Billy the Kid

by Theodore Taylor

  Willie moved to the gun locker to lift out a Winchester, then back to his desk to lay the .70 across it. He heard Pine asking, "You want me to go after him? We can't wait for Barnes."

  Willie turned to stare at his deputy. "Him? You told me there were four of them." He paused, still unable to accept it. "If it is Billy, I..."

  Sam said softly, "I made the offer."

  His shake of head was slight. "No, Sam, I don't want you to go after him. You might come back in a wagon bed."

  "He's that good?" Sam asked. Sam had been brought up from Phoenix three years before to be Metcalf's deputy, just before Metcalf was bushwhacked. He'd never met Billy.

  Willie laughed feebly and broke the Winchester down to load it. In his memory was one afternoon on the outskirts of Greeley when Billy shot three times at a poster nailed to a tree. The shots had come so fast, they made a continuous sound. Willie had thought the bullets went wild until Billy said, with a curious smile, "Look at the nail." It had been driven in. A tap of the poster, and it drifted to the ground.

  Willie murmured, "He's good, Sam. Very good."

  Pine was thoughtful a moment, then nodded at the Winchester. "What'll happen when you get a sight on him? Kinda hard to shoot family, I imagine."

  "Them, dammit!" Willie stormed, losing his temper for the second time in the afternoon.

  "Them," Sam repeated, realizing the pressure.

  Willie cooled off instantly. "I don't know. He's unpredictable Who'd think he'd ever stop a train? Anyway, he just won't roll over."

  Sam nodded reflectively, then asked, "What can I do?"

  "Load me four days of supplies on a mule. I'll get some trackers from Kumquikit. No dogs this time. I'll ride back this way."

  Sam nodded again and put on his specs to spend ten minutes reading the witness statements out loud while Willie moved restlessly around the office, listening and frowning. He noticed there wasn't much difference in any of the descriptions of Billy. The husky, shackled robber on the train with Billy didn't ring a bell from past robberies. Neither did the two masked men. They were likely from outside of Arizona.

  Sam finished by asking, "That sound like Billy?"

  "Yeh."

  "Any guesses why he did it?"

  "Not for kicks. Grayson said they got over twelve thousand. Split that four ways. Not bad for an hour's work."

  Sam watched as the tall man dropped two extra boxes of the .70 grain loads into the flap of his saddlebag, lifted a worn and scarred leather jacket off a chair—the Verdes night would be chill—and then scooped the Winchester up.

  He went out without further talk.

  ***

  IN PETE WILSON'S OFFICE a little later, Earl Cole said, "This ought to do Monroe in."

  Wilson replied, "That's what you said last time."

  "People around here aren't going to stand for three train robberies. Two were one too many. Monroe's a goner, I tell you, Pete."

  The prosecuting attorney stared at the big rancher. "You couldn't beat him in the election. I think you tried to have him killed. Your man, Dobbs. That's just a guess, Earl..."

  "You guessed wrong. I'll get him out of that office fair an' square."

  Wilson laughed. "How do you intend to do that?"

  "I'm organizing a freelance posse tonight to find and kill Billy Bonney. We'll ride early in the morning."

  "Good luck," Wilson said.

  6

  THE FOUR RIDERS, Billy now in the lead, picked their way down the narrow old Apache trail as the sun began to turn the pines into long dark fingers. The sky was deepening to the east. They'd stopped to count the loot, twelve thousand in cash and maybe a thousand in jewelry.

  Billy felt good. It was over and he'd never do it again. Never. No one had been shot. He felt no particular guilt. His share would come to about three thousand plus a few hundred in jewelry, enough to buy some grazing land.

  The late afternoon high-country breeze was sailing across the slopes, cooling rapidly, holding sweat down on men and horses. After they left Dunbar's Rocks, it would be hot riding through the rugged mesa and desert land, and he was all for tackling it at night. But he thought he'd bring that up when they got to the rocks.

  Letting his big bay feel its own way down the little-used trail, Billy viewed the countryside with deep pleasure. He'd missed it very much in Mexico and along the heat-lashed border. He swayed with the forward motion of the saddle, sitting liquid, listening to the jingles and creak of leather behind him, the harsh breathing of the horses.

