AT WHITECLIFF, COWBOYS packed saddlebags, gathered ammunition, and assembled horses in the yard between the main house and barn. Meanwhile, Clarissa and Nathanial held their last conference in the office.
He sat behind his desk, and she on the chair in front of him. “I want you to promise to leave the cowboys alone,” he told her.
“Don’t worry—I won’t bother them,” she replied, as if she’d never attacked them with a shotgun.
“Blakelock is in charge except for purchasing, which you will supervise. All the men are experienced desert riders, so I’d suggest you do as they say. If there’s trouble, they’re the best protection you could have.”
There was a knock on the door, followed by Zachary’s voice. “Blakelock says he’s ready!”
Clarissa headed for the door, attired in oversized cowboy clothes, with her gun slung low and tied down, like Blakelock’s. Outside, she saw the cowboys waiting alongside their horses, smoking and grumbling. Blakelock said to Nathanial, “Can we talk?”
Nathanial and Blakelock walked about twenty paces away from the others, then the foreman asked, “You tell ’er?”
“Yes, and she promised to behave herself.”
Blakelock’s voice went low. “I got a bad feelin’ ’bout this. Sure wish you’d keep ’er home.”
“I can’t keep her home. You know what she’s like.”
Blakelock glanced at him sharply. “Then what the hell you marry ’er fer?”
“Because I fell in love with her. Haven’t you ever been in love?”
“Sure I been in love. Men and women are the saddest messes in the world.”
“If she acts up, just remind her of her promise. She’s a decent person at heart.”
“I never met a more ornery woman.”
“At least you won’t have to worry about dealing with the sutler at Fort Buchanan. She’ll make him wish he was never born.”
They heard her voice. “What’s taking so long? We don’t want to lose this good sunlight.”
Blakelock scowled. “Thar she goes.”
“She’s right—you’ve got to get going.” Nathanial held out his hand. “Good luck, and don’t drink all the whiskey.”
They shook hands, then Blakelock declared, “I guess a man gits paid fer his sins, and Clarabelle is one of the ways the good Lord is a-punishin’ me.”
Blakelock scuffled to his horse, then Clarissa kissed the children good-bye. “Don’t neglect the lessons I’ve laid out,” she said to Zachary and Gloria.
“Don’t worry,” they replied in unison, intending to ignore them totally.
She turned to Nathanial, who said sadly, “I wish you wouldn’t go.”
“I wouldn’t trust a dollar with any of them,” she replied.
The men heard the remark, glanced at each other, spat at the ground, and made groaning sounds. Nathanial could feel their dissatisfaction, but couldn’t tie her to a chair, and maybe a trip to Fort Buchanan was exactly what Clarissa and the cowboys needed to get acquainted.
Clarissa climbed onto her horse, and she resembled a slim cowboy in her man’s clothes, but without the rough air of a frontiersman. The men formed a column of twos behind her, their wagon at the rear, driven by Crawford, who wore a patch over his left eye, it having been shot out in the battle of Monterey. Blakelock rode to the front of the column. “We all set?” he asked.
He expected Clarissa to deliver a commentary, but she sat silently on her saddle, hat low over her eyes. Blakelock touched his spurs to the withers of his horse, and that creature stepped forward resolutely, hoping to meet interesting lady horses at Fort Buchanan.
Nathanial held the hands of his children as he watched his wife and cowboys ride into the wilderness. The cowboys who remained behind shouted farewells, but Nathanial worried about Clarissa, although Blakelock would protect her from bears, cougars, and other predators. Nothing will go wrong, hoped Nathanial. Clarissa knows how to behave, and besides, what could happen to her that hasn’t happened already?
After being discharged from the hospital, Esther bought cosmetics and a new dress, then bathed, gussied herself up, and proceeded toward the best whorehouse in town. It was located on Pecan Street, not far from the state capitol, convenient for politicians, lawyers, and government workers. A two-story wooden structure, the whorehouse was not especially conspicuous on a street lined with saloons, a pawnshop, a barber shop, and a doctor who specialized in late-night gunshot wounds. She knocked on the door, which was opened by a white man with black hair hanging to his shoulders.
“I’d like to speak with the boss,” said Esther.
“Bet I know what fer.” The black-haired man smiled, as if happy to see her, providing confirmation that Esther had made herself presentable.
The whorehouse was slow that time of day, with only a few customers in the ornate parlor, then came a corridor that led to a kitchen, where women sat about in robes, eating breakfast and reading newspapers, wearing no cosmetics and looking dowdy in the cold light of day. The black-haired man knocked on a door.
“Come in,” said a cracked voice within.
The guard opened the door, and a shriveled, aged woman in a red wig and white party dress sat behind a desk. She took one look at Esther and said, “Have a seat.”
Esther walked gracefully to the chair, although her ribs still ached, and daintily crossed her legs, although her pelvic region was sore. “My name’s Esther Rainey, and I’m lookin’ fer work,” she said.
“I’m Miss Lulubelle,” said the old woman. “You ever done this afore.”
“Most of my life,” confessed Esther. “I’ll show yer customers a real good time—don’t worry none about that.”
“We git gennelmen with fancy tastes, and you got to be willin’ to do anythin’, if you knows what I mean.”
