Richard “Dick” Brewer, leader of the Regulators.
Robert G. McCubbin Collection
When Billy got word that Brewer had been killed, he exploded with anger, yelling at Dr. Blazer to put Roberts out of the house. Blazer refused. The Kid then told the old man he would kill him if he did not do what he was told, but Blazer said Roberts would do the same thing if he attempted to force him out of the office. Billy called Blazer a damned old fool and threatened to burn his house down, but Blazer, unshakable as ever, responded that there was nothing he could do to stop that.
Demoralized, disgusted, and shot all to hell, the Regulators stormed off to the corral, got on their horses, and rode away, leaving the Blazers to deal with Brewer’s body and the wounded Roberts. Roberts died the next day, and he and Brewer were buried side by side on a hill overlooking the settlement. Frank Coe later said that Andrew Roberts was probably the bravest man he ever met.
FOR THE REGULATORS, THE next ninety days were a blur of shooting scrapes, bailes, and hard riding. On April 18, a grand jury indicted Billy and three of his fellow Regulators for the murder of Sheriff Brady, and Billy was again named, along with five other Regulators, for the killing of Roberts. The House forces received their fair share of attention from the grand jury as well. Jesse Evans and, as accessories, Jimmy Dolan and Billy Mathews were among those indicted for the murder of John Henry Tunstall. Alexander McSween, on the other hand, achieved a minor victory when the grand jury exonerated him of the criminal charge of embezzlement, at the same time commenting that it regretted “that a spirit of persecution has been shown in this matter.”
Despite the indictments, the Regulators remained just as determined to hunt down Tunstall’s killers. McSween, acting upon the authority of Tunstall’s father in England, posted a $5,000 reward for the apprehension and conviction of the culprits. The Scotsman sounded a lot like Billy when he wrote Tunstall’s sister that “There will be no peace here until his murderers have paid the debt.”
No peace was right. Gun battles between the two factions broke out wherever they met (or, rather, caught up to each other)—in the streets of Lincoln, at San Patricio in the Ruidoso Valley, and even at Chisum’s South Spring ranch on the Pecos. Frank MacNab, who had replaced Dick Brewer as the Regulators’ captain, was killed in an ambush on April 29. Two weeks later, the Regulators shot and killed Manuel Segovia, known as “the Indian,” in a raid on a Dolan cow camp (Segovia had been a member of the posse that murdered Tunstall). The feud consumed everyone and everything in the region, and it was virtually impossible for anyone to remain neutral. The Dolan men forced settlers to feed and shelter them, or worse—to join their posses—and the Regulators did the same. Jimmy Dolan brought in even more gunmen from the Seven Rivers country and the Mesilla Valley.
The final showdown came in mid-July in the county seat, in what would be called the “Big Killing.” McSween had been dodging the Dolan crowd for weeks when he received news that appeared to be a dramatic turn for the better: William Rynerson, the district attorney and a fierce Dolan supporter, and Governor Axtell were to be removed from office. Weary of roughing it, McSween was determined to return to Lincoln with a strong show of force, nearly sixty men in all. Riding with him, of course, was eighteen-year-old Billy Bonney, who had demonstrated that not only could he handle a gun and ride as well as any man in Lincoln County, but he also had grit—and, even better, he shot to kill. The plan was that McSween would go to his home, the Regulators would secure key buildings in town, and they would wait. Whatever happened, McSween decided, nothing could make him leave his home again—not alive, that is.
Just after dark on July 14, a Sunday, McSween and his followers rode into Lincoln. The night’s full moon had not yet spilled its light into the canyon, which meant the riders could take up their positions without being detected. The structures being secured were the Ike Ellis store and dwelling, the José Montaño store, and the McSween house, all thick adobe buildings. Sheriff George W. Peppin, Lincoln County’s most recent sheriff and, naturally, a Dolan man, was staying at Wortley’s Hotel, as was Jimmy Dolan. Most of the sheriff’s men were out hunting the Regulators; the dozen or so he had in town were divided between Wortley’s and the old torreón.
