The Curse of Billy the Kid: Untold Legends Volume One

by Tamsin L. Silver

  I nodded at him, then turned to the group. “Thank you.”

  After an awkward silence, Charlie stood up. “For God’s sake, eat already, or we’re never gettin’ outta here and I wanna see my lady.”

  “He wants to be in his lady,” I heard someone mutter, which caused everyone to laugh.

  It broke the tension, and though I could feel they were all still a bit unsure, they were solid in their resolve to be Regulators with me. We were a unified front with a cause driving us forward. We would get revenge on Buck Morton, Jimmy Dolan, and anyone else who had a hand in taking Tunstall’s life. They were going to pay, and we were going to serve them the bill.

  5

  Frank Macnab

  March, 1949

  It was time to put my head back into the present. Looking out my hotel window at the New Mexico of 1949, I wondered if the territory I’d loved as a young man had ever really escaped the wound that Scáthach etched into her. Today I was gonna drive back to where she’d done the most damage, Lincoln, and speak to the current sheriff, Sally Ortiz, who’d been voted in the previous year. If she was the culprit of the new demon outbreak, she’d be the sheriff with the shortest career ever.

  I pulled on a clean white t-shirt and my new pair of Levi’s. Putting a crisp, white dress shirt over the former, I buttoned it, tucked it into the latter, and fastened the jeans up.

  I stood in front of the mirror comparing. “Tie, no tie, tie, no tie...no tie wins.”

  On the bed lay my new black leather belt. She was a dandy, and I was in love with her. In fact, I’d named her Lilith, Lilly for short. I wove Lilly through half of the loops on my jeans then slid the two-gun holster piece on to rest at my back, one on either side of my spine, before looping Lilly the rest of the way and buckling her.

  Both of Lilly’s sides had a bunch of silver half-circles along her bottom where I could attach different accessories. Today I connected a matching leather rectangular bag to the left side and fastened the bottom of it around my thigh. Inside held extra ammunition and other weapons I might need like stakes and knives. It also had a few protective pockets for potions and such.

  After packing my duffle bag, I fetched all three of my guns: one from the bathroom, one from the desk, and one from the bedside table. I checked all three to verify they were fully loaded, yanked up my pant leg, and clipped my Remington 51 on the inner side of my left calf in my boot holster. Easing my pant leg down to cover it, I slid my two Walther PPK/S pistols, one holding silver rounds and one lead, into Lilly’s spinal holsters, grips outward.

  To hide the PPKs, which is what I called them for short, I pulled on my fitted black leather jacket. Built for me special by a man I met on the job in Poland in the 1920s, the coat hung to mid-thigh and was lined with a special silk and the leather spelled by witches to stop bullets. Not that one could kill me, unless I was out of soul-energy, but they sting like hell, and to be honest, I’d gotten tired of replacing bloodstained shirts.

  I shoved my wallet into my back pocket, shouldered my leather duffel, placed my modified sugar loaf sombrero on my head, and headed to check out earlier than needed for my appointment with Sheriff Sally Ortiz. I wanted to stop somewhere before I paid my possible target a visit.

  It didn’t take long to find my detoured spot since my hotel was on Highway 60 right by Fort Sumner. Once I parked my car, I made my way to the tombstone, took to one knee, and crossed myself. The top of the marker said, “PALS,” and it listed three names, claiming that Tom and Charlie had been buried here with me. Truth was, only Charlie was here. As Pat said, Tom has my affliction, so he sure as hell wasn’t dead and buried at this spot. Last I knew, like me, he was still on the job working in New York City for the Regulators, who were now called MI-4, as we now fell under the supernatural division of SIS.

  The name used for me on the stone always made me laugh. The first name and middle initial were right, but they’d put my mother’s maiden name seeing as I was using it at the time I supposedly died. I felt that fitting as my real father’s last name brought shame to me.

  I reached through the fence to touch the stone and was deep in thought when a boy around the age of ten tapped my shoulder.

  “Mister, could you take a picture of me and my friends by the gravestone?”

