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  “Follow me, fool,” she replied.

  She trudged into the wilderness, her rags dragging in the snow, and again he suffered doubt, but he desired to achieve prominence, and perhaps the sorceress might show the way. A coyote howled in the distance as he trailed her, and finally, at a safe distance from camp, she stopped behind a snow-covered fern bush, stood on a boulder so she would be eye to eye with Chuntz, and said, “You and I should work together, since we share the same end.”

  “How do you know what I want, gnarled insect?”

  “One need not be a sorceress to know how much you hate Juh and the Pindah. And I have my own purposes.” She winked. “An opportunity lies before us, because Jocita is in love with the Pindah, and soon they will behave as one might expect. Once Juh finds out, that is the end of the Pindah.” Martita drew her forefinger across her throat in a sudden quick motion. “Your cousin will be avenged, and Juh will do your dirty work for you, so keep your eyes on the Pindah, and follow wherever he goes. Meanwhile, I will observe Jocita.”

  Chuntz was confounded. “Is it possible that Jocita would do such a thing?”

  “Have you noticed the light hair on Running Dear's head? This Pindah was at the copper mines, remember?”

  “But the medicine men say light hair is a gift from the mountain spirits.”

  “The medicine men will say anything you pay them to—idiot.”

  Chuntz grabbed her wrinkled neck and squeezed. “Be careful how you speak to a warrior, abominable crone. I ought to kill you.”

  “If you do, I will haunt you.”

  He shrank back, and she smiled triumphantly, knowing her bluff had worked again. “The blood of your cousin must be avenged,” she said from deep in her throat, to spook him further.

  “I shall join you, wart-covered lizard, but just because I watch the Pindah, that does not make me a sorcerer. And you are right—why should I dirty my hands with his blood?”

  “The covenant is made,” she said, “and there is no backing out. Otherwise . . .”

  She slithered off, leaving Chuntz unsettled, as if he'd touched something foul, but then remembered Juh pinning him to the ground, and contempt in the eyes of the other warriors. Juh will learn the meaning of abasement when I catch his wife with the Pindah, thought Chuntz as he continued to the latrine. He shall regret the day he laid his hands upon me.

  In a house of ill fame not far from the St. Nicholas Hotel, Buck opened his eyes. His first sensation was that of a naked woman lying next to him, the nipple of her left breast jutting into his right biceps, legs intertwined. A pleasurable sensation came over him, accompanied by a sense of peace.

  Buck felt deep soul connections with Nathanial whenever he visited a whorehouse, because Nathanial practically had lived in them whenever unmarried in New York City. Religion and philosophy paled as a driving force next to the firm breast of a young woman.

  Her name was Susan, and she was Irish, around his age. Nathanial had stated on many an occasion that gentlemen were obligated to support unfortunate girls, for how else would they survive the cruel city? Nathanial, I need your advice, and why'd you leave me in the lurch? asked Buck silently. He reached for his leather container of cigars.

  “What's wrong?” asked Susan.

  “Can't sleep,” he confessed as he lit up.

  “You might as well get it off your chest,” she replied sleepily in her Irish brogue, a blond wench with a surly face and manner. “Otherwise, you'll never get any rest, and neither will I.”

  “I was thinking about my brother, who died last April,” confessed Buck. “Actually, to tell you the truth, he was murdered.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What have you done?”

  “Not a damned thing, but killing the murderers won't bring my brother back. What is the point of cheap revenge?”

  “ ‘At's why you cannot sleep, I bet.” She rolled over, reached for the box of matches, turned the knob above the bed, and lit the hissing gas jet. Yellow effulgence illuminated her naked body and the Irish freckles upon her pug nose. She'd washed cosmetics off her face before going to sleep and now looked like the rebellious little girl she in fact was. She lit a cigarette, blew smoke out the side of her mouth, and said, “You are afraid, but if you do not kill your brother's murderer, you will never be good for anything.”

  Buck felt embarrassed before the prostitute's withering gaze. He wanted to expound on abstract moralistic suppositions, but in truth there was something painfully unsettling about Nathanial's death, and perhaps it really needed to be washed in Apache blood.

