Night of the Cougar Read online

  LONE JUSTICE

  Insects chirped, stars sparkled overhead, and Culhane's breathing returned to normal. Nobody's following me, he realized. Hell, it's hard enough to track in the daytime.

  He looked up, found the big dipper, the small dipper, and the north star. No dumb cowboy will ever catch me, he thought confidently as he arose.

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

  He spun, and saw an Apache emerge from the chaparral, aiming a Colt Navy. “Is it you, Barrington?” Culhane asked.

  Sunny Bear drew closer, face covered with war paint. “You should have left me alone.”

  Culhane took a step backward, trying to smile. “You ain't gonter kill me, are you?”

  “I sure am.”

  “What about the law?”

  “I am the law,” replied Nathanial, his finger tightening around the trigger. . . .

  Also by Len Levinson

  The Rat Bastards:

  Hit the Beach

  Death Squad

  River of Blood

  Meat Grinder Hill

  Down and Dirty

  Green Hell

  Too Mean to Die

  Hot Lead and Cold Steel

  Do or Die

  Kill Crazy

  Nightmare Alley

  Go For Broke

  Tough Guys Die Hard

  Suicide River

  Satan’s Cage

  Go Down Fighting

  The Pecos Kid:

  Beginner’s Luck

  The Reckoning

  Apache Moon

  Outlaw Hell

  Devil’s Creek Massacre

  Bad to the Bone

  The Apache Wars Saga:

  Desert Hawks

  War Eagles

  Savage Frontier

  White Apache

  Devil Dance

  NIGHT OF THE

  COUGAR

  * * *

  Volume Six of

  The Apache Wars Saga

  by

  Len Levinson

  NIGHT OF THE COUGAR

  Copyright © 1997 by Len Levinson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  EBook © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-869-8

  Library ISBN 978-1-62460-210-8

  Cover photo © TK/iStock.com.

  To Ray and Jean

  Chapter One

  Geronimo studied a lone White Eyes rider crossing the cactus-strewn valley below, and noticed the rifle, pistol, knife, saddle, and other articles of value, not to mention a fine black stallion. A well-placed arrow would gain the merchandise, but gusting winds were unpredictable. Geronimo decided to kill the enemy rider at close range, with a knife.

  The warrior and medicine man experienced no doubts, because the homeland was under invasion from the Pindah-lickoyee White Eyes from the north, and the Nakai-yes Mexicanos from the south. Many atrocities had been committed, and he believed any retaliation was justified.

  Geronimo was thirty-two, medium height, heavily muscled, with a wide, grim mouth and oriental eyes. He estimated the direction of the rider, who appeared alert, hand near his pistol, wide-brimmed hat shading bearded features, a husky tall fellow about to die. Geronimo descended the back of the mountain, then maneuvered on foot toward the White Eyes intruder.

  Fishhook cacti and golden zinnia flowers provided cover as black-collared lizards sped out of his path. Geronimo paused to study his quarry, who was poised in his saddle, scanning from side to side, not seeing the black hair and brown skin of the stalker.

  The sun baked Geronimo's back as he crept past a crescent milk vetch bush. The White Eyes must be very stupid, he reasoned. Doesn't he know this is the homeland of the People? Silently, Geronimo circled closer, imagining himself returning to camp with new pistol and horse, wearing the wide-brimmed hat. He loved to astonish the People, and some said he might become chief someday, after the era of Mangas Coloradas, Cochise, and Victorio had passed.

  Geronimo took his last position behind a thick-leafed palo verde tree, laid down the bow, and withdrew the knife, its handle made of bear bone, the blade ten inches long. Geronimo crouched, ready to spring.

  The rider drew closer, and Geronimo thought there was something familiar about him. But the warrior had seen many White Eyes at councils and perhaps this was one of the liars. Geronimo glanced about one last time, to make sure a rattlesnake wasn't about to strike. The rider wore a blond beard, white shirt, tan pants, brown boots, shiny spurs. Geronimo took a deep breath and leapt.