  I smiled when I saw he was accompanied by two other boys, one about his age and one older, not unlike how Charlie, Tom, and I had been. “I’d be happy to. You got a camera?” I asked.

  “Well duh, Mister, of course we do,” the youngest said as he handed it to me, his attitude reminding me of myself back in the day.

  I stared at the contraption for a moment, marveling at how it had changed over the years while I appeared...well, almost exactly the same. Sure, I’d aged a bit from the two years I stopped hunting, but that was subtle. Mainly, I’d had my teeth fixed, but I was still young looking, bare faced, and short by today’s standard. I wasn’t as scrawny now though, come to think of it. I’d filled out a little, and though still slender, I wasn’t weak anymore. I suppose I was lucky that the curse wasn’t rigid.

  “We’re ready, Mister.”

  The boy’s voice pulled me from thoughts, and I looked up at his friends, posing as if they were tough cowboys, hats and all. I spit the toothpick from my mouth with a grin and said, “Y’all ready?” When all three cheered, I raised the camera and took three pictures before handing it back. “Hope one turns out all right.”

  “Thanks so much, Mister.”

  “William Henry, at your service,” I told him, and tipped my hat to them all.

  “Holy cow! Just like Billy the Kid!”

  I smiled wide and winked. “Just like.”

  With a wave, the young boys ran off to a mother who was calling him.

  I saluted Charlie Bowdre one last time, then turned and headed off to do the job I’d come here to do. But now I had a smile on my face and thought about how I should call Tom Folliard and tell him about the kid at our gravesite. He’d get a good laugh, that’s for sure.

  Approaching my car, I wondered what the boy would think if he knew that Billy the Kid still walked the Earth. That he was cursed to do so until either his soul was his again or he vanquished the evil that made him this way. He’d probably wet himself, truth be told.

  With a loud laugh, I lit a hand-rolled cigarette and began to hum the chorus of “Turkey in the Straw” as I meandered toward the parking lot of the Fort Sumner museum I was “buried” by. Sliding into my special order black 1950 Aston Martin DB2, I removed my hat and slid on sunglasses. Shutting the door, I revved the engine and headed to the one place I never thought I’d go again: Lincoln, New Mexico.

  The two-hour drive from Fort Sumner is scenic, but other than that, it’s rather dull. However, I used to do this stretch on horseback, so I wasn’t about to complain about the driving time. I just cranked the radio and floored it, like usual.

  We won’t talk about my many speeding tickets.

  As I drove, my mind traveled back in time to the day the curse of Scáthach set in and what awaited me and the other Regulators when we, too, returned to Lincoln.

  February, 1878

  Just as Dick wanted, we were on our way after the moon was fully set. It was Wednesday, February twenty-seventh, and on the road back to Lincoln, we ran into McSween.

  “Widenmann finally convinced you that you’d be safer if you weren’t in town, I take it?” Dick asked.

  “Yes. As much as I hated to admit it, he was right,” McSween said.

  “Susan still in Missouri with her family?” I asked.

  “Yes, better she’s not here for this anyway. I did send her a telegram tellin’ her about John and left her a letter at home to find when she returns. Her sister, husband, and family are goin’ to take the east wing of the house though.”

  “What about the Ealys?” Fred asked.

  “Movin’ them to Tunstall’s old quarters in those two rooms on the east side of the store, now that we’ve taken it back. Rob Widenmann and
Sam Corbett are watchin’ over our side of the house until Susan gets back.”

  “Anythin’ we should know before you go?” Dick asked.

  “I’ve mostly just been writin’ letters about Tunstall’s murder to those who can help with makin’ Dolan and his men pay for what they’ve done.”

  He listed off Sir Edward Thornton, the British Ambassador in Washington, and John Lowrie at the Presbyterian Missionary Board in New York. I had no idea why, so I asked.

  “I’m workin’ at displantin’ Fred Godfroy from his position as the Indian Agent as well as gettin’ the British government involved in John’s murder since John was still a British citizen.”

