company passed by, heading back along the trail to Fort Stanton. Ordered back, by God. That sergeant had carried a message from the colonel. When they were out of sight, Mark climbed down onto the trail again and rode hard southeast, toward the Pecos. Toward the Regulators.
* * *
Ezra didn’t care much for the new recruit Billy had added to their company. He was a lanky young drifter from Texas named O’Folliard. Who could almost outshoot Billy. McSween paid little attention to the men who guarded him, letting Billy choose whom he wanted.
O’Folliard rode alongside Billy, taking Ezra’s place. Cracking jokes and laughing. Billy didn’t even seem to notice Ezra wasn’t there.
“You look kind of glum, Nesbitt,” Charlie Bowdre said. “Saddle sore?”
“I’m okay.”
“We’ll get some decent rest once we reach Chisum’s,” Bowdre went on. Maybe some decent grub, too. Old John’s got a damn god cook.”
Ezra nodded. He didn’t seem to feel enthusiastic about anything since O’Folliard joined The Regulators.
“Reckon we’ve outrun them troopers--don’t see them no more back there,” Bowdre said,
He raised his voice to call to Billy. “Hey, Kid, you think they’ve given up?” Could be,” Billy called back.
Ezra glanced around. There was a sharp rise to his left. If a man climbed that, he’s get a good look view to the sides and rear. “I’ll go check,” he said. “See if anyone’s tailing us,”
He spurred away without waiting for an answer, his spirits on the upswing. Got to show what I can do, he thought. Got to let them know I’m as good as any man in the Regulators.
But as he began to climb the hill, he heard a horse behind him and looked over his shoulder. Saw O’Folliard.
“Billy says two scouts are better than one,” O’Folliard announced as he caught up to Ezra.
Ezra scowled but said nothing, continuing to climb. Why had Billy sent O’Folliard? Didn’t he trust him? Didn’t Billy think he was capable of scouting a back trail without help?
To make matters worse, O’Folliard’s horse, a tough little buckskin, scaled the hill quicker than Ezra’s pinto and the Texan reached the summit first. He hunkered down behind an outcrop of rock and, when Ezra joined him, O’Folliard had already spotted someone.
“Looks to be alone,” the Texan said.
Ezra peered along the back trail, saw a lone rider coming fast. As near as he could tell at this distance, it wasn’t a trooper.
O’Folliard returned to his horse and yanked his carbine from the scabbard, The gun was new, the brass shiny and stock unscratched, “O’Folliard winked at Ezra. “Pretty, ain’t it.” Figured the Comanche I got this off lifted it from one of them green army recruits who can’t spot an Indian till the redskin’s scalping him.”
“You mean to fire on him?” Ezra jerked his head toward the oncoming rider. “What if he’s one of us?”
“I reckon you’ll tell me if he is.”
That’s why Billy send O’Folliard with me, Ezra told himself. He doesn’t think I have the guts to shoot a man. Without warning lines from another of Browning’s poem’s flashed into Ezra’s mind:
“Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things
The honest thief, the tender murderer…”
It came from a long poem, one that bored Ezra when his father had read it aloud during winter evenings, for he didn’t really understand what it meant. Something about a bishop explaining faith. What did church-going have to do with anything in Ezra’s life?
What the hell made him remember some of the lines? A tender murderer? Didn’t mean a thing as far as he was concerned. What use was poetry? What use was poetry?
“He’s getting in range,” O’Folliard said, citing on the man below.
Ezra focused his attention on the rider. Now that the man was closer, something about him seemed familiar. The horse sorrel--he knew that horse… “Don’t shoot!” he cried. O’Folliard looked at him. “One of
* * *
Ezra didn’t care much for the new recruit Billy had added to their company. He was a lanky young drifter from Texas named O’Folliard. Who could almost outshoot Billy. McSween paid little attention to the men who guarded him, letting Billy choose whom he wanted.
O’Folliard rode alongside Billy, taking Ezra’s place. Cracking jokes and laughing. Billy didn’t even seem to notice Ezra wasn’t there.
“You look kind of glum, Nesbitt,” Charlie Bowdre said. “Saddle sore?”
“I’m okay.”
“We’ll get some decent rest once we reach Chisum’s,” Bowdre went on. Maybe some decent grub, too. Old John’s got a damn god cook.”
Ezra nodded. He didn’t seem to feel enthusiastic about anything since O’Folliard joined The Regulators.
“Reckon we’ve outrun them troopers--don’t see them no more back there,” Bowdre said,
He raised his voice to call to Billy. “Hey, Kid, you think they’ve given up?” Could be,” Billy called back.
Ezra glanced around. There was a sharp rise to his left. If a man climbed that, he’s get a good look view to the sides and rear. “I’ll go check,” he said. “See if anyone’s tailing us,”
He spurred away without waiting for an answer, his spirits on the upswing. Got to show what I can do, he thought. Got to let them know I’m as good as any man in the Regulators.
But as he began to climb the hill, he heard a horse behind him and looked over his shoulder. Saw O’Folliard.
“Billy says two scouts are better than one,” O’Folliard announced as he caught up to Ezra.
Ezra scowled but said nothing, continuing to climb. Why had Billy sent O’Folliard? Didn’t he trust him? Didn’t Billy think he was capable of scouting a back trail without help?
To make matters worse, O’Folliard’s horse, a tough little buckskin, scaled the hill quicker than Ezra’s pinto and the Texan reached the summit first. He hunkered down behind an outcrop of rock and, when Ezra joined him, O’Folliard had already spotted someone.
“Looks to be alone,” the Texan said.
Ezra peered along the back trail, saw a lone rider coming fast. As near as he could tell at this distance, it wasn’t a trooper.
O’Folliard returned to his horse and yanked his carbine from the scabbard, The gun was new, the brass shiny and stock unscratched, “O’Folliard winked at Ezra. “Pretty, ain’t it.” Figured the Comanche I got this off lifted it from one of them green army recruits who can’t spot an Indian till the redskin’s scalping him.”
“You mean to fire on him?” Ezra jerked his head toward the oncoming rider. “What if he’s one of us?”
“I reckon you’ll tell me if he is.”
That’s why Billy send O’Folliard with me, Ezra told himself. He doesn’t think I have the guts to shoot a man. Without warning lines from another of Browning’s poem’s flashed into Ezra’s mind:
“Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things
The honest thief, the tender murderer…”
It came from a long poem, one that bored Ezra when his father had read it aloud during winter evenings, for he didn’t really understand what it meant. Something about a bishop explaining faith. What did church-going have to do with anything in Ezra’s life?
What the hell made him remember some of the lines? A tender murderer? Didn’t mean a thing as far as he was concerned. What use was poetry? What use was poetry?
“He’s getting in range,” O’Folliard said, citing on the man below.
Ezra focused his attention on the rider. Now that the man was closer, something about him seemed familiar. The horse sorrel--he knew that horse… “Don’t shoot!” he cried. O’Folliard looked at him. “One of
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