“McCloskey weren’t in Morton’s posse,” Dick said. “We ain’t got cause for killing him.”
“McCloskey went for his six-shooter. That’s cause enough. We’ve plenty of witnesses.”
“Folks’ll be screaming for blood. Brady’ll come after MacNab. He could hang.”
“Say Morton grabbed McCloskey’s gun, shot him, made a break for it.”
“They won’t buy it. McCloskey and Morton were amigos.”
“Don’t matter what they buy. Long as we agree, they can’t prove otherwise. Any other explanation is pissing in the wind.”
We argued into the night. By morning we’d settled it. Baker, not Morton, grabbed McCloskey’s gun, shot him, and made a break for it. I shot Morton and Baker as they were getting away.
Not that it mattered. While we were hunting Morton, the governor revoked Dick’s commission and fired the justice of the peace. Our warrants were dead letters. We were all outlaws then.
CHAPTER 5Brewer
Peace to your ashes, Dick! as you were familiarly called. Sweet and pleasant be your slumbers! Ever green and fresh be your memory. Some may malign you, but that will not disturb you, for when the mist has cleared away and the horizon of truth is clearly seen, even they will be shamed to silence.
—RICHARD BREWER OBITUARY, Cimarron News and Press,
APRIL 18, 1878
THE GOOD NEWS WAS THAT Tom Hill was dead. I hoped John Tunstall and Benedick were up there watching. Hill died the same day Buck Morton did. A half-breed sheep drover caught Hill and Jesse Evans raiding the drover’s camp near Tularosa. Hill and Evans were fixated on thievery and didn’t see the drover return to camp. He shot both of them. Hill’s wound was fatal. Evans was hit in the lights but he got away. After he shot the drover.
Evans was a tough sonofabitch. He could catch more lead and stay in the saddle better’n any boy I knew. He rode near sixty miles to Fort Stanton. After the post surgeon patched him up the army put him in the stockade till Sheriff Brady came for him.
There was more good news. After the governor’s proclamation making Brady and Judge Bristol the only law in the county, Dolan got drunk to celebrate. Not that he needed a reason. While he was celebrating he dismounted from a moving horse. His foot hung in the stirrup. The horse near ripped it off. I was sorry he felt no pain but took satisfaction watching him hobble around Lincoln like a three-legged dog.
A few weeks later I was back in Lincoln for a hearing. Mac had been charged with embezzling the Fritz estate. I’d been called as a witness to John Tunstall’s murder, but I wasn’t about to show myself. I waited in Tunstall’s store to hear how everything played out. The town had swelled by half as witnesses and defendants and jurymen filled the beds at the Wortley Hotel and any other lodging they could find. It was a cold and rainy morning. Lincoln was a hog wallow. When Brady showed up he said the court got the date wrong. Court wouldn’t open for another week. Folks were horn-mad.
When the boys left the courthouse they came over to Tunstall’s to report on the happenings. The store and Mac’s house were next to each other. Since John’s murder, Mac had built a four-foot adobe wall bordering Main Street in front of both buildings.
Henry Brown was looking out the store window when he saw Brady coming down the street. Word was out that Brady aimed to arrest me and Fred Waite for appropriating cattle.
“Here comes your compadre, Billy,” Henry said. “Hindman and Mathews are with him.”
George Hindman and Billy Mathews were deputy sheriffs. They were in Morton’s posse when he murdered John. Hindman had a farm on the Hondo. He was a cripple. Old Ephraim about got him years earlier up in the Sacramentos. Mathews was a braggart and a bully. Him and me’d had a fracas a week earlier. I’d called him out for John’s murder and was reaching for my six-shooter when Fred Waite stopped my hand. We walked away. But I swore I’d get the sonofabitch.
“Brady’s got warrants for us,” I said. “Probably in his pocket. I’m replevying mine.”
Henry and Fred and me and Kid Antrim ducked out the backdoor and came up behind the adobe wall blocking our view from the street. We could hear mud sucking at the men’s boots. When Fred thought they were close enough he gave a nod. We raised up and fired. I aimed at Mathews. He was already running and I missed. I fired again but the .44 misfired. Most of the boys were aiming for Brady. The sheriff sat down in the mud then keeled over backward, his head landing in horse shit. Hindman was on his knees.
