GOREY-BEAKED BUZZARDS leapt into the air as U.S. Dragoons approached the burned-out hacienda. Colonel Bonneville scowled, the scent of rotting flesh rising to his nostrils. If this is how Apaches behave, they don’t deserve this land, he thought.
He climbed down from his horse, issued orders for the burial party, and called a meeting of his staff. “We’re going after them,” he said, then sat in the shade of a saltbush, writing in his notebook as the word was passed along, the sound of shoveling echoing across the desert plain. Old Bonney Clabber figured the Apaches probably were slowed by their illicit gains, while his detachment traveled relatively light. If we deliver a decisive blow, it might stop all depredations in this territory, he decided.
“Somebody is coming!” shouted the Yaqui scout called Old Ham. He pointed toward the horizon.
Is it Apaches? Colonel Bonneville asked himself as he squinted at an ominous dark mass on the horizon. Have they caught us in a snare? “Major Hargreaves?”
“Sir?” Beau stepped forward, then awaited his commanding officer’s pleasure.
“Please establish our defense.”
Beau shouted orders, then one group of soldiers spread across the ruined hacienda grounds while a smaller bunch remained with the horses. They were seasoned soldiers and no one had to tell them to utilize natural cover, or cock the hammers of their rifled muskets.
Colonel Bonneville stood behind them as the flag of the 1st Dragoons was driven into the ground beside him. Raising his spyglass, he peered at the oncoming force, but his eyes had become weak with age, and nothing clear could be seen. So he held the spyglass to Major Hargreaves. “Who are they?”
Beau focused carefully on a green, white, and red flag. “Mexicans,” he reported.
Soldiers did not relax, because they were in Mexico illegally, and war between America and Mexico had ended only ten years ago, bitter feelings remaining on both sides. Although both armies cooperated occasionally against their common foe, that didn’t mean they’d stopped hating each other.
Mexican soldiers drew closer, tan uniforms could be seen, with matching visored caps. In the lead rode a tall-necked officer sporting a thick black mustache, a sword at his waist and sunlight flashing off his eyeglasses. The Mexicans advanced in two columns, no weapons in their hands, so Beau hollered, “Hold your fire!”
The Mexican cavalrymen rode onto the grounds of the demolished hacienda, orders were shouted in Spanish, and their officer climbed down from his saddle. He took a long look around the hacienda as Old Bonney Clabber nodded to Beau.
Beau spoke fluent Spanish, so he marched toward the officer, noting the captain’s insignia on his shoulders, which meant that he, Beau, was the ranking man, although on the Mexican side of the border. He introduced himself with a smile while watching the Mexican officer’s hands.
The Mexican officer drew himself to attention, saluted the superior rank, and spoke in perfect British-accented English. “I am Captain Armendariz, sir. What are you doing here?”
“Following Apaches, but where’d you learn to speak English so well?”
“Not all Mexicans are ignorant peasants,” replied captain Armendariz reproachfully. “I lived in England for three years and attended Oxford College.” He evaluated the number of Americans before him, a powerful modern army. “We should combine and pursue the Apaches,” he suggested.
“I’m sure Colonel Bonneville will agree.”
It was night in the Apache camp, and the warriors sat around fires, eating roast mule meat, their favorite delicacy. Constanza refused to join them, and instead sat a short distance away, loathing them. They are fiends, she told herself. But I am not afraid, for the Lord is with me.
She perched on her knees, lips barely moving as she recited the rosary. Occasionally an Apache would look at her and laugh, because she appeared exceedingly strange, as if she had lost her mind. But Apaches revered the insane, believing them capable of visions. Finally Victorio arose from his fire and headed in her direction. “What is your name?” he said in guttural Spanish as he sat beside her.
She told him, fearing he was going to force himself upon her. “Tell me,” he said. “Has a small boy of your family ever been captured by Apaches?”
“It has happened to every family in Sonora,” she said coldly. “You may enslave me, and you may even kill me, but I will never surrender to you.”
Victorio noticed the peculiar bend of her nose, so similar to his, and the shape of her upper lip, also like his. It was as though she were a feminine version of himself, and neither did she snivel before him, but held her head defiantly in a camp full of armed enemies. “You are my possession,” he told her. “You will work for food like every other woman. Do not make trouble, and perhaps I shall let you go. If you want to escape, watch out for bears and wildcats.”
