“I remember. Wilson and Kid. We were a scruffy bunch.”
“You keep it?”
“Gave it to my oldest boy. A memento of Billy the Kid.”
Pat told me about his stint with the Texas Rangers. He talked about the gunfight at Tascosa, Texas. Mostly over a girl. Bigger than the Earp brothers’ gunfight in Tombstone he said. It happened after he moved back to New Mexico but he felt responsible. Believed if he’d stayed in Tascosa he could of kept the boys under control.
I told him about my time in California. Left out the monastery. Left out the Comanches. Mostly I painted a quiet life, staying out of trouble, tending cattle and orange groves. I showed him a Billy he’d never knowed. He laughed. Said he’d written about a Billy I never knowed.
Asked him if he knew anything about María and Manuel. Said he didn’t.
“Hell, Pat, I never heard of hanging a woman.”
“It’s a terrible thing, Billy. Terrible. When’d it happened?”
“Maybe fifteen years ago.”
“Nothing to be done about it. Mexicans are murdered all the time. Killers never caught. Nobody looks for ’em.”
Eventually I asked Pat what really happened in Fort Sumner.
“Pretty much like it says in the book with a few adjustments here and there. Wasn’t sure who I shot. You and Kid look alike in the dark. When I realized it was Kid, Pete and me talked it over. Him and Paulita were fine saying it was you. Paulita I think it was suggested it. No one wanted to see you dead. Leastways none of your amigos in Fort Sumner. They all figured it was a good way to get you out of the territory with your hide intact. The hombres we lined up for the autopsy took our word that it was you. Me and Ash Upson talked about writing the book. I knew a little of your history. Ash made up the rest. Said listing me as author would give the story authenticity. He put that word in the title.”
“It’s a lot of things, Pat, but authentic ain’t one of them. Did Ash know it was Kid, not me?”
“Nah. No one knows. No one who wasn’t there. Sure, we made up stuff. Had to to tell a good story. Did you like it?”
“I ain’t your best reader.”
“Me and Ash was broke. If they’d paid me for killing Kid like they was suppose to, we wouldn’t of done it. How’d you like the part about twenty-one men? That was pure Ash. I wanted twenty-eight, one more than Wes Hardin. Twenty-seven’s what the newspapers said about him. He claimed to of killed forty-two but that was a lie. You think we told some whoppers, you should read Wes’s book. I figured twenty-eight would make you a legend. Ash was better at legending. Twenty-one was poetry. One for every year of your sad young life.”
“You created a legend alright.”
“Problem is nobody’s bought it. Ash and me would of wound up in debtors’ prison if they hadn’t of changed the law. We thought we’d make us a fortune like Ned Buntline. Buntline made Bill Hickok and Bill Cody. ‘Wild Bill’ and ‘Buffalo Bill’? That was Buntline. You being Billy, we figured you was already half legendary. Ash put you and Kid together, come up with ‘Billy the Kid.’ We figured Ash’d out-Nedded old Ned. He wrote one hell of a story. I’ve talked so much about it I pret near believe it myself. Don’t know why it don’t sell.”
“Ash still around?”
“He died a few years back. Bad health. Too much alcohol. I took care of him some. Paid his saloon bills. Took him home some nights. Family wasn’t too happy but what could I do? Buried him myself. He was a good man. Hell of a writer too. I hated losing him.”
“How come you never got paid for killing Kid?”
“Needed a coroner’s report. They was one but I lost it. I come up with another, put Xs for witnesses’ signatures. They figured it was forgery.”
“Didn’t folks speak up about Billy the Kid being two hombres?”
“Hell, some of them newspapers’d already gotten you and Kid mixed up. Everybody was using an alias. It’s a wonder the papers got anyone straight. Most folks who knew better wouldn’t read the book. Those who might, who cares? Buntline trifled with the truth. No one objected as long as he told a good tale.”
“Ash told a good one.”
“What brings you back?”
“Cuba.”
“Cuba?”
“Cuba. Uncle Sam’s looking for volunteers to run off the Spanish.”
“I heard. Some guy name Roosterfelt or Roostertail is recruiting in San Antone next month.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a serious good time. Shooting Spaniards could be fine sport. Come with me.”
