Lucky Billy (30 page)

Wallace and the Kid stood at the door. "So you're a hero, is that it? A man of the people?" The governor's eyebrows wedged across his nose.

"They're my friends."

"An object of tender regard, I suppose. A good brave boy?"

Billy shrugged.

"Our meeting tonight was supposed to be a secret. You were not to breathe a word."

"Well, I told them. Just in case."

"You're the one not to be trusted, then. How can I know you'll keep our bargain?"

They stared at each other. Wallace filled with disgust. The three-day journey from Santa Fe, this filthy shack offensive to the nostrils, the snoring justice of the peace. When you consort with blackguards this is what you get. He'd already, in his mind, begun washing his hands of the cherubic "Kid," then he thought of Pontius Pilate. Don't be too hasty, General. When vacillation raised her six drooling heads he called himself general to precipitate resolve.

As for Billy, watching this fatuous man, he thought of all the chances he'd let slip. The chance to stay with Tunstall instead of racing past him the day he was murdered. The chance to kill Dolan when they stood back to back in the street the other night. James Dolan's grin was sheer you-be-damned; his life's purpose was making other people feel worthless. Dolan wouldn't keep their so-called pact any more than a sieve keeps water. "Go ahead and arrest me. You'll see what I do. I'll be at Gutiérrez's place near San Pat. Send Kimbrell with men you can depend on. I'll testify when the court meets in April."

L
EW WALLACE, WHAT A BLOWHARD
. Riding north along the Pecos, Billy admits he should have seen it coming. When he broods on Wallace, as he can't help doing now, halfway between John Meadows's little ranch and John Chisum's enormous one, the urge claws his heart and he has to choke it off, the urge to go to Santa Fe and take the second entrance from the plaza-front and knock on the door to the left in that passage and walk through the general's office into his cave with the single window and the weight of many tons of mud overhead and the rough pine table where the flannelmouth governor writes his darling books and tap him on the shoulder and when he turns around blow off his head.

He'd be guarded.

I know. It's too late for that now.

He sweet-talked you, Henry.

He never intended to hold up his end.

And you held up yours.

Shows you what a sucker, Ma.

Cotton drifts on the air from the trees along the river. Pronghorn tracks through a muddy draw lead to the water, high and fast from spring rain. Beyond the road ahead, black anvil clouds rise above the horizon. The cotton's everywhere, on his clothes, in his mouth. It scoots in lacy throws across the wagon road, thickens to folds. Iron-trunked cottonwoods growing high beside the river produce the thready stuff.

He testified as agreed against James Dolan, even Colonel Dudley. And Dolan was indicted, though his venue got changed to Doña Ana County. And once Billy'd spilled the beans and his own case came up, District Attorney Rynerson, a Dolanite, challenged the governor's right to grant him immunity, and Wallace never fought it. By then he was back at his palace in Santa Fe. The Kid got indicted for Sheriff Brady's murder, also Buckshot Roberts's, and was held under house arrest at Juan Patrón's in Lincoln. Holed up in his backroom, writing
Ben-Hur. A Tale of the Christ,
how could Wallace be bothered with a cocky
pistolero
in a starving desert where romance never flowered and Christ never walked? I wrote to him, Ma. I bugged him on his promises and never got so much as a thank you, no thanks. So I skinned out.

And look what it got you.

It bought me some time before Garrett caught me. It got me where I am. As long as I'm alive.

It brought you right back to a stealing whoring life.

Don't forget passing counterfeit money.

You never listened to me. You were always stubborn.

Don't start, Ma.

I want this, I want that. I want a piece of bread. You didn't ask for it, you screamed. Don't say I want, Henry, I said, be polite, say please. Please, Mother, may I have a piece of bread? I want it, I want it, I want it, you'd scream. I remember your brother got tired of your screaming and knocked you down and straddled your chest arid there he was braining you on the kitchen floor. Say please, he's screaming, say please, say please! I had to pull him off. Remember that?

No.

Would you listen for a minute? No, Mother. No, sir. No, ma'am. You never listen.

No, Mother.

I always felt hard done by. You never would listen. Wash your hands, say your prayers. Don't touch that, it's filthy. Eat your fish, mind your manners, dress warm, clean your nails. I'd take you to the fish market and people would say, What a pretty young man. I've never seen such a pretty young man.

That's enough, Ma.

Lot of good it does him, says I, he's the devil incarnate. A boy that pretty? It isn't possible, they'd say.

Mother, please.

Then once you stayed in bed all day. Remember that?

Yes, ma'am.

