EVEN WITH ALL THE adulation Garrett received for ridding the Territory of young Billy, there were the whispers—and they started when the Kid was hardly in his grave. Within a matter of days, some people were saying that Garrett had not fought fair—Billy did not have a gun that night—and the way Bonney was killed was murder. These things were openly spoken, and even printed in newspapers far beyond the Territory. A good example of this line of thinking appeared in the Globe of Atchison, Kansas, which called Garrett’s act “more or less cowardly. The Kid was stopping at the house of a supposed friend, who betrayed him, and allowed Garrett to hide in the house. In the darkness of the night Garrett crawled upon him, and shot him dead.”
These stinging slanders were one thing, but Garrett was also upset by some outrageous reports that the Kid’s body had been exhumed and mutilated. In its July 25 issue, the Las Vegas Daily Optic said it had received the Kid’s “fatal finger,” the one that had “snapped many a man’s life into eternity.” The trigger finger was preserved in a jar of alcohol, and so many visitors wanted a peek at it that the paper considered purchasing a small tent so it could operate a kind of sideshow. A month and a half later, the Optic ran an elaborate piece claiming that five days after the Kid’s funeral, his body had been exhumed by a local “skelologist.” The body was then taken to a Las Vegas doctor, who boiled and scraped the head to get the skull. This was when the Optic was supposedly given Billy’s trigger finger. The rest of the corpse had been buried in a corral so the flesh could decompose, leaving the bones that would be retrieved and pieced together with wires into a skeleton.
A follow-up article in the September 19 issue reported that a Miss Kate Tenney of Oakland, California, had read about the Kid’s preserved finger and had written the paper to request the appendage, as well as a photograph of the outlaw. Tenney, the Optic said, was the Kid’s sweetheart. The newspaper sent Tenney a letter of condolence that also told her that her beau’s finger had been sold and shipped east for the cash price of $150. The Atchison Globe jokingly suggested that the Tenney letter was a scheme of the Las Vegas Gazette to get the notorious finger, which had apparently led to a nice increase in subscriptions and advertising for the Optic. Several newspapers accepted the Optic’s stories at face value. After all, stranger things had happened to the bodies of dead outlaws. After “Big Nose George” Parrott was lynched in Wyoming in March 1881, a local physician took the body and had a medicine bag and a pair of shoes made from Parrott’s skin.
Then there were the cheap nickel novels (known today as dime novels) that purported to tell the story of the outlaw William Bonney. Five showed up on newsstands in 1881, three in early September, just seven weeks after Billy’s death. Two of these novels bore the title The True Life of Billy the Kid, even though they were anything but. One of the authors, a Don Jenardo (otherwise known as John Woodruff Lewis), wrote that Billy’s first devilish deed occurred in Arizona when he shot a friend in the back of the head. The friend, a young miner, was to be married the next day to a beautiful senorita Billy had feelings for. Jenardo’s version of Billy’s death is just as imaginative. He describes Garrett receiving a tip that the Kid is sleeping at Maxwell’s house and that the outlaw will arrive at midnight. Garrett gets to the house just before midnight and, finding it deserted, hides behind Maxwell’s bed with his rifle. When Billy walks in, he immediately senses that someone is there and draws his pistols (what kind of a gunslinger would he be with just one pistol?), but Garrett steadies his rifle faster. “Thus died,” wrote Jenardo, “the youngest and greatest desperado ever known in the world’s history.”
Garrett’s answer to the insinuations and lies was to produce his own book. And if he made a little money on the venture, that would be okay, too. He partnered with the boozing but fun-loving journalist, postmaster, and justice of the peace Ash Upson, who did much of the writing for the book. Upson and Garrett became friends after Garrett relocated to Roswell; Upson actually moved into the Garrett household in August 1881. And Upson had known Billy as a youth in Silver City and later as a Lincoln County Regulator, which seemed to make him the perfect choice for a ghostwriter. Upson may have proposed the idea to Garrett in the first place.
