Ghost Moon (14 page)

“What are you doing here?” I ask in surprise.

“I have come to fight,” he says proudly, patting a pair of antiquated flintlock pistols stuffed into his belt. “Perhaps we shall be heroes together, no? But first I must sing a
corrido
.”

Bill and the concertina player have stopped, and the old man steps forward. With no accompaniment, he begins singing in Spanish in a wavering voice.

Surprisingly, Bill joins in.

“
Atención pido a la gente,
pido por última vez,
adiós compadres amados
del finado.
Adiós compadres amados
del finado Manuel Maés.”

I struggle to follow the story. It seems to be about the death of a famous buffalo hunter called Manuel Maés. Each verse has him saying farewell to his family, friends and his life.

When he finishes, the old man bows theatrically and is rewarded with scattered applause.

“Let's have a dance,” someone shouts out, and Bill launches into a vigorous tune and someone produces a guitar and joins him. Soon, everyone is foot-tapping and several men are clumsily attempting to dance in the confined space. I slip around the edge of the crowd.

“Hello, Mr. McSween,” I say.

McSween looks up at me. He appears tired and distracted, and there are gray bags under his eyes as if he hasn't slept in several days. It takes him a moment to recognize me.

“Jim, isn't it?” he says. I nod. “Good to see you back to lend a hand. Have you met my wife, Susan?” He indicates the woman sitting beside him. She's well-dressed and wears her hair up and held in place with pins and lace ribbons.

“Pleased to meet you, ma'am,” I say. She smiles back and her face lights up. She looks me straight in the eye with a confident gaze.

“Harvey's been telling of your meeting with Peppin,” McSween says.

“We had no idea what was going on in town and rode into the middle of it,” I say. “I don't know what would have happened if Bill hadn't got Harvey and me out of it.”

McSween looks thoughtful.

“I was wrong,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

He looks up at me with his tired eyes.

“I thought there was a legal way, a civilized way, to resolve all this. But to reach a civilized solution, you have to be dealing with civilized men. Bill was right all along—the only answer to all of this will come out of a gun. Perhaps if I'd accepted that earlier, fewer good men would be dead now.”

Susan reaches over and strokes McSween comfortingly on the back. He turns to her and forces a weak smile. He looks over at Harvey.

“I'm sorry I brought you into all this.”

“It's all right, Mr. McSween. It'll all be over soon, and then we can get back to practicing law.” His words are confident, but his voice wavers with uncertainty.

“I think I have chosen well for my future partner,” McSween says, and Harvey grins so wide I think his face will split. “Enjoy yourself tonight,” McSween adds. “I have a feeling there will be business to attend to in the morning.”

I don't want to tell McSween that I'm leaving at first light, so I simply nod and move back across the room. Bill has finished playing and joins me. His face is flushed and gleams with sweat. I am still angry with him and have been around him enough now to know not to trust his charm, but I don't say anything. I don't want any trouble before I can slip away.

“There's nothing like those Mexican dance tunes for working up a sweat,” Bill says.

“How many Regulators came with you?” I ask.

“When we rode into town, about sixty, counting the Hispanics,” Bill replies. “Some have slipped away in the past few days, but there's still enough good men for what we need to do. About fifteen here and a few more over at Tunstall's store, Montano's and Ellis's places.”

“Will this end the war?”

“Sure will. But we've got to move quick tomorrow. Only a matter of time afore the army intervenes. We got to hit Evans and the rest hard, drive them out of town. Then we'll stroll over to the Dolan store and help ourselves to what we want.” Bill winks at me. “The problem's solved.”

I'm amazed that Bill seems to believe what he is saying. Has he learned nothing in the past six months? How does he imagine his thirty or so men will move at least that number of Dolan men out of their fortified positions around town? Even if they do succeed, Dolan has a lot of friends in high places with a financial stake in his contracts for the army. I doubt they will sit quietly by. But it's not my problem. Soon I'll be gone, off on the trail scouting for Lieutenant Fowler.

“I'm going to find myself somewhere to lie down,” I say. “It's been a long day and my leg bothers me.”

“Dancing's the best thing for a bad leg,” Bill says. “I reckon I'm ready for another tune.” He flashes me a sly look. “There's space down in the cellar if you want to escape the noise.”

I say my thanks, grab a lantern and find the steps down to the cellar. The room is dry and pleasantly cool, and I look around in the wavering light. Shadows dance around the piles of boxes and odds and ends. I see a dusty wardrobe and a couple of large travel trunks. There's no bed, but there is a long dining table at the far end of the room. There's stuff piled on it and covered with a blanket. It will do for the few hours' sleep I need before I can leave.

I cross the room, being careful not to trip on the uneven floor. Without looking, I haul the blanket off whatever's on the table. My cry of surprise brings gales of laughter from the stairs up to the house. There's the body of a man on the table. His eyes are open, staring
at nothing, and there's a dark blood-encrusted hole in
the side of his head.

“Say hello to Tom Cullins.” I hear Bill's voice, rich
with humor, from behind me. “Old Tom passed too
close to a window this morning. He didn't feel too much
like joining the party, so we put him down here so's he
wouldn't smell the place up too bad.”

Now I understand the look Bill gave me when he
suggested I find a place to sleep down here. He knew
I'd find the body, and he and some others followed me
down the stairs to see the reaction.

Fighting to control my temper, I push past Bill and
the others on the stairs. I find a chair as far from the
revels as I can and slump into it. I can't wait to escape
from this place.

18

T
he fusillade of gunshots wakes me instantly, and I open my eyes to a cloud of dust hanging in the gray dawn light. Without thinking, I roll off the chair, grab my revolver and scramble through to the parlor.

