by Jane Toombs
Billy said Halloran was okay, but Ezra didn’t think any man who worked for Dolan could be trusted.
You couldn’t even trust Sheriff Brady. When Dolan said jump, Brady only asked how high. Ezra sighed. He couldn’t take any chances. He’d better go back. As he started to wheel his horse, he saw a rider come into sight over the hill ahead of him. Ezra’s hand rested near his Colt as he reined in.
The rider drew closer and Ezra relaxed. The man was a Negro ex-cavalryman named George Washington who worked part-time for McSween as well as playing the fiddle when anyone had a dance. He seemed to be everyone’s friend. If you wanted to know what was going on just about anywhere in the county, Washington was the man to ask.
Ezra raised his hand, hailing the black man.
“Heard tell there’s a sheriff’s posse after Tunstall,” Washington told him as he drew up.
“Said they was gonna settle accounts once and forever.”
Ezra tensed. “How many men?”
“I was told about two dozen, give or take a couple. They started off this morning from Dolan’s. Bound to be trouble. ‘Specially since Brady ain’t even with them.”
“Does Tunstall know?”
Washington shook his head. “Don’t rightly think so, I’m heading in to let Mr. McSween know what’s going on.”
Ezra watched Washington trot on toward Lincoln, then turned to look down the road leading to Tunstall’s ranch. The news killed any plan to return home. He had to get to Tunstall, so he’d have to ride like hell to try to get to the ranch in time to warn him. He’d take the shortcut Billie once showed him.
As he turned off the trail and kicked the pinto into a gallop, excitement pounded through Ezra. Maybe there’d be shooting. He’d grab the chance to stand with Tunstall against Dolan’s men.
The snow on the high peaks to the west glistened in the sunlight, the pines on the lower slopes green against the white. A crisp, chill day, good for riding. Ezra slowed his horse to pull his Colt, spinning the chamber. All full. When the pistol was back in its holster, he yanked Papa’s old Winchester from the saddle scabbard and checked it. The rifle was loaded and ready.
Ezra Nesbitt was ready, too.
His fervor flagged as the day edged into afternoon. He’d finished the tortilla wrapped
around the beef and beans he’d gotten from Rosalita and he was still hungry. Damn it, he should have taken more food. The pinto was tiring, besides, and needed to be paced, slowing Ezra.
All of a sudden three turkeys flew up from under the horse’s hooves. The pinto shied violently to one side and stumbled. Ezra grabbed the saddle horn to stay mounted. He heard the turkeys scurrying into the underbrush of a canyon off to the right as he fought to steady the startled horse.
As the pinto quieted, Ezra swore. The horse limped. He dismounted to check the off foreleg. Nothing was broken, but when he remounted, the pinto continued to favor the leg and couldn’t be urged faster than a walk.
He’d lost any chance of reaching Tunstall’s before Dolan’s posse. He’d be lucky to get there before dark as this rough trail would be hard on a lame horse.
Ezra sighed. On the one hand, he ought to offer to stand with Tunstall against Dolan’s men—except now he’d probably get there after it was all settled.
On the other hand, Sheriff Brady was still in town and might be fixing to arrest McSween again This’d leave the women and children without any man between them and whatever Dolan planned to do next. Tessa had the other Colt, but she wasn’t much of a shot. Ezra slammed his fist into his palm. He shouldn’t have gone off and left Tessa and Jules like he’d done. Tunstall had a whole crew of men to help him, including Billy, the best shot in the Territory. Tessa didn’t have anyone. Oh, Rutledge, maybe, but Ezra didn’t think he’d be much help. A talker, not a doer. He’d been too damn hasty, that’s what.
“You’ve a good head on your shoulders, Ezra,” Papa used to say. “I’d be happier if you remembered to use it oftener.”
Ezra turned the pinto toward town. The horse’s head drooped as he limped over the rocky trail. Ezra’s shoulders slumped. Shadows lengthened, creeping out from the canyons to hint that the afternoon was growing old.
A rifle cracked. Both Ezra’s and the pinto’s heads came up. A fusillade of shots rattled from somewhere in the hills behind Ezra. He heard faint shouts, the rattle of hooves on stone.
