Desert hawks, p.25
Desert Hawks, page 25
“What are you doing here?” was all she could say.
“I need to buy ammunition.”
She picked up the Colt Dragoon. “I am about to get this. Is yours the same?”
He picked up the gun and turned it in his hands. “No, this is the latest Colt, and it's supposed to be better than mine. I'd say you couldn't go wrong with it.”
“Mr. Cratchett said he'd teach me how to use it.”
“I'm sure he has better things to do, but I don't. I'll teach you if you like. We can ride a short ways out of town and I'll give you some target practice. How about Saturday afternoon?”
Cratchett coldly accepted her money. The first looie had stolen the Mexican woman when she was practically in his grasp.
Nathanial checked out the gun, to make sure it wasn't damaged merchandise. He snapped out the chamber, spun the cylinders, thumbed back the hammer, and squeezed the trigger. Click. "Music to my ears,” said Nathanial.
“By the way, I am taking your advice and going into the saloon business. In fact, I am on my way to talk with somebody who knows how to make mescal.”
“I'll walk with you, if you don't mind.”
She strapped on her gunbelt, dropped the new Colt into the holster, and covered everything with her serape. A heavy weight lay against her leg, and she realized that she felt happy. If I were a soldier, this is the kind of officer I'd want, she figured. He looks so strong.
He packed his purchases into his saddlebags, chucked them over his shoulder, and opened the door. They stepped onto the busy street, and he took the outside position to protect her from muck flying off wheels and horse's hooves.
“There's something I want to tell you,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “I didn't want to say it in front of the gunsmith, but if you seriously want to go into the saloon business, you should think about whiskey, not mescal, because Americans prefer whiskey.”
“Do you know how to make it?”
“It's a skill I've never learned, but I'm sure there's a soldier in camp who knows how to do it. I'll see if I can find somebody, but do you think you can manage the kind of people who go to saloons?”
“That's what I bought the gun for, but why would anyone want to harm me?”
“For the money in the cash box.”
“I will give them the cash box, but I will not hesitate to shoot if necessary. Nobody is going to make a poor woman of me.”
He glanced at the position of the sun. “I've got to get back to the camp. See you on Saturday?”
Maria Dolores was tempted to watch him walk away, but if he caught her, it would tell him of an interest that she didn't want to reveal, yet. A man like that must have many girlfriends, she speculated. How strange that we have met again. She recalled her Catholic dreams, and felt an uncanny link with Lieutenant Barrington. Can this be the man I have been waiting for? she wondered.
She returned to the vacant store her father had rented. Chunks of adobe were missing from the ceiling and walls, the windowsill was crooked, and a few floorboards were missing in action, but she tried to see the possibilities.
She plotted where to place the bar and tables. An outhouse would have to be constructed in back, and she'd need a big tub to wash all the glasses, or maybe she could have tin cups to cut down the inevitable breakage. She had no idea what to call the saloon, but it would have to be an English name.
She knew that Americans were the growing population in Santa Fe, and she definitely had to appeal to them if she wanted the business to be successful. I'll even hang an American flag on the wall, and maybe I can find a picture of an old moth-eaten American general to hang behind the bar. And I can nail some crossed American swords to the opposite wall. If a Mexican woman expects to prosper hi Santa Fe, she must be flexible in her politics, she told herself.
The saloon materialized in her imagination, and she saw it full of happy Americans drinking and falling all over themselves as she raked in the cabbage behind the bar. There would be the occasional shooting, but she didn't care so long as no one shot her. Fist and knife fights could be expected, but she'd keep her distance and wait patiently until they ended. If I behave like a lady, I'm sure they'll treat me like one, she hoped.
The door opened, then her strange Mexican-Jewish father appeared in one of his dark suits, his sombrero crooked atop his head. “I have spoken to several friends,” he said, “and they have all discouraged me from the cantina business. It is more trouble than it is worth, according to them. I think we should go ahead with our plans for a store. Perhaps this time we can sell fresh baked goods.”
