Night of the Cougar Page 2

  It was not a new thought, but she didn't know if she could murder another person or even a dog. If I truly loved Sam, how can I let his killer walk around free? Maybe I should hunt her down, thought Esther as she lay on her lumpy bed, fingers on the barrel of her pistol.

  Darkness fell over the chaparral, and Nathanial could make out faint lights in the distance as he rode toward his ranch buildings. He believed he finally had found happiness after four years at West Point, twelve years as an army officer, one year as an Apache apprentice warrior, and a brief, futile stint as assistant Indian agent at Fort Thorn. Now he was a rancher on land no one else dared claim, because it was deep in Apache territory. He possessed two hundred head of cattle, with another two hundred on the way, ordered from a cattle broker in Santa Fe. He had hired a crew of cowboys, had constructed buildings, and intended to give cattle to the Apaches periodically as rent. He hoped to visit their camp so his children could see how Indians lived.

  He had every reason for optimism, yet often thought longingly of his time as an Apache. He had even fallen in love with an Apache woman named Jocita, who then had produced a son, although everyone thought the boy was subchief Juh's, Jocita's husband. Sometimes he remembered Jocita, but only as vague infatuation, for his true love was Clarissa. He looked forward to dinner with his family, and perhaps Clarissa might play the piano. Indeed, he could hear lively notes of Mozart on the breeze, filtered through a forest of saguaro cacti, their arms extended to the purple-and-gray heavens. He believed Clarissa was his star-crossed mate, the other half of his being.

  The lively chords of Mozart became louder as he rode through the cool twilight. Passing his parlor window, he caught a glimpse of Clarissa sitting at the piano, the children and their maid nearby. Who says ordinary people can't find happiness? thought Nathanial Barrington, formerly of the 1st Dragoons. My bad days are over, and a decent life lies ahead for me and my family. It just goes to demonstrate that if a man works hard and has faith in God, all good things will follow.

  Chapter Two

  In the camp of the People, a council was held to discuss new Pindah stagecoach stations being constructed in the Chiricahua homeland. Present were Mangas Coloradas, sixty-five, chief of the Mimbrenos; Cochise, forty-eight, chief of the Chiricahuas; and Victorio, thirty-three, designated heir of Mangas Coloradas. In addition, many noteworthy warriors sat around the campfire, such as Juh, chief of the Nednai; Coyuntura, brother of Cochise; Pluma and Arviso for the Chiricahuas, plus Loco, Chatto, and Barbonsito of the Mimbrenos. All were heavily armed, because bluecoat soldiers could appear at any time, firing guns and charging hard. Detachments of bluecoat soldiers regularly patrolled the land, and Fort Buchanan was not far away, but guards were posted to warn of disaster.

  The outlook was not promising for the People, because the Jicarillas and Mescaleros already had been defeated in the east, the Mimbrenos ejected from their homeland in the Black Range, and now the remnants had gathered with the westernmost People, the Chiricahuas, to make their last stand.

  Mangas Coloradas spoke first, due to his advanced age and high position. He was the greatest Mimbreno hero of all time, over six feet tall, with a massive chest, but had been seriously wounded in the attack on Janos earlier in the year. “Why make war at this time?” he asked in his deep, sonorous voice.

  No one answered, the question was reasonable, but when the final decision came it would be rendered by Cochise, since the Chiricahua homeland was his responsibility. “Who else wishes to speak?” inquired Cochise politely, for he wished to hear all sides before making plans. Five feet ten inches tall, slender, and with excellent posture, he had been a brilliant war chief since his twenties.

  Subchief Elias of the Chiricahuas rose to his feet, a squat, doughty fighter. “I respect the words of Chief Mangas Coloradas, but these new stagecoach stations are only the beginning, and soon we shall have more White Eyes in this land. They may overpower us, but it is better to fight now, because perhaps we can stop them.”

  “I agree,” added subchief Juh of the Nednai, a famous warrior, covered with thick slabs of sinew and many scars. “Sooner or later they may kill us all, but at a heavy price. If we fight with spirit, perhaps we can discourage them.”