“Me? No. I get seasick thinking about boats. No, Billy, you go free the heathens. Become a hero. The Authentic Life cost me nothing but money. Make a name for yourself in Cuba, maybe I’ll turn a profit yet.”
CHAPTER 26Cuba Libre
I wish there was no fighting. I wish there was no war. I wouldn’t take a
thousand dollars for my experience, but I don’t want five cents more.
—TROOPER BEN COLBERT, Diary, JULY 12, 1898
THREE WEEKS LATER I STOPPED at the Alamo. San Antonio had grown up around the old church since I was there. The church was in sadder shape than I remembered. I walked through it thinking about Travis and Bowie and Crockett holding off Santa Anna’s federales for thirteen days. Two hundred men against two thousand. We could of used a few of those boys in Lincoln the day the army showed up with a Gatling gun and a howitzer.
I took a room in the Menger Hotel down the street from the Alamo. Next day I learned that San Antonio was a training ground, not a recruiting camp. Recruiting was elsewhere and it was over. Colonel Roosevelt had his men. Called them Rough Riders. Figured me and Maddie’d come two thousand miles for nothing. Was about to head out when I heard that a couple of boys’d skinned out shortly after showing up. I talked my way onto the training ground. After proving my skills with a gun and a horse I was the last recruit.
Two days later Colonel Roosevelt hisself showed. He was Secretary of Navy or some such thing and had recently been made a lieutenant colonel. He was an eastern gent but he’d been a rancher and lawman in the Dakota Territory. He knew something of the cowhands in town. The Menger’d put up signs saying Roosevelt would meet recruits in the saloon that evening. As the saloon filled, the crowd spilled into the dining hall and out into the street. Cowhands were thirty or more deep around open windows.
Roosevelt told us the Cubans were fighting for freedom like the patriots at the Alamo. We remembered the Alamo he said. It was time to remember the Maine. That was the ship that started the war when it sank. He read Travis’s letter addressed to the people of Texas and all Americans. Toward the end he paused to say that Travis was talking to us. Then he read the last lines: “If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor and that of his country. Victory or death.” The crowd erupted in whoops of “Victory or death.” Whiskey bottles hit the walls. Gunfire filled the night sky. The town was in riot. The party was still going when I passed out in the small hours.
Most of the recruits were skilled with hardware and horses. During the weeks of training it was the marching that was the biggest challenge. Roosevelt called me out one day for being out of step.
“Sorry, Colonel,” I said. “I can step pretty good on a horse.”
After a train took us to Florida we spent more weeks with other outfits, waiting. The boredom was torture, especially when it was rumored that we might not get to Cuba. Most of the Rough Riders were cowhands, prospectors, hunters. Hombres used to rough work and long hours, not idleness. Whiskey and card games and occasional fights were our chief entertainment. When the ships finally arrived they were short by half. Half the men and near all the horses would stay behind. My regiment was one of the lucky ones. I’d brought Maddie with me but I left her in Tampa. The army promised to look after her till I returned.
On board ship I met Jack Davis, a cowboy from Montana. About ten years older than me. He�
��d served under General Crook during the Sioux campaign. After Rosebud Creek he was headed to the Little Big Horn when Crook decided to give his boys a rest. Jack wished they hadn’t. If Crook had gone on they might of saved Custer. Or they might of been massacred. Jack missed army life and was glad to get one more shot at it.
Jack had with him a feist named Taco he’d picked up in Tampa. He was our regimental mascot. Some of the other regiments had mascots too. A prospector’d brought an eagle from Arizona. A cowboy brought a lion cub from New Mexico. Another roped a pig when we stopped at a siding in Alabama. Taco was the only mascot to make it to Cuba.
Halfway to Cuba we hit bad weather. Waves crashed over the deck. The ship rocked right angles from port to starboard and back. Most of the boys were sick. Horses too. The hold stank of vomit, piss, and shit. When we got to Cuba we were all green. A few horses had broke legs and had to be put down.
