Billy’s Blues

by Meltzer C. Rips

  AND AARON SHALL BRING THE BULLOCK OF THE SIN OFFERING, WHICH IS FOR HIMSELF, AND SHALL MAKE AN ATONEMENT FOR HIMSELF, AND FOR HIS HOUSE, AND SHALL KILL THE BULLOCK OF THE SIN OFFERING WHICH IS FOR HIMSELF.140

  “While waiting for a train south to Albuquerque at the Bernalillo station, I watched the northbound Santa Fe train pull into the station. To my surprise, I spied William H. Bonney in irons through the Pullman window surrounded by an armed guard. I had first met the noted outlaw in Tascosa a couple of years back where I had lost a bet with the Kid and almost lost my life.

  “It was at a dance that the native New Mexicans called bailes. This one was sponsored by the Romero family, who could trace their blood back to the Conquistadores. Billy and I got on immediately having had mutual acquaintances in Texas. Overheated from dancing, the friendly youth invited me outside to take in the cool night air. We walked across the plaza so he could check on his compadres’ horses. I told him that I admired his animal, an Arabian of fine stock. The Kid said that he admired my watch attached to a fob and chain. ‘Well, I cannot lie Billy,’ I replied. ‘when I bought it I paid double, believing it was gold, but it does tell time real well. How about a trade?’

  “‘My horse is worth twice as much as that old watch,’ replied the Kid, ‘but if you would like, we could wager on a little foot race back to the ballroom. Can a straight-legged city doctor beat a bowl-legged cowboy?’

  “Normally, I am not a gambling man, but feeling my blood warmed from the tequila, which the locals call tarantula juice, and noting that Billy wore large boots while I wore shoes, I accepted the challenge. The Kid passed me near the end, but in so doing, tripped over the doorway and fell into the ballroom. Alarmed and fearing for the Kid’s safety, his four compadres, John Middleton, Tom O’Folliard, Fred Waite, and José Chávez y Chávez, formed a protective wall around him and drew their pistols on me. Billy laughed heartily and said it was all right. Happily, I gave Billy my watch and chain, but Señor Romero, not amused in the least, forbade the Bilitos, as he called them, from ever attending one of his bailes again for they had carried firearms in violation of the accepted practice at all such dances. In spite of it being worth double the watch, Billy ended up giving me the horse anyway even filling out a bill of sale so I could not be arrested for horse theft. In return, I promised him free medical advice although I do not recall him ever asking. I had never seen, nor seen since, a more fit young man.

  “Upon seeing the Kid again, I had mixed feelings for I had not heard of his arrest. Still, I did not hesitate climbing aboard the train. The guards let me see Billy, but only for a minute. A Deputy, Bob Olinger, said, ‘I’m timing you doctor,’ and pulled out his watch. I recognized my old watch immediately.”141

  When the stern men hired to guard the outlaw lad posed for a portrait, Bob Olinger was so large and muscular, that he had to sit upon a stool in the middle of the other deputies in order to keep his head in range of the camera.142

  “‘Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, Billy?’ I asked.

  “‘Sure, Doc,’ the Kid replied with a smile. ‘Just grab Bob’s gun and hand it over for a moment.’

  “‘My boy,’ Deputy Olinger spat back lowering his double-barreled shotgun to the Kid’s chest, ‘you had better tell your friend goodbye. Your days are short.’

  “‘Oh I don’t know,’ the Kid winked at me. ‘There’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and lip.’

  “I never did see my good friend again, nor my old watch, but I read the newspaper account detailing the Kid’s escape from the Lincoln County Jail. When I got to the part about how Billy had paid Olinger back with two barrels of buckshot from the deputy’s own gun, I laughed aloud and said to those within earshot ‘There’s a cursed watch if I ever saw one: whoever acquires it, pays double.’”

  - Dr. Henry Hoyt143

  AND HE THAT LET GO THE GOAT FOR THE SCAPEGOAT SHALL WASH HIS CLOTHES, AND BATHE HIS FLESH IN WATER AND AFTERWARD COME INTO THE CAMP.144

  Evening turns to darkness. My ankles feel as if they might crumble at any second. Searing shocks of pain accompany each step. My knees buckle with every bump and curb, my back ready to snap in half at the slightest brushback by a passing pedestrian. Distrustful eyes glare at me as I clutch my box of truffles in pain. Cars aim for me as I cross the street. The doorman is mercifully distracted as I walk through an empty lobby. In the elevator, however, Allamanda is there, laundry in one arm, her employer’s baby in the other. She ignores me, but the baby stares at me as if I’m Big Bird’s evil twin. As Allamanda leaves, my heart shudders with longing. Why did I not offer her the box of Valentine candies?

