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  Clarissa had heard of Colonel Bonneville long before she'd ever married into the army. Old Bonney Clabber was one of America's most famous soldiers, his renown beginning when he'd explored the northern Rockies as a young officer, and Washington Irving had written a popular biography about him, The Adventures of Captain Bonneville, U.S.A. Bonneville also had served with distinction in the Mexican War, and one of his father's closest friends had been Thomas Paine, who had lived in his home for several years. The colonel's manner was courteous and fatherly; Clarissa warmed to him instantly.

  “Perhaps you don't recognize me, but we've met before,” she told him.

  He fluttered his eyelashes as he held his glass nonchalantly. “I'm sure I would remember someone as lovely as you, Mrs. Barrington.”

  “My maiden name is Rowland, and if I'm not mistaken, we were introduced at a party at the Astor Hotel, but I was quite small, so you have forgotten me after all. My father is Albert Rowland.”

  The colonel's debonair facade shifted momentarily, for the Rowlands were a distinguished old New York family like the Schermerhorns, Schuylers, Duanes, and Livingstons. “Well,” said the colonel with a roll of his eyes. “Fort Craig is certainly a far cry from the Astor Hotel. How are you getting along?”

  Clarissa noticed that virtually everyone was looking at the widow speaking with the great man, as Libbie diplomatically withdrew. “I'd like to return East,” said Clarissa. “Lieutenant Grissom and his family need my house, which has too many disquieting associations for me, as I'm sure you can appreciate.”

  “Why not travel with me?” he replied. “I'm on my way to Albuquerque, and there you can make plans to return to New York, or wherever you want to go.”

  Clarissa smiled. “I was hoping you'd offer your hospitality, sir. You're very kind.”

  “Mrs. Barrington, you are the wife of an officer who has died fighting the Apache. You will always receive the consideration of fellow officers, and nothing is too good for you as far as I and my men are concerned.”

  A commotion broke out at the far side of the room, where an officer strode across the rug. He wasn't attired for a reception, but instead was bearded and dirty, smelling to high heaven, his cape covered with muck, an envelope in his left hand as he saluted Colonel Bonneville with his right hand. “Captain Whipple reporting, sir. I have an urgent message.”

  The festive mood altered immediately, because Apache warriors might be bearing down on Fort Craig at that very moment. With stubby fingers Colonel Bonneville tore open the envelope, held it to an oil lamp, and read the official communique. “I'm afraid I have bad news. Henry Linn Dodge has been killed by Apaches.”

  A wave of consternation passed over the assembly, for nearly everyone had met Henry Linn Dodge. The officers coalesced around Colonel Bonneville to discuss the military response, while Clarissa joined the women on the other side of the room. “What do you think will happen?” she asked Libbie.

  Colonel Chandler's wife shook her head in dismay. “I imagine the army will campaign against the Apaches in the spring. And I suspect they won't stop until they've killed a good many of them.”

  Nathanial had visited castles on the Rhine, Saint Mark's Cathedral in Venice, and Parliament in London, not to mention certain establishments on the Bowery in New York City where naked women pranced to fiddles and banjos, but in all his travels, studies, and meditations, nothing had prepared him for the Apache dance in that remote corner of the Mimbreno Mountains.

  Seminaked warriors danced with naked bizahn women, and it didn't require a clairvoyant to know what transpired in their minds, as drummers hammered their hands bloody, and coyotes howled their approval in distant caves.

  The bizahn women gleefully shoved their breasts into the faces of the warriors, who just as gleefully pursed their lips. Meanwhile, hips worked frantically and firelight flashed upon glistening thighs. It appeared to Nathanial that the Apaches had descended into total abandonment of dignity. I wonder what my dear old mother would say, if she could see such a sight.

  He wished he could join the celebration, and he wouldn't mind ravishing a few naked bizahn women, a far cry from sedate parties in officers’ clubs, or on Fifth Avenue. Nathanial had been drawn to the wild side since childhood, and it struck him as marvelous that Apaches maintained a special ceremony for expressing excitement, even though it came at the expense of certain Mexicans or Americans.

