Then Tunstall was murdered and all hell broke loose in Lincoln County.
In his grief and fury, Gabe joined a posse led by Dick Brewer, Tunstall’s foreman. Brewer was one of the best-liked men in town and when he had himself sworn in as deputy constable, it seemed as if justice might prevail. But the system was corrupt, from the local sheriff all the way up to Thomas Catron, the U.S. attorney, and Gabe found himself riding with a group of men who were now considered vigilantes. At least that’s what Caroline had called them. The Regulators, as they called themselves, had been declared illegal by the legally constituted authorities.
“But those authorities are corrupt!” Gabe protested.
“If they are corrupt, then they will be voted out,” she would patiently explain to Gabe as though he were one of her schoolchildren and she was giving him a civics lesson.
“And in the meantime, do we let ourselves be taken over by men like John Kinney?”
“He’s a Texas Ranger, Gabe.”
“Goddamn it, Caroline, he’s an outlaw responsible for destroying the peace in El Paso, and now he’s going to do it here. The fact that he’s wearing a badge doesn’t mean shit.” Caroline blushed and Gabe apologized, but they quarreled every time they were together.
“I don’t know if I can marry someone who chooses violence over the law, Gabe,” Caroline finally told him.
“You know I’m not a violent man, Caroline.”
“I hadn’t thought so until now, Gabe,” she’d replied sadly. She pulled gently at the garnet ring he’d given her and held it out.
“Caroline, don’t do this. You know I love you.”
“I am sorry, Gabe, but you’re not the man I fell in love with.”
“Then you didn’t fall in love with Gabriel Hart, but someone you thought I was or would like me to be,” he said bitterly.
But when Brewer was killed, Gabe knew things were out of control and he left Lincoln, wandering from job to job, breaking horses when he could, herding cows when he had to. He avoided violence and figured he was just not meant to settle down.
Now here he was, after years of running away from those memories, committed to supporting Michael Burke, with his gun if necessary. “Well, a man has to stop running sometime,” he told himself.
* * * *
When he got up the next morning, he’d gotten only about three hours of sleep.
“You look like hell, cowboy,” he said, groaning as he splashed cold water on his face. He had black circles under his eyes and a bitter taste in his mouth. “And you’ve got three colts and three two-year-olds to work this morning.”
The horses knew how tired he was, of course. They had a sixth sense for these things, always knowing when a man was hung over or just not on top of things. Of course, they took advantage of it, the yearlings acting like they’d never seen a halter before, much less been led around for days, and the two-year-olds refusing to trot in a circle, much less reverse directions or do figure eights for him.
Gabe was so tired and so angry at himself and the horses that he had no idea when he’d gained an audience. He only saw the girl sitting on the corral fence when he was lunging the last two-year-old. Shit. He’d thought the morning couldn’t get any worse and here was Miss Burke just home from school back east watching him make a fool of himself.
He felt a little better when he actually got the last two-year-old to reverse and do a figure eight at a walk. Maybe he didn’t look like a complete fool.
And maybe he did. The look of disgust on Miss Burke’s face was fleeting, but it had been there.
He took off his hat and smoothing down his hair, said: “Good morning. You must be Miss Burke.”
“And you must be Gabe Hart, the new wrangler,” she said coolly, not bothering to extend her hand. “My father told me about you. He said you were very good with the horses,” she added in a tone that was polite enough but held enough skepticism to annoy Gabe, even more
In his grief and fury, Gabe joined a posse led by Dick Brewer, Tunstall’s foreman. Brewer was one of the best-liked men in town and when he had himself sworn in as deputy constable, it seemed as if justice might prevail. But the system was corrupt, from the local sheriff all the way up to Thomas Catron, the U.S. attorney, and Gabe found himself riding with a group of men who were now considered vigilantes. At least that’s what Caroline had called them. The Regulators, as they called themselves, had been declared illegal by the legally constituted authorities.
“But those authorities are corrupt!” Gabe protested.
“If they are corrupt, then they will be voted out,” she would patiently explain to Gabe as though he were one of her schoolchildren and she was giving him a civics lesson.
“And in the meantime, do we let ourselves be taken over by men like John Kinney?”
“He’s a Texas Ranger, Gabe.”
“Goddamn it, Caroline, he’s an outlaw responsible for destroying the peace in El Paso, and now he’s going to do it here. The fact that he’s wearing a badge doesn’t mean shit.” Caroline blushed and Gabe apologized, but they quarreled every time they were together.
“I don’t know if I can marry someone who chooses violence over the law, Gabe,” Caroline finally told him.
“You know I’m not a violent man, Caroline.”
“I hadn’t thought so until now, Gabe,” she’d replied sadly. She pulled gently at the garnet ring he’d given her and held it out.
“Caroline, don’t do this. You know I love you.”
“I am sorry, Gabe, but you’re not the man I fell in love with.”
“Then you didn’t fall in love with Gabriel Hart, but someone you thought I was or would like me to be,” he said bitterly.
But when Brewer was killed, Gabe knew things were out of control and he left Lincoln, wandering from job to job, breaking horses when he could, herding cows when he had to. He avoided violence and figured he was just not meant to settle down.
Now here he was, after years of running away from those memories, committed to supporting Michael Burke, with his gun if necessary. “Well, a man has to stop running sometime,” he told himself.
* * * *
When he got up the next morning, he’d gotten only about three hours of sleep.
“You look like hell, cowboy,” he said, groaning as he splashed cold water on his face. He had black circles under his eyes and a bitter taste in his mouth. “And you’ve got three colts and three two-year-olds to work this morning.”
The horses knew how tired he was, of course. They had a sixth sense for these things, always knowing when a man was hung over or just not on top of things. Of course, they took advantage of it, the yearlings acting like they’d never seen a halter before, much less been led around for days, and the two-year-olds refusing to trot in a circle, much less reverse directions or do figure eights for him.
Gabe was so tired and so angry at himself and the horses that he had no idea when he’d gained an audience. He only saw the girl sitting on the corral fence when he was lunging the last two-year-old. Shit. He’d thought the morning couldn’t get any worse and here was Miss Burke just home from school back east watching him make a fool of himself.
He felt a little better when he actually got the last two-year-old to reverse and do a figure eight at a walk. Maybe he didn’t look like a complete fool.
And maybe he did. The look of disgust on Miss Burke’s face was fleeting, but it had been there.
He took off his hat and smoothing down his hair, said: “Good morning. You must be Miss Burke.”
“And you must be Gabe Hart, the new wrangler,” she said coolly, not bothering to extend her hand. “My father told me about you. He said you were very good with the horses,” she added in a tone that was polite enough but held enough skepticism to annoy Gabe, even more
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