by John Vernon
"Like men dancing with men."
"Why would that shame even Adam and Eve?"
"There he goes. Look, he's crossing again."
They follow him up Eighth back to Broadway, which he crosses on the fly. When he ducks into Taylor's Saloon at the St. Denis on the corner of Eleventh, they watch from the arcade, through the high Venetian windows, watch him at the long bar tilt the saddle rocks and blue points down his jacking throat. He glances toward the window. They flush, turn their hacks, kick their heels, stroll away.
They wait behind a column. He saunters out the door, strides through the colonnade on legs twice as long as theirs. They must scramble to keep up. Crossing Twelfth, it's little Henry who spots the bright fragment dropping from the man's hand, and who darts past legs and parasols and skirts to retrieve it: a silver ring. Josie says, "Give it here."
"No." Henry runs. I Ie sees his presumptive father up ahead crossing Broadway at Thirteenth with long, loping strides. In the middle of the block, Henry breaks from the sidewalk and crosses Broadway, too, dodging hansoms, drays, omnibuses, pushcarts. Josie follows, screams his brother's name. Henry turns on Thirteenth and crosses again and runs up an alley, Josie at his heels. The man disappears into a door that slams shut in Henry's face. Josie lunges for his brother's hand, tries to pry the fist open. Henry pushes him away. Josie slams Henry's ear and shouts, "Give it here, rat-ass." Henry bangs on the door. Above it, a sign says, "Stage Door—Wallack's." They're still struggling in the alley when the door opens and strong hands and arms force them apart. "Basta!" says the man. It's not him, it's a doorkeeper, a squat and burly scaldhead in white shirt, baggy pants, a vest, and bandanna.
"What's this?" The pearly voice, deep, chiseled, and strong, comes from the open door, and the others freeze.
"You dropped this on Broadway." I lenry holds out his fist.
With dignity, he steps into the alley, extends his palm to Henry. "Ah." He holds up the ring. Smiles with indulgence. Slips it on the vacant pinky of his right hand, his long dramatic face melting its own bladed features. "Two honest young men. Or is it just one?" He looks from I lenry to Josie, whose eyes have dropped. Henry flushes.
This alley is nothing like their alley at home. It's paved and freshly swept, not a dead cat in sight. On the brick wall on one side, under glass, a poster says,
* * *
WALLACK'S THEATER
Immense Success
Re Engagement of
THE BELLES OF SHADON
With William Bonné
International Favorite
July 3
Every Night
Doors Open 8 o'Clock
* * *
He slips the ring on his finger. "Tell him," whispers Henry to Josie. "Tell him who we are."
"Who are you?" says the man, who has evidently heard. Then he tugs up his pant legs and crouches in the alley, hands on knees, before the brothers. "Who could you be? Just another pair of urchins?"
The boys keep mum. The doorkeeper watches.
"Well, your hearts are true blue. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for your honesty." Fie removes Henry's hat and rubs his curly head and with both of his hands snugs the hat back on, bill backward this time. "There. How does that look?" He smiles, winks. "You may think me a softy, but there's a story to that ring. When I first came to New York, I had in my employ a young valet, a lad not much older than the pair of you. I had grown very fond of him and had begun to feel like a father to the boy. I was sorry to hear him one day announce he would be forced to leave me. He was wanted on the farm. The laddie wished in some way to show his appreciation of all I had done for him but he was poor. So he took a dime, and with a punch he managed to make a hole in its center. With this as a start, he pounded it and battered it and worked at it for days until he had transformed that dime into a ring. This, he brought to me when he came to say goodbye, with tears in his eyes." The soothing voice rises, widens in volume. "And he presented me with that ring, saying, 'Mr. Bonné, this is all I have to give you to show my appreciation of your kindness to me.' You see, boys, you've recovered a most important keepsake, one I cherish with my life. This ring is not worth much, I know, but I value it because of the way it came to me. I Ie wanted me to wear the ring as long as I lived, and I always shall, even though, sad to say, that boy has since died. I le fell from a wagon and landed on his noggin. Such are the vicissitudes of fortune. Nonetheless, I can't thank you enough. Manuel," he says to the doorman. "Bring me two passes."
