When we reached the Spanish Trail we turned toward Abiquiu. If the Comanches were looking for me, losing my tracks in Abiquiu was my best move. I wasn’t ready to head to California. Too much on my mind. I wasn’t safe in New Mexico. Garrett gave me a break at Fort Sumner. He wouldn’t do it again. I also had the Comanches to consider. They’d be out for revenge. They’d find someone to skin and I didn’t plan on it being me.
I was uneasy about Macgregor. Comanches might go after the Abiquiu garrison. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed. But the soldiers were looking for Comanches too so I let it go.
By the time I got to Abiquiu I’d made up my mind. I decided to check on Juan Mundo, the di-yin who’d cured my hydro. I’d been to the Tinde village enough times to make friends with Juan. Frankly, I was worried about him. The night before, I had another dream about my Aunt Cat. She was talking to Juan when I rode up. She looked at me and smiled, then she turned back to Juan. It was not like the bad dreams, the ones when someone dies. There were no ravens. Still it gnawed at me. So I figured to go to the Tinde village in case Juan got into trouble. It wasn’t the best decision. Getting out of the territory was smarter, but anything was smarter than hanging around Abiquiu.
I dismounted, picked up Mangel, and climbed back in the saddle. Buck’s hoofprints were similar to other hoofprints but Mangel had a cattywampus gait. His tracks’d be evident to a good tracker. He wasn’t happy about riding on a saddle horn but he didn’t argue none. The four of us—me, Buck, Mangel, and Brother Jude—headed into the mountains.
The Tinde village was two day’s ride. Juan Mundo was glad to see me. I told him I’d had a dream about him.
“I know,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He invited me to stay. He was an old man. He’d been on the Long Walk but he held no bitterness toward Americans. Mangel and me shared a grass bed covered with wapiti hides in his tepee. I fed Brother Jude every morning. He could scavenge for hisself but I figured feeding him would keep him around.
Spent the winter with Juan. We had two heavy snows that year. One storm dumped snow up to my waist. I hunted throughout the winter, mostly for wapiti and deer. As soon as the weather warmed, Juan wanted to collect eagle feathers. On top of a nearby cliff was a cleft barely big enough to hold a man. Juan laid branches across the slit, then returned a few times over the next week, leaving freshly killed rabbits on the branches. One morning before sunup he slipped into the cleft. Within an hour an eagle came to inspect the kill. It made several passes before settling down for breakfast. While the bird was ripping apart the rabbit, Juan reached through the branches, grabbing the legs and wrapping them with a leather thong. With the eagle tethered, Juan plucked three tail feathers. When he released the bird he waited till it was out of sight before he climbed out. I’ve seen an eagle bring down an antelope. Believe it could kill a man if it took a notion.
A few weeks later I was hunting wapiti in the Brazos and came upon fresh lion tracks. A dusting of snow had fallen the night before. I was riding Buck. Mangel and Brother Jude were with me. Mangel recognized the tracks and took off. Me and Buck followed. Before long Mangel treed the lion in a large spruce. When we rode up, the lion sprang from the tree and disappeared over a cliff, with Mangel and Brother Jude quick behind him. Mangel’s barking shifted to a wail.
When I got to him his face was ripped open from the top of his skull to his jaw. The brain case was broken. He’d fallen a good fifty feet. His bad leg was twisted beneath him, the bone exposed in three places. He lay on his side whimpering. Brother Jude was standing by his head squalling. Mangel looked at me with those soft black eyes. Then he stopped whimpering. I stepped behind him so he couldn’t see and pulled out my six-shooter. Brother Jude flew into a nearby tree shrieking like a banshee when I pulled the trigger.
I wrapped Mangel in my blanket and lifted him onto the saddle horn. Buck didn’t balk. I swung into the saddle. We were a few hours from the monastery. I rode back with Brother Jude circling high overhead, still shrieking. When we got to the monastery I dug a grave next to Scout. I laid Mangel in the ground, wrapped in my blanket. I was wearing the Apache charm that a Mescalero squaw gave to Dick Brewer for saving her life. I laid it on top of the blanket.