You
were eight years old, maybe seven, I don't know. You would not get out of bed, not that day nor the next. I had to pretend I didn't care at first but after a while I couldn't help myself. Get out of bed, I said. Say please, you said. Please, I said, Henry, please get out of bed. I'll think about it, you said.

Mother.

I was peeling you spuds. Boiled them up the way you liked. Never any coal. Cold stove, cold rooms. Is that why you did it? You were cold, so?

Mother, that's enough.

I was at my wits' end. Don't get up just to make me happy, I said. Do it because you
want
to get up. I cried, I paced the floor. You were such a cruel child. At last you said, All right, then, I'll get up. Happy, Ma? I shook my head. Are you doing it for me?—well, don't. It's all right, Ma, I'll do it for myself, I want to get up. Don't eat dirt, I said. Our people don't eat dirt. I was bringing you food, if you remember. Serving your majesty. Eat some more peelers. One day, you jumped off the table in the kitchen just to see if I'd catch you. Watch this, Ma!
Made a lump this big. Yours truly had to heat up a razor and cut out the lump. Remember that?

Yes'm.

You were brave, so, I'll say that. Lay there while I cut, never shed a tear. That's the stubbornness, too. Was it Josie or you got the coals down your sleeve? You were swinging the censer at mass, remember? And the lid was loose and two or three coals fell down your sleeve? High mass, if I recall. Of course this would happen right at the consecration and you couldn't cry out or stop swinging the incense, even as the coals burned through your flesh.

Ma. That's enough.

You
must have thought then that God was sending you a message. I remember the shock on your cute little face. And that was just a taste. A few coals, that's all, not the fiery pit itself. I'm burning up, Ma. Make it stop. Make it stop. Mother, may I cry out? May I shoot that man, Mother? Shoot them all, Henry dear, every last one, what difference does it make? Clean your gun, child...

A drumbling of earth comes from the road behind him. He finds a break in the sandy bluff above the river and descends through the
carrizo.
Dismounts, holds the reins. The hammering of hooves grows louder, breaks the air. Through the cane, he spots ten or fifteen Apaches under care of their agent, whom he doesn't recognize. Ever since Victorio lit out to old Mexico, those Apaches left behind have simmered down. They sit on their mounts upright as posts unswervingly watching the road before them. Presumably on a buffalo hunt. A hunt for the sacred buffalo whose once-flood of meat has dried up entirely. Still, it has to feel good to get out for a change.

Further north, approaching Roswell, he spots a lone figure ahead on the road. This lump approaches strangely, without growing larger. The Kid begins to realize he's walking—unhorsed—not even driving a buggy; hence his slow rate of inflation as he nears. He brokenly flap-steps. No threat, Billy senses. A peddler, he sees, pushing his cart. He's dressed odd, too. Chinese sun hat, linen duster, bandanna, sturdy black shoes. The bandanna's been raised across his nose and mouth but he pulls it down, exposing his face, as Billy draws closer. He looks as though both of his eyes have been blackened. Then the Kid sees it's just a pair of tinted spectacles. "Good day," he says, smiling. Short man, long coat. Wide nose, crooked teeth, a rash of black bristles. The two-handled cart on wheels is a cross between a trunk and wheelbarrow.

They've both stopped. "Good day," the Kid answers.

"I suppose you're another one of Chisum's cowboys?" His croak-infested voice sounds querulous, amused.

"No."

"You're a friend of Mr. Chisum?"

"Not no more," says Billy. "You're coming from there?"

"It's another ten miles."

"I know how far it is."

"Now I see you up close, I can tell you're not a cowboy."

"How so?"

"No leggings, no gloves, no rope. Nor, these." He removes his spectacles.

"What's those?"

"Dark nippers. Tinted specs. The latest thing, essential for cowboys. I sold bushels of these at Mr. Chisum's ranch."

"Why would anyone buy such a thing?"

"So as not to squint."

"What's wrong with squinting?"

The man widely smiles. "You're a sly devil, ain't it? Tell me—no. Let me guess. You've cowed before, haven't you? You're not a cowboy
now.
"

"That's the state of the case."

"You've done your share of squinting, in other words. A hat doesn't help. It shows on your face."

"Shows how?"

"Gullies across the forehead, young man. Lines at the eyes. How old are you, son?"

"Old enough."

"Damage from the sun has caused men not much older than you to go blind."

"I enjoy to squint. What would I be without my facial squint? I wouldn't know myself."

"Squinting's not half of it. Sunbeams, dust. They molder the eye-strings, canker the ball. Spectacles like these are a salve for the eye. One day, you'll waken up and find your very sight decayed, like a cloth. You'll no longer see through it, you'll merely see the ragged ends." He opens the lid of his box on wheels revealing tinted glasses on a velvet display board.