The doorkeeper disappears inside. "You're William Bonné?" Henry asks.
"Don't pretend you didn't know." He places both hands on Henry's little shoulders. Wide-eyed Henry looks pleadingly at Josie, who shakes his head furtively. The doorkeeper returns and hands Bonné two tickets and the latter sticks them into the belt of Henry's cap. "That will be all, Manuel."
He waits. The door closes.
Bonné looks at Henry, glances calmly at Josie, then cuts back to Henry and skewers his eyes. "You little sons of bitches. You scum." Still crouched before the boy, his powerful grip squeezes Henry's dinky shoulders, each the size of an egg. "I know what you're after, you little whores. You think I can be blackmailed? Is that what you're planning? I've had my eye on you since Fulton Street, you pups. Where was it?" he asks, his face grotesquely twisted. His eyes wobble in their sockets, his mouth has downcurved, spittle flies from his lips. He snatches the tickets from Henry's hat and tears them in half. From underneath his cloak, he produces a hunting knife. "Where was it? The Slide? Battery Park? I know—the Golden Rule. Where's your lipstick, little minx?" Bonné holds the knife before Henry's mouth, pressing the tip of the blade to his lip. And Henry can't help it; the very horizon sinks inside his body; his britches grow wet. Meanwhile, Josie's backing toward the entrance of the alley. "I wouldn't, if I were you, young man. Your little friend is in my power. Stay right where you are. Listen while you can. If I see you two again, if I ever run across you, I'll castrate the two of you. You're familiar with the word?"
The wide-eyed boys shake their little heads.
"It means cut off your balls. I've castrated beasties larger than you, I've castrated elephants. You'll be easy—your little pellets. I won't even need a knife, my teeth will do the trick." Retracting his lips, he flashes those implements, which indeed look very sharp. "Is that understood?"
17. May–July 1881
Fort Sumner
HE FOUND DELUVINA MAXWELL and she fixed him a feast—roast chicken stuffed with pine nuts, minced meat and spices, a morcilla almost as good as Yginio's, stacks of tortillas, dried melons, dried plums—then he went to the baile. Around the oblong room groups of men lounged, all in serapes, some on chairs, some in groups. On benches, the muchachas peeked out from their fans, watching the dancers, and beside them the wrinkled abuelitas cuddled their grandchildren under black shawls. The light was faint—candles on the crossed arms of the ara~as hanging from the ceiling—but not so faint they couldn't see him. Children racing around or dancing by themselves stopped cold when he walked in, then the guitars, fiddle, and drum stopped, too. He watched the news of his arrival spread like a rash, saw the beauties with their fans and gaudy enaguas forget for a moment their various acts of painstaking coquetry, and the men leave their sweethearts and approach and crowd around him, and his heart swelled. "Juan. Domingo. José, where've you been!"
"We know where you been." Laughter, shaking heads.
"Where's Francisco?"
"His sheep camp."
As they talked and embraced and shared cigarillos, he spotted Paulita on a bench against the wall, biting her tongue—that's what it looked like. Pete sat beside her. He kept her in view while greeting old friends and answering their questions. He held forth on his escape. No, he never killed Matthews, just Olinger and Bell but he felt bad about Bell, he didn't want to kill Bell, the man wouldn't surrender. "You boys know I'm fair."
A chorus of Si's.
"He wouldn't stop when I told him. He'd of raised the
whole town."
Domingo Swabacker asked, "How did Olinger die?"
"Like a rat."