  “Two candi hearts given me by Willie Bonney on the22nd of August.”

  - Sallie Chisum145

  No, the time is not right—not yet. She hasn’t even seen the poem that has immortalized her beauty. However, I am emboldened with my fearless new decision. It’s the type of resolution made by those who win the hands of women like Allamanda—the brave lions who sleep with gentle lambs.

  AND THE BULLOCK FOR THE SIN OFFERING, AND THE GOAT FOR THE SIN OFFERING, WHOSE BLOOD WAS BROUGHT IN TO MAKE ATONEMENT IN THE HOLY PLACE, SHALL ONE CARRY FORTH WITHOUT THE CAMP; AND THEY SHALL BURN IN THE FIRE THEIR SKINS, AND THEIR FLESH, AND THEIR DUNG.146

  Germs crawl beneath my clothes. I barely make it out of the elevator before the doors close. The hallway seems a mile long, but a bath and redemption await me.

  AND HE THAT BURNETH THEM SHALL WASH HIS CLOTHES, AND BATHE HIS FLESH IN WATER AND AFTERWARD HE SHALL COME INTO THE CAMP.147

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What was it about this killer of men, this pariah of society, this product of Bowery slum and Western lawlessness that has made him the object of such wide and undimming interest?”148

  Shedding clothes in disgust, I draw a hot bath and scrub disease and infestation from my skin. I draw a second bath to fully rinse myself. With a fresh pair of surgical gloves, I lift the infected clothes into the tub and add bubble bath and a dash of bleach.

  Beely thee Keed, está muy hombre. All Mexican peepul heez amigos. He steal from el rico an’ give to el pobre. That Beely, hee small like muchacho, but cajónes, I yi yi! El Keed cajones beeg as el toro bravo, thee fighting bull. An’ thee señoritas—ieee! They love thee Keed mucho grande. Thee Keed bee tough with thee muchachos, but tender with thee muchachas. There bee many a maiden with heart saved for heem.

  El Chivato heez called, an’ like thee beely goat, hee gentle, but no get heem irritado. Then hee butt heads with any man, sin temor, without fear. ¡An’ loyal! Hee always help thee amigo in need. Just ask Jose Chavez y Chavez. Hee bee muerto, dead, had Beely not help heem. ¿Have you heard thee story of how El Chivato save heem?149

  As I walk into the kitchen to indulge in the supplies I had sacrificed so much to acquire, I’m taken by the light. The midday sun floods the apartment overwhelming my senses. I’ve had enough light for the day. I should be in bed asleep, but find myself oddly energetic in spite of my exhaustion—wired-tired, you might say. After fixing myself a Hershey Bar fluffer-honey-nutter sandwich and a large glass of milk with vanilla ice cream, I settle down in my throne overlooking my newspaper domain. I have so much time to kill before tomorrow, yet I dare not sleep.

  El Chivato, San Bilito Bandito, hee thee best three-card monte dealer, west of thee Pecos, south of thee Rio Grande. When El Keed shuffle thee cards, no one ever fine thee queen. Hee an’ Chavez, they partner, el compañeros jugador. When El Keed deal three-card monte, Chavez play heez geetar an’ sing. Chavez gather thee crowd an’ beezy thee players while Beely, hee move thee cards. If there bee trouble, Chavez six-shooter, hee pull an’ cock.

  One day, they work on Tunstall ranch, el norte in Nuevo Mexico, an’ El Chivato, hee hear of thee Chavez arrest for dueling south of thee border in Zaragoza. Eet was there Chavez gamble away mucho dinero from thee hombres, so they gather in thee town plaza with mucho rope. Beely ride heez coballo bLanco 130 mile of rough terrain. Hee cross thee
muddy Rio Grande, an’ arrive by meed-night.