He strolled away, and she stared at his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and dignified carriage. Why does he look at me that way? she wondered. Why didn’t he killed me long ago?
Victorio next visited Mangas Coloradas, who was sitting beside his fire, staring fixedly into the embers. “I would like to speak with you alone,” said Victorio softly.
Mangas Coloradas thought several moments, then arose. Together they headed for the wilderness, and the warriors noted their passing, wondering what important matter consumed them. The old chief and his designated heir stopped beneath a birch leaf buckthorn tree, sat cross-legged, and Mangas Coloradas said, “What is troubling you, gallant Victorio?”
“I come to you only because my parents are gone to the spirit world, and you must say the truth no matter where it leads. I have been wondering if …” Victorio could not put it into words, it was so awful to contemplate. “If I am really a … Nakai-yes.”
“I have heard the same rumor about myself,” replied Mangas Coloradas, “and many other warriors. I have no knowledge that you were a Nakai-yes, and besides, no matter where you came from, you have lived among us so long, you are Victorio.”
“I should not have taken that Mexicano woman captive.”
“It is true she resembles you somewhat, but now you doubt yourself. I will have Elena speak with her.”
Elena was a Mexican captive who had become one of Mangas Coloradas’s wives, fully accepting the holy Lifeway. The leaders continued to discuss the captive when shouts of warning erupted around the camp.
Immediately, warriors prepared for war, then someone called, “It is Chatto!”
Chatto was the scout watching their backtrail, and he rode into camp at full gallop, his horse kicking clods of dirt behind him. Pulling back reins, Chatto stopped the horse, jumped from the saddle, and said, “We are being pursued by Nakai-yes and Pindah-Lickoyee armies!”
“How far are they?” asked Chief Mangas Coloradas.
“Two days.”
“How many?”
“Nearly three hundred.”
Mangas Coloradas turned to the others. “We can leave our booty behind and flee this place. Or we can fight.”
Although they outnumbered their enemies, the Nakai-yes and Pindah-Lickoyee possessed the best weapons. Then Cochise spoke. “I recommend an ambush.”
“I agree,” declared Mangas Coloradas.
The other warriors murmured their approval, for they hated the Nakai-yes and Pindah-Lickoyee, while admiring an audacious leader like Cochise. “The Mountain Spirits have delivered our enemies into our hands,” he said.
The Mexican and American detachments were preceded by a company of scouts and spies led by Major Beauregard Hargreaves. One midafternoon the Pima scout called Old Sam said, “There they are.”
He pointed, and Beau squinted at the horizon, but didn’t have the eyes of an Indian. “How many?”
“About a dozen.”
It was the Apache rear guard, and they’d doubtless seen their pursuers. Beau rode back to the main column, aware he was under Apache observation, the savages apparently maneuvering just ahead. Finally he approached the front of the column and reported to Colonel Bonneville, who was riding alongside Captain Armendariz.
“They’re straight ahead, sir,” said Beau.
“We shall attack at once,” replied Captain Armendariz, who turned toward his bugler.
“Not so fast,” said Colonel Bonneville. “Could be a trap.”
“If so,” replied the young lieutenant eagerly, “the Apaches will be caught themselves.”
“I do not advise such an action,” insisted Colonel Bonneville.
Captain Armendariz suspected that Colonel Bonneville’s best days were past, but asked, “What do you recommend, sir?”
Colonel Bonneville turned to Beau. “How do you see it, Major Hargreaves?”
“I think we should advance slowly in skirmish lines, avoiding narrow canyons, cul-de-sacs, and other confining areas.”
Colonel Bonneville glanced at the Mexican officer. “This is a rare opportunity to learn the niceties of your profession, Captain Armendariz. Let us deploy for battle.”
Cochise scowled as he lay on a ridge, observing enemies spreading out in long ranks. They are not riding headlong into my snare, he realized, but he had many more tricks up his sleeve. Like a puma, he crawled off the ledge and down the side of the mountain, taking advantage of shrubs and trees for concealment. In a gully, Mangas Coloradas and Victorio waited with sub-chiefs and senior warriors.
Cochise picked up a branch and drew a straight line across the ground. “They are advancing like this,” he said. “They are not fooled by our bait, but are fewer than we, and we shall attack at night, while they are asleep.”
