White Apache Read online

  The old bear realized he had lost his mate, but wasn't prepared to relinquish his only life. With a defeated grumble he lurched away from the young bull, but his opponent followed, ripping claws across the old bull's back. The vanquished bear limped to the woods, trying to see out of his one good eye.

  The young bear realized he had won, but he too was bleeding, out of breath, and ready to drop. He staggered toward the stream, where he dipped his head beneath cool rushing waters and saw a salmon swim past. Then he raised his head, shook it, and turned to the lady bear, who watched him demurely, standing on her hind legs.

  On April 15,1857, Colonel Bonneville departed Albuquerque at the head of a column of five hundred men. He wore his blue cape and black Jeff Davis hat, the eagle insignia of his rank on gold shoulder straps, and was on his way to Fort Thorn, final staging area for his campaign into the Mimbreno Mountains.

  The flag of the United States flew on one side of him, the flag of the 3rd Infantry on the other side, with buglers, adjutants, aides, and sergeants aplenty, all observed by Coletto Amarillo lying beneath a thicket of rattlesnake weeds atop a hogback one thousand yards away. The warrior of the People counted men, horses, wagons and estimated the number of guns. They carried no big firesticks. What kind of war chief is he? wondered Coletto Amarillo.

  The warrior's practiced eye found scouts, flank guards, the detachment bringing up the rear. So here they come at last, thought Coletto Amarillo. Like mules they are, and this time they have made their greatest mistake. Numbers alone do not decide battles, but rather the skill and cunning of warriors.

  In an Albuquerque hotel Dr. Michael Steck looked out the window at the Gila Expedition heading south on the Journado del Muertos. How many good soldiers will die to satisfy the vanity of one old man? he mused. Then he sat at his desk and stared at an intimidating blank sheet of paper. He felt obligated to write his superior in Washington, D.C., George W. Manypenny, Commission of Indian Affairs, to lodge a formal complaint concerning Colonel Bonneville's campaign. But Dr. Steck hesitated, because it could cost his job.

  Dr. Steck was an M.D. who'd come west for the sake of his wife's health, and found himself in the midst of the Apache Wars. Through political connections, he had secured his position, confident that a scientific thinker could bind the territory's many wounds.

  But implacable hatred flamed on all sides, with atrocities considered normal everyday occurrences. Dr. Steck had peered into cadavers of forgotten derelicts in order to learn his profession, and he had few illusions about human nature, only a sense of justice according to his Pennsylvania Dutch upbringing.

  If they fire me, he thought philosophically, I'll return to the medical profession with a clear conscience, because at least I've tried. Once the spring campaign starts, there'll be plenty of work for a surgeon, I'm sure. Dr. Steck bent over the desk, dipped his quill in the inkwell, and wrote:

  George W. Manypenny

  Commissioner of Indian Affairs

  Department of the Interior

  Washington, D.C.

  Dear Commissioner Manypenny:

  This letter leaves my desk with only with the gravest misgivings, but a volatile situation is brewing in New Mexico Territory, and I fear massive bloodshed unless action is taken immediately.

  In a nutshell, Colonel Benjamin Louis Eulalie de Bonneville has launched a major military campaign against the Apaches, and it won't be long before one of his detachments is ambushed by Apaches, or an Apache encampment is attacked by his soldiers, with resultant retaliation, etc., thus maintaining the momentum of the Apache Wars, and undermining my efforts to bring peace to this embattled land.

  I hesitate to comment personally on General Bonneville, but someone must speak the truth. It is commonly known that he uses alcoholic beverages to excess, and has other disreputable habits of which I hesitate to write, but he is an angel compared to Colonel Dixon Stanbury Miles, who has been referred to by a certain local official whom I dare not name as “a walking sponge.” Meanwhile, the other senior commander, Colonel William Wing Loring, has one arm, his days of glory long gone, yet he commands the Mounted Rifles Regiment, most of whose soldiers are escaped criminals. Bonneville, Miles, and Loring should have been sent to the old soldiers’ home long ago, if you want my honest opinion. Only disaster can result from a military expedition led by such incompetent men.

  Please use your influence to halt Colonel Bonneville's expedition before irreparable harm is done. I look forward to your prompt attention to this matter.

