STEVE CULHANE RODE toward the Fort Buchanan orderly room, hoping no one recognized him from a wanted poster. He was heavily bearded, covered with alkali, and his horse appeared ready to give out, but he was a stranger from the outside world; a crowd gathered.
“Any news from the states?” asked a soldier.
“I’ve been on the trail so long,” replied Culhane, recalling a line he’d once heard, but couldn’t remember where, “I feel like horseshit myself.”
He climbed down from his horse, entered the orderly room, and found Sergeant Major Ames behind the desk. “Howdy, Sergeant,” said Culhane, smiling. “I’ve got a herd of cattle fer a feller named Barrington. You know whar I can find ’im?”
“His wife was here a while back. Lovely woman.” Sergeant Ames walked to the map. “Right about here, next to steep white cliffs that can be seen a long ways.”
Culhane studied the map, then removed his notebook and copied significant details. “Thanks fer yer help,” he said. “Whar can I find a drink?”
The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “Let me make somethin’ clear right now. We don’t tolerate no bullshit at Fort Buchanan. You want to have a few whiskeys, that’s fine with me, but you tear the sutler’s store apart, I’ll toss you in jail, and if you kill anybody, you’ll hang.”
Culhane smiled. “Hey, Sergeant—I’m just an honest cowboy. I ain’t lookin’ fer trouble.”
Esther rode her stagecoach west, seated opposite an elderly white-haired lawyer. The other passengers were a married army officer minus his wife, and he also was attempting to ingratiate himself, plus a government official named Bailey who passed time writing in notebooks or reading a huge tome filled with numbers.
Esther despised them all, but smiled demurely, like the practiced enchantress than she was. And if she needed assistance, her gun rested within her purse, while a knife with a four-inch blade was available in her garter, in case her purse was stolen. If another man attempted to rape her, she’d cut off his arm and perhaps a few other items as well.
The lawyer kept smiling. She wanted to laugh in his face, because he was old, ugly, with tufts of tobacco-stained hair growing out of his nostrils, and a wart on his chin, but he appeared rich, and the whore in her couldn’t help grinning back. His name was Bramwell Oates, and he said, trying to make conversation, “Another two days—we’ll be in Santa Fe.”
“I can’t hardly wait,” said Esther.
“You have friends there?”
“Afraid not.”
“Let me give you the name of a good hotel.”
“But I can’t afford the best, I’m afraid,” she replied.
He winked. “I can help.”
The army officer grunted. “Are you trying to seduce this young lady, you old fart?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. What’s it to you?”
“She’s young enough to be your great granddaughter.” Captain Crimmins turned to Esther. “Feel free to stay with me and my wife, Miss Rainey. At least you’ll be safe from old farts.”
She didn’t trust Crimmins, and who knew about his wife. “No, I’ll find a reasonably priced hotel, thank you. But I appreciate yer offer. How kind you are to a lone woman.”
When the officer glanced in another direction, and the government official was buried in his book, she glanced at the lawyer, then winked. A broad smile came to his face, and she knew that she’d hooked him. He devoured her with his eyes as she gazed out the window, offering a view of her profile. Go ahead—enjoy me while you can, she thought to herself, because I’m going to take every penny you’ve got, and I might even kill you, to get in the mood for Mrs. Rich Bitch.
Captain Jose Baltazar Padilla, a heavyset mustachioed officer, sat behind his desk in the Fronteras military barracks, reading the morning mail. The letter on top was from the War Ministry, providing good news. Fronteras would be reinforced, and new forts constructed. Captain Padilla smiled, because President Juarez finally had seen the light Mexico couldn’t afford to lose her northern provinces to the Apaches, because the government would be discredited.
Like Juarez, Captain Padilla was a man of the liberal party. The son of a baker, he too had been selected by priests to attend the best Catholic schools, but instead of studying the law, he continued to the Colego Militar, Mexico’s West Point. An experienced Apache fighter, he had served with distinction in the war against the United States.
His door opened, then Lieutenant Magalenez appeared, an excited expression on his clean-shaven face. “Two Apache women have been sighted, sir, heading this way. They are carrying the white flag.”
The hair rose on the back of Captain Padilla’s back. “Are you sure they’re alone?”
“That is my information, sir.”
“Escort them here, and place the post on alert.”
After Lieutenant Magalenez departed, Captain Padilia paced the floor nervously. He knew that Apaches attempted peace only when forced, and the United States Army had been campaigning against them since the end of the Mexican War. Captain Padilla didn’t trust Apaches, and doubted they were sincere. Only military defeat will stop them, he believed.