Ezra quickly changed course, urging his horse into the brush of a canyon. He dismounted, led the pinto into a thicket where he was concealed from view, tied him to a sapling and grabbed the rifle. Darting out of the canyon and up the nearest hill, he dodged from boulder to boulder in case any horseman galloped into view.
Better off on foot than on a lame horse. Easier to hide.
Hide he must, until he saw who was doing the shooting and what they were shooting at.
Ezra eased in among a duster of boulders near the crest of the hill and carefully worked himself onto a ledge to’ peer down at a trail winding through a canyon.
Seven horsemen galloped toward a lone rider who was trotting along the trail toward Lincoln. Ezra heard the hooves of many more horses coming up behind the seven, but they weren’t in sight.
The seven horsemen slowed. Stopped. Motioned to the lone rider to come up to them. Ezra’s eyes widened as the three men nearest the rider threw up their rifles so the butts rested on their knees. The oncoming man made no attempt to pull a gun.
By God, the lone rider was John Tunstall!
Before Ezra had time to decide what to do, one of the armed men lifted his rifle to his shoulder and fired.
Tunstall jerked backward and pitched off his horse. Ezra was frozen in place, unable to believe what he saw.
“Through the heart,” he said under his breath. “Oh God.”
Another rider dismounted and ran forward to bend over Tunstall, yanking Tunstall’s pistol from its holster. He pointed the muzzle at Tunstall’s head. Fired. Jammed the Colt back in place. Took the rifle he had tucked under one arm and battered Tunstall’s head with the stock.
Ezra gagged.
Twenty or more riders pounded up and milled around the dead man. Ezra, the sour taste of bile in his throat, watched as two of the riders threw Tunstall’s body over the back of his horse and one of them led the horse into the gloom of a pine grove. The other horsemen followed A single shot cracked.
Tunstall’s horse, Ezra told himself. Killed like his rider.
He thought he’d recognized some of the men, but the gathering dusk made it hard to tell one from another. Was it Morton who’d shot Tunstall first or had his killer been Evans?
Why hadn’t he brought up his Winchester and killed the son-of-a-bitch, whoever he’d been? What was the matter with him? Was he a coward? Afraid of getting killed?
They’d have gotten him if he’d fired; that was as certain as snow in January. On foot, his horse lame. One of him and twenty-seven or eight of them.
He should have shot just the same.
Ezra waited to be certain they weren’t coming back before sliding down the hill and cautiously making his way to the pines where they’d taken Tunstall.
There was barely enough light to see under the trees, but he made out the bulk of the dead horse on the ground. Tunstall’s blanket-covered body was laid out beside his horse. Ezra lifted the blanket, caught sight of Tunstall’s battered head and face and quickly covered him again. He turned away, retching, and spewed out vomit.
Still gagging, Ezra hurried back to his pinto. He mounted and headed for town. Dolan hadn’t been with the posse, not that Ezra had seen. But he had no doubt Dolan was responsible for the murder. He’d gotten Tunstall, exactly as he’d threatened to.
Tunstall hadn’t a chance, had been gunned down without even a Colt in his hand. Would McSween be next? Jesus, he didn’t even own a gun!
And what about Tessa and Jules, in the house with him? Ezra cursed and tried to urge the lame pinto on faster.
He reached Lincoln by midnight, afoot and
leading the hobbling horse. Lanterns bobbed in the plaza as men hurried back and forth in the street. Exhausted, Ezra stumbled in among them. He started to blurt out his terrible news, Stopped..
Why were all these men in the plaza? Who was an enemy? Who a friend?
Ezra turned into an alley and took a roundabout route to the McSween house. The first person he saw as he opened the door was Billy. The house was crowded with men.
“Tunstall--” Ezra said to Billy.
“The damn dirty cowards!” Billy cried before Ezra could go on. “Me and Middleton never had a chance to stop the bastards.”
Ezra blinked, not understanding. “Tunstall is dead,” he told Billy.
“Where you been, Ez? We brought word more than an hour ago about Dolan’s men killing him.” Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Going to get me a couple of those boys before the month is over. I ain’t going to watch them walk the plaza boasting how they shot Tunstall. He was a good man, Ez.”
