Desert Hawks, page 6
He turned toward the open desert and observed trees, bushes, and clumps of cactus. Nothing moved, the scene was serene and beautiful, but then he heard a sound like the twang of an Apache bow. Next thing he knew, an arrow pierced his gullet and pinned him against the wall of a building. He tried to scream, but a hand closed over his mouth, and his jugular was sliced open. Blood gushed out as the warrior named Lucero lowered the Mexican gently to the ground.
The other warriors advanced out of the night, led by the great chief Mangus Coloradas, who had shot the first arrow. The guard was dead, his partner had been dispatched previously, and now the town was wide open. Without a word, the warriors readied their bows, lances, war clubs, and knives. Then they spread out and silently melted into the shadows.
Mangus Coloradas crept through a window, slithered to a door, turned the latch slowly, and saw two figures lying in bed. He arose beside them, recalled the massacre at the Santa Rita mine, and plunged the iron point of his lance into the heart of the sleeping Mexican man.
The victim didn't know what hit him, but his wife awoke with a start. She was old, toothless, shrieking at the top of her lungs, and Mangus Coloradas finished her without a moment's hesitation. A rifle leaned against the wall next to the bed, and Mangus Coloradas picked it up. He was surprised to see that it was a new model, like the American soldiers carried.
Mangus Coloradas didn't know how to load it, but slung it barrel down over his shoulder, padded to the door, and looked down the corridor. Screaming, shots, and tumultuous panic could be heard from other parts of town. He peered out a window and saw a villager with a rifle tiptoeing down an alley. Mangus Coloradas raised his bow, pulled the deer sinew string, and the arrow pierced the Mexican's chest, shot out his back, and the Mexican dropped before he could utter a sound.
It didn't take long for the People to silence the adult males and older females. Then they herded terrorized children, one young woman, and a roly-poly medicine padre in a brown robe into the tiny square in front of the church.
The medicine padre dropped to his knees before Mangus Coloradas, bowed his head, and clasped his hands together. “I cannot prevent you from killing me, but please, for the sake of whatever god you believe in, spare the children.”
Mangus Coloradas had picked up some Spanish words due to his relations with the Mexicans over the years. “If your god is so powerful, Brown Robe, why does not he save the children?”
“Because only you can make that decision, great chief. If you kill them, their blood will be on your hands, and your soul will be in mortal danger.”
Mangus Coloradas cast a significant glance at his warriors, and two of them grabbed the medicine padre by his arms. They dragged him to a cottonwood tree, then a warrior tore off the brown robe, revealing folds of fat and no underwear. Another warrior threw a rope over a branch, while a third tied the end of the rope to the priest's ankles. The priest didn't struggle, his eyes closed, and his lips moving frantically in prayer as they strung him up head down.
The children begged for their padre's life as the warriors gathered twigs and branches beneath the padre's shaved head. Victorio brought a match, scratched it on the rock, and made the fire.
“No!” shrieked the woman captive—her name was Elena Galindez—but a warrior batted her in the mouth, knocking her cold. Crazed with horror, the children screamed at the tops of their lungs as the padre struggled frantically, for the flames were licking his shiny pate.
The corner of Mangus Coloradas's mouth turned down as he watched the padre's head turn purple. The chief comprehended the cruelty of his act, but it was no worse than the massacre at the Santa Rita Copper Mines, which had come first, only to be followed by countless other outrages against the People.
The medicine padre became still as the sickening odor of charred flesh filled the air. Meanwhile, the warriors loaded weapons, clothes, jewelry, utensils, and firewater onto wagons, while other herded together horses and cattle. The red ball of sun cleared the horizon as the warriors torched the town. Singing victory songs, they climbed onto their mounts, carrying their blubbering captives with them.
Riding solo, the great chief Mangus Coloradas led his warriors onto the open sage as flames enveloped the town and the medicine padre swung in the light evening breeze.
