Savage Frontier

by Len Levinson

  Mr. Davidson sat on his other side. “A wedding means new life, and we must try to look ahead, I suppose.” The old man had a vague lost look in his eyes. “Sometimes"—his voice caught—"I think I've killed my son by encouraging him to enter the Army.”

  “Johnny loved the Army,” replied Nathanial, “and he would've made it his profession no matter what you said.”

  “Please feel free to use the horses, carriages, or anything you please,” said Mr. Davidson. “I also have a library if you care to read. It's wonderful to have you here with us, because you remind us so of Johnny.”

  Later, Nathanial decided to accept Mr. Davidson's offer of a horse. He selected a chestnut stallion at the steep-roofed stable. The animal was saddled by a slave, then Nathanial rode the lively beast among palmetto trees and tulip bushes, headed for the fields. He wanted to see for himself how slaves were treated.

  The flower gardens and lawns of Rolling Hills were tended by several sullen slaves who paid no attention to Nathanial as he passed. They wore simple clothing and appeared stupefied by their abject condition, or at least that was Nathanial's impression. He came to a wooded area that reminded him vaguely of a certain encounter with Apaches in the Santa Rita Mountains, August of ‘51. But there were no Apaches in South Carolina, so he urged the horse forward, soon finding himself in cool shade, with red cardinals flitting from branch to branch above him. What would happen if the slaves revolted? wondered Nathanial.

  At the edge of the forest, Nathanial saw rows of cotton as far as the eye could see. A group of slaves stooped in rows not far from him, plucking cotton balls and stuffing them into gunnysacks they dragged behind them.

  Nathanial removed his wide-brimmed plantation hat and wiped perspiration from his forehead with the back of his arm. It was warm upon his horse, but nothing like those furrows from sunup to sundown. Is slavery worse than soldiers building barracks on the desert, or fighting for their lives in the Embudo Mountains? wondered Nathanial. A slave glanced sideways at Nathanial, and the New Yorker thought he saw naked hatred in those eyes.

  He came to slave shacks amid a grove of trees and brought his horse to a halt in front of an old gray toothless Negro man sitting on a bench and watching him carefully.

  “I'm a friend of Johnny Davidson's,” announced Nathanial. “I wonder if you'd let me look at where you live.”

  The old Negro said, “Go right ahead, suh.”

  Nathanial entered the shack. Wooden bunks were lined along the wall, similar to the Army, and everything appeared clean. He didn't see cabinets or closets because apparently the slaves didn't own anything. Children and the old man followed him in. Nathanial noticed one light-skinned lad, his hair not quite so nappy as the others.

  “What're you looking for?” asked a darker boy.

  “Nothing special.”

  “Are you a Yankee?”

  “I live in New Mexico.”

  “Where's that at?”

  “Far away,” replied Nathanial. “Do you go to school?”

  The boy became afraid as a dark shadow came over the room. A brawny clean-shaven white man stood in the doorway, blocking the sun. “And who might you be?” he asked.

  “I'm a friend of Johnny Davidson's.”

  “What're you doin’ in the slave quarters?”

  “I wanted to see how they live. Who're you?”

  “My name's Clanton, the overseer. It's not so bad hyar, eh?”

  “Not much different from an army barracks, I don't suppose.”

  “I was in the Army myself,” Clanton said proudly. “General Pillow's brigade. Come on outside—let's have a talk. Was you in Mexico?”

  “I was on General Taylor's staff.”

  “Them was the days, eh?”

  They emerged into the sunlight, the overseer's horse next to Nathanial's. The Negro children no longer crowded around. “Looks like they're scared to death of you,” said Nathanial jokingly.

  “I don't tolerate no shit from nigras, and I suggest you don't leave nothin’ valuable around ‘em ‘cause they'll steal it in a minute.” Clanton placed his fists on his hips and cocked his head to one side. “I guess you'll go North and tell about how bad we treat the nigras.”

  “You don't treat them so bad, but they're not free to come and go. There's something I'd like to ask you, Mr. Clanton. One of those children has light skin, and he wouldn't be yours, would he?”

