Ghost Moon (6 page)

“No problem,” I repeat. “Will you look after Coronado while I'm gone?”

“I'll do that,” Brewer replies. “He'll be waiting for you when you return.”

I'm looking forward to the trip. It'll be a slow, bumpy ride in the unsprung cart drawn by two mules, but I'll be on my own and I enjoy that. It'll also get me away from Bill and the Regulators for a while.

Bill's at the ranch, and he helps me load the meat.

“Go as quick as you can, Jim,” he says when I'm ready to set off. “See if you can make Fort Stanton tonight.”

“It'll be dark for sure before I get there,” I say. “What's the hurry? Brewer says tomorrow first thing is all right.”

“I got my reasons.” Anger flashes in Bill's eyes. “Don't listen to Brewer, just do what I say.”

“Okay,” I agree, knowing from experience that it doesn't pay to argue with Bill when his mood swings like this. “I'll try to make Fort Stanton tonight.”

Bill nods and his angry expression turns to a smile.

“Good lad. Things'll be different when you get back.” He slaps the rump of one of the mules and the wagon jerks forward. I concentrate on persuading the mules to pass through the ranch gate and keep to the trail, wondering what Bill means by things being different.

I set off in good time, but the going is slow and I'm held up when one of the mules throws a shoe. By the time I reach town and load the supplies, the sun is touching the western hills and thunderclouds are gathering to the north. Whatever Bill says, I'm not driving the nine miles out to the fort in the dark and a thunderstorm. I decide to bed down in the back room of Tunstall's store and set off first thing in the morning.

I have a comfortable night on a pile of blankets and flour sacks and am up at first light. I go out back into the corral to wash off the sleep in the horse trough before setting off on the trail. As I stand up, shaking the cold water off my face and out of my hair, I notice several men crouching behind the low adobe wall that runs out from the corner of the store. As I watch, a figure stands up and I recognize Bill. Curious, I cross the corral. The wall is only about four feet high, but several holes have been dug through the soft bricks.

Bill and five Regulators are sitting in the dirt, their horses hitched to the rail nearby. Each man has a rifle beside him. I have a bad feeling, but before I can retreat, Bill sees me. I expect anger that I am still in town but, as always, Bill's mood is unpredictable. “Jim,” he says cheerfully, “you come to join our little prank for April Fool's Day?”

“What prank?” I ask.

Behind Bill a Regulator hisses, “He's coming.” Immediately, all the men grab their rifles and crouch down by the holes in the wall.

I turn and look back down the street. Sheriff Brady and four of his deputies are coming along. The only ones I recognize are George Hindman and Bob Beckwith. The group is relaxed, sauntering out in the open, talking casually. I duck down beside Bill. “What's going on?”

“We got tired of riding all over them hills chasing shadows,” he says, never taking his eye from the hole in the wall in front of him. “Don't make too much sense, far as I can see, so me and some of the fellas decided to get to the root of the problem.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, although I'm beginning to suspect I know.

“Brady's the law hereabouts. Without him, we stand a chance.”

“You're planning to kill him.” I begin to stand up, with some vague idea of shouting a warning, but Bill is suddenly looking at me, his Colt in his hand. “You stay right where you are, young Jim Doolen. If you try to interfere, I swear to God I'll put a bullet through your head as easy as I did Morton's.”

I haven't the slightest doubt that Bill will do exactly that if he feels the need. I slump down against the wall, being careful to keep my hands in sight and well clear of my holster. Bill returns his attention to the hole in the wall but keeps his revolver pointed in my direction.

“Where's Brewer?” I ask. “Does he know you're doing this?”

“Dick Brewer's a good man,” Bill says out of the side of his mouth, “but he don't ride the hills with us. He ain't seen what Evans and his boys can do.

“You didn't come with us to collect Tunstall's body, but Evans had laid it out with John's overcoat as a pillow and his blanket covering him, like he was sleeping under the stars and not lying there with a hole through his head.”

“Doesn't that show some respect for the body?” I ask, even though I doubt Evans and the others are the sort to care about respect.

“They done it for a joke,” Bill says bitterly. “You see, they'd done the same to his favorite horse, pillowed its head as if it were sleeping beside John.” Bill glances at me and smiles when he sees the look of shock on my face. “You saw what Morton, Evans and the others were capable of,” he continues, turning his gaze back to the street. “Now, I don't blame them for that, but as long as they've got the law on their side, they've got an unfair advantage and they'll always do just as they please.”

“Killing Brady's not going to solve that,” I say.

“That it won't,” Bill agrees, “but it's a start. Maybe the next sheriff won't be so keen to do what Dolan tells him. Now you just sit there quiet until this's over.”

I do as I'm told. What choice to I have? When have I ever had choices since I came to this godforsaken place? I sag back against the wall, feeling the rough adobe bricks through my shirt. The sun has risen and warms my face. It's going to be a beautiful day.

A ragged volley of shots rings out in the still air. I watch Bill, his Colt now on the ground beside him, work the lever on his Winchester, sending the brass cartridges spinning away in the sunlight.

Eventually, the shooting stops and several Regulators stand up to look over the top of the wall. I join them. Brady is on his knees in the middle of the street, a cloud of dirty gray smoke from the gunfire drifting by him. He's still alive but only just. The front of his shirt is torn in three or four places and already soaked in blood. His left arm hangs twisted and useless by his side, and his right cheek is torn away and bleeding. He's swaying from side to side, his eyes drifting aimlessly around, and he's groaning, “Oh, Lord, I'm dead,” over and over. Hindman is also hit and lying on the street, attempting to crawl away. The others have taken cover across the street.