The People ordinarily didn’t fight after dark because the Mountain Spirits could not see their heroism, but there were exceptions to every rule, especially when fast-firing pistols were needed. Cochise turned to Mangas Coloradas to receive his wisdom.
But Mangas Coloradas had learned to rely upon Victorio, to whom he turned. “What do you say?”
“Cochise has spoken wisely,” said Victorio. “His plan provides many advantages. Tonight, while they are snoring in their beds, our enemies shall die.”
The combined Mexican and American detachments found tracks of unshod Apache war ponies, but that was all. As darkness fell, they halted on flat ground, with boulders and thickets for protection. Soldiers stretched legs and arms, prepared supper, and scouts tried to figure where the Apaches had gone.
The Mexican and American soldiers dined with weapons close at hand, half the camp officially on guard at any given time. Old Bonney Clabber wasn’t taking chances, but young Captain Armendariz considered him excessively cautious.
“We let an opportunity elude us,” complained the Mexican officer as he sat at Colonel Bonneville’s campaign table, dining upon bacon and beans.
“Exactly how much experience have you had fighting Indians?” replied Colonel Bonneville.
“I’ve only recently returned from England.”
“This isn’t war according to Wellington. You must understand that ambushes are the Apaches’ favorite trick.”
“If we show undue caution, the Apaches will have contempt for us.”
“It is better to be an object of contempt than dead,” advised Colonel Bonneville.
The People deployed for their night attack, but continually ran into bluecoat patrols, and had to fall back. The disturbing news was relayed to Cochise, who sat with Mangas Coloradas and Victorio in a cave overlooking the battleground.
“We must cancel our attack,” said Cochise dejectedly.
“Perhaps we can try again while they are on the march,” replied Mangas Coloradas. “We should not fail to deal a heavy blow.”
“But the blow may fall upon us,” said Cochise, “and we cannot afford another Janos.”
Mangas Coloradas had led that attack, a severe military setback for the People. The old chief bowed his head. “What do you recommend?”
“These bluecoats are not the usual sleepy ones, but there is something they have forgotten. Their patrols consist of few men, and rove a fair distance.”
Mangas Coloradas smiled as Cochise’s strategy dawned upon him. “You mean to fight the old way.”
“The days of heroic charges are over,” replied Cochise. “It is time to be intelligent with the Pindah-Lickoyee and Nakai-yes.”
Not many soldiers slept that night, knowing Apaches were in the vicinity. At two in the morning, Beau rolled out of his cot, placed his feet on the floor, and wished he had a good stiff shot of whiskey, because tension rattled his nerves. He went outside, intending to check the guards, but found a detachment of Mexican cavalrymen at the corral, saddling horses and preparing for a jaunt in the countryside, to be commanded by Captain Armendariz. “It’s all quite futile,” said the Mexican officer as Beau approached. “The Apaches probably are north of the Rio Grande by now. We’ve scared them, but failed to inflict damage.”
“I might as well ride with you, because I can’t sleep.”
“Good, because I need someone with whom to practice English. I haven’t spoken it for so long.”
Beau told an orderly to saddle his horse, and while waiting, stared at the half moon. It was difficult to imagine Nathanial living with Apaches, sharing their food, women, and religion, probably killing a few white folks along the way. When Beau’s horse was ready, he climbed into the saddle and prodded the animal until abreast of Captain Armendariz.
“Let’s move out,” said the Mexican officer to his sergeant.
The order was passed along, and the detachment advanced in a single column, headed toward the open land, knowing Apaches were reported in the vicinity. And every soldier wondered, Will this be the night?
Mexican and American soldiers scouted the valley while Colonel Bonneville, attired in his uniform, lay on his cot, with boots on and pistol in hand. It wasn’t the most comfortable rest, but he’d slept on so many cots, hospital beds, and the ground itself, it didn’t much matter.
In the darkness, he wondered what old Tom Paine would say about the Apache Wars. Why is the freedom of American citizens more important than freedom of Indians? he asked himself. Don’t Indians have basic human rights too?
And then he answered himself: Not if they insist on killing innocent people.
Geronimo lay beneath a hop sage bush, observing the advance of Americano and Mexicano soldiers. He carried the pistol given him by Sunny Bear, while other warriors readied their arrows. Nearby, Juh was in charge of the ambush.
The progress of the soldiers had been carefully plotted, the warriors shifting swiftly and silently. Now the soldiers approached on a narrow path lined by hedges of sturdy paddle cactus. It’s perfect, thought Geronimo with satisfaction as he waited for Juh to provide the attack order?
