“What about John’s killers?” Dick said.
“They’ll have to wait. First off we’ve got to bury John,” Mac said. “Benedick too. Rob, can you ride to Fort Stanton and ask Lieutenant Appel to do a postmortem? He’s a surgeon. Ask Dr. Ealy to come too. He’s a preacher. He can do the funeral.”
Rob nodded.
“We need to get word to John Chisum,” Mac said.
“I’ll look around town for someone to hunt him up,” Rob said. “If I can’t find nobody I’ll head to his ranch when I get back.”
“I’ll send a letter to the Tunstalls,” Mac said. “John was their only son. It’s tragic. John was playing by the rules of London gentlemen. He was too naïve for this country.”
“Murphy and Dolan own the sheriff,” Dick said. “They’re all in cahoots. There’s no law here. Shooting John wasn’t just murder. It was an act of war. Murphy and Dolan want the territory for their own selves. Before John come along I was up to my ass in hock to L. G. Murphy and Company. Murdering John skewered me. Skewered all us ranchers. I expect we can round up an army quick. String up them sonsabitches. Brady won’t do nothing. He ain’t no sheriff. He’s a poor shakes of a potato farmer who couldn’t make a living in the old country.”
“There’s still a little law left,” Mac said. “Neither the justice of the peace nor the constable is a member of the Murphy faction. I’ll talk to them tomorrow. Get warrants and swear in a couple of you fellows as deputy constables. Billy, you saw Hill and Morton shoot John. You can tell it to a grand jury. You can testify about the rest of the posse too. They’re accessories.”
We continued to talk throughout the day while John laid on the cooling board. Late in the afternoon Dick and me left the house to dig a grave for Benedick behind Tunstall’s. I said a few words and promised Benedick that Morton and Hill would be following him soon.
Word spread about the killing. Boys began showing up at Mac’s door. The first to arrive was Henry Antrim. He was my oldest friend. Everybody called him Kid. He was about my height but thin as shoe leather. His arms looked like twigs in winter. We’d spent a few years together in Silver City. Kid was from New York. He never knew his pa. His mother Catherine took him and his brother west when he was about ten. They settled in Denver with a guy named Antrim. Catherine and Antrim married, moved to Silver City. That’s where I met him. When I left home for Arizona Territory, Kid went to Lincoln and worked on a ranch not far from John’s. He’s the one got me the job with John.
Kid’d stopped by Murphy’s mercantile on his way into town. He was surprised because the sign over the store said “Dolan and Company” instead of “Murphy and Company.” A dozen men were holed up inside. Three or four of them reached for their six-shooters when Kid walked through the door. He didn’t know what was up. Said they looked like coyotes on a kill. He didn’t ask about the new sign. Just backed out and came on to Tunstall’s. Found us at Mac’s.
By nightfall near forty boys had crowded into Mac’s parlor. Fred Waite was there too. He’d come on from John’s ranch that morning. Said he had a bad feeling after the posse left. It was all Mac could do to keep the boys from heading home to gather up Sharps and Springfields and Winchesters.
Dick talked war to anyone who’d listen. I figure he’s the reason it’s called the Lincoln County War to this day. A few years earlier the Horrell brothers rampaged through Lincoln County killing near as many people. No one called their time of terror a war. No one much remembers the Horrells. Most everyone they killed was Mexican. That’s the difference I reckon.
I didn’t see the Lincoln County War the way Dick did. Figured it was more like the Horrell troubles. Varmints’d killed the best man I knew. I wanted to string them up. Dick was smarter than the rest of us. He saw more at stake. He saw death like a duster blowing through the county. He was right. About every ranch within a two-day ride of Lincoln would lose family or friends over the next couple of years. Dick didn’t dream that his ranch would be the first to feel the loss.
CHAPTER 4Morton
I am not afraid at all of their killing me, but if they should do so, I wish that the matter should be investigated and the parties dealt with according to law. If you do not hear from me in four days after receipt of this, I would like you to make inquiries about the affair.
