Ghost Moon Read online

  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

  “Bill! 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?”

  “Not at all,” I reply.

  “Excellent. I think you shall do splendidly here, young Jim. Well, I will let Bill show you around. Tomorrow we run a small herd of horses up to Lincoln, and you must come along to see some of the country and what we face here.”

  Tunstall and the other two turn away and begin talking earnestly. Bill leads me over to the corral, where we unsaddle our mounts, water them and hitch them to the rough fence. Then we head over to a campsite where some crude lean-tos are scattered around a large fire pit.

  “It ain’t the St. Francis Hotel in Santa Fe,” Bill says, throwing his saddlebags under one of the lean-tos and laying his Winchester beside them, “but you’re welcome to share.”

  “Thank you,” I say, laying out my bedroll. “Mr. Tunstall seems like a good man.”

  “He is that,” Bill says. “Always treated me well enough. I just hope he ain’t taken on too much.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I guess I’d best tell you something of what’s going on here if’n you’re going to ride into the hornet’s nest with us tomorrow.” Bill sits by his bedroll, and I step over to join him. “Tunstall and that lawyer fella, McSween, aim to go up against Dolan for a share of the commerce in this county, army contracts and so forth.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” I say. “Must be plenty of business for both.”

  “There’s plenty business all right, but Dolan don’t want to give it up. You see, he ain’t just a storekeep; he’s supported by a bunch of big businessmen up in Santa Fe. And they got most every lawman, judge and politician in the county in their pocket. They take a cut of Dolan’s profit, and in exchange they keep everyone else out and keep Dolan’s profits high. Dolan keeps his prices expensive and that hurts the small homesteaders and the Hispanics. That’s why most of them support Tunstall. On top of that, Tunstall and McSween have taken a couple of army contracts and that hurts Dolan.”

  “But what can Dolan do about it?”

  Bill tilts his head and stares at me. “You ain’t been around much, have you?” he asks.

  I’m stung by his question, but I have to admit he’s right. I saw and did a lot down in Mexico, but all this talk of crooked judges and politicians and business dealings is foreign to me.

  “I’m not a businessman,” I say defensively.

  Bill lets out a short laugh. “And that ain’t what you’re being hired for. Let me see that pistol you carry.”

  I hand over the Colt Pocket revolver that my mother gave me when I left Yale. Bill turns it in his hand and expertly opens it and checks the chambers. He nods approvingly. “So you know enough to keep the chamber under the hammer empty so as not to shoot yourself in the foot by accident. But it’s an old gun—single action and cap and ball loading. Not the best in a fight.”

  “My father said that if you need more than two shots, you’re probably already dead.”

  “He’s right enough there,” Bill says seriously, “if you’
re up against one man. But if you’re in a gunfight against five or six, you need to fire and reload quick.” He hands me back my gun and pulls his revolver from its holster. I immediately recognize the prancing horse on the handle. “This here’s brand-new last year from Mr. Colt. Sales fella called it the ‘New .41 caliber, double-action, self-cocking, central-fire six-shot revolver,’ but most just know it as the Thunderer. You don’t need to take the cylinder out to reload.”

  Bill pops open a section of the revolver to expose the right side of the cylinder. He pulls back a button below the barrel and the bullet pops out. He twirls it in his finger and pops it back in, closing the section with a click.

  “Easy,” he says with a smile.

  “Yes,” I agree, “but isn’t it the same action as the Peacemaker?”

  “It is,” Bill says, “but the Peacemaker’s single action. You have to cock the hammer each time between shots. This beauty’s double action—cocks itself so it’ll fire as fast as you can pull the trigger.”

  Despite what my father said, I’m impressed. I doubt I would stand much chance against someone armed with one of these.

  “Ever killed a man?” Bill’s question takes me by surprise. I have, but I don’t like to think about it. I rationalize that the Kid I ambushed was killed when his head hit the rock, and Ed and his companion died in the heat of battle when Nah-kee-tats-an and I were fighting for our lives. I never had a choice. I’ve never deliberately killed anyone. Have I? I’m not a killer. Nevertheless, I nod in answer.