Captain Armendariz was pleased for the opportunity to converse about his favorite subject, William Shakespeare. “In my opinion, his best play was Richard the Third,” he declared to Beau. “Where in art or life can be found such a charming and complex villain? Can you imagine assassinating a political rival, then seducing his wife? Only a brilliant imagination could conceive such an uncompromising fiend. What’s your favorite Shakespearean play, Major Hargreaves?”
“Hamlet,” replied Beau, scanning the darkness. The entire Apache nation could be preparing to pounce, and he wondered about the advisability of small squads scouting far from camp, but Colonel Bonneville needed information, and there were no simple alternatives in war, as with Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.
“Hamlet always has exasperated me,” mused the Mexican captain. “A man should take action to solve his problems, not worry endlessly.”
“But how can a man accuse his mother and stepfather of murdering his father, on the basis of allegations by ghosts?” asked Beau. “I find it odd that you, a Mexican, has such an affection for Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare speaks to all men everywhere, not just the English, and we have nothing quite like him in Spanish literature, although Don Quixote is a towering achievement. Have you ever read it?”
“Isn’t it about an old knight falling in love with a young prostitute?”
“That is only a superficial aspect of the plot. It is really about idealism gone awry, and—”
A volley of shots rang out, Beau felt a sharp pain in his ribs, and next thing he knew, he was leaning out of his saddle. Screams erupted around him, he toppled to the ground, aware of great tumult. Ambushed, he thought, dropping into unconsciousness.
The detachment was overcome in seconds, and no one got away. The People’s warriors stripped fallen soldiers of weapons, ammunition and clothing.
Geronimo was overjoyed to find a pistol lying beside a slain bluecoat war chief. With a smile, he lifted the weapon gingerly, thumbed back the hammer, sniffed the metal. Now, with two of them, I have great power, he thought happily.
“Hurry!” shouted Juh. “We do not have much time!”
Geronimo heard a groan issue from the bluecoat war chief whom he’d thought was dead. The People seldom took male prisoners, so Geronimo raised his knife, and was about to plunge it home when the bluecoat opened his eyes.
Geronimo and his enemy stared at each other, then the bluecoat whispered, in a barely audible voice, “Sunny Bear.”
Geronimo’s hand froze, because the People believed calling a man’s name could evoke his power.
“Sunny Bear,” repeated the bluecoat war chief, then his eyelashes fluttered, eyeballs showing white.
Meanwhile, other warriors prepared to leave. “What are you waiting for, Geronimo?” asked Juh.
The bluecoat war chief’s horse stood nearby, confused and spooked by the sudden attack, yet attempting to do his duty, for he was a soldier too. On an impulse, Geronimo lifted the bluecoat war chief, threw him over the saddle, then leapt behind him, and kicked his heels into the horse’s withers, joining other warriors departing the killing ground, leaving behind nude and mutilated bodies of enemy soldiers, plus a Mexican officer who died with William Shakespeare on his lips.
Esther opened her eyes, and her first thought was, I’m alive. She lay in a room with three other women patients. “She’s awake,” said one of them.
“Where am I?” Esther asked through bruised lips and a cracked throat.
“Austin.”
“How’d I git here?”
“Bunch of miners brung you in.”
Esther’s body was in agony, and tears welled as she recalled betrayal by a man she’d loved.
The doctor visited later in the morning. “In a few weeks, God willing, you’ll be up and about.”
“I got no money to pay.”
“See me when you’re better. We’ll work it out.”
I’m sure we will, she thought, accustomed to using her body as collateral. After I recover, I’ll return to the business, and should have enough in a couple of months to continue to New Mexico Territory. Because I ain’t fergot you, Mrs. Rich Bitch, and after I’ve laid you to rest, I’m goin’ after that gang of outlaws, whose leader has the prettiest smile in the West. When I catch that son of a bitch Steve Culhane, his smilin’ days’ll be over.
Later that morning, a lean middle-aged man with finely chiseled features, dressed like a cowboy, appeared beside her bed. “I’m Captain Cole Bannon of the Texas Rangers,” he said. “Can you tell me what happened?”
She summoned her energy and explained softly, “I was a-travelin’ west with some men, and one night they jumped me.”
“Remember their names?”
