Falcon turned down the wick so the light was dim. “Take a seat at the table. I’ll boil a pot of coffee while you tell me the whole story.”
The Kid slumped into a hand-made hide-backed chair. “Me an’ Barlow rode to Fort Sumner. We went to the dance they was havin’ there. Afterwards, we went to my friend Jesus Silva’s house so he could fix us somethin’ to eat.”
“Was Garrett at Fort Sumner?” Falcon asked, stoking the potbelly with sticks of firewood before adding a few dippers of water to a smoke-blackened coffeepot, then a handful of beans after he put the pot on the stove.
“We had a few folks warn us that Garrett an’ two deputies were in the vicinity earlier that day, but I guessed he’d cleared out when we didn’t see no sign of him.”
“Go on,” Falcon said, coming over to the table, examining the Kid’s face in the lamplight.
“We was hungry for beef, since we’d been hidin’ out in the hills for so long. Jesus said Pete Maxwell had a side of beef fresh killed, hanging on a corner of his porch. I offered to go cut a slice off it, only Barlow said he’d go. He took a knife an’ went across them dark streets to Maxwell’s while me an’ Jesus talked about things, about how bad it has gotten for us here in Lincoln County.”
When the Kid hesitated, Falcon said, “Tell me what happened next.”
“I heard two or three shots. I pulled my pistol an’ went runnin’ outside.”
“The shots came from Maxwell’s place?”
“That general direction. That’s when I heard voices, only I didn’t actually recognize but one of ’em.”
“That’d be Pat Garrett.”
“Right. Garrett said, ’that was the Kid, and I think I’ve got him’.”
“But it was Barlow he shot?” Falcon asked.
“Yeah. Shot him dead. Then this voice I didn’t recognize said, ’Pat, you’ve shot the wrong man!’ real loud.”
“What did Garrett say?”
“He said to pull the body inside so they could see him in the light, but he was sure it was me—the Kid—he’d killed.”
“So they pulled the body into Maxwell’s place, where they could see the dead man’s face.”
“Right, an’ that’s when this different voice . . . I figure it was Tip McKinney . . . said, ’He don’t even look like the Kid, Pat. I think you shot the wrong man. Besides, the Kid wouldn’t come to this place. It’d be too dangerous for him.’ ”
“What happened afterward?”
“That’s the really strange thing, Falcon. I was havin’ trouble making out what they was sayin’, so I edged around the corner of the house I was hidin’ behind, an’ Pat looked up and saw me, plain as day.”
Falcon’s eyes narrowed before he turned to the pot on the stove and took it and poured them cups of steaming, black coffee.
Then he sat across the table from the Kid, pulled out a cigar, and lighted it. After a couple of puffs to get it going, he took a tentative sip of his coffee and leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
“Did Pat raise an alarm when he saw you?” he asked.
“No, an’ that’s the funny thing. He kind’a motioned me with his head to take off, like he’d almost expected to see me standin’ there.”
Falcon smoked thoughtfully for a moment, then leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, his fists together under his chin.
“So, you think by then he knew he shot the wrong man and was trying to hide it?”
Kid shook his head, eyebrows knit together. “No, I don’t think that was it at all, Falcon. I may be wrong, but I kind’a got the idea maybe Garrett did it on purpose, to give me a chance to make a break for it and start a new life somewhere’s else without John Law on my back trail.”
Falcon nodded, slowly. “I see your point, Kid. Even if he shot the wrong man, he could always have said the two of you were together and still raised an alarm and come after you.”
The Kid jerked his head up and down. “That’s the way I figured it, too, Falcon.”
“What did Pat do then, after he waved you off?”
“He told the other men to shut the door, an not to let nobody inside to view the body. That’s when the door closed and I didn’t hear no more voices.”
“But you knew Garrett shot the wrong man. If anyone else in Fort Sumner saw you after the shooting, the whole town would know about Garrett’s mistake.”
“Jèsus Silva knows, of course, from when I came runnin’ back into his house. I told him to run fetch my horse, that it would be too dangerous out there for me. I made up my mind to clear out of town and lay low, ’til I saw what Garrett aimed to do about killin’ Barlow, and to talk to you ’bout what I suspect Garrett’s doin’ by lettin’ me go.”
