Savage Frontier Page 3

  He passed through the gates of Fort Marcy, arrived at the orderly room, and a sergeant with short clipped dark brown hair and mustache sat at the desk. He glanced up and said, “What can I do for you?”

  “I'd like to jine the dragoons, sir.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty–eight, sir.”

  “Your name?”

  “Fletcher Doakes, sir.”

  The sergeant looked him over suspiciously. The applicant looked fairly healthy except for his complexion. “Why do you want to jine the dragoons?”

  “I've got no money, sir, and can't find a job. But I was raised on a farm and I know about horses.”

  Sergeant Berwick looked at Doakes sternly. “It's a hard life—don't make no mistake about it. If you're afraid of fightin’ Injuns, the Army ain't no place to be. And it's a five-year enlistment. You think you're up to it?”

  “I've always wanted to be a dragoon, sir.”

  “Sign right here,” said Sergeant Berwick, holding out the pen.

  Doakes scratched his name in bold sharply defined letters.

  “Looks like you've got an edjication,” commented Sergeant Berwick.

  “I worked as a clerk for a time, sir.”

  “First of all I'm a sergeant, not a sir.” Sergeant Berwick rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Just so happens I could use some help in this here office. Sit at that desk over thar and copy this letter. You do it right—you can work for me.”

  “I was hoping to be a dragoon, sir.”

  “It's a lot easier here, and you'll get to town more often. Wouldn't you like to go to town every night, Doakes?”

  Lucero moved forward on his hands and knees, then raised his head behind a cholla cactus. The village of Fulgencio lay ahead, as the afternoon sun dropped toward the mountains. The workday was over and the church bell pealed. Lucero watched soldiers entering the church while others in the small garrison prepared the evening meal. Everything looked peaceful and no one would guess that the citizens had massacred Apaches only five suns ago.

  Lucero glanced to his left and right, where warriors bristled with bows, arrows, lances, rifles, knives, and war clubs. He raised his arm and motioned toward the village.

  The surrounding hills basked in spring sunshine when suddenly a contingent of warriors burst from the ground. They headed for the garrison while a second group made for the stable. A dog chained to a back fence started barking, and then an old crone happened to look out her back window. Her eyes bulged with terror, then she screamed, “Apaches!”

  Her voice didn't carry far, but the blacksmith heard her. “Apaches!” he yelled, reaching for his rifle.

  The most dreaded word imaginable traveled through the village, as men everywhere armed themselves. The warriors reached the outskirts of town, and Lucero was first over the garrison walls, his bow and arrow ready for instant use. He let fly an arrow into the chest of the first soldier he saw, then dropped to one knee, withdrew another arrow, and pierced the belly of a soldier rushing out of the mess hall.

  Arrows zipped through the air as Apaches advanced toward the ammunition shed. In his office, the Mexican commandante didn't know whether to hide beneath his desk or rush outside to take command. He decided to do his duty, drew his pistol and opened the door. Apaches were swarming over the parade ground, butchering everyone in their path, and he was about to issue a command when a war club bashed his face.

  The army camp was captured as smoke rose from the church steeple. Singing vengeance songs, the Apaches spread throughout the town, killing all the Nakai-yes, as the Nakai-yes had killed their wives, mothers, and children.

  While engaged in this enterprise, an Apache warrior named Chatto happened to look up. It appeared that a large number of distant riders were headed toward Fulgencio. “Look!” he shouted.

  The warriors of the People were shocked to see a Mexican cavalry detachment bearing down upon them. Evidently they'd been scouting in the vicinity, heard shots, and now Lucero had a new threat on his hands. “Charge them!” he hollered.

  The Mexican cavalry advanced down the incline as the People's warriors rushed on foot to meet them. The soldiers wore shiny helmets and each carried a lance aimed down at the People. Some soldiers were mere boys, and others had received little training. Swiftly the warriors raced toward them, led by a tall, rangy Apache with long black hair.