Fred and me jumped over the wall and ran toward Brady. In the mud beside him was my ivory-handled double-action .41. I’d given twenty-five dollars for that Colt in San Antone and was happy to get it back. I was faster and truer with it than with the short-barrel shit-shooter Brady gave me when I got out of the calaboose.
While admiring my prize I felt a burn in the butt. I turned and saw Mathews duck behind the corner of Sisneros’s casa. Fred let out a yelp. The slug took a chunk out of me and clipped Fred in the leg. We hobbled back to the store.
When the shooting started, folks on the street scattered. Preacher Ealy’d run into the street and was looking after Hindman who was still kneeling. Me and Fred cut through Tunstall’s store and out the back to the corral. We figured Mathews would round up a posse and be after us quick. The rain would delay him some. We saddled up and skinned out for San Patricio.
We spent the next two days at Jesus Chavez’s place in the Pajaritos, licking our wounds like a pair of dogs. Next morning Dick Brewer showed up with the boys. He said that Mathews couldn’t get up a posse. He also said that some of the posse who’d murdered John were hiding out on the Mescalero Reservation. It was a good time to go after them. Fred and me saddled up and rode down the Tularosa Road to the reservation with the Regulators. A few hours later we stopped at Miz Godfroy’s for dinner at Blazer’s Mill.
Blazer’s Mill is a settlement on the Río Tularosa. It was called South Fork before Doc Blazer bought a sawmill and house there shortly after the War between the States. Never was much there. A post office. Half a dozen houses. Up the road from the sawmill Doc had put up a two-story building for defense against Apaches. The adobe walls were two-feet thick. The doors were thick as my fist. Portholes under the eaves looked out on all sides.
Fred Godfroy, the Indian agent, leased part of the building for an office and quarters. Godfroy’s missus rented rooms and ran a chow hall there. Dinner was four bits. Her apple pie was the best in the territory. If you wanted a slice you had to arrive early. Regulars had pie for breakfast.
Miz Godfroy didn’t allow guns. Never saw the rule broke. I’ve seen bitter enemies scowling across the table, but nary a one would go for his hardware or lay low in an arroyo afterward to ambush an enemy. Miz Godfroy commanded that kind of respect.
We put our horses in the corral then crossed the creek on a log bridge and went up to the chow hall. John Middleton got the short straw and stayed with the hardware while the rest of us went in.
We’d hardly sat down when Middleton rushed in.
“Buckshot Roberts is in the post office.”
Charlie Bowdre knocked over his chair getting up.
“That sumbitching rooster’s mine, by god,” he said. “Today I’m bedding him with the devil. Few days ago me and him traded lead in San Pat. He shot my horse!”
Buckshot Roberts was a penny-ante outlaw. He was in Morton’s posse when they murdered John. Dick had a warrant for him. He’d been a Texas Ranger. When the Rangers saw him for the thieving coyote that he was, they ran him out of the state. He became a bounty hunter. Rumor had it that Dolan was offering a hundred dollars for each of us. Dead preferably. Figured Roberts was out hunting us then.
“Easy, Charlie,” Dick said. “The governor voided our warrants but maybe they’re still good with the marshals. We’ll take Roberts alive. Turn him over to the federals.”
“I know Buckshot pretty good,” Frank Coe said. “He’s a neighbor. I’ll talk to him. Believe I can bring him in.”
The Coes were a tough bree
d but Frank was the toughest. He went after the Stockton gang after Port Stockton killed one of his friends. Frank killed Port then frequented Ike Stockton’s bar, looking for the rest of the gang. One night one of the cousins came up behind him with a knife. Frank took the knife away from the ole boy and gutted him with it. Witnesses said it was a fair fight.
Dick Brewer told Frank to have at it with Roberts.
“He ain’t going nowhere,” Dick said.
Frank went down the hill to the post office as Roberts was coming out. The rest of us slipped out the front door, grabbed our guns, and ran down the hill to the back of the post office in case Roberts tried to skedaddle. Frank and Roberts were arguing.
“I ain’t giving my guns to them skunk bears. I know what they done to Morton and Baker.”
“They’ll kill you sure if you make a break for it. Stick with me. I won’t let ’em shoot you.”
“You can’t stop Bonney. They was a dozen holes in Buck Morton’s back. Everybody knows what happened. Morton weren’t trying to get away. It was murder, plain and simple. Bowdre and Bonney bushwhacked me in San Pat last week. I was lucky to get out alive.”
