flick the blade.
The point burrowed in the cat's stomach, it screamed, then slammed into the ground, but could not spring readily with its innards hanging out. My babies will not eat today, it thought sadly. The next stab pierced its throat, and the cougar departed for the spirit world.
Nathanial gulped air as he gazed at the dead animal and realized that he'd nearly been killed. What made me turn around? he asked, and then, high in the sky he saw a cloud formation resembling White Painted Woman, goddess of the Apache universe. Nathanial bowed to the deity, offered thanks, and after completing the chant, made an incision in the cougar's chest and cut out its heart, about the size of an apple. The Pindah part of him hesitated, but the Apache sliced off a chunk of the still-warm muscle and placed it into his mouth, because the People believed the power of an animal could be captured if its heart were eaten.
It tasted leathery and salty, and he washed it down with a drink from his canteen, then skinned the cougar and cut off its head. Next he harvested other peyotl cacti in the vicinity, ending with twenty thick slices. It was dark when he departed the stream, the cougar skin tied like a cloak over his shoulders, saddlebags full of peyotl.
Where is he? wondered Clarissa as she dined with her children and their maid Rosita. Her husband seldom failed to return for supper, and she feared something had happened to him.
“Don't worry, Clarissa,” said her stepson Zachary, heavyset with medium brown hair, strongly resembling his father. “Nobody'd dare bother my dad. He's the toughest man alive.”
She smiled. “I hope you're right, Zachary. Your father's half an Indian himself.”
Then Clarissa turned to Gloria to receive the opinion of the former street urchin, who had red hair and freckles. “Nobody's tougher than an arrow,” she said laconically, like a strange child oracle.
“Perhaps I should order the men to look for him,” said Clarissa. “He might be hurt.”
“My father isn't hurt,” insisted Zachary. “He'll be home before long.”
“But,” added Rosita, “it is not like him to miss supper, and he did not get lost, because he knows the land like an Apache.”
“Maybe a bear ate him,” suggested Gloria.
“Bears don't eat people,” replied Zachary scoffingly. “You're being silly.”
Clarissa felt vulnerable without Nathanial because she didn't trust the cowboys and vaqueros, most of whom she suspected were escaped criminals. Worst was Blakelock the foreman, an old drunkard with half his teeth missing. “I'd like you children to wash the dishes while I speak with Blakelock,” she said.
Zachary shot to his feet. “I'll do it, because women aren't allowed in the bunkhouse.”
“Thank you for reminding me, Zachary, but I'll knock before I enter. Please do as I say.”
Clarissa made certain her Colt Navy was snug in its holster, then stepped into the cool summer night, headed for the bunkhouse. The sky glittered with stars, the moon a luminous sphere above the barn, casting ghostly shadows across the backyard. In the distance, a coyote howled eerily.
The bunkhouse was a rectangular log building with light peeking through a dirty window. A roar of laughter went up within, and it sent apprehension through Clarissa. What if those criminals murdered Nathanial? she asked herself. And if they killed Nathanial, what would they do to me? There was no sheriff to protect her, or a judge to decide in her favor.
She stopped in front of the door, heard the voices of men on the other side, then rapped. Everyt
hing went silent, and a moment later a face appeared in the window, a gun nearby. “It's the boss lady!” he shouted.
The door opened, and Claggett, a lean black-bearded cowboy with a misaligned nose, probably broken in a saloon brawl, stood in the backlight. “What's wrong, ma'am?” he asked politely.
“I wish to speak with Mr. Blakelock.”
Claggett stepped backward, permitting Clarissa to enter the smelly single room of the bunkhouse, a candle illuminating something that looked like a steer bone on the floor among old cigar butts, dirt, and various unidentifiable substances. Bunks were unmade, pictures of nude women nailed to the walls, and the stench of unwashed male bodies nearly knocked her over. The table was covered with playing cards, dried gravy, crumbs, and a half-eaten potato. Clarissa stood speechless before the squalor, tempted to flee for fresh air, but Blakelock stepped forward, belly hanging over his belt, bushy graying mustache obscuring his lips. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Can I help you, ma'am?” he asked in his gravelly voice.
