White Apache Page 6

  “I can find it myself,” Steck replied. “But you haven't heard the last of this.”

  With his chin held high Dr. Steck proceeded toward the door, then an officer closed it behind him. There was silence for several seconds as Colonel Bonneville felt all eyes upon him. “We must not think ill of Dr. Steck,” he began. “He honestly believes that Christian love can conquer the Apaches, and if they killed his friend and colleague, Henry Linn Dodge, that's just another inconvenient fact to be reasoned through, because ideas are more important to Steck than human lives. We are supposed to turn the other cheek, and let the Apaches kill us all, according to Steck. He exemplifies a trend of thinking current in this country, a trend that exalts abstract moral principles above common sense. But I don't mean to make a political speech. We were talking about splitting our forces in enemy territory. Please proceed with your commentary, Captain Ewell.”

  Old Bald Head sat straighter in his chair. “Experience has shown that when we locate Apache camps, they can be defeated quite easily. In the springtime, gentlemen, I think we can safely expect to finish off the Mimbrenos for all time.”

  One cold morning Nathanial huddled at the edge of a fire, his deerskin robe clutched around him, as he sipped a warm coffeelike beverage from a clay cup and observed his hosts breakfasting upon nuts and roots. They paid no taxes, received no mail, and owned no stationary homes. Sometimes Nathanial caught himself wishing he were an Apache, with their free-roving existence.

  After breakfast Nana arrived. “I want to show you something,” he said.

  With the aid of his cane Nathanial followed Nana. They joined warriors and boys headed toward a stream that ran through a ravine near their camp. Upon arrival, the men proceeded to disrobe. Ice had formed over still pools of water, and Nathanial's breath made clouds. On a cold winter morn it appeared the warriors were taking a swim.

  When naked, the men advanced unflinchingly into the water, as if it were summer on the Hudson. Juh was first to dive beneath the surface, and Nathanial shivered at the mere thought of ice-cold water. The other warriors followed Juh, splashing and frolicking, and Nathanial stared at them in amazement. Perhaps their bodies are tougher than ours, but how can that be?

  Nana stood among them, ice water streaming past his belly. “Come on, boys,” he said. “Don't be afraid.”

  The youths who'd accompanied the warriors removed their clothes, and Nathanial spotted his half-breed son among them. They tried to be bold as they stepped into the water, and Nathanial was certain the cold would make them ill, but they were Apaches, bred from birth in hardship and danger.

  The boys didn't dare show cowardice or fear before their fathers, uncles, and grandfathers. Their teeth chattered, but they smiled staunchly, then lowered their heads, dropping out of sight beneath frigid currents. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, Nathanial lectured himself, but there are limits to human endurance, and this is New Mexico Territory, not Italy.

  Nana beckoned to Nathanial. “You will heal much faster if you join us, White Eyes.”

  Nathanial laughed sardonically. “I think my heart would stop if I dived into that water. We Americans generally don't go swimming in the winter.”

  Juh spat at the rushing waters. “That is why White Eyes are weak.”

  It felt like a slap in the face, not just to Nathanial, but to all white Americans as well. “We're not that weak,” he declared before he could stop himself. “I guess I'll have to join the fun.”

  Oh God—no, thought Nathanial as he rose shakily to his feet. Why'd I say that? He spotted his son swimming like an otter and laughing with the other children. Nathanial gazed apprehensively at a fringe of ice on a network of branches at the shoreline.

  In turn, the Apaches watched him skeptically, but his values had been formed at West Point, and he simply could not, under any circumstances, show fear, even if it meant freezing to death. He took off his fur robe as a gust of December wind cut into him. If they can do it, so can I, he tried to convince himself. Am I a man or a mouse? He wanted to squeak and crawl into a hole, but instead removed his shirt, exposing his pectoral muscles and flat, corded stomach, not to mention the big rose-colored scar on his back.

  His flesh trembled as he pulled off his boots, and he noticed his fingers turning blue as he pushed down his regulation officers’ trousers. Mountain wind pierced his naked flesh, but all he could do was stagger toward the water's edge, hoping to give a good account of himself. The warrior known as Chatto laughed as Nathanial poked his toe into the water. It appeared the Pindah would faint from the shock.