  Sincerely,

  Michael Steck, M.D.

  Indian Agent, New Mexico Territory

  Clarissa wanted to leave Albuquerque, but most traffic was coming in the opposite direction, due to preparations for Colonel Bonneville's Gila Expedition. The man at the stagecoach office said the roads wouldn't be safe until the military campaign was over.

  A package arrived from her mother, containing newsclips. Clarissa read about the Dred Scott decision provoking a firestorm of dissension in the States, while she resided in a remote frontier village in the midst of a war against Indians.

  Beau had stopped by to say good-bye, prior to the army's movement south, but he hadn't stepped inside her home, and she would've stopped him if he'd tried. Naturally neither had mentioned the great encounter, as both struggled to believe it never had happened.

  Then George Covington visited, full of apologies, innuendos, and sly maneuvering, but she hadn't permitted him inside either, and now he was gone as well. Albuquerque was now protected by a volunteer militia while the army campaigned against Apaches.

  Sometimes Clarissa remained in bed and cried. She'd given up her job at the Golden Spur Saloon so she could spend more time with little Natalie, who couldn't talk, walk, or do anything except sleep, eat, and mess her diapers. Sometimes Clarissa felt as if she were losing her mind.

  She'd stopped playing the guitar, because it required too much effort. She wondered if she'd caught an illness, but the doctor couldn't find anything wrong. The mountains looked more like walls every day.

  In the Mimbreno encampment, Nana, the di-yin medicine man, slept peacefully, arms around his naked wife, Leesha. In the midst of nothingness, something pinched his cheek. In an instant he was awake, reaching for his knife, but strong fingers clamped his wrist. “My deepest respects to you, great medicine man,” said a voice in the darkness.

  "Pindah!” exclaimed Nana.

  Nana's wife grumbled in the darkness. “What is he doing here?”

  “Go to sleep, woman. Wait for me outside, Pindah soldier.”

  Nathanial crawled out of the wickiup, his face covered with dirt, leaves in his hair. Like a cougar, he narrowed his eyes so that no white showed. In the shadow of the moon, he wore only breechclout, moccasin boots, the cloth bandanna around his wavy blond hair, and beside him lay a deerskin bag containing an object the size of a man's head.

  Nana crawled outside. “I feared that you had been killed. What has happened?”

  “Come, and I will show you.”

  They strolled into the wilderness, past a stone arch, and found a singing mountain stream. Nana sprinkled pollen onto Nathanial, then to the four directions. They sat in a gully as Nathanial opened the deerskin bag and pulled out a chunk of wood. “For you.”

  Nana brought the object closer to his eyes, saw scorch marks, and realized he had been invested with a di-yin's most magical substance, lightning-blasted wood. He noticed an oblong lump of it hanging from a leather thong around Nathanial's throat, then a streak of silver in his beard. “You have been wonderfully rewarded,” said Nana in awe.

  “I have seen White Painted Woman,” replied Nathanial in sonorous tones, “I have fought the snake monster, and I have danced with the eagle.”

  “You have also snuck up on your teacher, which demonstrates great prowess. I knew that greatness resided within you, for you are a great fool, and not even the wild land could claim you. Tell me what wisdom you have earned?”

  The glimmer of daw
n appeared in the notch between two mountains as Nathanial began to hum rhythmically. Then he arose and repeated his mountain dance, with many spectacular leaps, spins, somersaults, and odd movements inspired by his observation of snakes, cougars, horses, and the schottische. Prancing one moment, plummeting through the sky the next, Nathanial abandoned himself to his vision on the lightning-blasted mountain.

  His dance ended as the fiery ball of sun rose through gray mists. Nathanial kneeled before Nana, brought his eyes closer, and said, “I have become a warrior of the People.”

  Nana raised his hand. “Not yet, Pindah soldier. You have seen many wonders, but first you must serve as apprentice. Then, if you perform well on four raids, you will become a warrior.”

  Nathanial thought he'd passed the apprentice stage at Palo Alto, but he respected the usefulness of long-standing traditions and understood the significance of military training. “I have fought as a warrior of the White Eyes,” he replied, “but never as a warrior of the People. It shall be as you say.”

