Ghost Moon (13 page)

“Neither did I,” I say. “I'm sorry I threatened you.”

“That's okay,” Harvey says with a slight smile. He's taller than I am but very thin, with high, prominent cheekbones, light blue eyes and pale skin.

“I've got to head up to Fort Stanton, but I'll be back in a few days. If Bill comes back while I'm gone, tell him I was here and that I want Coronado back, unharmed.”

I'm angry at Bill for taking Coronado and for hurting him with the crop, but I'll say nothing if I get my horse back. I know better than to go up against Bill. I've learned that's a good way to end up dead. I mount Alita.

“You headed up through Lincoln?” Harvey asks.

I nod.

“Might I ride along with you?” Harvey looks down at his boots in embarrassment. “To be honest, being here alone is frightening. There's not much stock left, and the few cowboys around can easily look after them. I could stay at McSween's house in town. His wife, Susan, lives in it.” He looks up at me. “Company's always better on the trail, don't you think?”

I don't think that. I'd rather be on my own. The last thing I want is to play nursemaid, but Harvey looks at me with such a pleading expression that I haven't the heart to turn him down. He's a city boy, fresh from the east, and probably he's spent the past few days imagining either Jesse Evans riding onto the ranch and shooting him, or a band of wild Indians sneaking up behind him with scalping knives clenched between their teeth. He looks terrified.

“All right,” I say, “but get ready quick and you'll need to keep up.” With me riding Alita, the slowest horse I've ever been on, the last instruction doesn't mean much unless Harvey intends to walk to Lincoln.

“Thank you,” Harvey says as he turns and runs to the only occupied stall to saddle his horse.

As I wait for Harvey, I think back on what he said. Bill and the others have gone out to recruit Hispanics to fight with the Regulators. Given what the old man in La Luz told me about how the people there felt about Dolan, I doubt they'll have much difficulty. But why? Does Bill have something planned? I have a sudden feeling that things are rushing toward some sort of conclusion, and I pray that I can avoid it.

The main street of Lincoln is deserted as Harvey and I ride into town late in the afternoon on July 18. It's only nine miles to Fort Stanton, but Alita and I are both thirsty and my leg's hurting fiercely, so we stop at the horse trough outside the small courthouse beside Squire Wilson's house. Alita drinks gratefully and I enjoy washing some of the trail dust off my face.

Harvey doesn't dismount but sits and glances nervously between the building beside us and up the street, where the Tunstall store and McSween's house are just visible in the distance.

“Howdy.” I look up. The man standing behind me is only middle-aged, but his hair is white. His bushy mustache and goatee stand out brightly against his weather-beaten skin. He looks vaguely familiar. I nod a greeting.

“That's a cavalry mount you got there,” he says, regarding the buffalo insignia on the saddlebags.

“It is. I'm taking it to Fort Stanton to deliver to Lieutenant Fowler.”

“I see. And after you deliver it, how you aiming to get home?”

It's a good question.

“I don't know. I was going to bring my own horse, but someone else took it.”

“That's bad luck for you. Can I see the papers you got from this Lieutenant Fowler?”

“He didn't give me any papers.” I'm beginning to feel nervous at the questioning. Who is this man?

“I see,” the man repeats. “Now this presents me with a difficulty. There's been quite a bit of horse thieving these past few weeks, and here you are riding a cavalry horse that you say you're delivering to Fort Stanton, yet you got no horse of your own to ride home on and no official signed papers.”

“I'm no horse thief,” I say. “I'm telling you the truth. Who are you anyway?”

“I'm sorry,” the man says with a smile that borders on a leer. “Name's George Peppin. Folks call me Dad, 'cause of my white hair and all. I'm the Sheriff hereabouts.”

Now I realize where I've seen this man before. He was one of the deputies with Sheriff Brady the day of the ambush just up the street. He must be Brady's replacement, which means he's a Dolan man. I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Peppin's smile broadens but doesn't become friendly.

“Would you be one of them Regulator trash?”

“No,” I say, as convincingly as I can manage. “Like I said, I work for Lieutenant Fowler. I'm going to be scouting for him when he rides out after the Apaches who ran from the reservation down at Tularosa Canyon.”

“That right? Well, I don't reckon that's the whole truth. I reckon you are a Regulator come here to help them others out, and what's more, I reckon you are a horse thief.” Without me noticing, Peppin has drawn his gun and now it's in his right hand, pointing at my stomach. “See, I recognize you. You're the fella who walked across the street here, bold as you please, right after Bill Brady and George Hindman was murdered in cold blood.”

Harvey's horse skitters sideways up the street, but Peppin ignores it.

“I wasn't part of that,” I plead, unable to take my eyes off the unwavering muzzle of Peppin's revolver. “I was just passing through town, taking supplies to Fort Stanton. I went over to see what was happening and got caught there when the shooting started.”

“My, my. Always on your way to Fort Stanton and never part of any of the trouble that happens around you. You sure are one unlucky fella, a good one for the stories too. Next you'll be telling me that you're Colonel Dudley himself. Now you just hand me that Colt on your belt, real easy, and we'll take a walk up the street to the jail and you can rest from all your journeying while we sort this out.”

