Ghost Moon (2 page)

2

“G
host moon,” the kid repeats. “That's a good name. Sure ain't the bright ball that gave me enough light to build a fire, brew coffee and pack up this morning afore dawn. My ma used to call the full moon in daylight a lace moon, 'cause it looks just like one of those round pieces of lace you set on the table when company's coming.”

It's three days since I left Wellington's cave. I broke camp early this morning, figuring that if I got a good start on the trail, I could make Lincoln in enough time to look for work in the short February daylight. I ran into the kid almost immediately, heading up from the south. I kept my hand on my revolver as he approached, but he didn't seem to be any kind of a threat, waving a greeting and shouting hello when he was still some distance away.

He introduced himself as Bill Bonney, but said that everyone just calls him Kid because he's only eighteen. That makes him two years older than me, but he's smooth-cheeked and lightly built and could pass for younger. I think back to the other Kid I've met—the man I killed last year. But Bill is different. I've immediately taken a liking to him. He's cheerful and has a fresh, open face and a ready gap-toothed smile. His eyes are a striking hazel color, and he wears his light brown hair long and carefully groomed.

“Lace moon,” I say. “That's a good name for it too. Where's your ma now?”

“Who knows. Where d'you reckon we go after we die?”

“I'm sorry,” I say, feeling my face flush with embarassment.

Bill shrugs. “No need. It weren't no surprise. The white plague, consumption some call it, kills slow. That's why we moved out west to Colorado and then down here to New Mexico. The dry air's good for the lungs. Not good enough though. Ma's been dead four years.”

“Your dad still alive?” I ask, thinking about all I discovered about my father and the mysterious life he led.

“My da,” the kid says, a touch of Irish brogue appearing in his voice. “Which da d'you mean? I've had a couple.” Before I can think of a response, the kid continues. “My real da, Michael McCarty, came over from Ireland on the coffin ships after the famine. So did my ma, Catherine, though they didn't meet till they were both in New York. That's where I was born, me and my brother Joe. I don't remember much of them days. My da was killed in the New York draft riots in '63. I were but a nipper, no more'n four years old. Can't say as I remember him much.

“Ma said that his death were a godsend, that Da was getting into a lot of bad stuff, drinking, fighting, hanging out with the Dead Rabbits Gang around Five Points.”

“Dead Rabbits Gang?” I ask.

Bill laughs. “Sounds funny, don't it, but they weren't. And they had little to do with rabbits, except when they went into a fight with another gang. Then they carried a dead rabbit on a pole like a battle flag.
Rabbit
were from an Irish word,
ráibéad
. It means someone to be frightened of, and
dead
means very. So, a dead rabbit was someone to be greatly feared.” Bill suddenly throws his head back and bursts into song:

“They had a dreadful fight, upon last Saturday night,
The papers gave the news accordin';
Guns, pistols, clubs and sticks, hot water and
  old bricks,
Which drove them on the other side of Jordan.

Then pull off the coat and roll up the sleeve,
For Bayard is a hard street to travel;
So pull off the coat and roll up the sleeve,
The Bloody Sixth is a hard ward to travel, I believe.”

Bill's voice is deeper than I expect from his skinny frame, and he can hold a tune well. He finishes singing and grins broadly at me. “That's all my da left me, a song about a street fight in New York.” His face becomes serious. “Ma said that if my da hadn't been killed, he would've dragged me and Joe down with him.

“As it were, Ma moved us out to Indianapolis, where she met and married William Henry Harrison Antrim. Mouthful of a name, eh?”

“It is,” I agree, “but if your real father was called McCarty and your stepfather was called Antrim, why are you called Bonney?”

Bill laughs. “And why am I called Bill when I were christened Henry? Henry McCarty, Henry Antrim, Kid, Kid Antrim, I been 'em all. William's my second given name, and Bonney's just the latest surname. You read much?”

“Some,” I say, surprised by the question.

“Dime novels?”

“Sure, I've read a lot of dime novels, about Kit Carson, Davy Crockett, the Alamo.”

“‘The valley of the Mississippi River, from its earliest settlement, has been more infested with reckless and bloodstained men than any other part of the country.'”

“I know that,” I say as realization dawns. “It's the beginning of
Murderer's Doom
by Edward Bonney. You took a dime novelist's name.”

“Why not?” Bill says. “Name don't mean nothing. Just a flag by which folks know you, and sometimes”— he winks broadly at me—“it pays to change what folks know you as.”

I don't agree with Bill, or whatever he's called. Names have been very important to some of the people I've met. To Wellington and Nah-kee-tats-an, and to me, James Doolen, or Busca, in my search for my father. But my companion's laugh is infectious, and I can't help smiling along with him. “Where's your second dad now?” I ask. “Is he still alive?”

“He's alive all right. Prospecting over by the Arizona Territory border, around Silver City. That's where I been, visiting my da.”

Bill's brow furrows at the memory. “You got no right to ask all them questions and go prying into a fella's past.” The sudden anger in his voice startles me. But before I can respond, he spurs his horse ahead, leaving me to reflect.

For a while I stare at Bill's back, confused by his abrupt change in mood. He's wearing a faded blue army jacket over a collarless shirt and a heavy wool vest. There's a battered Mexican sombrero on his head and a fine-looking gray horse beneath him. He carries a Winchester '73 rifle in a scabbard by his saddle and a revolver that I don't recognize in a holster on his right hip. Bill has told me he works on a ranch outside Lincoln. But he's not dressed like a cowboy and carries no lariat. I wonder what kind of work he does.

