It was a day or two before anyone from Murphy's side finally tracked us down. The ones who did were a pair of geniuses named Morton and Baker. Morton was picking through horse dung with his bare hands when Chavez crept out of the bushes. He held his knife to Morton's throat while the rest of us rode out from our hiding places, guns cocked.
"Buenos dias, shitheads," said Dick.
"You killed Henry Hill and started a war," said Morton.
"Y'all started the damn war when you killed Tunstall," Dick argued.
"There's still fifty or sixty men against your seven, not counting the girl," said Morton. "You won't win this." Pretty ballsy words for a guy being held at knifepoint.
"We're gonna bury you," said Billy.
"Quiet, Bonney!" Dick snapped. "The law don't talk like that."
"The law don't kill innocent merchants either," Steve pointed out.
"'Rena, take these sons of bitches to Capitan Mountain and gut 'em," said Billy, shoving Baker toward me.
"With pleasure," I said, my voice sweet.
McCloskey voiced the opinion that we shouldn't go toward Capitan because of Murphy watching the trail. He thought going straight to Lincoln was a good plan. There was something about his voice that didn't sound right. Billy noticed it too. He advanced on McCloskey, who grew nervous and backed away.
"You're trying to steer us toward Lincoln because you know Murphy's men are waiting for us there," Billy said angrily.
"McCloskey doesn't ride with Murphy anymore. He's a Regulator," said Dick.
"He's a spy!" Billy yelled.
McCloskey put on a hurt face and offered his hand to Billy, awaiting an apology. Billy shook his hand, though he avoided looking at McCloskey. Billy put a hand inside his coat, where he'd hidden his pistol, and drew it. He shot McCloskey once in the head, spattering poor Doc with his blood.
"Jesus!" screeched Charley.
Billy shot McCloskey in the gut; his body dropped into the river. Then Chavez threw his knife at Baker, who was trying to make an escape. A gun battle between our side and Morton ensued. Dick screamed at everyone to hold their fire, but he was drowned out by Dirty Steve's yells of encouragement. Morton, crippled by the bullet I'd put in his knee, tried to run. A blast from Dirty Steve, and Morton was dead.
"Court adjourned," Billy grinned.
"I always knew there was something off about McCloskey," I said.
"Oh God, Brady's gonna hang us for sure now," moaned Charley.
"What's our next move?" Billy asked.
"Everybody close their lips for a goddamn second and let me think!" shouted Dick. After a moment's thought, he said, "Everybody skin up the river." Then Dick rounded on Billy. "You ain't a captain and you sure as hell aren't Robin Hood. And, Serena, you're no Joan of Arc."
"Whatever you say," Billy and I said together.
"Doc, get these idiots on their horses," Dick instructed.
I strongly resented being called an idiot, but I didn't say anything. I didn't follow the boys up the river either. I stayed back and made a false trail for Murphy's boys. It took probably a few hours until I was satisfied that it looked authentic enough to deceive them. Then I rode back to the river, where McCloskey's body was still tangled in a tree branch. I thought briefly of giving him a proper burial. McCloskey's turning out to be a traitor prevented me from doing so; the buzzards could get him for all I cared.
I followed the tracks on the river's edge for another two hours or so, then I caught sight of smoke on the horizon. I found the boys had already set up camp. Doc was reading the newspaper, probably another article about the exploits of Billy the Kid and Rampaging Riddle. Dick was cooking bacon over the campfire. I took my bedroll off my saddle and spread it out, facing it east so I wouldn't be cold in the morning.
Doc and Dick went to talk quietly, probably about what the hell we would do now. It seemed that John Kinney the notorious bounty hunter was after us. I had little knowledge of him, but what I did know wasn't good. Chavez, off in his own world as usual, was crouched on the ground, digging some roots up out of the snow.
"What the hell is he doin'?" Dick wondered.
We found out late that night when we all gathered around the fire. Chavez had mixed up some war paint; his face was now black and white, like a skull. The way it looked in the dark scared me some.
"We've come to a point where we're lost." Chavez declared. "When Indians are lost, we reach into the spirit world to find a way." I knew in a second where this was going. Chavez took a long drink of peyote from a tin cup. "This is the way to the spirit road."
Dirty Steve rolled his eyes. "All we need is some more of your Nah-vah-ho mambo jahambo."
One by one, everyone except Dick drank from the cup. Within an hour, the effects of the drug took hold. Chavez and I had taken peyote before during tribal rituals, so we were the closest thing to sober in the group. The others acted very silly. Doc sat in the weeds, mumbling to himself about butterflies and Murphy's China doll. Dirty Steve blasted away at nothing with his shotgun, all the while screaming, "DID YOU SEE THE SIZE OF THAT CHICKEN?"
"This is great..." said Charley dazedly, who looked like he were petting an invisible horse.
Chavez called for us to saddle up. Dirty Steve screamed like someone had poked him with a cattle prod, but eventually joined us. Billy, who'd arranged a rather ugly wreath of thistles around his hat, mounted Golden Boy and ended up facing the wrong way.
We rode through an Indian village behind Chavez. Charley was singing a square-dance song at the top of his voice, not a care in world. Billy offered greetings to the locals, riding backwards in the saddle. He slipped every once in a while, damn near falling on his fool head.
"Chavez, how come they ain't killin' us?" asked Charley.
"We're in the spirit world, asshole. They don't see us," Dirty Steve announced gleefully.
Once the high had worn off, the boys passed out. They woke up ash-faced and feeling sick, vowing they'd never do it again.