The Gospel According to Billy the Kid

by Dennis McCarthy

  “Can’t do it, Billy. Ain’t leaving till I find out where Frank’s at. Sumbitches left him in a ditch somewheres. I aim to bring him home. No buffalo soldier’ll keep me from burying my cousin.”

  “Entiendo. I was friend to Frank but not enough to swing from a rope.”

  “Don’t concern yourself none, Billy. I’ll be alright.”

  Fred and me went into Ellis’s store. Uncle Ike was sitting in a rocking chair by the fireplace. Near as I could tell, he hadn’t moved since the shooting started.

  “Sorry for the ruckus, sir,” I said. “We’re passing through to our horses. Hoping not to get shot.”

  “Don’t give it no nevermind, son. You boys are welcome anytime. Dolan and his boys are bad hombres. Bad for the town. ’Preciate what you done. Lots a folks feels the same.”

  Fred and me scooted out the back and lit out for San Patricio. We counted on the community protecting us. So far we’d been right. We’d already spent a fair amount of time in San Patricio but news of our whereabouts was so lean that none of Dolan’s hombres’d looked for us there.

  A few days later George and Frank Coe showed up with a few other Regulators. Fred and me were knocking down stick pigeons back of Manuel Montoya’s choza. Manuel was out in the field and his wife María was looking after a neighbor lady suffering from consumption.

  “What the hell! Frank? George swore he’d pull you out of a ditch but I didn’t expect a rabbit trick.”

  “Tweren’t no trick,” Frank said as he tied his horse to a rail in front of the choza. “When you boys started shooting, them Seven Rivers hombres took to the trees like turkeys. I was bringing up the rear. Hightailed it outta there.”

  “Mail carrier said you and MacNab were dead.”

  I holstered my six-shooter and walked over to shake Frank’s hand.

  “Glad he was wrong.”

  “He was right about MacNab. Killed straight out. I made a break for it. They shot my horse. Would of shot me cept they thought I’s you, Billy. Figure that saved my life.”

  Frank and me and Fred Waite walked around the back of the choza and entered the kitchen while the rest of the boys hitched their horses. Frank and Fred settled in while I made coffee. The boys came in with Manuel who’d just finished his chores.

  “Hey, Manuel,” George Coe said. “Thanks for looking after these peckerwoods.”

  George turned to me and Fred.

  “You boys skedaddled too soon,” he said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Mac went out to meet the soldiers. Told ’em what happened. The lieutenant thanked him, rounded up the Seven Rivers boys, and herded ’em to Fort Stanton. Ignored us Regulators. I watched the whole thing from Uncle Ike’s roof. The lieutenant said nary a word as he passed by. Must of seen me. I know he heard me cause I cussed the lot of’em. Manuel Segovia hollered at me, saying Frank weren’t hurt. Only MacNab. Took credit for killing MacNab hisself. MacNab’s horse with MacNab strapped to it was at the back of the parade. Mac pulled the horse out of line. Yesterday Frank showed up as we was putting MacNab in the ground.”

  There weren’t enough chairs for everyone in the kitchen. George and Doc Scurlock were standing along the wall when I handed them their coffee.

  “We elected Doc captain,” George said.

  “Congratulations,” I said, shaking Scurlock’s hand. “I reckon they’re in order.”

  “Maybe not,” Fred said. “Being captain weren’t too rewarding for MacNab or Brewer. I hear the pay ain’t all that great neither.”

  “It’s a war for sure,” Doc said. “Don’t matter who you are. If you’re a Regulator your chances of being killed are about the same. We’ve lost two boys, but not because they were captains. They were in the line of fire is all. When the killing stops let’s hope they’s more of us than them standing.”

  “Buena suerte, amigo,” Fred said, raising his cup. “Now that the federales have put irons on the Dolan lot, is the law leaning our way?”

  “Don’t count on it,” Doc said. “We got a break this week, but I’ll bet my Winchester that when this war comes to a head, the army’ll be on Dolan’s side. The family of skunks has growed some. Manuel Segovia claims he killed MacNab. I believe him. He’s moved to the head of my list. You boys care to help run down the little sonofabitch?”

  “Hell yes,” I said.

  We flushed down our coffee, and me and Fred Waite collected our bedrolls and war bags. Fred brought the horses around while I thanked Manuel for his hospitality. I’d hoped María would return before we left but she didn’t. A few minutes later we were heading back to Lincoln with the Regulators.

