“Damn,” he muttered, frothy blood on his lips, “you’ve kilt me.”
Falcon holstered his Colt, pulled Diablo’s reins and walked his horse around Evans, breathing noisily as he sat dying in his saddle.
“Like I said, Jesse,” Falcon said as he passed, “It’s a good night for dying.”
Twenty-five
The Kid was headed up to White Oaks, after being forced to steal a few horses to keep his small group of Regulators fed. Times had been lean lately, and a stolen horse or two meant money in the bank if they were driven over to Tascosa in Texas, where no questions were asked.
Riding with the Kid were Buck Edwards, Dan Cook, Tom O’Folliard, Billy Wilson, and Charley Bowdre. They came upon the whiskey-peddling operation of “Whiskey Jim” Greathouse, and stopped for a rest and to water their horses. Some of the men wanted whiskey, but the Kid didn’t partake of strong spirits no matter how festive the occasion.
All day the Kid had been edgy, with the nagging feeling they were being followed.
“You keep lookin’ at our backtrail, Kid,” Bowdre said as he dismounted in front of the Greathouse adobe outside of White Oaks.
“Got this feelin’ we’re bein’ followed.”
“Nobody’s back there,” O’Folliard said, tying off his horse at the rail.
“We’d have seen their dust,” Wilson offered.
Buck Edwards gazed across the hills. “I been havin’ this feelin’, too.”
Cook headed for the steps. “I’m thirsty. You boys can argue out here all damn day for all I care, but my throat’s sayin’ it needs whiskey.”
“Get your whiskey,” the Kid said. “Then we’re movin’ on to Coyote Springs.”
* * *
As the Kid and the others were making camp at an old sawmill near Coyote Springs, a posse of eight or nine men led by Deputy Sheriff Bill Hudgens suddenly came galloping over a rise with guns drawn.
“Head for cover!” the Kid shouted.
As Wilson swung aboard his horse a bullet struck it in the neck and it collapsed underneath him, bawling with fear and pain as blood poured from its wound.
Gunshots sounded from every direction as the Kid swung up on his mare, only to have the animal shot dead with a bullet through its brain, sending it tumbling to the earth, almost trapping his leg underneath the horse’s weight.
Cook and Edwards dove for cover behind the old mill, and the Kid was not far behind.
“They’re circlin’ us!” Wilson shouted, “an’ now we’s short by two horses!”
Blasts of gunfire thundered from trees and brush and rocks around the millhouse. Billy Wilson, trapped behind a rock, was the target of most of the gunfire. Bullets kicked up dust and rock chips all around him. So much lead was flying he couldn’t raise up to get off a shot of his own.
But as the shooting died down while the posse reloaded, Wilson made his way to the sawmill walls and safety, dodging and darting until a rock and adobe wall protected him from speeding lead.
“Give it up, Kid!” a voice shouted. “We’ve got you boys trapped!”
“Like hell!” the Kid yelled back, firing his rifle at the voice.
Again the gunshots resumed, both sides wasting lead since there was too much cover for an accurate shot. Burning gunpowder filled everyone’s nostrils. The noise from so many rifles and pistols was like the coming of a spring storm.
“How the hell are we gonna get out of here alive?” Wilson asked the Kid.
“Don’t worry. We ain’t done fightin’ yet.”
Edwards blasted away with his Winchester, and a wounded man cried out.
“Atta boy!” Wilson barked, sending a wild shot over the head of a posseman hidden behind a rock pile.
For half an hour the posse and the Kid’s men traded bullets back and forth. Then the shooting fell to an occasional pop from either side.
“Maybe they’re runnin’ low on ammunition,” Bowdre suggested as he reloaded.
“We ain’t in the best of shape ourselves in that department,” the Kid said.
By slow degrees the shooting ended. An eerie silence spread all around the mill.
“Wonder what’s goin’ on?” Edwards said, peering around a corner.
Before the Kid could answer, a voice shouted from the top of a hill. “Come on out and let’s talk, Kid! Nobody’ll shoot while we talk things over. We’ve got you surrounded.”
“It’s a long way from bein’ over!” the Kid yelled back. “We just got our guns limbered up.”
