Billy gave a vague account of the result of this enterprise, yet uncompromising as it sounds, it leaves little to surmise. Said he:
“It was a ground hog case. Here were twelve good ponies, four or five saddles, a good supply of blankets, and five pony loads of pelts. Here were three blood-thirsty savages, reveling in all this luxury and refusing succor to two free-born, white American citizens, foot sore and hungry. The plunder had to change hands—there was no alternative—and as one live Indian could place a hundred United States troops on our trail in two hours, and as a dead Indian would be likely to take some other route, our resolves were taken. In three minutes there were three “good Injuns” lying around there, careless like, and, with ponies and plunder, we skipped. There was no fight. It was about the softest thing I ever struck.”
The movements of these two youthful brigands for a few days subsequent to the killing of these Indians are lost sight of. It is known that they disposed of superfluous ponies, equipage, and furs to immigrants from Texas, more than a hundred miles distant from Fort Bowie, and that they returned to the reservation splendidly mounted and armed, with money in their pockets. They were on the best of terms with government officials and citizens at Fort Bowie, Apache Pass, San Simon, San Carlos, and all the settlements in that vicinity, and spent a good deal of their time at Tucson, where Billy’s skill as a monte dealer and card player generally kept the two boys in luxuriant style and gave them enviable prestige among the sporting fraternity, which was then a powerful and influential element in Arizona.
If anything was known by the authorities, of the Indian killing episode, nothing was done about it. No one regretted the loss of these Indians, and no money could be made by prosecuting the offenders.
The quiet life Billy led in the plazas palled upon his senses, and, with his partner, he again took the road, or rather the mountain trails. There was always a dash of humor in Billy’s most tragical adventures. Meeting a band of eight or ten Indians in the vicinity of San Simon, the two young fellows proposed and instituted a horserace. Billy was riding a very superior animal, but made the race and bets on the inferior one ridden by his partner, against the best horse the Indians had. He also insisted that his partner should hold the stakes, consisting of money and revolvers.
Billy was to ride. Mounting his partner’s horse, the word was given, and three, instead of two, horses shot out from the starting point. The interloper was Billy’s partner, on Billy’s horse. He could not restrain the fiery animal, which flew the track, took the bit in his teeth, and never slackened his headlong speed until he reached a deserted cattle ranch, many miles away from the improvised racetrack.
Billy lost the race, but who was the winner? His partner with all the stakes, was macadamizing the rocky trails, far beyond their ken, and far beyond successful pursuit. It required all Billy’s Spanish eloquence, all his persuasive powers of speech and gesture, all his sweetest, most appealing expressions of infantile innocence, to convince the untutored and unreasoning savages that he, himself, was not only the greatest loser of them all, but that he was the victim of the perfidy of a traitor—to them a heinous crime. Had not he, Billy, taken all the bets, and lost them all? Whilst their loss was divided between a half-dozen, he had lost his horse, his arms, his money, his friends, and his confidence in humanity, with nothing to show for it but an old plug of a pony that evidently could not win a race against a lame burro.
When did youth and good looks, with well simulated injured innocence, backed by eloquence of tongue and hand-spiced with grief and righteous anger, fail to affect, even an Apache. With words of condolence and encouragement from his sympathizing victims, Billy rode sadly away. Two days thereafter, a hundred miles from thence, Billy might have been seen solemnly dividing spoils with his fugitive friend.
The last and darkest deed of which Billy was guilty in Arizona was the killing of a soldier blacksmith at Fort Bowie. The date and particulars of this killing are not upon record, and Billy was always reticent in regard to it. There are many conflicting rumors in regard thereto. Billy’s defenders justify him on the ground that the victim was a bully, refused to yield up money fairly won from him, by Billy, in a game of cards, and precipitated his fate by attempting to inflict physical chastisement on a beardless boy. One thing is sure, this deed exiled Billy from Arizona, and he is next heard of in the State of Sonora, Republic of Mexico.
