Here, in the middle of a broad valley or on a hillside, the landscape urges me to set off into it, to find out what is around the next bend in the river or across the next range of red hills.

  This land makes me feel free. The only problem is the people. They are the danger, and they don’t disappear when I open my eyes.

  I pour the dregs of my coffee onto the dry ground at my feet. It disappears instantly into the sand. I look up at the sky. It’s beautiful, the clouds painted blood-red near the horizon, washing out to the most delicate pink above my head.

  I laugh ruefully to myself. In the course of a sunset I have convinced myself to go home and to stay here. So much for making a decision. With a sigh, I wrap myself in my poncho and settle beside the fire.

  Something is wrong. I’ve gone from sleep to wakefulness instantly, but I don’t know what has woken me. The branch has burned through and the glowing ends lie in the bed of coals that is what remains of my fire. I listen.

  At first there is silence, but then I hear one of the horses whinny softly and shuffle its hooves. Is it being stalked by a mountain lion? Slowly I reach out for the branch lying in the fire. When I have a good grip, I throw the poncho off, stand up and shout.

  Both horses whinny loudly. The light of a half moon shows me three human shapes frozen by the rear of the wagon. Before I even think of reaching for my gun, the largest figure yells and leaps at me. He has a painted war club raised, and for a big man he moves incredibly fast. I swing the branch at him. I miss, but the end flares up, revealing a glimpse of a face distorted by a scream, eyes wide and mouth open. It is Ghost Moon, the warrior Godfroy warned me about. I duck the first swing of his club, and we stand eyeing each other in the near dark.

  One of the other men by the horses shouts something in Apache. I glance over and my opponent seizes his chance and lunges at me. I duck once more and thrust the burning branch up at his face. It strikes something and I hear a scream. Ghost Moon lets his club go in mid-swing and it sails over the fire and clatters against a rock. He staggers back, both hands clasping his face.

  I drop the branch and reach for my revolver. As I draw and cock it, I become aware that there is only one man over by the horses. I just have time to wonder where the third man is, when an arrow shatters against the rock beside my head. I have to get out of the firelight. Firing a wild shot into the darkness, I scramble away from the fire and into the rockfall. I’m clambering over a large jagged rock when the second arrow hits me. It only grazes my cheek, but I flinch and lose my footing. My right foot flies off the top of the rock and my thigh hits the rock as I fall. There’s a loud crack, and I scream as pain shoots through my leg.

  I end up huddled at the base of the rock with my left leg bent under me. My right leg is stretched out at an unnatural angle. I’m oddly calm. I know my leg is broken, but the initial searing pain has dulled to a strong ache. I’m oddly aware of everything. I can feel the warm blood trickling down my cheek and hear the swish as an arrow flies over my head. I’m still clutching my revolver, and I let off a shot toward the glow of the fire.

  My shot is followed by some shouting and another arrow that clatters into the rocks to my left. I cock my gun and fire again. That only leaves two loads in the chamber. I decide to save them in case my attackers try to come over to finish me off.

  I hear more voices, hoofbeats on the hard ground and then silence. I listen tensely for the sounds of someone creeping up on me, but there’s nothing.

  I don’t know how long I huddle there in the rocks. My broken leg goes numb, but my left leg, bent awkwardly beneath me, begins to hurt. I realize that I can’t stay here. Even if the warriors are gone, it could be days before anyone comes by and finds me, and I’ll be dead long before that.

  Taking a deep breath, I grip the rock beside me and begin to straighten my left leg. As I rise, my broken leg drags on the ground. I can feel bone ends grating against each other somewhere deep in my thigh. Waves of nausea sweep over me. I’m sweating profusely, yet I’m shivering with cold. But I have to keep going. If I don’t, I’ll die.

  Inch by inch, I work my way around the rock. Eventually, with many stops and with tears of pain and frustration mixing with the blood on my cheek, I arrive behind the rock where I built my fire. There’s a gap here with nothing to lean on. I reach over to the rock, but overbalance and fall. I land on my left side, but my broken leg flops to one side and the wave of pain forces another scream out of me before I black out.

