Devil Dance Read online

  WARRIOR'S DELIGHT

  Cochise lay on a high ledge and peered at the two columns of bluecoat soldiers below. The movements of Pindah soldiers are predictable as mules, decided the new Apache chief. What kind of warriors behave in this manner? The stupidity of his foe confounded him. Perhaps they are trying to trick me, he thought. But he knew no Apache leader could turn away from such a stirring challenge, such a tempting target.

  Meanwhile, below, the U.S. captain in command of the dusty bluecoated column tried to stay alert for signs of the Apache. But it was hard to keep himself or his men from sliding into stupefied weariness, so sure were they all that this hunt, like all the hunts before it, would be fruitless. Once again the Indians surely had split up and vanished as if into thin air. Once again the finest fighting force in the U.S. Army would return to post with unfired weapons and wounded pride.

  Before the day was done, both Apache warrior and U.S. soldier would learn a lesson about each other that they would never forget. . . .

  DEVIL DANCE

  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

  Night of the Cougar

  DEVIL DANCE

  * * *

  Volume Five of

  The Apache Wars Saga

  by

  Len Levinson

  DEVIL DANCE

  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 978-1-62064-868-1

  Library ISBN 978-1-62460-209-2

  Cover photo © TK/iStock.com.

  To Lizzie

  1

  * * *

  Wickiups were demolished, the campsite flattened, possessions loaded onto mules and pack-horses. The Chiricahua Apaches were departing for another range, where locust pods, wild potatoes, and onions could be harvested.

  Warriors, wives, and children fidgeted uneasily, waiting for aging Chief Miguel Narbona to climb onto his horse. He managed to place his foot in the stirrup, then struggled to grab the horn of his stolen U.S. Army saddle, but could not pick himself up off the ground.

  The People felt embarrassed for their once-great chief humbled by age. Sick all summer, he trembled, arms and legs emaciated, then his frail body went slack. He dropped to the ground, stirred, wheezed faintly. No one moved or said a word. Chief Miguel Narbona had led them for more than fifty turbulent harvests, was the greatest Chiricahua warrior who ever lived, but had grown feeble, pathetic.

  Some turned away, unable to bear the grotesque spectacle. Others stared with disbelief that such a fate could befall a warrior who had been indomitable in battle, his mighty arm slaying many enemies.

  Then all eyes turned to the warrior who had been designated by Chief Miguel Narbona as his successor—Cochise, son of Pisago Cabezon. Forty-two years old, Cochise wore a white breechclout, deerskin shirt, moccasin boots, and a red bandanna around his straight, shoulder-length black hair. He appeared taller than his five feet ten inches, due to erect posture, and not a muscle twitched on his face as he gazed at magnificence laid low. Finally, unable to bear the dishonor longer, he reached toward Miguel Narbona. “I will help you,” he said gently.

  “No,” croaked Chief Miguel Narbona.

  “We have a long ride today.” Cochise spoke cheerfully as he raised the chief to the saddle.

  “Let me be!”

  “But it is time to leave.”

  “I am staying,” replied the chief of the Chiricahuas.

  No one said a word, the destruction of Miguel Narbona too painful to bear; some closed their eyes. According to the wisdom of the People, when a warrior became decrepit, he was left behind. Cochise dutifully lowered to the ground the great fighting chief.

  Cochise was a veteran of countless battles himself, but nothing compared to the wars of Miguel Narbona. Now the old hero lay crippled, and Cochise prayed for guidance. The People believed all events contained spiritual dimensions, and accordingly, the new chief received a silent message from the Mountain Spirits.

  He opened Miguel Narbona's saddlebags and withdrew his Izze-kloth Killer of Enemies Bandolier, which a warrior wore into battle. Constructed of buckskin strips woven into four strands and attached to a buckskin pouch filled with sacred pollen, it was decorated with talismans and amulets, worn across the chest from left shoulder to right hip, providing protection from enemy arrows and bullets. Cochise dropped the bandolier over Miguel Narbona's head and was adjusting it when the old chief asked in a weak, cracked voice, “What are you doing?”

