by Len Levinson
“According to your records, you've been on sick leave for over a year,” said Colonel Chandler to Nathanial. “I trust you've recovered from your wounds?”
“Once in a while I feel a twinge, but otherwise I'm fine.”
“I heard a report that you beat up a couple of enlisted men the other day.”
“They were insubordinate, sir.”
Clarissa appeared surprised. “You beat up a couple of enlisted men, Nathanial? Why didn't you mention it to me?”
“I didn't think you'd be interested, dear.” Then he turned back to the colonel. “Once discipline starts breaking down, a military unit is no longer effective.”
‘That's why I tossed the report into the dustbin. I have too few experienced officers and sergeants trying to control hordes of civilians in uniform, most of whom are wanted for crimes in the East.”
“I've always believed that the best way to train soldiers is take them on a campaign. They'll learn the importance of discipline and training quickly, I assure you.”
The colonel smiled. “What if we run into Apaches before the lessons are learned?”
“War is the best classroom of all, sir.”
Meanwhile, at the other end of the table, Mrs. Chandler was carrying on a different conversation with Clarissa. “The worst problem we wives have is laziness,” confessed Libby Chandler. “We all have maids and if we're not careful we can become quite useless.”
“I'll be fine once my pianos arrive,” replied Clarissa. “Nathanial has bought two for me, and they're on their way even as we speak.”
“Do you play both at the same time?” asked Mrs. Chandler, mystified.
“Nathanial thought if one was captured by the Indians, maybe the other would get through. If they both arrive, I guess we'll give one to the men's recreation room.”
Mrs. Chandler realized that money was no object to the lieutenant and his young wife, and they came from a higher class than she. “I've always wanted to play the piano,” she said. “Is it difficult to learn?”
“I'd be happy to give you lessons, if you like.”
On the other side of the table, Colonel Chandler asked, “What did you do on your sick leave, Lieutenant?”
“I went on my honeymoon, sir. We traveled in England, France, and Italy.”
These are not poor people, mused Colonel Chandler, independent of his wife. He must have influential friends in the War Department to get that much time off. “Tell me something, Lieutenant Barrington. I can't help being curious about you, because you're an experienced frontier officer and you've served with distinction in the Mexican War. Why aren't you a captain?”
Nathanial shrugged with embarrassment. “After West Point, I started drinking rather heavily, I'm afraid, and then got into a few fights with other officers. But that was a long time ago and I hardly ever drink anymore. Clarissa has made a man out of me.”
Colonel Chandler gazed down the table at the vivacious blonde speaking with his wife. “Isn't it strange, the effect they have on us? A bad one can ruin a man, and a good one can make him . . .” The post commander searched for the perfect word, but it eluded him.
“A colonel,” suggested Nathanial with a smile.
“I've just had an idea, Lieutenant Barrington. Instead of commanding Company I, why don't you join my staff? I could use an experienced officer to help me run this post, and it's time you exercised command at higher levels. You do a good job—I'll recommend you for captain. What do you say?”
Mangas Coloradas was troubled when he stopped for supper that night. He hadn't planned on traveling with stolen sheep and cattle, and hadn't even been consulted about the raid. He feared what bluecoat soldiers would do if they saw stolen property grazing near his camp.
After the meal, as he was preparing to go to sleep, Geronimo and Juh visited his fire to pay their respects. “We have found very fine horses,” said Geronimo. “You are welcome to your pick, great chief.”
Mangas Coloradas looked at them coldly. “You have endangered the People with your rash act.”
“The People need to eat,” replied Geronimo. “And our enemies should pay for use of our land.”
‘Tell that to the bluecoat soldiers when they ask where you acquired the animals.”
“Bluecoat soldiers travel in small detachments. I do not think they will bother us.”
“What if they do?”
Geronimo deferred to his cousin Juh.
“We shall destroy them,” said Juh.
At three o'clock in the morning, a lone vaquero was spotted riding hard toward Fort Craig. He waved his sombrero frantically as he bore down on the two guards at the gate. “I have a message for the commandante!" he screamed.
