Legends and Tales of the American West

by Richard Erdoes

  At these words the girl began to weep. Her body was shaken by sobs, her face bathed in tears. “This monster says he wants to marry me,” she cried, “but he only wants my body to toy with. He is as ugly as the devil himself, his face disfigured by scars. He has the eyes of a snake. His breath stinks of aguardiente. I will kill myself if he as much as touches me. I know this would be a great sin and that God would punish me for it, but I will do it rather than be his.”

  At this Señora Padilla burst into tears, crying aloud to the Holy Virgin of Guadalupe to save them from this evildoer. Her husband took a machete from the wall, concealing it beneath his poncho. “I shall kill the cabrón before I let him touch my daughter with his vile hands. Then we shall all die, but we shall die with honor. Stay here, señor, our troubles do not concern you.”

  “Va con Dios,” said the young man as Don José and the weeping women disappeared into the darkness of the night.

  The young man waited a short while until his hosts were out of earshot. He then went to his horse and from a saddlebag took a gunbelt with a Colt in each holster. He carefully examined his weapons and made sure that they were fully loaded. Then he vaulted into the saddle and rode toward the faint distant sounds of fiddles and guitars.

  Inside Don Policarpo’s big house the dancing was frenzied and the music overloud, just as the villain liked it. A dozen of his henchmen were there, acting as his bodyguards, all of them drunk, swearing, staggering, pawing the girls who had come only out of the fear of displeasing the bandits. Don Policarpo lorded it over everybody, swaggering, guffawing raucously, gulping down many shots of aguardiente. He was huge and muscular, but repulsive to look at. A large purplish raised scar seemed to divide his face in two. An enormous mustache was still not large enough to hide his harelip and the stumps of his yellow, rotten teeth.

  At the sight of Pablita he swept off his sombrero and made an exaggerated bow: “Welcome, my little pigeon. Policarpo Bonilla will teach you what it is to dance in the arms of a real man of valor.”

  With a wolfish grin he grasped Pablita around her slender waist, brutally pressing her to him while trying to kiss the struggling girl. She battered the ruffian’s chest with her small, delicate fists. He roared with laughter: “Ay, muchacha, this gives spice to the dance. I love a spirited wench!”

  José Padilla watched the scoundrel abusing his daughter, gripping the machete beneath his poncho, fearful, yet determined to defend Pablita at the peril of his own life.

  At that moment a voice rang out: “Villano, cabrón, stinking skunk, let her go if you want to live!”

  “Quién es?” Without relinquishing his hold on Pablita’s waist, Bonilla turned around to discover who was insulting him.

  In the doorway stood the young blue-eyed stranger, a cold smile on his lips, his hands hovering carelessly above the butts of his pistolas.

  The effect upon Bonilla was electric. He seemed to shrink into himself. Letting go of Pablita, he growled, “Ay, caramba! It is El Chivato, Billee the Keed!” and he let loose a frightful flood of the vilest curses.

  “Yes, Billy the Kid, you dirty dog! Last time I saw your ugly mug, I horsewhipped you. I see you are armed. Try to outdraw me!”

  “Don’t shoot, Billee,” the villain pleaded hoarsely. “Válgame Dios! I heard you was hanged in Lincoln three days ago.”

  “You heard wrong, you yellow-bellied skunk. Let’s swap lead.”

  “No, no, Madre Santíssima, I don’t want to fight you, Billee, are we not friends?”

  “I’ll give you five minutes to clear out of here,” the Kid spat out disgustedly. “Vamoose and never come back if you know what’s good for you, and take your rum-soaked friends along.”

  “Sí, sí, Billee, I am leaving. Don’t shoot,” Bonilla cringed. “Here, I drop my guns. I am going.”

  Bonilla turned as if leaving, slinking away toward the back door. The Kid relaxed.

  “Mira, Billy, watch out!” cried Pablita, who had seen the brute whip a derringer from his vest pocket. Bonilla whirled around, aiming his weapon of last resort at Billy’s heart. But the Kid was faster. His guns coughed in unison as Bonilla staggered backward, discharging his derringer harmlessly in the air, falling to the floor with a heavy thud. His body twitched once and then lay still.