“You gotta listen to reason, Kid! We can starve you out if you don’t surrender.”
“We’ve got plenty to eat. We can start eatin’ them dead horses you shot if we run out of beans.”
“To hell with ’em,” Wilson snarled. “Let ’em try to come and get us.”
For several minutes there was silence from the posse, and the Kid guessed they must be talking over their options. All they could do was wait.
Then a voice echoed from a brush pile. “Hey, Kid! It’s me, Jimmy Carlyle. Let’s you an’ me talk, just the two of us without our guns.”
Carlyle was a popular blacksmith from the White Oaks area, and the Kid liked him. He wondered what Carlyle was doing with a posse after him and his men.
“I trust you, Jimmy! ” he cried. “It’s the rest of those bastards with you I don’t trust. One of ’em could put a bullet in my back.”
“I give you my word,” Carlyle said.
The Kid thought about it a moment. “I ain’t comin’ out, but I give you my word you can come down here an’ we’ll talk. Nobody is gonna take a shot at you.”
Another lengthy silence passed.
“I smell a trick,” Edwards said under his breath. “Some of ’em will sneak around behind us while you an’ Carlyle have your little talk.”
“Maybe,” the Kid said, wondering.
“We can cover the back pretty good from here,” Wilson said, after looking out a broken rear window. “Don’t see how they’d get very close without us seein’ ’em.”
“Jim’s word will be good,” the Kid promised. “If he’ll come down here, then we’ll let him come peaceful.”
A moment later, Carlyle yelled, “I’m comin’ down, Kid. I got no gun.”
“Come down an’ we’ll talk,” the Kid answered. “You got my word nobody’ll take a shot at you.”
The blacksmith rose up behind a clump of brush with his hands in the air.
“Don’t nobody fire a shot,” warned the Kid. “I gave him my word.”
Jimmy Carlyle came walking slowly toward the mill, and it was easy to see he didn’t have a gun.
“So far, so good,” Wilson whispered, glancing over his left shoulder at the back of the building.
Carlyle walked bravely up to the door and the Kid lowered his rifle when the blacksmith walked inside. His face was covered with sweat.
“Tell me what you’ve got to say,” the Kid began. “I know it was Sheriff Hudgens who sent you down here to try an’ talk us into givin’ up.”
“It’s the only way, Kid. We’ve got men all around this ole’ place, an’ I damn sure don’t wanna see you or any of these boys killed.”
“We didn’t come lookin’ for no trouble,” Wilson said. “We camped here real peaceful.”
“But the law has got warrants for your arrest,” Carlyle argued weakly. “The sheriff says we’ve got a duty to bring you boys in.”
“Tell the sheriff he can go to hell,” the Kid snapped.
The blacksmith eyed Wilson’s whiskey jug. “I sure could use a swallow or two of that corn squeeze. This has been real hard on my nerves.”
“Give him a drink,” the Kid ordered.
Wilson handed him the jug. Carlyle took several long swallows and then sleeved his lips dry.
“What the hell is takin’ so long?” a voice shouted from one hilltop.
Carlyle turned back to the open doorway. “We’re talkin’ things over. Wait a damn minute!”
“Have another dri
nk,” Wilson offered.
“An’ tell ’em we ain’t done talkin’ yet,” the Kid added, one eye on a front window.
“We ain’twaitin’ much longer,” anothervoice cried from a juniper tree. “Five minutes more an’ we’re all gonna start shootin’.”
Fear twisted Carlyle’s face. He shouted back up the hill, “You boys promised wouldn’t be no shootin’ while I was down here talkin’ to the Kid.”
“Lyin’ bastards,” Edwards said between tightly clenched teeth, bringing his rifle up to his shoulder.
“Don’t shoot!” the blacksmith said to Edwards. “Not now. I’ll go back up an’ talk to the sheriff about this here situation an’ see if he’ll listen.”
“He’ll listen to a goddamn gun goin’ off if he ain’t real careful,” Edwards replied.
“No shootin’,” the Kid said. “I gave my word on it, and a man’s word is sometimes all he’s got.”
Carlyle edged farther out the door. “Let me talk to Hudgens an’ I’ll come back down. Maybe he’ll let some of you ride off, but I can’t promise nothin’. I know he’s gonna want to put irons on the Kid here.”