Upson wanted to try a book publisher back east, but Garrett insisted on shopping it in Santa Fe. He knew the editor and publisher of the Daily New Mexican, Charles W. Greene, who immediately drew up a contract between Garrett and his New Mexican Printing and Publishing Company for a 128-page book. They agreed the printed copies would sell for 50 cents each. When the book appeared the following March—at 137 pages—it carried a title that put the cheap novels to shame: The Authentic Life of Billy, the Kid, The Noted Desperado of the Southwest, Whose Deeds of Daring and Blood Made His Name a Terror in New Mexico, Arizona and Northern Mexico. Garrett was identified as the Lincoln County sheriff who “Finally Hunted Down and Captured” the Kid “By Killing Him.” The title page made the final claim that the book was “A Faithful and Interesting Narrative.”
Although Garrett stated in the book’s introduction that his volume was a response to the innumerable inaccuracies contained in the yellow-covered cheap novels about the Kid, the first half of his book is little different from the nickel novels he criticized. The meat of the book begins slightly past the middle, when Garrett enters the story. Significantly, this is when the narrative changes to the first person. Straightforward and matter-of-fact, Garrett’s account of the hunt for the gang and their capture at Stinking Spring, and the fatal encounter with the Kid in Pete Maxwell’s room, makes for a gripping tale, a true classic of western Americana. Not surprisingly, Garrett does not mention that the Kid had been staying with his in-laws at Fort Sumner. Nor does he bring up Paulita Maxwell, the Kid’s sweetheart. It would not do to associate the respectable young woman with an outlaw, even though some newspapers had already published stories about her affair with Billy.
Garrett saved the last few pages to answer his critics and to address the obnoxious rumors about Billy’s remains. He did not shoot the Kid from behind a bed or from underneath a bed. There was no way to get behind the bed, as it was crowded against the wall. And he had not been under the bed because he was not expecting the Kid to burst into the room; he was taken completely by surprise. If Garrett had had fair warning, then hell yes, he would have been under the bed or behind anything else that might have provided a little protection.
Was he scared? Garrett considered that a damn fool question. “I started out on that expedition with the expectation of getting scared. I went out contemplating the probability of being shot at, and the possibility of being hurt, perhaps killed; but not if any precaution on my part would prevent such a catastrophe.”
As far as fighting the Kid fairly, critics essentially suggested that Garrett should have given Billy a chance to kill him. The Kid had made it known that he would never be taken alive again, and Garrett had no intention of giving the Kid any chance whatsoever. The Kid had walked into a situation much better than Garrett had intended. “What sort of ‘square fight,’ or ‘even show,’ would I have got,” Garrett posed, “had one of the Kid’s friends in Fort Sumner chanced to see me and informed him of my presence there, and at Pete Maxwell’s room on that fatal night?”
Concerning the whereabouts of Billy’s corpse, Garrett wrote that the body had been interred in the Fort Sumner cemetery, and that is where it remained still. “Skull, fingers, toes, bones and every hair of the head that was buried with the body on the 15th day of July, doctors, newspapers editors and paragraphers [reporters] to the contrary notwithstanding. Some presuming swindlers have claimed to have the Kid’s skull on exhibition, or one of his fingers, or some other portion of his body, and one medical gentleman has persuaded credulous idiots that he has all the bones strung upon wires…. Again I say that the Kid’s body lies undisturbed in the grave—and I speak of what I know.”
Thirty-eight years after the publication of Garrett’s The Authentic Life, Charlie Siringo, who had been a member of the Texas poss
e, claimed that Garrett had Billy’s body dug up to make sure that the trigger finger was still attached—it was. But like Upson, Siringo could not resist improving upon a story.
Unfortunately for Garrett and Upson, their book was not a bestseller—far from it. The Territory was hardly a large market, and as Upson had feared, the publisher did not have the experience or wherewithal to market the book nationally. But Pat Garrett had had his say, and his say would profoundly influence countless authors, historians, and screenwriters. The newspapers may have given birth to the legend of the Kid, but Pat Garrett’s slim volume was the legend’s memory book.