  The mountains undulated ahead, growing hazy where they dipped into valleys. Head bobbing, he gazed at the mesquite ridges and flats, the sharp canyons that stretched almost endlessly to the horizon, which was becoming shadowy. It was land to make a man humble, he thought.

  Earlier, Billy had been uncomfortable about riding the lead, his back an easy target for either Joe or Perry. Or the old man, for that matter; he seemed to favor shotguns.

  But then he reasoned they'd never find Dunbar's, where the fresh horses were waiting, without him. The massive rocks were a good two miles off the trail, pretty much hidden by a pair of sandstone shoulders. Billy knew them well. Easily they'd get to them by sundown, or before.

  Art yelled harshly from behind, "Let's git some speed on, Billy Boy. It's three days to the border."

  Billy shouted back, without turning, "You afraid of a lil' ol' posse, Art? Man with your experience? Rest your fears! The sheriff in Polkton mus' be seventy now. Weary ol' man. Phil Metcalf. Never was much of a sheriff. Couldn't catch rain in a storm." Then Billy laughed at his own words.

  The laughter echoed across the mountains.

  Art yelled angrily, "This ain't no joke we're on, Billy Boy, although you been actin' like it. Git goin', man."

  ***

  WILLIE TROTTED ALMANAC toward the Yavapai village, deep in thoughts of Billy Bonney. He boiled at his cousin, yet he also felt a growing, gnawing remorse.

  He knew Billy's constant need for funds. Of certainty, Billy had long ago gambled away any cash from the Cudahy people. He wasn't good at cards. Or he'd spent It on any pretty female face and receptive eyes that maneuvered by. Dollars flew from his pockets like flushed quail, and pride wouldn't let him ask any man for another stake.

  So perhaps Pete Wilson had been right about the trouble at El Paso, Willie reluctantly decided. If Billy was desperate for cash, who knew what he'd do.

  There were so many memories; he and Billy went back so far. The memories kept creeping out. After all, they'd grown up together. People will have to understand that now, Willie thought. It would be no blood hunt. He wanted Billy alive for a fair trial.

  The wagon road toward the Yavapai wickiups wound down from Polkton plateau through grazing land, skirting a bend of the Tuscum River for a ways. There seemed to be reminders at every mile that fell under Almanac's loping hooves, like the white school building they'd both attended on the outskirts of town. Glancing at it, he could almost hear Billy's panicked cry of "Hey, Willie!" and feel himself launch toward the backs of four boys about to pound sap out of Mrs. Bonney's only son. The kid had never been very good with his fists.

  The serene Tuscum, the color of creamed coffee and willow-snagged, brought back another sharp memory. His throat caught. Off and on, over the years, he'd thought about that one beautiful summer afternoon. Billy had been nine or ten. They'd been swimming, buck naked, in a muddy creek.

  On the slick bank, Billy had shouted, "Willie, lookit me, I'm a goldurned frog," then hit the water in a splatting belly bust.

  As Billy's grinning face broke surface, Willie had said, "Billy, frogs don't belly bust like that."

  Billy's head went under and came up again, spurting a stream. "Then I'm a goldurned fountain, a-spittin' at the world."

  That was always his problem, Willie believed: spitting at the world. Always, it seemed, the world just spit back. It was a wonder Billy even was still alive.

  Yet, in all probability, Willie knew, if Kate Mills hadn't come
along, they'd both still be ranching above Tuckamore Creek, taking weekly runs through Saloon Row, where Billy in his cups would inevitably take on a miner, then need rescue.

  Kate had been the turning point. Billy had finally viewed her as a plague come to visit. No man in his right mind got married until he was forty, Billy had declared.

  Willie remembered the wedding morning when Billy, as sullen best man, flipped the ring as if it were a coin toss. Then he'd gone away on a week's drunk. Returning, he moped around another week, finally to say, "I'm headed to Mexico."

  And that's how they'd parted.

  Much later Willie had thought about Billy's departure and suspected that Billy had fallen in love with Kate Mills. As a seventeen-year-old bride, she'd been closer in age to Billy.

  Willie rode steadily on toward the hogans in shallowing light, the palomino dipping his head to grab at grass that curled over the wagon ruts in places.

  Whatever their memories, whatever their bond, Willie knew he'd have to get Billy and bring him back if it was humanly possible. It wasn't in his makeup to do anything else. And that was something Billy would have to understand. Then it occurred to him for the first time that Billy didn't know he'd pinned on a star.

