Ghost Moon (9 page)

“Buckshot claims the warrant's been cancelled by Sheriff Brady, but the Kid just laughs and says that don't make no difference, 'cause old Bill Brady's been cancelled himself, and Buckshot better just surrender his gun and come quiet.

“Now, Buckshot says he ain't gonna do that 'cause that's the surest way to end up like Billy Morton and Frank Baker. Words was exchanged and then some shooting. John Middleton took a bullet in the chest and Frank Coe got his trigger finger shot clean off, but Buckshot took a killing shot right through the middle. Didn't die right away though. Holed up with his old Springfield rifle behind a mattress in the doorway of Godfroy's office yonder.”

The small man points over to a large wooden house down by the river. “Now, Buckshot were dying, everyone including Buckshot knew that. He were yelling in pain and cussing the Regulators fit to bust. One of the Regulators took hisself over the creek to try and finish Buckshot off. Reckon Kid Antrim would've done it if it weren't fer his leg.

“The fella took a shot at Buckshot but missed. I reckon Buckshot saw the smoke, even though it were near a hundred and fifty yards off. He waited until the fella popped his head up fer another shot and fired. Shot him dead as that rock yonder. One of the nicest pieces of shooting I ever seen. So, this fella and Buckshot is both dead, though old Buckshot lingered, screaming until this morning. That's why we've gone and dug such a big hole. Aiming to bury them both together to save work.”

The man falls silent, and I stand and stare into the hole. I'm angry that Bill's activities have caught up to me once more, yet also relieved that it wasn't him killed in the fight.

“The other Regulators still here?” I ask.

“Naw. They skedaddled soon as Buckshot killed their compadre. Didn't even stay to collect his body.

“That were some shot though,” the man reflects appreciatively. “Hit the fella in the eye at a hundred and fifty yards, blew the back of his head clean off. You aiming on staying for the funeral?”

“No.” My appetite's gone and I want to get as far from this new trouble as possible. Then I remember my promise to Lieutenant Fowler to find out about the mood on the reservation. “But I do have to speak to Frederick Godfroy.”

“Fred'll be over yonder.” The man nods back toward the wooden house.

“Thanks for the information,” I say as I head away from the yawning grave.

A number of men are standing in a group outside the house. Several turn to look at me as I approach.

“I'm looking for Mr. Godfroy,” I say.

“He'll be in the parlor,” one man volunteers.

I enter the front door and hear voices coming from the room to my right. I remove my hat and step through the doorway. Two crudely built open coffins are balanced on chairs. I glance into the closest one and see a body I don't recognize. I know most of the Regulators by sight and this man hasn't been shot in the head, so I assume it's Buckshot Roberts. I step over and look in the other coffin and a chill runs through me. The skin on the left side of the man's face sags unnaturally, as if the bones underneath have given up the struggle to hold the skin tight, and there's a gaping black hole where his eyes should have been, but there's no mistaking Dick Brewer.

My gasp brings over a middle-aged man with a kindly face.

“You know this fellow?” he asks.

I take a moment to recover from the shock and collect myself.

“Yes,” I say. “He's Dick Brewer. He was John Tunstall's foreman.”

“You a Regulator?” I sense the men in the room tense.

“No. I used to work for Tunstall is all. Brewer was a good man.”

“Perhaps he shouldn't have come down here with the rest of those scum.” I don't argue, and the man holds out his hand and introduces himself. “Fred Godfroy. Indian Agent on the reservation here. We're just about to put these boys in the ground if you want to stay and pay your respects. I can also offer you a bed for the night if you feel like breaking your journey, and that offer comes with a generous helping of Clara's famous turkey stew.”

I think for a moment as I stare at Brewer's pale, mutilated face. Another man I counted as my friend dead. The calming influence and the only brake on Bill and the other hotheads is gone. I don't want to see him put in the ground with the man who killed him and I don't want a hearty meal and companionship. I need to escape and be on my own.

“Thank you for the offer,” I say, looking at Godfroy's smiling face, “but I'll be on my way. I just stopped by on my way back to Fort Stanton because Lieutenant Fowler asked me to speak with you.”

Godfroy nods and turns to the men in the room.

“Best get the lids on these boys and get them buried,” he says before leading me outside. We move away from the gathered men down to the dry riverbed.

“Lieutenant Fowler wants to know the situation among the Apaches on the reserve,” I say. “He's worried about trouble here.”

“No doubt that these are difficult times,” Godfroy begins, “and I'd be lying if I said there wasn't any tension among the young warriors here, but this isn't San Carlos. These are Mescaleros, not Chiricahuas. The land hereabouts is much more to their liking than the desert round San Carlos. And, thanks to Fowler and others like him, supplies arrive on time.”

“I keep hearing that the reservation at San Carlos is so bad. Why?” I ask.

“Oh, it's bad all right. Hell's Forty Acres some call it. Back in '71, some genius decided it would be a good idea to collect all the Apache bands together on one reservation. I reckon it makes the paperwork easier for some fool behind a desk in Washington. But they made two mistakes. They picked the worst piece of land in Arizona Territory—barren desert, bad water and sickness. And they assumed all Apaches were the same. They ain't. Different bands live different lives, some like desert, but others, like Victorio, love mountains and trees. And there's not much of either at San Carlos.