She never had stood close to him, and he exuded vague violence, not to mention towering contempt for a mere woman. “Captain Barrington has not returned home,” she said, “and I fear he might be injured. I'd like you to commence a search.”
One of Blakelock's eyes was half closed, and she couldn't tell whether his puffy face smiled or grimaced in distaste. “I wouldn't worry none if n I was you, ma'am,” he said, not ungently. “The cap'n knows how to take care of hisself. Let's give ‘im another hour.”
“He might be lying in a ditch with a broken leg, for all we know,” she replied. “I'm afraid this isn't a matter for discussion, Mr. Blakelock. I asked you to look for my husband now.”
Blakelock's face grew beet red, and Clarissa thought he might brush her out of his way as he'd brush a fly, but then he said, “You heard ‘er, boys. Saddle the horses.”
“Do we have to?” asked Pancho, a Mexican vaquero with a sombrero on the back of his head, his skinny legs encased in tight blue pants. “There ain't notheen wrong with the boss, because he is one bad hombre. Besides, I take no orders from women.”
No one ever had spoken to Clarissa so insolently, but she had been born a Rowland, and if that wasn't enough, she had married a Barrington. “When my husband is absent,” she explained firmly, “you will take orders from me. And if that's beyond your capabilities, you may leave now.”
A heavyset brown-bearded cowboy named Barr snorted derisively. “You din't hire me, so you cain't fire me.”
“We'll see about that,” she said, then turned to Blakelock. “What're you waiting for?”
“Let's go look fer the cap'n,” he said roughly, unable to look her in the eye.
“Aw hell,” protested Joe Smith, the tallest cowboy in the bunkhouse, wearing a long black mustache. “In the dark, we wouldn't see ‘im until we're right on top of ‘im anyways. What's the point?”
“The point,” said Clarissa, “is he may be hurt.”
“He's prob'ly fine,” murmured Barr. “Stupid damned woman. Why don't you get back to the main house where you belong, and stop worryin’ so much.”
Clarissa searched for a weapon, then Blakelock stepped forward, his wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes, and he looked like a lump of pure malevolence, with depths of violence and chaos beyond Clarissa's comprehension.
“She's the boss lady,” he told them, “and if she wants a search party, she's a-gittin’ a search party. I'm not a-gonna tell you again—let's move out!”
“Aw hell,” said Barr. “Just becuzz she's dumb, why do we haveta foller her orders?”
The ordinarily lethargic Blakelock lunged suddenly, bringing his fist up from the floor. The recalcitrant cowboy tried to dodge out of the way, but had been taken by surprise. Blakelock's ham fist smashed into Barr's cheekbone, whereupon Barr careened toward the wall, banged his head, collapsed, and made no additional moves.
The men filed outside, two carrying the still unconscious Barr, and Clarissa followed. The full moon threw long shadows across the yard as the men slogged toward the barn, not enthusiastic about riding across the open land in the dark, especially with Apaches in the vicinity, and gopher holes to break a horse's leg.
“Here he comes,” said one of them.
The cowboys stared at the apparition riding out of the moonlight.
“He's gone Apache,” said Claggett.
Clarissa noticed a cougar skin cape over Nathanial's shoulders, and wondered if she'd ever understand her strange husband. He stopped his horse in front of them, climbed down from the saddle, and said, “What's wrong?”
“We was gonter look fer you,” said Blakelock.
“What the hell for?”
Blakelock pointed his thumb at the boss lady. “She gave the order.”
“Go back to the bunkhouse,” Nathanial ordered.
No one asked where Nathanial had acquired the cougar skin, because the answer was obvious. A deep impression was made on the men, and even Barr appeared respectful, a purple bruise on his cheek.
“Come with me,” Nathanial told Clarissa as he led his horse to the barn.
“Where were you?” she asked.
“On the south range, and a cougar nearly killed me.”