He pulled on his visored cap, stepped outside, and paused in front of his headquarters, hand on his sword hilt, observing soldiers deploying, augmented by armed citizens, while his four cannon were placed strategically. All was in readiness should the Apaches attack.
The main street of Fronteras led to the town’s main gate, and Captain Padilla observed guards approaching, escorting two Apaches. The savages frequently sent women when attempting peace, but he knew that Apache women were as deadly as men, and sometimes worse.
The guards passed through the gate, and Captain Padilla could observe the Apache women more clearly. Not fat old squaws, they were young, upright wenches sitting solidly in their saddles, dark-skinned, with long straight hair and slanted eyes, covered with dust, looking wild as the desert itself. They appeared unafraid, although surrounded by Mexicans who hated them, and Captain Padilla realized they were beautiful in their wild, tawny way. Captain Padilla’s wife was in Guadalajara, and his eye had been known to wander.
He stepped forward, his aides behind him, and he said, “Welcome.”
The taller of the women said in guttural, heavily accented Spanish, “We are here to talk peace.”
“Come to my office, and let me give you food and drink.”
“I take no food and drink from Mexicanos, because you have poisoned too many of my friends. We will speak here, where everyone can see.”
“What do you want?” he asked.
“No more fighting between us.”
“If you stop—we will stop. What else do you want?”
“Food, blankets, and implements for agriculture.”
“By whose authority do you speak?”
“Chief Mangas Coloradas, my father, and Chief Cochise, my husband.”
Captain Padilla realized that an important Apache woman stood before him, and he was tempted to capture her, holding her hostage. But perhaps he could bag bigger game. “What has happened to Chief Miguel Narbona?”
“He has gone to the spirit world.”
This was news, and Captain Padilla paused to reflect. If I could capture Cochise and Mangas Coloradas, that might mean the end of the Apache resistance. “You may invite them to visit, and we will council together.”
“You must guarantee their safety.”
Captain Padilla raised his right arm. “I swear they will not be harmed.”
“Tell me when.”
“At the new moon, let Chief Mangas Coloradas and Chief Cochise come. Bring as many of your people as want to accompany them. We shall have a great feast with much food and”—he paused for effect—“firewater. Together, let us make peace.”
“I will report what you have said. We shall meet again.”
Captain Padilla turned to the other Apache woman, who had been silent throughout negotiations. “What is her name?”
Dos-teh-seh replied, “Jocita.”
He nodded to her. “Good day, señora.”
“She does not speak Spanish,” said Dos-teh-seh.
Jocita was ready to fire arrows at the least provocation, but Dos-teh-seh nodded to her, and they turned their horses around. Then they rode toward the gate, accompanied by the guard mount, to make sure no angry citizen shot them.
Captain Padilla watched them go, smiling faintly beneath his mustache. Perhaps, if I trap a good number of Apaches, President Juarez need not send extra troops, and the cause of the revolution will be advanced.
On the morning the People departed for Sunny Bear’s ranch, Chief Mangas Coloradas rode at the head of the column. “How happy I will be to see my warrior brother Sunny Bear,” he said to Cochise. “He knows much about the Nakai-yes, and when we return, Dos-teh-seh and Jocita should be back with news from Fronteras.”
“I pray that they are well,” replied Cochise, to the left of Mangas Coloradas. “They should have arrived at Fronteras by now.”
Farther back in the procession, Nana also anticipated seeing Sunny Bear, who had been his disciple. I wonder if he still has visions, the medicine man asked himself, or if his powers have gone now that he is with the Pindah people? If only he would join us, and help us fight the White Eyes.
At the rear of the procession, catching most of the dust, Beau rode beside Constanza, knowing their separation was coming. He wished he’d never comforted her that first night, but then recalled her supple flesh, the feeling of her naked breasts against his bare chest, and knew he could not withstand her, despite Rebecca, Beau, and Beth.
He glanced at her profile, and had to admit she was an outstanding example of Mexican beauty, with her aristocratic Spanish features. And even after loving her most of the night, he wanted more.
Throughout his life, Beau had entertained desires that he’d never told anybody, not even prostitutes, for fear they’d laugh at him, or call him a maniac, but Constanza had encouraged him to attempt his most perverted passions. It troubled him to know he loved her desperately, although he was married, father of two.
The worst part was he loved Rebecca equally, if not more. But women aren’t the same, and love can have many complexions, he realized. Now he understood why the caliphs of Araby had harems, but what man could withstand the intrigues of a hundred incarcerated women?