Despite his wounds, Brady is struggling to stand. Calmly, Bill works the lever of his Winchester, ejecting the empty cartridge and loading a fresh one. In one smooth motion he aims and fires. The bullet catches Brady full in the chest. He falls backward and lies still.

Bob Beckwith runs out into the open and attempts to haul Hindman to safety. Two more shots ring out and Hindman goes limp. Beckwith retreats to cover.

“We got him,” Bill yells exultantly. He drops his Winchester, grabs his pistol and vaults nimbly over the wall. He's followed by one of the Regulators, a man called Jim French. The pair stroll casually across the street toward Brady. Bill is smiling. He leans over Brady's body and says something. I can't hear and don't know if he's talking to the dead man or French.

Beckwith stands up and aims his rifle at Bill. The bullet tears a gouge in Bill's thigh and nicks French's calf. Both men shout in anger and a volley of shots is unleashed from the wall, but Beckwith has ducked back down.

Cursing and clutching his thigh, Bill hobbles back to the wall. French joins him. “Let me see the wound, Bill,” he says.

Bill waves him away. “It's only a flesh wound. Nothing but a graze. Let's get out of here.”

The Regulators collect their weapons and move to where their horses are tethered. Bill looks at me.

“You didn't give Brady a chance,” I say.

“Same chance he'd have given me,” he says. “And the next time I see Beckwith, I'll not give him a chance neither. This is how this war's playing out, Jim. There's no rules, and the winner'll be the last one standing.”

“This is no better than the gang was in New York that you told me your dad was involved in. Didn't your mother move you away so the same thing wouldn't happen to you?”

Bill frowns, and for a moment I wonder if he's going to shoot me too. Instead he smiles—a cold, mirthless expression.

“I thought you'd care more about getting even with Tunstall's murderers.”

“I do care,” I say, “but this has gone way past that. Tunstall's dead. The men who killed him are dead. This is just fighting and killing for the sake of it, and I want no part of that.”

“Suit yourself.” Bill begins to hobble toward the horses, but he stops and turns back to me. “Just remember, Jim, in a war you have to take sides. If you don't, you become the enemy of both.”

I stand and watch Bill cross the corral, struggle into the saddle and lead the Regulators out of town. As the hoofbeats die away, the only sound left is the barking of the town dogs. It seems I'm destined to be caught in the middle of this war, regardless of whether I take sides or not. Maybe I should just ride away and lead the
solitary life I did before. At least then I could make my
own decisions. First, though, I have to finish my job
for Brewer.

Feeling miserable, I cross the street to get the wagon
ready for the journey to Fort Stanton and La Luz. Brady
is lying on his side in a large pool of blood. Already a
swarm of flies is gathering in the warming air. Several
people have gathered around Brady and Hindman.
They watch me warily as I pass, but I ignore them.
I want nothing to do with either side. All I want right
now is to get on the trail and be alone and work out
how to get back control of my life.

9

“I
've brought the sides of beef and dry goods from the McSween place,” I tell a pair of guards standing casually by the road where it enters the buildings of Fort Stanton. They're Buffalo Soldiers and remind me of the column I met on the trail down to Casas Grandes.

“Wait here,” one of the men orders before he heads off to find an officer.

The other guard looks into the wagon disinterestedly and then resumes his place beside the road. I take the opportunity to look around.

Apart from the neat regimented rows of white tents covering the flat valley bottom, Fort Stanton does not look very military. In fact, it looks like a more prosperous, well-established community than Lincoln.

There are some thirty stone and wooden buildings scattered among the trees at the foot of the rolling hills beside the river. The main ones are set in a vast square around an open parade ground. Several of the buildings are two or three stories high. Many are surrounded by wide verandas and all are immaculately maintained and painted. I can see a smithy, stables, the outdoor ovens of a bakery and a hospital. A long barrack building runs down one side of the parade square, and a squad of soldiers is practicing drill at the foot of a tall flagpole. The military feel of the scene is weakened by five Apache women carrying large laundry baskets up from the river.

Farther up the valley, I can see a collection of wick-iups, outside of which several Apache men and women sit around fires. I assume they are awaiting escort down to the reservation in Tularosa Canyon.

Eventually I spot the soldier returning.

“Lieutenant Fowler says to take the wagon over to the store room.” He points to a low building across the open space. “He'll delegate some men to unload it. The Lieutenant requests that you join him in the officers' quarters yonder.” Once more he points, this time at a fine two-story stone building fronted by a wide-pillared veranda. The soldier loses interest in me and rejoins his comrade.

I urge the mules into movement and head toward the store. I'm pretty sure that Fowler was the name of the young officer I met on the way to Casas Grandes last year, and there are unlikely to be two lieutenants with the same name in such a small area. I wonder what it'll be like to meet him again. He was helpful to me, but his characterization of the Apaches as savages had jarred with my experience in meeting Wellington and Nah-kee-tats-an.

I ask a soldier outside the officers' quarters where to go and am directed to a door farther down the veranda. I knock and a familiar voice bids me enter.

Lieutenant Fowler looks cleaner but otherwise much the same as when we last met. He looks up from a crude desk as I enter, and his brow furrows in puzzlement. “Do I know you?” he asks.

“You do,” I say with a smile. “I'm Jim Doolen. We met on the trail south of Tucson last December. You were bringing the bodies of two men back to Fort Bowie.”

“Yes. Yes,” Fowler says, standing and extending his hand. I shake it, and he ushers me to a chair. “You were headed for Casas Grandes, I recall. Did you make it there without mishap?”

“I did.”

“So what brings you up here to this troubled part of the world?”