Lucky Billy (15 page)

Back inside, he listened to McSween eulogizing Tunstall. In his lawyer's suit and tie, tall and broad, with hands as large as shovels, and rolling his shoulders as he walked, yet at the same time looking glassy and vague—with his wiry black hair piled on his head and his wishbone mustache lengthening his chin and despite, lamentably, breaking off in mid-sentence as though ambushed by grief, Macky showered accolades on John, praised his generosity, his natural nobility, and his openhearted manner. He was made of bell metal, his heart was pure sterling, he looked down upon us now and approved of our—If anything, he was too soft on the Dolanites. Now they'll see—now they'll see—

"Now they'll see what?" the Kid asked Fred. The growing crowd before them consisted mostly of Mexicans.

"Now they'll see what we do."

"What will we do?"

Fred glanced over at John Tunstall's body. "I imagine we'll have to kill the whole pack of them."

The Reverend Taylor Ealy, sent for by McSween several months ago, offered prayers beside the body. He and his wife, Mary, and their two children had arrived that very morning all the way from Pennsylvania, and planned to board temporarily with the McSweens in their sprawling house before they found their own place. Mary played Sue McSween's parlor organ—Mac's wife was visiting friends in St. Louis—and Squire Wilson translated for the Mexicans such hymns and prayers as they'd never heard before. McSween had told Tunstall's men about Ealy when they carried in the body; he'd been summoned to counter the Catholic influence in Lincoln. And wouldn't you know it?—his five-day journey from the end of the train-line in a wagon and horse had culminated that morning with a welcome from the Dolanites when he and his family rattled into town. Gathered on the porch of James Dolan's store, they'd asked Ealy, driving past, who the hell he was, and when he guilelessly answered they surrounded his wagon and said they'd as soon see a whore come to Lincoln as a Protestant minister. They had no need of his Bible-thumping, they said, drawing their weapons. Reeking of liquor, Jack Long had leaned into Reverend Ealy's face and informed him that he'd once helped hang a Methodist preacher in Arizona but never tried a Presbyterian, are their necks any tougher?

Now McSween fumed. As the mourners filed past, he declared that the Murphy-Dolan gang was like the Spanish Inquisition, whereas McSween himself and the martyred John Tunstall were like the Covenanters killed in the seventeenth century for defending the Scottish Presbyterian Church.

That night, the Kid, Fred Waite, and Dick Brewer slept on the floor in McSween's dining room, and heard sporadic gunshots outside and hoarse prayers from the parlor, where McSween and Reverend Ealy sat up with the body.

At breakfast, McSween outlined his plans, which became, the more he talked, the more irritatingly legal to the spunked-up Kid. They met in the dining room. Tunstall was still unburied, and at the table Billy just could make out his stocking feet through the open door. Before his sideboard, as he talked, Macky had a habit of making a fist and slamming it into his other palm as though ready to run out and conquer the world, then hesitating and gazing at his hands. He assigned the Kid and Dick to swear affidavits before Squire Wilson, justice of the peace, who would surely issue warrants for the murderers of Tunstall. Wilson, he reminded them, like all the town authorities, was of their own faction, whereas the Dolanites controlled the county government, of which Lincoln was the seat, including Sheriff Brady, District Attorney Rynerson in Las Cruces, and Judge Bristol in Mesilla, who'd issued the unjust writ of attachment that had started this whole mess in the first place. To get justice, said Mac, we'll have to bypass the county, but all the Kid could think was, justice—what is justice? He knew that Mac went unarmed because the gospel said to turn the other cheek, but he was human, wasn't he? By now, wouldn't scenes of bloody revenge have passed through his mind? They'd taken over Billy's: James Dolan clasping Billy's knees begging not to be shot; Sheriff William Brady's lip and large mustache sliced off his ugly face; Billy Matthews dragged through town on a rope behind a manure cart. As he watched the lawyer ramble, though, Billy understood that others did that sort of thing, not McSween.

Others did that sort of thing
for
McSween.

Yet here he was admonishing his men to not allow their grief to fester into brutality. What kind of man was he? Billy brooded over Macky. John's loss meant a loss of income for the lawyer. Was he just a poor actor or, in his own way, oafishly angered? He seemed just as inconsolable over Tunstall's death as over the inevitable stoppage of funds from London, and announced to them now with a sympathetic frown, "I can't pay you boys yet." He looked them each in the eye. "But I will. I will. You'll have to trust me on this one."

