Ghost Moon (11 page)

“Still, it's the army's concern now, not ours. You just rest and let that leg heal.”

I take the last spoonful of soup, and Clara nods in satisfaction. She wipes my chin and then hustles Godfroy out of the room to let me rest. My leg hurts constantly, but the warm soup feels good in my stomach and just feeling safe and knowing I don't have to drag
my broken limb anywhere makes me feel ridiculously
happy. Right now I can't think of anything better than
lying on a makeshift bed in Godfroy and Clara's parlor.
I drift off into a deep sleep.

14

“Y
ou're lucky,” Lieutenant Fowler says. That's all I've heard for the last four days, how lucky I'm not a dried corpse beside a rock. I don't feel lucky. The euphoria I felt at not being out in the desert dragging a broken leg around has worn off. Even immobilized, I'm in constant pain, and every movement is agony. I haven't slept for more than an hour at a time since I got here. I'm exhausted, but as soon as I move in my sleep, the pain wakes me. I've failed the simple task I was set and I've lost everything, even my Father's revolver.

“I'm sorry I lost the horses,” I say.

“Not your fault,” Fowler says encouragingly, “though I daresay Colonel Dudley won't be happy. That gray with the black face-patch was for him.”

“When are you setting off after them?”

“We're not. No point. They're long gone and the trail's cold. I sent a patrol south from Stanton when I heard what happened, hoping they might run into these boys as they head east, but it'll be sheer luck if they do. We're just here to show the flag, ride around the reserve a little to remind anyone thinking of following this Ghost Moon fellow that the army's about.”

“Thank you for bringing the surgeon down.”

“Least I could do, though I don't think he's been much help. Godfroy did a good job on you. You don't have an infection, and time's the only thing you need now. Surgeon reckons you'll be up and about by summer. You got plans for then? You going back to work for McSween?”

“No,” I say. “At least I don't think so. Before I was attacked, I was thinking of going back home, up to Canada, but that doesn't feel right either.”

Fowler regards me carefully for a long moment.

“Why do you not want to go back working for McSween?”

“McSween's a good man, but he's alone now. I just want to work, but with Tunstall and Brewer dead, the Regulators'll run wild. I've had enough of being caught up in this war. Everywhere I go, there's a fight and someone dies. Maybe I'll join the army.”

I say it as a joke, but as soon as the words are out, the idea exists and Fowler isn't laughing.

“There's plenty fighting and dying if you're in the army.”

“I know, but it would be my decision to become involved.” As I talk, I begin to realize that I would like to ride with Fowler and his Buffalo Soldiers. It would be a simple life. “But I can't just become a soldier.”

“That's true enough,” Fowler agrees with a smile. “Even if you could get out of bed, you're not a Buffalo Soldier, but there are other ways. I expect that this summer we'll be busy sending patrols out after the renegades from San Carlos and Tularosa. It'll be hard, boring work. Usually the closest we get to the hostiles is finding a cold campfire or a dried-out body, but if you're interested, I can use some civilian scouts. We use friendly Apaches as trackers, but we also use men who know the country. To be honest, they're not much use—no one knows the country like the Apaches—but it's policy. I could probably get you taken on as a scout, if you're interested, and assuming your leg heals properly.”

“I am,” I say, so quickly it surprises me. I flinch as pain shoots through my leg.

The Lieutenant nods.

“I think we can use you, but there's nothing needs doing right now, and you've plenty time to think on things. I'll drop in whenever a patrol passes this way to see how the leg's healing. If you change your mind, just let me know. I won't take offence. It's a hard life and, if our patrols are successful, dangerous. The pay's poor and the food worse, but the men are good, and I guarantee you'll see a considerable amount of this country. You'll also need your own horse and equipment.”

“That won't be a problem. My horse is being cared for over at McSween's ranch.”

“All right.” Fowler stands. “I'll check on your horse when we pass there on the way back. We'll talk more. For now you just need to heal.”

As soon as I'm alone with my pain and my thoughts, I wonder what I've just done. The idea of becoming a scout for Lieutenant Fowler and his Buffalo Soldiers is attractive. I don't want to keep getting caught up in Bill's war, and I'm not ready to go home. It appears to be the perfect solution. The problem is that a scout needs to ride a horse, and it'll be a good two or three months before I can sit in a saddle. As Fowler said, I'll have plenty of time to reconsider.

April and May are the most boring months of my life. I can't move out of bed and yet the pain tires me dreadfully. Actually, the pain eases as my bone heals, but that makes the boredom worse. Clara has to nag me to keep me in bed. The highlight of that time is a slow, painful move to a proper bed in one of the rooms upstairs.

