Devil Dance Read online

  Yrinco, a short, squat warrior with a scar on his shoulder, came abreast of the leaders. “Where is Chief Miguel Narbona?” he asked as he scanned the assembly.

  “We have left him behind,” said Cochise.

  Yrinco appeared taken aback, and indeed lost his train of thought. His eyes misted, then he cleared his throat and said, “The Nakai-yes Mexicanos have a ranch straight ahead. I counted eight men, one woman, and two children. They have many fine horses.”

  “Not for long,” said Esquiline.

  Cochise was offended at Esquiline's presumption, because he, Cochise, was supposed to make the decision. Yrinco continued his report. “They are about one day away. The nearest bluecoat army post is Fort Buchanan.”

  Cochise realized that Chief Miguel Narbona would not hesitate to accept such a bounty. “Esquiline is right,” he said. “Those horses will be ours.”

  ***

  Horses and carriages rumbled on busy Broadway as Nathanial entered Pfaff's, a tavern popular with writers and journalists, five steps down from the pavement, near Prince Street. Filled with cigar, cigarette, and pipe smoke, it was here that Nathanial spent his evenings since Clarissa had become embroiled in preparations for her concert. And sitting alone in the corner, reading the Herald, was one of Nathanial's favorite drinking companions, the poet Fitz-Greene Halleck.

  “Mind if I sit down?” asked Nathanial.

  “By all means,” said Fitz, sixty-seven years old, with a bright, bubbly manner and wavy gray hair, immaculately attired in a brown check suit, white shirt, and yellow cravat. “The waiter has stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, and perhaps someone garotted him.” Like most New Yorkers, Fitz was fatalistic about crime.

  “On the frontier,” explained Nathanial, “most everybody carries guns, and garrotting is unheard of.”

  Fitz smiled. “Nathanial, you can't imagine how you fascinate me. There you were, living with Indians, outlaws, and renegades at the edge of the world. What a life you've led, while all I've ever done was sit in a room and scratch paper.”

  “Why don't you go West, Fitz? Can you imagine what it's like to breathe real fresh air, without the stench of chimneys or garbage lying in the gutters?”

  “But it is the very stench and degradation of New York that keeps people like me alive,” replied Fitz. “On the other hand, I wouldn't mind living with bloodthirsty savages for a while, provided they wouldn't massacre me. The Apaches are a warrior race fighting hopelessly but courageously in defense of the land bequeathed them by their gods. How sad, tragic, and beautiful.”

  “Why not write the true story of the Apaches?” suggested Nathanial. “Hell, look at the success of James Fenimore Cooper with the Mohicans. He's dead, and his books still are selling.”

  Fitz shook his head sadly. “It would require a Homer or Pindar to do justice to the Apaches, not a mere versifier such as I. But I've always been curious, Nathanial. Did you ever . . . ah . . . dally with one of their ladies?”

  “Now Fitz—a gentleman never discusses such matters.”

  “On the contrary, dalliances are the main topic of conversation among gentlemen.”

  “The most eloquent experiences of my life were spent sitting in silence with my Apache friends, drinking tulapai and smoking the pipe.”

  “Is tulapai some sort of coffee?”

  “No, it's more like whiskey, and produces extravagant hallucinations.”

  Fitz smiled. “Next time you go West, you must send me some.”

  An empty wicker jug of tulapai stood beside Chief Miguel Narbona as he lay on the blanket, his rheumy eyes focused on swirling constellations overhead, across which rode White Painted Woman, goddess of the universe, on a white horse with reins of diamonds. Weakening, delirious, the aging chief knew his hour was at hand.

  “Come to me, White Painted Woman,” he whispered hoarsely. “Do not make me wait long.”

  She appeared in no hurry to carry him away, so he lay gasping, his consciousness fading, his mind spinning with images of great battles in which he had contended when he'd been strong, hardy, a tornado of destruction, while now he lacked strength to sip sacred tulapai.

  He struggled to arise, to no avail. The People believed they went to another world after death, where they joined departed family and friends, and existed more or less as in the homeland, but with no White Eyes or Mexicanos to disturb them. What a relief to get away from those devils, thought Chief Miguel Narbona.

