by Jane Toombs
When they’d rolled themselves in their blankets in the snow, Mark said to Garrett, “Does
Billy still wear that wide-brimmed sombrero with the Irish-green hatband?”
“Still does. That’s how I figure I’ll know it’s him if the light’s not good.”
Mark lay shivering in the cold, unable to sleep. He was a deputy marshal, attached to a sheriff’s posse. It was up to him to carry out Garrett’s orders.
But he knew he wasn’t going to be able to pull the trigger of his Winchester if Billy came out that door the next morning and Garrett signaled to shoot. Not unless Billy was shooting at him.
Before dawn the posse was in position along the sides of the rock house and in front, huddled in their blankets with rifles ready. Sounds from inside the house made Mark tense in anticipation. A gunman, his coat collar pulled up around his neck and face against the cold, stepped through the doorway, a horse’s nosebag in his hand. He wore a wide-brimmed sombrero.
Mark glanced down the sights of his rifle. He couldn’t be sure whether it was Billy or not. He looked sideways at Garrett.
Garrett raised his Winchester.
A volley of shots rang out, every man shooting except Mark.
The man screamed. Staggered backward. His hat rolled into the snow. Hands yanked him back through the doorway into the rock house, but not before Mark saw who he was.
Charlie Bowdre.
They’d shot the wrong man.
“Charlie’s dying,” a man shouted from inside a few seconds later. “He wants to surrender and he’s coming out.”
““Okay,” Garrett shouted back. “We won’t shoot.” Bowdre tottered out into the snow. His pistol was clutched in his hand but pointing down, unaimed. He staggered directly toward Garrett, blood running from his mouth, face sagging with pain.
“I wish,” he gasped, “I wish…” He vomited blood onto the snow.
“I’m dying,” he whispered and pitched forward.
Garrett caught him before he hit the ground and eased him down. “Sorry, Charlie,” he muttered, “my mistake.”
Mark turned from the dead man, his attention caught by the movement of one of the tethered horses. Someone from inside was trying to pull the animal into the house.
“No you don’t,” Garrett growled as the horse clopped into the doorway. He aimed. Fired.
The horse dropped in its tracks, blocking the entrance.
Garrett aimed again and shot through the tethers of the two remaining horses.
They bolted away from the rock house.
“How’re you doing?” he called to the men inside.
“Pretty well. Course we’d like some breakfast,” someone answered. Mark recognized
Billy’s voice.
“Come out and be sociable,” Garrett told him.
“Can’t do it, Pat. Too busy.”
Mark shook his head at the cheerfulness in Billy’s voice. It didn’t sound forced.
My God, they were trapped inside the place and he must know it. They had two horses with them, but there was no chance now to make a break for freedom with the dead horse in the doorway.
The sun shone dully through high clouds as it climbed the sky. It shed no warmth and the icy wind blasted from the north. Garrett sent half the men back to Wilcox’s ranch to eat and, when they returned, took the other half there and made arrangements for supplies to be sent to the site of the siege for the evening meal.
As Mark carried wood to their fire, he saw a riderless horse picking its way out of the hut over the dead animal. A second horse followed the first. “They’re sick of the stench,” Stewart said. “Horses ain’t good house guests.”
Two of the deputies spotted a side of beef over the fire and soon its mouth-watering smell made the men smile in anticipation. Mark thought of the outlaws inside the house who hadn’t eaten since they’d left Wilcox’s, and he smiled, too. Garrett was as full of tricks as an Apache warrior.
A few minutes later a white rag waved vigorously from the hut’s chimney. “Parley!” someone inside called. “We want to discuss terms.”
“Show yourself, hands in the air, and we’ll talk,” Garrett agreed.
Dave Rudabaugh stepped through the doorway and stood blinking in the light. “We’ll toss you our guns if you promise you won’t shoot,” Dave yelled. “We want out of here alive.
You agree?”
“I agree,” Garrett said. “You have my promise.”
Colts and Winchesters thudded into the snow. One by one the men emerged, hands in the air. Rudabaugh. Wilson. Pickett. Billy the Kid.