  Nana smiled as he placed his hands upon Nathanial's head. “You have experienced magnificent visions, you are huge as a bear, and your hair is the color of the sun. From this day onward, you shall be called Sunny Bear.”

  The far-scattered components of Colonel Bonneville's army gathered at Fort Thorn during April of ‘57, and they comprised the First Dragoons, Third Infantry, Eighth Infantry, a company of spies and scouts, and units from the Mounted Rifle Regiment. On the 26th of the month a small detachment from this latter unit arrived from Fort Bliss, Texas, a grueling journey for its commanding officer, Lieutenant Henry Lazalle of Enfield, Massachusetts.

  Not an outdoorsman before acceptance at West Point, he disliked physical activity of any kind. Yet he fancied himself a potentially great man, willing to sacrifice five years in the army for a free West Point education; he'd graduated only the previous year.

  He wore a drooping brown mustache, possessed a button nose, and his saddle posture was excellent, for he wanted to be a conscientious officer, but considered his men liars and thieves, and his fellow officers a crude pack of drunken asses, not nearly as enlightened as he liked to think of himself.

  The refined Lieutenant Lazalle was dusty, dirty, his boots caked with mud, and he smelled like ripe cheese, yet he loved poetry, considered himself something of a transcendentalist, and also was interested in phrenology, mesmerism, Swedenborgism, the Graham diet, and all other progressive ideas. Significant intellectual developments were taking place in the East, and it troubled him to be uninformed concerning them. He believed life was passing him by as he served his obligation to the army.

  On every post headquarters was the building with the most flags, so he steered his horse in that direction, as his detachment of bedraggled riflemen followed, wearing green bandannas, official color of the Mounted Rifle Regiment. He climbed down from his horse and headed for the front door as Sergeant Avery gave the order to dismount.

  Inside the spartan orderly room a potbellied stove supplied more heat than necessary, and Sergeant Major Frank Randall sat at a desk. Randall didn't bother to salute the new officer or any other person below the rank of captain.

  Lieutenant Lazalle provided his name, rank, and unit designation, and then said, “Where should I set up camp?”

  Sergeant Randall pointed to a map nailed to the wall. “There.”

  “Do you have any idea when the campaign will begin?”

  “Colonel Bonneville will speak with you later, sir.”

  Lieutenant Lazalle realized he'd been brushed aside by the sergeant major, not an uncommon occurrence. He departed the orderly room and emerged into the bright sunlight, where his men watched expectantly, hoping for a meal. He walked toward Sergeant Avery and said, “Follow me.”

  Lazalle climbed onto his sagging horse, pulled the reins toward the area indicated by Sergeant Harris, and scrutinized the camp, impressed by large numbers of white tents in perfectly straight lines. It's going to be a major campaign, he realized, feeling pure unalloyed fear. Will I be alive when it's over?

  He found a spot to set up his camp not far from the tents of the First Dragoons, then climbed down from his horse, passed the reins to Private Dunwoodie, threw his saddlebags over his shoulder, and walked stiff-leggedly toward the shade of a tree. The ground beneath the tree was wet, so he removed a square of gutta-percha from his saddlebags, sat upon it, then took out his notebook.

  If Lieutenant Lazalle had a vice, it was that he wanted to become an author. In his spare time he scribbled thoughts, impressions, ideas, and a record of important events, such as his arrival at Fort Thorn. He hoped to use the journal as the basis for a novel about the great American frontier, so he felt no compunction about magnifying the importance of the main character, who happened to be himself, or altering minor facts to suit his whims. Lieutenant Lazalle's vivid and often lurid imagination was his only companion on the western fringes of America. He didn't enjoy sitting in the sutler's store, guzzling whiskey with incoherent officers, or betting his paycheck on the turn of a card.

  He heard footsteps approaching and assumed it was Sergeant Avery with news, but instead was surprised by a broad-shouldered captain with curly black side-whiskers approaching. Lieutenant Lazalle jumped to his feet and stood at attention, arms stiff at his sides, notebook beneath his arm.

  “Howdy,” said the captain. “My name's Beau Hargreaves, and I'm camped right over there.” He pointed. “What's your name?”

