White Apache Page 7

  “Are we going to be honest, or is this party talk?”

  “I am a mother too, and have seen my share of sorrow,” replied Maria Dolores. “I have no time for party talk.”

  “Nathanial said you loved your businesses more than you loved him, but many of his happiest times had been spent with you.”

  A tear came to Maria Dolores's eye, but she impatiently brushed it away. “I would have stayed with him forever if he left the army, but he refused to do so.

  I don't suppose he told you about the Apache woman that he had been with.”

  Clarissa bunked. “What Apache woman?”

  “Some fat old squaw that he became—how shall I say—well, I suppose he was sleeping with her, while he was on temporary duty at the Santa Rita Copper Mines. He never told you about her? Well, I'm not surprised. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but Nathanial was very weak where women were concerned.”

  “He never gave me that impression,” snapped Clarissa.

  “Men cannot be trusted,” declared Maria Dolores, as if it were a law of nature. “Yet I always will have a special love for Nathanial, and my first year of marriage with him was delightful in many ways. It is tragic that he has been killed, but what can a soldier expect? I never have been able to understand love of the military.”

  “It embodied his ideal of duty, honor, and country,” explained Clarissa.

  “Often I felt as if I were his mother.”

  “I never felt like his mother,” insisted the widow.

  “You're so much younger than he. How could you?”

  The waitress placed a mug of coffee before Clarissa, who was tempted to throw its contents into Maria Dolores's face. Several silent seconds passed as the women measured each other. Maria Dolores turned her gaze to the baby, a portion of Nathanial becoming stronger every day. We live through our children, she realized, remembering her own Zachary and Carmen, the legacy of Nathanial. “It is so sad,” she murmured, then shook her head.

  “Let's not be enemies,” said Clarissa, “just because we both have loved Nathanial. He wasn't perfect, but who is? Certainly not I.”

  “Nor I,” admitted Maria Dolores. “I want to hate him, but he died so young, and my children miss him terribly. He was a good father . . . when he was home. What are you doing in Albuquerque?”

  “I'm waiting for the spring, when I'll return to New York.”

  “There are many business opportunities in Albuquerque,” said Maria Dolores. “A railroad is being planned from the East Coast to California, and it will pass through either Santa Fe or Albuquerque. I am buying everything I can in both towns, because I am convinced this territory will boom within the next ten years, but it is difficult to find educated people to help my work. You would not be interested in managing this saloon after I own it, would you?”

  Clarissa was scandalized, because women of her class simply did not manage saloons, but it struck her as an interesting way to pass time. She could play the piano, and the old rules didn't apply on the wild, wild frontier. “Let me think about it.”

  Juh sat next to his fire, holding the bend of a slightly crooked arrow near the hot coals. When the arrow smoked, he placed the shaft in his mouth and bit it into line. As Juh meditated upon the incomprehensibles of war, a group of children raced past him. One mistakenly kicked a clod of snow onto Juh, and at that moment all the war chief's pent-up rage and frustration bubbled to the surface. He leapt, tackled the boy, and brought him down.

  “You have not apologized,” said Juh.

  “What have I done?” asked the boy, who was called Spider.

  “You nearly ran me down, you little imp. I know what you need. We are going to have a fight.” Juh climbed to his feet, then called to other warriors. “These boys have too much energy this morning. Gather around and let us see how great they are.”

  It was an ancient ritual among the People, as the warriors rounded up boys and herded them onto a large clearing about twenty-five yards in diameter at the edge of camp. Meanwhile, Juh walked to Jocita's wickiup, where he pointed at Running Deer. “You too.”

  Jocita maintained her calm, although it was the first fight for her son. She wanted to cry no, but Running Dear needed to be developed like every other Apache male. Juh reached for Running Deer's hand, but the boy broke loose and ran to his mother, eyes brimming with tears.

  “Do not make me ashamed of you,” she said coldly.

  Juh dragged him toward the fighting ground, and Running Deer feared that another boy, who wasn't so gentle, would pulverize him.