  Willie grunted hopelessly and upped the horse to a gallop.

  ***

  AS IT TURNED TWILIGHT, Willie said to Kumquikit, the venerable elder of the local Yavapais, "Not six. Four trackers on the best horses you've got." He held up four fingers because the old man didn't hear too well. "Two dollars a day and grub."

  The Apaches had better trackers, but it would have taken him another six hours to round them up. He'd used the Yavapais once before.

  Kumquikit shrewdly kept his face a blank.

  Willie repeated himself. Several of the Indians had lit pine-knot torches that cast a mellow glow in front of the hogans. Several women peered out, bashful children at their knees.

  Finally the old man said stolidly, "Three dollar."

  "Two fifty," Willie bargained, slicing off half a hand in gesture. He glanced over toward the small group of observing Yavapais, settling his eyes on one in particular, a handsome Indian in his early thirties. He wore white men's clothing. "And I want Big Eye."

  Big Eye smiled thinly. He was one of the few Yavapais with schooling. Resentful and arrogant at times, he was still an expert tracker. He spoke English fluently.

  "Three dollar," Kumquikit insisted, drawing into a mask of stubbornness.

  "You're talkin' about taxpayer money, Kumquikit," Willie said with annoyance. "But it comes out of my pocket first. Last time you agreed to two dollars. Nothin' has changed since. I'll give you two fifty. No more"

  Kumquikit's face remained a mask.

  A sudden pounding of hooves interrupted the bargaining. Kumquikit looked past Willie up the shadowy road.

  Willie turned in that direction, too, squinting.

  Five white men were riding down on the wickiups, three abreast and two trailing. Willie frowned, sensing their arrival might have something to do with him.

  Then they drew up in the flickering circle of reddish light. Willie recognized Clem Bates, Polkton's freight boss and a Wilson ally. Beside him was Earl Cole, staring belligerently as usual. By Cole was Dobbs, the lean-hipped import from Tombstone whom Willie suspected of the bushwhacking. The other two men, whom Willie knew slightly, were mule skinners, Bates's employees.

  Clem took a short cold cigar from his lips, staying up on his horse "Evenin', Sheriff. Sam Pine told us you'd be out here."

  Wondering what they had in mind, then making a stab at it, Willie eyed them individually and answered, as cordially as he could, "I'm tryin' to reason with Kumquikit to save some taxpayer money. Maybe you can persuade him, Clem."

  Bates shook his head. "That's not why we're here. Pete Wilson thought you might need some help. We're sort of a posse."

  Willie eyed Bates. Sort of a posse? "Oh? Well, that's very nice of Pete. But, Clem, you can ride back to town an' tell him no thanks."

  Bates glanced over at Cole, then said steadily, "He doesn't quite feel that way. He swore us in as deputies. We're ridin' with you."

  Willie rubbed the back of his neck and said tiredly, "I do hate to disagree with the territorial attorney again. But not this time, Clem. I appreciate the offer, but I'm hirin' trackers."

  Cole shifted in his saddle, reaching up to pluck a persimmon off an overhanging branch. The fruit was big and ripe. He took a bite and then lifted his eyes to Willie. "P.J. don't want Billy Bonney to get to Mexico. He figures you just might accidentally let him. So we're goin' with you, Sheriff. Call it insurance."

  "So somebody can 'accidentally' shoot me in the back again?"

  He caught Dobbs's warning glance at Cole.

  The rancher did not react. "That's your problem, Sheriff," he said calmly.

  Willie stared at the big man from Cave Flat. In height they were about the same, but Cole was a good forty pounds heavier, with arms the size of stovepipes. There was no question that Cole could handle himself. He'd once taken on three strapping lumberjacks and left them in a pile on Saloon Row, hoisting one man bodily and using his calks to stomp the others.

  "Maybe you didn't hear what I just told Clem Bates," Willie answered evenly, thinking it might well be time not to turn a deaf ear on Cole. Since the election the rancher had gone out of his way to provoke a showdown.

  Cole's reply was to toss the rest of the persimmon between the sheriff's feet. It spattered. Then Cole waited, an insolent, calculated dare in his eyes.

