THE SECOND CAVALRY was the Army’s unofficial elite unit. Organized only three years ago by then Secretary of War Jefferson Davis, it was deployed in west Texas, its mission to subdue the Comanches.
Its officers included the cream of the officer corps, such as Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston, on temporary duty in the Mormon Wars, and Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee, on leave in the East. In addition, there were numerous outstanding junior officers, and one was Lieutenant John Bell Hood, a Kentuckian who spent most of his time chasing Comanches, occasionally encountering the aftermaths of massacres.
A massacre could be spotted at long range by large numbers of buzzards circling in the sky, and as Lieutenant Hood approached one such gathering of black-winged creatures, he and his men were ready for war, carrying the latest experimental Sharp’s breech-loading carbines, which could fire faster than traditional muzzle-loading rifles, but no Comanches presented themselves as targets that hot summer afternoon.
Wind brought stench to their nostrils, and the soldiers raised their yellow bandannas over their noses. Buzzards protested vociferously, rousted from their meal, but there wasn’t much left as the cavalrymen rode onto the scene.
Lieutenant Hood assumed Indians were guilty, although no arrows poked through ribs of bloodstained skeletons. He ordered a burial detail, then dismounted, sat on the ground, and wrote details in his notebook, for he needed to file a report when he reached Fort Cooper.
Like many officers, Lieutenant Hood was frustrated by the federal government’s reluctance to wage full-scale war against Indians, but citizens back East didn’t care to pay a large army, particularly since so many officers and soldiers were from the South. The slavery issue permeated every area of national life, and especially the army.
Lieutenant Hood listened to shovels digging the earth as he worried about his country. The South might secede from the Union, but he wouldn’t know until he returned to Fort Cooper.
“Somebody’s follerin’ us!” hollered Sergeant Witherspoon, pointing to their backtrail.
Lieutenant Hood was on his feet hi an instant, stuffing his notebook into his shirt pocket. He whipped out his Colt and wondered whether to flee or make a stand. It didn’t take long to decide, for he was West Point, class of 1853. “Sergeant Witherspoon—I want a skirmish line right here!”
The men deployed quickly, and Lieutenant Hood stood behind them, raised his spyglass and focused on the intruders. At first they were a vague conglomeration of men and animals, but as they drew closer he could perceive no feathers in their hair, nor bows and arrows, but floppy cowboy hats could be seen, with beards and deerskin shirts.
“At ease,” called Lieutenant Hood to his troopers. “They’re Americans.”
The men were surprised to encounter other riders, because usually they found nothing unusual on their scouts. Lieutenant Hood counted ten weathered desert riders approaching, led by a slightly built man on a strawberry roan stallion, and they all wore the tin stars of the Texas Rangers.
The Rangers stopped at the edge of the mass grave, climbed down from their horses, and slapped dust off their garments. Then their leader advanced and said, “Howdy—I’m Cole Bannon. What’s this?”
“Comanche massacre,” replied Lieutenant Hood.
Cole strolled among the skeletons, nearly gagging on the odor. “Don’t see arrows.”
“Comanches probably took ’em away.”
“What if it wasn’t Comanches?”
“Who else could it be?”
“An outlaw gang that we’ve been chasing, led by a killer named Steve Culhane.”
“In the absence of evidence,” replied Lieutenant Hood, “I’d have to say Comanches.”
“What about the cattle tracks?”
Lieutenant Hood appeared surprised. “I didn’t see any cattle tracks.”
“They’re all over the damned place. If I’m not mistaken, these skeletons were cowboys, and the Culhane Gang rustled their herd.”
“How far would you say they are?”
“Maybe a week ahead. Care to hunt ’em down?”
“We’re expected at Fort Cooper.”
Cole touched his finger to the brim of his hat, then climbed onto his horse and wheeled it about. “Let’s go, boys,” he said.
The Texas Rangers rode off, and Lieutenant Hood watched admiringly from beneath the brim of his Jeff Davis hat. He wished he could join them, but he was a soldier, and instead inscribed the meeting in his notebook, not modifying his hypothesis about a Comanche massacre. Thus another Indian atrocity was duly noted, to become part of the official record.
Beau opened his eyes. He lay on his back, his ribs hurt when he breathed, he felt weak, the sky an overturned blue basin above. What the hell happened? he asked himself.
It required tremendous effort to move his head, and he was astonished to see Apache men and women roaming about hutlike structures made of branches, leaves, mud, and grass. I’m a prisoner of war!