  The horse raised his hooves high in the air, as Geronimo flew toward his victim, who drew his pistol quickly. Geronimo collided with the rider, simultaneously grabbing the wrist of his gun hand, the impact knocking him out of his saddle. Falling to the ground, Geronimo brought down the knife, but a hand zoomed up and held his wrist.

  The two men tussled, rolled over, and grunted as they tried to overwhelm each other. Geronimo realized the White Eyes was strong, and it was going to be a long afternoon. Then the White Eyes bucked like a horse, and Geronimo found himself on his back, his adversary above him. They looked each other in the eye, close enough to bite each other's noses.

  “Geronimo!” said the White Eyes in astonishment.

  Geronimo was startled by the sound of his name, then realized why the Pindah had appeared familiar. “Sunny Bear,” he replied, a note of awe in his voice.

  They stared at each other in disbelief. Sunny Bear had lived among the People two harvests ago, then had returned to the eastern lands. Through the dust, Geronimo perceived the single silver streak in Sunny Bear's golden hair, a mark of distinction conferred by the Mountain Spirits. Sunny Bear had gone on raids with the People, and been a favorite of Chief Mangas Coloradas and Nana the di-yin medicine man.

  Both men relaxed their grips, faces red from exertion, then rose to their feet. “I failed to recognize you beneath your beard, Sunny Bear,” said Geronimo in Apache language. “It was your pistol I sought.”

  “Take it,” replied Sunny Bear, who had learned fluent Apache. He was six foot two, wide-shouldered, with blue eyes. “I have another in my saddlebags.” Sunny Bear handed the pistol butt first to Geronimo.

  Geronimo stepped back and held up his hands. “I could not accept such a gift from my warrior brother Sunny Bear.”

  “It is nothing compared to the gifts I received when I resided among the People,” said Sunny Bear firmly. “I insist you take it, otherwise I shall be offended.”

  “Since you leave me no choice . . .” Geronimo accepted the weapon, the barrel catching a glint of the sun. “I shall never forget this, Sunny Bear. What are you doing here? We thought you were gone forever.”

  “I have returned with my wife and children and begun my own ranch, which is yonder.” Sunny Bear pointed behind him. “You must visit, and bring your wives. I had hoped one of my old warrior brothers would arrive one day. Let us smoke together, in commemoration of our meeting.”

  Sunny Bear pulled a leather pouch out of the saddlebags, sat cross-legged, and rolled two fat cigarettes, then passed one to Geronimo, who marveled at Sunny Bear's change of appearance. Sunny Bear had become a Pindah, yet he moved like the old Sunny Bear, who had seen great visions and committed valorous deeds. Sunny Bear produced a match, lit Geronimo's cigarette, then they sat in silence, puffing and recalling when Sunny Bear had dwelled among the People. In the sweat lodges, the warriors still spoke of Sunny Bear.

  “Do you have whiskey?” asked Geronimo, unable to restrain himself further.

  “I regret that I have none, but expect some soon. You must bring Chief Mangas Coloradas and the othe
rs, and we shall celebrate.”

  “I cannot wait to tell him and Victorio and Nana that you are here. But I must ask you an important question—do you know if the bluecoat army is planning big war against us?”

  “I am no longer in the bluecoat army, but the Pindah-lickoyee are coming in great numbers, and soon you will be unable to roam as in the old time. You must change your ways.”

  “Never,” said Geronimo.

  “I have heard about the defeat at Janos.” Sunny Bear referred to a failed Apache attack on that Mexican city earlier in the year.

  “Many were killed, including Cascos and Tonje.”

  Cascos and Tonje were sons of Chief Mangas Coloradas, and Sunny Bear shook his head sadly. “I am very sorry.”

  “Victorio was not harmed, and neither did Cochise fall. Juh also survived, but Chief Mangas Coloradas nearly was killed.”

  “Was Jocita there?” asked Sunny Bear casually.

  Jocita was a warrior woman of the People, wife of subchief Juh, and some believed she had been the secret lover of Sunny Bear. “She was wounded only slightly. And her son, Fast Rider, as well.” It was further rumored that Fast Rider was Sunny Bear's son.