A red-haired boy pushed through the crowd and ran up to Billy, shouting, "El Chivato! El Chivato!" The Kid thought of Tom O'Fol-liard, also a redhead, and reached clown to muss the boy's hair then thought better of it. He looked odd, almost chinless, and he stared up at Billy with dark, sunken eyes. "Bang!" he shouted. Then a woman reached out and grabbed him by the arm, hissing, "¡Chist! Stay away from that man."
The men around him laughed. "You're a bad egg, Bilito."
"I'm here to steal your children. I'll rape all your daughters." They laughed again but not for long—a few simply watched him. Everyone in the dance hall was watching him, he saw, and at the door two men he didn't recognize whispered as they watched. "Who are those men?" he asked.
"Cattle inspectors," said Domingo.
The music started up again and who should walk in with a clutch of amigas but Celsa Gutiérrez. The Kid asked Domingo, "Where's Saval?"
"He got a sheep camp, too."
On an impulse Billy strutted up to these beauties, who squealed when they saw him and hid behind their fans. He took Celsa's hand, even though she was married—married to his friend Saval. Celsa had taken Paulita's place, everyone knew it, but she and the Kid had always met in the shadows, never on the dance floor, and she flushed, her eyes flamed, she tugged back against him while her little feet in their little zapatitos had a mind of their own and followed him like puppies. The dancers cleared a space. "It's El Espinado," said Celsa. Billy couldn't help it, his heart was in his mouth when, hopping to the music, she bent down and mimed picking thorns from her heels while in her flirty way, with lovely sheep's eyes, she glanced up at him and smiled. But he couldn't, like her, submit to this dance, he was too worked up, look at me, El Chivato! He leapt in the air—here I am, look at me! As he romped like a very demon from hell, as he jumped high and spun and stomped booted feet and raised storms of dust, the music followed his lead, it picked up the pace, and Celsa did, too. He swung her high and, flushed, she twirled in crazy circles, flashing her teeth, dreamy-eyed, laughing, this bird-boned woman with the high bosom, thin arms, dark eyes, and darker eyebrows—with the tightly curled hair and the silver coquetas and prominent cheekbones painted with red carmin—with the long lovely neck coated with white abayalde. Her silk rebozo luffed and billowed when she twirled. Whirlwinds of color, floating handkerchiefs and scarves. He knew that she knew that all the muchachas peeking out from their fans were talking about them. He could have had his pick! Celsa's laugh defied their tongues. It wasn't that long ago, back before his capture, when in quieter moments he'd shared with her his dreams about a happy, settled life and a large contented family and a hundred thousand cattle. Too bad she was married.
But he hadn't talked to her about her sister, not yet. That Celsa's older sister, Apolinaria, was Pat Garrett's wife had nothing to do with this. It was a dead heat for Billy: an angry Paulita could betray his whereabouts to Garrett just as easily as a love-struck Celsa could warn the Kid of his approach. They canceled out, he figured.
The music slowed and in sweaty elegance they danced a vals redondo. His ability to leap, she teased, probably reminded the elders and abuelitas of the late Kit Carson, also a chopito.
"Don't call me a chopito. I'm taller than he was."
At a break in the music he left Celsa on the dance floor and walked toward Paulita. Heads turned; eyes followed. Against the walls, the crones all dressed in black were the very army of specters from the other shore described by the Optic that he'd read in Pete's room, and they gave him the willies; they were calling him to come. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his tinted specs while fixing on Paulita. He could make out her glare, the bullets in her eyes, and observed that the closer he approached the more livid she grew. Her face looked red. But the Kiel worked his magic. She glanced around, began to melt, he could tell from the way she raised her fan to hide her mouth, he could see it in her eyes. "Can I bring you anything?"
"No."
"It's hard to see you sitting here like this."
"I imagine it must be."
"Remember we came to these dances every week?"
"They still have them every week."
"Hey, look at that, Pauley. They just filled the bowl."
"Then you better go get some."
He stood beside her chair. She kept turning away. When the music came back they stared at the dancers, and Billy said, "Every once in a while I took a look-see at you and got a chill clown my spine."
