The Gospel According to Billy the Kid

by Dennis McCarthy

  Celsa’s sister was in the doorway. She went in and brought out my Colt.

  “Gracias. Celsa, gracias. Por favor, tell Paulita lo siento, la amo.”

  Frank and me rode out of town. We kept to the shadows past half a dozen casas till we got to the parade grounds. The gunfire had brought the baile to an end. Only the harpist was still around. He was playing “Brian Boru,” an old tune Aunt Cat used to sing about an Irish warrior who died saving his country. She sang it in Irish.

  We crossed the Río Pecos and headed north toward Frank’s sheep camp, keeping close to the cottonwoods. My head and shoulder felt like I’d been branded but I was alert. Trying to make sense of what’d happened. What was Pat thinking? That I was with Kid? He’d of asked around. Did he know I was there? Did Pete or Paulita say anything? Neither’d give me up. Jesus? He was building a coffin. Pat would of talked to him. Celsa? Jesus and Celsa were amigos. They’d of said nada. Who else was at Pete’s house? A deputy? Celsa said someone shot at Pat’s deputy. Did the deputy know me? He was a damn good shot. Or damn lucky. No, not lucky. Not in the moonlight. Was Pat coming after me? Would he come to Frank’s camp?

  I didn’t have answers but the questions kept me in the saddle.

  Frank looked after me for a week. I lay on my bedroll under a tarp in a grove of cottonwoods. Frank brought me food in the morning and evening and tended his sheep during the day. I had plenty of water and plenty of time to think. By the end of a week I was tired of my company. I was still sore but I was well enough to ride. It was time to head for California. I’d lost my compadre but I had my hide.

  Paulita hung heavy in my heart but I couldn’t lay around thinking about her. Her and the baby. It was driving me near crazy. Had to get my mind on other things. It was getting toward dark. A good time to travel.

  “Time to head out,” I told Frank when he returned at the end of the day. “You’ve done un buen trabajo on me. I appreciate it. Truly. I’d like to stay and work off my debt but it’s too risky. Word’ll get out you’ve been looking after me. Garrett’ll come around. Me and you’ll be in a stew.”

  “Entiendo, Billy. You malo. Wait uno, dos dias till you feel mejor.”

  “The quicker I get gone the better for both of us, compadre. You’ve been a buen amigo. Gracias. Por todo.”

  Frank gave me biscuits, oats, and a box of cartridges. I had some dinero. Gave half to Frank.

  “Adios, amigo.”

  “Vaya con dios, Bilito.”

  As I rode off, I realized everything I owned in the world was on Buck. It didn’t amount to much. But I could hunt, build a fire, defend myself. I planned to head to San Patricio. Be there in a few days. Stay with María and Manuel till I healed. They’d keep quiet. Get me whatever I needed in Lincoln. Then I’d be on my way to California. I didn’t tell Frank. Safer that way. I didn’t know where Garrett was and had no way of finding out. Figured to stay off the main roads. The ride gave me time to think. Thinking was all I’d done for a week but I still didn’t have all the answers. Thunderstorms rumbled through my head.

  Sometime in the night a storm hit. Lightning whited out the sky. It began pissing hail. My hat offered some protection but my hands stung whenever stones caught them just right. They felt like deerfly bites, then wasp stings as the thumps got harder and more frequent. Then the hail poured down in a torrent, crushing my hat. Every few minutes a stone buffaloed me. Buck and me were in trouble. I’ve knowed cowhands to hide under horses in a hailstorm, but I had too much regard for Buck. Besides, with lightning all around, Buck wouldn’t of stood for it. Him and lightning didn’t get on.

  We weren’t far from the old Alejandro Perea place at Stinking Springs where Charlie Bowdre’d been killed. Buck saw it the next time the night lit up and he galloped toward it. We’d almost made it when a chunk of ice walloped me so hard that I took a tumble. When I came to, the storm was over. The ground was covered in hail, some the size of hens’ eggs, a few as big as my fist. The night was dark as a sack of black cats. I could barely make out the choza when the next lightning cracked. When I stumbled through the doorway Buck nuzzled me.

  “Glad you found this place, old boy.”

  As I was uncinching the saddle I saw blood dripping through his left eye.

  “Looks like you got thumped pretty good. Let’s take a look.”