  Sunny Bear appeared uncomfortable at the mention of the boy's name. “You must express my sorrow to Chief Mangas Coloradas.”

  “Why do you not tell him yourself?”

  “I cannot leave my family at present, but let me give you tobacco, so the People can have a smoke on old Sunny Bear.”

  Sunny Bear filled Geronimo's tobacco pouch, then they clasped hands. “Welcome back to the homeland, Sunny Bear,” said Geronimo.

  A half day's ride to the east, at the edge of steep white cliffs, three large structures and two outhouses had been constructed of logs taken from a pine forest. A stream five feet wide meandered nearby, while cattle grazed on clumps of grama grass as far as the eye could see. It was 1858 in remote southwestern New Mexico Territory, known locally as Arizona, after an Indian word meaning “little springs.”

  Behind the house stretched a two-acre garden planted with corn, string beans, and tomatoes, and in the rows, uprooting weeds with her hoe, was Clarissa Rowland Barrington of New York City. She wore a wide-brimmed smudged vaquero hat, a pair of vaquero boots, and a man's pants and shirt, because a dress was cumbersome in the garden. Twenty-two years old, blond, and considered too slim for the taste of the day, Clarissa had married an army officer twelve years her senior, followed him west, and become a frontierswoman, although sometimes she wondered what the hell she was doing there.

  She was a banker's daughter, said to be a talented pianist, yet against the advice of her parents and everyone else she'd wed the scoundrel Nathanial Barrington in 1854. They honeymooned in Europe, then returned to America, and Nathanial had been posted to Fort Craig in eastern New Mexico Territory. At first all went smoothly, she'd become pregnant, then tragedy struck. One day Nathanial rode off on a punitory mission against the Apache and never returned, missing in action, presumed killed.

  She'd mourned, given birth to Natalie, then miraculously Nathanial had raised from the dead, after living among the Apaches for nearly a year. He resigned his commission, returned with her and Natalie to New York City, the marriage had had endless disagreements, then Nathanial and Clarissa reconciled, and now were back together. She had to admit that all things considered, life had become quite hectic since marrying Nathanial Barrington.

  Once she had traveled on a stagecoach attacked by Apaches, and on another occasion had been in a bank held up by bandits, and managed to shoot one, although she'd nearly fainted from fear at the time. She'd viewed saloon brawls, gun battles, and once nearly had been murdered by a maniac. She had become a woman of the frontier, proud, strong, and mindful of the real dangers of the land in which she dwelled, not to mention the flaws of her husband, though she still loved him most of the time.

  She removed her hat and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. Laughter came from behind the house, where Zachary and Gloria, aged eight and ten respectively, stacked wood in the shed. The former was Nathanial's son by his first wife, a Mexican woman who lived in Santa Fe, the latter a New York street urchin rescued by Nathanial during his last visit to Calcutta-on-the-Hudson.

  Their cowboy employees were a rough lot, and the ranch had yet to show a profit. Clarissa hadn't read a newspaper since leaving Albuquerque two months ago, and felt cleansed of the burning political issues of the day, which seemed insignificant when measured against the beauty of Arizona.

  The sun sank toward distant purple peaks as she carried her hoe to the barn. She looked forward to an hour of piano before supper, because music was the wellspring of her life. There weren't many ranches in New Mexico Territory with a genuine Steinway in perfect tune, but the instrument had fit comfortably in a wagon, and she possessed her own piano tuning tools.

  She stowed her hoe in the barn, which smelled of newly cut pine, then headed for the main house, for her treasured hour of music. Halfway across the yard, she spotted three cowboys on horseback leading a steer in from the fields. Clarissa recalled that Nathanial had ordered the butchering of a steer, and morbid fascination caused her to follow the vaqueros. Meanwhile, Zachary and Gloria congregated on the killing ground at the rear of the house. In the back window, Rosita the maid held up little Natalie, the one-and-a-half-year-old daughter of Clarissa and Nathanial, so she could watch the show.