She placed her hands on her hips and blew a strand of hair out of her eye. “There are plenty of places to buy bread, but the men of Santa Fe need somewhere to relax, and this saloon will be their second home. We are going to have the prettiest girls in town serving the best whiskey and food available.”
“But we do not know anything about those things!” he protested.
“We will learn, but we do not have time to waste. Let us go to the lumber yard.”
“I am afraid we will lose our shirts.”
“It will not be the first time,” she reminded him.
He elongated his neck and looked like a giraffe with a mustache. “Are you defying me, young lady?”
She leaned forward and peered into his eyes. “Yes.”
Nathanial found Sergeant Duffy on the parade ground, leading the company in close order drill. “Halt!” the sergeant bellowed as he saw his commanding officer approach. “At ease!” Then he turned toward Nathanial and saluted. “They're doin’ just fine, sir.”
Nathanial glanced around, to make sure no officer was listening. “Sergeant Duffy, is there any man in this company who might know how to make whiskey? And I'm talking about the good stuff, not the usual rotgut variety.”
Sergeant Duffy didn't have to think long. “That's Private Warfield, sir. He's from Tennessee, where they make the best sour mash whiskey in the world.”
Nathanial scratched his cheek as a big bald eagle flew over the parade ground. “Would you tell Private Warfield that I'd like to speak with him?”
The recently appointed civil and military governor of New Mexico was Colonel John Macrae Washington, a distant descendant of George Washington and a graduate of West Point, 1817. He'd served under General Winfield Scott during the removal of the Cherokees, and helped pacify the Maine-New Brunswick border dispute in 1839, but his crowning achievement was at Buena Vista, where his artillery battery had helped hold the critical La Angostura heights against repeated assaults from Santa Anna's army, thus saving the day for Old Rough and Ready.
Now Colonel Washington commanded one thousand soldiers scattered throughout New Mexico. His mission was to protect the citizens from Indians, and prevent Indians from raiding into Mexico. Unfortunately, he lacked the resources to accomplish these objectives.
A day seldom passed when a herd of sheep wasn't stolen, a village burned to the ground, or miners slaughtered indiscriminately. Colonel Washington could contend with an enemy he could see, but Apaches disappeared into the mountains after finishing their bloody work, and no one knew how to catch them.
All he could do was hope the federal government would send more troops to New Mexico, and methodically root out every Apache from the lost canyons and hidden gorges of the territory. We've got to take the initiative against them, he told himself, and demonstrate that they can't steal and kill whenever they feel like it. The time has come to get tough with these savages. It's the only language they understand.
High in the Pinos Altos Mountains, the di-yin medicine man sang:
"The home of the long-life dwelling ceremony
Is the home of White Painted Woman
Of long life the home of White Painted Woman is made
For Killer of enemies has made it so
Killer of enemies has made it so"
The di-yin's voice pierced the silence as the People gathered around. A maiden in a new deerskin dress was brought forward, and her name was Morning Cloud. This was the greatest moment of her life, because she would become White Painted Woman for four full days.
It was the Nah-ih-es puberty ceremony, the most sacred and important liturgy of the Apaches. Masked dancers cavorted in the background, portraying the mountain spirits, while the di-yin continued his song before the assembled clan.
Chief Mangus Coloradas graced the ceremony with his attendance, because Morning Cloud was a granddaughter of one of his brothers. The girl had been covered with sacred pollen, and stood in front of her new ceremonial wickiup especially constructed for the occasion. She had been bathed and then clothed in a special dress dyed yellow and decorated with beads, studs, drawings of the crescent moon, morning star, rainbows, and sunbeams.