  The West Pointer was cursed with the ability to see all sides of a proposition, and that's why often he became confused. The matter of right and wrong wasn't simple in New Mexico Territory, for the land really did belong to the Apaches, from a certain point of view. They possessed no deeds or mortgages, but had lived there for many centuries, perhaps even millennia, and clearly had adapted to the land, making it their own.

  On the other hand, Apaches had fought Pimas, Papagos, Pueblos, and Comanches long before the White Eyes had arrived, and refused to live at peace with anyone, not just the White Eyes. The frontier reminded Nathanial of the Balkan states, still in turmoil after the Crimean War.

  Apache warriors and bizahn women drifted into the wilderness, and Nathanial wished the practice could be instituted in the U.S. Dragoons, but no American widow or divorced wife would agree to such a pastime . . . or would they?

  We all have the same urges, he reflected, no matter what the color of our skins. Why did Europeans invent wheels, guns, and pianos, while Apaches live in primitive conditions? But what's wonderful about wheels, guns, and pianos? The Apaches get along fine without them, and just because we tag every day with a name and number, does that make the day any more profound?

  He became aware of the strangest sensation, as if a bizahn woman were licking his hand. With great effort he turned his head in that direction, but was disappointed to see a yellow dog with sad watery eyes and ribs visible thought his thin fur coat.

  The dog looked at Nathanial expectantly, as if seeking employment in return for the occasional bone. Nathanial ordinarily didn't converse with dogs, but he'd drunk a substantial quantity of tizwin, and the victory dance had loosened the hinges of his mind. “Are you a good watch dog?” he asked.

  The dog barked as if to say yes, and Nathanial wondered if he had lost his mind. “Well, I need a good watch dog. You stick with me, and I'll take care of you to the best of my ability, which isn't much right now, but I expect to get better soon, according to the medicine man.”

  The dog nodded his head, as if he accepted the terms of the agreement, then lay beside Nathanial, and guarded him faithfully from that day onward.

  Clarissa listened to the women speak of children, home, cooking, and other subjects that so consumed them. She felt like an alien, because music had been the passion of her life, but how could she describe the ineffable? On the other side of the room officers continued to debate the murder of Henry Linn Dodge, and from what she could hear, a major campaign was anticipated, with all units in New Mexico Territory converging for the final showdown.

  She noticed a tall man with eyeglasses, a thin mustache, and acne-scarred cheeks, apparently an aide to Colonel Bonneville, detach himself from the others and drift in her direction. With consummate elegance he bowed before her. “Mrs. Barrington? I'm George Covington, and I was a classmate of your husband at West Point.”

  He spoke with a southern drawl, but she didn't recall Nathanial's speaking of George Covington, unlike her husband's former roommate, Beauregard Hargreaves, and other friends mentioned in reminiscences of his student days. “How do you do,” she replied, a proper, well-trained New York society woman.

  He lowered his eyes. “I'm very sorry about Nathanial. If I can be of service, you need only ask.”

  “Did you know Beau Hargreaves?”

  “Yes, rather well. I understand he's at Fort Union now.”

  “I've always wanted to meet Beau. Nathanial considered him his best friend.

  George appeared hurt momentarily, as if he'd thought himself Nathanial's best friend. “Nathanial sure loved
to have a good time,” he mused. “I could tell you stories . . . no, I suppose I shouldn't.”

  Clarissa smiled. “He couldn't have been that naughty.”

  “Naughty?” asked George. “Outrageous might be a better word, but Beau could tell you better than I. You appear fatigued, Mrs. Barrington. If you need someone to escort you home, I volunteer herewith.”

  “As a matter of fact, could we leave now?”

  He walked her to the vestibule, retrieved her black leather coat from the maid, and draped it over her shoulders. Then he put on his cape, pulled his vaquero hat low onto his head, and opened the door. He was nearly as tall as Nathanial, with long, lanky legs and spurs jangling with every step as they proceeded down Officers’ Row. “How do you like the army?” she asked.

  “There are worse professions, I suppose. I've just been transferred here, actually. Previously I was with the Second Cavalry at Fort Cooper in Texas, and this is quite a comedown. You know—the most remarkable fact about Nathanial was that he could carouse all night, and even fall on his ass . . . I mean rear end, if you'll pardon the expression, but he wouldn't miss his weekly church service, and many times I've observed him praying quite fervently. I suppose you're a believer too?”