  The captain of the lancers swung his sword at Lucero's head, but Lucero leapt into the air, grabbed the officer's wrist, and then slammed his war club onto the officer's head. Lucero tore the dead officer out of his saddle, leapt on, wheeled the horse around, and lunged toward the nearest lancer.

  The lancer aimed his weapon at Lucero's heart, but Lucero batted it out of the way with his club, then caught the lancer in the face with his back-swing, knocking him out of the saddle. The horse neighed and raised his front hooves in the air as three soldiers crowded around Lucero, trying to skewer him with their lances, but he twisted and spun like a wildcat, his club whistling skillfully through the air. The first lancer felt the side of his skull cave in, while the next had his jaw dislocated. Lucero leapt onto the last lancer and fell to the ground with him.

  “This is for my dead cousin,” said Lucero as he brought the war club down. Then he jumped to his feet, but it appeared the battle was over. The warriors took several women and children as prisoners, to compensate for the women and children killed in the massacre. They filled a wagon with weapons, ammunition, and other booty, gathered horses and cattle, then torched the village, the desert wind whipping flames into an immense funeral pyre.

  The People's warriors sang victory songs as they departed the roaring holocaust. At their head, atop his fleet pinto stallion, rode their long-limbed young leader, waving his war club around his head.

  And from that day onward, Lucero became known as Victorio, the victorious one.

  Nathanial opened his eyes and was astonished to see an Apache bent over him, hatchet in hand. The West Pointer struggled to block the blow, then went limp, his head rolling to the side.

  Dr. Barrow raised the patient's eyelid with his thumb, grunted, then turned to the medical orderly. “If he survives the night, I'd say he has a chance.”

  “I'm surprised he lasted this long,” said the orderly. “I don't know how he made it back from the ambush.”

  “There are some things medical science can't understand,” said Dr. Barrow. “Some men die real easy, and others have tremendous vitality, like this officer. But there's nothing we can do now except make him comfortable. His fate is in the hands of God.”

  General John Garland stood with his hands behind his back, studying a map of New Mexico, Texas, and northern Mexico nailed to the wall of his office. This was the time of day he appreciated most, late afternoon when his correspondence was signed and on its way to other commands.

  General Garland didn't become a general due to connections made in West Point, because he'd never attended that renowned institution. He'd entered the Army as a private during the War of 1812, received a commission due to prowess in battle, had campaigned against the Seminoles, and then distinguished himself in the Mexican War.

  As General Garland examined the map, Fort Union was the center of a triangle whose northern point was Jicarilla country, the eastern end was Mescalero territory, and in the west were a conglomeration of tribes known by a variety of names, such as Chiricahuas, Mimbrenos, Mongollons, Tontos, and Coyoteros, among others.

  The Jicarillas were being subdued, and soon the Mescaleros would feel the power of the U.S. Army. General Garland knew that Indians were most vulnerable during winter when food was low and snow restricted movements. Perhaps, in December, I'll wage war against the Mescaleros, he thought. I won't provoke them, but sooner or later they'll steal a flock of sheep, or attack a conducta.

  His most difficult challenge came from the Western Apaches, worst Indians in North America, in his opinion. General Garland intended to campaign against them after he'd finished with the Me
scaleros.

  Citizens demanded protection from Apache depredations, and the military commander of New Mexico couldn't wait for the Indian agent to transform naked savages into bucolic farmers. General Garland studied the map and scowled, as he was drawn to the logical conclusion. If Apaches persist in harassing American citizens, I may have to exterminate them.

  Chapter Four

  Nathanial opened his eyes. Simultaneously, two bolts of pain shot through him, one from his arm, the other his leg. He turned and saw Private Pell with a bandage like a turban around his head, out cold. In the other direction lay Private Haines, who evidently had lost an arm. Am I in one piece? wondered Nathanial.

  He forced himself to raise his head and count limbs; it appeared everything was in place. “Is somebody on duty?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir—what can I do for you?” asked an orderly.

  “Has my wife been notified?”

  “She left for Santa Fe before you returned, sir. Her father was sick.”