The Daiquirí harbor was beautiful the morning we arrived. Wide beaches lined with palm trees, mountains rising out back. The sea was swollen from the storm but the sky was clear. Sapphire like the sea. Like the skies in New Mexico. The swells were six to eight feet high. The landing boats and ships rocked in opposite directions. We had to jump to the boats as they came up and the ship went down. If we missed we might be crushed between the hulls. Men broke arms, legs. Two drowned. Weighted down with heavy loads, they sank like stones. Rescuers had to cut off their packs before hauling them to the surface.
Horses and mules had the worst of it. No landing boats for them. They were herded off the backs of ships and had to swim to shore. Some broke legs as they fell on top of one another. Some drowned. I was glad I left Maddie in Tampa. One string was headed for Florida till a bugler on shore got them turned around.
“Them’s Seventh Cavalry stock,” Jack said. “That ole boy’s playing ‘Garryowen.’”
Jack and Taco and me boarded the landing craft without mishap. We were carrying provisions for a couple of days. The rest of our provisions never arrived. Maybe lost at sea. Maybe never shipped. A Horseman of the Apocalypse had joined our regiment. We’d see the other three before we’d get home.
Daiquirí was a ghost town. Cubans ran off when the war started and the Spaniards left when our warships fired on them. We didn’t stick around either. We headed for Siboney seven miles away. It was a rough slog, especially for the cowboys used to traveling on horseback. We marched through the mountains at a dogtrot with sixty-pound loads.
The island was a furnace. Not even the rain gave relief. Mosquitoes were the worst of it. Taco constantly snapped at the ones buzzing his face. Mosquitoes were in our eyes, our mouths. They swarmed our backsides when we dropped our drawers. One flew in my ear and tap-danced on my eardrum. That’s as near crazy as I’ve ever been. Tried poking the little bastard with a twig. When that didn’t work I tilted my head sideward and drowned it in gun oil.
Every man jack was exhausted when we settled in for the night at Siboney. Next morning half the men tossed their breakfasts. I had a headache. Jack had the running shits. We were headed to a mountain pass called Las Guásimas two hours away. Spaniards were waiting for us. Jack was in no condition to move but he was no quitter.
“Didn’t come here to fall to fever,” he said. “If I’m ending my days on this dunghill it’s with a bullet. Help get me going, Bill.”
I grabbed his gear and we set off after Roosevelt. Instead of taking the road from Siboney to Santiago, Roosevelt picked a cattle path through the jungle. Cuba is hilly country. The cattle path wandered through the worst of it. Between the heat and the sickness, the hills and the pace, troopers dropped like ticks off deer. If they weren’t dropping theirselves they were dropping ponchos, tents, blankets, rations. Pretty much everything but carbines and ammunition. Jack could barely drag hisself. I gave him a hand over the worst of it. Troopers passed us as we pushed through the jungle. By the time we reached the hornets’ nest at Las Guásimas we were at the back of the pack.
There was a large field in front of us. Spaniards in the jungle across the way were firing Mausers with smokeless powder, making them near invisible. The Mausers fired several rounds to every one from our Springfields and Krags. As lead whizzed overhead, leaves rained down like on a fall day. I left Jack and moved to the front, firing blind. When a troop of Rough Riders to my left charged across the field, the spooks materialized, exposing their backsides as they took to the hills. The fighting was over. It’d lasted a couple of hours.
Spaniards had heavy casualties. We lost a few. A few more were wounded. Major Alexander Brodie was one. Remember him in the Apache War? He remembered you. Thought you were one hell of a scout. Said you were half Mexican, half Irish, whole sonofabitch. He survived and was governor of Arizona Territory for a while.
After the fighting I went looking for Jack. He was lying on his back. Taco was curled up beside him.
“Slept through the skirmish,” Jack said as he nodded toward Taco. “Not them buzzards. They’ve been eying us.”
He raised his Krag and fired. A black bird dropped from the sky. The rest drifted over the ridge. Taco went over to investigate.
“Ain’t that bad luck?” I asked.
“Bad luck for the bird,” he said. “His own damn fault.”
After weeks of training and days of idleness, sickness, and misery, the day ended in celebration. That night, while we were eating supper and after the whooping’d quieted, an Irish boy sang “The Vacant Chair.”
We shall meet, but we shall miss him.
There will be one vacant chair.
We shall linger to salute him,
While we say our evening prayer.
