Free Ghost Moon by John Wilson Page A

work.”
    The man falls silent, and I stand and stare into the hole. I’m angry that Bill’s activities have caught up to me once more, yet also relieved that it wasn’t him killed in the fight.
    â€œThe other Regulators still here?” I ask.
    â€œNaw. They skedaddled soon as Buckshot killed their compadre. Didn’t even stay to collect his body.
    â€œThat were some shot though,” the man reflects appreciatively. “Hit the fella in the eye at a hundred and fifty yards, blew the back of his head clean off. You aiming on staying for the funeral?”
    â€œNo.” My appetite’s gone and I want to get as far from this new trouble as possible. Then I remember my promise to Lieutenant Fowler to find out about the mood on the reservation. “But I do have to speak to Frederick Godfroy.”
    â€œFred’ll be over yonder.” The man nods back toward the wooden house.
    â€œThanks for the information,” I say as I head away from the yawning grave.

    A number of men are standing in a group outside the house. Several turn to look at me as I approach.
    â€œI’m looking for Mr. Godfroy,” I say.
    â€œHe’ll be in the parlor,” one man volunteers.
    I enter the front door and hear voices coming from the room to my right. I remove my hat and step through the doorway. Two crudely built open coffins are balanced on chairs. I glance into the closest one and see a body I don’t recognize. I know most of the Regulators by sight and this man hasn’t been shot in the head, so I assume it’s Buckshot Roberts. I step over and look in the other coffin and a chill runs through me. The skin on the left side of the man’s face sags unnaturally, as if the bones underneath have given up the struggle to hold the skin tight, and there’s a gaping black hole where his eyes should have been, but there’s no mistaking Dick Brewer.
    My gasp brings over a middle-aged man with a kindly face.
    â€œYou know this fellow?” he asks.
    I take a moment to recover from the shock and collect myself.
    â€œYes,” I say. “He’s Dick Brewer. He was John Tunstall’s foreman.”
    â€œYou a Regulator?” I sense the men in the room tense.
    â€œNo. I used to work for Tunstall is all. Brewer was a good man.”
    â€œPerhaps he shouldn’t have come down here with the rest of those scum.” I don’t argue, and the man holds out his hand and introduces himself. “Fred Godfroy. Indian Agent on the reservation here. We’re just about to put these boys in the ground if you want to stay and pay your respects. I can also offer you a bed for the night if you feel like breaking your journey, and that offer comes with a generous helping of Clara’s famous turkey stew.”
    I think for a moment as I stare at Brewer’s pale, mutilated face. Another man I counted as my friend dead. The calming influence and the only brake on Bill and the other hotheads is gone. I don’t want to see him put in the ground with the man who killed him and I don’t want a hearty meal and companionship. I need to escape and be on my own.
    â€œThank you for the offer,” I say, looking at Godfroy’s smiling face, “but I’ll be on my way. I just stopped by on my way back to Fort Stanton because Lieutenant Fowler asked me to speak with you.”
    Godfroy nods and turns to the men in the room.
    â€œBest get the lids on these boys and get them buried,” he says before leading me outside. We move away from the gathered men down to the dry riverbed.
    â€œLieutenant Fowler wants to know the situation among the Apaches on the reserve,” I say. “He’s worried about trouble here.”
    â€œNo doubt that these are difficult times,” Godfroy begins, “and I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t any tension among the young warriors here, but this isn’t San Carlos. These are Mescaleros, not