by Jane Toombs
Corbett reached for the boards and began to fit them back across the opening. Ezra peered at Billy and saw he held his Colt in his hand.
“Anybody finds me, they’re going to be sorry,” Billy said, his words muffled as Corbett laid the last board in place.
Chapter 6
Peppin and Mathews searched the McSween house but overlooked Billy’s hiding place. Two days later he rode south to join his friends in the hills near San Patricio. Ezra, asking permission from no one, went with him.
Dick Brewer was there to greet them.
“Ain’t nothing I can do now about you killing Brady and Hindman,” he told Billy. “They’re dancing with the devil, I guess, and that’s all right, but I don’t want to see it happen again. We’re going to serve these warrants I got and we’re going to bring the rest of the bastards back alive. To hang.”
Billy shrugged. “Suits me.”
“I thought you were running things,” Ezra whispered to him.
“Brewer’s the constable, not me,” Billy muttered.
“I got word that Roberts and Kitt are down the Tulerosa by the Mescalero reservation,” Brewer went on. “We’re riding after them.”
Ezra knew both Roberts and Kitt had been in Brady’s posse and he tingled with anticipation. This time he wouldn’t freeze up like some greenhorn with buck fever. He’d killed an Apache, hadn’t he?
The trouble with him back in Lincoln was that Brady and his deputies hadn’t shot first. Hadn’t even pulled their guns. The truth of it was, they’d been ambushed. Of course, ambush was all right in war. Even Tessa called it a war. Anyway, hadn’t the posse done worse to Tunstall?
“Wish you were leading the Regulators,” Ezra told Billy as they saddled up.
“I reckon Brewer’s okay,” Billy assured him.
Fifteen Regulators rode southwest under a warm sun. The grass had begun to shoot up green, transforming the brown hills. The cottonwoods unfolded new leaves and birds called everywhere. It was April sixth.
Words popped into Ezra’s mind:
“Oh, to be in England now that April’s there.
And whoever wakes in England sees some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf ...”
It was from some poem his father used to recite to him and Tess every spring.
“Robert Browning,” he said aloud.
“What?” Billy asked.
“Nothing.” Not for the world would Ezra admit he could remember lines of poetry and even the name of the man who wrote them.
He’d loved Papa, but it didn’t take many brains to see that Texas and the New Mexico Territory were no place for men like Papa. No place for poetry either. Tunstall was an Englishman, too. He probably would’ve known who Browning was, since Tunstall had been a lot like Papa.
Good men. Law-abiding. Trusting in the good of other men. Ezra shook his head. It hadn’t worked for Papa in Texas any more than it had worked for Tunstall in the New Mexico Territory . They were both dead.
Ezra glanced at Billy who’d begun to whistle “Silver Threads Among The Gold.”
Billy sure didn’t have to worry about growing old. Not for a long time. He was eighteen, a little less than three years older than Ezra. He wasn’t a tall man--about five seven, maybe a tad more. He himself was already two inches or so taller than Billy.
Age and height didn’t mean much, though. When they didn’t have Brewer giving orders, The Regulators all looked to Billy to find out what to do next. Billy didn’t sit around musing over lines of poetry, he was always practicing his shooting even though he was the best shot in the Territory. He watched everything that was going on and decided what ought to be done. Then did it. No sitting on the fence debating which way to jump.
Ezra was bound and determined to be like Billy. Not worry about whether he was doing right. Not feel guilty about leaving Tess and Jules behind. Billy was the kind of a man who could call the Territory home. Who knew what a man had to do to live here.
By noon the sun was actually hot. They were in sight of Blazer’s Mill on the Mescalero reservation,
“We’ll get Mrs. Godfroy to fix us dinner,” Brewer said.
She was the Indian Agent’s wife and kept an eating place for travelers. The Regulators left their horses in the corral, carrying their rifles into the building and stacking them against the wall near the dining room before sitting down to eat.
Ezra had just put his spoon into the bean stew when Middleton leaped to his feet, pointing out the window. “By God here comes Buckshot Roberts, big as life!”
“Let’s get him,” Billy cried.”
The Regulators shoved back chairs and dove for their rifles.