Falcon nodded. “I’ve seen Barlow. He looks a little bit like you.”
“Except for the beard,” the Kid explained. “And his skin is real dark, not like mine.”
“I was told they buried the Kid ... the body, early the next morning. Garrett himself had the coffin made and put Barlow in it and nailed the lid shut. He probably did that so anyone who knew you couldn’t get a look at the body.”
“That’s the way I figure it. An’ now Garrett’s applied to the territorial legislature to collect the reward that was posted for me.”
Falcon stared into the Kid’s eyes, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Garrett gets the reward money, and you get away with your life. That’s not a bad trade-off, Kid.”
“I ain’t got away yet. Somebody could still recognize me. That’s why I been hidin’ out up at Frank Lobato’s sheep camp and only ridin’ at night.”
“You took a big chance coming here,” Falcon observed. “You could have been followed.”
“I made sure I wasn’t.”
“Do you trust this Frank Lobato? And how about your friend Jesus Silva? Will they keep their mouths shut about what really happened?”
“They’re good friends, Falcon, ’bout as good as you.”
“But either one of them could challenge Pat Garrett’s claim to the reward if they brought you in, dead or alive.”
“I trust ’em not to do that.”
“A trusting nature can get a man killed, son.”
“Like I told you, they’ve been my friends through all this trouble. I’m bettin’ my life, I reckon, that neither one of ’em will ever say a word.”
Falcon got up to check on the coffee and pour another cup, a thoughtful frown creasing his face.
“I guess I wanted your advice on what to do,” the Kid said when Falcon said nothing more.
Falcon added wood to the stove. “There are two possibilities, the way I see it. Garrett made a simple mistake in the dark and he’s hoping to cover it up, figuring you’d be smart enough to head for parts unknown and never show back up here in the New Mexico Territory again.”
The Kid added his own thoughts. “Me an’ Pat were friends before this war started. I still believe he’s doin’ me a favor, lettin’ folks think he killed me on purpose when he knew all along it was Barlow on that porch.”
“Had you ever met John Poe or McKinney?”
The Kid wagged his head. “I believe it was you who first told me they came from down in Texas. I’ve never set eyes on either one.”
Falcon came back to the table. “That way, Garrett could pull it off, collect the reward, and do you a favor all at the same time, providing you weren’t seen leaving this part of the country.”
“I’d like to believe me an’ Pat were good enough friends so he’d do that.”
“You heard both of his deputies say the body didn’t resemble you physically,” Falcon continued, “but in spite of that he tells his men to pull the body inside and close the door . . . not to let anybody see it.”
“That’s just about exactly what was said.”
Falcon gave him a lopsided grin. “Garrett knew it was the wrong body. What we don’t know is whether he made an honest mistake, or if he meant to let you live. I don’t reckon it matters, unless
somebody sees you who can identify you.”
The Kid gave an uneasy glance out the cabin windows. “It’s my idea to take off for the Mexican border. Maybe go down to Sonora for a few years, where I’ve got some Yaqui Indian friends in the horse business.”
“I’d damn sure travel at night until I crossed the Rio Grande,” Falcon said
“I’d aimed to.”
“Later on, after you give it a few years for things to cool down, you could cross back into Texas some place. Only you’ll have to go by a different name.”
The Kid grinned weakly. “I’ve got a different name, a real one.”
“What do you mean by that?” Falcon asked.
“All these years, folks thought my name was Antrim, or some said it was McCarty. Then I took to usin’ Bonney for my last name, on account of it was my aunt’s real name. She was from up in Indian Territory. But ain’t none of ’em my actual birth name at all.”
Falcon chuckled. “Just what the hell is your name, Kid? You’ve used about as many as there are ticks on a dog.”
The Kid leaned back in his chair. “I was born William Henry Roberts, in Buffalo Gap, Texas, in eighteen fifty-nine. My daddy was called Wild Henry Roberts. My momma died when I was real young, an my daddy was meaner’n hell to me. So I ran off to live with my aunt Kathrine Bonney up in the Nations.”