  Naked, she studied him through hooded eyes, holding her cigarette aloft. “Ain't you mad? Don't you wanna do sumpin'? I don't understand fine gentlemen who have everything but no . . . I don't know what it is. If you can't kill, you can't love.”

  “Who have you killed?”

  “None of yer business, but I wasn't scared—I'll tell you that. How can you wear the uniform of a soldier, and be afraid to kill?”

  “Maybe I shouldn't be a soldier.”

  “You shouldn't be a man either, but you are.”

  “Now see here—” he began.

  She interrupted him. “What're you gonter do—git me fired? I feels dirty, ‘cause I slept with a man who let his brother die. I'm gittin’ out of here right now. To hell with you, mister.”

  He'd never seen a prostitute behave in such a manner and realized how odious he must appear to her. “He wasn't such a great brother,” Buck protested. “He was never home.”

  “How do I know you ain't a copper?” she replied. With a haughty glance she stepped into the corridor, then slammed the door in his face.

  Five

  In January, 1857, the citizens of Janos, Chihuahua, were astonished to observe the American army emerging from the desert at the edge of town. Like blue ghosts, their unit flags flying, and wide-brimmed black Jeff Davis hats with right brims pinned up, the long procession was led by Colonel Benjamin Louis Eulalie de Bonneville.

  The soldiers had camped a few miles away, preparing for their grand entrance, and now their uniforms had been patted free of dust, beards combed, brass and leather shining, the troops sitting erectly in their saddles. Many handsome and brave American men rode into Janos that morning, but none attracted more attention than portly Colonel Bonneville himself. Although considered a hulking bag of wind by upstart junior officers, he enjoyed the attention of the crowd, even winking roguishly at a raven-tressed senorita waving from the veranda of an adobe mansion.

  Colonel Bonneville arrived at the presidio, where Mexican officers saluted his tubby form, and the local detachment stood with their rifles at present arms. Colonel Bonneville climbed down from his horse, pulled off his cape in a motion as graceful as a toreador, and handed it to one of his faceless aides, Captain George Covington.

  The Mexican officers led him into the presidio, its walls decorated with shields and armor of the conquistadors. Finally, they arrived at a parlor, where Colonel Bonneville's aides would rest while he conferred with the commanding officer, Colonel Alejandro Jimenez.

  A Mexican aide opened an ornately carved door, and Colonel Bonneville entered a small adobe-walled office, an athletic-appearing Mexican officer in his forties sitting behind a desk, his facial features punctuated by a salt-and-pepper mustache and goatee. The conversation that ensued was in broken Spanish, which Bonneville spoke somewhat better than Jimenez managed English, and its gist went as follows:

  “Welcome,” said Jimenez as he shook Bonneville's hand. “The Apaches are our mutual problem, and when they come down from the mountains in the spring, no one will be safe.”

  “That's about to change,” replied Colonel Bonneville, sitting on a chair upholstered with brown leather. “The red devils have gone too far, by killing one of our Indian agents, Henry Linn Dodge. Did you know him?”

  Jimenez nodded sadly. “A decent man, but he should not have hunted alone.”

  “A man has a
right to hunt alone, but the Apaches don't agree. In my opinion they don't have a right to kill American officials, and as soon as the snow melts, my command will take the field against them. I anticipate that they'll try to escape to your country, but if you were to push northward, perhaps we can catch them between us and inflict a decisive defeat.”

  Jimenez stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I will need to consult my government,” he said at last.

  Old Bonney Clabber leaned forward. “Whatever you do, don't consult your government, my dear colonel, because your politicians will say no, as will mine if I ask for permission, due to the unhappy fact that governments are managed by politicians, while civilians and soldiers are killed by Apaches regularly. I view this is as a purely military decision, and after we subdue that race of murderers, no one will dare criticize us—at least no one who lives in this territory. But if you decide not to join me, I shall proceed alone, to whatever extent is necessary.”