Men are running everywhere, falling over each other and trying to keep away from the windows. Bullets are thudding into the thick adobe walls. As I burst into the room, a bullet crashes into the wall beside my head and Bill yells, “Get down.”

I fall to the ground and crawl over to crouch beside the window. Bill is on the opposite side, peering carefully out of the corner. He is holding his Colt fully cocked.

“Army's here,” he says without taking his eyes from the street outside. “Must've got into town last night.”

“But the army's not allowed to interfere,” I say, remembering what Lieutenant Fowler told me.

“They can if someone shoots at them.”

“You shot at a soldier?” I ask, horrified.

“Not me,” Bill says casually. “One of the other fellas couple of days back. Soldier was poking around out there. Obviously Peppin sent for him, so we fired a couple of warning shots. Never come close to hitting him.” Bill lifts his revolver and fires off a couple of quick shots out the window. A fusillade of bullets thump into the wall in return. When it stops, I risk a glance into the street.

There are glimpses of men moving in the buildings across the street. There are also some on the roofs and taking cover behind wagons and horse troughs. There appear to be a lot of them, but what frightens me most is the scene at the end of the street. There's a squad of soldiers gathered around a howitzer, and it's pointed right at us.

“They've got a cannon,” I say breathlessly as I slip back down.

“They got a Gatling gun as well,” Bill says nonchalantly. “Just for show. They won't use them.”

Bill doesn't sound unduly bothered by the situation. He may even be right, but I'm not staying to find out. Keeping low, I cross the parlor and into the kitchen. Susan McSween and Harvey are in there, huddled in a corner. I open the back door.

Two things happen before I've taken two steps. I see several men untying Coronado and the Regulator horses and a bullet catches the flap of my jacket and thuds into the wall behind me. I throw myself to my right, behind a rain barrel as two more bullets whistle by. I'm breathing heavily and I can feel sweat forming on my back.

I cock my revolver and peer around the barrel. I can see a man leading a protesting Coronado away, but I don't dare shoot for fear of hitting my friend. A bullet splashes into the barrel, spraying me with water. There's no way I can get to the horses and escape, and it's equally obvious that I can't stay here. I reach over the barrel and fire off a couple of shots blind; then I throw myself back at the kitchen door and pile onto the floor.

“There's no way out,” Harvey says as I catch my breath. “We're trapped. There's nothing we can do.”

“Nonsense.” Susan McSween stands up. “There's always something we can do.”

“Get down,” Harvey yells, but Mrs. McSween ignores him. She strides through the house toward the front door. Keeping low to the ground, I follow her.

As she reaches for the door handle, Bill sticks his head out of the parlor. “What're you doing? Don't be crazy. They'll shoot you.”

Susan McSween ignores him, pulls the door open and steps out into the morning sun. Bill and I rush to the door and peer out.

Miraculously, as Mrs. McSween walks forward, holding herself straight and lifting her skirts out of the dust, the firing on both sides falls away and, finally, stops completely. Everyone watches in silence as the brave woman strides onto the street, stops and looks around. An officer I don't recognize, steps out from the army position and approaches. The pair talks for a moment, and then Mrs. McSween sets off down the street with him.

“Susan!” McSween appears in the hallway and tries to barge past Bill and me. We hold him back. Outside, his wife ignores his shouted pleas and keeps walking. Eventually, McSween gives up his struggle and sags down against the wall. “It's all gone to hell,” he mumbles miserably. “John and Dick both dead, and we'll be next.”

“Quit whining,” Bill says harshly.

“I'm sorry,” McSween mumbles, but whether he means for whining or getting us into this mess isn't clear.

“You should be sorry.” Bill's eyes have narrowed and he's leaning close to McSween's face. “If you'd had more guts after Tunstall was murdered, we could have ended this then.”

“I'm a lawyer,” McSween says, “not a gunfighter.”

“A coward is what you are.”

McSween flinches as if hit.

“That's not fair, Bill,” I say. “If anything made this mess worse, it was you and the Regulators and your blind desire for revenge.” I'm angry. Here I am once again, stuck in a situation that I had no part in creating and that I want no part of, and again, Bill's at the heart of it.

“What do you know, Canada boy,” Bill spits at me, pushing forward until his face, twisted in rage, is inches from mine. “You take no part in our fight. You got no right to say anything.”

“I've got a right,” I say. “I want no part of your killing, but it's everywhere. Whenever I turn, there's you, and then someone dies.”

“You're a coward,” he yells at me. “Just like McSween here.” Bill pushes me hard in the chest and I crash back painfully into the wall. Instinctively, I swing at him and feel pain as my fist connects with his jaw.

Bill staggers back, surprised. He raises his hand to his lip and it comes away bloody. As if by magic, his Colt is in his hand, the black muzzle pointing unwaveringly at my face. The click of the hammer cocking sounds deafening.

For an age we stand staring at each other. I've seen Bill's rage and know that if I make the slightest wrong move, I'll be dead before my body hits the floor.

“There's plenty outside to fight without us killing each other.” I see Harvey out of the corner of my eye. I keep watching Bill, praying that he won't be able to shoot someone who is looking him in the eye.

The gun barrel rises and the hammer clicks off. Suddenly, Bill is smiling broadly.

“Never thought you'd do that,” he says. “Maybe you ain't such a coward after all.”

I remain silent and Bill moves away into the parlor. I turn to Harvey. “Thanks.” He smiles shyly. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and head down to the cellar. I need somewhere quiet to think.