“Nobody’s puttin’ irons on me,” the Kid remarked.
“I’ll tell the sheriff what you said,” Carlyle replied as he walked out on the porch.
From somewhere on a hillside, a lone gunshot cracked. No one could be sure exactly where it came from, but with the sound of a gun all of the Kid’s men opened fire. And from the hills, the possemen started shooting.
Jimmy Carlyle took off in a lumbering run for the safety of some nearby bushes. He made it roughly thirty yards unharmed, then the back of his sweat-stained shirt erupted in a shower of blood.
Carlyle staggered a few steps more, calling out for the men from White Oak to stop firing. Then another slug shattered his right knee, and he went down on his face in the dirt.
“Damn!” the Kid bellowed. “I gave my word nothing would happen to Jimmy . . .”
Carlyle began to crawl feebly toward the bushes, leaving a red smear in his wake. Blood squirted from his back, covering his pants and the ground around him.
“Makes me sick,” Bowdre said between blasts of rifle and pistol fire. “He’s gotta be hurtin’ somethin’ awful, an’ he sure as hell wasn’t no bad man.”
The Kid was furious. “That does it, boys!” he bellowed out a window. “We ain’t leaving this place until we’ve killed every last one of you rotten sons of bitches!”
Sometime during the night, after Carlyle died, the Kid’s message must have struck home. The surviving possemen quietly crept back to their horses and cleared out, leaving the Kid and his followers a clear pathway to ride in whatever direction they wanted.
Twenty-six
When Pat Garrett approached him, Falcon was raking in his winnings at the end of a night playing stud poker.
“Can I have a word, boss?”
“Sure Pat, pull up a seat and let’s talk.”
“I’m giving my notice, Falcon. I’ve decided to run for sheriff of Lincoln County.”
“Oh?” Falcon said, surprised.
“Yeah. George Kimball’s up for reelection, but I don’t think he can win. No one around here thinks he’s got the cojones to kill Billy the Kid.”
Falcon leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “And you think you can? For the sake of a job, you’d be willing to hunt down and kill the Kid, who you’ve always counted as a friend?”
Garrett poured himself a glass of whiskey from the bottle on the table. “I know how that sounds, Falcon, but the Kid’s changed. He’s runnin’ around the county, rustling beeves and killin’ people every day. It’s about time somebody put a stop to it.”
Falcon stared at Garrett. “Pat, you and I both know the only men the Kid has killed have been the one’s trying to kill him.” He shrugged. “As for the rustling, it’s the only way he can eat, since he can’t find honest work with the warrants out on him.”
Garrett stuck out his jaw. “That don’t matter none, Falcon. I plan to campaign on the promise to bring the Kid in, dead or alive.”
“Do you have the backing of either party, Pat?”
Garrett nodded. “Falcon, I understand the power structure of New Mexico. The future rests with Captain Lea, John Chisum, T.B. Catron, Jimmy Dolan, Judge Bristol, and Colonel Rynerson. These men have the wealth and influence to manipulate the power around the state. They have all agreed to support me, if I promise to bring the Kid in.”
Falcon smiled, shaking his head. “You’re getting in bed with some strange partners, Pat. Personally, with the exception of John Chisum, I wouldn’t bother to spit on these men if they were on fire.”
Garrett dropped his gaze. Falcon stood up. “Then good luck to you, Pat. I won’t vote for you, but I wish you well.”
* * *
After Garrett won election as sheriff, his backers wanted him to begin the manhunt for the Kid immediately and not to wait until he was to take office in several months. So, they pressured Sheriff Kimball to appoint Garrett Deputy Sheriff, in hopes he could find and arrest, or kill, the Kid as soon as possible. They also pressured the governor to have him appointed deputy U.S. Marshal, to give him authority to pursue the Kid outside Lincoln County.
Throughout the summer and fall Garrett and his deputies, along with dozens of citizen posses, searched for the Kid and his Regulators. Governor Lew Wallace upped the reward to five hundred dollars for the Kid, dead or alive.
