The main street of Lincoln is deserted as Harvey and I ride into town late in the afternoon on July 18. It’s only nine miles to Fort Stanton, but Alita and I are both thirsty and my leg’s hurting fiercely, so we stop at the horse trough outside the small courthouse beside Squire Wilson’s house. Alita drinks gratefully and I enjoy washing some of the trail dust off my face.

  Harvey doesn’t dismount but sits and glances nervously between the building beside us and up the street, where the Tunstall store and McSween’s house are just visible in the distance.

  “Howdy.” I look up. The man standing behind me is only middle-aged, but his hair is white. His bushy mustache and goatee stand out brightly against his weather-beaten skin. He looks vaguely familiar. I nod a greeting.

  “That’s a cavalry mount you got there,” he says, regarding the buffalo insignia on the saddlebags.

  “It is. I’m taking it to Fort Stanton to deliver to Lieutenant Fowler.”

  “I see. And after you deliver it, how you aiming to get home?”

  It’s a good question.

  “I don’t know. I was going to bring my own horse, but someone else took it.”

  “That’s bad luck for you. Can I see the papers you got from this Lieutenant Fowler?”

  “He didn’t give me any papers.” I’m beginning to feel nervous at the questioning. Who is this man?

  “I see,” the man repeats. “Now this presents me with a difficulty. There’s been quite a bit of horse thieving these past few weeks, and here you are riding a cavalry horse that you say you’re delivering to Fort Stanton, yet you got no horse of your own to ride home on and no official signed papers.”

  “I’m no horse thief,” I say. “I’m telling you the truth. Who are you anyway?”

  “I’m sorry,” the man says with a smile that borders on a leer. “Name’s George Peppin. Folks call me Dad, ’cause of my white hair and all. I’m the Sheriff hereabouts.”

  Now I realize where I’ve seen this man before. He was one of the deputies with Sheriff Brady the day of the ambush just up the street. He must be Brady’s replacement, which means he’s a Dolan man. I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Peppin’s smile broadens but doesn’t become friendly.

  “Would you be one of them Regulator trash?”

  “No,” I say, as convincingly as I can manage. “Like I said, I work for Lieutenant Fowler. I’m going to be scouting for him when he rides out after the Apaches who ran from the reservation down at Tularosa Canyon.”

  “That right? Well, I don’t reckon that’s the whole truth. I reckon you are a Regulator come here to help them others out, and what’s more, I reckon you are a horse thief.” Without me noticing, Peppin has drawn his gun and now it’s in his right hand, pointing at my stomach. “See, I recognize you. You’re the fella who walked across the street here, bold as you please, right after Bill Brady and George Hindman was murdered in cold blood.”

  Harvey’s horse skitters sideways up the street, but Peppin ignores it.

  “I wasn’t part of that,” I plead, unable to take my eyes off the unwavering muzzle of Peppin’s revolver. “I was just passing through town, taking supplies to Fort Stanton. I went over to see what was happening and got caught there when the shooting started.”

  “My, my. Always on your way to Fort Stanton and never part of any of the trouble that happens around you. You sure are one unlucky fella, a good one for the stories too. Next you’ll be telling me that you’re Colonel Dudley himself. Now you just hand me that Colt on your belt, real easy, and we’ll take a walk up the street to the jail and you can rest from all your journeying while we sort this out.”

  For a long moment I stand and stare at Peppin and his gun, trying desperately to think of something I can do to get out of this mess. Something he said sticks in my mind. “What others? You said, you reckoned that I was in town to help the other Regulators. What did you mean? Are there Regulators in town?”

  Peppin glances up the street. As if on cue, there’s a burst of gunfire from the direction of McSween’s house. Harvey’s horse rears as its rider jerks the reins in fright. Harvey tumbles to the ground and the horse gallops off down the street.

  Peppin looks uncertain, his revolver wavering between Harvey and me. A bullet from up the street chips the edge of the horse trough and whines into the air. Peppin makes up his mind. He grabs Alita’s reins and, keeping her between him and the firing, retreats toward the courthouse. I take a step after him but the loud click of his revolver being cocked stops me in my tracks. Another bullet kicks up dust at Peppin’s feet and, dragging Alita’s reins, he runs for cover around the side of the building.