  Jimenez reached for the brandy, because Bonneville had just leveled a not very subtle threat. The gringos would follow Apaches into Mexico, and Jimenez might be obliged to confront Colonel Bonneville in some lonesome valley, army to army. Moreover, Colonel Jimenez doubted his ability to defeat the Americans, for he too was a veteran of the Mexican War, only he had fought on the losing side, wounded in defense of Monterrey.

  “I cannot offer my official cooperation,” he said carefully, “as I'm sure you understand, but perhaps in the spring I too shall take the field, because Apaches have devastated numerous ranches and settlements in this province, and it is time they learned their lesson, no?”

  Bonneville leaned forward and winked. “If all goes according to plan, my dear colonel, it will be the end of Apache marauding in both our countries for all time.”

  ***

  The sun shone on the Black Range as Juh sat in front of his wickiup, trying to figure out peshegar, the rifle he'd stolen from the lone hunter. It incorporated no ramrod, and a peculiar mechanism looked directly into the barrel from the rear. Juh was afraid the peshegar would blow up in his face if he fired it.

  He was tempted to trade it, but peshegar with rifled barrels were more accurate than muskets, and he was anxious to learn its power. He'd consulted with Geronimo, Victorio, and even Mangas Coloradas, but no one had used such peshegar before, and all feared the bullet might shoot backward, killing the warrior firing it.

  There was one last person to ask, but Juh hesitated to confront the Pindah, who might arrange for peshegar to kill Juh, so he could have Jocita. Sometimes Juh thought everyone was laughing behind his back, because they knew Running Deer wasn't his true son. He tried not to contemplate demoralizing subjects, but occasionally they snuck into his heart.

  But new peshegar would provide much meat if he could operate it. He found the Pindah at his wickiup, cleaning a pistol. “I want to ask you a favor,” said Juh. “How does this peshegar work?”

  Nathanial had thought Juh was coming to shoot him with the Sharps rifle, but instead Juh held it out to him, a model so new it had been issued only to special units. On the barrel had been engraved:

  Henry Linn Dodge

  “What does it say?” asked Juh, who assumed the markings were holy symbols.

  “It is the name of the man who made it,” lied Nathanial, “and it's one of the latest models, called a breechloader, because you put the cartridge in here.” He opened the rear of the chamber.

  Juh looked dubiously at the fitting. “It does not look very safe to me. Are you sure it works all right?”

  “I'll show you.”

  Nathanial carried the peshegar over his shoulder, and Juh followed him onto crunchy snow. No tin cans or bottles were available, so Nathanial took out his Apache knife, the same one given him by Mangas Coloradas in ‘51, and carved a circle in the middle of a barrel cactus. While performing this chore, Nathanial wondered how Juh had obtained Henry Linn Dodge's peshegar. Perhaps it was traveling in a crate on the Journado del Muertos, and the Apaches attacked the wagon train. “Give me a cartridge, please.”

  Juh reached into the leather pouch that he'd stolen from Dodge and withdrew lead and powder wrapped in paper. He handed it to Nathanial, who thumbed it into the chamber, snapped the mechanism closed, then paced away from the target.

  At a distance of about one hundred yards Nathanial dropped to one knee, thumbed back the hammer, aimed carefully, and squeezed the trigger. The cartridge exploded, the gun barrel lifted into the air, and a dark dot appeared near the center of the circle.

  Juh had studied how the Pindah loaded the new peshegar. He accepted the weapon, loaded it, thumbed back the hammer, took aim, but wondered if peshegar had been arranged by the Pindah to kill him for the sake of Jocita. A terrible foreboding came over Juh as he lowered the peshegar. "It does not feel right in my hands,” he said, handing it to Nathanial. “For you.”

  ***

  One evening in Albuquerque Captain George Covington received word that Colonel Bonneville wanted to see him. George assumed it was another errand as he approached the colonel's office where the great man sat behind his desk, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses atop it. The colonel never had drunk with the captain before, although George had smelled liquor on Old Bonney Clabber's breath several times. “Relax and have a seat, George,” said the colonel. “I want to discuss a personal matter.”