  Willie had never had the slightest taste for blood, by gun or fists. Like many big men who knew their own power and seldom needed to prove it, he was a gentle person. It took a lot to stir him. Yet, at the same time, when he was finally set loose, he enjoyed it. He fought savagely, with Intent to cripple.

  He glanced down at his boots. They were flecked with orange. He said quietly, "I hope that was a slip of hand, Mr. Cole." He emphasized the mister.

  Cole reached for another persimmon. It landed not a half inch from Willie's dusty toe, juice and meat flying.

  Willie felt the eyes of the Yavapais on him. They were waiting for the white men to settle their differences. Cole's friends were saddle-resting, arms folded, delighted at the prospect of a fight between the two elephants—and certain of its outcome. No one had ever whipped Earl Cole.

  Willie shrugged. With slow, deliberate movement, trying to estimate the best way to pull Cole off his horse, he unhitched his gun belt, tossed it to Big Eye, and moved toward Cole.

  The rancher tossed a thick leg over his pommel and came off the saddle in a vaulting leap, surprising for a man of 250 pounds. Both of his heels caught Willie in the chest, driving him back and down.

  Willie felt his shoulders slam the dirt. The back of his skull pounded it. A wave of blackness crossed him. Then reflex, and the fear of Cole's foot ramming his head, caused him to roll.

  As he got up, shaking his head to clear it, he saw Cole dropping his gun belt, complete confidence in his eyes. Cole's huge fists came up. The big rancher murmured, "I been waitin' a long time to do this, Sheriff." He stepped forward, throwing a looping right that landed high on the jaw.

  A glancing blow, and Willie barely felt it. He stepped inside Cole's left to plant a vicious right hook deep into the rancher's belly. The fist went six inches into rubbery fat and muscle.

  With hardly a sound, Cole doubled and seemed to be holding his breath, as if his lungs were ballooning. He was definitely paralyzed: mouth open, face contorted, skin purpling.

  Willie grabbed him by the collar at the back of the neck and began running, towing Cole in a bent-over position. A few feet from a wagon bed, he stopped dead, releasing the giant rancher.

  Cole catapulted forward, ramming the wagon with his skull. The wagon made a bass drum boom. The wagon boards caved in.

  Cole crashed backward into the dust, totally out.

  Willie stood over him, scarcely able to believe it had been that easy. Then a
feeling of deep satisfaction followed. Cole had begged for it. After another look at the prone rancher, Willie walked slowly over to Kumquikit.

  The old Indian was grinning widely. "Okay? he said. "Change my mind. Two dollar fifty?

  Massaging his chest where the boot heels had caught him, Willie laughed for the first time that day. "Changed mine, too. Three dollars. The taxpayers just got generous."

  Kumquikit cackled as Clem Bates and Dobbs swung down off their horses to revive Earl Cole. The other Indians joined in the laughter.

  7

  HANDS LIMP BY HIS SIDE, the .44s resting in holsters at his hips, Billy regarded the small haul at his feet with a thoughtful frown. Yet it didn't surprise him too much. His newfound friends weren't likely to be over-generous at this point. They were safely at Dunbar's Rocks.

  Keeping his voice congenial, Billy said, "Look down, Art. That pile by my feet is a lot smaller than yours, Perry's, or Joe's. I don't quite know how you came by this arithmetic. I'm owed three thousand."

  There was a chilling, clinking sound in the soft evening air as Joe twirled the necklace of bullets around his left forefinger. The noise was getting to Billy.

  Nerves ragged, Perry complained to Art, "I wish you'd make Joe quit playin' with that."

  Art's eyes stayed steady on Billy. "He likes to keep his hands occupied. That's his only fun, Perry."

  Joe grinned broadly and kept on twirling. His mouth was full of jelly candies, and colored saliva dripped at the corners.

  Then Art addressed himself to Billy, matter-of-factly. "Back in McLean, I said we'd share I didn't say we'd share exactly even. Now, I put up the money for these horses, that fancy suit you got on, that shinin' silver star you tossed away. Paid your hotel bill in McLean, Tucson, and Wickenburg. Now I figure you got your fair share, Billy Boy. Five hundred."

  Billy glanced down at the measly pile by his boot toes. Added to that pittance, they no longer needed him. There was no reason on God's peaceful earth not to leave him shot up in Dunbar's.