Gunsights

Moon looked exactly as he did in the C. S. Fly photos, though not as buttoned up and strapped together. He did not appear to be armed. His belt buckle was undone and he was smoking a cigar. When Maurice Dumas introduced himself, Moon asked if he would like something to eat. The news reporter said no thanks. He handed Moon a paper bag saying, “A little something for you,” and watched as Moon took out the bottle of Green River bourbon whiskey and read the label unhurriedly before placing the quart on the plank floor next to him. “Thank you,” he said.

“I just wanted to talk to you a little,” Maurice Dumas said. “Ask your opinion of a few things.”

“Ask,” Moon said.

“I didn't think you lived here at the agency.”

“I don't. I'm a few miles up that barranca,” lowering his head and looking west, beyond the pasture and the gathering of feasting Indians. “I'm here for Meat Day and will leave soon as I'm able to.” He seemed full but not too uncomfortable.

“Do you live up there alone?”

“My wife and I.”

“Oh, I didn't know you were married.”

“Why would you?”

“I mean nobody's mentioned it.”

“Does it make a difference in how you see me?”

“I mean I'm just surprised,” Maurice Dumas said. “If there's go

Moon said, “Do you know how many wives are up there? How many families?”

“I guess I hadn't thought of it.”

“You call it a war, you like to keep it simple,” Moon said. “These men against those men. Line 'em up, let's see who wins. Well, to do that we'd have to get rid of the women and children. Where should we send them?”

“As I said, I hadn't thought about it.”

“What do you think about?” Moon asked. The front legs of the chair hit the plank floor as Moon got up and went into the agency office.

Now what? Was he offended by something? No, Moon came out again with two glasses, sat down and poured them a couple of drinks.

Maurice Dumas pulled a chair over next to Moon's. “I'm only an observer,” he said, sitting down and carefully tilting back. “I don't take sides, I remain objective.”

“You're on a side whether you like it or not,” Moon said. “You're on the side of commerce and, I imagine, you believe in progress and good government.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Copper is progress and the land has been leased to the mine company by the government.”

Maurice Dumas didn't like the insinuation. “That doesn't mean I'm on the side of the company. But if we're talking about legal rights, I'd have to say they, the legal right, are. The company owns mineral rights to the land for a hundred years.”

“You feel that's long enough?”

“I don't know how long it takes.”

Moon took a sip of whiskey and drew on his cigar. “You happen to know what the mine company's doing up there?”

“Right now they're surveying,” Maurice Dumas said, “trying to locate veins and ore loads that look promising.”

“And how are they doing that?”

“As I understand, they set off dynamite, then pick around, see what they've got.”

Moon waited.

“So far, I guess they haven't found anything worth sinking a shaft in.”

“But they spook the herds, scatter 'em all over, kill what they want for meat,” Moon said. “They've blown up stock tanks, ruined the natural watershed, wiped out crops and some homes in rock slides. They tear up a man's land, clean him out, and leave it.”

“It's theirs to tear up,” the news reporter said.

“No, it isn't,” Moon said, in a quiet but ominous tone.

The whiskey made Maurice Dumas feel confident and knowledgeable. He said, “I'd like to say you're right. Good for you. But the fact remains your Indians are off the White Tanks reservation by several miles. And the other people up there, whoever they are, are living on land without deed or title. So LaSalle Mining, legally, has every right to make them leave.”

“You asked my opinion,” Moon said. “Are you go

“I hope to, yes.”

“You're not writing anything down.”

“I have a good memory,” Maurice Dumas said.

“Well, remember this,” Moon said. “The Mimbre Apaches were hunting up there before Christopher Columbus came over in his boat, and till now nobody's said a word about it, not even the Indian Bureau. There's a settlement of colored people, colored soldiers who've taken Indian wives, all of them at one time in the United States Tenth Cavalry. You would think the government owed them at least a friendly nod, wouldn't you? The Mexicans living up there have claims that go back a hundred years or more to Spanish land grants. The Mexicans went to Federal Claims Court to try to protect their property. They got thrown out. I wrote to the Indian Bureau about the Apaches up there-it's their land, let 'em live on it. No, they said, get your people back to White Tanks or you're fired. You see the influence the company has? Generations they've hunted, roamed through those mountains. Government doesn't say a word till the big company kneels on 'em for a favor. Yes sir, we'll see to it right away, Mr. LaSalle-”

“Is there a Mr. LaSalle?” Maurice didn't think so.

“I went to Federal District Court to get an injunction. I wanted to restrict the mine company to certain areas-they find ore, O.K., they pay a royalty on it to any people that have to move. They don't find any ore, they clean up their mess and get out. The judge held up my injunction-cost me fifty dollars to have written-like it was paper you keep in the privy and threw it out of court.”

“Legal affairs get complicated,” the news reporter offered.

“Do you want to tell me how it is,” Moon said, “or you want to listen.”

“I'm sorry. Go on.”

“All these people I've mentioned number only about two hundred and sixty, counting old ones, women and young children. Fewer than fifty ablebodied men. And they're spread all over. By that, I mean they don't present any kind of unified force. The mine company can send a pack of armed men up there with guns and dynamite to take the land, and you know what will happen?”

“Well, eventually-” the reporter began.

“Before eventually,” Moon said. “You know what will happen? Do you want to go ask the people what they'll do if armed men come?”

“Will they tell me?”

“They'll tell you it's their land. If the company wants it, the company will have to take it.”

“Well,” the news reporter said, a little surprised, “that's exactly what the company will do, take it.”

“When you write your article for the paper,” Moon said, “don't write the end till it happens.”

6

1

White Tanks: May, 1889

Moon and four Mimbre Apaches were whitewashing the agency office when the McKean girl rode up on her palomino. They appeared to have the job almost done-the adobe walls clean and shining white-and were now slapping the wash on a front porch made of new lumber that looked to be a recent addition.

The McKean girl wore a blue bandana over her hair and a blue skirt that was bunched in front of her on the saddle and hung down on the sides just past the top of her boots.

Sitting her horse, watching, she thought of India: pictures she had seen of whitewashed mud buildings on barren land and little brown men in white breechclouts and turbans-though the headpieces the Apaches wore were rusty red or brown, dark colors, and their black hair hung in strands past their shoulders. It was strange she thought of India Indians and not American Indians. Or not so strange, because this place did not seem to belong in the mountains of Arizona. Other times looking at Apaches, when she saw them close, she thought of gypsies: dark men wearing regular clothes, but in strange, colorful combinations of shirts made from dresses beneath checkered vests, striped pants tucked into high moccasins and wearing jewelry, men wearing beads and metal trinkets. The Mexicans called them barbarians. People the McKean girl knew called them red niggers and heathens.