News of McSween’s arrival with his large force came soon after dawn. One of Reverend Taylor Ealy’s pupils burst into the Ealy residence in the old Tunstall store: “There will be no school today,” the boy said excitedly, “as both parties are in town.” Sheriff Peppin sent a rider to find the rest of his posse and tell them to hurry back to Lincoln.
Billy was in the McSween house along with fourteen other gunmen, as well as McSween and his wife, Susan; Susan’s sister Elizabeth Shield and her five children; and, ironically enough, a health seeker by the name of Harvey Morris. The flat-roofed adobe house was built in the shape of a “U” and contained as many as nine rooms; the opening of the U faced the Bonito River. Billy and the other combatants began to prepare for a long siege, placing heavy adobe bricks in the windows and carving gun ports in the walls. Later that day, a loudmouthed deputy named Jack Long was sent to serve warrants on the Kid and others at the McSween place. Four months earlier, an inebriated Long had told the Reverend Ealy that he wished a whore had come to Lincoln instead of the minister and that he had once helped hang a preacher in Arizona. Long’s typical bluster did not go far with the boys at McSween’s, though. A volley of gunfire sent him heading backward.
By that evening, the rest of the Dolan faction was back in town, approximately forty men in all, including Jesse Evans—free on bail from the Tunstall murder charge—and Mesilla Valley hoodlum John Kinney. The two sides began shooting and yelling, and this continued sporadically into the next day and night. Fresh water was a problem for the defenders in both the McSween house and the Montaño store, and communication was nearly impossible between the three groups of McSween fighters. But at the same time, Sheriff Peppin was unable to get any real advantage. Nothing other than a cannonball was going to penetrate those solid adobe walls—and that is exactly what the sheriff had in mind. In a note to Fort Stanton’s post commander, Lieutenant Colonel Nathan A. M. Dudley, Peppin requested the “loan” of a mountain howitzer to aid him in persuading the McSween men to surrender. Peppin, who held a commission as a deputy U.S. marshal, asked Dudley to do this “in favor of the law.” The law, however, was the new Posse Comitatus Act, passed on June 16, 1878, and it specifically prevented the use of U.S. soldiers as law enforcement.
Dudley sent his regrets to the sheriff via a courier, and that should have ended the matter. But as the courier was riding into Lincoln, he was fired upon, allegedly by men in the McSween home. Dudley ordered an investigation, which again resulted in some of his men coming under fire. Then, on the evening of July 18, Jimmy Dolan made a trip to the fort to see Dudley. The fifty-two-year-old lieutenant colonel, known as “Gold Lace Dudley” because of his penchant for accessorizing his uniforms, was a career army man with not much of a career. He was arrogant, noisy, vindictive, a heavy drinker, and, not surprisingly, generally unpopular with his fellow officers. And he clearly favored one side over the other in the Lincoln County War. Earlier in the year, he had been defended in a court martial by Thomas Benton Catron, the U.S. attorney for New Mexico, who also happened to be one of the wealthiest men in the Territory and a central figure in the Santa Fe Ring. A longtime Murphy-Dolan backer, Catron now controlled The House’s assets, having foreclosed on J. J. Dolan & Co. back in April.
According to a witness who claimed to have overheard the conversation between Dudley and Dolan, the post commander told Dolan to go back to Lincoln and keep the McSween party at bay and he would be there by noon the next day. Later that same evening, Dudley consulted with his officers about sending troops into town. Their sole purpose, he said, would be to protect the women and children and any noncombatants caught in the cross fire. The officers knew better than to disagree with their commanding officer, and they unanimously concurred with his plan.
Collection of the Massachusetts Commandery, Military Order of the Loyal Legion, U.S. Army Military History Institute
The next day, at approximately 11:00 A.M., the sound of drums was heard to the west of Lincoln, the rat-a-tat-tat growing louder as a military column came into sight. Dudley rode in the lead, followed by four officers, eleven buffalo soldiers (black cavalrymen), and twenty-four white infantrymen. The soldiers wore their full-dress uniforms—nothing less would do for Gold Lace Dudley. Far overshadowing the spiffy appearance of Dudley’s command, however, were the twelve-pound mountain howitzer and Gatling gun they had with them. The McSween forces dared not fire on the soldiers, and as the column moved past the McSween home, Dolan’s gunmen followed along, taking up better positions around the Scotsman’s house.