  Juh could feel Running Deer's hand trembling in his, so he dropped to one knee. “After you get hit a few times, you won't feeling anything,” he explained. “The only way to win is to go all out and fight like a wildcat. Do not forget that you are son of subchief Juh, and you must not embarrass me, otherwise I shall beat you myself. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy softly.

  By the time they reached the fighting ground, Running Deer was so scared he was ready to kill somebody. His mother sat a short distance away, her face immobile, but a hurricane of emotions inside. She wanted to protect her only son from injury, because sometimes a boy would lose an eye while fighting.

  Meanwhile, Juh dragged Spider and Blue Sparrow into the center of the clearing. “You boys run around and disturb warriors at work. Well, why don't you disturb each other? Go ahead and fight.”

  Juh stepped back as the boys studied each other warily. Chasing was harmless fun, but fighting became serious business.

  “What are you waiting for?” called Juh. “Fight!”

  The boys leapt at each other, wrestled half-heartedly, but then, as is inevitable in fighting, one became hurt, then retaliated against the other. The contest become more heated as the two winged punches, and since they were inexperienced warriors, each was hit many times. Their faces and upper bodies became covered with welts, but they didn't back down in front of the People.

  Meanwhile, Juh and other warriors paired boys, pushed them into the center of the fighting ground, and said, “Go on—fight!”

  The boys would rather hunt, scout, or play war games, but actual physical fighting, with the possibility of being blinded, did not appear desirable on that cold Ghost Face day. They couldn't refuse, or move to the next town, or pretend to be ill.

  The warriors knew of rivalries among the boys and sought to make the most of them. They pushed the warriors-to-be together, and in the midst of the confusion, Juh took Running Deer's hand. “Come and fight He-Who-Eats-Berries.”

  He-Who-Eats-Berries was a small wiry boy about Running Deer's age, and one of his best friends. Juh brought them together with such force that their young craniums crashed against each other, dazing both of them. “Go on!” shouted Juh. “Fight!”

  Running Deer wished he could disappear, but on the other hand, He-Who-Eats-Berries had never been in a fight either. The boys examined each other tentatively, looking for openings in the other's defense. Each knew he was destined to become a warrior, and that warriors were most noble of all. “After this is over, we must remain friends,” said Running Deer, who always tried to make everything nice.

  “I do not need friends!” shouted He-Who-Eats-Berries, who rammed his fist toward Running Deer's nose.

  Running Deer was so surprised by the sudden hostile act, he didn't bother to get out of the way. A tiny fist crunched a small nose, Running Deer went reeling backward, and he had grown a blood mustache.

  Forgotten was friendship along with happy hours hunting rabbits. He-Who-Eats-Berries continued his charge, but Running Deer leapt onto his opponent, catching him in a headlock and driving him to the ground. The boys rolled around in the midst of a giant melee. Friends shouted in joy, pain, victory, and defeat as they pummeled and wrestled each other.

  Jocita smiled inwardly, pleased that her son had not shown himself timid. She gave thanks to the mountain spirits and prayed his soft nature would harden for the trials that lay ahead.

&
nbsp; On the other side of the clearing a wave of love passed from Nathanial to his courageous son, a love that dared not express itself. Blood showed on Running Deer's face, but he was holding his ground, battling like a little tiger. No one will ever push that little one around, cogitated Nathanial, and after years of such training, he'll be experienced in all the tricks, clean and dirty, of hand-to-hand fighting. How could ordinary Mexicans and Americans, who spend their childhoods playing, contend with such warriors?

  Nathanial then recalled that he too had been fighting since an early age, for he'd participated in numerous schoolyard brawls, and been forced to battle rough Irish boys from poor neighborhoods if he wanted to roam New York City's streets freely. He knew about the left hook over an opponent's right jab, the sheer whistling pleasure of an uppercut, and the exaltation when he twisted a bully's arm or bent his neck to the breaking point, and he said, “I quit.”