  “And my children?”

  “She took them with her too, sir.”

  Maria Dolores sat in her father's office behind the Silver Palace Saloon. Through the door, she could hear faint strains of guitar music as she sifted through neat business records, noting that every bill had been paid on time. My father performed his duties conscientiously, she realized.

  A tear rolled down Maria Dolores's cheek as someone knocked frantically on the door. “Who is it?”

  “Miguelito! There is a fight!”

  Maria Dolores opened the door and looked at the hunchback dwarf. “Where is the guard?”

  “He has quit and I have not hired anyone to replace him yet.”

  “And the sheriff?”

  “He is out of town.”

  Maria Dolores adjusted the gun on her hip, hidden beneath her serape. She followed Miguelito down the hall to the main area of the saloon, where everything was deathly still.

  Men stood on the bar as others gathered around a Mexican vaquero and an American cowboy facing each other, carrying knives with blades up. The cowboy lunged his steel toward the vaquero's belly, but the vaquero managed to dart out of the way, slicing off a layer of the cowboy's left shoulder as he passed. The cowboy shrieked in pain, then charged again, while the vaquero skillfully danced to the side, ripping the cowboy's face. Bleeding from several wounds, the desperate cowboy was about to make another pass when a full-bodied woman appeared in his vision.

  “That is enough!” shouted Maria Dolores. “If you want to kill each other—do it outside!”

  “Out of the way, woman,” growled the vaquero. “Otherwise you may be hurt by mistake.”

  “Leave my establishment at once!” ordered Maria Dolores.

  “Go to hell,” said the cowboy, who was barely able to stand.

  She yanked the Colt .44 from beneath her serape, thumbed back the hammer and aimed at his nose. “I said get out.”

  “Now just a minute . . .”

  She raised the barrel above his head and pulled the trigger. The saloon resounded with the shot, smoke filled the air, and the cowboy thought he'd been shot.

  “The next one will be on its mark,” she said evenly.

  The cowboy backed toward the door, holding his hands in the air, his color a pasty white. The vaquero followed, and he'd become a strange green hue.

  “Don't come back,” said Maria Dolores as the knife fighters passed through the door.

  The madonna of the Silver Palace Saloon thumbed forward the hammer of her Colt, then dropped it into her holster. “Drinks on the house!” she hollered.

  In the early morning hours, Victorio was awakened by someone calling his name. “Mangas Coloradas would like to speak with you.”

  Victorio lay in the arms of Shilay, his wife, who said sleepily, “I wonder what he wants?”

  “I'll be back quickly as I can.”

  When Victorio emerged from his wickiup, the messenger was gone and twinkling stars blanketed the universe. Victorio made his way across the encampment, hearing the occasional snore or sigh. A dog raised his head curiously as the subchief arrived at the wickiup of the great chief Mangas Coloradas.

  Light emanated through openings in twigs and leaves that comprised the shelter. Victorio crawled through the entrance on his hands and knees. The chief sat before his fire, a single stripe of ocher painted across his nose and cheeks. “While you have been sleeping,” said Mangas Coloradas sonorously, “I have been speaking with the mountain spirits. They said I should tell you about the future of the People. But first we shall smoke together.”

  Managas Coloradas stuffed his clay ceremonial pipe with a mixture of tobacco and other magical plants gathered by Nana the di-yin medicine man. Then he took a metal spoonlike implement, removed a red hot coal from the fire, and dropped it on top. “You first.”

  Victorio filled his lungs with pungent smoke, then passed the pipe to Mangas Coloradas. After a while, it appeared that mountain spirits were dancing among flames in the firepit. Mangas Coloradas appeared in an exalted state as he raised his hand in the air. “I am growing old,” he declared. “The time has come for a young man to lead the people. I consider you foremost among subchiefs, but today I tell you solemnly that you are my chosen successor, and you shall assume command of the Mimbreno warriors following my death.”

  Victorio bowed. “But there are many warriors more able than I.”

  “None combines the best qualities as does Victorio. You cannot deny the People.”