  I took a rag from my saddlebags and started to wipe away the blood. I was holding the bridle when Buck jerked his head. I fell into him.

  “Easy, amigo. I won’t hurt you. Your eye’s okay. You caught a good one on the forehead but the devil won’t take you tonight.”

  I balled up the rag and dabbed around the eye. Buck shook his head a couple of times but let me hold the rag against the cut. When the bleeding stopped I unsaddled Buck and unrolled my bedroll. A light rain was falling. I sat up much of the night with a smithy forging in my head. It was close to dawn when the cool humus smell of the rain put me to sleep.

  CHAPTER 12Stinking Springs

  I don’t want to dispute against you, Señora, but in my mind,

  which is the picture of my soul, I know it is not true.

  Maybe Pat Garrett, he give money to Billy to go to South America

  and write that story for the books. Maybe he kill somebody else in

  Billy’s place. Everybody like Billy. His face went to everybody’s heart.

  —JOSE GARCIA Y TRUJILLO, AS TOLD TO JANET SMITH, 1936

  WHEN I AWOKE THE SUN was well up in the sky. Before falling asleep I’d been thinking about the time Garrett captured me and the boys at Stinking Springs. One of the worst nights of my life. Near froze to death. Swore I’d never be back, but I’d just spent another night there, almost as bad as the first.

  As I was packing the saddlebags I saw a bat on the floor in the corner of the choza.

  “Buck, ole boy, we had a guest last night.”

  I nudged the bat with my foot, flipping it onto its belly.

  “Got thumped like us. Made it here, then went to its maker.”

  I picked it up by the scruff and held it up for inspection. It was no bigger than a field mouse. The face was black and ugly as the bung hole of a mule and the body was covered with brown fur, but it was the wings that caught my attention. Folded tight against the body. Like leather. I’d never seen a bat up close. I pulled the tip of a wing out to its full length. The bat opened its eyes. I was startled and dropped its scruff but held onto the wing. It flapped its free wing and swung face first into my wrist. I let go and the bat fell to the ground. I’d felt a pinprick and wondered if it’d nailed me. No marks on my wrist. I nudged the bat again with my boot. It showed no further interest in life.

  “Okay, Buck, let’s leave Señor Bat alone. Maybe he’ll make it. Maybe he won’t.”

  I put the rest of my gear in the saddlebags, then I led Buck out of the choza and climbed into the saddle. It was a beautiful cloudless July morning. Planned to stay off the roads, head into the mountains, lay up till dark.

  Four days later, traveling at night with the aid of moonlight and sleeping off the road during the day, I arrived in San Patricio. As I rode up to the Montoya casa María rushed out. She was crying.

  “Bilito! I hear you dead!”

  I slid off Buck and wrapped her in my arms.

  “Wasn’t me, María. It was Kid Antrim. Garrett’s deputy shot me up pretty good. But I ain’t a spook.”

  “What happened, Bilito? What happened? Your face! Your beautiful face!”

  “Ain’t as bad as it looks. Lost a couple of teeth is all. Won’t be kissing pretty girls for a while. None like you anyway,” I said as I kissed her. “Is Manuel here?”

  “He is working with his tío today,” she said. “He will be back para la cena.”

  “Think you could put me and Buck up for a day or two?”

  “Of course, Bilito. Take care of your horse, then come inside.”

  I led Buck into the corral. He was visible from the road, but anyone passing would assume he was Manuel’s. I
went through the backdoor into the kitchen. María was tending a pot by the fire.

  “Don’t say nothing about me being here. I’ve got to skin out of the territory without folks knowing I’m alive.”

  “Of course, Bilito.”

  “Gracias, María. I ain’t eaten much lately. Could you rustle up something to quiet my belly till Manuel comes home?”

  “Frijoles are almost ready. Would you like a burrito? I can fry huevos.”

  “I’d like that. Gracias.”

  A few minutes later I was enjoying a fine meal with a beautiful señora across the table.

  “These past few weeks have been an adventure. Reckon I’m lucky to be alive.”

  “God is looking after you, Bilito. He has especial plan for you.”

  “A special plan, huh? What is it?”

  “I do not know. No one knows. You know when plan reveals itself.”

  “You think everybody has a special plan?”