“Steve Culhane was the boss.” Then she named others, but reminded the ranger, “They’re prob’ly false names.”
“What’d this Culhane look like?”
“About as tall as you, a real handsome feller, you might say. Brown hair a little darker’n yers. Smiles a lot.”
“You fell in love with him?”
“’Fraid so. You goin’ after ’im?”
“Damned right, even if we have to ride all the way to California. You must get well, so you can testify in court. Where’re you going after getting out of the hospital?”
“I’ll be stayin’ right hyar in Austin.”
“No money, I don’t suppose.”
“Don’t you worry none about me, Captain Bannon. I knows how to git along.”
“I’m sure you do, Miss Rainey. But here’s something to help out.” He pressed a coin into her hand, and she could feel by its shape and heft it was a twenty-dollar double eagle. Then he said, “Good luck.”
After he departed, she stared at the ceiling a long time, the coin clutched tightly in her hand. Guess men ain’t all bad, she decided. Only most of ’em.
Cole Bannon sat at the bar of a nameless saloon, staring into his glass. It was midafternoon, not many customers, and the bartender knew how to tell a dirty joke, and when to leave a man alone.
Cole had spoken with the doctor, who himself was shocked by the brutality of the crime. Cole Bannon was another Mexican War veteran, had seen countless gory scenes, but the beating of a defenseless woman roused him from his usual cold cynicism.
He’d been following the Culhane Gang for five months, and it wasn’t the first time they’d committed rape and robbery. But the Texas Ranger had learned that sooner or later every criminal goes too far and makes the mistake that leads to his downfall.
Approximately two hundred fifty miles to the west, a herd of cattle was spread over a panhandle plain, while their cowboys sat around a fire, eating steak and beans. They were ragged and weary, prepared for Comanche attack, and half crazed, because they’d been away from civilization so long. Hired to deliver cattle to a buyer in New Mexico Territory, they weren’t sure they could find him, for he lived in one of the most remote areas of the frontier.
The foreman’s name was Donelson, and he had picked up his current merchandise in Mississippi, but it had been bred in South Carolina for hardiness on the open land. His cowboys chewed in silence, for they were not the breed that enjoyed speaking about themselves and their problems. As far as they were concerned, a man took care of his problems without bothering others. A few had plans to continue to Colorado Territory after the cattle were paid for, while others were running from the law.
Suddenly they heard a voice. “Hallooo there!”
Instantly, Donelson and his men were on their feet, pistols in hands. “Who’re you?”
“Pilgrims! Can we spend the night?”
“The more the merrier,” said Donelson, glad the visitors weren’t Comanches.
Out of the chaparral rode eight men, their leader smiling broadly, hat on the back of his head. “Name’s Harriman,” he said. “What’s your’n?”
The cowboys and travelers introduced themselves, then sat around the fire. “Where you headed?” asked Harriman.
“Arizona,” replied Donelson.
“That’s Apache country.”
“If we run into Injuns, we’ll just give ’em a steer.”
“That yer herd?”
“Nope—they belong to a feller named Barrington who lives out thar. We been hired to deliver it, an’ collect the money.”
Harriman glanced significantly at his men, then turned to Donelson. “Looks like you boys’re about to turn in.”
“We are, but go ahead and cook yer vittles. Make yerself at home.”
“Much obliged,” said the man with the ever-constant smile, tipping his hat.
The cowboys prepared their blankets for the night, while the pilgrims gathered by the fire. Harriman’s real name was Steve Culhane, and he nodded his head barely perceptibly. His outlaw cohorts drew pistols and opened fire on the cowboys at close range. The cowboys were taken by surprise, all shot before they could resist. Culhane and his men aimed their final rounds at figures still moving, then the campsite fell silent. “Looks like we just got us a herd,” he said.
“Now all we got to do is find somebody to buy it,” said Dunphy sourly.
“Why not sell it to the galoot what ordered it?” asked Culhane.
“But New Mexico Territory is a helluva ways off!”
“It’s the same direction we’re goin’ in,” he reminded them, and then winked boyishly. “At least we won’t have to worry about food. But first—let’s find another campsite, ’cause this one’s a-gonna stank after a while.”
Clarissa taught Zachary and Gloria the niceties of long division when the sound of commotion came through the open window. Annoyed, Clarissa peered outside and was astonished to see Claggett fly headfirst out of the barn. He was followed by Dobbs, who dived upon him.