“There ain’t nothin’ I ain’t done,” said Esther. “Hell—it’s all the same to me.”
The madam didn’t inquire where Esther was from, because such questions were considered ill-mannered. It was more important that Esther possessed front teeth, not to mention a memorable bosom. “You’re hired,” said the queen of whores.
It was siesta time in Santa Fe, and Rebecca Hargreaves sat in her parlor, reading The Blythedale Romance by Nathanial Hawthorne. Her maid was napping and the children at school.
Published six years ago, The Blythedale Romance was the novelistic version of Hawthorne’s stay at Brook Farm, a Utopian community established by transcendentalists in Massachusetts. According to Hawthorne’s vitriolic pen, they were a petty, silly conglomeration of self-righteous reformers, with a new theory for every situation, and lacking common sense, true humility, or Christian charity. Their leader, called Hollingsworth in the novel, was portrayed as a hypocrite not above seducing empty-headed women who practically worshipped him. Naturally all were avowed abolitionists like Harriet Beecher Stowe.
The novel confirmed Rebecca’s worst suspicions about northerners, and since Hawthorne himself was from that section, she considered the satire authoritative. There can be no compromise with fanatics such as these, thought Rebecca.
From the street, she heard hoofbeats, the clank of military equipment, the shout of a sergeant. She rushed to the window and saw a detachment of dragoons in front of her house. Beau’s back! she thought happily as she ran toward the door.
She pulled it open and saw Colonel Bonneville covered with dust, waddling toward her, a mournful expression on his face. “May I come inside?” he asked. She nodded, he marched into her home, and they faced each other in the parlor. “Mrs. Hargreaves—I regret to report that your husband is … missing in action.”
Rebecca was the daughter of a colonel on the retired list, and perhaps that’s why she didn’t faint dead. away. Instead she stepped toward a chair, sat upon it, and stared into space. “My God,” she whispered.
“He was on a scout, and apparently had been ambushed. We were able to account for everyone except him, so there’s the possibility he might still be alive.”
Rebecca was surprised at how calm she became, although tempted to shriek her heart out. “But we know what Apaches do to their prisoners, Colonel Bonneville,” she replied in measured tones. “They torture them to death.”
“That is so,” he agreed. “But don’t give up hope, and remember that Captain Barrington was believed killed by Apaches, but returned some months later.”
“If Beau is alive,” said Rebecca, “how can we get him back?”
“We have no ambassador to the Apaches,” replied Old Bonney Clabber. “But perhaps he’ll return one day as did Captain Barrington. However, I don’t want to give you false hope. It is entirely possible that your husband is … no longer with us.”
Beau lay outside his wickiup, letting the sun’s rays heal him. He felt stronger with every passing day, the pain in his chest diminishing. To pass time, he tried to study Apaches objectively, and perceived that they were exceedingly poor, with food scarce and American and Mexican settlers invading their territory. Why can’t Apaches adjust to America? he asked himself.
Yet the Apaches appeared normal in many ways, even respecting friendship, which is why they hadn’t killed him long ago. Often he reflected upon his old friend Nathanial Barrington, who had accepted their Lifeway. Sometimes he suspected the Apaches were waiting for him to recover, so they could torture him to death.
One morning Nana visited to change his dressing. “How are you feeling, bluecoat soldier?”
“Much better, and I am grateful for your skills as a medicine man.”
“Our lives are in the hands of the Mountain Spirits, and everything I know, I have learned from them. Now lay still.” Nana removed the dressing, which was made from mud and leaves. “You are doing well, and soon you will be ready to ride, unless you want to stay with us, like Sunny Bear.”
Beau grit his teeth, as Nana’s apprentices washed his wound. “No—I’ll return to my people, thank you.”
“You will become a bluecoat war chief again, and try to kill us all?”
“You must become farmers, ranchers, and shepherds, if you want to survive.”
“Yes, but you do not provide land, seeds, or sheep.”
“You must not expect the Great Nantan in the East to do everything for you.”
“But you expect me to save you, no? Where would you be were it not for me?”
Beau realized that the supposedly primitive Indian had outdebated him. “I suppose we all need help occasionally,” he admitted.
“When you return to the eastern lands, tell that to the Great Nantan.”
“I do not know him, and could never even get close.”
Nana appeared surprised. “Why?”
“There are too many White Eyes around him. But if you do not make peace, you will be overwhelmed by us.”
“If I die in defense of the People, it will be a holy death.”
After Nana departed, Beau reflected upon the conversation. This is no bloodthirsty monster, he concluded, and I understand why Nathanial became fascinated with them. They will fight to the last drop of blood, and that will be the end of the Apache Wars.
Beau noticed Constanza approaching apprehensively, her face badly bruised, nose adorned with a scab. She kneeled beside him and said in Spanish, “How are you feeling?”
“I should be able to walk in a few days. They said they’ll let me go soon, and I suspect they’ll probably turn you loose as well.”
“They never will free us,” she replied. “I am sure of it.”
“I think you are wrong, and I will ask Nana to speak with Victorio about letting you move into my wickiup. No one will harm you if you are with me.”