We are riding a narrow trail over bare scrub hills. There's a chill in the desert air, and I'm wearing a thick poncho that Santiago gave me. It doubles as a blanket at night. Lincoln can't be far ahead, and I wonder what I'll find there. Work and adventure, I hope. And perhaps a letter from my mother in Yale, although I doubt she's had time to reply to my letters from Esqueda yet.

All of a sudden, Bill reins in and turns to face me. He's smiling again and his mood has swung back to jovial companionability as quickly as it descended into anger. “There she is,” he says, waving an arm over the valley below.

I draw up beside him and look down. The valley is narrow between the dry hills, and a meandering line of trees marks the course of the Rio Bonita. A two-story adobe building dominates the town and dwarfs the handful of other stores and houses scattered along the single street. Five or six small homesteads are scattered farther off over the valley floor.

“That's Lincoln?” I ask, astonished at its small size.

Bill laughs out loud. “Impressive, ain't it? But don't be fooled. See that large building surrounded by the fence?” I nod. “That's the Murphy House. From the parlor in there, Jimmy Dolan controls most of this entire county. Lawrence Murphy's his partner, but he's a drooling, drunken idiot. Won't live the year out, I reckon.

“Dolan's the power in the whole county. His store supplies everyone from the smallest homesteader to the army post up the river at Fort Stanton, and from the poorest Apache on the reservation at Tularosa to the richest cattle rancher. And he ain't afraid to charge top dollar, neither.”

Bill stops and stares hard at me. “You ain't related to Dolan, are you?”

It takes me a moment to work out what he means. “No,” I say. “My name's Doolen. It sounds a bit the same, but I'm not related to anyone called Dolan.”

Bill nods, apparently satisfied.

“This Dolan”—I emphasize the
o
to make sure Bill can't confuse it with the
oo
in my name—“he has no competition?” I ask.

“Ah, now,” Bill replies, his Irish lilt returning, “there's the question. You see that stone tower on Main Street?” He points down into the valley. If I squint, I can make out a round tower down the street from the Murphy House. “That's the
torreón
, built for refuge when the wild Apache's attacked. Farther along, that low building with the veranda over the boardwalk out front. That's John Tunstall's store. He runs it with Alex McSween. Beside it, the house shaped like a U, that's McSween's house.”

“That's Dolan's competition?” I ask.

“Sure is, and they'll be your new bosses if you want to work.”

“I do.”

Bill nods, turns his horse's head and trots off along the crest of the ridge. “Aren't we going into town?” I shout after him.

“Wouldn't want to do that,” the kid replies over his
shoulder. “Unless you want to work for Mr. Dolan.”
I shake my head. “Then John Tunstall's spread is some
thirty miles southeast on the Rio Feliz. That's where the
work is.”

With a last look at Lincoln, I turn and follow Bill,
who has begun whistling a jaunty dance tune. As I
stare at his back, I wonder who my new friend is. He's
charming, no doubt, and clever and entertaining. But
he reminds me of one of those African lizards I've read
about. The ones that can change color to blend in with
their environment. Bill's like that—one minute cheerful
and singing, the next sullen and angry. In one breath he
sounds like a happy Irish layabout. In the next, he's a
rough cowboy. Who is he, and where is he leading me?

3

“B
ill! Where in great heaven have you been?” The tall thin man steps forward from his two companions and shouts to us in a refined English accent as soon as we are within earshot. He doesn't look much older than Bill and me. He's well dressed in a high-collar jacket, open at the neck to reveal a clean white shirt and red necktie.

“I been visiting my da, Mr. Tunstall,” Bill replies. “I told you afore I was going.”

“Right enough, you did,” Tunstall acknowledges. He wears his brown hair slicked back with oil and sports a thin growth of beard around his chin. We dismount as we reach the gate. “And you've brought us another companion,” he says, stepping forward and extending a pale hand. “John Henry Tunstall, late of Hackney in England and more recently of the colony of British Columbia in Canada. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Jim Doolen,” I reply, clasping the offered hand, “also of British Columbia.”

“Indeed? Whereabouts?” His grip is firm, and his eyes regard me with studied interest.

“Yale. My mother runs the stopping house there.”

“Yale. I have passed through there,” Tunstall says cheerfully. “Unfortunately, I did not take the opportunity to avail myself of your family's hospitality. I was located in the fine city of Victoria. I ran the London Emporium on Wharf Street.”

“I've been there!” I exclaim, excitedly. “My mother took me to Victoria once on the steamer. We visited the Emporium. She bought several bolts of cloth, I recall. There was everything in that store.”

Tunstall laughs at my enthusiasm. “I suppose it must have appeared like a wonderland compared to the stores in Yale. It is indeed a small world we find ourselves in, young Jim. Would I be correct in assuming that you are here in Bill's company to seek gainful employment?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Then you have it. We need all the good men we can find, and I shall enjoy many hours talking with you about the common ground we share.”

One of the men behind Tunstall coughs pointedly.

“But I fear that must await quieter times. Allow me to introduce my companions. My partner in business, Alexander McSween. Keep in well with him, he's a lawyer and will tie you in knots faster than you can blink an eye.” One of the two men steps forward and shakes my hand. He is older than Tunstall, with deep-set eyes, dark receding hair and a drooping mustache that makes him appear to be frowning. “Welcome” is all he says.

“And this is my foreman, Dick Brewer. He may look young, but there is precious little this man does not know about cattle.” Brewer shakes my hand and nods. He has a pleasant, open face, a strong chin and a ready smile. He's the only one of the three dressed in work clothes.

“I'm afraid conditions here are a touch crude.” Tunstall waves at a small log cabin, the only building I can see. “Yonder stands my mansion.” He laughs. “I have built a more commodious dwelling in the town of Lincoln, and one day a fine ranch house will stand here. But for now we must make do. You do not object to bedding beneath the stars?”