Ghost Moon (4 page)

Brewer holds his ground. “You can shoot me now, Bill, but all that'll mean is that we'll both be dead. Look.”

We all turn our attention back to the valley. Several riders are arriving to join the original four. I count fourteen in total.

“We'll pay them back, Bill,” Brewer says, “and I'll be right by your side when we do, but now's not the time.”

Bill holds Brewer's eye for a long minute, then slowly lowers his gun. “John Tunstall was the only man that ever treated me like I was free-born and a man. Morton shot him first and Hill finished him off like he was a sick dog. I swear in front of all you boys that I will kill those two and everyone who helped them murder John Tunstall, or I will die trying.”

“And we're all with you in that, Bill,” Brewer says. He looks at each of us in turn. When his eyes meet mine, I, too, nod in agreement, although I'm uncertain what I'm agreeing to. The sudden violence in the valley has left an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach and the sensation that things are spinning out of control around me.

Below us, Hill pulls Tunstall's revolver out of its holster and fires two shots in the air. He then places the gun by the corpse's hand.

“What'd he do that for?” I ask.

“So he can say Tunstall fired back,” Bill says bitterly. “Claim it were self-defence not murder.”

Hill says something to Morton, who laughs. Then he calmly walks over to Tunstall's magnificent horse and shoots it between the eyes. The horse shudders, takes two steps back and collapses on the ground. Bill hisses a curse.

Evans is now pointing up the slope at us, and several men are forming up as if to charge us.

“Time we were gone,” Brewer says. Bill hesitates, itching for a fight, to do something to revenge his friend. “Come on, Bill,” Brewer encourages. “We can't do anything more here.”

“You're dead men,” Bill shouts down the hillside at Morton, Hill, Baker and Evans. Reluctantly, he turns his horse and we ride off into the trees. I wonder how things can change so abruptly. Even though I only knew him for less than twenty-four hours, John Tunstall
was my friend. In minutes, I have gone from being a
ranch hand to a witness to murder and a member of
a gang that has sworn revenge. What worries me is that
Tunstall's murder is a beginning not an end, and that I
have no way of knowing what, where or when the real
end will be.

5

T
he undertaker has done the best he can to prepare the body lying in the coffin balanced across two chairs in the dining room of Tunstall's house in Lincoln. However, there is a limit to his skill, and against the body's marble-white skin, the bullet's ragged exit hole in the forehead above the left eye looks black and evil. The face is also heavily scratched from encounters with heavy brush after it was loaded onto a burro and brought back to town.

“Every one of those rats who done this is still out there, free to live the high life and go where they want.” Bill is pacing back and forth along the length of the room like some caged animal, desperate to break out and run riot. “We should get a gang together and have done with it,” Bill continues without stopping his pacing. “Kill 'em all—Dolan, Evans, Morton, Baker, Hill.”

“And what about Sheriff Brady?” Dick Brewer asks quietly.

“Him, too, if he stands in our way.”

“And the judge, and the soldiers they'll send down from Fort Stanton?” Brewer continues. “And then we'll ride on up to Santa Fe and kill all the politicians and businessmen there, because they're the ones who are really behind all this?”

Bill grunts and falls silent.

“We all need to calm down,” Brewer says. “It's only been four days since the murder. We'll bury John this afternoon and then attend to business. And we'll do it legal.”

“Legal!” Bill stops and stares hard at the ranch foreman across the open coffin. “There weren't
nothing
legal about John's murder. Anyways, how we going to do anything legal when every lawman in the county's in Dolan's pocket?”

Bill, Brewer and I are in the room, paying our last respects to Tunstall and trying to decide what to do next. Everyone's been angry, but Bill's anger is different. It's wild enough, but there's a cold edge to it.

The night after we brought Tunstall's body back to town, everyone got roaring drunk, staggering around swearing hideous vengeance on Evan's gang. Bill never touched a drop of liquor. He just sat in the shadows, cleaning his Winchester and his Colt and staring blankly into the fireplace with a look that sent shivers down my spine.

“Not every lawman,” Brewer goes on. “The Justice of the Peace, John Wilson, he's as straight as they come. People call him the Squire because of his fairness. He'll deputize us, and then we can go after Tunstall's killers.”

“And hand them over to Sheriff Brady so they can be let off or allowed to escape?” Bill's voice is heavy with sarcasm.

“I don't know,” Brewer admits, “but I do know we're not going rampaging around town, guns blazing. Once we've captured John's killers, we'll let McSween handle the legal side of it.”

Bill is silent for a long time.

“All right,” he says eventually. “We'll do it your way, for now.” He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. I look at Brewer. He appears tired and worried. I turn and follow Bill.

Bill's sitting on the edge of the stone horse trough behind the house. I walk over and join him. He's staring at the water in the trough and doesn't look up when I arrive, but he starts talking.

“I thought when I come to work here that I'd found the da that my real das never were. A chance to make something of my life. Work for Tunstall for a year or two, collect a grubstake and maybe try my hand at ranching. I even talked about going in with a couple of the boys here, and Tunstall said he would help us get going.