  “The best way,” said Nana, “is dive in.”

  Nathanial placed one foot into the water, where-upon it immediately became numb. He added his other foot and felt as if he had become a block of ice. He tried to smile as he took another step. If he happened upon a broken bottle, he wouldn't even feel it. He was so cold he could barely move.

  Juh couldn't help laughing. “Perhaps my guest should be the clown in the next victory dance.”

  Nathanial didn't like insults, no matter how jovially they were presented. There was no way out, and all he could do was take Nana's advice. Clenching his jaw, he lurched forward a few steps, then extended his arms and dived.

  His first sensation was that he had been struck by a cannonball or kicked by a horse. His head dropped beneath the surface, he screamed in pain underwater, coughed, raised his head, and thought he surely would die, for no human being could tolerate the overwhelming sensation of becoming an iceberg. Somehow he found his footing, gasped, and tried to focus as tiny icicles formed around his eyelashes.

  Juh held out an arm to steady him. “Invigorating, no?” he asked, then burst into laughter.

  The other Apaches joined in, and Nathanial realized he had become entertainment. To prove he was a serious soldier, he spun about and dived in again.

  This time it wasn't quite so paralyzing, and he remembered not to empty his lungs. One doesn't feel anything when frozen, an unexpected advantage of winter swimming, and again, he found his feet. “It is very invigorating,” he said. “I ought to do this more often.”

  It was as Nana had said; he possessed more energy than he'd thought. He breathed deeply, all was silent for several seconds, then the warriors cheered. He guffawed as they raised him into the air, then tossed him into the water. His head bobbed beneath the surface, then he rolled onto his back, kicking his feet. Nana grinned when the Pindah rose shakily to his feet.

  “Now I know that you are a real warrior,” said Nana. “Perhaps the White Eyes are not so weak as we thought, eh Juh?”

  Juh never imagined his rival accepting the wintry challenge. He sloshed forward and placed his hand upon Nathanial's shoulder. “You are a brave man, Pindah soldier. From this day onward you are my brother.”

  The warriors shouted their approval, as subchief Juh and the Pindah war chief shook hands in the season of Ghost Face, high in the Black Range.

  Clarissa spent the Yuletide in Albuquerque, where she had rented a home near the banks of the Rio Grande, a short distance from the army post. Often she, Rosita, and Natalie took walks along paths illuminated by paper lanterns, hearing choirs singing Christmas carols. Clarissa carried Natalie in a leather harness she'd bought from a Navaho, the baby cooing with pleasure during the evening peregrinations.

  Clarissa couldn't help recalling New York during Christmas, with Broadway shops crowded with customers, and choirs singing old English and German carols at curbside, unlike the Spanish ones in Albuquerque, where women danced gracefully in the middle of the street, and Mexicans with wide brimmed vaquero hats strummed guitars.

  Clarissa loved Mexican food from sidewalk stalls and hoped the meat was beef or pork, not cat or dog. Recovering from the death of her husband, she looked forward to departing for the East in the spring.

  Rosita placed her hand on Clarissa's shoulder. “You should not go down that street, senora. That is where the bad men get drunk.”

  Saloons and cantinas were lin
ed on either side, not much different from Burro Alley in Santa Fe, another sinkhole of wickedness, but Clarissa was curious about vice, and perhaps that's why she'd married Nathanial Barrington, who had seemed to reek of it at times. Her husband had come to such haunts and often would return home mildly inebriated. Then she heard the faint tinkle of a piano, and her decision was made.

  “You don't need to come if you're afraid,” she said to Rosita, “but it looks harmless enough.”

  Rosita crossed herself as Clarissa blithely carried her child onto one of the most notorious thorough-fares on the frontier. But perhaps God protects mothers and infants, for no one bothered her as she approached the first cantina, a low adobe hut with no sign in front, and men in various stages of intoxication standing on the sidewalk, courteously making way for three females.

  Clarissa felt at home among soldiers, since she'd lived among them at Fort Craig. She searched their faces, hoping to see one she knew, but Albuquerque was another command. The piano music came from a large saloon on the far side of the street, but the instrument was badly out of tune. Clarissa looked both ways, then crossed over, mud and ice frozen solid beneath her feet.

