We hammered lead into the stable. The return fire subsided. In a minute or two Kid and Mac and the rest crawled out the back door along the adobe wall. Dolan’s boys in the stable couldn’t see them. Firing from the stable resumed but it was coming toward us. Mac must of figured the fire was raining down on him.
He stood up, waving his Bible, yelling, “I surrender! I surrender!”
A fusillade poured out of the stable. Mac fell backward. His legs twitched a couple of times then he was gone. The boys scrabbled toward the back gate. One of Dolan’s hombres was waiting. When the boys reached him he killed the first one through the gate. Kid shot the hombre in the face and ran past.
Lead splintered the wood beside my head. A chunk hit me in the cheek. The shot came from behind me.
“¡Puta madre!” José said. “Soldados. Vámonos, muchachos.”
A dozen men in the shadows were coming toward us. José and the rest ran toward the river. I broke for the willows and raced after them.
CHAPTER 9Olinger
As a law-enforcing officer Bob Olinger was considerate and generous. . . .
Bob was helpful to Mother. She thought very highly of him.
—LILY KLASNER, My Girlhood among Outlaws
KILLING MAC PRETTY MUCH ENDED the Lincoln County War. There were still some skirmishes, but with Tunstall and Mac dead there wasn’t much left to war over. The Regulators, of course, still wanted justice for John’s killers. Mac’s too. The governor and his friends wanted the Regulators out of business. They hired Pat Garrett for the job. Over the next three years ten or fifteen hombres died on each side.
President Hayes fired the governor and appointed Lew Wallace in his place. Wallace offered amnesty to anyone in the war, hoping to put an end to the killing, but he was more interested in writing than running the territory. He resigned after publishing Ben-Hur, his big book about a Jew in Roman times betrayed by his best friend. It’s a good story. Ben-Hur becomes a slave. When he earns his freedom he vows revenge. Then he meets Jesus. I won’t tell you what happens. You may want to read it yourself. Your brother loved it. He mentions it in his diary.
I met Wallace once. A year after Mac died. He was no Ben-Hur. He promised me amnesty but he didn’t honor it. He wanted me to testify against Jimmy Dolan and his boys for murdering the one-armed lawyer Sue hired after Mac’s murder. I saw the whole thing. Dolan and his boys were drunk. They were so close to the old boy their six-shooters set his clothes afire.
Late in December, a couple of years after Mac died, Garrett and his boys ambushed a bunch of us in Fort Sumner. They killed one Regulator. The rest of us got away. Over the next few days we moved from ranch to ranch. On Christmas Eve we got caught in a bad snowstorm. We holed up for the night in the old Alejandro Perea place at Stinking Springs. The stone choza had a single doorway. No windows. The door’d been gone for years. Firewood probably.
The last visitor’d left a stack of firewood in a corner of the choza. I built a fire while the boys put up the horses and settled in for the night.
“If these logs don’t last and the night gets as cold as I suspicion,” I said, “we’ll be lucky to make it till morning.”
“They’s worse ways to go than freezing to death,” one of the boys said. “Drift off to sleep peaceful like. I could live with that.”
“I know one kind of death I couldn’t live with,” Charlie said. “You hear what happened to Widenmann?”
“Rob? Dead?” I said. “What happened?”
“You know that bitch his pa keeps tied up back of the goat pen?”
“I hunted lions with her and Rob’s uncle in the Sacramentos a while back. She’s a fine girl.”
“Rob thought so too. He tried to screw her.”
“You’re shitting me!”
“Wished I was. She clipped it clean off. Balls and all.”
“¡Madre de Dios! He bleed out?”
“Afore he got to the house. They found him next morning facedown in the goat path, wearing nothing but a nightshirt.”
When we awoke next morning Charlie was first out to take a piss. He was about my size and wore a broadbrim hat like mine. Garrett and his posse were waiting. Gunfire erupted. Charlie fell back through the doorway, leaking from a dozen holes. Our horses were hobbled outside. Kid coaxed Charlie’s mule to the doorway only to have it riddled with bullets. It fell through the entrance, blocking our escape.
“That you, Pat?” I called.
