Billy the Kid (11 page)

"All right, let's go flush him out," Willie said, chagrin coming through.

Big Eye reminded softly, "We're paid to track, not to shoot."

Willie blinked at the Yavapai, not expecting that reaction. But then he considered it. Big Eye was entirely right. It was his own fight, not theirs. They'd done their job and expertly. Willie said, "Come by the office in the morning. I'll have your money."

Big Eye glanced at the house thoughtfully, and then turned in the saddle to speak to the others. He rattled Yavapai. Turning back he said, "I told them to go on. I'll come with you."

Willie thought it over. The less people riding up, the less chance of anyone getting hurt. He was certain he could talk the kid—if he was still there—into giving up. But if Big Eye came along, it might go another way. The Indian might set off a shooting.

"Thanks, Big Eye," said Willie appreciatively, "but I've decided I'd rather do it alone. It's safer for both of us." He reined around and trotted Almanac toward the house.

The Yavapais lingered a moment, and then rode off.

Soon Duke and Cotton began to yelp.

In the kitchen Billy asked tensely, "Willie?"

Kate nodded, fear gripping her. She watched as Billy galvanized, grabbing a handful of biscuits, his hat, and his gun belt. He bounded out the back door.

Kate stayed by the table, closing her eyes. Then she took a steadying breath and walked toward the front door, hoping her face would not reveal what was in her mind.

Willie paused on the porch a moment, scanning around. He couldn't spot Billy's horse. His hand dropped to his holster, but then he decided against it. If anybody had to fire, it would be Billy.

Passing quickly through the front door, almost colliding with Kate, he asked brusquely, "Where is that idiot?"

Kate swallowed. "He's gone."

Kate was pale and drawn, wide-eyed. Her hands moved up in a helpless gesture, then dropped to her sides again.

Willie stared at his young wife, not quite believing her, then moved cautiously by her into the kitchen. Billy's half-eaten meal was scattered across the plate; the chair was pulled away from the table. He looked at the back door.

Outside, a bucket toppled and rolled.

Willie stepped to the lamp and blew it out, debating about his gun. Finally he pulled it, but he kept it down by his thigh as he slipped out the door, trying to adjust his eyes.

From the porch he saw Billy's form in the cul-de-sac by the corral fence. His horse was saddled, but he hadn't mounted. Willie saw the black barrel of Billy's drawn .44 in the moonlight. The boy's face was a blur, barely visible.

Willie had an overwhelming desire to run up to him, pound his back, punch his shoulder, yell at him. But he moved slowly down the steps, gun aimed to the dirt.

Billy said, "I told Kate you'd look the other way. You fooled me, Willie."

Yes, it was that old familiar voice that Willie heard. But taut now, strained and dry.

Heart pounding, Willie ordered, "Drop it, Billy."

It didn't seem possible they were looking at each other across guns. Willie moved a step at a time, slow but steady, until he heard Billy's frantic, "Stop there!"

They stayed poised a long, shattering moment, separated by a hundred feet. Then Willie decided he'd have to take him, or try, no matter what happened. The face ahead of him was still in willow shadows. He could not see his friend's eyes.

"Why did you have to go an' become a big fat sheriff?" Billy asked, a strange grief in his voice. "Didn't punchin' cattle satisfy you?"

Willie shook his head at the inane question. "Drop it, Billy," he demanded, finally raising his Colt. "Let's don't do this." He started again toward Billy, feeling stone in his feet with each slow step.

Billy said tensely, "Don't force me, Willie. Please don't. I can get three shots off while you're tryin' for one. You know that. Let me ride out."

The tall man moved steadily.

Then the back door slammed. Kate suddenly rushed past him to stand in the line of fire. Both men were stunned at the turn of events.

Billy said weakly, "Now that's a silly damn thing to do, Kate"

She stood firm, ten feet from Billy, staring at him.

Willie snapped, "Get out of the way, Kate."

Kate didn't budge.

Willie shouted, "I said move!" Sweat dotted his forehead. His mouth was dry.

Kate moved—directly toward Billy. He seemed transfixed as she walked up to him, the .44 pointed at her waist.

"Give it to me, Billy," she said quietly. "Or shoot me. One of the two."