—WILLIAM S. MORTON, LETTER TO H. H. MARSHALL,
MARCH 8, 1878
SUE MCSWEEN RETURNED HOME SOON as she learned of John’s death. During the night the last of the boys left McSween’s for their farms and ranches. Me and John’s hands bedded down in the backyard. Preacher Ealy and the post surgeon stayed the night at the fort and rode in next morning.
While the surgeon performed the postmortem, Mac sent me and Fred Waite to the justice of the peace for warrants. The constable deputized us, then him and me and Fred went to Dolan’s store looking for Morton and Hill.
A dozen men looked up when we entered, but my eyes were fixed on the open end of Sheriff Brady’s double-barrel shotgun.
“Ya lads be lookin’ for trouble?” he said.
“We’ve got warrants for William Scott Morton and Thomas Henry Hill,” the constable said. “For the murder of John Henry Tunstall.”
“Have ya now. Well I be holdin’ warrants for the three of ya.”
“What for?”
“Waite and Bonney for thievin’ and you for blatherin’.”
“Show me your warrants.”
“These barrels be all the warrants I be needin’. Grab their guns, lads.”
Morton stepped up to take our hardware. He was three or four years older than me, a foot taller, and half my size heavier. We’d worked together rounding up cattle on the Pecos. I used to consider him a compadre.
“I’ll send you to hell, Morton,” I said as he reached for my Winchester.
We glared at each other, both gripping the Winchester.
“You’re next, Bonney,” he said. “Right after McSween.”
I turned loose of the rifle and handed him my six-shooter.
With the shotgun at our backs Sherriff Brady walked us to the calaboose. The cell was a dug-out pit, five paces on a side, below the sheriff’s office. A trapdoor opened to a rope ladder into the cell. The walls were made of logs. The floor was dirt. The ceiling gave us half a foot of clearance. The only light came through cracks in the overhead floorboards. Dirt rained down whenever anyone walked around in the sheriff’s office. Half a dozen bunks lined three walls. The fourth wall was the latrine. A couple of slop buckets sat beside it, but aims were often bad. Jesse Evans was the last guest. He’d been gone a week. The cell stank of piss and shit.
“You’ve no law to hold us,” the constable said. “McSween’ll get us out soon enough.”
“More likely he’ll be beddin’ here with ya soon enough,” Brady said.
A few hours later Brady let the constable out but me and Fred stayed near a week. I’ve been locked up before but never in such a privy. Like being in the belly of a cave. I slept without thought of day or night. At times I wasn’t sure if I was awake or asleep, especially when I saw things. Avoided the latrine but I had to use it some. Couldn’t always tell where it was. Especially the slop buckets. Once I pissed on a bunk until Fred yelled at me.
Brady brought us gruel once a day. We ate with our hands. Couldn’t see what we were eating.
“Believe you’ll favor my rashers after eating this pig shit,” I said a couple of days into our stay.
“Won’t never grouse about your grub again,” Fred said.
After John’s funeral a dozen of the boys came to the calaboose demanding our release. Brady tried staring them down. When that didn’t work he turned us loose. Handed us our Winchesters and gave me a single-action Colt .44 with wooden grips.
“This ain’t mine,” I said. “This is a kid’s toy. The barrel is shorter than my little finger. Mine’s an ivory-handle Thunderer.”
“Thunderer me arse.”
“I ain’t taking this piece of crap.”
&n
bsp; “I can give ya more crap if ya like.”
“Leave it, Billy,” Fred said.
“I ain’t afraid of you,” I said to Brady. “You keep my Colt, you’ll regret it. If you’re still breathing when I collect it.”
“Threatenin’ me are ya?”
“Not threatening. Promising.”
“I still be holdin’ warrants for cattle thievin’. I can kick your arse in the kip till Judge Bristol arrives.”
“Let’s go, Billy,” Fred said.
Fred was right. I couldn’t take another day in that calaboose. As we walked to Mac’s house I swore I’d get my Colt back.
John Tunstall’s cowhands—Dick Brewer, John Middleton, Rob Widenmann, and Henry Brown—were waiting for us at Mac’s. Frank MacNab and José Chavez were there too. MacNab was a cattle detective working for one of the stock associations. He had a reputation as a killer but the law never pinned a killing on him.