  Beely, hee not know well thee town Zaragoza, an thee night, eet bee negro mucho, so hee listen for thee playing of geetar by Chavez. That bee how El Keed, hee fine heez compadre. Hee wake thee jailer and say in thee tongue of Espana fluente, “I bee el policía federales with dos gringos prisioneros.” When thee guard unlock thee jail, hee get thee six-shooter shove in thee stomach. That night they cross thee Rio Grande on Beely’s caballo blanco. Next day they play three-card monte in El Paso until they earn enough dinero to buy Chavez his own caballo an’ ride back to Fort Sumner in time to take thee hot bath and dress for Señor Pete Maxwell an’ heez Saturday night baile. Beely, hee dance weeth all thee señoritas an’ Chavez, hee play geetar an’ sing. All thee peepul happy to see El Chivato, San Bilito Bandito, back again.150

  As soon as I finish eating, I’m overcome with fatigue. The sun reflects off the building beyond, each flash of light a dagger in my tired eyes. Each apartment (quietly critical by the light of the moon) objects loudly to my existence in the harsh definition of high noon. I’ve had enough of these people telling me what to do, frowning upon my actions, who are they to judge me, me, a soul who bothers no one, one who only seeks to exist at the most modest of levels, who only wishes to be left alone, but isn’t even allowed to leave his home in peace long enough to gather the simplest of sustenance with which to sustain this meager life? How can I be more humble before the Gods than I have become, yet they award me with countless prying eyes.

  Searchlights constantly seek me out during the night and spy on me all day, continually criticizing, condemning, doubting my very worth. But I can fight back. I can use their words, their pitiful lives, their own stories of madness and murder to quiet them. I can get the final revenge, snuff them out, silence them for all time. I feel my mind racing now. Eye-prying sun-streaks knife through slices of shade. Devil’s snowflakes dance in the flames. I know exactly what to do and I’m going to do it right now. I stand up.

  Everybody like Beely the Keed. Su vista penetrava al corazón de toda la gente. His face went to everybody’s heart.151

  Newspapers rise again in triumph, each fitting neatly atop the other. Like an expert brick mason, I rebuild the walls of Troy. Each section of paper rises to block another slice of sinister light. It takes hours, but as the last sliver of sun sets behind the evil building facing me, the last newspaper fits neatly into place blocking out all the apartments completely.

  Now, no one can see me. All the leaks are plugged. I can think clearly again. I haven’t slept since the park bench, but I’m too tired to give in. If sleep drags me under again, I’ll only wake gasping for air, if I wake at all, and I can’t afford that, not now, now that I have something to do, something that must be done, a mission, a purpose.

  Mr. Smith, My Dear Sir:

  I was surprised to hear from you, but am always glad to hear from those who had a good feeling for the Kid.

  I can tell you this about him, that he killed several of the most noted outlaws that ran in this part of New Mexico. All of the men he killed got just what was coming to them. I never knew him to shoot a man in the back.

  That he ever killed as many men as he is blamed for, or ever killed for money is absurd. He never seemed to care for money, except to buy cartridges with; then he would much prefer to gamble for them straight. Cartridges were scarce, and he always used about ten times as anyone else. Billy was the best shot with a six-shooter I ever saw.

  He would go to the bar with anyone, but I never saw him drink a drop. Always in a good humor and ready to do a kind act to some one. Billy never talked much of the past; he was always looking into the future, although he often talked of his mother.

  He was a wonder and you would have been proud to know him better.

  As Ever,

  Frank B. Coe152

  A reason to live or die—kill or be killed.

  Chapter Twenty

  “There were no bounds to his generosity. Friends, strangers, and even his enemies, were welcome to his money, his horse, his clothes, or anything else of which he happened at the time to be possessed. The aged, the poor, the sick, the unfortunate and helpless never appealed to Billy in vain for succor.”

  - Sheriff Patrick F. Garrett

  the man who shot him in the back153

  Armed with my list, I’m outside again. I was up all night going over the plan. I had one close call, passing out for a minute and waking up gasping for air, but I have no need for sleep. I’m buzzing. On the outside, the dawn is so strange. It lifts the eyelids just as the dusk lowers them. How long has it been, since the sun’s morning kiss graced my cheek? The solstice sun shines with shocking brightness whispering the false promise of an early spring as if the Gods themselves smile down upon my noble quest. Zephyr blesses me, blowing clean my matted hair. Although the Igbo may not agree, if you don’t sleep, strangers can’t subvert you, because your luck is leftover from the previous day. An aura of good fortune, like a force field, surrounds me. I feel it vibrating.

  I check the list.