  “Absolutely,” she replied.

  “I believe in you, Mrs. Barrington . . . in your goodness and decency, and in your innocent heart, but alas, I am an utter swine with women. I shouldn't say this, but everything I know, I learned from your husband, but that was long before he was married, of course. When I arrived at West Point, I was a mere bumpkin. He and Beau made a man of me, although I doubt either would want to claim the honor.”

  She paused in front of her home, where a candle burned behind the front window. “I hope to see you again—you're very entertaining.”

  He bowed low like a true southern cavalier. "I am your servant, madam.”

  Inside her home she picked up the pewter candelabra and carried it to the bedroom she shared with her daughter, finding the child sleeping peacefully with a Mexican rag doll.

  “Did you have a good time, senora?” asked Rosita, red-eyed and wearing a robe, standing in the corridor.

  “I met Colonel Bonneville, and he said we can go to Albuquerque with him. Tomorrow we'll buy a wagon and whatever supplies we need. Have you ever been to Albuquerque?”

  “Albuquerque is full of drunkards and thieves,” replied Rosita, “but other than that, it is not so bad.”

  Occasionally a tired masked dancer would drift away from the fire to lie in his wickiup for a short period, or take a walk away from the drums. One of these exhausted dancers was Geronimo, wearing the black costume of the evil one, who died and came to life often during the night.

  Geronimo strolled in the wilderness, alone with his troubled thoughts. The People were trapped between the Pindah-lickoyee White Eyes to the north, and the Nakai-yes Mexicans to the South. The outcome would be dark and bloody, he believed, and he expected to die in battle, although sometimes he dreamed of himself as an old man planting seeds.

  Something moved on the far side of an arroyo. Geronimo whipped out his long blade. “Who's there?”

  Juh advanced out of the darkness. “I need to ask you a favor, my cousin.”

  “You may consider it done,” replied Geronimo without hesitation.

  Juh drew closer. “Will you give the power of the bat to my son, Running Deer?”

  “But he is so young.”

  “That is what I told Jocita, but she insists he learn to ride, for she senses many tribulations coming to the People.”

  “She is correct; many tribulations are coming, however power is no mere favor, but carries solemn consequences, sometimes death.”

  “It is Jocita's wish. Please do not deny me.”

  Geronimo's headdress was silhouetted by the moon, and he looked like a Gahn mountain spirit as he placed his hand upon Juh's shoulder. “How you must love her. It must be painful for you, with the Pindah in the camp, and the boy . . .” Geronimo's voice trailed off.

  Juh's eyes widened. “You know!”

  “I have suspected.”

  “Do you think anyone else . . . ?”

  “No one understands you as I do, for we have ridden many distances together. It must be painful to live with the knowledge that . . .” Geronimo glanced behind him, to make certain no one was listening.

  Juh made a fist and set his teeth on edge. “I would love to kill the Pindah.”

  “One of these days he may give you the opportunity.”

  “Sometimes I think everyone is laughing at me. The boy has light hair, like a Pindah.”

  “Nana, a greater di-yin than I, has confirmed it as distinction from the mountain spirits.”

  Juh looked down, as if embarrassed. “I cannot hate a child, but you are right—there is something weak about him. Perhaps it is his Pindah blood. Or perhaps he spends too much time with his mother. Please, for my sake, will you give Running Deer the power of the bat?”

  “When the snow melts, it shall be as you say, my cousin. But if the boy does not survive my training?”

  “That will be Jocita's sorrow, not mine,” replied Juh.

  Three

  Nathanial Barrington, attired in his army uniform, sat and watched the camp being demolished. Beds, baskets, clay pots, and the makings of wickiups were thrown into a pit, as warriors saddled horses and women packed meager belongings into saddlebags.

  Nathanial could maintain his back straight, but felt as if a rat were scratching his liver. He'd taken a few steps during the past days and clearly was on the mend, but wanted to recline and ease the pain in his back.