  Bill laughs loudly. “Well. Well. There’s more to you than meets the eye, young Jim Doolen. Maybe a hardened killer like yourself needs a nickname. How about the Canada Kid?”

  “No,” I say more loudly than I intend.

  “Okay.” Bill throws up his hands in mock surrender. “No nicknames, killer.”

  “Have you ever killed a man?” I ask aggressively.

  Bill’s smile fades. “It were over in Camp Grant this summer past.” Bill has slipped into his cowboy drawl. “Me and a couple of boys had got into trouble for borrowing horses that we didn’t rightly own. One night I was in the cantina, and this big fella, Windy Cahill, the local blacksmith, starts roughing me up, calling me a horse thief and all. Now, I fought back, but Cahill were huge. He could near enough pick me up in one hand. I had no choice. I shot him and ran. I heard later that he were gut shot and died screaming that night.”

  Bill falls silent. His story makes sense and sounds like self-defence. After a minute, he looks up at me and smiles. “So we’re both killers,” he says, standing up. “Come on, let’s get the fire going afore the boys get in from herding.”

  I follow Bill over to the fire pit, deep in thought. He’s right, we have both killed men, but Bill and I are different. I’ve spent hours awake at night feeling guilt at what I’ve done, even though the men I’ve killed were trying to kill me. Bill doesn’t seem to feel that way. I couldn’t help noticing a note of pride in his voice when he was relating the story of shooting Cahill. Once more, I wonder what I’m getting into.

  4

  “Those are good-looking horses, Mr. Tunstall.” I am riding beside Bill and Tunstall behind the nine horses we are herding up to Lincoln to sell. Brewer and four other hands are scattered around the herd.

  “Thank you,” Tunstall says. “A horse makes living in this land possible. A good horse makes it a pleasure. Your mount’s a good-looking animal.”

  “His name’s Coronado,” I say. I scan the big bay that Tunstall is riding. It’s a magnificent beast. “I think your horse is the best I’ve ever seen.”

  Tunstall smiles at the compliment. “His name’s Dalston, after the place I was born in London. There are very few people who come close to Dalston in my affections.”

  “I don’t name my horses,” Bill says sullenly. He’s been in a miserable mood all morning, very different from the happy-go-lucky companion on the trail yesterday. “Ain’t never kept one long enough to need to.”

  I ignore Bill’s comment. “Why are we taking the horses up to Lincoln to sell?” I ask Tunstall.

  “Now that’s a much more complicated question than you think. You are aware that McSween and I are setting up a trading and ranching business in opposition to the monopoly that Dolan holds in Lincoln?”

  “I am,” I reply. “Bill told me something of it.”

  “Then you will know that Dolan has not taken kindly to having opposition. He’s trying everything to discourage us. He’s hired Jesse Evans and his boys, a disreputable gang of cutthroats if I ever saw one, to threaten my men and me. Why, they even tried to provoke me into a gunfight in the main street of Lincoln, as if I was some hired gunman.” Tunstall laughs and I join him. The image of this suave Englishman being drawn into a brutal street fight with some hired killer is just too unlikely.

  “When he saw he couldn’t drive us out with threats, Dolan resorted to the law, or what passes for it in this remote place where every judge is in Dolan’s pocket.”

  “That snake William Brady too,” Bill mutters under his breath.

  “Who’s William Brady?” I ask.

  “Sheriff in Lincoln,” Tunstall tells me. “Although the title gives him too much honor. He’s little more than one of Dolan’s hired men. Anyway, to get back to the horses, McSween was using the law to help us, so Dolan had one of their tame lawyers draw up a warrant against him, claiming he was in debt to them. It’s nonsense, but it will take time to settle, which is what Dolan wants.