* * *
In Sonora, Billy’s knowledge of the Spanish language, and his skill in all games of cards practiced by the Mexican people, at once established for him a reputation as a first class gambler and high-toned gentleman. All that is known of his career in Sonora is gathered from his own relation of casual events, with-out detail or dates. He went there alone, but soon established a coalition with a young Mexican gambler, named Melquiades Segura, which lasted during his stay in the Republic.
There is but one fatal encounter, of which we have official evidence, charged against Billy during his sojourn in Sonora, and this necessitated his speedy and permanent change of base. This was the killing of Don Jose Martinez, a monte dealer, over a gaming table. Martinez had, for some weeks, persistently followed a course of bullying and insult towards Billy, frequently refusing to pay him money fairly won at his game. Billy’s entrance to the clubroom was a signal for Martinez to open his money drawer, take out a six shooter, lay it on the table beside him, and commence a tirade of abuse directed against “Gringos” generally, and Billy in particular.
There could be but one termination to this difficulty. Billy settled his affairs in the plaza, he and Segura saddled their horses, and about nine o’clock at night rode into a placita having two outlets, hard by the clubroom. Leaving Segura with the horses, Billy visited the gambling house.
The insult came as was expected. Billy’s pistol was in the scabbard. Martinez had his on the table and under his hand. Before putting his hand on his pistol the warning came from Billy’s lips, in steady tones: “Jose, do you fight as bravely with that pistol as you do with your mouth?” and his hand fell on the butt of his pistol. And here Billy exhibited that lightning rapidity, iron nerve, and marvelous skill with a pistol, which gave him such advantage over antagonists, and rendered his name a terror, even to adepts in pistol practice.
Martinez was no coward but he counted too much on his advantage. The two pistols exploded as one, and Martinez fell back in his seat, dead, shot through the eye. Billy slapped his left hand to his right ear, as though he were reaching for a belligerent mosquito. He said, afterwards, that it felt as though some one had caught three or four hairs and jerked them out.
Before it was fairly realized that Martinez was dead, two horsemen were rushing across the cienega which lies between the plaza and the mountains, and Billy had shaken the dust of Sonora from his feet, forever.
A party of about twenty Mexicans started immediately in pursuit, which they held steadily for more than ten days. They found the horses ridden from the plaza by Billy and Segura, but horses were plenty to persons of such persuasive manners as the fugitives. The chase was fruitless and the pursuers returned to Sonora.
The family of Martinez offered a large reward for the apprehension and return of Billy to Sonora, and a lesser one for Segura. Several attempts were subsequently made, by emissaries of the family, to inveigle Billy back there. The bait was too thin.
* * *
After their flight from Sonora, Billy and Segura made their way to the city of Chihuahua, where their usual good luck at cards deserted them. Billy appeared, unconsciously, to make enemies of the gambling fraternity there. Perhaps a little envy of his skill, his powers, and his inimitable nonchalant style had something to do with it.
His difficulties culminated one night. Billy had won a considerable sum of money at a monte table when the dealer closed his bank and sneeringly informed Billy that he did not have money enough in his bank to pay his losses, whilst he was, at that moment, raking doubloons and double doubloons into a buckskin sack—money enough to pay
Billy a dozen times over, leering at Billy the meanwhile.
Billy made no reply, but he and Segura left the house. That monte dealer never reached home with his sack of gold, and his peon, who was carrying the sack, now lives on the Rio Grande, in New Mexico, in comparatively affluent circumstances.
Billy and his partner were seen no more, publicly, on the streets of Chihuahua City, but three other prosperous monte dealers were mysteriously “held up,” at night, as they were returning home from the clubrooms, and each was relieved of his wealth. It was afterwards remarked that each of these men had offended Billy or Segura. The gamblers speculated at large upon the mysterious disappearance of the dealer who had so openly and defiantly robbed Billy, and they and his family mourn him as dead. Perhaps they do so with cause.
The two adventurers concluded that Chihuahua was not the heaven they were seeking, and vanished. It may be in place to remark that for some months thereafter, the boys settled their little bills along their sinuous route, in Spanish gold, by drafts on a buck-skin sack, highly wrought in gold and silver thread and lace, in the highest style of Mexican art.
