Savage Frontier

by Len Levinson

  “Did Nathanial buy you too?” she asked.

  “Yes, but in those days he was drunk practically all the time. Where'd he find you?”

  “South Carolina, and actually he hasn't bought me yet. I'm still a fugitive but he's going to buy me and my son.”

  ‘You'd better be careful when you go outside, because this city is full of slavecatchers. You might be able to get a job right here, ‘cause old Miss Rooney is on her last legs, as you can plainly see.” Otis winked. “These folks have got nothing but money, but they don't work you too hard. When I first came to New York, I didn't know what to make of it, but now I can read and write and I'm a free man. By the way, are you and Nathanial . . . ?”

  He let the question hang in the air, but she knew what he was talking about. “No, he just felt sorry for me.”

  “Is he still drinking?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don't understand why they didn't drum him out of the Army, and he even got into fights with his best friends.” Otis looked into the hall to make sure no one was listening. “Everybody wants him to quit the Army, but he won't listen. If anything happened to Nathanial, it'd kill his mother. He's the strangest man I've ever known.”

  Belinda leaned against the doorjamb, thought about Nathanial for a few moments, and then said, “I agree.”

  Running Deer sat cross-legged near the fire, watching his mother making a bow. Many suns ago, she'd selected a branch of mulberry wood as long as two arrows, then stripped and rubbed it with horse grease, shaping it roughly into its final position. Then she let it dry for many more suns, followed by more rubbing and shaping. Now she strung the bow, tightening it to its final curvature. He watched avidly as she lay the bow upon hot coals.

  Pungent smoke filled the air as the bow was hardened and purified. She flipped it with a stick and when satisfied that all excess liquid had been evaporated, removed it from the fire.

  “Is it finished?” asked Running Deer.

  “We must cure it for six suns, and then I will put on a new string. After that, we shall test it.”

  He smiled as he touched the still-warm bow. “I like it.”

  “Once you went on a raid with me, when you were in my belly, remember?” She leaned toward him, eyes gleaming mysteriously.

  He vaguely recalled the shooting of arrows and guns, but it was buried far below. “A little.”

  She wrapped her arms around him. “You were a. warrior before you were born, and you will be a warrior until you die. That is your sole destiny and you must never deny it.”

  He gazed at her wide-eyed. “Why are you a warrior, Mother? Not many other women are.”

  “The mountain spirits have offered a special gift, which I bequeathed to you. Don't ever let me hear of you planting seeds in the ground, like the Nakai-yes and the Pindah-lickoyee. Greatness will be yours if you cherish the holy Lifeway. But if you betray the mountain spirits, you will be cast down.”

  The boy pondered her words as footsteps approached the fire. It was Chief Juh, his father, one hand behind his back. “Is it the little warrior that I see?” the chief asked, a smile on his face.

  The boy rose to his feet and said simply, “Yes.”

  Juh withdrew his arm from behind his back and showed a lion fur shirt. “Remember this?”

  It was a simple garment with no sleeves, sewed up the sides with deer sinew. Juh helped the boy put it on, then took a step backward and observed him. “Perfect.”

  The boy felt lion emanations, as on the day they'd hunted the beast. He touched his hand to the fur. “I like it.”

  “Go—show your friends.”

  The boy wandered off, leaving his mother and Juh at the fire. “You were kind,” she said. “It makes me happy.”

  He dropped to one knee in front of her, peered into her eyes, and said, “When?”

  She thought for a few moments. “Tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “Not in front of the boy.”

  “In the desert then.”

  She lowered her eyes. “So be it.”

  In the alley, Private Fletcher Doakes stared across the yard at lights blazing in the Barrington home. He glanced both ways, then advanced stealthily, finally arriving at a window of the parlor. He removed his hat, peered around the sill, and saw her sitting on the floor, reading to her children.

  Doakes wished he could join a real family, because his mother usually had been busy with men. He'd believed she didn't like him, and he'd spent most of his childhood sleeping. His father evidently had been a swine who made babies and then moved on.