  I secretly thought he was wasting his damn time, but I knew nothing of what they were doing or why. To me, it would all be worked out by using my guns. No letters could bring justice for Tunstall like my six-shooter could. But I sat on my horse and nodded like the rest of them. Hell, maybe they understood, who knows? Either way, I was itching to get back to town and put our plan into action.

  Just before we parted ways, McSween said, “Just so you know, Isaac Ellis has been appointed administrator of the Tunstall’s estate, and Widenmann went and got himself poisoned by someone of the Murphy/Dolan faction, or so he claims, but he seems fine now. I’ll write more letters to the British Ambassador of England and to Tunstall’s uncle in British Columbia while I’m gone. Be careful, boys. I’ll be back when I can.”

  I was thankful to have him on his way, seeing as compared to that conversation, the boredom of the road seemed like a bailé. And I said so to Brewer, but his mind appeared to be elsewhere.

  “Are you even listenin’ to me, Dick?”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said.

  “What were you sayin’?”

  “Just how this borin’ road is more interestin’ than listenin’ to McSween talk about letters...or did you miss all that, too?”

  Dick rotated his shoulder. “No, I heard him. He’s goin’ about the right channels to get justice for John his way. We’re goin’ to go about it our way.”

  “You gonna let Dr. Ealy look at that shoulder when we get back?”

  “It’ll be fine. I told you, just a dislocated shoulder that I popped back into place. Nothing to worry yourself about.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure thing.” I knew he was lying, but I left it alone. If he wanted to tell me, he would.

  Lucky for me, we rode back into town on Thursday in time to help the Ealys move their belongings to Tunstall’s old living quarters on the east side of the store. This gave me an excuse to chat with Dr. Ealy, who I usually called Reverend.

  “I don’t care how you make it happen, just find a way to get a look at Dick’s left shoulder. The big man is avoidin’ medical attention and he needs it.”

  This got the reverend to spouting about leaving an injury unattended and what that could cause. I tuned out, nodding at the appropriate times as I carried things down the road, secure now that he’d corner Dick and force medical attention on the giant.

  The next morning, March first, Dick and I headed over to see Justice of the Peace J.B. Wilson, again. This time, he appointed Dick a special constable and me his deputy.

  Leaving there, it was evident Brewer was on a mission. His usual walk of casual strength had morphed into heated purpose. Normally a man careful of folks as he maneuvered past them, saying hello or excuse me, he just barreled through space like he owned it, long-legged strides eating ground at an exponential pace and no pleasantries on his lips. If ya asked me, he didn’t even see those who dove out of his way.

  Trying to keep up with the man, I asked, “So now what?”

  “We form a posse to go get these bastards,” he finally said as we went through the gate of the little white fence that surrounded the McSween home.

  “I thought we―”

  “Hold that thought,” he said, double-knocking on the front door before opening it and walking in, where we found all the sworn-in Regulators.

  There was John Middleton, Fred Waite, Doc Scurlock, Charlie Bowdre, Jim French, Henry Brown, Sam Smith, José Chavez y Chavez, and a bare-faced man I didn’t know but recognized from the day we’d raided Dolan’s store. Obviously, the newly appointed constable didn’t know him either.

  “And who are you?” Dick asked, reaching over my head and shutting the door behind me.

  Stepping forward, a man of average height, light green eyes, and sun-touched brown hair offered his hand to Dick. Speaking in a Scottish brogue, he said, “Frank MacNab is the name. John Chisum and your Alabama friend, Pat, sent me.”

  Dick took Frank’s hand. “A Scotsman?”

  “Born and raised, came to this country with me family early on though.” He cleared his throat and began to speak like he’d lived in New Mexico his whole life. “But I can sound like one of y’all in a heartbeat.”

  “Then why keep the accent?” Fred asked.

  “The ladies, obviously,” MacNab said, going back to his Scottish brogue.

  Dick laughed. “I’m Richard Brewer, constable for this party. What did you do for Uncle John?”