  “According to the warrant, McSween’s cattle are subject to seizure, but not these horses. I received word yesterday that Brady was coming out to the ranch to seize the cattle, so I thought it best to remove the horses today to avoid any unpleasantness over them. I think it also best if we are not at the ranch when Brady arrives. Some of my men”—Tunstall glances at Bill—“can be a trifle hotheaded under pressure.”

  “Turkey chase,” one of the hands yells as five or six large birds explode from a nearby stand of trees. Immediately, three of the hands launch into a gallop after the animals, leaving only Brewer and a man called Middleton with the horses. Bill wheels his horse and rides out to join the hunt.

  “What about the horses?” I ask Tunstall.

  “Don’t worry about them. They’re well trained. As long as Dick Brewer and Middleton stay ahead and I sit behind, they’ll keep plodding along the trail until you boys come back with some excellent fat wild turkeys for the dinner pot. Off you go.”

  I hesitate, but Tunstall smiles and nods at the men who are careening wildly about the hillside after the panicked birds. I smile back. In less than a day, I have become very fond of my new boss. I’m going to enjoy working for him. His easygoing attitude and ready smile remind me of my father. I trot off after Bill.

  I’ve almost reached the crest of a low rise, about half a mile from the trail, when I hear a shout behind me. I rein in Coronado and look back. Four men are riding along the trail toward Tunstall. Several others are following them, spread out along the valley. Brewer is riding toward us, calling and pointing at the pursuers. Bill has heard the shouts and arrives at my side.

  “That’s Jesse Evans,” he says under his breath. “Looks like Billy Morton, Tom Hill and Frank Baker with him.”

  “Dolan and Riley’s men. What are they doing here?”

  “No good,” Bill replies. He stands in his stirrups and shouts, “Mr. Tunstall. Get away from the horses. Come up here.”

  Tunstall seems unsure of what to do. Middleton is riding back toward him. “Come away, Mr. Tunstall,” Middleton shouts as he swings his horse up the slope toward us. A shot rings out with startling clarity in the still morning air. I don’t know who fired it or who it was aimed at, but it is followed in quick succession by three or four others.

  Middleton spurs his horse on, shouting urgently back over has shoulder, “Come on, Mr. Tunstall. Those boys mean us harm.”

  Tunstall, still looking around uncertainly, slowly leaves the horses. Evans and the other three i
gnore us and ride toward Tunstall who stops after he has gone a few yards and turns back.

  “No.” I hear Bill say, under his breath.

  Tunstall appears to be talking to the approaching men. He has dropped his reins and spreads his hands out wide, palms up to show he is not holding his gun. The four men slow to a trot, and Bill and I, joined now by Brewer and Middleton, watch the scene unfold. We are too far off to do anything.

  Tunstall keeps talking, and the four men sit, spread apart, and appear to be listening. Maybe it’s just some misunderstanding. Tunstall is waving up the trail at the horses, which are standing around grazing idly now that no one is urging them on. He’s obviously explaining that these animals are not part of the warrant that Sheriff Brady has issued.

  “Just give them the horses,” Brewer says under his breath.

  Without warning, one of the men raises his rifle and shoots Tunstall full in the chest. For a moment, the Englishman sits immobile, his hands still held out wide; then he slips sideways and falls to the ground. His bay horse skitters a few steps to one side, confused by the noise and the loss of its rider.

  Tunstall is lying on his front, struggling to push himself up with his arms. A second of the attackers dismounts and walks calmly over to stand above Tunstall, who twists his head to look up. The effort seems too much, and he sags back down. In one swift motion, the standing man draws his pistol and fires one shot into the back of Tunstall’s head. The body jerks and lies still.

  Bill screams a string of foul curses, drags his Colt out of its holster and urges his horse forward. Brewer lunges forward and grabs his reins to hold him back. Bill turns to stare at Brewer. His eyes are cold. “Drop the reins, Dick,” he says quietly, raising his pistol and pointing it at Brewer’s head. “They murdered Tunstall in cold blood, and I aim to make them pay. I don’t want to have to kill you as well.”

  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.