  “Está muerto,” said the Kid. “He asked for it.”

  One of the desperadoes went for his pistola, but the Kid was not only the “Fastest gun in the West,” but also the one who never missed. His gun belched fire and there was a shrill cry of pain as the ruffian’s weapon was shot out of his fist.

  “Que viva El Chivato!” cried Don José. “He is a sure shot whose bullets never miss their target!” There was no further resistance. The death of their leader had discouraged his band of outlaws. Drunk as most of them were, they got on their horses and were never seen again in the vicinity.

  “Un millón de gracias, Billee,” said Pablita, giving him a big beso, “you have saved me from this vile monster. You have saved us all!”

  Doña Apolinara also kissed the young hero, while the men crowded around to give him heartfelt abrazos. Then the baile started in earnest, with joy, merriment, and great sighs of relief. The Kid and Pablita danced the whole night through, her admiring glances telling him that he had conquered her heart. Dawn came as the fiesta ended.

  “It is time for me to go,” said the Kid, “time to say goodbye.”

  “Why must you go?” asked Pablita, tears welling up in her eyes. “Why not stay here among the people who love you?”

  “The law is after me, bonita. They would hang me if they could. The law is always after the wrong men. Justice will come some time to this part of the country, but not as soon as we wish.”

  “I shall always love you,” sobbed the girl, “con todo mi alma, with all my heart. I shall never forget you. Va con Dios, mi corazón.” He kissed her tenderly, mounted his horse, and rode toward the rising sun. She followed him with her eyes. He turned and waved his hat. Then he slowly disappeared from her view until she saw him no more.

  El Chivato

  Billy was a bad man

  And carried a big gun.

  He was always after greasers

  And kept ’em on the run.

  He shot one every morning,

  For to make his morning meal.

  And let a white man sass him,

  He was shore to feel his steel.

  The simple Spanish-speaking folks of New Mexico loved Billy the Kid. They called him “El Chivato.” In their legends they made Billy into a Robin Hood and Sir Galahad rolled into one. They made up many songs about him and had only good things to say about the “Keed”:

  Billee the Keed, ay! Es hombre muy valiente. Billee was kind and good. He cared for the poor. And he was brave. He was pequeño, a little muchacho, only so big, but his heart was as big as all of Nueva Mexico. He vanquished men twice his size. Sí, señor! And he was ’andsome, a tender lover. Válgame Dios! The leetle señoritas, they all try to catch El Chivato for their sweetheart, they all try to become his querida. And the Keed, he was a great lover, palabra honor. He could have the governor’s daughter if he wanted. Ay, many pretty muchachas weep rivers of tears when he is keel. Pobre Billee! El amigo de la gente, the people’s friend.

  El Chivato, he rode a caballo negro of the pure Arabian sangre. An animal worthy of his valor. He was clothed as befitted a man like him, in a gold-braided suit and black buckskin calzones with rows of silver bells down the legs. His sombrero, with its heavy hatband of solid gold, I tell you, it was worth at least tres cien dólares! And Billee, he lived in a castle built for him by the gente, that even cannon balls could not penetrate. La pura verdad, señor. Yes, all the women were loco, crazy, about Billee.

  Fair Mexican maidens play guitars and sing

  A song about Billy, their boy bandit king,

  How ere his young manhood had reached its sad end

  He’d a notch on his pistol for twenty-one men.

  The gringos, they
don’t like heem, they have no love for Billee. They say he is a cruel cabrón. Carajo! Here is one of the cuentos they tell about El Chivato.…

  The Keed had worked for Old Man Chisum, more as a pistolero than a vaquero, if you understand my meaning, señor. It was war, guerra, a war about land and cattle and water, waged by the big rancheros against each other. Bueno. The Keed thought that Chisum owed him a thousand dollares for what he had done for him, but Chisum was muy mezquino, very stingy. He does not want to pay the Keed what was coming to him. So they have a big quimera, one big brawl, and Billee rode off muy enfadado, very angry. On the way he meets his old amigo, Tom O’Fallaher.