Beau felt defeated by Constanza, as if he had become her love slave. He could not believe he’d debased her and himself so thoroughly, and she had participated so wholeheartedly, she’d raised him to elevations he’d never before known.
She turned toward him, and her eyes spoke testaments about her own disreputable cravings. It frightened him to know the passions she’d unlocked in him, and wished he could be alone with her for the rest of his life. How can I leave this woman? he asked himself. And how can I not? He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer. God help me.
On the way back to Whitecliff, Clarissa heard a cracking sound, and turned in time to see the wagon collapse. The column stopped, the men climbed down from their saddles, and Pancho crawled beneath the conveyance. “The axle she’s broke,” he called out.
Blakelock turned to Clarissa. “It’s gonter be a while.”
“What do you call ‘a while,’ Mr. Blakelock?”
“A few days.”
“Why so long?”
He spat at the ground. “Thar ain’t no gen’ral store out hyar, and no blacksmith. We’re gonter haveta build a new axle from scratch, so make yerself comfortable.”
Clarissa looked around, and there wasn’t even a stream in the vicinity. How can anyone make themselves comfortable? she asked herself.
The axle took longer to fix than Blakelock had predicted, and it was more like five days. There was no main trail to the Barrington ranch, and during that interval, several miles away, they were passed by outlaws led by Steve Culhane.
Often, instead of studying, Zachary and Gloria slipped out the back door of the main house. Carrying knapsacks and pistols, they soon were in the wilderness, free to explore or play. Snakes, bears, and cougars lurked about, but they believed they could outsmart anything. They brimmed with confidence and could not imagine themselves dead.
They pretended to be Indians, and practiced scalping each other. Then they played soldiers attacking Indians. Occasionally they kissed chastely, for they loved each other and intended to marry when older.
They explored behind the white cliffs, then paused to eat pinyon nuts, which Nathanial had taught them to identify. Sometimes children annoy each other as a means of displaying affection, and this caused Zachary to throw a nut at Gloria, whereupon she picked up a rock and winged it in his direction.
It bounced off his head, and he dived at her, but she skipped out of the way, kicking his butt as he passed. So he turned and attacked her again, estimated her dodge, and landed upon her, knocking her to the ground. But she was two years older, raw-boned and hardy, and twisted to the side, throwing him off balance. He pulled her down with him, they fell against a greasewood bush nestled against a wall of the Mule Mountain Range, but instead of crashing into stone, they fell through to a cavern hidden by greasewood leaves.
Astonished, they glanced around. The cavern was as large as their house, with drawings of horses and men carved into the walls. A shaft of light could be seen, and they followed it into the back of the cave, arriving at a natural rock passageway. Overcome with curiosity, the children drew guns and advanced toward the light at its end.
Cautiously, they crawled the final yards, then peeked outside. Across a valley, carved into the side of a white palisade, was an apparently deserted old white stone building, with windows and many flat roofs. The children were dumbstruck, because it looked like a castle that had sprung from the mind of Sir Walter Scott, and planted halfway up the side of the cliff.
They walked cautiously into the valley, holding their guns in their right hands. Upon closer inspection, the castle was a conglomeration of block-like flat-roofed dwellings stacked together, with rectangular windows and an outdoor firepit. But nothing moved, no footprints could be seen, and the grass grew high in the meadow.
“Must’ve been old-time Injuns,” said Zachary. “They probably climbed up there on ladders, then pulled them in when attacked. I wonder what happened to them?”
“All we need is a pole and we could shinny up. Next time bring an ax.”
“Dad will love this place,” said Zachary. “But he’s been acting loco lately, wearing his cougar cape and all.”
“That’s ’cause he’s part Injun,” replied Gloria. “But he’ll be all right once Clarissa gets back. She knows how to manage him.”
Construction at the ranch had stopped due to lack of nails, and the cowboys spent most of their time riding the farthest boundaries of the herd, driving back cattle. Nathanial participated in this activity, and while working with Manion, a one-quarter Papago Indian, he saw riders on the horizon. His first instinct was to check weapons, and his next, to remove the spyglass from his saddlebags.
He focused on Bastrop and Grimble coming at a gallop, and they wouldn’t ride fast if there wasn’t trouble. Nathanial turned in the direction of the riders and spurred his horse. Both groups rode toward each other at a fast pace, soon they met, Bastrop pulled back his reins and smiled broadly, wearing a four-inch scar on his right cheek, won in a saloon in Santa Fe. “The blessed event has arrived,” he said, for he was a defrocked Methodist minister. “Appears the new herd is here.”