Tears came to her eyes. “Sometimes I am so afraid. I hate them so. They are not people at all. They are animals.”
“At least they did not kill you.”
“Why did they not kill you, since you are a soldier?”
“I am the friend of an Americano who became a warrior among them. His name was Sunny Bear.”
Constanza was surprised, because she never had heard such a strange story. “Why did he do that?”
“He was an unusual man.” Beau tapped his temple. “Or perhaps he was loco.”
“How could he befriend murderers?”
“He had killed a few people himself.”
Constanza hugged herself. “The world has gone mad. Nothing like this ever happened to me. I don’t … I don’t …”
Her voice trailed off. A rich man’s daughter, she’d never worried about torture, suffering, bereavement. He wanted to place his arm around her, but could barely move. “You’ve got to get hold of yourself,” he told her. “Your father would want you to be strong.”
Her body was wracked by a sob. “But I am not strong. Sometimes I do not want to live anymore. At least you still have your family.”
“You are a young woman, and you can have another family. It is a sin to give up hope.”
“How can I hope, when there is so much evil in the world?”
Steve Culhane lay atop a hillock and studied the small, isolated store through his brass spyglass. It lay about three miles ahead, with horses in the corral. Such a store might be alone for days on end, and then one day a cattle crew would pass, or a detachment of dragoons.
“Just when we’re runnin’ out of coffee—thar t’is,” said Culhane to himself.
He clomped down the hill, where his compadres waited. “It’s a store all right,” he told them. “I’ll need two men to help with the wagon—the rest watch the herd. We’ll be back directly.”
He selected Bascombe, who had an unshaven moon face, to drive the wagon, while Curry, who resembled a weasel with a cigarette sticking out the corner of his mouth, would accompany them on horseback. They detached from the others and rode in the direction of the store, hoping for coffee, whiskey, flour, and maybe a local newspaper, so they could see if stories had been written about their exploits.
They didn’t speak as they rode along, for they were accustomed to theft, and never gave a moment’s remorse for the woman they’d raped, robbed, and left behind. Divine retribution was a joke to such men, and they believed the common rules of the world didn’t apply to them.
They appeared not unlike other frontiersmen as they approached the store, and noticed no horses hitched to the front rail, indicating no customers. The front door opened and a portly fellow with brown side-whiskers appeared, wearing a dark blue apron that reached his knees. “Welcome!” he said. “Goddamn— yer the fust white men I’ve see’d in a month! Come on in an’ have a drink on me.”
“Much obliged,” said Culhane, touching his fore-finger to the brim of his hat. Then he climbed down from his horse, threw the reins over the rail, and headed for the door of the store, followed by Bascombe and Curry. “You live here alone?” Culhane asked the storekeeper.
“My brother Dave he’ps me.”
“No wimmin?”
“What wimmin would live in such a spot?” The storekeeper laughed heartily. “My name’s Ned.”
They shook hands, then entered the store. It had two tables, a stove, and a counter, while shelves displayed canned food, bolts of cloth, knives, ammunition, clothes. Brother Dave entered from the back door, and there was more handshaking, as Ned poured the drinks.
“To happy times,” he said.
They quaffed heartily, then Culhane said, “Afraid we don’t have much time fer palaver.” He told the merchants his needs, and they piled bags of coffee, beans, flour, and bacon in the middle of the floor. “You boys’re cleanin’ me out,” said Ned affably.
“In more ways than one,” Culhane muttered beneath his breath.
Bascombe chortled nearby, for he’d heard the remark.
“What was that?” asked Dave.
“Oh—nothin’ at all,” replied Culhane as he poured another drink.
The brothers gathered behind the counter and added the bill. “That’ll be twenty-three dollars and eighty-eight cents,” said Ned.
“Ain’t you gonter load it on the wagon?” asked Culhane.
The brothers looked at each other curiously, then Ned said, “Why sure.”
He and Dave carried the merchandise to the wagon, stacking it carefully, a procedure requiring several trips. Finally everything was on board, and the brothers returned. “Twenty-three dollars and eighty-eight cents.”
“That’s a lot of money,” said Culhane.
“You’ve bought a lot of merchandise.”
“What if I don’t pay?”
Ned looked nervously at his brother. “I suppose we’d have to take back the merchandise.”
Culhane pulled his gun. “Go ahead—take it back,” he replied as he pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck Ned in the chest, hurling him back to the bar, where he fell in a clump to the floor. The other outlaws yanked iron, and brother Dave knew his hour had come. He closed his eyes and waited for the bullet that would end his life.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” asked Culhane.
“Go ahead—shoot me,” said Dave, gritting his teeth. “Git it over with.”
“Git what over with?”
Dave opened his eyes. “You mean you ain’t gonter shoot me?” he asked hopefully.
“What gave you that idea?” replied Culhane as he triggered.
With eyes wide open, Dave received lead in his heart. Instantly dead, he dropped on top of his brother. Culhane found the strongbox while Bascombe and Curry loaded additional whiskey, tobacco, and canned food onto the wagon. When finished, Bascombe heaved over a barrel of lamp oil, took bolts of cloth, dipped them in oil and flung them about.