As to the monte dealer who so suddenly disappeared, although Billy never disclosed the particulars of the affair, recent advices from Chihuahua give the assurance that the places which knew him there have known him no more since that eventful night.
* * *
After leaving Chihuahua, Billy and Segura went to the Rio Grande, where they parted company, but only for a short time. Up to the month of December, 1876, Billy’s career was erratic, and it is impossible to follow his adventures consecutively; many of them are, doubtless, lost to history. He fell in again with his old companion, Jesse Evans, and all that is known of Billy’s exploits during the ensuing few months is gained by his own and Jesse’s disconnected narrations.
This youthful pair made themselves well known in Western Texas, Northern and Eastern Mexico, and along the Rio Grande in New Mexico by a hundred deeds of daring crime. Young Jesse had already won for himself the reputation of a brave but unscrupulous desperado, and in courage and skill with deadly weapons, he and Billy were fairly matched. They were, at this time, of nearly the same size. Jesse was, probably, a year or two the oldest, whilst Billy was, slightly, the tallest, and a little heavier. Billy was seventeen years of age in November, 1876, and was nearly as large as at the day of his death. A light brown beard was beginning to show up on his lip and cheeks; his hair was of a darker brown, glossy, and luxuriant; his eyes were a deep blue, dotted with spots of a hazel hue, and were very bright, expressive, and intelligent. His face was oval in form, the most noticeable feature being two projecting upper front teeth, which knowing newspaper correspondents, who never saw the man nor the scenes of his adventures, describe as “fangs which gave to his features an intensely cruel and murderous expression.” Nothing can be further from the truth. That these teeth were a prominent feature in his countenance is true; that when he engaged in conversation, or smiled they were noticeable is true; but they did not give to his always pleasing expression a cruel look, nor suggest either murder or treachery. All who ever knew Billy will testify that his polite, cordial, and gentlemanly bearing invited confidence and promised protection—the first of which he never betrayed, and the latter he was never known to withhold. Those who knew him best will tell you that in his most savage and dangerous moods his face always wore a smile. He ate and laughed, drank and laughed, rode and laughed, talked and laughed, fought and laughed, and killed and laughed. No loud and boisterous guffaw, but a pleasant smile or a soft and musical “ripple of the voice.” Those who knew him watched his eyes for an exhibition of anger. Had his biographers stated that the expression of his eyes—to one who could read them—in angry mood was cruel and murderous, they would have shown a more perfect knowledge of the man. One could scarcely believe that those blazing, baleful orbs and that laughing face could be controlled by the same spirit.
Billy was, at this time, about five feet seven and one half inches high, straight as a dart, weighed about one hundred and thirty-five pounds, and was as light, active, and graceful as a panther. His form was well-knit, compact, and wonderfully muscular. It was his delight, when he had a misunderstanding with one larger and more powerful than himself, but who feared him on account of his skill with weapons, to unbuckle his belt, drop his arms, and say: “Come on old fellow: I’ve got no advantage now. Let’s fight it out, knuckles and skull.” He usually won his fights; if he got the worst of it, he bore no malice.
There were no bounds to his generosity. Friends, strangers, and even his enemies, were welcome to his money, his horse, his clothes, or anything else of which he happened, at the time, to be possessed. The aged, the poor, the sick, the unfortunate and helpless never appealed to Billy in vain for succor.
There is an impression among some people that Billy was excessively gross, profane, and beastly in his habits, conversation, and demeanor. The opposite is the case. A majority of the “too tooist,” “uttermost, utterly utter,” “curled darlings” of society might take example by Billy’s courteous and gentlemanly demeanor, to their own great improvement and the relief of disgusted sensible men. It would be strange, with Billy’s particular surroundings, if he did not indulge in profanity. He did; but his oaths were expressed in the most elegant phraseology, and, if purity of conversation were the test, hundreds of the prominent citizens of New Mexico would be taken for desperadoes sooner than young Bonney.
