White Apache Page 2

  Nana kneeled beside Nathanial and said, “The air and sun will heal you. You must build your strength for a journey, because soon we must leave this place.”

  Nathanial tried to move his head, but felt pain in back of his neck. He went slack on the makeshift bed, closed his eyes, and remembered his poor innocent Clarissa, who probably believed she had become a widow, not an uncommon fate for a soldier's wife. Nathanial often had felt guilty about removing Clarissa from her luxurious Gramercy Park home and dropping her in New Mexico Territory, but she had proven herself a tough little soldier and a highly skilled diplomat on behalf of her husband's career. He wondered how she was getting along without him, and with whom.

  Clarissa lay in bed with her new daughter and felt as if a herd of mules had trampled her. The babe was red-faced and sleeping peacefully, covered with white swaddling clothes, bald, with the tiniest hands. Clarissa felt proud to have given birth to a healthy child, and tried to convince herself that the suffering had been worthwhile.

  It was hard to imagine pleasant interludes with Nathanial leading to such agony, but the doctor had been competent, assisted by Libbie Chandler and Rosita, and now at last Clarissa was recuperating. One child is enough for any woman, she told herself. I never want to go through this again.

  Each movement produced new torment, but the doctor said she and the baby were fine. Clarissa looked at her daughter sleeping peacefully and felt sad that the child would never know her father, who had no idea his wife was pregnant when he left for the Mogollon Mountains, because Clarissa learned the good news following his departure.

  Rosita the maid appeared in the doorway. “Are you all right, senora?”

  “I think I'm dying,” replied Clarissa.

  “Miguel is here. He would like to play for you.”

  The vaquero entered the room, carrying his guitar, wearing black trousers with silver conchos stitched down the sides. Without a word he sat on a chair in the corner and picked at the guitar on his lap. Clarissa let herself drift away on the melody, feeling the warmth of the baby sleeping beside her.

  Soldiers searched ten days for the missing Indian agent, Henry Linn Dodge, and at noontime on the eleventh buzzards were seen on the horizon. Captain Beauregard Hargreaves of the First Dragoons pulled the reins of his horse in that direction, confident he'd find remains of one dead white man of more courage than common sense. This is what happens when you trust an Indian, he thought, as he rode closer to the buzzards’ meal.

  Beau had been fighting Apaches since the Mexican War, when he'd served and bled at Buena Vista, among other venues. A medium-height beefy officer with curly black side-whiskers, he wore a blue tunic with brass buttons and gold shoulder straps.

  Beau had expected Apache retaliation since the fight in the Mogollon Mountains, where his best friend and former West Point roommate Nathanial Barrington had been killed. Now Apaches evidently had murdered Henry Linn Dodge to even the score, and the next clash doubtlessly would produce buckets of blood.

  Beau wore his regulation black hat slanted low over his eyes, with crossed gold swords in front, and the Eagle of America pinning the left brim to the crown. It was called a Jeff Davis hat because it had been designed by Jefferson Davis, secretary of war during the Pierce administration, and one of the nation's foremost heroes of the Mexican War. In a holster attached to Beau's saddle rested his Colt.36 Navy revolver, with 7-½ inch octagonal barrel, beside the scabbard containing his model 1855 Springfield rifle, modified to fire minie ball ammunition, with a lug near the muzzle to hold a saber or socket rapier bayonet.

  His scout, Herb Latham, appeared in the wilderness five hundred yards in advance of the detachment, waving his hat over his head. Then he pointed in the direction of the buzzards.

  “He's found ‘im, sir,” said Sergeant Henderson.

  Beau nodded as he led his men forward. Any man who goes hunting alone has to expect an arrow in his gullet, he thought.

  The detachment continued across a range covered with gramma grass and cholla cactus. In the distance gigantic, spirelike mountains thrust against the pale blue horizon. A gust of cold wind blew around the horse's legs, heralding winter.

  They drew closer to Latham, a former mountain man who slouched on his saddle and puffed a corncob pipe. “I don't know if it's Dodge,” he said. “Ain't much to go on.”