Culhane sat at one of the tables, sipping whiskey out of the bottle and smoking a cigarette, staring dully at the men they’d shot. He felt nothing. When the wagon was loaded and the outlaws were ready to move out, Culhane scraped a match on the floor, set fire to the oil, and watched flames race along the boards, then climb the walls. The outlaw boss sauntered to the door, where he took one last look at his victims surrounded by flames, then stepped outside, climbed on his horse, and rode away.
Nana visited Victorio, who sat before his wickiup, cleaning his army rifle. “I have a request from the bluecoat war chief,” said Nana. “He wants your Mexican slave woman, for he is too weak to care for himself, and I cannot be with him all the time.”
Victorio’s face betrayed no emotion, but he thought, this is my chance to get rid of her. “I will take her to him,” he replied.
Constanza kneeled among other women, rubbing an oily, smelly substance into the hide of a mule. Her arms ached from the effort, but she was afraid someone would beat her if she stopped. She noticed Jocita prowling about, no one was friendly, and Constanza had never felt so alone.
She noticed a woman looking at her curiously, so Constanza turned to her, fearing another attack. Instead, the woman spoke in Spanish. “My name is Elena, and I am Mexican too.”
Constanza was surprised, because she’d thought the woman pure Apache. “You are a captive?”
“Yes, for a long time.”
“Perhaps you can leave with me, if they turn me loose.”
“I do not want to leave.”
Constanza couldn’t believe her ears. “Why not?”
“I am happy here.”
“How could anybody be happy here?”
The woman smiled. “It is much better than what I had with my own people, because I was very poor, and my husband beat me. Now I am one of Mangas Coloradas’s wives.”
“But the Apaches are …” Constanza was afraid to say ‘savages,’ because apparently many of them spoke Spanish.
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Victorio, who pointed to Constanza. “Come with me.”
She followed him across the campsite and headed toward the wounded American officer lying in front of his wickiup. “I have brought you a present,” said Victorio to Beau. “I give you this slave—to care for your needs. She will live in your wickiup, and when you leave, you will take her with you.” Then Victorio turned to Constanza. “Obey him—do you understand?”
Dr. Michael Steck, forty, Indian agent to the Apaches, was visiting Santa Fe in an effort to obtain supplies for Mescalero Apaches living at the reservation beside Fort Thorn. A sturdily built square-jawed Pennsylvania Dutchman, he was a medical doctor who’d moved West for the sake of his wife’s health, ran low on funds, and finally found the most impossible healing job imaginable, making peace among Apaches, Americans, and Mexicans, all of whom hated each other.
Dr. Steck worried about his wards at Fort Thorn, because civilians from nearby Mesilla had tried to massacre them twice that spring. The strain of the Apache Wars wore him down, and he had no friends in Santa Fe, most citizens considering him a troublemaker and fool. The army especially hated him because he’d accused them of certain massacres, such as the Chandler Campaign of ‘56, and the Gila Expedition of ’57. No one trusted him, although he was a decent man.
There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” said Dr. Steck, expecting a courier from Colonel Bonneville’s headquarters.
Instead, an attractive blond woman stood before him, a troubled expression on her face. “Are you Dr. Steck?” she asked in an educated southern drawl.
“Sure am—what can I do for you?”
“I’m Rebecca Hargreaves, wife of Major Beauregard Hargreaves. I’ve been notified that my husband is missing in action, and perhaps the Apaches have captured him. I heard you were in town, and was wondering if you’d inquire about my husband when you speak with the Apaches again.”
Dr. Steck had met Major Hargreaves. “Please come in,” he said.
Rebecca entered the room, relieved she didn’t have to resume the painful conversation in the hallway. There was only one chair and the inevitable bed. She stood nervously while he wrote in his notebook. “You may be sure I’ll pursue the matter fully,” said Dr. Steck.
“What do you think his chances are?” she asked, a catch in her voice. “Please tell me the truth, because I have no patience with well-intentioned lies.”
“Not good,” he admitted.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said, a lost tone in her voice.
“Perhaps he isn’t.”
“But I must be realistic.”
“I understand you have children?”
“Two.”
Dr. Steck felt touched by the young woman’s sorrow. “You must be strong, and rest assured that I will do all I can for your husband.”
She arose, he opened the door, and she departed. Alone, he returned to his chair. Frontier people must numb themselves, he reflected, otherwise they’ll be destroyed by the sheer horror of it all. And that very numbness keeps the Apache Wars alive.
Colonel Bonneville never reported his Mexican jaunt officially. Instead, he described the ambush as if it had occurred north of the border, and omitted mention of Mexican soldiers, because they couldn’t be in New Mexico Territory. Colonel Bonneville had learned as a lieutenant that truth often was altered in military reports to serve a variety of strategic purposes, especially protecting commanding officers’ reputations.
There was a knock on his door, then Dr. Michael Steck entered, a government official who conceivably could make trouble for an officer. “Thank you for granting me an audience,” said Dr. Steck sarcastically. “I realize you’re busy, so I’ll come to the point. I need supplies for the Mescaleros at Fort Thorn, and I’ve learned that your storehouses are full of bacon and beans.”
“Which my soldiers will eat.”
“If you fed Apaches, you wouldn’t need to fight them.”
“Why don’t the Apaches feed themselves?”