“It’s me, Billy. You and whoever else is in there, throw out your guns and come out. One at a time. Hands overhead.”
“Pat, Pat, why would we do a fool thing like that?”
“Simple arithmetic, Billy. You were pretty good at it when you were rustling cattle. How many you got in there? Six? Five if you count the ones still alive. That’s what five horses and a dead mule say. You got one exit. Blocked by a mule. Me, I got twenty guns pointed a foot above the mule and another ten round back. How’s that add up?”
“Adds up to a lie, Pat. You ain’t got thirty guns unless you carrying them yourself. You couldn’t raise half a dozen hombres in this weather.”
“Count the holes in your camarada.”
“It ain’t thirty.”
“Who’d we kill? My boys got a little overanxious when he stepped into the doorway.”
“Charlie Bowdre. You ain’t got a warrant for him have you.”
“He ain’t complaining. If we shouldn’t of shot him, come on out and plead his case. We’ll parlay.”
“Patience, Pat, patience. We’ve got cases for you. Brass cases. You’ll have to wait for them though.”
We spent the better part of the day strategizing. Doc Scurlock and Kid wanted to make a break for the horses. We couldn’t see the horses and weren’t rightly sure where they were. I figured they were already in Pat’s custody. None of us thought Pat had more than a handful of hombres, but there were likely more of them than us. I wanted to wait for nightfall, see what we could learn about the posse in the meantime, then evaluate our chances. Two of the boys who didn’t have warrants hanging over them were ready to throw out their guns.
“They’ll starve us out,” one of the boys said. “We ain’t got grub. I near froze last night. Another night like that, I’ll be stiff as cordwood.”
It didn’t help that Pat had a fire going. He’d built it upwind and laid on sweet-smelling chorizo and coffee.
“Hey, Pat,” I called out. “We’re gonna be here awhile. Send over a pot of coffee. Some of the boys’ brains ain’t working too good. Coffee’ll grease them up. We’ll get out of here quicker.”
“I’ve got a fresh pot, Billy. Saving it for you. Thick as swamp water. The way you like it. You boys come on out. We’ll sit around the fire and drink some. Feed you eggs and chorizo too afore we leave. Warm you up. You’ll feel better. Think better too.”
“Kindly offer but we’d prefer our coffee in here.”
“Can’t do it, Billy. Coffee’s conditional.”
“Keep it hot. We’ll think about it.”
I continued bantering with Pat, asking about his food supply, was he warm enough, did he have enough oats and water for the horses. Anything to give us clues about his men. We’d hear occasional conversations around the back of the choza, but they were too muted to offer much counsel. By midafternoon, when Pat laid more meat on the fire, the two boys who wanted to quit earlier had had enough.
“Sorry, amigos,” one of them said. “We’re throwing in.”
They tossed their hardware out the door.
“Hold up, Pat. We’re coming out. Hope you ain’t et all the grub.”
We shook hands and they clambered over Charlie’s mule.
“Sonofabitch,” Doc said. “Whadda we do now?”
Kid and me argued for waiting till dark.
“We made it out of Mac’s after dark,” Kid said.
“Some of you didn’t,” Doc said. “Even if two make it, you want to be the third, laying here beside Charlie? Our best chance is to turn
ourselves in. Lots can happen twixt now and the noose.”
“You’re too logical, Doc. You ain’t thinking.”
“You got a better idea?”
I didn’t. By sundown him and Kid were ready to quit.
“I ain’t going,” I said. “You’re too determined to get yourselves hung. Do me a favor. Let me know how many hombres are out there. I’ll wait and see what the night brings.”
We shook hands, then Doc called to Pat, “Kid and me are coming out. Don’t shoot. Billy’s mulling it over.”
Doc and Kid held their rifles and six-shooters high and clambered over the mule.
In a few minutes Doc called out, “You lying sonofabitch! If we’d knowed you was only four we’d of made a break for it.”
“If you had you’d be dead.”
Pat was probably right. He’d hornswoggled us. Moving men around the back, talking in whispers, making us think there were more of them. I felt like a fool but I was glad I’d stayed.