  Nana approached, holding the reins of a horse, which he held out to Nathanial. “For you,” he said.

  Nana helped Nathanial to his feet, then the dragoon officer inspected his latest steed. It was all black, a heavily muscled animal, good lines, unquestionably stolen. “Thank you for your valuable gift,” said Nathanial, who was learning the rudiments of Apache lingo and their elaborate social rituals. He wondered if the horse would buck him into the sky. The ugly yellow dog growled deep in his throat.

  “Let me help you up,” said Nana.

  Nathanial didn't think the old man could lift him, even with the weight he'd lost, but he placed his boot into Nana's hands and easily was elevated toward an old army saddle, out of which he nearly fell. He hunched to a comfortable position, deerskin cape over drooping shoulders, vaquero hat on the back of his head, and saw, on the far side of the encampment, the warrior woman helped into her saddle by Juh. As she adjusted herself, her eyes scanned the campsite, and it wasn't long before their probing beams fell upon Nathanial. Their visions met like streams of fire, and each knew what the other was thinking, but Nana, the di-yin, saw all things, and frowned at the sign of possible turmoil. One of his apprentices approached. “We are ready.”

  “Set the fires,” said Nana.

  The apprentices lit torches, then pressed them into old beds, wickiups, and baskets, which instantly caught flame, the desert undulating in heat waves and smoke. “It is time to move to the mountains, Pindah soldier,” said Nana. “I will take your reins, and you shall ride alongside me.” The medicine man climbed onto his horse, a brown-and-white spotted stallion, and led Nathanial away from the campsite.

  Nathanial looked at the inferno. “Why'd you burn everything? You might want to come back here someday.”

  “If a bear slept in your wickiup, evil would follow,” replied Nana. “The camp might attract ghosts, and everything bad happening here would affect us, for there are many connections and influences that the White Eyes do not understand.”

  “I want to learn, Nana. Could you teach me?”

  “You want to be a Pindah di-yin? Do you think power is easy to gain or use? Did you know there are warriors who have been offered power, but refused? Once one accepts power, one is dominated by it, and one day it may exact a price you do not wish to pay.”

  As the Apache column headed west toward the M
imbreno Mountains, another caravan was making its way north toward Albuquerque. It was led by Colonel Benjamin Louis Eulalie de Bonneville, who was flanked by aides, guards, the 3rd Infantry flag, the U.S. flag, and the bugler awaiting his every command.

  Not an imposing figure in the saddle, Colonel Bonneville tended to sag, and his sixty-year-old belly, accustomed to the finest cuisine, billowed the front of his blue army uniform and made him look like Humpty Dumpty in the saddle.

  Colonel Bonneville knew his army days were numbered, but dreamed of one last taste of glory, and perhaps the star of a general on his shoulders before he retired. Once he'd been a young American hero, but now suffered aches in his bones, blurred vision, and a failing memory, while beautiful women no longer appeared interested in the aging hero of a past era.

  Colonel Bonneville considered himself a connoisseur of women, and that's why he'd invited the fair Mrs. Barrington to accompany his march, for the sheer pleasure of dining with her and gazing upon that magnificent profile. He'd been raised in France on a diet of l’ amours toujours, but now had become avuncular to women, a role he detested. Although married to the former Ann Callender Lewis, fifteen years his junior, she was far away in Philadelphia.

  Despite Colonel Bonneville's illustrious military career, a scandal marred his record. During the Mexican War he'd fought at Cerro Gordo, Puebla, and Churubusco, was wounded severely in the latter action, but when the war ended, he'd been court-martialed for cowardice in the face of the enemy, due to a baseless charge by a jealous junior officer.

  From Old Bonney Clabber's point of view, he'd been deploying for the next onslaught, but the army was filled with incompetence, and his fine old name had been besmirched. The proceedings finally exonerated him officially, yet the affront remained, and he believed a great military deed might wipe it out for all time.

  Ordinarily a rake and chaser of females when his wife was elsewhere, he'd cut down drastically in all departments, to conserve his strength for the campaign against the Apaches. The bastards committed a serious error when they killed Henry Linn Dodge on my watch, thought Colonel Bonneville. I shall punish them severely for their transgression.