The guards waved him onward as the vaquero galloped toward the command post headquarters. Two more guards were waiting at the door, they stepped aside, and the Charge of Quarters arose sleepily from his cot, his service revolver in hand.
“Senor,” reported the vaquero, “a herd of sheep, cattle, and horses have been stolen about two days east of here. I was there and counted thirty-six Apaches, although there may have been more.” The Mexican banged his fist on the desk. “The Army is supposed to protect the citizens of this territory. My employer, Don Emilio Torrezon, is proprietor of much land and livestock. He wants to know: what are you going to do about it?”
Nathanial and Clarissa lay naked and asleep in each other's arms when there was a knock on the door. Nathanial reached for the Colt in the holster hanging from the bedpost. “Sounds like trouble.” He put on his maroon silk robe, purchased at a shop not far from the Doge's Palace in Venice, then opened the door.
It was the charge of quarters. “The colonel wants all officers to report to his office at once, sir. There's been an Apache attack, and he'll explain everything after you get there.”
Nathanial donned his shirt and tied on his holster. He was half asleep, regretting leaving his naked wife beneath the covers.
“I'll be back as soon as I can,” he told her. “Keep your gun close by.” He kissed her lips, squeezed her left breast, and was out the door.
He adjusted his campaign hat on his head as he crossed the parade ground. The post was coming to life, candles flickered in the barracks and a detail was being marched to the stable. He arrived at the command post headquarters, where a few officers had gathered, notepads on their knees. Nathanial barely knew any of them, but they appeared the usual mixed lot of competent officers and time servers. The door opened and Colonel Chandler entered the room, whereupon the officers snapped to attention.
“At ease,” said the colonel as he stood before a map of the Ninth Department tacked to the wall. “I've known the Apaches would commit a robbery before long, and it looks like they've finally done it. The brazen bastards have stolen approximately three hundred sheep, fifty cattle, and twenty horses from a ranch in this vicinity"—he touched his finger to the map—"but I'm afraid they've made a serious error. Such a herd will slow down even Apaches, while we employ four of the best trackers in the territory. We're going to take the stolen property back and if the Apaches resist, they shall be chastised.”
There was a knock on the door, it was flung open, and standing before the colonel was the Indian commissioner, Dr. Michael Steck, who happened to be visiting Fort Craig. “What's this I hear about a campaign against Apaches?”
Colonel Chandler straightened his spine and looked down at the shorter man. “Apaches have stolen a large herd of livestock and the Army is going after them.”
Dr. Steck was unshaven and hastily dressed. He held out his hands and said, “But I'm trying to make peace—a very sensitive process. A military campaign will scare away peaceful Apaches.”
“One good scare is worth a hundred peace treaties, I've always believed.”
“In that case—I'll go with you. Someone must safeguard the interests of the Apaches.”
Colonel Chandler caught hold of himself, because he couldn't lose his temper with a civilian official. “Yo
u may accompany us if you wish, but I shall place you under arrest if you interfere with my command. We're departing Fort Craig at sunup, Dr. Steck. Prepare yourself for an arduous campaign.”
In the moonlight, Juh walked among stolen horses. He still was furious following his discussion with Mangas Coloradas. I am a chief in my own right. How dare he criticize me?
Juh could see no point in making accommodations with enemies. He was bred from the Nednai People, most extreme of all Apaches. Mangas Coloradas is old, decided Juh, and old men like to lie around, smoke their pipes, and recall the days when they were fearsome warriors. I would rather die on this very night than become a doddering old fool.
He heard a footfall behind him and spun around with knife in hand. But it was only his cousin, Geronimo the Bedonko. “Jocita would like to speak with you,” he said.
Juh turned his gaze to her wickiup. “I wonder what she wants.”
Geronimo smiled. “How do you manage so many wives?”
“You have it backwards, my cousin. They manage me.”
Juh walked to Jocita's wickiup, hoping to receive her favors. She was moody and he never knew when she'd insult him. But a chief is entitled to sons.