“There's still land to be had cheap over by the Arizona Territory border, nothing fancy, just enough to run a few cattle, too small to be of interest to the rustlers, and if we could keep the Apaches away for a few years, we reckoned we could build something.”

“You still can,” I say.

Bill laughs. “You're a good kid, and I might even have offered you a share, but you're naive. The big boys like Dolan'll never let the likes of me make a go of it. To them, I'm nothing but a no-good troublemaker, and perhaps they're right, maybe that's all I am.”

“What do you mean?” I'm shocked and confused by Bill's negativity. Where's the cheerful companion I met on the trail a few days back?

Bill looks up from the trough. I expect his face to show sadness, but it doesn't. There's no emotion at all, and his eyes are cold and empty. It's as if he's talking about someone he doesn't know or care about.

“Trouble follows me. Even as a boy in Wichita and Silver City, I was always getting in trouble. Not for anything real bad, just high jinks, kid's stuff. Ma did the best she could, sent me to school to get some learning, taught me to dance at home, got in a Mexican woman to teach me Spanish. I even got jobs on ranches or in stores, but something always went wrong. Some dumb cowboy'd try to bully me 'cause I looked skinny and young. Or I'd find the storekeep cutting the flour with sawdust, and I'd fight back. Next thing I knew I'd be in jail. Once you're branded, don't matter what you do. Do the right thing, you still end up in jail, so what's the point in trying? If I'm going to jail for fighting off a bully, I might as well go for stealing a good horse.

“That Cahill fella I shot over in Camp Grant, it were self-defence all right. Brute would've broke my back if I hadn't. But it scared me just the same. That's why I come over here to make a new start. It's no small matter to kill a man.”

Bill's voice has softened, and his gaze drifts thoughtfully over the trough. Then his shoulders stiffen and he stares back at me, his features hardened.

“Least, that's what I used to think. After I saw
Morton shoot John in the chest and Hill finish him off
with a shot to the head…killing them, or Baker and
Evans, would mean no more to me now than stepping
on a bug. Easiest thing in the world, and I aim to do
it too.”

“What about Brewer's plan to become deputies?”
I ask, shocked at Bill's casual talk of murder.

“Oh, I'll go along with that, as far as I need to.
I'll tell you one thing though. If I'm with the posse that
takes any of those boys, they won't live more'n an hour
after they're captured.”

Bill stands and stalks back into the house, leaving
me confused and worried.

6

I
t's nearly two weeks since we put John Tunstall in the ground, and I'm a deputy. So's Bill and Dick Brewer and about a dozen others. We don't have badges, but we've each got a piece of paper from “Squire” Wilson deputizing us. Brewer also has a warrant indicting Morton, Baker, Hill, Evans and several others who ride with them. We call ourselves Regulators, and based on a tip from William McCloskey, nine of us are trailing two of Jesse Evans's men now, through the hills east of Lincoln.

“I sure hope it's Morton and Baker,” Bill says. He's riding beside me, and this is the first thing he's said since we set out at first light this morning. We heard yesterday that Evans and Hill are over at Tularosa, so it's unlikely to be them, and these four are the ones Bill holds most to blame for Tunstall's murder.

Over the past few days, Bill's been painfully quiet, responding to questions with grunts or single words. It's as if he's so single-mindedly focused on revenge that anything else is a distraction.

“McCloskey says Morton and Baker were headed down toward Mexico today. We've picked up the fresh trail of two riders heading that way. Why would he lie?”

“I don't trust McCloskey,” Bill says sullenly. “He's friends with Morton and used to ride with Evans. Why would he sell out his friend?”

“Because he's a murderer,” I say, but it sounds weak. If I'm honest, I don't trust McCloskey either. He has a narrow rat face and his eyes are never still, continually darting off to the side when he talks to you instead of meeting you confidently. “We're following someone. We'll be caught up with them soon, then we can see what's to be done.”

At the front of our posse, Brewer holds up his hand and we rein in around him. Ahead the trail splits in two.

“Now,” Brewer says casually, “if I were heading down to Mexico, I'd take the left trail, it's longer but it's easier and you can make better time. Seems, though, that our boys have taken the right trail through the canyon.”

“Then why're we sitting here jawing?” Bill asks. “Let's get on after them.”

Brewer gives Bill a long, hard look.

“We're not far behind these boys. I reckon, if we take the easier trail, we might well get to where the trails join once more before them. That way, all we have to do is sit and wait rather than panicking them into a gallop by coming up behind them on a narrow trail.”

There's a murmur of agreement from the others.

“We should follow them on the right fork,” McCloskey says. His voice sounds high-pitched and nervous. Several of us glance at him. “I mean, we've come all this way. We don't want to lose them by taking the wrong trail.”

“I don't aim to lose them,” Bill says. “Brewer makes sense. Let's get going.” He pushes his horse forward and starts off down the left-hand fork.

“Bill sure is keen to catch these boys,” someone comments as we get moving. McCloskey hangs back uncertainly but eventually follows on.