  Something twitched in Clanton's cheek, but otherwise he was perfectly calm. “You don't know no better, suh, but we don't talk about them things hyar.”

  “I wonder why,” Nathanial replied sarcastically.

  “What if I was to tell you he was Johnny's son?”

  Nathanial was stunned. “I'd ask you to prove it.”

  “It gives you comfort to think I'm lyin’, but it's true.”

  Nathanial made a movement toward the boy, but Clanton got in his way. “Don't start trubble, suh.”

  “Who's the mother?”

  “None of yer bizness, and keep yer mouth shut. Mr. and Mrs. Davidson done cried enough for that son of theirs, who got hisself killed when he should've been hyar helpin’ run this plantation.”

  Nathanial wanted to lay him out, but gentlemen of his class didn't crack canes over the heads of inferiors. “Good day,” he said curtly.

  He took one last look at the light-skinned child, dragged his game leg toward his horse, then rode toward the manor house. He wondered what kind of man would take an overseer job. Like certain other Southerners, Clanton wasn't worried about the Rights of Man.

  Soon Nathanial was back in the Garden of Eden, blossoms and greenery surrounding him, the day pleasantly warm, while behind him in the fields, slave women wore thin, clinging cotton dresses and colorful bandannas wrapped around their heads. It was a bucolic scene, with a white-porticoed mansion on the hill surrounded by oaks. Nathanial was reminded of paintings by Boucher and Fragonard, but demons poured forth if you scratched the surface.

  He returned the horse to the stable, then made his way to his room, where he sat on a chair beside the open window, overlooking weeping willow trees, lily gardens, and the gazebo.

  There was a knock on the door. “It's Belinda, suh. Can I get you something?”

  “Come on in.”

  She stood before him in her immaculate gray-and-white uniform, as if waiting for his order.

  “Have a seat.”

  She appeared confused, but dutifully dropped gracefully to a chair opposite him.

  “I just heard a little rumor,” he said, “and I want to know what you think. There's a little mulatto boy in the slave quarters and somebody said he was Johnny's son. Is it true?”

  She thought for a few moments, then said in a low voice, “Yes.”

  “Who's the mother?”

  “Works in the fields.”

  Nathanial was flabbergasted. How could a decent man like Mr. Davidson let his grandchild grow up a slave? “Is there any whiskey around here?”

  “This is Rolling Hills, suh. We've got anything to drink that you might want.”

  “Bring me about a half glass, if you don't mind.”

  Their eyes met, and Nathanial had to admit that she was gorgeous. He admired her rounded figure and upright carriage as she walked to the door. No mournful shuffling slave, neither was she free to catch the next train to New York City. This is a very strange society, he said to himself.

  * * *

  Dr. Michael Steck, Commissioner of Indian Affairs for New Mexico, rode a horse through the Apache farm established beside Fort Thorn. Grimly he calculated that the Apache crop wasn't sufficient for the winter, but he couldn't supplement it. If the Apaches wanted to survive, they'd have to take up traditional pastimes such as raiding.

  A Pennsylvanian, Dr. Steck had moved to New Mexico for the sake of his wife's health. Then he'd grown tired of looking down people's throats, or up their anuses, and managed to secure the position of Indian commissioner through political connections. He truly wanted to bring peace
to New Mexico, but Apaches were leery of the White Eyes, due to the brutality of military campaigns, while settlers were terrified of Apache raids. Mistrust, hatred, and vengefulness dominated the discourse, and all Dr. Steck could do was attempt to reason with all parties.

  The vast majority of Apaches was running wild, and it didn't escape the good doctor's attention that the most important Apache leaders had never deigned to speak with him. I'm making little progress, he admitted as he watched a group of drunken Apache men lolling about in front of a wickiup.

  That evening, he sat in his office and wrote a letter to his superior in Washington, D.C., George W. Manypenny, Commissioner of Indian Affairs.

  Dear Mr. Manypenny,

  I'm cognizant of your many responsibilities, and I know that Apaches aren't the only Indians with whom you must concern yourself, but it is my duty to report that much blood will be shed in New Mexico unless the federal government acts quickly.