  What is it about combat that attracts me? he wondered. Is it a desire for justice, or am I a vacuous, lack-luster nonentity who requires imminent death in order to feel alive, or is war the natural function of a man? Approaching footsteps stirred him from contemplation of violence, and he looked up to see Cuchillo Negro heading toward him, a dour expression on the Indian's deeply lined and tanned face.

  “White Eyes,” he said, “I want to speak with you.”

  Cuchillo Negro was a dignified older warrior with a scar on his cheek, a long torso, and short bowlegs, who had grown up with Mangas Coloradas. He sat, took out his pipe, and filled it with tobacco and other vegetative substances gathered throughout the year.

  “White Eyes,” he said as he touched his fist to his chest, “my heart is heavy with confusion over your people, and I wonder if you could answer a question, since you are a White Eyes yourself. Do you know Steck?”

  “Yes, I've met Dr. Steck. He is a good friend of the People, sometimes better than to the White Eyes.”

  Cuchillo Negro listened closely, a necklace of fox teeth around his neck. “Now tell me the truth, Pindah soldier. Nearly two harvests ago Steck said to me, ‘If you, Cuchillo Negro, stop raiding into Mexico, and if you lay down your arms, I will give you and your people everything you need to maintain your lives. I decided to trust him, because bloodshed was becoming too heavy, so I moved myself and my clan to Fort Thorn, and we smoked the pipe with Steck, although he did not puff as strongly as you, I notice. Then we built wickiups and waited for Steck to bring us what he promised. Well, we waited a long time. We became hungry. Finally, Steck arrived with a few bags of corn meal and said that was all he had, because we had taken him by surprise. He looked me in the eye as I am looking at you now and said we should trust him. So we waited more. Some of us became ill. We never had enough to eat. The soldiers at the fort insulted us. Finally Mangas Coloradas brought us back to the People, but the question I want to ask is, why did Steck lie to his brother, Cuchillo Negro?”

  “Evidently, Dr. Steck made a promise he could not keep.”

  “But why did he lie?” asked Cuchillo Negro plaintively.

  “To end war.”

  “It is better to die nobly in battle, than be a liar, no?”

  “Sometimes we do bad things for good reasons,” explained Nathanial, “like you when you kill Mexicans. The only way to stop killing is stop killing.”

  “But bluecoat soldiers kill all the time too!” expostulated Cuchillo Negro. “You are lying to me now, Pindah.”

  “I have killed to defend my people, and so do you.”

  “But this is our land,” countered Cuchillo Negro. “How dare you come here!”

  “Tell that to the Navahos, Pimas, Coyoteros, Papagos, Moquis, and Comanches, all of whom you've fought to win this land. Now the White Eyes are coming, and they are very numerous. The People must adapt, otherwise they shall be defeated.”

  “That is what Steck said, so I surrendered my freedom to him. But he deceived me, and my heart is against the White Eyes.”

  “That may be so, but if a warrior is killed in battle, his wife and children must continue alone.”

  “The White Eyes wants peace, but he does not want to pay the price. Therefore, it will be war forever.”

  “No, not forever,” replied Nathanial. “One day it will end, and after the wounds are healed, we shall live together in peace and respect.”

  “I will not live to see that day, I do not think,” said Cuchillo Negro.

  “Nor I,” added Nathanial.

  At the Golden Spur Saloon Clarissa sat in her office, estimating how much whiskey to order from Maria Dolores's distillery in Santa Fe. Natalie slept in her crib near the desk, while Rosita supervised the cook in the new kitchen.

  At a knock on the door, Clarissa assumed it was one of her employees, so she said without looking up, “Come in.”

  Captain George Covington opened the door. “Do you know how beautiful you are, with your golden hair aureoled by afternoon sunlight? If I was a poet, I'd write an ode to your very lips.” He sat, reached into his back pocket, pulled out a silver flask, and took a swig. “I've been thinking about you, Clarissa. Nathanial has been gone some time, and you're a decidedly attractive woman. Let's get married.”

  “George, apparently you're one of those drunkards who appears sober, until you open your mouth.”

  “If I told you what we've done in my dreams, you'd slap me.”