Garrett fed the prisoners a beef dinner before everyone mounted to make the long, cold ride back to Sumner. Mark rode ahead to the Wilcox ranch.
Tessa was in the kitchen ladling stew into a bowl.
“Ezra’s better,” she said.
“That’s good. Billy and the others finally gave up. Garrett’s bringing them into town. He said he won’t bother Ezra as long as you take him home to Lincoln when he can travel and he stays out of trouble from now on.”
“I’ll do my best to see that he does.”
From the back room, Ezra called Mark’s name. He went in to see him.
“Did you say Garrett got Billy?”
“Yes.”
“Everybody all right except for poor old Charlie?”
“Well, they weren’t shouting for joy. They’re all headed for jail, you know that. You’re just damn lucky you aren’t with them.”
“Billy always said I was lucky.” Ezra looked up at Mark. “You think it’s really the end of the line for him?”
“That’s up to a judge and jury, but I’d guess it is.”
“If it hadn’t been for Billy, I wouldn’t’ve stayed in the gang this long,” Ezra said. “It was exciting at first, but after a while, when Rudabaugh and some of the others joined us, I got to feeling it was different. A dirty business. Except for Billy. He wasn’t ever like that.”
“Well, you’re out now. After your wound heals, maybe I can get you some scout work.
You must know every hangout in the Territory. Think about it while you’re getting on your feet.”
Ezra was silent for a few moments. “I guess I ought to be happy I’m going to be with my family for Christmas,” he said finally. “With Tessa. But it’s sort of like Billy got to be my family and I can’t help thinking that he’ll be spending Christmas behind bars, wondering what’s going to happen.”
“I’m afraid he’ll hang,” Mark said.
Ezra turned his face away.
Chapter 20
By the first of the year Ezra found he could sit a horse well enough to attempt the ninety mile ride to Lincoln. But by the time Tessa helped him off his pinto at Maria’s, he was feverish again and his right hip hurt so agonizingly he could hardly hobble into the house.
For a week or two he lay around, glad of Maria’s good food and Tessa’s tender care. Jules often came to perch on the foot of Ezra’s bed, to show off the latest tune he’d learned on his harmonica, and Ezra smiled and praised him, proud of his little brother’s talent.
The coziness soon palled. By the end of the month Ezra, still limping, was prowling restlessly around the house. His wound had not healed and now drained a yellow-green purulence that sickened him when Tessa changed his bandage.
“Do you think that doctor knows what he’s doing?” he asked her, turning his face away.
“Dr. Greenway said you had to have patience,” she reminded him. “The wound is healing from the inside out and that takes time. Besides, I think it looks better since he washed out those chips of bone.”
“I was figuring on getting to Sumner before now to see how Violet’s doing at
Manuela’s.”
“You know you can’t ride yet.”
“Yes, but Violet needs someone to look after her.”
“Manuela’s very kind to Violet. I suspect she’s more concerned about her than ever, now that Charlie’s dead. Having Violet there gives
her someone to fuss over.”
Ezra couldn’t explain his continuing worry to Tessa. Sure, Manuela would see that Violet ate and such, but there was more wrong with Violet than that. She’d started acting strange after Billy shot her father, and everything was bound to be worse now that Billy’d been captured and was in jail in Santa Fe, hundreds of miles from Sumner. She didn’t have anyone at all now.
“I wish she’d have come to Lincoln with us,” he muttered.
Tessa finished tying on the new bandage, straightened and looked at Ezra, “I asked her, even begged her. She refused. What more could we have done?”
“If I’d’ve felt better I could’ve made her come along.”
“Kidnapping the poor girl wouldn’t be any solution.”
Tessa was probably right, but Violet’s pale face haunted him. He’d had dreams where she was Juanita, alone and frightened in a tendejon, and he couldn’t save her.
“Damn it, I’m fed up with being an invalid!” he shouted at Tessa.
“Well, don’t take it out on me,” she snapped, marching from the room and leaving him alone.
After a few minutes Jules bounced in with his harmonica. “Mark taught me a new one,” he said. “Do you wanta hear ‘Camptown Races’?”
