Ghost Moon (12 page)

“She ain't the liveliest beast, and I wouldn't want to be on her back if I were being chased by a band of Apaches on those fast little ponies they ride, but she'll get you to McSween's place.” Sergeant Rawlins is introducing me to a brown and white pinto mare who's standing in her stall, chewing contentedly.

“What's her name?” I ask.

“She ain't got a name,” Rawlins says. “Troopers do name their mounts, but this'un's a spare. Call her what you wish. Her saddle and tack's hanging on the fence yonder.” Rawlin's glances at my belt. “You be needing a side arm? We got some Cavalry Colts. You can have one.”

“Thank you,” I say. Rawlins is my height but broad across the shoulders. His short curly hair is tinged with gray at the edges, but the wrinkles on his face all come from smiles, and I instinctively like him. I remember Fowler saying that he had fought in the Civil War.

“Go and draw rations for the ride from Godfroy, and I'll meet you back here. You've got a good few hours of daylight left, and I expect you'll want to make a mile or two.”

I do as I'm told and think as I do it that this is probably a good characteristic for a soldier—a trooper, I correct myself. And for a scout too.

Rawlins takes a long-barreled revolver out of the holster he is carrying.

“You used one of these afore?” he asks.

“No,” I reply. “My Colt Pocket revolver was smaller.”

“Then this is how you do it.” Rawlins pulls the hammer back to half cock and opens the section behind the chambers on the right side. He takes a handful of bullets from the box he has brought and feeds them in as he rotates the cylinder. He closes the section and lowers the hammer and hands it to me. It's surprisingly heavy.

“Easy,” he says. “Just cock the hammer, pull the trigger and you'll blow a sizeable hole in anyone who gets in the way.”

The rations are basic: some hard biscuits and some tough-looking jerky. Not nearly as appetizing as Clara's meals. And they don't come close to filling the two large army saddlebags that I strap onto the pinto. The saddlebags are emblazoned with a crest showing two bison.

“Buffalo Soldiers,” Rawlins comments when he sees me examining the crest. “Most folks think it's because of the hair.” He smiles and rubs the top of his head. “But that ain't it. It's 'cause a cornered buffalo never gives up until it's stone dead. We're the same.”

“Lieutenant Fowler told me the story of Private Randall and the Cheyenne war party.”

Rawlins nods. “But did he tell you why we never give up?”

“He didn't.”

“It's 'cause we got nothing to lose. Most of these boys're ex-slaves, either escaped or freed at the end of the war. Only freedom they've ever known has been in the Tenth Cavalry. Same for the boys in the Ninth. They'll die for that freedom.”

“But they wouldn't be slaves outside the army either,” I point out.

“You ever been to New York?”

I shake my head.

“Well, it ain't like the slavery in the plantations down south, but it's slavery just the same.” Rawlins smiles broadly at my puzzled look and continues. “Mr. Fowler's a good man, got an education and all, but most of the troopers in this outfit ain't got no book learning. If they weren't in the army, what would they do?”

Rawlins answers his own question before I have a chance to say anything. “They'd do the worst jobs there is for the meanest bosses and the lowest wages. Trooper Elroy escaped from a plantation in Alabama in '64 after he was beat so bad the foreman broke three of his ribs. He made it north to New York and the promised land. He weren't owned by no one for the first time in his life, but he were hated.”

“Why?” I asked. “By whom?”

“By the Irish. See, the Irish gangs controlled all the low jobs and kept them for their own. They saw the free slaves as a threat, taking those jobs away from them 'cause they would work for even less. Elroy says that he never met hatred on the plantation like the hatred he felt in New York. Anyway, he got work. He can't read two words nor write a letter, so he was putting in twelve or fourteen hours a day in the slaughterhouse for barely enough money to put a roof over his head, food in his belly and soap enough to wash the blood off every evening. On top of that, he had to crawl halfway home each night to avoid being beaten to death by the Irish. The Tenth Cavalry's as close to the Lord's Paradise as Elroy's going to get on this earth. He'll die for it afore he goes back to that New York slaughterhouse.”

“I see,” I say, as I ponder another of life's unexpected complexities.

“Now you get your equipment loaded and get on the trail. We'll see you back at the fort. And try not to run into any Apaches.”

Rawlins turns away.

“Alita,” I say.

“What's that?” Rawlins says as he turns back.

“That's what I'll call the pinto,” I explain, stroking
the mare's neck. “I had a horse by that name once.”

Rawlins nods and leaves. I step to Alita's head.

“Do you like the name, Alita?” I ask softly. Alita
tosses her head gently. “I used to have a horse by that
name, but she was shot and killed. It's a strong name.
Alita was a girl who fought in the war for Mexican
independence from Spain.” The mare whinnies softly
and nuzzles my neck. “I'll take that as a yes,” I say. “But
now we have to get going.”

I saddle Alita and swing the saddlebags into place.
I walk over to the Godfroy house to say my thank-yous
and farewells. Fred, as I've come to know him, shrugs
off my thanks, wishes me well and shakes my hand
firmly. Clara fusses about my leg and gives me a bag of
fresh baked biscuits for the trail. I'm sorry to leave these
kind, generous people and promise to drop by when I
get the chance.