“Hold it!” Brewer ordered. “I got a warrant for him and I intend to take him alive,” He glanced around until his gaze lit on Frank Coe.
“Frank,” he said, “You know Roberts as well as any of us, You go on out and explain what we mean to do.”
As Coe strode outside, Ezra stared at the approaching Roberts. The man got the name Buck because he carried so many bullets in his body from fighting--mostly against the Texas Rangers, Ezra’d heard. Buckshot wasn’t a big man and he limped, but he looked as tough as old leather, not the kind who’d give up easily. “You reckon Roberts will surrender to us?” Ezra asked Billy.
Billy grinned and shook his head.
Roberts stopped when he saw Coe and then the two of them walked around the side of the building, talking to each other, and disappearing from sight.
“What if he takes Frank hostage?” Middleton asked. “Hell, he might even shoot him.”
Brewer, pacing back and forth, didn’t answer. Time passed. Frank Coe and Roberts didn’t reappear.
“Buckshot ain’t gonna make it easy for us,” Billy said.
Brewer nodded. He stopped pacing, pointed at George Coe, Frank’s cousin. “You go out there, George. Take Middleton and Bowdre. Tell Roberts he’s under arrest.”
The three hurried out. Billy touched Ezra’s arm and began to drift toward the door. Ezra followed.
“Bound to be trouble,” Billy muttered. “Should have shot him to begin with.”
Ezra and Billy were at the door when they heard Bowdre call, “Roberts, throw up your hands!”
A man shouted, “No!” A rifle cracked. Somebody yelped in pain.
Ezra ran outside with Billy, Winchester in his hand. More shots.
“Jesus, I’m hit,” Middleton cried, staggering toward Ezra.
Blood welled onto Middleton’s shirt and dripped onto the dirt. There was no sign of Roberts. A bullet zinged past Ezra. Billy grabbed his arm and yanked him behind a wagon. They crouched by the wheels to peer underneath.
“Roberts is holed up in there.” Billy pointed to an open doorway in a house some yards away. Ezra saw that a mattress had been shoved into the opening. When bullets from Roberts’ rifle began spattering against the wagon, Ezra and Billy retreated around the corner of the building where the other Regulators had taken cover.
“Your arms bleeding,” Ezra said to Billy.
“Grazed me, that’s all. He’s one hell of a mean old man.”
George Coe had a blood-soaked bandana wrapped around his right hand and Bowdre was cursing the shot that had cut off his gun belt. Middleton was breathing okay, so Ezra guessed he wasn’t badly wounded.
Brewer turned to Bowdre. “You’re sure you hit Roberts?”
“A gut shot,” Bowdre told him. “Didn’t you hear him howl? Never figured he’d make it to that room. He oughta be dead.”
“Just leave him there” Billy advised. “He ain’t going to live long if he’s gut shot.” Brewer shook his head. I’m going to sneak up on him.” Billy shrugged.
Ezra watched Brewer cross the road and duck behind a small rollway of logs near the sawmill. Brewer crouched behind the logs as he eased along to get into position to see Roberts’ doorway, disappearing from Ezra’s sight.
/> “Damn, that’s Brewer’s hat sticking up over the logs,” Billy said suddenly, pointing. “He ought to know--”
A sharp crack cut off Billy’s words. Brewer’s hat vanished behind the logs.
Billy took off across the road at a run. Ezra, racing behind him, stopped abruptly when he saw Brewer’s body sprawled on its back, a dark and bloody hole between his eyes.
Billy shook his head. Done for. Old Buckshot always had a good eye. Ain’t no way we’re going to flush him out, he’ll pick us off one by one till he’s dead.” He jerked his head toward the rest of the Regulators, still waiting across the road. “Best thing to do is vamoose.”
As Ezra hurried to the corral with the others, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was wrong to leave Brewer where he’d fallen.
“Blazer’ll bury him,” Billy said. “Him and Buckshot, too, ‘cause he’s a goner.”
Even the Apaches always tried to come back after their dead, Ezra thought. Still, Billy was right about needing to get away in a hurry. Fort Stanton was too close for comfort if Blazer decided to get soldiers down because of the shooting.