  A man on foot is no man at all.154

  I enter the lot. A sea of used cars flashes diamonds in the bright sun. I’m a little woozy from lack of sleep, yet paradoxically, I feel extra sharp, as if in tune with both the metaphysical and natural world simultaneously. My senses reach beyond normal parameters of perception. The musty smell of leaked oil and radiator fluid is sucked up by trees straining to purify the exhaust-saturated air. I can hear the hum of their little systems working overtime. The sound from the highway thrush of speeding cars is filtered through their rotting leaves as my soles crackle loose pebbles freeing themselves from the chipped asphalt tarmac upon which hundreds of cars float uneasily flayed by the wind. Each car grabs my attention as I walk past. They reach out and speak to me. An aged Impala, “Buy me!” A rusted Subaru with four-wheel drive, “No, me!” A late model Toyota Celica Hatchback, “Not that pile of junk, his former owner was a lush and cracked him up. Just look under the hood. Look at the paint smudges on the engine. It’s a chronicle of the countless paint jobs it took to hide each accident. Now if you look under my hood …”

  I commune with the cars. I must know them before the salesman spins his web upon me and I’m no longer unable to tell Adam from Eve.

  Then I see her.

  She’s a redhead. Blood red. A convertible, with the top down to greet the rising sun. An open invitation. Her interior is jet black, off-setting the ruby redness of her hard body. In awe of her undeniable superiority over the lowly subjects surrounding her, I approach, softening my step in deference to her nobility. Her face is fierce: determined eye-like headlamps softened by a chrome-bumper Mona Lisa smile. Emblazoned across the bridge of her nose are four letters, F-O-R-D. They hover above a modest rectangular grill centered with the profile of a silver horse in mid-gallop with its head streaming forward and tail flowing behind in the wind.

  mustang mes-tanj n [mestengo, fr Spanish, stray]: small hardy horses of the American west descended from north African steeds brought over by the Spanish Conquistadors. Thousands roamed the western plains wild until 19th century expansion from the east depleted the herds. Known for its fiery temperament, cowboys often rounded up mustangs for use as work horses. Bronco Riding, a popular sport today, derived from old-time bronco busters who would ride or “break” wild mustangs into submission. See also bronco 1, pony 2, wild horses 1.155

  “I see you really know your cars.”

  The voice startles me. I turn and face a man wearing a polyester navy blue blazer, an olive green tie, and one of those cheap shirts with an indistinguishable ribbed pattern crawling over it.

  “You realize what you’re looking at, pal?”

  “I …”

  “A 68 Ford Mustang Convertible: a real power-house on wheels for the man that can handle it.”

  Black hair, pale pasty skin, he reminds me of a 1950s T.V. game-show host.

  “This baby’s fitted with a 390 horsepower high-p
erformance V-8 that would blow the rear off most cars. But don’t take my word for it. Check the engine out yourself.”

  He leans over the driver’s door with exaggerated ease emphasizing the convenience of a convertible with the top down. He pulls a hidden lever and the hood pops up slightly. Removing his jacket with a flourish, he turns it inside out, folds it, and drapes it over the car door. Walking toward me he says, “Now let’s get down to business.” He rolls his sleeves up, “See, nothing hidden,” and lifts the hood.

  The engine looks like a confusing jumble of wires, hoses, pipes, fans, steel boxes, and circular configurations.

  “See that,” he waves toward a frying pan, “still got the original chrome valve covers and air cleaner lid with HI-Po graphics. And check that out,” pointing at a steel heart with copper wire arteries, “that’s a four-barrel carb for improved emissions. But don’t worry, it won’t hamper horsepower readings on the dyno.

  “This baby is a deep breather, if you know what I mean pal,” he winks. “Long on torque and generous in power potential—does its best work in the 5000 rpm range.” He shakes his head and surveys the engine. “Yeah, this baby’s a real screamer. You like screamers, don’t ya?”

  I look up and he’s looking right at me.

  “Screamers? Yes, why of course.”

  “Then this baby’s for you.” He winks. “Hey pal, want to make her scream?”

  “Scream, me, how?”

  “Take her for a test drive, unless you got a better idea.”

  “No, I trust you.”

  Often needing ten horses for each working cowboy, domesticated mustangs filled up the remuda made up of the extra mounts required to herd cattle. Possessing the right mixture of fearlessness needed to stand up to an ornery longhorn, durability to withstand the rough terrain, and stamina required for hours of heavy riding in desert heat or mountain snow, mustangs were also capable of the quick sprints necessary for cutting off stampeding cattle. Cowboys were said to both respect and identify with the wildness just beneath the surface of even the most domesticated mustang. “A mustang is like a good woman,” an old saying goes. “Always ready to leave you if you don’t treat ’em right.”156