“Sockdologizing sumbitch!” Charlie whispered. “That lying lowlife bushwhacked us. We wouldn’t of knowed he was there if lead hadn’t of whizzed past my ear.”
Charlie stepped around the corner of the post office, his six-shooter drawn.
“Drop your Winchester, you shit-eating chingón. We’re bringing you in.”
Middleton and George Coe were fanning Charlie’s back. Fred and me were in the rear, still limping from Mathews’ bullet. Roberts swung his Winchester up to his waist. Charlie fired first, catching Roberts in the gut. Roberts pumped off three shots in a lick. One ricocheted off Charlie’s belt buckle, snapping off George’s trigger finger. Middleton caught one in the chest. I was grazed on the arm. We ducked for cover while Roberts stumbled across the road to Doc Blazer’s house. Dick ran down the hill to the sawmill for a clear view of Doc’s house. He dropped to the ground behind a pile of logs, raised his Winchester, and opened fire. He ducked below the logs to reload. When he raised up again, Roberts popped him in the eye, blowing out the back of his skull.
We were in a pickle. Dick was dead. John Middleton and George Coe were out of commission. Even gutshot, Roberts was deadly. At well over a hundred paces he’d taken out Dick when his eyebrows was barely visible above the log pile. We got Middleton and Coe into a wagon. One of Doc’s hands drove them to the doctor in Ruidoso. The rest of us figured we’d wait Roberts out.
That evening Lieutenant Appel, the Fort Stanton surgeon, showed up. Godfroy had wired the fort. He knew the doctor would come. Appel was engaged to his daughter.
“We’ve heard nothing from Roberts,” I said. “Ain’t too eager to look in on him.”
“Believe he’ll let me in,” the lieutenant said.
Appel went down the road out of sight from Doc Blazer’s house. He crossed over and came back up by the end of the house where there were no windows or doors. When he eased around to the front he called to Roberts.
“Mr. Roberts, I’m Lieutenant Daniel Appel of the United States Army. I’m the surgeon at Fort Stanton. Can you hear me?”
“Hear you fine, Lieutenant.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Been better.”
“Can I come in . . . without getting shot?”
“You alone?”
“Yessir.”
“Suit yourself. I ain’t much in a shooting mood anyways.”
The lieutenant found Roberts lying on a mattress below the window. The mattress was soaked in blood.
“Let me look at your wounds, sir.”
“Look as you like, Lieutenant. Ain’t much to see. I’ve lost about all I had.”
“I can wrap you up. Make you a mite more comfortable.”
“Ain’t sure comfortable’s the right word. ’Preciate it though.”
Appel came out of the house carrying Doc Blazer’s Springfield, the one Roberts had used on Dick. He confirmed that Roberts was gutshot. Said Roberts had a few hours at most.
Dick had laid in the sun all day. No one was willing to get him while Roberts was dangerous. When Appel assured us Roberts’ Winchester was out of ammunition, me and a couple of the boys went down to the log pile to retrieve Dick’s body. Dick was still wearing an Apache charm around his neck. A rawhide ring hanging from four rawhide strings. A string of mescal beans hung from the ring. A Mescalero woman gave it to him. He’d found her near Tularosa with a broke leg. He brought her to Fort Stanton. Lieutenant Appel fixed her up. She told Dick the charm would bring him good luck. She was wrong about that.
I lifted the charm off of Dick and hung it around my neck. Not for luck. For resolve. I’d made a promise to John Tunstall. I owed Dick one too.
We carried Dick to the big house and laid him out in the Indian Agency office. The rest of us took rooms above the chow hall for the night.
Next morning Doc Blazer told us Roberts was dead. Said he’d been scalped.
“Scalped? Who’d want that carrottop?” Henry said. “Mescaleros?”
“Mescaleros won’t touch the dead. Taboo.”
A few of the boys dug a double grave in the old cemetery up the hill behind Doc Blazer’s house. Doc’s old carpenter made a double box, big enough for Dick and Roberts. It was a fine piece of joinery, not some rough-hewn crate. He lined it with white muslin. That afternoon Doc’s daughter read the service.