  A sign—GOLDEN SPUR SALOON—hung above the front door. The pianist was playing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” but it sounded awful to Clarissa's finely adjusted ears. She considered the neglect of a piano a sin against music and art.

  Soldiers passed on the sidewalk, careful not to bump into the madonna, child, and frightened Mexican maid. Some unsteady, others with bloodshot eyes, they sought solace in that little corner of hell. “Rosita, could you run home and fetch my piano tuning tools?”

  Rosita's eyes widened. “Surely you are not thinking about going into that place, senora!”

  “If you don't bring me the instruments, I shall bring them myself.”

  “And you are taking your daughter in there?”

  “I'm sure it's not as bad as you suppose.”

  Rosita wanted to disagree, but had learned that her mistress could be quite stubborn, especially when wrong. With a sigh Rosita headed for their home, leaving Clarissa and Natalie in front of the saloon.

  “You want to sit down, ma'am?” asked a man sprawled on a bench.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Is yer husband in thar?”

  “I wish he were,” replied Clarissa.

  “What the hell're you doin, hyar, if'n you don't mind me askin'?”

  “Can't you hear the piano out of tune?”

  “I think it sounds better that way.”

  “One must maintain standards,” declared Clarissa, “even in Albuquerque.”

  Natalie glanced about impulsively as her mother headed for the front door. A bullwhacker staggered out of her way, then Clarissa swept into the saloon. The stench of whiskey, tobacco, unwashed bodies, food, and other items she didn't care to name, nearly knocked her off her feet. A hall full of slovenly soldiers, dust-covered freighters, drifters, gamblers, prostitutes, businessmen, and probably even a murderer or two, it featured a bar to the left and a painting of a naked woman reclining blissfully above the row of bottles. A mangy dog poked his head out from beneath a table and looked at her curiously, as if to say, “Lady, you don't belong here.”

  Clarissa was disturbed by the sight of prostitutes young and old, covered with garish cosmetics and skimpy clothing, bashful at the sight of a respectable lady with child. Now Clarissa understood why her husband had frequented such establishments, because the Golden Spur Saloon was a circus show, as well as a place where a person could have free-wheeling discussions, or scream at the top of his lungs if need be. No, it definitely wasn't a private New York club, where silence and reason reigned, but the Golden Spur had a certain vitality, or perhaps it was perversity that attracted the straitlaced ex-debutante.

  Suddenly, a figure loomed beside her, nearly knocked her over, but it was only George Covington, classmate of her late husband. “Are you lost, Mrs. Barrington?”

  “I know exactly where I am, George, and I don't appear in danger, or am I wrong?”

  “If you don't mind my saying so, this is no place for a lady, never mind a baby. What are you doing?”

  “Can't you hear that piano out of tune?”

  He thought for a few moments. “No, I guess I got used to it that way.”

  “You probably wouldn't know the difference, but really, it's so easy to tune a piano. Why tolerate second best?”

  Clarissa walked forthrightly toward the pianist, who wore a stovepipe hat and red-and-white striped shirt, while little Natalie rode the Navaho harness on her mother's back, reveling in sights, colors, and smells. She let out a squeal of joy, which to her surprise had an powerful effect on everyone. The pianist stopped playing, and everyone turned to the strange blond lady and child followed by a captain in the U.S. army.

  Clarissa was accustomed to male attention, and it didn't intimidate her in the least. She came to a stop in front of the piano and said, “I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but this piano is out of tune. Don't you know how to tune it?”

  “Hell—I can barely play it, never mind tune it.”

  “My tools will be here directly, and I'll take care of it.”

  The pianist, a voluble man under ordinary circumstances, was at a loss for words. Clarissa handed Natalie to George, then sat at the piano and touched one key after the other, as everyone stared. Many frontier denizens walked through the doors that day, but nothing as odd as the former Clarissa Rowland of Gramercy Park, attired in her black leather coat from A.T. Stewart's on Broadway.

  Rosita arrived apprehensively, carrying Clarissa's satchel full of piano-tuning tools. Clarissa proceeded to pry open the front of the piano, exposing the strings. Then she went to work adjusting each one.