“Come on out, Billy. You can’t stay forever. It’ll be cold again tonight. I won’t leave without you. Your amigos left their bedrolls behind. If we wait till morning they’ll be icicles. I’ll have to haul ’em in on a travois.”
“Don’t give it another thought,” I said as I tossed out the bedrolls.
Doc came over and picked them up.
Pat and his boys got to arguing. One of them wanted to take the four in hand and head for Santa Fe. I liked that option. Another wanted to storm the choza. I was okay with that too. In the end Pat decided to hunker down for the night and see how agreeable I’d be in the morning.
The temperature was falling fast. I shook out Charlie’s bedroll to cover mine and pawed through his war bag looking for anything to keep me warm. I pulled out a scalp with red hair.
“¡Puta madre! Buckshot Roberts! Bowdre, you shit-eating pecker-wood!”
I flung the war bag and scalp into the night.
A few hours after dark another snowstorm struck. Almost a blizzard, causing confusion in Pat’s camp. Figured it was my chance. Probably my only chance. I’d already put on everything I could wear. I wrapped my blanket around me and grabbed my Winchester, then I crawled over the mule. The snow was blowing hard, a white wall blocking sounds. I made it out the door and crawled along the front wall low as a lizard. When I got to the corner I turned and clung along the sidewall toward the back of the choza. Heard muffled voices. When I reached the back wall I turned the corner again and crouched. Still nothing. No yelling. No shooting. I was about to run when I felt a jab in my side.
“Where you headed, Billy?”
Garrett’s Winchester nuzzled my armpit.
“Hello, Pat. Stepping out for a piss. It’s pretty rank in there.”
“Come back round tother side. Piss wherever you like. But hand over your Winchester and six-shooter first. Be easy about it. I’d hate to have to shoot you. We’ve always been friends.”
Garrett hauled me and the others to Santa Fe. Three months later I was in La Mesilla facing murder charges for killing Buckshot Roberts and Sheriff Brady. The Roberts bill said it was a federal case because Roberts was killed on the Mescalero Reservation. When my lawyer proved that the killing took place at Blazer’s Mill, off the reservation, the judge dismissed the charge. The United States had no jurisdiction.
I wasn’t so lucky with Brady. Was sentenced to hang. The fact that I never shot the sheriff made no difference. Not to the judge. Not to my lawyer. The lawyer who represented me in the Roberts case did a fine job. Albert Fountain was my lawyer in the Brady case. He never even talked to me. Dolan drummed up eyewitnesses who weren’t never there. Fountain didn’t bother to cross-examine them. Besides the shooters, there was only one witness still alive when Brady was killed. I tried to shoot him, and he did shoot me, but he was hightailing it down the street when Brady got hit. Couldn’t of seen what happened. Dolan and his boys wanted me to hang. Brady was as good an excuse as any. The trial was over in a day and a half. The judge picked a day in May for the hanging. Friday the thirteenth, he said. He thought it was funny. Garrett put me in leg irons and shackled me in an ambulance. We left out late at night. Half a dozen marshals rode with us back to Lincoln. They figured I’d have friends waiting along the way.
By then Dolan was out of business. Too deep in debt. He sold out to lawyers from Santa Fe. They figured the old Murphy and Dolan store would make a dandy courthouse. Lincoln didn’t have one and it was the county seat.
The calaboose was on the second floor. No cell. Just an open room. It had a table and three chairs and a cot. My leg irons were shackled to an iron ring bolted through the floor. I could walk in a circle or sit at the table or lie on the cot. That was my home for the next week. It was comfortable compared to the old pigsty under the sheriff’s office. Jailers were two of Garrett’s deputies, Bob Olinger and Jim Bell. Bell was okay. I felt bad about what happened to him. Olinger was different. He could rankle the dead. After Governor Wallace offered amnesty to anyone in the Lincoln War, one of the Regulators ran into Olinger in Dolan’s saloon. Offered to shake hands. No hard feelings. The ole boy stuck out his hand. Olinger took it but wouldn’t turn loose. While the boy was trying to pull hisself free, Olinger shot him through the mouth. Witnesses said the Regulator drew first.
