Billy the Kid (15 page)

***

"
CY AROUND
?" Willie asked. Lettie Beckmann shook her head. She was about sixty-five, white-haired, motherly and aproned, wearing a man's high-laced shoes. "No, dern beavers have dammed the creek again. First good rain, an' it's a-comin', we'll get that whole bottom awash. He went down there 'bout an hour ago to pull it apart. Come on in, Sheriff, set a while."

Staying mounted, Willie asked, without attaching great importance, "You remember Billy Bonney?" He'd drawn up not three feet from Almanac's tracks. They'd led off the road and straight into Beckmann's store.

"Sure do," Lettie said. "He was by here yesterday."

"What time?"

"Oh, 'bout this time. Maybe a little earlier. We hardly recognized him. Hadn't seen him since you two ranched. He's cut that mustache off. Said he'd been down in Mexico, of all places. He sure looked good, all dressed up."

Willie nodded. "Did he say where he was going?"

Again the kindly face rotated side to side. "Naw. First tol' us he was jus' ridin' by. Then said he'd decided to go huntin'." She paused. "Come to think of it, he had your big white gelding."

"He borrowed it," Willie said. "Lettie, ah ... when was the last time you were in town?"

"Been a month almost. We're due to go in next week, 'less Cy changes his mind."

She doesn't know about the train robbery,
Willie thought. And it wouldn't serve a purpose to tell her. More than that, he didn't
want
to tell her. Call Billy a thief?

"Billy get anything from you?" Willie asked.

Lettie frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, food. I'm just trying to figure out how long he plans to stay hunting."

Lettie was still puzzled. "Why, I gave him some vittles. Cy gave him some grain for his horse. Billy's a nice boy, always smilin'." She paused. "He also got some rawhide from Cy."

"Rawhide? What'd he want that for?"

"I don't know, Sheriff. I reckon maybe it had somethin' to do with huntin'. Plenty of antelope up there now." Her head wagged toward the high mountains. "You tryin' to catch up to him?"

Willie nodded. "Yeh, Lettie."

"Well, he picked up the west trail jus' this side of Macombers. Reason I know is that Cy saw him start up."

Willie nodded again. "Tell Cy I'm sorry I missed him."

As he reined around, Lettie said, "He'll feel that way, too. Drop in on your way back."

Over his shoulder, Willie answered, "111 do that. Thanks, Lettie," and trotted off for the Macombers trail, again picking up Almanac's shoes. They laid tracks on the road, then turned sharply west where the Macombers converged, then began the long climb through small buttes toward the top of the first humpback.

Willie drew up sharply, jerking the Winchester from its scabbard, when brush broke ahead. He relaxed, with a staccato laugh, as an old battered steer stared at him an alarmed moment, then crashed away.

Driving the Appaloosa hard, by midafternoon he located Billy's campsite of the previous night, then moved on to quickly top the humpback. Deciding to rest the horse, he found a vantage point on a ledge For almost a half hour, chewing on jerky strips, Willie used his binoculars to work over the rough country in front of him.

If Billy still had California in mind, he'd probably go through the rugged country northwest of Polkton, living off the land and any negligible water he could cup out in the draws, then cross desolate southern Nevada. Neither man was a stranger to that wild country, and if Billy got far enough into it, no one would ever catch him.

As the light increased to a chalk gray, Willie pressed on toward the ridges, the blue-spotted Palouse striding out, snorting and warming its muscles.

In soft dirt on the left side of the road, Almanac's prints telltaled along, molded by the night's heavy dew. The new shoes were sharp and clear. His right hind hoof had a peculiar way of angling in. Without doubt, the fine white horse had banged over this trail.

Three miles along, Willie suddenly sensed he was being watched and saddle-turned to look behind. The trail was deserted back there. A horse whinnied faintly from somewhere high. He drew up to scan the nearest ridge because the sound seemed to come from up there. But the light was so flat that the gray-green scrub and dabs of red-orange cottonwoods and sycamores appeared a solid mass.

He went on, still feeling eyes on him.

***

"
WE'LL JUS' TAG HIM
nice an' slow? said Art. "He'll lead us to Billy?

Watching Monroe on the road from the ridge slope, he held a thumb up and sighted over it. "Sure looks like a big man, big as that horse," Art said.