  For the past year, approximately two hundred Apaches have been entirely pacific, and some property stolen by them has been returned.

  They raise corn with sharpened sticks, because they have no hoes. Unfortunately, their crops and supplementary rations aren't enough to keep them alive. Much has been promised them, but little actually has been delivered. This proud people is enduring semistarvation to remain at peace with us.

  If you reversed positions, and placed the white man in a starving condition, he too would steal. Self-preservation is the first law of nature.

  Dr. Steck puffed his corncob pipe as he studied what he'd written. It wasn't the first time he'd sent such a letter, and wouldn't be the last. But senators and congressmen didn't care about people who didn't vote, such as Apaches.

  The next day, Nathanial rode in a carriage with Mr. and Mrs. Davidson to a wedding at a neighboring plantation. It was Sunday, day off for the slaves. Nathanial engaged in civilized conversation with his hosts, but couldn't help remembering the grandson in the slave quarters and the daughter-in-law in the fields. No wonder Johnny joined the Army, he reflected. He remembered Johnny as a friendly easygoing officer, well-liked by his men, with a sense of duty and the willingness to try anything, including planking a certain slave and getting her pregnant.

  Nathanial's sharp officer's eyes spotted a conglomeration of shacks on the far side of a cotton patch. He could hear vague strains of a hymn being sung, as somebody strummed a guitar.

  “The darkies sing so enchantingly,” said Mrs. Davidson with a sigh.

  The carriage turned a bend, and ahead lay a Grecian-revival white-columned castle, with its own special array of flower gardens, leafy trees, and chairs. It reminded Nathanial of a medieval land populated with gallant cavaliers and elegant ladies in ornate gowns. The carriage came to a stop in front of the mansion, where a liveried slave opened the door and helped Mrs. Davidson down.

  “This way,” said Mrs. Davidson, taking Nathanial's hand.

  She led him up the steps to the wide veranda that surrounded the house. Seated at tables, ladies and gentlemen imbibed beverages in the shade, while children chased each other among trees. Uniformed slaves of both sexes carried trays of beverages and hors d'oeuvres to hands reaching out of the air. If you don't have to pay the help, you can live very well indeed, thought Nathanial.

  The bride and groom met guests at the rear of the veranda, with the Ashley River glittering in the distance. Nathanial was introduced to strangers. He shook hands and struggled to remember names. Some were attired in uniform, but he didn't recognize army friends. The bride was a freckle-faced young lady of approximately sixteen, her husband a few years older.

  The Davidsons spoke with elderly friends, while Nathanial retreated toward a chair against the wall. He'd been on the frontier so long, he'd forgotten what it was to be a wealthy man.

  “Champagne?” asked a male uniformed slave, who looked like an elegant black beetle holding out a tray.

  Nathanial removed a glass from the silver tray, then the slave continued along the passageway, offering his wares. I wonder what he thinks about all this, mused Nathanial.

  “Cigar, suh?” asked another slave, holding out a box of panatelas. Nathanial selected one, which the slave lit with a match.

  A man could get used to this sort of thing, figured Nathanial as he observed three belles advance across the veranda, headed toward the bride and groom. Nathanial couldn't help admiring their gowns.

  He watched the belles kiss the friend who'd managed to snare a husband. Young, unsullied, the bride and groom were unaware of bitter arguments they'd doubtlessly have seven or eight years down the road, with children screaming in the background.

  The cigar in one hand, a glass of champagne in another, Nathanial decided to take a walk. With a pronounced limp, he made his way to the stairs, descended them slowly, and headed in the direction of the river. He felt at peace with himself, because he didn't have to worry about an Apache stabbing a knife into his back. Sitting on a chair at water's edge, he sipped his champagne.

  “Hello.”

  Nathanial glanced at an attractive honey blonde about twenty-five years old, possibly younger. She wore an orange chambray gauze dress trimmed with flounces of Bruges lace, and carried a red parasol. “May I sit?”

  “By all means.”

  She dropped daintily beside him, spun the parasol, narrowed her eyes, and said, “I'm Jennifer Butler.”

  Nathanial stared at the woman who'd indirectly caused Johnny's demise. “How do you do?”