I wasn’t happy with Dick and Roberts tucked away for eternity in the same box. It would of been better if Dick instead of Charlie had shot Roberts. I reckon their fates were entwined. Much as I hated Roberts for being in Morton’s posse, for hunting us like coyotes, most of all for killing Dick, I admired the old boy. He’d put up one hell of a fight. He got the best of us. He did for a fact.
CHAPTER 6MacNab
No school today. Great danger rests on the town. God save us.
—DR. TAYLOR F. EALY, Diary, MAY 1, 1878
WITH DICK BREWER DEAD FRANK MacNab became our new leader. Charlie Bowdre was oldest and wanted the job, but he was an ornery maverick bull. Hadn’t been for him Dick might still of been with us instead of sharing a box with Buckshot Roberts.
A few days after Blazer’s Mill Judge Bristol rode into Lincoln to convene a grand jury. I was called again as a witness to John Tunstall’s murder. There was a warrant out for me so I hid out the whole time. The grand jury indicted me and some of the boys for killing Brady and Hindman and Buckshot Roberts. Jesse Evans and a couple of other Dolan boys were indicted for killing John. Dolan was named an accessory, and him and Murphy were indicted for stealing John Chisum’s cattle. I wasn’t concerned about my indictments. Just glad to see Dolan and his boys get theirs. I was glad to hear about Mac McSween too. The grand jury said Mac didn’t steal the Fritz estate. You recall that was the fracas that sent Morton’s posse to confiscate John’s livestock and murder him. The grand jury did everything but issue Mac an outright apology. That was a surprise. We’d figured Mac’d be indicted. Judge Bristol did too. Boys who witnessed the indictments said the judge did his damnedest to get the grand jury to change its mind.
While in Lincoln, Bristol appointed a new sheriff. The boy was from Kentucky. Owned a ranch south of Lincoln. We didn’t know much about him. Figured he was in cahoots with Murphy and Dolan.
Word of the indictments got out quick. With so many of them, some of the Seven Rivers boys figured the new sheriff had more than he could handle. They formed a posse to round up Regulators. Wanted to help out, they said. They’d already begun combing Lincoln County.
Mac was meeting with Regulators in Uncle Ike Ellis’s store when the mail carrier arrived from Roswell. He said Frank Coe and Frank MacNab were dead, shot near Roswell by Seven Rivers boys. Killers were headed to Lincoln, would arrive soon. Frank Coe was George Coe’s cousin. Believe I told you that earlier.
“Goddam sumbitches!” George roared. “Them cabróns’ll rue the day t
hey crossed the Coe family.”
He grabbed his Sharps and headed for the roof about the time the posse was entering the tunnel of trees at the near end of town. When the lead rider came into view, George fired. The slug from his rifle ripped through the cowboy’s leg and creased his horse. The horse bucked, tossing the rider on his head. George measured the distance later. Said it was over four hundred paces. Near a quarter of a mile. A lucky shot if there ever was one. George is best I’ve seen with a rifle, but he ain’t that good.
At the sound of gunfire the Regulators broke out of Ellis’s store into the street. Lead was buzzing in both directions. Some of the posse raced up Main Street. They were the next casualties. The rest abandoned their horses and hunted for cover.
The sheriff stumbled out of Dolan’s saloon. His foot missed the stirrup as he was mounting his horse. The horse spun in circles while he tried mounting again. When he finally got into the saddle he near fell off the backside.
“Where’s that sidewinder heading?” I said.
“Believe he’s hightailing,” Fred Waite said. “He was drunk afore he got to Dolan’s. Ain’t sobered since. Probably prejudiced toward lead.”
The sheriff whipped his horse and headed toward Fort Stanton. I considered spurring him along but saved my ammunition for the action at the other end of town.
We kept up steady fire but no one else was hit. An hour or two later a troop of buffalo soldiers rode in to the tune of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” The sheriff wasn’t with them. Figured he was sobering up at the fort. The shooting stopped as the troopers rode along Main Street.
“Ain’t sure where this trail’s headed,” Fred said, “but I don’t care for it. Too many warrants have our names on ’em. Vámonos, amigo.”
“Bueno.”
Fred and me ducked behind a wall until the troopers passed. We worked our way back to Ellis’s store. George Coe was still on the roof.
“We ain’t sticking around for the fandango,” I called up to him. “Come with us.”
The Gospel According to Billy the Kid Page 4
