Billy the Kid

by Theodore Taylor

  Willie nodded an acknowledgment, and Kate knew they wouldn't discuss it again. This breed of man—and they were both the same in many ways—had a manner of dismissing death. Perhaps it was best.

  Willie changed the subject. "Hope you don't mind me askin' you why you're stoppin' trains. Especially in my county?

  Billy grunted. "How did I know? How did I know you were sheriffing? Maybe you ought to pass word that you're the law here?"

  "That doesn't tell me what you were doin' up by marker 416."

  Billy sighed. Life seemed to be one long explanation. "Till ten days ago, Willie, I was the poorest cowboy in Arizona. That's pure fact. I had misfortune like it was a sickness."

  Willie rubbed his long jaw uneasily. "Juries are startin' to take a dim view of bad luck. Yuma jail's full of it."

  Billy ripped a biscuit. "What do you think I'll get? TWo years? If they pass out pardons the way they used to, that'll mean six months. I can stand that. Don't look forward to it, o' course."

  Willie cast a worried glance at Kate. Her eyes held the same concern. Billy couldn't have known, but the laws had changed. Railroad robbery in the territory was now an automatic hanging sentence, but the last pair of holdup men had been commuted to life. Billy would have to settle for that. Being Billy, he'd break out.

  After a silent moment, Kate spoke optimistically. "Why, honey, he came here to the sheriff's house, surrendered, turned over every nickel, dime, dollar, watch, gold ring..."

  Willie exploded, "He did what?"

  Billy caught on and grinned. "You saw me out there, Willie. A Iamb come to slaughter ... a terrible sinner askin' for forgiveness, jus' oozin' repentance, my hands high in the air, my gun in the dirt, beggin' you..."

  Kate began to laugh, then all three of them broke up.

  3

  ABOUT ELEVEN THIRTY in the morning, the sheriff and Billy trotted toward Polkton along the road they'd so often traveled together.

  Willie said thoughtfully, "You know, I just might lose money on you."

  Billy glanced over, puzzled.

  "I figure you went about two hundred forty miles, an' at thirty cents a mile, that's seventy-two dollars for my troubles. I get two more for serving the felony warrant, which I'll draw up in the morning. But then I got to pay for the pack mule, four days' tracker grub..."

  "You on piecework?" Billy asked.

  The sheriff laughed. "Almost."

  Billy fell into a thoughtful silence. After another hundred yards, he said, "I'd really hate for you to lose money on me, Willie. That wouldn't be right."

  Willie frowned over at him. "I'm glad you finally know right from wrong."

  "If you'll jus' look the other way, half of this saddlebag'll spill out while I dig some meat hooks into this mare..."

  Willie chuckled. "That sounds like bribery."

  Billy shrugged. "Jus' an idea."

  They trotted on, horses moving easily on the fine-dusted road.

  "Shame I didn't stick to ranchin'," Billy said.

  Willie remained silent.

  "If you hadn't gotten married, no tellin' we might have had the best ranch in this county."

  Willie glanced over. "I wasn't going to bring Kate up again. Not unless you did."

  There was a silence for a short stretch. Billy punctured it. "Nothin' happened," he said. "I didn't lay a finger on her."

  Willie's laugh was hollow but certain. "I know that."

  Billy's head whipped around. "Well, don't be so damn sure it couldn't happen."

  Willie stiffened.

  "In fact, Willie, I think Kate may be gettin' tired of bein' married to seven square feet of the Rock of Ages. Deacon Monroe, damn me!"

  Willie glared over at his friend, shaking his head.

  "Boy, when you reformed, you went all the way," the prisoner said.

  "I didn't know you were an expert on marriages." Willie's voice had an edge.

  "I'm an expert on women."

  "The kind that sleep under saloon tables," Willie snorted.

  They got to Polkton about 12:40.

  ***

  THE ONLY OBJECTS marring the surface of the desk were two feather pens in an onyx holder and an ornate cigar box. The morning sun, arrowing through the second-floor windows of the courthouse, made it glisten. P. J. Wilson was fussy-woman neat.

  There was a bay rum smell in the air and P.J.'s face glowed from a new shave. His brown boots gleamed, as did his square fingernails. With a persuasive tongue, always impressive In front of a jury, eyes on better places than Polkton, he seldom lost a case.