  Old Delgadito rose to his feet, a Mimbreno warrior sixty-six harvests old, still active and deadly. “That is what we said at our Mimbreno campfires, and now we have lost everything. Do not underestimate Pindah soldiers, my brothers and sisters. They are not brave individually, but in large numbers, with plentiful guns, they have inflicted heavy blows.”

  Cochise listened to their arguments, knowing what each warrior would say before he opened his mouth. How easy to express opinions in council, thought Cochise, but how difficult to make decisions affecting the little ones.

  Warriors and subchiefs disagreed, and even women made contributions, but Cochise's wife Dostehseh had the good breeding to keep silent except when alone with her husband, when she could best influence him. She was daughter of Mangas Coloradas, and a respected leader on her own. Another woman of prominence at the council was Jocita, the warrior woman of the Mimbrenos, who often had gone to war alongside the men, her well-aimed arrows killing many enemies.

  Finally, after all had spoken, they turned to Cochise. “I have listened carefully,” he said, “and now shall ride to the mountains, to meditate upon your words.”

  He headed for his wickiup to fetch his deerskin robe and waterbag made from the intestine of a deer. Then Cautivo shouted, “Someone is coming!”

  In an instant, Cochise whipped his bow off his shoulders, then notched an arrow. He dropped to one knee and aimed in the direction of the voice, as a rider appeared upon a trotting horse. “It is Geronimo returning alone!” the guard cried.

  Cochise and the others maintained vigilance, for Geronimo apparently had found something, perhaps a White Eyes army hot on his trail. The warriors formed a defensive perimeter, and the children were herded into the wickiups, where their mothers would safeguard them with their lives, if necessary.

  It wasn't long before Geronimo could be seen at the trail's bottom, riding at a leisurely rate, obviously not chased by White Eyes. Everyone relaxed as Geronimo's horse climbed toward them, finally coming abreast of Mangas Coloradas. He climbed down from the saddle and said, “I have good news. Sunny Bear has returned to the homeland.”

  The Mimbrenos were thunderstruck, because they'd thought Sunny Bear had disappeared forever. “Is he wearing his bluecoat?” asked Mangas Coloradas, for Sunny Bear had sworn never to make war on his Indian Friends again.

  “No, he is a raiser of cattle, and has given me this.” Geronimo reached into his saddlebags and pulled out the Colt Navy, the most desirable gift a warrior could receive.”

  “How generous is our Sunny Bear,” said Mangas Coloradas happily. “I knew he would return one day, because he is one of us in his heart.”

  “He has given me tobacco to share with you,” added Geronimo. “His wife and children are with him, and he has hired men to help with the work.”

  “I will go to him,” said Mangas Coloradas, “after the present crisis has passed. I have many questions that I want to ask about the eastern lands.”

  “I will accompany you,” said Delgadito. “Sunny Bear was a funny warrior, and I shall never forget his stories.”

  “Nor the time he killed the bear,” offered Cautivo.

  “I remember when he returned from lightning-blasted mountain,” added Nana the medicine man. “What visions he had seen. I too want to see my warrior brother Sunny Bear, and meet his wife.”

  Suddenly a discordant voice exploded among them. “When will you fools learn from your mistakes?” demanded the gnarled, flat-nosed warrior known as Chuntz, whose wife had been killed by bluecoat soldiers in the Valley of Dead Sheep. “We suffered our worst defeat when Sunny Bear lived among us, and it is my opinion that he led us into it. Now he thinks we have forgotten his treachery, but I have not!”

  “I trust Sunny Bear as I trust
myself,” said Mangas Coloradas staunchly.

  Chuntz resumed his denunciation of Sunny Bear as subchief Juh glanced at his wife Jocita. She appeared unconcerned about Sunny Bear, although Sunny Bear had fathered her son, whom Juh pretended was his. Juh had hoped never to hear of Sunny Bear again, but now the bluecoat war chief had returned as cattle raiser, and Juh felt jealous pangs. Why didn't he stay in the eastern lands where he belongs?

  Meanwhile Jocita was shattered by the news as she stood among the women, pretending that Sunny Bear's proximity was of no interest. She'd always known he'd return one day, and was disturbed to know he was so close, with his Pindah swagger and mountainous shoulders. But I must not go to him, no matter how tempted I may become, she ordered herself. No, I must care for my son and perform other duties more critical to the future of the people.