  I don’t think I’m unconscious for long, but when I come to, all I want to do is lie where I am. I’m cold, but as long as I don’t move, there’s not much pain. If I just lie still, everything will be all right.

  No, it won’t! Move or die, those are my only choices.

  Crawling on my good side, using my left arm to drag myself along, I finally make it around the rock to my fire. I scrape together some sticks that I had collected earlier and shove them onto the glowing coals. The small flames that lick around them and grow are the most comforting sight I’ve seen in my life. I haul my poncho over me, huddle as close as I dare to the warmth of the fire and fall asleep.

  13

  It’s daylight when I open my eyes. I’m curled around the still-warm coals of my fire, so close that my poncho is singed. I lie still for a long time, working out what really happened last night and what is a fragment of the series of unsettling and confusing dreams that plagued what little sleep I managed to grab.

  Ghost Moon and the other two were from the reservation, trying to steal the horses. My musings are disturbed by a soft bray. I twist my head to see the two mules standing a few feet away regarding me curiously. Behind them sits the wagon. There is no sign of the horses, which makes sense. Ghost Moon would want to move fast. The horses would help him, but the wagon and mules would just slow him down.

  I’m ridiculously happy that I have survived the night, and now I have mules and a wagon. My problem is using them to get back to Blazer’s Mill. I obviously can’t do anything much with my broken leg flopping around. I look around for ideas.

  The branch that I thrust into Ghost Moon’s face is lying close by, the burned end black and cold. Perhaps there is a way I can immobilize my leg.

  It takes a long time and causes a lot of pain to remove my belt. I realize that I’ve dropped my revolver somewhere in the rocks, but there’s no way I’m going back to search for it. I cut wide strips off my poncho and rest. The next stage is going to be even less pleasant.

  Collecting everything I will need close, I prop myself up on my left elbow. My good leg is fairly straight, and if I lean forward across the remains of the fire, I can reach close to my ankle without putting too much strain on my right leg, which lies beside it. I slip my belt and a couple of strips from my poncho under my left leg.

  Now comes the hard bit. Reaching as far down as I can, I grab my right pant leg. I take a deep breath, count to three and haul my broken leg on top of my good one. My scream scares the mules, but it’s done. I lie back, panting.

  When the pain has subsided and my heartbeat returned to normal, I lean down, lay the branch alongside my broken leg and wrap the belt and poncho strips around everything. The belt I tighten close to my hips, above the break. The material I tie as best I can at my knee and as far down my calf as I can manage. It’s cumbersome and far from perfect, and the knots are not as tight as I would like, but it’ll be better than having my broken leg flopping around as I move.

  I spend much of the rest of the day dragging myself over to the wagon, calling the mules over and crudely hitching them up. I talk to them constantly, thanking them for being such placid animals and so helpful. I promise them everything from their freedom to vast banquets of hay.

  Finally, I manage to haul myself up onto the bed of the wagon. If I lie on my left side, as far forward as possible, I can see beneath the seat and give rough directions to the mules by hauling on the reins.

  Despite the slow travel of the mules and all my precautions, every bump on the short journey back to Blazer’s Mill is agony, but I’m insanely proud of my achievements. Despite everything, I haven’t panicked or given in and just lain down. I’ve cheated death.

  As I round the last hill and see Godfroy’s house, I let out a weak cheer. The mules smell water and food and keep going even when I drop the reins and black out once more.

  “You’re one lucky fella,” Frederick Godfroy says as his wife, Clara, feeds me tiny spoonfuls of delicious soup. Whether I’m lucky or not can be argued both ways. I’m not lucky to have a broken leg, but I’m lucky not to be dead.

  Last night, when the mules sauntered up and began drinking calmly at the trough, Godfroy came out to see why there was an empty wagon in front of his house. At first sight, with blood all over my face, he thought I was dead, but then I moved and cried out.