  The scout led them behind a hackberry bush, where a skeleton lay, adorned with a few remaining chunks of flesh. A whiff of rot came to Beau's nostrils as he climbed down from his horse. No clothing or weapons were in the vicinity, for the Apaches had carried everything away.

  Beau couldn't say for certain it was Dodge, but the Indian agent was the only white man who hunted alone, and Dodge never had returned to the Zuni Pueblo. Beau took out a notebook and jotted the approximate location of the corpse.

  “Sergeant Henderson, organize a burial detail.”

  Beau sat upwind of the corpse, rolled a cigarette, then continued writing his report, which, after returning to Fort Union, would be copied and distributed to other commands, and finally someone with an eagle or a star on his shoulder might order a new campaign to subdue Apaches. It might take another ten years to defeat the bastards, estimated Beau, but one day Americans will hunt this land without worrying about arrows in their backs.

  Juh and his warriors were spotted by guards long before they returned to camp. The word was passed along—the raiding party had won many horses and mules, and the People looked forward to a feast of mule meat, their favorite delicacy.

  Jocita the warrior woman received news of her husband's imminent arrival as she rested in front of her wickiup, watching women working skins, chopping wood, making baskets, or engaging in other domestic work. Her chest felt broken by the Pindah bullet, and every breath carried new misery, but her warrior woman code permitted no tears. She had much to live for, such as her growing son, and for the People, to whom she had dedicated her life.

  She was curious about the Pindah soldier who'd saved her, for long ago they'd lain together on the desert floor, a tumultuous experience for a dutiful warrior woman. The fruit of that brief conflagration of lust was her beloved child, who stepped cautiously toward her. Five harvests old, with lighter hair and skin than most Apaches, Running Deer had been selected for special favor, it was widely believed.

  He touched his little hand to hers. “I miss you,” he said sadly.

  “Has Ish-keh been mean to you?”

  “No, but it is not like being with my real mother.”

  “Soon I will heal, and we shall hunt together.”

  “My father is returning with horses,” said Running Deer. “Perhaps he will give me one.”

  “You are too young.”

  “But cousin Geronimo has the power of the bat.”

  The People believed bat power made them better riders, since bats are clinging creatures. “I shall speak with him,” promised Jocita.

  The boy's eyes filled with tears as he gazed at his pale weakened mother. “I worry about you,” he blurted, then fell upon her and hugged her tightly.

  “Easy,” she said, for her wounds still were raw.

  Cheering erupted around them as the victors entered camp. Juh rode in front, back straight, head held high, bouncing in his saddle, while at the edge of camp, stolen livestock watched morosely. Their meat would help the People survive Ghost Face, the season snow covered the land.

  The joyous sounds drew Chief Mangas Coloradas out of his wickiup, where he'd been sleeping. Sixty-two harvests old, six feet and six inches tall, he was considered the greatest chief who'd ever lived, but now was fatigued by a lifetime of warfare and raiding.

  Juh dropped from his saddle and bowed before Mangas Coloradas, then made his report, but failed to mention the murder of the lone hunter. Mangas Coloradas was pleased to have plenty of food for the winter. “Who is equal to Juh?” declared Mangas Coloradas. “The People are grateful for your courage.”

  Next came Victorio, lean, tall, thirty-one years o
ld, heir apparent to Mangas Coloradas, and he too congratulated Juh, followed by other subchiefs, warriors, di-yins, maidens, and children—the encampment showered Juh with praise and gratitude.

  They followed him as he made his way to the wickiup of Jocita, before which she lay, Running Deer at her side. Juh bowed to his first wife and declared, “I give my new horses to you, my dear Jocita. And how are you progressing?”

  “Much better now that you are home, my husband.”

  He touched his lips to her cheek, while fifty paces away Ish-keh made a faint benevolent smile, although she hated Jocita, because Juh loved Jocita more than Ish-keh, the medium by which he made sons. Ish-keh feared Juh would leave her for Jocita, a humiliating affront to the daughter of the deceased Chief Mahlko.

  Ish-keh feared she was losing prestige and beauty, and Juh might take away her slaves, forcing her to gather firewood and work skins all day long, not desirable pastimes for one who appreciated leisure. She feared she'd become a bizahn woman, with no husband to care for her, forced to sell her body to warriors in exchange for meat.