But Claggett rolled away, jumped to his feet, and managed to kick Dobb’s dark brown goatee. Dobbs lost his sense of direction, landed on the ground, and then received a sharp kick in the ribs. Clarissa’s husband was riding the north range, so she took down the shotgun from its post above the fireplace, thumbed, back twin hammers, and rushed outside, an expression of determination on her face. “That’s enough!” she shouted.
The cowboys paid no attention as they stood toe to toe and pummeled each other. Clarissa raised the shotgun to her shoulder, aimed into the air, and pulled both triggers.
She’d never fired the weapon before, and had no idea it kicked so hard. Her shoulder felt torn out of its socket, then she fell onto her rear end. As her vision cleared, she saw the men continuing to battle, ignoring her.
She picked up the shotgun by the barrel, poised it like a bat, and advanced toward the warring duo. “I said stop!” Again they paid her no mind, so she swung with all her strength at both of them and managed to connect with Claggett’s arm.
He winced as the blow landed, then she swung at Dobb’s head, but he dodged out of the way. “Now hold on thar, little woman,” he said.
“Stop fighting this instant!” she shouted.
“Mind yer damned business,” growled Claggett.
“Everything on this ranch is my business,” she replied firmly.
“You best put that rifle down, or I’ll shove it up yer ass.”
No one ever had spoken to Clarissa so crudely. “You worthless bastard!” she screamed as she took another swing at his head.
He yanked the shotgun out of her hands, but she wouldn’t let go, and kicked him in the shins. He howled in pain, hopping on one foot as a crowd of cowboys gathered, anxious to be amused. Meanwhile, Dobbs seized the opportunity to land a heavy left on Claggett’s snout, causing Claggett to step backward, blinking his eyes, nose possibly broken. Dobbs rushed forward to finish off his adversary, but walked into a stiff left jab. The two cowboys stood toe to toe, slugging each other tenaciously as Clarissa searched about for help, and her eyes fell on the foreman standing with his thumbs hooked in his belt, apparently enjoying the show.
“Mr. Blakelock—don’t you think you should stop this altercation?”
His eyes narrowed, and he made that grim, resigned smile. “What the hell fer?”
“Before one of them kills the other.”
“Oh, settle down, Clarabelle. They ain’t gonter kill each other.”
“My name isn’t Clarabelle, and I am ordering you to stop this fighting instantly.”
Blakelock didn’t move, and then Clarissa heard the loud thud of a fist landing solidly on a forehead. She turned in time to see Dobbs fall to the ground. It appeared that he had stopped breathing, so she rolled him onto his back, pressed her ear against his chest, and heard his heart beating like a tom-tom.
“Carry him to bed,” Clarissa ordered.
Again no one moved. Arising, her jaw clenched with the rage of Gramercy Park, she balled her fists and walked unflinchingly toward Blakelock. “I just gave you an order!”
Again he made his tight bitter smile. “Clarabelle—why don’t you go bake muffins, and leave the men alone.”
Something snapped within Clarissa, and she drove her fist toward his nose. But he clamped her wrist, and appeared bored. “Settle down, Clarabelle, afore I put you over my knee and spank yer bare bottom.”
She blushed at the thought of such an outrage, causing his smile to broaden. Angrily she jerked her wrist out of his hand, then stared at him, wanting to elaborate on how much she loathed him, but he’d only laugh in her face. “I’m going to speak with my husband about you,” she said with barely concealed fury. “I’m going to have you fired.”
“You cain’t fire me, ’cause I just quit,” he replied. “I’m sick of yer interference, Mrs. Boss Lady.”
“If the ramrod goes, I go too,” said Pancho. “There ees not enough money in God’s world to make me take orders from a woman.”
“Me neither,” said Barr.
“Hell—don’t leave me behind,” said Joe Smith.
Clarissa stared in disbelief as the entire crew resigned before her eyes. How’ll we manage without cowboys? she asked herself. What’ll Nathanial say when he finds out they quit because of me? She cleared her throat. “I appear to have lost my temper,” she said quickly to Blakelock. “Of course you’re not fired over such a trifle. But I don’t believe you should stand by and let men murder each other.”
Blakelock pointed behind her, and she turned to Claggett and Dobbs, now on their feet, faces the worse for wear, but otherwise alive and healthy. “The men need a good fight onc’t in a while,” explained Blakelock confidentially. “It’s good fer ’em.”