"That all you sell?"

"There are ribbons, pins, needles, buttonhooks, and other such sundry underneath. It was a glad day in this starving country when i found products I could sell to the male sex, too. Men outnumber women here ten to one."

"How much are the glasses?"

"Two for five dollars."

"I will take five."

The peddler grins, wraps the glasses in tissue, bundles them with paper, ties it with string. When he hands up the package, Billy's Colt's Navy is pointed at his nose. His eyes widen, nostrils flare. His face holds the smile by force but goes dark. Billy slips the glasses inside his saddle bag.

"Hand that pistol up, too. The one in your left armpit, inside the shoulder harness. Reach inside your coat and draw it out very slow. When it's out of the holster, keep it flat against your chest. Then take it by the barrel with your left hand. Do you understand these instructions?"

He nods.

"Then reach it up to me butt-end first. And if you've ever practiced the road-agent's spin I hope to God you'll tell me first what to carve on your stone." The man hands up the gun. Good Lord, it's a Thunderer. I must have done something right. Thank you, Mother. "Close up that box." The peddler closes his box. "Go on. You can go."

"You've done worse than burgle me. You've wounded my pride, robbed me of manhood. What will I tell Cynthia?"

"Who's Cynthia?"

"My fiancée."

"Tell her you got robbed by Billy the Kid."

The man begins to hustle, pushing his cart. Billy lifts and cocks the Colt's Navy,
glick,
and sights clown the barrel just to see him squirm, for he keeps on looking back. He skips, he runs, he turns to the side, he jerks left and right, heaving the cart ahead. The Kid's face stays dead. He feels it like a leaden mask. He watches the peddler shrink down the road growing smaller than a cockroach.

***

IT WOULD BE
nice to do Chisum some grievous bodily harm. Those chickadees over there in the tule. Suppose John Chisum was a pretty little bird and suppose that bird in the bulrushes was him—if I shot the bird, why then it would be murder.

He fires. Blasts the little birdy's head off. It's the Thunderer, he thinks. It's not me, it's the gun. He looks around at the sage, the grass, the low bluff, and spots a junco. Let's give old John another chance. He shoots again and this bird explodes. How gratifying to have a Thunderer again! Then he continues on the road into the cattle baron's ranch, soon hearing the rumble of hooves up ahead. His gunfire has brought the jinglebob cowboys galloping toward him in a large cloud of dust, about a dozen in all. They warily watch him, all having pulled their carbines and rifles out of their scabbards. "Jeffrey," says the Kid. "Andrew. Jim." He neither restrains nor hastens the easy canter of his horse.

They keep close behind as he approaches Chisum's house. The plank boards that cover its thick walls, Billy knows, are there to prevent assailants in the night from cutting gaps in the adobes. The clay roof is flat with a three-foot parapet sporting portholes, for defense. Alone in these wilds with dozens of cowboys and more or less a hundred thousand cattle to mother, Chisum is a guarded man; always has been. He's the man behind the scenes, as everyone says; he's made a habit of playing both sides against the middle. Advisor to Tunstall, partner to McSween, he nonetheless failed to come to the rescue when Mac's house was burning down. Claimed he didn't know. He'd once paid Dolan's Boys to steal horses from the Apache reservation, with Macky as his agent! The Dolanites in turn stole Chisum's cattle and altered their brands from long rails to arrows, though you couldn't alter jinglebobbed ears—you had to cut them off entirely, Billy knows—he'd done so himself. Chisum had even given the Regulators permission to steal a heifer now and then, if they were hungry or restless, since he knew they'd do it anyway. Not the steers, though; steers he could sell. How much John Chisum had to do with Billy's capture at Stinking Springs is unclear to the Kid but he has his hunches. Pat Garrett lives in Roswell, a few miles from Chisum's ranch. It was generally known that, once elected sheriff, Garrett was hired by the PSA, the Panhandle Stock Association, to capture or kill Billy the Kid, and Chisum may have thrown in with that crowd. He must have, Billy thought. Was it Chisum's idea, or Macky's—or Sue's—to offer five hundred dollars for Sheriff Brady's murder? It would be just like Chisum to bruit the notion abroad then back off as an innocent once the deed was done, for he'd never seen the money. The Kid had once threatened to shoot Chisum's cowboys at five dollars each until he reached the promised five hundred dollars, but he'd thought better of that. They shell around him now, the jinglebob waddies, hanging weights on his heels, as he climbs off his horse, as he snubs it, unlatches the gate on the fence, walks to the front gallery, knocks on Chisum's door. Cocky, yes. Hard as nails. The Kid does have something, does he not, of the air of Napoleon?