  “Preparing you for battle, sir.”

  “My battles are over,” whispered the dying old man. “You take it, Cochise.”

  “I could not—”

  “This is my last order to you. Do as I say.”

  Cochise, overcome with grief, found himself unable to move or even think. Then Dostehseh, wife of Cochise, stepped forward, carrying a gourd of water. She was daughter of Chief Mangas Coloradas of the Mimbrenos, and understood well the requirements of somber circumstances. Nearly as tall as Cochise, full-bodied, the mother of Naiche and Taza, she knelt beside Miguel Narbona, placed the water before him, and pressed a kiss against his forehead. Then she arose, took Cochise's hand, and walked with him toward his horse.

  Then other women advanced, bearing jerked meat, acorn bread, and mescal root candy, which they lay before Chief Miguel Narbona. He sat cross-legged, shoulders hunched, head hanging low, ashamed that a warrior could no longer mount his steed.

  Cochise gave his mentor one last, lingering look, then turned abruptly and climbed into the saddle. Pulling his reins to the right, he headed toward the potato-gathering ground. The others followed Cochise into the wilderness, leaving an ailing old chief surrounded by gifts and prizes. From that day onward, the lives of relatives and friends would depend upon the clarity of Cochise's judgment, the wisdom of his spirit.

  Cochise had inherited tremendous challenges, for the Jicarilla and Mescalero People, to the east of the Chiricahuas, had been overrun by the Pindah-lickoyee White Eyes, while the Mimbreno homeland currently was under invasion. The Chiricahuas were the next Western tribe, and soon would face the dreaded onslaught of the bluecoat army, while the Nakai-yes Mexicans were pressing from the South. Am I strong enough for the greatest challenge of all? wondered Cochise.

  He turned in his saddle for one last glance at the gallant old chief, who receded into the desert that had made him, and then was gone.

  It was autumn of 1857 in the eastern lands, and the United States of America wallowed in the worst economic panic since 1837. Its financial institutions shaken by overspeculation in railroads and land, its once-humming factories closed due to lack of demand, the country was rent by widespread civic unrest, tens of thousands out of work.

  The N
ew Bedford whaling fleet lay at anchor because of diminished demand for whale oil. Tobacco growers could not sell their harvest except at half the usual price. Cotton had dropped from sixteen cents a pound to nine cents, while the largest crop in history was being harvested south of the Mason-Dixon line. In New York City raucous crowds demonstrated in front of City Hall, where Mayor Fernando Wood had told an audience, “Multitudes labor without income while surrounded by thousands living in selfishness and splendor, who have income without labor!”

  These were among the dispiriting items read by Nathanial Barrington in the Tribune as he sat in the dining room of the Saint Nicholas Hotel, nine blocks uptown from City Hall. It was two in the afternoon, bustling waiters serving local businessmen, tourists, and salesmen.

  Attired in a dark blue suit, over six feet tall, Nathanial was on the beefy side, thirty-four years old, with blue eyes and blond hair marked with one single silver streak. To look at him, one might see a banker, broker, or lawyer, except for his tanned features and callused hands. No one would imagine that the gentleman sitting by the window had spent most of his life in the Army, and lived for a spell among the Mimbreno Apaches.

  Appearances notwithstanding, Nathanial Barring-ton had been an apprentice warrior known as Sunny Bear, and once had eaten the heart of a bear, not to mention roast mule and prairie dog stew. Nathanial reveled in his secret life, for he fit neatly into no group, a lone warrior against the world.

  As an officer in New Mexico Territory, he'd been shot during the Chandler Campaign of ‘56, and the Apaches nursed him back to life because he'd saved the life of Jocita, wife of Chief Juh of the Nednai clan. After ten months with the People, he'd sworn never to make war on them again, so he'd returned to Fort Marcy, resigned his commission, and headed back to his hometown of New York, after twelve years faithful service to the flag.