  Meanwhile, Chuntz continued to berate Sunny Bear, but everybody walked away, leaving him isolated. Stupid dolts, he thought of the People as he returned to his wickiup, which was messy because he had not remarried. They admire that Pindah liar, but if I ever see him again, I will kill him.

  Clarissa taught arithmetic to Zachary and Gloria as Rosita prepared the noonday meal under the watchful eye of little Natalie and the men worked on enlarging the barn. In the distance, grazing cattle wore the W brand, which stood for Whitecliff, the name they'd given their ranch.

  Zachary and Gloria labored on their respective assignments as Clarissa gazed out the window at men notching and stacking logs, her husband among them, stripped to his waist, covered with sweat. This is what life should be, thought Qarissa. Family, a good farm, and love. But beneath her joy lurked a bog of worry, which she assigned to her morbid artistic personality. Apaches were in the vicinity, and outlaws were said to maraud at will, but the cowboys and vaqueros were a mean bunch themselves, capable of holding off a sizable foe.

  They hadn't been attacked yet, and she wondered if the dangers of the frontier weren't exaggerated by rumor mongers and the press. Maybe Nathanial is right, she decided. But she continued to experience vague foreboding, as if the venom of the world were seeping into remote New Mexico Territory.

  Esther's next stop was a broken-down hotel in Austin, where she slept all night and most of the next morning, then gave herself a basin bath, dressed, and headed for a saloon, since there were no decent women's restaurants. She wore a pale blue dress gathered at the waist, with a white collar and blue bonnet. The saloon wasn't crowded and she had no difficulty securing a table.

  A waitress arrived with a pitcher of coffee and a cracked porcelain mug. Esther ordered a steak, then sipped coffee and tried to figure how to kill Mrs. Rich Bitch. Should I just walk behind her and pull the trigger, or knock her cold, tie her up, and slit her throat slowly, so she'll suffer, or maybe I'll cut off her nose or put out her eyes. Esther felt warm beneath her dress and had the urge to scream her anger at the world, but instead sat demurely, contemplating dark deeds.

  Surrounded by drunks, gamblers, and newspaper readers, she found her eyes drawn to eight men sitting at a round table in a corner. They were tattered, grubby, and looked like an outlaw gang, because honest, hardworking cowboys wouldn't be in a saloon that time of day, and traveling salesmen or musicians didn't exude danger, secrecy, and death, the very qualities that had drawn Esther to Sam Rainey. She couldn't help smiling as she remembered him, a man who could charm a prostitute out of her drawers.

  One handsome outlaw smiled back at her, but she turned away, hoping he didn't think she was a flirting whore when she'd been thinking of dear, departed Sam. Then the outlaw arose from the table, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and sauntered toward her, a strange, crooked smile on his lips. He didn't seem the type who'd stab a woman for the hell of it, but some men played that game, and Esther had to be careful.

  She noted that he was neither very tall nor short, but solidly built, with that wonderful grin. Calm, loose, he sat opposite her and said, “Howdy.”

  He had a twinkle in his eye and the ability to put a woman at ease, while his smile promised good times. “I don't want you to git the wrong idea,” she replied, “ ‘cause I just come fer dinner, and I ain't what you think.”

  “Then what the hell're you doin’ hyar?”

  “Same thang yer doin’ hyar—havin’ some refreshment.”

  “How come a pretty woman like you ain't got a man?”

  “He died a while back,” she replied. “An’ he was an outlaw like you.”

  He nearly dropped his bottle. “What makes you think I'm an outlaw?”

  “I'm like horseshit,” she replied. “I been over the road. What's yer name?”

  “Steve. How ‘bout you?”

  “Esther.”

  He winked. “Let's go to bed.”

  “You look like trouble.”

  “There's some things you cain't do alone. Maybe we can team up.”

  “I wouldn't go anywheres with you, mister. I don't even know you.”

  “That's gonter change,” he replied confidently.

  They enjoyed a few drinks together, his smile was tempting, and Esther thought she deserved a reprieve from gloom. Why not? she asked herself. I got to do somethin’ afore I go loco. She remembered her promise to love Sam's memory forever, but it was easier to take the path of least resistance.

  A few hours later, Esther Rainey and Steve Culhane lay together, smoking cigarettes. It had been a fairly passionate encounter, since Esther needed to be loved, and Steve was happy to accommodate her.