"That he is," Dobbs answered. "One night I saw him take a two fifty-pounder and handle him like he was a midget."

Art said, "Hmh. I don't intend to get that close."

The four riders, hidden in cottonwoods, were observing the sheriff.

"Tell you what, I'll take him and you take care of Billy Bonney," Dobbs suggested.

Art laughed. "I got no desire to shoot a sheriff. I am ever desirous of shootin' Billy Bonney."

Kelcey, the new man, a small bandy-legged cowboy from Cole's ranch, said, "If he goes where I think he's goin', you'll get all the shots you want at either one of them." Kelcey knew the country.

Art turned on his horse to open a saddlebag flap. He extracted a large tobacco sack, opened it, and looked in. Examining the bits of scrap iron he'd picked up at the smithy's in Colterville, to which he'd added sharp bits of broken glass, he said to Perry, with a strange mirth, "Jus' checkin' it." Securing the flap again, Art said, "All right, fellas, let's go." The scrap iron and bits of broken glass were loads for his ten-gauge shotgun, which he planned to use on Billy Boy.

Perry spit out a cud of massacred plug, then they reined off through the cottonwoods along the ridgeline, keeping Willie at a distance, barely in sight.

***

TWO RANGES WERE OUT THERE
, Willie knew, not quite as wide, high, and rugged as the first humpback that the Macombers trail pierced. Cedars and pines poked out unexpectedly between the varied-sized brown buttes that studded them. Beyond the next range was a wide sun-cooked mesa, then another porcupine-back which slid down, on pine-covered slopes, into the Benediction River valley.

After the river and lush cow valley was still another low scrubby range, then desert, high and low, all the way across Nevada to the California border. Lonely land every mile. Land that offered the escape route.

The clouds that had hovered on the east horizon at first dawn were moving slowly north but were still broken, allowing the sun to bore down brilliantly for five or six minutes; then the land would turn bleak and forbidding again for a period. Nothing moved across the wide vista as Willie covered the zigzag of the trail up the next range. He scanned down into the valley floor beneath, half gorge and half canyon, brush-clung. Nothing moved.

WEST OF WILLIE
, Dobbs scrambled down from another vantage point, his lean body graceful. He'd picked up a sun glint from the sheriff's binoculars. Then he'd spotted the figure on the ledge.

He soon returned to Art's side. Perry and Kelcey were relaxing nearby. Dobbs said, "He's still up there. 'Bout a mile and a half ahead. I don't know what he's doing, but he's got something that glints when the sun comes out."

"Maybe he's signalin' Bonney," Perry said.

Art's answer was an unconcerned shrug. "Let's don't rush him. Just follow him. He seems to know where he's goin'. He's got Billy pegged." Perched on a rock, he was using a paper funnel to pour the scrap-iron and glass mixture down into one yawning barrel of the ten-gauge. The load made a tinkling sound in the hollow steel.

Kelcey had been watching Art throughout. Then curiosity got the best of him. He asked, "What are you doin' with that?"

Art eyed Kelcey. It was obvious the cowhand didn't know much about gun loads. It was evident what was going into the shotgun—and why.

Art told the bandy-legged man, "It's for Billy Bonney. He killed my youngest boy five days ago, for no reason a'tall."

"That's the debt, huh?" Kelcey asked.

Art nodded and blew glass dust from the funnel into the barrel hole.

Kelcey half shook his head. "First time I ever heard of that. Scrap-iron load. Whew!"

***

MOVING SLOWLY
along the floor of the gorge, Billy flanked a narrow winding stream and led a badly limping Almanac. Frustrated, he had the consolation of knowing that the "sheriff," or whoever might be following, would have to tackle the same man- and horse-busting terrain. A man could ruin five horses and get himself killed with no trouble at all in loose gravel like this.

At this moment he thought the land itself was more his enemy than any posse. He hadn't made more than twelve miles all day. Sooner or later he'd have to leave Almanac and hope to god that Willie would find him.

As the shadows deepened in the gorge, Billy decided to go on for another hour, until full dark, then find a shelter. He would not light a fire, though. From the humpback slope, it would be a cinch to spot a flicker of red. He'd use his deputy coat for a pillow.

