Ghost Moon (8 page)

“No, I wasn't there. I read about it.”

“And the man who wrote the book you read, was he there at the Alamo?”

“Of course not,” I reply angrily. “No one survived the Alamo.”

“No one?”

“I think the women and children were spared, but all the fighters were killed in the battle.” I'm becoming confused about why this old man keeps harping on about this.

“All the Americanos.”

“Yes, but…” I stutter to a stop as I realize what he means.

“Rather than reading books by men who sit in New York and make things up to sell for a dime each, would it not be better to ask one who was there?” The old man is grinning from ear to ear as he fills his glass once more.

“Of course,” I say hesitantly, embarrassed at being caught out in my one-sided assumptions. “But how would I do that?”

“Ask away.” The old man spreads his arms wide in invitation.

It takes me a minute to grasp what he means. “You!” He nods. “You were there?”

“That is how I acquired my limp,” he says and slaps his thigh. “I was a boy, no older than you are now. A drummer in General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna's army. Our motto was, ‘Never one step backward.'”

Is the old man telling the truth? I have no reason to doubt him. If so, he has a story to tell. I look at him with new eyes. Maybe this man saw Davy Crockett or Jim Bowie.

“You say you want to know, and yet when you get the chance, you sit with your mouth open like a fish stranded on the riverbank.”

I snap my mouth closed.

“What was it like?” I ask weakly.

“It was like war,” he says. “It was dirty and chaotic. We were frightened and we were brave all at once. There was dust and blood and noise and death, but do you not wish to know about your hero, Crockett?”

“Yes, and Bowie,” I add hastily.

“Bowie I did not see,” my companion says. My heart leaps because this implies that he did see Davy Crockett. “You understand everything happened very fast. It was all over in less than half an hour, although it seemed like a lifetime to us. I was in the third attack, the one that swarmed over the north wall. Those inside turned their cannon on us. The guns were filled with anything they could find—door hinges, rocks, pieces of horseshoes. They caused some hideous wounds and gave me my limp. I was hit in the leg by some Texian's heavy belt buckle. It broke the bone, and I played no further part in the fight but sat against the wall and watched the killing.

“The cannons didn't stop us. There was no time to reload, and our blood was up. My comrades killed all the Texians at the guns and anyone they found in the compound.

“I did not see Bowie, but I heard after he was found sick in a cot in a room by the wall, not far from where I sat. He shot the first man through the door, but the others bayoneted him as he lay there. He was a brave man. Sick as he was, he never tried to surrender. Not that it would have made any difference.”

The old man falls silent. As he has talked, his gaze has moved away from me and his eyes focus more and more on the far distance, as if, behind me, he can see the drama of the Alamo being re-enacted. He is massaging his leg absently. I reach over, lift the half-empty bottle and refill his glass.

“
Gracias
,” he says, his eyes coming back to life. “But you wish to know of Crockett. Him I saw. After we had taken the guns and the compound was secure, we had to fight through the rooms in the old mission. Four or five men would fire their muskets through the door and then rush in with bayonets and finish the job. It was hard, brutal work, and I am not sorry that my wound forced me to miss it.

“Everyone found in the mission was killed, except, as you say, for some women and children. We were not savages. We were ordered to kill them all. Santa Anna said the rebels were pirates, trying to steal land from Mexico, and that the only reward for piracy was death. One of our officers did not obey the order and took seven men prisoner. He brought them out into the compound in front of where I sat. They were a miserable collection of humanity—filthy, blood-covered and cowed. Several were wounded, one so badly he could not stand. Crockett was among those who surrendered. He stood out from the rest, being taller and the only one who looked about and met the eyes of his captors. He even spoke at one point, suggesting that he be released to travel to the rest of the Texian army and negotiate a truce.

“When Santa Anna discovered that these men had been spared, he was furious and ordered them executed. We stood them against a wall, but the soldiers refused to shoot. The fight was done, we wished no more killing, but Santa Anna ordered his guard to do the work with sabers. I turned away, but I saw the bodies later. They were much cut about the head and arms. Only the man too badly wounded to stand had been shot where he lay on the ground.”

“You're lying,” I say, loudly enough for people nearby to stare. “Davy Crockett didn't surrender. He died fighting. He would never have asked to be spared.”

The old man shrugs.

“That is your story. Believe it if you wish. I tell only what I saw with my own eyes. Remember, heroes and villains are what we make them. All are human.”

The Mexican falls silent and I think about what he has told me. I don't want to believe him, but why not? I believed the stories that Wellington, Santiago and Ed told me, however unbelievable they seemed at the time. The difference was, then I was seeking answers and hungrily absorbed anything that might help me find those answers. The story I was hearing now conflicted with something I already believed.

“You have come down from Lincoln?” The man interrupts my reverie.

“Yes. I'm collecting some horses to take back to Fort Stanton.”

“You have your own war,” the old man says slyly, “and heroes as well.”

I think of Tunstall, taking on the corrupt Dolan syndicate. Maybe even Brewer, trying to continue the fight and hold the Regulators in check.

“I suppose we do.”

“I have heard that the corrupt Sheriff Brady is dead.”

“Yes, two days ago in Lincoln. He was shot in the main street from ambush.”

“By El Chivato?”

“El Chivato?”

“The one you call Kid Antrim.”

It takes me a moment to realize who he means. Is there an end to the number of names Bill goes by?

“Yes, it was Bill who shot him, although others were there.”

The old man nods approvingly.

“There is a hero.”

“Bill?”