  Harvey’s on his feet now, looking around nervously. I feel naked standing out in the middle of the street, but where to run to? I notice a movement and look up to see a figure with a rifle in the courthouse window. At the same time I hear a familiar voice behind me, “This way. Get over here.”

  Without further encouragement, I grab Harvey’s sleeve and set off in a limping run across the street. I hear shots behind me but don’t know if they’re aimed at us or not.

  Harvey and I tumble behind a broken adobe wall to find Bill standing with his revolver drawn, smiling. He lets off two quick shots across the street.

  “I’ve missed you, Jim, lad, but you sure picked an awkward time to come visiting.” A bullet thuds into the wall. “But I reckon we’d best save the pleasantries for later. Follow me.”

  As dusk falls, we follow Bill along the backs of the buildings facing onto the street, dodging along walls and fences and sprinting between the cover of outhouses, barns and sheds. There is sporadic firing all around, but none of it seems aimed at us. Eventually, we burst through the back door of a large adobe house into a big kitchen, where half a dozen men look up at our arrival. “Bill,” one of them says, “you’re back just in time for the party.”

  “Always liked a party,” Bill replies.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Bill after the banter has stopped.

  “Lots happened while you been relaxing down at Blazer’s Mill. We’ve shot some of theirs, and they’ve shot some of ours. No one’s backing down, so we figured it was time to resolve this for good.

  “All the boys got together and rode down through San Patricio, La Luz and Picacho. Lot of Hispanic boys down there ain’t too fond of Dolan and the high prices he charges. Anyone with a grudge was welcome to join us. I reckon we doubled our strength in that one ride. Must be fifty or sixty all told now.

  “We rode in four days back, planning to ambush Evans and his posse as they rode into town the next day and take Lincoln back from these thieves and crooks, but it didn’t work. Someone must’ve seen us setting up. Anyway, they set up down the street in the hotel and Dolan’s store. Been shooting at each other on and off ever since.”

  “Is McSween here?”

  “Sure, everyone’s here.”

  “And where’s Coronado?”

  A puzzled expression flits over Bill’s face; then he laughs.

  “That’s one mean horse, but we came to an understanding.”

  “You’d better not have hurt him.”

  “Or what?” Anger flashes across Bill’s face, but then his smile returns. “No damage done. He just needed to be shown who was in charge.”

  I decide not to push it any further.

  “Where is he now?”

  “In the corral behind the house with the other mounts.” Bill jerks his thumb at the back door.

  “I’m going to check on him,” I say. Bill shrugs.

  I’m excited to see Coronado again. I’ve come to be very fond of Alita, but Coronado is my friend. Darkness has fallen while I was talking to Bill, but I have no trouble finding the horses and Coronado.

  “Are you all right?” I stroke Coronado’s neck, and he nuzzles me affectionately. “Bill didn’t harm you, did he?” The horse whinnies quietly. “Well, we’ll be out of here soon. I don’t want to go riding about the countryside on a moonless night like this. I’ll stay the night at the house. At first light I’ll come and get you and we’ll see if we can find Alita. I imagine Peppin put her in the livery stable. You’ll like her, she’s a cavalry mount. Then we’ll head out to Fort Stanton. I’ve got us work as scouts with the cavalry. That’ll keep us a long way from the troubles going on in Lincoln.”

  I go on to tell Coronado the story of my adventures at Blazer’s Mill, my injury and recovery. Ever since Wellington talked to Coronado, I’ve done the same. It’s comforting and companionable, and he seems to like it, standing quietly and nuzzling my shoulder.

  “We’ll be away from all this soon,” I say. “It’ll be good to be out on the trail where life’s so much simpler.”

  With a final stroke of Coronado’s neck, I leave him with the other dozen or so horses and feel my way through the blackness to McSween’s house.