  When we got to the Lincoln Road we ran into a detail of buffalo soldiers. The lieutenant said we were under arrest.

  “What for?” Doc Scurlock asked.

  “Assault and battery with intent to kill,” the lieutenant said. “You boys shot up Lincoln a few days ago, in case you forgot.”

  “We was defending ourselves,” Doc said. “Them boys come busting in after killing Frank MacNab. What’d you expect us to do? Let ’em round us up and hang us?”

  “The Seven Rivers bunch is locked up,” the lieutenant said. “But I’ve heard a different story from some of the folks in Lincoln. You boys are looking guiltier now than you did a few days ago. I’m putting you up at Fort Stanton until we get things sorted out.”

  “Folks in Lincoln, my ass,” Doc said. “You mean Jimmy Dolan.”

  Doc was angry, but I figured the lieutenant was handing us a gift. Manuel Segovia should still have been at the fort.

  “It’s too pretty a day to argue, boys,” I said. “Field larks are singing. There’s nary a cloud in the sky.”

  I rode up to the lieutenant. The rest of the boys stayed where they were. The buffalo soldiers spread out around us, their rifles across their pommels.

  “Come on, amigos. Let’s ride with the boys in blue.”

  Doc rode up beside me. The rest of the boys bunched in behind.

  “I don’t hear no larks,” he said.

  When we arrived at the fort the lieutenant put us in one of the storage buildings. The Seven Rivers boys were in the guardhouse. On the second day the lieutenant let everyone out. We were confined to the fort but could move about as long as we stayed out of each other’s way and avoided fights.

  We’d planned an accident for Manuel Segovia but he wasn’t around. He’d been rounded up with everyone else but he never showed at the fort. How he got away I never heard.

  A couple of days later the sheriff sprung us. When we got back to Lincoln he made Doc Scurlock a deputy. Turns out we’d misjudged the new sheriff. He wasn’t a Murphy man at all. He’d failed to mention that to Judge Bristol when he took the job. I was glad I hadn’t shot him. Unfortunately, his tenure was brief. Making Doc a deputy was his undoing. When the governor learned the sheriff wasn’t a Murphy man he fired him. Doc too. Put a Dolan lieutenant in his place.

  In the meantime, while Doc was deputy, we were back on the side of the law. We had old warrants for some of the Seven Rivers boys and got a fresh warrant for Manuel Segovia.

  A few days later a dozen of us rode to Dolan’s cow camp on the Black River, hoping to find some Seven Rivers boys. Heard they’d stole MacNab’s horses on the way home from Fort Stanton. If we were lucky, Segovia might be among them.

  We spent the night in the hills overlooking the cow camp. Charlie Bowdre slipped down to the camp after dark. He reported back that three men were sleeping by a fire near the corral. Couldn’t tell who they were. Several horses were in the corral. He didn’t see anyone else.

  Next morning when we rode up to the corral someone shot at us. Charlie and me jumped from our horses and ran for the corral. Scattered fire was coming in. I couldn’t tell from where. Charlie looked through the fence at the horses.

  “MacNab’s,” he said.

  “Tunstall’s too,” I said.

  Someone was creeping along the fence on the far side of the corral. Charlie raised his W
inchester and fired.

  “Got the sumbitch,” he said.

  Two men broke through the brush and disappeared into the tule along the river. The firing stopped. We waited. Nothing. None of us were hurt.

  Charlie and me slowly worked our way around the corral. Whoever Charlie shot might still be alive.

  “I’ll be damned,” Charlie said a moment later. “It’s the turdhead hisself.”

  Segovia was lying beside the fence, blood oozing through his vest. His six-shooter in the dirt.

  Charlie smashed the stock end of his Winchester against Segovia’s head. It cracked like a walnut. Blood splattered my boots.

  “What’ll we do with this cabrón?” Charlie said when Doc showed up.

  “Damn, Charlie! What’d you do that for?”

  “Felt like it,” he said.

  “We can’t take him back to Lincoln. God, he smells like a vinegarroon. Plant him here. You bring your shovel, Billy?”

  I seemed to get the shit details. My age I reckon. Got my shovel and hunted up some soft loam near the river. After I dug the grave, Charlie helped me carry Segovia and put him in the ground. I covered him with dirt while Charlie collected river rocks to cover the grave and keep out varmints. A spring flood could carry him off but that’d be no concern of ours.