No one had argued with Billy--it was plain he’d be the leader of the Regulators now. If Brewer had listened to Billy, Ezra told himself, he’d still be alive instead of lying in the dirt with a bullet in his head.
That’s where trying to go by the letter of the law got you.
Dead.
Billy had wanted to throw down on Roberts the minute the Regulators spotted him and that’s the way it should’ve been handled.
Billy made the kind of leader a man could trust.
* * *
In the parlor of the McSween house, Tessa turned abruptly away from Calvin Rutledge.
“I didn’t ask for a lecture,” she said, I asked for your help.”
“I’m sorry Tessa. God knows, I don’t mean to offend you. But you’ll have to learn sooner or later that no fifteen-year-old boy wants to be tied to his sister’s apron strings. Let Ezra go his way.”
She whirled to face him. “But the killings! And Sheriff Copeland claims the Regulators have been rustling cattle. Ezra isn’t the kind to be mixed up with thieves and murderers.”
Calvin spread his hands. “There’s nothing I can do, much as I’d like to.”
Tessa tried to smile, but she was far too upset. “I don’t mean to be cross with you, Calvin. Naturally I don’t expect you to ride out alone to find Ezra.”
The trouble was, that’s exactly what she had half-expected he might offer to do. After all, Calvin was a friend of Alex’s as much as any of the Regulators and certainly they wouldn’t harm him.
She stared out the window into the courtyard where a blue-green yucca thrust its candelabra of creamy white flowers skyward. May already. She hadn’t seen Ezra since around the first of April, right after Sheriff Brady’s murder. He’d sworn he hadn’t fired at the sheriff or his men, but others had been shot since then and the Regulators blamed for it.
“I promised Alex I’d look in at the store,” Calvin said, “but I’ll stop by to see you again tomorrow, with your permission.”
Jules came into the parlor and seated himself on the piano stool. He began to play “Home Sweet Home” with both hands.
The song always reminded Tessa of her father’s death. She was fond of both Alex and Susie—they’d been wonderful to her and the boys despite their own troubles—but it wasn’t the same as when Papa was alive. Would she ever have her own home again?
Calvin touched her arm. “Tessa?”
“Oh. Yes, of course, do come by,” she said hastily.
When Calvin was gone, she stood beside Jules, watching his fingers on the keys. How determined he looked at the piano, earnest and frowning. Yet he loved to play. He was so different from Ezra. More like Papa, perhaps.
Calvin couldn’t seem to understand her worry over Ezra. She mustn’t be so upset because he wouldn’t ride in search of her brother. Just the same, she was disappointed in Calvin.
Mark would have gone.
No, she wasn’t going to think about Mark Halloran.
As if Jules had read her mind, he stopped playing and twirled the stool around to face her.
“Why doesn’t Mr. Halloran come here anymore?” Jules asked. “He plays the piano even better than Aunt Susie.”
Tessa sighed. How could she explain? Jules loved Alex, calling him uncle, and grouped the townspeople into good men, if they were on Alex’s side, and bad men if they weren’t. Was Mark really bad?
In her first anger and grief after she’d heard of John’s murder, Tessa had told herself Mark was no different from all the other terrible men who worked for Dolan.
But he certainly was no outlaw like Jesse Evans and his gang of cutthroats. Mark hadn’t been in the posse who’d gunned down John. She couldn’t imagine him joining such a posse.
If she asked him, would he find Ezra for her and bring him back to Lincoln?
Jules tugged at her hand. “Why, Tess? Doesn’t Mr. Halloran like us anymore?”
“I don’t know,” she told Jules.
“I wish he’d come back.”
After the way I behaved when he tried to talk to me back in March, she thought, Mark will never come back, even if the hostility between Dolan and Alex eases. Would it ever? There were more grievances daily. Calvin wouldn’t hear of her venturing away from the house without him.
The end of April there’d been some shootings in town, but since then things had been fairly quiet. Would it be safe for her to go out alone and look for Mark? He might not be in town, of course, but she’d never find him sitting here.
Ezra was more important than worrying about possible insults she might encounter on the streets of Lincoln.