“They need to learn agriculture.”
“Are we supposed to take them by the hand and show them everything? I suggest you take up the matter with the Department of the Interior. What else?”
“I spoke with Mrs. Hargreaves yesterday, poor woman. Is there anything we can do about her husband?”
Old Bonney Clabber frowned. “Major Hargreaves was one of my most promising officers, but you know what Apaches do with male prisoners. At one point Mrs. Hargreaves must make up her mind that her husband is dead, and not a damned thing can be done about it.”
Beau awakened with a start as Constanza snuggled against him. It was the middle of the night and she was asleep, groping unconsciously for human warmth. He didn’t have the heart to push the unhappy woman away, so he let her rest against him, trusting him.
He wasn’t sure he trusted himself, because Apache medicine had improved his health, permitting him to feel like a man. He became aware of Constanza’s breasts jutting into his army shirt, and it excited him to contemplate her needs. I can’t betray Rebecca, he admonished himself. And neither can I take advantage of this poor, lost child.
She moaned softly, as she worked her pelvis against him, trying to find more comfort while she slept. She’s probably not accustomed to sleeping on the ground, he told himself, but she was soft, yet firm, and terribly vulnerable. He couldn’t help placing his arms around her waist to soothe her, as it were.
He tried to recall the calamity that was her life, but her living, breathing flesh was more compelling. Although married to Rebecca, he could not deny Constanza’s appeal. He felt himself becoming dizzy, blood pounded in his throat, and then she placed her cheek against his.
He felt the full length of her body, then she whispered, “Please help me.” She pressed against him, leaving no doubts as to her requirements, but still he was unable to move. “They might kill us both,” she explained in a whisper, “and I do not want to die without knowing a man.”
She pressed her lips against his, and in his weakened state, he was unable to resist. Neither did he fuss when she unbuttoned his pants. Constanza dropped her clothes in the dimness of the wickiup, then lowered herself upon him. It took a while, but she finally achieved her desire. If Apaches killed Constanza Azcarraga, she would not die a virgin.
Cochise sat alone on a deerskin blanket in a remote cave. He’d come on foot so he wouldn’t have a horse to distract him. Cochise needed his mind free so he could converse with the Mountain Spirits.
He smoked, prayed, and fasted. Before him stretched immense distances, the horizon tinged with gold while hawks flew overhead, singing happiness songs. Cochise felt as if he were a cactus plant rooted to the ground, feeling the power of the universe throbbing in his veins. This is an old world, thought Cochise as he beheld deep crevasses that time had gnawed into the mountains. Enemies may vanquish us, but the spirit of the People shall live on.
He felt ecstatic as he gazed at the sky. Although it was midafternoon, he saw stars twinkling, or so it appeared. He felt strong, brilliant, invincible, connected by an invisible cord to every plant, rock, and mountain in view. I am the world and the world is me.
Something in the sky caught his attention. At first he thought it an eagle, barely a dot among the clouds, but it flew closer in an odd pattern. Cochise wondered what kind of bird it was, then noticed it had four legs. Apparently, a winged black horse and rider were galloping toward him out of the sky! Cochise rose to his feet as the horse drew closer, its rider brandishing a lance. Cochise felt chilled when he recognized the rider as the departed Chief Miguel Narbona, all wrinkles and infirmities vanished, like a young warrior. Cochise dropped to his knees and bowed before the ghost of his mentor.
Chief Miguel Narbona reined his winged horse, and the animal kicked pebbles across the sky as he came to a stop in front of the cave. “Cochise!” hollered Chief Miguel Narbona. “Why do you cringe before your chief?”
“I am not worthy,” replied Cochise.
“I have observed you,” thundered Chief Miguel Narbona. “Your heart is pure, and from this day onward, no bullet or arrow can harm you. This is the power if indomitability in battle that you have earned. So be not afraid.”
Cochise raised his eyes. “I shall never die?”
“I mentioned only bullets and arrows,” said young Chief Miguel Narbona as his horse pranced about nervously. “Not knives, clubs, or the teeth of the cougar. And you must beware of cannon, Chief Cochise. Terrible times lie ahead, but the People shall triumph ultimately.”
The lithe warrior atop the prancing horse transmogrified into withered old Chief Miguel Narbona in the days before his demise, yet he sat firmly in the saddle. “Never forget me, Cochise,” he shouted. He waved one last time, wheeled the horse, and galloped toward the farthest reaches of the sky.
A wave of dizziness struck Cochise, he thought he’d faint, and then he saw a thousand Chief Miguel Narbonas galloping across the heavens, calling his name. Cochise collapsed onto the rock floor of the cave as hawks circled above the canyon, singing afternoon madrigals.
Benito Juarez, President of Mexico, sat in his office in Vera Cruz, reading reports of Apache raids in Sonora and Chihuahua. Even the distinguished Azcarraga family had been massacred recently.
Juarez, fifty-one years old, was a full-blooded Indian from the Zapotec tribe. The Catholics had educated him, and he’d become a lawyer, politician, and chief justice of the Mexican Supreme Court. He also was leader of the reform party, which opposed the privileges of the caudillo class, the army and clergy. He had been jailed by Santa Ana, then became governor of Oaxaca, and now was President of the Republic, his government in Veracruz.