He arrived at her wickiup and spoke her name. She crawled out, a red bandanna wrapped around her jet black hair. “I want to talk with you,” she said. “Alone.”
They strolled along the edge of the campsite, and Juh noticed that Jocita seemed agitated. “What is wrong?” he asked.
She peered deeply into his eyes. “If something happens to me—promise that you'll care for Running Deer.”
“He is my son—do you think I would abandon him? But what makes you think something will happen?”
“I dreamed I would die in battle, Juh.”
He offered no clever retort, for dreams were how the mountain spirits spoke to people. “You should not have come on this journey.”
“A warrior does not hide from death.”
He grabbed her arm. “Listen to me, my love. If there's trouble, stay close. I shall defend you personally.”
“No one can deny the mountain spirits. Promise me that you will not punish Running Deer because of my evil deeds.”
“You do not trust me?”
“How can I trust you after you have betrayed me so many times? You must give me your word, Juh.”
“I give you my word sealed in blood,” replied Juh as he whipped out his knife. In a flash, he cut his arm. “Now do you believe me?”
She watched blood stream down his arm. “Yes.”
* * *
It was two in the morning when McCabe entered the stable, carrying a saddle over his shoulder. He found his gray stallion, threw the blanket onto its back, then dropped on the saddle.
A young Mexican man walked toward him, carrying a lantern. “Going somewhere, senor?”
“Movin’ on,” replied McCabe curtly. He reached into his pocket and removed coins. “That should take care of you.”
The stableman counted the coins. “It is always best to get an early start, eh, senor? But do not worry. I will not say that I saw you.”
“Say what you want,” replied McCabe. “I don't give a damn either way.”
McCabe tied on his bedroll as the stableman retreated. Then McCabe climbed into the saddle and rode out of the stable. Giant constellations swirled in the sky as he steered his horse toward the open range. It wasn't long before Santa Fe's lights receded behind him.
McCabe hadn't said good-bye, nor had he left a note. He'd been disappearing from one town after another since the war ended, in an aimless quest for meaning and truth in a world gone mad. The last thing he needed was getting tied to a woman, because that would be the end of him.
His crude demeanor was his protection against the cruelties he inevitably encountered, and he feared once he started getting soft and gooey over a woman, that would make him less combative. It was only a matter of time before he'd bring Maria Dolores flowers or sing love songs beneath her window.
McCabe spat into the dirt as his horse carried him away from her. Despite his menacing and mocking exterior, McCabe was a terrified man. He wasn't afraid of physical pain, but despised gentleness in himself. In a cruel world, he had to be cruder in order to survive.
Unfortunately, the Mexican woman had warmed the ashes in his heart. McCabe loved to sleep with her and had come to feel dependent upon her. No matter where he went, he always was falling for women. They tempted him to settle down and raise a family, but how could he bring babes into a hideous world?
He'd sleep with his scratchy woolen blanket on the cold hard ground for the foreseeable future, instead of warm and wonderful Maria Dolores. His meat would be semicooked over an open fire, provided it didn't rain, instead of grilled to perfection in the comfort of the Silver Palace Saloon. The future didn't appear attractive to McCabe as his horse plodded into the night.
McCabe refused to let anyone take advantage of him, yet was bereft inside. Maria Dolores had made him feel happy and needed, even offering to introduce him to her children. He felt at war with himself, but the more he thought about Maria Dolores, the less attractive his scratchy old blanket seemed. “Oh, what the hell,” he said aloud as he pulled the reins of his horse. Then he turned the animal and headed back to Santa Fe.
Chapter Twenty-four
The band played “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” as half asleep and unruly dragoons followed officers and sergeants to the main gate of Fort Craig. Nathanial could hear their groans and complaints all the way at the head of the column, where he rode alongside Colonel Chandler.
Wives and children congregated near the gate, waving goodbye to their men. Nathanial sat taller in his saddle as he spotted his little wife in the crowd. He raised his arm and threw her a regulation West Point salute. “I love you,” he formed with his lips, and then she broke free from the others, ran to his side, and clasped his hand.