“Victorio doesn't want a war. Only reason he goes off reservation is that we keep trying to send him to San Carlos. He's a Warm Springs Apache from Ojo Caliente. That's his sacred homeland. The government gave it to Victorio and his people ‘for as long as the mountains stand and the rivers exist,' but I guess mountains don't last that long hereabouts. It was less than a year before the band was moved to San Carlos. That was the beginning of all the trouble with him. So far, he's only gone off reservation so he can return to Ojo Caliente, but if he ever declares war for real, God help us all.

“But listen to me harping on about old complaints. Right now things are not too bad here. I even hear word that Victorio might be sent here one day. It's not Ojo Caliente, but it's better than San Carlos. He might go for it. I pray every night that he does.”

Godfroy scans the surrounding hills as if he expects to see Victorio ride over them any minute. “So everything's quiet here?” I ask.

“As can be expected,” Godfroy says, shifting his eyes back to meet mine. “I hear tales of mysterious comings and goings in the night. I suspect off-reservation warriors are coming in to try and persuade the young men to leave and join the fight. And a couple of them might. That one over there'll be first, I reckon.” Godfroy waves a hand toward a small group of young Apaches, lounging in the shade of a pine tree. There are all dressed similarly in loose leggings tucked into calf-length buckskin boots and loose shirts. Their long dark hair lies on their shoulders and is held off their faces by broad colored headbands.

“That tall fellow in the middle of the group's bad news.” One of the warriors is taller than the rest and stands stiffly, staring sullenly over at us. “His name's Ghost Moon, and I've had to warn him a number of times about stirring the others up. It wouldn't surprise me if we wake up one morning and he's long gone.”

“Ghost Moon?” I ask, suddenly wrenched back to a barren hillside and my old friend Wellington telling me a story.

“It's what the Apache's call the full moon when it's out in daylight. You know him?”

I shake my head. “The name reminded me of a story I was told once.”

“Well, stay clear of him. He's trouble, although I doubt many will leave with him when he goes. It's peaceful here and the food's relatively plentiful, so why exchange that for a hard, uncertain life on the run in faraway Texas and Mexico.”

“So I can tell Lieutenant Fowler that everything is more or less peaceful and under control?”

“Peaceful for the moment, yes. Under control? If the band decides to kill me and Clara in our beds and walk away, there's no way I can stop them. However, I don't think that'll happen. The worst will be Ghost Moon and a couple of others, perhaps half a dozen at most, heading east to try their luck with whoever's off San Carlos at the moment.”

From inside the house comes the sound of nails being hammered into coffin lids. I have to leave.

“Thank you,” I say, moving back toward the house. “I'll pass what you said on to Lieutenant Fowler.”

I load up some feed for the horses and mules and some jerky and beans for me and set off. I try not to look at the small group of men carrying the two boxes
from the house to the gaping hole in the ground.

As I set off, I'm watched by the group of young
warriors under the tree. I raise a hand in greeting as I
pass. Several wave back, but Ghost Moon simply stands
with his arms crossed, staring resentfully back at me.
The hatred in his glare sends a shiver down my spine
before his stare drifts back to the horses following along
behind the wagon. I am glad when I have passed the
group and am on my own once more.

12

I
make camp by a rockfall at the mouth of a side canyon, a short way up the valley from Blazer's Mill. I tend to the mules and horses and build a fire at the base of a large rock as the sun lowers toward the western hills. Dinner is some jerked beef and a mug of coffee. I watch a large mesquite branch I have placed across the fire catch in the middle with a soft crackling sound and ponder the happenings of the past few days.

Lieutenant Fowler's mission was an escape from the helplessness I feel when I'm around Bill and the other Regulators. But there's no escape. I'm caught in a gunfight at Lincoln and just miss one at Blazer's Mill. Dick Brewer, the second friend I've made and lost since I arrived here, is dead. Now there is no one to hold the Regulators in check and stop the killing. Going back to my safe home in Yale, as Wellington suggested, is looking more attractive. I've had all the adventure I can handle for the time being.

So that's what I'll do: take the horses up to Fort Stanton, go down and collect Coronado from McSween's ranch and head home.

But, as soon as I think that, doubts surface. Going home means getting on a boat and leaving Coronado, my one true friend. Also, this land has got under my skin. I've come to love the desert, its openness, its color, even the dryness. I love the contrast between the rugged, cactus-strewn hills and the green fertile flood-plains of the river valleys. It's all so different from the cool damp forests where I grew up.

Sometimes, as a boy, I used to feel that the forests were closing in on me. I would lie on a soft patch of moss, close my eyes and imagine the trees edging toward me, creeping nearer, trapping me. I used to scare myself doing this, but I always knew I was safe; all I had to do was open my eyes and the trees would be back where they were supposed to be.

Here, in the middle of a broad valley or on a hillside, the landscape urges me to set off into it, to find out what is around the next bend in the river or across the next range of red hills.

This land makes me feel free. The only problem is the people. They are the danger, and they don't disappear when I open my eyes.

I pour the dregs of my coffee onto the dry ground at my feet. It disappears instantly into the sand. I look up at the sky. It's beautiful, the clouds painted blood-red near the horizon, washing out to the most delicate pink above my head.