  George noted that the colonel had called him by his first name, and never had done so before. Then the colonel poured two glasses of whiskey and said, “To the spring campaign.”

  They drank as if in a private club, which in a sense the officers’ corps was, although drinking on duty was officially prohibited. “Do you ever get lonely, Captain Covington?” asked Colonel Bonneville.

  “Yes sir, I do.”

  “How do you manage the woman shortage?”

  Captain Covington shrugged, like the scoundrel of the world that he was. “There are always women, sir . . .” He let his voice hang on the air, and both knew he was referring to the world's oldest profession.

  Colonel Bonneville held out a box of cigars. “It's very difficult for a man in my position to meet women.”

  George accepted a cigar, then a match, which he scratched on the floor. He knew the colonel was married, but inconvenient facts frequently were overlooked by soldiers far from home. “I'm certain there are ladies in Albuquerque who'd be delighted to meet you. But you know how shy ladies can be, sir.”

  “It's part of what makes them so charming, wouldn't you say?”

  “If the little darlings knew you were lonely, I'm certain they'd rush to comfort you.”

  “You seem a man who'd know about such things, George.”

  After the interview George headed toward the whorehouse district, to perform his duty as an officer and a gentleman. The bronze leaf of a major often goes not to the great commander, he thought dourly, but to the fellow who does the dirty work. Now I'm a procurer of whores, but it's better than getting drummed out of the army.

  A tall, lanky figure, shoulders back, stomach in, Captain George Covington was no rich man's son, like many officer friends. Each year several West Point appointments had been reserved for the sons of ordinary workmen, shopkeepers, mechanics, and the like, and his father had been a highly respected Atlanta tailor, but a tailor nonetheless.

  George hadn't wanted to sew buttons onto coats for the rest of his life, or alter the lengths of seams. Education was the path to success, he had believed, and West Point offered education free of charge. So he'd submitted to the discipline, and now had become an officer and a gentleman, but sometimes he wondered if he might be better off as a humble tailor, because at least he wouldn't have to worry about Indians shooting him.

  “Unless my eyes deceive me,” declared a nearby voice, “I have the distinct misfortune to behold a knave known to the world as George Covington!”

  Covington turned toward a ruddy-faced thickly built officer with curly black side-whiskers. “I thought they threw all the drunkards out of the
army in ‘54!” he replied.

  “Evidently, they overlooked George Covington, worst drunkard of them all.”

  “And Beauregard Hargreaves, who passed out cold many times at Benny Haven's.”

  The former West Point classmates embraced in the middle of the parade ground. “I saw your name on one of the lists,” said George, “and I thought, my God, is he still in the army?"

  They looked into each other's eyes, estimating years. “Last thing I heard, you were in the Second Cavalry,” said Beau. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was court-martialed, as a matter of fact. Seems a trooper punched me in the nose, so I shot him, the court-martial acquitted me, and then they transferred me here. Now I'm one of Old Bonney Clabber's aides, on an important mission for him even as we speak. Why don't you accompany me?” Before Beau could protest, George placed his arm around his old chum's shoulders and maneuvered him toward town. “Someone told me you'd got married.”

  “Yes, to a wonderful girl,” replied Beau. “She's back at Fort Union, while I've been transferred here for the spring campaign. When it's over, you must come and meet her.”

  “Wives never like me,” demurred George. “They're afraid their husbands will leave them for the merry bachelor life, except it's boring and lonely, as you well know.”

  “Then why haven't you married?”

  “The way I see it, there are two ways to get along in marriage. You either become your wife's unofficial slave, or murder her.”

  “I'm pleased to note you haven't lost any cynicism.”

  “Not only haven't I lost any—I've gained additional perspectives. Recent history has convinced me that the world is even more venal and wicked than I'd imagined. And speaking of venality and wickedness, how's Fort Union?”

  “Everybody's worried about the political situation. The Supreme Court's supposed to make an important ruling about slavery—have you heard about it?”