No one responded.

One problem, Mac went on, was that Lincoln's town constable, Atanacio Martínez, was just a part-timer, he didn't even wear a badge. "You might have to persuade him to exercise his authority." McSween's eyes grew brighter. "He could deputize you boys."

"I'll persuade him," said the Kid.

Rob Widenmann walked in with a letter in his hand—he'd been writing to Tunstall's family in London in the room he'd shared with "Harry"—and the men filled him in then realized they'd better dissuade him from helping. "You're a hothead, Rob," Dick Brewer said.

"That is not true!" Rob looked down at the ammunition belts draped across his shoulder.

"So what?" Billy said. "We could use a few hotheads."

In the end, it was just Dick Brewer and the Kid who swore the affidavits, and only Fred and Billy who roused Martínez from his bed to deputize them so they could help serve the warrants. Martínez demurred. They'll kill me, he said. Billy in turn told Martínez that he'd better take that chance because if he didn't he would kill him himself. So the next day they set out for Dolan's store: Billy, Fred Waite, and the reluctant Martínez.

It was morning in Lincoln. Wood and charcoal smoke hung in the air. The throat-scratching dust of Lincoln's single street was so perniciously fine it rose like a vapor when disturbed by marching heels. People watched from their porches and weedy yards when the three men of justice swaggered up the road past Tunstall's store, rifles cradled in their arms. The Dolans and Murphs were still inside that store attaching Tunstall's property even though he was dead. At the door, Jim Longwell spit brown chew on the street and caught Billy's eye as he passed; the Kid sneered. Ahead, the Dolan store sat at the end of town, the only two-story building for many miles around—it would later become the county courthouse—and Billy observed that its front porch and door had been placed under guard by buffalo soldiers. The Negro men in blue stared without expression as Fred and Billy approached, Martínez trailing behind. Their white Lieutenant DeLany ordered them to halt. Martínez caught up and stepped forward. "We have warrants to arrest some men inside this store."

"What men?"

He read the list: Jesse Evans, Tom Hill, George Hindman, James Dolan, Billy Morton, and others not identified by the witnesses.

"How can you arrest unidentified men?"

"We'll know them when we see them," Billy said.

"None of the men you name are here."

"This is Dolan's store. Dolan must be here."

"Mr. Dolan's life would not be worth a farthing if turned over to you."

Deadpan, the buffalo soldiers watched. Martínez, trying to look fierce, nearly shrieked, "How is it Dolan rates protection from the army when he's wanted for murder? Please explain that to me."

"He ain't wanted for murder. You got a drunken
alcalde
to issue those warrants and they don't mean dick. I'm just doing a job here. I'm here to prevent the destruction of property and the loss of more lives. Last night a mob fired on my men and killed a horse. You want to go in there? Go ahead and go in there. These men are intemperate—" The lieutenant now shifted his attention to a crowd who'd followed the three, raising his voice. "You are my witnesses. I tried to protect them but they won't listen. Well, it's their funeral." He grandly stepped aside and ordered his men to make way for this "posse," contemptuously placing the word inside quotes, and Martínez marched forward, followed by Fred and Billy.

Eight or nine rifles simultaneously levered when they kicked the door open. Martínez made his announcement anyway. "We have reason to believe there is murderers in here. I intend to serve these papers."

"Go ahead and serve them."

Billy looked around. Stumpy James Dolan stood behind the counter, his doughnut lips smiling. Gauded up in a California hat and a black sateen shirt whose placket was laced with flat leather strings underneath his wool coat, he sighted down his six-gun directly at the Kid. To one side was Buck Morton on the end of a Winchester, to the other Sheriff Brady, while fanning out around them, some behind the counter, some five feet away on the sanded floor, some behind pickle barrels, one before a coffee mill with large iron wheels, each with a carbine, a rifle, or a pistol, were the other Dolanites all drawing beads. A dozen fingers on a dozen polished triggers, a dozen squinty eyes, a dozen hard pricks, a dozen tight serotinus, a dozen oscillating knees. Martínez took a giant step and put his papers on the counter. "Well. I'll save my spit."

"Don't you want to read them?" Brady asked.

"It says to arrest you. Every man jack."

"You can't arrest a duly authorized posse. You ought to know that, Constable. But I can arrest you. I've done it all the time. You come here to terrorize peaceful citizens and I won't have it."

Billy looked at William Brady, senior statesman of the Dolanites. "Peaceful be fucked."