  No one had ever seen a piano tuned before, and even Natalie watched with interest. Her mother had become the center of attention, as if she were an important person.

  The saloon door opened, and in strutted a bull-whacker who'd just hit town from Santa Fe, beard covered with alkali, smelling to high heaven. “What the hell's goin’ on hyar!” he demanded.

  A private in the First Dragoons turned around, finger over his mouth. “Sssshhh. She's tunin’ the piano.”

  “What the hell do I care! Let's liven this damned place up.” He whipped out his Colt Dragoon and fired a wild shot at the ceiling, just to get things going.

  Clarissa jumped six inches, and at first thought someone had shot her. A man who looked like an ape stood in the doorway, a smoking gun in his hand, while another in apron and cowboy hat stalked toward him. “No shootin’ on the premises,” he said. “You'll have to hand over yer gun or get out.”

  “What if'n I don't do neither?” asked the bull-whacker. “Or better yet, what if I blow yer damn fool head off, just fer the hell of it?”

  Before the bartender could answer, a chair came zooming out of nowhere and crashed onto the bull-whacker's skull. Without a whimper the bullwhacker went crashing to the floor, revealing another bartender wearing an apron. One bartender took the bull-whacker's arms, the other his feet, and together they carried him out the door.

  Clarissa had never witnessed such a spectacle in her life, and Natalie wasn't exactly sure what she'd observed, but George said, “Clarissa, I'd rest easier if you'd leave.”

  “I'll leave when I'm finished with the piano—it won't be much longer. But if you're afraid, just sit my daughter on the—”

  “No—no,” interrupted George. “I'll take care of the baby.”

  He sat on the chair, holding Natalie on his lap. Examining the child's profile, he could see a mixture of Clarissa and his old friend Nathanial. It felt strange to hold the flesh of Nathanial's flesh, forcing awareness of time's passage, plus the probability of a soldier's miserable death.

  Finally, Clarissa said, “Done.” She sat at the piano, adjusted her skirts, and placed her fingers daintily upon the keys. Then she launched into her own version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” even singing a fe
w verses out of simple Yuletide exuberance. It wasn't long before others joined in, and since they were having fun, she continued with “Good King Wenceslaus,” followed by “Away in a Manger” and “Silent Night.” In the midst of “We Three Kings,” she heard a commotion behind her. She stopped playing, turned, and saw an American man and Mexican woman headed toward her through the crowd.

  “Who're you?” asked the man, an expression of bafflement upon his face.

  “I might ask the same question of you,” she replied.

  “I own this establishment, lady. What the hell do you think you're doing?”

  “I was passing by and heard your piano out of tune. So I fixed it.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Oh, you don't have to pay me anything. Let's just say it's your Christmas present.”

  The man appeared surprised. “My name's Cleary, but I don't believe I got yours.”

  “I'm Clarissa Barrington, this is my daughter, Natalie, and my maid, Rosita Gaspar.”

  The Mexican woman who'd accompanied Cleary appeared taken aback by Clarissa's name.

  For the first time Clarissa turned to the large-busted, well-dressed woman with penetrating brown eyes and dark exotic features.

  “Are you the widow of Nathanial Barrington by any chance?” asked the Mexican woman.

  “Yes—how do you know?”

  “I was his first wife.”

  Both women stared at each other, as the saloon seemed to disappear. Cleary didn't know whether to make introductions or run for his life, and George was ready to fall to the floor with the child in his arms, to protect her from flying debris. But the women didn't throw punches or fire bullets, as they examined each other inch by inch, making numerous subtle distinctions and observations.

  “I suppose we have a lot to talk about,” said Clarissa. “My home is nearby, if you'd like to take tea with me.”

  “Why don't we talk right here? I am buying the place, and they make a good cup of coffee.”

  The pianist returned to his instrument and continued to play “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” badly, which apparently was the only Christmas Carol he knew. Clarissa held Natalie in her arms and followed the Mexican woman to a table against the far wall, beneath a moth-eaten Navaho blanket. A waitress took their order, and after she departed, Maria Dolores Barrington introduced herself. “I cannot help wondering what Nathanial told you about me?”