For a long moment I stand and stare at Peppin and his gun, trying desperately to think of something I can do to get out of this mess. Something he said sticks in my mind. “What others? You said, you reckoned that I was in town to help the other Regulators. What did you mean? Are there Regulators in town?”

Peppin glances up the street. As if on cue, there's a burst of gunfire from the direction of McSween's house. Harvey's horse rears as its rider jerks the reins in fright. Harvey tumbles to the ground and the horse gallops off down the street.

Peppin looks uncertain, his revolver wavering between Harvey and me. A bullet from up the street chips the edge of the horse trough and whines into the air. Peppin makes up his mind. He grabs Alita's reins and, keeping her between him and the firing, retreats toward the courthouse. I take a step after him but the loud
click
of his revolver being cocked stops me in my tracks. Another bullet kicks up dust at Peppin's feet and, dragging Alita's reins, he runs for cover around the side of the building.

Harvey's on his feet now, looking around nervously. I feel naked standing out in the middle of the street, but where to run to? I notice a movement and look up to see a figure with a rifle in the courthouse window. At the same time I hear a familiar voice behind me, “This way. Get over here.”

Without further encouragement, I grab Harvey's sleeve and set off in a limping run across the street. I hear shots behind me but don't know if they're aimed at us or not.

Harvey and I tumble behind a broken adobe wall to find Bill standing with his revolver drawn, smiling. He lets off two quick shots across the street.

“I've missed you, Jim, lad, but you sure picked an awkward time to come visiting.” A bullet thuds into the wall. “But I reckon we'd best save the pleasantries for later. Follow me.”

As dusk falls, we follow Bill along the backs of the buildings facing onto the street, dodging along walls and fences and sprinting between the cover of outhouses, barns and sheds. There is sporadic firing all around, but none of it seems aimed at us. Eventually, we burst through the back door of a large adobe house into a big kitchen, where half a dozen men look up at our arrival. “Bill,” one of them says, “you're back just in time for the party.”

“Always liked a party,” Bill replies.

“What's going on?” I ask Bill after the banter has stopped.

“Lots happened while you been relaxing down at Blazer's Mill. We've shot some of theirs, and they've shot some of ours. No one's backing down, so we figured it was time to resolve this for good.

“All the boys got together and rode down through San Patricio, La Luz and Picacho. Lot of Hispanic boys down there ain't too fond of Dolan and the high prices he charges. Anyone with a grudge was welcome to join us. I reckon we doubled our strength in that one ride. Must be fifty or sixty all told now.

“We rode in four days back, planning to ambush Evans and his posse as they rode into town the next day and take Lincoln back from these thieves and crooks, but it didn't work. Someone must've seen us setting up. Anyway, they set up down the street in the hotel and Dolan's store. Been shooting at each other on and off ever since.”

“Is McSween here?”

“Sure, everyone's here.”

“And where's Coronado?”

A puzzled expression flits over Bill's face; then he laughs.

“That's one mean horse, but we came to an understanding.”

“You'd better not have hurt him.”

“Or what?” Anger flashes across Bill's face, but then his smile returns. “No damage done. He just needed to be shown who was in charge.”

I decide not to push it any further.

“Where is he now?”

“In the corral behind the house with the other mounts.” Bill jerks his thumb at the back door.

“I'm going to check on him,” I say. Bill shrugs.

I'm excited to see Coronado again. I've come to be very fond of Alita, but Coronado is my friend. Darkness has fallen while I was talking to Bill, but I
have no trouble finding the horses and Coronado.

“Are you all right?” I stroke Coronado's neck, and
he nuzzles me affectionately. “Bill didn't harm you, did
he?” The horse whinnies quietly. “Well, we'll be out of
here soon. I don't want to go riding about the countryside
on a moonless night like this. I'll stay the night at
the house. At first light I'll come and get you and we'll
see if we can find Alita. I imagine Peppin put her in
the livery stable. You'll like her, she's a cavalry mount.
Then we'll head out to Fort Stanton. I've got us work as
scouts with the cavalry. That'll keep us a long way from
the troubles going on in Lincoln.”

I go on to tell Coronado the story of my adventures
at Blazer's Mill, my injury and recovery. Ever since
Wellington talked to Coronado, I've done the same.
It's comforting and companionable, and he seems to
like it, standing quietly and nuzzling my shoulder.

“We'll be away from all this soon,” I say. “It'll be
good to be out on the trail where life's so much simpler.”

With a final stroke of Coronado's neck, I leave him
with the other dozen or so horses and feel my way
through the blackness to McSween's house.

17

I
nside the house there's a festive atmosphere. A fire crackles in the parlor grate and lanterns dispel the shadows in every corner. Bill stands by the fire, playing a harmonica, and another man is squeezing out a rough tune on a small concertina. The air is a blue haze of tobacco smoke, and everyone is either stamping their feet in time to the tune or humming loudly along.

There are more than a dozen people standing around; some I recognize as Regulators, others are strangers. I see McSween and Harvey sitting at a table with a dark-haired woman. I decide to go over and tell McSween what happened to me, but before I can move, a hand catches my arm.

“
Buenas noches, joven
.” I turn around to see the old man from La Luz who told me the story of Davy Crockett at the Alamo.