  Clean shaven, with a faint scar on his right cheek, he could find no mention of New Mexico Territory in the Tribune, although one article featured the T'ai P'ing Rebellion in China, and another reported on the efforts of Emperor Alexander II of Russia to emancipate the serfs. Nathanial wondered about old Apache friends such as Chief Mangas Coloradas, Victorio, Nana the medicine man, and Geronimo of the Bedonko tribe.

  Returning to the Tribune, Nathanial read the latest dispatch from Kansas Territory, where proslavery and antislavery adherents had been killing each other in undeclared guerrilla war for over three years. Two territorial governments had been established, antislavery in Topeka and proslavery in Lecompton, while the Democratic administration of President James Buchanan tended to favor the Lecompton government, because the solid slave-owning South was the backbone of the Democratic Party. According to the Tribune, the Lecompton government was drafting a constitution permitting slavery, and would submit it to Congress without allowing the citizens of Kansas to vote. The big question was whether the Buchanan administration would dare defy the majority of Kansans who opposed slavery, or defy the South. Slavery was the most burning issue in America, newspapers fanned the flames continually, and Nathanial saw his nation drifting closer to civil war, like a raft at Niagara Falls.

  Sometimes Nathanial broke into cold sweats and occasionally had the urge to rip the Saint Nicholas dining room apart. He was a man of strange passions and hopeless dreams, who had felt happiest when living among Apaches, but returned to civilization for the sake of his White Eyes wife, Clarissa, and their baby daughter, Natalie.

  Nathanial and Clarissa were descended from affluent old New York families, and the Panic had not touched them. They enjoyed income without labor, but Nathanial nearly had died for his country on several occasions, and unlimited possibilities carried its own hazards.

  Nathanial wanted to become an Indian agent in New Mexico Territory, working for peace among Apaches and Americans, but couldn't leave New York City because Clarissa was preparing for her first public concert. She had studied piano most of her life, and an impresario named Martin Thorndyke had offered to sponsor the event at the Apollo Rooms. Now Nathanial seldom saw his wife, while their daughter was cared for by their Mexican maid. Nathanial wouldn't stand in the way of Clarissa's music, but preferred the active outdoors life to the Saint Nicholas Hotel.

  Carriages, wagons, and scarlet-and-white omnibuses rolled along Broadway, while sidewalks were crowded with newsboys, elegant lady shoppers, lawyers, beggars, pickpockets, and stockbrokers. Sometimes Nathanial imagined Apache raiders riding down the famed thoroughfare, yipping and yelling, driving a herd of stolen cattle. He considered his months with the Apaches the pinnacle of his life, and twice had gone on raids, wearing his Killer of Enemies Bandolier. He even had fallen in love with Jocita, but preferred not to think of her now that he was back with Clarissa.

  She entered the dining room, and Nathanial felt relieved to see her at last. His wife was twelve years younger than he, also blond, but several shades lighter, and slim, of medium height, with an open-faced freshness and aura of self-assurance. Nathanial studied Clarissa as a connoisseur considers a painting by Rembrandt, as she searched for her wayward husband. She wore a white silk blouse and plum-colored skirt shaped by crinoline, providing the illusion of enormous hips and tiny waist.

  Finally, he waved, and with a harried smile, she crossed the dining room. Nathanial couldn't help noticing the many masculine eyes that escorted her.

  “Sorry I'm late,” she said, sitting opposite him.

  They didn't kiss because both disapproved of ostentatious affection. “I thought you weren't coming,” he replied.

  “I'm sorry,” she said softly.

  “How're the rehearsals coming?”

  She closed her eyes. “Oh, Nathanial, I'm so afraid.”

  He considered her a sensitive artist, although she'd survived two years on the frontier and once had shot a wanted criminal in self-defense. He loved her honest schoolgirl face, the sweetness of her nature, and the passions that lurked beneath her prim society-woman exterior. “What are you afraid of—hitting the wrong note?”