FOUR
“Breakfast is served, sir.”
Shirley Rooney's footsteps padded down the hall as Nathanial gazed at himself in the mirror. He wore a dark blue vested suit, white shirt, and dark green cravat. It felt good to be home, instead of living in a tent with lice and fleas. Yet, in the mirror, he saw a scarred young man with haunted eyes. Gripping his cane, he headed for the dining room, with needles of pain shooting through his left leg.
He descended the spiral staircase laboriously, made his way across the parlor, and entered the dining room. Jeffrey jumped to his feet as soon as he saw his big brother, but then paused at the sight of the cane, scar, and halting step. The color drained from Jeffrey's cheeks, and the boy didn't know what to say.
Nathanial ran his fingers through his brother's hair. “I hear you've been fighting at school.”
“I didn't start it,” Jeffrey said defiantly.
It gave Nathanial satisfaction to know that his brother was a fighter. “The main thing is that you finished it.”
His mother became livid. “How can you say such a thing to the boy? You're just encouraging his worst instincts!”
“A man has to defend himself, although I haven't been doing such a good job for myself lately.”
He sat and served himself from the platter of fried eggs, sausages, and biscuits. Shirley filled his cup with coffee, and he savored the aroma, so different from the muck they'd drunk in the field. Meanwhile, Jeffrey stared at him with unalloyed hero worship.
Nathanial could perceive how impressive the fighting officer would appear to a young male, but Nathanial felt like an imposter, because he'd only been in one brief action and hadn't really lasted that long.
“Does it hurt much?” Jeffrey asked.
“No,” lied Nathanial. “What are your plans this afternoon?”
Jeffrey made a face. “I'm going to a birthday party, but perhaps I can say I'm sick.”
“You shouldn't tell lies,” Nathanial admonished him, “because a man's word should be his bond.”
“But everybody else lies,” replied Jeffrey with a pout.
“If everybody jumped off Battery Park, does that mean you have to?”
“But even Mother lies!”
Mrs. Barrington stiffened in her chair. “That's not true,” she said. “It's just that I have my own version.”
“Perhaps Jeffrey and I could take a walk after breakfast,” said Nathanial. “I'm sure that we two men have a lot to talk about.”
Jeffrey appeared speechless, but his mother said, “Just remember that he's still a boy.”
“Don't worry, Mother. I won't bring him to a tavern or any place like that.”
“Children grow up too fast these days,” she complained. “They know about things that I never heard of until I was married. New York was a wonderful city, but now it's filled with the scum of the world. The sights one sees every day on the streets of this city almost beggar the imagination.”
“You should see the New Orleans slave market, Mother, and some of those frontier towns make New York look like Athens during the Age of Pericles.”
Jeffrey had stopped eating and was watching his brother's every movement with adoration. “Have you ever seen any Indians?”
“They see you, but you generally never see them.”
“What were they like—the ones that you saw?”
“They were in forts, and were either educated or corrupted by civilization, depending upon your point of view. The ones who live in the wilderness are the real Indians, but I never met any of them. They're supposed to be very brave, especially the Apaches.”
“Who are they?” asked Jeffrey.
“They live in the New Mexico Territory, and no one has ever been able to make peace with them. They don't farm or hold jobs, and evidently prefer to steal what they want. Even other Indian tribes are afraid of the Apaches, and I imagine the army'll probably have to fight them after we finish with the Mexicans.”
“Will you have to fight them, Nathanial?”
“Depends on the War Department.”
“It must be wonderful to live free like the Indians,” Jeffrey said haltingly. “Go hunting every day, instead of to school.”
“Don't romanticize Indians,” warned Nathanial. “Who is really free, the man who lives on Washington Square, near docks unloading food from all across the world, or the one who has to chase rabbits and deer for his dinner?”
“The one who chases rabbits and deer.”
“I'm not surprised to hear you say that, since I've been told that you're behaving like an Apache in school.”