  He intoned, "You won't get sympathy from the railroads, Sheriff. They're after necks. They got that hanging law passed. Rob a train, you swing. Billy will."

  Willie hated being in the sterile office asking for a favor. But Wilson was the only key to keeping Billy Bonney off a rope. If the kid pleaded guilty, avoiding a trial, the judge would be inclined to accept Wilson's recommendation for clemency.

  Willie said earnestly, "But he gave himself up. Nobody was hurt on the train. I've got everything they took. Billy had it all."

  Wilson's bushy eyebrows elevated. "All of it?"

  Nodding, Willie replied, "They got into an argument. Billy got the drop and rode off with it." There's no need to tell Pete, Willie thought, about the corpse that was back on the mesa. It will complicate the case. I'll mention it later.

  "All the bank's money?" Wilson was incisive.

  "Every dollar! Pete, full recovery alone is enough for a leniency plea. Don't persecute him because he happens to be a friend of mine, or because of a silly thing that happened between you two a long time ago." Billy had flung a beer in lawyer Wilson's face after an argument in Ashby's saloon.

  Wilson appeared to be listening carefully, but it was difficult to determine his degree of sympathy. He'd had a calculating look when Willie had entered the office.

  "Suppose he throws himself on the mercy of the court," Willie ventured.

  "And?"

  Willie made an effort to keep impatience from his voice. "In six months he could apply for clemency. I'll personally guarantee he'll never enter the territory again."

  "But the railroads—"

  Willie interrupted hotly, "Pete, there isn't anything else on his record. Listen to me."

  Wilson flexed his jaw, looked around at the office a moment, reached over, and selected a thin cigar from the ornate box; he lit it, sucked on it, scratched his neck below his ear, and then said, "Well, Sheriff, I don't know."

  Willie swallowed his pride, realizing he'd have to beg. "Give him a break, Pete. I'm pleading."

  Wilson smiled slightly and Willie felt his stomach turn.

  "All right," he said reluctantly. "Get me the names of the other men involved, and I'll put a lot of strong thought into helping..." He paused and then finished with open distaste, "...Billy Bonney."

  Willie made himself say, "Thanks."

  He got up and walked toward the door, feeling Wilson's eyes in the small of his back. As he reached for the knob, Wilson called out, "I hear you manhandled Earl Cole the other night. He was just trying to be helpful." Wilson and Cole were longtime good friends, of course.

  Uneasiness growing again, Willie replied, "That's one side of the story, Pete." He went out.

  ***

  BILLY WORKED HIS shoulders against the bars that lined the short corridor on the top jail floor. Willie sat on the cot nearby, a tablet on his lap.

  "I got to think about it, Willie. I really do," Billy said.

  Willie knew he was wrestling with that old "honor among thieves" code. Billy had never been one to point a finger. Always he'd rather face a whip, Willie remembered. He'd had that particular stubborn streak long before he'd stopped a train.

  Billy crossed to the cot to pick up his ocarina. He blew a few notes on it. "It, ah ... opens up some other things."

  Willie frowned at him, wondering what the "other things" might be. He'd ask later, he decided. "Just write their names down, when you write the co
nfession. I'll give it to Pete," he said, extending the tablet.

  Billy looked uncertain.

  "If you turn witness, Wilson said he'd help."

  "If I don't?"

  Willie answered flatly, "A rope."

  The hollowed sweet-potato-shaped ocarina fell from his hand to the cot. "How's that?"

  "While you were in Mexico, the railroads got a law passed. Train robbery's death."

  Billy let out a slow whistle.

  "Think about it," Willie said. "You gonna trade your Adam's apple for a coupla drifters?" Willie rose and started for the door, the tablet still in his hand.

  "Leave it."

  "Now we'll get somewhere."

  Billy smiled cautiously. "Away from a rope."

  "Who were they, Billy?" Willie asked.

  "Three guys who said their names was Smith."

  Willie was baffled. "All with the same name?"

  "Father and two sons. Art, Perry, and Joe."

  Willie's frown widened. "How'd they look?"

  Billy described them, and then the sheriff muttered, "You do pick 'em."

  "What's wrong?"

  Willie laughed glumly. "Unless I miss my guess, you hooked up with Art Williams."