  “Si, everybody. Not everybody follows plan. Sometimes they try and fail. God gives them many chances.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “That is only for me to know. But I will tell you this. God is in my heart. He tells me what I should do, what I should not do. He is in your heart too, talking, but you do not listen. Some day you will hear him.”

  I didn’t have much faith in a God plan but María’s words were comforting. The misery of the past weeks had near broken me. I’d left Paulita, lost Kid, almost been killed. I needed things to take a turn for the better.

  CHAPTER 13Mangel

  Billy was a good boy, but he was hounded

  by bad men who wanted to kill him.

  —PAULITA MAXWELL JARAMILLO, AS TOLD TO

  GOV. MIGUEL ANTONIO OTERO, DATE UNKNOWN

  MANUEL RODE INTO LINCOLN A few days later and got a mess kit and a box of cartridges for me. I was feeling better. Spending time with María and Manuel had improved my mood but it was time to leave. Manuel gave me oats for Buck, and María loaded me down with dried beans, jerky, tortillas, and coffee. I could resupply in Albuquerque and I could shoot a jackrabbit or a quail. I’d have to build a fire, but the chances of running into anyone who knew me were slim.

  My plan was to head west to Albuquerque, then continue north on the Camino Real. I’d pick up the Spanish Trail where it crossed the Río Grande between Santa Fe and Abiquiu then follow it to California.

  Leaving Fort Sumner without Paulita near killed me. As I was leaving the Montoyas I realized I was giving up all my amigos. I shook Manuel’s hand and kissed María, then I rode out.

  “Vaya con dios, Bilito,” María called when I was almost out of hearing.

  Hasta que nos volvamos a ver, mi encantadora María, I whispered to the wind.

  I wished Kid was with me. He’d of lifted my spirits. But Buck was a fine compadre and I counted on a pot-licking cur traveling with us. He’d been hanging around San Patricio for a week or two. Manuel suspected him of requisitioning one of María’s chickens. Manuel was grateful when I said I’d take the thief with me. He didn’t look like much. A mashed-in face like a bulldog, one ear chewed to the quick, no meat on his bones. If I fattened him up he’d be half my size. He was no Kid with a six-shooter but I figured he might prove handy. I called him Mangel on account of his ear. I spoke his name in Mexican so it’d sound like “mongrel.”

  He was skittish when I first encountered him. Had a sigogglin gait. Maybe a broke leg that had healed bad. I’d tossed him biscuits and jerky to earn his attention if not his trust. When I rode out of San Patricio he followed.

  The first few days on the road he held back. At times I wondered if he was still on my trail, then he’d show up at dinnertime. Every afternoon I shot small game for him. The third night Mangel slept a few feet away. The fourth night he let me touch him. When we got to Albuquerque the afternoon of the fifth day we were amigos.

  It was my first time in Albuquerque. The town was smaller than Santa Fe but it felt bigger. Santa Fe was a Mexican town. Albuquerque was more American. The main street had two-story buildings made of wood with columns and cornices like you’d find back East. The plaza had adobe buildings. It’d been around since Spanish days.

  I stopped at the well on the plaza and cranked the windlass. After watering Buck and Mangel I headed to the Highland Mercantile to restock. Mangel scavenged a dead rat while I went inside. When I mounted Buck again Mangel led us out of town.

  Shortly we came upon a fiesta. The chords of a guitar and odors of charred meats and tamales and horse shit wafted in the breeze. Vaqueros in their charro suits and señoritas in their fanciest dresses eyed one another while caballeros and señoras eyed their daughters. It was the games that caught my attention. I joined a crowd headed to a pit surrounded by a log fence. A she bear was shackled to a post inside. Folks around the fence were chanting “Toro! Toro!” Two vaqueros rode in with a bull roped between them. His horns were wreathed in flowers. They turned the bull loose, then rode back out, shutting the gate behind them. The bull milled around the gate. The bear paced behind the post. Neither seemed anxious for an encounter. A few folks in the crowd began chanting “Sangre! Sangre!” A vaquero next to the gate slashed the bull across the nose with a knife. That got him riled. He glared at the grizzly, then lowered his head. The bear seemed almost surprised. She started to rise on her hind legs when the bull slammed into her. She tumbled backward, her jaws clamped on the bull’s tongue. The bull bellowed, the crowd moaned. The bear rolled to her side but she was back up on her hind legs quick as a conejo. The bull’s tongue was in tatters. So were the flowers. When the bull charged again he ripped open the bear’s belly. The crowd roared its approval. The grizzly landed on her back but hung onto the bull’s head. She stumbled getting back to her feet. I’d seen enough. Went back to the road and found a sport more to my liking.