In the middle of the night, Billy awakened and after long thought decided that the sheriff was not with a posse. He was alone, tracking without dogs or Indians. In this case, that would be Willie's style. He'd gone off to Phoenix instead of guarding his special prisoner in Polkton. Willie was taking the responsibility for Billy's escape. He wouldn't give up if he had to follow Billy all the way to California.

***

IN A SPACE OF OPEN SKY
to the west, beneath the edges of the storm clouds, the red circle of the sun began to drop as if a giant hand had been holding it in suspension, then had loosened its mighty grip to let it plummet. For a few awesome minutes, it held the blue ranges in crimson, made the red buttes angrier, and licked down across the east wall of the gorge.

It outlined four riders—Art, Perry, and companions—as they topped the stark ridge of the razorback, their shapes grotesque against the darkening sky.

For a fleeting moment, it also shone on the weary face of Willis Monroe, who was halfway down the west slope of the humpback, edging along a dizzy bluff. Clearing the bluff while it was still light, he dismounted to make camp. The Palouse was exhausted. So was he.

***

THE STORM REDNESS
had already painted the yard of the Double W, and a freshening wind was driving the sultry air before it. It had come whispering in from the south and was picking up speed by the minute.

Cotton and Duke were near the back door, nipping into their haunches for pesky fleas. Now and then they looked up nervously as a chill-rain wind began shaking the willows.

Inside at the kitchen table, Kate thought there was a terrible, ominous quiet about this sunset. The red had lanced through the window for a moment, but now it was pitch where the sun had been. The brooding mountains were barely visible.

She was toying with her supper but had no real desire to eat. The day had seemed endless. She'd gone about all her chores, even doing more than usual, but hadn't been able to take her mind off her husband, or the boy he was tracking. She was positive Willis would find him. Yet stubbornness was sometimes a dangerous trait.

A fork was in her resting hand. She stared at the food. Only the grandfather's loud
ticktock
could be heard.

Finally the fork clattered down. Kate pushed her chair back.

***

BILLY ROUNDED A BEND
, sucking in his breath. Ahead, not more than five hundred yards, the gorge opened to a wider canyon. Where the gorge mouthed, astonishingly, sat a hewn log cabin.

In the dimness the lodging was difficult to see, but it appeared to be snugged down on a big flat rock above the streambed. Smoke rose from its single chimney, spinning off in the mounting breeze. Billy stood a moment, then tied Almanac and went closer.

He saw picks and shovels strewn about, and a jury-built ore crusher. He edged toward it, easing up the rough log steps that led to the flat.

An animal snorted and thumped, and he quickly stepped back into the shadows. To the side of the shack he could make out a crude corral. He slipped toward it, ducked under the top rail, moved into the head shelter. A burro turned and stared at the visitor. Next to the burro was a sorrel.

Billy peered through a crack in the horse shelter, then drew his gun, cleared the corral bars, and edged up to the cabin. He kicked at the flimsy door. It almost came off its hinges. The miner, who was eating, looked up and saw the intruder and the gun, and slowly raised his hands.

Billy said, "I need to trade you horses." Almanac needed rest and safety.

***

LISTENING TO THE WIND
, Kate lay with her eyes wide-open, drilling into the ceiling boards. One arm was flung across her husband's pillow.

She had begun to hate the clock. She listened to it for a while and then got out of bed. She went into the living room and crossed to the clock, opening the case to reach in and secure the pendulum. She'd go insane if it ticked all night.

She began walking away but stopped in the center of the room, suddenly realizing that the soughing of the wind and the creaking of the house were even worse.

She returned to the clock and started the pendulum stroke again, angrily swinging the case door shut. There was a crash as the glass shattered. Kate screamed.

***

IN THE MOUNTAINS
a rock rolled down on Willie from above, sending him out of his blanket into a crouch, gun aimed up the slope.

"Billy?" he said breathlessly.

There was no answer, and then he saw a mountain cat cross the dark shape of a boulder overhead, springing to another boulder. The inquisitive, shadowy form bounded away.

Willie laughed nervously, feeling stupid, and returned to the bedroll, putting the .45 by his fingertips. He knew he might not sleep again that night.

An hour later the sky began to rumble, faintly at first. Then lightning knifed across it, cracking wildly, sending great blue-white daggers through black clouds toward the mountains. The wind began to whine.