Falcon was still chuckling softly. “So there’s nothing to that story about you being born in New York City?”
“I made it all up, ’cause I didn’t want my real daddy to find me. He’s powerful mean, an’ he’d give me a terrible whippin’ for runnin’ away like I done.”
“Then you’re really William Henry Roberts.” It was a statement, not a question.
“That’s right, Falcon. You’re the only one livin’ who knows the truth about who I am.”
The smell of coffee burning brought Falcon back over to the stove, where he poured two more tin cups of coffee. He put one in front of the Kid and tasted his own, blowing on it to cool it down a mite.
“Thanks,” the Kid muttered. “I sure do hope my secret will be safe with you.”
“It is,” Falcon said. He shook his head, grinning again. “I could never make folks believe this county’s most desperate outlaw was named Kid Roberts, anyway. They’d laugh me out of the territory.”
“Things’ll go better for me if everybody believes I’m Billy Bonney, an’ that I’m dead an’ buried at Fort Sumner. Garrett gets to collect the reward, an’ I can start a new life down in Mexico.”
“Just make sure you get there without being identified,” Falcon said solemnly. “Travel the back roads at night until you strike that river. They call it the Rio Bravo down there, and there’s plenty of shallow places to cross, especially this time of the year.”
“That’s just what I plan to do, only once again I ain’t got any food, like the last time I came to see you.”
“Food isn’t a problem, son,” Falcon said, walking over to a shelf laden with beans and flour and tins of peaches and tomatoes. “I can give you all you’ll need.”
“You’ve sure proved to be a mighty good friend, Falcon, and, God knows and I’ve learned those are few and far between.”
Falcon began sacking up staples for the Kid’s ride to the border. “Let’s just say I was young and foolish once. I hope you’ve learned a lesson from this. When you take up a gun, it can be your own death sentence. This time, you got lucky on that score. Another man lies buried in your grave. Try to remember that before you give any thought to taking another man’s life.”
“I won’t forget it,” the Kid promised, meaning every word.
Once he had the Kid’s saddlebags full of enough food for his upcoming journey, Falcon said, “Go on out there and feed and water your mount, then we’ll get some shuteye. You’re going to need to be well rested before you start your trip.”
“Well, I guess I’ll sleep in tomorrow, and lay about here restin’ up for the trip.”
“Yeah, it’s best if you take it easy and sleep tomorrow as much as you can. We can start out late in the day when the sun’s low in the sky, so it’ll be harder to get a fix on you if we come upon someone along the way.”
The Kid crinkled up his forehead, “What do you mean we, Falcon? You ain’t plannin’ on headin’ down to Mexico too, are ya?”
“No, Kid. But I’ve got some things I want to talk over with John Chisum tomorrow, and his South Spring Ranch is off to the south from here, so I can ride part way with you.” He paused and scratched his chin, “Might be useful to be two riders ’til you get closer to the border. That way, if we do run upon someone I can distract them while you hightail it the other way.”
The Kid gave a large yawn. “Sounds good to me, Falcon. It’ll be nice to have some company, for part of the way at least.”
He walked to the door, saying over his shoulder, “After I take care of my horse, I’m for gettin’ flat. I’ll see you in the morning.”
* * *
The Kid and Falcon spent most of the next day seeing to Kid’s horse’s shoes and gear, making sure they would hold up for the several week trip down into the interior of Mexico. Falcon spent some of the time trying to teach the Kid something about life on the trail, since for most of his life he’d been a city dweller.
Finally, a couple of hours before dusk, they mounted up and rode south, toward John Chisum’s South Spring Ranch.
The Kid took a deep breath and looked around as they rode.
“I’m sure gonna miss this part of the country, Falcon. The smell of pine and juniper, the creosote and sage blossoms in the spring, and the snow in the winter.”
He laughed. “Don’t ’spect I’ll be seein’ much of that down Sonora way.”
Falcon snorted. “Just don’t get to missing it too much, Kid. Not for a few years at least, until you can manage to put on a few pounds and grow some facial hair to hide your features.”