In early June, Clara lets me up for short walks each morning, but I sneak out of bed whenever possible and exercise. At first I'm as weak as a kitten and the pain is bad, but I persevere. I'm careful not to put too much weight on my leg or to fall, and gradually some strength comes back.

By the middle of June, I'm negotiating the stairs with the help of crutches and wandering around the yard. My progress speeds up now, and I celebrate Independence Day on July 4 by getting on a horse. It's a small pony. I do no more than walk around the house and I'm in pain all night as a result, but it's the first time I've been on a horse in almost three months. I've received no word from McSween's ranch, and I'm worried about Coronado.

On July 17, I'm riding around Blazer's Mill,
thinking I'm ready for the journey to see Coronado,
when a cavalry patrol descends from the hills. The
Buffalo Soldiers have been around several times while
I've been here, but never Lieutenant Fowler. This time,
I'm delighted to see him leading the troop.

“Well, you're in better shape than when we last
met,” he says as he draws level and reins in. “Almost
ready for work.”

“I am,” I say with a grin. I've done a lot of thinking
over the past three months and I'm convinced that I
want to be a scout for Fowler. It seems to solve all my
problems.

“Excellent.” Fowler returns my smile. “Let me
settle the troop and wash some of this grime off, and
we'll talk.”

15

“E
very day I get stronger,” I say. Lieutenant Fowler and I are standing talking by the stable where the cavalry mounts are being tended. “I think the bone is fully healed. The only problem is that my right leg is about an inch shorter than the other. This gives me a bit of a limp, and my muscles are having to adjust. They ache if I try and do too much.” Fowler looks at me and I hurriedly add, “But it doesn't stop me doing work.”

“So, you're ready to become a scout for the Tenth Cavalry?”

“I am,” I say confidently.

“Good. This patrol we're on now is just a ride through the reserve. It'll be later in the summer before we'll be heading into the hills, so you'll have time to work more on your fitness.

“A scout has to bring his own horse and equipment. Last I heard your horse was at the McSween place. I'll lend you a cavalry mount for now. If you're up to it, ride over there tomorrow, pick up your horse and gear and head up to Fort Stanton. I'll do my patrol round the reserve here, and when I get back, I'll talk Colonel Dudley into hiring you.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Fowler reaches into his pocket and hands me a worn letter. “This came for you a few days back. It sat in town for some time before the fellow there heard that we were headed down this way and sent it out to the fort.”

The writing on the front of the letter says simply:
Jim Doolen, Lincoln, New Mexico Territory
. I recognize my mother's hand. As I hold this message from home, a thrill passes through me but also doubt. Am I doing the right thing becoming a scout for the army? I hurriedly stuff the unopened letter in my pocket and mumble thanks.

“What's been happening with the Regulators while I've been here?” I ask to distract myself from the letter. “I hear stories from riders passing through of shootouts in the hills, but not too many details.”

“That's pretty much all that's been going on. As far as I can see, everyone has warrants for everyone else's arrest. Evans leads a posse into the hills and the Regulators ambush them. The Regulators ride out and the posse ambushes them. Every time it happens the surgeon has to dig another bullet out of someone or a fresh grave has to be dug.”

“Can't the army do anything?”

Fowler shakes his head. “I think Colonel Dudley would like to. He's in tight with Dolan and the new Sheriff, George Peppin. But we've got orders not to interfere unless we're fired on. I suppose it'll go on until everyone's dead or there's at least enough graves to persuade everyone that going on fighting is not worth it. Trouble is that most of these fellows on both sides only know how to use a gun. They wouldn't know what to do if there were no war going on.”

I imagine Bill being chased around the hills or lying in ambush behind a rock, all the while with a smile on his face. For all the charm that drew me to him when we first met, I suspect that Bill is one of the men Fowler is talking about, only happy with a gun in his hand.

“But the Regulators are not your concern now,” Fowler says. “You're almost a scout. Go and see Sergeant Rawlins and say that I've authorized a mount and equipment for you to transport back to the fort.”

“Thank you,” I repeat. “I promise I'll be a good soldier.” I attempt a crude salute.

Fowler laughs.

“Three things. You won't be a soldier, you'll be a scout. And in the cavalry the men aren't called soldiers but troopers. And civilians don't salute.”

“S-sorry,” I stammer, feeling my face redden with embarrassment at making such a fool of myself.

“And don't ever say sorry. You think about what you're going to do, do it and live with the consequences. You do that and we'll get along fine. Now go and see Sergeant Rawlins.”

Fighting down the instinct to attempt another salute, I limp over to where the cavalry horses are tethered.