  A rooster was buried up to its neck. Vaqueros took turns trying to yank the bird out of the ground while racing at full speed. The rooster’s head had been greased, so even if a vaquero managed to grab it he couldn’t hang on. I’d seen this game at other fiestas. The object was to snatch the rooster, race to a tree a hundred paces away, and return to the start while other vaqueros tried to steal the bird from the captor.

  I watched half a dozen vaqueros try their luck. Most missed the grab. One hombre fell from his saddle. Two caught the rooster but couldn’t hang on. I’d learned a thing or two watching Comanches hang off the side of horses, and I had an idea about how to deal with the greasy head, but I had to act quick. The rooster’s neck was cattywampus. A few more yanks and it would rip off. I lined up behind two vaqueros. The first missed completely. The next had lengthened the stirrup strap on one side. I figured he’d done this before. It looked like he’d made a good grab but he let the rooster slip through his fingers. I took a swig of water and spit on my hand, then I gigged Buck in the ribs. Three or four strides short of the target I leaned out of the saddle and dragged my wet hand through the dirt, then I grabbed the rooster’s head and hung on. Buck flew past and I floated back into the saddle, the carcass flopping against my thigh, feathers flying. As we raced toward the tree, vaqueros let out whoops and started after us. We flew past the tree and kept going. Buck was fast. Several minutes later I looked behind. Not a vaquero in view. No Mangel either. I slowed Buck to a trot.

  A few miles north of town Buck and me entered a grove of cotton-woods. Before long here came Mangel, his tongue hanging out. Buck and me walked toward him. He sat down on his haunches then fell over on his side. I climbed down and petted him. Told him he was a good boy. After a bit he stood up and went down to the river to get a drink, then he commenced trotting up the road. Buck and me fell in behind.

  A couple of miles on, Mangel stopped to sniff something beside the road. I couldn’t see it but I heard the rattle. Mangel reared backward. The snake struck. Mangel yelped. I gigged Buck and drew my six-shooter. Buck jumped forward and I fired twice as the snake pulled back to strike again. It fell into its coils. M
angel limped off on three legs. I leapt off Buck and started to pick up the snake and sling it into the brush, but then I remembered an ole boy who got bit by a rattler after cutting off its head. He had seizures and lost his sight. Near died. I left this one where it lay.

  When I approached Mangel he limped away.

  “Come on, amigo. Let me help you.”

  I didn’t know what I could do for him but I knew he shouldn’t be walking around. If I’d start toward him he’d start away.

  “Well, Mangel, I’m gonna set up camp. Join me when you can.”

  I led Buck into the cottonwoods and unsaddled him. Laid out my bedroll and supplies and built the first fire since San Patricio. I’d been soaking frijoles in a pouch in my saddlebag. I dumped them in a pot of fresh water from the river and set it on the fire to simmer. I cleaned the rooster and put it in a skillet to cook. Mangel caught the scent and hobbled over. He lay down on the opposite side of the fire. I stood up and started toward him. He stumbled trying to get up. I sat back down.

  “Okay, boy. I’ll leave you alone.”

  I poked at the bird with my knife. Mangel lay back down and took a few licks at his front paw. He was drooling, in serious pain. When the bird was cooked I ripped off a leg and held it out for Mangel. His nose began twitching. He raised up on his good legs and hobbled toward me. I leaned forward. He snatched the leg and devoured it, bones and all. A minute or two later he puked it up. I ate my beans and the second leg, then cleaned my mess kit, staying away from Mangel the whole time.

  I kept the fire going well after dark. A comfort to me if not to Mangel. I slept fitfully and awoke several times during the night. The moon was up. Mangel lay near the fire ring, twitching like a leaf in the wind. I feared that if I went toward him he might wander off. Didn’t want him to die in the brush. When I awoke at first light he hadn’t moved. His front paw was swollen double. He looked up at me without lifting his head. He was panting and whimpering. I started to touch his paw but he pulled it back.