  His neck and shoulders ached fiercely whenever he moved, his stomach blazed with hunger, and worst of all, he had the most terrible headache of his life. It will be over soon, he told himself. He tried to wave to White Painted Woman, but his hand wouldn't lift off the blanket.

  A gust of wind blew over him, then he heard a faint growl. Sometime later, there was a snarl. Miguel Narbona smiled. White Painted Woman has sent her servants to help me.

  The coyotes emerged from the chaparral, licking their chops, glancing at each other through slitted eyes, then advanced ceremoniously. Chief Miguel Narbona could not defend himself, nor did he want to. “Eat my flesh,” he whispered. “Let me make you strong.”

  Their leader advanced, lowered his head, and gazed directly into the eyes of Chief Miguel Narbona. “What are your last words?” he seemed to be saying.

  “When I was a young warrior,” rasped Miguel Narbona, “I performed great deeds.”

  The coyote opened his dripping jaws, then closed them around the flaccid throat spread before him. Chief Miguel Narbona finally rode alongside White Painted Woman, showered by stars, headed toward canyons of plentiful game, where no enemies would molest the People again.

  2

  * * *

  The southwestern section of New Mexico Territory was called Arizona, an Indian word meaning little spring. Many considered the barren terrain unsuitable for cattle ranching, but indigenous strains of grama grass were available, though not as plentiful as on the Great Plains.

  Stubbornness was required to raise cattle in such a land, but the rewards were sufficient for Raphael Fonseca, who had built a small cabin for his wife and two sons. His herd had multiplied to nearly five hundred, while his corral contained more than forty horses. He hope to become a wealthy caudillo someday.

  Thirty-eight years old, with a long chin, wide mustache, and eyes that turned down at the corners, he slept peacefully in the hour before dawn, his wife, Cecilia, at his side, their two sons down the hall. He was becoming a successful man, God had been kind, and soon he'd pay off his bank loan. Life was good for Raphael Fonseca, and he had much to be proud of.

  The ranch basked in the moonlight, his weary vaqueros slumbered in the bunkhouse, but José, the cook, opened his eyes in the tiny shed that served as his quarters. The first one up every day, he dressed quickly, then scratched his neck as he made his way to the main house to begin breakfast. The vaqueros wouldn't work without their bacon and beans, washed down with thick black coffee.

  A ragged line of mountains sprawled across the horizon, stars twinkling merrily above. It seemed like any other night, with nothing to fear, as José reached the back door of the hacienda. He spotted movement in the corner of his right eye, but before he could turn, his jugular was sliced precisely. He toppled to the ground, as Coyuntura raised his gore-stained knife in the air. The thickets and clumps of cactus came alive as warriors rushed forward silently, armed with bows, arrows, clubs, and lances. The first glow of dawn appeared on the horizon as one contingent headed for the bunkhouse, the other toward the main hacienda. They smashed open doors, dived through windows, and the ranch was taken by surprise. In the darkness Fonseca hastily removed the rifle above the bed, thumbed back the hammer, and was slammed in the head with a war club. As he fell to the floor, the last sound he heard was the scream of his wife.

  The warriors quickly overwhelmed all resistance, but there was no time to lose. They ransacked both buildings, saddled fresh horses, and their last act was to torch the buildings. Flames licked up walls and out windows,
burning furniture, fabrics, and wood trim, but adobe doesn't burn; it just holds heat like a giant oven.

  Singing victory songs, the People herded horses out of the corral, then headed for the open land. The roof of the barn collapsed in a mighty explosion, throwing a shower of sparks at the sky.

  ***

  As victorious Apaches rode toward their camp, singing of glory, an audience of sophisticated music lovers gathered at the Apollo Rooms on Broadway at Canal Street in New York City. The featured performer was Clarissa Rowland-Barrington, and due to the economic power of the Barringtons and Rowlands, whose enterprises advertised in all newspapers, a variety of motley fellows known as music critics were in attendance, among them Reginald van Zweinan of the Sun, best man at Clarissa's wedding, who was disposed to write a glowing review even if she played the piano with her nose.