Their mother said, “He always claims the big boys push him around, but why do they choose him, out of all the children?”
Jeffrey seemed genuinely puzzled. “I don't know.”
She continued, “I hope you're not being overly sensitive to remarks of the other boys. If you don't like what they're saying, just ignore them.”
“What if they hit me when I don't do what they say?”
Nathanial said, “I think it's time I spoke with your schoolmaster.”
“No, I'll speak with him,” said Amalia Barrington.
“I'll go with you,” volunteered Nathanial.
“I don't need help with schoolmasters, thank you.”
Maria Dolores could see that the Americano soldier was drunk as soon as his shadow appeared in the doorway. His forage cap was crooked, his eyes half closed, gait unsteady. He took one look around and saw a lone big-busted young Mexican woman behind the counter of the store, for her father had gone to a meeting with the alcalde.
She'd learned some English, and knew how to smile even when frightened. “I can help you, sir?”
The soldier was a Missouri volunteer, and the judge had told him to join the army or go to jail for robbery, burglary, and several other charges including attempted murder. His name was Toomey and sometimes he wished he'd gone to jail, because one thousand miles had been hell on his feet. He slouched to the counter, looked around, and said, “Bottle of mescal.”
His breath nearly took the skin from her nasal passages. She reached underneath the counter, withdrew a bottle of fermented maguey, told him the price, and he dropped American coins on the counter. She counted them carefully, not yet completely familiar with American currency, as he pulled the cork, leaned back, and took a long swig.
He leaned at an impossible angle, and Maria Dolores felt certain that he'd fall on his head. Then, as her eyes widened with surprise, he lost his balance, his cranium crashed into the floor, and he lay still as death. She ran around the counter, took his head in her arms, and a wave of incredible body odor nearly knocked her over. But she swallowed it down, tapped the man's cheeks, and said, “Are you all right?”
He opened one eye. “Who the hell're you?”
His eye was only inches from her breast, at which he leered. She recoiled, letting his head drop to the floor. He rolled around and arose to his knees as she returned behind the counter, placing her long strong fingers on the flintlock pistol on the shelf.
The gringo soldier ascended unsteadily to his feet, then leaned toward her. “You ain't bad-lookin’ fer a greaser woman. How much?”
“For what?” she replied.
“You.”
“I am not for sale, sir.”
He shrugged. “I don't want to buy yer li'l ass. I jest want to rent it fer a while.” He slogged toward the counter and pulled out some coins. “This enough?”
“Not all Mexican girls are prostitutes,” she told him coolly.
“You must be the first who ain't.”
“Perhaps you are too drunk to notice.”
The crooked smile vanished from his face. “You think yer too good fer an American soldier?”
She pulled the gun from beneath the counter, pointed it between his eyes, and said, “Start walking out the door.”
He appeared stupefied by the sudden turnaround, angled dumbly away, but then his hand darted up out of nowhere and grabbed her wrist, while his other hand clasped her throat and pinned her to the wall. “You'll have to git up pretty early in the mornin’ to fool old Jed Toomey,” he spat into her face. “Yer just another Mexican whore and now it's time to show me what you got.” He reached into the collar of her dress and was about to tear it off when a voice came from the door. “What the hell's going on in here!”
A fearful expression came over Toomey's face as he drew himself to attention. An American officer with gold shoulder straps and white belt entered the store, his scowl framed by dark brown side-whiskers. “Are you all right, senorita?”
She rubbed her sore neck. “I think so.”
The officer spun around and punched Toomey in the mouth. The force of the blow lifted the errant soldier off his feet and propelled him across the room, where he crashed into the wall, slid down, and lay in a heap on the floor.
The officer removed his forage cap and bowed slightly. “I am Lieutenant Beauregard Hargreaves, First Dragoons, and I apologize for the behavior of that pig lying over there.”