  Juh continued talking with Jocita, ignoring Ish-keh, before the clan. If Jocita dies, thought Ish-keh wickedly, my position would be greatly enhanced. Perhaps Jocita will take a turn for the worse, especially if I pay a sorcerer to hex her.

  ***

  At Fort Union a detachment of dusty, sweaty dragoons rode toward the stable, led by Captain Beauregard Hargreaves. He climbed down from the saddle in front of the big proscenium door, slapped his Jeff Davis hat against his thigh, and headed for the orderly room, where Sergeant Major Tim Harris shot to his feet at the sight of the returning officer. “Welcome back, sir. Did you find him?”

  “I'm afraid we buried what was left of him.” Beau handed over his report.

  “The colonel may want to speak with you. Please have a seat, sir.”

  Beau dropped onto a chair as the sergeant major walked to the office of Colonel Dixon Stanbury Miles, commanding officer of Fort Union. Tired, smelly, Beau was anxious to see his wife and children, then take a good hot bath.

  “He'll talk with you now, sir,” said Sergeant Major Harris.

  Beau marched into the colonel's office and was not surprised to see that officer bleary-eyed and red-nosed, because Colonel Miles was said to be a drunkard. Beau came to attention in front of the desk and saluted smartly.

  “Have a seat, Captain,” said Colonel Miles, mildly slurring his words. “Are you sure the body you saw was Henry Linn Dodge?”

  A wave of alcoholic fumes blew over Beau. “I can't be completely certain, sir, but since he was hunting in the area, who else could it be?”

  “If this is how savages treat friends, I can imagine what they'd do to a lost soldier. Care for a drink?”

  Colonel Miles opened a desk drawer, produced a silver flask, and tossed it to Beau, who took a swig of the standard cheap whiskey sold at the sutler's store, just what he needed after two weeks of scouting.

  “I suppose you're anxious to return to your family,” said Colonel Miles. “Whenever I need a job done, I can rely upon Captain Hargreaves.”

  Beau crossed the parade ground, reflecting upon what Colonel Miles had said. Perhaps I'll make major by the time I'm forty. He noticed a blond woman holding her skirts and running toward him, the former Rebecca Harding, followed by his two children, Beth and Beau II. The hardship and boredom of military life seemed tolerable to Beau, as long as he had his family. He rushed toward them, scooped his wife in his arms, and kissed her lips.

  “I've missed you so much,” she said.

  He felt her strong frontier body and knew the world was fundamentally sound. Then he kissed his children, took their hands, and headed for their little insect-infested log home on officers’ row. The maid prepared the bath as Beau frolicked with his children. Finally, after countless kisses and hugs, he disrobed alone in the kitchen, lit a cigar, soaked in the tub, and pored through the stack of newspapers Rebecca had reserved for him.

  According to editorial writers, the most hotly contested presidential campaign in American history was taking place in the States. The Democratic candidate, former Senator James Buchanan of Pennsylvania, had become front-runner, hotly pursued by the highly popular Republican John C. Frémont, known as the Pathfinder for his explorations of the Rocky Mountains, while Millard Fillmore, former U.S. President, carried the banner for the new American Party, consisting mostly of old-line Whigs, Know-Nothings, and the most conservative elements in America. The unpopular sitting Democratic President, Franklin Pierce of New Hampshire, had been denied his party's renomination, thus throwing the race wide open.

  Beau imagined parades, speeches, and wholesale mendacity in every city and hamlet as he lay in his tub. Each newspaper picked its favorite, then described the opposition in the most scathing terms, while editorial writers commonly made outrageous declarations.

  For example, Horace Greeley's influential New York Tribune hoped the South would secede, because America should never countenance the evil of slavery. On the other side of the Mason-Dixon line, the Charleston Mercury urged an immediate armed attack on Washington, if Frémont was elected to the White House. The best speakers of each party traveled the country and harangued voters, while Buchanan sat out the election at his estate near Lancaster, Pennsylvania; Frémont resided quietly on West 12th Street in New York City, and Fillmore dined every night with his wife in Buffalo, New York.