The ceremony, celebrating her first menstruation, had been organized by her parents at great expense. Her attendant was an old woman with magical powers, who escorted the candidate to the southeast of the structure, where the skin of a four-year-old black-tailed deer lay on the ground. The girl knelt upon the skin, while the attendant placed before her a coiled tray made of the unicorn plant, and covered with bags of sacred pollen, an elf-hoof rattle, a bundle of grama grass, and an eagle feather.
The attendant offered pollen to the four sacred directions, then painted a line of pollen across the bridge of Morning Cloud's nose. Morning Cloud reciprocated by marking her attendant the same way, then a line of children accompanied by their mothers lined up to the south of Morning Cloud, who proceeded to paint them with pollen, insuring long lives and freedom from illness.
Morning Cloud lay facedown on the buckskin as dancers leapt over her and the singer continued his mournful wail. The attendant administered a deep muscle massage, so that Morning Cloud would have a good disposition and be kind to others for the rest of her life.
"May this girl be good in morals
May she grow up, live long,
and be a fine woman.”
Mangus Coloradas bowed his head to his niece, for he believed with the others that she was becoming White Painted Woman incarnate. The girl arose after the massage, and the attendant outlined four prints in pollen. Morning Cloud stepped into them, right foot first. Then the attendant pushed her, and the girl trotted clockwise around the basket. She picked up the buckskin and shook it to each direction clockwise, beginning with the south, to banish any disease that might afflict her womanhood.
Dancers pranced gleefully, shaking their fantastical headdresses, as the girl's family brought baskets of fruit and nuts, which they dumped onto the black deerskin rug. A great rush ensued as members of the clan advanced to accept the presents, and thus the great feast began, celebrating the fructuous power of the universe.
White Painted Woman retired to her sacred bower as members of the tribe filed past her to receive her blessing. The little goddess felt herself pulsating with golden pollen light, so overwhelmed was she by the significance of the ceremony. Famous warriors and virtuous women bowed before her as she performed the ancient blessing over their heads. Her eyes widened with the solemnity of the occasion as the great chief Mangus Coloradas knelt before her and closed his eyes. “I absolve you from all illness, great chief,” she intoned. “May your life be free from care.”
Mangus Coloradas felt drenched with fire as he backed away from White Painted Woman. Only yesterday she'd been another child beneath his feet, but today she carried the power of Yusn in her tiny body. The chief clasped his hands together as the singer continued the hymn.
"In the middle of Holy Mountain
In the middle of its body stands a hut
built by the mountain spirits
brilliant lightning illuminates the shadows
as White Painted Woman lives among us
purifying us with her blessing.”
Camp Marcy's officers assembled in Major Harding's office, and Nathanial sat on a wooden chair in the back row. The major stood behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back.
“Due to increased Apache marauding,” the major began, “Colonel Washington has decided that it's time to take the field. A skeleton force will be left here, and everybody else will be divided into ten detachments, which will sweep the territory beginning tomorrow morning and search for Apache raiders. If you find any trace of the devils, you are to pursue vigorously and kill or capture as many as possible. Let me remind you, gentlemen, that you're here to halt the depredations of Indians, and your vacation is over. Besides, I think it's time we avenged the death of Captain Grimes, don't you?”
The bar consisted of a two-by-ten-inch plank resting atop three empty barrels. Maria Dolores had bought a few mismatched tables and creaky chairs. No crossed cavalry swords adorned the wall, and the washtub leaked. Maria Dolores's money hadn't stretched as far as she'd anticipated.
Her father paced back and forth in the light of two candles burning on the shelf behind the bar. “This is the most idiotic thing I have ever done,” he complained. “The moment you open those doors, those gringo soldiers will tear this place apart, and that will be the end of us.”
“I wish you would stop worrying so much,” she said. “Cannot you be optimistic for once in your life?”
“Optimistic about what?”
She left him sputtering by the stove, where he tested his cooking skills. They'd bought two cast-iron frying pans, a side of beef, a bag of potatoes, and some flour. She entered the back room, where the dragoon named Warfield was brewing whiskey. He'd been plucked from obscurity by Nathanial, and sent to teach Maria Dolores how to make fine Tennessee whiskey.
