Read Apache Moon for Free Online

formation. Hoofbeats echoed across the desert as they headed for the Apache hideout in the distant hills.
    The soldiers returned to Shelby before noon, and Marshal Dan Stowe waited for them to unload their wagons. Then he swallowed the remaining drops of whiskey in his glass, departed Gibson's General Store, and strolled to the camp on the outskirts of town.
    The time had come to interview the arresting officer, Lieutenant Clayton Dawes. Stowe had learned that Dawes was a West Pointer, his father a retired general living in Washington, D.C., and evidently there was money in the family. Dawes was estranged from his wife, the former Miss Vanessa Fontaine, whom he'd married approximately a month ago. Dawes also was drinking heavily, according to the scuttlebutt. His signature on a piece of paper had summoned Marshal Dan Stowe from San Antone, with a warrant for the arrest of Duane Braddock, dead or alive.

    The lawman approached the canvas tents in neat rows, with soldiers rubbing down horses, cleaning equipment, and recuperating from a scout on the open range. Sometimes Stowe wished that he'd stayed in the army, but it had changed drastically since the war. Then, the men had been average citizens fighting for the Union, but the current crop of soldiers were criminals and failures from all over the world, with the officers frequently worse than the men. Their mission was to subdue Indians, and Stowe could find no honor in that. So he'd resigned his commission, become a common cowboy and then a lawman.
    â€œHalt—who goes there!” The sentry stood before him, carbine at port arms.
    â€œI'm Marshal Dan Stowe, and I want to speak with Lieutenant Dawes.”
    Stowe was led to the largest tent in the area, whose front and rear flaps were open. He dimly made out the outline of an officer sitting at a desk, presumably writing the report of his scout while it was fresh in his mind. Stowe waited outside the tent while the sentry entered. He heard a muffled conversation, then the sentry returned.
    â€œYou can go in now, sir.”
    Stowe ducked his head as the officer arose behind his desk. Lieutenant Clayton Dawes was in his late twenties, with long dark blond hair and several days’ growth of beard. He held out his hand. “I bet I know why you're here.”

    â€œI'd like to talk with you about Duane Braddock,” the lawman replied.
    â€œHave a seat. I'd offer you something to drink, but unfortunately all I have is water.”
    Stowe reached into his back pocket, pulled out a silver flask, and tossed it to the lieutenant, who took a swig. “It's not bad,” the West Pointer said, “considering it was made in Fred Gibson's washtub. Have you spoken with that gentleman yet? I'm sure he believes, like all the other fools around here, that Duane Braddock is the victim of my jealousy, right?”
    â€œThat's what they all say,” the lawman replied laconically, taking out his notebook and pencil. “What's your side of it?”
    Lieutenant Dawes's brow wrinkled. “You've probably heard that my wife was once . . . with Braddock, and that's why I arrested him. That's the most vicious insult of my career, because it implies that I'd be petty enough to deprive another man of his liberty, due to my own pathetic jealousy. It has the ring of cheap sentiment, and makes a rather touching story, but it's horseshit. Duane Braddock is a killer, and you can see it in his eyes. But he's got that lost-little-puppy-dog charm and attracts the mother in every woman. I'm sure you've heard his supposedly tragic story by now. He was raised in an orphanage, but he turned out to be a rotten little urchin, and they threw him out. Then he hopped on a stagecoach, rode a few days, and landed in Titusville, where he shot approximately six men.His next stop was this settlement, where he shot two more. And I'm not even mentioning fistfights, barroom brawls, and wrestling matches. He's extremely violent and probably