Billy the Kid (7 page)

"Two fifty," Willie bargained, slicing off half a hand in gesture. He glanced over toward the small group of observing Yavapais, settling his eyes on one in particular, a handsome Indian in his early thirties. He wore white men's clothing. "And I want Big Eye."

Big Eye smiled thinly. He was one of the few Yavapais with schooling. Resentful and arrogant at times, he was still an expert tracker. He spoke English fluently.

"Three dollar," Kumquikit insisted, drawing into a mask of stubbornness.

"You're talkin' about taxpayer money, Kumquikit," Willie said with annoyance. "But it comes out of my pocket first. Last time you agreed to two dollars. Nothin' has changed since. I'll give you two fifty. No more"

Kumquikit's face remained a mask.

A sudden pounding of hooves interrupted the bargaining. Kumquikit looked past Willie up the shadowy road.

Willie turned in that direction, too, squinting.

Five white men were riding down on the wickiups, three abreast and two trailing. Willie frowned, sensing their arrival might have something to do with him.

Then they drew up in the flickering circle of reddish light. Willie recognized Clem Bates, Polkton's freight boss and a Wilson ally. Beside him was Earl Cole, staring belligerently as usual. By Cole was Dobbs, the lean-hipped import from Tombstone whom Willie suspected of the bushwhacking. The other two men, whom Willie knew slightly, were mule skinners, Bates's employees.

Clem took a short cold cigar from his lips, staying up on his horse "Evenin', Sheriff. Sam Pine told us you'd be out here."

Wondering what they had in mind, then making a stab at it, Willie eyed them individually and answered, as cordially as he could, "I'm tryin' to reason with Kumquikit to save some taxpayer money. Maybe you can persuade him, Clem."

Bates shook his head. "That's not why we're here. Pete Wilson thought you might need some help. We're sort of a posse."

Willie eyed Bates.
Sort of a posse?
"Oh? Well, that's very nice of Pete. But, Clem, you can ride back to town an' tell him no thanks."

Bates glanced over at Cole, then said steadily, "He doesn't quite feel that way. He swore us in as deputies. We're ridin' with you."

Willie rubbed the back of his neck and said tiredly, "I do hate to disagree with the territorial attorney again. But not this time, Clem. I appreciate the offer, but I'm hirin' trackers."

Cole shifted in his saddle, reaching up to pluck a persimmon off an overhanging branch. The fruit was big and ripe. He took a bite and then lifted his eyes to Willie. "P.J. don't want Billy Bonney to get to Mexico. He figures you just might accidentally let him. So we're goin' with you, Sheriff. Call it insurance."

"So somebody can 'accidentally' shoot me in the back again?"

He caught Dobbs's warning glance at Cole.

The rancher did not react. "That's your problem, Sheriff," he said calmly.

Willie stared at the big man from Cave Flat. In height they were about the same, but Cole was a good forty pounds heavier, with arms the size of stovepipes. There was no question that Cole could handle himself. He'd once taken on three strapping lumberjacks and left them in a pile on Saloon Row, hoisting one man bodily and using his calks to stomp the others.

"Maybe you didn't hear what I just told Clem Bates," Willie answered evenly, thinking it might well be time not to turn a deaf ear on Cole. Since the election the rancher had gone out of his way to provoke a showdown.

Cole's reply was to toss the rest of the persimmon between the sheriff's feet. It spattered. Then Cole waited, an insolent, calculated dare in his eyes.

Willie had never had the slightest taste for blood, by gun or fists. Like many big men who knew their own power and seldom needed to prove it, he was a gentle person. It took a lot to stir him. Yet, at the same time, when he was finally set loose, he enjoyed it. He fought savagely, with Intent to cripple.

He glanced down at his boots. They were flecked with orange. He said quietly, "I hope that was a slip of hand, Mr. Cole." He emphasized the
mister.

Cole reached for another persimmon. It landed not a half inch from Willie's dusty toe, juice and meat flying.

Willie felt the eyes of the Yavapais on him. They were waiting for the white men to settle their differences. Cole's friends were saddle-resting, arms folded, delighted at the prospect of a fight between the two elephants—and certain of its outcome. No one had ever whipped Earl Cole.

Willie shrugged. With slow, deliberate movement, trying to estimate the best way to pull Cole off his horse, he unhitched his gun belt, tossed it to Big Eye, and moved toward Cole.