“Just when half the cowboys are gone,” replied Nathanial. “It’s not the best time, but we’ll have to make the best of it. Round up the men, and help guide the herd in. I’ll be at the ranch.”
Nathanial turned his horse in the direction of the main house, and worked the animal into a gallop. Wind whistled through the crease of Nathanial’s wide-brimmed hat, while his cougar cape floated in the air behind him.
Sometimes, speeding in the desert, Nathanial found himself thinking like an Apache, as if the holy Lifeway had taken root in his soul and was crowding out western philosophy and theology. Sometimes he believed he had cougar eyes, for he saw more clearly, and at greater distances, or so it seemed. His sense of smell also had sharpened, the fragrance of greasewood was intoxicating.
He returned to the ranch, where he found little Natalie playing with a doll in the backyard as Rosita strung wet clothing on the line. Nathanial made his way to the office and sat at his desk. Additional cattle meant more worries, and he wanted to run off with the Apaches, but he doubted Clarissa would follow him.
He loved Clarissa, but she was too conventional, in his opinion, and perhaps that’s why he often thought of Jocita, the warrior woman of the Mimbreños. Nathanial felt torn between Clarissa and his memories of Jocita, but he was an ex-officer resolved to do his duty. If I suggested running off with the Apaches, Clarissa would leave me, he believed. He wondered if he’d ever be happy, because new desires continually appeared. He wanted to be everything and visit everywhere, although he was only one person.
Rosita knocked on his door. “Here come the cowboys.”
He checked the position of his gun belt, then emerged from his office, still wearing his cougar cape. Rosita looked at him skeptically. “Why do you have that thing?” she asked. “What is wrong with you?”
He could not explain the ineffable, so continued out the front door. His cowboys rode into the yard, accompanied by three strangers, one of whom tipped his hat and smiled.
“Howdy,” he said. “My name’s Harriman, and I brung yer cattle.”
“Any trouble along the way?”
“Not yet.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from South Carolina.”
“The herd was transferred to me and the boys in Texas, and the original cowboys returned home. You got the money?”
“Sure thing, but I’ll need to see the herd first.”
“Already looked,” said Thorne, half of whose left ear had been chewed off in a saloon brawl. “I counted 183 head in pretty fair condition gen’rally.”
“That’s good enough for me,” said Nathanial. “Come with me, and I’ll pay you, Mr. Harriman.”
Nathanial led the smiling stranger into his home and down the hall to the office. “Have a seat.” Then Nathanial opened a drawer, rustled papers, and removed a check.
“What the hell’s ’at?” asked Culhane.
“I’m going to write a draft drawn on my New York bank.”
“Sorry, but I need cash.”
“The agreement was for a check. I’ve already negotiated this with the broker.”
Culhane appeared surprised. “I was told to collect hard cash on the barrelhead, and I ain’t givin’ up the herd till it’s in my hand.”
“I suggest you take this draft to the cattle broker.”
“I suggest you give me some money.” As the last word spit out of Culhane’s mouth, he drew his gun quickly, taking Nathanial by surprise. “Mister,” said Culhane, “I’ll kill you and I’ll kill yer kid—I don’t give a damn, if you don’t pay me my money down.”
Nathanial thought of making a lunge, but a bullet travels faster than a cougar’s claw. “You can kill me and everyone else, but that won’t get your money.”
“You don’t think yer a-gonna cheat me, do you?”
“There’s something fishy about you,” said Nathanial. “I think you rustled this herd—am I right?”
“Start walkin’ to whar yer kid is, otherwise I’ll shoot you whar you stand.”
Nathanial planted his feet firmly. “I’m not leading you to my daughter.”
“Okay with me,” said Culhane, aiming the pistol at the center of Nathanial’s chest.
“You’ll never get out of here alive,” said Nathanial quickly, his heartbeat increasing. “My cowboys may not be outlaws, but they’ve got a stake in this ranch, and they’re crazy sons of bitches. Mr. Harriman, or whoever you are, there’s still time to put down that gun and be on your way. Take the herd, I don’t give a damn. Or die. The choice is yours.”
Culhane paused to think over the offer, and Nathanial noticed his lack of attention. Leaping forward suddenly, he grabbed the gun barrel with one hand, the trigger pulled, and Nathanial felt the warmth of a bullet passing two inches above his head. Then Nathanial delivered a right to Culhane’s jaw, and it was a solid shot, with Nathanial’s forward motion behind it. Culhane’s head snapped back, his eyes rolled into his head, and he collapsed onto the floor.