  “I should have keel him, Tomás.” “Kill who?” says Tom. “That sonuvabeech Chisum, that’s who.” “Kill him why?” asks Tom. “The tightfisted cabrón won’t pay me what he owes me.” “Is that all?” says Billee’s compadre. “Does not this pícaro have thousands of cattle? Why not rustle a thousand dollars’ worth of his ganado? De que te asustas? Or are you afraid?”

  “Afraid, me?” says Billee. “Hombre, you must be crazy. Sure, let’s do it!”

  So Billee and his compañero get a gang together, very tough hombres, about ten of them, and they cut out three hundred heads from Old Chisum’s herd. Bueno. The Kid and his amigos are driving the cattle through the malpais when Tom says, “Billy, do you see what I see?” And Billee looks back and sees about two dozens of Chisum’s boys coming after them. Well, El Chivato es muy valiente, not afraid of the devil himself. So he finds a good place to make a big fight of it and makes his stand. The Keed’s muchachos are well armed with Winchesters and double-barreled shotguns. Tom, he tells Billee, “Let’s just scare ’em off. These buckaroos was once our good amigos.”

  “No,” says Billy. “What do I care that yesterday they were friends? Today they are enemies. Let’s kill them!” El Chivato was not in a good mood that day. Chisum’s boys fired a volley, but the Kid had placed his men on low ground and the bullets passed over them. Then Billee and his outlaws returned fire and many of the Chisum gang toppled from their caballos, and “Fuego!” cries the Kid again, and more of his pursuers are down. “Charge! adelante!” cries the Kid as they all charge the Chisum boys, coming on like an earthquake. You should have seen him, señor, thundering ahead of his men, on his fine pure-bred stallion, in his black, gold-embroidered charro outfit, firing his pistolas with their ivory handles and gold inlay, they were worth over a thousand pesos, es cierto, señor. And they killed all of those men of Chisum’s, even the wounded. There was no mercy in El Chivato that day. And most of them he had killed himself—crack, crack, crack—every bullet scoring a bull’s-eye, because Billy was the greatest gunfighter in the world. Palabra honor! It was the devil who gave him this gift. Maybe Billee had sold his soul to El Diablo for this gift of never missing. Quién sabe? Only God, the devil, and Billy himself know whether it is true.

  Among the wounded was a muchacho named George Dye. He was a good amigo of the Kid. A bullet had shattered his leg and he was pinned beneath his dead caballo. Billee found him thus.

  “Howdy, George,” said Billee, with a right friendly smile. “Yore makin’ a very fine target.” He cocked his pistola and aimed it at the wounded man.

  “For chrissake Billy, don’t shoot,” cried this pobre muchacho, “are we not pards? Haven’t we bunked together and sparked the same gals?”

  “No use talkin’ of old times,” said the Kid, “this is today, and you make too good a mark not to take advantage.”

  “Oh! Billy, Billy, you can’t mean it! Have a heart!”

  “Now, George,” was the answer, “hold your head real still. I don’t want to mess up that ugly mug of yours, and I don’t want to hurt you more’n necessary. So hold still.”

  Then all the muchachos started to laugh and guffaw, and George smiled too, because they knew that it had all been a joke, a bad broma, maybe, but a joke all the same. El Chivato pointed his gun right at George’s cabeza, and George said: “Making fun of me, Billy, as always.” And then the gun exploded, and there was a neat little red spot right dead center between George’s eyes, and George lay very still. “Finito,” said the Kid, blowing the smoke from the barrel of his pistola. “Let’s go to town, boys, and have ourselves some tarantula juice!”

  Well, señor, this is one of the cuentos the gringos tell about Billee. But it is not true. Eso no es cierto. Billee was faithful to his friends, and kind, always. He did no such thing like killing an old amigo in cold blood. The gringos tell these tales because they do not like heem. It is because he took from the rich and gave to the poor. And the rich are always the gringos, and the poor, the pobres, are us, the gente who settled here long before the coming of the norteamericanos. It all depends on which side you are on, señor.