Olinger hated me. I’d bested him too many times at monte. He swore I was palming cards but I couldn’t have done it if I’d wanted to. My hands were too small. If he couldn’t recover his dinero he’d take it out of my hide. Time and again he baited me while I was in the calaboose but I wouldn’t bite. Bided my time. He carried a Remington side-by-side shotgun. Ten-gauge. First breechloader I’d seen. He’d come close, taunting me, hoping I’d make a grab for the gun. I was no fool. Olinger had six inches and fifty pounds on me. To beat him the odds would have to be better. Considerably. One time he laid the shotgun on the floor within reach. He turned his back and walked to the window.
“Come on, Bob, you can do better’n that. That scatter-gun ain’t loaded. You think I’m such a dumbass. You’re dumber’n dog shit.”
“I’ll get you, you half-pint sumbitch. You can bet on that. You’ll never see the rope. You won’t live long enough.”
“I’ll take that bet. For a double eagle. I won’t see the rope, but not because I won’t live long enough.”
Bob rushed at me, grabbing the shotgun as he came.
“I’ll collect that bet now, with a double barrel ’stead of a double eagle.”
He swung the shotgun. I wasn’t fast enough in my leg irons. When I came to, Garrett was tongue-lashing him.
“You idjit. This ain’t how we treat prisoners. You lay another hand on Bonney, I’ll see you locked up till your grandkids are growed.”
That was the last torment I had from Olinger. My head hurt for days but it was worth it. Stopped his badgering. Afterward Garrett had two deputies guarding me at all times.
On my last day Olinger left me alone with Bell while he went to the Wortley for dinner. Before he left he put the shotgun on the rack in the next room. I told Bell I had to go to the jakes. Bell cuffed me and walked me downstairs.
“You wiping my ass?” I said. “I can’t do it with these cuffs.”
“You’ll figure a way.”
I walked out the backdoor, leg irons jangling, Bell following. I went into the jakes and took a piss. When I came out Bell’s six-shooter was leveled at me.
“You think I’d rush you with these irons?”
“You’re a slippery weasel. Ain’t taking no chances.”
We started back up the stairs, Bell’s six-shooter in my back. I can fold over my small hands so they’re not much bigger than my wrists. I slipped out of the cuffs, then faked a fall on the top step, tripping over my leg irons. As I spun to the side I yanked the six-shooter from Bell. He was caught off guard and fell backward. When he looked up he was looking down the barrel of his six-shooter.
“Give me the key to the irons, Jim,” I said. “I’ll be on my way. No fuss, no bl
ood.”
“Pat has the only key.”
Bell turned and looked down the stairs.
“Don’t do it, Jim. I’d shoot Olinger soon as I’d shoot a sidewinder, but I got no truck with you.”
Bell looked at me and hesitated, then he bolted down the stairs. I hesitated too. Didn’t want to shoot him, but Olinger was out there and Bell would head straight for him. I fired twice. Bell tumbled down the stairs and crumpled to the floor.
I shuffled into the room where Olinger left his shotgun. I took it from the rack and checked the load, then shuffled to the window. Olinger must of heard the shots because he was racing across the street toward the jail. I leaned out the window.
“Hello, Bob.”
He glanced up then stopped short, reaching for his six-shooter.
“You sum—”
I opened up his chest with both barrels. Double eagles, I said to myself. I reloaded, then blew apart the chain between my leg irons. A splinter from the floorboards leapt up and lodged in my gun hand. I plucked it out with my teeth, then I put Olinger’s shotgun back on the rack. I went downstairs and out the front door carrying Bell’s six-shooter. The shooting had cleared the street. My old compadre George Coe’d been on the street when I shot Olinger. I called out to him. He stepped out of the Wortley.
“Hey, George, can you fetch me the blacksmith?”
“Sure, Billy. Think he’s in his shop.”
I stepped back into the courthouse and waited until George returned with the blacksmith. He wasn’t a Regulator but he was sympathetic. Mac’d bailed him out a couple of times when he’d been locked up for drunkenness. In a few minutes I was a free man.
About then the constable rode into town.
“Hey, amigo, I need to borrow your horse. You’ll have him back afore nightfall.”
The Gospel According to Billy the Kid Page 7
