Read Online Ghost Moon by John Wilson - Free Book Online Page B

cold blood.”
    My companion smiles and takes another drink. “And this man did not deserve to die?”
    â€œHe was a murderer, but that’s not the point.”
    â€œNo? Murderers should, perhaps, be hanged by a sheriff and a judge with all the proper paperwork filled out?”
    â€œYes,” I agree, but I hesitate.
    â€œWhat if the sheriff is also a murderer, and the judge works for the same men who hired the killer?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I say in confusion. “Things should be done legally.”
    â€œIn 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.
    â€œTwo 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.
    â€œAfter 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.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œYou 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.