  Billy frowned.

  "And they're from Texas."

  "How d'you know?"

  "They've only got about thirty thousand dollars on their heads in four states. Bank robbery, train robbery, two counts of murder. I forget what else. I should have kept goin' after them."

  Billy nodded, then smiled. "I'd agree to that."

  Willie said, "It's not funny. Write your confession. I'll get it later."

  As the sheriff opened the door, Billy spoke up. "You know, I coulda killed you last night. Long before Kate butted in."

  "Why didn't you?"

  Billy's grin broadened. "I jus' keep makin' these dumb mistakes, Willie Next time"

  "Uh-huh," Willie grunted, then shouted down the corridor toward the jailer's office, "Frank, come lock this door. Got a dangerous man in here"

  As Frank Phillips approached, Billy said, "Say hello to Kate for me She ever makes any extra those biscuits, jus' dump 'em in here"

  Willie got his gun off the small stand in the corridor. "That reminds me," he said, buckling it on and looking over at Billy. "I'm going to take her away for a few days. I decided riding home last night."

  Billy smiled knowingly. "Do that! Women like trips."

  Willie flared. "But that's about all you're expert in, besides guns."

  "I'll be glad to come with you," said Billy, grinning.

  At the top of the stairs, Willie waited for Phillips to finish with Billy's cell. Then he told him in a low voice, "Frank, do me a favor. Take care of Billy. You know, a little extra on his plate He won't give you any problem."

  Phillips glanced back toward Billy. "Anything you say, Sheriff."

  Willie added, "Don't mention it to Pete Wilson, huh?"

  The jailer nodded.

  "And oh, Frank, I'm leavin' Almanac here. Get some new shoes on him."

  Phillips nodded again and Willie continued down the steps, his voice floating back, loudly now, "He wouldn't need 'em if I hadn't had to ride all over creation..."

  Billy laughed.

  ***

  LATER, BILLY WAS PRONE on the cot, tootling the ocarina, when Sam Pine brought a prisoner up. Sam paused to toss a sack of Bull Durham into the cell. Billy stopped playing to say thanks.

  "Where'd you learn to play that thing?" Sam asked.

  Billy examined the clay sweet potato rather than looking at the deputy. He'd had twenty ocarinas if he'd had one They didn't ride too well in a saddlebag. "You might not believe it, but my mother was a piano teacher."

  "You should have stuck to the piano," Sam advised drily.

  Billy grinned over, spotting the new prisoner. "Welcome, friend," he said. "My name's Bonney."

  The man had a thin body, thin face He looked almost tubercular.

  "How'd you get so unlucky?" Billy asked in a friendly tone.

  The man didn't answer, so Sam answered for him. "Name's Dobbs. He broke a girl's jaw down on Saloon Row 'bout an hour ago. We'll cool him off for a day. She don't want to press charges."

  Billy chided, "That's no way to treat females. Give 'em love"

  He began blowing the ocarina as Sam Pine put Dobbs into the next cell.

  After Sam went down the steps, Dobbs came up to the bars. "It's all over Saloon Row about you," he said. "Sheriff's friend."

  Billy put the ocarina down.

  Dobbs said, "I hear you're going to get the gallows."

  "Oh?"

  4

  WHIPPED DOWN BY HEAT and blowing sand, Art and Perry straggled into Colterville for grub, a night's rest, and a forefoot shoe for Art's roan. They were in a foul mood.

  The copper-mine town was as mealy as McLean, squatting on pink grime in a handful of tin-roofed frame buildings. A rail spur and Bates's freighters out of Polkton fed and clothed it. Aside from cactus patches, there wasn't a piece of green within five miles.

  They'd gone seventy wandering miles south, without whiff or sight of Billy Bonney, and a complaining Perry was all for washing it out. He wanted to drop below the border, hole up in Cananea for a spell, maybe then go on to El Paso, think about robbing a bank.

  But Art, though weary, was still possessed. He knew he'd never get a good night's sleep—in Texas, Arkansas, or any other place—until he could see Joe's killer over a shotgun bead.

  Now they were in Colterville's general store, up at the counter, arousing little curiosity from the few afternoon customers. Because it was a jumping-off place for the deserts below, red-eyed men like themselves frequently paused for replenishment. No questions were asked. No one cared.