McSween and his men had definitely not prepared for troopers with artillery. Dudley established his camp across from the Montaño store and ordered his howitzer aimed at the building’s front door. This was too much for the defenders inside, and they prepared themselves to flee the building. They covered their heads with blankets to hide their identities and burst out of the store, running east down the street to join their compadres in the Ellis store. When the artillery was faced in that direction, a similar scene ensued, the escaping Regulators firing parting shots at Sheriff Peppin’s men who were pursuing them. Within a matter of minutes, McSween lost two-thirds of his fighters.
McSween wrote a hasty note to Dudley, which was carried out of the house by his ten-year-old niece: “Would you have the kindness to let me know why soldiers surround my house? Before blowing up my property I would like to know the reason.” Dudley responded flippantly through his adjutant: “I am directed by the commanding officer to inform you that no soldiers have surrounded your house, and that he desires to hold no correspondence with you; if you desire to blow up your house, the commanding officer does not object providing it does not injure any U.S. soldiers.” Susan McSween left the house next and pleaded separately with Sheriff Peppin and Dudley. Both men were hostile to her, especially Dudley. Susan returned to her husband’s side. If there was ever any doubt as to whose side Dudley was on, there was none now.
Sheriff Peppin now turned his full attention on the Scotsman’s home. If McSween and his remaining men would not surrender, then he would burn them out. At about 2:00 P.M., one of Peppin’s men started a fire at the summer kitchen that was situated in the house’s northwest corner. Heavy gunfire prevented the Regulators from extinguishing the flames, but because the house was adobe, the fire burned very slowly, room by room. Coughing and gasping from the smoke, their eyes stinging, the men did what they could to fight the blaze from the inside. There was no water, of course, but by pulling up floorboards and moving furniture, they robbed the flames of fuel. The ceiling, with its wooden vigas and latias, was where the fire had taken hold, however, and there was little that could be done there. But if they could slow the fire enough, it would be dusk before the defenders would be forced to evacuate the home; some of them might get away. Peppin’s men would be anxiously waiting for that moment as well, but it was far better to sell one’s soul with guns ablazin’ than to be consumed alive by the flames.
At about 5:30 P.M., Susan and her sister and the five children were allowed to flee the house. The Ealys, next door in the Tunstall store, were also allowed to leave safely. Once these noncombatants were out of the way, the shooting picked up again. The heat was intense, and the leaping flames cast a bright light upon the hills overlooking the town. Forced by the fire into the final room in the house, the northeast kitchen, it was time for bold and decisive action. Alexander McSween was not a fighter, never had been. Now, overcome with a sense of doom and failure as his home burned down around him, he sat, comatose, with his head down. Billy, though, was exactly the opposite, jumping around the room like a caged cat. He shook McSween and ordered him to get up.
“Boys, I have lost my reason,” McSween cried.
“Mack, now we must run for our lives,” the Kid told him, “it is the only chance for our lives!”
McSween listened as his men went over the escape plan. Five of the defenders, including Billy, would burst out of the house first, drawing the fire of Peppin’s men, after which McSween and the rest were to make their dash for safety. Although the flames illuminated the ground a good distance from the home, the first group got a good jump on the sheriff’s posse before being spotted. Billy saw three of Dudley’s soldiers blasting away at him, or so he later claimed. Morris, the unfortunate health seeker, collapsed in front of the Kid, but he was the only casualty in the first group, the remainder making it safely across the Bonito and into the night. Had McSween and the others followed close on the Kid’s heels, they might have had a chance too, but they did not. The Kid’s party, then, only served to alert the sheriff’s men to the breakout.