  My crude attempt at a splint told him that my leg was broken, so he called a couple of men over and took the front door off the house to carry me in on. That short journey hurt as much as anything I had been through that day, as did removing the splint, cutting my pants off and Godfroy prodding to see what the damage to the bone was. Apparently I cursed him roundly and told him to leave me alone, but I remember very little until I woke up this morning in a makeshift bed in his parlor.

  “Didn’t think you’d appreciate being carried upstairs,” he says with a smile as Clara holds my head and feeds me some more soup. “Far as could tell last night, the break’s simple.” He glances down at the two mounds made by my feet beneath the sheet that cover me. “Your right leg’s about an inch shorter than the other, so I reckon, the bone ends are not matched up exact, but I’m not about to go pulling to try and set it better.

  “I saw much worse in the war. With those splints I put on and a good long spell lying on your back, the bone ends should knit together well. I reckon you’ll have a limp, but you should be able to get around all right.”

  “Thank you,” I say weakly. “You saved my life.”

  “Nonsense. You did that. If you hadn’t got yourself here, you’d most likely be buzzard food by now. What was I going to do, leave you outside in the wagon to smell the place up? If there’s anything here that’ll save your life, it’ll be Clara’s soup, so eat up.

  “Now, you’re more than welcome to stay here until you mend. I’ve sent a man off to Fort Stanton first thing this morning to let the army know that you’re here and that those three have run off. I expect there’ll be a patrol down here in a few days, and I asked for the fort surgeon to be with them, though I don’t know there’s much he can do that hasn’t been already done. Meantime, you let Clara fuss over you.”

  “Thank you,” I repeat. “The Apache that I burned last night, Ghost Moon, he watched me leave yesterday.”

  “I reckon he saw you with those two fine horses in tow and saw his chance,” Godfroy says.

  “If I hadn’t woken up, he’d just have taken the horses and left.”

  “I doubt that. He’s mean as they come. If you hadn’t disturbed him, I reckon you’d have woken up with your skull caved in or your throat slit. I am a bit surprised that he didn’t kill you for burning him like you say you did. Maybe you hurt him real bad or the others persuaded him not to. After all, the army’ll put a lot more effort into catching a murderer than a horse thief.

  “Still, it’s the army’s concern now, not ours. You just rest and let that leg heal.”

  I take the last spoonful of soup, and Clara nods in satisfaction. She wipes my chin and then hustles Godfroy out of the room to let me rest. My leg hurts constantly, but the warm soup feels good in my stomach and just feeling safe and knowing I don’t have to drag my broken limb anywhere makes me feel ridiculously happy. Right now I can’t think of anything better than lying on a makeshift bed in Godfroy and Clara’s parlor. I drift off into a deep sleep.

  14

  “You’re lucky,” Lieutenant Fowler says. That’s all I’ve heard for the last four days, how lucky I’m not a dried corpse beside a rock. I don’t feel lucky. The euphoria I felt at not being out in the desert dragging a broken leg around has worn off. Even immobilized, I’m in constant pain, and every movement is agony. I haven’t slept for more than an hour at a time since I got here. I’m exhausted, but as soon as I move in my sleep, the pain wakes me. I’ve failed the simple task I was set and I’ve lost everything, even my Father’s revolver.

  “I’m sorry I lost the horses,” I say.

  “Not your fault,” Fowler says encouragingly, “though I daresay Colonel Dudley won’t be happy. That gray with the black face-patch was for him.”

  “When are you setting off after them?”

  “We’re not. No point. They’re long gone and the trail’s cold. I sent a patrol south from Stanton when I heard what happened, hoping they might run into these boys as they head east, but it’ll be sheer luck if they do. We’re just here to show the flag, ride around the reserve a little to remind anyone thinking of following this Ghost Moon fellow that the army’s about.”

  “Thank you for bringing the surgeon down.”

  “Least I could do, though I don’t think he’s been much help. Godfroy did a good job on you. You don’t have an infection, and time’s the only thing you need now. Surgeon reckons you’ll be up and about by summer. You got plans for then? You going back to work for McSween?”

  “No,” I say. “At least I don’t think so. Before I was attacked, I was thinking of going back home, up to Canada, but that doesn’t feel right either.”