  Doakes smiled as he watched the beautiful woman with her children, both of whom appeared fascinated by the story. They'll grow up smart, thought Doakes. But I grew up stupid.

  His eyes felt salty as he watched the mother hug her children. They squealed with delight, wriggling in her arms, covering her face with kisses. Doakes imagined himself being cuddled by the Spanish woman.

  “Don't move!” said a voice behind him.

  Doakes froze. He'd been caught looking into somebody's window! Frantically he searched for an alibi.

  “I'm a Texas Ranger and I do believe you're the man I'm looking for. Raise your hands real slow. What's in your pockets?” The ranger took a few coins out of one and a dirty handkerchief from another. The culprit's right trouser pocket appeared empty, except Cole's fingers touched something unusual. He pulled out a length of cord.

  Cole was certain he'd caught his strangler, while Doakes contemplated trying to take the gun away from him.

  “What's this for?” asked Cole.

  “Just a piece of string.”

  “What do you use it for?”

  “You never can tell when you might need a piece of string.”

  “Especially if you want to strangle a prostitute?”

  Doakes nearly choked, because it was the last thing he'd expected the ranger to say, while Cole saw the change of expression on his face.

  “What's your name?” asked the ranger.

  “Fletcher Doakes.”

  “That your real name?”

  “Sure.”

  “Start walking to the jail, Fletcher Doakes, or I'll blow your head off.”

  Nathanial went to bed around midnight, but couldn't fall asleep on his first night in Manhattan. Finally, he decided to take a walk to Broadway. He rolled out of bed, selected a pair of light blue linen trousers, a white shirt, and a dark blue jacket.

  He put on a pair of civilian shoes, but they were too tight so he had to wear army boots beneath his trousers. Then he made his way toward the stairs, where a door opened at the end of the hall. “Is that you, Nathanial?” asked his mother, standing wraith-like in moonlight.

  “Thought I'd take a little walk.”

  “We're not going to do anything we'll be ashamed of, are we?”

  “Of course not, Mother.”

  Washington Square was deserted except for a few derelicts and idlers sleeping on benches or among foliage. Nathanial walked east on Fourth Street, his path illuminated by gaslit lamps on poles, with additional light spilling from the odd tavern or oyster cellar.

  Broadway was crowded with people and carriages when he arrived, for many New Yorkers venture outdoors only after the sun goes down. He came to the Saint Nicholas Hotel, a six-story white marble palace with lights blazing in windows, filling the block between Spring and Broome streets. On the next block, three pretty prostitutes approached. They gave him knowing looks as he and his cane drew closer, but he continued his nocturnal wandering. Suddenly, out of the night, he heard a voice say, “My God—it can't be.”

  A corpulent gentleman with a walrus mustache approached on the sidewalk as Nathanial recognized his old friend, Reginald van Zweinen, scion of one of the city's prosperous old Dutch families.

  “How long have you been in town?” asked Reginald, leaning first to the left and then to the right.

  “Just arrived a few hours ago. Where are you going?”

  “To meet some f
riends. Why don't you come along? You look as if you've been hurt.”

  Before Nathanial could escape, Reginald dragged him down a flight of stairs into a small subterranean room crammed with diners. The fragrance of roasted or fried oysters filled the air, overlaid with lager beer. A circular table lurked in a corner, surrounded by gentlemen and ladies engaged in noisy discussion, empty plates of oysters before them, and everyone had his or her mug of beer handy.

  “Make way,” growled Reginald as he dragged two empty chairs to the table. “Ladies and gentleman, may I present an old friend, Nathanial Barrington, recently returned to New York from . . . where?”

  “New Mexico,” replied Nathanial.

  Reginald introduced his friends as waiters carried trays of roast oysters, fried oysters, oyster stew, oyster on the half shell, and mugs of beer past them. Raucous conversation reverberated off walls as a couple in a corner shared a brief but affectionate kiss.