  The Apollo Rooms had been the site of the first Philharmonic Orchestra concert in 1842, but the Philharmonic had since moved to the new Academy of Music on 14th Street, and the Apollo now was available for magic shows, the popular Ethiopian minstrelsy, plays, and legitimate musical programs such as Clarissa's.

  The Steinway piano and stool stood together on the empty stage, a stark white curtain in the background. Clarissa's parents sat in the front row, beaming with satisfaction, while toward the back of the hall, between Fitz-Greene Halleck and Reginald van Zweinan, rested the performing artist's husband, wreathed by alcohol fumes.

  Promptly at eight o'clock, the featured artist stepped onto the stage, receiving enthusiastic applause that did not impress her, since she knew practically everyone in attendance had been coerced into coming by her parents. Attired in a maroon dress with fashionable leg-of-mutton sleeves, she advanced toward the piano, sat on the stool, and looked at the sheets of music.

  Her first selection was Mozart's Fantasia Sonata, and without further ado, she proceeded to finger the keys. The concert hall fell silent, except for clear notes wafting into the heavy auditorium air. Clarissa loved Mozart's sweetness, beauty, and the orderliness of whatever madness had driven him to write countless symphonies, sonatas, operas, and other works of genius, while carrying on love affairs, intrigues, and spending faster than he earned. Clarissa believed that she had penetrated the very soul of Mozart, understanding precisely what he had been aiming for.

  Loyal to Mozart's spirit, Clarissa's fingers rippled over the keys, unaware that the audience was transfixed by what they considered her unique interpretation of the great master. In the back row Nathanial studied the patrons carefully, noticing that no one slept or crocheted during Clarissa's performance.

  Nathanial had listened many times to his wife's piano playing and considered her a musician of exceptional talent, her feminine fire enlivening even the most placid themes. Who is this woman I married, he wondered. She is so superior; I wonder why she stays with me.

  “She has Olympian grandeur,” whispered Fitz, immaculately attired in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie.

  “Not a bad line,” replied the walruslike Reginald, writing in his notebook. “It shall appear in my review tomorrow.”

  “Without payment to its creator, I'm sure,” noted Fitz.

  “Sssshhhh,” said the lady sitting in front of them, a gray-haired dowager wearing a diamond necklace. Not another sound could be heard from the audience except an occasional cough, for ventilation was not an advantage of the Apollo Rooms.

  Finally, Clarissa hit the sonata's last chord, closed her eyes, and paused, fingers arched over the keys as she savored the moment of completion. She was utterly lost in the chambers of her mind, dreaming of herself as Mozart's wife, when the wave of applause washed over her. Aroused from her dream, she stood, faced her audience, and curtsied. Flowers rained upon her, gentlemen pounded their hands, while ladies tapped daintily. A huzzah went up from the throat of Reginald van Zweinan, for no one was more loyal than he, and it appeared the roof might split as Clarissa took her second bow.

  She had won their hearts as with the vaqueros and bullwhackers in Sante Fe and every other audience before whom she'd performed. I must never doubt myself again, she advised herself, but how can an artist not doubt, for the truth of art is elusive, and there are no absolute standards, save those of the heart.

  She waited for the applause to diminish, then sat behind the piano once more and began Mozart's Fifth Sonata in G Major. Meanwhile, the stout impresario, Thorndyke, stood at the rear of the audience, stroking his black beard. Thirty-five, a Yankee from New Hampshire, he was searching for a special talent that he could promote, utilizing the publicity techniques demonstrated by Phineas T. Barnum during the successful tour of Jenny Lind, who'd taken America by storm during 1850-52. Thorndyke had failed in numerous business ventures, but his facile explanations had managed to raise the cost of Clarissa's concert, mostly from her relatives. She's quite beautiful in an understated way, he calculated, and she has a newsworthy background, plus she certainly knows the piano. Perhaps she's just what I need.