Without waiting for a yes or no, he put the instrument to his mouth and began to play.
Jules carried a tune well, but Ezra was heartily sick of listening to that damn harmonica. Mark ought to suffer being shut up in a house for a month with Jules playing it constantly—see how he liked it!
Mark didn’t drop by much, though, even when he was in town. When he did visit, he and Tessa seemed more like enemies than friends, eyeing one another warily, once in a while skirmishing briefly. Yet, in her way, Tessa really paid more attention to Mark than she did to Calvin Rutledge when he came to call, which was too damn often to suit Ezra.
He plain didn’t like the man--he guessed he never had. There was something too smooth about him that set his hackles on end.
Rutledge kept asking Tessa if she’d made up her mind.
“Calvin’s willing to bring you with us, Ezra,” Tessa had told him the week before. “That’s if I marry him and move to Santa Fe. He says he can find you a job, maybe a clerk’s position since you can write and cipher.”
Ezra had grunted. Him, a clerk? Beholden to Rutledge for the job besides? Never in a million years. If his wound would ever heal, he might consider scouting for Mark, he wasn’t sure yet.|
“How did you like it, Ez?” Jules asked, breaking in on his thoughts.
“Huh? Oh, the song. Lively. I like that kind of tune.”
“You didn’t look as if you liked the song. You looked kind of mad.”
“I wasn’t mad at you or your playing. You do fine.”
“Was it because of Billy? Are you mad ‘cause he’s locked up in jail?”
Ezra sighed. “It doesn’t seem right, him in jail, when there’s worse walking the streets free as birds.”
Jules’ eyes widened. “Who?”
“Mathews, for one. I’ve never forgotten he was in that posse of Brady’s when they shot
Tunstall.”
“You gonna go after Mathews?” Jules asked excitedly. “I’ll help you!”
“Hey, wait a minute. I don’t aim to go after anyone.”
“When you get better, I mean.”
Ezra shook his head. “Not then either. I promised Pat Garrett I’d stay out of trouble and I plan to keep that promise. There’s been enough killing.”
“What if Billy breaks out of jail? You told me there wasn’t a jail that could hold him very long.”
“I don’t know, Jules. I reckon the jail in Santa Fe ain’t the kind a man breaks out of easy.”
“But what if he does?”
Ezra didn’t answer and Jules poked at his arm.
“What if he does?”
Ezra grabbed Jules and tousled his hair. “Put all the what-ifs in the world end-to-end and they’ll take you nowhere, just like Papa used to say.”
Jules squirmed away from Ezra. “Did Papa really used to say that? I don’t remember. I remember the wagon and the Apaches and all, but not Papa.’’ “He was a good man. Better than I’ll ever be.” “I think you’re okay, Ez,” Jules said earnestly.
“Play me another tune,” Ezra said hastily, embarrassed by Jules’ solemn approval.
The melancholy strains of “Danny Boy’’ filled the room. Ezra closed his eyes. When Jules finished, Ezra felt the prick of tears behind his lids and blinked, clearing his vision. “That’s a sad one. Mark teach it to you?”
Jules shook his head. “I listened to Buck McDaniel’s sing it so many times—you know he sings the same song every time he gets to drinking. You can’t help hearing him, he’s so loud, and it just sort of came to me what notes to play.”
Ezra stared at him. His brother truly had a gift for music, he ought to go someplace where he could get schooling. St. Louis, maybe. I’ll help him, Ezra decided. I’ll get work as soon as I can, take that scout job Mark offered me, and I’ll save money.
By the end of February, Ezra’s wound was practically healed, with only a little drainage. He could ride pretty well, if he didn’t go too far. Then his hip would start hurting so bad he could hardly get off the horse. When Mark returned from Roswell, the first week in March, Ezra waited until he came to the house.
“I reckon I’m ready to scout for you, if you’ll still have me,” he told Mark.
Mark nodded. “I have to ride to Mesilla at the end of the month to be on hand when the court convenes. You could come with me. After the court session we’ll go looking for Harry Yarrow; I heard he’s thinking of leaving his hole-up in Mexico. He’s wanted for robbing the U.S. Mail.”