They entered the barn, where he unsaddled his horse, then rubbed him with a brush. Clarissa watched her big, strong husband in the shadows. “I practically had to shoot Blakelock to get them to look for you.”
“It's best to let me handle the men.”
“What if you're not here?”
“Never show fear, and never be without your Colt.”
She looked at his cougar skin cape. “Sometimes you scare the hell out of me.”
“You can smell death on the night wind,” he replied in a faraway voice. “Perhaps we should abandon the ranch and go live with the Apaches. They don't worry about cattle, railroad bills in Congress, or rustlers. They just run free.”
“And when they want a steer, they take one of ours.”
“A small price to pay for use of their land.”
She could not argue, because the land technically belonged to the Apaches, since they were there first. She also opposed slavery and tended to view the world in moralistic terms.
“Don't expect me to live with the Apaches,” she said. “The mere thought of them frightens me.”
“Life with Apaches would make you brave.”
She clasped him in her arms, cougar skin and all. “I was so worried about you, and never realized how much I need you. Do you know . . . have you any inkling . . . that you're the only man for me?”
She felt warm, eclipsing the cougar's attack, the cool night air, and the entire Apache nation. He realized that he never could leave her, and needed her probably more than she needed him. A bin of hay was stacked not far away, and he had the urge to ravish his little wife, as a cougar ravishes his mate.
He led her toward the hay, and she did not resist, the call of the cougar upon her as well. He spread the soft skin over the hay, they undressed quickly, then embraced not like schoolyard sweethearts, but with desperate, knowing passion. The spirit of the cougar enveloped them as they writhed against each other.
Subchief Juh lay alongside Ishkeh, his regular wife, but it was Jocita he craved. He crawled from beneath his deerskin blanket, because he didn't want to wake Ishkeh. Then silently he donned his deerskin shirt.
“Are you going to her?” asked Ishkeh drowsily.
“Do not antagonize me, woman.”
“Why not stay with her instead of coming here? I would not complain.”
“Be still, otherwise I shall punish you.”
“She does not love you, and that is why you are obsessed with her.”
His arm streaked forward, his fingers closed around her throat, and he brought his lips close to her ear. “Why not keep your mouth closed, like a good wife?”
He flung her down, and her head landed on her rabbit fur pillow. Gasping for air, she watched him crawl out of her wickiup. When he was gone, s
he permitted herself to cry, although it disturbed her two sons on the far side of the wickiup. “Go back to sleep,” she told them, then buried her tear-streaked face in her hands.
Meanwhile, Juh made his way across the campsite, cursing his luck. Why could not Jocita produce children by me? he asked himself. We would be perfect together were it not for her barren womb, but then she went with Sunny Bear and became pregnant. What cruel trick have the Mountain Spirits played?
He arrived at Jocita's wickiup, crawled through the opening, and she awoke immediately, for the People were attuned to intruders in the night. Even Fast Rider stirred on the far side of the wickiup. “Father,” he said sleepily, holding out his arms.
Juh hugged the boy. Although Sunny Bear was his father, Juh could not hate a child. “Go to sleep. I want to speak with your mother.”
“Why not wait until morning?” she asked coldly.
“Put on your robe and come with me.”
“Surely it cannot be that important.”
“Do not make me ask again, woman.”
When Jocita heard that tone, she knew the discussion had come to an end. She put on her deerskin dress, pulled the robe over her shoulders, and they emerged into the night. “You are being disrespectful,” she said.
“It is nothing compared to what you have done to me,” he told her, grabbing her arm roughly.
He pulled her away from the campsite and into the wilderness. She failed to oppose him, because it was a game they often played. She would not give of herself freely, although she required him for certain masculine duties, and he wished he could forget her, but had been unable thus far.
“Were you dreaming about Sunny Bear?” he asked, an edge to his voice, as they advanced through the wilderness.
“So what if I was?” she replied.
“Traitorous bitch.”
“I wish I did not need a man, otherwise I would never let you near me.”
“How could you keep me away?”
“You are right. There is no one else for me, you dog.”