  Fowler regards me carefully for a long moment.

  “Why do you not want to go back working for McSween?”

  “McSween’s a good man, but he’s alone now. I just want to work, but with Tunstall and Brewer dead, the Regulators’ll run wild. I’ve had enough of being caught up in this war. Everywhere I go, there’s a fight and someone dies. Maybe I’ll join the army.”

  I say it as a joke, but as soon as the words are out, the idea exists and Fowler isn’t laughing.

  “There’s plenty fighting and dying if you’re in the army.”

  “I know, but it would be my decision to become involved.” As I talk, I begin to realize that I would like to ride with Fowler and his Buffalo Soldiers. It would be a simple life. “But I can’t just become a soldier.”

  “That’s true enough,” Fowler agrees with a smile. “Even if you could get out of bed, you’re not a Buffalo Soldier, but there are other ways. I expect that this summer we’ll be busy sending patrols out after the renegades from San Carlos and Tularosa. It’ll be hard, boring work. Usually the closest we get to the hostiles is finding a cold campfire or a dried-out body, but if you’re interested, I can use some civilian scouts. We use friendly Apaches as trackers, but we also use men who know the country. To be honest, they’re not much use—no one knows the country like the Apaches—but it’s policy. I could probably get you taken on as a scout, if you’re interested, and assuming your leg heals properly.”

  “I am,” I say, so quickly it surprises me. I flinch as pain shoots through my leg.

  The Lieutenant nods.

  “I think we can use you, but there’s nothing needs doing right now, and you’ve plenty time to think on things. I’ll drop in whenever a patrol passes this way to see how the leg’s healing. If you change your mind, just let me know. I won’t take offence. It’s a hard life and, if our patrols are successful, dangerous. The pay’s poor and the food worse, but the men are good, and I guarantee you’ll see a considerable amount of this country. You’ll also need your own horse and equipment.”

  “That won’t be a problem. My horse is being cared for over at McSween’s ranch.”

  “All right.” Fowler stands. “I’ll check on your horse when we pass there on the way back. We’ll talk more. For now you just need to heal.”

  As soon as I’m alone with my pain and my thoughts, I wonder what I’ve just done. The idea of becoming a scout for Lieutenant Fowler and his Buffalo Soldiers is attractive. I don’t want to keep getting caught up in Bill’s war, and I’m not ready to go home. It appears to be the perfect solution. The problem is that a scout needs to ride a horse, and it’ll be a good two or three months before I can sit in a saddle. As Fowler said, I’ll have plenty of time to reconsider.

  April and May are the most boring months of my life. I can’t move out of bed and yet the pain tires me dreadfully. Actually, the pain eases as my bone heals, but that makes the boredom worse. Clara has to nag me to keep me in bed. The highlight of that time is a slow, painful move to a proper bed in one of the rooms upstairs.

  In early June, Clara lets me up for short walks each morning, but I sneak out of bed whenever possible and exercise. At first I’m as weak as a kitten and the pain is bad, but I persevere. I’m careful not to put too much weight on my leg or to fall, and gradually some strength comes back.

  By the middle of June, I’m negotiating the stairs with the help of crutches and wandering around the yard. My progress speeds up now, and I celebrate Independence Day on July 4 by getting on a horse. It’s a small pony. I do no more than walk around the house and I’m in pain all night as a result, but it’s the first time I’ve been on a horse in almost three months. I’ve received no word from McSween’s ranch, and I’m worried about Coronado.

  On July 17, I’m riding around Blazer’s Mill, thinking I’m ready for the journey to see Coronado, when a cavalry patrol descends from the hills. The Buffalo Soldiers have been around several times while I’ve been here, but never Lieutenant Fowler. This time, I’m delighted to see him leading the troop.

  “Well, you’re in better shape than when we last met,” he says as he draws level and reins in. “Almost ready for work.”

  “I am,” I say with a grin. I’ve done a lot of thinking over the past three months and I’m convinced that I want to be a scout for Fowler. It seems to solve all my problems.

 

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