"Who's this lick-twat?" asked Dolan. "Is that you, Antrim? I remember you now. You're Judas to my Jesus, I've been told."

"Kiss my ass."

"Surrender your guns," Sheriff Brady said.

"Go ahead and take them, you son of a bitch."

The three were disarmed of their pistols and rifles, including Billy's favorite Winchester. He stood in the middle of James Dolan's store, eyes feeling sneaky, not entirely sure what to do with his hands or how to reestablish his swaggering airs or at least maintain his dignity of bearing when his heart was in his boots. This was not how they'd planned it. Billy Matthews lowered his carbine and slapped Fred's shoulder and tried to raise the tone. "You boys given us a good meal down there at the Englishman's ranch and we would like to reciprocate before we have you ironed. We're low on chuck but would whiskey do the trick?"

Fred looked at a wall. "I'm not normally a drinker."

"Just because we don't hold with John Bull ways and you're a bunch of limey heathens and one of you's a turncoat don't mean we can't be friends. Fetch that bucket, Billy."

"Fetch it yourself."

"Fetch the goddamn bucket!"

Matthews wasn't looking at anyone named Billy but he did sound impatient. All the others had lowered their weapons. Men began to move. The pail in question sat beside a saddle rack beyond the counter's edge. The Kid shrugged, dragged his feet, tried to swagger toward the whiskey but his quick hand caught the handle of the bucket simultaneously with Morton's, who'd strolled behind the counter at an equal clip. The two glared at each other—Tunstall's friend and Tunstall's killer. "He said Billy," said the Kid.

"Well, my name is Billy," Buck Morton said. "You ain't no Billy. You're Kid Antrim."

"I go by Kid but my name is William Bonney."

"You're pulling my leg. I know your name."

"Just bring me the cocksucking bucket, would you please?" Both men lifted the bucket and started for Matthews but one Billy geed while the other hawed and some whiskey sloshed out. "And take care with it, would you?"

Morton said, "Folks around here call me Buck but all of you know that my given name is Billy."

"I didn't know that."

"Which one's Billy, then?" asked Dolan.

"I am."

"Me."

"My given name is Jacob," said Matthews. "My daddy just started calling me Billy. Some folks, though, it don't make any difference what their given name is. They'll change it and think everyone is fooled."

"That's true," said Brady. "I myself favor William. Billy's always sounded gutter rat to me. Why anyone would choose it?"

Both men looked at the Kid.

"Here, moisten your tongue," Matthews said to Martínez, handing him a cup. "Drink it down."

"What do you call this whiskey?" asked Martínez.

"I call it, 'Mother I'm Dying Can I Have a Piece of Pie.'" Matthews tried to smile but his pinched face just sneered. His overgrown mustache hung halfway to his chin and the V of his brow gripped his glower hard and caused the end of his fat nose to buckle.

Billy Morton, on the other hand, looked handsome and young, being only twenty-two. A choirboy smile—just like the Kid. But he'd been the one to fire first at Mr. Tunstall, the Kid felt sure of it. Cherubically, Morton cocked his head and frowned and took the cup from Matthews—the one intended for Martínez—and sucked it down, then looked at the constable. "Will you drink some now? It's not poisoned, I guess. It will moisten your tongue."

"It's moist enough already."

"Give the crawthumper some." The Kid nodded at Dolan. "Then we'll know for sure if it's poisoned or not."

"You got a sassy mouth."

"And you got a big one. Size matters."

A head above Dolan, standing behind him, Sheriff Brady laughed in his boots.

The drinks were passed around. For every half cup thrown clown by Dolan's men, the trio drank two—that was the rule of hospitality announced by Billy Matthews. "What proof is this?" Fred slurred at one point.

"Muchwhat a hundred," Billy Matthews said.

By the time they were marched through Lincoln to the jail, Billy, Fred, and the constable were slittering like gut-shots. They couldn't keep a straight line. The whole town fell out to watch the parade and the Dolanite triumph. Even in his cups, Billy knew there was a reason Dolan's store and Sheriff Brady's office were at one end of town and the jail at the other: it was these public processionals, these caravans of shame, displayed before the citizens. One Dolanite, John Hurley, stomped clown the road dancing and twirling and shouting, "Ya-haa! Three turkeys in a hole." Inside the jail, when Brady opened the trapdoor and shoved his captives down the ladder then pulled the ladder up and looked down at the three, he calmly observed, "You got a lot to learn, boys."