As America drifted toward civil war, Mexico actually was engaged in one, reformers against conservatives, the latter having captured Mexico City, forcing Juarez into exile. The Zapotec was popular among the common people and the new rising business class, but his administration was rife with corruption, yet no one accused Benito Juarez of wrongdoing, and he was considered a national hero, a man of integrity, and something of a genius. He sat at the pinnacle of his career, making difficult decisions daily as he shifted troops and supplies, and borrowed heavily from abroad.
If he failed to defend the northern provinces, the United States might intervene, as they had during the war of 1846–48. His resources were stretched to limit, but the Apaches must be stopped. Despite civil insurrection, a collapsing economy, and unparalleled government indebtedness, he took time to write an executive order that would change forever the face of the Apache Wars. The northern presidios would be reinforced at once, and every effort made to halt further incursions.
Above all, I must defend our national boundaries, he thought as he signed his name on the bottom of the order. From now on, the Apaches will feel the strength of my government.
A chill was on the desert, the sky decorated with stars as the Whitecliff cowboys sat around a fire, eating steak and beans. Dusty, smelly, grumpy, they appeared ill at ease with Clarissa.
They can’t be their usual foul selves in front of a lady, she figured. She wanted to leave them to their profanity, but if she wandered about the chaparral, a lost, wandering Apache might abduct her, or a bear might bite off her head. A deadly silence pervaded the campsite, and Blakelock refused to look at her.
Their disapproval hurt her, because she’d always tried to please everybody. Finally, unable to bear the tension longer, she took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable, but why don’t you behave as if I’m not here?”
They appeared surprised by her declaration and looked at each other like a pack of bearded gorillas, wondering who should respond. “But you are here,” said Claggett ruefully.
“Why should that stop you?” Clarissa replied. “Go ahead—say anything you like, no matter how revolting, and don’t worry about me, because I’m really not a lady, and I’ve done many things that I’m ashamed of.”
Blakelock raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Like what?”
Clarissa opened her mouth to reply, then caught herself. “Do you expect me to reveal my most intimate and embarrassing secrets for your amusement?”
Blakelock looked at her, then made his tight smile. “What could you do, Clarabelle? Steal a cookie from the jar? People like you don’t do nawthin’ wrong ’cause you ain’t got the guts.”
“If you knew the truth about me, you’d sing a different tune,” she said.
They chortled as if she were incapable of wicked behavior, and she was tempted to tell them about certain illicit acts that she’d performed with a gentleman in the back seat of a carriage in Washington, D.C., during the period when she and Nathanial had been estranged, but caught herself. “I admit that my lowest acts were nothing compared to your accomplishments, but if you want to brag about your adventures at whorehouses and such, go right ahead.”
“It ain’t got nothin’ to do with whorehouses,” said Dobbs. “Yer here cuzz you don’t trust us.”
“Why should I trust you?” replied Clarissa. “You’re all criminals, otherwise you wouldn’t be in Arizona.”
It occurred to Clarissa that she was alone in the middle of a vast nothingness with an assortment of desperate men, and no police to protect her. They looked at each other, and some appeared angry, while Blakelock’s distorted smirk became more ominous. “If we was what you say, we would’ve killed you long ago.”
“I’m sure some of you are fine men,” she replied quickly, “if only you’d clean yourselves up. And a little church wouldn’t hurt either. But you don’t respect me because I’m a woman. You think I don’t know anything.”
Joe Smith spat a long stream of tobacco juice into the fire. “’At’s right—you don’t.”
“I have experience with soap and water, and it could do you a world of good. That bunkhouse you live in would embarrass a self-respecting hog.”
“You don’t like it,” said Barr, “stay the hell out.”
Clarissa couldn’t believe her ears. She was about to reprimand him when she remembered her earlier promise to let them say whatever they pleased. “If you want to live in garbage, don’t let me stop you.”
Blakelock’s smile degenerated into something very close to a snarl. “Who’re you sayin’ lives in garbage?”
“You.”
Blakelock leaned toward her, his eyes gleaming in the light of the fire. “What if I was to dig a hole six feet deep, throw you in, and cover you up?”
“You’d better not try,” she replied, reaching toward her holster.
Claggett yanked the weapon out of her hand. “Worst thing they ever did,” he said, “was let women have guns.”
“Was you a-gonna shoot me?” asked Blakelock incredulously.
“Nobody’s going to bury me,” replied Clarissa, trying to be brave.
“You’re lucky we don’t lynch you.”
“If you did, my husband would hunt each of you down, and kill you the Apache way.”
“It’d be worth it,” said Dobbs.
They laughed, and she realized how much they despised her. “You’d lynch me because I told you to clean your filthy bunkhouse?”
“Why don’t you mind yer bizness?” asked Crawford. “Why’re you allus stickin’ yer nose whar it don’t belong?”
“You’d be so much happier if you lived in cleaner surroundings. Aren’t you going to give my gun back?”
“If I don’t, are you a-gonna fire us?”
“You wouldn’t treat me this way if my husband was around.”
“It’s women like you who git husbands kilt.” Joe Smith turned to Blakelock. “Why don’t we hogtie her?”