The rancher tossed a thick leg over his pommel and came off the saddle in a vaulting leap, surprising for a man of 250 pounds. Both of his heels caught Willie in the chest, driving him back and down.

Willie felt his shoulders slam the dirt. The back of his skull pounded it. A wave of blackness crossed him. Then reflex, and the fear of Cole's foot ramming his head, caused him to roll.

As he got up, shaking his head to clear it, he saw Cole dropping his gun belt, complete confidence in his eyes. Cole's huge fists came up. The big rancher murmured, "I been waitin' a long time to do this, Sheriff." He stepped forward, throwing a looping right that landed high on the jaw.

A glancing blow, and Willie barely felt it. He stepped inside Cole's left to plant a vicious right hook deep into the rancher's belly. The fist went six inches into rubbery fat and muscle.

With hardly a sound, Cole doubled and seemed to be holding his breath, as if his lungs were ballooning. He was definitely paralyzed: mouth open, face contorted, skin purpling.

Willie grabbed him by the collar at the back of the neck and began running, towing Cole in a bent-over position. A few feet from a wagon bed, he stopped dead, releasing the giant rancher.

Cole catapulted forward, ramming the wagon with his skull. The wagon made a bass drum
boom.
The wagon boards caved in.

Cole crashed backward into the dust, totally out.

Willie stood over him, scarcely able to believe it had been that easy. Then a feeling of deep satisfaction followed. Cole had begged for it. After another look at the prone rancher, Willie walked slowly over to Kumquikit.

The old Indian was grinning widely. "Okay? he said. "Change my mind. Two dollar fifty?

Massaging his chest where the boot heels had caught him, Willie laughed for the first time that day. "Changed mine, too. Three dollars. The taxpayers just got generous."

Kumquikit cackled as Clem Bates and Dobbs swung down off their horses to revive Earl Cole. The other Indians joined in the laughter.

HANDS LIMP BY HIS SIDE
, the .44s resting in holsters at his hips, Billy regarded the small haul at his feet with a thoughtful frown. Yet it didn't surprise him too much. His newfound friends weren't likely to be over-generous at this point. They were safely at Dunbar's Rocks.

Keeping his voice congenial, Billy said, "Look down, Art. That pile by my feet is a lot smaller than yours, Perry's, or Joe's. I don't quite know how you came by this arithmetic. I'm owed three thousand."

There was a chilling, clinking sound in the soft evening air as Joe twirled the necklace of bullets around his left forefinger. The noise was getting to Billy.

Nerves ragged, Perry complained to Art, "I wish you'd make Joe quit playin' with that."

Art's eyes stayed steady on Billy. "He likes to keep his hands occupied. That's his only fun, Perry."

Joe grinned broadly and kept on twirling. His mouth was full of jelly candies, and colored saliva dripped at the corners.

Then Art addressed himself to Billy, matter-of-factly. "Back in McLean, I said we'd share I didn't say we'd share exactly even. Now, I put up the money for these horses, that fancy suit you got on, that shinin' silver star you tossed away. Paid your hotel bill in McLean, Tucson, and Wickenburg. Now I figure you got your fair share, Billy Boy. Five hundred."

Billy glanced down at the measly pile by his boot toes. Added to that pittance, they no longer needed him. There was no reason on God's peaceful earth not to leave him shot up in Dunbar's.

Billy looked back at Art and smiled, letting every muscle in his body go lax. He decided to play it humble "I guess I'm beholden to you at that. You invited me along."

"Very true," said Art, smiling back. "We should part friendly. So why don't you pick up your share an' ride. Well go on south. You go west, Billy. Someday we'll meet again. You did a good job, Billy Boy, by grannies."

Billy felt wrath rising, heat coming to his temples, but he kept the smile carefully on his face. He nodded. "I am grateful. Everythin' considered, I suppose I'm most fortunate" He opened two middle buttons of his shirt and bent to begin gathering his share. "You lifted me out o' poverty—" Although his eyes were momentarily on his shirtfront, he instinctively knew Art was easing for his gun.

Billy went on gabbing. "—opened your hearts—"

As the hand that put the loot into the shirt came out, it held the little silver-inlaid Colt .41 caliber derringer, cocked. Billy's voice turned frigid as he finished the sentence, "—opened my eyes. Now, back up about six feet, you bastards."

They gawked at the hole of the little gun. Art's thick palms went slowly above his head. Perry and Joe, mouths now intakes for flies, followed suit. The necklace stopped clinking.