A shudder passed over him because he’d heard how Apaches treated prisoners. Sometimes they let women slice captives to ribbons, or stake them to anthills and pour honey over their faces, or tie them with wet rawhide to a saguaro cactus, and as the rawhide shrank it pulled the prisoner against sharp spines, puncturing him in hundred of spots, so he could bleed to death slowly.
Beau wished he’d been killed in the ambush, but had not been lucky. He hoped he would die courageously, instead of begging for mercy like the coward he suspected himself to be. The pain in his ribs threatened to overcome him, but he held on.
The Apaches noticed their prisoner was conscious, and it wasn’t long before a scowling warrior approached. The warrior kneeled beside Beau, looked him over, then said, “¿Habla español?”
“Sí,” replied Beau, amazed at the weakness of his voice.
“I am Geronimo,” declared the warrior in Spanish, “and I have taken you fairly in battle.”
“When are you going to kill me?” asked Beau, who was anxious to get it over with.
“That remains to be seen,” replied Geronimo. “What are you to Sunny Bear?”
Beau was startled to hear the name. “How do you know I am a friend of Sunny Bear?”
“You mentioned him when I was preparing to kill you. That is the only reason you are not dead.”
“Sunny Bear and I are like brothers,” Beau said truthfully. “We studied to become soldiers together. When he lived among you, we thought he had died, but then returned a new man.”
“There is none like Sunny Bear,” replied Geronimo. “Since you are his war brother, I shall give you to him as a gift.”
After Geronimo departed, Beau reflected upon his old friend Nathanial Barrington. If he hadn’t lived among Apaches, and I hadn’t mentioned his name, I’d be gone from this world.
Beau slept, and when he opened his eyes, a young tall Mexican woman knelt alongside him. Beau thought he was hallucinating, but then she said, “I have heard you speak Spanish.”
“Are you a captive too?” he asked.
“Yes, of Victorio. The fiends have killed my parents, my brothers, and sisters, and all our vaqueros.”
“When I recover, I will take you out of here.”
“They will never let you leave alive, or me either,” she said fatalistically. About to explain further, she suddenly closed her mouth as a bandy-legged Apache in his mid-forties approached.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “You should do some work for a change, you lazy Nakai-yes bitch.”
The Apache slapped her rear end, and Constanza was tempted to punch him in the nose, but he would cut her heart before she even touched him. Instead, she bowed as she retreated toward Victorio’s wickiup.
The Apache kneeled beside Beau. “We have met before,” he said cordially. “At the Santa Rita Copper Mines seven harvests ago.”
Beau studied the Apache, but didn’t recognize him. “What is your name?”
“Nana, and Geronimo has paid me one fine horse to heal you.”
“What are my prospects?”
“I have removed the bullet.” He held up a chunk of lead. “You will be well soon. I do not suppose Sunny Bear ever told you about me.”
“Sunny Bear does not speak about his time with Apaches, but he has refused to make war against you ever again, and no longer is a soldier.”
“Sunny Bear is a warrior who keeps his word, but how about you?”
“I respect deeds, not words.”
“When you return to Sunny Bear you must thank him, for it is he who saved your life.”
“What has he done that causes you to respect him so?”
“He has seen great visions,” replied Nana. “And he makes everybody laugh. Can you make me laugh, White Eyes?”
“Not with a hole in my chest.”
“Be thankful it was not your head,” said the medicine man.
Constanza’s principal task was collecting wood for Victorio’s fire, but this became increasingly difficult the longer the People stayed in one camp. She was forced to range an ever-greater distance, and worry about finding her way back, plus she could meet a hungry bear, or step on a rattlesnake.
She loaded wood onto a deerskin blanket, then slung it over her shoulder and trudged to camp. Back and forth she went, from dawn to dusk, except for meals, and never had she labored so unremittingly.
She hated the Apaches, feared they’d torture her to death, and sometimes cried hot tears. I am the most wretched woman on earth, she thought, because I’ve lost everything. Constanza had been loved by family and friends, but now was spat upon when Victorio wasn’t looking. She sometimes thought of running away, but the wilderness was dangerous.