  17

  Inside the house there’s a festive atmosphere. A fire crackles in the parlor grate and lanterns dispel the shadows in every corner. Bill stands by the fire, playing a harmonica, and another man is squeezing out a rough tune on a small concertina. The air is a blue haze of tobacco smoke, and everyone is either stamping their feet in time to the tune or humming loudly along.

  There are more than a dozen people standing around; some I recognize as Regulators, others are strangers. I see McSween and Harvey sitting at a table with a dark-haired woman. I decide to go over and tell McSween what happened to me, but before I can move, a hand catches my arm.

  “Buenas noches, joven.” I turn around to see the old man from La Luz who told me the story of Davy Crockett at the Alamo.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask in surprise.

  “I have come to fight,” he says proudly, patting a pair of antiquated flintlock pistols stuffed into his belt. “Perhaps we shall be heroes together, no? But first I must sing a corrido.”

  Bill and the concertina player have stopped, and the old man steps forward. With no accompaniment, he begins singing in Spanish in a wavering voice.

  Surprisingly, Bill joins in.

  “Atención pido a la gente,

  pido por última vez,

  adiós compadres amados

  del finado.

  Adiós compadres amados

  del finado Manuel Maés.”

  I struggle to follow the story. It seems to be about the death of a famous buffalo hunter called Manuel Maés. Each verse has him saying farewell to his family, friends and his life.

  When he finishes, the old man bows theatrically and is rewarded with scattered applause.

  “Let’s have a dance,” someone shouts out, and Bill launches into a vigorous tune and someone produces a guitar and joins him. Soon, everyone is foot-tapping and several men are clumsily attempting to dance in the confined space. I slip around the edge of the crowd.

  “Hello, Mr. McSween,” I say.

  McSween looks up at me. He appears tired and distracted, and there are gray bags under his eyes as if he hasn’t slept in several days. It takes him a moment to recognize me.

  “Jim, isn’t it?” he says. I nod. “Good to see you back to lend a hand. Have you met my wife, Susan?” He indicates the woman sitting beside him. She’s well-dressed and wears her hair up and held in place with pins and lace ribbons.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I say. She smiles back and her face lights up. She looks me straight in the eye with a confident gaze.

  “Harvey’s been telling of your meeting with Peppin,” McSween says.

  “We had no idea what was going on in town and rode into the middle of it,” I say. “I don’t know what would have happened if Bill hadn’t got Harvey and me out of it.”

  McSween looks thoughtful.

  “I was wrong,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  He looks up at me with his tired eyes.

  “I thought there was a legal way, a civilized way, to resolve all this. But to reach a civilized solution, you have to be dealing with civilized men. Bill was right all along—the only answer to all of this will come out of a gun. Perhaps if I’d accepted that earlier, fewer good men would be dead now.”

  Susan reaches over and strokes McSween comfortingly on the back. He turns to her and forces a weak smile. He looks over at Harvey.

  “I’m sorry I brought you into all this.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. McSween. It’ll all be over soon, and then we can get back to practicing law.” His words are confident, but his voice wavers with uncertainty.

  “I think I have chosen well for my future partner,” McSween says, and Harvey grins so wide I think his face will split. “Enjoy yourself tonight,” McSween adds. “I have a feeling there will be business to attend to in the morning.”

  I don’t want to tell McSween that I’m leaving at first light, so I simply nod and move back across the room. Bill has finished playing and joins me. His face is flushed and gleams with sweat. I am still angry with him and have been around him enough now to know not to trust his charm, but I don’t say anything. I don’t want any trouble before I can slip away.

  “There’s nothing like those Mexican dance tunes for working up a sweat,” Bill says.

  “How many Regulators came with you?” I ask.

  “When we rode into town, about sixty, counting the Hispanics,” Bill replies. “Some have slipped away in the past few days, but there’s still enough good men for what we need to do. About fifteen here and a few more over at Tunstall’s store, Montano’s and Ellis’s places.”

  “Will this end the war?”