"She's standing near the door."
"Who?"
"I don't want her coming over here, Billy."
They watched Celsa pretending not to look in their direction. Beside his sister, Pete asked the Kid, "What about Saval?"
Paulita said to no one, "He don't care."
"Guess who I saw? John Meadows," said Billy.
"He still alive?"
"He's got a new clock. What's he need a clock for? I suspect he never learned how to wind it."
Paulita fanned herself. "Wasn't it running?"
"Said eleven o'clock all the time I was there." He couldn't look at her belly. The last thing he wished to do was ask about the child and stir up more sass. He'd sometimes thought about the tadpole inside her, but as he stood there the tail ends of his vision told him it was hardly a tadpole, nor a bullfrog—more like a large bear cub, he thought. His mother used to say she'd wanted a girl. Then he was born and the doctor wrapped him up and said to Catherine, it's not what you think, and she forced back her tears. That's what she'd told him. What difference did it make anyway? he thought. Girl or boy, this is no place for either. It's a brutal, ruthless world, he somberly mused. "How have you been feeling?"
Pete said, "She can't keep anything down."
His heart began to melt. "We had some times, you and me."
"You can't just talk about days gone by and turn back the hands of time." Her nostrils flared, she pursed her lips.
"I was just saying."
"Things are different now."
"How are they different?"
"People can't always be shooting each other."
"Tell it to the gazetteers."
"I mean it, Billy. Someone's got to do it."
"Do what?"
"Stand up for civilization against savagery. Don't it make you feel rotten?"
Beside her chair he kept shifting his posture. Heat crept up his neck. "What is it that's supposed to make me feel rotten?"
"Shooting Bob Olinger."
"Olinger? Hell! I regret shooting Jim Bell but Olinger was a bucket of pus! Nobody liked him."
"Lily did. She's my friend."
"Lily who?"
"Lily Casey was engaged to Robert Olinger."
Olinger? Engaged? Will wonders never cease. The Kid experienced one of those revelations of another world embedded in this one that he'd been completely blind to. It was not unlike, while engaged in gunplay, hearing hoot owls call to each other. "Well, some women like dangerous men."
"And some women see through them."
"What's that supposed to mean? You mean to where they're cowards?"
"You don't have to stay with me, Billy the Kid, you must be tired of standing there. Maybe you've got some personal business to conduct?"
"That's all right."
"Suit yourself. You look tired."
"I am.
He found Celsa near the door. "Here's your chopito." Outside, he took her hand and they crossed the parade grounds. Her profile in moonlight contracted to a cameo. Torches and luminarias bordered the parade grounds and Billy guided her toward a torch stuck in the earth, released her hand, rolled a cigarette without spilling a flake, and lit it. Some boys from families living at the fort, four- and five-year-olds who should have been in bed, came running toward them. "El Chivato," they shouted. "Bilicito! Hola, Billy!"
"Hey."
"Bang bang!" one yelled, and Billy spat out his cigarett
e.
"Whoa. That fellow there shot out my snipe."
The boy asked, "What will you do?"
"Roll another."
The stumpy little toddler gazed up at the Kid as though at the Virgin Mary. Billy recognized the yellow-black rings around his eyes, the crepe-paper nostrils, and semiformed chin, yellow and crimped like the edge of a lettuce leaf—the boy on the dance floor. He saw that his red hair matched the bandanna tied around his neck. "Who was that?" he asked when they'd left him behind.
"Beatriz Melendez's boy."
"He's got red hair, no?"
"So does Thomas Connelley."
"And what does Miguel say to that?"
"Miguel say he kill him. He shot at him once outside Hargrove's and missed. He's mostly gone now. Living with his sister in Belen."
"He's out late, that boy."
"She told me one time he never sleep, he's a devil. If Beatriz lock him inside when she go out he break everything around, then when she come back he cry for her to fix it."