Just five months after the publication, Garrett had an experience that could have come straight out of a nickel novel, except for its staid ending. It occurred on August 1, 1882, in the billiard room of Albuquerque’s Armijo Hotel, the city’s newest and finest. The hotel’s dining room was so nice the male guests were required to wear coats. Garrett had just arrived from Santa Fe, and as he stood in the billiard room, perhaps watching a game or about to join one, in walked Joseph Antrim, the brother of Billy the Kid. Antrim, a professional gambler, had been in Albuquerque for the last several days, and more than a few people in the room recognized him. Rumors had been circulating for months that Antrim wanted to avenge his brother’s death; or, as one newspaper reported in dramatic fashion, he “hankers for the blood of Pat Garrett, the man who killed The Kid.”
Those who recognized Antrim tensed as he headed straight for Garrett, but their anxiety soon turned to surprise and curiosity when they saw Garrett and Antrim begin a long discussion, their voices staying frustratingly low. It was not until the next morning that a newspaper reporter was able to pry from Garrett the gist of the conversation. Garrett said Antrim strongly disavowed the rumors floating around, and said he had no ill will toward the lawman. Antrim “merely intended talking over the killing of the Kid with the man who killed him.” Perhaps Joseph Antrim was trying to get straight in his own mind how the likable boy he bid good-bye to in September 1877 had become such a wanted and hated criminal and why that boy, above all others, had deserved to die in such a cold, ruthless manner. Garrett would not have had an answer to that (it is a hard thing to get straight even now), but he did tell Antrim that he did not understand why he would hate him in the first place, because he had only done his duty, which “demanded the homicide.” The two then parted, not as “the best of friends,” the happy ending reported by the newspaper, but not as enemies, either. They never met again.
WITHIN A WEEK OF killing the Kid, Garrett threatened to resign as sheriff of Lincoln County. The job did not pay well, he explained at the time, and he did not think the county’s citizens had given him the support he needed. He said he would have quit months before had the Kid not escaped from the Lincoln courthouse. He had stayed on the job to see the Kid business through to the end and that had kept him wearing his badge. The sheriff did not say it, but those hair-raising few seconds in Maxwell’s bedroom likely had something to do with his surprise announcement. Garrett’s threat to retire, however, came before the grateful people of the Territory had had a chance to show their appreciation. The substantial cash donations presented to Garrett appear to have given him something of an attitude adjustment, and he decided to stick it out until the end of his term.
On February 20, 1882, the Territory finally delivered on Wallace’s $500 reward offer. But money was not the only thing Garrett received as thanks for doing in Billy the Kid. He was also presented with some very impressive mementos. One of these was a handsome sterling silver pocket watch manufactured by the Elgin National Watch Company of Illinois. Inscribed inside the case were the words “From Grateful Citizens/of/Lincoln County/September 1881/To/Pat Garrett.” Much more remarkable—stunning, actually—was the solid gold sheriff’s badge from Albert J. Fountain, the Kid’s old attorney and a political ally of Garrett. The oddest memento, though, was a walking cane commissioned by several “Grant County citizens” in 1883 as a gift for Garrett. The cane was to be made from the wood of Billy’s old cabin in Silver City and fitted with a gold head bearing an “appropriate inscription”—just what the six-foot-four lawman needed.
Toward the end of his term, Garrett made it known that he would not be seeking reelection as sheriff. He supported his deputy, John W. Poe, to be his successor. Garrett had bigger things in mind. Encouraged by Albert Fountain and his loyal benefactor, Captain Joseph C. Lea, Garrett ran for a seat in the Territorial Council, and he seemed to have a good chance at victory in the fall election. But not everyone felt the former lawman was a good choice. One particularly harsh critic, who signed himself in the Rio Grande Republican as “X,” accused Garrett of being ungrateful to his former political supporters whom he was now running against. He also claimed that Garrett was illiterate and was being played by his associates. In another letter, this one signed “Texan” but possibly written by the mysterious “X,” the writer argued that Garrett, though a good sheriff, was not qualified to serve in the Council. “The trouble with Mr. Garrett is…that the praise of the newspapers, together with the toadying flattery of those surrounding him, has made him egotistical in a superlative degree.”