The concept stunned Clarissa, because she couldn’t understand how a split lip could be good for anybody. “If you say so, Mr. Blakelock,” she replied, struggling to control her fury.
“Don’t take it so hard, Clarabelle.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that, Mr. Blakelock. It’s such an ugly name.”
“Not to me, because onc’t I had me a mule called Clarabelle, and she was a good, hard worker, and smart as a whip.”
“What happened to her?”
“The Injuns stoled her, and prob’ly ate her, I imagine. Mule meat is their favorite food.”
She suspected he was ridiculing her, but it appeared the mutiny was over, and Nathanial wouldn’t need to hire a new crew of cowboys. “You may return to whatever you were doing, Mr. Blakelock. Good day.”
That evening Clarissa stood at the parlor window and watched her husband arrive at the barn. Blakelock joined him a short time later, and Clarissa figured the topic was her.
“Don’t worry, Clarissa,” said Zachary, who sat on a parlor chair, Sir Walter Scott’s The Lady of the Lake on his lap. “We’ll stick up for you.”
“You did right,” added little Gloria, who had been reading over his shoulder. “Them cowboys are a bunch of no-good varmints.”
“Those cowboys,” Clarissa corrected, and then her husband emerged from the barn, Blakelock at his side, still speaking with him. Oh-oh, thought Clarissa. Blakelock headed toward the bunkhouse as Nathanial continued to the main house. He wore his wide-brimmed hat, tallest person on the ranch, and entered the house with a grave expression.
“We’ve kept some supper warm for you,” Clarissa said brightly.
He didn’t kiss her, instead hanging his hat on the peg beside the door. Then his children crowded around. “Don’t be mean,” said Gloria.
“Go to your room,” he replied.
He shuffled to the kitchen, where he filled a bowl with beef stew, then sat at the table. Clarissa took a chair opposite him and said, “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t reply as he dipped his spoon into the stew. She wished he’d say something, but instead he calmly finished his meal, sopped his bread in the gravy, then poured himself a cup of coffee.
“You make me feel as if I’ve murdered somebody,” she said.
Finally he turned to her, and she noticed his eyes half closed with fatigue. “Clarissa—I’ve told you before, and now I must tell you again—please leave the men alone.”
“I tried to stop a fight. What was wrong about that?”
“Your woman’s concept of wrong does not apply here, as I’ve tried to explain before. This may surprise you, but most people in New Mexico Territory never heard of Susan B. Anthony or Elizabeth Candy Stan-ton. The cowboys don’t want a woman telling them what to do, because they’re poor, forgotten bastards, they’re all drunkards, and manhood is all they have left. You take it from them—they’ll ride out of here. They’d rather starve, or live like wild Indians, than take orders from a woman.”
“In other words, I’m so far beneath them—it’s humiliating to obey me?”
“They don’t look down on you, Clarissa. In fact, they respect you very much. They feel you don’t appreciate them, and it’s true, you don’t. They’re honest, hardworking cowboys, with their own code of honor, but also surprisingly sensitive, and you must beware of offending them. A woman might talk behind another woman’s back, but men fight it out face-to-face, with fists, or whatever they can lay their hands upon, winner take all.”
“That strikes me as rather barbaric,” retorted Clarissa. “I’ve asked you to do things, and you’ve obeyed, although I’m a mere woman.”
“That’s because I love you, but the men are scared of you. If you used your mind, instead of arrogance, you could have them eating out of your hand, but anyway, I had a talk with Blakelock, and he said the cowboys need to blow off steam. So he’ll take Dobbs, Claggett, Crawford, Pancho, Barr, and Joe Smith to Fort Buchanan, buy supplies, and let them tie on a drunk. Meanwhile, we’ll keep Manion, Bastrop, Thorne, and Grimble here. When Blakelock and his bunch returns, we’ll let this bunch go. The men are fighting amongst themselves because they need to have some fun.”
“What about me?” she asked.
“You’ll stay here.”
“Why can’t I go to Fort Buchanan?”
Nathanial smiled patiently. “Clarissa—this is Apache territory.”
“You said they won’t bother us, because they’re friends of yours. I don’t trust that bunch of drunkards and gamblers with my grocery money.”
“If they wanted to steal, I doubt you could stop them.”
“They might not steal, but God only knows what groceries they’ll bring back.”