  “What's New Mexico like?” asked an unusually handsome dark-haired man sitting on the far side of the table, his arm around the shoulder of a redheaded woman who smoked a cheroot and wore a dress that revealed the upper portion of her breasts.

  Nathanial found himself staring at those two tempting melons. “Mountains and semiarid plains,” he replied. “Not much population.”

  “Is the frontier as lawless as we've heard?”

  “Worse.”

  The waiter arrived, Nathanial ordered roast oysters and a mug of beer. Conversation returned to its former din, individuals hollering at each other across the table in order to be heard. Reginald turned toward Nathanial and said, “I've never been able to understand how an intelligent man could remain in the Army.”

  “Are you still drama critic for the Post?”

  “Do you think actresses would look at me if I weren't? This isn't a position one gives up easily.”

  Nathanial found his eyes drawn repeatedly to the redhead sitting on the far side of the table. She'd been introduced as Patricia, and he assumed she was a theatrical lady who found life on the boards amenable to her loose living habits and virtually nonexistent morals. They pretended to be sisters of the footlights, but would step over each other's dead bodies to win a cherished role.

  Patricia leaned toward Nathanial and stage-whispered across the table, “You look as if you don't know where you are.”

  “I've been away six years.”

  “I've always wanted to go West, but they say living conditions are quite primitive.”

  “Are you in a play that I should know about?”

  “Only a small role in Old Heads and Young Hearts at Wallack's Theatre.”

  “I'm sure you light up the stage.”

  “You're very kind,” she said in an offhand way, as if accustomed to compliments.

  The gentleman to her left sought to engage her in conversation, and Nathanial figured he was protecting what he considered his property. The waiter arrived with a plate of oysters sizzling in butter, with fried potatoes, two fat slices of white bread, and a mug of beer.

  Nathanial proceeded to consume the meal as he studied his companions. Patricia was engaged in hushed disagreement with her boyfriend, while the others ignored them, absorbed in their own cacophony of opinions. Then suddenly Patricia's boyfriend curtly excused himself and left the oyster cellar. “I don't know why you bring him around,” said one of the other actresses. “He's such a bore.”

  “He has his uses,” replied Patricia.

  He probably pays the rent, thought Nathanial. The chair beside her now was vacant. Without hesitation or doubt, Nathanial carried his plate to her side. “Mind if I sit down?”

  Across the table, a dark-haired woman with golden earrings said in a tone of amusement, “An army officer doesn't waste time, I see.”

  Nathanial resumed his meal as Patricia watched him with an flirtatious smile. “Do you know any Indians?” she asked.

  “A few.”

  “Are they as bloodthirsty as I've been told?”

  “Killing white people is their favorite pastime.”

  She leaned toward him and asked, “Have you ever slept with an Indian woman.”

  “Once,” Nathanial admitted. “Perhaps you'd like me to demonstrate later, purely in the spirit of scientific discovery, of course.”

  She leaned closer and whispered into his ear, “I've often wondered what it was like to be an Indian.”

  Suddenly the door of the oyster house was flung open. Her paramour returned, the one she'd expelled only minutes ago, but now he wore an angry expression. “So!” he said as he arrived at the table, pointing at her. “I can see you've found your next fool, eh?”

  Nathanial rose unsteadily, his belly full of oysters and beer. He couldn't let anyone talk like that to a lady, even if every word was probably true. “I think you'd better walk on out of here,” he growled.

  The rejected lover's eyes widened. “Who do you think you're talking to?”

  “You,” replied Nathanial.

  Suddenly the oyster cellar became very still. Nathanial realized too late that he wasn't in Santa Fe anymore.

  The threatened gentleman tried to smile. “You're not planning to fight me, are you?”

  “Up to you.”

  “But you can barely walk.”

  “Leave the lady alone.”

  “What lady?”

  A greasy frying pan came down onto the gentleman's head from behind, and he collapsed to the floor. Standing behind him was a cook in a white jacket. He and the Negro dishwasher grabbed the gentleman and dragged him toward the back door. Diners looked at each other curiously for a few moments as Nathanial returned to his seat. Conversation soon returned to its previous volume, because New York night owls are the most jaded in the world.