  “I imagine you don't think much of me,” she began, “but I've known Johnny all my life and am very sorry he's gone. I never realized he'd transfer to the frontier, and get . . . killed.”

  She said the last word in a whisper, so difficult it was to confess. He couldn't help admiring her thin waist and long slim legs outlined by her gown.

  “He didn't blame you for anything,” said Nathanial. “Love cannot be controlled.”

  “Some people never find love,” she said in a faraway voice. “I'd rather be single than unhappily married.”

  “How fortunate the gentleman who finally captures you.”

  He watched her eyes as they roved his face, measured his shoulders, and dropped momentarily below his waist. “What do you think of South Carolina?” she inquired cheerfully, in an effort to change the subject.

  “In a way, it's paradise.”

  “I live down the road, if you ever care to call. It was very nice speaking with you.”

  She walked toward the main house, swinging her hips easily. Now wait a minute, Nathanial cautioned himself. Johnny's barely cold in his grave, and it wouldn't be right if I pursued Jennifer Butler. Besides, Mother is waiting in New York and I've got to get a move on.

  “Champagne?”

  It was another slave with a tray of libations. Nathanial accepted a glass as the sun sank toward the Ashley River. He wondered if Johnny was in the sky, laughing at him.

  Maria Dolores sat behind Cole Bannon's desk in the Silver Bannon Saloon, checking his books. “You're doing a fine job,” she said as she totaled a column of figures.

  It was late, and he'd taken a few drinks to bolster his courage. “Running saloons is second nature to me.”

  “There are some people who don't understand business, such as my husband, and others who play it like a game of cards, like you and me, Cole. By the way, I've spoken with a lawyer. It might take a year, but I'm divorcing my husband.”

  Cole thought she'd passed a hint. It's now or never, he told himself as he took a deep breath. “Do you think, after your divorce is final, you might want to marry again?”

  There were several uncomfortable moments as she scratched the pen on paper, then raised her eyes and calmly evaluated him. That he was relatively handsome there could be no doubt. The swashbuckling Texas Ranger excited her, and she didn't feel like an abandoned wife and mother of two in his presence. “We both know how painful marriage can be. We mustn't do anything rash.”

  “Of course not,” he replied, his
eyes leveled at her breasts.

  She closed the books. “We've completed enough work for today. I'm going home.”

  “May I accompany you?”

  They arose inches apart. Close up, she liked his angular jaw, the resolute expression on his lips, the rugged weatherbeaten visage. My God! she thought as he embraced her. He wasn't as brawny as her husband, but was strong nonetheless, his hands roving her back.

  “Don't,” she whispered.

  He touched his tongue to her throat. “But I'm mad about you.”

  “We must be sensible,” she protested, weakly trying to push him away.

  “Don't you know that I dream about you?” He smothered her throat with kisses, as one of his hands cupped her left breast.

  “We shouldn't,” she whispered as he lowered her to the sofa.

  His tongue inserted between her lips, something exploded within her, and she realized how starved she'd been for love. Why not? she asked herself as he unbuttoned her dress.

  A lifetime of churchgoing was obliterated by the touch of his lips to her ear. He was pressing himself against her, just what she needed after many lonely anguished nights. Nathanial was unfaithful to me, so what am I worried about? she asked herself. There wasn't much room on the sofa, but lovers always find a way. “I worship you,” he whispered into her ear as he drew up the hem of her dress.

  Maria Dolores writhed with him on the narrow space. My husband does whatever he pleases, she thought. So do my children, and I deserve some fun too, don't I? But she knew, deep in her Jewish-Catholic heart, that one day she'd pay dearly for her shameless brazen lust.

  * * *

  Not far away, in a dark corner of the Silver Palace Saloon, Fletcher Doakes sat with a mug of beer and a copy of an old Cleveland newspaper. He held it before his face, pretending to read about the crisis in Kansas, but was hiding his face from everyone in the vicinity.

  Doakes wanted to be alone, because he believed the monster within was becoming visible to the naked eye. Sometimes he imagined faces of his victims tumbling through his mind, as they strained against the killer cord.