  “This is most inappropriate. Please stop.”

  “The thought of you sleeping alone is a crime against nature, and one I wish you'd let me solve.”

  “If you continue in this vein, I must ask you to leave.”

  He stood, cocked his head to one side, and grinned. “Dear little Clarissa—she's such a good girl.”

  He sauntered out of the office, and she was tempted to shoot him in the back, but she'd learned that people were released from commonly held notions of proper behavior on the lawless frontier, and the obnoxious quotient could become quite high. Worst of all, it was coarsening her, and sometimes she entertained notions not dissimilar to what George had suggested, though not with him, for he was physically repulsive to her. It's all a matter of honor, she reminded herself. Somehow I must keep myself and my virtue intact, until I marry again.

  High in the Sierra Madre Mountains on the edge of a precipice, Cuchillo Negro stretched out his hand, indicating vast distances, towns, ranches, and a wagon train traveling the Journada del Muertos. "You must understand,” he told Nathanial, “that this land was bequeathed us by the Lifegiver, who led us from lands farther north, where mountains of ice sail to sea. He told us that only a strong people could exist in this land, and that is why he reserved it for us. Then we fought off enemies who tried to steal the land from us, and so we shall continue to do, for only the Lifegiver can take it away.”

  Mangas Coloradas raised his hand, indicating he wished to speak. Everyone turned to the greatest Apache who ever lived, according to many warriors and subchiefs. “Killing cannot be avoided,” declared Mangas Coloradas. “The rabbit eats the strawberry, the wolf eats the rabbit, and the wolf is eaten by buzzards. When has it been different?”

  On the other side of the ledge the warrior known as Chuntz jumped to his feet. “Why do we talk with this Pindah so nicely, as if he is our friend, when bluecoat soldiers have killed my cousin in the Mogollon Mountains, and his blood goes unavenged?”

  Nathanial recalled shooting Apaches that day, never realizing someone might hold a personal grudge and possibly stick a knife into his back someday.

  Juh rose to his feet. “Leave the Pindah alone.”

  Chuntz was shorter than most warriors, with pouting angry lips, a scar on his forehead, and a war hatchet in his belt. “Perhaps he wanted to steal Jocita,” he countered, “and keep her as his slave, but rode in the wrong direction. I say he and Steck are brothers in deceit. When he returns to his people, he will make war on us, except now he knows our secrets, even our language, because we have taught him. How many warriors will die, and how many wives will wail in their wick
iups, because of the tolerance you have shown this filthy Pindah snake?”

  Nathanial opened his mouth to respond, although he had no idea what to say, when Juh held out his hand as if to silence him. Then Juh turned to Chuntz once more. “As I said, this bluecoat warrior is under my protection. You have insulted him enough.”

  “I have told the truth, you mean.”

  “Do not try my patience, Chuntz.”

  It became silent on the ledge, except for wind whistling through the needles of a jack pine. All eyes were on Chuntz, to see if he'd back down before subchief Juh. “If I kill you,” replied Chuntz, touching his hand to his war hatchet, “it would provide no satisfaction, for he is the one who murdered my cousin, not you.”

  Suddenly, Juh moved, and before Chuntz could react, he was thrown to the ground, his throat pinned by Juh's left hand, while Juh's knife hovered above Chuntz's right eye. “You could never kill me, Chuntz. Do not test my patience again.”

  Then Juh was on his feet, sheathing his knife. He turned and walked disdainfully away, showing his back to Chuntz.

  On December 17, 1856, President Franklin Pierce's last annual message to Congress was read not by the great man himself, but a government clerk. Attendance was unusually heavy due to debate on the Toombs Bill, and all hoped the departing Franklin Pierce would be conciliatory, but they had not reckoned on the spite of a rejected sitting president.

  As the clerk read onward, it became clear that Franklin Pierce was delivering a scathing critique of the Republican Party, which he claimed had undermined the government with lies and wild invective leveled against southern institutions. President Pierce argued that the extremism of Republicans had encouraged extremism in the South, and now the nation hung on the brink of civil war.