Willie held his breath and watched as she reached out to grasp the gun by the barrel, a dangerous thing to do. He felt limp as Billy carefully eased his finger from the trigger guard, opening his palm from the cocked gun. He heard Billy's defeated murmur, "You've got a helluva deputy here."

Then his breath surged out. "You're still the same, Billy," the sheriff said gratefully, realizing it sounded ridiculous at the moment.

Billy's laugh was hopeless. "You sure ain't, Deacon."

Billy went over to him as Kate, her face pasty in the moonglow, bolted for the house, Billy's .44 still in her hand.

Willie looked at his old friend. He hadn't aged much in two years.

***

WHILE BILLY FINISHED
his meal, Willie dug through the kid's saddlebag with his right hand, still holding the Colt in his left, although he wasn't aware of it. He yanked out a mammoth biscuit watch on a gold chain, dangling it. "Why you takin' stuff like this?" he asked in dismay.

Billy swallowed some food and protested, "I could live five years off that jewelry in Durango."

Willie laughed and held up a handful of cash but turned serious again. "I'll ask you about it later, but we saw a corpse out on that mesa. Looked like an overgrown boy."

Billy shook his head in regret. "He threw down on me, Willie. It was me or him."

"That why those other two were chasin' you?"

"Also the money," Billy admitted. "I took all of it when they got cute."

Willie said, "Oh my."

Billy stayed silent a moment, then indicated the gun. "You can put that away, Willie. I'm not goin' anywhere"

Willie laughed. "Kate'd probably stop you if you tried."

"I'm still shaking," she said. "I don't understand either of you."

Willie holstered the gun, sitting down at the table beside Kate, reaching for a slice of beef. "How you like the place now?"

"Great." Billy grinned.

They'd resumed their old relationship, Kate realized. She'd never fully understand it, but it was there.

Billy again wondered what might have happened if Kate hadn't come between them. He kept his eyes on his plate. He said hesitantly, "I saw ... what was out back, Willie. Thanks. Wish I'd had the chance to know him." Tears were in Billy's eyes.

Willie nodded an acknowledgment, and Kate knew they wouldn't discuss it again. This breed of man—and they were both the same in many ways—had a manner of dismissing death. Perhaps it was best.

Willie changed the subject. "Hope you don't mind me askin' you why you're stoppin' trains. Especially in my county?

Billy grunted. "How did I know? How did I know you were sheriffing? Maybe you ought to pass word that you're the
law
here?"

"That doesn't tell me what you were doin' up by marker 416."

Billy sighed. Life seemed to be one long explanation. "Till ten days ago, Willie, I was the poorest cowboy in Arizona. That's pure fact. I had misfortune like it was a sickness."

Willie rubbed his long jaw uneasily. "Juries are startin' to take a dim view of bad luck. Yuma jail's full of it."

Billy ripped a biscuit. "What do you think I'll get? TWo years? If they pass out pardons the way they used to, that'll mean six months. I can stand that. Don't look forward to it, o' course."

Willie cast a worried glance at Kate. Her eyes held the same concern. Billy couldn't have known, but the laws had changed. Railroad robbery in the territory was now an automatic hanging sentence, but the last pair of holdup men had been commuted to life. Billy would have to settle for that. Being Billy, he'd break out.

After a silent moment, Kate spoke optimistically. "Why, honey, he came here to the sheriff's house, surrendered, turned over every nickel, dime, dollar, watch, gold ring..."

Willie exploded, "He did
what?
"

Billy caught on and grinned. "You saw me out there, Willie. A Iamb come to slaughter ... a terrible sinner askin' for forgiveness, jus' oozin' repentance, my hands high in the air, my gun in the dirt, beggin' you..."

Kate began to laugh, then all three of them broke up.

ABOUT ELEVEN THIRTY
in the morning, the sheriff and Billy trotted toward Polkton along the road they'd so often traveled together.

Willie said thoughtfully, "You know, I just might lose money on you."

Billy glanced over, puzzled.

"I figure you went about two hundred forty miles, an' at thirty cents a mile, that's seventy-two dollars for my troubles. I get two more for serving the felony warrant, which I'll draw up in the morning. But then I got to pay for the pack mule, four days' tracker grub..."

"You on piecework?" Billy asked.

The sheriff laughed. "Almost."