José was the best man with a six-shooter that I ever saw. After Bob Ford bragged about killing Jesse James, José challenged him to a gun-fight. What I heard, and it wasn’t from José, is that Ford turned tail like a coyote and snuck into the sagebrush.
Shortly after me and Fred got to Mac’s, Doc Scurlock and Charlie Bowdre showed up. Doc had been a dentist. He quit practicing after he lost his front teeth to a bullet in a card game. The other fella wasn’t so lucky. Doc and Charlie were partners in a ranch on the Ruidoso.
Frank and George Coe were the last to arrive. They were cousins. Had farmed and ranched together in New Mexico and Colorado. Both were handy with rifles. Especially George.
Sue made coffee for us while we debated what to do about John’s killers.
“Brady’s protecting the bastards,” Dick Brewer said. “Ain’t no law here. We’re John’s only justice. Let’s get the varmints ourselves.”
Everyone agreed. We took an oath of loyalty. Swore to bring in Hill and Morton and the rest of the posse. Someone suggested calling us Regulators. We chose Dick as leader. At one time or another there were near fifty Regulators, but the boys who took the oath that day made up the core.
Mac didn’t say much. He didn’t take the oath either. He was near terrified. He asked if he was in danger.
“Hell yes,” Dick said. “Said so when we brought John in. Danger’s doubled now.”
I told Mac what Morton said the day I was arrested.
“You’re next, Mac. His meaning couldn’t of been clearer.”
“What should I do?” Mac said. “I can’t leave. I’ve got too much at stake here.”
“Hole up till this stew settles,” Dick said.
“My hermano has a casita in the Pajaritos,” José Chavez said. “It is not much, but Jesus will let you stay. You helped him when Murphy tried to take his ranch. He could not pay you then. He can pay you now.”
Mac and Sue talked it over. Sue’d stay behind to look after the house while his brother-in-law’d look after the business. Mac wrote out a will. After dark, him and José slipped away. The rest of us bedded down in the backyard.
Next morning while Sue fixed breakfast we sat at the kitchen table planning our first foray. Bill McCloskey showed up wanting to join us.
“He’s one of Morton’s amigos,” I said. “He’s on the wrong side.”
“You were one of Morton’s amigos,” Dick said. “I reckon Bill can come. We can use an extra gun.”
Dick went to the justice of the peace and the constable’s offices to pick up warrants and get hisself made deputy constable. When he came back he swore in the rest of us. Dick wanted to go after Morton first. Morton was foreman of Jimmy Dolan’s cow camp on the Black River. He’d be easiest to find. We mounted up and headed for Seven Rivers.
That evening we camped in a cottonwood grove beside the Río Peñasco. I built a fire and we sat around eating supper, telling tales, and speculating the future. It was clear from the conversation that most of the boys were greenhorns even though some were close to thirty. A few were carrying six-shooters. The rest had Winchesters or Springfields. They left their rifles with their saddles when they turned out their horses. I picked up a couple of logs, put them on the fire, and dropped in a few cartridges. Charlie Bowdre saw what I done. When the cartridges exploded, all the boys but Charlie cut for the trees, abandoning their rifles. When they realized the joke they filtered back to the fire.
“I was impressed with your nerves, boys,” Charlie said to the embarrassed cowhands, “but where was your hardware?”
Early next morning we continued along the Río Peñasco. As the sun was coming up we spotted five hombres around a campfire near the junction of the Peñasco and the Río Pecos. One of them fired his rifle at us.
“Morton,” I said. “The one clambering into the saddle’s Frank Baker. He was in Morton’s posse when they came after John.”
A Seven Rivers boy was also with them. I didn’t know the other two birds. Baker was a member of Jesse Evans’ gang. I’d rode with him when we were chasing cattle around the Chisum ranch. A few years older’n me. Mean sonofabitch.