“I don’t intend to come back for quite a spell, and then I’ll probably head on over to Texas and see what that part of the country has come to since I been gone.”
Falcon nodded. “Glad to hear it, Kid.”
Thirty-six
Deke Slaton and Roy Cobb led a group of twenty-three Apache renegades to the edge of a pine forest ending at a north pasture of John Chisum’s South Springs Ranch. Dusk was spreading over a grassy expanse filled with grazing longhorn cattle. The young Apaches had slipped away from the Mescalero reservation to take the pay Slaton and Cobb were offering to rustle a sizable herd of Chisum’s cows.
Slaton and Cobb were handpicked men working for the head of the Santa Fe Ring, Thomas Catron. Catron had grown tired of the way Lawrence Murphey and Jimmy Dolan were bungling the affair in Lincoln County. The object was to put John Chisum out of the beef contract business so Catron and his partners could have all the government contracts for themselves.
“This is gonna be easy,” Deke said, sweeping the pasture with a wary eye. “No range riders. Nobody around. Hell, we didn’t need all these damn Injuns, after all.”
Roy glanced over his shoulder. The Mescalero Apaches were well armed with repeating rifles which Catron had sent down with Deke and Roy. Catron’s impatience with Dolan and Murphey had reached a boiling point, and now he was taking matters into his own hands.
Flat, coppery faces framed by straight, coal-black hair were turned toward Deke and Roy. Most of the Apaches wore leather leggings and deerskin shirts this time of year, while a few wore ragged U.S. Cavalry coats and pants stolen from the worn garment piles at Fort Stanton. These young warriors were weary of reservation life and looking for excitement, and when the pay was right they were willing to do a little stealing or even killing in order to earn it.
“It won’t hurt to have ’em,” Roy said. “They can help us drive off damn near every one of them longhorns to Catron’s packin’ house west of Santa Fe. They’ll be hung carcasses of beef before Chisum ever misses ’em.”
“I was expectin’ a fight,” Deke said.<
br />
“The fight’s gone out of what’s left of them socalled Regulators since Sheriff Garrett killed Billy the Kid,” Roy said, as if he was well-informed on the subject. “He was kinda their leader. Everybody thought he was bulletproof until the other night.”
“Maybe now Chisum’s pulled in his horns,” Deke added, giving the cattle a final look before he signaled the Indians to spread out and start driving them north. The herd would easily number two hundred head.
Roy nodded. “Let’s get this done, Deke. There’s still one dangerous friend of Chisum’s out there someplace, the big gent named Falcon MacCallister. He’s killed off a bunch of Dolan’s boys an’ made it look easy. I heard he blowed Jesse Evans right out of his boots, and Jesse was one of the best with a gun I ever saw, next to you.”
Deke prided himself on his reputation with guns, pistols or rifles. Because of his reputation, Thomas Catron was paying him very well to pull off this raid on Chisum.
“We was told this MacCallister hadn’t really taken a side—only that he was a friend of Chisum’s an’ if he happened to be near where there was any trouble over Chisum’s stock he’d use his guns to lend Chisum a hand. Besides, you can’t believe half the stories these locals tell. Accordin’ to them, this Falcon is damn near a killin’ machine. Ain’t nobody that good . . . not even me. I miss a few from time to time.”
“I sure as hell hope MacCallister don’t cross trails with us while we’re drivin’ off this herd,” Roy said.
Deke grinned. “That’s why we’ve got nearly twenty-five Injuns with us, Roy. If MacCallister shows up, we’ll send ’em all after him. He’d need a damn Gatlin gun to stop this bunch of renegades.”
“Let’s go,” Roy said. “It’s gettin’ dark.”
Upon a signal from Deke, the mounted Apaches began to spread out south of the herd, to begin driving them north toward Santa Fe.
The sun dropped below the horizon, filling the hills and valleys with purpling shadows. The half-wild range cattle were reluctant to move in a bunch at first, until the Indians and Deke and Roy were able to get them settled and headed north in a strung-out group.
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