Forcing myself not to flinch at the pain, I mount
Alita and set off, hoping that this new beginning means
I can leave Bill and the war I've been caught up in
behind. But am I making the right choice? My mother's
unopened letter weighs heavily in my pocket.

16

I
sit by a fire, a good long ride from Blazer's Mill. This is the farthest I've ridden in months, and I'm pleased with my progress. My leg aches, but the pain is manageable. I should make McSween's ranch in good time tomorrow. I'm excited about seeing Coronado once more.

I pull the letter out of my pocket and stare at it for a long time before I unfold it. I'm nervous. No sooner have I made a decision about what to do—scout for Lieutenant Fowler—than this message arrives from the past, the first I have heard from home in almost a year. How much has changed, how much I've changed, in that time. It was a letter from my father that got me into all this in the first place. Will what my mother has to say now make me regret what I have committed to? There's only one way to find out.

Dearest Jim,

I was so excited to get your letter from Mexico.

The news that your father has been dead all these years comes as no surprise. I have always known that, if it were possible, he would have contacted me somehow, so I suspected the worst. I knew some of what you told me about his past, but he was a man of few words and what you say has filled in many blank spots. I never suspected the complexity, or tragedy, of his background. You do not say much about your role in the events you describe. I hope you did nothing that you are ashamed of.

Don't worry about me. Things are good here in Yale. In fact, I have some exciting news for you.

Do you remember Sam Billings who runs the general store? His wife's been dead these past five years and I have always suspected that he took a liking to me. Well, he has begun to pay court and last week he asked for my hand and I accepted.

It is not the romantic love match talked about in the dime novels you used to read, but he is a decent, sensible man and it is not a good thing to grow old alone. It is our
intention to sell the stopping house, and I will help Sam in the store. I hope that we will have your blessing.

I was not surprised that you decided not to come directly home from Mexico and instead see some of the world. I have always said that you shared your father's restless spirit. I wish you well on your journeys. Write when you can and come and visit Sam and me when you are able.

I will send this to Lincoln where you say you are headed and hope that it reaches you soon. You're a good boy and sensible enough to stay out of trouble. Be careful and know that my best wishes, and Sam's, go with you wherever you are.

With love,

Mary

I read the letter three times in the firelight, each time swallowing back tears. I'm happy that my mother is going to get married again. I remember Sam Billings well. He's a round, jovial man who always had a hard candy or a glass of sasparilla for us kids. Mom will be happy with him, but it means that I now have no reason to go home. In fact, I have no home to go to. Yale could only ever offer me my mother and the stopping house, and now she will be married to Sam and the stopping house sold.

I know I chose not to go home after Casas Grandes. And I accepted scouting for Lieutenant Fowler just hours ago. But now I feel cut adrift. I am truly on my own. I rub my aching leg, curl up by the fire and try to sleep.

“Where's my horse?” I grab the man standing by the corral at McSween's ranch. A line of open horse stalls has been built along one side since I was last here; all but one are empty.

“I don't know?” he says, nervously. “Who're you?”

“I'm Jim Doolen. My horse is Coronado, the one with the white star on his forehead. I left him here when I went on an errand for McSween back in April. Where is he?”

“Don't know,” the man says and begins to edge away. I grab him by the collar and push him hard against the stable wall. I'm so angry that I hardly know what I'm doing, but my gun is suddenly out of its holster and pressed into the man's ribs. Close up, I see that he's a kid, barely older than me. His eyes are wide with fear.

“Don't shoot me, mister,” he whines. “I didn't take your horse.”

I put my gun away, ashamed at having threatened him, and release his shirt. He's not a cowboy, his hands are smooth and he's wearing city clothes.

“I'm not going to shoot you. I just want to know what happened to my horse.”

“Bill took him,” the boy says.

“Why?”

“Don't rightly know. That horse was a problem, wouldn't let anyone ride him. Bit if you got too close. Bill took it as some kind of a challenge. Worked him hard out in the corral until he could ride him. Took him out with most of the boys a few days back. Mr. McSween went with them, said he was scared to stay here without any protection.” The boy glances around nervously.

“Did Bill hurt my horse?”

The boy lowers his eyes.

“Did he hurt my horse?” I repeat, stepping forward.

“Not much,” the boy says hurriedly. “Just used the crop a bit to show it who was boss.”

I curse under my breath.

“Where'd Bill take him?”

“Don't know,” the boy says, “honest. Bill and the Regulators set off early in the morning. Never said where they were going or when they'd be back. I heard them talk the night before about recruiting some Hispanics who don't like Dolan.”

My first instinct is to mount Alita and ride off after Bill, but that would be stupid. I have no idea where he is. Did they go to La Luz, Picacho, San Patricio, or up to Roswell? It would be like looking for a needle in a pile of hay.

“What's your name?”

“Harvey. Harvey Morris.”

“You a Regulator?”

“No, I'm a law student. I knew Alex McSween out east. I told him I had the consumption, and he wrote and invited me out here. Said the dry air was good for the lungs and that there was plenty opportunity and I could study under him. Said he'd make me a partner. I didn't expect all this trouble.”