  Beau scrubbed the desert out of his ears as he feared for the future of America. But like many southerners, he believed no one had the right to tell another how to manage property, such as slaves. Beau was no ardent supporter of the “special institution,” considering it inefficient, not to mention morally questionable, but the economy and society of the South was based on slavery, and the problem couldn't be solved in one day by the edict of Yankee politicians who owned no slaves and maintained a financial stranglehold around the throat of the South.

  There was the notorious Tariff of Abominations, which forced the South to pay more for northern manufactured goods, and the South was taxed to pay for improvements in roads, canals, and other facilities that aided and abetted the economy of the North. The South was outnumbered in the Senate and Congress, and leading Yankee politicians openly called for a Negro revolt, or in other words, the massacre of southern whites. Beau shuddered at the possibility of facing former friends and West Point classmates on the battlefields of the future.

  But surely the politicians will find an honorable way out of the mess, he figured, as he listened to his children banging on the kitchen door. “How much longer?” asked his daughter.

  Beau dried himself, looking forward to milk and cookies with his wife and children. If it weren't for them, he thought, God only knows what drunken stupor I'd be in right now.

  Nathanial was dozing in front of his wickiup, when he heard approaching footsteps. It was Nana, a smile on his face. “How do you feel today, White Eyes?”

  “Better.”

  Nana pushed up Nathanial's eyelids with his thumbs. “Yes, you are better, I am happy to say. Have you noticed anything unusual?”

  “I was asleep most of the time.”

  “And blind the rest of the time. A celebration will be held tonight, and then, in a few days, we will move south.”

  “What are we celebrating?”

  “Horses and mules that Juh has found.”

  Nathanial knew what found meant, and wondered how many White Eyes had been killed in the transfer of property. “How is the woman?”

  “Stronger.”

  After Nana walked off, Nathanial pondered the fair Jocita. Throughout Nathanial's life he'd met females who'd addled his otherwise disciplined brain. Many had rejected his advances, wisely in his opinion, for he was imperfect in many ways, particularly the ones that included low passions. He'd been unfaithful only once during his first marriage, because he'd been at the Santa Rita Copper Mines, far from home, and fell under the spell of Jocita the warrior woman. Soon she and I will
be well, brooded Nathanial. And the hills are full of caves and gullies where two people can hide. Perhaps . . . but he caught himself. I'm a married man and shouldn't be thinking this way. His first wife had divorced him because she didn't enjoy being an army wife and living in remote posts, but he'd never been unfaithful to his dear Clarissa.

  Nathanial noticed an Apache boy with strange light hair and a crucifix around his neck, approaching cautiously. “Don't be afraid,” whispered Nathanial in Spanish.

  The boy advanced. “You are a giant,” he said.

  “What is your name?”

  “Running Deer.”

  “And who is your father?”

  “Chief Juh,” the boy said proudly. “He has brought many horses and mules to the People, and that is why we are happy. And my mother is a great warrior woman of the people—her name is Jocita. You have saved her life, and I thank you for giving her back to me.”

  Nathanial was jolted to realize that apparently he had sired another child. Indeed, the boy bore a strong resemblance to Nathanial's mother, while his light hair doubtlessly had been bequeathed by his father, a certain captain of dragoons. My God, thought Nathanial, as ramifications exploded across his mind. He'd never dreamed that his brief drunken orgy with Jocita would produce a child. “Where did you get the cross?”

  The boy took it in his hand. “My mother gave it to me. She said it has power.”

  Apaches made jewelry, but not golden crucifixes. It almost certainly had been taken from a Mexican who lost his life in the deal. The boy looked like an Apache cherub as he tilted his head to the side. “You are a Pindah soldier. Why did you help my mother?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Are you loco?” The boy pointed to his head.

  “I think so.” Nathanial decided it was time to change the subject. “What kind of games do you play?”

  “The moccasin game, the arrow contest, and racing. My mother will teach me to hunt deer when she is better. She can shoot the eye out of a snake with an arrow. Some say if she had been a man, she would be a war chief. You are a war chief, no?”