  Clarissa's final selection was “The Ship on Fire,” a popular song by Henry Russell, full of rising crescendos, diving arpeggios, and crashing octaves. Accompanying herself, she sang in her clear, delicate voice of the sinking of the ship, the lowering of the boats, and a gentleman surrendering his seat to a young lady.

  The song was mawkish and bombastic, when it wasn't overflowing with sentimentality and bathos. But the audience abandoned their New York cynicism, perhaps due to the dramatic talent of Clarissa Rowland-Barrington, or possibly because they lived in a heroic age. Everyone was captivated, including Clarissa's husband, as the rescue ship arrived, and Clarissa sang the final refrain:

  Cold, cold was the night as they drifted away and mistily dawned o'er the pathway the day.

  There was silence, then the hall filled with applause like cannonades. Clarissa stood and held out her arms, realizing that the hope she'd nurtured since early childhood finally had come true as she was showered with garlands of flowers.

  There comes a time when a performer must leave the stage, regardless of how wonderful the praise, so Clarissa blew them all a kiss, then turned and walked gracefully to the wings, where, alone in the darkness, shrouded by curtains and props, she closed her eyes and relished the moment. Her name was shouted, her vanity expanded like a balloon, and tears of ecstasy came to her eyes. For the first time, she felt utterly brilliant. But it's only my family and friends, she reminded herself wryly. Total strangers would never respond this way, except it hadn't been much different in Sante Fe.

  Confused, wondering what it meant, she opened the door to her dressing room and was surprised to see Thorndyke seated before her mirror. “I foresee a program of concerts beginning at the Academy of Music,” he declared, “and then on to Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, Atlanta, and perhaps to New Orleans, up the Mississippi to St. Louis, then back east. Why, I had no idea you were so exceptional!”

  Her proud husband arrived, gave his wife a firm kiss on her laughing lips, and declared, “Best I've ever heard you.”

  Her parents arrived next, followed by other relatives, friends, and Reginald van Zweinan. “New York has crowned a new queen tonight!” the newspaperman cried excitedly. “That will be my headline. What can I say, when I have heard perfection? And that will be my opening line.”

  Nathanial felt himself pushed to the side by well-wishers, while Thorndyke babbled about an international tour. Leaning against the wall, Nathanial gazed at his wife glowing in the effulgence of gaslight. He realized there was a side to Clarissa he didn't know, and in fact great ability resided within her, while he was an ordinary fellow, an ex-soldier of no special accomplishments, something of a bore. I wonder why she remains with me? he asked himself.

  On the morning after the concert, Clarissa and Nathanial breakfasted together in their rooms at the Saint Nicholas Hotel. She wore a red silk robe, her long blond hair gathered behind her head with a matching red silk ribbon, and she continued to bask in the glow of her performance.

&
nbsp; Clarissa never had known anything like the adulation of a sophisticated New York audience, not to mention the incredible offer of Thorndyke, who was organizing a new concert at the most prestigious venue in the city, the Academy of Music itself. Clarissa had received excellent reviews from bought-and-paid-for music critics, and several interesting articles had been written, emphasizing her experiences on the frontier. She recalled taking her first bow, as flowers fell like colored snowballs upon her, the penultimate moment of her life.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, Nathanial sat morosely. My wife has become a celebrity and doesn't need me in the least, he mulled. “Are you going to accept Thorndyke's offer?”

  “I haven't made up my mind,” she replied. “What do you think?”

  “We couldn't leave for New Mexico Territory as soon as we'd planned, but I don't have a job yet, so I guess it won't matter.”

  She placed her hand on his wrist. “Are you sure you won't mind, Nathanial?”

  “Of course not,” he lied. “This might be a convenient time for me to visit my father, because perhaps he can help me find a position with the Bureau of Indian Affairs.” She's barely listening, he suspected.

  “I've got to get dressed because I have an appointment with Mister Thorndyke.”

  She pecked his cheek, and he caught a last glimpse of her glorious rump encased in red silk as she departed their dining room. He gazed into the grounds of coffee at the bottom of his cup, as if to divine the future. He feared Clarissa would leave him for her wonderful musical career.