  “Where are you going?” asked Ish-keh.

  “To look at the horses,” replied Juh.

  “You are not fooling me. You are going to see her.”

  “Quiet, woman.”

  Juh crawled out of his wickiup, then glanced around the encampment to make sure no enemies were about. He headed for the chaparral, aware that Ish-keh knew precisely what he was up to. Let her nag, he thought. I don't care.

  He was willing to endure anything if he could get his hands on Jocita again. He paused at the edge of the encampment, then continued into the wilderness. Trying not to think of Ish-keh, he knew she would insult him intensively in days to come. He was destablizing his domestic life but would worry about that some other time.

  His legs felt enlivened as he made his way toward the agreed meeting place. He thought of Jocita writhing naked in his arms and nearly fainted with desire. What if she doesn't come? he thought. I will kill her if she disappoints me.

  Silently he moved through the wilderness, musket in hand. A coyote sang mournfully in a far-off cave as a bat flew across the face of the full moon. Juh came to a grove of cottonwood trees, where Jocita sat at the side of a stream.

  “You are late,” she said.

  He kneeled in front of her. “I have dreamed about this moment.”

  So had she, but never could admit it. Instead, she had to appear that she was disinterested. “I want to show my gratitude for what you have done with Running Deer.”

  “I will give him a lion shirt every day to please you.”

  “Be his father, Juh, that's all I want.”

  “What do I get?”

  She reached to the hem of her deerskin shirt. “Me.”

  She pulled it off, then he gazed at those rich breasts denied him for so long. He pressed his lips against them as she reclined on the ground. “At last,” he whispered.

  She felt his muscular body against her and no longer could pretend disinterest. She hated him and loved him at the same time as she sank her teeth into his shoulder.

  “Easy,” he said.

  They clutched each other desperately, tearing at each other's clothing. They wrestled to determine the top position, but he defeated her easily, pinning her wrists to the ground.
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  He was her first lover since the bluecoat officer, and it was all she could do to prevent herself from shrieking with joy. They rolled into the stream during their exertions, but not even frigid mountain water could stop them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nathanial awakened at noon, and at first thought he was with his wife in Santa Fe. An arm lay across his chest as Patricia snored softly into the pillow. The frontier officer opened his eyes on a small room with three dolls sitting on the dresser, looking at him dolefully as carriages rolled past in the street outside. It had been an educational night for both, but he needed to see his lawyer. Gently he removed her arm from his chest and rolled out of bed.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, one eye half open.

  “I have business.”

  “So early?”

  He dressed, smoothed his hair in front of the mirror. She'd fallen asleep again, the sheet dropped from her shoulders, exposing nipples big as twenty-dollar silver coins. He kissed one of them, and said, “Bye.”

  She barely stirred. He placed money on the dresser, and with one last glance at his sleeping beauty, was out the door.

  She lived on Rivington Street, not far from the Bowery. He jumped into the first empty coach he could find, then told the driver to take him to the corner of Pine and Pearl. Why get married? he asked himself as he rode down the colorful Bowery. It's so much easier this way.

  He bought a New York Daily Times from a corner newsboy, and on the front page, he read:

  IDIOTS AND THEIR INSTRUCTION

  The number of idiots or feebleminded people in the United States is much greater than previously supposed. The census of 1850 provided (for the first time) for the enumeration of idiotic persons, and the number reported was 15,787.

  Is this why America can't settle the slavery issue? he asked himself. We've got too many idiots? He laughed at his little joke as his coach came to a halt at a gray stone building. He climbed to the law offices of Soames and Soames, where a clerk led him to a door at the end of the corridor. “He's waiting for you, sir.”

  Nathanial found his old friend Ronald Soames sitting behind the desk, studying a legal brief. Soames glanced up and presented the old familiar dimpled chin, black mustache, bushy eyebrows. “Nathanial, old boy—it's great to see you. I've just received an invitation from your mother, by the way.”