Tears glittered in Billy’s eyes.
Ezra clenched his jaw, afraid that if he let himself go, he’d bawl like a baby. “How did
you know about the killing?” he asked.
“Me and Middleton were riding behind him. Saw the posse. Told Tunstall to run for it like we meant to do. We did. He didn’t. He never stood a chance.” “I didn’t see you,” Ezra said.
“Where were you?”
“Riding for Tunstall’s ranch. To warn him. Horse went lame. I heard the shooting and hid.”
“Lucky they didn’t see you. Widemann and Brewer were riding in front of Tunstall and the posse tried to bring them down first, but they got away, All we were doing was driving some of Tunstall’s horses into town. Not looking for any trouble. Me and Middleton were a ways in back of Tunstall, Yelled at him to take cover, but he didn’t do it. I’m gonna get those bastards if it’s the last thing I do.”
Ezra stared at him. “Take me with you.”
“Ezra!” Tessa pushed her way through the crowd and put her arms around him. “Oh, Ezra, I’ve been so frightened you were killed like John.” She put her head on his shoulder and wept.
Ezra stood helplessly, feeling his throat tighten and tears sting his eyes. Up until now Tess had always been the one to comfort him. He forced himself to straighten his shoulders and began to pat her back.
He’d always thought of his sister as stronger than he. Even though he’d grown taller and heavier than her in the past year. Now she felt small and fragile in his arms. He swallowed his grief and murmured to her, “I’m here, Tess. I’ll take care of you.”
* * *
At noon the next day, strangers from the east arrived at the McSween house— Presbyterian missionaries who’d been recruited by McSween the year before: Dr. Ealy, his wife and three children, plus a young woman named Susan Gates.
When Turnstall’s body was brought into Lincoln in the evening, a medical doctor as well as a minister, examined the dead man before assisting Dr. Appel, the Fort Stanton surgeon, with the embalming.
The next morning Ezra trailed Billy and Fred Waite as they marched to Dolan’s store with Constable Martinez. Martinez meant to serve murder warrants issued by Justice of the Peace Wilson against twelve of the posse. With some surprise Ezra saw that Negro Soldiers from nearby Fort Stanton, thirty miles over the mountains, stood in front of the store, blocking them from entering.
Sheriff Brady came out of the store and pushed past the soldiers. A dozen grim-faced men with their hands gripping Colt handles followed him. Ezra’s fingers hovered over his holstered pistol.
“You can’t serve those warrants,” Brady told Martinez. “Every man in that posse was there by my order. You can’t arrest men who ride in a sheriff’s posse and you know it.” Martinez eyed him a moment, glanced at the soldiers, shrugged and started to turn away.
Billy grabbed his arm. “Don’t let that bootlicker talk you out of it,” he told Martinez.
Martinez jerked his head toward Brady, the armed men backing him up and the contingent of soldiers.
“I don’t know if the sheriff is right or wrong about these warrants, but he’s sure as hell making it impossible to serve them.” Martinez eased his arm from Billy’s grasp.
Ezra, some four feet behind, let his hand slide down so it almost touched his Colt.
“Peppin! Martin! Longwell!” Brady barked. “Arrest these men.”
Brady’s deputies surrounded Martinez, Waite and Billy before they had a chance to resist.
“What about the other one?” Peppin asked.
“I said men, not snot-nosed boys,” Brady answered.
Several of the deputies laughed.
Ezra’s fingers clutched at the Colt.
A hand clamped onto his wrist.
“Don’t be a fool,” Washington said in his soft drawl. “You won’t help no one lying dead in the street.” He pulled at Ezra. “We got to get away from here.”
Ezra resisted, seeing cuffs being snapped on Martinez, Waite and Billy.
“Come on,” Washington urged.
Ezra gave up and retreated with the Negro. There was nothing he could do to help Billy.
Not at the moment.
“What’s Brady going to do with them?” he asked Washington.”
“Reckon he’ll toss ‘em in jail.”
“Billy’s not guilty of anything! It’s Dolan’s men who ought to be in jail. They killed Tunstall.”