Tessa changed into a calico gown, blue with a tiny yellow flower print. She’d made the dress from material salvaged from John’s store after Dolan’s men had finished looting it the day after they’d killed him. Now the building was back in Alex’s hands and guards were on duty day and night to be certain it remained his. Tessa tied on a Dolly Varden hat decorated with yellow silk roses. The hat had been brought from St. Louis by Susie as a present, and Tessa loved it. She’d never had such an elegant hat.
Rosalita assured her she’d keep an eye on Jules. “Senorita, you look muy bonita,” she said as Tessa went out the door.
The sun was decidedly warm, Tessa thought as she walked along the edge of the road, heading west toward Dolan’s store. She passed loungers in front of the saloons, but though the men eyed her, no one said anything, A wagon passed and dust rose in its wake to choke her. She hurried on.
As she neared Dolan’s store, her step slowed. She’d never been inside. “House of Murphy.” The sign said. Lawrence Murphy was no longer in Lincoln. Because of illness he’d moved to Santa Fe. Jim Dolan had been his partner, and still ran the store.
And tried to run Lincoln County as well.
A man stepped off the porch of the store and came toward her. She recognized George Peppin. He was no longer a deputy since Sheriff Copeland had been appointed to replace Brady.
Peppin stopped in front of her, forcing her either to halt or go around him. She decided to stop. “Good afternoon, Mr. Peppin,” she said. “Have you seen Mark Halloran?”
“McSween shouldn’t be sending you on his errands,” Peppin said. “My advice to you is to get home. Fast.”
As he spoke, several other men drifted up to them. One man with dark red hair crowded so close to Tessa that she edged away. She didn’t like the way the man’s eyes lingered on her breasts.
“Mr. McSween has nothing to do with my asking for Mark Halloran,” Tessa said.
“But McSween’s got plenty to do with you, I hear,” the redhead told her.
“Knock it off, Kilgore,” Peppin said. “Miss Nesbitt, go home.”
Kilgore paid no attention to Peppin. Grinning at Tessa, he said, “McSween was damn lucky to have a pretty little heifer like you to warm his bed all winter while Susie was in St.
>
Louis.”
Tessa was so shocked that she couldn’t speak. Alex? She and Alex?
“How dare you!” she managed to say finally.
Kilgore caught her arm. “Any time you get tired of playing second fiddle to Susie, there’s room in my bed.”
Tessa tried to jerk her arm from his grasp. Two other men standing nearby laughed.
“Think you can brand that McSween heifer, Hank?” one of them asked.
“Let me go!” Tessa cried, angry and a little frightened at the way the men surrounded her.
Kilgore’s fingers tightened, digging painfully into her arm. She stifled her gasp, knowing she mustn’t show fear. The men’s eyes, even Peppin’s, had a hot, glazed look that made her stomach knot. What would happen if they forced her inside the store?
Tessa swallowed. She had to do something quickly. She straightened her shoulders.
“Wait until Mark Halloran hears about this!” she exclaimed.
Puzzlement flickered across Kilgore’s face.
“Mark asked me to meet him here,” Tessa went on. “Is this how you treat a guest?” Peppin frowned at Kilgore. “What’s your business with Halloran?” he asked Tessa.
Color rose to her face. “I believe that’s between Mark and me.”
As Kilgore’s fingers eased, she jerked her arm away but made no other move. This was no time to try to run.
“Mark!” she called loudly. “Mark Halloran, here I am!”
A man stepped from the hotel across the street to stare. A head thrust from a second-story window. Four men appeared on the porch of the store.
“It happens Halloran ain’t in town,” Peppin said.
“Well!” Tessa put all the indignation she could manage into her voice. ““ “Then I’ll thank you to tell him I don’t appreciate being stood up.” “Won’t I do?” Kilgore asked.
Ignoring him, Tessa turned on her heel and, heart beating so hard she was afraid its thumping could be heard a yard away, pushed past the men hemming her in. She was brought up short by a Mexican in a black sombrero who swept off his hat and bowed.
“Miss Nesbitt. May I escort you to your home? It would be my pleasure,” he said, offering his arm.