Ghost Moon (5 page)
“I don't want no shooting unless they shoot first.” Brewer is addressing everyone, but he's looking at Bill. We're scattered through some scrub trees on both sides of the trail about a half mile past where the two forks rejoin. “We'll take them in for trial.”
Bill snorts derisively but says nothing. Tensions are mounting. Waiting in ambush is much harder than riding along the trail, and like Brewer, I'm nervous about what Bill will do when we catch Morton and Baker.
“Here they come,” the whispered message is passed among us. We all shrink back farther in among the trees. Two men are riding slowly along the trail, frequently glancing back the way they have come. I don't know if it's Morton and Baker, but I sense Bill tense beside me.
As the riders draw level, Bill spurs his horse and bursts onto the trail in front of them. Both men immediately turn, but the other Regulators are emerging from the trees and there's no escape. One of the men is large and stockily built, the other is tall but skinny. Both are dressed in work clothes and covered with dust from the trail.
“Hello, Bill,” the big man says. He appears calm, but his companion is terrified, blinking rapidly and looking around the armed men surrounding him. “What brings you out here?”
“You do, Billy Morton.” Bill's voice is quiet, but he has everyone's attention. Several of the men have drawn their weapons, but Bill's Colt Thunderer is still in the holster at his waist. “You and your little sneak friend, Frank Baker.”
“Why would that be?” Morton asks. The man's a murderer, but I can't help but admire his coolness.
“We seen you, Morton. Seen you shoot John Tunstall in the chest as he rode up to surrender to you. And we seen you too, Baker.” The skinny man flinches as if physically struck when Bill shifts his gaze onto him.
“What d'you aim to do with us?” Morton asks.
“Take you in to stand trial for murder,” Brewer says, pushing his way forward. “We're legal deputies, sworn in by Justice Wilson, and we've got legal warrants for your arrest. You as well, Frank.”
“Well, now, here's an interesting situation.” Morton is smirking confidently. “You boys are deputies sworn in by âSquire' Wilson, and me and Frank are deputies sworn in by Sheriff Brady. Seems we'd be as likely to arrest you.”
“Except there's nine of us and only two of you,” Brewer points out.
“Well, now,” Morton acknowledges, “you do have a point there. I reckon we'll just come along peacefully.” He holds his hands out in front of him, wrists together.
Bill moves forward, reaching for the rope looped around his saddle horn. Everyone relaxes. Morton is smiling, and the tension is draining out of the situation. I watch Bill, but not the left hand that is lifting the rope. I watch Bill's right hand, and that's why I see what the others don't. His hand is edging toward his gun.
A sick feeling knots my stomach. I urge Coronado forward and yell, “Bill! No!” I'm too slow. With a movement as fast and smooth as a snake striking, Bill slides his gun out of its holster, points it at Morton's head and fires.
The big man has an instant of looking surprised, as the .41 caliber bullet smashes into his temple, tears through his brain and explodes out the back of his head in a spray of blood.
Everything happens in slow motion. Heads turn to watch Morton slide out of the saddle onto the ground. Frank Baker's horse shies in fear as Bill swings his Colt around toward its rider. I grab my friend's arm. Bill's second shot flies wildly past the terrified Baker. Then I have the gun, and Brewer has positioned himself between Bill and Baker. “That's enough,” he says. Bill doesn't struggle for his gun but sits calmly in the saddle, staring at Frank Baker over Brewer's shoulder.
“Don't let him shoot me,” Baker pleads.
“No one's going to get shot,” Brewer says.
“You're a dead man still breathing,” Bill says in an emotionless voice that sends chills through everyone who hears it.
“Oh, God,” Baker whimpers. He looks as if he's about to fall off his horse. “Don't let him kill me. I don't want to die.” He reaches forward and tugs at Brewer's sleeve. “I know something. You protect me and I'll tell you.”
Brewer turns to face Baker.
“You tell me or I'll shoot you myself.”
“Okay. Okay. Listen. This were a trap. You were meant to follow us into the canyon. There's an ambush there.” The words are spilling out of Baker like a waterfall with no space between them and barely time for breath. “The others aimed to catch you where the trail narrows.”
I hear movement behind me, but my attention is completely on Baker's frantic tale.
“How did they know we would be following you?” Brewer asks.
I suddenly realize what's going on. McCloskey set us up. Before I can say anything, I'm startled by another gunshot. Baker cartwheels backward off his horse. I turn, but already McCloskey has forced his horse past the surrounding men and is riding hard away from us. Without thinking, I raise Bill's Colt and fire. The double action is incredible. All I have to do is keep pulling the trigger. Before I realize it, I've fired four shots and the hammer clicks on an empty chamber.
Several other men are firing at McCloskey now and he slows. He makes a weak attempt to turn and fire back, but gives up and slumps forward across his horse's neck. Two men ride toward him.
“Smooth action.” I turn to see Bill looking at me. Despite all the violence, he's still sitting relaxed in his saddle. He holds out his hand. “Beats your old gun, don't it?”
I pass the empty Colt over to Bill, who slips it back into his holster. “Looks like we got one each, Jim.”
“No,” I say. “You shot Morton in cold blood. I shot a fugitive trying to escape.”
“That right? Well, whatever the details, I reckon one's as dead as the other now.” Bill's knowing smile makes me feel intensely uncomfortable.