“I’m sorry, but my mind is made up. You’re not going to Fort Buchanan under any circumstances—is that clear?”
She made her determined little smile, and something told him she was going to Fort Buchanan whether he liked it or not. The strangest aspect of women, he ruminated afterward, is they claim we dominate them, but somehow they always do as they damned please.
Not all wives do as they please, and in a white-columned mansion in Virginia, Mary Custis Lee often awakened in the middle of the night, crippled by bone-grinding agony. Heiress to one of the South’s great names, the former slim belle had become puffy, old, and wrinkled before her time due to years of debilitating illness.
Forty-nine, she was daughter of George Washington Parke Custis, grandson of Martha Washington. Custis had preferred dabbling in music, painting, and literature to managing his vast estate, and upon his death the previous October, owed ten thousand dollars. Mary, overwhelmed, had been forced to send for her husband Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee, executive officer of the Second Cavalry.
Stationed in west Texas, he requested leave, returned to Arlington, and learned that in addition to the ten-thousand dollar debt, his wife had inherited 196 slaves, who had done little work under the benign reign of her father. The roof of Arlington House leaked, the barn appeared on the verge of collapse, fences were down, and formerly verdant lawns were overgrown with weeds and bushes.
Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee set to work with the precision and energy that had marked his rise from a lowly second lieutenant. Now the roof no longer leaked, a vast quantity of corn had been planted, and the loan was being repaid.
Mary Custis Lee couldn’t understand why her husband tolerated her crankiness. Even when she vented rage at him, he stood steady as a soldier under fire, never retorting insultingly. He had become her personal servant and never would let a slave touch her, for he considered his wife his responsibility.
As she lay groaning, he entered the bedroom, carrying a carafe of warm whale oil. “Ready?’
“Be gentle, Robert.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The fingers that had drawn detailed maps of the Chapultepec fortress during the Mexican War, now rolled his wife onto her belly. He rearranged her legs, then unbuttoned the back of her gown, revealing her pale shoulder. He peeled back the fabric, then poured the oil, and administered a soothing massage.
She moaned, face in the pillow. “More.”
The hands that had shot Mexicans at Cerro Gordo kneaded her inflamed muscles and joints, for she suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. “I’m not hurting you?”
“I can’t feel anything in that arm, and perhaps it would be best if I died and set you free.”
“But I don’t want to be free of you. Whatever makes you think such a silly thing?”
He’d been destitute when they’d met, while she would inherit a fortune, or so everybody had believed at the time. Many whispered snidely that the dashing Lieutenant Robert E. Lee was marrying for money, but now, twenty-seven years later, the Custis fortune was gone, yet Robert E. Lee did not abandon his wife. He had married not for wealth, slaves, or even Arlington itself, but because he had been attracted to feisty, irritable Mary Custis. Perhaps it was her scathing honesty, or her aristocratic hauteur, or possibly because he had been obsessed with handsome, dark-haired women.
On the subject of slavery, Robert E. Lee was no rabble-rousing fire-eating extremist. He believed the ‘special institution’ a worse evil for white people than Negroes, and hoped for the gradual emancipation of slaves, but saw no easy solutions, and never personally owned more than six slaves, all left him in wills, or given by his father-in-law. Those that wanted freedom, he shipped to Liberia. No one ever said he treated slaves cruelly, and Arlington was a farm, not a regimented cotton or rice plantation. In Robert E. Lee’s upper-class southern existence, he seldom saw the worst excesses of slavery.
“I hope they don’t call you back to duty,” said Mary deep in her throat, for she was becoming relaxed.
“If they do, I may not go,” he replied. “I’m getting too old to ride the Staked Plains in the summer, chasing those damned Comanches.”
“What if they make you general?” she asked, for Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee was a favorite of the army’s commanding general, Winfield Scott.
“After spending these months with you and the children, the army doesn’t seem so attractive anymore. But if there’s war, naturally that would change everything.”
They embraced, another American couple fearing civil unrest, because the nation had been mired in the slavery controversy since the first shipload of slaves arrived from Africa in 1619. There had been secession crises, nullification threats, fistfights in Congress, and guerilla warfare in Kansas-Nebraska, with casualties mounting on both sides. Every year it became worse, the South feared domination by the North, and the North felt compelled to outlaw slavery. America was only eighty-two years old, and many, like Mary and Robert E. Lee, wondered if it would survive.