Nathanial heard Rosita’s frightened voice in the parlor. “What ees going on!”
“Take the baby to your room, and get under the bed. Don’t come out until I say so.”
“!Dios mío!”
She picked up Natalie and ran to the bedroom as Bastrop shouted from outside, “What happened, boss?”
“I’ll be right out.”
Nathanial disarmed Culhane, grabbed the back of his shirt, dragged him out of the house, and if Culhane’s head bumped a chair along the way, Nathanial had no regrets. He continued to the yard, where his cowboys aimed pistols at Culhane’s two partners. Nathanial lifted Culhane and threw him like a rag doll in the direction of his friends. Culhane landed in a clump and didn’t move.
“What you do to him?” asked Bascombe with a frown.
“He’s got a date in court, and so do you. I am arresting you for cattle rustling, robbery, and murder.”
Bascombe wrinkled his nose. “Who the hell’re you to arrest anybody? You ain’t no lawman.”
“I’m a citizen, and you’d better pray I don’t have a hanging this afternoon. What happened to the South Carolina cowboys?”
“I don’t know what in hell yer talkin’ about.”
“You kill them?”
“Yer plumb loco, mister. All we want is to git paid fer the herd.”
Nathanial turned to Manion. “Tie ’em up.”
Bascombe said, “You got no right...”
Grimble slammed him over the head with the barrel of his gun, and the rustler collapsed onto the ground.
On their way back to the ranch, Zachary and Gloria spotted riders in the distance. “It must be the cowboys,” said Zachary. “Maybe we can ride with them.” He waved his arms and shouted, “Over here—give us a ride!”
He saw three cowboys turn in his direction and was happy that he didn’t have to walk back. Even Gloria slouched along, a branch in her hand, which she used to whack the occasional stone. Scowling, she peered from beneath her cowboy hat and said, “They ain’t our cowboys.”
Zachary studied them as they approached, feeling a faint shiver of fear. “They ain’t injuns either. Wonder what they’re doing here.”
“Maybe they’re outlaws.”
“Not everybody is an outlaw, Gloria. You’re afraid of your own shadow sometimes.”
“I don’t want to have anything to do with cowboys I don’t know,” she said. “Especially out here.”
She ducked behind chaparral, leaving Zachary alone. The cowboys worked their horses into a gallop as soon as they saw her run, and Zachary was frozen by terror, then fled in a direction opposite Gloria.
“Don’t let ’em git away!” shouted one of the new cowboys.
Zachary dived inside a rosemary-mint bush, burst out the other side, and ran fast as he could. Never had he felt so frightened, but the horse and rider were gaining. His only hope was to hide in the thickets, so he covered himself with leaves and lay still.
“He’s somewhar in hyar!” shouted a voice nearby.
“I see his tracks,” said the other.
Zachary had to get moving, but he knew it was futile, there was no place to hide, and he prayed a hole would open miraculously in the ground.
“Thar he goes agin’!” shouted the cowboy.
Zachary heard hoofbeats behind him, then panic came on. He wanted to drop to his knees and cry, but all he could do was reach for his Colt, turn around, and make his last stand. Before he could thumb back the hammer, a lasso dropped over his head. He was pulled off his feet, the gun fired, and he was dragged about twenty yards through the chaparral. Finally, bruised and scratched, he came to a halt, then was roughly jerked to his feet by a black-bearded man with breath like horse manure. “What’s yer name, l’il feller?”
“Zachary Barrington, and you’d better let me go. My father is a former army officer, and he’s the wrong man to make mad.”
Dunphy grinned. “He can git mad all he wants. Hell, I’m a-gonna kill ’im anyways.”
Culhane was struck in the face with a bucket of cold water, opened his eyes, and found himself tied to the corral, alongside his two partners Bascombe and Curry, under the guns of Barrington’s cowboys.
“How many men do you have?” asked Nathanial.
“You’ll be meetin’ ’em soon enough,” replied Culhane. “They’ll burn this place down around yer ears.”
“You’d better hope they don’t come around, otherwise I’ll plant a bullet in your head.”
“You got no right to treat me this way,” protested Culhane. “I’m an honest man, and all I want is my money down.”
“Let the judge decide,” said Nathanial. “Hell, I might even shoot you myself and save the cost of a trial.”