  On the silent metallic slopes outside, under a dazzling blue sky, light wind picked up the dust and whirled it up into fleeting cones. A rig jingled by, mules plodding. Down the street an anvil rang. The roan would be ready soon for the ride to the border.

  Art's sun-punished eyes tiredly scanned the shelves as he called off the minimum supplies he thought they'd need.

  Earlier, studying a territory map of the basin, he'd clicked off the places south where Billy might go. There were four towns, of any size at all, to the border. Billy would likely be in one of them, he thought. With money and an itch to spend it, he'd find himself a first-class crib and relax a few days. If he didn't do that, he'd at least alight long enough to have a drink, buy grub. Someone would see him. Someone would know where he'd gone.

  Then Art's gaze fell on the thin stack of the Polkton weekly. He frowned at a headline: Train Robber Surrenders to Sheriff. He stepped closer to the stack, putting on his specs.

  Meaty hands jumping in sudden excitement, he lifted the top copy and held it to the layer of sun that penetrated the dim store. "Perry," he said, in a breathless whisper, "look here. Look!"

  Perry leaned in.

  Art read on, amazed. There was just no way of calculating what that kid lunatic would do next. Joe's death had been enough of a blow, but now Billy had gone and handed over the saddlebag.

  Perry opened his mouth to speak, but Art rasped, "Later."

  He turned back to the counter, again seething inwardly. Yet he was calm and polite, drawling softly, as he canceled the grub order, making the excuse that they'd stay around a day or two longer in Colterville.

  "Got a hotel here?" he asked the storekeeper.

  The aproned man shook his head. "Roomin' house, that's all. Yale's. On up the street, toward the mine."

  Art smiled. "Sure a friendly little town here."

  Art bought the paper, saying he wanted to read about the big fire in Cleveland, and then they clumped out to begin walking in the direction of the ringing anvil.

  "Nothin' we can do," said Perry lifelessly. He wasn't too unhappy that Billy had been put away. Ever since McLean and the dancing bullets, not to mention Dunbar's Rocks, Perry had considered the possibility that Art might be winged if
they stumbled upon Billy. Then Perry would have to face the gunfighter alone. Perry knew he wasn't a match.

  Art glanced at his oldest son with disapproval but kept a thoughtful silence. They stopped a moment to let a mine wagon rumble past.

  "Let's git outta here tomorrow, else we'll wind up where Billy is," Perry continued, in the wake of the wagon.

  Art snapped, "They got the money, an' Billy. That's all they want right now. You read it."

  "Well, Pa, I think—"

  Art scoffed, "Askin' sheriffs south of here an' along the border to keep a lookout for us ain't gonna git 'em anywhere. Besides, the newspaper said there's three of us. Stop frettin'."

  They trudged on down the wide street.

  Just before they reached the smithy, Art stopped. "Made up my mind. We're goin' to Polkton."

  Perry sucked his breath in. "'Polkton'?" He showed alarm.

  Art seemed his old self again. He'd shaken off despair. The blocky face was set, gray eyes charged. "If the jail up there is anything like Texas, not even rats'll crawl after midnight. Jailer's asleep. All you hear's snores, Perry. No one's around. We'll visit the jail."

  Perry's forehead bunched in a worried frown as he stared at his father.

  Art nodded resolutely. "Yessir, I'm gonna wake Billy Bonney up 'bout ten seconds before I shoot 'im. Jus' long enough to let him know it's me. How you like that, Perry? Then we'll get our money back."

  ***

  KATE SAID, "Let's try it."

  Kneeling on the kitchen floor beside her husband, she watched as he tightened the bolt on the new wringer handle.

  "What'll they invent next?" he marveled.

  "Maybe an indestructible woman," Kate answered bittersweetly, rising to fish a sopping pair of long johns out of the sink.

  He glanced at her contemplatively. He took a turn on the lugs that held the wringer to the wooden tub. "We haven't been anywhere in a long time." He made an effort to say it offhandedly, to surprise her.

  Kate stopped the movement of the heavy underwear. Water droplets hit the floor. Her eyes narrowed. "That cow did kick you."

  He pretended to study the wringer. "Right in the head."

  Kate dumped the soggy johns into the tub, trying to analyze the expression on his face. "You mean what I think you mean?"