  Next day we headed to Lincoln trailing MacNab and Tunstall stock. MacNab didn’t have family and John had none this side of the Atlantic. Mac would sort it out.

  CHAPTER 7Cullins

  Affairs in Lincoln have become serious, seeming approaching a crisis.

  The town is at the present writing in a perfect state of war.

  —COL. NATHAN A. DUDLEY, LETTER TO COL. EDWARD HATCH, JULY 16, 1878

  AS THE SUMMER HEATED UP, nerves were tight as barbwire. President Hayes said Lincoln’s Main Street was the most dangerous street in the country. He sent a lawyer from New York to unravel the mess. Frank Angel was the lawyer’s name. Mac said that Angel was looking for the cause of the troubles. He was especially interested in the governor and Judge Bristol.

  Mac had been on the run for months. He was Dolan’s hoodoo after John was murdered. Word was out that Dolan had put a fine price on him. Whenever a skirmish went sour, Dolan pressed the sheriff to dredge up a warrant with Mac’s name on it. I didn’t pay much attention to warrants. Knew I could skedaddle if anyone looked at me crosswise. But being a lawyer, Mac took warrants serious. He hid for a while at the Chisum Ranch. By mid-July he was tired of running. He holed up at home in Lincoln with a dozen of us.

  Dolan had boys stationed in the torreón to the east of us and the Wortley Hotel to the west. Regulators began arriving in groups of half a dozen or more, taking up positions at Ellis’s and Montaño’s and Patrón’s stores east of the torreón. Within a few days we had Dolan’s boys outgunned. We took turns as lookouts on Mac’s roof. The morning before the first shots were fired, Buck Powell’s boys rode into town from the west and stopped off at the Wortley to confab with Dolan. An hour or two later shots smashed the shuttered windows on the west side of Mac’s house. The siege was on.

  Regulators and Dolan’s hombres on the street took shelter wherever they could. Folks with no part in the battle ducked into houses and stayed there. We had sharpshooters on top of Montaño’s store. They had clear views in both directions on Main Street and made sure no one moved against Mac’s position.

  Mac’s shutters were soon shattered by gunfire. Mac had a stack of adobe bricks in the corral. Me and Kid Antrim brought back several armloads. We stacked the bricks in the windows, leaving enough daylight for gun placements and sightlines. Several of the boys dug portholes in the adobe walls. We had plenty of ammunition and figured we could hold off an army if it didn’t have cannons.

  We’d also laid in a couple of weeks’ supply of food. During much of the day Sue and her sister Elizabeth cooked in the kitchen. Elizabeth’s little daughter Minnie helped out. The gun battle occupied the front rooms of the house, so the women were safe. Boys wandered into the kitchen to eat whenever they were hungry or sought relief from the fighting. No one’d been hit except by flying glass. But flying lead had come close enough to remind us of our mortality.

  When evening set in, the shooting quieted. Kid Antrim stood watch while the rest of us filed into the kitchen. Sue’d laid out as good a spread as I’d ever seen. Fried corn, okra, green beans, pork chops. The women had baked potatoes, squash, cornbread, and apple and egg-custard pies.

  The boys were bumping shoulders, elbowing one another as they moved around the kitchen table, ladling food onto fine Kansas City plates with flowers painted on them. Most of the boys’d never seen such china. Crystal too. Sue said the crystal cups and bowls came from Ireland.

  “You ladies outdone yourselves,” Tom Cullins said. “If this is my last meal I’m heaven bound.”

  Cullins had been one of the first boys to sign up with the Regulators. I didn’t know much about him. A big man, head and a half taller than me, rawboned and strong. I seen him snatch an anvil from the ground once when I could barely tip it over.

  “Thank you, Tom,” Sue said. “Let’s hold off heaven for a while. I want to see you boys get out of here alive.”

  The kitchen was too crowded to hold all of us. As the first of us filled our plates we went back to the parlor and sat on the floor, backs to the walls, plates in our laps.

  “You think this battle could grow into a real war?” Cullins asked Mac.

  “Anything’s possible. But it seems unlikely. We’re a backwater squabble to the rest of the nation. Why do you ask?”