  MacNab let go of Dick’s hand and rubbed his chin like it was a nervous tic . “Um...well, as you know, he’s part of the cattle firm, Hunter and Evans. I’ve been workin’ as a detective with them for a year or more. Before that, I was Chisum’s ranch foreman.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Dick said, listening and hoping there was more.

  Charlie stepped over. “Frank here is a good man and an excellent shot. Middleton and I have known him since we lived in Kansas, and I vouch for him.”

  “I can, too. None better from where we used to be, Dick,” Middleton said from where he stood in the corner of the room.

  “That would put us at ten men, Dick. That’s a good startin’ number. Besides, if Charlie trusts him, I’m not against him.”

  Doc piped up, “And we all know how picky Charlie can be, too.”

  This caused the men in the group to laugh.

  One corner of Dick’s mouth ticked upward. “All right. Pat swore you in, I take it? Told you all the pertinent information?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, saves me time. Everyone listen up,” Dick said, and then told them about what had transpired at Wilson’s house.

  “Someone made you a deputy twice in a week’s time, Billy?” Charlie said, giving me a hard time. “Are we sure Wilson has got his wits about him?”

  Dick fought off a grin and said, “Billy is the one with the curse and the power to help us win this, so I’m good with him bein’ my second in command. But I’m goin’ to deputize each of you as well. After that, we need to pitch in and help build what will be a twelve-foot-high stone and adobe wall around this place that started construction earlier this morning.”

  “When do we leave to catch these bastards?” Henry asked. “I’m itchin’ to get movin’.”

  “As am I,” Dick told him. “Tomorrow mornin’ we’ll head out just before the sun rises. I’ve heard rumor that these men who killed John are hidin’ out from us at the Dolan cow camp. If they don’t have the balls to come here, we go to them.”

  The men cheered.

  Dick quieted them down. “I don’t know when we’ll be back this way or when you’ll be home next. Because of that, if you didn’t already head home to pack a war bag, do so. Select a good horse, too. Today is your day to prepare for our time on the road. But at least help with the wall as long as you can. The sooner we can fortify this location, the sooner McSween can come home.”

  “Hear hear!” said a few while others grunted agreement.

  Dick swore them all in as deputies before we headed outside to help out with the wall.

  We’d been at work only an hour or two when I saw a group of men coming our way, led by Sheriff Brady and his mustache. I’d not seen anyone with a larger one this side of the Rio Grande. I often laughed when he spoke, for ya could barely see his lips for the darn thing.

  Brady knocked
on the front door of the McSween house and Robert Widenmann opened it. To know what was going on, I used the one extra soul in me to enhance my hearing.

  “How can I help you, Sheriff Brady?” Rob asked, obviously swallowing the more hateful words he wished to say.

  Speaking in as heavy an Irish brogue as my mama used to have, Brady said, “You can come on out here.”

  “And why would I come outside, sir?”

  “You’re under arrest.”

  “What for?” Widenmann demanded to know.

  I walked over to Dick. “In case you’re interested, Brady’s arrestin’ Widenmann right now.”

  “What? The hell he is!” Dick set down the adobe brick he was holding and it broke. He didn’t notice and marched off toward the front of the house, yelling out, “Can we help you, Sheriff?”

  Everyone else took their cue from Brewer. Regulators with blood in their eyes and hands on their guns came around the corner of the east wing of the house, filling the front yard. Brady turned toward Dick, the Army veteran not flinching an inch at the sight of us all.

  “I have a warrant here for the arrest of all those who participated in riotin’ at the Dolan Store on February twenty-third,” Brady said.

  “Riotin’?” Robert blurted in disbelief. “I’m a U.S. Marshal, and I had a warrant to search the premises for the men that shot and killed John Tunstall, since they’d been seen there earlier.”

  “Were they there?” Brady asked.

  “You know damn well they’d already left, but we―”

  “Well maybe you should check your sources more carefully.”

  Rob leaned his large frame toward the sheriff. “Maybe you should check who you consort with, Sheriff, for I have on good authority that they were there with you on the twentieth and you did nothin’ to arrest them.”

  “On what charges? I have no warrants for them.”