  Lazalle heard a southern drawl, which meant the subject of slavery must be avoided at all costs. He provided his name, told where he'd come from, and asked, “Is there anything to do here?”

  “We have an officers’ club, but it's just another tent. There are prostitutes in town, but I wouldn't recommend them. If you're looking for diversions, I'm afraid there isn't much we can offer. See any Indians on your way in?”

  “Only a few smoke signals. I imagine they don't want trouble any more than we.”

  “I take it you don't have much experience with Apaches.”

  “I'm new to the frontier, sir.”

  “Permit me to explain the fundamentals, Lieutenant Lazalle. When you least expect them, such as when you're writing your journal, that's when they attack. You see, Apaches aren't like plains Indians, who want to touch you with a stick—they call it ‘counting coup.’ If an Apache gets close, he'll kill you without hesitation. So keep your eyes open at all times. Lieutenant Lazalle. Life can be short for careless officers.”

  Word spread throughout the camp about Sunny Bear's great visions, and there was no mistaking the silver streak in his beard. Survivors of lightning were especially holy to the People, who considered Sunny Bear with new interest. Even the great chief Mangas Coloradas was respectful.

  During the next several days Sunny Bear made a point of being friendly to all, especially the old people, so it wasn't unusual when finally he approached Jocita and inquired about her health.

  She sat in front of her wickiup, grinding corn on her metate, in full view of the camp, especially Martita lurking in the background, hoping for a scandal. “I am cured,” replied Jocita politely, “and you have been hit by lightning.”

  He kneeled beside her and said in a low voice, “It was nothing compared to my time with you, Jocita.”

  She examined the strange streak in his beard. “When are you returning to your people?”

  “After I become an apprentice warrior.” He glanced from side to side and said beneath his breath, “Is there any way we can be alone?”

  She frowned. “Please never speak of this again.”

  “What if I threw you onto the ground and repeated what we did at the Santa Rita Copper Mines.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about, and I think you are becoming ill-mannered. What about your wife in the Pindah lands?”

  He felt a stab of guilt. “We must never speak in this manner again.”

  Throughout the conversation, they smiled and pretended to be chatting,
as he had with other warriors and squaws since returning from the mountain. Then he headed back to his wickiup, believing his masquerade had been effective, and no one suspected the true nature of his discussion with Jocita.

  Even with newly gained wisdom, Sunny Bear was blinded by love. In fact, everybody was suspicious of Jocita and him, and even Mangas Coloradas was troubled by the threat of dissension, the last problem he needed during an imminent White Eyes invasion. So he spoke with his old friend Cuchillo Negro later that day, and as a result of that conversation, Cuchillo Negro approached Nathanial's fire in the evening.

  “Sunny Bear,” he said, “some of us are going to trade skins with the Comancheros and would like you to accompany us as an apprentice.”

  Nathanial felt honored to be chosen so quickly. “It will be as you say,” he replied.

  “Nana will prepare you,” replied Cuchillo Negro.

  As Cuchillo Negro conferred with Sunny Bear, Mangas Coloradas visited the wickiup of the bizahn woman known as Seema, widow of a warrior who'd been killed during the fight in the Mogollon Mountains. “Could you use a good horse?” the chief asked casually after conversational preliminaries.

  Seema was slender, with an oval face and prominent cheekbones. In the darkness her eyes flashed like opals. “What do you want in return?” she inquired.

  “Be nice to Sunny Bear.”

  Night covered the smile on her finely sculpted visage, for she and the other bizahn women often discussed Sunny Bear, but he had no horses or mules, and no bizahn woman wanted the reputation of giving themselves for nothing. Now payment had been offered from an unexpected source, and she was pleased to be selected.

  “It shall be as you say,” she replied.

  Sunny Bear made his way toward Nana's wickiup to receive final instructions prior to departure for the Comanchero town. He was invited to enter, where he found Nana sitting alone beside the glowing firepit.

  Nathanial noticed yellow symbols painted on Nana's face. Next to the di-yin lay a pile of unrecognizable articles. “You have asked to enter the warrior society,” said Nana. “We have agreed to give you a chance, although you are a White Eyes, and many warriors fear you will betray them.”