I dismount angrily and push past Bill's horse to help
Brewer lift Frank Baker's body onto his horse. I can
convince myself that I shot in the heat of the moment,
but I can't escape the fact that I've killed another man.
What am I turning into?
“T
his is how it'll go down.” We're well on the way back to town, the three dead men strapped across their horses. We collected the bodies as quickly as we could and left before anyone who could have heard the shooting showed up. Now we are gathered around Brewer. “We arrested Morton and Baker and were bringing them in. Morton shot McCloskey and we shot him and Baker while attempting to escape.”
We all nod agreement. The story will work, as long as no one looks too closely at the wounds or asks too many questions. The group breaks up and we continue on our way. I drop to the back and ride alone, deep in thought.
I feel as if I'm losing control of my life since I met Bill and came to Lincoln County. Some very strange things happened last year while I was looking for my father, and I did some things I'm not too proud of, but I was always in control. Not that I could always influence events, but what I could do was always up to me. I had a goal, to get to Casas Grandes and find out what happened to my father, and I kept at it until my task was complete. I didn't find the answers I expected, but I did find answers.
Up here the situation is different. Other than the vague idea of getting work, I wasn't pursuing a goal when I came here. I thought I had landed on my feet when I met Bill and began work for Tunstall, but Tunstall's dead and Bill is not what he seemed. I was wracked by guilt after I killed the kid in the pork-pie hat, but death doesn't seem to bother Bill, even when he causes it. Am I becoming more like him?
“Jim, isn't it?” I'm brought out of my reverie by Brewer dropping back and falling in beside me.
“Yes,” I answer, “Jim Doolen.”
“Well, Jim,” Brewer asks, “you comfortable with what happened back there?”
I'm not sure what Brewer's getting at, but he seems like a decent man. It's him that's tried all though this to get things done the proper, legal, way.
“No,” I answer honestly. “Bill was wrong to shoot Morton like that. I can understand that he wants revenge on Tunstall's killers. And Morton and Baker, and probably McCloskey, too, deserved to pay for what they did, but shooting him like that without any trial was wrong.”
“I agree with what you say,” Brewer says. “Bill can be charming and good company, but since Tunstall's murder I've seen a different side to him, a cold calculating side that thinks nothing of shooting a man in the head without warning. You can't control a man like that. He's not bound by the same rules as the rest of us.”
I nod agreement. Bill's like two men living in the same body, a fun-loving boy and a hard-eyed killer.
“What're your plans?”
“I don't know,” I say. “I haven't thought much about it with all that's been going on.”
“I hope you'll stay on with us. McSween plans to continue with the ranch and the store, and we need good men like you.”
I'm flattered that Brewer values me, but I have a question. “What about Bill?”
“Unfortunately, as long and Dolan's hiring men like Jesse Evans and his gang, we also need men like Bill. He'll calm down now that Morton and Baker are dead,
and I can keep him in line. Will you stay on?”
“I will,” I reply. After all, I don't have anything else
to do. I just hope Brewer is right about being able to
keep Bill under control.
T
he three weeks after the killings pass uneventfully. I don't think Sheriff Brady and the others in Lincoln believed our story about how Morton, Baker and McCloskey died, but I don't think they would have believed any story we told. And, in any case, they have little choice. We were legal deputies exercising a warrant and we all tell the same version of events. I don't feel comfortable with the lies, but I bury my uneasiness in memories of how Morton, Hill, Evans and Baker executed Tunstall.
Two days after we get back to town, we hear that Hill and Evans have been shot while stealing sheep down by Tularosa. Hill's dead, and Evans is so badly wounded that he's taken refuge in Fort Stanton. Three of the four men who are most directly responsible for Tunstall's death are now dead and the fourth is unreachable in army custody. Perhaps that will satisfy Bill. Perhaps, but somehow I doubt it.
Mostly, I work on McSween's ranch and in the hills round about. And Coronado and I enjoy learning the ins and outs of running his three hundred and fifty head of cattle. I don't see much of Bill and the other Regulators. Sometimes they work on the ranch, but often they disappear for a few days. On one occasion, a Regulator returns from one of these expeditions with a bullet that needs to be dug out of his shoulder or his leg. I know they're out hunting the boys who ride with Evans and that an almost continual running battle is happening in the hills around Lincoln, but I try to ignore it.
On the morning of the last day of March, Brewer approaches me. “Got a job for you, Jim,” he says. “I want you to load the wagon up with the prime sides of beef we butchered last night and get them on up to Fort Stanton. You'll have to stop in Lincoln and pick up some dry goods from the store.” He hands me a piece of paper with a scrawled list on it. “Don't hang around. See if you can get to Stanton tonight or first thing tomorrow morning. We don't want the meat going off and spoiling the officers' dinner.”
“No problem,” I say.
“You ain't done then,” Brewer continues. “After you've unloaded, I want you to swing down to La Luz and pick up a couple of horses the army wants. They're being held at the livery stable there. The officer at Fort Stanton'll give you the bill of sale. Pick the horses up and deliver them back to Fort Stanton, and the officer'll pay you for the dry goods and the horses then. Round trip should take no more'n a week, so wait at the fort and me and some of the boys'll come up April sixth or seventh to escort you and the money back.”