Maria Dolores frowned at the network of brass piping, kettles, and barrels atop her second stove. A pile of wood decorated the backyard, and she estimated that fuel would become a major expense in the days to come.
Her office was a corner of the back room, just a few feet from the still, and consisted of another plank suspended over two barrels, with no wall for privacy. She sat and studied the ledgers once more, as Warfield fiddled with the still. If her saloon didn't break even in a month, she imagined herself destitute on the streets of Santa Fe, sleeping outdoors beneath eaves, begging for crusts of bread, or selling her body to the highest bidder.
She rubbed her tired eyes with her knuckles. At least they wouldn't have to pay hotel bills anymore, because the saloon had become their bedroom, living room, and source of sustenance. Somehow their establishment would have to attract customers from all the others in town. And she couldn't hire waitresses, because she didn't have money to pay them.
She wondered if she were losing her mind, and maybe her father was right. The door to the back room opened, and she was gratified to see Lieutenant Nathanial Barrington. Then Warfield startled her by jumping to his feet and saluting him. Nathanial grinned at him. “How's the whiskey coming?”
Private Warfield pointed proudly to the steaming kettle. “You give me another two days, and you'll be drinking the best aged Tennessee whiskey you ever tasted in yer life.”
“Unfortunately, you're not going to have two days. We're going on a scout first thing in the morning. So you'll have to make sure Maria Dolores knows how to operate that damned thing.”
“But . . .”
Nathanial ignored him, turning instead toward Maria Dolores. “Can we have a talk . . . alone?”
He opened the back door, where clouds cast a pall over the alley. “I'm afraid I can't teach you how to shoot on Saturday,” he said as they headed for the street. “But I don't think you have anything to worry about. You give the men a good pour and act glad to see ‘em, and you won't have any trouble.”
“But why will they come to my place instead of another saloon?”
“Because their first drink will be free, and the men remaining behind at Camp Marcy will spread the word. Also, you need a sign. Have you figured out what to name the place?”
“I was hoping you could tell me a name, since you understand these matters better than I.”
“Saloons all have the same kind of dumb names, the more pretentious, the better. How about the Silver Palace? And underneath it you should write BEST WHISKEY IN TOWN. That way everyone can see that they won't be getting the usual mescal.”
“You seem to know a lot about saloons.”
“I wonder why,” he replied with an amused smile. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a roll of paper money. “I should be back in about a month, but if something happens to me, consider it a gift.”
They gazed into each other's eyes as Santa Fe's night denizens, most of them male, passed on the sidewalk. She examined Nathanial's tanned cheekbones, and it was hard to imagine a buzzard gnawing on his nose. “Please take care of yourself,” she said.
He shrugged nonchalantly. “I probably won't see any Apaches, but it looks like it's going to rain.”
She placed her palm against his stubbled cheek. “Don't be a hero.”
He placed his hand on hers, and a jag of electricity passed between them. “I'll be careful.”
It seemed the most normal act as he drew her closer. This was not a slim woman like Layne Satterfield, or even a healthy but short one such as Rebecca Harding, but a big tawny Mexican woman, and he felt enlivened as her ample bosom crushed into his tunic. Their lips touched lightly, and then suddenly the enormity of their act struck them; both drew back at the same time.
The sidewalk lizards watched jealously as the young lovers cut into an alley.
A dragoon turned to his bunkie and said, “Wasn't that Lieutenant Barrington?”
“Looks like he's a-havin’ better luck than us.”
Other soldiers had taken note of the romantic interlude, for romance was the principle frustration of their virile lives. Meanwhile, Nathanial and Maria Dolores circled back toward the Silver Palace Saloon. “You're not going to believe this,” she admitted, “but I have dreamed about you before I ever saw you.”
“You're the mirror of myself,” he replied. “Perhaps we are meant for each other.”