“Goodbye, old friend. You were the best. This charm didn’t help Dick none but maybe it’ll help you on the journey home. It may of saved my neck a time or two but you were my true good luck charm. The blanket’ll keep you warm. I won’t forget you. Ever.”
I filled in the grave, then covered it with stones. When I’d finished I fashioned a cross from pine wood and fixed it in the ground. I spent the night sleeping beside Mangel’s grave. Awoke two or three times to a line from the psalms the brothers often sang: “I lie in the dust of death with dogs all around me.”
Next morning, after cleaning up my sign, I said goodbye to Mangel and left for the Tinde village. Brother Jude was in a piñon beside Mangel’s grave when I rode away. Carlos was right. He was a wolfbird. Between Brother Jude and Aunt Cat, ravens had been my totem. I hung around the Tinde village a few days, hoping Brother Jude’d return, but it was time to go.
During long winter evenings Juan had taught me about the Tinde way of life. He said all paths lead to the same spring and I should follow the path I knew best. Next morning me and Buck headed for California.
CHAPTER 25Billy the Kid
The Kid’s body lies undisturbed in the grave—
and I speak of what I know.
—PAT GARRETT, The Authentic Life of Billy the Kid
CALIFORNIA WAS BETTER AND WORSE than I expected. Got a job on a ranch outside of Los Angeles working cattle and horses. Met a girl. My boss had a library. I read for hours of an evening. Learned how to tend orange groves. Grew a beard and went near bald on top. One day reading the Los Angeles Times I learned that Colonel Roosevelt was recruiting cowboys. To free Cuba from the bonds of Spain, the paper said. He would be in San Antonio in a few weeks. I barely knew where Cuba was but the idea of one last adventure warmed my blood.
Over the years I’d had pangs about abandoning Paulita. The baby too. Maybe it wasn’t too late to right things. Could go to Texas and Cuba, then back to Fort Sumner to pick up where I’d left off with her.
You’re right. It was a foolish notion.
After fifteen years I’d seen enough of California. The ocean’s stark and beautiful. The mountains are sprawling ranges, some as big as any in Colorado. And the redwoods are twice the size of ponderosas and firs in the Sacramentos. But California has temblors. Buck and me got caught in one. We were hunting javelina in Baja when a temblor hit. We got thrown. Buck broke a leg, I broke a shoulder. Had to put him down. Hadn’t been for the boys with me I might of hung it up in Baja. Wished I could of brought Buck back to the monastery. Lay him beside Mangel.
Temblors rolled in for weeks afterward. One hit Los Angeles the day I was reading about Cuba. I quit my job, said goodbye to my girl, and headed for Texas.
It was spring of ’98 when I got back on the Spanish Trail, riding a bay named Maddie. Didn’t expect to run into trouble in New Mexico. The Lincoln County War was ancient history. Figured nobody much cared anymore. Or even remembered Billy Bonney. With my age and whiskers I figured even my old compadres wouldn’t recognize me. I was wearing these specs too. Too much reading in dark rooms.
The trail was worse than I remembered. Sometimes there was no trail at all. Up in Utah I rode through Mountain Meadows, site of a Mormon massacre thirty years earlier. It was a five-day battle, like the one that ended the Lincoln County War. Over a hundred emigrants were killed. I’d missed it on the way west and might of missed it on the way back if Maddie hadn’t kicked up a skull. Found other bones and parts of old wagons. After the monastery I had a darker view of what the emigrants’d been through.
A month and a half out of Los Angeles I stopped at the Tinde village where I’d stayed the winter I lost Mangel. My old compañero Juan Mundo was the only one left. He was ancient. He t
old me a band of Comanches hiding out in the San Juans had attacked the village after I left. The survivors moved to the Tierra Amarilla reservation. Comanches also attacked the post at Abiquiu. They snuck in before daylight while soldiers were asleep. Killed over half the garrison. Juan said they were avenging the killing of six of their own at Ojo Caliente. I asked him how the Comanches fingered the soldiers. He said some Kiowas were camped at the springs. One of the Comanches was still alive when they showed up.
I didn’t say nothing. I’d told Juan about the killing right off when it happened. He might of held me responsible for the attack on his village. Or maybe he was old and had forgotten.