Maria Dolores noticed the officer's tanned complexion and cordial smile. “Thank you,” she stuttered. “If you had not arrived, I do not know what might have happened.”
“I do, and we would've had to hang him. Unfortunately, ma'am, armies don't always attract the best people, but even I draw the line somewhere.”
The soldier lay still as death, his lips pulped. The officer pushed back the brim of his hat, leaned his elbow on the bar, and said, “I'm looking for a pair of boots, because the ones I'm wearing are all beat to hell. What've you got?”
“Boots are handmade, sir. I will have to take your measure. Will you sit?”
Beau dropped onto a chair and laboriously pulled off his knee-high cavalry boots, while she fetched pencil and paper. He'd been dispatched north with a message for General Kearny, then managed to get himself transferred. Now he commanded a company of dragoons, instead of being an aide-de-camp.
She knelt in front of him, he placed his left foot on the paper, and she traced his pattern, feeling his man's eyes upon her. He seemed a different species compared to the other one lying out cold on the floor.
“I guess it's not easy for you to live in your own conquered country,” he said softly.
“That is corriente.”
“If I were you, I'd move to Santa Fe. It's much safer than this little place. We're setting up a permanent camp there, and the Apaches would never dare attack it. That's where I'm headed.”
“My father has often spoken of moving there,” she replied. “We used to have a ranch, but Apaches took the land.”
“We'll take care of those savages—don't worry. A lot of soldiers are coming to New Mexico, and soon you'll be able to go home again.”
She raised a skeptical eye. “For nearly three hundred years the Conquistadors and then the Mexican Army have tried to ‘take care’ of the Apaches, as you say. But the Apaches are still here.”
“They haven't faced the U.S. dragoons yet.”
A tall man with gray mustaches appeared in the doorway. He looked first at the soldier stirring on the floor, then the American officer, and finally his daughter. “What has happened?” asked Diego Carbajal.
“One of my men was bothering this woman, but I took care of him. I apologize on behalf of the United States Government.”
Diego was clearly embarrassed. “I should not have left her alone.”
Toomey picked himself up off the floor, tried to speak, but his jaw was broken. Beau darted forward and kicked the soldier through the door. “Wait for me at my tent—Private Toomey!”
The soldier stumbled away as Beau turned toward Diego. They were about the same height, but Beau had more massive shoulders, a barrel chest, and more muscle, not to mention youth. Diego knew that the Americano could defeat him in a fight, and the notion dispirited him. “Thank you for helping my daughter,” he said coolly.
“Anytime.”
Maria Dolores tried to hate the officer as he headed for the door. He represented the arrogance of America, and the belief that they could accomplish anything. But he'd probably saved her life, and if that wasn't enough, he was a customer.
“I detest them,” Diego hissed when the officer was out of earshot. “I wish I never had to look at another Americano.”
“He said he is going to get rid of the Apaches.”
They looked seriously at each other, then burst into laughter and hugged in the middle of the floor. “The gringos are funny,” he said, “because they do not know how stupid they are.”
“He said we should move to Santa Fe, because the army is going to build a camp there.”
“So I have heard. Would you like to go to Santa Fe, my dear?”
“Well, Las Vegas is not much of a place.”
“You deserve better than this, my dearest child.” He touched her cheek tenderly. “That man did not hurt you, did he?”
“Scared me more than anything else, and it is a good thing the officer came along. But it will never happen again.” She raised the gun and aimed at the wall. “There is no point in having one of these if you are afraid to use it.”
Nathanial limped past tall masted ships lined up on the East River docks. The scents of brine and pitch filled the air. Wagons delivered stores or carried away cargoes, sailors shouted from the rigging of ships, and sidewalk vendors hawked their wares as the inevitable gangs of urchins lurked about.
It was ten o'clock in the morning at America's busiest port, and Nathanial stopped to rest before a sturdy four-story brick building. The sign above the door said:
BARRINGTON SHIPPING
No Cargo Too Large or Too Small