When McSween and the rest of his followers did abandon the burning house, they were immediately hit by a deadly spray of bullets that kicked up the dirt around them. They headed for shelter in the backyard. They may not have been in danger of burning alive, but they were still trapped. After a tense several minutes, McSween called out that he wished to surrender. Deputy Robert Beckwith and three other men walked out into the open and approached the Scotsman. When Beckwith came within a few steps, McSween suddenly blurted out that he would never surrender. Gunfire erupted on both sides. Beckwith fell dead and McSween toppled over on top of him, his body pierced by five bullets. Three others in the McSween group, all Hispanos, also fell in the firefight. One, a young Yginio Salazar, was severely wounded and unconscious but Peppin’s men took him for dead. When he came to, Salazar wisely remained motionless until it was safe to drag himself to a friend’s house.
THE KID’S MAD DASH through the gauntlet of Dolan gunmen had been his greatest feat to date, but with the death of Alexander McSween, the Lincoln County War was all but over. Yet there were still hard times ahead, especially for the war’s veterans. Lincoln County continued to be a violent place, and the bitter feelings between the two factions remained as healthy as ever. For many, the future offered little more than a return to routine, dirt-poor lives of punching cows and scratching out crops, but for those like the Kid, whose names appeared on arrest warrants from the district court, there were very few options. The war had molded Billy, tested him, but it had also reinforced a lifestyle of doing and taking what one pleased, regardless of the law. For Billy, it was but a short step from being a desperate and defiant young man to being a full-fledged desperado.
4
A New Sheriff
Advise persons never to engage in killing.
—BILLY THE KID
AS THE LINCOLN COUNTY WAR raged, Pat Garrett stayed over a hundred miles away at Fort Sumner. Garrett knew some of the Lincoln County warriors from the buffalo range, but he had no history with Dolan, McSween, John Chisum, or any of them. The fight did not involve him, nor was it any of his business. Within a year of the Big Killing, the shrill whistle of a locomotive had been heard at Las Vegas for the first time, and more and more Anglos were flooding into New Mexico. Garrett was part of that change, and he would play a prominent role in even bigger changes to come, yet he respected the old ways of his adopted home, and Fort Sumner’s native New Mexicans respected him. A few did more than just respect him.
The girls of Fort Sumner thought the rawboned former buffalo hunter was quite a romantic devil. Sallie Chisum, the Pecos cattle king’s niece, remembered that Garrett walked “with a certain swinging grace that suggested power and sureness. Despite his crooked mouth and crooked smile, which made his whole face seem crooked, he was a remarkably handsome man.” Juanita Martínez may have missed his crooked smile, but she certainly noticed his towering height. Juanita was a sparkling young woman, remembered Paulita Maxwell, “who had the charm of gaiety and light-heartedness.” Everyone adored her, and at the frequent Fort Sumner bailes, she had a great many admirers. The admirer
she fell in love with, though, was Garrett.
Sometime in the fall of 1879, Pat and Juanita exchanged wedding vows. Their wedding was a huge affair, as were all weddings in the small community of Fort Sumner. It was traditional for the musicos to play La Marcha de los Novios (“The March of the Newlyweds”) after the nuptials. Oddly enough, a favorite melody for this march was “Marching Through Georgia.” If the musicos did play this tune, Pat Garrett, a born and raised southerner, must have gritted his teeth as he joined the new Mrs. Garrett in the grand march. As more dances followed, one after the other, the single girls of Fort Sumner, some carefully chaperoned by their mothers, sat around the edge of the long room on benches or chairs, their brightly colored dresses especially selected for this gala evening. When a girl accepted an invitation to dance, her partner would place his hat in her seat, thus holding her place. And when that particular waltz or polka was finished, the gentleman escorted his partner back to her seat and retrieved his hat, and so on throughout the evening.
Among the folks at the Garrett wedding were some young men who, during the last year, had become regular fixtures around Fort Sumner. Garrett knew them because they were customers at his off-and-on saloon and store operations. And their informal leader went by the name of William H. Bonney, although most knew him as the Kid, or Billito. The Kid spent a lot of time gambling—especially three-card monte—and he loved dancing.
To Hell on a Fast Horse Page 8