  “I was thinking about my pa. He fought in the war. Was killed at Shiloh. We didn’t have no slaves. I reckon we was too poor. But Pap thought a man should stand up for what he believes. He believed in the Confederacy. I was wondering what he’d make of us warring against Dolan’s boys because we believe in John Tunstall.”

  “I think he’d be proud of you, Tom.”

  “I can’t see this being more than a range war,” Rob Widenmann said. “If anybody’s gonna start a real war in New Mexico, it’s the greasers.”

  “Why them?” Mac asked.

  “They hate us. I don’t blame ’em. I was a kid when my folks left Coahuila, but I remember what it was like. I ain’t Mex. But if I was, I’d hate us too. I’d talk up revolution ever chance I got.”

  “Hey, José,” I said. “Widenmann says Mexicanos hate Americanos. Do you hate us?”

  “Only if your polla is bigger than mine, pendejo.”

  “You’re thinking like an American, Rob,” Mac said. “If you were Mexican, you’d be a campesino tilling your half-acre. You’d be too poor to talk about revolution. You wouldn’t be less of a person than you are today, but your concerns would mostly center around the weather, the crops, and the neighbors.”

  “If I was in trouble or hungry or needed a bed for the night,” I said, “I don’t know a campesino who wouldn’t help. But if I was starving in Santa Fe there ain’t a politician or businessman or lawyer who’d offer me a crumb. No offense, Mac.”

  “None taken. You’re mostly right. People in power value wealth. They’re reluctant to share. But there are a few rare coins who value some things more than money. John Tunstall was one.”

  “Hold on a minute, Mac,” Widenmann said. “You saying greasers ain’t inferior?”

  “No they aren’t inferior. We have the upper hand. That’s all.”

  “They ain’t as smart as us.”

  “Rob! Sure they are. If you could measure it you’d find some smarter, some dumber. Americans are better educated. That’s all. Someone who lacks schooling may be ignorant. That doesn’t mean he’s dumb.”

  “I’ll put my brain up against your chilito any day, cabrón,” José said.

  “You picked the wrong company to vent your opinion, Rob,” Mac said. “José’s smart. The smartest man in the room I’d wager. Also the fastest gun and the best shot. You may want to reconsider your words. His cousin Pedro was the smartest man I ever knew
. He was a campesino. He couldn’t read, but he could solve any problem. He’d have four solutions while the next man was wondering what the problem was.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “Too bad. He was one of the early casualties of Dolan’s predations. He would have been an education for you. If you’d played monte with him you’d swear he’d marked the deck and knew where every card was. He never forgot anything. If you took him into the mountains to someplace he’d never seen he could lead you to the same spot a year later. He’d know where every stream was and how far away it was. He could see it all in his head. Read it back like it was a book he’d memorized. He told me once he thought in pictures, not words. An incredible memory. Every really smart man I’ve ever known had a fine memory. Like Billy’s. Challenge him to a game of monte and see how you fare.”

  “I can repeat every dumbass thing you said last week, Widenmann,” I said. “Want to hear?”

  “You could say most anything and I wouldn’t know if you was making it up.”

  “We all make do with what we have,” Mac said.

  “You make up for your poor memory with your pretty face, Widenmann,” I said.

  “You’re the one with the pretty face. All them señoritas eying you. You oughta get some of them tintypes made. Pass ’em around.”

  “You boys are so sugary my sweet tooth’s aching,” Cullins said. “Believe I’ll have another piece of pie.”

  Cullins was seated on the floor below a window. The window was shuttered and bricked, but much of the barricading had been blown away by gunfire. As he stood up, the crack of a Sharps came from the direction of the Wortley Hotel. Cullins fell to the floor. Half his head was missing.

  “¡Puta madre!” José said. “¡Madre de Dios!”

  “Jesus!” Mac said. “Oh god!”

  Kid was still on guard duty. He shoved his Winchester through the window and sprayed half a dozen rounds in an arc down the street toward the hotel. We heard no return fire. Cullins was our first casualty.

  Brains and blood’d splattered across the floor, raining on boots and bedrolls. I didn’t favor cleaning it up. I figured me and Yginio Salazar were the youngest and most likely for the job so I nodded to him. I grabbed Cullins’ shoulders and Salazar grabbed his feet. We hauled him through the kitchen on the Shields’ side of the house so’s not to upset the ladies. After checking for ambushers in the willows beside the Río Bonito we went out the back. We laid Cullins on the plaza between the wings of the house. We’d move him to the stable after dark.