“I’m thinkin’ about it,” said Blakelock. “If’n I had my druthers, I’d roast her alive.”
“Hey—that ees a great idea,” said Pancho. “Why don’t we?”
“A woman’s place ain’t in the kitchen,” said Dobbs. “It’s in the fire.”
The men arose with expressions of mischief in their eyes.
“Now just a moment,” she warned, backing up.
“It’s too late,” said Claggett as he advanced. “You done gone too far.”
“’At’s right,” agreed Barr. “You got to larn yer lesson.”
“But surely you’re not going to throw me in the fire!”
“Surely we are,” said Dobbs.
She turned to Blakelock. “Stop them!”
“There’s more of ’em than me,” he explained, holding out his hands helplessly.
They circled around. “This isn’t funny,” she told them.
“Oh yes it is,” said Claggett, lunging for her.
She screamed, but landed in the arms of Joe Smith, who clamped her arms close to her body. “Gotcha,” he said, looking into her eyes.
She tried to knee him in an unmentionable spot, but Dobbs grabbed one of her legs, Claggett the other, and Barr and Joe Smith each held her arms. They carried her to the fire as she swayed from side to side. “Stop it!” she screamed.
“Eet ees time you got what ees coming to you,” replied Pancho.
“This has gone too far, Blakelock!” she shrieked.
“Even your own husband warned you not to come with us,” he pointed out, “but you wouldn’t listen. This is what happens to wimmin who talk back to their men.”
They swung her back and forth a few times as she screeched fearfully. Oh God, she thought, they’re not going to hurl me into the flames, are they? They let her go, and she felt herself flying into the air. When she came down, she was sure she’d land on hot coals, scorching her clothes and hair, cooking her alive. She bellowed and contorted, expecting to be fried at any moment, but instead fell into Blakelock’s waiting arms.
At first she didn’t know what happened, then they roared with delight, holding their bellies, faces growing red. Blakelock lowered her to the ground, then nearly fell onto his face, so weakened was he by mirth. “Clarabelle—yer the funniest thing I ever see’d.”
“You son of a bitch!” she screamed as she climbed off the ground. Then she dived onto him, intending to punch his face, but he caught her wrists, and when she tried to kick him in the shins somebody grabbed her foot and lifted it straight into the air.
She fell onto her rear end as they gathered around, roaring with delight. She rose again and charged Claggett, but he danced out of the way. Then she chased Dobbs, but he easily eluded her. She ran after Pancho, certain that she could demolish him if she could get her hands on him, but he too outmaneuvered her. She picked up a branch and tried to crack it over Joe Smith’s head, but he raised his hand and yanked it out of her grasp.
She realized that she couldn’t do anything to them, and frustration nearly drove her mad. She felt like mouthing the most vile epithets she could imagine. If she had an ax, she’d chop them to bits. Finally she crouched over, balled her fists, and said, “Words cannot describe how much I hate you all.”
No matter what she said, they continued laughing. She caught a glimpse of herself running about like a madwoman, making a spectacle of herself, and realized how absurd it all was. They have defeated me, she admitted. But only because they outnumber me, and are more physically strong. “I guess any woman who travels with you boys has got to be loco,” she told them.
“You leave us alone,” said Blakelock. “We’ll leave you alone.”
“It’s a deal,” she replied, then swaggered forward like a bowlegged cowboy and held out her hand.
Blakelock shook her fingers, and she expected him to crack her bones, but he was oddly delicate. Then they all cheered as Blakelock took her in his arms and planted a fatherly kiss on top of her head. “Guess you ain’t so bad after all, Clarabelle.”
Nathanial awoke in the middle of the night, worried about Clarissa and his cowboys, his children growing up without playmates, his inability to make the ranch profitable, and myriads of other matters, such as water, weather, and outlaws.
There was only one way to satisfy his troubled mind, and that was to check his domain. He climbed out of bed, put on his clothes, and tied the cougar skin cape around his shoulders. Then he crept like a feline out the window and ran silently into the foliage surrounding the main buildings, where he paused, watched, and listened.
Since killing the cougar, he needed to prowl at night, his eyes somehow keener, his sense of smell heightened. Sometimes he had the urge to leap onto cattle and sink his teeth into the backs of their necks.
Silent, nearly invisible, he crawled through the underbrush, studying the ground for signs of recent intrusion. He watched a rabbit nibbling a nut in a clearing, then wings fluttered, an owl swooped out of the sky and carried the struggling victim away. Death is the law of this land, thought Nathanial.
His fingernails appeared to elongate, his ears became pointed, and he thought perhaps he shouldn’t have eaten so much peyotl before going to bed. Like a cougar, he crept through the night, eyes glittering like rubies.
One night was much like the other in the old whorehouse in Austin. The men started arriving around dinnertime, and the whores were busy until dawn. Just a little while longer, Esther told herself one evening as she walked down the corridor after finishing with a customer. He proceeded before her, a politician who never failed to mention God in his speeches to the electorate.
“Be back to see you again sometime,” he said with a wink.
“Look forward to it,” she replied.
He leaned closer, although he had a wife and kids a few blocks away. “You ought to let me set you up someplace. I could make your life a lot easier.”