  “Sure will. But we’ve got to move quick tomorrow. Only a matter of time afore the army intervenes. We got to hit Evans and the rest hard, drive them out of town. Then we’ll stroll over to the Dolan store and help ourselves to what we want.” Bill winks at me. “The problem’s solved.”

  I’m amazed that Bill seems to believe what he is saying. Has he learned nothing in the past six months? How does he imagine his thirty or so men will move at least that number of Dolan men out of their fortified positions around town? Even if they do succeed, Dolan has a lot of friends in high places with a financial stake in his contracts for the army. I doubt they will sit quietly by. But it’s not my problem. Soon I’ll be gone, off on the trail scouting for Lieutenant Fowler.

  “I’m going to find myself somewhere to lie down,” I say. “It’s been a long day and my leg bothers me.”

  “Dancing’s the best thing for a bad leg,” Bill says. “I reckon I’m ready for another tune.” He flashes me a sly look. “There’s space down in the cellar if you want to escape the noise.”

  I say my thanks, grab a lantern and find the steps down to the cellar. The room is dry and pleasantly cool, and I look around in the wavering light. Shadows dance around the piles of boxes and odds and ends. I see a dusty wardrobe and a couple of large travel trunks. There’s no bed, but there is a long dining table at the far end of the room. There’s stuff piled on it and covered with a blanket. It will do for the few hours’ sleep I need before I can leave.

  I cross the room, being careful not to trip on the uneven floor. Without looking, I haul the blanket off whatever’s on the table. My cry of surprise brings gales of laughter from the stairs up to the house. There’s the body of a man on the table. His eyes are open, staring at nothing, and there’s a dark blood-encrusted hole in the side of his head.

  “Say hello to Tom Cullins.” I hear Bill’s voice, rich with humor, from behind me. “Old Tom passed too close to a window this morning. He didn’t feel too much like joining the party, so we put him down here so’s he wouldn’t smell the place up too bad.”

  Now I understand the look Bill gave me when he suggested I find a place to sleep down here. He knew I’d find the body, and he and some others followed me down the stairs to see the reaction.

  Fighting to control my temper, I push past Bill and the others on the stairs. I find a chair as far from the revels as I can and slump into it. I can’t wait to escape from this place.

  18

  The fusillade of gunshots wakes me instantly, and I open my eyes to a cloud of dust hanging in the gray dawn light. Without thinking, I roll off the chair, grab my revolver and scramble through to the parlor.

  Men are running everywhere, falling over each other and trying to keep away from the windows. Bullets are thudding into the thick adobe walls. As I burst into the room, a bullet crashes into the wall beside my head and Bill yells, “Get down.”

  I fall to the ground and crawl over to crouch beside the window. Bill is on the opposite side, peering carefully out of the corner. He is holding his Colt fully cocked.

  “Army’s here,” he says without taking his eyes from the street outside. “Must’ve got into town last night.”

  “But the army’s not allowed to interfere,” I say, remembering what Lieutenant Fowler told me.

  “They can if someone shoots at them.”

  “You shot at a soldier?” I ask, horrified.

  “Not me,” Bill says casually. “One of the other fellas couple of days back. Soldier was poking around out there. Obviously Peppin sent for him, so we fired a couple of warning shots. Never come close to hitting him.” Bill lifts his revolver and fires off a couple of quick shots out the window. A fusillade of bullets thump into the wall in return. When it stops, I risk a glance into the street.

  There are glimpses of men moving in the buildings across the street. There are also some on the roofs and taking cover behind wagons and horse troughs. There appear to be a lot of them, but what frightens me most is the scene at the end of the street. There’s a squad of soldiers gathered around a howitzer, and it’s pointed right at us.

  “They’ve got a cannon,” I say breathlessly as I slip back down.

  “They got a Gatling gun as well,” Bill says nonchalantly. “Just for show. They won’t use them.”

  Bill doesn’t sound unduly bothered by the situation. He may even be right, but I’m not staying to find out. Keeping low, I cross the parlor and into the kitchen. Susan McSween and Harvey are in there, huddled in a corner. I open the back door.

 

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