  “That was pretty good,” Steve wheezed, for he still had not caught his breath. “If I ain't careful, I'm liable to fall in love with you.”

  “Hell,” she said, “you couldn't fall in love if you wanted to.”

  He appeared hurt. “Why not?”

  “Rovin’ men cain't settle down.”

  “Why not join me and the boys?”

  “Somethin’ I gotta do,” she explained. “I told you my husband was dead, but he din't die of natural causes. He was shot by a woman, and I'm a-gonna pay her back onc't I git to New Mexico Territory.”

  He moved closer, touching his lips to her ear, cupping her breast in her hand. “Since yer headed west, and I'm headin’ west, why don't we travel together?”

  “Ridin’ with a bunch of outlaws is safer'n a stagecoach,” she conceded. “Maybe I will.”

  Cochise rode past mesquite trees and sotol stalks, his eyes scanning constantly, for the homeland was filled with enemies. The sun sent powerful rays through his bones, providing warmth and strength for the trials that lay ahead.

  Cochise believed the Pindah army would attack the homeland that summer, and he feared disaster for the People, yet was no fanatic such as Juh of the Nednai or Esquiline of his own tribe. They were always sure of what to do, and when proven wrong became merely enthusiastic about another plan. Ultimately, Cochise reminded himself, our lives and fortunes rest in the hands of the Mountain Spirits.

  He dismounted at an opening between piles of gray boulders, then led his horse through. Ahead lay an incline covered with sharp rocks and cacti. He made his way upward, pulling the horse after him, sharp spines scratching his knee-length deerhide boots. Finally he came to a gulch, where he picketed his horse among grama grass. Cochise climbed toward a cave above, saddlebags over his shoulder, and crawled inside, where he removed his flremaking apparatus, spun the wooden dowel in the hole, blew on sparks, and built a tiny blaze. Then he stuffed the smoking mixture into a red clay pipe, lit it with a twig, and sat cross-legged, staring at the valley below.

  A tiny dot moved along a snakelike trail, another Pindah stagecoach desecrating the homeland. There seemed something demented about their frantic coming and going, but what could one expect from men who dug yellow metal out of the ground, or passed their days watching stupid cattle grow. How much more noble is the warrior way, thought Cochise, but the White Eyes will win in the end, because there ware so many of them.

  Cochise considered the White Eyes substantially stronger than the Mexic
anos, because the former had whipped the latter in the bloody war between them only ten harvests ago. Since then, many Americanos had settled in the homeland, but Mexicanos weren't so numerous.

  We pose more of a threat to the Mexicanos, he reasoned, since they are so few. Therefore the Mexicanos might be more disposed to make peace with us. Then, if successful, we can raid the land of the White Eyes and take refuge in the land of the Mexicanos.

  But the Mexicanos had betrayed, massacred, and tortured the People on many occasions, and could not be trusted. The previous year, they'd poisoned Mimbreno peace seekers at Janos. Yet the People needed refuge, otherwise Americano soldiers would annihilate them. Should I attempt to make peace one last time with the Mexicanos? wondered Cochise.

  He puffed his pipe as flashing diamonds appeared in the azure sky. His pupils dilated to large black moons, and he felt as if he were floating above the ground. The sky blurred, he blinked, then saw a masked dancer advancing toward him out of the clouds.

  He knew it was a vision, but visions were real to the People. The dancer wore a ceremonial skirt marked with symbols of lightning, moons, and suns, his head adorned with a three-spiked crown made of sotol stalks, and he performed a war dance, as if fighting enemies. He brandished his scepter like a spear, stamped his foot angrily, and sang of difficult battles ahead. Cochise sat transfixed as the dancer removed his headdress, then unwound his black mask, revealing the craggy visage of the departed Chief Miguel Narbona, Cochise's predecessor as chief of the Chiricahuas.

  Cochise was unable to move, so astounded was he by the sight of his mentor. “What message have you, oh Chief?” he inquired.

  “All warriors die,” intoned Chief Miguel Narbona. “But sometimes a warrior must gamble, and there is no blame if his heart is pure. Do not let yourself be overwhelmed by confusion, for confusion is the work of the devil.”