“Forgive me, Nathanial, but I had to touch you.”
“I'll be back soon,” he reassured her. “We probably won't see Apaches. Don't go anywhere without your gun, all right?”
He leaned over and kissed Clarissa, nearly falling out of his saddle. Behind him, he heard cheers from the men. He righted himself as she stepped back. Their eyes met, and for the first time it occurred to Nathanial that he might never see her again. He blew her a kiss, and for a moment considered resigning his commission on the spot, but turned front, settled into the saddle, and rode toward his next rendezvous with destiny.
Cole Bannon watched from his horse as the Army left Fort Craig. He'd been on the trail five days, sleeping during daylight, traveling by night. His tin badge remained in his shirt pocket as he followed the trail of Fletcher Doakes.
He'd stopped at every town, settlement, and ranch that he saw, inquiring about Doakes. The more he thought about it, the more he believed Doakes wasn't in New Mexico anymore, or maybe the Apaches had gotten him. Perhaps I'm chasing a mirage, reflected Cole as he stopped in front of a cantina, climbed down from the saddle, and threw his reins over the rail.
The cantina was nearly empty at that early hour, except for a Mexican working the bar. He took one look at the dusty bearded traveler and poured a shot of mescal. Cole took it in his hand and tossed half the liquid down his throat. It sizzled his innards, steamed his brain, and when the cantina returned, he reached into his shirt pocket and took out his badge. “Any whores been killed around here lately?”
The bartender blinked. “As a matter of fact, one was strangled by some son of a bitch about a week ago.”
Two days later, Mangas Coloradas rode through Cuchillo Negro's camp, horrified by wickiups in poor repair, warriors lying about in drunken stupors, their arms around snoring wives, as skinny naked children scurried about like sad-eyed imps. Never had the great chief imagined it would be so bad. He stopped his horse before the wickiup of Cuchillo Negro, noticing the garbage-strewn ground.
Cuchillo Negro stepped out of his wickiup, just awakened from deep slumb
er although it was nearly noon. From atop his saddle, Mangas Coloradas. turned down the corners of his mouth. “I do not like what I see here, brother.”
“We have had bad times,” explained Cuchillo Negro. “The White Father in the East does not listen to Dr. Steck.”
Mangas Coloradas spat at the ground. “That is what I think of the White Father in the East. You must come away from here, Cuchillo Negro. Otherwise you shall surely die.”
“You do not understand, my brother. Huge numbers of bluecoat soldiers have come to the homeland. Resistance will lead to bloodshed.”
“Let it spill,” replied Mangas Coloradas. “A warrior lives a sacred life and dies a sacred death.” He pointed at mountains in the distance. “We will camp there for the night, then continue our journey. You may join us if you wish. How many times must the White Eyes cheat you before you learn your lesson?”
Cuchillo Negro compared his warriors with Juh, Geronimo, Chatto, and Loco; the answer was clear. “How pitiful we must appear,” he replied. “I shall go with you, Mangas Coloradas. Once more you have shown me the true path.”
That evening, Norbert Denigran, formerly Fetcher Doakes, walked humbly down a corridor of the convent, his hands clasped as if in prayer, a beatific smile on his face. It was after Vespers, all offices darkened except for the one where the Mother Superior worked late.
Her door open, he peered inside. A chubby elderly woman in a black habit was bent over her desk. What a business this church is, thought Denigran. They work their ringers to the bone and make the Pope richer.
She glanced up and appeared startled to see him there. “Is it you, Mr. Denigran?”
“Indeed it is,” he replied, slithering into her office. “I wondered if I might have a word with you, Mother Superior?”
She laid down her pen. “Please don't feel rushed. I'm interested in what you have to say, Mr. Denigran.”
Denigran's ferretlike eyes spotted the cast-iron safe in the corner. Now he knew where the money was, and next step was to lay his hands on it. “I thought I should thank you, Mother Superior, for all you've done for me. I was a vagabond on the face on the earth, then you took me in.”