Nathanial made himself sound defiant, but had no idea how many outlaws were behind the next rise, and worst of all, didn’t know the whereabouts of Zachary and Gloria. He decided if outlaws attacked, he and his men would fight from the corral, protecting the horses. He plotted his defense like a former army officer and felt strangely comfortable doing so.
The cowboys piled furniture, bales of hay, the plow, and other bulky objects around the corral, while Culhane hung from the post, muttering and splitting blood. He was a sensitive man who had been humiliated, and tried to plot revenge, but found no hope. As a longtime outlaw, he thought his partners might desert him. He stared morosely at a piano being carried out the main house, to provide part of the barricade.
Meanwhile, Nathanial sat on the barn’s roof with his spyglass, scanning territory surrounding the ranch. Where are those damned kids? he wondered. He realized that he had been too lenient with them, but they were curious and needed to roam.
“Zachary!” he hollered at the top of his lungs. “Gloria! Come home immediately!”
His voice echoed off white cliffs, trailed along desert byways, and disappeared into gullies. He feared what might happen if the outlaws found them first, and now that he thought of it, he realized he hadn’t seen them since morning.
I’ve got to teach them discipline, he told himself. If Clarissa were here, she would have watched them for me. I should not have let her go, but I appear unable to control my family. It was easier to command a company of dragoons.
He noticed movement from the east, and focusing his spyglass, saw riders. “Here they come!” he shouted to his cowboys. “Take your positions!”
Nathanial straddled the roof as he peered at the newcomers. There were five, but then he realized some rode two to a horse. His jaw dropped with dismay, his heart beat faster, and he broke into an icy sweat. The extra riders were small, either midgets or children. His worst nightmare had come true. “They’ve got Gloria and Zachary!” he hollered. “We can’t fire at the bastards.”
Culhane’s voice rose from the corral. “You can trade ’em fer me.”
Nathanial climbed down from the roof, entered the main house, tore a sheet off his bed, tied it to the end of a broomstick, and carried it outdoors, where he raised it high and waved from side to side. Meanwhile, the outlaws rode closer with their hostages. Nathanial gave the truce flag to Grimble, who wore a hook where his left hand should be, blown off at Chapultepec. Then Nathanial peered through his spyglass again.
He could see his children more clearly, and it appeared that both had been beaten. A wave of fury swept over him, but he held himself under strict control. The rustlers stopped about two hundred yards from the corral. “Whar’s Harriman?” called one of them.
Nathanial cupped his hands around his mouth. “Your rustler friends are here, and I’ll trade them for the children!”
There was silence for several seconds, then, “No deal! We want the money!”
Culhane went red, and thick cords appeared on his throat as he screamed, “Make the trade—you stupid son of a bitch!”
The outlaws huddled for a time, then one said, “We’ll turn the kids loose, and you turn my friends free at the same time.”
Nathanial moved behind Culhane, untied the knots, and unwrapped the rope. Culhane rubbed his wrists, a wolfish grin on his face. “You ain’t seen the last of me, son of a bitch.”
“If I ever run into you again, I’ll kill you,” replied Nathanial, who then called out, “We’re ready!”
“Let ’em go!” replied the spokesman for the outlaws.
“Get walking,” said Nathanial.
Culhane paused a moment, studying Nathanial’s face. “You caught me when I wasn’t lookin’, but this game ain’t over. I’ll never ferget you as long as I live.”
“The next time you see me will be the last day of your life.” Nathanial raised his right hand. “So help me God.” Then he delivered a swift kick to the seat of Culhane’s pants. “Get moving.”
Culhane was so angry, he thought his brains might explode out his ears. “Yer gonter pay fer that.”
The outlaw spokesman shouted, “What’s the holdup!”
“He’s coming right now,” said Nathanial, who drew his gun and aimed at Culhane. “Walk.”
Culhane turned toward his outlaw friends; the children were released. They broke into a run, heading toward their father as Culhane limped onward, his joints aching from being tied to the corral. The children approached, Culhane provided his sleazy smile, but they passed without looking. Maybe I’ll chop off their heads before their daddy’s eyes, thought Culhane. Then I’ll chop his off too.
Culhane reached his outlaw friends, climbed onto a packhorse, and with one last look at the ranch, to fix the terrain in his mind, rode toward the stolen herd. The buildings receded into the distance, and his mind boiled with fantasies of kicking Nathanial Barrington in the face, or gouging out his eyes with a knife.
It was Bascombe who broke the silence. “Personally, I think we ought to forget the herd.”