“I’ve heard of Yarrow,” Ezra said. “Be glad to help you hunt him.”
“One thing, Ezra. They ‘re trying Billy at that session of the court.”
“Figured as much.” Ezra glanced at Mark and half smiled. “You looking for my word I don’t aim to help him escape?”
“If I thought you’d do that, I wouldn’t take you.”
On April sixth Ezra walked into the Mesilla courthouse, an old adobe that doubled as a school when court wasn’t in session. He took a seat on a wooden bench along with the other spectators.
A Mescalero squatted on one side of him; a pony soldier from Stanton slouched on the other. Billy, silent and handcuffed, sat near the side of an empty desk with armed guards watching him. Ezra tried to catch Billy’s eye, but Billy was staring at the door.
It opened and Judge Bristol swept in, his black robes trailing the dusty floor. As he took his seat behind the desk, a soft warm breeze blew in the open window to his left, ruffling the papers on the desk. The day seemed made for being out in the open, enjoying life.
The judge listened to the lawyers read the federal charges against Billy, quickly dismissing the one that accused him of shooting Bernstein on the Indian reservation. Insufficient evidence.
Leonard, Billy’s court-appointed lawyer, questioned the jurisdiction of the United States in the other indictment— Roberts’ killing.
Judge Bristol readily agreed that Blazer’s Mill, where the killing had occurred, was not the property of the government and so dismissed the second charge. Ezra’s heart lifted. Was it possible Billy might walk out of here a free man?
“I order the United States marshal to deliver William Bonney to the territorial authorities since I understand they also have an indictment,” the judge said. “Trial set for two days hence.”
Two more days in jail for Billy, waiting to find out what would happen. Ezra had heard the Mesilla jail ranked among the worst in the Territory. But Billy had been born lucky, so maybe the coming trial would go as well.
On the eighth the courtroom was so crowded with spectators that Ezra couldn’t find a seat and had to stand just inside the door. The twelve jurymen were already in their places. All Mexicans, he saw. A good sign. Mexicans liked Billy.
This time Billy noticed him and smiled.
The charge was the murder of Sheriff Brady.
On the tenth a stunned and disbelieving Ezra heard Judge Bristol pass sentence on Billy, The jury had found him guilty.
“William Bonney, alias Billy the Kid, alias William Antrim, being found guilty of murder in the first degree, will, on Friday, May thirteenth, 1881, in the town of Lincoln, be hanged by the neck until his body be dead.”
“It’s not fair!” Ezra told Mark later. “There were five others shooting at Brady besides Billy. Anyway, he told me himself he was aiming at Mathews, not Brady, and was real put out ‘cause he missed.”
“They found him guilty, Ezra. The judged passed sentence. Nothing you can do or say will change it.”
“But he’s my friend. I thought they’d keep him in jail for maybe a couple of years, but I never believed what Garrett said about hanging Billy.”
The man they were after, Yarrow, turned out to be still in Mexico, so Ezra and Mark rode back to Lincoln empty-handed.
Billy arrived under armed guard in Lincoln a few days afterward, on the twenty-second of April, and was incarcerated in the old “House of Murphy,” Dolan’s store, now serving as a courthouse and jail.
That night Ezra couldn’t sleep. He pictured Billy hand-cuffed and in leg irons. Wouldn’t he find it hard to sleep, a man sentenced to hang in less than a months’ time?
It’d be more Billy’s style, though, to be joking with his guards, saying something like, “Hanging ain’t my idea of a fun Friday.”
Ezra eased from his bed, hoping not to rouse Jules, and went out into the April night. He stood by Maria’s corral, staring up at the Milky Way, He’d heard some of the Indians thought that warriors went there when they died.
He didn’t know what he believed anymore. His father’s God seemed to belong to another time and another country.
“Nesbitt.” The whisper was as startling as a snake’s hiss.
Ezra reached for his Colt, remembered he didn’t have his gun belt on.
He flattened himself against the corral rails.