Billy's sudden tense laugh, almost a dry cough, caromed around the rocks. No more than ten minutes of gray light remained. Dunbar's was fading into darkness.

Billy shook his head in mock chastisement and clucked his tongue. "Art, you should learn not to be so greedy. And to think you actually wanted to shoot me."

Art glared back but made no answer. He'd been around enough not to challenge the gun sighted between his eyes.

Joe asked angrily, "Pa, we gonna let him take the stuff?"

"Shut up, Joe," Perry said.

Pushing words through clenched teeth, Art ordered, "An' stay still, Joe. This boy's faster'n you are."

Billy couldn't help but grin. "You better listen to your pa, Joe. Now come close together." He waited. "Little closer. That's good. Now smile, fellows."

They did look humorous to Billy, like they were posing for one of those "caught outlaw" photographs. He quickly changed hands with the derringer and drew his right .44, dropping the small gun to the blanket. "Now we got somethin' that does command respect."

Forcing himself to plea, Art blurted, "We'll settle for half, Billy."

Billy's smile widened. "Sharin's the thing, I know" he said, bending slightly to pull the four corners of the blanket together, transferring the loot to the burlap bag. "I'm gettin' practiced at this..."

"Half, Billy," Art pleaded.

"Honesty is a virtue ... Treachery's an awful sin..."

He saw Joe's right hand plummet down, and he flicked the .44 barely an inch. It jumped in his hand as he squeezed the trigger. Joe went backward as if chopped behind the knee, the necklace squirting into the air in an arc.

The gun locked on a gasping Art, whose hands had automatically sunk to his waist. The hands began rising again. The
boom
of the gun echoed back over the taupe ridges and flats.

Billy said hoarsely, "Now drop your belts an' kick 'em away."

The men he'd shot in his life before today were rustlers, all on Cudahy land except that cheating Juarez man. The same thing had happened each time. They'd drawn, and instinct had moved Billy the Kid to fire, putting blinding speed and coordination into his hands and eyes. At the instant it happened, when the gun fired, he'd felt nothing. But when it was over, his body tingled, as it did now.

Hit in the chest, Joe was groaning in the dirt.

Billy didn't bother to look at him. He towed the burlap bag back, holding Perry and Art at bay with his right hand. Among the fresh mounts he'd picked a sleek bell mare, and reaching her, he used his left hand to stuff the saddlebag, eyes darting between the burlap bag and the two men.

He finished and mounted, then leaned to pull the slipknot on the hitching line, loosening the other three horses. He kicked at a sorrel, and they scattered.

Taking a last look at Art, Billy said, "Your youngest had another fault. He was impulsive." Then he galloped out between the rocks into deep twilight, vanishing. The sound of hooves diminished quickly.

***

PERRY HAD GONE FOR HIS GUN
, but it was tOO late. In a rage Art knelt down by Joe to rip open his blood-drenched shirt. Then he looked up and off, the blocky face maniacal in the near darkness.

"Catch those horses, Perry," he barked. "Let's try to find a doctor. We'll take care of Billy later."

***

ABOUT TEN O'CLOCK
, when the three-quarter moon, just risen, made the harsh country ivory and pillow soft, Billy was hidden back in a canyon. He hadn't lighted a fire. Boots off, he'd bedded down for the night, the .44s on each side of him at hip level. He'd eaten some jerked beef and was waiting for uneasy sleep.

Windless chill had spread over the low mountains and ivory light began defining brush clumps along the lips of the draw. There were stirrings and rustlings along the sharp banks of the water-cut vee. Not far away, coyotes made themselves known.

Billy looked at the wide sky, shivering suddenly. Some of it was the penetrating chill; some was the fact that he realized he was alone again. There had been many people along the way over the past two years, but often, at moments like this, it seemed he'd been alone since leaving Willis Monroe and the Double W. And Kate. Only Helga was in his life, and she was far away.

KATE MONROE
was down on the living room floor, talking to herself. Parts of a new wringer from wondrous Chicago were littered about her. The lamp by her knees cast a warm glow on the assembly instruction sheet. She was perplexed by the diagram.

At nineteen Kate Monroe was a very pretty girl. Her hair was straw colored in the summer, for she was outdoors a lot, but turned honey when snows hit the Tuckamore. It was long, and she wore it grasped at the nape of her neck with a bone clasp. Shaken out and loose, as it was now, it framed her face perfectly.