“Have you ever stopped to think afore openin’ yer damned mouth?” replied Culhane sharply. “Barrington cain’t call the law, ’cause there ain’t none. He might come after us hisself, but we’ll be ready. I suspect he’s worried we’re a-gonna attack him.”
“What if he gets the army after us?”
“The army’s too far away, but if yer afraid, just get the hell away from me. I’m a-gonna hire me some good gunhands, and then I’m a-comin’ back to kill that son of a bitch Barrington, his kids, his cowboys, burn down his house, and take his cattle and horses. I done come too far to give up now.”
“I need a payday myself,” agreed Curry. “And the army can go to hell, fer all I care.”
“What about you?” Culhane asked Dunphy.
“The way I see it, if we leave this herd, we’ll just have to rustle another. There ain’t no goin’ back now, boys. We’re in too deep.”
Culhane asked for a voice vote, and they all agreed with his plan. They were the breed who’d do anything to avoid getting a job, or starting a business, and killing wasn’t difficult after a man got used to it.
“Barrington is a dead man,” said Culhane as the sun made orange and purple streaks behind jagged black pinnacles to the west. “Only he don’t know it yet.”
Dusk came to the desert, but Clarissa and her cowboys decided to press on to Whitecliff, figuring they’d arrive in another few hours. Their repaired wagon clunked and rattled behind them, and no one spoke, fatigued after a day in the saddle. Clarissa yearned for a hot bath, and perhaps a few hours on the piano. She hadn’t dared bathe since her incident with the Indian, and relations were strained between her and the men, due to her embarrassment over nakedness.
She could never tell the truth to Nathanial, because he would fire all the cowboys, and perhaps shoot a few of them, or be shot himself. As a married woman, she knew there were items she dare not tell her husband, so she and her cowboys shared a nasty little secret.
Suddenly, as if in a dream, she heard the voice of her husband: “Halt—who goes there!”
The others heard it too. “Blakelock and yer wife!” shouted the foreman.
A cheer erupted out of the night, her husband’s voice loudest among them. Then he and his cowboys advanced out of the darkness, on foot and armed with rifles, smiling happily.
Blakelock said, “What’s the hell’re you doin’ hyar?”
“Lookin’ fer rustlers!” replied Manion.
Nathanial ran to his wife, lifted her out of the saddle, and embraced her warmly. “Miss me?”
She laughed. “Why should I miss you, when I was surrounded by wonderful men?”
Nathanial was startled by her statement, and further noticed that her cowboys appeared happy. Blakelock climbed down from his horse, his black eye shrouded in the dimness. “What rustlers?”
Nathanial explained the hectic day while Clarissa hugged the children, noting both had been scratched and bumped rather severely, but they were armed, calm, ready to fight.
“Think the rustlers’ll be back?” Clarissa asked her husband.
“Yes, and there’ll be more next time.”
They formed a single column and rode back to the main ranch buildings, the wagon dragging behind, full of supplies and jugs of whiskey. Nathanial led the way, relieved that his cowboy force had increased, with Clarissa on his right and Blakelock to his left. “Well, how was the trip?” he asked his wife.
“There was a fracas at the Fort Buchanan general store,” she replied. “Every one of our men was involved, including our esteemed foreman.”
“What you saw in that general store,” replied Nathanial, “is nothing compared to what’s coming here, because those rustlers aren’t the kind who forgive and forget. Do you think she’ll make a good soldier, Blakelock?”
“I can’t say, but whenever she pulls that gun of hers, she scares the hell out of me.”
“I’ve threatened to kill all of them,” bragged Clarissa, “but we actually enjoyed many good times together, although they insulted, humiliated, and terrorized me at every opportunity, and generally made my life miserable. All things considered, next time I’ll remain at the ranch, if you don’t mind.”
The People made camp beside a spring, cooked meat, and prepared for bed. They would sleep in the open, covered only by blankets and the stars. Guards were posted, and when two riders approached out of the darkness, it was assumed they were friends. As they drew closer, it was noted that one was Chuntz, slumping in his saddle, and the other Loco, the scout who had found him.
Two warriors lowered Chuntz to the ground. He was conscious, but had lost much blood and his leg appeared infected. “Pindah cowboys,” he wheezed.
“Why didn’t you see them first?” asked Chief Man-gas Coloradas.
“I do not know,” lied Chuntz, because he couldn’t admit he’d attempted to steal a Pindah woman.
“Were they Sunny Bear’s cowboys?”
“I did not ask—it happened so fast. Where are you going?”