Billy was, when circumstances permitted, scrupulously neat and elegant in dress. Some newspaper correspondents have clothed him in fantastic Italian brigand or Mexican guerrilla style, with some hundreds of dollars worth of gold lace, etc., ornamenting his dress; but they did not so apparel him with his consent. His attire was, usually, of black: a black frock coat, dark pants and vest, a neat boot to his small, shapely foot, and (his only noticeable peculiarity in dress) usually, a Mexican sombrero. He wore this for convenience, not for show. They are very broad-brimmed, protecting the face from the sun, wind, and dust, and very durable. They are expensive, but Billy never owned one which cost hundreds of dollars. Some silly fellow, with a surplus of money and paucity of brains, may have loaded his hat with a thousand dollars worth of medals, gold lace, and thread, but Billy was not of those.
Billy and Jesse put in the few months they spent together by indulging in a hundred lawless raids—sometimes committing depredations in Mexico and fleeing across the Rio Grande into Texas or New Mexico, and vice versa, until hundreds of ranchmen in both republics were on the look out for them, and in many conflicts, on either side of the river, they escaped capture, and consequent certain death, almost by miracle. There was no mountain so high, no precipice so steep, no torrent so fierce, no river so swift, no cave so deep, but these two would essay it in their daring rides for liberty. More than one bold pursuer bit the dust in these encounters, and a price was offered for the bodies of the outlaws, dead or alive.
The Mescalero Apache Indians, from the Fort Stanton, New Mexico, Reservation, used to make frequent raids into Old Mexico, and often attacked emigrants along the Rio Grande. On one occasion, a party from Texas, consisting of three men and their families, on their way to Arizona, came across Billy and Jesse in the vicinity of the Rio Miembres. They took dinner together and the Texans volunteered much advice to the two unsophisticated boys, representing the danger they braved by travelling unprotected through an Indian country, and proposing that they should pursue their journey in company. They represented themselves as old and experienced Indian fighters. The boys declined awaiting the slow motion of ox wagons, and after dinner, rode on.
About the middle of the afternoon, the boys discovered a band of Indians moving along the foothills on the south, in an easterly direction. They speculated on the chances of their new friends, the emigrants, falling in with these Indians, until, from signs of a horse’s footprints, they became convinced that an Indian messenger had preceded them from the east, and putting that and that together, it was evident
to them that the band of Indians they had seen were bent on no other mission than to attack the emigrants.
With one impulse the young knights wheeled their horses and struck across the prairie to the foothills to try and cut the Indian trail. This they succeeded in doing, and found that the party consisted of fourteen warriors, who were directing their course so as to surely intercept the emigrants, or strike them in camp. The weary horses caught the spirit of their brave riders, and over rocks and hills, through canyons and tule break, the steady measured thud of their hoofs alone broke the silence.
“Can we make it, Billy?” queried Jesse. “Will our horses hold out?”
“The question isn’t, will we? but how soon?” replied Billy. “It’s a ground hog case. We’ve got to get there. Think of those white-headed young ones, Jesse, and whoop up. When my horse’s four legs let up, I’ve got two of my own.”
Just at dusk the brave boys rounded a point in the road and came in full view of the emigrant’s camp. In time—just in time. At this very moment the terrible yell of the Apache broke upon their ears, and the savage band charged the camp from a pass on the south. The gallant horses which had carried the boys so bravely were reeling in their tracks. Throwing themselves out of the saddles, the young heroes grasped their Winchesters and on a run, with a yell as blood-curdling as any red devil of them all could utter, they threw themselves amongst the yelling fiends. There was astonishment and terror in the tone which answered the boys’ war cry, and the confusion amongst the reds increased as one after another of their number went down under the unerring aim of the two rifles. Jesse had stumbled and fallen into a narrow arroyo, overgrown with tall grass and weeds. Raising himself to his knees, he found that his fall was a streak of great good luck. As he afterwards remarked, he could not have made a better entrenchment if he had worked a week. Calling Billy, he plied his Winchester rapidly. When Billy saw the favorable position Jesse had involuntarily fallen into, he bounded into it; but just as he dropped to his knees a ball from an Indian rifle shattered the stock of his Winchester and the broken wood inflicted a painful wound on Billy’s hand. His gun useless, he fought with his six-shooter-fuming and cursing his luck.
Outlaws and Peace Officers Page 11