She carried an armful of branches and twigs to the blanket, then decided to rest. Finding shade in the lee of a paloverde tree, no sooner had her rear end struck the ground heavily, than she heard an ominous rattle. Her blood ran cold, and she nearly fainted as the viper materialized out of the grass beside her. The Mexican princess had no idea a nest of eggs lay nearby, yet knew instinctively she shouldn’t move, and expected rattlesnake fangs on her body at any moment. A slick of sweat covered her body, she wanted to scream, but managed to control herself. “Please go away,” she pleaded. “Oh, Madre mía—save me!” The snake slithered closer, apparently suspicious of the large warm object that landed in its midst, and Constanza thought she’d die of fright.
The snake gave a mighty lurch, and Constanza realized her end had come, but instead of injecting poison into Constanza’s arm, the snake went flat on the ground, an arrow through its body. Constanza leapt up and ran twenty-odd paces, then turned to see if the snake followed her. It lay bleeding, apparently dead.
Constanza hadn’t seen the direction from which the arrow had came. Warily she glanced about, wondering if she were next on the archer’s list, when a yerba linda bush trembled nearby, and a wild-looking Apache woman arose, bow in her left hand. Constanza remembered this woman, for she was taller than any other women in camp, taller even than Constanza, and utterly barbaric-appearing, hardly a woman at all.
Jocita walked toward her, curious about the Nakai-yes woman whom Victorio had taken. She stopped a short distance away, dressed in a deerskin dress and shirt, hair tangled, prominent cheekbones, thin, expressionless lips.
Constanza wanted to show gratitude, and hoped she had found a friend, so she bowed before Jocita, and said, “Gracias.”
Jocita spoke no Spanish, for she was of the Nednai tribe, the most uncivilized Apaches of all, and it disgusted her to see the Nakai-yes woman fawning before her. “Stop it!” she commanded, but Constanza was as ignorant of Apache language as Jocita was of Spanish. Confused, frightened, Constanza raised her hands to protect herself, and this angered Jocita even more. “Stand up for yourself!” yelled Jocita. “Where is your pride?”
Constanza’s nose became bloodied, her lower lip split, and a punch to the ear made her hear church bells. She realized she was going to be beaten to death unless she fought back, but she knew nothing of combat, and when she dived blindly toward Jocita, the lithe warrior woman merely took one step to the side, and smashed her in the face.
Constanza toppled unconscious to the ground at Jocita’s feet, and Jocita was tempted to cut off her head, because many relatives and friends had been killed by the Nakai-yes over the years, and she had been poisoned by ‘friendly’ Mexicanos at Janos. But the Nakai-yes woman was Victorio’s captive, and Jocita dare not antagonize him, so she kicked the senseless Constanza in the buttocks, then walked to the rattlesnake, where she removed her arrow. “Perhaps I should have let you kill her,” said Jocita to the viper as she wiped reptile blood off the head of the arrow. She dropped the arrow into her cougar skin quiver, took one last look at the Nakai-yes weakling, and strolled proudly back to the encampment.
Late in the afternoon, Victorio realized his slave had not been seen for some time. I should not have left her alone, worried Victorio. But he dared not show undue concern for a slave. A search will be justified if she doesn’t return by tomorrow morning, he decided.
Victorio and the other warriors refurbished weapons, following the raid in the land of the Nakai-yes. Many horses and mules had been taken, along with numerous pistols and rifles, and much blood spilled, providing, a small measure of revenge for loved ones killed by Mexicanos.
While crafting a new war club, he heard someone shout, “Chuntz is returning!”
Chuntz had been sent on a long scout through the homeland, partially to remove his contentious personality from camp, partially for security reasons, and had not been seen since the War Dance. The tribe gathered before the wickiup of Mangas Coloradas, anxious to hear news. Chutz arrived on a pinto gelding, an angry expression on his face, and had been more argumentative than ever since his wife had been killed in the Valley of Dead Sheep. He pulled his horse to a halt in front of Mangas Coloradas’s wickiup, climbed down from the saddle, and accepted the pipe that was passed him by Nana the di-yin medicine man, as warriors and women sat at a respectful distance, anxious to hear news.
After Chuntz had puffed mightily, Mangas Coloradas said, “What have you seen?”
“Bluecoat soldiers roaming about,” replied Chuntz, “the usual stagecoaches, cattle, vaqueros, and the treachery of your dear friend, Sunny Bear.” Sarcasm dripped from Chuntz’s lips, for he despised those who admired the Pindah. “I have observed him with my own eyes plotting with bluecoat soldiers.”
There was silence for several seconds, for everyone knew how Chuntz hated Sunny Bear. Then Nana, mentor of Sunny Bear, spoke. “How do you know they were plotting if you do not speak their language?”