  “Yes, because many musicians will be in attendance, plus the press. I don't want to embarrass my teachers, my family, and you, my dear.” She placed her hand on his.

  “What're you doing this afternoon?”

  “I have to pick out a dress for the concert.”

  He glanced around, then lowered his voice “Let's go upstairs.”

  “I don't have time, but I'll be home early.”

  “That's what you said yesterday. Do you know how much I need you, Clarissa?”

  Calmly, she sipped water from a carved crystal goblet as she evaluated her mate. He had gained considerable poundage since returning to New York, his face puffy due to excessive alcoholic beverages, fine red traceries on his cheeks. She considered him a paradox—the disciplined West Point officer, survivor of numerous battles and skirmishes, weak in his resistance to food, drink, and other flesh pleasures. A whiff of the cavalry charge enveloped him, the only man she'd ever truly loved. “Just a while longer,” she said.

  “I'll be patient,” he replied, trying to sound pleasant, but failing. “I can't help wondering if you've changed your mind about returning to New Mexico Territory.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I suppose it's satisfying to have folks say you're a genius.”

  “On the contrary, how can I possibly attain everybody's expectations? That's why I need your love and encouragement.”

  “But you have them, Clarissa. Am I not your most enthusiastic admirer? In fact, I want to be the only member of your audience, but that's just selfishness, and I must share you with the public.”

  The setting sun cast red and orange streaks against the sky as Cochise led the Chiricahua People north to the potato-gathering ground. Feeling bereft, he prayed he could hold the coalition together, for there were many factions, the most prominent led by Elias and Esquiline. Yet Miguel Narbona had favored Cochise above them, and often Cochise wondered why. Although he had been an outstanding sub-chief, so were Elias and Esquili
ne, plus Chepillo, Aguirre, and Parte. What did Miguel Narbona see in me?

  Beside him rode his wife, Dostehseh, and she too was capable of leadership, for as daughter of Chief Mangas Coloradas, she had seen governance from an early age. Cochise glanced at her, a strongly built, sharp-featured woman with eyes fixed on the horizon, straight black hair trailing down her shoulders. She had offered Cochise wise counsel, and sometimes he credited his rise to her. If I have doubts, perhaps I should step aside, thought Cochise.

  “You are troubled, my husband,” said Dostehseh.

  “I fear dissension without the steadying hand of Miguel Narbona,” he admitted.

  “Your worst enemy is yourself, Cochise.”

  “But I can't help wondering—”

  She interrupted him. “This is not the time to wonder. You must use what you have learned and lead the People to great purposes.”

  He reflected a few moments, then said, “With you at my side, I can lead as well as anyone, I suppose.”

  “You are better than the others because more is required than a strong arm and fighting spirit. You have been selected because you are a better thinker than they.”

  Cochise decided not to mention certain doubts, because he didn't want to demoralize her. A chief was supposed to be strong, regardless of how he felt.

  The warrior known as Coyuntura, Cochise's younger brother, called, “Someone is coming!”

  The languid atmosphere transformed into high danger as warriors and women checked weapons. Too often the People had been surprised by enemy soldiers, and only four months ago the Mimbreno Sub-chief Cuchillo Negro had been killed by bluecoat soldiers in the Valley of Dead Sheep.

  “It is Yrinco,” said Coyuntura, who was tall like Cochise, only thinner, with a solid, squarish jaw and prominent cheekbones.

  Cochise stood in his stirrups, shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand, and detected a rider heading toward him. Evidently, due to the rider's leisurely pace, there was no trouble, and Cochise breathed a sigh of relief. Yrinco was returning from a scouting mission, for the People deployed scouts and spies across the homeland, reporting unusual events. Like a dutiful wife, Dostehseh slowed her horse and dropped back from the head of the formation, as Elias and Es-quiline, the two leading Chiricahua sub-chiefs, advanced.