A few days later I stopped at the monastery. It’d changed some. The roofs had fallen in on near every building. The front wall of the church was a pile of rubble. Piñons and junipers grew in the commons, blocking the view of the canyon walls across the way.
The graves were overgrown with weeds but they were still visible on a rise above the river. The crosses were rotted but the stones were there. I spent the better part of the afternoon at Mangel’s grave. I told him about Buck. They weren’t the best of friends but I figured he’d want to know. I talked about Moze too. If Mangel hadn’t showed up when he did I wouldn’t be telling this tale. I got the better half of that partnership.
It was early for wildflowers but I found some yellow columbines and laid them on his grave. I’d asked Carlos once about dogs in heaven. He figured that if there was a heaven, dogs had as much right to it as anybody and more right than most. It was heaven that he was less sure of. He talked about freedom and being fully alive instead. He told me once that he thought hell was more a state of mind than a real place. Believe he felt the same about heaven.
I put in a word for Mangel. Figured it couldn’t hurt. I told him that if there was a heaven I’d look for his sign and I’d follow the tracks through eternity till I found him. I said a few words for Scout and the monks too. And Raúl. They’d given their lives to the monastery. They were all saints in my ledger.
I stayed the night at the monastery. The next day I rode into Abiquiu. Stopped by Gonzales’s. A fellow named Bodie was running the store. I asked him what he knew about the Comanche raid. He said nobody talked about it much. No Comanches had been in the area in years. He didn’t know what’d become of the raiding party. He didn’t know any of the soldiers either. The army post was abandoned, that much he knew. Business had suffered some. Monks from back East had been to the monastery years earlier. Never came back.
Next morning I left for Santa Fe. Camped the night along the Río Grande and rode into town the next day. I’d planned to avoid the town but changed my mind. Santa Fe had grown some. I rode by the calaboose on Water Street. I’d spent three months there twenty years earlier, waiting for my trial. Wrote letters, three of them, to Governor Wallace while I was locked up. Trying to get amnesty. He didn’t answer. Me and the boys tried to dig our way out. Got caught, of course. I spent the rest of the time chained to a post. That was the time I was sentenced to hang for killing Sheriff Brady. That was one killing I didn’t do. But I’ve already told you that.
I stopped at the Exchange Hotel for dinner. A cockfight drew a crowd in the courtyard. The smell of blood was pungent. I’d washed dishes at the hotel when I was a kid and I knew that smell. Took my dinner outside. Passing a newsstand I saw a stack of books. On top was The Authentic Life of Billy the Kid as told by Pat Garrett.
I opened the book and began reading: “A true history of the life, adventures, and tragic death of William H. Bonney, better known as Billy, the Kid.” Billy the Kid! There was a twist. And here I’d thought Billy Bonney was all but forgotten. I forked over three liberty nickels. Soon as I finished dinner I opened the book again. By the end of the day I’d learned that Garrett’s Billy had killed twenty-one men during his twenty-one years. He was born in New York City. His mother was Catherine McCarty. The family lived in Coffeyville, Kansas. Sounded like Garrett’d confused me with Bob Dalton. The story continued with more foolishness.
Where’d he come up with this sheep-dipper, I wondered. His Billy was a mix of me, Kid Antrim, Jesse Evans, and a drunken imagination. It was full of surprises. The title said the story was about Billy Bonney but Pat Garrett was the hero. I figured old Pat was on hard times if he was writing a book about his own antics. It gave me a good laugh but it had a serious downside. Billy Bonney was back in the news. Figured I’d better get out of Santa Fe straight off and stay clear of towns big enough for newsstands. I started to stick the book in my saddlebag but decided to leave it on the plaza. I didn’t want to be carrying hints of my former life.
Garrett was still making trouble for me.
A few days later I pulled up at a ranch outside Fort Sumner. Didn’t recognize it and figured the owner wouldn’t know me. Jacob Spiegelberg met me at the door. Invited me in for breakfast. He was German. He’d lived there about ten years. I introduced myself as Bill Roberts. Told him I’d once spent some time in Fort Sumner. Jacob knew Pete Maxwell. Said Pete was still alive but no one had seen him in years.
“Why’s that?”