“To Sunny Bear’s ranch.”
Chuntz was shocked. “For what purpose?”
“To council with him.”
“But his bluecoat soldier friends visit him there!”
“We will watch for them, but first, Nana will treat you. When he is finished, you will return to the main camp, because we do not want conflict between you and Sunny Bear.”
Chuntz was carried to the fire and laid on his blanket. Then Nana mixed ground leaves with water and sacred pollen. He applied the mixture to the wound. “I am surprised at you, Chuntz,” he said. “You should not have let the Pindahs come so close.”
Chuntz drank medicine, then fell into a deep trance. He imagined the Pindah woman in the stream, moonlight illuminating her creamy flesh. I have failed again, thought Chuntz. When will I ever win?
Chuntz wasn’t the only loser in America during the summer of 1858, because near Saint Louis, working in his father-in-law’s general store, was an ex-army officer who had failed at everything, including feeding his family. Were it not for his in-laws, they all would have starved long ago.
Yet citizen Sam Grant was a West Point graduate, had served with distinction in the Mexican War, and had been stationed at Fort Vancouver in Oregon Territory, where he couldn’t bring his family. Like many officers, he’d invested in land, saloons, mines, and other businesses, but unlike them, he failed at everything, turned to drink, and finally had been thrown out of the army for inebriation on duty.
Since then he’d tried farming in Missouri, but went bust. Then he sold firewood on the sidewalks of Saint Louis, but found too much competition. He’d joined his brothers-in-law in the real-estate business, but fell short at that also. Now he was a common shopkeeper, weighing coffee and beans, cutting bolts of cloth, and measuring customers for boots.
Business was slow in the store, because everything former Captain Grant touched turned to disaster. Sometimes, sitting alone behind the counter, he thought himself a jinx. He had paraded on the plain at West Point, but then sank into poverty, mediocrity, and shame.
The store sold whiskey by the pint, and often he felt like drinking himself into a stupor, but somehow managed to restrain himself for the sake of his family. He felt worthless, stupid, demoralized, and suicidal. Sometimes, when no one could see him, he cried tears of pain and remorse.
But somehow he was unable to extinguish the ambition that had carried him through West Point and the Mexican War, and it irked him to know that former West Point classmates had become high-ranking officers, while he swept the floor of his father-in-law’s store. If only I could get another chance, he told himself one day, sitting alone behind the counter. But I’m thirty-six years old, all played out—my life is over. I had my chance and drank it away. Oh God, prayed former Captain Sam Grant. Please give me another chance, so I can make Julia and the boys proud of me. I’ll do anything to prove myself. Anything.
Dusk fell on Peterboro, New York, where Gerrit Smith, heir to a real-estate fortune, sat in the private office of his mansion. His guest was an abolitionist organizer named John Brown, recently returned from guerilla war in Kansas-Nebraska.
Smith was sixty-one, a well-fed, jolly-looking fellow, but Brown was thin and intense, with burning eyes and graying dark brown hair sticking in all directions like straw. “As we sit here,” said Brown in his preacherly voice, “Negroes are being murdered, beaten, and raped all across the South. We can expect nothing from politicians, and the time for speechifying has long past.” John Brown leaned forward, his hypnotic eyes casting their spell. “I have received reports that the slaves are ready to revolt, and all they need are guns. Mr. Smith, if you supply the money, I’ll supply the guns and deliver them to where they’re needed. We cannot wait longer for this crime against God to be ended.”
“Are you sure the slaves’re ready to rise up?” asked Gerrit Smith cautiously. “Because if you fail, it will be a terrible setback for the movement.”
“We shall not fail,” replied John Brown with the certainty of the true believer.
“Whatever happens, I don’t want my name brought into it.”
“The fewer people who know our plans, the better,” agreed John Brown.
Gerrit Smith opened a drawer of his desk, took out the strongbox, counted five hundred dollars, and passed the money to John Brown. “Good luck.”
John Brown scooped the coins into his pocket “Hallelujah—praise the Lord,” he replied. “For His children will be emancipated, and justice shall prevail upon this wicked land.”
Business completed, John Brown arose, shook Gerrit Smith’s hand, then departed on his holy rounds, to remove the heel of Satan from the throat of America. Traversing the bucolic streets of Peterboro, John Brown reflected upon Smith’s concerns. Even if I fail, I succeed, he knew. Freedom belongs to those who are willing to die for it.
It seemed as if golden effulgence surrounded John Brown as he walked among the row houses, hearing choirs of angels calling his name.