Garrett fired right back with a well-reasoned and, at times, witty letter of his own. But Garrett was not finished. The letters critical of Garrett had both originated in Lincoln, and when Garrett thought he had figured out who the author was, he sought the man out. That man was a twenty-seven-year-old attorney from West Virginia named William M. Roberts. Garrett had also heard that Roberts had said some unpleasant things about his wife, Polinaria. Garrett was particularly sensitive when it came to his wife because he was well aware of the racist attitudes of many Anglos in the Territory who looked down on interracial marriages.
Garrett found Roberts visiting with several other men in La Rue’s store and interrupted their conversation. He asked Roberts if he had written the letter, and Roberts denied it. Garrett then asked Roberts to step outside because he wanted to say something in private. Once outside, Garrett again accused Roberts of writing the letter. Roberts, a little haughty now, replied that anyone who said he wrote the letter was a goddamn liar. With that, Garrett yanked out his Colt and slammed it down on Roberts’s head. The poor man crumpled to the ground, blood flowing from his scalp. Garrett then paced up and down, saying he had better be respected, and if it took a shooting iron to get that respect, so be it. Roberts, who fully recovered from Garrett’s assault, did not press charges.
Garrett made a strong showing in the election that November, but not strong enough to gain the seat. Although he won Lincoln and Grant counties, he failed to carry Doña Ana County, the home of the anti-Garrett Rio Grande Republican. No matter, he had plenty to keep him busy. Garrett directed his energies to carving out a future as a successful cattleman—not on the scale of the Chisum brothers, but successful enough to make him a player in the region. The cattle business was booming in eastern New Mexico, in large part due to Garrett’s success in putting an end to the thieving of the Kid and his pals. In 1883, more than 81,000 cattle ranged over the grazing lands of Lincoln County, the highest number in the Territory (sheep in the county numbered 113,000). Some of those cattle wore Garrett’s distinctive brand: PAT. That same year, Garrett partnered with John Poe, now the sheriff of Lincoln County, to buy a herd of cattle near Lincoln; Garrett operated a ranch not far from Fort Stanton.
In the spring of 1884, troubles on the Texas Panhandle’s cattle ranges put Garrett once again on the trail of rustlers. Like John Chisum on the Pecos a few years before, the large Texas cattlemen were feuding with the small-time operators, who were stealing from their big neighbors. But the cattlemen were also having problems with their own cowhands. A year earlier, nearly two hundred Panhandle cowboys went on strike for better pay. When the strike failed, the owners refused to rehire a number of the punchers, which left some disgruntled cowboys out of work, and so destitute they were more than willing to turn to rustling to earn a living. The owners of the
bigger ranches called on Garrett to put a stop to the rustling and to enforce the law in cow country. They offered Garrett $5,000 a year to organize an independent company of rangers, and to make it legal, Garrett would receive a captain’s commission from the Texas governor. The El Paso Lone Star described this arrangement as the “finest means of protection that has ever been tried.” The owners of the small ranches, however, were not nearly as exuberant. They were afraid that Garrett’s rangers would be little more than the tools of the big cattlemen.
Just before Garrett headed over to the Panhandle, he paid $5,000 to purchase a ranch in Lincoln County. Then, sometime that April, he departed for Texas, accompanied by Barney Mason and another man. Garrett’s ranger company, which numbered about nine men, operated for less than a year. During that period, Garrett made some key arrests and strictly enforced a recent proclamation of the Texas governor prohibiting civilians from wearing six-shooters (the governor was apparently unfamiliar with the Second Amendment, although for a time, New Mexico Territory had an identical law). Garrett and his rangers circulated among all the roundup camps, sometimes inspecting two hundred punchers in a day. In the opinion of Garrett’s friend, John Meadows, this gun control effort might have been Garrett’s biggest success. “They got Pat Garrett just in time to save another Lincoln County War, and Pat he understood it, and he disarmed every doggone one of them.” But Garrett became convinced that his cattlemen bosses had hired him to simply kill the worst rustlers, not bring them to justice, and he would have none of it.
To Hell on a Fast Horse Page 18