  “But the White Eyes baffle me. I do not know what to do about them.”

  “Neither do I, for they tell us: ‘Stop raiding and become farmers. Otherwise there can be no peace between us.’ So some of the People moved where the White Eyes commanded, but the People received no farm animals, no implements, no seeds. The White Eyes act like friends as they sow deceit among us, while their bluecoat soldiers are making war upon the Jicarilla People. I have signed two treaties with the White Eyes, and twice the White Eyes have betrayed me. Perhaps Juh of the Nednai is right. We must fight the White Eyes wherever we find them, and if they kill us all—so be it.”

  Next day, Maria Dolores arrived at her office, eager to get to work. She realized how bored she'd been at Fort Union, and the proud Mexican woman didn't like to defer to anybody, as she'd done in the Army.

  There was a knock on the door, then Miguelito appeared. “There is an hombre who wants to work as a guard,” he said.

  “Is he clean?”

  “Sí, senora.”

  “Send him in.”

  Miquelito retreated, closing the door behind him. Maria Dolores returned to land deeds on her desk. She knew that a transcontinental railroad was being debated in Washington, and Southern senators were fighting for a route that would pass through Santa Fe. I've got to buy all the land I can, she told herself, because this city could double and even quadruple in size in the years to come.

  America was booming, according to everything she read. Immigrants from Europe were flocking to its shores in search of cheap land, gold, and political freedom. It was exciting to think about, instead of languishing at Fort Union.

  She became aware of a presence in the doorway, glanced up from a mortgage, and saw a tall, well-built American cowboy in a loose white cotton shirt, wearing a gun in a holster, sombrero in hand.

  “Your name?” she asked.

  “Cole Bannon.”

  “Have a seat.”

  His light brown hair was combed neatly, he was close-shaven, and gave the impression of physical strength. She pegged his age at the late thirties as he sat before her desk.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she said.

  “I've worked on ranches, been a cook, traveled here and there, a perfectly useless life, one might say.”

  She could perceive that he was educated, but had something of the rascal about him. “I should warn you that it's not an easy job. We had a knife fight a few days ago.”

  He smiled, showing even white teeth. “I was there
, and you're a very brave woman, Mrs. Barrington, because what if somebody came up on you from behind?”

  “This is not a job for a man who is afraid.”

  “I never said I was afraid. You can count on me.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “I think a smart hombre like you could do better.”

  “I have no money left.”

  “Where do you live?”

  He shrugged. “Here and there.”

  She decided against more questions, although her curiosity was piqued. “You may start tonight,” she told him.

  Chapter Five

  Pain awakened Nathanial in the middle of the night. He lay in his bedroom on Officers’ Row, gazing longingly at the dresser. Dr. Barrow had let him return home, where he was cared for by two maids. In the top drawer resided a bottle of laudanum, the opiated medication used to ease suffering.

  Nathanial didn't like laudanum, because once he started, he never stopped. He'd managed to give up whiskey three years ago, after Maria Dolores threatened to leave him, but Maria Dolores was gone. Once I take that first dose of laudanum, it's only a matter of time before I'm constantly drugged.

  Torn ligaments throbbed in his arm and leg while constant around-the-clock pain ground a man to dust. What's worse? he wondered. Being unable to sleep, or being drugged?

  You're older and more mature, he counseled himself. Isn't it time you developed a small measure of self-discipline? With a confident half smile, he opened the drawer. Inside, tincture of poppy juice called out to him. He let five drops fall into water, mixed it with a spoon, then gulped the bitter concoction.

  He returned to bed and propped up the pillows. It didn't take long for the sweetness to come on, banishing all care. Gradually his muscles relaxed, his breathing became deeper, pain decreased considerably. Why didn't I do this before? he asked himself.

  A bat flew by his window, or was it an Apache on a winged horse? An object glowing on the table caught his eye, Johnny Davidson's gold watch. The numerals were painted deftly, the case vaguely Roman in design; it ticked steadily when Nathanial carried it to his ear.