  Clarissa stood near Zachary and Gloria as the steer gazed ahead stupidly, unaware life was about to end. The cowboy known as Dobbs pulled his knife, then calmly walked to the side of the steer. In one swift motion, he thrust the blade into the steer's throat and cut downward. Blood gushed out the wound, and also from the steer's mouth and nostrils. The great beast gurgled, became unsteady, and collapsed.

  Clarissa stared as cowboys methodically removed the steer's coat, then guts spilled onto the ground, and steaks were sliced. Clarissa had seen many butcherings during her frontier career, yet they never failed to horrify her. A contemplative woman, she found herself wondering about her own demise. Will I die an old lady in my bed, or will somebody kill me like that steer?

  On the outskirts of Nacogdoches, Texas, a plot of ground had been set aside as burial ground for stray nameless drunkards who'd fallen off bar stools, or criminals shot in the commission of illegal acts, or lost wandering souls dead of old age. No specially carved headstones could be found, only a boulder to mark each grave's position, and Esther Rainey had no idea where her husband lay, yet she came every day to seek solace.

  Sam Rainey had been a Mexican war veteran who'd become an outlaw, and he'd joined with friends to rob a bank in Nacogdoches. They'd been poor fellows and wanted their share of the spoils, for life had not been as kind to them as for those who profited from the war.

  The bank robbery seemed straightforward, but who could guess a woman customer carrying a Colt pocket pistol in her purse would become scared enough to use it? She'd shot Sam dead, wounded one of his compatriots, then townspeople overpowered the others, and misery befell Esther Rainey.

  She had no widow's pension, inheritance, land, or even a horse to call her own. Everything had been taken by the marshal, for everything was stolen, but they permitted her to keep her clothes and hadn't noticed she'd stashed one hundred dollars in her underwear.

  Esther was twenty-eight, from Cincinnati, a former prostitute. She'd fallen in love with Sam Rainey, joined him and his companions on their criminal spree, then came the army officer's wife, and the curtain had rung down on Esther's dreams.

  A tear rolled over her cheek, hidden behind a black veil. Sam had rescued her from the sordidness into which she'd sunk, given her his name, and made her feel loved, until that bank robbery.

  Esther was robust-cheeked, petite, with wavy dark brown hair, an upturned nose. If only he'd stayed home that day, she thought, biting her lower lip. What will become of me without my Sam? She lay one pure white lily on a grave, uncertain who was buried beneath, perhaps a murderer, but every
day she placed a lily on a different grave, and sooner or later one would be Sam's. She wished she had a daguerreotype of him to augment the memory of his strong body and fuzzy black beard. “God,” she whispered, “please look with mercy on my poor husband Sam Rainey, and if he was a crook, so are a lot of others who live in fancy houses and are called gennelmen. He was only tryin’ to git along, and if you had made him rich, he wouldn't've needed to rob, so it's partly yer fault, and please don't blame it all on him.”

  She walked back to town, a nondescript young woman bent by sorrow, loneliness, and fear. One hundred dollars would dissipate quickly even in the ramshackle hotel where she resided, and she contemplated returning to “the business.” Why couldn't that rich bitch give up a few dollars to Sam and the boys, she thought. Instead she had to be cute, and next time I hope she gets a bullet ‘twixt her damned eyes.

  Esther walked down the alley that led to her hotel, climbed the stairs, removed her dress, and lay on the bed. I might as well be dead, she thought, clad only in her white chemise. Why do some git so little, and others so much? If there's a God, he's one mean son of a bitch.

  Sometimes she thought of taking the Colt pistol that Sam had left her and blowing her brains out, but what would it prove, except how much she missed Sam. What would he want me to do? she asked herself.

  He wouldn't permit her to become a whore, but it didn't appear she had much choice, for she had no education beyond the boudoir. If she returned East she could work as a seamstress, but it was easier to lay on her back than go blind staring at a needle twelve hours per day.

  She recalled Sam's laughter, the tough way he had behaved around men, and the tenderness he had displayed when alone with her. He'd hated the world for what it had done to him, and had loved one thing: her.

  If everything was turned around, she thought, and somebody had shot me, Sam would kill that person, no matter what it cost, or how long it took. And if I loved him as much as I claim, I would avenge his death.