The conversations within earshot dropped away. Even the crickets stopped calling. That ole boy could make a glass eye cry.
We held up for the next week, waiting for orders, surviving on guinea hens and land crabs. We shot the hens. The crabs hid in burrows but would come out when we tapped the ground. When it was time to move out, Jack’s fever had passed. Mine was cranking up. My head was full of butterflies, my body was a furnace. Jack carried my gear. We spent the better part of the day slugging through the mud. The rain had stopped but the heat and humidity was like a sweat lodge. We spent the night camped in the tall grass beside the road, clutching whatever sleep we could. One of the buffalo soldiers next to us had dropped his blanket on the march to Las Guásimas. Jack split his blanket and gave half to the trooper.
Next morning I woke to shells exploding overhead. They were bad but the explosions in my head were worse. Shrapnel rained down on us. We scattered like quail behind a nearby hill, every man for hisself. The trooper who got Jack’s blanket was ahead of me when he tumbled into the mud. When I got to him blood was gushing from his neck. I sliced a rag from his blanket and shoved it against the wound. As long as I pressed the rag against him the blood held. If I lifted the rag, blood spurted again. I called for a medic but no one came.
When the shelling stopped, troopers moved out. The buffalo soldier and me were the last to leave. I held onto him until a couple of medics finally showed. They wrapped his neck and put him on a litter. He raised his hand to me as they hauled him off.
I caught up with my regiment at the base of San Juan Hill. It was the last redoubt before Santiago. Horses pulling guns up the hill were raked by sniper fire. Those that survived rolled across the bodies of compadres. When I found Jack I told him his blanket may of saved a soldier’s life.
A canebrake along the San Juan River blocked our route up San Juan Hill. To the right was a lower ridge we called Kettle Hill. It had a huge cast-iron sugar kettle on top. When bullets caromed off the kettle it rang like a bell. Our orders were to clear snipers from the hill and hold it. The problem was getting to the top alive. Hiding in the brakes was futile. We were turkeys in a shooting gallery.
Roosevelt was the only Rough Rider on horseback. He’d bought a bay in San Antonio. Named it Little Texas. Roosevelt rode among the troops cheering us on, blind to the bullets buzzing past.
<
br /> “Shoot out their eyes, boys,” he yelled. “You’ll spoil their aim.”
He caught some shrapnel once. That was it. Sniping at him was like shooting a spook. But troopers around him fell thick as autumn leaves. We might of all been killed if Sergeant Porter hadn’t shown up with Gatling guns. The sound of guns spraying snipers at seven pops a second was as sweet as the patter of spring rain. Troopers cheered.
As Roosevelt rode past he roared, “Quit lollygagging, men. Charge!”
He spurred Little Texas toward the base of the hill. Troopers poured out of the brakes screaming like prophets of doom. Roosevelt ran into a fence halfway up the hill and leapt from Little Texas. Troopers caught up with him and raced one another to the top. Lobos swift to the kill. Snipers abandoned their hideouts and sprinted for the Spanish line.
“Backsides make good targets,” Roosevelt roared. “Make every bullet count.”
A sniper ran toward Roosevelt, waving a saber. The colonel leveled his Colt and fired. The sniper folded like a tent. By the time I reached the top of the ridge Rough Riders were whooping. Roosevelt was doing a war dance. Our boys had routed the Spanish from the ridge.
I looked for Jack but he wasn’t around. I went back down the hill and found him snagged in the fence. A buzzard was eyeing him from a few paces away. Taco was standing between them, growling, his hackles up. I shot the buzzard. Taco went over to investigate. Jack lifted his head. I pulled him from the fence and laid him on the ground. Taco came back and licked his face. Jack smiled. His clothes were ripped. He was neck to knee in blood.
“I figured you for dead.”
“Kindly figured so myself. This here’s the worst of it.”
He opened his jacket. He was gutshot.
“Hang on. I’ll find a medic.”
“Won’t do no good, Bill. I’ll be gone afore he gets here. Stay with me.”
I sat down beside him, flipping away a land crab with my boot. The fever was kicking in. I closed my eyes to stop the fandango.
The Gospel According to Billy the Kid Page 16