“When Sheriff Garrett shot Billy Bonney, Herr Pete was scared. Neighbors heard him scream. Afterward folk addressed him as Don Shootme.”
“I recall Pete had a sister. Pauline?”
“Paulita. She married and moved to Mora.”
“Paulita. That’s it. Married? Does she have any kids?”
“Nein. She lost one many years ago.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Good I guess. I do not see her. She and Herr Pete had a fall out.”
Jacob’s wife fixed a delicious breakfast of huevos and chorizo. I ate till I about foundered. Offered to pay for the meal but Jacob wouldn’t accept anything. I thanked them for their hospitality and made my goodbyes.
I steered clear of Fort Sumner and rode on to San Patricio, avoiding Lincoln too. I wanted to see María and Manuel. Paulita was my sweetheart and I’ve had other amantes, but María stole my heart. I’ve often regretted that she was married when I met her.
The Montoya choza was in ruins. The roof had holes big enough a cat could fall through. A crow flew out when I went to the door. I asked a neighbor what’d happened. She said that years earlier hombres had passed through looking for Manuel. María was home by herself. They hung her naked from a cottonwood and set the furniture on fire. Manuel came home that evening. He cut her down and buried her on a rise back of the house. Next morning he shot hisself beside the cottonwood. Neighbors buried him beside María.
I talked to other neighbors. None would admit to knowing anything. It happened so long ago they said. They’d never heard of Manuel being in trouble. I stayed in San Patricio a week but couldn’t turn up a clue. I visited María’s grave one last time and kissed the gravestone, then Maddie and me rode away.
I stopped off at John Tunstall’s ranch on the Feliz. It had a new house, a nice adobe place. John’s old choza was barely standing. A family named Holmes was staying in the new house. They offered me dinner and a bed for the night. They told me the story of John’s killing. One of John’s hands, Billy Bonney, had stolen horses from Jimmy Dolan. Bonney brought the horses to John’s ranch. When Dolan found out, he sent a posse after them. John took the horses into the mountains to hide them. When the posse caught up with him they killed him.
Next morning I thanked the Holmes and left. I wondered if I should ride to Las Cruces. It wasn’t on the way to San Antonio but Pat Garrett was sheriff of Dona Anna County and I halfway wanted to see him. I was curious about what happened at Fort Sumner, especially after reading Pat’s version. And Pat might know something about María and Manuel.
Pat and me had rustled cattle together on the south end of the Pecos. Always liked him. Didn’t hold a grudge against him for hunting me like he done. Just doing his job. Never figured it was personal. But after all those years things might of changed. Maybe he’d convinced hisself The Authentic Life was true. If he knew I was alive, maybe
he’d want to finish the job, quietly, so I wouldn’t put the lie to his book. If I was to see him I’d have to be careful. He wouldn’t risk a showdown but he might bushwhack me. In the end curiosity overcame my better sense. When I got to Las Cruces I stopped by his office. I walked in and took off my hat. Pat was sitting behind a desk, facing the door.
“Hello, Pat.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“You don’t remember me?”
Pat’s right hand dropped below the desktop. He slowly slid open a drawer.
“Should I?”
“Billy Bonney. But I go by Bill Roberts now.”
“Billy! My god!”
Pat rose from his chair and came around to grip my arm and shake my hand.
“My god! How the hell are you?”
“I’m good, Pat. I’m good.”
“Here, grab a seat. My god, it’s been a long time. Last I heard about you, you was skinning out for parts unknown, John Poe egging you on.”
“Poe, huh? He was a hell of a shot. Took some of my teeth and plowed a furrow across my pate.”
“Where’ve you been? Figured you left New Mexico. If you’d stuck around I’d of heard.”
We went to a café for dinner and talked into the afternoon. I asked him about the old days.
“What was it all about, Pat—the Lincoln County War? Murphy, Dolan, Tunstall, McSween, you, me? All the killing?”
“Oh hell, Billy, it was what it’s always about. Power and greed. You and me? We was just doing our jobs. That’s all.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right . . . Hey, you remember that time we had our picture made in La Mesilla? With a couple of the boys?”
The Gospel According to Billy the Kid Page 15