“What else would they talk about—the birds and the sky? I am sure he told them what he knows about us.”
“How can you be sure if you have not heard?”
Chuntz scowled as he placed his hand on the hilt of his knife. “Do not insult me, medicine man. Because my knife is sharper than your magic spells.”
“I mean no insult,” said Nana pleasantly. “But how can we accuse unless we are certain?”
Mangas Coloradas interrupted. “How many soldiers?”
“At least two hundred, and their leader was the fat one, the same as in the Valley of Dead Sheep, the one they call Bonneville. I have always believed that Sunny Bear signaled to him and led us to destruction.”
Mangas Coloradas reasoned that Bonneville had stopped at Nathanial’s ranch prior to crossing into Mexico and picking up his trail. “You have no proof, only blind hatred for Sunny Bear.”
“What if you are wrong?” asked Chuntz. “How many friends and relatives will die because of that Pindah pig whom you call Sunny Bear?”
There was a rustle of foliage, then a bloodied figure emerged from the chaparral, surprising everyone. Covered with gashes, her clothes torn, Constanza carried a heavy stick like a club as she ran toward Jocita, who rose calmly, waited until the club whistled toward her skull, caught it in midair, and whacked Constanza in the mouth.
The blow caught Constanza coming forward, knocking her cold. She fell in a clump, then Jocita bowed her head and waited for the onslaught. The tribe stared at her, then the figure on the ground. Finally Victorio stepped forward. “What have you done to my slave?” he asked sternly.
“She was rude.”
“You had no right to beat her.”
“I am sorry, Victorio.”
Victorio shot a reproachful glance at Juh, as if to say, “Can’t you manage your wife?”
A sub-chief or warrior could lose respect if he couldn’t manage his wife, and Juh’s face reddened with shame. He turned to Jocita. “Go to your wickiup and stay until I arrive.”
Jocita wanted to explain, but dared not defy Juh in front of the others. She noticed Fast Rider at the edge of the crowd, and he appeared worried, ready to cry. Many enemies had fallen before Jocita’s bow, but Juh could crack her like a twig. “Yes, my husband,” she said, then ambled toward her wickiup.
Victorio lifted Constanza, carried her across the campsite, and deposited her outside his wickiup. Victorio’s wife Shilay arrived, and together they bathed the unconscious slave. “She is more trouble than she is worth,” said Shilay. “I think you are in love with her.”
“I am not in love with her in the least,” replied Victorio. “But she resembles me. Have you ever heard that I was a Mexicano baby?”
“Those rumors are said about nearly everyone.”
“Maybe they are true, and this is a relative of mine.”
Shilay studied the bruised features, then her husband’s face. “Sometimes people look similar, but so what? I think you are ashamed to admit you are in love with this Nakai-yes woman.”
“You are jealous, and I never should have brought her here, but how could I kill her when she resembled me?”
Shilay drew her knife. “If you cannot kill her, I would be pleased to help.”
“Think of her as your niece, not a rival. I will return her to the Mexicanos at first opportunity, and then we will be rid of her.”
“And the Mexicanos will kill you for your trouble, which may not be a bad idea.”
“Please do not be angry with me.”
He said it so sadly she couldn’t help weakening. Everyone knew that Victorio was virtuous, never chasing the brazen bizahn women. “I am sorry to have doubted you,” she said, hugging him. “Perhaps I should not love you so much.”
As Victorio and his wife reconciled, Juh made his way to Jocita’s wickiup, although he dreaded the encounter. Implacable in battle, Juh feared Jocita’s cruel tongue. Fast Rider followed at a distance, because he was afraid his father would beat his mother. All his life he’d heard them arguing. His father entered his mother’s wickiup, and Fast Rider could tolerate the anxiety no more. He ran into the wilderness, where no one could see his tears.
Inside the wickiup, Jocita sat beside the fire, eyes lowered. Juh dropped next to her and said, “You have embarrassed me again, my dear wife.”
“I am sorry,” she replied.
“Please do not harm Victorio’s slave again.”
“It shall be as you say.”
“Why do you do such things?”
“I despise weepy Nakai-yes bitches.”
“But I am the one who suffered humiliation.”
“I did not think it would end that way.”
He smiled as he touched her shoulder. “There is a way you can make me happy.”
She looked at him, and he’d been her first love. They’d even gone on raids together before he left her for Ishkeh. She kissed his cheek, then reclined on the deerskin robes. “Perhaps I require happiness as well,” she said.