The hombres mounted and raced toward the Pecos. We opened fire and gave chase. Bullets flew in both directions. I emptied my six-shooter twice. When we reached the Pecos the two strangers splashed across the river and headed north toward Roswell. The other three turned south toward Seven Rivers. We let the strangers go and continued after Morton. The Seven Rivers boy’s horse stumbled, throwing the cowboy into the tule. He wasn’t part of Morton’s posse. We raced past. Wished I’d put a bullet in him. A couple of months later he killed a Regulator.
A few miles on, Morton’s horse gave out. Him and Baker reined up among the cottonwoods. We cut into the cottonwoods and dismounted, stepping up the gunfire, but no one was hit. After a few minutes Baker and Morton’s shots slowed to a trickle then petered out.
“Hold your fire,” Dick called.
“Is that you, Dick?” Morton said.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“You got us outnumbered. If we come out with our hands up will you hold your fire?”
“No one’s gonna shoot.”
“You ain’t talking for me,” I said. “Soon as Morton’s in the clear I’ll ream out both his eyes.”
“Cool down, Billy. We got to do this legal. Come on out, Morton. There’ll be no more shooting. You’ll hang soon enough.”
“Bonney don’t sound of the same mind.”
I shook my head.
“Billy’s okay. He won’t shoot.”
“We’re coming out.”
Morton stepped into a clearing, holding his six-shooter and Winchester by the barrels. Baker did the same. Dick took their hardware. We mounted up and turned north toward the Chisum ranch.
We spent the night at the ranch. Baker and Morton were tied up in the bunkhouse. Four of us took turns guarding them. I volunteered for the last watch, hoping Morton might try for a break by then, but nothing happened. Him and Baker were too trussed up.
Next morning we headed toward Lincoln. Before we got to Roswell, John Middleton rode up. He was one of John Tunstall’s hands.
“Word’s out about you going after Morton,” Middleton said. “Sheriff’s rounding up a posse to head you off.”
“Thanks,” Dick said. “The posse’ll be coming down the Roswell Road. We’ll take the Military Road through the Capitans.”
“I’d as soon shoot it out,” I said. “We can clean up a passel of killers in a slick. Nice and legal.”
“They’ll have a good idea how many we are,” Dick said. “They’ll send an army if they have to. We made a good haul yesterday. Let’s not risk it.”
“How the hell did they get wind of us,” Frank MacNab said.
Believe I told you he was a stock detective. Had a ranch near Tunstall’s.
“No one knew we was going except us. Someone’s talked.”
That evening when we got to Agua Negra Canyon, MacNab rode up beside McCloskey.
“I’ve been wondering how folks figured we’d be huntin
g Morton at his cow camp,” he said. “Then I recalled you saying you were going to the jakes and we should wait on you. You spent a long time in them jakes. Must of been Dolan’s.”
McCloskey glared at MacNab then went for his gun. MacNab was a step ahead of him. He fired over his pommel. McCloskey fell out of the saddle. During the fracas Morton and Baker bolted for the trees. I drew my six-shooter and fired twice. It was near dark and my horse was skittish. Wasn’t sure what I hit. Baker fell first. Morton made it to the trees but was leaning out of his saddle. His head smashed into a ponderosa as his horse ran past.
Horses started crowhopping. Middleton flipped out of the saddle and landed on his back, fending off hooves.
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire! Who’s shooting?” Dick yelled.
“I called out McCloskey for ratting,” MacNab said. “He went for his six-shooter. I shot him. Morton and Baker made a break for it. Billy got ’em before they hit the woods.”
“Damn!” Dick said. “Are they dead?”
“McCloskey’s gutshot. He’ll be dead by morning. Don’t know about Morton or Baker. Neither of ’em look good.”
MacNab got off his horse and walked over to Baker.
“Hit in the withers. Nice shot, Billy.”
Then he checked on Morton.
“Him too. In the back. Head looks like a busted pumpkin. His ole lady won’t be kissing him goodbye.”
“Shit,” Dick said.
“Couldn’t be helped,” I said. “We knew a polecat was amongst us. If MacNab hadn’t flushed him out, could be you and me on the ground instead of Morton and Baker.”
The Gospel According to Billy the Kid Page 3