“One thing you learn in the army if you didn’t already find out, life sure ain’t fair. Looks like Dolan’s got the sheriff and the army on his side now. Ain’t no use to fuss and carry on.”
* * *
Tunstall’s funeral was two days later. A company of infantry from the fort watched as Dr. Ealy spoke over the open grave.
“If a man dies, shall he live again,” he intoned while Tunstall’s friends, armed with Colts and Winchesters, stood by.
Despite all Ezra could do to dissuade her, Tessa stood beside him.
“What do you mean, danger?” she’d demanded. “At a funeral? I certainly want to pay my last respects to poor John, no matter what.”
Billy and Waite weren’t there because, though Brady had let out Martinez, he still had the other two in jail.
There was no good reason for it, Ezra told himself. Maybe Brady was afraid of what Billy might do. How long would the sheriff keep him locked up?
Tessa began to cry softly as the coffin was lowered. “John was a good man,” she sobbed. “He would never have harmed anyone. Why did it have to happen?”
Only a few feet away. The earth over their father’s grave was still raw and mounded. What would Papa have thought of Tunstall’s murder?
I expect you to know the right thing to do, Ezra, Papa had said so often. Know what to do, then do it. Ezra took a deep breath. The right thing to do was to avenge Tunstall’s death. He stared at the unfinished pine coffin that hid Tunstall’s remains. I won’t forget who did this, he promised the dead man. I’ll remember and I’ll do my best to see those bastards punished.
Chapter 5
The day after Tunstall’s funeral. Sheriff Brady released Waite and Billy from jail.
“Worst jail I was ever in,” Billy said as he and Ezra walked toward Justice of the Peace
Wilson’s office. “A damn hole in the ground.” Ezra stared at him. “Were you in jail before?”
“Once, over in Silver City, when I was your age. Didn’t last long. I climbed out the chimney and took off.”
Ezra wanted to ask what Billy was in for, but decided he’d better not.
Tunstall’s foreman, Dick Brewer, was at Wilson’s when Ezra and Billy arrived. He waved papers at them.
Warrants for Tunstall’s murderers,” Brewer said, “Wilson’s made me a special constable and I’m forming my own posse. You in, Kid?”
“You can bet on it.”
“Okay we’ll get you deputized all legal like. I got ten now, counting me. You, Waite, Middleton, McNab, Skurlock, Bowdre, Brown, Smith and French. That ought
a do the trick.
Ezra gazed wistfully at Brewer, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“We’re going to go by regulations,” Brewer went on. “We got papers and we’ll make arrests. Won’t be no powder smoke lynchings.’’
“I reckon you’ll be calling us the Regulators then,” Billy said, winking at Ezra as if to show he wasn’t taking Brewer all that seriously.
But Ezra had trouble smiling back at Billy. He badly wanted to be chosen to go with the posse and he could see it wasn’t going to happen.
Nobody can stop me from trailing after them when they ride out, he told himself. I’ll help whether they want me or not.
Early in March, Brewer called the ten Regulators together in Tunstall’s store.
“We got word that Buck Morton’s in a Dolan cow camp down on the Pecos,” he told them. “We’re going after him. Remember, we ain’t going to be like that posse who did in poor old John.” Brewer paused to eye them. “We aim to see his killers hung by fair trial and any man who feels differently won’t be riding with me.”
Ezra, standing beside Billy, felt his heart pound. At last something was going to happen.
Jules came into the store, saw Ezra and ran over to him. “Tess wants you to come home right away,” he said.
Ezra paid no attention. “I mean to go along with the Regulators.” “Ain’t no one stopping you,” Billy told him, smiling.
“Tess says you got to hurry,” Jules persisted. “She says I got to bring you back.” “I’m riding out, You tell her that.”‘
“Where?”
“To get the men who shot John Tunstall.”
Jules stared up at him. His gray eyes filled with tears. “You’ll get shot like Papa and John,” he sobbed.
As Ezra started out the door after Billy, Jules flung himself as Ezra, clutching him around one leg. “Don’t go,” he begged. Ezra tried to pry him loose, conscious of amused smiles from several of the Regulators.
“You better take your brother home,” Billy said as he swung onto his gray.
