Free Ghost Moon by John Wilson Page B

Chiricahuas. The land hereabouts is much more to their liking than the desert round San Carlos. And, thanks to Fowler and others like him, supplies arrive on time.”
    â€œI keep hearing that the reservation at San Carlos is so bad. Why?” I ask.
    â€œOh, it’s bad all right. Hell’s Forty Acres some call it. Back in ’71, some genius decided it would be a good idea to collect all the Apache bands together on one reservation. I reckon it makes the paperwork easier for some fool behind a desk in Washington. But they made two mistakes. They picked the worst piece of land in Arizona Territory—barren desert, bad water and sickness. And they assumed all Apaches were the same. They ain’t. Different bands live different lives, some like desert, but others, like Victorio, love mountains and trees. And there’s not much of either at San Carlos.
    â€œVictorio doesn’t want a war. Only reason he goes off reservation is that we keep trying to send him to San Carlos. He’s a Warm Springs Apache from Ojo Caliente. That’s his sacred homeland. The government gave it to Victorio and his people ‘for as long as the mountains stand and the rivers exist,’ but I guess mountains don’t last that long hereabouts. It was less than a year before the band was moved to San Carlos. That was the beginning of all the trouble with him. So far, he’s only gone off reservation so he can return to Ojo Caliente, but if he ever declares war for real, God help us all.
    â€œBut listen to me harping on about old complaints. Right now things are not too bad here. I even hear word that Victorio might be sent here one day. It’s not Ojo Caliente, but it’s better than San Carlos. He might go for it. I pray every night that he does.”
    Godfroy scans the surrounding hills as if he expects to see Victorio ride over them any minute. “So everything’s quiet here?” I ask.
    â€œAs can be expected,” Godfroy says, shifting his eyes back to meet mine. “I hear tales of mysterious comings and goings in the night. I suspect off-reservation warriors are coming in to try and persuade the young men to leave and join the fight. And a couple of them might. That one over there’ll be first, I reckon.” Godfroy waves a hand toward a small group of young Apaches, lounging in the shade of a pine tree. There are all dressed similarly in loose leggings tucked into calf-length buckskin boots and loose shirts. Their long dark hair lies on their shoulders and is held off their faces by broad colored headbands.
    â€œThat tall fellow in the middle of the group’s bad news.” One of the warriors is taller than the rest and stands stiffly, staring sullenly over at us. “His name’s Ghost Moon, and I’ve had to warn him a number of times about stirring the others up. It wouldn’t surprise me if we wake up one morning and he’s long gone.”
    â€œGhost Moon?” I ask, suddenly wrenched back to a barren hillside and my old friend Wellington telling me a story.
    â€œIt’s what the Apache’s call the full moon when it’s out in daylight. You know him?”
    I shake my head. “The name reminded me of a story I was told once.”
    â€œWell, stay clear of him. He’s trouble, although I doubt many will leave with him when he goes. It’s peaceful here and the food’s relatively plentiful, so why exchange that for a hard, uncertain life on the run in faraway Texas and Mexico.”
    â€œSo I can tell Lieutenant Fowler that everything is more or less peaceful and under control?”
    â€œPeaceful for the moment, yes. Under control? If the band decides to kill me and Clara in our beds and walk away, there’s no way I can stop them. However, I don’t think that’ll happen. The worst will be Ghost Moon and a couple of others, perhaps half a dozen at most, heading east to try their luck with whoever’s off