“
Sí
, the one you call Bill. He is here often for our fiestas.” The man looks around as if he expects to see Bill at the next table. “He is a fine dancer and a good singer.” The man winks broadly. “He is a great favorite with the young
señoritas
.” I suppose I must look puzzled, because he adds, “He is not a hero to you?”

“He's charming and friendly,” I say, “but I've seen him shoot a man in the head in cold blood.”

My companion smiles and takes another drink. “And this man did not deserve to die?”

“He was a murderer, but that's not the point.”

“No? Murderers should, perhaps, be hanged by a sheriff and a judge with all the proper paperwork filled out?”

“Yes,” I agree, but I hesitate.

“What if the sheriff is also a murderer, and the judge works for the same men who hired the killer?”

“I don't know,” I say in confusion. “Things should be done legally.”

“In a perfect world, yes, but the world is not perfect, especially in a war, and you are in a war, just as surely as I was in 1836 at the Alamo. Dolan is nothing,
nada
. He is only a pawn of the political men in Santa Fe. He does what he is told. Do you see that man over there?” I follow the wave of the arm and see a young man talking with a dark-haired girl in a bright, flowing dress.

“Two years past, his brother, Miguel, owned a small ranch over in Tularosa Canyon near Blazer's Mill. He worked hard, struggling to run a ranch and raise a young family. He bought feed for his cattle on credit from Dolan and signed a promissory note to pay for it in three weeks. Two weeks later Jesse Evans and some others arrived at the ranch claiming that the bill was due. Miguel argued, but it was no good. Evans took his horse in payment, even though it was worth much more than the debt.

“After dark that night, Miguel tracked Evans and the others on foot, found their camp and tried to take his horse back. He was seen and captured, and at first light the next morning, Miguel's wife woke to find her husband's body propped against the back porch of the house. He had been beaten severely and shot five times.

“The woman went to Lincoln, but Sheriff Brady simply laughed at her and said there was nothing he could do. That is not a unique story and that is why there is celebration in this village when El Chivato sends one more of Jesse Evans's gang to the darkness in
which he belongs.”

The old man falls silent, and we sit and stare at each
other. My brow is furrowed with worry as I try and
make sense of all I have heard. It seems that the more
I hear about Bill, the more people he becomes. Who
is he: cold-blooded killer, or fighter on the side of the
poor against power and corruption? A good singer and
dancer who charms the señoritas, or a hardened leader
of a gang of murderers? A hero or a villain? It depends
on who you talk to or on what day you meet Bill.

“You look confused. The world is perhaps not as
simple as you thought, or wished? That is the way of
things. Have a drink, dance with a pretty girl and sleep.
Tomorrow the world begins again.”

11

I
take the old man's advice and have a couple of glasses of the fiery mescal, dance with several brightly dressed girls and fall asleep in a bale of hay behind the livery stable. The next morning I discover something he didn't tell me. The mescal does make everything appear simpler, but the next morning the world begins again just as complicated as before. And my head hurts.

The heat of midmorning eventually forces me out of my bed of hay. I hold my aching head under the icy water of the horse trough until I am near drowned. Then I stagger over to complete the formalities of picking up the two horses. Even in my miserable state, I can appreciate that these are good-looking beasts. One's a bay that reminds me a little of John Tunstall's poor animal. The other is a gray, almost white in places and flecked with a distinctive pattern of black. One half of its face is almost completely black, giving the impression that the horse is wearing a mask. These are mounts destined for officers.

I hitch the horses to the rear of the wagon and set off on the trail, ignoring several offers of a breakfast of tortillas and beans from a number of my dancing partners from the previous evening. It's April 5 and I am a bit behind schedule, but I'll make the best time I can and hope that Brewer will wait for me at Fort Stanton.

It's midafternoon before I approach Blazer's Mill. On the bright side, I'm feeling better and am even contemplating stopping for something to eat. The first thing I notice as I approach the mill is a small man standing staring into a hole in the ground. As I get closer, I notice that the hole looks suspiciously like a large grave. I dismount, hitch the mules to a rail and approach the man. He turns and looks at me suspiciously.

“Howdy,” I say, smiling as broadly as I can. “What's going on?”

“Ain't you never seen a grave afore?” The man looks like a bird. He has a narrow pointed nose, and he looks at me with close-set, sharp eyes.

“I've seen graves before,” I say. “Whose is this?”

The man spits on the ground. “Were a fight yesterday. Some Regulators come down to eat at Ma Godfroy's place. Best food this side of Santa Fe, if you want my opinion. If you're planning on eating, she has some wild turkey that'll have your mouth watering like Niagara Falls.”

I don't want this man's opinion about food. The mention of Regulators being here rivets my attention. “What happened yesterday? Who was shot?”

The man looks momentarily annoyed at being interrupted but then launches into the story with gusto. “Round noon yesterday, 'bout six of them Regulator boys shows up to sup at Ma Godfroy's place. Like I said, her food's famous hereabouts.”

“Was Bill Bonney with them?” I interrupt.

“Bill Bonney? You mean Kid Antrim? Sure he was with 'em. Him and a couple of the other boys been round here once or twice these past few weeks, asking after Jesse Evans. Kid were limping something fierce from a bullet wound in the leg.

“Anyways, as I was saying, they was just setting down to eat when Buckshot Roberts shows up. Now, I don't know whether you know this or not, young fella, but Buckshot used to ride with Jesse Evans. And Evans and his boys ain't too popular with the Regulators. Turns out that Buckshot was with the posse that rode out to McSween's place the day Tunstall were shot, and the Kid Antrim's carrying a warrant fer his arrest.