Falcon was getting bored with the area and its people. Like the Kid, he prized loyalty over all things. He resented the way the citizens who had once called the Kid their friend and Dolan their enemy now switched sides as Dolan accumulated more and more power.
Falcon also became disillusioned with his father’s old friend, John Chisum. Chisum refused to help the Kid with money and backing when he needed it, and he sided with Dolan and called for the Kid’s arrest. Falcon knew this was just a ploy by Chisum, who was hoping to get out of paying taxes on the huge stretches of land he owned by becoming buddies with the Dolan faction.
It was about eight o’clock in the evening and The Drinking Hole was almost empty. Most of the usual customers were home having supper and wouldn’t start their carousing until later.
Falcon was playing solitaire, drinking coffee, and smoking a cigar when the batwings opened and in walked Jimmy Dolan, John Chisum, Johnny Albright, and Louis Longacre.
The four men took a corner table, ordering a bottle of Falcon’s best whiskey from Roy, who was once again full-time bartender.
Falcon took a drag on his stogie, tipped smoke from his nostrils, and wondered how men of such diverse characters and personalities could possibly manage to get along, let alone do business with one another.
After a moment, Chisum looked up and noticed Falcon staring at him. He smiled, and waved.
“Hey, Falcon, come on over and have a drink,” he called, his face already flushed and red from the amount of whiskey he’d been drinking.
Falcon got up and strolled over to the table.
“Howdy, John.” He looked at Albright, “Hello, Johnny.”
Albright, also pretty far along in his cups, smiled drunkenly and tipped his hat.
Louis Longacre raised his glass and smiled. “Good evening, Falcon.”
Falcon glanced at him. “Everyone says bankers will do business with the devil himself if the money’s right,” Falcon said, cutting his eyes at Jimmy Dolan, “I guess that includes skunks, too, Louis.”
Longacre’s face grew flushed and he scowled, “You got no right to talk to me like that, MacCallister.”
“Yeah, Falcon,” Chisum blustered, “we’re just here having a drink. No harm in that, is there?”
Falcon stared down at him. “John, my father always said you were so mean and tight with a dollar as to be a skinflint. He never said you were a man who would turn his back on his friends if there was money involved. I guess he didn’t know you as well as he thought he did.”
Chisum op
ened his mouth to reply, thought better of it, and looked back down at the table, holding his whiskey glass in both hands, shaking his head.
Dolan narrowed his eyes, “You weren’t referring to me when you used the word skunk, were you MacCallister?”
Falcon stared at him. “Yes, Dolan, I was, though I could think of lots of other words—like scoundrel, back-shooter, and all around bastard—that would apply equally well.”
Falcon turned around and started to walk off. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dolan reach under his coat and pull out a short-barreled Smith and Wesson .38.
He whirled around, but Dolan had the drop on him.
Over at the bar, Roy leaned forward and put his hand on the double-barreled American Arms twelve gauge shotgun, but he was too late. Dolan had his pistol pointed at Falcon’s head.
Dolan got up and walked around the table to stand behind Falcon, his gun at Falcon’s back.
“Nobody calls me names and gets away with it, not even you, MacCallister. Let’s take a walk outside, and I’ll see if I can’t make you eat them words.”
The customers in the saloon jumped up from their tables and moved to the far side of the room, out of the line of fire in case there was gunplay, leaving Falcon and Dolan alone in the middle of the room.
“Do you mind if I turn around and face you?” Falcon asked, his hands at his sides.
“Just do it slow and careful like,” Dolan said, “I’d hate to shoot you in here and spill your blood all over the floor.”
As Falcon turned, his hand reached under his belt buckle and he drew his belly gun, bringing it up and placing the barrel against the underside of Dolan’s chin.
“What’s that?” Dolan asked, sweat breaking out on his forehead in spite of the coolness of the room.
Falcon grinned with his lips, but his eyes remained as cold as a rattler’s just before it strikes.
“It’s a .44 caliber derringer, Jimmy, and both barrels are loaded and cocked. One twitch of my finger and your brains will be all over the ceiling.”
“But . . . but . . . I got a gun at your gut.”
Falcon’s expression didn’t change. “I’ve never been afraid of dying, Dolan, and if I can take a snake like you with me, I’d almost consider it a pleasure.”
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