  He Rose from the Grave

  But one day Bill, he met a man

  Who was a whole lot badder,

  And now he’s dead,

  And we ain’t none the sadder.

  It was a moonlit night, but inside Pete Maxwell’s bedroom it was as dark as dark could be. Billy the Kid, in his stocking feet, was groping his way toward the bed. He was dog-tired but in good spirits. He had evaded Sheriff Pat Garrett’s posse. Tomorrow he would get over the border into Mexico and be beyond the law. He had cut himself a thick slice of meat down in the kitchen. He would eat and then sleep. He could not see the shape of a man, gripping a six-shooter, sitting on a chair in the corner, invisible in the utter blackness. As the Kid felt his way through the room, his body was momentarily outlined against the moonlit, weather-stained window. The Kid’s ears picked up a slight noise, a mere rustle in the corner. He said, “Quién es? Who is it?”

  The man in the chair recognized the voice. He knew at once that it was the Kid’s. The room exploded in fire and smoke. The first bullet pierced the Kid’s heart. A second crashed harmlessly into the wall. It was not needed. The Kid had not made a sound. He was lying dead on the floor.

  Sheriff Pat Garrett went downstairs and told McKinney and Poe, his deputies, “I think I got the Kid.”

  “And I think you shot the wrong man,” said Poe. “Some fellow was going to the bunkhouse over there, and though it was pitch dark, I’m sure it was our Billy. I’d recognize that runt anytime, light or no light.”

  “Nonsense,” said Garrett, and then cried out loud, “Hurraw, I got the Kid!”

  At this, all the women on the ranch came running with wild lamentations, filling the place with their anguished cries. Celsa Gutiérrez, one of the Kid’s sweethearts, cursed Garrett, calling him a goddam cabrón, vowing to kill him. The Navajo woman, Delvina, offered to scratch his eyes out. Abrana García called down God’s punishment upon the sheriff, shaking her fists in his face. Nasaria López, dissolved in tears, offered her soul to the devil if he would strike the slayer of her beloved Billy dead. Concepción Vigil was tearing her hair out in a paroxysm of grief. “Mi muchacho, mi pobre muchacho, mi corazón,” cried Celsa. “I want to kiss his face in death as I kissed it in life.”

  McKinney brought two candles, and everybody went up the stairs to view the body. Billy was lying on his back, open-eyed, the blood drained from his face, but it was Billy Barlow, not Billy the Kid, who was stretched out on the floor.

  “That’s mighty embarrassing,” said Pat.

  “Barlow, that no-account saddle stiff,” commented Poe. “He won’t be missed.”

  “What do we do now?” asked McKinney. “By now the Kid’s got a head start. I don’t feel like starting to chase him all over the country again.”

  “I tell you what to do,” said Pat Garrett. “I pronounce this here body to be that of William Bonney, better known as Billy the Kid, and propose to bury him at once before the flies get to him. Any objections?”

  There were none. The sheriff and his deputies were determined to save their reputation and loath to go on another exhausting wild chase after the fugitive. Billy’s friends were equally willing to give him a chance to get away and start anew somewhere else. His
many sweethearts were likewise resolved, even at the price of never seeing him again, to save their beloved Keed from a necktie party. And so without further ado they put “the other Billy” under the sod and uttered a deep sigh of relief.

  While this was satisfactorily accomplished, Celsa brought Billy’s horse to him in the bunkhouse and planted one last tearful kiss upon his squirrel-toothed mug. And then the Kid rode into the darkness, leaving only his legend behind.

  Of Billy’s life during the next ten years or so the saga has little to tell. Some say that the Kid resurrected himself in the shape of a half-crazed vagrant known as Walk-Along, who roamed the deserts and sierras with a staff in his hand and a bundle containing his few belongings on his back, living like a wild animal in dens and caves. From time to time, this strange human would haunt lonely ranch houses, frightening women with his uncouth appearance, begging for a crust of bread or a glass of milk. This Walk-Along often hinted that he was none other than the one and only Billy the Kid, and some believed him and some did not. If he was indeed Billy, then he had wonderfully disguised himself, for his own mother would not have recognized him.