“Don’t wanna depend on one man,” she replied with a smile. “’cause yer all full of shit.”
He shrugged. “If it’s not you—it’ll be somebody else.”
They kissed lightly, then he headed for the bar, and she sat on one of the parlor chairs, crossed her legs and waited for her next customer. There were so many, a girl couldn’t help making money. Soon I’ll be able to move on, she promised herself.
Her face was painted, her mauve dress exposed most of her breasts, and the skirt was slit up the side, revealing her bare leg. She glanced at her sisters flirting with men, some of whom held business discussions among themselves, and she’d heard that many a deal was made in the whorehouse.
The chimes rang midnight, and it sounded like the cymbals of hell as a lone cowboy appeared in the corridor, as if uncertain where to go. It was unusual to see a common cowboy at the high-priced whorehouse, but he must have money, otherwise they wouldn’t’ve let him in.
Esther watched cynically as the cowboy glanced around the room, then headed directly toward her.
“Howdy,” he said, holding his hat in both hands. He looked sixteen, with pimples on his cheeks.
“What’cha want?” she asked lazily, gazing into his eyes.
“You, I guess.”
“Let’s go.”
She took his hand and led him to the corridor. They came to her room, she lit the candle on the dresser, then closed the door. “How do you want it?” she asked, businesslike.
“I don’t know,” he said, unable to look her in the eye. “It’s my fust time.”
“’At’s what I figured.”
“I wanted the best fer my fust time.”
“Ten dollars.”
He counted the money in the palm of his hand, and it consisted of many coins hoarded a long time. “There it is, ten dollars.”
“Take yer clothes off and git in bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fool, she thought, because she didn’t want to be sentimental about a poor, lonely kid who did a man’s job and needed a woman’s love. She carried the money down the hall and came to Miss Lulubelle’s office, where the black-haired broad-shouldered man in a black business suit sat in the corner, reading a newspaper. Esther put the money on the desk, the madam counted it, then made the appropriate notation in the ledger. “Yer doin’ real well,” she said.
Esther returned to her room, where the cowboy lay beneath the sheets, his clothes at the foot of the bed. “What you want me to do?” asked Esther.
“I dunno,” he confessed. “Whatever you usually do.”
She couldn’t help smiling as she removed her dress. “Never see’d a nekkid woman afore?”
“Nope.”
“It must git real lonely at the ranch.”
“Lonelier’n you can imagine,” he replied.
She crawled into bed, they kissed, and she felt like his mother, or maybe his teacher when she told him what to do. He was young and excitable; it didn’t take long. As he lay atop her, his mouth hanging open, she could see how defenseless he was. She was tempted to stab him, to get back at those who’d raped and robbed her, but what would she do with the blood? “That’s it, sonny Jim,” she told him.
“It was so fast.”
“You got to pace yourself.”
“How can I pace myself with someone like you?”
“Next time bring twenty dollars.”
“That’s almost a month’s pay!” he protested.
“Love ain’t cheap,” replied the coldhearted whore.
Long Abe Lincoln found difficulty drawing crowds during that hot summer of 1858, so he developed the strategy of following Senator Douglas across Illinois, responding to the Little Giant’s speeches next day. Often Lincoln rode as a regular passenger on trains that pulled the renowned senator’s luxurious private car. As the campaign progressed, Lincoln’s audiences grew, and according to Senator Douglas’s spies, the country lawyer’s pithy moralistic arguments were striking sparks with religious farmers and townsmen, while everyone laughed at Lincoln’s backcountry jokes that skewered the illustrious senator from Chicago.
Senator Douglas wondered how to stop Lincoln, who appeared gaining in popularity. He decided to campaign harder, pushing his health to the maximum, while Abe Lincoln sniped at his heels, and the Buchanan administration fomented rebellion in the Illinois Democratic party.
One day the Little Giant received a note from Long Abe, challenging him to a series of public debates. This was brazen effrontery on the part of a minor political figure, and Douglas’s advisors suggested that he decline, because the debates would provide credibility for Abe Lincoln. But Stephen Douglas of Illinois was one of the nation’s greatest orators, and thought he could deliver a knockout blow if he could face his main opponent one on one.
“If you get up on the platform with him,” warned Usher F. Linder, an old friend, “it’ll make him your equal in the eyes of the people.”
“I don’t give a damn,” replied the Little Giant, a cigar in his hand. “Advise Mr. Lincoln that I’m at his disposal.”
Both campaign staffs met in a smoky Chicago hotel room, and after much haggling and posturing, seven debates were scheduled in each congressional district except Chicago and Springfield, because both candidates already had covered those towns. The national press, in the never-ending pursuit of increased sales, saw possibilities in the saga of a virtually unknown country lawyer with the guts to take on the most famous senator in the land.
The eyes of America turned toward Illinois during the summer of 1858 as preparations were made for the much-anticipated debates. Horace Greeley wrote in the New York Tribune, ‘It will be a contest for the Kingdom of Heaven or the Kingdom of Satan.’ According to the Richmond Enquirer, the encounter would provide ‘the first great battle of the next presidential election.’ And the New York Evening Post reported, ‘The prairies are on fire!’