Billy fell into a thoughtful silence. After another hundred yards, he said, "I'd really hate for you to lose money on me, Willie. That wouldn't be right."

Willie frowned over at him. "I'm glad you finally know right from wrong."

"If you'll jus' look the other way, half of this saddlebag'll spill out while I dig some meat hooks into this mare..."

Willie chuckled. "That sounds like bribery."

Billy shrugged. "Jus' an idea."

They trotted on, horses moving easily on the fine-dusted road.

"Shame I didn't stick to ranchin'," Billy said.

Willie remained silent.

"If you hadn't gotten married, no tellin' we might have had the best ranch in this county."

Willie glanced over. "I wasn't going to bring Kate up again. Not unless you did."

There was a silence for a short stretch. Billy punctured it. "Nothin' happened," he said. "I didn't lay a finger on her."

Willie's laugh was hollow but certain. "I know that."

Billy's head whipped around. "Well, don't be so damn sure it couldn't happen."

Willie stiffened.

"In fact, Willie, I think Kate may be gettin' tired of bein' married to seven square feet of the Rock of Ages. Deacon Monroe, damn me!"

Willie glared over at his friend, shaking his head.

"Boy, when you reformed, you went all the way," the prisoner said.

"I didn't know you were an expert on marriages." Willie's voice had an edge.

"I'm an expert on women."

"The kind that sleep under saloon tables," Willie snorted.

They got to Polkton about 12:40.

***

THE ONLY OBJECTS
marring the surface of the desk were two feather pens in an onyx holder and an ornate cigar box. The morning sun, arrowing through the second-floor windows of the courthouse, made it glisten. P. J. Wilson was fussy-woman neat.

There was a bay rum smell in the air and P.J.'s face glowed from a new shave. His brown boots gleamed, as did his square fingernails. With a persuasive tongue, always impressive In front of a jury, eyes on better places than Polkton, he seldom lost a case.

He intoned, "You won't get sympathy from the railroads, Sheriff. They're after necks. They got that hanging law passed. Rob a train, you swing. Billy will."

Willie hated being in the sterile office asking for a favor. But Wilson was the only key to keeping Billy Bonney off a rope. If the kid pleaded guilty, avoiding a trial, the judge would be inclined to accept Wilson's recommendation for clemency.

Willie said earnestly, "But he gave himself up. Nobody was hurt on the train. I've got everything they took. Billy had it all."

Wilson's bushy eyebrows elevated. "All of it?"

Nodding, Willie replied, "They got into an argument. Billy got the drop and rode off with it."
There's no need to tell Pete,
Willie thought,
about the corpse that was back on the mesa. It will complicate the case. I'll mention it later.

"All the bank's money?" Wilson was incisive.

"Every dollar! Pete, full recovery alone is enough for a leniency plea. Don't persecute him because he happens to be a friend of mine, or because of a silly thing that happened between you two a long time ago." Billy had flung a beer in lawyer Wilson's face after an argument in Ashby's saloon.

Wilson appeared to be listening carefully, but it was difficult to determine his degree of sympathy. He'd had a calculating look when Willie had entered the office.

"Suppose he throws himself on the mercy of the court," Willie ventured.

"And?"

Willie made an effort to keep impatience from his voice. "In six months he could apply for clemency. I'll personally guarantee he'll never enter the territory again."

"But the railroads—"

Willie interrupted hotly, "Pete, there isn't anything else on his record. Listen to me."

Wilson flexed his jaw, looked around at the office a moment, reached over, and selected a thin cigar from the ornate box; he lit it, sucked on it, scratched his neck below his ear, and then said, "Well, Sheriff, I don't know."

Willie swallowed his pride, realizing he'd have to beg. "Give him a break, Pete. I'm pleading."

Wilson smiled slightly and Willie felt his stomach turn.

"All right," he said reluctantly. "Get me the names of the other men involved, and I'll put a lot of strong thought into helping..." He paused and then finished with open distaste, "...Billy Bonney."

Willie made himself say, "Thanks."

He got up and walked toward the door, feeling Wilson's eyes in the small of his back. As he reached for the knob, Wilson called out, "I hear you manhandled Earl Cole the other night. He was just trying to be helpful." Wilson and Cole were longtime good friends, of course.

Uneasiness growing again, Willie replied, "That's one side of the story, Pete." He went out.